This chapter is a two-parter because in total it's about 57 (and I'm STILL editing so that number is likely to change) pages long and I know we're all avid readers and it's been so long since the last update but I don't want to bombard you with too much in one sitting. That being said, I've missed you all and I'm sorry I was gone for so long. The break I took turned out longer than expected because of burn-out but good things came out of it, things that I can turn to after this series is over, and it will save me from floundering about with nothing to do. Closing out this series has been a very bittersweet experience while writing alone, so I look forward to hearing your thoughts as we go along. I had many many many moments during that break where I just felt lazy about writing and had no interest in continuing (specifically for this story). To anyone who messaged me or left a review during that time asking about updates, I just want to say a special thank you to you all because that helped pull me out of those slumps.
If you would like some musical accompaniment to go along with the reading, may I direct you to my profile? There's a link to the new HLB playlist I made on Spotify. It has lots of new tracks along with the originals from the 8tracks playlist, all curated by this ding-dong right here.
Alright-enough delays. Enjoy.
(Chapter 23 coming Dec. 11)
"It wasn't supposed to go this way," Hermione said softly. They had been standing in the foyer for a while in a tense silence, waiting. She was staring out the window since Draco's departure. Her hands at her sides wanted to fidget but she repressed the urge, knowing it would only make herself more anxious.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see Pansy nod in sympathy.
"I wanted it to be over quickly," Hermione continued. "Like a snap of the fingers. Then peace—or whatever meager equivalent I'm allotted." She let out a soft, bitter snort. "If my life has proved anything, it's that there will be no happy ending."
"Don't think that," Pansy said, frowning. "Maybe you will. There might still be a chance."
Hermione's expression was one of irrefutable doubt.
"If I can't have peace, then I'll claim it for my son. At any cost necessary."
Pansy nodded. Another long silence lapsed between them.
"Would you want to come with me?" Hermione asked, breaking the stillness. Her eyes were stuck on the far-off horizon, the setting sun. She could not bring herself to turn away from the window's view, afraid of what her dearest friend's response would be. "If I manage to get out?"
Pansy swallowed. "The vows I took... I doubt I could betray him like that, even if wanted to."
"If I managed to get out several times, you might be able to," Hermione said. "You are bound to both of us, aren't you? I want you to come with me. I'll order it if I have to. You don't deserve to be stuck here any more than I or Lucio do. Vow or not."
Pansy doubted she could. Like Hermione had been bound by her ring, she was bound by the mark on her arm. She doubted it would ever fade. And Lord Malfoy had designed it to check her if she dared to act against his order. Bolts of pain so sharp and deep she couldn't even cry out, or Draco's Cruciatus was embeded into the magic somehow, waiting to be unleashed like venom in her veins—he himself had warned her about them, had informed her how the same magic was in Hermione's ring.
When he'd ever had the time to research and develop such spells, she never knew. Perhaps they had been passed on by Voldemort…perhaps he had found them within some ancient and forbidden book on dark magic…perhaps he had taken it upon himself to learn and craft them in that year after he had killed Dumbledore and gone into hiding from the world. He had told her years ago that he had in fact trained under Voldemort and his aunt to grow his power, but he said nothing else about what he had done in that time, and, sensing that it was just as horrific as his other actions, Pansy had never pressed further.
Not that Pansy had ever tried to test against her restraints…she had always been too afraid, and her vows were so strict there really wasn't much wiggle room for anything other than obedience. It made her job simultaneously easier and more difficult.
She had always admired Hermione for her strength. Draco had purposefully neglected to tell her that Hermione was very much his unwilling wife (and she herself had ignorantly assumed the rumors were true, and that they had eloped) upon her entry to the manor. He had shown her her quarters, assigned her that long list of duties, and then let her walk into his bedroom only to find the picture of non-consent and unhappiness. And then, afterwards in his study he'd deigned to tell her the parts he had omitted. At that point it was too late to back out. She had been branded. She had seen too much. And to see Hermione Granger suffer like that had filled her with pity, at first—but then, thinking back on what Draco had told her and what Hermione herself had confirmed later, Pansy couldn't help but admire her for her strength.
To continually fight in the face of the possibly insurmountable. To refuse to bend to a tyrant. Pansy was present in so much of their daily lives, lingering off to the side or by the door in case she was needed—she heard every quip, every blade-like thrust of Hermione's words towards Lord Malfoy.
Pansy could never laugh, or she would be punished. And she daren't smile, paranoid that somehow Lord Malfoy would sense it. But on the inside, where he couldn't reach her, Pansy always cheered.
There was sound and movement in the hallway suddenly—the sound of Draco's quiet Apparition had them going to meet him.
Hermione saw Neville first, still Imperiused and emotionally removed from his own dire situation and standing behind her husband, his hands unbound. Draco was just shrugging off his own cloak in one fluid motion, tossing it carelessly to the floor, too excited to bother magicking it off.
Hermione heard the soft click of Pansy's fingers and watched the coat vanish—likely to a closet, or to her quarters to be cleaned and pressed.
Draco was smiling. His eyes gleamed with some manic happiness. It set Hermione on edge again.
He raised his hand, his palm splayed out and facing Neville.
"Finite Incantantem."
The film slowly disappeared from Neville's eyes as his consciousness returned. As it ebbed he focused on Draco and then Hermione. She saw the nervous dart of his eyes as he looked around to gauge where he was, visibly confused, his memories still catching up to him. He blinked beneath a scowl, his eyes on the three of them as if he expected any one of them to pounce at any moment.
"Welcome Longbottom," Draco said, ever the gracious host. "You're in your new home…for the time being."
Neville said nothing. His jaw was set tightly. A vein bulged in his throat.
Draco shook his head, still smiling. "There's no use fighting anymore. Swallow that resistance. Your life belongs to me."
"Then take it," Neville said with such force that his voice bounced in an echo around the large room. "Take it and let Luna go. Torture me as much as you want. Just don't touch her."
"You've swapped yourself out for my prisoners enough by now," Draco said, bored. "It's lost its meaning. I commend you your bravery, however. Now if you're going to chatter on about this more I'll take your tongue just like I took your ear."
"What are you going to do with him?" Hermione asked.
"I thought Pansy might like company around the house," Draco said. "She is extremely capable, but you were right, my love. She does deserve a break. Who better to help her with her duties than your old friend?"
Pansy's expression flickered with confusion. "A break, my Lord?"
"I hadn't realized how long you've gone without one," Draco said to her. "My dear wife had to remind me. Time does fly here, doesn't it? You've proved yourself invaluable and of immeasurable trust, and I trust you enough to let you take some time off to use however you please—as long as you return when it is over."
She looked a little unsure but bowed her head. "You are very considerate, my Lord. Thank you."
"We don't need anyone else for help," Hermione said to Draco. "I can manage on my own."
"Nonsense," Draco said loftily. "Our home is only going to get busier from now on. It feels rather like a mausoleum at times, doesn't it? New faces are always welcome here."
The gleam in his eye was anything but welcoming. He looked at Hermione.
"I'm quite firm on this, sweetling. He stays." He gave her an amused smile. "Where is the fun in ending him now?"
This isn't about fun, my Lord, Hermione sent to him. I told you I want this to end. Why drag it on for longer than necessary?
Draco took her hand—his hold was a little too tight.
It's the proper way to say goodbye, isn't it? He sent back.
Neville's eyes were mutinous, but he said nothing. The air between the four of them was charged, volatile with emotion. It made the hair along Hermione's arms stand on end. It needed no saying, really, but the sense of dread that was settling over them now foretold that this situation would not end well. As if she hadn't already known that. Again, she wished Draco had just killed him outright back in Knockturn Alley. Or that she had done it before he'd even had a chance to open his mouth.
"You see my point," Draco was saying, sounding pleased. "Good. Now—Pansy."
Pansy stepped forward and joined Draco, watching him expectantly.
"We officially have a new addition to the household," Draco said, gesturing to Neville. "I'm sure you remember our old classmate."
Whatever Pansy felt as she looked at Neville she did not show. Her face was impassive as she studied him for a moment and he stared back warily, holding his tongue, not knowing what to make of her.
Hermione also watched her closely, wondering what she was thinking.
"Welcome, Longbottom," she said to Neville. Her tone was polite. "It is good to see you."
He did not reply.
Pansy finally looked back at Draco.
"Congratulations, my Lord. You have him at last."
"Thank you," Draco said, chuffed. "The fool practically gave himself to me." He looked at Hermione. "And he wouldn't be the first gift that walked right into my hands."
Hermione bristled, a hateful shudder racing up her spine.
"Take him upstairs," Draco said to Pansy. "He'll need to wash all that filth off. Tell him everything he needs to know, give him a room close to yours and new clothes and watch him. I'll come up to make the Vow and brand him soon."
Outraged, Neville looked from Draco to Pansy. "You can't be serious."
"Do not question your Lord," Draco said, going to Hermione and wrapping his arm tightly around her waist. "And don't look so troubled—you won't be the only one. Pansy, show him yours."
Obediently, Pansy pulled up the sleeve of her robe, raised her wrist for Neville to see the Malfoy crest there, as vivid as the day it had been cast under her skin.
"See? You'll match. Even my darling wife hasn't gone unscathed. Show him, sweetheart."
Biting her tongue, Hermione showed Neville the thin, scarred M that Draco had long-ago carved into the crook of her elbow.
Draco reached up, brushed her hair away from her neck.
"Don't forget this one."
His hand came around her throat, pulled the fabric of her dress away from her collarbone to reveal the scarred bitemark that had never faded.
He traced over it gently.
"My personal favorite."
His eyes were locked onto Neville's as if daring him to try to attack.
Neville looked disgusted.
"You piss in all the corners of your house, too?"
Draco laughed. "I do like to mark what's mine."
Neville looked away. "You're vile."
"So says my wife," Draco replied, smirking. "But despite the branding, I think you'll find I treat my possessions with great care."
Hermione could not laugh out loud so she did it mentally and loaded it with derision, with the intention of her husband hearing it.
She felt his hand grope her ass hard in response and tried not to jump.
I might treat you a little more roughly, little bird, but we both know you can take it. Plus, you're the only one allowed to bite back.
Hermione barely repressed a snort.
At the same time, Neville was saying, "You've deluded yourself that much, have you? I remember Hermione being found beaten black and blue at the Burrow, bones broken, blood all over her. Barely conscious. All by your hand." His fists were clenched. "If she hadn't managed to get away from you that time, you'd have killed her."
Hermione went still. There was a short pause. She remembered that day vividly though she did not revisit the memory if she could help it. Draco's hand came up to stroke her cheek gently. There was almost a look of regret on his face as he looked at her. She couldn't look away, startled.
"Our dear Hermione still had a horribly rebellious streak to her at the time," Draco said, his voice soft. "I had to teach her a lesson though it broke my heart to do it. She learned it thoroughly, and I've not raised a hand to her in years."
"He's right," Hermione said, unprompted, surprising them all. "He's taught me well."
Neville's stare was sad, disbelieving.
"Take him away, Pansy," Draco said, and then looked at Neville again. "He desperately needs training of his own. Your first lesson will be to learn to hold your tongue." He gave him a cold smile. "I'm sure you'll learn that one quickly."
He motioned to Pansy.
Pansy looked at Neville. "Follow me."
When they had gone from view, Draco immediately pushed Hermione into the nearest wall.
She collided against it roughly with a grunt. He followed her and pressed his body to hers. The rush of his excited breaths fanned over her. His hands were on the sides of her head and he crushed their lips together, claiming her lips so ferociously that all Hermione could do was grasp his arms and let him.
He finally broke free and met her eye.
His stare was predatory. Hungry. His eyes burned her wherever they landed.
He had been so outwardly calm mere moments ago—Hermione found herself already breathless.
The speed at which his demeanor changed frightened her still after years of being his captive.
"Well, wife," he said, "aren't you going to congratulate me?"
His hands were tearing at her clothing. First her dress, then her knickers. He hardly ever bothered with zippers, ties, or buttons—seams ripped, fabric split. He had always loved ruin. His hands grasped, pulled, tore. Hermione winced, watching reddened marks appear on her skin from his force. He was pressing against her, his hips insistent and grinding on her. She could only cling to him, let him take.
"Congratulations, Draco," she said. "You finally have everything you wanted."
"No," he said in between pressing kisses to her throat. He was undoing his trousers. "Not quite. Not yet. I won't be satisfied until I see the life fly from him and Lovegood. Until we give Lucio siblings and cement our legacy."
He had taken her breasts, played with them roughly. She shivered, her nipples hardening. His mouth latched onto her throat. His thigh pushed between hers. Hermione reached down, took his erection, began to stroke, her thumb teasing at the glans.
"What legacy?" she asked breathlessly. "You have accomplished nothing but ruin."
"Only to rebuild, and have things done the right way," he said, his tongue stroking her pulse point in her throat. "Our way."
She reached up with her other hand, took his chin and tilted his head back, forcing him to look her in the eye.
"Promise me something, Draco," she said, stroking his cock slowly. His eyelids fluttered in pleasure. She felt him shiver in her hands.
"Anything," he murmured. "Anything for you, firebird." He chuckled. "Aside from freedom. But that's not what you're going to ask me for, is it?"
"Promise me it ends with this. Once they're dead, you won't go take over anything else."
His thumbs dragged over her nipples again and again in tight circles. She was growing wetter by the second.
"What's wrong with that?" he asked, giving her a playful pout. His gaze was scorching.
"You have me," Hermione said firmly. "You have Lucio. The Ministry. You have Neville and Luna. You have no enemies left willing to fight you. You've got more money and power than you'll ever need. Isn't that enough? What more could you want?"
A smile spread across his lips, so devastatingly beautiful. He dipped his head briefly, causing her thumb to slip from his chin. He took it in his mouth, licked the pad of her finger with his tongue, enveloping the tip with his mouth, sucking on it slightly, maintaining eye contact all the while.
Need blazed inside her. Hermione cursed inwardly.
"Everything, sweetling," he breathed when he had let her thumb go from his mouth. "I'll take everything. Not because I want it. Because I can."
"Draco—"
"Nothing's going to stop me," he interrupted. "And you'll be there with me every step of the way."
He took her face in his hands, gave her one bruising kiss after another, stealing her breath. Their breathing was hot and rushed, filling each other's ears. His hands were in her hair. Hers were on the back of his neck. He nipped her from time to time, careful enough to not draw blood. Her lips were swollen and glistening when he finally pulled away—her eyes were lowered, strands of hair had fallen across her face.
He took a moment to brush them away, waiting as she caught her breath. His eyes were fixed on her. She forced herself to meet his eye, meeting the raw hunger there.
"You've been so good," he breathed, smiling. "I'm so proud of you, Hermione."
I'll take you down, she thought, guarding those words inside her. Outwardly, she smiled, making sure it reached her eyes. His hands were travelling down to her waist and below, groping here and there. Hermione made herself arch into him.
When he finally pushed inside her she moaned, her head falling back to rest against the wall. Draco held her up easily, his mouth ravaging her throat again. The flesh there was sensitive by now and she gasped. He stilled for a moment, eyes electric, capturing hers.
"Buried inside you, my enemies in my fist—" He rolled his hips, pushing deeper. This time her moan echoed loudly around the room. "I'm the happiest man in the world."
When Draco came up to the room later he found Neville there, washed and dressed in his new robes of servitude.
Draco assessed him for a moment. Longbottom stared back, his eyes like ice. He looked wooden, inanimate…but not quite defeated. Like an undercurrent of hate and rebellion ran through him. Like he still expected to be able to escape at some point down the line.
It gave Draco such a thrill to sense it…almost taste it. Hermione had been his first challenge. Now here was another. He had learned so much these past few years. Breaking one's spirit was something he'd acquired a skill for…and a hunger.
I'll gorge myself on yours until there's nothing left, he thought. And it won't take as long as Hermione's did.
Pansy was by the window and bowed at Draco's entry. Neville remained standing.
Draco went to stand by the bed. It was a smaller room, simply furnished but still opulent in the same manner as the rest of the house. It had been some time since he had last seen Longbottom in person for longer than a fleeting moment. He had forgotten how short he was. But time had hardened him. In their early years Longbottom had been overweight and bucktoothed. Anxious as all hell. Generally lacking in confidence.
Draco had seen him grow into quite the opposite. He had leaned out, grown some muscle, lost the baby fat around his face that made him look younger than his years. Grown into his looks. Gained confidence, too, judging by the way he was staring daggers at him now. Draco had to give him some credit—he'd led a rebellion for this long—however meager—after Potter's demise. It had been doomed from the start, to be sure, but he'd given Draco plenty of trouble along the way. By now his little group of followers would have heard the news of his death. They would surely lose hope and disband. Draco wondered if any of the remaining would be stubborn enough to keep fighting—but without their precious leader, it was doubtful. Longbottom had the experience and knowledge of the case, without it they would crumble. If they chose to continue their fight, well…they would be easy to track down and dispose of.
Draco stared at Longbottom expectantly, not saying a word.
"I won't bow," Longbottom said brazenly.
It was so petty that Draco nearly laughed, but his ire took over.
"You will or Lovegood will suffer for it," Draco said, and waited.
The inner turmoil Longbottom was facing was a delicious sight to behold. Draco fed on it like it was honey. After half a minute, and with a look of the utmost loathing on his face, Longbottom bowed at last, bending at the waist so stiffly it was as though he were wood warping under a great weight.
"Good," Draco said, pleased. "See to it that you remember this: I am your Lord, you are my servant, and you will treat me with the deference that demands. The same applies to my wife. Any rebellious behavior will not only be rewarded with punishment to you but to Lovegood as well. Am I understood?"
Furious, Longbottom stared at him with a tightly clenched jaw until he could no longer continue the silence, threatening repercussion.
"Yes, my Lord."
"His wand, my Lord," Pansy said as she stepped forward, and gave it to Draco.
He surveyed it in his hands for a moment as he spoke.
"As much as it would please me to block your magic from you, that would render you useless in terms of helping Pansy. You may be my prisoner, but you must be useful. You'll get it back, but it will need adjustments—in the meantime Pansy will train you in wandless magic."
"I can manage wandless magic," Longbottom said.
This time it took Pansy prodding Longbottom in the side with her elbow for him to attempt to soften his glare and add, "my Lord."
"She'll train you regardless," Draco replied dismissively. "I expect perfection."
"It will be done, my Lord," Pansy said.
"Good. I'm sure Pansy already filled you in on the basics," Draco said, "She tends to Lady Hermione. You will tend to me—not that I need it, but I don't trust you with her yet."
He clasped his hands behind his back and tilted his chin up as he regarded Longbottom, surveying him from head to toe.
"I won't repeat the rest except for one: there is no way to escape. Not without my permission, and you'll never have it. You are bound to me and to this house. You go where I want you to go. There is no way to make one last foolhardy attempt to save my wife—if she even wants it anymore, which I doubt. If you behave I'll consider letting you visit Lovegood. Don't look so puffed up—she's fine. I've been far kinder to her than I have to you. But don't get comfortable. Whether you die together or separately is in your hands."
"And that's it?" Longbottom asked. "We're just here in your chains to be humiliated until you've had your fun and decide to kill us?"
"Was I not clear enough?" Draco sounded bored, but his irises were turning red, and it was slowly overtaking the sclera of his eyes. Neville noticed this, and his brows lowered and bent in horror.
"I let you live comfortably in your last days and you complain?" Draco hissed, stalking forward until he towered over Longbottom, his face crowding in. "I strung up Potter in my dungeon and tortured and bled him dry—would you rather choose that for yourself and Lovegood?"
"No," Longbottom said, aghast. He couldn't stop staring at the red horror of Malfoy's gaze.
Draco loomed closer. He could see that Longbottom was fighting the urge to cringe away. The fear in his eyes was delicious.
"Then shut your mouth," Draco said, his tone so cold that the other man had to repress a shiver. "And hold out your arm."
Meanwhile, Hermione was in the library with Martin who, mostly unaware of the day's events, was painting steadily away at his easel. With Lucio busy with his lessons, Martin worked off the reference sketches he had made, but at the present he had taken up the task of developing the background of the portrait.
Hermione had found him in the library after she and Draco had fucked against the wall in the foyer. They had been rather loud, and when she entered and saw Martin, couldn't help her blush, wondering suddenly if he had heard, and how long he had been in the Manor. He had greeted her first, bowing, but made no sly remark or bore no knowing smile. Whether or not he'd heard the commotion, he made no reference to it, and occupied himself with his painting. It was at that moment that Hermione was struck with how much he reminded her of Harry. Her heart had constricted strangely at the realization. How had it taken her so long to notice that? Suddenly unable to look him in the eye, she had gone to the window, pretending to gaze outside at the grey sky as she grappled with her thoughts. The methodical strokes of his brushes against the canvas and the tinkling of the jar that held his turpentine soothed her.
"You seem nervous, my Lady," he said after some time.
She looked away from the window sharply. "I am not."
He inclined his head.
"I'm sorry. I should not have assumed anything."
That flash of motion also reminded her of Harry—how he had a habit of ducking his head a little when scolded, as if used to things being thrown at him. She turned her head away from Martin.
Stop thinking of him, hissed that warped voice in her head. He is nothing but dust now.
As if she had done so purposefully. She could not help it.
Then came the unbidden memory of that dream she'd had while in her coma. How real it had felt. How passionately they'd moved together.
Stop, she hissed. It was a dream and nothing more. Draco was using me in my sleep. That's what I felt.
"Today has been momentous for my husband," she said, crossing her arms. "He's captured an important enemy."
"Then congratulations to him," Martin said, though he sounded a bit uneasy. He had lowered his palette and brush. "Did it have anything to with that explosion I heard mentioned on the wireless? I suppose it's too late in the day for the Prophet to include it in today's issue."
"Yes," she said.
"I wasn't aware my Lord had any other enemies besides Harry Potter," Martin said, frowning.
"He's been telling people the truth about my and Draco's relationship…how it actually happened. Trying to get people to hold Draco accountable." Hermione uncrossed her arms. "You can understand why my husband wouldn't like that."
"I'd heard some rumors," Martin said, nodding. "Years ago. I remember people didn't really like talking about it, even if they thought it wasn't true. I can't imagine that being an easy task."
"It isn't," she replied. "That's how Draco got away with it for so long. Even when we were at school together and this was starting, I was too afraid and embarrassed to tell anyone. When I finally got myself to do it I couldn't because he had me under his control so that I couldn't ask anyone for help. I unwillingly enabled him to continue and worsen." She scoffed. "When the truth started coming out little by little, some people still didn't believe it. Not for a long time. By then, he was too powerful already, and it didn't matter."
Martin's eyes were sympathetic.
"I'm sorry, my Lady."
She said nothing for a moment and Martin resumed painting awkwardly, wondering if he had offended her but too nervous to ask.
"How many works are there left to be completed in this commission?" she asked some minutes later.
Martin, who had once again become engrossed in rendering fine details on his painting, started and looked up.
He could not see her, but heard her steps come to a stop some feet away, behind his canvas.
"Erm—I believe my Lord still expects two more paintings, my Lady."
He leaned away and to the side of the canvas and found her there, looking so serious it made him fumble his paintbrush—it fell to the floor with a clatter.
She appeared not to hear it or have noticed.
"Then you better work faster than you ever have in your life," she said, her voice soft.
He frowned—a little confused and hurt. She wanted him gone? He thought they'd formed a very tentative friendship by now. Or had Lord Malfoy grown displeased with him somehow and wanted him gone as soon as possible?
She saw his expression and came forward, pointing her wand down at the floor—his paintbrush levitated off the ground and into her hand. She pressed it back into his grip. He stood there numbly, gooseflesh erupting in waves over his skin as she came even closer, her hands bracing on his shoulders, leaning in to speak gently into his ear, as if afraid she would be overheard.
He went stiff in shock, her proximity like a current of lightning.
"Paint quickly, let him pay you, and go home. Forget any of this ever happened. Nothing good will come if you stay any longer than you must."
"Why?" he breathed. His heart pounded with foreboding. It was like a cloud now that had enveloped them—that, and her scent, clouding his thoughts.
She came even closer, her head dipping to his throat. Her breasts brushed against his chest. Her lips brushed against his skin. Her gentle heat was so welcoming that he found himself going slack. He was sweating now, his heart hammering like a Beater's club against a Quaffle.
"You're already in his web," she said softly. He could feel the gentle graze of her eyelashes on him like the stroke of a butterfly's wing. His legs were so weak he feared he would wobble where he stood.
"I don't want you to fall to him, too."
He opened his mouth to reply but not quite knowing what to say, failed to speak. She had already pulled herself away, her composure as if nothing had just transpired. He stared at her, transfixed. Was that heat in her eyes real or imagined?
"I expect my husband will invite guests tonight to celebrate his victory. You're welcome to join us for dinner, either way."
"I will," he found himself saying on instinct, so stupefied by that fleeting yet eternal contact, her lingering scent like a promise in the air around him, the press of her lips that was still heavy on his mind. "If it pleases you."
She looked torn—as if she had expected him to decline but hadn't wanted him to.
"It shouldn't," she replied, backing away and toward the door. "But it does."
"My lady—"
It was too late. She had already left.
As Hermione and Martin had their strange conversation in the library, Theodore Nott had come to the manor to pay a visit, and was now in Draco's study.
"Congratulations, my Lord," Theo was saying, bowing his head, a huge grin upon his face. "I heard about Longbottom's death."
Draco snorted, standing at the window behind his desk. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, and he leaned against the sill.
"He lives yet. I had the Aurors fabricate his death, and now I have myself a new servant."
Nott's eyes were wide. He let out a loud, incredulous laugh. "Serves him right. Is he as miserable as I picture him?"
"Oh, he makes the saddest picture," Draco replied with a snort. "He loathes himself for what he's done, but not as much as he loathes me."
"And what of Lovegood? Has she been of any use?"
"She's resisted her interrogations ably," Draco said. "But I wasn't so much concerned with what she knew outside of Longbottom's location. I was more interested in her use as bait, in which she served her purpose perfectly."
"And what now?" Nott asked. "Shall he just feed you grapes until he withers and dies?"
"Tempting," Draco said with a smirk. "But I have no wish for that long mopey face around my home long term. I only want to humiliate him as thoroughly as possible until he loses his entertainment value." There was a gleam in his eye. "Stay for dinner. I'll invite others. Come witness my greatest opponent." He gave a mocking laugh.
Nott scoffed. "Whoever deemed him the 'greatest'?"
"An idiot. Longbottom was resourceful enough to last this long, that's all. He has never been a real threat to me. Potterwas more of a concern until I killed him."
"And you've vanquished them both," Nott said. "A testament to your strength, my Lord. I knew you would handle the situation easily. Nobody could hope to challenge you."
Draco sat at his desk.
"I welcome them to try, regardless. It does get a little dull, not having a worthwhile opponent... Perhaps I should have waited to kill Potter. I was too hasty. But it's a mistake I won't make this time—when I decide to kill Longbottom and Lovegood, I'll make sure it's worth the waiting for."
There was a gleam of excitement in Nott's eye. "I will await the day eagerly, my Lord. How does Lady Malfoy bear the situation? They were good friends once, weren't they?"
"She lost her affection for him," Draco said, a gleam in his eye. "I made sure of that. She knows his true nature now, and he hers. There is no chance of their friendship rekindling."
"Excellent," Nott said. "I'm sure you'll give him exactly what he deserves, my Lord."
"I plan to," Draco replied. "Every last bit of what he's owed." He gave Nott a sharp, stern look. "You understand that Longbottom's presence here remains a secret between you and I. The Ministry will ask no questions, and I will not tolerate loose lips in my circle."
"Of course, my Lord. I'll tell no one…will you give him a new name, then?"
"I suppose I'll have to," Draco said, amused, as if he hadn't given it much thought yet. "Whatever name I give him now can't be much worse than what he was given at birth, I suppose."
Nott barked with laughter.
Pansy had just left Longbottom in his quarters to rest (as if he would be able to relax at all), and was walking down the hall to the nursery to check on Lucio when she felt the summons.
She Apparated to Draco's location at once, knocked on the door of his study, and when it opened she entered. She bowed in greeting, and upon rising took notice of Nott.
"Yes, my Lord?" she asked.
Draco was in high spirits still. He stood.
"I've decided to host a small dinner for friends tonight," he said. "Make the necessary arrangements. I believe there's enough time to get it done."
"Of course. How many will attend?"
"All my faithful," Draco said. "Unless they've got other occasions to attend to." And then he laughed.
Nott joined in, and Pansy remembered to smile.
"Who would refuse?" Nott asked, grinning. "They'll have heard the news by now. Our Lord's victory must be celebrated."
"Let Hermione know as well, Pansy," Draco said. There was a smile on his lips, a gleam in his eye. "Help her prepare once the arrangements have been put into order."
Pansy bowed, unsettled.
"Right away, my Lord."
Hermione hardly reacted when Pansy broke the news. In fact, she seemed almost as if she had expected this very outcome.
"Of course he would take the first chance to show off and swagger on about his victory," she said with a tense smile. "How big of a dinner will it be?"
"As big as the last, I'm afraid," Pansy said, wincing. "He's invited all of them."
Hermione sighed and rubbed at her temples.
"Fine." She opened her eyes and peeked at Pansy a little sheepishly. "I had a feeling this would happen anyway—I invited Martin to come for dinner."
Whether Pansy suspected anything, she didn't let on. She merely nodded and smiled.
"Then you will have another friend in attendance," Pansy said, patting her arm gently. "I'm sure my Lord will be happy to see him."
Hermione didn't quite know what to suspect for Draco's reaction. Perhaps he had included Martin in that list of attendees. Perhaps not. He had a funny sort of regard for the artist, and Hermione thought he might be pleased that Martin had scrounged up the courage to participate. Or he might sense Hermione's growing attraction to him. He might seek retaliation.
Hermione squared her shoulders. She would not allow herself to become uneasy. She was tired of Draco running her life. Now that the ring was out of the picture (for now), she would wield her power again like a whip.
It's our turn, said the warped voice, and Hermione agreed.
All she knew was that if she was going to have to spend an unbearably celebratory night with all of Draco's followers, then she had to make it worthwhile for herself lest she go mad.
"Hopefully the night will move quickly. He didn't elaborate and this is rather last minute, so I don't think he has any nasty surprises this time," Pansy said.
Hermione shook her head.
"You speak too soon. He always has some dark whimsy waiting for an impulse on his part to make happen." But she took Pansy's hand and squeezed it. "The night will pass as they always must, and we'll live through it. Where is Lucio?"
"In the nursery, working on his assignments," Pansy said. "He knows something's afoot. He's a little upset he hasn't been told, or that he hasn't seen you or his father all day."
Guiltily, Hermione straightened and went to the door at once. "So much has happened today already, I forgot to check in on him!"
Pansy followed her quickly.
"No one can blame you for that," she said. "So much is about to change—it's in the air. Can you feel it?"
Hermione was still rushing ahead but she turned and caught Pansy's eye to acknowledge her question. She was moving so swiftly that her hair, all loose and undone, flowed behind her like a stream and some of it swept across her face but her expression was grave and solemn.
I can, her eyes said.
The journey to the nursery was quick. Hermione all but slammed the door open, which gave Lucio a fright. He jolted from where he'd been stationed at his desk which was too big for him. It was layered with books and parchment. Most children his age would have doodled or scribbled nonsense all over the margins and scraps, but Lucio rarely did. His handwriting, although still bearing some traces of his youth, was remarkably fine, and his notes, dictated by his tutors, were detailed and careful.
Hermione glanced at them from the corner of her eye. Unbidden, a memory of Ron's scrawled notes and hasty drawings came to her. There was a small twinge in her heart. She chased the picture away and then opened her arms to Lucio, who careened straight into them and pressed his sweet little face to her belly.
Pansy lingered in the doorway, watching as Hermione knelt down to match Lucio's height.
"Mummy!" He peppered her face with kisses, both relieved and overjoyed to see her.
"Darling," she said, lifting him into her arms. "I meant to visit you sooner, I'm sorry. Were you worried?"
"Pansy told me I couldn't leave my room all morning," Lucio said, his tone almost reproachful.
"It was your father's order, my love," Hermione replied, brushing a lock of hair from his eye. "Don't be cross with her."
"But why couldn't I go outside?"
"Well—" she wasn't quite sure where to start. "Something bad happened in Knockturn Alley and your father and I had to rush there to deal with it."
His blue eyes were wide.
"What happened?"
Hermione didn't want to lie.
"There were explosions," she said carefully. "Quite a few people died."
"How many?"
"I don't know the total," she admitted.
"Who did it?" he demanded.
Hermione only hesitated for a fraction of a second.
"Someone your father and I once knew."
Lucio was hanging on her every word. His hands clasped together behind her neck.
"Your father and I had to go there to talk to him, and your father took him as prisoner. He is going to live with us and work with Pansy."
"Here? You knew him?" Lucio asked at once. "Do I know him?"
"No, my love," Hermione said. She stood, took his hand. "But it's time you did."
Neville had ignored Pansy's suggestion to get some rest entirely and had spent the past hour or so inspecting every inch of his new quarters for any chance at escape. As he had been warned, he found none. He had even tried to blast the door and the window down with magic—nothing had happened.
He might have anticipated that. Malfoy wasn't stupid enough to allow him even a shred of power. The very moment he had regained his awareness in this place he had felt something hideously familiar—something he had been unlucky enough to feel twice before.
That presence...
The atmosphere here was thick, bleak, uncomfortable. It had made his skin crawl and he felt on edge constantly. Like there was an undercurrent of malevolance in the very air itself, dragging itself into his lungs with every intake of air. Like there were eyes embedded into the walls of the house, watching his every step. It was maddening.
It was exactly the same as how it had felt the only time they had been able to track down and infiltrate Malfoy's home—the first one, that is, in which he had held Hermione. The second time had been after Malfoy had kidnapped him and cut off his ear, then held him in the dungeon. Every inch of the place was drenched in spells and enchantments for concealment and containment. They hung so heavy in the air that it made him feel as though he were walking through an invisible current. It was incredible—and disturbing.
He had been inside such places before—he pictured Hogwarts and then Grimauld Place instantly All four of these places were warded heavily with magic meant to protect those inside—except only one out of that lot held those protections with ill intent. It had warped that magic. It suffused itself into the very fibers of what made up the place. It weighed upon the psyche like a blanket meant to smother.
And Hermione had been dragged from place to place just like this, living in these conditions for years. How many times had she managed to escape and then been hauled back? And how many new spells had been added afterwards in Draco's vain attempts to trap her within?
Malfoy might boast an elegant, luxurious home. He might clothe Hermione in the finest frocks and feed her the best foods, but all the luxury and comfort in the world could never be a true distraction from this constant, malevolent presence. And his insanity.
How had she not gone mad already?
When his attempts at escape proved futile he sat down by the window and let himself rest, but not sleep. He had not slept properly for some time, especially since Luna's capture, but much less since he had made up his mind to do what he'd done in Knockturn Alley.
And he was likely to get less sleep now, with the images of the carnage he had wrought burned like a brand into his mind.
A brand for a brand, he thought, staring down at the Malfoy crest on his skin.
It was arrogant of him to complain after what he had just done. He had known the risks, and he'd done it anyway. Neville wished he could argue that he had not been of sound mind when he had done it, but it was simply not true.
There had been more blood than he'd expected. He'd forgotten the efficiency of magic in this sort of scenario. An Avada left no mess behind but a cold corpse. No gore. No blood.
The Muggle way was much more violent. He hadn't wanted to use the bomb in the first place. But it was the fastest way to draw attention, with something untraceable by magic. Malfoy had put so many restrictions upon entering Knockturn and Diagon Alley of late that he'd had to smuggle the components through bit by bit, heavily under disguise each time, until it was finally time to assemble.
He had not really let himself think of the lives he would take during the process. All he could think of was Luna and what hideous torture she might be going through under Malfoy's hand. Hermione had told them the fate that had almost fallen on Danielle. Would Malfoy cast the same fate on Luna, too?
The haunting thoughts refused to leave him, haranguing him even in his sleep. He couldn't rest knowing what potential harm awaited her under Malfoy's hand. There was no time to try and sniff out Malfoy again, no time to try and broker a deal. Malfoy was out for more than blood at this point.
And so when he had assembled everything, gone a safe distance from the site and taken out the remote trigger, he hadn't hesitated.
Now the images of the rubble and the limbs and bodies flung about would stay with him forever.
An Avada would have been cleaner. You should have turned your wand on yourself instead.
He nodded. It would have denied Malfoy the satisfaction of taking him home like some sort of broken up trophy.
But it would have done nothing to save Luna.
The door opened then, startling him—he stood at once, his fists automatically clenching, expecting to see Malfoy again.
What could he want now?
Pansy Parkinson was at the door instead, to his relief. She gave him a meaningful look—a warning? Neville still wasn't sure what to make of her. Then she stepped aside.
Hermione was behind her and stepped into the room.
He opened his mouth, wanting to speak but not knowing what to say. He knew he ought to bow, considering the titles Malfoy had bestowed upon themselves, but it was too strange. Seeing her now, stately and beautiful and haunted, brought a lump to her throat. Every time he had seen her since her kidnapping there had been such a weighted tension in her shoulders that made him wonder when it would snap. He thought of who she had been once, when they had both been free, and grieved.
They were staring at him. He tried to utter a word but nothing came, for he had finally caught sight of the boy who held Hermione's hand and was staring up at him with open curiosity.
Neville felt a muscle in his jaw draw tight. The boy was a perfect vision of what Malfoy had looked like as a child.
It was so jarring, in fact, that Neville found himself with the urge to lunge forward and wrap his hands around the little monster's neck, squeeze the life from him. But he was rooted to the ground and not by his own choice—someone else's magic held him solidly. Parkinson's, probably.
Stop, he told himself, trying to tamp down that rage that had risen in him so quickly. Look again.
The boy's hair was curly like Hermione's. In every other physical aspect he appeared exactly like his father, but Neville watched him for a moment, frowning.
The boy was watching him too, tilting his head. His chin was pointed like Draco's but glowing with youth and still round in the cheeks, and while his eye color was as light as his father's the expression within them and the set of his mouth was undoubtedly the influence of his mother. He even had a widow's peak just like hers.
Neville felt his heart constrict. There was a lump in his throat. It was suddenly blurry everywhere he looked.
"Neville," Hermione began. Her voice sounded so distant, but he could still sense the sadness in her tone. She had observed his reaction carefully. "This is my son, Lucio."
She looked down to the boy. "Darling, this is Neville. We went to school together. He was my friend."
The was took a moment to register. It hurt. But he could not argue.
Neville managed to swallow, clear his throat. There were tears in his eyes and he did not care to hide them.
"Lucio…" he said, a slight frown creasing his brow.
"His father picked the name," Hermione said.
That explained that.
"I'm glad to meet you at last," Neville finally said to the child, though he felt the opposite.
The boy stared up at him, his eyes not shy but guarded. He opened his mouth to speak, but someone else did before he could.
"You've anticipated me, sweetling," came Malfoy's voice from the door.
Hermione's head whipped to the side to look at him. Her hands went to the boy's shoulders in a protective gesture—one that did not go unnoticed by Neville.
"You're not angry, are you?" Hermione asked. She did not sound afraid or nervous. "They were going to meet one way or another."
"No, my love, I'm not angry," Malfoy said as he strode into the room. Neville eyed him warily. Malfoy stared right back, eyes intent, hungrily searching his expression. He sought pain, and he found it in the tightness around Neville's eyes and mouth—and grinned.
"Well, Longbottom?" he asked. "What do you think of my progeny so far?"
So far? Before he could stop himself, Neville's head turned automatically to Hermione, glancing down at her stomach. Had he missed something? But his eyes raised, met hers. She calmly gave a small shake of her head. Relieved, Neville looked back at Malfoy.
He's nothing like you, Neville wanted to say. He's got your face but that's his mother's essence in his eyes, and I can tell that just by looking.
But he kept that back. It was both a compliment and an insult, because surely Malfoy would want his son to grow into something as twisted and heartless as himself.
Hermione probably wouldn't mind if I said it, actually.
The boy was still staring at him. Despite his guarded demeanor there was still such an inquisitive, clever air about him that Neville couldn't help but like him, and the boy had not said one word to him yet.
He is not his father, Hermione had insisted not long ago. Neville could see that, and then felt trepidation. Malfoy must know that, too. Neville wondered what their father-son relationship was like. Lucius Malfoy's face swam in his mind's eye—he had been rumored to be a cold, exacting figure.
In the end, he carefully said, "He looks just like you, my Lord. It's like I'm looking into the past."
It was physically painful to speak so respectfully to the person he hated most in the world. It left a bitter taste on his tongue and he wanted to spit, wanted to wash his mouth clean of it, but knew that was not an option—not if he wanted Luna to remain unharmed.
His caution pleased Malfoy. The Dark Lord bent, scooped his son up, propped him on one shoulder.
"He does, doesn't he?" he asked. "Can you imagine if we had a girl next? She would be as stunning as her mother."
Hermione looked away, her jaw tight.
"Well," Malfoy said brightly, "now that we're all here in one room: I'm expecting company tonight." He looked at Neville. "You will be serving them along with Pansy."
"Yes, my Lord," Pansy said.
Neville was clearly taken aback, frowning.
"I've had no training," he said, and then begrudgingly added, "My Lord."
Malfoy waved a dismissive hand, scoffing. "You don't need training to serve wine and show people into the room. Simply see to it that you don't shame me with any blunders. Pansy will be with you, simply follow her lead."
He turned to Hermione. "I've run a bath for you, sweetheart." He held out his free arm for her to take. "Pansy, you'll escort Lucio to the nursery?"
"Can I come to the party, Father?" Lucio asked as Lord Malfoy set him down carefully onto his feet.
"Of course," Malfoy said before Hermione could reply. "But not for the whole night."
Neville saw a flash of displeasure in Hermione's eyes.
Pleased, Lucio smiled. "Thank you, father."
Pansy and Lucio left the room, hand in hand. Lord Malfoy had stayed back, Hermione's arm still tucked in his, and he watched Neville.
"It won't do to have a dead man discovered inside my home, loyal followers or not," he said. "When you are in general company outside of those who live here, you will forget your name, and you will be disguised. You will be known as John."
Neville stared coldly at him, and before he could hold his tongue he spoke.
"I would have thought you would have wanted to flaunt my being here, my Lord," he said. "Was that not the point of this event?"
The Dark Lord only smiled broadly, taking no offense.
"It's enough for me that only a select few know," he said. "It's better for the world to believe Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood are deceased, isn't it? You wouldn't want attention on yourself after what you've just done, I'm sure."
Neville didn't reply. Malfoy chuckled.
"Under your new identity, your past doesn't matter, so you have no surname. If anybody asks, give them the blank stare you're giving me now. Just like that—perfect. They'll assume I've Obliviated you."
Neville's expression was blank—not with confusion or stupidity but a feral rage that indicated he was one fraying thread away from lunging at Lord Malfoy.
Malfoy stared back, undaunted. Neither moved.
"Is there something the matter, John?" he asked pointedly.
There was a pause.
"No, my Lord," Neville—John—finally responded.
"Excellent," Malfoy said curtly. "Now get some rest. You look like you desperately need it. You'll be called for when you're needed. Pansy will make sure you're disguised for the event."
He pulled Hermione from the room, and the door shut behind them.
Neville remained standing there for several minutes, his rage cresting and receding in him like a churning ocean, not knowing what to do.
There was a knock on Neville's door, waking him suddenly. He sat up from the armchair with a jerky movement, his heart suddenly hammering.
"It's only me," came Pansy's voice from the door.
He scrubbed his face, rested his elbows on his thighs for a moment.
"I'm coming in."
So much for that. Of course they would not allow him that tiny breath of rebellion.
The door opened and she entered, closed the door behind her.
Neither said anything for a moment.
"I'm sorry you ended up here," she said softly. And then, softer still—
"I'm sorry all of us ended up here."
Not what he'd expected her to say. He glanced at her warily. Her face was still a blank mask, revealing nothing. Even her eyes were neutral.
"You might think me a villain for working for him. Supporting him, in a sense."
Neville snorted.
"There's no might about it, Parkinson."
"Well let me explain and then you can make your judgement," she said, still polite, still patient. There was no condescension in her tone whatsoever but it still annoyed Neville. "I don't necessarily need your good opinion, but I don't want you to think I'm on Draco's side. What I care about—" she lowered her voice to less than a whisper.
"I didn't know what I was getting into when I answered Draco's offer to work for him. I'd thought he and Hermione were in love, and eloped, even though it seemed so wild an idea back in Hogwarts. I wasn't told the truth until after it was too late."
Neville only stared. He still didn't trust her, and she didn't expect him to.
"I have a duty to Lord Malfoy and Lady Malfoy," she said. "And I cannot break it."
And now her voice dropped even lower, so that now he had to lean in and stain his ears to hear.
"But my loyalty is with only one of them, and yours does too, I think."
And she flinched, as if expecting or receiving pain that he could not see. There was a tense second where they stared at each other, but whatever she had feared had not come, and she sighed shakily.
"It's not as if I can leave freely," she continued. "Not easily, anyway. I cannot dissent against my master, and I can't prevent him from anything he decides to do. I can only watch, and help my Lady in any way that I can within the limits of my vow."
"I'm sure she's grateful for your company," Neville said coolly.
Pansy lifted her chin and her tone grew sharp.
"Don't pretend to know her feelings. You haven't been here or seen what she's been through. You let her down. All of you. From Potter to you. I've watched her heart break so many times over the years as she kept having to face the truth that none of you could help her, and that she couldn't help herself."
"We tried—"
"We've all tried," Pansy cut in. "And it's never enough. I've come to terms with that. The best thing I can do now is continue to help my Lady in any way I can. And you are not going to jeopardize anything. You pulled your ridiculous stunt in Knockturn Alley to get everyone's attention. Look where you are now." She paused, shook her head. "I thought you had more sense than that, than to walk right into his hands."
"You're not the only one who's come to terms with it," Neville said heatedly. "He had me in a corner, and there was no way out of it. So don't you judge me, Parkinson."
Her careful façade was slowly morphing into a glare.
"He's going to test you every way he can to break you," she said. "He did it with me, and he did it with George, and he'll do it with you. You better be on your guard, because he'll jump on any excuse you give him to punish you."
She faltered.
"My Lady is in enough pain," she said. "I would warn you not to add to it, but you already are just by being here."
"She's different," Neville said. "I've noticed it more and more in the few times I've seen her. She told me she had to give in to him but that can't be all. What's he done to her?"
Here Pansy gave him a strange look.
"My Lady does what she must to ensure peace."
Neville frowned.
"What?"
"Get up," Pansy said, motioning with her hand. "I've got to disguise you before we go downstairs."
He did, and she approached with her hand aloft, already muttering spells. Neville felt his features shifting. He might have dozed off but still felt exhausted. He wondered where Hermione was at that moment, if she was with her son.
"Wait," he said, and she broke off mid-spell, distracted. "Did you say George earlier?"
Her lips were in a grim line.
"You can't mean George Weasley."
"He is here," she said. "And he also works for Lord Malfoy."
Neville blinked. He had gone pale.
"How?" he croaked.
"He should tell you himself," Pansy said, resuming her work. "It was a terrible shock to my Lady, too. But you're not to speak to him tonight on order of Lord Malfoy. He doesn't want you drawing attention to yourself by accosting him. You can speak to him tomorrow if you wish."
"He'll be here tonight, then."
"Yes. But like I said—do not approach him."
She'd finished her spellwork and led him to a tall mirror in the corner to look at himself. Neville was too concerned with this news of George Weasley to really take in his new appearance. He didn't recognize himself and that was all that mattered, wasn't it?
"Change into those," Pansy said, pointing to a new set of robes that had appeared on his bed. "I'll turn my back if you're shy. But do it quick."
He changed, wired with apprehension and anger.
When he finished and let her know she turned, her hands on her hips, and surveyed him quickly.
"Good."
She went to the door and beckoned for him to follow.
When he met her there she hesitated, then leaned in.
"It will be difficult," she said. "Don't give him anything. Keep it all inside and don't let your face move except to speak. And when you're about to break, remember who you're doing this for."
