Chapter 5

"What—?" He surveys me closely, a vein twitching in his jaw. "What happened to you?"

I look into his stormy grey eyes, eyes that reveal a little colour now. Perhaps he did not expect me to be here. To be fair, neither did I.

"Nothing, Mr. Malfoy," I say quietly. "I am here to honour our agreement."

Still unreadable, Lucius Malfoy stands aside to reveal warm light emanating from what I assume is the foyer. I enter, staggering, into a lavishly decorated entryway.

Still the same. The same old pomp. Extravagance.

"If you will, the parlour is through here." He leads the way through a door on the right.

My legs shake. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I follow him with my head lowered, my steps faltering and my body shivering in the warm light.

Why am I here?

And like this? As if I needed more reasons for him to hate me? As if I needed more reasons to be humiliated?

We emerge into a room that is tastefully decorated, with antiques and charms, mementoes of a magical world, and I swallow.

I cannot meet his eyes.

"Take a seat, Miss—Hermione, wherever you like," he offers. He has his back to me, bent down near the fireplace with a poker in his hands, and for one wild moment, I consider fleeing. Just running away.

I deposit myself into the nearest available armchair.

It's so cold. The fire in the grate doesn't help. The merry crackling of flames is irksome. I wrap my arms around my waist and finally look at him.

He is examining a portrait above the fireplace now. His back is straight, almost painfully it seems to my eyes, and his arm rests on the mantel. A ruby ring glitters on his finger like a coiled serpent ready to attack. His impossibly silver blonde hair is tied casually, extraordinarily so, and nothing seems out of place. This house, this parlour, his appearance and bearing… it all fits.

I notice the walking stick in his hand. He keeps his wand sheathed in it. The wand…

My wand… My mind returns to David and his goons and I have trouble breathing. I clutch at my chest and squeeze my eyes shut.

Don't go there. You won't survive. Not now. Don't go there.

"Here, take this."

I open my eyes and find him proffering me a mug of coffee. I look up at him in question.

"It's not poison. Just coffee," he murmurs.

I can't read his eyes. Oh God, why can't I read his eyes?

They are grey and black, like him, stormy and placid, and I can't read them.

"Thank you." I take the mug and look away.

He sits opposite to me and we don't talk. I sip the coffee slowly because it is warm and sweet and it masks the bitter taste on my tongue, if only for a while.

I know he's looking at me. He's observing me like a hawk, taking in every movement, every colour, every aspect of my being… Does he know? Can he tell what took place only a few hours ago, in the back alley?—no, don't go there. I squeeze my eyes shut as an imagined knife stabs me in the heart.

"Your rooms are through the door on the left. If you need anything, mention it to me in the morning." He gets up abruptly and holds my gaze with an intense look in his eyes. "Have a good night."

And he leaves.

I am alone.

Left alone, cocooned in the warmth of this beautifully decorated parlour. I shiver and draw my legs up to my chest. Another wave of pain burns my heart and I cannot hold back my tears anymore.

"Hermione, wake up."

I find myself being gently shaken awake. His face is the first thing I see in the morning and for a moment I am confused. I must be dreaming.

An then reality falls over my head like a bucket of ice-cold water.

"Sorry—I fell asleep here," I say and try to get out of his way. I must have cried myself to sleep. Last night's events—-no, not now.

"What happened to you last night?"

He springs this question upon me right when I am about to find my way out of this room, his presence. I stop in my tracks.

"Nothing." I swallow and look away. "I was—waylaid. Some rogues attacked me in an alley and I fought them off."

He arches an eyebrow. It must be morning. He is in a dressing gown and it is hard for me to digest the concept of him as a person. A person with regular clothes, habits, feelings…

"I see," he says after scrutinising me for a long time. "Do you—need assistance of any kind?"

I shake my head.

It's strange. I don't feel the rage I felt at him yesterday. I don't feel—anything.

When you experience too much pain or pleasure, you become desensitised to it. You experience things without involvement. Perhaps that is how I feel.

I don't know.

"Hermione." I look up and he's right there, mere inches away from my face.

When did he cross that distance?

He touches my face for a moment and I am too shocked to react. His eyes seem distant and yet so very dark— a colour different from the grey I have noticed on previous occasions.

"Fear not. No enemy shall cross the threshold of this door to disturb your sleep." He gives me a penetrating look. "Fear not."

I take a step back.

"No enemy—except you, Mr Malfoy," I reply, feeling some of my old hatred rear its head.

He withdraws into his stony, expressionless look and takes a step backward.

"Yes. None, except me, Hermione," he replies. "But perhaps, I am not as much your enemy now that you are irrevocably bound to me, in fate…. in this life."

I ball my hands into fists.

"You will always be my enemy, no matter where I.. or you, live, no matter what you do or who you become." I glare at him. "I will always hate you, Lucius Malfoy, you and your kind for taking away everything from me. Never forget that because I will not forget what you have done to me."

Hot tears, burning, scalding, ripping out my heart, are falling from my eyes. My face burns with so much wrath that a rational part of my mind revolts.

I hate him, yes, but today he has been nothing but civil to me.

He might desire my death and ruin but today he has done nothing.

But I cant stop feeling angry. I am angry at him today for what was done to me yesterday—-and I don't care.

He is responsible. For so many things. Always responsible.

—

"Hey, Hermione. What are you doing here?"

Neville gives me a quick hug. We are sitting in one of the safe houses of the Order.

"I received Harry's patronus, same as you."

"Yeah, but you never—" He doesn't finish his sentence.

I know what he means. I no longer actively participate in the Order's crusades against rebel factions. I no longer turn up for emergency assignments. I majorly ignore these because it means meeting people, doing things and.. remembering. It also means fighting for a cause I no longer believe in.

But today, I need to do something. I need to get away from Malfoy. So when I receive Harry's patronus requesting emergency assistance, I Apparate from Lucius Malfoy's fashionable home in Silent Greens to this safe house.

Not a lot of people have turned up. Harry's here. Neville. Dean. and a few of the younger crowd.

"Well, I know what you mean but I am here now." I smile at him and walk over to Harry.

He is studying a map. His face looks pained. A twinge of concern flares in my breast.

"Hey."

He looks up, his emerald green eyes grow round in surprise and then a small smile crosses his lips. I miss him. But there is a gulf between us. I can't cross it.

"Hey," he replies and goes back to studying his map. "I could use your help today, Hermione."

"Sure. Whatever you need, Harry."

I go back to the circle of chairs that surround his centre table. All the people that were going to respond are here. Harry turns to them.

"I will make this short. There has been an attack in the Diagon Alley. Frump's Potente Potions. It's a small obscure run-down shop in the third alley. One of the Order's members has been kidnapped, it seems. " He looks around and holds Hermione's gaze. "It's Ronald Weasley. We, that is, the minister and the other leaders of the Order think it was the work of an underground group of Voldemort's surviving supporters."

I look on as Harry explains how thoroughly Ron is engaged in all of the Order's campaigns and plans and how brave he is to put his life out there for his people.

My head hurts. I must do something. I haven't had a drink since yesterday. I haven't thought about it. And there was no supply at Malfoy's house.

"We need a team of people to scour the area for any remaining Death Eaters and another to hunt for Ron," he finishes quietly before adding, "I will personally lead the team that searches for Ron."

"I'll help," I offer hesitantly, not sure how Harry would react to this. But he simply nods. I have to help. No matter our fraught history, Ron was… is…

I have to do something.

After an hour of deliberations, Harry gathers a team of four, including me, Neville and Dean, to look for Ron's whereabouts.

It's almost like old times, I muse as the four of us apparate outside Frump's Potente Potions. Mr. Frump is a middle-aged, fat proprietor of the run-down shop. He does not look like an apothecary.

"Yes, he was here today morning… browsing behind that aisle, I think." He shakes his head. "Ghastly business Mr. Potter. Only think I was awed when he visited my shop for a potion… I don't recall what he was after but he went browsing there and two fellows came in following immediately and before I knew, they grabbed him from behind and apparated. I was going to call the Aurors but a group of masked men smashed the windows of my shop from outside, targeting my potions and blowing up my concoctions. It was most ghastly, Mr Potter…. you must find out who did this."

His elaborate and affected manner disgusts me a little and I take a look at the destruction around me. Shards of glass, copper and wood lie on the floor in heaps… potions mixed with potions are splattered on the walls, the floors… a strange muddle has developed at the back of the shop, like coal tar… and one of the walls is overrun with magical creepers.

What would Ron be doing here?

He isn't into Potions. or Research.

My attention returns to Harry's questioning.

"I need a complete inventory of the potions you kept here, Mr Frump," he tells the proprietor gravely. He has grown up so much. He doesn't fumble. He hides his anxiety well. I can tell he's agitated from the manner he keeps furrowing his brow at every sentence and biting his lips. "Is there anything you remember about the masked men, as you say they were?"

"No, they wore plain masks… That's all I know."

"Okay. Thanks for your help, Mr. Frump. We'll be in touch."

I apparate to Silent Greens around midnight and find myself unconsciously admiring the spacious garden enveloping the house.

The day has not been productive. We have tried everything, traced Ron's wand signature to the last place it was used, spoken to people at work and scoured the neighbourhood of Frump's.

No sign of Ron's whereabouts.

And I have seen Harry on the verge of a breakdown today.

"Hermione." He addressed me in tones softer than I have seen him use in months. I looked at him and his outline became blurry. He opened and closed his mouth several times. "Take care of yourself. Please."

I looked at him in confusion. His Adams apple quivered and he squeezed my hand before I was about to apparate.

"With—Lucius Malfoy, I mean." He looked away, evident pain written on his features. "I—you—just take care."

I touched his face, feeling warmer despite the cold weather outside. "We'll find Ron, don't worry."

He laughed shakily.

"Each minute that passes and we don't find him, he is closer to death. They won't let him go alive." His lips trembled. He looked so forlorn and dejected. "That's what they do—and who they are. You remember, don't you?"

"Yes, I remember," I said quietly. "Do you think Lucius Malfoy could be involved?"

"No. The Auror department have placed trace on his wand. His whereabouts are tracked. And what's more, his movements are restricted to certain areas which are also monitored for any unusual activity."

I bit my lip.

"Who could it be, then?"

"I don't know." He ran his hand through his hair. "I just—wish I did. You should go home. Get some rest. We'll resume tomorrow."

Why have I returned here?

This is not home.

Oh Ron…

And Harry…

Where would I go?

Absently, I turn the doorknob and enter the foyer. The door to the parlour is ajar and I hear voices.

"That wouldn't be true now, Lucius, would it?"

A woman.

I hesitate but take a step forward anyway. My curiosity is piqued.

"Very much so, Narcissa," I hear Lucius's smooth voice reply. Glasses clink. Soft music wafts over me.

Narcissa Malfoy. Lucius Malfoy. The couple. The monsters. This is their home. And I am an intruder.

Before I can turn back and leave the way I came, they spot me in the doorway. Narcissa raises her eyes and Lucius Malfoy gazes at me in silence.

Intruder. Intruder. Intruder.

Narcissa looks beautiful as she stands up and walks over to Lucius, giving him a peck on the cheek before turning to me.

"Well, hello—Hermione." Her voice reminds me…

Not a hair on her head is out of place while mine is bushy and unkempt.

I remember her from the manor, the trial—the world cup.

"Narcissa." I purse my lips and swallow. I want to flee the room but I won't turn my back to them. Not them. Monsters.

Ron…

She laughs daintily and walks over to me.

"Scrawny little thing, isn't she, Lucius?"

She laughs at me.

He laughter fills my mind with agony.

I look into her eyes with hate.

But I am tongue-tied. I can't reply. I cannot breathe. I turn my head away and try to leave but she stops me.

"Oh, please don't mind me, Hermione. The house is all yours. I was just leaving," she says to me in a mocking tone and disapparates.

I stand rooted to the spot, looking down at my shoes.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

"Hermione," Lucius Malofy's voice draws me out of my agonising thoughts. I look up at him."You're late,"

"You don't get to dictate when I can or cannot go out or come in, Mr Malfoy," I reply. This resentment… Narcissa… this monster… Ron… Oh God.

He raises his chin and looks down at me. "Perhaps not in the strictest sense of the word. But you seem to forget that we have an arrangement. You comply with the law and behave respectably, and your life shall be so much simpler for it."

"But you forget something, Mr. Malfoy—I am not respectable at all." I close my eyes. "And neither are you, come to think of it."

"If it is all the same to you, I would like to maintain a semblance of respectability about me," he remarks softly "And having one's spouse wander the streets at night isn't exactly conducive to it…"

Something snaps in me.

"I'm not a whore, Mr. Malfoy, if that's what you're implying. Besides, if you did imply it, why not hold Narcissa to the same standards as me? Was she not here, wandering the streets at night, as you so eloquently put it?"

And before I know it, before i have a chance to blink, he grabs my collar and lifts me against the wall, disarming me wordlessly. There is rage in his eyes, swirling masses of grey and black fight each other in the silver of his eyes. His jaw is clenched as he presses me against the wall. I cannot breathe. He is trying to strangle the life out of me.

"You…can't—-hurt me," I gasp out. "You'll go to Azkaban if you lay a hand on me."

And still I feel his hands around my throat and the wall pressing painfully against my back. He doesn't stop. He doesn't let go of me. He simply stares into my eyes with his silent, deadly rage and I cannot do anything.

This is the second time in two days that a man has raised his hand to me. The second time—the first time—the memory of the previous night floods my consciousness and I panic. I writhe under in his grasp and scream. Not again.

No. He wouldn't? Would he?

He is a monster.

I try to kick at him, crying out, making heaven shattering noises—-he has to let me go. I don't deserve this. Not again. Not now!

"Let me go!" I scream at him and as suddenly as he lifted me up against the wall, he lets go and i fall into a heap at his feet, sobbing, thrashing inwardly, oh the pain, the pain…

"Never, ever, speak of Narcissa again, Hermione," he whispers, a solid, dark, vengeful whisper. "It will be the last thing you do, I promise. And I would gladly suffer a hundred years of imprisonment in Azkaban for the opportunity to rip out your impertinent, mud blood tongue. "

And he leaves before I can look up.

I promise.

I promise.

his promise is dark and twisted. And it rings of truth. I catch my breath in hiccups.

Pathetic.

Oh God. Please kill me.

After a long while, I gather the pieces of my bruised soul and drag my body to bed.

Um, sorry it's been so long guys. Any thoughts?

Let me know if you like it and if I should continue.