Chapter 18 - Essence, Part 6

January 26th, 2004

London, Hermione Granger's Flat, 7:10 pm

"So," Hermione said. "This is Crookshanks." She pointed to the large, muddy orange cat that was winding itself manipulatively around her legs.

"Ah," Lucius said. This was the first word he had uttered since they had stepped into the taxi, and it took effort to wring even this small syllable from his throat. Memories still played themselves out in his mind; his attention was not really on the present.

"I should really feed him," she said and hesitated as though waiting for reaction. But Lucius did not know what reaction to make. So she left through the only doorway into the flat, her steps slightly hampered by the relentlessly clinging feline.

When she had gone, Lucius felt instantly as though all the life had gone with her; that, with himself as the only occupant, the hall had lost its centre, its purpose; perhaps even begun to take on his contamination.

He breathed in, to steady and focus himself.

Presumably she had gone to the kitchen, as sounds consistent with food preparation came, after a few seconds' delay, from the same direction. A cabinet door squeaked slightly as it opened; a drawer opened and closed again. "How does Chicken and Rabbit in Rich Gravy sound?" she asked the cat. She sounded tired; Lucius' fault, he reasoned. Then there was a metallic clink of cutlery against china, and the sound of running water.

Still Lucius remained in the hall. He both wanted to follow, and he did not. He did not want to invade her privacy; he did not want to expose her any more than necessary to everything that he was.

Eventually, she returned, wiping her hands on her jeans. "You're still out here?" she asked, a bemused and awkward smile on her face. "Would you like to come in? Properly, I mean. Into an actual room?"

Lucius stiffened. He wanted to say yes; but was firm in his resolve that he could not. "I only wish to use your floo," he said, hearing only after the fact his supercilious and rather hostile tone; the very opposite of his feelings. "As you were generous enough to offer . . ." he mumbled, trying to soften the impression.

She narrowed her eyes. "Well," she said. "You'll have to come into the living room anyway to use the floo, because that's where the fireplace is. But . . ." He watched as she struggled for words; her expression rapidly changing as she thought. It was quite a charming characteristic. "If you don't mind my saying so, you look very tired. I mean . . . I had to break into a changing room in Harrods and I found you kneeling on the floor haing a panic attack —"

"A what?" Lucius did not understand.

"The 'display of disintegration,'" she said. "Of course, I'm not a healer. Although," she sighed, "it's not like they're really much use for this kind of thing, is it?" He assumed it was a rhetorical question; he still had no idea what she was talking about. "But it looked to me like a panic attack."

"It has a name?" He had thought it was a singular and personal affliction.

"Yes, it has a name," she said and sighed irritably. "And the fact that a man of your education and sophistication doesn't know that, just goes to show how backward wizards are, in my opinion. Honestly, health care has to be the next reform after the prison system!"

She continued, but Lucius stopped listening as he examined the fact that she thought him educated and sophisticated. He tried to form a picture in his mind of the man she might think he was. It mattered desperately to him, suddenly. What did she see when she looked at him?

"Sorry," she said, interrupting his thoughts. She looked a bit shamefaced; he couldn't imagine why, and shook his head slightly. "For the rant."

Evidently, Lucius had missed the reminder of her diatribe. A pity, as she was also rather charming when she was she was impassioned. She was rather charming when she did anything at all, actually. He recalled the first day she appeared in the manor, when he had believed her to be someone other than the Hermione Granger he remembered because she was so lovely.

". . . of course, it's my job . . . " she laughed slightly; he had caught up mid-sentence again. "The reforms. All this searching for books is a diversion from what I'm really on the Minister's staff for."

Lucius stared at her for several painfully suspended seconds, as he tried to drag his brain from the fog of introspection it was lost in and say something, anything.

"He thinks . . ." At first, nothing more would come; then it was as though something slid, albeit slowly, into alignment in his head. "Shacklebolt, that is . . . he thinks that your finding the 1485 Almanac will improve his standing in public opinion?"

"Well, exactly!" she said.

Her enthusiastic agreement startled him and spurred him on. What he had said was not exactly top tier political thinking, but it was probably as close to it as he had come in over six years. So he tried again.

"His releasing me from Azkaban did not improve his popularity, I imagine."

She looked at him, mouth open on the cusp of a response; a barely audible strangled sound bubbling in her throat, as candour vied with tact. Then —

"Total disaster," she admitted, almost whispering as though diminished decibels would diminish the effect of her frankness. A worried look passed over her face. "Of course, that's not anything you could't find out for yourself by reading the Prophet." Ah, she was concerned that she had revealed too much.

A pause came then, uncomfortable and yet somehow not so; a kind of hiatus. It occurred to Lucius that if this moment could go on forever, he would not have to return to the wreckage of his mind. If he could stand in this hall, with her, looking at her, having made a halfway intelligent remark, and not causing any obvious harm to anyone, it would be as though everything was all right.

"Anyway," she said. "What I was trying to say was, you look tired, it's been a long day, and since you're here now . . ." She shrugged. "I mean, I've been drinking your tea and eating your food for over a fortnight now. Most of that time, without your permission. So I was thinking, you might like to have a drink with me?"

She actually looked hopeful. Lucius literally could not remember the last time anyone had hoped for his company. But he could not allow himself this; he could not allow her to compromise herself any more than she already had.

"Thank you," he said. "But I cannot . . . you cannot —"

"Yes, I know," she broke in, clearly exasperated, as it turned out accurately preempting his objection. "You can't be forgiven. You already said that. And you know what . . . ?" She lifted her chin very deliberately. "I'm quite certain most of the Wizarding World would be more than happy to agree with you. Shit! If you got hold of a time-turner and randomly went back to any point in my life before today, any and all versions of past-me would agree with you! But. . ." She paused for effect. "Whether or not it was a good decision, the Minister pardoned you. You're the first beneficiary in over sixty years of the Ministerial Prerogative of Mercy! You've more or less been forgiven, at least officially. At great cost to the Minister and his reforms. And today has been a very, very weird day, don't you think? And I think . . . we have to work together again tomorrow; I think we need to talk." She briefly paused to breathe. "Anyway. All I'm offering you is a glass of Sainsbury's Chardonnay, and there's nothing on the warning label about forgiveness being a prerequisite for drinking it!" A small smile stole across her lips. "Actually," she said, "you'll probably have to forgive meafter you've tasted it. I doubt very much it will meet your standards!"

She was blushing now. The colour of her cheeks was very pretty, and Lucius admired it absently it as he wondered what she would say next. Did he have a conscience? He had thought it dead. But he knew he should tell her, in very clear and blunt terms, that she should withdraw her invitation. That jokes, however charming, that put himself and forgiveness in the same sentence were misplaced. That, today, he had played upon her better nature for his own gain. That he had not changed, and could not. He could not go forward. Not after —

And yet, he nodded vaguely, signaling an ambivalent yes that went against his conscience but he could not help. Then, "Whatever Sainsbury's is," he said, "the qualities of its Chardonnay will undoubtedly exceed those of what I was willing to drink towards the end of the war." His mind apparently had decided to make a joke again; against his better judgment; and apparently taking half the fucking dictionary to get to the punchline! "That is to say, my standards were not exacting. My sole requirement of alcohol was that it should get me blind drunk as quickly as possible."

Immediately, she blushed again, no longer an attractive flush but a furious red. "Oh," she said. "I wasn't thinking. I thought, because you drank some Firewhisky with me, that it would be all right. I hadn't —"

Quickly, Lucius shook his head, and held up a hand to stop her. Had his jokes always misfired in this way? Had people pretended to find him witty, too frightened of him to do otherwise? Her embarrassment had not been his intention. "It is quite all right," he said. "Enforced abstinence in Azkaban lessened the compulsion. You are correct; you have witnessed that I am capable of restraint."

Her shoulders relaxed; her face relaxed; she arched an eyebrow. "So," she said. "Does that mean yes or no?"

"Yes," Lucius said softly.

8:00 pm

Hermione was on her second glass of wine. Lucius was still slowly consuming his first glass, occasionally taking a sip. Under normal circumstances, she might have felt self-conscious; but then, this was about as far from normal as you could get, and she needed Dutch courage.

She had told him — okay, in the middle of a stream of word-vomit, but she had told him they needed to talk, and she didn't think she could let it go any longer. Starting with the dream about the Dark Mark— and had that only been this afternoon; she felt as though years had passed since then! — she thought she had experienced the contents of his mind three times today.

The dream; Azkaban; and that awful scene with the woman, Allegra.

Now or never! She told herself. Bull by the horns!

She took a huge gulp of wine, draining her glass, swallowed it deliberately and put the glass down on the coffee table decisively. "When we were at The Savoy," she said. "Were you thinking about Azkaban?" Of the three, she thought this was the least contentious or shocking.

Lucius mirrored her gesture, but more cautiously: a sip of wine, the gentle lowering of the glass until it left his hand and sat on the table.

His hand shook slightly.

"Azkaban?" he said, and his eyes became simultaneously very hard and quite distressed; the atmosphere in the room seemed to freeze around him.

"Yes . . ." Her voice quavered a bit; she cleared her throat. "When that man — Richard Prentice — asked if you'd been traveling abroad. And you said, One might say that, I think. Were you thinking about Azkaban?"

He narrowed his eyes. "It is the only place I have travelled to during the past six years," he said.

Not really an answer. She almost wanted to ask him Does that mean yes or no? again, but knew she must tread carefully.

"Is it very grey?" she asked.

"Grey?" he asked. "Yes, I suppose so." His whole body had stiffened now; his right hand still trembled, and he grasped it with his left hand to stop it.

"Grey and cold?" she said. "And dirty?"

Despite his stiffness, he recoiled. It was a very small gesture; but Hermione noticed it. But he did not answer her. She almost wanted to stop, obviously she was causing him pain, but she must pursue this.

"Is it like that?" she probed.

"Yes," he said finally. "It is all those things."

"And . . . " she asked, softening her voice, "frightening?"

She waited.

Nothing.

Then Lucius gave an almost imperceptible nod. "When I was imprisoned," he said. She could barely hear him and had to strain her ears, to put all her attention on him. "The dementors had gone. There was a residue of them and the torment they caused. But the place itself was less frightening than what was in one's mind. That was the truly terrible part. And . . ." He now looked at her very directly, although she was not sure he saw her, but more the landscape of his own mind. "How everything drops away; anything one might have cared about; because to continue to care about it would . . . it would be . . . "

"Excruciating?" she whispered, unintentionally the word leaked out to finish his halting sentence for him, using the word that had come to her when she saw and felt Azkaban at the concierge's desk.

He picked up his wine glass and drank half of what remained in it, before putting it down again.

"Yes," he said. "That is exactly . . . as you say . . . " He sighed. "Excruciating. The authorities intend it to be. As they should. Those who are imprisoned there have done —"

"I know," she said. "But please let me finish." She screwed up her courage. "I just described Azkaban to you in a way that you recognised completely, didn't I?"

He nodded again.

"But, you see . . . I have never been there. And no one has ever described those precise details to me. I mean, Kingsley gave me an overview, but only broad concepts; the context for his reforms. Not all the small details I saw this afternoon; not feelings; it was as though I was looking through a prisoner's eyes, thinking their thoughts."

He looked shocked now and incredulous. "You are accusing me of Legilimency?" he asked. "You think I am a Legilimens like the Dark Lord, not just reading the thoughts of others, but imposing my thoughts inside your mind?" He gave a soft, wry laugh. "Hermione, I was never very skilled in Legilimency," he said. "Nor did I want to be. And most certainly, I cannot do it now."

She should stop, she knew it; but they were breaking through into some kind of understanding, some kind of honesty; she could not risk ruining it, even though she was beginning to feel like an interrogator.

"So you didn't know your mind was in mine?" she asked.

"I cannot," he insisted. He seemed abject now; and somehow deeply guilty, despite his denial. "I don't think . . . I would not. Not now." His voice dropped again. "Not to you."

Not to you?

What did that mean? Did he like her too? Would this be easier if he knew she liked him? That she just wanted to understand what was happening; not pose a threat?

"Lucius," she said. "There's something else I should tell you . . . "

"There is more?" he said, his voice now drenched in weariness.

He was flagging and he looked dreadful; almost as he had before the miraculous transformation to his looks. Come to think of it, he always looked worse later in the day.

"It's all right," she said. "It can wait."

Lucius swallowed. "I should go home, then," he said and stood, but as soon as he did so, he stumbled slightly and put a hand on the back of the sofa to steady himself then, despite obvious effort to remain standing, collapsed back down. "Please allow me a minute to compose myself," he said, "and then —"

"Please stay!" Hermione broke in, before her better judgment could kick in.

Slowly, he raised his head, his eyes no longer the intense silver, but dulled, exhausted. "I cannot —" he said, but did not seem to have the energy to continue.

"Just for an hour or two," she said. "You won't be in my way. I need to catch up on reading for work, anyway. You can't go home like that, it won't be . . . "

Safe, she had been about to say.

But Lucius was no longer listening. He had leaned back on the sofa and fallen completely asleep.

10:15 pm

Lucius woke to darkness punctuated by a scream.

No idea where he was, he found himself lying on something soft, covered with something softer, which he flung away from him as he sprang up, searching his clothes for his wand.

His clothes felt unfamiliar. Where the fuck was his wand?

Of course. He had no wand.

He had imagined himself in the past.

Before.

But this was after.

He was in Hermione Granger's flat. But he could not understand why he was in darkness; why she was not in the room with him. They had been talking; he had thought it time to go home —

The scream came again, followed by scuffling sounds; the noises came from deeper inside the flat.

He froze, listening.

Only he and Hermione had been in the flat.

His eyes began to acclimatise to the darkness; striations of light fell throughout the room.

He could not just stand here; he must do something.

But what, without either a wand or a weapon?

Without a plan of any kind, he dashed through the flat in the opposite direction from the hall, towards the source of the scream. Two doors confronted him. Faint sounds came from the one on the left.

Instinct took over, and his senses prickled with acuity, memories of actions taken, although it had been years since the last. With a wand, he would have cast an Alohomora!, followed immediately by Stupefy! Damn it!

What about his recent magical experiences? What if he had performed some kind of unknowing Legilimency and forced his thoughts into Hermione's mind? Whatever he had said to her, he could not be sure he had not. He could not be sure of anything.

But what if he could put it to good use?

He stared at the door and willed it to open. Words had not always been required when he had experimented in the study with spells.

Nothing happened.

"Alohomora!" he now hissed at the door, pointing his finger decisively in lieu of a wand. Again nothing; nothing except a vague sense of heaviness, resistance washing through his body.

From the room, he heard a repeated, soft moan.

He was still capable of kicking down the door, he was certain of it. First, though, he shook the door handle to make sure it was actually locked, not wanting to waste any more time.

It was not.

He flung the door open with enough force that it slammed against the wall, then bounced back towards him, his suddenly heightened reflexes allowing him to prevent it from hitting him with one braced hand, as at the same time he scanned the room to work out what was happening.

"Oh my God! What the fuck are you doing?" Hermione shrieked at him. He looked towards her; again, there were only strips of light from the window. She was seated on a bed. A puffed shape moved in front of her and hissed — the cat. He searched for Hermione's eyes, but could not get a fix on them.

He could, however, see very well that she was holding her wand out in front of her, poised to cast a spell.

Lucius raised his hands, trying to pacify her. It was instinct again, the memory for quelling a situation that might get out of hand before he was ready, or when he wanted something from it that violence would not yet solve. Strange how these ingrained patterns insinuated themselves into one's being; and all of them learned and practised as a Death Eater. God knows, perhaps he should just let Hermione do whatever spell she intended: a well-aimed Cruciatus would be a fitting end to today. He began to lower his hands, a gesture of complete surrender to her will.

"Lumos!" she said — only Lumos!, the alternative had been his own corrupted imagination — and a halo of wand-light revealed both her and the area that surrounded her. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" she demanded again.

"You screamed . . ." Lucius breathed deliberately. Now that the emergency had passed, the shaking had started again. He clamped the fingers of his right hand into a fist, squeezing until they hurt. "I thought you had been attacked . . ." But he had no justification for being in her room; even if his reasons had been protection, he was still, in the core of his being, what he had been trained to be; all his reactions, his abilities stemmed from that.

The shaking worsened. He could not control it. His legs gave way and, for the second time that day, he sank to his knees, from weakness, from shame, from utter defeat.

"I must . . ." He began. He must what? Apologise? To what end, though? An apology should herald change. This would just be more of the etiquette she had seen through.

"Lucius," her voice was closer to him now, softer; she had moved next to him, he could almost feel her breath on his cheek; then, and at first he thought he must be imagining it, the touch of her hand brushing his hair away from his face. "It's all right. I was just shocked. I understand now. You were just trying to help me." She moved even closer. "Look at me," she said gently.

He shook his head; he could not.

"Please," she said.

Because she wished it, reluctantly he raised his head.

"I wasn't being attacked," she said. "Not in the present anyway. I have dreams, though. I go through something like your panic attacks. Since the war. Recently, they've been worse again. Probably because I'm spending every day in your house. . . ." She chewed at her lip, thinking. "Can I show you something?"

Lucius' shaking had lessened, but he was sweating profusely. He could not speak, so he just nodded.

"Okay," she said, and began to roll up her sleeve. "I need you to understand I'm not showing you this to recriminate against you."

Lucius flinched by reflex; there were so many things she and anyone else — God! Even his fellow Death Eaters — could use to recriminate against him. How could she fail to do so? But at the same time, he could not take any more.

"I'm showing you this because I want you to see that you're not alone. That the war had consequences, for all of us; and it's natural that it had consequences for you. I want you to see that it's possible to go on despite it, because of it . . . because we have to. But you don't have to keep everything to yourself and implode inside." As Lucius watched, she revealed her bare forearm. "Okay," she said and took a deep breath. "Look."

Filthy Mudblood, was etched raggedly on her arm. An old and deep scar. Lucius' throat constricted, his eyes watered and the image blurred. He could remember it all; the night the Snatchers brought Potter and Weasley and Hermione to his house. "Bellatrix," he said, hoarsely. You lost your authority when you lost your wand. He had been emasculated and wrecked; he had allowed this to make him useless to his family, to himself. To Hermione; this woman who was now trying to help him.

"Yes."

"In my drawing room."

"Yes."

Her answers were matter-of-fact and gentle, but they tore at him. "And I was there," he said. "I was there and . . ." But the conclusion of his statement was fully known to both of them, and words would not suffice.

Silence fell. A long silence, while neither of them moved.

Until she rolled her sleeve back down again.

"You were there," she said. "But now you're here." She stood up and held out her hand, encouraging Lucius to follow suit. "We're here."

She had included him with her. Ultimately, he could not let her, but now he was tired, and ragged inside and out. He remembered the night in the study when he had realised Narcissa paid the elf; that he had felt like a savage dog taken in from the rain. He remembered it, because he felt the same way now.

But she was talking again. Surprisingly buoyant now.

"We should eat something," she said. "Actually, I'm really hungry!" She narrowed her eyes, then smirked. "Lucius Malfoy, I am about to introduce you to frozen pizza!"

Author's note: As always, thank you for reading x