His Mistress

-- CHAPTER THIRTEEN --

Dark Love

Lucius glanced dispassionately around the cluttered chamber illuminated by torches on the walls and greenish lamps hanging from the ceiling. Down here, he felt in his element. The room pulsed with Dark magic, calling for him to use it ... it was in his blood. The various Dark artefacts, books and scrolls called to him, encouraging him to use the powers his family had relied on for generations.

He could not help but think about the reason he was here. He had had a hard time preventing himself from murdering his wife - it would have been so easy, just two words ... two words were it took. Two words and it would be over, she would be out of the way ... but he knew he could not do that. Family honour was very important in the pure-blood society, and he did not wish to disgrace the Malfoy name. If he were to kill Narcissa, he would lose the respect of his fellow Death Eaters ... not a wise idea.

He could not get rid of Narcissa, but he would do the next best thing: act as though she did not exist. After all, it wasn't like she could do anything about it.

Inevitably, his thoughts were drawn back to the delicious creature whose life was in danger at this very moment. Shortly after midnight, he had Apparated to her house to check on her - only to find it deserted and, by all signs, left in haste. He had found a few nearly illegible words scrawled on a clipboard on her bedside table, and as he read them, he had felt a sharp pang of dread. St Mungo's ... poison ...

He had been worried. Who could have poisoned Hermione at the party? From what he had seen, she had been sitting at Bellatrix's table, but there was no reason the woman would have done such a thing. No, Bellatrix would never do something the Dark Lord did not approve of.

He had Apparated back to the manor, only to be met by a snivelling Coddy. The house-elf had confessed, crying hysterically, that Narcissa had paid a rather lengthy visit to the secret chamber last night, apparently researching inconspicuous poisons, and had carried through an elaborate plan to kill "the young miss" by mixing her drink with "some very bad stuff". Furious, Lucius had gone to confront Narcissa, while the house-elf was dutifully punishing himself.

Recently, Lucius found his thoughts constantly occupied by the woman who gave herself to him with such unreserved surrender and absolute trust. The woman who had given him everything. For him, she had left her whole life behind. For him, he had turned against everyone and everything she ever knew ...

He remembered what had attracted him to her the first time he had looked at her ... when he had looked into those brown eyes full of kindness and compassion, before they narrowed in defiance, he had felt, inexplicably, that this was a woman who could understand him.

He had seen the loyalty and selflessness with which she fought for Harry Potter, and he wanted that loyalty to be directed at him and him alone ... he wanted to touch her, to possess her, to command her ... he wanted those brown eyes to look up at him not in defiance or hatred or fear, but in surrender and devotion ...

And he had succeeded. Somewhere along the way, she fell to his charms, earlier than he expected, long before he knew it ... now she no longer looked that way at anyone but him.

It felt good to have an Auror in such a position. She was one of the Aurors, these creatures all Death Eaters couldn't help but fear ... he knew this woman was independent as a wildcat, yet she let him control her so utterly ... in return, he wanted to give her pleasure as he possessed her; he wanted her to enjoy it ... he wanted her to care about him ...

He had succeeded. And he had gone farther. He had turned her against everyone she cared about; he had made her betray Potter, Weasley and her own parents. He had converted her, a witch of Muggle blood, to the Dark Lord's cause.

But now that he owned her mind, body and soul, he felt the urge to protect her. He worried about her. Somewhere along the way, he had grown to care about her. He had become attached to her. He had gotten used to waking in the morning with her warm body snuggled against him, her head resting on his shoulder in trustful abandon ...

He had thought he would grow bored of her, as in the start all he felt towards her was lust, but it was not so. Instead, he had become attached to her in a more... permanent way. She was his, only his, and he would never let her go. He would let nothing and no one take her away from him - not even death and definitely not Narcissa.

A mistress was, normally, a temporary attachment, but she ... he wanted to keep her by his side for eternity. Instead of the lust waning with time, it turned into something else - something more meaningful, more lasting.

Somewhere along the way, he had grown to care about her ... to love her. They were remarkably compatible, he had realised ... she enjoyed everything he did. He took pleasure in controlling her, and she wanted to be controlled by him ...

And right now, Hermione - his Hermione - was in danger of death. No immediate danger, thankfully, but still - to imagine what she had to be going through ...

There was no antidote to the specific poisons Narcissa had used. His wife had been careful, he had to concede it - she had cleverly chosen to combine two of the few poisons that had irreparable effects. How she had done it without his knowledge, though, he still had no idea. In her simple-minded hatred, she could not contend herself with killing her enemy ... no, she had to make her rival suffer. And that had been her mistake. Those two particular substances, when combined, would provide a certain death, but no earlier than 48 hours after being ingested. Which gave him ample time to find a cure, if there was one - but since there wasn't, he would use Dark magic to nullify the poison's effects.

He sifted through the Dark Arts texts. There was no antidote to that poison - only a potent Dark potion could reverse its effects. Now all he had to do was find an appropriate potion among the thousands listed in the books and scrolls on the shelves.

When he came across a particular scroll, he smiled in satisfaction. This would do. The ingredients required to brew to this potion were ... available. Made from the contents of the poison itself, combined with the blood of the person who had administered the poison to the victim, along with a special infusion made from the blood of a snake ... it was the Darkest of magic.

He set a small cauldron of solid silver on a table. With a flick of his wand, the cauldron was filled with water.

This ritual was quite simple; it was a rudimentary piece of Dark magic, concocted from powerful, yet in this case simple to obtain, ingredients.

Lucius prodded the bottom of the cauldron with his wand, lighting a magical fire beneath it. In about a minute, the water was boiling; its surface bubbled and set off steam. One more minute, and the water was setting off fiery particles that sparkled like diamonds.

He raised his wand high over the cauldron, aimed at nothing in particular, and spoke in a strong, commanding tone. "Elements of the poison, bestowers of pain and death, you will rescind your effects."

He took a phial from a nearby shelf, a phial labelled Essence of Pharaonic Serpent's venom, and let three drops fall into the bubbling water. There was a hissing noise; the surface split, sparks flying in all directions, and the water turned an opaque, fathomless black colour.

He poured the same amount from another phial labelled Cyanide into the cauldron. There was a splinter in the surface again, accompanied by more sparks, but the liquid made no visible change. It remained black like a raven's feathers.

He then pulled out a vial from the pocket of his robes. This vial was filled with fresh, bright red blood. He had gathered it from the floor in Narcissa's room, where she had conveniently cracked her skull (not that such an accident was enough to kill a magical being - no, unfortunately it wasn't).

He spoke the next part of the invocation. "Blood of the murderer, unwillingly given, you will revive your victim."

He emptied the vial's contents into the cauldron. The potion instantly turned bright red.

"Blood of the serpent, donated in ignorance, you will transmit your life-force to the one who swallows you."

He uncorked a bottle filled with a thick, crimson liquid, and poured about half of it into the simmering red potion.

A cloud of fume, sapphire-blue in colour, rose from the cauldron with a sharp hiss. It uncoiled, snake-like, and went up towards the ceiling. When it cleared, the liquid in the cauldron had turned a vivid, toxic-looking blue.

Lucius poured most of the potion into a glass vial until it was full, then sealed it, cleared the rest away with a flick of his wand, and exited the chamber. Now he had to find a way to sneak into St Mungo's Hospital.

*

"Lumos!"

He had had to use the Imperius curse on a few Mediwizards, ordering them to lead him to the ward where his beloved was 'resting', if it could be called that. Now, in the beam of light emanating from his wand, he could discern Hermione as the only patient in the dark, dreary ward. Her brown hair, damp and tangled, was strewn out on the pillow on both sides of her head, making her look much younger than she really was. Her eyelids were lowered and her breathing came in short, sharp gasps.

Her weak cries of pain were mixed with incoherent, fiercely hissed words. Her entire body was trembling, and she looked paler than the white duvet on which her hands were clenched.

Lucius watched as she turned to her side, muttering unintelligibly under her breath. It sounded like a weak, yet unexpectedly vicious hiss.

If the poison had taken full effect - and it clearly had, because many hours had passed since she had ingested it - then she was having not only a fever, but also hallucinations. She was not quite asleep, yet not awake either. In the zone between dreams and reality, she was both reliving her worst memories and seeing her worst fears come true in her mind.

He reached over and brushed a strand of matted brown hair out of her face. His fingers grazed her forehead, which was hot with fever.

Hermione shifted at the familiar touch, but her eyes remained closed.

His hand moved down to her neck, checking her pulse. It was weak, almost negligible.

He took the vial out a pocket of his robes. Gently, he pushed Hermione's jaw open. Even in this state of semi-consciousness, she complied with his will ... it made him smile, really, as he poured the blue liquid down her throat.

If the potion didn't work ... he didn't want to think about that notion. No, it was out of the question. The Dark Arts never failed.

The possibility of Hermione's death had led him to realise some things, namely that he could not quite imagine life without her. He had grown attached to her, and the very idea of losing her ... it frightened him to the core. If she were to die ... he did not know what he would do.

He enjoyed being with her and he craved her presence when she was away. With her, he felt in control. Through her earnest admiration and unquestioning deference, she made him feel so powerful ... without doing it intentionally, she flattered him, she boosted his confidence ...

Lucius stood by her, waiting for the potion to take effect. When she began to stir, he felt very much relieved. It had worked.

Hermione felt like she was awakening from a nightmare, only to realise that it had not been a nightmare but merciless reality. She could feel the fever cooling down, the pain lessening ... she coughed; there was an absolutely horrid taste in her mouth, and she had the urge to retch, but she knew she shouldn't.

"Hermione," whispered the voice that haunted her dreams.

She opened her eyes, and their intense, zealous glow startled him. "Why?" she asked. "Why did you go to the trouble of breaking into the hospital to save me?"

He bent forwards to whisper in her ear.

"Because you are the most - or should I say the only - important person in my life ..." he whispered to her in the dark, leaning over her, his glossy hair falling into her face, tickling her. Then he switched to French. "Parce que je t'aime."

Hermione suddenly wondered if she was approaching death and it was playing a trick on her mind. Did people hear voices just before they died? No one had survived to tell the tale. But of course, she knew very well that she wasn't dying - not anymore - nor was she hallucinating. She had really heard him say that. Never in a thousand years would she have thought it possible ...

Sure, she knew he cared about her - to a certain extent. But she had never expected him to actually say those words ... the words no one had ever said to her - and meant them - in her life, the words she had dreamt of hearing for the past eight years ... but she had never dared hope to actually hear them, especially not from him.

Her hand, burning with fever, grasped his. "Thank you, my Lord," she murmured before she sank into peaceful slumber. Smirking slightly, Lucius ran a hand through her wild hair, smoothing the tousled brown mass.