Invictus

Author's Notes: Thanks go to my beta-reader Hijja for – among other things – helping me to halve the age of Hermione's voice in this chapter and the last.

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~ Invictus ~
by Chthonia

Part 3: Honour

A dark wave rolls over me, leaving me... unchanged. But that is deceptive.

There – that moment of queasiness in the pit of my stomach, that slight sharpening of the senses, so that I feel every breath, every twinge of pain as I move my arm, with startling clarity. I remember this from Potions class. But I can't tell where the limits are.

He's watching me as closely as I'm observing myself.

“I should warn you," he says, "that after our little... interlude, your response to the potion is likely to be somewhat more intense than usual. So I wouldn't attempt to hide too much, if I were you."

My stomach clenches – from fear, or from the potion? But then he would say that. I'll find out for myself soon enough.

He smiles. He can see that I've no intention of heeding the warning.

"So you still don't regret indulging your deluded notion that you could be a witch?"

A bolt of anger stabs through me. I give way to it – I'm not going to hide my answer to that one.

"It's not me who's deluded. And the only thing I regret is that you and your slimy little son ever walked the face of this earth!"

"Flagello."

The hex cracks across my cheek and I clasp a hand to my face.

"It's Honesty Potion, Mudblood, not insolence potion. Don't think that I'm going to let you get away with that sort of remark."

I touch the welt carefully. Great. So now I have to try to stop myself saying what he doesn't want to hear, as well as what I don't want to tell him.

Deep breath. I try to calm the rolling in my gut.

"So... no regrets, Mudblood? You will have, I promise you that. But I think you've wasted enough time for today."

He leans back, watching me with a calculating expression. "Hmm. Let's start where we left off last summer, shall we?"

I don't want to think about that. Such a treacherously beautiful August day, and I was feeling so proud of myself, making my first solo trip to Diagon Alley. A whole afternoon to explore the little shops, without having to provide my parents with a running commentary, and with no one to stop me losing myself amid the shelves of Flourish and Blotts... until he turned up, that is.

He's speaking again, that horrible drawl that holds me in the same paralysis now as it did then.

No. You'll be stronger this time.

But he will be worse...

Don't think about that.

"Now, as I recall, you were most – informative – about your connection with Sirius Black and a certain Hippogriff. But there's one more thing I'd like to know."

I never told him anything. He must have known enough already to make some clever guesses when he saw what I was reading. If only I'd been able to think more quickly, to lie more convincingly... But I'm a Gryffindor. Lying isn't my strong point. Not when facing someone like him.

He leans across the desk as if his pointed nose will cut straight to the truth.

"Where is he now?"

The trick is to fake the reaction when telling the truth, and try to dampen it when I need to lie. But I don't know yet how the Probitaserum will affect me. I try a half-truth.

"I don't know."

A wave of nausea surges over me. I fight it, grimacing, telling myself firmly that I don't know exactly where Sirius is at this moment. Where he's supposed to be is another matter.

But I can't hide my reaction. That's worrying. Either he was right about the effects of his torture on my ability to resist, or this is ten times stronger than what we made in Potions class. Or both.

He raises an eyebrow. "No idea at all? It rather looks as if you're being less than honest with me."

A stab through my gut. I feel as if I'm about to vomit. I try to keep my expression blank but I can't, I can't, I'm going to be sick.

Hang in there, Hermione. You know what to do.

I need to answer the question truthfully, but not with the truth he's after. "I can't tell you," I say. "Nothing that you could use."

The heaving in my stomach subsides to a queasy background anxiety.

"I'd prefer to judge that for myself, Mudblood."

"I'm sure you would." There, that's honest. Completely honest. I take a deep breath.

His mouth tightens. "Don't make me play twenty questions with you again," he snaps.

I say nothing. He narrows his eyes.

"Very well. Perhaps you'd just like to confirm that he's been staying in London?"

I wince, slightly more than is justified by the absence of inner turmoil. I already know what I'm going to say to that one.

"I did read that he'd been seen there, but then the Daily Prophet doesn't seem to be too reliable these days," I say as coolly as I can.

I see his hand clench on his wand, but then he appears to force himself to relax.

"Don't play games with me. I've seen him in London, with you and your pathetic little friends, though I might not have realised if I hadn't known you were hiding him. I've been meaning to thank you for that piece of information."

Right now I want to smash that goblet into his smirking face. He thinks he's so bloody superior, that he has the right to wave his wand and throw me against the wall just because he has the power to do it. I hate him!

Calm down Hermione. Deep breath.

It's the potion, amplifying my anger. He's just using it to try to provoke me into saying something I don't want to reveal. And if that smug bastard thinks I'm going to fall for that... I settle for glaring at him.

He gives me a supercilious little smile that makes me want to hit him, and continues. "Now where, I thought to myself, would the most wanted man in Britain hide out if he came to London?"

This is too close for comfort. I fake a look of incomprehension to mask my sudden fear and the corresponding twinge in my gut. If I can keep changing my expression then perhaps he'll miss what he's looking for.

"Dear cousin Sirius," he mocks. "He never was the most prudent of wizards. But then, the Aurors seem too fixated on scouring Tibet to even think of looking for him at home."

He knows. And I can't help thinking of Kingsley Shacklebolt, spending his days making sure that his colleagues look anywhere but the Black family residence. I try to blank that thought out.

Oh God, I am going to be sick. I want to be sick. It'll feel better once I've been sick, won't it?

Not with Probitaserum.

I'm shivering, but I can't give into this.

"Of course," he says, "there are probably some in the Ministry who don't need to look for him, hmm?"

I struggle not to show a reaction. He laughs.

"You're looking far too innocent, Mudblood. Or attempting to, rather – which can only mean that you know exactly what I'm talking about. But we can discuss that later. Right now I'd like you to explain to me just why I couldn't find the Black's moth-eaten townhouse when I went to see if my suspicions were correct."

He did what? Suddenly all of Moody's precautions seem less like paranoia than the bare minimum security.

"Of course I know where it is," he says. "I've been there with my wife often enough. A rather... unsubtle taste in interior decor, if I recall correctly. And is that dirty little house-elf still skulking round the place? A particularly repugnant animal, it was... though no uglier than its relatives, judging by Madam Elladora's little trophy collection."

How dare he? It's bad enough that he thinks he has the right to treat me like dirt just because I can't trace my ancestry back through fifteen centuries of evil pureblooded wizards. But that he picks on the likes of Dobby and that wretched Kreacher for their situation, a situation that he and those like him have created, is utterly despicable!

"If it weren't for people like you, they wouldn't have to skulk, or wear those filthy rags!" I say furiously. "Kreacher should never have been imprisoned in that house in the first place. It's not his fault he's losing his mind!"

He smiles. Triumphant. Vicious.

Damn, damn, damn. I'm biting my tongue, literally. But all my frustration and self-disgust can't pull back those words.

"Dear me," he smirks. "You really should learn to control that temper."

But why the hell should I, when he's provoking me? And I'm only reacting like this because of that awful potion he made me drink! I find myself on my feet, leaning across the desk. Not quite close enough to get to him physically.

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do!" I yell at him. "You made me drink that potion! Isn't this what you wanted, you foul, evil-"

"Sit down," he hisses furiously, pointing his wand straight at my heart. His eyes rest on my injured arm and suddenly it's burning, a searing pain flaring along the wound so that I can feel the heat radiating out from it. I grit my teeth against the agony as I sink back into the chair.

"I've already told you I will not tolerate you addressing me in such a manner. One more outburst like that and what you're experiencing now will feel like a mild Warming Charm in comparison. Is that understood?"

"Yes," I reply, with more than a hint of a snarl. The fire in my arm is making me light-headed. I wish I were an Animagus. If I were Crookshanks I'd be across the desk scratching his eyes out.

He flicks his wand and the sensation subsides to a background throb... throb...throb. I take a deep breath.

"And I think you can stop pretending ignorance now. I know a Fidelius Charm when I see one. Or rather, when I don't see one. So why don't you just tell me who the Secret-Keeper is? And what exactly it is they're trying to hide?"

No way am I going to tell him that!

And suddenly I know that I'm going to be sick. My stomach is heaving and I'm clutching my belly, aware of nothing but the swelling nausea as I knock my chair backwards and run for the bathroom.

"IMPEDIMENTA!"

It's as if an invisible hand grabs me by the scruff of the neck and jerks me backwards. My feet fly up and I hit the floor.

I'm going to be sick...

I roll over onto my hands and knees, vaguely aware of the beginnings of a bruise where I fell on my hip. But before I can stand up he's crouching beside me, his fingers twisting my hair as he forces my head back.

"Look at me, Mudblood," he snarls. "You're going to answer the question, and you're going to do it where I can hear you."

Question? Oh, that question. I'm going to be sick...

Maybe I should be sick. Right here. Would serve him right.

That rolling pain in my gut again. Instinctively I try to pitch forward but he tightens his grip and it feels as if my hair is coming out by the roots. I wobble and reach out wildly to regain my balance. My hand finds a knee. His knee – but at the moment I don't care. Anything to brace myself against the rising tide of nausea.

He tenses, then shoves me away. "Don't touch me!"

I recover my balance and turn to stare at him. He's looking at me with utter revulsion.

What was that about?

"Never do that again!" he hisses.

"Do what?"

"Mudblood!" he spits. He gets to his feet.

Does he really hate Muggleborns enough to react like that just because I touched him? But... but... he touched me before...

He's standing over me, chest rising and falling with each furious breath. I freeze. Some instinct tells me that he's on the edge: one small push and he'll tear me limb from limb. He stabs his wand towards me.

"Who is the Secret-Keeper? Who?"

I look away. I'm going to be sick. I want to be sick – it would be a relief. But these rolling waves of nausea always stop short of that.

I could just tell the truth. It's not as if it's difficult to guess. And it's not as if the person in question can't protect himself.

Better than he protected me.

No. That's not fair. I walked into this. And he's not omnipotent. I'm going to be sick.

But still...

Don't think like that. He will get me out of here.

Especially if he guesses the source of the leak. If he works out where I am.

Is that tactic or treachery?

I don't know. I can't think. I'm going to be sick. I can't be sick. I need to clear my head. I wouldn't be telling him anything he doesn't know already.

At that thought, the nausea subsides. I'm shivering, but I no longer feel I'm about to vomit.

I push myself to my feet and face him. I want to see his reaction when I tell him who he's up against.

I speak calmly, deliberately. A challenge: "Professor Dumbledore."

But as soon as I say it, tears spring to my eyes. That horrible potion again, amplifying my reaction so that I'm drowning in guilt. My considered betrayal.

"As I thought." He nods thoughtfully, and holds my gaze. I refuse to look away. And for a moment he's not mocking, not hate-filled, but just... searching. Then he nods again.

"Good," he says quietly, his tone maintaining that almost-maskless communication. "Now tell me what he's doing there."

He's still looking straight into my eyes. Too close. I need to think how to answer that, as I start to shake and... no, no, I'm not going to be sick. I turn my head away... but he reaches out and grasps my chin in his gloved fingers. His lip curls slightly as he touches me – and I remember now that he had that same look of distaste in the bookshop, when he forced me to look at him as he sliced apart my attempt to keep the secret of Sirius.

"Well?"

I grimace again, holding back the rising tide of nausea.

The truth. As much of it as I can tell without giving anything away.

"I don't really know. All I did was clean out some rooms."

He smiles. "How very appropriate. But not quite good enough, I'm afraid. I don't believe for a moment that someone as inquisitive as yourself would be satisfied with that."

A stab of panic: way, way out of proportion. "But they didn't let us hear anything!"

"They?"

Damn. How much does he know, anyway? What's safe to tell him? Can I convince him with a lie? Not when he's watching me this closely. And I don't know what I could say anyhow.

I'm feeling sick again. Will this ever stop? I just want it to stop.

It would if I just told him the truth. The Order will have a plan to protect themselves against this, won't they?

But no. It's my considered betrayal he wants. And he's not going to get it. Illusory nausea I can take.

My stomach heaves and I retch, jerking my head away – but he tightens his grip and brings my chin back so that I can't avoid looking at him. I want to close my eyes, but the last time I did that...

"Still being stubborn, little one? Well, that will only make it all the more satisfying when I finally break you."

I hate him, I hate him. That's not a lie. And that lets me feel slightly better. Perhaps if I focus on being honest with myself, with what I want... could I override my reaction to hiding the truth from him? Could a Slytherin like him even recognise self-honesty?

"Arthur Weasley," he says.

What?

"Oh, come on, he's the worst type of Muggle-loving blood-traitor. Don't tell me he's not up to his eyeballs in anything Dumbledore is plotting."

Rage boils up inside me, blocking out the nausea, and before I can stop to think I leap to his defence. "Mr Weasley is one of the most decent people I've ever met! Not that someone like you could ever comprehend that."

He raises an eyebrow. "Know him well, do you? Seen a lot of him recently?"

That smug, evil, foul...

Breathe.

"No." Not 'a lot'. And not recently. No lie, no need to feel sick. Really no need to feel sick. "I know Mr Weasley because I'm a friend of the family. I've stayed at their house."

"Lucky you," he sneers. "I think we'll take that as a 'yes' – I'm sure the Minister won't take much persuading to get rid of him. And while we're on the subject of Weasleys, how about young Percy?"

Percy? He must know about Percy, if he's even half as much in with the Minister as that smarmy son of his is always making out.

He nods, and continues. "Hmm. And Bill Weasley? I hear he had a very serendipitously timed transfer to Gringotts' London office. Or was that just on account of that French whore he's seeing?"

I try to look puzzled, incredulous, indignant. It looks as if he's going to run through everyone I know. Why did the Order allow us to see so much? Why did I allow myself to look, to learn, to know all these things that he's prising out of me?

He smiles. "Griselda Marchbanks?"

Who? The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I can't place it. Someone for whom there's nothing to betray. For a moment I feel relief... but then I realise I am trapped. Unless I can manage not to react to the names I recognise, the only way to protect them is to pretend to react to all of them – but that would mean putting those people in danger for which they're not even prepared. What can I do?

His fingers are digging painfully into my chin.

"Perhaps that would have been too obvious," he says in that infuriating mock-thoughtful manner of his. "Let's go out on a limb, shall we? Tell me what you know about Severus Snape."

I stare at him in shock for a moment, before the nausea hits me again. My mind is racing and I try to hide that behind a facade of bafflement. However much I dislike Professor Snape, I can't lose this one, it's too important.

Find a reason for the way you reacted. Quickly!

"Professor Snape?" I query, trying for a bemused tone.

"Mmm. Do tell."

I try for a perplexed look. I try to feel my belief in what I'm about to say.

He frowns. "Don't try to play the innocent. You're obviously attempting to hide something. Now tell me what it is."

I will. But not so soon that it's unconvincing.

I bite my lip, trying to look scared. I don't really have to fake that one.

"But, I don't know..." I let my voice trail off.

He raises an eyebrow. I screw up my forehead in mock confusion. With luck, it'll cover my reaction to feeling so ill...

"Well... I thought he was on your side. A... a Death Eater."

I wince at the stab of pain that accompanies the lie, but he seems to interpret that as the wizard fear of naming the unthinkable. He sucks in his breath sharply.

"Now that, Mudblood, is a very serious allegation to make – as someone really should have told young Potter before he tried to slander me to the Minister. I don't know how things work where you come from, but here you can't just accuse everyone you don't get on with of so-called criminal activity."

What breathtaking hypocrisy! My indignation clears my head – and gut – for a moment. If he really expects me to take that without comment...

"Really? I thought the Ministry valued money more than truth. Or justice."

His eyes flash. "It's not a question of gold, Mudblood. No true wizard would sit idly by while those Muggle-loving idiots destroy everything. And you're even more naive than you look if you think I'm the only one who uses my influence where I can."

Abruptly, he releases me and paces away. I take a step backwards and rub my jaw.

"Take your precious Headmaster," he sneers. "From what you told me last summer he seems to think he's completely above the law... Interfering with Black's sentence was outrageous enough, but twisting time to do it... Still, that did make it so much easier to destroy his credibility with the Minister. I've been meaning to thank you for that piece of information, as well."

So it was my fault that Professor Dumbledore was ostracised, is what the bastard's trying to imply. One more charge to lay at his feet... except that was one the Ministry would never have leaked to the Daily Prophet – not when it was them who'd given me the Time-Turner in the first place.

He's regarding me with cold satisfaction. "See how useful you've been already? Knowledge is power, you know... though I suppose in your case that isn't quite true. You do need to know how to apply the knowledge, after all. Which is where we can work together..."

I turn away in disgust. A mistake – suddenly he's right behind me.

"Speaking of which, I believe you were about to tell me your basis for accusing your Potions Master of treachery."

Treachery... at that word the effects of the potion surge past my defences and I double up, retching.

Think... but all I can remember is watching Professor Snape striding from the hospital wing last summer on his mysterious errand. No... think back. Harry saw his trial in the Pensieve, that's the only reason we knew, because Harry heard Professor Dumbledore vouch for him despite his having been a Death Eater...

...but he only vouched for him because he was a spy.

I'm going to be sick. I'm shaking, icy rivulets of hot and cold cascading through me... I stare at the floor. I don't think I can keep standing....

"Rather an extreme reaction, I would say, for a small matter of supplementary information?"

I can hear the smug smile in his voice. I hate him.

I sink to the floor, shivering. But I refuse to say anything more, no matter how sick I feel. I try to blot out his voice, but I can't.

"But there's no need to go to these lengths to prove your loyalty. I'm well aware that Severus has been spying for Dumbledore. For some reason he's always been most anxious to gain Draco's trust. It's made it very easy for us to keep an eye on him."

I stare at him, open mouthed. Dozens of little incidents in corridor and potions lab suddenly fall into place. He smiles, lazily twirling his wand.

"Or, rather let us say that I've had my suspicions, which I think you've just helpfully confirmed for me."

No.

I can't believe I've made the same mistake again, reacting honestly rather than putting on a mask of confusion, or surprise, or anything that would have let me hide the truth! I was always taught to be honest, but under these circumstances that's the least honourable course of action.

So I let him back me into a corner. Again. And he's made me give away one of the Order's most vital secrets and put Professor Snape and God knows how many others in danger. I can't just let him make use of that! I have to stop him – but how? He's just standing there like the smug privileged bastard that he is, smirking away as if he can do what so ever damn thing he pleases, as if I count for nothing except how much information he can wring from my mind and I have had enough and I hate him I hate him

"I hate you, you evil twisted inbred bigot!"

And almost before I realise what I'm doing, I've sprung at him from where I was crouching on the floor. He freezes for a split second – thank God for his aversion to Muggleborns! – and I grab for his wand, right hand gripping wrist, left hand grabbing wand and bending it back over his hand. For one glorious moment he loosens his grip and I feel a fierce rush of elation... then with a snarl of fury he brings his other hand down on mine. He's prising away my fingers from his wrist and I desperately try to pull the wand out of his hand. But he's holding it too tightly. Nothing matters except getting that wand and I use the only weapon I have. I bite into his wrist as hard as I can.

He yells. His grip relaxes slightly and I twist the wand in his hand

but his other hand is twisted in my hair. He wrenches my head away, forcing me to bend backwards but I can't let go of that wand.

"Let go of me, you little animal!" he spits out. "You're going to regret the day you were born!"

I can see every pore in his white skin, every tiny line radiating from mouth and eyes, every muscle clenched in fury, his expression horribly eager and far more savage than any of Hagrid's monsters have ever been...

He's going to kill me

but he's not seeing me. He's looking through me as if by tearing me apart he could annihilate everything he's ever hated in one fierce blow.

His breathing is harsh. My heart is pounding.

I don't want to die.

He brings up his wand hand and I push it back, but he's too strong for me. He lifts his other hand to pull me upright. I have to stretch up onto my toes to keep balance.

I'm still fighting his wand hand down but it's almost level with my chest.

I stumble. He forces my head higher and my hair pulls painfully all across my scalp.

A vicious, horrible smile. Spider to fly.

And swaying there, off balance, I suddenly remember Harry telling us about that giant spider attacking him in the maze last summer...

One chance.

I'm still clutching that wand as he manoeuvres it upwards. I slip my hand down against his, and grip the wood as tight as I can. With my other hand I shove the tip of the wand towards him as I gasp out, "Expelliarmus!"

My arm jerks painfully as the force of the spell blasts us apart, throwing me back across the floor.

I blink and scramble to my feet. He must have landed against the desk, but he's picking himself up now. The look on his face would turn Medusa to stone.

"How dare you!" He lunges across the room towards me. I duck to the right. If I can get behind that desk, if I can keep out of reach just until he calms down...

And I suddenly realise that I'm still clutching the wand.

I reach the wall, turn, aim. "IMPEDIMENTA!"

The force of the spell almost knocks my aim off, but it hurls him backwards. I point the wand at him as he gets slowly to his feet. My hand is shaking. Steady enough, though.

He steps towards me, face twisted with fury.

"Stay back!" My voice is shaking as well.

Breathe, Hermione.

He stops. He folds his arms. His expression relaxes to a mocking sneer.

"Or you'll do what, exactly?" He laughs derisively and steps towards me. "Do you really think you could harm me with the rubbish that Flitwick teaches? Now, why don't you give me back my wand before you hurt yourself with it?" He takes another step forward.

Rage and panic flare inside me and I lash out with the first thing that comes into my head.

"Locomotor Mortis!"

Again he crashes to the floor. That wipes the smirk off his face.

He pushes himself over and leans on his hands as if he's going to pull himself across the floor. But then he leans back on his elbow in mock repose. Even now the arrogant bastard has to prove that a Malfoy won't crawl to a Mudblood...

I watch him closely. Would he have a spare wand with him here? But if he does, he's not using it.

"So what do you think you're going to do now?" he sneers.

So sure of himself, even when he's down.

Be careful...

I need to get out of here. Away from this dark hole and away from him. My eyes fall on the goblet on the desk. I point the wand at it, visualising Professor McGonagall's office as clearly as I can.

"Portus."

I smile triumphantly as I feel the shivering vibration from head to toes to arm to hand to wandtip. I'm going home!

But the spell dissipates. No blue glow. No transformation.

Maybe the spell doesn't show the same way using a strange wand. I seize the goblet.

Nothing.

No. There has to be a way to get out of here.

I glance down to where he's lying on the floor. That infuriating smirk is back. "Didn't you know that unauthorised Portkeys are against the law?" he says. "We wouldn't want you to get into trouble with the Ministry, would we?"

Don't let him see how much he's getting to you.

I point the wand at him firmly. "Tell me how to get out of here!"

He laughs. "Manners, Mudblood. Didn't anyone ever teach you to say 'please'?"

I grit my teeth. "I suppose someone taught you that kidnap and torture were the height of good etiquette."

"Perhaps not the best etiquette, no." He smiles lazily. "But very effective. And so entertaining – given the right company, of course."

He's eyeing me in a way that makes me feel... soiled. I can't believe he can make me feel this small when he's the one on the floor.

But why the hell should I feel ashamed? Everything that's happened is his fault, not mine. His fault. My grip on the wand tightens. He's so smug, so sure of himself and his position. Just for an instant, I wish I could show him what it feels like, what he's done to me.

"Wanting to kill me, Mudblood?"

I'm not answering that – I am not going to let him direct this conversation. But at the thought I grimace as the nausea boils up inside me. That horrid potion of his hasn't worn off yet.

He smirks.

Again, that flare of anger. I fight it down – I need to stay in control. But actually, I do want to answer his question. Truthfully.

"No. I want to see you rot in Azkaban!"

A delicate grimace. "How charming of you. But I think that's unlikely, all things considered."

"Not if I have anything to do with it!"

"But you won't. You don't even know what to do with that wand. Typical Gryffindor – always too squeamish to learn the really useful spells."

"I know plenty of useful spells!"

...but I can't think of one that will make him tell me how to get out. That would require Dark magic. I shiver – perhaps he was right about the Aurors after all.

He snorts. "All you know is children's conjuring tricks. But I'm curious, Mudblood. I'd have thought the feel of a wand in your hand might have lessened your aversion to what I showed you earlier."

What's he on about?

Don't listen to him, Hermione. Don't get drawn in.

I need to get out. Could I Apparate? Percy Weasley told me all about Apparition last year, I might be able to manage it... but if the Portus Charm didn't work, there's bound to be some sort of Anti-Disapparition Jinx on the place. So how does he get in and out? How can I get him to tell me?

"Don't you want revenge, little one?"

No! Justice is what I want.

I feel sick.

"Why would anyone want to sink to your level?" I snap.

His smirk vanishes for a moment. "So self righteous," he hisses. "So ignorant. And you don't fool me for an instant. Are you really telling me you wouldn't use the Loquiveritas Curse if you could?"

I've heard of Loquiveritas. It's complex. And nasty. And it might have got me the information I need. But that doesn't mean I'd have used it though – unlike some people, I know the difference between right and wrong.

There must be another way.

He laughs. "Or did you just keep yourself ignorant to make sure you wouldn't be tempted? But I think you're regretting that now, aren't you? Standing over me with a wand in your hand, and still there's nothing you can do to save yourself..."

No. No. That isn't true. There has to be a way out of this.

"So would you like me to teach you?" A low, insidious chuckle. "I could even bring you a couple of little friends to practice on..."

That's horrible. I wish he'd shut up. I should make him shut up. I glare at him – I won't dignify his taunts with a reply.

"No? Well, I dare say there are a few surplus house-elves round the place."

"You are so sick." My hand is shaking, I'm gripping the wand so tightly.

He smiles, showing his teeth. "Oh come on, it's not as if they're not used to it. But if you don't you like that idea we always could round up some of the local Muggles. There's far too many of them as it is."

That's my friends and neighbours he's talking about. Mrs Simpson at the corner shop. Ms Jones, the teacher who let me read any book in the library when I was only seven. And he would just use them as if they were nothing. Less than nothing. I blink back tears of rage. Those friendly adults who'd talk to me when I had to wait in my parents' surgery after school. My Granddad trying to slip me sweets when he thought my Mum wasn't looking...

That insufferable sneering face! He thinks he's so far above everyone else that he can do what he likes, and I hate him. I hate him! They may not be able to do magic, but they're people, hardworking, decent people. He doesn't know them, he would never even try to know them. I wish I could make him see, to cut through that smug superiority and make him see that he's only human like everybody else. To know what it's like to be powerless, to hurt, but all I can do is, is – "Crucio!"

I gasp as the power rips through me. He screams, a horrible high-pitched howl. His back arches and he's jerking from side to side, his face in a hideous rictus grin with every muscle clenched, shuddering and twitching and screaming.

The wand falls from my fingers.

That was an Unforgivable Curse.

What have I done?

They'll send me to Azkaban...

He's staring back at me in equal shock.

Quickly I bend to pick up the wand. I didn't know I could even cast that, just from absorbing the theory. The fake Professor Moody told me far more than he should have done, I know, but...

Not that he doesn't deserve it. Not that he hasn't done far worse himself.

That doesn't make it right, though.

I feel sick.

He opens his mouth to speak but his words are lost in a fit of coughing. His hair is straggled across his face, sticking to skin that is shiny with sweat.

I lean against the wall. This can't be happening. What do I do now?

"You..." He coughs. "You wait, Mudblood," he rasps out. "I'm going to treasure every single second when I do that to you." There's no condescension in his voice now. Just hatred.

And that utter certainty that he can still threaten me. I hate him. If only I could bring him down! I use my coldest voice to reply.

"You won't."

"I will."

I feel a shiver of dread, despite myself. I have to get away.

I point the wand at him again. I want him to be afraid. I want him to know how it felt for me. But he just sneers.

"You are so unconvincing," he says. "You're so scared of that wand, you couldn't even keep hold of it!"

"Really?" But under my anger and frustration I'm feeling slightly ill – the Probitaserum is making me wince, giving the lie to my bravado.

"I rather think you've just proved my point," he says. "If you're going to threaten people, you do need to prove you can carry out your threats, hmm?"

Right. He's asking for it. And no one deserves it more than him. If the smirking bastard really wants me to hurt him... and oh God, do I ever want to show him how it feels...

Suddenly he rolls to one side

"CRUCIO!"

but the curse catches him and again he's screaming and writhing on the floor in front of me, staring in my direction but not looking at me, not looking at anything...

And this time I don't let go. The power is flowing through me and out of me and I'm flinging back all his insults, all the humiliation, all the pain and all his evil enjoyment of it. But it's not just for me, it's for Hagrid and Buckbeak and little Colin and Penelope and Justin and especially for poor Ginny who still has nightmares about that stinking diary and for all the unnamed people over the years who he's hurt far, far worse than what I'm doing to him now. He owes us all, and I'm making him pay in that screaming agony that he so loves to dole out. And then we'll see if he writes me off just because I wasn't born a witch. Revenge? Justice! He needs to know what it feels like!

The screaming stops. He's still jerking about, his arms and legs flailing at odd angles. His head lolls grotesquely.

I release the spell and stare at him, horrified. He's lying face-down like a broken doll.

Is he dead?

In a sudden panic I aim the wand.

"Enervate."

Nothing.

"ENERVATE!"

Still nothing.

I step closer. Could he be bluffing? No. Not even he could do that. But I'm not chancing anything where he's concerned.

"Mobilicorpus."

I lift him a little way off the floor, and turn him on his side. His eyes are still closed. No signs of consciousness, but he appears to be breathing. I step a little closer. Yes... there's a definite movement in his chest. I lay him down.

Thank God for that.

No matter how evil he is, I don't want his death on my conscience. Certainly not like that. I shiver. What came over me?

The Probitaserum, for one thing. But... but...

Face it, Hermione. It's Dark magic. You know the dangers of that.

...the Curse itself, feeding on my hate and my shame and my... my need for the revenge I said I didn't want. Seeking out the cracks in my integrity and forcing them open. That's why it was easier the second time.

And if there's a third time...?

No. No, I'm not succumbing to that.

Don't think about it.

But I have to think about it. It's denial of the Dark that leaves you vulnerable to it.

But I'm a Gryffindor.

As if that would make me immune! As soon as you think you can control it, you're lost.

I crouch down beside him. He's breathing gently; he could be asleep except for the occasional muscle spasms that must be an after-effect of the Curse. His mouth is open. A small trickle of blood is bright against the pale skin.

Did he think he could control it? Probably – he seems to think he can control everything else. Perhaps Slytherins are brought up to believe they can avoid the dangers of the Dark if they meet it on its own terms. Do they even realise there's a price for that?

It's a bit eerie, watching him lying there unconscious. His face is slack – no sneer, no anger, no cold calculation, no cruelty. Just a pointed alabaster face like those Italian statues my parents took me to see when I was ten, but much more real with those faint lines running from his mouth and the corners of his eyes, and the white-blond hair falling across his cheek.

There can't be many wizards who've seen him looking this unguarded, and probably no Muggleborns. I feel a bit uncomfortable. Guilt, I suppose.

A faint twinge of nausea. I stand up and take a deep breath.

But this is no time for guilt. It's... it's not my fault he's lying there. It isn't. Professor Moody – Crouch, I mean, and he should know about it if anyone does – told us that reaching for unconsciousness is about the only possible defence against Cruciatus. So he must have caused that, not me.

Doesn't stop me feeling sick, though.

It always struck me as a rather stupid defence, really, seeing that it just leaves you completely at the mercy of the person who's been Cursing you.

Right. And that's you, isn't it? So what are you going to do about it?

I- I don't know. What can I do? I've always had the others with me, before...

So what would Harry do, in this situation?

Kill him, probably.

That's a horrible thought. But I can't help thinking of that look on his face when he faced Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, before we knew he was innocent. And this one is anything but innocent.

Not that Harry would really have done it, I think. When he talked about it afterwards he was so horrified at the idea that he might have done. But at the time...

This isn't a productive train of thought.

So... what would Ron do? He's the strategist. Is there something obvious I'm missing, something that a Wizard-born would have done straight away?

Perhaps there's a hidden door to this place. I didn't check that before.

I brighten the light, blinking, and look around the room carefully. There's nothing in the irregular outlines of the stones that looks remotely like a doorway, but maybe I just don't know how to see it. I should have paid more attention to the twins' methods for finding hidden passageways.

The brightness is hurting my eyes. I dim the light.

If I can't see where the door is, perhaps I can work out where it should be? There's a spell that can show up gaps behind walls. I cast it carefully.

All the stones glow the same dull red colour, with just a few tiny bright patches at the tops of the walls. If it worked properly, that means that not only is there no doorway, but even the adjacent rooms aren't detectable.

If there are any adjacent rooms.

But this is his wand, after all. Perhaps it's just not working properly for me.

Those bright patches are worrying, though. I presume they're ventilation gaps of some kind. If the spell picked those up, it would have picked up a door, wouldn't it?

Perhaps there's nothing but earth behind those walls... I need to get out of here. I'll have to try to Apparate. I really don't want to risk it, but anything's better than being buried here. I just hope it's easier than flying.

Wait...

No point in splinching myself if I can help it – I should have a look at what security measures there are on the place. A summer cleaning Grimmauld Place should have taught me everything I need to know about those.

My detector spell radiates out through the stones. The tip of the wand glows bright blue, then orange, then emits a pulsing green and red pattern. After a short pause it appears to radiate darkness, and then there's nothing.

Blue: that must be what absorbed the Portus Charm. Orange is an alarm, if I remember correctly – that'll be what alerted him when I arrived. The black is a basic Concealment Charm, embedded into the stones so that the room and the other spells are undetectable from the outside. That green and red though... the Blacks' house has one of those; Professor Lupin showed me after he and Alastor Moody spent three days modifying it.

Considering their obsession with blood, it would have been more surprising if the Malfoys didn't use a Sanguiclavis Charm to secure the place.

I stare at the walls in frustration. I can't be trapped here, I can't!

"REDUCTO!"

I fling the spell at the wall. It bounces back. I dive out of the way. My foot catches his leg and I barely stop myself falling.

No wonder the bastard was so sure of himself. No fireplace, no way to make a Portkey, no way for a non-Malfoy to Apparate. And as he's so fond of pointing out, I don't have a single drop of that blood flowing in my veins.

There's eight pints of it on the floor in front of you, though.

Eesh. That's a Dark thought: just to... use him like that. Is that another consequence of casting Cruciatus?

It's your only hope of getting out of here.

That might be true...

Do you think he'd have any hesitation about doing the same to you?

Suddenly I'm very conscious of his presence. I want to get away. Now.

Okay. Theoretically, what would it take to get me past that barrier? Just a small symbolic mingling, blood-oath style, or would it take something approaching a full transfusion? Could I smear it on my skin? Or do I have to drink it?

Yuck.

I don't know that much about Blood Magic. I've found the very idea repulsive ever since everything that happened in second year. But with Apparition, the important thing is to keep a sense of your whole body. Perhaps if I just made those cuts near the main joints it would work.

And if it didn't?

Don't think about that. Anything's better than staying here.

But I can't do it anyhow. I don't know how to use that cutting spell of his, and there's no knife here.

You're a witch, Hermione. Transfigure something!

A cold weight settles in my stomach. I look down to where he's lying, breathing gently in and out...

You brought me here. Don't blame me for this.

I look around. I can't conjure a knife out of thin air. That goblet is the obvious thing to use, except that I need something to catch the blood in.

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Don't think about it.

Something vaguely knife-shaped would be best. After a moment's thought I fetch the toothbrush from the bathroom. The Transfiguration is straightforward.

I set the wand down on the floor and kneel beside him. I look at the small silver knife in my hand, and back at him. Where should I make the cut? I don't want to leave him bleeding to death.

I reach out for his wrist and pull up the sleeve of his robe to reveal the white flesh of his arm. I touch the knife to his skin. My throat feels suddenly dry.

This is no time to get squeamish. It's just like dissecting frogs for Potions class.

A particularly macabre potions class.

"It won't work, you know," he says hoarsely.

I jump backwards. He makes a lunge for the wand but I grab it just in time.

Stun him, Hermione. Stun him and get on with it!

But what if he's right?

"Why should I believe you?" I say, keeping my voice cold. My heart is still pounding – that was too close.

He coughs for a few seconds. Glares at me, lip curled.

"Because I clearly know more about it than you do." There's an odd squeak in his voice that betrays his attempt to adopt his usual superior tone.

"It's a Sanguiclavis Charm," I say, "it shouldn't affect you at all. So how do you know how it would affect me?"

He raises an eyebrow and looks me in the eye. "Do you honestly believe I've never had it tested? I can assure you that you wouldn't be the first to try. And the results are not generally pretty." His nasty smile dissolves in another fit of coughing.

I shiver. He doesn't sound like he's lying. Do I really want to risk it? He must have a way to get people out if he wants to. If only I can get him to tell me what it is.

"And do you honestly expect me to believe that anyone can get in, but no one can get out?"

"Not quite anyone, Mudblood. Just specially invited guests."

I grit my teeth and persevere. "Who never leave? Funny the place isn't more crowded."

He shrugs. "Leaving doesn't generally tend to be an issue. But I'm beginning to find your questions rather tiresome, so I'll tell you what you want to know – not that it'll do you any good. You could get out with a Portkey, if you had one that was set up properly, but strangely enough I don't happen to have one on me at the moment. Of course, if you lent me the wand I could go and fetch one for you..."

Yeah, right.

"No? So it rather looks as though you're stuck."

Can I catch him out? I try to match his offhand tone. "Unless there's a hidden door, of course."

But he merely raises an eyebrow and says, "Sorry to disappoint you, but there isn't. And even if there was, I'm not sure I'd be inclined to tell you about it."

Stalemate.

"Now why don't you end this little charade and give me back my wand, hmm? I've been so amused by your little mutiny, I might not even punish you for it if you promise to be a good girl from now on."

So patronising. And so utterly unconvincing. I know only too well now how mercurial he is. I shudder to think what he'll do to me... I can't think about that. I will get out.

Stun him and get on with it.

It's my only chance. I raise the wand. He vanishes.

He's gone?

How...?

He must have had a Portkey after all. If only I'd checked. Or maybe he can trigger that Sanguiclavis Charm to pull him out, even without a wand.

He tricked me again. Damn him to hell! I thought I was in control when I grabbed the wand, and because he didn't leave then, it never even occurred to me that he could. Stupid, stupid me!

But why? Just because he wanted to find out what I would do? Why? Did he just assume I didn't know anything that could hurt him? Was he just trying to show me I was powerless, even with the wand?

If that's the case, he probably got more than he bargained for. I am not powerless.

But that's only going to make him more vicious when he comes back...

And he could come back at any moment. I back up against the wall, so that I can see the whole room.

He doesn't reappear.

My left arm is still throbbing from that hideous gouging spell he used earlier, the skin around the wound still red and hot. I cast a cooling spell on it – it helps a little, but I wish I knew how to take the pain away...

The wand feels heavy in my hand. His wand. It's a bit shorter than mine, and slightly thicker – more suited to raw power than subtle spellwork. The end I am holding is smooth from thirty years of use.

Thirty years of evil. I dread to think what this wand has done in that time. It's weighted down with the residue of God knows how much death, destruction and torture... I don't like holding it, with my fingers wrapped round the place where his hand has wielded it. I don't even like touching it, as if it's imbued with something murky that could seep out and smother me... a Dark object if ever there was one. It should be destroyed, it should have been destroyed years ago – they should never have let someone like him have a wand. I should just break it now.

But it's the only chance I have. When he comes back I need to Stun him before he can get me – and this time I'm not going to be so damned squeamish about taking his filthy blood. I have to try to Apparate out of here, and if, if he wasn't lying about what the Sanguiclavis Charm would do to me... well, it can't be any worse than what he'll do to me if I don't get out...

There's still no sign of him. What's he doing?

Trying to psyche me out again. I'm not falling for that. It's time to set up a few security measures of my own.

I pick up the knife. It's too small to use as a weapon, but a simple Transfiguration changes that. I slip it under my pillow, then turn my attention to the room.

My Entrapment Jinx doesn't hold – I'm not sure whether that's due to that Dissipation Jinx or whether I just haven't mastered the complex spell properly. But my basic Alarm Charm seems fine, and I weave a layered net of Shielding spells around the bed.

They shimmer slightly as I lie there, staring out at the room.

I almost preferred the dark. In this shadowy light I am too conscious of the walls and the ceiling closing in, restricting my movements to this claustrophobic little room, reminding me that I'm trapped here, that I can't get out. But in the dark...

In the dark, there are no limits.