Invictus

Author's Notes: Thank-you, once again, to all of you who have kept faith with Invictus - those of you who have reminded me of my commitment by stalking visiting my livejournal, those of you who have been inspired to create fanart, and especially my beta Kennahijja who has an unerring eye for continuity despite the overlong periods between chapters in recent, er, years (for which, as ever, I offer my apologies).

FanArt: Since the last chapter, Invictus has been honoured with more illustrations:

• periwinkle-blue has illustrated scenes from Chapter 3, Chapter 14 a and b, Chapter 15, Chapter 16 and Chapter 17.
• michelletiara has illustrated Chapter 10 and Chapter 13, with an additional "random vignette".
• madelinekrieger has made Invictus wallpaper

If you know of any other Invictus fanart, please let me know and I'll post a link with the next chapter.

For Invictus news: In addition to my livejournal and the Invictus updates list, dropbearsexist has started a forum for those who want to discuss the fic.

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~ Invictus ~
by Chthonia

Part 18: Possession

Silence. Deep, black, empty.

But only outside my head. Inside, I can't stop the screaming. Or worse, that voice, carving me inside and out, just as... as...

"Shut up!"

Hand on my throat, stifling scream to silence. Voice, soft as steel: "I've had enough of your banshee impressions, Hermione. You agreed to this, remember?"

White lights dance in the dark.

"Answer me!"

Can't reply. Can't breathe.

But he made me answer. Over and over and over.

"I belong to you."

"And? Tell me, Mudblood."

"You can do anything-"

"Yesss...." A long, shuddering sigh.

And it begins again...

I need a bath. Not that I could clean this away in a million years. My skin is sticky with sweat and blood and... other things. But he's bound my hands so I can't even try to wipe myself clean.

"It doesn't matter what you want, little one. You belong to me."

His fingernails cut into my hips as he drags me up onto hands and knees. He's pressing against me, hot and hard and horrible and I can't stand it...

Why couldn't I have just gone limp, let him get on with it? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?

But it wouldn't have made any difference. He wanted me to fight.

"Where do you think you can run to, Hermione?"

Pulling me back as I dig my fingers into the mattress, scrabbling to slip from his sweaty grasp even as one arm wraps round my waist like an iron band and his other hand crushes my breast until I cry out and he murmurs against my cheek, so close I can taste the foulness in his breath:

"You belong to me. Do you want me to prove it?"

Some of it... God, I'd never have imagined. Why would anyone want...?

It makes the Dark Mark seem clean.

His hand on my head, pushing my face into the sweat-drenched sheets until I gag.

He says nothing. Pulls out of me. Wet dribble down my leg...

And his weight is gone. I gasp for breath. Keep my eyes closed. Waiting.

But he says nothing. Just grabs my wrists and hauls them in front of my face. Rope coils round them and snakes up towards the headboard.

I turn towards the wall. I'm shivering, from cold, from fear, from exhaustion.

The bathroom door slams.

He didn't say anything when he'd finished, either, after he'd emerged from his bath in a cloud of sickly-sweet steam that made me want to puke. For all I know he didn't even look at me as he Scourgified his robes and pulled on his boots. Just flicked his wand to cover me with one damp smelly sheet before he Disapparated.

I didn't look at him, either.

Didn't look at anything.

Think of anything.

You can do anything...

My Mum used to say that to me. It meant something else, then.

My eyes are open in the darkness. But I haven't moved. To move would make it seem real.

I'm cold.

The sheets stink of him.

I try not to think of what's going to happen when he comes back. If he comes back.

Not thinking is easy when your mind is numb and your body is cold. I can't even pull my hands down under the sheet. I breathe warmth onto them.

My body wants to live, even if I don't.

It's not up to you. You belong to me.

No. I don't!

But my protest means nothing. He may not have the 'right', but he has the power. And down here that's all that matters.

I can do anything.

And he will. I knew that before, I suppose. But now it's as if he's opened up a new portal to hell and shoved me through.

Don't think.

Just stare into the dark...

Until a flare of light glitters off the stone walls. I close my eyes.

Footsteps. His. Coming towards me.

Oh God. Make him go away.

Every sinew screams at me to run, to hide, to try to Disapparate even if it means splinching myself into a thousand tiny pieces.

I can't face him. Please don't make me...

The footsteps stop.

I hold myself still, silent. Try to stop shivering.

Nothing.

But in the end I have to open my eyes. There's no point in trying to fight him, after all.

I stare past my hands, bound, swollen, out of focus. He's standing behind me, doing God knows what. I care, but I don't. The smell of him turns me to ice.

His wand. In front of my face. Touching the rope, making it slither away.

I pull my hands down to my chest. Under the sheet.

He rips it away.

I close my eyes.

And I feel his hand on my ribs. Gloved. It slides down to rest on my waist.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to.

You belong to me.

I wait.

He lifts his hand away. And, finally, speaks.

"I thought we'd agreed that the games were at an end."

Games? My God...

I'm going to be sick. Every hard-clipped syllable twists in my gut.

"So you can stop ignoring me, Hermione."

I shudder as my name slides from his tongue.

I need to get up. I need to get through this if I want to live.

Living? I can't even imagine it.

You belong to me...

I need to open my eyes, turn and-

I can't.

Can't even think it.

He jabs his wand into my ribs. I curl up against the pain but moving makes everything hurt.

"I know you heard me," he says. "And we both know what happens next. I tell you to get up, then I have to threaten you when you don't, and then you cower on the edge of the bed as if doing what I say is worse than what I'll do to you if you won't."

He lifts his wand away. "Not any more, Hermione. That game grew tiresome a long time ago."

His footsteps echo across the floor. For one horrible moment I think he's just going to leave me here; I twist round to see him sneering from across the room.

"You have half an hour to make yourself presentable."

There isn't an 'or else'. Disobedience is simply not an option. I swing my feet to the floor.

God, it hurts. Everything hurts. But I manage to stalk into the bathroom, looking anywhere but at him. I almost slam the door.

I'm surprised he lets me get away with that.

As if I care! Sod him and his bloody squeaky-clean bathroom and his fucking superior act and- and-

I pick up a jar and hurl it against the tiles.

The silence is deafening.

And then footsteps. Click click click click click until the bathroom door is wrenched open.

He says nothing. One glance at me, lips pressed together, before his gaze moves over the ointment smeared up the wall. Two flicks of his wand and the mended jar is in his hand, full. He holds it out.

"I provided that for your benefit," he says. "I expect you to use it. Unless you would prefer me to apply it for you?" He does look at me then, his lip curled in distaste. I snatch the jar from him, turn away.

"Twenty-eight minutes," he tells me. The door closes.

I turn the taps on full, the splashing water masking my voice as I chant I hate you I hate you I hate you into the rising steam. Almost silently, because I don't dare let him hear, but still it's a litany of survival.

The ointment is a standard treatment for cuts and bruises, assuming I can trust the handwritten label. But hell, I need to do something to stop it hurting, and anyhow if I don't use it he might...

Though the way he was looking at me, he'd rather eat raw Flobberworms.

Don't think about that.

I dip a finger into the jar and slide a film of lotion over the dark bruise on my wrist. It tingles a bit, but then it seems to hurt less, though it doesn't look any different. Placebo effect maybe, but as long as it works, I don't really care.

Twenty-eight minutes. Twenty-six, now. Call it twenty-five. Five minutes to fill up the bath; ten minutes to scrub away every trace of... of that. Five minutes to dry. Five minutes contingency.

I scoop ointment out of the jar and slather it on my skin. There's enough in the jar to put more on after I get out of the bath, and getting into the bath is going to be a whole lot less painful if the scratches heal even a little bit.

Though maybe it's better if it does hurt. More honest, searing the memories away.

Memories. That was his excuse, wasn't it? My excuse. And yes, I said I'd do anything to get them back and I meant it and deep down I don't really have to persuade myself that they're worth more to me than... than...

But I'd give anything to have that memory wiped away.

No, not 'anything'.

I climb into the bath, turn off the cold tap. The hot tap I leave running, feeling the heat seep towards the numbness inside.

I've seen the police leaflets about what to do after being attacked, of course: how you're supposed to resist the urge to scrub yourself clean; how you need to preserve the evidence. Well, bugger that! Even if I wasn't still in this nightmare, even if I thought the Ministry would even believe me, I've got all the evidence I need. And once I get a wand in my hand again I won't need any bloody legal process to give him what he deserves...

I mean: Kingsley, Mad-Eye, Tonks, I guess I'd trust them okay.

Yeah, 'cos they've done so much to help you so far.

I do trust them. I have to. But I want their respect, not their pity.

Part of me wants to cry. A larger part of me wants to throw his cruelty back in his face.

No. What I really want is never to see him or think of him again.

Fat chance. No amount of memory charms will scrub that from my mind.

I dunk my head in the water, let it soften the tangles in my hair.

I keep my eyes closed. I don't want to see the marks, don't need to see my skin redden as I scrub and scrub and scrub. I can feel where the brush catches tender skin, can feel it scraping away any lingering signs of what he did.

Every last trace...

But then there are the older marks, like the puckered scar tissue down my cheek. I'll never be able to scrub that away. Though compared to everything else, it feels almost normal.

Or is that just because I can't remember?

I gulp down deep lungfuls of moist air. If only the steam was hot enough to scald away the dirt and make me clean inside. I can still taste him...

I cup my hands under the hot tap and bring the water to my mouth. Swirl. Spit. And again.

God, I'm thirsty.

I twist the cold tap on again, tilt my head underneath and drink. My throat is sore from screaming. The water eases the pain a little.

I turn both taps off, and sit back, arms around my knees, and watch the rising tendrils of steam. I revel in the warmth. Here, now, I can breathe in peace.

Don't think about what happened. Don't think about what will-

I wave my hand in front of my face, watching the currents eddy. Tiny droplets of water, dancing, rising from a potion of cleansing.

I stretch out, sink lower in the water until I can't see over the top of the bathtub. I almost feel warm, now.

I blink. Tears form in my eyes and I let them flow.

It's okay. I need to cry.

This is... too much. What happens now?

Don't think about it.

Don't think about it.

Better to watch the white steam against the white ceiling and push away stray thoughts of screaming darkness...

Shit! How long have I been sitting here?

I launch myself from the bath, yanking out the plug.

Don't panic. It won't make you go any faster.

I grab a towel from the pile by the mirror, and twist it round my hair. It has to be okay. He'd be banging the door down if my half-hour was up.

I rub myself down with a second towel. Some of the bruises and scratches still twinge, so I reach for the jar of ointment and smear some on my skin.

And... oh no.

My robe is still out there. Have I got to walk through that door with just a towel between me and...

Or maybe he doesn't expect you to wear-

NO!

No way.

He said 'presentable', after all. And that he didn't want to play games. Maybe if I just open the door a crack and ask him-

But it's not a game, is it? You belong to him. He can do anything...

I wrap my arms around myself. Okay, so he can do what he likes to me – I don't need him to make that point again. But I don't have to choose to humiliate myself.

I pick up the third towel and shake it out to see how big it is, how much it will cover.

Lucius Malfoy's little Mudblood House-Elf...

Shut up!

And then I see that the towel beneath, at the bottom of the pile, is not a towel at all. I pick it up and it unfolds into a robe.

It's not black, that's why I didn't realise before. It's pale blue, and far finer than the sackcloth he's been making me wear up till now.

Why?

I run my fingers over the soft fabric. Tears prick at my eyes. I blink them away.

For God's sake, Hermione! Get a grip!

It's just that... it's been so long since I've seen anything nice.

He's still not given me any sodding underwear, though.

What's that about? Does he want me as his bloody sex slave? What a fucking cliché.

I'll die first. That's sounds like a cliché too, but it's a cold hard certainty in my bones. I shed a skin last night. Or had it ripped away.

And I know for certain I'll die single. No one is going to touch me like that again, ever.

I slip the robe over my head. It looks... okay, actually. High necked and long sleeved so it covers up the bruises, and it clings close enough to look more like a dress than a sack, but not so much that it shows where my bones stick out. And, thankfully, the lack of underwear is not at all evident.

It's almost the same colour as the dress I wore to the Yule Ball. But this time I haven't got three hours to sort out my hair. Three minutes is more like it.

I push back my curls. I wish I had a comb, a hairslide, a potion that could smooth them out to make an armour that says I am elegant and hard and your equal and you will not touch me.

But I haven't. And really, why should I make an effort to look immaculate? It's what's inside that counts.

And I am hard and cold and his equal and he will not touch me.

Dream on.

I'm not dreaming. I'm declaring. He tricked me into – don't think about it – so I could get my memories back. And he's going to damn well give me my memories back. And then we'll see.

Do you really want to see?

Am I scared, do you mean? Sure I'm scared. I've got huge chunks of my life missing and for all I know it's all even worse than... than what just happened. But it doesn't matter. I need that knowledge because by God I'm going to make sure he suffers for what he's done.

This isn't hate. I can't afford the luxury of hate. This is anger.

You belong to me.

Do I hell!

I fling open the bathroom door.

And he's... there. In the middle of the room. Lip curled, eyes hard, hair pulled smoothly back, fingers curled around his wand.

I look away. I'm trembling. I can smell him and he smells like he did when he made me kiss him, when he spat on the floor, when he...

Don't cry. Don't cry.

Damn him!

"Draco was right."

I stare at him.

He smirks. "That colour really does suit you."

I cling to the door frame and tilt my chin up, looking past him so I don't have to look at him.

I am strong and hard and cold and your equal-

And in my head I'm walking into the room defiantly, demanding that he keep his side of the bargain as if there had been no bargain and he hadn't systematically dismembered every shred of self-respect I had left.

I can't go out there.

"Come here, Hermione."

I can't.

You have to.

This is a nightmare.

So what else is new?

I grit my teeth, drop my gaze and push myself away from the door. Looking at the floor means I don't have to look at him.

I stop when I can see the toes of his boots.

"Look at me."

Feel nothing, that's the way to do it. Ice in my veins, my heart, my soul.

"What did you learn last night, Hermione?"

I recite it flatly. "I belong to you. You can do anything you want to me."

I shiver, I can't help it. As if a black icicle is dripping through my soul.

He nods slowly. He looks... different, somehow. Watching me from the far side of a gulf that's swallowed last night in its depths.

But still deadly. I can remember that much.

"Put your arms around my waist."

No.

Just thinking about it makes me feel ill.

"I said, 'Put your arms around my waist'. And I meant now."

Don't think. Just do.

I move closer. He stands absolutely rigid, like he was when he first made me touch him yesterday.

I lift my hands, holding them lightly against the sides of his robe. I don't want to touch him, to feel his warmth, to smell him.

It'd serve him right if I puked.

"Oh, for goodness sake, girl," he snaps. "Do you want to be splinched?"

He steps forward, crushing me against him with one arm against my back. I gasp for breath but before I can push him away his wand presses on my temple and-

.

I blink.

I sway.

Oh, my head.

What... Him. That faint smell of putrid roses overlain with male sweat envelops me. My upper arm is clamped in steel.

I shake my head, force myself to see.

His office. He's holding me up at arm's length. No expression on his face.

As I meet his gaze, he releases me. I stagger, but stay upright. He nods once, and gestures towards the desk.

"Do sit down, Miss Granger."

I feel sick.

But... his office. Where my memories are. Were. That has to be a good thing, right?

You can do this, Hermione. Everything between then and now was just a bad dream.

Or at least, it happened there, not here. I push there to the back of my mind and walk to the chair he's set in front of the desk. He moves to take his seat behind it.

I should lift my head, force him to meet my gaze as his equal. But.

Fabric rustles as he leans forward. "I trust, Miss Granger, that there will be no need for a repeat of last night's distasteful little lesson."

Distasteful? Huh.

I swallow.

Look at him, Hermione. You are strong and hard and cold and you will survive.

I squeeze my hands together in my lap. Raise my head. Speak, every word discrete. "I trust not, Mr Malfoy."

He raises an eyebrow fractionally. "Indeed."

We're somewhere else, now. Beyond.

He reaches into a drawer and brings out a roll of parchment. One flick of his wand and it lies flat on the desk between us.

It's covered in writing, but I can't focus on it. My mind doesn't want to look.

Concentrate! Look at him: he's not going to touch you.

Indeed. It's as if he's carved from ice, though ice wouldn't look that revolted.

He places a neat black quill on the desk, and a squat silver ink pot.

Breathe...

He turns the parchment around so that it faces me. He points to a space at the bottom and pushes the quill across the desk.

"You will sign there, Miss Granger."

Fear closes around my heart and clenches, hard.

I meet his gaze. "What is this?"

"A contract."

I'm lost: lost because I haven't a clue what's going on, and lost because I have a horrible feeling that if I sign it, I'll spiral down into an irretrievable nowhere.

He pushes the parchment towards me. "I suggest you read it."

Yes, yes, I need to read it. But fear has frozen my comprehension. It's actually less frightening to look him in the eye and say, "My memories, Mr Malfoy."

His nostrils flare. "What of them?"

Oh, shit.

But I'm committed now. "We had an agreement. You said you would give me my memories back if I..."

"And so I shall. After you sign."

"No."

My mind is slowly whirring into life. He can delay and delay and delay, and with every hour that passes it'll become harder to reintegrate my memories so I'm closer to being as good as dead anyhow. Whereas he... Fuck, I'd better read the damn thing. He wants something from me and killing me isn't going to get it for him.

"You are in no position to say no, Miss Granger."

Neither are you.

But his voice has more of an edge in it now. Winding him up isn't going to do me any good at all.

I pull the parchment towards me. The writing is small, inked in perfectly straight rows.

~ * ~

By this contract

the witch Hermione Jane Granger
is bound to complete the task required of her by
the wizard Lucius Marcellus Malfoy
and the wizard Lucius Marcellus Malfoy
is bound to protect and provide for the witch Hermione Jane Granger

until the contract is completed or dissolved

and

the witch Hermione Jane Granger and the wizard Lucius Marcellus Malfoy
are bound never to reveal what passes under the terms of this contract.

I declare by the natural laws of magic that I enter into this contract fully and freely:

Signed

Hermione Jane Granger - - - - - - - - - Lucius Marcellus Malfoy

~ * ~

Oh, shit, shit, shit. I didn't think I could be more scared than I already was, but this... I mean, I said I'd do what he wanted, and it's not as if he can't make me anyhow. But agreeing to be magically bound by my consent... Oh, God.

I look at him, expecting to see a triumphant smirk plastered across his face. But he's frowning slightly, eyes narrowed. Almost anxious.

Right. For whatever reason, he needs me to sign this thing. I do have leverage.

ARE YOU MAD?

Mad for even considering signing. The second part is more disturbing, if anything. I don't want to share a secret with him! Even seeing our names side by side like that feels wrong.

But we already share a secret. It's not as if I'm ever going to talk to anyone about what he did to me down there.

And this binds him to protect me, too. He wouldn't do that if the magic didn't require some sort of reciprocal commitment. Which means that 'protection' is mine to define, just as he will set the 'task'.

He's serious. But what the hell does he want me to do?

He taps his fingers on the desk. "You have a question, Miss Granger?"

I take a deep breath, and launch myself off the precipice. "You haven't said anything about what the task is."

"And nor will I, until your confidentiality is assured."

Oh, come on. If I refused to sign he'd probably kill me, and that would be a pretty damn effective way of 'assuring my confidentiality'.

Unless I stayed behind as a ghost.

I shiver. Has he really taken that into consideration? Suddenly his world feels unutterably foreign.

"This only guarantees my safety until the end of the contract," I say.

He almost suppresses a smirk: my capitulation is evident in my words.

"No," he tells me. "It only makes me responsible for you until the end of the contract. I assure you: if you complete the contract, you will have nothing to worry about."

He smiles, as if at some private joke. The smile fades. "You are wasting time, Miss Granger. Sign the contract."

"I will," I say slowly, pushing the scream of protest to the back of my mind. "After you return my memories."

His face freezes in a rictus of fury. His hand twitches. "You dare to defy me!"

"No. No." I fight to calm my breathing. "But how can I sign something like this with these gaps in my mind? Won't it affect the magic?"

His eyes narrow. He knows I have another reason for being insistent.

And maybe he does, too. Maybe he wants my agreement to take hold under the memories. Maybe he thinks that will make my commitment to him come first.

So much for not playing games.

Or maybe he thinks I won't sign once I have the memories. Are they really that bad?

Do I really want to know?

Yes!

"Isn't it safer to integrate my memories first?" I say quietly. "Whatever you want me to do, I'm not going to be able to do much if my mind doesn't work properly." As you so clearly proved yesterday.

He says nothing.

My head aches. I resist the urge to hold it in my hands.

Is it aching because of the holes in my memory? Is it already too late?

"Please."

So much for being hard and cold and strong.

He looks at me for a long moment, then shrugs. "Very well. But if you go back on your word, I promise you will regret it for the rest of your short and painful life."

He doesn't wait to see my reaction as he turns to the black lacquered cabinet behind him.

I take a few deep breaths. I can feel myself shaking; I want to cry. But I daren't. If I start now I'll never stop.

He places the dark Pensieve between us.

I can't see any images in it, just swirling fog.

Is it my imagination, or are the silver swirls duller than I remember? Are they deteriorating?

What if he's changed them, corrupted them?

He frowns. "Get on with it!"

I pull the Pensieve towards me and lower my head.

You don't have a choice. You can't go back now.

I have to trust that he wants my brain to work properly. It's a darn sight safer than trusting in his good nature.

I hold my breath and plunge my face beneath the surface.

sunlight slants onto a leather-bound book
You really ought to treat that book with more respect
There is no way out, Mudblood. Not for you
glowing red eyes and long sharp teeth lunge from the woods...Stupefy! STUPEFY! but Defendo wreaths him in red... Caedo – pain and blood run down my leg...
Holy shit, Granger! What in Hades happened to you?
Crucio! fire – blood – steel-
Crucio! His screaming, his back arching, shuddering and twitching and... too still... white-blond hair across his cheek as blood trickles from his mouth
So the esteemed Hermione Granger has an interest in the Dark Arts? Well, Mudblood, you've certainly come to the right place!
standing in my underwear with a puddle of clothes at my feet as he grins and looks at... everything
This is what you dream about, in the darkest corner of your soul? I'm flattered, Hermione, truly I am... gloved fingers raise my chin, cup my breast, twist in my hair...Are we to conclude that you do have an appetite for pain after all?
sharp sweat-smell, silk, roses
Viktor brushes away a rose petal and leans in to kiss me
his breath on my ear
Well, well, well, Hermione. What an endlessly entertaining creature you are
red and black scales under my fingers, warm... he hurls the snake against the wall ...
axe dropping- Expelliarmus! – thud – clang
Imperio... stinking slippery blood on hand, on knife – throw it away!
Blood, pitchfork, blood – straw – shit
Mum smiles in the garden
Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday, dear Hermione...
Merry Christmas, Mudblood
No no too stiff too twisted Goodbye, beautiful cat
Evanesco! Evanesco! Evanesco!
fury LIGHT-

... and nothing.

I... I...

I push myself upright. I'm shaking, even more than before.

...my cheek pressing against stone, his wand trailing a line of acid along my arm... ugly red gouge, about the width of a wand, weeping with pus...

...a wide white scar running from my elbow almost to my wrist as I stare at him and he raises an eyebrow and says that some lessons take a long time to sink in...

Oh, God... I can't think. I want to run screaming from the room but it's as much as I can do to lower myself into the chair without collapsing.

He's watching me, standing on the other side of the desk with his arms folded.

He catches my gaze, raises an eyebrow. "Happy now?"

I close my eyes.

...a hand on mine in the darkness... fingers feather-light on my neck... curling round my breast, squeezing... trailing down... and do you want me to continue, little one...
NO!

I blink.

He pushes the parchment across the table.

You've got to be kidding!

"I... Give me half an hour." My voice sounds surprisingly calm, miles from the stormy waves within. "I need to get my head straight."

"You will sign it now."

Or you will regret it for the rest of your short and painful life.

should you wish to indulge in rebelliousness here, you will pay for it
I do hope you're not going to get all excitable just because we've had a change of scene
There are things I could take from you so much more painfully than mere blood
Whatever you think I'm going to do to you, I can always make it worse

I shudder. I can't think straight. Daren't even try to think, until the stolen memories have settled back into their proper places.

If I can't focus, it might weaken the contract.

And if I sign the damn thing, he can't hurt me.

Yeah, right. There's bound to be a loophole.

But even if there is, he can't exploit it. Not if he wants the magic to work.

I reach for the quill.

My hand only shakes a little as I sign my name. I watch in silence as he adds his.

What am I doing?

Walking down a one-way path towards a rock wall I can't avoid.

He puts the quill aside. And suddenly there's a short silver knife in his hand.

...it slices into my arm and I try to jerk away but he's pressing my arm against the stone so I can't... and there's another bolt of rending agony as he twists it...

I sway, gripping the chair to anchor my giddiness.

I expect him to smirk at the fear on my face. But he's too... focussed.

"Normally," he tells me, "we'd activate the signatures with our wands, but as you no longer have yours, we need to revert to more – primitive – methods."

Yes, what did happen to my wand?

I search back between the bleached and blackened images.

Oh.

I ought to hate him. But there's too much swirling round in my head to feel anything.

He draws the blade across his thumb. A drop of red oozes down the edge and drops onto the parchment.

...drip drip dripping off my arm into a cauldron...

Blood magic. Bugger. I must have learned something about blood magic.

But I daren't try to remember. Not yet.

He Scourgifies the blade, and passes it to me.

I watch myself take it and hold it against my thumb, over the signature.

I'm not sure I can do this. Unlike some people, I don't make a habit of dodgy blood rituals.

...kneeling beside him on the floor, reaching out for his wrist, touching a knife to his white skin...

I press a little harder. It hurts.

It hurts? Compared to everything else?

It's not meant to be easy. That's the point.

The point. Hah.

I close my eyes, jerk my hand, and suck my breath in at the sudden sharp pain. When I look, there's a small drop of blood right at the edge of the parchment.

He holds out his hand. I pass him the knife, handle first. I feel- No, I don't feel anything. Is there even an 'I' left, now?

Don't be ridiculous! It's not like there's so much difference between this and a Ministry employment contract!

Except that it's with him.

Lucius Malfoy. You can say the name, remember? We've been through all that.

...I look up into his eyes and tell him, 'You do not own me, Lucius Malfoy'...

He smirks. Oh, now he smirks, now that he's got what he wanted. Bastard.

"That will do," he says. "Though your technique could do with improvement. We'll have to work on that."

Oh, God. Is that what he wants? There was something about blood before, wasn't there?

Don't try to remember.

I'm not sure I want to, anyway.

I rub my temples.

When I look up, there's a folded piece of black silk on the table. A piece of black silk that – unless I'm happily mistaken – I've seen before.

My mouth is dry.

"Unwrap it," he says.

I pull it towards me, my fingers tingling in protest. I unfold the fabric, careful not to touch the ...small silver ring, deeply engraved with crooked, twisting runes...glinting in the grass next to a statue's shadow...dropping into my palm as my stomach lurches...waiting malevolently beside a frayed piece of rope...

And now it's malignant in front of me, still taunting me with those strange shifting runes.

I glance at him.

"Now, pick it up and place it here." He points to my signature on the parchment.

I do as he says. Sleepwalking to oblivion, but awake.

He touches his wand to his own signature and mutters something I can't quite catch. A circle of black spreads out from the wandtip, singeing without flame until the whole parchment crumbles to ash. Which collapses further into a fine dust that rises into a bridge of smoke between the wand and the ring. And then it's absorbed into both of them and is gone.

Get away from it! Run!

But there's nowhere to run to. He'll have made sure of that.

The ring... I can't even see the runes now, though I know they're there. My eyes can't focus on them. Or won't.

I glance at him. He's watching me, head tilted slightly to one side.

"Usually," he says quietly, "our wands would seal the contract. But as you no longer have a wand, I've had to alter the magic slightly."

...The word you're looking for is 'Repudio'...
...silver flares as wood crumbles to falling ash-

I blink.

... as you no longer have a wand ...

Bastard.

He flicks his wand and the ring floats in the air a few inches above the desk.

"Hold out your hand."

All I can do it stare at the ring, as if it's about to bite. Because it is.

"Your right hand."

Don't think about it.

I stretch out my hand. He moves his wand; I'm shaking so much, I'm amazed he gets the ring anywhere near my ring finger, but it slides on easily.

I gasp as it shrinks onto my skin. I wasn't expecting it to be so cold.

I don't have to try, to know that I won't be able to remove it. I wrap my left hand around it for warmth, but it doesn't help.

Never mind the ring. What about the magic?

At first I can't feel anything different, but then, on the edge of my mind... it feels like a Disillusionment Charm, trickling down through every cell in my body.

My gut instinct is to run away screaming. I suppress it; I can't run from myself.

He's watching me closely. I hope he can't see how much this is freaking me out.

He stands up. I close my eyes and listen to his soft footsteps on the carpet, watching the silver streaks of his spell sliding down my mind-

He touches my right arm. "Let go."

I open my eyes. He's reaching for my right hand. I'm still cradling it in my left. I let him take it.

...You do realise that this hand belongs to me? ... Mine, to do as I like with...

He touches the ring, sending my head spinning in a whirl of silver. I blink, trying to focus on him, on the bookcase, on anything that's outside my head – and then he's taking a step back, frowning.

"Don't fight it, Miss Granger. It won't help either of us."

But how can I not fight it?

The ring burns cold. I suck in a breath.

"I said, don't fight it!"

I breathe deep. "Is it supposed to be this cold?"

"No, you silly girl, of course it's not! How would you get anything done?"

I stare at him.

He steps forward and slaps me.

The blow throws me back in the chair as I cry out and clutch my cheek.

What was that for?

...two red blotches high on his cheekbones as he screams How dare you! and I stagger backwards from the blow... two strides and he catches me by the throat and hurls me against the wall...

No... that was different. I think.

Don't think.

He turns on his heel and strides to the other side of the room. I watch his robes swirl as he turns back towards me and readies his wand to cast-

But he doesn't. He just points it at me, six inches from my face.

...Magic is my birthright, Mudblood – passed down through generations of undiluted wizard blood...

I blink. He's still holding it there, unwavering.

It's me that's trembling.

What is he doing?

What did I do?

I hold myself still, everything focused on that length of smooth black wood, willing it not to move.

He takes a step back, sheaths his wand, says nothing.

It's another minute before I dare to look up at him.

His lips twitch. He's almost smiling, the bastard!

"Better?" he asks.

What?

"The ring," he says. "Is it still cold?"

I feel it with my left hand, but I already know the answer. It's still cool, but it no longer feels as though it's been dipped in liquid nitrogen.

"Not as much," I tell him.

"Good. Now try not to focus on it. Don't force me to distract you again."

Distract... All that was to distract me?

Bastard. He couldn't just tell me a joke.

Still, it worked, didn't it?

With my hand on the back of the chair, I push myself to my feet. A mistake: my vision blurs and I have to grab the desk to stop myself from falling. I stay like that for a minute until I can see again, then turn to face him. Sitting while he's standing so close isn't comfortable.

It's hard not to think about the contract magic seeping through my mind. Like that challenge to not think of an elephant... I need to focus on something else.

"Are you going to tell me what you want me to do?" I ask.

"Ah." He tilts his head to one side. "Not yet. I think we'll wait until the contract is fully in place."

Great. That's really going to stop me from thinking about it.

He frowns. "Tomorrow will be soon enough, Miss Granger. There's little point in going to the trouble of setting up a confidential contract if we then discuss confidential matters before it takes hold. Now, if you think you can stand upright without clinging to my desk, let me show you to your room."

'Let me show you to your room?' He makes it sound like a sodding hotel.

I glance at the window to steal one last look at the sky before he buries me again.

There's a click from the corner of the room.

The door is opening.

My stomach clenches; I tighten my grip on the desk. I don't think I can cope with the ferret when my head won't stop spinning.

But it isn't the ferret.

He moves behind me, puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Narcissa," he says, in a languid voice in which only those who know him well would hear an edge of irritation. "Didn't I tell you I was busy?"

"You did." She moves towards us, leaving the door open. His fingers curl into my shoulder.

She's as tall and elegant and toffee-nosed as I remember. I'm glad now that I couldn't do anything with my hair before. Not one strand of hers is out of place. Even if I'd had an hour, mine would have been a bird's nest in comparison: better not to even try.

She stops a few paces away, sweeping her gaze over me. "So, this is your pet Mudblood?" She glances at my shoulder. He removes his hand. "Scrawny little thing, isn't she?"

I stare at the carpet. I should stare her out but... I can't. Those who know him well include her. She's done it with him, willingly – does she have any idea what he's done to me? Does she care? There was part of me that thought she'd have stopped it if she knew. Now I see that for the desperate fantasy it was.

"Look at me, girl."

I raise my head slowly. She sniffs, and raises her perfectly plucked eyebrows at her hus- at him.

"And you really think this creature can-"

"I thought I explained all that."

"Yes, Lucius," she says, and it gives me a strange shiver to hear his name from her lips, "you've given me several explanations. But I still don't see why you need to keep her in the house." She looks down her nose at me. "I'd have thought the kennels would be much more appropriate."

You think you can hurt me with that? You've no idea, you stupid, stuck-up bitch...

"With my pedigree Crups?" he drawls. "I think not."

I knew they were all as bad as him. I knew it. And yet... it was almost easier to deal with the ferret. At least he was predictable. She wasn't – and the unpredictability offered a crack of hope.

Utterly false hope.

"You needn't be concerned," he's saying. "You never go near the East Wing anyhow. You won't even know she's there."

She's glaring at me as if I'm something nasty stuck on her shoe. "Please ensure that I don't."

She turns to sweep out of the room, but at the door she pauses to look back. "Oh, and supper's in an hour, dear, if you could be finished by then. At least, I trust you're not thinking of bringing her to the table."

"No."

She waits for a moment, as if expecting something more. Then she lifts her chin and leaves, closing the door quietly behind her.

I keep my gaze fixed on the door. I daren't look at him. If I keep very still, perhaps we can pretend I never heard any of that.

He doesn't say anything either.

My legs feel like jelly. After a long minute, I have to lower myself into the chair.

And he finally moves, walking round the desk and taking a silky blue cloth from a drawer. He straightens up and looks at me.

Daring me to say something.

I stay silent.

He motions for me to stand up. When I do, he moves round behind me. And then I can't see as he pulls the cloth against my eyes and ties it tightly behind my head. I pull away in panic and reel against the desk.

Damn him! I'm still dizzy from the reknitting memories and his blasted contract: it was hard enough to stay upright when I could see where upright was.

My other senses strain to fill the darkness. All I can hear is his breathing and mine. Smell gives me furniture polish and him. Touch: the floor beneath my feet, reassuringly solid; the ring, a cool band around my finger; the desk, smooth to my touch. And then his hand, warm on my shoulder, making me shudder.

Get away from me!

But I don't have a choice.

I belong to you...

...his hands clamping mine to the bed... the reek of his sweat... his teeth on my neck... and... and...

This is different. It is. This time he can see.

And his fingers are just pulling on me slightly, a signal to stand, not gripping as if it were my soul he wanted to hold in his hand.

He nudges me to turn, to walk towards the door that she went through.

Is he really not sending me back to that room? Or is this just one of his sick little games?

All I can feel is his hand resting on my shoulder, his carpet beneath my feet, his ring heavy on my finger, his silk binding my sight.

And all I can do is let him guide me through the dark.