Invictus

Author's Notes: Where to start? It's been a long time. Too long.
This chapter is dedicated to all of you who have assured me of your continuing interest in Invictus over the last year. To those of you who have been frustrated at the lack of updates, I can only say it was not from disrespect of you, the readers. I've had a lot of upheaval in my life over the last year – I won't go into detail because you're here to read about Hermione and Lucius, not me, but if you're interested there's a little information in the review thread for the last chapter.
And to newcomers: welcome. :-)
I'd like to avoid the trap of trying to predict a release date for Chapter 17, but as always I'll announce it on the mailing list.

During the hiatus, Invictus has been blessed by fanart: avicia has drawn Invictus Cover Art and periwinkle-blue has illustrated scenes from Chapter 6 and Chapter 7. Thank-you both for making one of my dreams come true!
Special thanks also to the wonderful Hijja for performing a fast and thorough beta-read, even after my relative silence during the last year or so.
Additional notes and acknowledgements are at the end to avoid spoilers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ Invictus ~
by Chthonia

Part 16: Memory

He's alone.

And the last time he came alone-

But he fills the room with stark sensible light, thank God. No Boggart-shadows here.

Something flickers at the back of my mind.

Sweet dreams, he said last time...

But I don't remember dreaming anything. Probably just as well.

I hold my torn robe closed, my back safe against the wall. But he's just frowning at me from the middle of the room, his hands behind his back. No, he doesn't want to touch me in the light, even if the ferret isn't here to see.

"Come here, Miss Granger."

I... I don't want to. Not that I ever wanted to carry out his orders, except for last time when he cast Imperius on me, but his voice always cut through any thought of wanting or not wanting. This time... why do I have to force myself to cross the floor?

I hope he can't see that I'm shaking.

It must be a reaction to the Imperius – keeping away from him helps me know that I'm me.

Stupid, I know. But it's a gut reaction and I can't help it.

I try not to flinch as he brings his hands into view. His right hand is holding his wand; his left hand plucks mine away from my robe. A flash of panic burns my cheeks as the robe falls open, but he pinches the tear closed.

Still, I wish he'd let go.

He's wearing thicker gloves than normal. Outdoor gloves.

"Look at me, Miss Granger."

I look up. He searches my face for... I don't know. His is completely cold, apart from a downward twist at the corner of his mouth.

He's... different. Why is he calling me 'Miss Granger' when the ferret isn't here?

I glance to the side, half expecting to see him standing there.

Lucius Malfoy – yes, I can use the name – laughs. "Oh no," he says, "Draco won't be joining us today. He had to go back to school."

I look down – at the floor, at his hand twisted in the fabric of my robe. School is where Ron and Harry and Professor Dumbledore are. Draco Malfoy gone is a chink of light in the darkness.

His father laughs again. "But don't start hoping that he'll tell someone about our little sessions here. I think you'll find that he's forgotten all about them."

Forgotten? But...

I stare at him. "You Obliviated your own son?"

He smirks. "There's no need to look so shocked. I did explain the necessity beforehand. And it would hardly be the first time."

I... I feel like I've turned to lead. Was I really pinning so much hope on Malfoy's big mouth? Did I really believe his own father wouldn't have thought of that?

I wonder if he did the same to Macnair. If it's really only him that knows I'm down here... no. No.

I could cry. But I won't.

"Aren't you going to ask me why?" he asks.

No. Isn't it obvious?

"Well, you see, I happened to overhear Draco talking about you to his two friends. Gregory and Vincent – but you know them, don't you?"

Unfortunately.

"Well, let's just say that my son had devised some rather – interesting – ideas for his future lessons with you, most of which seemed to involve you kneeling on the floor and... well, a lamentable lack of imagination. I'm sure you can fill in the details."

I'd really rather not. I look away. I don't want to hear this.

"Or perhaps you can't," he murmurs. "Somehow I don't think you've read those kinds of books, have you, Hermione? I suspect Draco would have needed to give you some rather detailed instructions – once he'd mastered Imperius."

I feel as if every square inch of my body is crawling with cockroaches.

His wand is hard under my chin as he forces my head up and those pale eyes bore into mine.

"But we wouldn't have wanted that, would we?" he says softly.

I shudder. His lips twitch.

And suddenly I can't stand being close to him, can't stand him holding me. I push his wand away from my chin and beat on the hand holding my robe so he'll let go let go Let Go!

"Keep still!"

I stand there, head down. I can't even make him let go of me, and what would be the use if I could? All I've done is give him an excuse.

"S-sorry," I gulp, hating myself.

There's a frigid pause. I daren't look up.

"You're mine, Miss Granger," he says. "Never forget that."

He pulls me closer and I freeze as he touches his wand to my throat. But then he runs it down over the tear in my robe, muttering a mending spell. Not a very neat one either – I could have done it much better. If I cared how I look in these rags he gave me.

He pushes me away. I stumble backwards, blinking at him.

"That's better," he says. "I see no need for you to flaunt yourself."

I don't react. He's only getting at me because he's annoyed at Malfoy. Although... I have the strangest feeling that I'm missing something, but the thought slides away every time I try to grasp it. Maybe it's just Malfoy and his sick little fantasies – I can't say I'm sorry those thoughts have been wiped out of his head. Except, except that they could have got me out of here.

God, that would have been ironic. Malfoy... I'm going to have nightmares about that, I know I am.

"So." He strides towards the desk. "I think it's time for a history lesson. I'm getting weary of the way you pass judgement on matters of which you are completely ignorant."

What?

He frowns. "Pay attention, Miss Granger. Surely you don't think I come here for the pleasure of your company?"

He's glaring at me, daring me to react, but I've heard the insult too many times for it to register. He seats himself behind the desk, and points imperiously to the chair facing him. I hurry to sit down, keeping my hands folded in my lap. His hands are out of sight too... which is a relief.

Stupid thing to think. He still has his wand, after all.

Or... maybe Malfoy Junior is here, hiding under an Invisibility Cloak or in the bathroom, waiting to watch his father's next sick little demonstration...

I can't help glancing behind me. Lucius Malfoy sneers.

"Worried about Draco? Well, you needn't. It's just you and me now."

Right. Like that's a reason not to worry.

Across the desk, he smiles.

And steeples his fingers. "So, shall we begin? Let us start with the theory – we'll save the practical part for later."

What...? Oh, the 'history lesson'. But what on earth does he mean by 'the practical part'?

Well, whatever it is, it can't be as bad as his bloody Dark Arts lessons. I hope.

He's leaning back in his chair, looking at me in a way that... as if he's not certain of something. But as my eyes meet his, he shrugs and leans forward.

"Very well. Tell me, Miss Granger, have you ever heard of the Knights of Walpurgis?"

I shake my head.

"Good. Someone in your position shouldn't have. So it seems they've been true to one part of their heritage, at least, though these days the secrecy serves mainly to bolster the egos and careers of petty officials. The last I heard, they'd even let in some half-bloods... I never thought I'd see standards slip so far."

He's talking about something like the freemasons? Some sort of anti-Muggle secret society? But... what does he mean by 'officials'? Ministry officials?

Perhaps he had a point about the things I don't know. If he's not just making it all up.

"But," he continues, "they were pure at the start, when they stayed true to their purpose. Would you care to take a guess at what that purpose was?"

"Persecuting Muggleborns?" I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"You're forgetting your history."

Crack.

Pain lashes across my cheek. He smirks.

He really needs to work on his sense of humour.

"If you care to recall," he says dryly, "the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was passed because the Muggles were persecuting us."

"But there wasn't that much real danger, was there? Professor Binns said-"

"Shut up!"

Crack! I clap my hand to my face.

"Don't talk to me about the travesty that passes for History of Magic at that place! Dreary lists of battles and political manoeuvres shorn of the social codes that underlay why what was done was done... and another generation of wizards grows up thinking that history has no relevance! Binns should have been replaced years before he died, but would the other governors listen, even four years ago? 'Oh no, Binns is a ghost,' they'd say, 'Binns can check his facts with the ones who were there.' As if ghosts are too spiritual for politics!"

I keep my eyes lowered. I ought to be terrified – and I am, I'm praying he won't turn that anger on me – but there's also something faintly ridiculous about his tirade, so that it's hard to suppress a smile. I do suppress it, though.

"I expect you were going to quote Wendelin the Weird at me, were you?"

Somehow I think it's safer not to answer that.

He snorts. "A pretty myth to convince children there was 'no real danger', as you put it. But one masochistic witch doesn't make the horror less real, Mudblood. Too many things that should not have been forgotten have been written out of history. So let me tell you some of what they don't teach you at school."

I shouldn't be interested. Whatever he has to say is bound to be a pack of lies, after all – just a way of justifying his prejudices. But I can't help remembering that no one mentioned the house-elves... What else haven't they told us?

"The old families have always carried the duty to protect their weaker neighbours," he says, "a duty that too many have learned to neglect. It was my ancestors, among others, who devised the Statute of Secrecy, and to us fell the responsibility of implementing it. And enforcing it."

He's fingering his wand, I realise – I'm sure he wasn't holding it a moment ago. I glance from his hands to his face. He's gazing at the wand as if there's nothing else in the world...

Then he glares at me.

"Yes, little one," he says quietly, "you should be thankful that I've been lenient so far. In the old days I could have had you publicly put to the Blood-Boiling Curse for the insolence you've shown me here. And I may yet do it."

I stare at the familiar surface of the desk, trying to ignore the frost creeping up my spine.

But he just continues his lecture, thankfully.

"I believe there was even a Weasley at that meeting," he says, sneering, "not that you'd find that brood of blood-traitors admitting it now. That family should have been properly dealt with when they first proposed removing Defence Against the Muggle World from the school curriculum last century. But by then the Knights had grown fat enough to forget their duties, and so the Muggle-lovers have been allowed to deny our true history ever since."

He frowns at me, as if challenging me to contradict him. A challenge easily resisted while he's looking at me like that.

"And now," he goes on, "most wizards can't perceive the threat, and those who should know better prefer to wear the blinkers. Oh yes: Muggles are so eccentric, so peculiar, so quaint... and so determined to wipe themselves out and the rest of the world along with them!" He laughs bitterly. "And those of us who dare to look at the truth and act on it are labelled 'Dark'. Ironic, wouldn't you say?"

Does he expect me to answer that? I... I don't know. He twists everything...

He leans back, raising an eyebrow. "What?"

"But..." I swallow. "But you do use Dark Magic."

"And?"

'And'? As if that's nothing?

"But it's... dangerous. How can you protect-"

"Dark magic is a perfectly legitimate branch of magic!" he snaps. "Sometimes you need to destroy before you can rebuild – and I don't mean in the Muggle way."

So what do you mean?

"And don't try telling me that the Muggle-lovers are harmless," he says. "Muggles can do us far more damage than we do to them – you admitted yourself that they have weapons that could destroy everything. And if they don't do it with fire, they'll do it by pouring their poison into the air and the earth and the sea. Dirty, stupid creatures. Not even Harpies foul their own nests!"

"But isn't it better to try to understand-"

"Because everything would be comfortable then, wouldn't it? No hard decisions to make... No – befriending Muggles isn't going to make them stop breeding. But you don't want to face the hard decisions, do you? You're just as bad as all the other Muggleborn so-called wizards – you come here to escape your world and then you criticise us for trying to protect what we have."

"I didn't come here to escape-"

"But you were planning to stay, weren't you? You're all the same – you come here and take, take, take, but do you ever use that knowledge to go back and sort out your own problems? No, instead of being useful you stay and make things difficult for those of us who are working to keep us safe. Muggle Protection Act indeed..."

"But we aren't given the choice, are we? The Statute of Secrecy-"

"Would you take that choice, if I offered it?"

Yeah, right. As if he's going to let me go home.

He looks at me from narrowed eyes, lines of thought etched across his brow.

"You say Dark Magic is dangerous, Miss Granger. There are risks, it is true – but those of us with the duty to protect our world have traditionally taken the risks upon ourselves. Some of us still do, even now, when most wizards despise us for it."

So now he's trying to make out that learning Dark Magic is part of some sacred duty? That the Death Eaters are really knights in shining armour?

Pull the other one, Mr Malfoy.

"However," he says, "the risks are nothing that can't be managed by a properly trained wizard. Or witch."

He's watching me intently. I twist my hands together in the silence. Is he expecting me to say something?

"I thought as much," he says at last, "despite your pretensions to rise above mediocrity. Too many let fear or prejudice stifle their magic... I would have expected a Mudblood to be free of the latter, at least. You disappoint me, Miss Granger."

Oh, what's he on about this time? I know his need to get at me is greater than his need to make sense, but this time I haven't a clue what he wants. It's not as if I don't 'disappoint' him by existing.

And it's not as if I care.

"Perhaps a little demonstration is called for," he says. "Shall we proceed to the practical part of the lesson?"

He puts a small wad of black silk on the desk, exactly half-way between us.

I swallow. I don't want to recognise it.

At a touch from his wand the material unfolds, spreading itself in a perfect square around the ring resting in its centre.

It is the same ring. The ring that took me to hell, the ring I picked up to seal my fate here. I'll never forget the way those strange runes seemed so darkly alive...

"Put it on," he says.

But I'm frozen to the chair. I... I can't. Not again. I mean, it's not as if I can stop him doing anything he likes to me, but to walk into that room knowingly...

I tear my gaze from the ring. His lips twitch.

"Oh, there's no need to look at me like that, little one. It's not going to hurt, unless you want it to. I give you my word."

Right. As if that means anything.

"Put it on. Now."

Every instinct says no, but his voice slices through them all and I find myself reaching out for the ring, picking it up and it's oh, so cold, and I slip it onto my middle finger. And from somewhere deep within me there's a silent hooowl of terror and I try to pull the thing off and fling it across the room but I can't move it at all and it's cold and heavy on my hand.

I feel the same cold weight in my stomach.

"Stand up," he says.

I do.

"Hold out your hand."

I don't need him to tell me he means the hand with the ring.

He taps the ring with his wand, once – and I am jerked off my feet and falling backwards over and over and over until my feet slam down on something solid and I lose my balance and fall to my hands and knees on...

I open my eyes, and close them. Everything's still spinning. I feel sick.

Where am I?

Fear lances through the nausea. I manage to open my eyes again and look around.

It's green, but this time it's not a lawn but a carpet, with a curving pattern woven in silver thread.

Oh, how very original.

A crack behind me makes me jump.

"Get up," he says.

He catches my elbow as I stumble. Then he lets go, as if he's been stung. I just about manage to stay upright.

"Just in case you get any clever ideas," he tells me, "you should know that the window is protected by an Unbreakable Charm. And that in any case the ring will not let you leave the room."

I glance around. So this is his study – I suppose. Every wall is lined with books and neatly piled scrolls, the lines of shelves broken only by a polished wooden door, a lacquered cabinet on the other side of a huge desk, a yawning fireplace and a large window that frames a lake and a wooded shoreline on the opposite bank.

He turns his back on me and strides to the cabinet. I glance to my left, trying to make out the titles of the books beside me.

I'd expected them to be all obscure Dark Arts books, but they aren't. The nearest are reference books: the Floo Directory, Apparator's Atlas and a bound collection of Magical Mappa Mundi. Then there's a copy of An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, a slim book entitled Governing for Greatness and even Hogwarts: A History.

I long to take it off the shelf, but I daren't. Just to lose myself in a familiar book... I suppose it's less than a week since I last saw a book but it feels like much longer, and anyhow Thanatonic Magic is so full of strange equations, it hardly counts as reading.

I look at the shelf above. Another familiar book: Bathilda Bagshot's History of Magic. But beside it...

It can't be.

There's a thud from across the room.

I look up. He's just put something on the desk, but I can't see what it is. He's watching me, his mouth twisted in amusement.

"Yes, Miss Granger," he says, "that is Madam Wenlock's Triskaidekology."

But...

Bridget Wenlock may be famous for her Septimal Studies – Professor Vector let me borrow her copy, though we don't study it until sixth year – but her work on the number thirteen is barely hinted at in the textbooks. It's not fair. There can't be more than five copies of that book in the whole of Europe – how come he gets to have one?

"You've read it?" I ask.

"What, you think I just keep it there to impress visitors? Of course I've read it!"

I look at the floor, then up at the gilded spine.

"Yes," he says sharply, "it is one of the original copies, albeit re-bound by my grandfather. And no, I don't want you to touch it."

He flicks his wand. I duck instinctively but the ropes flying from the end of his wand wrap round me, binding my arms tightly to my sides. It's surprisingly hard to recover my balance when I can't move my arms, and for the second time I fall onto the carpet. He smirks at me from across the room.

"But... I wasn't going to."

"Hmm." He turns away and leans over the desk. I struggle to a sitting position, but I still can't see what he's doing.

Tears prick my eyes, and I can't even wipe them away. And it's stupid, because when has he ever been fair, but... I wouldn't have tried to touch his book. Why did he think I would?

And since when did it matter what he thinks about you?

It's like when he cast Imperius on me yesterday, and I wanted him to be pleased with what I was doing.

Oh God.

There's no point in thinking like that, there isn't. He's not going to like me any better if I do as he says, and if I start thinking he will, he'll only use it against me. Lucius Malfoy is nothing but a manipulative bully – all he wants is to make me suffer.

"I'm ready now, Miss Granger," he says. "Come here."

There's a note of something... reluctant in his voice, but I don't have time to ponder it. It's hard enough just getting off the floor when I can't push myself up with my arms. It takes a lot of twisting and kicking, which he watches with his arms folded and a smirk plastered across his face.

Bastard.

I'm blushing as I walk to the desk. I'm not sure why, it's just that, well, I can't move my arms, can't even pretend I could defend myself...

I'm glad he mended my robe. Not that I really think he'd do anything, not in broad daylight. But.

I stop in front of him, but he beckons me closer. I dig my fingernails into my palms and step up to the edge of the desk. He's standing to my left, his arm not quite touching mine. I resist an urge to shuffle to the right.

There's a black stone bowl on the desk, wide and shallow with runes inlaid in silver around the edge. The dark orange substance inside glows and sparks.

No, it's not a substance, exactly. The flickering is all underneath the surface, as if I'm watching it on a television screen.

I close my eyes. I know what the thing is now, and I daren't look - he'll kill me if I do.

So why is he showing you?

I look up at him. His face is taut.

"Don't look at me," he snaps. "Are you so afraid to face the truth?"

I look down at the Pensieve, but I can't see what he wants me to look at. A few shadowy figures around the edge... a black fog that shifts, obscuring one part of the scene and then another... and that odd flickering light. I can't focus on anything.

And then I feel his hand at the back of my head, twisting in my hair, forcing me closer so I can see smoke and fire and chaos, and I try to pull away but he holds me there and bends down so that his face is next to mine.

"That's right, Hermione," he hisses in my ear, "all the way in, now." And he pushes my face into the bowl.

I pitch forward, spinning and spinning as if I'm being sucked down a plughole. I'm going to be sick... There's no hand gripping my hair now, nothing at all to hold on to, no way even to reach out with my arms bound like this-

And I'm standing on solid ground.

And then I am sick, coughing and retching. I bend over but nothing comes out except a scream that rips through my head as if it will never stop. My stomach won't stop heaving. It's the smell: smoke and unwashed bodies and overlying it all a horrible stench that could almost be the neighbour's Sunday barbecue but isn't.

Oh God, oh God...

That screaming isn't in my head.

I have to get out of here.

How?

What if he's just going to leave me here, trapped in the sickest memory he could come up with?

I still can't see anything clearly: it's like stepping into Monet's vision of hell. There are people, too many people, but when I try to look closely they're a mass of featureless blobs, with only an occasional flash of white hair, a running sore, livid brown eyes, a toothless grin...

All these non-people are pushing, straining forward, and I can't believe that no one's noticed me, but I'm glad they haven't because I still can't move my arms. If I fall here I'll never get up again. I edge backwards.

But everything is dark behind me, and it's not the kind of dark that becomes lighter when you step into it, but black nothingness as if I'm standing on the edge of the world. I turn back towards the fire – but I refuse to look at it.

And then Lucius Malfoy is standing beside me. And he's terrifying, swathed in ice and cloak and shadow, but he's solid, not out of focus like everyone else, his pale face sharp in the orange glow. I never thought I'd be glad to see him.

He moves towards the fire, and I follow because he's my only chance of getting out of here.

And he waits for me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and points into the crowd.

I think I see what he's pointing at. A small figure pushing through the crowd, her dirty blonde hair obscuring her face. She's dressed in the same coarse, dirty workclothes as everyone else: all that distinguishes her from the others is the clear edge of her silhouette.

She's moving to the left, not towards the fire but around it, blending into the background until I can't make her out.

He makes no attempt to follow her. His hand on my shoulder propels me nearer the fire, where the crowd is denser and so is the smoke and the stench and the shoving – but somehow no one notices our passing.

I wish they would. I wish there was something to stop us. I don't want to go any closer.

But he pushes me right to the front, where the horrible screaming mingles with the roar of the flames and the jeers of the crowd. And where I can't avoid looking at the figure at the heart of the fire, bound like I am but blackened, twisted and not possibly alive... except that she's moving. Please God let that be because of the logs shifting underneath.

The screaming isn't coming from the fire, I realise. It's coming from behind the fire. And the head of the one in the fire lolls towards us and... and... that empty mouth... oh God...

I look away, stumble backwards. Straight into him.

He catches me round the waist, holding me tight with his left arm. His right hand comes up underneath my chin, forcing my head up towards that living nightmare in front of me.

"Look, damn you," he mutters. "Do you think I enjoy coming here?"

His voice is harsh, some of the words catching in his throat: so here is one scene of horror that he can't look on dispassionately.

The thought brings me no satisfaction.

I can't look away. I could close my eyes but that would be an insult to the figure in the flames, to whoever is screaming so incoherently over there. But I can't see anyway, not because of the shifting focus but because of the tears rolling down my cheeks.

But it's only my eyes that are crying. The rest of me is swamped with horror, cold sick shock frozen in every pore.

"Seen enough?" he murmurs in my ear.

"Yes," I gulp, nodding as much as I can with him holding my head.

"So did she, but she never had the option of leaving. No Flame-Freezing Charm here. And do you think those screams are faked?"

I shake my head.

But...

"But it's not real..."

"What do you mean, 'it's not real'? Would you like to be next?"

I close my eyes. I'm so close against him, he must be able to feel me shaking. I can't believe he said that. It's so sick... and it's not fair.

"If it's real, how can it be in your memory?"

"How can you ask such trivial questions while you're watching someone being burnt alive!"

Because anything's better than thinking about that.

And it's not real, it's not happening, or if it is real it's not happening now and anyhow it's too blurred to be real, the only thing that's real here is him and me. And I don't look, though I listen, and I pray for her to die quickly and oh God for him to take me away from here.

The screaming stops.

I shudder.

"Oh, you shouldn't worry about that," he says quietly into my ear.

Bastard.

"What?" he snaps. "You think they didn't want to stop screaming? You think they'd have preferred to wait for their turn in the flames? They were grateful for the gift of death, you may depend upon it... But of course, you don't think anything justifies the use of Dark Magic, do you?"

There's angry shouting now from the other side of the fire. I can't make out the words, but the crowd is shifting, taking up the cry in a babble of disjointed syllables that are completely foreign to anything I've heard before.

"Time to move on," Lucius Malfoy says. "I have no wish to endure a crowd of rioting Muggles."

And hell freezes...

I flinch as the frigid air and furious screaming swallow us like an Engorged banshee ghost. Everything stinks of cow.

He's still holding me. I grip his arm, eyes shut tight.

But this is just memory, not some supernatural horror. And afterwards he'll expect me to have seen... whatever it is. And I can't stand not knowing...

It's hard to make it out at first – to make them out, the woman and two, no three, men struggling at our feet in a heap of mouldy straw, their torch-thrown shadows writhing on the soot-stained stone walls like twisted monsters.

Oh. Oh God-

She... she's a witch. It's obvious, but I don't know why. Her blonde hair is streaked with dirt and her robe could just as well be a dress, but there's something in the way she's fighting, flinching from hands that are nowhere near her.

Even while she's struggling she seems... regal.

The men are animals. That's the worst of it, well not the worst but it's horrible; their expressions tell me they're swearing but all I'm hearing is grunts and gibberish. They're repulsive, ugly brutes. They should be put down.

Why's he just standing there? Why doesn't he do something?

Because he can't. He's as powerless as me, here.

Well, not quite as powerless. At least he has the power to leave.

I turn my head away and my nose brushes his cloak. The clean scent gives me a blessed moment of relief. Not safe, but...

But I have to look, don't I? That's what the bastard wants, for whatever twisted reason of his own. He'll probably quiz me later.

This is sick.

There's a thud. The walls shudder.

I hadn't noticed the door before, but it's now gaping open behind the people on the floor. And standing in the doorway-

It's, it's him. And he's looking as angry as I've ever seen him.

Oh God, what if he catches me here?

I shrink back – but he is holding me firmly.

For God's sake, Hermione! Stop being hysterical!

It's just another memory, isn't it? So he can be there and behind me as well.

The wizard in the doorway has his wand pointed straight at us, his lip curled in disdainful fury.

"Avada Kedavra!"

I shriek, I can't help it. Twisting round to bury my head in his cloak is all I can do to get away.

All is green, tinged with darkness... but I'm still here, and he's still here with his hand holding my head against his chest as if his arms alone can protect me from the curse.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Not that he'd ever really mean to protect-

"Avada Kedavra!"

And silence.

Get a grip, Hermione.

It's only a memory. What can he think of me, trembling like this?

But it's one thing to know the words, another to hear them pronounced calmly and carefully in a classroom, and quite another to hear it for real... How did Harry stand it, in the graveyard?

The Lucius Malfoy holding me tenses. Then he shoves me away.

A bit late to play the 'Don't touch' game, don't you think?

I don't move. I daren't. I don't want him to punish me for my reaction.

Or his.

Yeah, right. I must be losing it.

And I can't afford to lose it. So I concentrate hard on what's going on in front of me.

The three men lie motionless, untouched except by that force of will that ripped away their souls. It makes me shiver, but I force myself to look. Wasn't I just thinking that they deserved to die for what they did, for what they were? Not that I meant it, of course, but they-

No one deserves that.

But I'm in someone else's memory. This happened goodness-knows-how-long ago, and there's nothing I can do about it.

The Lucius Malfoy in the memory comes towards us. For an instant the woman looks terrified at the sight of his wand and his cold expression, but as he crouches down beside her the torchflame lights up his face and-

He cares about her. I don't know how I know that – there's no expression on his face, not exactly, but his expressionlessness seems less rigid, somehow.

And he isn't Lucius Malfoy.

He's about twenty years younger, for one thing, but it's not that – after all, people have to be younger in memories. But the face is rounder, without his severe pointiness, and his robes – not that I've ever wasted my time worrying about fashion, but they look like they've been taken from the pages of Hogwarts: A History, and not in the last hundred years, either.

He stands up and turns around, gazing at each of the battered wooden tools leaning against the wall. It's like something out of a folk museum, but not as clean... But when I try to look more carefully I can't see the details. It's not just the light, I'm sure of it.

I blink. And blink again.

I still can't focus on the walls, but the young wizard's face is clear enough – he's making a furious attempt to control himself, fusing his rage and disgust into a glare that could burn, more savagely alive than Lucius Malfoy's iciness will ever be.

I wonder what he looked like at that age?

It's none of my business. I shouldn't be seeing this.

There's a sickening crunch as a pitchfork thuds through the chest of one of the dead men. A pool of red wells up and oozes down through the straw.

"I've always thought that was a particularly nice touch," Lucius Malfoy murmurs in my ear.

Sick.

And there must have been some wand-movement from the wizard – though I didn't see anything – because suddenly the room is alive as heavy cudgels spin crazily through the air and the straw erupts in a cloud of filth. When it settles, there's a rock lying beside the mashed skull of another of the men. The third man is half-buried in the straw – and the witch and wizard have vanished.

He hasn't, though. He twists his hand in my hair and tugs me backwards. For a moment I'm floating – and then I'm leaning against his all-too-solid desk blinking against the too-bright daylight.

I'm going to be sick.

"That, Miss Granger, is real history," he says. "Shall we review the lesson?"

"I'm going to be sick..."

He makes an angry snort and pushes me towards a bookcase. With a flick of his wand it swings open to reveal gleaming white tiles beyond.

"If you're going to be sick," he snarls, "be sick in there!"

He shoves me forwards and I fall through the doorway and my hand catches on an invisible razor-edge as if there's a blade slicing through my finger splitting me atom from atom with pure sheet-lightning agony that echoes in a SCREAM that must be mine.

He hauls me back and the pain vanishes. I sink to the floor, sobbing. I daren't look at my hand.

Get up, Hermione! Grit your teeth and do it before he lashes out at you!

But he seems to be ignoring me. Between my shuddering breaths I can hear him walking away and his wand tapping at the Pensieve.

You have to look...

I peep at my hand. I'm half expecting it to be covered in blood, but it isn't. I try to look more closely, though it's difficult to see properly with my arms still bound to my sides. There isn't even a mark where it hurt so badly... unless there's something underneath the ring.

I bite my lip. I don't want to take the ring off, just slide it up a little. He can't punish me for that, can he?

Yes.

But it won't budge anyhow. I look at the doorway, but there's nothing unusual about it. Apart from there being a bathroom hidden behind a bookcase, that is. Lucius Malfoy's Chamber-pot of Secrets – typical of his cleanliness hang-up. I wouldn't be surprised if the secret room under the drawing-room floor turned out to be a jacuzzi.

Okay. At least the pain seems to have wiped out the nausea. I'd have preferred him just to heal me, though.

Sometimes it really is difficult not to hate him.

The bookcase swings closed. He's coming back.

I look down at my finger as he crouches down in front of me.

"Ah, yes," he says quietly. "I did tell you that you couldn't leave the room. Perhaps I shouldn't have set the boundaries so tightly."

So it was the ring...

I'm struggling to wrench it off before I realise I'm doing it. He covers my hand with his.

"I think not," he says. "Not now that you know the consequences."

I bow my head. I can't look at him.

He removes his hand from mine. "But we're not here to discuss my personal security arrangements," he says. "We were speaking of the wizarding community's lack of them. I trust you see now why they are needed?"

No. I don't know what he thinks he's proved. He could have made me see anything in that Pensieve, couldn't he?

He curls a finger under my chin to force me to look up. I fight against the urge to back away.

"In my ancestors' time," he says, "the Knights of Walpurgis were respected for what they did. Now they tell lies about history and teach their children to hate us."

There's a bitter edge to his voice, as if he actually believes what he's saying. As if for once he'd prefer to convince me than taunt me.

In which case I'd better show willing. I might learn something about him, at least, even if it's only what sort of lie he chooses to tell me.

"But..." I say, hoping I'm right and he's not going to hex me for asking, "wouldn't 'they' say the same about you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I know the History books aren't... complete – but how do I know that what you're saying is any more, well, reliable?"

He stares at me. "Do you not realise?"

I guess the answer to that one would be 'no'. Why is he looking so shocked?

"History can be falsified," he says. "Memories can only fade... no matter how hard we try to preserve them intact."

But... is he really saying...?

"You mean those were real memories?" But that makes no sense. "Whose?"

"Mine. In a manner of speaking." He smirks.

So he's back to getting at me again, proving his superiority to himself if no one else. Should have known it was too good to last.

"Oh, come on, Miss Granger," he snaps. "Do I have to explain everything to you? What we just saw were my memories of my father's memories of his father's memories... and so on. Memories passed down since the times when witches and wizards were respected for rescuing victims of Muggles savagery – no matter how they did it!"

So he's immersed me in the collective memory of generations of Malfoys... God. I don't want their view of the world! I wish I could scrub it from my mind.

That would explain the blurriness, though. If each person focuses on slightly different aspects of the memory, then over time only the most important details remain clear...

Thank God for my analytical side. Figuring out the 'how' is far more comfortable than thinking about the 'what'.

But his eyes are like diamonds drilling into my soul and all I can think of is, How many people outside the family have seen that memory? I have a feeling that the answer is 'not many', if anyone. And I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

"So has Malfoy... I mean Draco... I mean-"

"Of course. You don't think we'd let him go off to school without knowing the truth?"

"You... You made a child see that?"

"I was nine when my father showed me."

That's horrible. When I was nine my parents were showing me daffodils in the Lake District.

"It is necessary for someone to remember," he says quietly. "You're aware, I'm sure, that most victims of the so-called witch burnings were Muggles – most real witches knew how to conceal themselves. But that only meant that the few who were caught were those too young or weak to manage a non-verbal Flame-Freezing Charm. There was a thirteen-year-old daughter of the Black family- but I suppose you're too squeamish to want to hear about that. Muggles! How could you possibly accommodate that sort of brutality?"

What? He's just admitted that my ancestors are far more likely to have suffered from witch-hunts than his!

He raises an eyebrow. "At least Cruciatus is clean."

Not from this end, it's not.

But I don't want to discuss Unforgivable Curses with him.

"Who was the woman you pointed out in the crowd?" I ask to change the subject.

He frowns. "That you even have to ask should demonstrate the truth of what I've been telling you. Many witches and wizards owed their lives – or their deaths – to Evangelina Malfoy. And she paid a greater price than obscurity for it, as you saw for yourself."

So it was she who killed the ones who were screaming behind the fire, to save them from a worse fate. And does he mean-

"You mean she was the one in the barn?"

"Yes."

I shiver, whether at what she did, or what was done to her, or that it was done to her I'm not sure.

"What happened to her, afterwards?"

He shrugs. "She lived. Had it not been her cousin who found her, she might have been killed for being with a Muggle. But we Malfoys protect our own. And she knew the law: she never married, of course."

Because- because of what those men did to her?

"But-" I protest, "but it's not as if she wanted to!"

"And that makes a difference?"

We stare at each other across an unbridgeable gulf of silence.

"I obviously don't understand, do I?" he says softly. "And you do want me to, don't you? So now it's time for you to return the favour..."

He slides his hand under the rope at my waist, hauls me to my feet and leads me back to the-

No.

I stop. The Pensieve is still on his desk, and it's empty. And I don't want to go anywhere near it.

He pushes me forward.

"Oh yes you will, little one," he murmurs. "Fair's fair, after all."

Since when have you ever been fair?

His left arm snakes around my waist, pulling me back against him with my head under his chin. Just like in the memory, but far more real now that we're alone in the pressing silence.

I can feel his chest move as he breathes.

"Relax," he orders.

Yeah, right.

"I'm disappointed," he says. "You preach the need to understand our fellow... creatures, yet when the time comes to talk you never seem willing to-" and he traces the old scar from temple to chin with his finger as he whispers, "-participate."

I shudder.

He chuckles. "Not to worry, Hermione," he says. "Hypocrisy has always been an unsung Gryffindor trait. But I did think you wanted me to understand."

And I do – if it might make him see. But not this way.

"Ah, you always have to be in control of everything, don't you?" he says. "Sometimes I wonder whether you'd really want to be rescued. Such an affront to your self-sufficiency, hmm?"

No. What does he think I am? What wouldn't I give to see Ron and Harry bursting in here? We're above ground now, someone could get in...

There's a light tap on my temple, and Ron's face is swimming mistily in the Pensieve.

No.

I try to pull away, but he's holding me securely.

"The Weasley boy?" he muses. "Interesting. I thought it would be the Bulgarian."

Viktor, who rescued me from the lake last year, who invited me to visit him, who swore solemnly that he'd always protect me if I needed him... if only Durmstrang had taught him a spell that could find me here!

And then I see us kissing, framed by the Hogwarts rose bower and the rim of the black stone basin.

I close my eyes. This is horrible. We weren't really that awkward, were we?

I cast my mind back, trying to remember if he really put his hand there, like that – but I can't visualise it at all.

"Is that as far as you got?" he asks. There's a sneer in his voice. "So much for the rumours... Or has there perhaps been someone who provoked a more enthusiastic response?"

I try to make my mind go blank, but his wand is stroking my temple again. I open my eyes and to my horror I see golden hair and a shimmying peacock quill, and Professor Lockhart's all-too-perfect white teeth...

Silence.

I'm shrivelling up with shame.

"Dear me, Hermione," he says slowly. "And I was beginning to think you might be taken seriously."

"What?" I protest, humiliation stinging me into speech. "It's not as if..."

It's not as if I fancied him.

But that would be a lie – a stupid, trivial lie, but no lie is trivial here. Not when my life depends on me telling the truth to myself.

"Not as if... what?" His draws his thumb along my jaw-line, but suddenly stops just short of my chin. "But your pathetic love-life is of no interest to me."

"Then why are you looking?"

I feel him shrug. "It might be relevant."

Relevant. Is there any point in even asking?

"But perhaps not as relevant as your earlier history," he goes on. "Why don't you introduce me to your Muggle friends?"

I don't have time to even think about resisting before he is drawing out images of Ms Jones' book-lined classroom; of snooty Elisa making one of her stupid jokes about Tim's glasses; of the class singing 'Happy Birthday' to me when I was five; of the party in our garden that weekend, the pile of newly-unwrapped books and dolls, my Mum standing smiling in her summer dress next to the wooden slide she'd rented from the play-group...

I try to remember what books they were, but it's an odd memory, that one – I know it more from the photos in the family albums than from the event itself. So it's not surprising I'm drawing a blank.

"Is that your mother?" The question jerks me back to the present.

"Yes."

"I thought as much. She was in the bookshop, wasn't she, at Lockhart's book-signing?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." He prods the silvery memories with the end of his wand, and my Mum smiles up at us from a different world.

"Of course, she and your father – I presume? – stood out like a couple of Augureys in a cageful of Fwoopers," he says. "Such an ugly, awkward way to dress! But there... she's almost pretty – for a Muggle."

That's- that's my Mum he's talking about.

But I daren't say anything.

"Did she always smile like that?" he asks.

What a stupid question! No one smiles all the time!

"It was a party," I say.

"A party for you."

"Yes." This conversation is getting more bizarre by the minute.

"It seems a strange way to mark a birthday," he says. "What about your relatives?"

What about them? "Two of my cousins were there," I say, warily. "And Gran came over for tea later."

"Ah."

Only he can put so much disapproval into one syllable. I wish I knew what he was being so disapproving of. Apart from my existence, that is.

"What did you do for...?" I trail off. I can't ask him about it, no matter how curious I am. It's too intrusive.

"For my fifth birthday?" He sounds more amused than offended – thank God.

But I don't want to know. I feel myself blushing. This conversation is too... personal.

He shrugs. "It was just a normal birthday." His tone is offhand, as if he's thinking of something else. I don't think it even occurs to him what an unhelpful answer that is. Does he mean 'normal' for wizards? For rich, pure-blood wizards? For Slytherins? I don't remember reading anything, or hearing anyone at school talking about anything particular... but people don't talk about things they take for granted, do they?

"What about your father?" he asks. "Was he ever angry with you?"

"I... I suppose. When I'd done something wrong."

"Show me."

How does such a quiet command completely bypass my will to resist? My memory immediately serves up the image...

Our living-room at home, with eight-year-old me sitting on the sofa and my Mum and Dad on the other two chairs. They always told me off together, so I couldn't play them off against each other, but I see now that their faces show more disappointment than anger. Certainly nowhere near enough anger to justify my apprehension – but then I didn't have any real fear to compare it with, not back then.

I'd set my cousin's white rabbit free – well, the hutch was far too small, I only wanted it to be free to run around. How was I to know it would disappear under the garden fence? But my Dad is solemnly telling me about how upset Alice is, as I sit twisting my hands in my lap. And then my mother says I have to put all my pocket money for the next two months towards a new rabbit for Alice and a run so it can exercise, and she asks if I think that's fair and I'm nodding yes. And I did at the time, because I felt bad about making my cousin cry though I was still glad the rabbit had its freedom. Now, I'm not so sure. What had I done anyway? I can't even remember, so it can't have been that important. I was in the garden, but what exactly... What was it my Dad had said?

Hang on a moment...

There's an image in the stone basin, a garden and a streak of white, my parents looking more disappointed than angry, though I'm looking terrified: my memory, but I can't remember it.

No. No. He can't.

I blink. But it doesn't help. There's just black- no, there we are in the living-room. But I'm older than I am in the Pensieve – it's not the same memory. I can't recall the other one at all!

And I'd thought there was nothing left for him to take.

But now he's extracting the day my Mum told me off for shouting at my cousin John – and that was so unfair, I used to wish I could forget it. But it's my Mum, and she cares about me, and memories are all I have to keep me going in this place, and he has no right to it.

I won't let him. I do not want him to take this.

They made me apologise to John in the end. The image flows through my mind, and now I can't remember what they said but I remember feeling it was so unfair, because... because... if I concentrate really hard... I can see John looking really smug, and he's saying that he's definitely not going let me have a go of his telescope now, and Yes! That was it! He wouldn't let me look just because I was a girl, and I can remember exactly what I said to him!

There's a sharp hiss from behind me, a muttered incantation and... Oh, God, it's as if there's a red-hot wire pulling through my brain, pulling that memory out to a thin silver thread so smooth that I can't keep a grip on it, no matter how much I don't want to lose it...

I said... John said...

I cling to the image through the fierce-burning pain. But it's hopeless. I can't hold on and the more I try the more it hurts. My head...

I kick the desk.

My bare foot strikes it hard. The agony jack-knifes me forward but he hauls me back before I hit the Pensieve. My head clears for one glorious second and I twist to the side, almost breaking his grip before he hooks his booted foot around my ankle. He pushes me forward. Red fireworks explode through my mind-

All is red and silver mist, broken fragments of voice: "but you know you shouldn't " "you'd only break-" "Hey, Hermione, look at-" "I vill not forget-" "Trying to distract me again, Mudblood?"

But that last is real: I can feel his breath on my ear though his voice comes in a harsh growl that doesn't sound like him at all.

I blink. The light bursts against my brain and dims to visibility. I can see shapes, green, the green leather surface of the desk that my cheek is resting on, the Pensieve looming two feet away...

I can't lift my head – his hand's twisted tight in my hair. I can't push myself up, can't reach the floor with my feet, can't move at all, can hardly breathe under the weight-

I kick out – but he's lying on me and no matter how much I struggle I can't, I can't-

"You are trying to distract me, aren't you?" He chuckles, his breath like maggots crawling on my neck.

And I can feel something, pressing against my back...

No.

His hand in my hair pulls back, slowly lifting my head. And then his face is beside mine, almost close enough for his cheek to touch my cheek and I squirm away and then our cheeks are touching.

"It's up to you, little one." His free hand curls round my throat. "Did you really want to change the subject? Or shall we continue our original conversation?"

He strokes one finger up under my chin. I want to scream a protest, I want to keep stone-still, I don't want to give him the satisfaction of that helpless strangled moan...

"Hmm?" He's almost purring, the bastard. It's horrible, he's horrible, he-

He's sounding like he did when I was stroking that snake, it seems ages ago now; when he looked at me after he'd been gone for so long; when he was talking to Macnair; that first time he touched me, in the dark...

Very nice. Perhaps you did mean it after all, hmm?
Of course I missed you, little one. How could I not?
Narcissa appreciates the... side benefits.
This is what you dream about, in the darkest corner of your soul?

No. No no no no no. I don't have to dwell on that. I know it's there, maybe at some level I've known it's there since he first threw me against the wall, or even since that day in the bookshop – but I also know he doesn't really want to touch me.

Which is why he's lying on top of you.

He won't touch me. I'm a Mudblood, he can't stand touching me. I'll be safe if I don't provoke him.

But that means...

That means I have to let him take what he wants. The memories, I mean.

No.

But the alternative... that isn't even a choice.

"What did you want to talk about?" I make my tone light but I can't quite hide the sting. His fingers tense on my neck – but then he lets go, pushes himself away.

Silence fills the room. I shift back, off the desk, and stand up primly straight.

"Books," he snaps, making me jump. He pulls me back against him again, rests his chin on my head, lifts his wand...

No, no. I can't let him-

But what else can I do?

I close my eyes.

"Let's start with the book that brought you here, shall we?"

Well, I did agree to this...

So I let my mind drift back to that day in the library, the stupidest day of my life when I touched his cursed book. And I let the memory drift away along his wand, and I shouldn't, it might be important, but what can I do? If I don't let him take it...

"Ah, yes," he says softly. "It's your infatuation with books that brought your name to my attention, and what you got from those books that made you stand out from all the other common Mudbloods. And it was books that made our paths cross... didn't you ever realise this was inevitable?"

And I let him draw out the memories of those times in Flourish and Blotts, his contempt for Ginny's poor battered textbooks, the way he took control over- over everything when he found me there last summer, the times since when an unexpected glimpse of Malfoy left me shaking...

As I'm shaking now. He must be loving this, the bastard.

"You're so afraid of me, little one?"

Afraid? I'm not sure what 'afraid' means anymore, except that it's there, always, like being wrapped in a Lethifold...

"Ah." He's not even trying to hide his satisfaction. "And what have I done that makes you fear me so much?"

Everything.

But... well, if he really wants to see that stuff, fine. Let him take it! It's not as if I want to remember.

The images come at random, and I fling them away, out along his wand. I don't know if pushing makes it go any faster, but I don't want to dwell on any of it – coming out of Imperius to find myself standing half-naked in front of him, when only half an hour before I'd been... I can't remember, wherever he took me from; his cruel smile as he made me scream that first time when I still thought I could resist him, the second day when I was still pretending I could, that time he threw me against the wall again and again and pretending anything wouldn't have made the slightest bloody difference. How many times did he almost kill me? That room beneath the tower... that horrible powder. His cold glee as he cut me, as he made me cut myself... Malfoy's stupid torture lessons, and, oh God, Crookshanks...

And he's holding me more tightly now and I need him to because all that was bad enough the first time and it's such a relief not to carry it any more that I actually laugh.

He lowers his head. His hair brushes my cheek; I can feel his breath on my ear. He must be able to feel me shivering.

And I can feel his breath again as he murmurs, "Crucio."

No. Oh God no-

But there's no force in it. It's just the memory he's invoking that's filling my vision with fire and blood and dark blades that can cut flesh from bone but still leave me whole for more. And it's just the memory that is screaming in my head so that I can't hear anything beyond my plea to stop, please stop-

"Shhhh."

I blink. Pensieve-me is staring up in uncomprehending horror. I can't imagine what must have happened for her to look like that, but it must have been... I wish I could just hold her, tell her everything will be okay.

Is everything okay when you don't know that it's not?

A tear slides down my cheek. He wipes it away.

'He' is Lucius Malfoy, Draco's father. I remember that much. But as for what I'm doing here with him, how I got here or especially why he's holding me like this...

Nothing.

He lets go of me, stepping backwards so that I lose my balance and slump to the floor.

Well, he's... one of them. I'd hardly expect him to be nice to me.

And I remember... but it doesn't make sense. Disconnected images: smirks, sneers, spells and snatches of haughty lectures on magic and wizarding history, punctuated by pain and separated by...

Nothing.

What the hell am I doing here?

He's bending over the Pensieve. What does he want with-

It feels like he has half of me in there, and I daren't look at the other half because, because it wasn't Obliviate that he used. There are too many holes, too many ragged edges and if I think about them at all they'll start to join up in the wrong places.

He walks around to the other side of his desk, opens one of the cabinet doors, and flicks his wand.

But...

He can't!

I must have gone whiter than the white witch of frigging Narnia, but there's nothing I can do but watch as the Pensieve rises and floats towards the cabinet. He closes the door behind it and taps once with his wand. An invisible lock clicks into place.

"What are you doing!" The question wells up and bursts out before I can stop it.

He smiles. "Keeping my Pensieve safe until I can peruse its contents in private. I'd have thought you'd approve of that."

"But those are my memories!"

Not so hysterical, Hermione. It won't help...

His smile fades.

"No, Hermione," he says. "You belong to me, remember? So your memories also belong to me. They are mine, for me to use as I see fit."

There's something deeply wrong with that statement. I wish I could put my finger on exactly how... but any argument I could use is probably locked up in that cabinet.

"Mr Malfoy. Please..."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Please, give them back. Please."

Okay, so I'm begging. So what? How can I maintain any semblance of integrity if he can take, take-

Oh God. Don't let him do this.

"Well, well," he says quietly. "What a transformation. I find your new attitude most... gratifying. I might even consider your request."

But... by the time he's 'considered' it...

"But the longer you keep them separate, the more..." I gulp back a sob, I can't bear it but he has to believe me.

"Don't try to lecture me!" he snaps. "Do you dare to suggest I don't know the consequences of a spell I cast?"

"But they won't be any use to you if they're not connected-"

"They're absolutely no 'use' to me in your head if you refuse to co-operate!"

But I don't know how he wants me to co-operate!

He's glaring down at me, and it's terrifying and I wish I knew exactly why.

Did I know? Do I know? But if I follow my memories too close to the holes he's left, they might start to close and then I'll be left with wrong connections and no room for the real memories when he gives them back.

If he gives them back.

Don't think about that. He can't, he can't...

I'm adrift in a sea of confusion and fear with nothing to hang on to, nothing to point the way forward. All I have is... me – or what he's left of me – and him. And from the way he's looking at me, I'm not sure he knows where we're going either.

"Why am I here?" I ask.

He crouches down in front of me. I can't read him.

Could I ever read him?

He slides two fingers under my chin and strokes his thumb slowly along my jawline. And a shiver deep in my gut tells me that he's done that so many more times than I can recall...

What does he want from me?

"You're here," he says quietly, "because you came looking for knowledge you couldn't find anywhere else." He locks his gaze onto mine, and again I recognise it more than I can remember it. And it doesn't feel right – but it doesn't feel entirely wrong, either.

I wish I knew what he wanted.

Do you really?

I don't know. I don't know.

But I know I won't know anything until I get those memories back.

"Please," I try again. "I'll do-"

Selling your soul to the Devil?

I'll worry about that when I can remember what I have to worry about.

"Yes?" he says.

I focus on his sleeve, on the floor, anything to avoid looking at his face. "I don't know what you want," I mumble, "but I can't do it if I can't think properly."

"Ah, but would you, if you could?"

"Yes." And I meet his eyes, and I shiver. He smiles.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"Please."

He pulls his hand away from my chin. "I'll think about it."

"But-"

But he taps his wand on the ring, and I'm spinning back into the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Additional notes:
This chapter was set out clearly in my head well before HBP. While I was pleased that the new backstory didn't threaten Invictus, when planning this chapter I had assumed that putting a memory in a Pensieve removed it from one's head (particularly given that Snape did so in OotP). From HBP it seems that it's possible to copy and store a memory, which would have rendered the hand-me-down quality of the Malfoy memories unnecessary – though of course it could be that they would prefer to store them in the relative security of their own heads. JKR's comments about the accuracy of memories as seen in Pensieves also postdated the conception of this chapter. In short, when I planned it, this chapter was consistent with canon as it stood – so I hope you'll excuse the deviations that are now apparent.

Additional acknowledgements:
I've 'borrowed' a few details from two of the best long fics out there. The Floo Directory and Apparator's Atlas can be seen on Snape's bookcase in Morrighan's The Long Road to Damascus, and the subject of Defence Against the Muggle World was studied at Durmstrang (but not Hogwarts) in Minerva McTabby's Two Worlds and In Between.
Both fics are – alas! – incomplete, but if you haven't yet read them I cannot recommend them too highly.