His Mistress

-- CHAPTER FOURTEEN --

The Dark Side of History

Hermione woke up in a richly furnished room with oak-panelled walls and a high ceiling, with a serpent-shaped chandelier hanging above. She was feeling entirely healthy, as though the poisoning had never happened. Am I dead? she wondered. Am I in paradise?

Brusquely, the events of the last twenty-four hours returned to her memory. The poison, St Mungo's, the terminal ward, thinking she would die ... then the moment of faith that erased all doubts ... the pain, the fever, seeing her worst nightmares come to life in the eye of her mind ... and that awfully tasting blue liquid - an antidote of the Dark kind, and she honestly did not want to know what its contents had been. Oh, she had studied Dark Potions enough to know the type of ingredients that went into them.

After a quick glance at her surroundings, Hermione could guess where she was.

"How is miss feeling?" inquired a squeaky, high-pitched voice. It was Coddy, the house-elf who had led her into the Malfoy grounds for the first time, and who had tried to warn her of Narcissa's machinations last night.

"I am quite fine, really," said Hermione.

The house-elf rushed over to her. "Oh, miss is alive ... Coddy is so happy, Coddy was so scared miss would die, because Coddy likes miss ..." Coddy's voice dropped to a conspiring whisper. "Master likes miss too ..."

Hermione smiled. "I know, Coddy, I know ... he told me."

The elf stared at her for a second, then clapped its tiny hands. "Coddy is happy for miss," it whispered, "but miss must be hungry. It is time for miss's meal. Coddy will be right back." And the elf vanished with a pop.

The house-elf reappeared a moment later, carrying a tray of what Hermione assumed to be her breakfast. She thanked the creature - who looked close to tears, as though it had never heard the words 'thank you' before, which was probably true - and ate quickly. The food was high standard, she noticed, not that she had expected anything less.

Hermione got to her feet, stretching her muscles like she did every morning - a habit she had picked up at the Auror Academy. She was still dressed in the red robes she had been wearing when she went to St Mungo's, and they were quite rumpled. She pulled out her wand and proceeded to cast a wide-scale Ironing Charm that removed most of the wrinkles.

Hermione caught sight of a dressing table in a corner. Excellent. She moved towards the mirror - and only then did she realise she was still wearing the emerald pendant. She hadn't taken the trouble of removing it before going to St Mungo's ... and she decided she did not want to take it off, at all. Fellow Ministry witches would ask questions, of course, but she didn't care. She would lie; it wouldn't be the first time. She would wear it proudly everywhere she went.

She conjured a comb to brush her matted hair. It took her almost five minutes until her brown mane was neat and tidy again. Her hair was no longer frizzy; it had lost its bushiness years ago, but it remained dense and tangled easily. The problem with her hair was that she had too much of it. While most girls complained about their hair always lying flat and looking dull, Hermione's was the opposite: her copious amounts of brown hair never lay flat. The wavy strands, which reached her upper back in length, flew around her in all directions when she was duelling - quite a problem for an Auror. Tonks - bless her soul - had once suggested she cut it short, but Hermione had refused steadfastly, declaring she did not want to "look like a boy". Or like Harry, to be more precise.

Hermione knew that no matter how rigorously she brushed it, her hair would never be sleek and reflect the light like Lucius's did. But ... well, he said he liked it that way, because it suited her "wild and feral nature". She was his opposite in that aspect. His refined composure, his cool, calculated attitude contrasted greatly with her intense, spontaneous personality. As a team, though, their differences complemented each other.

Her hair done, Hermione sauntered over to the window and moved the velvet curtains aside. She blinked, her eyes glistening in the sudden sunshine streaming into the room.

The sun was rising over scenery more beautiful than anything she had ever seen. The bare trees stood against the clear, azure blue sky, their branches shifting slightly in the wind. An area of water stretched before her, possibly the lake Lucius had mentioned was located behind the manor. A pale blue reflection of the sky, with a silvery sheen, the water undulated in soft waves as a flock of some sort of aquatic birds swam serenely on the surface. Squinting, Hermione realised they were swans, an assortment of both pure white and jet-black swans. Hermione thought she liked the black ones more, they looked so graceful and mysterious at the same time ...

The treeless, grassy lands that stretched for miles in the distance, beyond the wooded park, were covered in snow, a thin white coating on the meadows of green grass.

Such beautiful landscape ... but cold, so undeniably cold. A cold beauty, like everything in this manor and around it; like the manor itself and its proprietor. In that, too, she was his opposite. She might have learnt to assume poise and reserve in public just like he did; she might have been able to emulate the nonchalant conduct and speech that characterised him, but deep down, she remained what she had always been: a woman of combat with a core of fire.

Suddenly feeling tired, Hermione sank back into the bed and fell asleep.

She awoke again - sometime around noon - to the sound of voices arguing just outside the door. She heard a thunderous voice roar:

"ARE YOU DEFYING ME AGAIN, NARCISSA? DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED LAST TIME?"

"Go on, then, I dare you!" shrieked a female voice.

Ooh, that woman really had no sense of survival. Not that Hermione pitied her - no, not at all.

There was a crash, a scream of pain followed by a cruel laugh, then the sound of someone slamming a door, and finally, silence.

The door to the room opened with a click, and a smirking Lucius appeared on the threshold, brushing stray specks of dust off his robes.

"Did you murder her?" Hermione asked hopefully.

"Alas, no. The customs are very strict in this aspect, you see - I am a man of honour, and as murder within the family is prohibited ..."

"Pity," said Hermione, sounding disappointed. No matter, she thought, I will deal with that woman.

He raised his eyebrows, amused. "You hate her so much?"

"She tried to kill me!" she exclaimed. "How can I not hate her?"

They looked at each other for a moment, then Hermione leapt up and rushed over to him. He wrapped his arms around the dainty woman and pressed her to his chest with a force that was almost painful.

Hermione understood that this was his way of expressing he cared about her ... the sheer force of the embrace reflected the depth of the emotion he felt towards her. She remembered his confession from last night, in that gloomy ward at the wizard hospital ... he had told her that he loved her.

He held her tightly, and she clung to him, her face moist with tears.

"I feared I would lose you," he said softly.

There was a new fierceness in Hermione's brown eyes as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "I had no doubt you would find a way," she breathed. "The Healer told me there was no hope left ... that I was going to die ... but I refused to believe it. I knew you would not leave me there. I knew you would succeed ... and I was right."

Lucius gazed at his mistress in mild astonishment. The intensity of her gaze, the passion in her eyes ... it reminded him oddly of Bellatrix Lestrange. But Bellatrix never looked at him that way - thank heavens.

Hermione closed her eyes contentedly.

She knew what it was like to love someone and to be loved in return.

Love had brought her to death's door ... and back.

-

"Coddy told me - he seems to have taken a strange liking to you," Lucius said when she asked him about how he knew what had happened to her.

"I have noticed," she said quietly. "He acts around me in the same way Dobby used to do around Harry - I mean Potter." Hermione had to remind herself Harry wasn't her best friend anymore, no longer a friend but an enemy ...

Lucius scowled horribly at the mention - and the memory - of Dobby. Yet he felt some kind of dispassionate curiosity about what had become of the traitorous elf.

"He's working at Hogwarts," Hermione explained at his query, "Dumbledore hired him shortly after the incident."

"Naturally," he drawled, "it is to be expected that those two would make good friends. With Potter, it adds up to the perfect little trio ..."

Hermione looked slightly puzzled, but did not comment. Instead, she asked, "What day is it?"

"Saturday."

She let out a breath of relief. "Thank Merlin! There, I thought I missed a day of work ... Fudge would rip my head off for an absence, as would Weasley - Percy Weasley, the new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she clarified at his look of bewilderment, "Only temporary, the Minister assures us. The point is - failure to show up at work is not tolerated for the Aurors, especially these days."

"Such dreadfully dark times, aren't they?" Lucius drawled, smirking maliciously. Hermione laughed. If someone was responsible for the Aurors' overwork ... it was she, the Dark Lord's secret agent, and he, the chief Death Eater.

-

"The ground floor consists mainly of the drawing room, the dining room, and other reception halls. Draco and Pansy inhabit the West Wing of the manor. Narcissa's apartments are in the East Wing, as are my private quarters. Guest rooms, including the one where you woke up, are up on the second floor."

Lucius had insisted on giving her a tour of the manor. There were fifty-something rooms, not to count the towers - and all of them were furnished with the same refined extravagance that testified of the wealth and aristocratic status of his ancestors. Right know, they were standing in a passageway that was, Hermione assumed, somewhere between the reception rooms.

Suddenly, she found herself pulled inside a dark alcove. In the complete darkness, he pushed her against a wall and kissed her.

"At Hogwarts, they use broom closets for that sort of activity ... in my home, though, the cupboards are filled with much more unpleasant items. However, this will do ..."

He pushed her down to the floor.

"Really, Lucius," she said mildly, "this isn't very comfortable, you know ... could you not find a better spot?"

"We are Death Eaters, Hermione, and Death Eaters hardly seek comfort in their surroundings ... it is rather the thrill of action that entices us,"

We are Death Eaters ... if Hermione had heard that phrase a few months ago ... she marvelled at how much had happened, and how much she had changed, in the last three months. For it had been just three months ... three months ago she had been an entirely proper Auror ... and she was now a Dark witch on par with Bellatrix Lestrange.

"You are not like the rest of them, Lucius," she said. "For one, you never flinch when the Dark Lord's name is uttered out loud - you are the only one not to do so. Two, they all listen to you, which they don't do for any other Death Eater."

"You are correct, my dear, I am not like the rest of them," he drawled. "And as I am sure you would rather pay a visit to my room ..." Without waiting for an answer, he took her hand and Apparated them away with a crack.

They arrived at a magnificent door of ebony wood engraved with silver carvings. The moment his hand touched the doorknob - which was of silver and shaped like a serpent's head - the door swung open.

It was a spacious room with a shiny, polished wooden floor and ebony furniture gleaming in the corners. The bed, in harmony with the extensive proportions of the room, was huge and magnificently carved; the headboard was decorated - unsurprisingly - with a serpent design. The curtains around the bed, of green silk, swayed in the slight draft created by the open window. The folded blankets revealed satin sheets of a snowy whiteness.

She barely had the time to glance around before she was pushed back on the softest bed she ever had the chance to touch. It felt like lying on a cloud.

"Swan feathers," remarked Lucius.

He flipped her over, and before she had the time to blink, she found herself on her back with him holding her wrists pinned to the pillow above her head. Why must he always do that? she wondered. Not that she minded. No, just ... it was odd.

And it made her feel helpless. A reminder that even if she did not want this, if she changed her mind, there was nothing she could do ... He would not stop if she protested, and if she struggled, he would use physical force to subdue her. To show her that she had no control in this whatsoever, while he had it all ... he was in control. He always was. But this ... he was taking the choice away from her, by making sure she couldn't even struggle ... even though she complied of her own free will, it didn't matter, because she knew the truth. The knowledge that she had no say in this ... none at all ...

"Control maniac," she muttered. He heard her. He smirked.

"But you enjoy it, my dear," he drawled, running his hand slowly down her soft cheek, only to see her eyes flutter closed. He pulled his hand away, and her eyes opened instantly, glaring at him. He gave her a haughty smile. "You enjoy it."

Hermione did not bother protesting.

-

They were having dinner in an adjoining room, as Lucius had deemed it unwise to invite Hermione to the main dining room, which was occupied by Narcissa, Draco, and Pansy.

The Dark Lord's right-hand man glanced over at the brown-haired witch, who was looking through a window with a far-away expression in her eyes.

"Whatever are you reflecting about?" he drawled.

She sighed, still gazing thoughtfully at the window. "There is something about you," she started slowly, "something I can't quite figure out, even though it has always been there. From the first time I saw you ... you are one of the Death Eaters, and yet you are also something else ... you are different from all of them. I have noticed it a long time ago ... I can sense it. There's an air around you ... I can't quite describe it, and it is not like anything I have ever encountered in anyone else - not even the Dark Lord - no one except the portrait of that namesake of yours, Altair Malfoy ..."

Lucius gave her a sharp glance. This young witch was far too observant - and clever - for her own good. Then again, that had always been her reputation, and he had known it ... it was part of what made her so alluring in his eyes.

He recalled a conversation he had 'accidentally' overheard between his parents, when he was a teenager ...

Look at him ... he is the carbon copy of Altair, from the pictures we have of him in his youth ... perhaps he will be the worthy heir. The hero, the Light of our family ...

Do not be foolish, Cecilia. My father failed dismally, as did I. What makes you think our son will be any more successful?

He had known, of course, what they were referring to. And he had vowed, silently, that he would make his parents proud. That was back when he had been young and naïve ... life had certainly taught him it wasn't so easy. His father and grandfather had failed not because they hadn't tried hard enough, but because their goal was unattainable these days ... And so, he, too, had failed.

He remembered Hermione's remark from earlier that day, and suddenly, he wanted to tell her. He wanted her to know ...

"I am not like the rest of them," he said softly, "but you do not know to what extent."

"Then tell me," said Hermione. "Why does the entire Dark side treat you as though you are royalty? Why is your name regarded with such awe, such respect? Why do the Death Eaters obey you unquestioningly, like they do the Dark Lord?" Her voice was low and breathless. "Tell me. I want to know."

Lucius wondered why he felt inclined to confide to this woman. Why was it that he wanted to tell her his family's best-kept secret? But then again ... why not? It was information the majority of the Death Eaters already knew - why keep it from her?

He moved a tapestry on the wall, revealing a passage to his study. He beckoned to Hermione to follow him, and she did so wordlessly.

It was a workroom where the walls were covered in the same shiny oak panelling as the rest of the manor. A massive ebony desk was stationed in the centre, with chairs on one side of it and a couch upholstered in green velvet on the other. The wall behind the desk was lined with books on wizarding politics and history of magic, mostly magical wars, along with a good number of books lacking a title - most likely Dark Arts tomes.

Lucius motioned her over and told her to sit down. He sat on the other end of the couch.

"It is a matter of heritage," he started, glancing impassively around the room. "A legacy little known to the world ..."

"And what does this legacy consist of?" Hermione asked at once.

"The Malfoys have always been actively involved in politics," he said smoothly, "but one surpassed all his ancestors. His name was Altair Malfoy."

Hermione finally asked the question she had been pondering for a long time. "Just who exactly was Altair Malfoy?"

"He was a Dark Lord - the predecessor of Grindelwald. It is not for nothing that we are considered the Darkest wizarding family of Britain - our bloodline is no less Dark than Salazar Slytherin's ... but my great-great-great-grandfather differed from all the others to have held the same title. He was one of the few Dark Lords in history to succeed in gaining absolute power over a realm, one of the few to actually establish a reign that would stand for decades ... one of the few to become head of state."

Hermione was definitely not prepared for that answer. But Lucius continued speaking.

"You have heard, of course, that Salazar Slytherin was a brilliant politician as well as a great teacher and magically powerful wizard ... he published numerous books describing his view of an ideal wizard society, and my family have been firm adherents of his theory for as long as it has existed."

She nodded. She knew what he was talking about - Salazar Slytherin's theory of pure-blood superiority. Hermione had no personal opinion on the theory, because any judgement she could make would be tremendously biased. A Muggle-born could not make an objective judgement on the subject. But she had to concede that Slytherin must have been smart and powerful enough that his ideas were still followed today, a thousand years later.

"But what you do not know," drawled Lucius, "is that a political system based on Slytherin's beliefs has once been established in Britain - a hierarchy determined by the purity of blood. It was not what could be called a democratic government," he said earnestly, "but a monarchy ruled by the oldest family in the realm.

"Altair Malfoy, my great-great-great-grandfather, patriarch of the purest family of wizards in Great Britain and beyond, was accepted as the legitimate candidate to the position of leadership. The Blacks, whose blood is less ancient than ours by a few centuries, were also a possible choice. But blood is one asset that cannot be contested. The Blacks were second-spot to us, which, to them, was an immense honour their remaining descendants still pride themselves in. Everyone else's rank in the kingdom was also determined by the purity of their blood, the oldest and purest being granted a seat in the king's High Council - a variation of the current Wizengamot - the indisputable power ladder determined automatically by their family tree."

He looked at her, searching for a reaction - but Hermione was in her 'school mode'. She was listening and memorising, logically and with detachment, not letting emotion or personal affront cloud her mind. Pleased, Lucius resumed speaking.

"Thus, my ancestor established a monarchy, a kingdom to replace the Ministry of Magic already in place, instating himself as the absolute ruler of wizarding Britain ... he fulfilled the ambition of all his ancestors. The monarchy stood for forty years, and was to be transferred to Altair's heir upon his death."

He paused. Hermione's eyes - which had gone unusually wide - stayed fixed on him even in the silence, and he knew he had her compete attention, even though it was obvious that she was assimilating the information and trying to make a conclusion.

"However, in the late 1880s, a young wizard, clever and magically powerful, had been rising steadily in rank and winning the support of the general population. This wizard possessed powers rarely seen - a magical prodigy, really, skilled in all aspects of magic including the Dark Arts, though he strongly considered himself the epitome of morality, the champion of everything good and righteous ... in other words, he was the opposite of my ancestor, who practiced the Dark Arts openly and encouraged his followers to do so as well."

He paused again, and Hermione saw his white hands clench in rage.

"This wizard held to the belief that Muggles 'weren't so bad' - that they ought to be equal to wizarding folk. He was not happy with the system in place. He wanted change ... and he swayed others to his side. He led them in a rebellion against their royal government in 1894, in which his cohorts sieged the High Council's headquarters in London while he personally took care of the royal family. Altair Malfoy, his wife and their son were killed in the attack, as were most of the Council. Those who managed to evade the massacre went into hiding, and most of the current Death Eaters are their descendants. It was a miracle that the youngest Malfoy - Eridanus - survived, or the family name would have died out ... but the heir was left with no power, deprived of his position ..."

Hermione remembered the portrait of Eridanus Malfoy, the eyes of a man whose only goal in life had been vengeance.

"The monarchy was abolished as, say, by the will of the British nation - that wizard has always acted in the name of the public - and in its place was reinstated the Ministerial system which still stands today."

Hermione blinked. This was a story that filled the gaps in the version published in history manuals. There was only one question left to ask ...

"Lucius ... who was that wizard?"

The answer came in a stiff, emotionless tone. "A fifty-four-year-old Albus Dumbledore."

Hermione gasped. "Dumbledore?" She looked horrified. "Dumbledore, murder an entire family?" she whispered.

Lucius smiled grimly. "The meddlesome fool is quite skilled at maintaining the Golden Champion image, is he not? He has duped many of us, you included - though if one were to wonder ... surely he did not use a Healing spell to defeat Grindelwald."

"I never thought of that," Hermione admitted.

"And apparently, neither have others."

There was a moment of silence as they both stared at the snowy grounds outside the window. Hermione was trying to come to terms with the fact that the righteous Headmaster of Hogwarts had killed. What dark thoughts were going through Lucius's mind at the moment, she could never fathom. Finally, he spoke again:

"Well, now you know - the blood hierarchy. Today, respectable families still hold to those beliefs ... it is what we call wizard pride. It is the reason the Weasleys are undeserving of the name of wizard. Why don't they just go off and dwell among the Muggles they like so much? They would be doing us all a great favour by removing their filthy presence from our world ..."

Hermione had the impression there was more to the story where the Weasleys were concerned. But she did not ask. She asked another question instead. "But what does that make me? Less than nothing, lower than the most worthless blood traitor ..."

Lucius refrained from answering, but they both knew his silence was out of consideration for Hermione - as that was exactly what she was, according to Slytherin's scheme. In any case, he was glad she did not defend the Weasleys, especially as she did not know the full story.

"But how come this isn't in the history books?" said Hermione. "How come this past isn't known in the wizarding world?"

"Do you really think it is something we are proud of? That we have been royalty, only to have our position stolen from us by a bunch of Muggle-loving filth?"

The look on his face was reminiscent of the one he wore whenever he looked at a Weasley. Contempt, disgust ... and a veiled hatred lurking just beneath the surface ...

"We prefer to keep our past quiet, quite frankly out of embarrassment," he admitted. "The surviving member of the family convinced historians to hush their quills on those events, and as we all know, the most that was ever written about that period is - ah - 'a Dark wizard ruled over Britain for forty years, before being vanquished by Albus Dumbledore'."

Hermione frowned. "Oh, I remember ... that is what they say in The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. But when you say he convinced them not to write about it, do you actually mean he bribed them?"

"Yes, you understand that correctly," Lucius said smoothly. "Now, as I was saying ... the old families do know, as they have been told the true version of events by their forefathers, the knowledge being passed on from generation to generation ... that is the reason the Malfoy name is respected and revered in the honourable, pure-blood society - you have seen, of course, that they all defer to me ... they dare not contest my rank."

"But why didn't your family return to France?" asked Hermione. "I doubt Dumbledore's influence extended that far."

"Out of pride, Hermione ... we would not let ourselves be chased from our land by a bunch of disgraceful blood traitors. Eridanus Malfoy stayed, lay low for the moment, established a family to carry on the Malfoy name ... and so we have lived for a century, instilling the knowledge of our past into our children, hoping that one day, one of our descendants would do us justice by restoring glory and power to the Malfoy name."

He sneered bitterly. "But that was not to be ... a century has passed, and the burden now rests upon me, as the current head of the family ... I will have to disappoint my ancestors, as did both my father and my grandfather - as will my son, for I have no illusions about Draco's awfully insufficient intellect ... he truly is his mother's son. Not to mention that she spoiled the brat - sending him sweets every morning while he was at Hogwarts, until he grew accustomed to everyone bending to his every whim ... no wonder he grew up to be an undisciplined layabout, with all her indulgence. No, it is definitely not Draco who will be a tribute to the family."

Hermione sniggered. "Yes, I quite agree. Draco as the leader of wizarding Britain ... the very idea is laughable." She paused thoughtfully, and her expression became serious. "You, however ... you are very organised ... you have all the qualities of a great leader."

"You know Dumbledore would never let a Malfoy gain the least bit of power, Hermione, and it doesn't seem as though he is planning to die anytime soon. I believe he fears his actions will come back to haunt him one day ... and he is very cautious to never let that day come. And as I doubt the Dark Lord would approve either ..."

"But you are the rightful heir." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Indeed I am," said Lucius. "However, it is rather problematic to make a claim to the leadership of a country when you are an outlaw hunted by the government and all its Aurors ..."

At that moment, Hermione wanted to do something. She was not an outlaw; she was a respected Auror, a trusted member of the government ... Like so many times before, a thirst for action had ignited in her.

Hermione's brown eyes were alight with a glint that would have frightened Harry and Ron ... it was the same glint as when she had come up with SPEW, the same one as when the idea of the DA had clicked in her head ... a glint that held a steely resolution. It was a glint that meant Hermione Granger had a plan. And when Hermione Granger had a plan, she stopped at nothing to go through with it, in spite of all the obstacles that stood in her way.

Only this time the glint also held a fierce menace, a promise that those who stood in her way would not remain standing - or even breathing - by the time she was through with it.

There was only one problem ...

"But... what about the Dark Lord?" she asked. "Where does he fit in all of this?"

"Lord Voldemort?" Lucius pronounced the name, much to Hermione's shock, and he explained promptly, "I speak the name ... I am his follower, his subordinate, and I cannot contest his power ... but I can contest his blood, as it is less pure than my own.

"The Dark Lord is an exception. He seeks to rule us all on the basis that he is Salazar's own heir, and, obviously, it - compensates - for his tainted blood, therefore giving him rank above the blood hierarchy ... obviously," Lucius repeated more to himself than to Hermione, his cold eyes flashing with an indeterminate emotion.

It looked like Lucius had some resentment towards their Master. He clearly refrained from saying that Voldemort stole his rightful place, leaving him second to a Dark Lord who was not even a pure-blood.

"Then why do you serve him?"

"You have heard, of course, how he dealt with the pure-blood families who refused to follow him," Lucius said, staring at her. Hermione understood. The McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts, the Potters ... even though he claimed his goal was to get rid of the Muggles and bring the pure-bloods to power, Voldemort did not hesitate to eradicate the families who opposed him.

"Besides ... I have a high rank in the Dark Order, second only to the Dark Lord ... the other Death Eaters follow me as they do him ... I have power I would not have been able to gain alone ...

"And perhaps, one day ..." he said contemplatively, then shook his head as though to clear it.

"Clearly, I disagree with some of his ideas. He has changed Salazar's creed to fit his personal goals ... but it remains the closest current we have to Salazar's - and my ancestor's - original beliefs."

Hermione was startled by the abrupt change of subject, and she was thinking ... she did not miss the aspiration in his voice.

"Also, he is one of the few to oppose Dumbledore openly, and you know the saying, the enemy of your enemy -"

"- is your friend," finished Hermione.

"Quite right ... you understand me well, Hermione."

Not for the first time, she looked at him with a perplexed expression. "You are such an adamant adherent of Slytherin's philosophy ... and yet ... I am a Muggle-born ... I am your inferior. How come you noticed me in the first place?" she asked.

He glanced at her pensively. "You have heard, of course, that the Dark Lord is not a pure-blood ... I am one of the few to have known it from the start. Tom Marvolo Riddle ... Lord Voldemort ... a half-blood. When he started recruiting followers, in the 1970s, my family was the first he went to, seeking our support - he needed financial assistance for the most part, as being the Heir of Slytherin provided him with neither gold nor land. I joined him, knowing he is a half-blood ... because I have seen his power. I have seen him perform magic of a magnitude the rest of us can only dream about. I have seen him rise from beyond death ...

"His father may have been a mere Muggle, but he is the most powerful wizard alive. And so, he has proved himself as the exception we cannot contest. We have learnt the lesson - the fact that blood can be disregarded in rare instances."

His eyes shifted back to her. "You are yet another exception to the laws of purity, Hermione, as even the Dark Lord -" for once, he spat the words with an equal amount of mockery and bitterness, "- has admitted. I know your story - top of every class at Hogwarts, prefect, Head Girl, twelve OWLs, top marks in NEWTs ... you, a Muggle-born, did better than countless pure-blooded children, including my son. It would be hypocritical to deny this fact - and unlike the Light side, we are not known as hypocrites."

He smirked at her.

"And if that is not reason enough, as I see doubt and scepticism in your eyes ..." He seized her arm in a hard grip and turned her around.

"I remember the small girl who defied me with her fiery glare, in the Top Box ... the Muggle-born who looked up to me quite despite herself - only I saw what you did not wish for me to see. The Dark side does not seek to wipe out the Mudbloods from our society, but merely to put them in their place so that we - the true wizardkind - can obtain the supremacy that is our birthright. You, Hermione, need not be taught your place - you were there all along."

Hermione looked down from the mockery in his eyes.

He relinquished his grip on her. "Oh, you were there all along indeed. In your eyes, I see all the esteem I require of my inferiors. Most importantly, it was there before you knew the truth of who I really am ... and that, my dear, is what distinguishes you so from others of your sort."

Was that a compliment? After he had so kindly informed her that she was not part of the 'true wizardkind' ... but for some reason, Hermione did not feel offended. Why be offended by the truth? To the contrary, now that she knew who he was ... she truly felt flattered. That she, a plain Muggle-born, was given the honour to be a guest in this dwelling that had housed royalty and to be the confidante of the heir ...

Hermione's eyes expressed a renewed admiration, a fervent devotion and a humble respect as she looked up at Lucius. She placed her hand on his arm and said in a low voice:

"My Lord, you have my complete devotion ... and I swear that the one we both serve will never hear a word of this. Also I shall assist you in any way I can ..."

He placed a white hand on the crown of her head, caressing her thick brown hair. But his grey eyes, fixed on hers, remained cold and inscrutable even as he spoke in a lazy murmur: "I appreciate your sincerity, Hermione, though I have no doubt the Dark Lord is aware of the - ah - reluctance of my loyalty towards him. The Dark Lord always knows." He paused in thought. "Tell me, Hermione ... why did you join the Death Eaters?"

Why did she join them, indeed? For power, to get out of her erstwhile friends' shadow - but the main reason was ... "To make you proud."

He smiled slightly. "That's the Hermione I know, the Auror who joined the Dark Order for me ... If fate was on my side ... it were up to me, your loyalty would have been generously rewarded ... very generously rewarded."

Lost in the what-could-bes, forgetting reality for a moment, he sounded so firm, so authoritative, so powerful ...

For a moment, Hermione saw a glimpse of the heir to the royal realm of wizarding Britain hiding behind the façade of the second-in-command to Lord Voldemort ... she had always known there was something about Lucius - an aura of power, of majesty ... something royal.

He stoked her hair, gazing at her fondly through half-closed eyes. He could see awe in the expressive brown eyes of his mistress, and he enjoyed it. It felt good, to know someone owed their allegiance to him and not to the Dark Lord, for a change. Of course, she probably did not fully realise it ...

He would not be separated from this woman, not by anyone. Whatever the future held in store for them, he would let nothing bring them apart. Nothing and no one would take her away from him. Not even death.

His hand became heavier on her head, pressing her down with more insistence. Hermione bowed her head under the oppressive touch, unaware of the glimmer of malevolence flickering in his eyes as his smile turned into a smirk.

"My dear ... my loyal Hermione," he said softly. "Promise me ... promise me that if I were to die ..."

She turned her head to look at him sharply. She would rather not think of that possibility ... no, she could not bear to think of it ... but whatever he wanted of her, she would promise, she would swear - and she would do. Anything. "Yes?" she said quietly.

Their eyes met, and she could read a fierce, violent possessiveness in the cold grey gaze directed at her. "... if I were to die, you would kill yourself."

Taken aback, Hermione stiffened in his arms. This was more like the kind of request she could imagine Voldemort demanding of Bellatrix ... not that the Dark Lord would ever envision the event of his own death. And he had no reason to. The killing curse did not affect him; he was immortal. Well, it wasn't like anyone had tried to cast the Killing Curse on Lord Voldemort, but who would? Really, who would risk their life like that, knowing it had no chance of working? Only Harry Potter had a chance, apparently ...

To ask her to join him in death, so that she would not outlive him ... it was cruel, but fully expected of a Dark wizard like Lucius. And he had full right to demand that of her. It was only thanks to him that she was still alive; she owed him her life ... and she would repay the debt. Also, if an accident were to befall him ... death would be a relief to her, as she would have no reason to live anymore.

"I promise, Lucius ... in the unlikely event of your demise, I will gladly follow you into the netherworld - but not before avenging you."

"Fair enough, I suppose, my Hermione ... my loyal Hermione ..."

"My Lord," she responded. But this time, she was acknowledging more than just his territorial rank as the Earl of Wiltshire.

When she had asked him to tell her ... to explain everything ... she had sincerely wanted to know. But she had not known what she was asking for. She had not known she would learn an entire new side of history ... knowledge that would forever change the way she looked at the leading figures of the Light side. Knowledge that would change much more than just her mindset ... because Hermione was a person who acted on her beliefs. She had always fought for what she considered right, and just, and honourable ... and so she would. Even if it was only the right side of wrong.

Long minutes of silence, almost solemn in its intensity, stretched over the couple facing each other between oak-panelled walls as the sun set in the sky above them. Walls that had heard centuries of secrets and witnessed hundreds of confessions. In the same room where, nearly eighteen decades ago, a young blond wizard had related his dreams of grandeur to his dark-haired mistress, who listened with a look of awe and swore she would do everything she could to help him reach his aspirations. A conversation that had resulted in events of an importance neither of them could have foreseen ... as would this one.

Antarès Lestrange had not been wrong to deem this young Muggle-born witch as her modern counterpart.