Up Against A Concrete Angel

*****3 weeks later*****

Raindrops fell upon cheeks already wet with tears, flowing down to join each other in the moisture-laden robe that hung so heavily on a form so slight. A violent, yet quiet, sob racked the form, for no sound was going to be allowed. Memories flew like raging water through a brain almost numb to everything else. Instinct guided unsteady steps. Mainly the memories were just flashes of images.

A bright yellow rose.

A wizard picture with the two of them waving like mad.

Scenes from a life that had never been devoid of danger.

Such was the life they led, they had always led, and most probably would always lead, she thought to herself for a brief second before shoving the thought aside. Brown hair tamed by the damp, cascaded in curls down shoulders and a back that had been naturally bent by the constant clutching of books even before these last few years had happened.

The Dark Mark being branded.

The smile upon the Dark Lord's face, his triumph at this last coup shining through.

A certain red-head kneeling in a dark circle.

The gleam of unearthly light settling upon a wand as it was lifted.

The sound of "Avada Kedavra" from a voice so familiar, yet so strange.

She had done what was commanded of her, and a strange sense of pleasure that she knew she should be ashamed of had filled her. But she would be ashamed later; for that moment in time, she was glad that she had done something right. That she had acted, not just watched, not just advised.

Actually acted.

Another sob, and a hard swallow.

She looked around then, furtively, hoping no one had recognized her in the Wizarding Village she so rarely frequented now.

A sigh of relief slipped through her full lips. It appeared she was safe.

An indelicate snort of laughter sounded from her.

She? A traitor to her friends, to the side that had so counted on her intelligence…safe? True, they had not found out about it yet, but it was inevitable. They would know, and she would face their wrath. Dumbledore would be disappointed. She stopped walking as the memory of her first encounter with a Dementor slammed into the forefront of her consciousness. But then, she remembered. The Dementors had joined Voldemort. Azkaban was not nearly as dreadful-sounding without them.

Would she go to Azkaban? Most certainly.

Did she care? Not really.

She had done so much wrong, and she knew it. When the time came to accept her punishment, she would do so with her head held high. After all, she had been a Gryffindor, even if now she was more of a Slytherin than most that had ever attended the school. All that she wanted could so easily corrupt, yet she needed them. They drove her. So she'd honed her instincts, her skills. Fed the fires that could consume her.

Ambition? Oh yes. Cunning? Of course. A desire for power? Why else would she be here?

With power, things could go the way she wanted them to, the way she needed them to.

But for now, for now she would continue on in the charade. She would be the good girl, the devil’s angel. Except her hell was not one that she longed to share. It was a hell that she fiercely denied being in. This was her choice, her bed to lie in, her present, her future.

The edge of the village brought her back to the present.

A quick glance around showed she was alone.

Several steps into the shadows... a spell murmured quietly, and instantly she was gone.

*****

"'Mione! I've been worried sick about you! Where have you been? Did you go to see Harry? Has he been found?" Questions poured forth from Ron's mouth as soon as she opened the door and set foot inside. A slight warmth filled her. She and Ron had argued like cats and dogs, but that was just the beginnings of a mutual crush. She understood that now. Another memory engulfed her senses.

Three years back. She, clothed in robes of white, and Ron in robes of brown, standing underneath an elm tree. The words—spell, actually—that were recited, winding around them like invisible silken threads. The beginning of a web.

"No, he's not been found yet, Ron. Give me a moment to get these robes off please." Calm and collected. How she always sounded, no matter how much stress she was under. She could feel deep brown eyes boring into her back as she walked sedately up the stairs. She met again those same eyes as she came back down, dressed in another black robe. Ron worried about her. She knew, and she appreciated him for it. He really was a good person, and she didn’t blame him for the mistake they'd made in getting married. They'd not been intimate for several months now, as she grew tired of casting a concealment charm over the Mark every day in case they ended up in bed together.

Intercourse—she couldn't bring herself to call it making love—was a duty for her, and she could tell it had been turning into one for him, too.

They'd married too hastily, and the passion that had bound them had burned out too quick. He had not objected when she'd moved into the spare bedroom. After all, life other than that had continued on "normally."

Whatever normal was.

"He's not been found. I went to meet a friend." That was true enough. Voldemort was a friend in some strange way. "Now, really, why must you ask me so many questions? Any news regarding Harry you know I would immediately tell you." A breath. "Now, if you don't mind—I'm going to fix some dinner. You shouldn't do that." She waved a hand in the direction of his rather shocked face. "It makes you look quite horrible." One foot in front of the other. Her stomach already growling, mouth watering, in anticipation of what she would make.

"Do you hate me?"

Her muscles locked up.

Deep breaths, she told herself. Just take a deep breath. In...Out...In...Out.

She turned slowly on her heel to stare levelly at her one-time best friend.

"I don't hate you Ron. If I hated you, I'd hex you instead of putting up with your inane and bothersome questions constantly. Now if you don't mind…" Turning on a heel, she walked into the kitchen, banging around pots and pans just to…make Ron angry? Annoy him? No. Neither. Simply because she craved the noise, the outlet of anger and tension that she would never acknowledge.

She was bad.

She enjoyed the meetings. Voldemort had told her this time and time again.

With that, she firmly pushed all thoughts from her mind and almost mechanically set about fixing food.

~~~~

Alone in her room, an empty bowl beside her.

Staring down at the blank pages of her journal.

Picking up her quill, she dipped it in the inkwell and began to write.

*****

"Will I dream tonight? Will I dream of him? His silken hair and brilliantly-coloured eyes? Will I feel his hands on my body? Him between my thighs?"

*****

Pause, to listen to the creaks of the house, the wind outside. A pause to let her imagination run free.

Slight shiver of anticipation? Excitement? Both maybe.

And again.

*****"The roughness strikes a chord within me. I don't know. Maybe it's an early form of punishment…but when he's whispering sweet curses in my ears, and when his teeth draw blood from their nips…I…"*****

"'Mione? I'm sorry."

The thoughts fled her head, and stomping her foot in exasperation, she closed her journal, and replaced her quill in the ink well.

"Yes, Ron…" She breathed out, making her tone slightly sweet. "I've just had…a very … full day. Don't worry about it."

"Can I come in?"

"I'd really rather you didn't. I'm just going to bed now."

Silence on both sides of the door.

Finally broken with awkward, but well-meant words.

"Oh, all right then. Sleep well. Love you." The endearment was added on to the end haphazardly, the words filled with no warmth. It was merely a saying now.

"You, too," she replied, as had become her habit. Lifting her hands, she unfastened her robe, and let it drop to the floor. Her other garments followed it. Padding over to the bed, she slipped beneath the covers, and closed her eyes.

"Ugh!" Another word, much less tame, slipped from her lips. It was rare that she talked like that, and it certainly would never happen around those she knew. Throwing back the cover, she stood up and wandered over to the clothes. Methodically she began to fold them, and then lay them carefully on the chair beside her wardrobe.

Once Light. Now Dark. But always, always a neat freak.

Sighing, she slipped back in bed, and closed her eyes, calling up the same image she called up every night now.

The anger in his eyes.

His hands upon her chest.

The cold stone at her back.

Warmth pooled low in her abdomen, and a slight smile tilted her lips as she gave herself over to the alluring darkness of violence and dreams.