Chapter 6

It's a different world.

I wake up to blinding sunlight in my eyes. I turn my head and stare out of the window. An enormous willow tree blocks my view of the garden beyond.

I stare at the ornamental chandelier affixed to a freshly painted ceiling.

It's a strange feeling.

My stomach rumbles and I groan. It has been a full day since I last ate. I fling away my sheets and put on my clothes hastily. I promised Harry that I would apparate to his house at the break of dawn.

Ron's been missing for three weeks now.

We need to find him . I need to—help.

Lucius Malfoy is seated in the dining area, reading the Daily Prophet. What surprises me is that he also has a couple of muggle newspapers resting on the table.

I wanted to avoid him. My confrontation with Narcissa and him a few weeks ago is still fresh. I have managed to keep out of his way so far, tiptoeing away from his shadows and keeping engaged with my affairs for the most part. Today is unfortunate.

He glances at me cursorily as I enter and goes back to his reading. I hasten to the kitchen counter, intent on keeping my back to him. I choke on a piece of toast in the kitchen that I am trying to wolf down with some orange juice.

"You could sit at the dining table and eat civilly," he comments as I cough. "This is—extremely unpleasant, watching you eat like a mongrel."

I gulp down some water and turn to face him. "I—am in a hurry."

He raises an eyebrow at me. His stoic, smooth face seems relaxed, almost as if he has no care in the world. He folds his newspaper at my answer and leans forward.

"Really? What for? I don't believe you have a job. Are you hurrying to — a bar perhaps?"

I press my lips.

Not now. I don't need this. I don't want an argument right now. Besides, he cannot know about where I am going. He's a snake—quick to anger, eager to strike—not today, he will will not goad me.

So I keep quiet even though I want to smack his face. His stony grey eyes look at me in curiosity and I avert my gaze. "I have some work."

"Oh? Very well." He goes back to reading his newspaper before commenting softly, "You need to be at St. Mungo's at 2 P.M. for our first appointment with a healer Don't be late."

I take a deep breath and leave the room quietly.

I apparate to the Grimmauld Place quickly and the squeezing air almost makes me stumble. I find Harry pacing the footpath outside the main gate. Dean holds a large folder in his hands and has his wand unsheathed, ready to apparate.

"Hermione, you caught us at the right time."

His eyes look troubled, desperate even. Ron's disappearance has taken its toll on him. He presents a brave face to the world but I know differently. He is one of my best friends. He is falling into a hole, the one that swallowed me during the war.

"Why, what happened?"

"There's been a death—we are not sure how—at an apothecary close to the shop from where Ron was abducted. I think it might be connected to—Ron. I was on my way over there to investigate with Dean."

A gleam of hope crosses his eyes and I swallow. We've been doing this for weeks now. There has been no sign of Ron or his attackers. No clues. Nothing. We are at our wits' end. This might be a lead but I am wary.

I have learned the hard way not to hope.

Hope leads to despair. Always.

But I cannot tell him that. I won't. So I squeeze his hand.

We apparate to the familiar lane and find a small crowd gathered outside a small apothecary, squeezed between a broomstick shop on one side and a dress shop on the other. The victim is the owner of the shop himself. The crowd parts to let us pass through.

A dark-haired, thin man, dressed in old robes, is lying dead on the floor outside the shop, flanked by a teenage boy of about sixteen. Perhaps his son.

Another Auror is readying arrangements for the dispatch of this unfortunate body. He sees Harry and nods at him, informing him that the man was cursed with an Unforgivable—the killing curse.

A flash of green light streaks across my mind. Another memory.

"Were there any witnesses? Do you have any idea who killed him?" Harry asks, looking around, taking in the crime scene.

"Well, yes—it's odd, really—seems like some people did see him standing outside the shop and he was alone. To hear them tell it, he dropped dead on the spot. No one cursed him. He simple collapsed. We would consider it death by natural causes except—he was healthy, according to his family. No sign of distress or trauma on his body. It looks like the killing curse."

"But you don't know who cast it…"

"No, we asked everyone, about ten people who saw him—they all corroborate the first witness's statement. No one cursed him."

I look at Harry's face. That gleam of hope—is extinguished, so suddenly and violently—his face shuts down

It's not possible. Even if the murderer were invisible, there would be a flash of green light. There would be a sign.

Perhaps it is a natural death.

"Okay, well, let me know when you know for sure if someone used the unforgivable on him. Thanks, Nate." Harry pats his colleague's shoulder and looks at me.

"We should—look around the shop. Maybe we'll find something," I suggest.

He nods half-heartedly and he can see it, as well as I can, that we won't find anything.

We go through the process anyway.

Two hours of search yield nothing. Dean Thomas is called back to the Auror office by his supervisor and he leaves.

When we finally exit the shop, Harry leans against an outer wall.

"He's dead, isn't he? Ron? And we'll never find him…" he says softly, looking at the pavement. "We'll never find him because no one cares enough—the department doesn't have people left to be assigned to cases of disappearance or abduction. We have lost so many—"

"We'll find him, Harry—don't…"

"No, we won't. He's just one casualty, among thousands. The Minister already thinks he's dead—the rebels don't keep hostages for long. Ron's cases have been reassigned. Shacklebolt wants me to… focus on…" I hear the choke in his throat. It's breaking him. This curse. This life. "I can't do it, Hermione…"

I pity him. I want to weep. His entire aspect is forlorn. The curve of his kind, smiling lips is twisted into something grotesque—a caricature of something happier—and I cannot bear it any longer. I am sick with this pain, writhing inside me, twisting its tendrils and tormenting the people I love…

But what can I do?

Poor Ron. If he's dead… Oh God. There was so much grief between us, such trauma, and I regret that there will be no opportunity now to say all the things that I held back when we first parted. He was my best friend once. And beloved. He cannot be dead.

"We'll find him, Harry," I tell him, trying to sound more confident that I feel. "We'll do what needs to be done. Don't… lose hope."

Hesitantly, I entwine my fingers in his, squeezing his cold skin, hoping that he won't reject me, and true to his generous, kind self, he nods and squeezes my hand in return.

A few minutes pass as we stand together, sharing our gloomy silence, watching life go by on the street.

"I should go back to the office—to file a progress report," he says after a while, taking a deep breath. "I also have a meeting at two— with the Defence Minister."

I nod at him and look at my watch. It's almost 2. Much as I am dreading the government mandated appointment at Mungo's, I must be stronger than how I feel. For now. For Harry.

For now.

For now.

I will allow my grief and rage to drown me in time.

But for now, I need to go through the motions of life as if nothing is out of place.

St. Mungo's is crowded and noisome. A separate office has been ordained for the Marriage Law decree couples. This is how they do it, you know—legalise violation of privacy and then use the law as an excuse to torment you. Emergency measures. Public safety. It's all a ruse—governments exist to retain power.

Nothing else.

All couples registered under the Law shall be checked periodically, by a healer appointed solely for the purpose, and failure to do so will result in prosecution for violating the law.

I reach the designated cabin, allotted to a healer named Merrybrooks. Lucius Malfoy is seated with his back to me, engrossed in conversation with the aforementioned lady. His hair is tied in a lose knot, at the nape of his neck and his silver robes look out of place in the small, dank, cabin stowed away in a remote corner of the hospital.

"Please have a seat, Mrs. Malfoy," the healer smiles at me tightly, gesturing to the empty seat beside Lucius Malfoy.

Mrs. Malfoy.

I suppose I am.

But only in name.

Isn't that tarnish enough?

"Glad you could join us at last. Your poor husband's been awaiting your arrival for more than an hour now," she says in reproach, smiling warmly at him. "You need to treat him better, Mrs. Malfoy—you've had good fortune in being joined to him under the Law— such pleasant manners, such politeness— I must say, he is one of the very few involved husbands I have seen in my career."

Lucius inclines his head in acknowledgement and a slight smile slithers across his lips.

My lips part in surprise at her words. I am late, I know, but not that late. And good fortune? Polite? Charming?

Does she even know who he is?

"Now, as I was telling your husband—"

"I'm sorry," I interrupt her automatically, my astonishment sliding through my tongue before my mind can rein it. "Healer Merrybrooks, do you even know who this is man is? Lucius Malfoy? A convicted Death Eater—remember Voldemort? Or have you been living under a rock all this time? How deranged do you have to be to call it anyone's good fortune to land herself a husband such as him? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

My outburst is—no it isn't unwarranted. But perhaps unneeded. I still cannot believe the lady.

What is wrong with people? What is wrong with our own humanity? Are our memories of evil so short that a few years can make us misremember, or worse, forget, such atrocious acts as Voldemort committed?

Good fortune?

How can she be so ignorant? Has she no moral compass?

Good fortune would be if Ron wasn't missing. Good fortune would be a world with more justice and fewer laws. Good fortune would be if this despicable man beside me had died in the war that had claimed so many better than him. Good fortune would be if Voldemort had never existed. Good fortune would be…

I sneak a look at the man beside me. His face is unreadable. He stares at the healer in silence, almost as if he wants her to believe that my words have wounded him. I notice that he has gloves on his hands today. And his wand-stick rests lazily in his right hand, leaning against the armrest.

Merrybrooks leans backward into her chair, her lips thinly pressed, and clears her throat.

"Y Please refrain from insulting me, Mrs. Malfoy. I am here in professional capacity and will be forced to censure you for being…difficult," she says. "I need to perform a few routine tests prescribed under the law. Please head to the screened door behind you. A nurse will conduct the required tests."

An hour later, all the tests conducted, I find myself seated in front of Merrybrooks again. Now that I have had time to cool off, I notice subtle signs. She leans towards Lucius Malfoy, despite an entire desk blocking her access to him. Her eyes take on a glazed look whenever she addresses him.

And somehow, two buttons of her top have come undone. She cannot be this stupid.

She disgusts me. But then, I disgust me too, a small voice in the back of my mind says.

It is clear that my return to the room has displeased her. She sifts through the test reports that the nurse has brought her. I bite my lip in consternation. She slides the test results to him.

"Your wife is pregnant," she says. "I believe congratulations are in order."

Lucius Malfoy stares at the papers, a vein twitching in his jaw, and inclines his head.

"Thank you for your time, Agatha. Please remember me to your brother."

He doesn't wait for her response and grabs me by the upper arm, almost dragging me out of the chamber.

My head is buzzing.

I am not. I can't be.

It's definitely not his, a snide voice comments in my ear.

This cannot be.

I sit on the floor, where Lucius Malfoy has so unceremoniously deposited me after apparating to the house we share. I sit frozen in shock and disbelief.

I wish I were dead.

Something sharp pricks my jaw and I realise it is his wand-stick. He stands above me, daunting and merciless, his eyes darkened with rage and malevolence and I feel like I am dying of darkness.

"Explain yourself."

The sharp tip of his stick draws blood and the flowing redness opens other scars, internal and growing, all that I keep buried deep within me.

This is not right. It shouldn't be happening.

My tears fall, fickle and wayward, drenching my face, and I want them to stop. i want the courage to face my enemy without weakness but oh… how has life skewered me…

"There's nothing to explain, Mr Malfoy," I say quietly. The silence around me stings. He's listening. So carefully. "We are living our separate lives, as per our agreement… Please, leave me be."

He clenches his fist and I fear that he will hit me, or worse, because I know what he is capable of, and so I wait to be stricken, above all else, having given up my pride, because pride means nothing, not in this world where pain and hate are all powerful and all-consuming… but the blow doesn't come.

Instead, he looks into my eyes with excruciating intensity, demanding that I confess a crime I have not committed.

"You will answer me, Hermione."

The command in his voice is full of conviction and authority. He needs to stop. I clench my fists and look away.

"You will not sully my name with your whorish antics. You will not disgrace the noble lineage of my forefathers with your dirty, misbegotten filth, Hermione. I will not give it my name," he says softly, with steel in his voice. "Any chance I have of social emancipation, any chance of regaining my lost and rightful eminence in this world will not be endangered by the likes of you!"

His last words are a roar and he grabs my hair, yanking it painfully and I can see by the moving lines in his face that he is as unhinged as me. I would be almost sympathetic but I cannot forget who he is.

"Why would you do this, you silly girl?" he murmurs, almost to himself, as if he doesn't know that I am here and that he's hurting me. "Do you not have discretion… do you not know the basic charms to keep away such trouble? This cannot be happening…"

He seems lost. Almost haunted. He lets me go and I scamper to a corner, sobbing, watching him get up and pour himself a glass of whiskey from the shelf. He sits down in an armchair, stares at the floor moodily.

Oh God. What am I supposed to do now?

I cannot… I am not going to have this… No. I would kill myself first.

Perhaps this is what you should do.

Perhaps the President of Immortals is playing a game with my life—perhaps he is all malicious and wills only ill and tragedy. And maybe he won't stop until he takes my life.

"Hermione." His voice is gentler now, almost as if he is crooning. "Please tell me… why?"

I feel so tired and sitting in a corner like a wounded dog makes me keenly aware of how caged I am. Perhaps he is caged too. I look at him.

His eyes are less stormy now… but his face tells me nothing.

"Tell me," he whispers quietly and I almost don't hear him.

This room, with its polished decor and desultory air is oppressing me. I need to breathe. I need to tell someone. Oh God. I need to get rid of this. I need it to stop.

"I was raped, Mr Malfoy," I reply numbly to his gentle entreaties, feeling something inside me empty. "And later… I don't know. I have just wanted to die for so long—that I didn't even consider—"

He doesn't say anything. Closing his eyes, he finishes the entire glass in one gulp and leaves the room.

I sit with my legs drawn to my chest, staring vacantly at an arabesque design on the carpet.

A few minutes later, I register a hand on my shoulder.

"You should sleep," he says, nudging me towards my bedroom. "Get some rest. We will… figure this out tomorrow."

I walk to my bed mechanically and collapse into the soft, snakelike sheets.

I lie in bed all night. Sleep doesn't come. My feverish thoughts assault me bodily and I can feel elevated temperature .

I have to find Ron. I have to help Harry. I have to do something..

Perhaps… this is it. The tipping point. Maybe I should just jump off a cliff. Perhaps the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts would be fitting. And ironic. The brightest witch of her day commits suicide by jumping off a tower almost as high as her dreams.

The morning assaults me with its innocuous brightness and I know there is no escape. I am corralled. And alone.

Perhaps Ron is dead. And when I am dead, maybe he'll forgive me… I hope he forgives me. I cannot bear to have him hate me for eternity.

I don't hear the knock on my door as Lucius Malfoy enters. He has a small vial of pink liquid in his hand. He places it on my bedside table. I look at him in question.

"This potion will… leave no trace." He affixes me with a penetrating gaze. "I will manage Merrybrooks, to the best of my ability."

My eyes travel from his face to the pink liquid.

"Won't they know—we are not allowed to abort—voluntarily… won't they know, the Ministry?"

A muscle twitches in his jaw. "No."

I nod, and with trembling hands, I gulp down the contents of the pink vial in its entirety.

"Do you know who was, the man who—?"

His question surprises me.

Why should he care? No, of course he doesn't care. This shock has addled me. He is Lucius fucking Malfoy. He is a cold, narcissistic egomaniac—arrogant and self-serving—and he cares about no one but himself.

"It was a bartender, at a pub I used to frequent," I say in a small voice, turning away from him, and close my eyes, wishing that my throat didn't feel so raw and the sirens in my ears stopped ringing.

He leaves the room without another word.

Hello everyone. Firstly, thanks to everyone who review the last chapter-Miss Lorca, Elvire, zazanga, MsSloan91 and zeeksmom. Your reviews help me write, truly. In fact, they are the only thing that motivated me to finishing this chapter.

It is a dark fic and so there wont be much fluff, if any, and I hope that you liked this chapter. Please tell me what you thought about it.

Read and Review.

Love.