His Mistress

-- CHAPTER ELEVEN --

A Classic Death Eaters' Christmas

Hermione stood in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom, looking at herself in her new dress. The dress had been delivered to her the day before, in a box carried by five owls, and when she had tried it on, she couldn't stop staring at her reflection. The dress clung to her like a second skin, not a wrinkle, not a fold in it. The corset fit perfectly; the brocade neckline was low but not at all revealing, framing her chest with elegance. The long velvet skirt almost reached the ground, making her appear even slimmer than she already was.

Today was the 24^th of December. This would be the first time in the last six years that Hermione did not spend Christmas with the Weasleys and Harry. She had politely declined Mrs Weasley's invitation to the party at The Burrow. Hermione had written her an apologetic letter about how she wanted to spend Christmas with her parents for once - it was, after all, a family holiday. And she hadn't lied in that last part - she was going to spend the day with her family. Only it wasn't the kind of family everyone thought. No, it was another kind of family: the Death Eaters.

Slowly, she turned in front of the mirror. The long skirt swirled around her ankles, creating the impression of a dark cascade swaying around her legs, accentuating the narrowness of her waist. Her movements were full of grace and flexibility, and the style brought out all the assets of her body, emphasising her curves.

The fabric of the dress was a very deep, dark shade of green, so dark it almost looked black - except in the spots where it reflected the light, where it was vivid green.

She did not use any potions to fix her hair this time; it had lost its tendency to frizz, except right after it was washed and dried. Part of her hair had been tucked into a bun on the top of her head, to emphasise her facial traits, and a cream-coloured, silk rose had been fixed on her head by gold threads interwoven with her brown tresses. The rest of her hair flowed freely down to her shoulders, and Hermione had to agree with Madam Malkin: the forest-green cloth created a beautiful contrast with the chestnut nuance of her hair.

It had taken her three hours to fix her hair like this, but it had been worth the time.

Absorbed in the contemplation of her reflection, Hermione did not move when she heard a loud cracking noise somewhere in the house. The door to the room opened and closed; only as a draught ruffled her hair did she turn around, gracefully and unhurriedly, to face the only man whose approval really mattered to her.

Hermione looked at the not-so-unwelcome intruder, who was leaning casually against the doorframe, gazing at her appreciatively.

He was dressed in black velvet robes with silver embroidery in the form of various kinds of snakes. The garment accentuated his dark, evil allure ...

His snow-coloured, almost unnaturally white skin created a nearly otherworldly contrast with the shadowy fabric of his robes. His luminous hair the hue of moonlight, with its golden sheen, and his steely eyes, glittering malevolently, added to the eerie, intimidating image.

He looked like the Devil described in Muggle fables, albeit a terribly handsome Devil ... a personification of evil, which, in a certain sense, he was. The enemy of the Light side, one who commands the demons of Hell and tempts people to sin ... didn't all those characteristics apply to Lucius? The modern version of Hell's demons, the Death Eaters, obeyed him ... wasn't he the reason Hermione bore the Mark of evil on her arm? Hadn't he corrupted her, turned her, a rule-abiding Auror, into a betrayer and a criminal?

Right now, Lucius looked more sinister than the scarlet-eyed, serpent-faced Voldemort, and as his cool hands rested on her bare shoulders, Hermione had the impression of being touched by the embodiment of evil. She trembled in both delight and fear. The Devil's mistress ...

He spun her around to face him, and his hands moved to the back of her head. Hermione closed her eyes as he leaned down to kiss her.

"You look enchanting, my dear," he drawled afterwards. "No, I will go further than that. You are highly beautiful in a very dark fashion."

The young Auror smiled at the Dark wizard. "Thank you."

She turned back to the mirror and threw one last glance at her reflection.

She looked quite the Dark witch herself, mainly because the sleeveless dress did absolutely nothing to cover the Mark on her arm. The crimson skull-and-snake tattoo was in plain sight, though Hermione saw no necessity to hide it from view - her mere presence at the gathering would reveal her allegiances, and as the entire Dark side would be attending the celebrations, she could use the occasion to let them all know the identity of their spy ... perhaps she would be regarded as a hero, or at least as someone worthy.

"Ready to go? It is almost eight o'clock, you know."

"I am ready," she said after a supercilious gesture to adjust her hair.

"Not quite," said Lucius. Hermione saw him pull something out of the pocket of his robes, and spark of green caught her eye. It was a pendant on a chain of gold, which he fastened around her neck. She stared at the ornament's reflection in the mirror. It was a large emerald - of the same deep shade of green as her dress - surrounded by small diamonds and set in gold. The gem sparkled magnificently against the whitish beige tone of Hermione's skin.

Lucius then placed the silver fur coat around Hermione's shoulders. "Now you are ready," he said lazily, grabbing her arm. With a crack, they were gone.

-

Hermione looked around. They were in front of the Malfoy Manor. The trees had shed their leaves, and a thin coat of snow covered the grounds.

"I need to ascertain that all is in order," said Lucius. "It is nearly seven; I suggest you employ the remaining time to socialise with the guests." And he Disapparated.

Hermione walked up the alley towards the imposing outline of white stone. Two-storey and at least sixty yards long, the building looked imposing and austere with its two round towers. She climbed the stairs up to the massive double doors, in carved metal.

Hermione pushed the doors open and found herself in the entrance hall, a spacious rectangular hallway with oak-panelled walls and shining marble floor, partially covered by a carpet. A cluster of witches was gossiping by one of the half-dozen hall stands, where the guests were hanging various kinds of coats, hats and cloaks. The stands looked as though they had been made of cut-off giants' legs.

All her fellow Death Eaters were there, and for many, it was the first time she saw them without masks. There were also women she did not know, and a bunch of young children who ran around chasing each other. One of them slipped on the smooth floor and immediately started crying, "Mummy! Mummy!"

Hermione recognised many of her former Hogwarts classmates, mostly Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws. Theodore Nott, the quiet, stringy boy from Hogwarts, was chatting with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle - who were dressed in green dress robes like at the Hogwarts Yule Ball - while their parents stood to the side of the room. Goyle was accompanied by Millicent Bulstrode, the sturdy black-haired girl who had tried to smother Hermione in the duelling club in their second year, and Crabbe's escort was a girl Hermione did not know, even though she recalled once seeing her among the Slytherins at Hogwarts. None of them paid Hermione any particular attention, so she concluded they did not recognise her. Thankfully.

A thin, dark-haired man rushed over to Hermione. He was smiling nervously. "I haven't seen you here before. You are the Dark Lord's newest recruit?" he asked. Hermione nodded. "Rabastan Lestrange," he introduced himself.

"Just call me Hermione," she replied. "You are Bellatrix's brother-in-law, are you not?"

"Yes, Rodolphus is my older brother."

Hermione removed her fur coat and hung it on one of the hall stands. Rabastan Lestrange's dark eyes went wide for a second, and he stared at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Then he kissed her hand and declared:

"You look stunning!"

"Thank you, Mr Lestrange."

"Call me Rabastan. Oh, the dining room is that way," said Lestrange, pointing in the direction of a crowded hallway on the left.

Hermione looked around in interest. The hallway was lit by old-fashioned torches, and plaques on the oak-panelled walls held what on closer inspection revealed to be goblin ears.

She recognised all the characteristics that were found in every house inhabited by Dark wizards (like Grimmauld Place). There was no mistaking the fact that this was the home of the Darkest wizard family of Britain.

Hermione inconspicuously joined the horde of guests.

A couple caught her eye: a pug-faced woman in a frilly dress of pale pink satin, who was clinging to the arm of a young wizard with white-blond hair. Hermione grinned maliciously. Oh, she could not wait to see these two people's reaction when they would recognise her ...

Hermione waved at the two former Slytherin prefects. "Hi, Draco, Pansy! How have you been?" she called cheerfully.

"Do I know you?" asked a startled Draco Malfoy.

"Don't you remember me?" Hermione asked in a falsely offended voice. "We went to Hogwarts together, you know ... I was Head Girl in my last year."

Draco sputtered. "Granger? What - you, here - I never - how -"

He looked shocked beyond speech, while his wife gaped openly. Their expressions reminded Hermione of the Yule Ball, when they had seen her as Viktor's date.

Hermione smirked. "Your eloquence astounds me."

"Draco, what is that Mudblood doing here?" Pansy complained shrilly. "You haven't invited her, did you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Pansy. Of course I didn't! Granger, I thought you were an Auror ..."

Hermione smirked again. "I am," she said maliciously, while turning her left arm to show the mark on her inner forearm.

If there was anything that could shock Draco more than seeing Granger there, it was the fact that she was a Death Eater. But, then, he smirked too. Take that, Potter, he thought vindictively.

"Don't tell me you've joined the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord would never accept a Mudblood into the fold."

"But he did. He did."

Draco's eyes were wide in surprise, yet he couldn't argue with facts. He had seen the Dark Mark on Granger's arm, and there was no way to fake it. So, unbelievable as it was, the Mudblood was a Death Eater. But her presence at the manor was quite a different matter. "But what are you doing here? You, a Mudblood ... when father hears about this ... a Mudblood in the house -"

Hermione laughed at his disbelieving expression. "Your father knows me quite well, Draco ... as a matter of fact, he personally asked me to attend this party."

"You're lying! Father would never allow a Mudblood into the manor."

"Ask him, why don't you?" Hermione said slyly. Then she joined the flow of people through a corridor and lost sight of the former Slytherin prefects.

Hermione and the rest of the crowd ended up in a vast, rectangular room with a high ceiling and a large fireplace crackling with amber flames - the dining room.

The oak-panelled walls were decorated with sparkling magical frost; garlands of holly and ivy crossed the painted ceiling, in which silver and green serpents were coiling and uncoiling ceaselessly, creating a perpetual movement interesting to watch.

In the centre of the room was a very long dining table of jet-black wood lined with silver plates and cutlery, as well as goblets of solid silver emblazoned with the Malfoy crest.

Candelabras shaped as twisted serpents, were aligned on the table at regular intervals, forming a screen of light which made it nearly impossible to communicate with someone on the opposite side of the table.

The hubbub of animated conversations mixed with the crackling of the fireplace. There were so many people Hermione couldn't even estimate the number of guests, though it was over a hundred, of that she was sure. There were a few empty chairs, though, and she sat somewhere near the end of the table, surrounded by people she did not know. Many greeted her formally, asking her name; they all frowned and hissed quietly when she answered, though after a glance at the Dark Mark openly displayed on her arm, their less-than-friendly looks made way to expressions of mild surprise, and after that, some even made casual conversation with her, mostly asking about the activities of the Death Eaters.

Food appeared magically in the silver plates, just like at Hogwarts. There was a wide variety of food, and Hermione noticed several strange dishes that she knew were part of the French cuisine, as well as the traditional English ones. The main meal, however, was the classic Christmas banquet. The oyster soup was followed by both roasted and boiled turkeys, the leftovers of which vanished magically, leaving the silver tableware as clean and shining as though it had never been used. The last course of the meal was the customary Christmas cake, a fruitcake doused in brandy and decorated with holly and berries.

Hermione was pleasantly surprised to find here the aristocratic etiquette, rigorously observed, of the romantic tales of Victorian literature that had fascinated her as a Muggle girl, and of which she had often daydreamed being the heroine.

It was a whole new society she never knew existed; a society she could never fully be part of. Every person she met would ask her name - her family name - and she, figuratively, had none. They would be shocked, disgusted to find a commoner in their elite society; she would be unwelcome and an intruder ...

The mark on her arm was her only salvation. Once she showed it to every single witch and wizard she was introduced to, they were obligated, albeit reluctantly, grudgingly, to pay her respect as one of the Dark Lord's chosen. But they still wondered, whispering, disbelieving that the Dark Lord would have admitted a Mudblood into his trusted circle.

Moreover, Hermione was ignorant of the customs and traditions necessary to appear in this Court of wizarding nobility, but thankfully, at least she was well trained in formal dinner etiquette and society manners. Those things did not differ between the Muggle world and the wizarding one, and Hermione's parents, cultured people themselves, had trained her well.

Soon enough the dinner was over, and the company stood up and moved through an archway into an even more spacious room, with the same shiny oak-panelled walls and high ceiling covered in moving paintings of snakes. The polished marble floor shone like glass.

The drawing room had been transformed into a ballroom.

Chandeliers hung majestically, magically, starbursts of twinkling crystal at the ends of brass rods from the vast dome of ceiling. Ivy, mistletoe and silver streamers crisscrossed like a spider web overhead; there was a tall Christmas tree in one corner, decorated with silver accessories and covered in magical snow.

There were several dozen small, circular, lantern-lit tables near the walls of the room. Hermione noticed all the women sitting apart at a few tables at one end of the room, while the rest was occupied exclusively by men, and there was a single table for the children. Hermione approached the ladies' side slowly, wondering which group she ought to join. There was one table that seated young witches of Hermione's age, most of whom were former Slytherins she had known at Hogwarts, including Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode. No, there was no way she was going to sit with them ...

The remaining tables were mostly occupied by witches Hermione had never met. "Over here, comrade," Bellatrix Lestrange called out, waving to her from the table in the far left corner, which was occupied by eight middle-aged witches. "Come sit with us."

Hermione did not like this, not because she minded Bellatrix's company - no, she rather liked the woman, actually, because they had so much in common - but rather because of who else was sitting at the same table. She did not feel like spending an entire evening in conversation with the woman that she hated most.

That woman did not appreciate the idea any more than Hermione did, judging by the irritated scowl on her face as she leaned over the table to hiss something at her dark-haired sister. Bellatrix appeared nonplussed, however, and as Hermione walked closer to them, she heard her mutter, "Don't see what your problem is, Cissy. Silly ... you haven't even met her yet."

Bellatrix, who looked highly attractive in her burgundy dress, indicated the chair next to hers. Hermione sat wordlessly and the heavily lidded woman proceeded with the introductions.

"This is Pamela Parkinson," said Bellatrix in her usual hoarse tone, pointing towards a woman with a pug-shaped face, who nodded. She looked like an older replica of her daughter, though her hair was much darker than Pansy's. "Helene Crabbe and Adara Goyle." Two brawny-looking women nodded gracelessly.

"Miranda Bulstrode." Bellatrix indicated an aloof-looking, bulky witch, who nodded tersely. She had the same short, straight black hair as her daughter, hair that could have been mistaken for a cat's.

"Lyra Flint and Theresa Warrington." The mothers of the former members of the Slytherin Quidditch team inclined their heads as one. It was obvious that these two were best friends.

"Sophie Rosier." A woman with sunken, vacant eyes inclined her head despondently. Rosier ... Hermione had heard that name at the Auror Headquarters. This was probably the widowed wife of Evan Rosier, a Death Eater who had been killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort's first fall from power.

"Rosalind McAudrey." A slightly familiar-looking witch with curly black hair responded with a brief nod. McAudrey ... wasn't that the name of one of the members of the Wizengamot? In fact, all these women's surnames were familiar to Hermione because she had gone to school with most of their children.

"And this is my youngest sister, Narcissa Malfoy."

The two women glared at each other, tension hanging like a cloud in the air between them. Finally, neither wanting to be looked down upon by the others for lack of manners, Hermione nodded curtly at the hostess, who extended a hand to her. They shook hands briefly, and one could be reminded of Sirius Black and Severus Snape making a reluctant truce upon Dumbledore's request, after Voldemort's return eight years ago. Only this wasn't even a truce, but merely a show for the other guests.

"This is Hermione Granger," said Bellatrix to the women around the table.

A few of the ladies glanced at each other uncertainly, then at the mark on Hermione's arm, and sniffed. She could easily tell what they were thinking. It wasn't every day they found a Mudblood in their midst ... but she ignored their less than friendly attitude.

"How do you do, Miss Granger?" the hostess asked in the customary greeting, with a lot of visible disdain.

Hermione was about to answer, 'Pleased to meet you, and you?' but she stopped, suddenly remembering something her parents had once told her. According to them, the 'how do you do?' greeting was a trick used in the British upper-class society to distinguish those of high status from the commoners. A very proper person would not answer but merely repeat the question back. And Hermione realised it must have been the same thing in the wizarding world, because she specifically remembered Fudge using that greeting at the Quidditch World Cup. Apparently, these signs of distinction were common to both the Muggle and the wizard aristocracy.

Well, if this woman thought she could trap her like that and embarrass her for her ignorance of the nobility's ways ... Ha! We'll see!

Tilting her head haughtily, Hermione replied in a tone just as indifferent, "How do you do, Madam Malfoy?"

The blond woman was starting to look livid. Hermione could have said something to infuriate her further, but there was no need - her mere presence, plus her deliberately affected mannerisms, seemed to incense the woman enough.

Bellatrix went on to elaborate. "Miss Hermione is the Dark Lord's newest recruit and -" Bellatrix lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, "- a spy among the Aurors."

Some of the women let out quiet gasps. Sophie Rosier's eyes flashed with hatred at the word 'Aurors'. "You are one of them?" she asked sharply, staring at Hermione.

Hermione understood the woman's reaction. Many people on the Dark side had suffered the death of close family members at the hand of Aurors, and there was nothing they hated more than the Ministry and the so-called Light side.

She answered carefully, "Not really - I only pretend to be, so that we can thwart their plans and eventually defeat them once and for all." She omitted the fact that she had been a true Auror with a very developed sense of duty not so long ago.

"You're really a Death Eater, then?" said Mrs Parkinson doubtfully. Hermione nodded, showing the Mark to them, though they had already seen it - but it didn't seem to sink in. Even though everyone in the room agreed with the Dark Lord's ideas, she knew it, very few of them were actually part of the Dark Order, but those who did join the Death Eaters were regarded as heroes who had the courage to fight for their beliefs. However, it was common knowledge that women did not join the Death Eaters, Bellatrix being the only exception.

Bellatrix spoke up in her usual harsh voice. "She's the second woman to join the Death Eaters, ever, and she has passed us a lot of useful information. All those Aurors we've killed off recently ... all thanks to her."

"Really?" said the curly-haired Rosalind McAudrey. She bore a strange resemblance to a wizard who worked in Hermione's department at the Ministry.

"Oh, I remember ... my husband mentioned something about an important Ministry official joining the cause," Adara Goyle said. "That's a good thing."

"You don't get it, do you?" said Rosalind McAudrey. "She's a famous Auror; she put many of us in Azkaban -"

"Are you in any way related to Frederic McAudrey of the Wizengamot?" asked Hermione in curiosity.

"He's my brother, though he has never approved of our family's Darker connections ... a disgrace, that's what he is. You know him?"

"He works in my department ... you seem to share his paranoia. No offence, of course, I hold no particular sympathy for blood traitors, despite being one myself ... quite fortunate, don't you agree? I am above suspicion at the Ministry and in Dumbledore's crowd ... it's not like they would ever expect someone of my kind to support the Dark Lord. To them, it is unthinkable."

"Well, that's certainly good news for our side ... don't you agree, Narcissa?" said Mrs Crabbe, turning to the blond woman who had yet to say a single word. "You've been rather quiet."

"Very good news," said Mrs Malfoy through gritted teeth. "Though I wonder why an Auror would join the Dark Lord. Most of them have a very pronounced hatred of anything relating to Dark magic ..."

The older woman was probably trying to make the others think Hermione was a spy for the Ministry. But she wouldn't succeed, not if Hermione could help it. "That is true," she conceded, "but I have always had an interest in the Dark Arts, you see, it was part of the reason I chose that career. They say you need to know Dark magic in order to defend against it, and what a better way to learn the Dark Arts with no risk of ever being compromised in the law's eyes ... what a better way than to go into Auror training?"

The women exchanged glances. "Smart ... very smart," said Mrs Flint, and her opinion seemed to be shared by the majority.

"But surely you wouldn't go as far as to kill one of your friends ... Harry Potter, for example," Narcissa suggested shrewdly.

"Potter is no friend of mine," Hermione retorted coldly. She wasn't quite sure if she really meant it or not, though. She did not particularly look forward to actually killing Harry - not that she would have to do so. She was just a spy, after all. But these women didn't need to know that. "I am a Death Eater and I'll do anything the Master asks of me."

"Then I only hope you stay a loyal Death Eater for a long time," said Narcissa, sounding very sceptical, and it was obvious to Hermione that she actually hoped for the opposite.

"The Dark Order is my life, Madam," said Hermione, looking directly into the woman's icy blue eyes, "and I would never let down those who have done me the great honour of overlooking my blood. The possibility of me turning away from the Dark side is about as high as that of Bellatrix here -" she nodded at her fellow Death Eater, "- betraying the Dark Lord."

And all those present knew Bellatrix would rather die than betray her Master. It wasn't for nothing that she was considered the Dark Lord's most loyal servant.

Hermione meant it. And it looked like she sounded convincing, because she could see a new respect in the ladies' eyes. To their knowledge, only Bellatrix spoke of the cause with such fervour.

Narcissa Malfoy did not share the general opinion. She had seen an entirely different direction in Hermione's words, something the oblivious guests had failed to catch. They thought she was speaking of the Dark Lord's cause ... but she wasn't.

Hermione had been speaking not to the entire group, but to Narcissa in particular, and she had foreseen the way the others would interpret her words: they would take them literally. But Hermione did not mean them literally, and Narcissa had seen the hidden implications in what she said.

"That's good to hear," the hostess said with a coldness no one failed to catch. The animosity, hatred even, visible in these two women's interaction took everyone aback. It looked like these two hated each other from the minute they had met, judging by the reciprocal glares they had been throwing each other all throughout the evening; they could hardly stand each other's presence.

They were interrupted by the Lestrange brothers walking up to their table. Rodolphus invited his wife for a dance, and Rabastan did the same to Hermione.

"Well ... uh ..." Hermione glanced around. This wizard was just too irritating. Though it wouldn't be a good idea to make enemies with these people - it was enough trouble that they weren't too eager to accept her because of her blood ... "All right," she said grudgingly.

She thought it would be impolite to refuse; she accepted, but only for one dance, and when it was over, she was very relieved when she returned to sit at the table.

Bellatrix soon complained about how she was "already starting to feel hungry", and no sooner had she said it, a tray of refreshments appeared on their table, along with silver goblets filled with various kinds of alcoholic drink.

Hermione sat chatting with the Death Eater women; she almost felt like they were friends already (excluding the sulking, silent hostess, obviously). It felt like they had known each other for a long time, and for the first time, Hermione truly found out the meaning of the sense of family on the Dark side.

She drank some wine, but when Bellatrix told her that she ought to try Firewhisky, she wanted to protest, though in the end she agreed, seeing as everyone around them was gulping down goblets of the strong drink.

Bellatrix obligingly filled a goblet and handed it to her. "There. Try it; you'll like it, I'm telling you - I was reluctant about drinking such a strong thing for the first time, too, but you get used to it quickly."

Hermione did not see a manicured hand linger, for a second, over her glass ...

She gulped down the Firewhisky, her eyes nearly watering as it burnt her throat. She looked up to see an oddly triumphant expression on Narcissa Malfoy's face ... she dismissed it as a false impression; the alcohol must have been playing tricks on her ...

-

Hermione stood near one of the windows in the drawing room, examining the frost on the pane of glass. It wasn't that cold outside, though, and she had the suspicion that this was a trick of magic, just like the seemingly natural snow on the Christmas tree, which failed to melt in the warm interior temperature.

A stringy, black-haired young man was approaching her. She recognised Theodore Nott, the only student in Slytherin who could see Thestrals - from what Hermione had heard, he had seen his mother murdered by Aurors when he was very young.

"Nice to see you, Granger. Oh, look, it's snowing! We'll be having a white Christmas," Nott commented enthusiastically.

"Sure," said Hermione, not failing to see the way he was looking at her body.

"Why I never noticed you at Hogwarts, I'll never know ..." the young wizard said thoughtfully, slowly advancing towards her with a predatory grin.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked, unnerved.

"For your information, you're standing under the mistletoe -"

Hermione bolted.

She heard Nott set off after her, and did not dare turn around. She ran as fast as she could, holding the hem of her dress so as not to trip over it. She ran through halls and corridors, not really paying attention to where she was going, until she could no longer hear Nott's footsteps behind her.

Hermione found herself in a dark passageway. She paused for breath. Now that she thought of it, perhaps it had not been a good idea to run off like that ... she doubted she would be able to find her way back. She must have gone the wrong way; there were so many corridors in this house ...

She let out a surprised squeak as she felt hands snake around her waist ... she could feel her captor's breath on the back of her neck ... Hermione shivered.

"At that pace, young Nott could never catch up with you," said a drawling voice. Hermione caught a glimpse of gold as her assailant's hair reflected a ray of light. She heard him whisper something, and torches flared to life on the walls, shedding a diffuse glow on the surroundings.

"You scared me, Lucius."

"Scaring people has always been my favourite pastime, darling," he drawled, smirking. "Come, Hermione. I'll make sure young Nott keeps his distance from you."

He grabbed her arm, and with a crack, they were standing in a much better lit hallway.

A large tapestry, embroidered with a colourful coat of arms, covered a large portion of one wall ... it was the first time Hermione had the chance to see the Malfoy crest in detail.

"Quite grandiose, is it not?" Lucius, who had noticed her staring at the gigantic tapestry, remarked negligently.

Hermione nodded, gazing at the crest.

"You see? This is the insignia of the House of Malfoy. In the centre is a dagger shaped as the fleur de lys, symbol of the French royalty. That dagger has been in possession of the family since the Middle Ages - it is used for various formal rituals, blood ceremonies for instance. The adjacent serpents represent our family's attachment to the Dark - you have heard, of course, that snakes traditionally symbolise Dark magic. Above is a gold crown associated with the Saxon Kings who have ruled Britain for centuries. In the background, you can see the shield of Wiltshire County, with its horizontal green and white stripes, the colours echoing the district's pasturelands and chalk downs.

"This is a modern version of the Malfoy coat of arms. Relatively modern, considering it has last been modified in 1846. The original design did not include the crown, only the fleur de lys and the serpents, which had been the armoires of the early Malfoys of France. 'Oderint dum metuant' has been our devise back in France, and has not been changed since. Our second credo is, 'In dicio quod sanctimonia et nobilitas vereor'."

"Pride in power, purity and nobility," translated Hermione, not at all surprised. "You truly consider yourself royalty, do you not?"

His cold grey eyes glinted strangely. "We have every right to consider ourselves royalty, Hermione, because that is what we are. Not only can our lineage be traced back to the 8^th century and over 40 generations of pure-bloods, but the Malfoy family had once held sovereign power over wizarding Britain ..."

"Really?" said Hermione, her eyebrows knitted together. "I fail to remember reading anything of the kind, and believe me, I have studied History of Magic very thoroughly."

"You need to learn that books do not always tell the truth, Hermione," he said in a dismissive tone, "and when they do, they might - ah - omit some highly significant details. Come with me to the Portrait Gallery - I want to show my ancestors to you."

And he led her into a long, spacious hallway where the walls on both sides were made entirely of marble. The floor was marble too, like in the rest of the house, and the walls were lined with portraits.

There were witches and wizards dressed in all sorts of luxurious robes. All the wizards and most of the ladies featured the perfect Malfoy looks: the shiny blond hair, grey eyes with a deep, charming expression, and the proud, haughty manner, moderated by an extreme grace in the women's case.

Lucius walked forward slowly, designating the portraits of the ancient Malfoys and their spouses.

"The legendary Agatha Borgia, notorious for having single-handedly poisoned over three thousand Muggles - 3126, to be precise - she created most of the assortment of poisons stored in the secret chamber downstairs."

"I never knew she was part of the Malfoy family!" exclaimed Hermione. She had read about the infamous witch's exploits. The Borgia family were well-known poison-makers, and Agatha Borgia had been a deadly assassin who had dealt away with entire families of wizards, not just Muggles.

"A cousin, actually ... but she is not the only one. Josephine Poiseau, also renowned for her various deadly concoctions, was the wife of Antoine Malfoy, and thus the founder of the English Malfoy clan."

Hermione listened with genuine interest, occasionally pausing to ask a whispered question.

"This woman dressed in damask was a Russian princess from the XIIth century," he explained. "She had, as tradition pretends, strangled her first husband, a Muscovite like herself, and used the same method to do away with a good number of other suitors."

Hermione looked at the woman with ash-blond hair and blue eyes that looked colder than ice. The woman cocked her head disdainfully in an attitude worthy of a princess (which she was).

"Lord Edmund Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire, took her as his consort. One year later, he was found asphyxiated in one of the halls of the manor. The identity of the murderer was never discovered. The charming Tatiana continued the existence of splendour and festivities she had led since her marriage, entirely neglecting her children."

"So that's from where you've got that tendency to strangle your enemies," Hermione commented.

Lucius smiled coldly.

But Hermione's attention was drawn to a portrait a bit farther along the wall, in a frame of gold, where a blond man reclined on a splendid silver throne cushioned with dark velvet. A man who appeared to be the exact replica of Lucius, down to the same shade of hair and the same facial traits, and the same proud, dignified expression ... only there was a crease of bitterness in the corners of his mouth, and it was visible that this was someone who had suffered great disappointment in life.

"And here is my great-great-great-grandfather and namesake, Lord Altair Malfoy. He is regarded as the all-time hero of the family ... back in the days when wizard blood still counted in the eyes of the community, he brought the Malfoy name to the height of power ...

"This," said Lucius, gesturing to the frame on the left, which harboured a dark-haired woman, "is Antarès Lestrange, a Malfoy by oath."

Hermione looked at the woman. She had dark hair and brown eyes, and she was wearing a crown of gold, incrusted with emeralds and diamonds, on her head ... a crown that looked very familiar, for Hermione had already seen it. She had seen herself wearing it in the Mirror of Erised.

She gazed in interest at the woman ... a woman who was observing Hermione carefully, a thoughtful expression on her face.

"Lestrange?" Hermione repeated, intrigued. "The same family as Bellatrix's husband?"

"The same," confirmed Lucius. "The Lestranges immigrated to England at the same era as we did, during the times the Muggles refer to as - ah, 'the Inquisition'. The persecution in their native Spain was no less rigorous than the witch hunts in France, you understand, and many of us chose to relocate to the more peaceful British Isles."

They had reached the portrait of a man with a distinctly sombre look in his grey eyes and a stony, ruthless expression on his face. "Eridanus Malfoy, grandson of Altair," said Lucius.

"He looks like someone who has both witnessed and caused a lot of tragedy," stated Hermione.

"A highly accurate assessment." He indicated two portraits a bit farther along the wall. "My father, Alphonse Malfoy ... and my mother, Cecilia."

The latter, dressed in pearly white, was exceedingly beautiful, yet lacked the haughtiness present in most of the people in the portraits. A very kind smile lit her face at the sight of her son, and a veiled happiness could be seen in her eyes.

They had arrived at the end of the hallway and now stood in front of a set of intricately carved wooden doors, which presumably led to the drawing room.

"I feel privileged to meet your family, my Lord," Hermione whispered, her voice nearly inaudible, in Lucius' ear. The portraits did not hear her ... except one. That of a woman with dark hair and eyes, dark eyes that misted over, a faint smile appearing on her face as she got lost in a memory.

Hermione had no way of knowing, of course, that the woman had seen in her a younger version of herself. More than the much-too-coincidental-to-be-a-coincidence connection in their names, Antarès Lestrange-Malfoy saw herself in the young witch her great-great-great-grandson seemed to be fond of. And had Hermione looked at the woman's face at that moment, she would have gotten the impression that this witch expected something of her - great things, actually. She hoped that this young woman would assume her role and achieve the things she herself had once done. Fate had not been with her, and her - their - empire had crumbled ... but this witch had given her a new hope. A hope that she would one day see restored the power of old, the power she had fought to create, to bring glory to the name of someone she loved more than life itself, the name that would one day be her own.

"Very good ... I believe it would be a judicious idea to rejoin our guests, Hermione," Lucius drawled. He waved his hand at the heavy double doors, which opened of their own accord at his gesture.

He snatched Hermione's hand and tucked it under his arm. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, but she did not say anything. She only wondered whether his wife would pass out from rage when she saw them walk in like that ... But if he doesn't care, nor should I, she thought as he led her into the tumultuous drawing room.

The doors swung closed behind them.

There was a moment of silence in the - now empty - gallery worthy of royalty, and then all the portraits started talking at once, their voices echoing off the marble walls. Some sounded speculative, others excited.

The woman with the crown walked sideways out of her frame and emerged in the portrait next to hers, where a blond man reclined in a throne-like chair. In a medieval gesture of female deference, she knelt on the carpet by his throne.

"My Lord, if there was such a thing as reincarnation ..." she started. Her voice was melodious yet full of vivacity.

"Indeed, Antarès," drawled the man on the throne "- but there is one divergence between you and her, a tremendous divergence ... you are a pure-blood, whereas she ..." he paused. "Nevertheless, she may be just what we need to bring the family back to power."

"It takes a woman's ambition to achieve that sort of power," she said matter-of-factly. She was rewarded with a slightly resentful glance from her companion.

"It pains me to admit my agreement, Antarès, though I am not really in a position to deny it ... yet I would remind you that precious few ladies have an ambition to move mountains."

The dark-haired Queen smirked. "Well, let us hope she is one of those few."

"We shall see," drawled Altair Malfoy, "we shall see."

-

Meanwhile, in the drawing room, the wizard orchestra was playing a lively tune Hermione recognised as some of Strauss's music (she knew the song - it was the Blue Danube, the unofficial anthem of Austria, and one of Hermione's parents' favourite melodies). Apparently, just like dining manners, classical music was one of the things that were universal between Muggles and wizardkind, accepted equally in both worlds.

Lucius had finally invited her to dance, completely ignoring the incensed glare his wife was throwing his way. Hermione couldn't have been more thrilled, though she didn't except such an ... intense kind of dance.

He twirled her in his arms, steering her across the floor at an alarming speed, lifting her into the air as though she were a weightless doll, his hands gripping her waist ... Hermione was so dizzy she thought she would crash head-first into a wall, and she probably would have if it wasn't for his firm grip on her wrists. But she enjoyed herself immensely.

Hermione remembered the dancing lessons her parents had forced her to take, painfully learning the precise steps and movements to all popular dances, as well as the more traditional, old-fashioned ones. She quickly caught up with the music, and the body movements and motions she had learnt as a child came to her automatically. Led by her partner, Hermione swirled in rhythm with the music, her movements supple and full of grace, her feet barely touching the floor.

This is incredible, she thought as Lucius lifted her up into the air, his hands holding her waist, then placed her back at her feet, forcing her to execute a series of dizzying twirls. She did not even have the time to breathe as he led her through another lively spin, all at an overwhelming speed.

She had danced a few classical dances with Viktor at the Yule Ball, earning enthusiastic remarks about her figure, but it was nothing compared to this.

The lively speed of the motions reminded her of the Duelling classes during her Auror training, where she had had to duck, dodge, and swirl out of the way of curses flying from all directions. Only, unlike on the battlefield, here the routine wasn't motivated by fear and self-preservation.

She shocked many with her grace that day, and many of the other couples stopped in their movements as they watched their host lead the youngest Death Eater through a series of dizzying moves at lightning speed, their movements tuned to each other in an astounding synchronicity. Hermione, pliant in his arms, moved as though she were an extension of him, deciphering his intentions in time to move in compliance with his lead. They moved as one, and many wondered what it was that united them so.

Lucius himself was taken aback by her knowledge of the steps as well as her sheer talent and the grace, the fluidity of her body. "You are amazing," he whispered into her ear while pulling her into yet another twirl and she followed instinctively.

"Never have I seen a woman dance like you do ... not even Narcissa, who has been taught to perform the most complex of dances since early childhood, can match your grace ..."

She leaned against him, utterly relaxed in his arms as he lifted her by her elbows and flung her into the air, catching her only when she was mere inches from the floor. She let him jerk her body into odd positions; she was dizzy enough to collapse yet she did not fear he would let her fall. She had complete trust in him and his capacities.

Hermione's eyes glittered, fixed on her partner, whose mouth opened briefly to murmur words of appraisal in her ear.

"Narcissa has nothing of your grace ... and she lacks the attitude that distinguishes you so - your unreserved surrender, your natural submission ..."

Draco was staring at them open-mouthed. He could not believe this. His father would never touch a Mudblood ... even less dance with one for over a quarter of an hour ...

Yet Draco did not dare comment on it, fearing his father would scold him in front of all the guests, like he often did, for 'asking daft questions'.

Narcissa, dancing with one of the guests, watched her husband and the girl with narrowed eyes. Her upper lip was trembling, but she did not dare say anything. She knew Lucius well enough to realise nothing she said could change his mind. He was the Master.

But that didn't mean Narcissa would sit back and do nothing. No. Everything was prepared, and if things went as planned (and why wouldn't they?), then she would not have to bear the damned wench's competition for long.

-

After the dance, Hermione had slipped out of the drawing room to go to the bathroom, which, according to Bellatrix, was the last door in the corridor to the right of the entrance hall.

Coddy the house-elf accosted her in the hall, falling into a bow and clutching the hem of her dress. "Oh, miss, Coddy is so sorry ..." the elf lamented, almost crying. "Coddy tried to warn miss, oh yes Coddy did, but Coddy was scared Mistress would notice ... Mistress would have been so angry ..."

The elf looked around fearfully and hit himself on the head with his fist.

"Coddy?" Hermione said uncertainly. "What are you going on about?"

"Coddy cannot tell," the elf whispered, "Coddy cannot tell because Coddy's masters are bad wizards ... very bad wizards -" the elf broke off suddenly, looking horrified. "Bad Coddy!" he squeaked, repeatedly banging his head on the wall. "Bad Coddy!"

The house-elf looked at Hermione, who had been standing there watching in some kind of sickened fascination. "Coddy is not supposed to speak ill of his masters," he explained. "Coddy has to punish himself."

Hermione would normally have felt pity for the house-elf - but not this time. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the creature - which was disgustingly filthy, as though it never bothered to wash itself - in revulsion.

"How dare you, Coddy," she hissed, "How dare you speak that way about your Master? How dare you befoul your family in my presence?" Hermione hadn't noticed when she had started picking up phrases from Mrs Black's portrait. She only knew furious, vehement indignation as something in her snapped at hearing this thing bad-mouthing the one she cared about, and she unthinkingly leapt to defend him.

-

When she re-emerged from the bathroom, Hermione noticed a crowd in the entrance hall. The group was mostly comprised of those who bore the Dark Mark, including a very eager-looking Bellatrix. The heavily lidded woman, who seemed to have taken it as a personal duty to introduce Hermione to the ways and customs of the Dark side, discreetly motioned for her to join the group. Hermione did so, wondering what this was all about.

"Now we're going out for some entertainment," drawled Lucius, his eyes glinting with excitement. He was at the head of the group, and the others were huddled around him as though waiting for instructions. In the Dark Lord's absence, he was their leader.

"What kind of entertainment?" Hermione asked warily.

"Muggle-hunting. Give them a Christmas present, so to say,"

Hermione had noticed long ago that he was particularly enthusiastic when it came to terrorising Muggles.

Drunken Dark wizards were highly dangerous, as Hermione had learnt back at the Quidditch World Cup. Hermione looked like she was torn between protesting against the 'cruelty' done to the poor Muggles, and berating them for the imprudence of the idea ("What if the Ministry catches us?"). But her glee at the opportunity to practice some Unforgivable curses finally won. She remembered the thrill she had felt when casting the Cruciatus Curse, and she wanted to do it again. Obviously, she wasn't entirely sober either.

"I am going with you," stated Narcissa, who had just emerged from the corridor that led to the dining room. Sophie Rosier stood behind her. At the mention of Muggle-hunting, Mrs Rosier's lifeless eyes had regained a bit of animation.

"Absolutely not! You will stay at the manor, Narcissa. Have you any idea of the trouble they -" Lucius gestured to the small children, who were currently running around playing hide-and-seek, "- might cause if left unattended? This is out of the question!"

"Pansy will keep an eye on the guests, Lucius," Narcissa retorted calmly, "she is very skilled at organising this kind of event, and Lord knows what I would have done if it weren't for her assistance."

"You are not coming, Narcissa. I care naught about your opinion of Pansy's social capacities - which I do not find exceedingly proficient, no more remarkable than your own - but you are staying at the manor, do you hear me?"

"Oh, fine!" the hostess said resentfully, visibly flinching at the veiled insult. "But surely she is not going," she added snidely, her furious blue eyes straying to where Hermione stood with the other Death Eaters.

"And why ever not, Madam?" asked Hermione lazily.

"Muggle-hunting is not an activity for women. It is so unladylike to participate in such a thing ..."

"What a hypocrite," Hermione mumbled under her breath.

"Then what am I, sister dearest?" Bellatrix cut in. "Are you saying I am no lady?"

"If I didn't know you are sleeping with the Dark Lord, I would have wondered," the blond woman spat viciously in her eldest sister's direction.

Ah, so it's true, thought Hermione. The true nature of Bellatrix Lestrange's relationship with the Dark Lord had been the subject of a lot of speculation in the Auror Headquarters.

"What's gotten into you, sister?" Bellatrix asked harshly, looking not at all embarrassed. "You've been in one hell of a horrible mood all evening."

Hermione edged away from the bickering siblings. She looked at the wizards around her - nearly all her fellow Death Eaters, plus Mrs Rosier, who had slipped into the group - who were conjuring Death Eater robes and masks and pulling them over their dress robes.

Hermione was confused. "But it's cold and snowing outside ... we'll freeze to death, if that's all we wear!"

Rabastan Lestrange turned to her, smiling. "These robes are charmed to repel water and keep you warm regardless of the weather. Do you remember feeling cold at the last meeting?"

"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed, realising her stupidity. The night of her initiation had been rather chilly, but she didn't remember feeling the least bit cold ... "Thanks, Rabastan."

"It's nothing," the wizard mumbled nervously, blushing. "You're new among us ... it's to be expected that you don't know the way things work here, and without someone to guide you ..."

By all signs, Rabastan Lestrange was infatuated with her. Hermione diplomatically moved away from him.

Everyone was startled by the unmistakable shrill laughter of Bellatrix Lestrange coming from the corner where she stood exchanging insults with her sister. "Always knew - you were - a loser, sister!" Bellatrix shrieked gleefully between peals of laughter, while her blond sibling dashed from the room, very red in the face, as though she, in her anger and exasperation, had told her cruel sister something she now regretted.

In the commotion, Hermione quietly pushed her way through the cluster of Death Eaters and slipped into the position beside Lucius.

"Where are we going?" she asked him.

"To London ... they are currently celebrating on the streets ... perhaps you know a convenient spot, Hermione?"

"I know just the place ... I did grow up in the Muggle world. There's always a huge crowd in Trafalgar Square, in the City ..."

"Ah, very convenient to have a Muggle-born in out midst ... most advantageous."

Lucius conveyed the directions to the group, and they all Apparated to London.

They appeared in a crowd of Muggles who were singing and laughing, some of them looking quite a bit drunk. The Death Eaters sprung into action quickly, while Hermione, as it was her first time participating in an offensive move with the Dark Order, stood back and watched. Mulciber had cast the Imperius curse on a cluster of Muggles and was watching them fight each other, while Bellatrix was performing the Cruciatus Curse, resulting in high-pitched screams that echoed through the crowd.

Hermione glanced over at Lucius. Three struggling Muggles were floating in mid-air high above him, exactly like at the Quidditch World Cup, and he was making them perform some weird acrobatics in mid-air, directing their moves with a flick of his wand.

Hermione knew Lucius well enough to realise what was going on in his head. To him, everything was about control. He could have used the Imperius, like Mulciber, but he liked to see them struggle. He wanted to see the strain on their faces as they tried, uselessly, to direct their actions. He wanted to witness the horror in their eyes as they realised they had no control over their own bodies whilst their minds fought against the external force controlling them.

He sought emotional control. He wanted them to be conscious of their own weakness; he wanted them to be aware of the power he had over them. Hermione knew all too well the intense look of imperious malice in his cold grey eyes.

It was the same look he regarded her with every night, staring down into her eyes as though seeking to control her thoughts ... Hermione had to admit it was oddly thrilling. He was the most controlling man she had ever met, and so powerful ... in his mere presence, she felt protected. When his arms enfolded her, she felt shielded from the hardships and dangers of life. True, she had been acting a bit carelessly lately, but she knew no harm could befall her. She was on the winning side, and the second most powerful and feared Dark wizard on the continent was her protector. What did she have to fear?

Hermione's attention was caught when one of the Muggles in the crowd said in a loud voice, "Oh, look, it's some weirdoes!"

It was a teenage girl by all signs, dressed in a pink coat and scarf. Another girl about the same age, but wearing a blue coat, answered her:

"Yeah, Celia, it's those freaks -"

The other Muggles stared apprehensively as Hermione slowly stalked closer to the rude pair. This must have been the kind of Muggles Harry had described as his relatives, those who considered magic a scourge to the world, simply because they feared it.

She aimed her wand at one of the girls. It would be the first time she killed a human ...

Hermione, NO! screamed the shattered remains of what had been her conscience. But Hermione was far too gone to even hear it.

Hermione concentrated on her hatred of these things that didn't deserve to live, these worthless beings that had persecuted witches and wizards for centuries, and who would still do so to this day if they had the chance, just because they were afraid of magic. She concentrated on how she wanted to see this filth dead and lifeless, lifeless like the ill-fated witches who had had the misfortune to find themselves wandless in the Muggle world and were burnt at stake, centuries ago.

"Avada Kedavra!" Hermione yelled.

Green light burst from the tip of her wand; there was a rushing sound similar to a gust of wind, followed by the thud of a body falling to the floor ...

The girl lay unmoving on the floor, her face frozen in an expression of shock, her eyes wide and unseeing, her mouth gaping open ... the Muggles around them screamed; an older Muggle woman, probably the dead girl's mother, threw herself at the body, shaking it and sobbing and crying for her daughter to "wake up".

Hermione was feeling light-headed; the rush of power she had felt had been exhilarating. To have power to take a life at whim, to have the ability to take someone's life with just two words ... it was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and she understood why the Dark Arts were said to be addictive. Not that it was a bad thing ... there were enough Muggles in the world, more than enough to practice on.

The Muggle rounded on her daughter's murderer. Her eyes, full of tears, were almost bulging out with rage. "You! What did you do to my baby?" she shrieked.

The Death Eaters around them laughed ... and so did Hermione. Pathetic, really ... this woman had seen first-hand the power the witch wielded, and she was foolish enough to confront her, too stupid to even feel a hint of fear? Oh, I will teach them to fear us, thought Hermione cruelly, lifting her wand. "Crucio!"

The Muggle collapsed by her daughter's corpse on the snow-covered ground, screaming like a banshee. The Death Eaters laughed and jeered ...

Hermione held the curse, enjoying every second of it ... she wondered how long it would take to torture a Muggle into insanity ... "Hey, Bellatrix!"

The older woman, who had been watching in gleeful fascination, turned to her. "What?"

Hermione couldn't believe what she was about to ask. It seemed like the Firewhiskey had succeeded in making her let go of all inhibitions, of all traces of conscience and shame. And with pure curiosity, she asked, "How long did it take for the Longbottoms to lose their minds?"

Bellatrix's eyes lit up in jubilant recollection. "Almost two hours. The woman was tougher to crack, though ... she did break after two hours of uninterrupted Crucio. It was mostly Rodolphus and I, but Rabastan and the young Crouch helped too."

Hermione had once feared being victim of the same fate ... and now a Muggle was about to suffer that fate at her hand. How ironic ... she wondered if the Ministry wizards would put this Muggle in St Mungo's when they found her ... probably so. Muggles with magical ailments were usually placed in a secluded ward of the wizard hospital, healed then Obliviated ... only insanity resulting from prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus did not heal. The Ministry was really stupid, too - why go to the trouble of keeping victims in the hospital if there was not a chance of them ever recovering? What was the point? Why not just kill them and get over with it?

Hermione imagined what she had to look like, right now, laughing over the corpse of someone she had killed, gleefully torturing a Muggle into insanity ... What have I become? she wondered, mildly horrified. But as she met the cold grey eyes watching her with an unusual fondness, she knew she was beyond caring. They were just Muggles, after all ... just mere Muggles, you know, annoying creatures with a limited intelligence. Like animals. Like the ants on the ground, or the mice that inhabited some of their houses ... just Muggles, nothing more.

"You make me proud," he said softly in her ear. He slid a hand under Hermione's hood and caressed her hair fondly. She maintained the curse as the Muggle screamed and writhed ... it wasn't so difficult, really, you just had to enjoy their pain ...

The two of them stood there, she torturing the woman while he waved his wand, making the Muggles spin in the air. Bellatrix watched, cackling.

After some ten minutes of Cruciatus, the Muggle woman stopped screaming. She had lost consciousness. "Weaklings," Bellatrix muttered, bored, and walked off in search of some target to torture.

With an evil smirk, Hermione pointed her wand at a random Muggle woman in the crowd. Judging by her actions, Hermione had drank a bit too much Firewhisky, though it only brought out the less than kind side of her personality.

There was a flash of light and the woman was hanging upside-down in the air, her heavy skirt falling over her head ...

There were laughs from the Death Eaters, and Lucius turned his head sideways to glance at Hermione through the eye-slits in his mask. "I should have known ... There, I thought for a second Narcissa had found a way to trail us. That was her exploit, at the World Cup ... though it seems to amuse them a great deal," he added as the Death Eaters around them laughed and jeered louder than ever. Bellatrix's gleeful shrieks stood out distinctly in the uproar.

Lucius flicked his wand, letting the three Muggles fall to the ground and crack their skulls open on the pavement. "That spares us the bother of - ah - terminating their petty existences."

Hermione shrugged carelessly. True, the method was rather grotesque, but it wasn't like she actually cared. She flicked her wand upwards, and the Muggle she had been levitating dropped to the ground as well.

"Well, we've had our fun - now, as a Ministry witch, aren't I supposed to Obliviate them?"

"No, you will not," Lucius said sharply.

"Why not?"

"Muggles were meant to fear us, Hermione, and in order to fear us, they need to be aware of our existence," he said vehemently, his eyes flashing.

"You know the Obliviators will be here in no time; the Ministry won't let them remember anyway, so what's the use?"

"Principles, Hermione, principles ... let the Ministry clean up after us if they so desire, it is their business. Besides, do you not realise it would look highly suspicious - Death Eaters never erase traces of their actions."

"As you wish, Lucius. But I suggest we do not stay here any longer - let's not wait for the Ministry wizards."

"Oh, I highly doubt they would be so quick, especially on a holiday. Think - what are your colleagues doing at the present time?"

"Most are having Christmas parties," Hermione said in realisation. "They'll be too drunk to do their duty even if they were called to office."

"Precisely. However, you are correct, we need not risk it - we are done here!" he shouted to the Death Eaters around them. "Macnair, come back here and clean it up! Avery, help him - Dolohov, just kill them and get over with it, we haven't got time to fool around - Bellatrix, leave her, leave her, I say - you'll have plenty of time to torture a Muggle later. Hermione, summon the Mark!"

The masked figures obeyed, but with visible reluctance. They stopped whatever they were doing to torture the Muggles - Hermione saw Bellatrix lower her wand, breaking the Cruciatus Curse she had been performing on some Muggle girl who looked no older than five, while Macnair was stuffing what looked like a large knife into the pocket of his robes. But some did not turn away before casting a few Killing Curses. There were flashes of green, and the Muggles shrieked in terror.

The Death Eaters laughed and jeered. "Enough for today!" Lucius bawled at them just as Hermione aimed her wand at the sky. "We need to leave before the Aurors arrive!"

"Morsmordre!" shouted Hermione. A huge, glowing, green Dark Mark appeared in the dark sky above.

No sooner had she said it, there were popping sounds all around them. Too late! Ten wizards, every single one of them wearing the distinct red robes of the Aurors, had appeared out of thin air. All had their wands out and pointing at them. Hermione tensed; this was the first time she faced her colleagues as enemies. She could discern a mop of red hair in the crowd, as well as a pair of emerald-green eyes glinting ferociously ...

At the arrival of the Ministry wizards, the Death Eaters gasped and yelled to the others, but not one quite knew how to react. Hermione felt Lucius's hand tighten painfully on her shoulder.

She had always been quick to think - and act - in dangerous situations. Panic did not cloud her mind, but prompted her into action. She was much quicker than the others, who had frozen momentarily, exactly what had been their undoing at the Department of Mysteries.

Hermione promptly levitated two nearby Muggles into the sky directly under the Dark Mark, as high as she could, so that they were fully visible to the Aurors. "Lower your wands or they die," she said loudly, disguising her voice in the only way she knew: by drawing out the vowel sounds and pronouncing the words with deliberate slowness. The result was a feminine version of the Malfoy drawl, and sounded nothing like Hermione's voice. It was a good thing she was wearing a mask; she only hoped her eyes weren't enough to give away her identity.

She had succeeded in gaining the Aurors' attention. Some pointed their wands at her, though they did not speak any spells. Their eyes were going from the group of Death Eaters to the Muggles held hostage, and they glanced at each other hopelessly. Hermione knew their weaknesses - she had been one of them.

She knew their nobleness wouldn't allow them to condemn some poor, defenceless Muggles to certain death, not even for the sake of capturing a group of Death Eaters. If they were to cast a spell on the Death Eaters and miss, they would let the Muggles would fall to the ground (and from that height, they would certainly die from the fall). And if they managed to Stun the Death Eaters successfully, the Levitation spell would be lifted abruptly and the Muggles would still fall. Ah, what to do, what to do ... Hermione was happy to see not even Harry knew how to react in this situation. Perhaps some of the Aurors were quite ruthless and would have preferred to take the risk, but with Harry in the lead ... Harry's greatest weakness had always been his fear of causing of the death of an innocent.

She saw Bellatrix pounce on one of the Aurors - a young woman who had only qualified recently. Bellatrix grabbed her before she had the time to react and pressed her wand to her neck.

"Hello, little bitty baby Potter," Bellatrix called out to the leader of the red-robed division. "You try to attack us and she dies."

"Lestrange," Harry Potter spat hatefully, pointing his wand at Bellatrix. Hermione wondered if he was going to cast the Cruciatus Curse. If he had done so in their fifth year ... but surely he wouldn't do it in front of all his fellow Aurors!

"Going to curse me, Potter?" shrieked Bellatrix. "Go ahead, then, do it, raise your wand - and your friend dies. It would be no big loss - you Aurors should be used to losing your buddies to our cause -"

Bellatrix's daring act, combined with Hermione's resourceful move, had given the other followers time to recover from the Aurors' sudden arrival. While Harry and his subordinates were distracted by Bellatrix's taunts, the Death Eaters were by now raising their wands, preparing to duel with the Aurors who were attempting to rescue the Muggles.

"Come back here!" Lucius shouted to the other Death Eaters. "Surround us! Form a circle at once!"

The hooded wizards, who were about to start duelling with the Aurors, obeyed. They formed a dense crowd around Lucius, Hermione and Bellatrix, thus shielding them from any spell the Aurors could have cast to attempt to free the Muggles the two witches held hostage.

"Come, my dear," Lucius said, grabbing Hermione's hand. Then he Disapparated, taking her with him, leaving their fellow Death Eaters behind to fend for themselves. She heard a crack as Bellatrix Disapparated at the same time as they.

They reappeared in the warm entrance hall of the manor, and Hermione belatedly realised that the Anti-Apparition wards did not apply to Lucius, since he could Apparate inside the Malfoy grounds. Only powerful blood magic could override an Anti-Apparition barrier of such magnitude.

Hermione let out a breath of relief. "That was close," she said as they both removed their masks and shed their Death Eater garb.

"It was fun nonetheless -" said Lucius. Hermione raised her eyebrows. She wouldn't call it fun ... so risky ...

"- though I did not expect the meddling fools to arrive so quickly. A wise move you did out there ... ingenious, in fact. You have learnt well, Hermione,"

She smiled, though still a bit shaken from the ordeal. "I have always been hasty to take action in dire circumstances ... I was so scared ... we could have ended up in Azkaban!"

"But we did not, thanks to you. However, I wonder how the others are faring ... the Dark Lord is not going to be in high spirits if they get themselves apprehended yet again."

Suddenly, Hermione felt an icy sensation fill her entire body. The feeling resembled the one brought by a Dementor's presence, only there were no Dementors nearby; she felt the warm air of the room, yet she shivered, chilled to the bones. Her breathing became shallow, and she was feeling faintly sick ...

"You look awfully pale, Hermione. Are you ill?" Lucius asked sharply. It was one of the few times she had actually seen him show any kind of worry.

"I am not feeling well, Lucius. I should go home."

"Then do so."

Hermione hurriedly pulled her fur coat over her dress, though this time, it did nothing to warm her. Something wasn't right ...

She remembered Coddy the house-elf's bizarre warning, and the triumphant look she had seen in her rival's eyes, earlier that evening ... perhaps she had not imagined it.