"I'll do it."

That was that. Hermione looked at Lucius decisively; her hand alone would mark his fate. Her eyes had changed, there was more firmness in them—more of that brave little girl in the bookshop that told him and his son to leave the Weasleys alone, less of that 'frightened-to-death' Ministry pawn that sought dogma above all else. Hermione Granger was back and she was ready to take him on his offer.

"You will do this, for me, will you?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Yes."

Oh yes, you will, he thought to himself slyly. He had wined and dined the witch, and now he wooed her over enough to have her take him. His whole body burned in anticipation; he was ready to be taken by her right then and there, but he had to stay strong and pretend to be as unassuming and surprised as she expected him to be. He knelt at her feet, burying his head in her lap, kissing his hands. "Thank you, thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she said. "I take no pleasure in this. You know, I'm doing it to free myself from this nightmare of a visit."

"But of course." Lucius rose, leading her with him to the corridor.

"I need a moment to gather my thoughts."

"Take the time you need." With that Lucius walked away, leaving Hermione to ponder her decision. He had all the time in the world to give her, now that she was in his cage.

Oh, he was a clever sly Malfoy, that he was. But he knew that Hermione was no fool herself and could change her mind at any time she pleased with no warning.

-xxx-

Hermione clutched her arms. She had agreed to take Lucius Malfoy on his offer. What he asked of her was no simple boon; it was an act that put everything she believed in on the line. He wanted her to use her wand and carve a name into his skin—the same crime his sister-in-law Bellatrix once commited on her skin.

Mudblood.

That is the word Hermione was cursed to bear all her life. She lifted her sleeve again and there that ugly word was, scarred into her skin. Could she really do the same to Lucius? Hermione was no Bellatrix—she derived no pleasure from violence and did not get off on pain. Hermione would not let the Malfoys and their relatives turn her into their little plaything—their little pawn. She paced back and forth in solitude. She would be reasonable and calm. Hermione was her own witch and her carving would not be an act of violence— it would be an act of freedom. First and foremost, it would let her leave this manor unscathed. Second, it would let her manage her fears of living the victim to her past. She had to do what she had to do to survive. She took care of herself first, that way she could help others. She would be no use in the Ministry if she was dead.

Hermione was brave and she was clever. The broom was in her court, figuratively speaking. She would not allow anyone to play tricks on her mind, not even the eldest Malfoy. He was a bit mad, but he was Slytherin, and a good one at that.

Straightening, Hermione made her way down the long and dark corridors filled with the portraits of previous Malfoys. She was sure Lucius waited for her in the sitting room: filled with the light of the tall windows that cast a blue glaze on the marble floors. This was the place of Hermione's nightmares: her torture chamber. Hermione's therapist said she needed to expose herself to the things she feared. Today she will end her woes once and for all. She imagined all the things she would achieve once the heavy weight of being a victim was lifted from her chest. The lion would become the ringleader—the cattle leading the farmer to the slaughterhouse. Her patience would be rewarded and the end was drawing so near. Exposure therapy.

Hermione's boots echoed and bounced off the endlessly tall walls of the corridor. Along them, the frames of the portraits lightly glistened from the light of her wand against the peeling wallpaper. The ancestors of Lucius—they watched her with their light eyes and their angelic-blond lashes.

Hermione stopped, calming the beat of her unsteady heart with slow breaths. She would be just fine and would remember this day as one of the bravest in her life, proprietary be damned. She knew herself. Not even Barnaby knew her like she knew herself. She was not a monster.

She wandered the halls, looking for the sitting room where Lucius would wait for her—her obedient servant, her slave for the night. As she walked, the whispers of the Malfoys murmured and muttered in harsh and cruel tones.

"Mudblood, mudblood, here she comes like Venus without her furs."

"Oh, your obedient Severin awaits you there, little Mudblood—awaits his thrashing on bended knee. But if you do his bidding, is he your servant or are you…his?"

Hermione scowled. "Shut up. Of course, he is mine. It can't be any other way!"

"Was it not Lucius who suggested you carve him? Was it not him who seduced you to stay in his home with sweet words and even sweeter wine? Tell us Mudblood, whose name is engraved on the gates of this Manor—"

"Who speaks?" Hermione yelled. "Show yourself. Cowards. I thought so. You are just paintings. You are not alive."

Her wand-light flickered like a candle and then, the spell vanished as though blown out. And when the light came back on again, a figure rose before Hermione. He was tall and thin, and his hair flowed in whisps along his cheekbones. His eyes, two hollow orbs, glared at her from above and a hungry smile graced his lips.

"Who are you?"

"Abraxas Malfoy." Abraxas tucked one lace-trimmed sleeve behind his back, the other to his chest and bowed slightly. "I knew your cries, before I knew your name, Miss Granger. I was there when your screams echoed in the halls of this Manor some years before."

That was the night of her torture. Hermione stiffened. "Why do you come here now? To save your son from my hand or to taunt me into resigning. My mind is made up. Whatever you wish to do is pointless."

Abraxas opened his mouth and tossed his head back, his jaw opening wide. A choking sound rattled down his throat, falling deeper into the crevices of his lungs.

"I would be a fool twice-fold if I thought I could make a woman stop her bidding. For only a fool reasons with a woman scorned. Lucifer himself—Damned King—would give his Hell-Throne up the instant man succeeds in such a mission." Abraxas came closer. "My son—the hapless idiot—the bane of my existence—fell into the jaws of love."

"Are fathers not to love their sons?"

"Love? Love him, I do. But Lucius, that fool, allowed himself to love a woman and let that love destroy him." Abraxas clicked his tongue. "Yes, I thought I taught him well. The ways of the Malfoys have been the same for centuries. We do not love our wives, not truly, for loving a woman that is not your own daughter leads to unfathomable disaster. Love weakens and controls a man, so you can imagine what it does to a wizard. I taught that fool to never trust Narcissa, but Lucius…oh! He went and fell in love despite my warning. Look now at our Manor. There is no honour here, not anymore. The place is corrupt and empty and the walls cave in on themselves. Lucius let himself lose his control to the love of a witch. What of it? Where is that witch now? Gone."

There was a hint of sadness in the ghoul's voice. Hermione watched as Abraxas Malfoy sighed deeply, his eyes looking into the distance.

"You do not sound like you love your son very much," Hermione said quietly.

"The contrary. I wish to end his suffering," Abraxas said. "I will not halt your mission, in fact, I will support you in it. I wish you to show my son that trusting women never leads to good results. I wish you to put him on the Rightful Path again. Take your hand and carve the Word of Truth into his arm so that he may never fully trust a woman again. When anger and rage boils in his heart, he will once again feel himself return to his senses. He will do what needs to be done to rid the Heir of the Malfoy name, his son Draco, of that awful Mudblood wife of his. He will seek revenge against Narcissa's new husband. He will unite the bloodline in the walls of this Manor. The name of our ancestors will mean something again."

"But I cannot hurt Lucius," Hermione whispered. "Not to that point. I do not want him to suffer, I only want to show him that his kind once hurt me. I want him to feel the pain I felt the night I was tortured. I want him and his family to never hurt anyone ever again."

"But you will set everything right," Abraxas said, taking her hands into his icy-cold ones. "It will only take a bit of pain to set him straight. My son is weak, I know it. One little cut, one little touch, you will have him slithering like a snake on the floor, begging for mercy. Think, think, Miss Granger, only one little cut-"

"-one little cut," Hermione repeated.

"Yes, and it will all be over. You will return home and you will remember this day as the day you saved yourself the pain of carrying your victimhood with you forever. Strong woman. Strong witch."

"Yes, I am strong."

"So strong, little Miss Granger."

"Yes." Hermione shook her head. "No? No! But I don't wish ill on Draco or on Narcissa."

"Forget them. They are not here now. Now, only you are here. You."

"Yes. Me." Hermione said, her feet carrying her forwards. She turned around to find herself in a bedroom with the shades all drawn up. A fire blazed inside the fireplace. She turned to find a woman staring back at her—a woman with dark, baggy eyes and long, tousled hair. Reaching for the glassy reflection, Hermione traced the woman's cheek.

"This is me? This is what I look like?" Hermione pinched her skin. "I am so tired, so worn out."

"You give so much of yourself to others. You work too hard, my girl." Abraxas ran his hands along her shoulders. "Now it is time to think of yourself. Let yourself become what you truly are meant to be."

"What I am meant to be-"

"Yess." Abraxas hissed.

"Show me what I can be," Hermione said, her curiosity consuming her.

A gust of wind threw open every wardrobe door, every chest of drawers in the room. Smoke and a mist of magic enveloped Hermione's body. Her feet floated off the ground. She spun around, her body glowing with warmth—filling with strength. When she finally settled down, she looked once more in the reflection. There stood a woman with bright, brown eyes and dark curls cascading over her shoulders in neat waves. She was younger, tighter, and firmer, like years of sitting in a cubicle had been erased in an instant. She was eighteen again, her gaze as firm and decisive as the day she left the grounds of Hogwarts—ready to build a name for herself.

"Is this really me?"

"Yes."

"Oh my." Hermione breathed in, touching every inch of her body in awe. It was one thing to feel powerful, a whole new one to look powerful.

"All you need to do is give him one little cut. And then, you are free to do as you please. Think of how much pleasure it will bring you to put that wizard on his knees before you, cowering at your presence, afraid of what you will do to him. You do not need to suffer, trying to forgive him. Why not teach him to be better," Abraxas said, ever so sweetly. "Why wait for the world to change when you can change it?"

"Just one little cut."

"That's right. Now go. Your servant awaits you."

Hermione walked through the door—no, floated, as though she weighed nothing at all. She was not sure how that was possible. She moved like she was an Apparition and to her surprise, the Manor seemed to part for her. Before she knew it, she was in the sitting room where Lucius did await her. When he noticed her presence, he turned and glared like it had been the first time he had seen her.

She approached him, and like Abraxas predicted, the man knelt before her and kissed her hand. But she remembered the promise she made—she would have to go through with the act to free herself from this Manor once and for all. So when he kissed her hand, she tore it from his lips and pushed him back.

"You've come, like you said you would," Lucius began.

"Yes, I have," Hermione said. "You've begged me to carve you, and I will keep my promise. But I will do it on my terms. So take off your shirt. Take it off, I said."

Lucius, slowly, unbuttoned his shirt. He took it off the left, and then the right shoulder. When it came time to remove it from his body, he hesitated.

"Yes. Good. Now remember, who is the servant, Miss Granger? If your Severin disobeys, my Venus, kick the dog into submission," Abraxas' voice hissed into Hermione's ear. Hermione found her hand curling around her wand. In one strike, she lashed the first cut into Lucius' shoulder. It was not deep, but he winced in pain and his eyes turned glassy and large.

"You've struck me?"

"Yes. I have. It's what you wanted," Hermione said sternly. "Now, you will listen or I will strike again. Take the shirt off."

So Lucius did, for what other choice did he have.

"Now," Hermione said, "Toss it aside. Lay down."

Lucius stilled. "But the floor is cold-"

Another lash, this time on his other shoulder, left a small trail of blood. Lucius did as he was told; he tossed the shirt aside and lay down on the marble floor. Hermione walked slowly to the windows, opening them wide to let in the light of the full moon. The rays trailed over Lucius' body—his muscles glistening with new sweat and his light head of hair spread over the marble floor. Over his chest lay the shadow of Hermione's form. She approached him, looking to see where she would carve her first mark.

Lucius whimpered in anticipation. Hermione was certain this was theatrical: as big an act as any other he had put on tonight.

"You are cold?"

"Yes."

"Your sister in law afforded me no privileges on the night of my torture," Hermione said cruelly. "Therefore, I will not afford you any tonight. You will lay there and feel as I have felt, naked and afraid and ashamed."

A slow smile lit up Lucius' face. "Oh yes, I will, Miss Granger."