— CHAPTER FOURTEEN —
The Dark Side of History
"Lumos!"
He had used the Imperius Curse on a mediwizard to make him lead him to the ward where Hermione was 'resting', if it could be called that. He had then erased his memory of his and Hermione's presence at the hospital and sent him on his way. Now, in the beam of light emanating from his wand, he could discern Hermione as the only patient in the dark, dreary ward. Her brown hair, tangled and damp with sweat, was strewn out on the pillow on the side of her head, making her look younger, like the girl he had met at the World Cup and the Department of Mysteries. Her eyes were closed and her breathing came in short, sharp gasps.
Her weak cries of pain were mixed with incoherent, fiercely hissed words. Her body was trembling, and she looked paler than the white duvet on which her hands were clenched.
He watched as she turned on her side, muttering unintelligibly under her breath. It sounded like a weak, yet unexpectedly vicious hiss of a serpent.
If the poison had taken full effect, as it must have because hours had passed since she had ingested it, then she was experiencing nightmarish hallucinations. She was not quite asleep, yet not awake either. In the zone between dreams and reality, she was reliving her worst memories and seeing her worst fears come true in her mind.
He brushed a strand of matted brown hair away from her face. His fingers grazed her forehead, which burned with fever.
Hermione shifted at the familiar touch, but her eyes remained closed.
He moved his hand down to her neck, checking her pulse. It was weak, almost negligible.
He pulled the vial of antidote from his pocket. Gently, he forced Hermione's jaw open. Even in this state of semi-consciousness, she complied with his wishes at the slightest prompting. It almost made him smile, really, as he poured the blue potion down her throat.
If the antidote did not work... No, he would not consider that possibilify. It was out of the realm of the possible. The Dark Arts never failed.
The possibility of Hermione's death had led him to realise some things, namely that he could not quite imagine life without her. He had grown attached to her, and the very idea of losing her filled him with deadly rage. She was his. No thing or being was allowed to take away what was his.
He enjoyed being with her and he craved her presence when she was away. With her, he felt in full control. Through her earnest admiration and unquestioning deference, she made him feel more powerful than ever before. Power was his drug of choice, one he would never, ever give up.
He stood by her, waiting for the potion to take effect. When she began to stir, he felt very much relieved.
Hermione felt like she was awakening from a nightmare, only to realise it hadn't been a nightmare, but merciless reality. She could feel the fever cool down, the pain fading away. She coughed; there was an absolutely horrid taste in her mouth, and she wanted to retch, but she knew she shouldn't.
"Hermione," whispered the voice that haunted her dreams.
She opened her eyes, and the intense zeal in them was startling. "You came," she said with wonder. "You cared enough to go to the trouble of breaking into the hospital to save me."
"You are more useful to the Dark Lord – and to me – while you are alive," he said simply. Then he moved closer to her and touched her cheek.
"I have grown quite fond of you," he whispered to her in the dark, leaning over her, his glossy hair falling into her face, tickling her. "You could claim to be an obsession of my mind and a presence I find comforting by my side … or in more sentimental terms … je t'aime, Hermione."
Hermione suddenly wondered if she was approaching death and it was playing tricks on her mind. Did people hear voices just before they died? No one had survived to tell the tale. But of course, she knew very well that she wasn't dying – not anymore – nor was she hallucinating. She had really heard him say that. Never in a thousand years would she have thought it possible …
Sure, she had known that he cared about her. He would not touch her otherwise. Why would he, when she was a Muggle-born and not the most beautiful of witches?
But she had never expected him to actually say these words, the words no one had ever said to her – and meant them – in her life, the words she had dreamt of hearing for the past eight years … but she had never dared hope she would actually hear them, especially not from him.
She raised a hand that was still burning with fever. He grasped it in his cool one, which felt uncomfortably cold to her right now, but she squeezed it as strongly as she could, thanking him for telling her what she had always wanted to hear.
But even through her shocked elation, the rational side of her mind would not let her believe his words as much as she wanted to. Watching the main events of her life like a Muggle movie as she lay dying had given her a new perspective, a more objective one, of what had happened since he had become … whatever he was to her.
A little voice in her head reminded her that she was Hermione Granger; she hadn't unquestioningly accepted things that made no sense at school, so why should she now? She hadn't become gullible, had she? "But... you tortured me … you threatened to kill me."
"And those were no empty threats," he told her. "I meant those words as I mean these. All is in how we define that word, Hermione. The day you cease to respect me as your superior, the day you defy me or let another touch you –" His eyes flashed with cruelty ready to be unleashed, "– will be the day I kill you."
She stared at him for a few seconds, then she declared bluntly, somewhat accusingly, "You love the power you have over me."
His mouth quirked and she discerned appreciation in his eyes. "Once again you demonstrate your exceeding cleverness … you truly are brilliant, Hermione."
"I wish I wasn't. I wish I didn't understand … this isn't about me at all, is it? It's about you. You are addicted to the way I make you feel."
"There is no difference, as it is only with you that I feel this way. And there are some other benefits, but as you know, I was never able to resist the lure of power, and though this does not provide the same thrill I find in torturing Muggles... this is power of a different sort, yet no less delightful."
"You are scaring me," she whispered, wishing he would stop saying these things.
"Am I? I did not intend to." His voice was smooth and unrepentant. "What I am should not frighten you any longer, now that you have followed me into the Darkness. It is those who mean you harm who ought to tremble, as I shall be no more forgiving towards them than would the Dark Lord."
He moved his hand through her hair, smoothing the tousled brown mass. "Sleep now, Hermione, and trust me with your safety as you have before. No lasting harm has come to you and none will."
There was nothing kind in his smile, but she chose to believe him anyway. She surrendered to peaceful slumber.
Hermione woke in a richly furnished room with oak-panelled walls and a high ceiling, with a serpent-shaped chandelier hanging above. She was feeling entirely healthy, as though the poisoning had never happened. Am I dead? she wondered. Am I in paradise?
Brusquely, the events of the last twenty-four hours returned to her memory. The poison, St Mungo's, the terminal ward, thinking she would die … then the moment of faith that erased all doubts … the pain, the fever, seeing her worst nightmares come to life in the eye of her mind … and that disgusting blue liquid; an antidote of the Dark kind, and she honestly did not want to know what its contents had been. She had studied Dark Potions enough to know the type of ingredients that went into them.
After a quick glance at her surroundings, she guessed where she was.
"How is Miss feeling?" inquired a squeaky, high-pitched voice. It was Coddy, the house-elf who had led her into the Malfoy grounds for the first time and who had tried to warn her of Narcissa's machinations last night.
"I'm fine, actually," said Hermione.
The house-elf rushed over to her. "Oh, Miss is alive … Coddy is so happy, Coddy was scared that Miss would die … Coddy knows that Miss is Muggle-born, but Coddy likes Miss …" Coddy's voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. "Master likes Miss too …"
Hermione smiled. "I know, Coddy. He... told me."
The elf stared at her for a second, then clapped its tiny hands. "Coddy is happy for Miss," it whispered, "but Miss must be hungry. It is time for miss's meal. Coddy will be right back." And the house-elf vanished with a pop.
The elf reappeared a moment later, carrying a tray of what Hermione assumed to be her breakfast. She thanked the creature – who looked close to tears, as though it had never heard the words 'thank you' before, which was probably true – and ate quickly. The food was high standard, she noticed, not that she had expected anything less.
Hermione got to her feet, stretching her muscles like she did every morning – a habit she had picked up at the Auror Academy. She was still dressed in the red robes she had been wearing when she went to St Mungo's, and they were quite rumpled. She pulled out her wand and proceeded to cast a wide-scale Ironing Charm that removed most of the wrinkles.
Hermione caught sight of a dressing table in a corner. Excellent. She moved towards the mirror – and only then did she realise she was still wearing the emerald pendant. She hadn't taken the trouble of removing it before going to St Mungo's … and she decided she did not want to take it off, at all. Fellow Ministry witches would ask questions, of course, but she didn't care. She would lie; it wouldn't be the first time. She would wear it proudly everywhere she went.
She conjured a comb to brush her matted hair. It took her almost five minutes until her brown mane was neat and tidy again. Her hair was no longer frizzy; it had lost its bushiness years ago, but it remained dense and tangled easily. The problem with her hair was that she had too much of it. While most girls complained about their hair always lying flat and looking dull, Hermione's was the opposite: her copious amounts of brown hair never lay flat. The wavy strands, which reached her upper back in length, flew around her in all directions when she was duelling – quite a problem for an Auror. Tonks – bless her soul – had once suggested she cut it short, but Hermione had refused steadfastly, declaring she did not want to "look like a boy". Or like Harry, to be more precise.
Hermione knew no matter how rigorously she brushed it, her hair would never be sleek like Lucius's. But … well, he said he liked it that way, because it suited her "wild and feral nature". She was his opposite in that aspect. His refined composure, his cool, calculated attitude contrasted greatly with her intense, spontaneous personality. As a team, though, their differences complemented each other.
Her hair done, Hermione walked over to the window and moved the velvet curtains aside. She blinked, her eyes glistening in the sudden sunshine streaming into the room.
The sun was rising over a view more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. The bare trees stood against the clear blue sky, their branches shifting slightly in the wind. An area of water stretched before her, possibly the lake Lucius had mentioned was located behind the manor. A paler reflection of the sky, blue with a silvery sheen, the water undulated in soft waves as a flock of some sort of aquatic birds swam serenely on the surface. Squinting, Hermione realised they were swans, an assortment of pure white and jet-black swans. Hermione thought she liked the black ones more, they looked so graceful and mysterious at the same time …
The treeless, grassy lands that stretched for miles in the distance beyond the wooded park were covered in snow, a thin white coating on the meadows of green grass.
Such beautiful landscape … but cold, so undeniably cold. A cold beauty, like everything in this manor and around it; like the manor itself and its lord. In that, too, she was his opposite. She might have learnt to assume poise in public just like he did; she might have been able to imitate the nonchalant conduct and speech that characterised him, but deep down, she remained what she had always been: a woman of war, a fighter with a core of fire.
Suddenly feeling tired, Hermione sank back into the bed and fell asleep.
She awoke again to the sound of voices arguing just outside the door. She heard a thunderous voice roar:
"ARE YOU DEFYING ME AGAIN, NARCISSA? DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME?"
"Go on, then, I dare you!" shrieked a female voice.
Oh, that woman really had no sense of survival. Not that Hermione pitied her – no, not at all.
There was a crash, a scream of pain followed by a cruel laugh, then the sound of someone slamming a door, and finally, silence.
The door to the room opened with a click, and a smirking Lucius appeared on the threshold, brushing specks of dust off his robes.
"Did you kill her?" Hermione asked hopefully.
"Alas, no. The customs are very strict in this aspect, you see – I am a man of honour, and as murder within the family is prohibited …"
"Pity," said Hermione, sounding disappointed. No matter, she thought, I will deal with that woman.
He raised his eyebrows, amused. "You hate her so much?"
"She tried to kill me!" she exclaimed. "How could I not hate her?"
They looked at each other for a moment, then Hermione leapt up and rushed over to him.
He wrapped his arms around the dainty woman and pressed her to his chest with a force that was almost painful.
Hermione understood that this was his way of expressing he cared about her … the sheer force of the embrace reflected the emotion he felt towards her. She remembered his confession from last night, in that gloomy ward at the wizard hospital … he had told her that he loved her.
"I feared I would lose you," he said softly. He held her tightly, and she clung to him, her face moist with tears.
There was a new fierceness in Hermione's brown eyes as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I had no doubt you would find a way," she breathed. "The Healer told me there was no hope left … that I was going to die … but I refused to believe it. I knew you would not leave me there. I knew you would succeed … and I was right."
He looked at his mistress in mild astonishment. The intensity of her stare, the passion in her eyes … it reminded him of Bellatrix Lestrange. But Bellatrix never looked at him that way – thank darkness.
Hermione closed her eyes contentedly.
She knew what it was like to love someone and to be loved in return.
Love had brought her to death's door … and back.
"Coddy told me – he seems to have taken a strange liking to you," Lucius said when she asked him about how he knew what had happened to her.
"I have noticed," she said quietly. "He acts around me in the same way Dobby used to do around Harry – I mean Potter." Hermione had to remind herself Harry wasn't her best friend anymore, no longer a friend but an enemy …
Lucius scowled horribly at the mention – and the memory – of Dobby. Yet he felt some kind of dispassionate curiosity about what had become of the traitorous elf.
"He's working at Hogwarts," Hermione explained at his query, "Dumbledore hired him sometime in my fourth year."
"Naturally," he drawled, "it is to be expected that those two would make good friends. With Potter, it adds up to the perfect little trio …"
Hermione looked slightly puzzled, but did not comment. Instead, she asked, "What day is it?"
"Saturday."
She let out a breath of relief. "Thank Merlin! There, I thought I missed a day of work … Fudge would rip my head off for an absence, as would Weasley – Percy Weasley, the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she clarified at his look of bewilderment, "Only temporary, the Minister assures us. The point is – failure to show up at work is not tolerated for the Aurors, especially these days."
"Such dreadfully dark times, aren't they?" Lucius drawled, smirking maliciously. Hermione laughed. If someone was responsible for the Aurors' overwork … it was she, the Dark Lord's secret agent, and he, the chief Death Eater.
"The ground floor consists mainly of the drawing room, the dining room, and other reception halls. Draco and Pansy inhabit the West Wing of the manor. Narcissa's apartments are in the East Wing, as are my private quarters. Guest rooms, including the one where you woke up, are up on the second floor."
Lucius had insisted on giving her a tour of the manor. There were fifty-something rooms, not to count the towers – and all of them were furnished with the same refined extravagance that testified of the wealth and aristocratic status of his ancestors. Right know, they were standing in a passageway that was, Hermione assumed, somewhere between the reception rooms.
Suddenly, she found herself pulled inside a dark alcove. In the complete darkness, he pushed her against a wall and kissed her.
"At Hogwarts, they use broom cupboards for this sort of activity … in my home, though, the cupboards are filled with much more unpleasant items. However, this will do …"
He pushed her down to the floor.
"Really, Lucius," she said mildly, "this isn't very comfortable, you know … could you not find a better spot?"
"We are Death Eaters, Hermione, and Death Eaters hardly seek comfort in their surroundings … it is rather the thrill of action that entices us."
We are Death Eaters … if Hermione had heard that phrase a few months ago … She marvelled at how much had happened, and how much she had changed, in the last three months. For it had been just three months … three months ago she had been an entirely proper Auror … and she was now a Dark witch on par with Bellatrix Lestrange.
"You are not like the rest of them, Lucius," she said. "For one, you never flinch when the Dark Lord's name is uttered out loud – you are the only one not to do so. Two, they all listen to you, which they don't do for any other Death Eater."
"You are correct about that, my dear," he drawled. "And as I am sure you would rather pay a visit to my room …" Without waiting for an answer, he took her hand and Apparated them away with a crack.
They arrived at a magnificent door of ebony wood engraved with silver carvings. The moment his hand touched the doorknob – which was of silver and shaped like a serpent's head – the door swung open.
It was a spacious room with a shiny, polished wooden floor and ebony furniture gleaming in the corners. The bed, in harmony with the extensive proportions of the room, was huge and magnificently carved; the headboard was decorated – unsurprisingly – with a serpent design. The curtains around the bed, of green silk, swayed in the slight draft created by the open window.
She barely had the time to glance around before she was pushed back on the softest bed she ever had the chance to touch. It felt like lying on a cloud.
"Swan feathers," remarked Lucius.
He flipped her over, and before she had the time to blink, she found herself on her back with him holding her wrists pinned to the pillow above her head. Why must he always do that? she wondered. Not that she minded. No, it was just … odd.
And it made her feel helpless. A reminder that even if she did not want this, if she changed her mind, there was nothing she could do … He would not stop if she protested, and if she struggled, he would use physical force to subdue her. To show her that she had no control in this whatsoever, while he had it all … he was in control. He always was. But this … he was taking the choice away from her, by making sure she couldn't even struggle … even though she complied of her own free will, it didn't matter, because she knew the truth. The knowledge that she had no say in this … none at all …
"You've got a controlling-people thing," she muttered.
"But you enjoy it, my dear," he drawled, crushing her wrists more tightly in his hand as he caressed her cheek with the other. She shivered and her eyes fluttered closed. He pulled his hand away, and she opened her eyes instantly to glare at him. He gave her a haughty smile. "You have a thing for wizards who aim to control you, don't you? One only has to think of what sort you associated with at school …"
Hermione reddened but did not argue.
They were having dinner in the drawing room, because Lucius had deemed it unwise to invite Hermione to the dining room, which was currently occupied by Narcissa, Draco and Pansy.
He glanced over at the brown-haired witch, who was looking through a window with a distant expression in her eyes.
"Whatever are you reflecting about?" he drawled.
She sighed, still gazing thoughtfully at the window. "There is something about you," she started slowly, "something I can't quite figure out, even though it has always been there. From the first time I saw you … you are one of the Death Eaters, and yet you are also something else … you are different from all of them. I have noticed it a long time ago … I can sense it. There's an air around you … I can't quite describe it, and it is not like anything I have encountered in anyone else – not even the Dark Lord – no one except the portrait of that namesake of yours, Altair Malfoy …"
Lucius gave her a sharp glance. This young witch was far too observant – and clever – for her own good. Then again, that had always been her reputation, and he had known it … it was part of what made her so alluring in his eyes.
Then he recalled a conversation he had accidentally overheard between his parents …
Look at him … he is the carbon copy of Altair, from the pictures we have of him in his youth … perhaps he will be the worthy heir. The hero, the Light of our family …
Do not be foolish, Cecilia. My father failed dismally, as did I. What makes you think our son will be any more successful?
He had known, of course, what they were referring to. And he had vowed, silently, that he would make his parents proud. That was back when he had been young and naïve … life had taught him it wasn't so easy. His father and grandfather had failed not because they hadn't tried hard enough, but because their goal was unattainable in these times. And so, he, too, had failed.
He remembered Hermione's remark from earlier that day, and suddenly, he wanted to tell her. He wanted her to know.
"I am not like the rest of them," he said softly, "but you do not know to what extent."
"Then tell me," said Hermione. "Why does the entire Dark side treat you as though you are royalty? Why is your name regarded with such awe, such respect? Why do the Death Eaters obey you unquestioningly, like they obey the Dark Lord?" Her voice was low and breathless. "Tell me. I want to know."
Lucius wondered why he felt inclined to confide to this woman. Why was it that he wanted to tell her his family's best-kept secret? But then again … why not? It was information the majority of the Death Eaters already knew – why keep it from her?
He tapped a tapestry on the wall with his wand, revealing a hidden passage. He beckoned to Hermione to follow him, and she did so wordlessly.
The walls were covered in the same shiny wooden panelling as the rest of the manor. A massive desk was stationed in the centre, with a high-backed chair on one side of it and a couch upholstered in velvet on the other. There was a bookcase behind the desk, full of books on history of magic, politics, wars, magical theory … there was also a large number of books lacking a title – most likely Dark Arts tomes. These books looked more ancient than anything she had seen in the Hogwarts library, and her fingers itched to touch them, to leaf through the antique pages and read until she had their content committed to memory.
Not now, she told herself, tearing her gaze away from the books.
Lucius told her to sit down. He sat on the other end of the couch.
"It is a matter of heritage," he started, glancing impassively around the room. "A legacy unknown to the world."
"And what does this legacy consist of?" Hermione asked at once.
"The Malfoys have always been actively involved in politics," he said smoothly, "but one surpassed all his ancestors – and descendants. His name was Altair Malfoy."
Hermione finally asked the question she had been pondering for a long time. "Who exactly was Altair Malfoy?"
"He was a Dark Lord, the predecessor of Grindelwald." He smirked at her wide-eyed look. "It is not for nothing that we are considered the Darkest wizarding family of Britain – our bloodline is no less Dark than Salazar Slytherin's … but my great-great-great-grandfather differed from all the others who have held the same title. He was one of the few Dark Lords in history to succeed in gaining absolute power over a realm, one of the few to establish a reign that would stand for decades … one of the few to become head of state."
Hermione felt her jaw open soundlessly.
"You have heard, of course, that Salazar Slytherin was a brilliant politician as well as a great teacher and magically powerful wizard … he published numerous books describing his view of an ideal wizard society, and my family have been adherents of his theory for as long as it has existed."
She nodded. She knew what he was talking about – Salazar Slytherin's theory of pure-blood superiority. As much as she loathed it, as much as she thought it was irrational and offensive, she had to concede that Slytherin must have been very intelligent, powerful and persuasive if his ideas were still followed a thousand years later.
"But what you do not know," drawled Lucius, "is that a political system based on Slytherin's beliefs has once been established in Britain – a hierarchy determined by the purity of blood. It was not what could be called a democratic government," he said with a faint smirk. "It was, in fact, a monarchy ruled by the oldest family in the realm.
"Altair Malfoy, my great-great-great-grandfather, patriarch of the purest family of wizards in Great Britain and beyond, was accepted as the legitimate candidate to the position of leadership. The Blacks, whose blood is less ancient than ours by a few centuries, were also a possible choice. But blood is one asset that cannot be contested. The Blacks were second to us, which, to them, was a honour their remaining descendants still pride themselves in. Everyone else's rank in the kingdom was also determined by the purity of their blood, the oldest and purest being granted a seat in the king's High Council – a variation of the current Wizengamot – the indisputable power ladder determined automatically by their family tree."
He looked at her, searching for a reaction – but Hermione was in her school mode. She was listening and memorising with detachment, not letting her personal opinion cloud her mind. Satisfied, he resumed speaking.
"Thus, my ancestor established a monarchy, a kingdom to replace the Ministry of Magic already in place, instating himself as the absolute ruler of wizarding Britain … he fulfilled the ambition of all his ancestors. The monarchy stood for forty years, and was to be transferred to Altair's heir upon his death."
He paused. Hermione's eyes stayed fixed on him even in the silence, and he knew he had her compete attention, even though it was obvious that she was assimilating the information and trying to make a conclusion.
"However, in the late 1880s, a young wizard, clever and magically powerful, had been rising in rank and winning the support of the general population. This wizard possessed powers rarely seen – a magical prodigy, really, skilled in all aspects of magic including the Dark Arts, though he strongly considered himself the epitome of morality, the champion of everything good and righteous … in other words, he was the opposite of my ancestor, who practiced the Dark Arts openly and encouraged his followers to do so as well."
He paused again, and Hermione saw his white hands clench in rage.
"This wizard held to the belief that Muggles 'weren't so bad' – that they ought to be equal to wizarding folk. He was not happy with the system in place. He wanted change … and he swayed others to his side. He led them in a rebellion against their royal government in 1894, in which his cohorts sieged the High Council's headquarters in London while he personally took care of the royal family. Altair Malfoy, his wife and their son were killed in the attack, as were most of the Council. Those who managed to escape the massacre went into hiding, and most of the current Death Eaters are their descendants. The only reason the family name did not die out is because the man, moralistic fool that he is, refused to kill the youngest Malfoy – Eridanus – as he was but a child. He let the heir survive, judging him no danger once he had been deprived of his position …"
Hermione remembered the portrait of Eridanus Malfoy, the eyes of a man whose only goal in life had been vengeance …
"The monarchy was abolished as, say, by the will of the British nation – that wizard has always acted in the name of the public, you'll notice – and in its place was reinstated the Ministerial system which still stands today."
Hermione blinked. This story filled the gaps in the version published in history manuals. There was only one question left to ask …
"Lucius … who was that wizard?"
The answer came in a stiff, emotionless tone. "A fifty-four-year-old Albus Dumbledore."
Hermione gasped. "Dumbledore?" She looked horrified. "Dumbledore murdered an entire family?" she whispered.
Lucius smiled grimly. "The meddlesome fool is quite skilled at maintaining the image of a golden champion? He has duped many of us, yourself included, but if one were to wonder … surely he did not use a healing spell to defeat Grindelwald."
"I never thought of that," Hermione admitted.
"And apparently, neither have others."
She thought for a moment. "But … he didn't kill the child – Eridanus. He spared him."
His nostrils flared. "You think that was mercy?" he spat. "He had no right to dispossess a child of his parents and his birthright. He had no justification for attacking legitimately established authority and bringing it down to further spread his polluting ideology in our world. He had no excuse for robbing the House of Malfoy of its rightful place in this world!"
"I'm not saying he was right," Hermione said quickly. They were talking about his family; she should have known that it was a sensitive subject for him. "What Dumbledore did was wrong … it was murder. I never thought he was capable of something so cruel …"
There was a moment of silence as Hermione stared at the snowy grounds outside the window. She was trying to come to terms with the fact that the righteous Headmaster of Hogwarts had killed. What dark thoughts were going through Lucius's mind at the moment, she could never fathom. Finally, he spoke again.
"Well, now you know – the blood hierarchy. Today, respectable families still hold to these beliefs … it is what we call wizard pride. It is the reason why the Weasleys are undeserving of the name of wizard … why don't they just go off and dwell among the Muggles they like so much? They would be doing us all a great favour by removing their filthy presence from our world …"
Hermione had the impression that there was more to the story where the Weasleys were concerned. But she had a more pressing question on her mind, one she didn't want to ask – she was sure she wouldn't like his answer – but couldn't hold back. "But what does that make me? Less than nothing, lower than the worst 'blood traitor'?"
Lucius refrained from answering, but they both knew his silence was out of consideration for Hermione, as that was exactly what she was, according to Slytherin's theory. In any case, he was glad she did not defend the Weasleys, especially as she did not know the full story.
"But how come this isn't in the history books?" said Hermione. "How come this past isn't known in the wizarding world?"
"Do you really think it is something we are proud of? That we have been royalty, only to have our position stolen from us by a bunch of Muggle-loving filth?"
The look on his face was reminiscent of the one he wore whenever he looked at a Weasley. Contempt, disgust … and a veiled hatred lurking just beneath the surface …
"We prefer to keep our past quiet, quite frankly out of embarrassment," he admitted. "The surviving member of the family convinced historians to hush their quills on those events, and as we all know, the most that was ever written about that period is – ah – 'a Dark wizard ruled over Britain for forty years before being vanquished by Albus Dumbledore'."
Hermione frowned. "Oh, I remember … that's what they say in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. But when you say he convinced them not to write about it, do you actually mean he bribed them?"
"Yes, you understand that correctly," Lucius said smoothly. "Now, as I was saying … the old families do know, as they have been told the true version of events by their forefathers, the knowledge being passed on from generation to generation … that is the reason the name Malfoy is respected and revered in the honourable pure-blood society – you have seen, of course, that they all defer to me … they dare not contest my rank."
"But why didn't your family return to France?" asked Hermione. "I doubt Dumbledore's influence extended that far."
"Out of pride, Hermione … we would not let ourselves be chased from our land by a bunch of disgraceful blood traitors. Eridanus Malfoy stayed, lay low for the moment, established a family to carry on the line … and so we have lived for a century, instilling the knowledge of our past into our children, hoping that one day, one of our descendants would do us justice by restoring glory and true power to the name Malfoy."
He sneered bitterly. "But that was not to be … a century has passed, and the burden now rests upon me, as the current head of the family … I will have to disappoint my ancestors, as did my father and my grandfather – as will my son, for I have no illusions about Draco's intellect… he truly is his mother's son. Not to mention that she spoiled the brat – sending him sweets every morning while he was at Hogwarts, until he grew accustomed to everyone bending to his every whim … no wonder he grew up to be an undisciplined layabout, with all her indulgence. No, it is definitely not Draco who will be a tribute to the family."
Hermione sniggered. "Yes, I quite agree. Draco as the leader of wizarding Britain … the very idea is laughable." She paused thoughtfully, and her expression became serious. "You, however … you are very organised … you have all the qualities of a great leader."
"You know Dumbledore would never let a Malfoy gain political power, Hermione, and it doesn't seem as though he is planning to die anytime soon. I believe he fears his actions will come back to haunt him one day … and he is very cautious to never let that day come. And as I doubt the Dark Lord would approve either …"
"But you are the heir." It was more of a statement than a question.
Something flickered in his eyes. "I am indeed," he said. "However, it is rather problematic to make a claim to the leadership of a country when one is an outlaw hunted by the government and all its Aurors …"
At that moment, Hermione wanted to do something. She was not an outlaw; she was a respected Auror, a trusted member of the government … like so many times before, a thirst for action had ignited in her.
At that moment, her eyes lit up with a glint that would have frightened Harry and Ron. It was the glint they had seen when she had come up with SPEW, the same as when the idea of the DA had clicked in her head … a glint that held a steely resolution. It was a glint that meant that Hermione Granger had found a cause and would stop at nothing, in spite of all the obstacles that stood in her way. Only this time the glint also held a threatening promise that those who stood in her way would not remain standing – or even breathing – by the time she was through with it.
There was only one problem …
"But… what about the Dark Lord?" she asked. "Where does he fit into all of this?"
"Lord Voldemort?" Lucius pronounced the name, to Hermione's shock, and he explained promptly, "I speak the name … I am his follower, his subordinate, and I cannot contest his power … but I can contest his blood, as it is less pure than my own.
"The Dark Lord is an exception. He seeks to rule us all on the basis that he is Salazar's own heir, and, obviously, it – compensates – for his tainted blood, therefore giving him rank above the blood hierarchy … obviously," Lucius repeated more to himself than to Hermione, his cold eyes flashing with an indeterminate emotion.
It looked like Lucius had some resentment towards their Master. He clearly refrained from saying that Voldemort stole his rightful place, leaving him second to a Dark Lord who was not even a pure-blood.
"Then why do you follow him?"
"You have heard, of course, of how he dealt with the pure-blood families who refused to follow him," Lucius said, staring at her. Hermione understood. The McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts, the Potters … even though he claimed his goal was to get rid of the Muggles and bring the pure-bloods to power, Voldemort did not hesitate to eradicate the families who opposed him.
"Besides … I have a high rank in the Dark Order, second only to the Dark Lord … the other Death Eaters follow me as they do him … I have power I would not have been able to gain alone …
"And perhaps … eventually …" His eyes became distant for a moment, and Hermione suspected that she knew exactly what he was thinking. Then he shook his head sharply. "Clearly, I disagree with some of his ideas. He has changed Salazar's creed to fit his personal goals … but it remains the closest option we have to Salazar's – and my ancestor's – original beliefs."
Hermione blinked at the abrupt change of subject.
"Also, he is one of the few to oppose Dumbledore openly, and you know the saying, the enemy of your enemy –"
"– is your friend," she finished.
"Quite right … you understand me well, Hermione."
Not for the first time, she looked at him with a perplexed expression. "You are such an adamant supporter of Slytherin's philosophy … and yet … I'm a Muggle-born. How come you … noticed me in the first place?" she asked.
He looked at her pensively. "You have heard, of course, that the Dark Lord is not a pure-blood … I was one of the few to have known it from the start. Tom Marvolo Riddle … Lord Voldemort … a half-blood. When he started recruiting followers in the 1970s, my family was one of the first he went to seeking our support – he needed financial assistance for the most part, as being the Heir of Slytherin provided him with neither gold nor land. I joined him knowing he is a half-blood … because I have seen his power. I have seen him perform magic of a magnitude the rest of us can only dream about. I have seen him rise from beyond death …
"His father may have been a mere Muggle, but he is the most powerful wizard alive. And so, he has proven himself as the exception we cannot contest. We have learnt the lesson – the fact that blood can be disregarded in rare instances."
His eyes shifted back to her. "You are yet another exception to the laws of purity, Hermione, as even the Dark Lord –" for once, he spat the words with an equal amount of mockery and bitterness, "– has admitted. I know your story: top of every class at Hogwarts, prefect, Head Girl, ten OWLs, top marks on the NEWTs … you, a Muggle-born, did better than countless pure-blooded children, including my own son. It would be hypocritical to deny this fact, and unlike the Light side, we are not hypocrites."
He smirked at her. "And if that is not reason enough … if that is doubt or scepticism I see in your eyes …" He seized her arm in a hard grip and turned her around.
"I remember the small girl who defied me with her fiery glare, in the Top Box … the Muggle-born who looked up to me quite despite herself – only I saw what you did not wish me to see. The Dark side does not seek to eliminate the Mudbloods from our society, merely to put them in their place so that we – the true wizardkind – can obtain the supremacy that is our birthright. You, Hermione, need not be taught your place – you were there all along."
Hermione looked down from the mockery in his eyes.
He relinquished his grip on her. "Oh, you were there all along indeed. In your eyes, I see all the esteem I require of my inferiors. Most importantly, it was there before you knew the truth of who I really am … and that, my dear, is what distinguishes you from others of your sort."
Was that a compliment? After he had so kindly informed her that she was not part of the 'true wizardkind' …
"But – but –" She raised her chin bravely. "How can you imply I'm not part of the 'true wizardkind' when I did better at Hogwarts than a class full of pure-blooded children? That's not logical."
His face was immobile, and he looked almost bored. He watched her with lazy eyes, as though she had disappointed him somehow, like she was an immature child …
She fell silent, looking into his eyes. He looked back at her with a calm assurance and an underlying authority, a challenge almost, as though it amused him to watch her try to argue with him. He probably wanted to see how long she could keep this rebellion up …
"Logic is a Muggle notion. It is time for you to cease thinking like a Muggle, as it is ill fitting for a Death Eater," he said with a faint mocking smirk. "This debate is a moot point, for you have thoroughly and repeatedly acknowledged your inferiority to me. Do you deny this fact?"
"I... No. I know I'm not as powerful as you, or as intelligent. I've always envied you," she confessed. "I thought if I studied more, if I worked hard enough, I could be as good as wizards like you, but you still defeated me. And it doesn't matter, because I love you." She put her hand on his arm and said in a low voice, "You have my devotion. I want... I want to help you. And I swear... the one we both serve will never hear a word of what you've said to me today."
He placed a white hand on the crown of her head, caressing her thick brown hair. But his grey eyes, fixed on hers, remained cold and inscrutable even as he spoke in a lazy murmur: "I appreciate your sincerity, Hermione, though I have no doubt the Dark Lord is aware of the – ah – reluctance of my loyalty towards him. Lord Voldemort always knows." He paused in thought. "Tell me, Hermione … why did you join the Death Eaters?"
Why did she join them indeed? For power, to get out of her erstwhile friends' shadow, but the main reason was … "To make you proud."
He smiled slightly. "That's the Auror who joined the Dark Order for me. If fate was on my side … if it were up to me, your loyalty would have been generously rewarded … very generously."
Lost in the what-could-bes, forgetting about reality for a moment, he sounded so firm, so authoritative, so powerful …
For a moment, Hermione saw a glimpse of the heir to the royal realm of wizarding Britain hiding behind the façade of the second-in-command to Lord Voldemort. She had always known there was something about Lucius – an aura of power, of majesty … something royal.
He stoked her hair, gazing at her through half-closed eyes. He could see awe in her expressive brown eyes, and he enjoyed it. It felt good, to know someone owed their allegiance to him and not to the Dark Lord, for a change. Of course, she probably did not fully realise it …
He decided then that he would not be separated from this woman, not by anyone. Whatever the future held in store for them, he would let nothing separate them. Nothing and no one would take her away from him.
Not even death.
His hand became heavier on her head, pressing her down with more insistence. Hermione bowed her head under the oppressive touch, unaware of the glimmer of malevolence flickering in his eyes as his smile turned into a smirk.
"My dear … my loyal Hermione," he said softly. "Promise me … promise me that if I were to die …"
She turned her head to look at him sharply. She would rather not think of that possibility … no, she could not bear to think of it … but whatever he wanted of her, she would promise, she would swear – and she would do. Anything. "Yes?" she said quietly.
Their eyes met, and she could read a fierce possessiveness in his eyes. "… if I were to die, you would kill yourself."
Taken aback, Hermione stiffened in his arms. This was the kind of request she could imagine Voldemort demanding of Bellatrix … not that the Dark Lord would ever consider the possibility of his own death. And he had no reason to. The killing curse did not affect him; he was immortal. Well, it wasn't like anyone had tried to cast the third Unforgivable on Lord Voldemort, but who would? Really, who would risk their life like that, knowing it had no chance of working? Only Harry Potter had a chance, apparently …
To ask her to join him in death, so that she would not outlive him … it was cruel, but fully expected of a Dark wizard like Lucius. And he had full right to demand that of her. It was only thanks to him that she was still alive; she owed him her life … and she would repay the debt. Also, if an accident were to befall him … death would be a relief to her, as she would have no reason to live anymore.
"I promise, Lucius … in the unlikely event of your demise, I'll follow you into the netherworld – but not before avenging you."
"Fair enough, I suppose... my faithful Hermione."
"My Lord," she responded. But this time, she was acknowledging more than his territorial rank as the earl of wizarding Wiltshire.
When she had asked him to tell her … to explain everything … she had sincerely wanted to know. But she had not known what she was asking for. She had not known she would learn an entire new side of history … knowledge that would forever change the way she looked at the leading figures of the Light side. Knowledge that would change much more than just her mindset … because Hermione was a person who acted on her beliefs. She had always fought for what she considered right, and just, and honourable … and so she would. Even if it was only the right side of wrong.
Long minutes of silence, solemn in its intensity, stretched over the couple facing each other between oak-panelled walls as the sun set in the sky above them. Walls that had heard centuries of secrets and witnessed hundreds of confessions. In the same room where, nearly eighteen decades ago, a young blond wizard had related his dreams of grandeur to his dark-haired mistress, who listened with a look of awe and swore she would do everything in her power to help him reach his aspirations. A conversation that had resulted in events of an importance neither of them could have foreseen … as would this one.
Antarès Lestrange had not been wrong to consider this young Muggle-born witch as her modern counterpart.