A Surprising Safety

Chapter Five: Darkness

Every sweet has its sour; every evil it's good.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Hermione's hearing came back first, ringing as the words she could distantly hear began to become sharper. Then her vision returned, and finally, the nausea hit.

She swallowed and nearly slid out of Draco's arms. He'd caught her apparently. What was it he was saying?

"...Most girls don't faint when I insult them, but I suppose each to her own, after all. Are you awake again?"

Hermione shook her head, and felt like throwing up. "You. You never stop."

"Slytherin trait, Malfoy trait," he replied.

Hermione's hands flew up to her face, searching for evidence of the hex.

"I already reversed it," Draco said.

"Thank you," Hermione automatically replied. It had been kind of him. Damn it, a Malfoy was acting decent again - exactly what she'd been trying to understand when she hexed him.

She stood on her own again, lurching the few steps to the same chair she'd been curled in earlier. No axe this time, though, she thought weakly, swallowing bile.

"Now that you can't walk off, and you know you can't curse me, why don't we get on to your little Spanish Inquisition?" Draco stated in a fake expression of glee.

"I didn't want to be the Spanish Inquisition. Just to answer a few questions," Hermione muttered.

"Always expect the Spanish Inquisition. Anyone whose national sport involves running from bulls is not to be trusted," Draco answered somberly.

"No - questions! I won't be distracted this time!" Hermione exclaimed, almost laughing at his last comment. I'm mad at him, remember? He just insulted you, and you hexed him. "Why did your father kidnap me?"

"To teach you the Dark Arts," Draco answered promptly. "You know that."

"How much are you part of those plans?" Hermione countered.

Draco arched an eyebrow. Like his mother, Hermione thought. She felt a little thrill of excitement that came with danger; the anticipation, expectation, uncertainty and adrenaline that made her want to smile and go trigger happy with her wand. It'd been what the Sorting Hat had noticed, and she'd felt it happily whisper in her ear. "Oh, you are a Gryffindor."

"Why the hell would I tell you that?" he answered softly.

And there's the adrenaline rush, Hermione thought. His tone had changed. He was being more cautious now. Just as treacherous as his parents.

But Draco continued. "I'm as much a part of his plans as you are, Granger. Do you want to know them? I can tell you the details. The meetings, the agenda - I don't have a record of the minutes, but give me a few days to bribe Nott and maybe I would.

"The Dark Lord intends to have you taught the Dark Arts. Father is to be the one to teach you, though you won't need to be taught all of them. Dark magic corrupts, you see, it taints the user. It changes you irrevocably. You can't fight it. It soaks into you, becomes you, whispers to you - your wand even changes with the use of the Unforgiveables," Draco lectured, a slight smile crossing his face. His mood had swung from playful to menacing in a matter of a minute.

Dark magic had changed Draco Malfoy already, the alteration not complete, but he was transformed permanently. Even with redemption, even with complete revocation of his dark past and future, he would always feel the pull to use it again, the love for power. For the magic to control you.

Is that what they live with? The Death Eaters - do they see the other side, but love the dark side so that they don't want to?

But Hermione knew that she would be even worse then a Death Eater after being taught dark magic. She had more drive then they did and a need to prove herself. The power would never be enough. Like Tom Riddle.

Hermione's breathing was shallow, and Draco watched the shifting behind her eyes, the resolve.

"Then Lucius has another thing coming," Hermione finally said.

"Do you really think you can beat him? You do, don't you," Draco realized, seeing her expression. "He's a Death Eater and a powerful wizard. You are nothing but a Mudblood who thinks she can cast pretty spells and stand against him. You're too pure, too innocent. He'll outwit every move you make," Draco predicted, his stance defensive.

"Your father," Hermione shouted, "Is nothing but a low murderer, rapist, and a member of the infantry led by the wizarding equivalent of a terrorist group. There is no glory or power involved in that!"

Draco laughed. "You really are deluded, aren't you? I pity you, Granger. You're nothing but a dirty Mudblood, you can't possibly comprehend the culture, history, or generations of power and old magic that are part of pureblood society. You never will."

Hermione was furious. Because he was right.

"You want to - desperately. You march in here with idealistic plans to reform our world, spouting crap about saving house elves, and acceptance of Muggles, of lessening prejudice. Wake up, Granger. There are far bigger things in this world, darker, more dangerous ones. There's already a war, and you're busy making your own. Well, now you've been wrenched out of your fantasy fight, and plunged into the middle of the real one. Unfortunately, it's not the side you wanted. But it's the side you have, and it'll pull you over, just like it would to anyone else." Draco's voice was raspy from yelling when he finished. He'd lost his control.

"Get out," Hermione ordered.

"You can't harm me. You can barely stand," Draco scoffed. He took a step towards her.

Hermione looked around, and grabbed a vase that stood on the table beside her. "Leave, or I'll smash it. The Manor will call your mother or father."

Draco backed up when she held the vase, ready to drop it to the ground. "Watch yourself, Granger. You're in over your head."

Cliché, and touché, she thought as Draco left, quietly clicking the door shut behind him. Which made her angry again, this time at his control.

She stumbled to the bathroom, showered, and put on the nightgown that had appeared on the bed. Drawing it on, she crawled into the bed, yanked the curtains shut, and lay down down.

Sleep didn't come immediately, but she fell asleep praying, the words running through her head as she focused on her parents and Ginny. Focused like she did with magic, but that had failed her in this case. Which left faith.

The words began to blur, and her mind drifted from the prayers. Letting them slip away from her, she slid into jumbled dreams.

_________________________________________________________________

Hermione wasn't given an opportunity to wake up by herself the next morning. Tilly whipped the curtains back at a shocking 6:30 AM.

"Miss, Miss, get up, get up! Master wants Miss in only an hour!" the elf squeaked.

I am truly beginning to regret SPEW, Hermione thought.

The routine was similar to that of the morning before. As soon as Hermione was presentable, Tilly ushered her out into the hallway, down a grand staircase and into what was apparently a ballroom.

Lucius Malfoy was waiting; again staring out a window. These windows looked out across a pavilion that led to an expansive lawn and gardens. Beautiful, well-groomed, and reeking prestige. Hermione wasn't sure if that described the gardens, or the man looking at them.

He didn't look at her, and Hermione, deciding to ignore him, sat down on the polished marble steps. They looked expensive. She wished her shoes were muddy so she could ruin the effect.

Lucius turned, suddenly, and Hermione looked up. His face was impassive, and he beckoned to her.

Grumbling, Hermione stood.

"Spiritus prehendo!" he cried, apparently focusing hard on the spell. Lucius gripped his wand with white fingers. As the spell hit her, Hermione sourly thought that if this spell was going to make her suffer, at least he would too.

"Make me remove the curse," Lucius ordered, his arm stiff and unwavering.

Hermione took a step. Nothing happened. She took a deep breath, stepped forward - and took another breath. And another. She was gasping for air, but it seemed to thin every time she took more in. Frantic, she fumbled for her wand, nearly hyperventilating. "Gelu!" she choked out, flicking her wand upward.

Lucius' wand lifted as he twisted away. Hermione knew the spell was unfamiliar to him. It was traditionally used in cooking, to chill food. She'd accidentally learned this variation when Mrs. Weasley taught her the charm, and though this version wasn't specifically dark it was certainly grey.

"Desmevo," Lucius hissed, a puff of condensation escaping with the word. He hadn't reversed the spell, but it wasn't strong, and was wearing off. Or perhaps he liked cold.

Hermione put her hands above her head, trying to avoid the threads crawling out of the robes she wore over her dress. They wrapped tightly into her, cutting off circulation. "Finite Incantatem!" she shrieked. "Finite Incantatem!"

The threads loosened, and fell to the ground. Hermione had just enough time to jump out of the way as Lucius shot another spell her way. "Renverse pesateur," Lucius called out.

Great, French, Hermione thought. Her world literally tilted upside down, and she stumbled, feeling like she was going to fall into the ceiling. Lucius strode forward, intent on winning the duel. First blood defined a triumph, by wizarding rules.

Too befuddled to stop him, Hermione simply tried to stay upright as Lucius slid out a slim dagger and nicked the ring finger of her wand hand. The Manor righted itself around her.

Hermione slid to the ground with relief, not caring that she'd lost the duel.

"What did you do wrong?" Lucius asked, brushing a tendril of hair back from his face.

"You control the Manor," Hermione answered, thinking as she spoke. "That's why you spoke in French. But I can't win against that!"

"You are supposed to fight through it," Lucius replied coldly. He walked back to the window, and snapped his fingers. A desk came flying in from another room, sliding to a stop before him, the quill obediently rolling to his fingers. Dipping the quill into the inkpot, he began to write on the parchment the desk duly supplied. It seemed to be a short note - to himself? To Voldemort? He didn't write more then a few lines.

"Come," Lucius demanded. He strode across the floor into the room the desk had come from. It seemed to be some sort of sitting room. There was tea prepared. Hermione's eyes narrowed. Why was Lucius serving tea?

Lucius sat down in a winged chair that faced the table, and put him conveniently in front of the doorway. Hermione took the seat across from him, in the back of the room, in an identical chair.

The blonde man poured a cup of tea, and handed it to Hermione. She almost laughed. "You must be joking. Why would I ever accept any food or drink from your hand?"

"It's untainted," Lucius replied.

Hermione glared at him. He stared back, impassively, tilting his head back slightly. She swallowed the liquid in one gulp. It was plain Keemun tea.

"Sugar?" Lucius inquired.

"No," Hermione said. That was probably what was really poisoned. Unless the cup was poisoned? Or maybe it was the spoon to stir in the sugar that was poisoned. Hermione mentally slapped herself. Stop the guessing games! You'll go mad!

"Very well. Did you read the Treatise on the Dark Arts?" Lucius asked.

"Yes, of course I did," Hermione stated defensively. "It was interesting, although I disagree on several points with the author."

"And what might those points be?" Lucius contended.

"Benedict of Bryher maintains that some witches and wizards are better suited to the Dark Arts then ordinary magic. That's nonsense. He clearly states that the Dark Arts are meant to cause pain and suffering, to achieve their workers' own ends, or to control and gain power. Such actions and use of magic turn them into a host for free dark particles, corrupting the witch or wizard, not to mention the psychological desire to repeat the dark spells. Thus any use of dark magic is contradictory to magic itself, which is the basis for life. To be suited to the Dark Arts would mean you were meant to destroy yourself and, more fundamentally, life." Which I am not, Hermione mentally added.

"Yet there are wizards that are virtually powerless when it comes to performing simple transfiguratory spells, who can barely manage the most basic of charms, who struggle to care even for a flobberworm - and can cast wandless dark spells with ease and grace," Lucius countered.

"People aren't born evil!" Hermione cried. "There is no predestination in terms of magical ability."

"So you deny the existence of Vicissitude Vires?" Lucius suggested.

"No, but - well, that's not what it is! Vicissitude Vires, according to your lord is a condition in which magic is shaped to its future use. That still implies that the magic inherent to the witch or wizard, was, at some point, neutral, and not inclined to light or dark usage," Hermione answered. He'd nearly caught her there.

"Not quite, Miss Granger," Lucius declared, triumphant. "The Dark Lord told you that Vicissitude Vires is a condition in which magic formerly meant for a different use is trained to a new one. This means that magic is inherently meant for a specific purpose in every witch or wizard. Call it talent, fate, or luck that property of magic still exists."

Hermione didn't answer. Lucius had, as Draco predicted, completely outwitted her.

"Now, consider the possibility that your magical ability is inherently dark. Naturally, at this time it is meant for 'ordinary' purposes; the day to day spells that are commonly practiced," Lucius continued.

"Why should I consider it? I won't become dark - I won't join the Death Eaters," Hermione insisted.

"Have you paid no attention?" Lucius exclaimed. "Your magic is malleable; merely by controlling your environment and what spells you perform it can become suited to the Dark Arts. As you yourself stated, practicing dark magic is a corruptive act that makes the practitioner a hub for free dark particles. You don't need to agree."

"Narcissa said that my power will be stronger if I voluntarily practice the Dark Arts, though. I'm of less use to you if I resist," Hermione retorted.

"And with time, you will be compliant," Lucius answered smoothly.

What's the way out? Hermione mentally cried. She felt confused and trapped - it was difficult to fight logically with someone who wouldn't back down. The puzzles she was used to didn't fight back.

Calm down, she thought. Remember - as long as you don't hate him, he'll never completely win. Except didn't he just disprove that? That he can make me want to use the Dark Arts, and want to curse him even if I don't hate him. I can't do this anymore. Hermione thought wistfully of her bantering with Draco, until she remembered how that had ended too. What's wrong with me? Why am I so distracted?

Lucius was watching her, lips moving nearly imperceptibly. His eyes didn't move, or blink.

He's jinxing me! Hermione realized. She grabbed the teapot and swung it at Lucius' head. The delicate bone china shattered, and steaming tea drenched him and his hair, the fragments scattering as he stood in anger.

Lucius backhanded Hermione. "Mudblood bitch!" he spat.

She fell to the floor with a cry, hand flying up to the side of her head. There was a cut from the seal ring that burned against her fingers.

Lucius seemed to immediately regret that action, and struggled to calm himself. Why would he do that? He wants me to hate him! The confusion from Lucius' jinx had left Hermione's mind, and she could think clearly now, but that didn't seem to be helping, because she couldn't understand anything that was happening.

A house elf dashed in, eyes bulging at the teapot on the floor. "Mm-Master Lucius! What has happened? Peeper will clean it up immediately, Master. Oh, no, oh no!" the house elf nearly burst into tears, cringing at the scene.

"What are you waiting for, little rat?" Lucius barked.

Peeper shrunk back and hurriedly gathered the shards of broken crockery. The tea had already stained the chair Lucius had been sitting in, as well as his clothing, though that was black.

"Master, Peeper - hic - must take - hic - Ma- Master's robes," the elf hazarded. It was hiccoughing from held back tears.

"Take them then, damn it!" Lucius roared. Hermione jumped back when he said that. The elf actually burst into tears, and snapped it fingers repeatedly, vanishing the chair and Lucius' robe. It too then disappeared.

Lucius turned to the fire that was crackling in the room. The heat clearly wasn't necessary, but fires were often left on to allow for Floo calls.

Hermione stood cautiously, and seated herself in the chair again. She decided to risk a question. "May I be excused, Mr. Malfoy?"

"No, you may not, Miss Granger," he responded. "More tea?" A teapot had appeared at the table again, in another pot this time.

Hermione folded her arms. "No, thank you."

"Drink the tea," Lucius ordered.

"I don't want any, Mr. Malfoy," she answered.

"Imperio."

By the time Hermione had thrown of the curse, she'd already drunk the cup of tea. A cup which she promptly flung into the fire, where it broke and charred.

"Now, I have some questions for you," Lucius began.

"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Hermione retorted bitterly. She gasped in surprise. I didn't mean to say that out loud! I barely even thought it!

"It's an interrogative potion. There's no name for it - makes it more difficult to track. Your Potions professor developed it, as a matter of face. Severus is such an intelligent man, when he applies his skills appropriately," Lucius explained.

I won't say anything, not until he asks a question. Hermione clenched her teeth together tightly, jaw already starting to ache.

"What are your opinions on Draco?" Lucius asked, sounding concerned and interested.

"Draco Malfoy is a pompous, self-absorbed, irritating, rude, prejudiced, inbred bastard who's so obsessed with the dark side and following his father that he can't see past the shine on his gold Galleons," Hermione ranted. "He bought his way onto the Quidditch team, even though he's obviously a good seeker, which means he feels the need to prove himself to Harry, and he thinks he's god's gift to women, which he's not, however handsome he may be."

"I think you may have a little resentment towards my son, Miss Granger. I hope he hasn't disturbed you too much thus far?" Lucius answered.

"Disturbed? He broke into my room, accused me of sleeping with the Slytherins, told me I'd succumb to the dark side, dragged me through poisoned air, threatened to leave me in it, and then tried to flirt with me! He's gone past disturbed!" Hermione shouted.

"I see," Lucius ruminated.

Hermione fought back the urge to slam her fists onto the table in front of her and scream senselessly at him. The man didn't break calm when speaking to her, didn't give her any inclination of what he thought of her answers.

She stared at the tea set, refusing to meet the older man's eyes and determined to be as disrespectful as possible. That's when she noticed the sugar dish was still set out. But no milk? Both should be set out. The Malfoys wouldn't make the mistake of forgetting part of their tea set, not unless they specifically ordered the house elves to do so. So if the tea is the poison, then the sugar is...an antidote?

"I want you to think back to your church," Lucius declared, after thinking for a few moments. Hermione immediately felt nausea swirl in her stomach, and decided to risk what was a very stupid idea.

"When your parents were being - "

Hermione didn't give him a chance to answer. She tilted the sugar bowl into her mouth, swallowing as much as she could, and letting the rest spill out onto her. The effect was immediate. As she'd hoped, the potion in the tea was nullified.

"How unfortunate. I was hoping that you'd be able to answer more questions," Lucius commented mildly at Hermione's antics.

She glared, trying to look as angry as possible when her cheeks were puffed out from chewing massive amounts of sugar.

"Since you are so disinclined to speak with me, I will leave you. I have appointments to keep. Good day, Miss Granger." Lucius stood, inclined his head, and left the room.

Hermione continued to sit there, until she'd swallowed all the sugar in her mouth. It left a too sweet aftertaste, and she could feel a headache coming on. Suddenly inspired, she turned to the fire. There was, as she'd hoped, a crystal jar on the mantle. Hermione hurried over to it, lifting it down carefully and pouring a handful into the fire. The flames turned green.

Hermione replaced the jar, and didn't even check to see if she was still alone. She bent down (it was a small fireplace) and stepped into the flames.

"Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!" she cried.