I'm back! And in this next installment we meet Draco's wife. And Hermione's fate is decided. I'm afraid it's not that exciting of a chapter – but it furthers some of the plot. Thanks for all your support, guys!

LCailan

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Draco watched his wife as she turned from the mirror of her vanity table to give him a look. Her eyes were colored with perturbation.

"I won't go," Astoria told him in a matter of fact tone, lifting up one perfectly manicured hand which held the invitation he had given her. It had come by post just that morning.

"Are you serious?"

He raised a blond eyebrow quizzically. Her cupid bow's mouth turned down petulantly.

"I won't. Those…people. I shudder when I see them."

Astoria turned back, her tone one of finality, and lifted up a jar of one of her many skin potions. She put on quite an act, shuddering just slightly, and her voice atremble, as if she was a woman who tended towards the vapors – when in reality she was as tough as nails.

Draco stared at her, speechless for a moment. He had never in his life met a woman who was as selectively prejudiced at his wife. She made her choices by situation, and gave no serious consideration to her own hypocritical behavior. Not that he was surprised, for Astoria had always believed only in her own truth, in spite and even in face of evidence to the contrary. Even though it wasn't surprising after six years of marriage, it didn't sicken him any less.

"Those people are my family! The only family I have left! And the last time I checked, you shared their views. We all do!"

Draco hardly cared about his family, especially the Lestranges, but he found satisfaction in disagreeing with Astoria, even when he didn't. Astoria turned around once again, a jar of orange cream in her hand, and offered him what he liked to call the simpering smile. It was as shallow as it was beautiful.

"But, Draco, it's one thing to believe in such things and another to actually…well…do whatever it is you do at that…Mudblood alienage you talk about so much."

Her voice had taken on a tone of snobbish disdain, and he gawked at her incredulously, as her long lashes blinked back with faked innocence. How he loathed her!

"And what would you have them do? Only weeks ago you were complaining about the possibility of a Mudblood baking your favorite biscuits at the downtown bakery!"

Astoria studied her jar of cream for a silent moment in which Draco grew more impatient. It wasn't like Astoria actually used her brain, so he found her bouts of silence irritating. Finally she turned her onyx eyes back up at him, setting aside the cream to stretch as if in a luxurious way. If she noticed his growing displeasure, she made no comment.

"It's that horrible aunt of yours," she decided as she stood.

Draco watched her walk across their massive bedroom in only her white, filmy knickers. There had been a time, early on in their relationship, when that had been his most favorite sight. Now, strangely somehow he was no longer really affected.

"I just don't like her. She's….downright horrid, Draco, and I don't know why I must be subjected to spending any time with her at all!"

She was rifling through her clothing casually, as if selecting the appropriate blouse and skirt was the most important act of the day. But then again, for a simpleton, everything was most likely a difficult decision.

"I'm not asking you to move into her flat!" he exclaimed. "I'm asking you to accompany me, as my wife- need I remind you- to their wedding anniversary party!"

Astoria made a little tittering sound, like a giggle but significantly more grating.

"Draco, now, do you really think they love each other? I mean, surely everyone knows Bellatrix Lestrange doesn't actually know how to love?"

He stared at her, feeling heat climbing up along his neck and making his face flush. Draco knew his aunt did love; Voldemort was her one true love. Very few knew that for she did not advertise, but it was no less true. His voice held a venomous edge.

"She does love. Perhaps she simply married the wrong man."

Astoria had stepped away from the closet, holding a rather flattering red and white dress, and then focused her large, dark eyes on his flushed face.

"So we are to attend a party celebrating the marriage of two people who don't love each other? Is that right?"

The words were said carefully, just so, as if she was actually considering going, even though Draco was certain that she had made her decision upon seeing the return address on the invite.

"It's not like that's something highly irregular for you, is it Astoria?"

He offered her a thin-lipped smile, and wondered how long ago it had been since he had smiled for real. Color swept across Astoria's beautiful alabaster cheeks, and her perfect mouth turned down into an unhappy scowl.

"It's just like you, isn't it?" she exclaimed, tossing the dress onto their unmade bed and facing him, her cheeks now rosy, and her eyes flashing. "Throwing our relationship into my face, when I've done everything you've asked me to do, and more!"

Once more he was assaulted by her idiocy, and his hands clenched together into hard, white fists.

"Really? Well, my dear, I'd love to argue all the fine points of your statement, but I fear there aren't any. I'll just agree to disagree, all right?"

Astoria's cheeks had gone from pink to a brilliant crimson. In some sick way, Draco was pleased with her distress; she had been his distress for much too long, after all. Perhaps he had never taken the time to care for her enough to bring it up, but it was true nonetheless. He watched as she yanked the dress from the bed and finished putting it on with jerky movements, pulling long, luscious coal black tendrils up into a sparkling comb. His eyes were focused on that hair, recalling times, many years ago, that the same sight had driven him wild with desire. Those days were gone, along with their son and their marriage. There was nothing now. There was nothing binding them excepting a magical certificate which Draco wished he could annul. Perhaps, someday. Someday when they stopped watching him and everything he did. For now, it was necessary. It was proper. He was Draco Malfoy, after all. She was the perfect trophy wife. He needed her.

Astoria picked up a glinting gold ring and proceeded to put it on her left ring finger just as she did each morning. This time, however, she hesitated, and her eyes gleamed with malice.

"I won't even bother putting on a pretend show. Stupid, bloody ring."

She slammed it hard against the vanity table with a sniff. Draco tried not to smirk.

"My dear, what you do with that ring is of no significance to me. If you like it, wear it. It means nothing to me either way."

His words were cold, distanced, and he gave her another patented tight smile. He knew she loved the ring because she had picked it out during their short engagement. He didn't love her, but Draco knew Astoria, knew the greedy, spoiled woman she tended toward being most of the time, and he knew that not wearing the ring would hurt her more than it would hurt him. Astoria glared at him hatefully, her hand wavering between the ring and her side. Like the stupid cow she was, she stubbornly refused to wear the ring she loved so much.

"I don't know why you care so much about me going to your stupid family party," she hissed, dark eyes narrowing into tiny glittering slits. "You can just take one of those floozies that you're bound to be shagging, isn't that right?"

Her eyes blazed with a heat that could have been sexy. Draco wondered how it was possible to ever have felt anything for this woman. He let out a heartless laugh.

"As if I would ever defile myself in that way, dear wife," he mocked. "Though the truth is, they would be quicker to satisfy me than you ever have."

Astoria stood up, outraged and then slapped him across the face, causing him to gasp.

"You disgust me!"

"And you, me."

He reached up to cradle his face with one hand, and suddenly he flashed back to the hot afternoon when Granger had done the same thing. Somehow, with her, he had felt something. Not just the burning pain, but something else. Something real. His recollections included passionate cinnamon colored eyes, which he hadn't been able to get out of his mind in months.

I'm bloody mad, that's what I am!

The thought brought him back to the dire reality. Astoria's voice rang out loudly within their room.

"Then, take one of your whores! Take a pretty one, so she can be a sparkling accessory to whatever you choose to wear. Take that Pansy Parkinson, certainly she makes no pretenses as to her desire for you. How is she in bed, Draco?"

Astoria's shrill words were cold and sharp, like well placed knives into his back, and the words angered him.

"I would rather die than take her to bed."

Astoria's eyes widened at his sudden vehemence. But instead of fighting with him, as she was often inclined, she swallowed back anger.

"Then take someone else. I don't care who, and I don't care about your stupid family gathering. Leave me out of it, and leave me alone!"

With that, Draco watched Astoria flounce off in a huff, only to lock herself in their huge bathroom, as she often did after their fights. He let out the breath he had been holding, and was thankful for the blessed silence. His wife's words still cut into his conscience, however, and so in that way he would have no peace.

As if I would ever take Pansy to bed! Not even if she were the last woman on earth and I hadn't had a shag in years!

Well, half of that was true. He had not touched Astoria since shortly after their son had passed; the truth was, he hadn't wanted to touch her in years. At least, not in that way – and unlike his former mates and coworkers, Draco refused to defile himself by taking one of the Mudbloods for his pleasure. It seemed twisted, and he refused to be like them. And lastly, he was loath to leave Astoria, for it would leave quite a glaring stain on his reputation, and Draco wasn't keen on that. Being married was not good when one wanted to meet another woman, even if it was just for a simple shag. Amongst many other things, Draco had long forgotten what it felt like to be with a woman, to want her, and to see the reflection mirrored in her eyes.

Bloody unfair, that's what it is. I was Slytherin's playboy only seven years ago, and now? My how the mighty have fallen.

Sighing, he slipped his uniform jacket over the white linen shirt he usually wore, and then put on his boots, glancing at himself in the mirror. Once he determined his appearance was acceptable, Draco knocked on the bathroom door curtly.

"I'll be off now."

From behind the door there was a sniff.

"Of course, don't let me stop you from going to work and doing…whatever it is you do."

Draco rolled his eyes, ignoring her disgusting implications.

"And don't let me stop you from sitting at home doing nothing. You could at least pick up the house, you know. The living room furniture hasn't been dusted since the first coming, Astoria."

There was a shuffle from behind the door before she flung it open angrily.

"Don't you tell me how to keep house, Draco Malfoy! I've been asking you to hire a maid for months! If you could get your priorities straight, maybe you wouldn't be having this problem! Besides, I dusted just last week!"

Her words were indignant exclamations.

"Indeed? Was that the day you ran a feather duster over the furniture for about five minutes until your favorite show came on the telly? Because, frankly, that's not dusting."

Her face, which had lost it's color, bloomed once more in what Draco was sure she believed to be righteous anger.

"If you want it dusted so badly, you do it! I married a Malfoy, and I refuse to do something as mundane as dusting!"

Draco watched her, thinking that she had fallen into his little trap quite nicely. Of course, it helped that she was impossibly daft.

"Well then, don't you worry your gorgeous head over housework then. Merlin knows you've got much more important things to do."

The words held thinly veiled disgust, but he uttered them with enough charm that it hardly mattered.

"I've hired us some help, in fact. She will start tomorrow," he revealed. "Though I do have some rules."

Astoria's eyes narrowed slightly as she slipped from the bathroom, her jewelry, minus the wedding band, adorning her neck, fingers and wrists.

"What kind of rules?" she asked suspiciously. Draco offered her only a look.

"This is my house. I pay the bills. And I chose who works for us. You have no say. She comes here tomorrow. I will have none of your fits. Do we understand each other?"

A glimmer of what, at the start of their marriage, could have been called kindness, lit up his eyes. But now, that glimmer was a sign that he merely tolerated her, and nothing more.

Hermione shuddered and tried in vain not to look at her countenance in the cracked mirror that hung on the heavy cement wall in the community washroom. Her brown eyes were forcefully trained at the tiny, rusted metal sink and she willed herself not to glance up. She already knew what was waiting there. She already had every scar memorized – as if branded on her memory for all of time.

Will I never get used to looking at myself?! Gods, it's been weeks!

And yet, she looked, wincing at what she saw.

Her body was a painting of the war that raged between the Ministry and those they sought to exterminate. She was thin and pale, her hips jutting out in sharp angles, and her arms and legs no longer smooth and supple as they had been a long time ago. She was nearly bones now, a mere wraith of a woman where a whole and healthy one had stood before.

And the scars – white and vivid on her otherwise unblemished skin – zigzagged along her body like white lightning along a stormy summer sky. From the day she had been cursed, Hermione had begun to avoid mirrors. She had stopped undressing around the other women that shared the sleeping quarters, and she spent most of her time alone. Even now, she couldn't bear to look at herself for long, covering up her hideously scarred body with the worn and frayed towel she used for washing up.

Tears sprung up into her widened eyes and rolled down her cheeks. At least, Pansy had not touched her face. At least, she could cover up the ugliness with whatever scant clothing she was allowed. But they all looked. Hermione knew it because she could feel their eyes on her. They all looked and whispered, some snickering and others giving her strange, sympathetic looks. But none would approach her, to ask if she was all right. None cared enough to make sure she was. So Hermione had retreated further away from them, keeping mostly to herself apart from the time she spent with Ginny, Justin and the children. It was best that way.

For whatever reason, Pansy Parkinson had let up on the daily torture she had inflicted on Hermione prior to that day - the day she had given Hermione the scars. She could only guess at the reason, and because the burden of this new life had put a damper of her investigative nature, Hermione hardly cared why things happened anymore. She was only interested in making it through each day, as painlessly and as completely whole as she could.

Yes, the incident between herself and Pansy had changed Hermione. Her friends had pointed it out more than once. The jumpiness and nerves were the least of it, for Hermione sobbed in her sleep, dreaming things she could not talk about during waking hours, but the unspoken horrors plaguing her all the same. No matter how she willed herself not to dream, the nightmares would come. They were no longer of the past, but of the present. Dreams of the alienage, of dying and dead children, of the dementors, and of Pansy Parkinson, cackling as she stood over her, wand raised. There was pain in that wand, pain to be inflicted, pain and blood that would not stop. And she would cry…she would sob, she would beg for mercy…

She reached out with an index finger, touching it to the mirror and tracing the scars she could see on the sad and distant woman reflected there. As she did so, Hermione hummed under her breath, thinking for a moment that not all her dreams were nightmares. Most were nightmares, of course, but sometimes God gave her respite. Sometimes, she dreamed of him. He hadn't been there when Pansy had done her worst, but he had cared for her afterwards, tried to save what he could, to salvage as much as was to be salvaged. Her finger stopped it's lackadaisical tracing…

"Dittany."

"What?"

"Essence of Dittany, Potter. Don't you remember from Snape's potion classes? She'll be scarred, but at least we can try to get her cleaned up and the dittany might help with the worst of it."

"Right…you're right. Is there any?"

"The Healers might have some…."

Then, she had felt his touch, gentle on her body, trying to lift her without making a bigger mess, the blood on his robes, and on his beautiful, saving hands, and she…

"'Mione?"

Ginny's voice broke into her reverie. Hermione jumped and let out a shriek. She could see Ginny's apologetic expression in the mirror. She had forgotten how everything scared Hermione now. Slowly, she approached.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, joining her friend at the mirror.

Both women gazed at their reflections for a moment, the only sound in the washroom being the distant drip from a rusty showerhead.

"It's fine."

Hermione dropped her head, her voice flat, barely above a whisper. Ginny tenderly pulled Hermione's heavy, wet curls away from her face and scarred shoulder, and using her brush, tried to make sense of the riot that was her hair. Soon enough it was untangled and laying neatly down her back. Neither had spoken during Ginny's kind gesture. When she set the brush down on the sink, Hermione turned, swallowing.

"Thank you."

Ginny felt her throat constrict as she saw tears swimming in the depths of her best friend's eyes.

"You're welcome."

Hermione's breath came brokenly.

"I'm monstrous. I wouldn't normally care, but, oh Ginny! They already look at me. And now…"

She broke down, and Ginny gathered Hermione into her arms, holding her in that washroom for as long as she needed, wishing there was something more, something real she could do. But knowing there was nothing.

She was dreaming once more, though this time she wasn't sure what it was about. She only knew she was running, and she was terrified that something, someone was going to catch up with her if she didn't keep moving.

Hermione didn't even realize the voices around her weren't in her dream, but the waking reality.

"…better if she goes, then."

"…he's back now. She won't hurt her."

"…not see her again!"

Hermione struggled to awaken, to pull away from the tight grip of the dream she was having, and make sense of the excited conversation going on around her. The last few words had been Ginny's.

Hermione moved her head on the lumpy pillow.

"But, Mamma, I don't want her to go!"

It was Lily who wailed now, and her sweet yet scared voice caused Hermione's eyes to snap open and she sat up, confused.

"What-what's going on?"

Her voice was thick with sleep, and she was unable to fully realize whatever was happening seemed quite serious. Ginny reached out to stroke Hermione's hair.

"They're…they're waiting outside."

Her voice was a murmured rush, and Hermione looked at everyone around her. Justin stood to the side, a somber look on his wan features, and the children were gathered around Hermione's cot, Lily's eyes full of tears.

"Don't go, 'Mione! Don't go!"

Her tiny hand gripped Hermione's with surprising strength, and she lifted the child onto the bed with her, kissing the top of her head, her eyes searching Ginny's bright brown ones.

"W-where am I to go?" she asked in a whisper devoid of all emotion.

Justin interrupted whatever it was Ginny would have said.

"Draco Malfoy came by only an hour ago. He wants you. You have to go with him."

Hermione felt her blood run cold.

"With M-Malfoy?"

"Don't you see?" he asked with growing emphasis. "If you're with him, that crazy bitch can't hurt you, 'Mione! Blimey, what choice do you have?"

Lily held fast to Hermione's shirt.

"No, don't go!" she wailed.

Hermione felt her heart hammering, a strange, skittering beat within her. She blinked away hot tears of surprise and confusion, hating that her hands grew icy cold.

"I-"

A strange laugh from a nearby cot interrupted anything she would have said.

"If you don't go, I will," said an older, rusty voiced woman. She let out another peal of strange laughter. Hermione looked away from her and back at Ginny and Justin.

"I couldn't," she managed to say, nearly choking on the words. "I can't leave you here."

Ginny's eyes were equally pained and frightened, but she squeezed Hermione's fingers.

"Look, you go. How can it be- what could be worse?" she whispered intensely. "He- I can't think he'd-"

No, would Malfoy hurt Hermione now? After all he had done for her so far?

"After what he's done for you?"

If there had been more to say, Hermione couldn't speak it, for an official approached them, walking with purpose.

"She comes now!" he commanded, pushing the children out of the way, and making Lily cry again.

"No! 'Mione!"

Hermione felt torn, but she stood on shaky legs, watching the man in uniform.

"Can I say goodbye?" she pleaded, knowing it would fall on deaf ears.

Of course, she was denied her one request, as he gripped her shoulder painfully.

"You come now."

Stumbling and falling, Hermione could only right herself before she was dragged through the room, looking after her family with wide, terrified eyes. Soon they were a teary blur. And then, they were gone.