The River of Lathe

Andromache

The noise level of the room rose and fell; woman in glittering robes laughed, men argued and joked, silverware clinked against fine china, and chairs scrapped against the cool stone floor. Through it all Hermione sat perfectly still staring at the ripples moving through Avery's wine glass. Once Avery had set the glass down on the edge of his fork, unbalancing the cup and causing drops to slosh out, and had stained the pristine table cloth. She had shoved a fist into her mouth, barely stifling a giggle. Still smiling guiltily she glanced over at her companion to see if he had noticed.

Of course he had.

She had been sitting beside him for a little over a year now and seemed content to sit there for fifty more. As long as he keeps a steady supply of the potion coming ever night she will be docile and endlessly fascinated by the slow steady drip of a leaky faucet or the dance of an autumn leaf caught in the wind. The perfect accessory. He is content.

Still, sometimes he does catch himself wondering what her thoughts really are. Surely all that intellect can't have just dried up. It couldn't have been simply shut off; all that energy must have gone somewhere. He had thought of withholding her potion a few times just to see what she would remember from the drugged period. And to see if there are any lasting effects. But, so far, something has always stopped him. Someday he promises himself, someday he will let her go a week and see.

They say she is his consort and he allows the rumors to grow. She is not. When she was in possession of her intellect she was fascinating in her own way. Not beautiful, no, but then he was surrounded by beautiful women now. The thought of taking this child in a woman's body into his beat leaves him cold though. She would just become entrances by the folds in his sheets anyway. No, she is a doll, dressed up and brought out for the correct occasion then put back into her room until the next time she is needed.

No one has yet been foolish or brave enough to ask why he does not allow her to speak, or at least not to anyone by himself. He has always been very possessive with things that are his.

***

The world is made of stone. He told me so. He says I am like a child with all my questions. What I cannot understand is how I do not know these things. Everyone else seems to know them.

Sometimes I ask too many questions. He is cruel then. I do not like to think of those days, when he is cruel, when he is Lord Voldemort. I am afraid of Lord Voldemort. Lord Voldemort does not like it when I ask too many questions, or when I am clumsy. I forget where things are and walk into them. And I fall down. The bruises are fascinating though. I like to watch the colors change: purple, green, yellow, until it is just my skin again.

But there are lost of fascinating things. Some nights I stare into the fire for hours, listening to it talk and while the log slowly disappears. On special nights he will sit with me and stroke my head while he reads. I am happy on those nights.

Tonight will not be one of those good nights. Lord Voldemort is mad at me but I am not sure why. I guess I asked too many questions. I saw Paul at dinner. I am not sure who Paul is or why I know him, but I saw a man and he just looked like Paul. But he was not Paul, Paul is dead. Lord Voldemort told me I was a stupid girl and that Paul is dead when I asked him about the man. Paul must have been important to me. Was he my friend? My lover? My enemy? I am sorry he is dead.

Death makes me sad, even if I don't know who Paul was. I saw Lord Voldemort kill a boy once and I cried for two days. He would not talk to me while I cried but he would read to me. He read fairy tales and mythology; he read until I realized what he was trying to say and stopped crying. Death is in every story. Someone always dies, but never the hero. I know he will not die and leave me because who is he if not the hero?

Maybe he will not be too mad. Maybe he will read to me tonight. I would like that.

***

Lucius Malfoy was having a bad day. Sitting behind his desk, head in his hands, he felt more like a man awaiting execution than the celebrated Prime Minister. Oh yes, there was irony there, the stupid Muggles love him, quite of their own volition. Not a single spell has been cast and yet almost daily he gets offers of bridges or schools named after him.

But all that might be coming to an end. Both the magical and Muggle components of the war seem to have gotten bogged down in the Balkans. Neither side has been able to claim a clear victory in over two month. Poll numbers are dismal but more that that he dearly wishes ha had a victory to take to the Dark Lord when he has his audience this afternoon. He knows the Dark Lord is not going to be pleased with his other piece of news.

This morning Lucius had found himself held spellbound by his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. There were lines around his eyes and mouth that he did not remember and his hair, always a source of pride, was beginning to look thin and old. Tearing his eyes away he glanced down into the rubbish bin and for the second time in his life was stopped by the image of Hermione Granger.

The crumpled and stained tabloid now lay on the desk beside the reports on the war and a Muggle newspaper from three weeks ago. In retrospect, he supposed he was surprised that this hadn't happened sooner, the press loves just the sort of figure Lord Voldemort presents: enigmatic, reclusive, wealthy, and with shady ties to the government. Somehow a reporter got a hold of a picture of His Mudblood and either paid for or stumbled upon a story much too close to the truth for comfort.

There, emblazoned in bold type, was a story of slavery, mind altering drugs, and kinky sex, and all for the perverse amusement of a man calling himself 'the Dark Lord'. It was a PR nightmare. Something was going to have to be done, and soon. He just didn't know what. For a wild moment, he had actually thought about calling up the newspaper and calmly explaining that, in reality, it was a memory suppressing potion and she drank it quite willingly every night. But that conversation would have some difficult side effects.

No, the best solution, he knew, was to get the Mudblood into a conscious enough state that she could deny the story herself, for the entire world to see. Call it out as a ridiculous farce and be done with the matter. In a way it would be a nice distraction from the failing war. Unfortunately, the potion implies a mild form of the Imperius curse and thus renders the effects of the curse useless while she is under the potion.

All this trouble for a filthy Mudblood. He understood the symbolism aspect and all; but really if it was up to him he would just force her to do the interview then kill her. The number of people who could appreciate the symbolism was shrinking every day. People adapt, people forget, and life goes on. The Mudblood's world was gone, her time was over. At least to his way of thinking, but that, unfortunately, was not the opinion of the Dark Lord.

With a sigh, Lucius gathered up his papers and prepared to Apparate. It would not do to be late, especially when bearing bad news.

***

"Hush child, I said I was not mad. No, I think the sad fate of Andromache for tonight."

Silently, Hermione settled against the plush cushion and let his voice roll over her.

"Andromache was a princess, daughter of Eetion, King of Mysia, and wife of Hector the mightily warrior of Troy. She was a noble wife, a devoted new mother, and a gentle girl yet none of these virtues could save her from the mistake of falling in love and becoming a warrior's wife. She saw her husband, father, and all seven brothers slain but the genius or madman that was Achilles and her infant son were hurled from the city walls after being promised his life.

Maybe she accepted her inevitable capture with a numb resignation or maybe the pain and outrage still cut into her. We can only imagine, bet the fact remains, beautiful Andromache was given to Neoptolemus, the son of Achilles, as a prize of war.

Somehow she was able to find the strength to take comfort in the arms of Neoptolemus, her enemy and the son of the man who wiped out her family and slew her king. A man who shared the same violent temper and insanity as his father. Yet, she lived with him as his wife, bearing him three sons and suffering the hatred of his other barren wife."

"No!" Jerking upright she glared at him with narrowed eyes. Two spots of color were clearly visible on her cheeks in the flickering firelight. "She didn't love him... did she?"

"The text does not say one way or another, but I hardly think love had anything to do with it. Love is an emotion bust left to adolescent games and fantasies, don't you think? I'll get the book and you can decide for yourself." With a hand resting on the bookshelf he turned back to her. "But does the idea of a woman learning to live with her enemy really seem so farfetched to you?"

"Oh." For a brief moment he thought he saw a gleam of recognition in Hermione's eyes but it was quickly gone.

"Here is the book."

"No, that is okay, I believe you."

The room fell into silence. Hermione stared into the fire while he slowly flipped through the ancient book.

"Sir," she said at last, breaking the spell. "You did not bring me my drink tonight."

"No, we are going to take a break from that for a while." Setting the book down on an end table he moved over to stand beside her seated form, watching and waiting.

"The drink, it is more than a sleep aid, isn't it?" She spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with great care, all the while careful not to raise her eyes from the fire.

"Yes, yes it is. I think it is time for bed now, Hermione."

Obediently she rose. "Goodnight sir."

"Goodnight child." He watched her retreating form step into the next room before moving over to his desk and jotting down a few notes. She had already come far from under the potion's influence. She did not seem to be recovering her former memories yet, but still her mind was defiantly beginning to wake. Lucius's interview was not until the next week, for a moment her wondered if he had not started to wean her off too soon. He did not trust Andromache not to put a knife into Neoptolemus's back, and he did not want to be forced to lose her now.