His Mistress

-- CHAPTER FIFTEEN --

Face Your Fears

Hermione spent the weekend at the manor. Most of her time was spent reading the books Lucius had gladly lent her. He had expressed no surprise at her sudden interest in wizarding politics and pure-blood etiquette, and for that she was glad. She wasn't sure if she wanted to explain her reasons.

He also gave her some books on Dark magic, but she read those with only half as much interest. Magic, even though she was good at it, had never been her forte. Not really. True, she had realised this only recently, but she had always been the mastermind - that was her specialty. Intelligence. Logic. Scheming. And cunning - wasn't she the one to come up with sneaky plans at Hogwarts?

She had gotten used to the layout of the mansion, and soon enough, she walked in the corridors feeling as though she were at home. But she was careful not to leave the East Wing; it was the only area that was closed off from the younger generation of the Malfoys. Draco and Pansy had free reign over the rest of the manor, and she wasn't looking forward to meeting one of them in a corridor. As far as she knew, they weren't even aware of her presence in the house.

Narcissa knew she was there, but Lucius had somehow 'convinced' her to stay quiet about it. To this day, Hermione did not know what he had done to her, but whatever it was, it had worked. The woman stayed up in her room and was rarely seen outside it. Hermione wondered if the older woman was plotting a way to eliminate her again; it wouldn't surprise her. Which made it even more imperative that she take action, and soon, if she wanted to prevent another attempt on her life.

The weekend ended too quickly for Hermione's tastes, though she had to admit she was slightly impatient to get back to the Ministry. No, she was not excited about work. Not exactly. But she had plans - plans that could only be set in motion outside of this isolated house.

Firstly, she would be paying a visit to the Wizengamot Archives, and secondly, she needed to make a trip to Knockturn Alley as inconspicuously as possible (which meant she would probably have to wear her full Death Eater attire - it was the best way to avoid attracting adverse attention in that place). A trip to a particular shop known for selling poisons for every occasion. A shop named Borgin and Burkes.

Not to mention a full day of work, as usual, probably with a good half-dozen raids on some places suspected of harbouring Dark wizards and/or Artefacts, and a few hours overtime - it was not uncommon for Aurors to get back home from the Ministry after eight o'clock in the evening. Oh, and there was also an Order meeting at the end of the day. What was Dumbledore thinking, calling a meeting every Monday evening? Well, the old wizard was quite known for being eccentric and for having a - what was it Lucius called it? Ah, yes, a "highly individual way of running things".

Her schedule was quite loaded. Even more so than usually. But, well, it was best to get over with it as quickly as possible. This was the reason Hermione was, right now, at five o'clock in the morning, sneaking out of the room she, er, shared with the master of the house.

She needed to ask a favour of a certain house-elf. She had never anticipated her affinity with house-elves would turn out to be so useful one day, but from all she had heard about Harry's dealings with Dobby, she knew a house-elf could be a very handy ally. Coddy seemed to like her, and she hoped to take advantage of that. She hoped she could convince the elf to help her with - and most importantly, stay silent about - something she was planning to do. Something no one should find out until it was done. No one, not even Lucius. She felt bad about having to hide this from him, but she had no choice.

Hermione was standing at the door to the drawing room, where several house-elves were diligently doing the cleaning. "Coddy," she called clearly, "I need your help."

The elf instantly stopped what he was doing and scurried towards her and into the corridor.

"Coddy is being delighted to be of assistance. What can Coddy do for miss? Tell Coddy what it is and Coddy will do it."

Hermione beckoned the little creature closer and shut the door to the drawing room, effectively preventing the other elves from overhearing the conversation.

Hermione wondered if the elf would be so eager if he knew what it was that she needed help with. Probably not. Nevertheless, she would try. "We cannot speak about this here," she said in a low voice. "This is to be a complete secret, Coddy, do you understand? Pop in at my house one of these days ... I know you can locate me with no trouble," she said, smirking at the elf's surprised look. "I am well aware of the boundaries of house-elf magic. Oh, and tell no one of my request, or my plan will be ruined before I even have the chance to set it in motion."

The house-elf nodded energetically. "Coddy understands, miss. Coddy will keep miss's secrets."

Hermione let out a breath of relief. For now, all was going well.

*

After a strenuous day at work (as usual) and six raids on which all she managed to confiscate were a few scrolls of what looked like directions on how to cast a Dark spell, only written in Spanish of all languages, Hermione stood in the shabby hallway of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, listening to the hushed chatter of the other members of the Order of the Phoenix. True, it was rather hard to hear anything once the portrait of Mrs Black started hollering its usual addition to the conversations.

"Filth! Scum! Blood traitors, half-breeds, felons, Mudbloods, freaks! How dare you set foot in my house, how dare you befoul it with your presence -"

Remus Lupin and Arthur Weasley - the latter's face expressing anger at the words blood traitors - hurried over to the portrait and were attempting to wrench the curtains closed. It didn't look like they were having much success, though, because the portrait continued its tirade louder than ever. Oddly enough, the words now seemed to be directed entirely at Mr Weasley.

"By-products of greed and dishonour, backstabbers, spawn of vileness and betrayal! You whose hair is as red as the blood on your hands! Have you no shame? Begone, begone from this place -"

Mr Weasley, whose face had gone a deep shade of purple, was tugging at the curtains so hard they ripped apart. Lupin, though noticeably calmer, looked bewildered as he repaired the fabric with a wave of his wand.

Hermione started. Greed? Backstabbers? Betrayal? What is that supposed to mean? she wondered. The Weasleys had always been one of the Light side's most committed families ... then what was old Mrs Black hollering about? Blood traitors ... but to be a traitor, you had to have once been on the other side, before turning against it ... had the portrait actually gone completely mad, or ...

Or what? What could this possibly mean? ... hair as red as the blood on your hands ... what on earth could that mean? It wasn't like the Weasleys had ever been assassins or something - if they had, they would not be as poor as they were. Those jobs were well paid ... Hermione got the impression there was something she didn't know, and she did not like it.

The portrait gave a shriek louder than any before it - "MURDERERS!" - before the curtains suddenly swung shut, seemingly of their own accord.

Hermione turned around to see Dumbledore standing calmly in the hallway, his wand outstretched.

"Thank you, Albus," said Arthur Weasley, panting as though he had just run a mile. Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Murderers?" Ron Weasley said to the other Order members. "Now that's new. The old bat must've gone completely crazy - not that she was sane to begin with, mind you ..." All of them, Hermione noticed, looked more or less confused. And then she realised that she must have been the only one not to have a befuddled expression on her face ...

"Professor Dumbledore, were the Blacks supporters of Grindelwald?" she asked in an attempt to justify her unsurprised attitude. She was still referred to as the know-it-all, and the others would not be surprised if she showed a superior knowledge of magical history. It could even fool Dumbledore.

"The Black family followed nearly every Dark Lord in history, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore, whose face wore a rare expression of disgust. Without any further comment, he walked purposefully through a door at the end of the hall, the assembled group of witches and wizards hurrying behind him as he led the way down a flight of narrow steps and through another door.

The group made way to the basement kitchen where the Order meetings always took place, whispering quietly amongst themselves as always. But Hermione noted a change in the tone of their voices as compared to a month ago. They had progressively lost their excitement, their enthusiasm, and their ever-present optimism ... the hushed whispers now sounded serious, worried, and weary. She guessed that the loss of three of their own had affected them deeply. The mood change had started after Snape's disappearance, and it grew worse at the news of Tonks and Neville's deaths.

Hermione remembered the Order's reaction to that news. She had been the one to relay the information to them, right after she had alerted the Ministry, and the collective response had been shock, followed by sadness and anger. Ginny had cried the hardest, and Hermione suspected the girl had had some sort of infatuation with Neville for years, though she had no idea if the youngest Weasley had ever acted on her feelings, or even realised their existence.

She wasn't about to ask, in any case, she thought as she sat down next to Harry, ignoring the nasty looks Ron kept throwing her way from Harry's other side. She glanced over at Ginny, who had been looking glum and subdued for weeks now, and didn't seem to be getting over it. In fact, the redhead barely spoke these days - a huge change, as Ginny used to be loud-mouthed and downright whiny - and her face had gotten gaunter, as though she barely even ate.

But the most noticeable change had been in Ginny's eyes. Her bright brown eyes used to sparkle mischievously, and sometimes angrily, in a way reminiscent of Fred and George - she worked in their shop as vendor - but now her expression was sad and exhausted.

They had not been prepared for tragedy to strike so close, even though they had known they had voluntarily put their lives in danger the moment they joined the Order of the Phoenix. That day, the Order members had gotten a sharp reminder that all of them could die any moment.

"You all right there, Hermione?" Harry's voice cut into her thoughts. Hermione felt the urge to smirk at the irony of Harry actually worrying for her, when less than two days ago he had been pointing his wand at her and glaring in utmost hatred. Of course, he had not known it was she, his best friend, wearing a black mask, torturing Muggles and defending a group of Death Eaters ...

"I am fine, Harry," said Hermione, sounding only slightly amused as she realised, suddenly, how many times she had said those words, and how untrue they were each time. Oh, the joys of being a spy ... "There is no need to worry about me. Tell me, how is Ginny?" she asked in a low voice, her eyes straying back to the red-haired girl. "She doesn't seem to be getting over Neville's death, does she?"

Anger flashed in Harry's eyes. He was always angry these days, and his hatred for the Dark Lord seemed to increase with each death reported in the Daily Prophet. "She's depressed, I reckon. Fred told me she works as diligently as ever - still the skilled saleswitch, he says - but she never laughs anymore."

"The poor girl," said Hermione, knowing Harry would mistake her tone for compassion. He always did. Hermione wanted to smirk, again, at the double meaning in the words. Poor indeed.

"Yeah, she took it really hard when Neville ..." Harry's voice cracked. "Those bastards. They'll pay for this. All those innocent lives, all the children ... but they didn't die in vain, I swear, when I see Voldemort next time ..." Harry sounded fierce. "He's bound to come out one day. I mean, he can't hide in some old house forever because he doesn't know what the prophecy says, and he's too scared to face me! Nah, he'll come out, and when he does ... he'll pay, and that scum Bellatrix Lestrange, and the rest of them -" He broke off and made a visible effort to calm down, then started again.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, but I won't stand by and watch while he murders everyone I care about. Who knows who it will be next time? Maybe Ron, or you, or Ginny ... I'm the only one who can defeat him, and I damn well can't wait!"

"I know, Harry, I know," Hermione said soothingly. "I cannot wait for this to end either. Those evil murderers ... killing our people off one by one ... when will there ever be justice in the world?" she asked finally, looking up at the ceiling. She was laughing inside, except at the last sentence, which she meant - but not in the way Harry understood it. Justice ... not that kind of justice, mind you ... the Light side was guilty of the same crimes they accused the Dark Order of committing, so what right did they have to decide who was 'good' and who was 'evil'?

Harry opened his mouth to say something, but what he was about to say, Hermione never found out. There was a banging noise from the head of the table. Everyone stopped their conversations and looked up just as Dumbledore sheathed his wand and stood up, signalling the start of the meeting.

"Welcome to this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix," said Dumbledore in a deep voice. "I am glad to see you all here, in these times of great sorrow." He paused, his blue eyes travelling around the table.

"This is a crucial time for us to unite and remember what we fight for. Times will come when all might seem lost, but we must have faith even as hope seems to be getting thinner with every time the sun rises. We must have faith, because if we give up, then we will lose. As long as we believe in what we fight for, we will prevail over the forces of Darkness. As long as there are still those who are willing to risk their lives for Good, and justice, and freedom, Lord Voldemort cannot triumph. Those who have died for us left this world with the knowledge that their sacrifices brought the Light side closer to winning. It is the most honourable death of all; remember them as you go into battle."

The solemn silence was almost deafening. But Hermione failed to see how the deaths contributed to the Light side's chances of winning ... the old wizard's logic was seriously flawed.

"Fight for those who have died so that wizardkind can have a chance to find reprieve from Voldemort. Fight for the Muggles who live happily in their ignorance, and whose joy and innocence Voldemort seeks to take away. But most of all, remember that as soon as we give up, we have let Voldemort win. It is what he is waiting for -"

Dumbledore fell silent, gazing at the only door in the room. Some people craned their necks to look in the same direction, but saw nothing unusual.

Then the door was pushed open nosily and a figure dressed in ragged clothes staggered in drunkenly, dragging what looked like a large metal box after them. It was, obviously, Mundungus Fletcher.

"Sorry," he grunted. "Blimey, I lost track orf time ... but s'just 'ad a good business opportunity," He gestured with a grubby hand towards the silver trunk. "S'true goblin-wrought silver, the 'ole thing. 'Aven't opened it yet -" Dung broke off, looking warily at Mrs Weasley, whose face was becoming redder by the second.

"WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT BRINGING STOLEN GOODS INTO THIS HOUSE?" shouted Molly Weasley. "FIRST THOSE CAULDRONS, AND NOW THIS!"

"Molly, calm down," said Dumbledore firmly. "Mundungus, take a seat. We were just about to start with the reports -"

Dumbledore paused again, because the silver box behind Mundungus had made an odd rattling sound as it rose an inch from the floor, fell back with a clang, then rose again as though the thing inside it was trying to get free. Many people pulled out their wands and watched the box apprehensively, ready to use a spell in case it opened and released some dangerous creature.

And that was exactly what happened. The lid shot up and hit the floor with a resounding bang. However, nothing emerged from it. Nothing visible.

Then there was a cracking sound and something appeared out of thin air in front of Mrs Weasley, who let out a scream. The thing looked like Ron's dead body. But this was stupid - Ron was sitting at the table on Harry's other side. Actually, Ron was and staring at the corpse at his mother's feet with a look of total confusion.

"BOGGART!" shouted Harry. The next thing they knew, a Dementor was gliding in his direction. Hermione pulled out her wand, just in case.

The people sitting nearby sprang out of their chairs and backed away. Ron wasn't fortunate enough, though; as he made it to run past the Boggart, it turned, and with a loud crack, became an enormous spider. Ron let out a girlish shriek. The Boggart seemed to sense his fear, because its pincers clicked menacingly and it crawled closer to Ron, eliciting another scream from the redhead. It looked like Ron had forgotten he was a wizard, because he didn't even try to use the wand in his hand.

Hermione wanted to laugh, but she knew how lucky she was to have avoided the Boggart herself, and had no desire of attracting its attention like Harry had just done.

People leapt out of their seats, their wands raised; those who hadn't pulled their wands out yet were doing so now. Lupin hurried towards Ron and the spider, but before he could reach them, there were screams as other Order members saw the corpses of people they loved suddenly appear in front of them.

"THERE'S MORE THAN ONE!" someone yelled over the screams and shouts of "Riddikulus!"

Then there was a terrible, deafening shout that drowned out all the clamour. "Quiet!"

People froze in their places, their wands raised in mid-air as they turned around to Dumbledore, who had his wand drawn and was in the process of banishing the Boggart in front of a sobbing Mrs Weasley.

Hermione saw Lupin was now struggling with a diminutive representation of the moon that seemed to evade him every time he tried to aim his wand at it; it was now spinning in the air above him, circling the werewolf's head -

A strict-looking witch with a bun of black hair jumped between Lupin and the elusive Boggart; the silvery sphere disappeared and with a crack, became a hissing, twenty-foot-long snake. Women screamed; the black-haired witch turned her head and Hermione realised who it was - Minerva McGonagall. Who would have guessed the Head of Gryffindor House was afraid of giant cobras?

Professor McGonagall raised her wand at the serpent, opened her mouth ... but the Boggart moved before her spell could hit it. The snake slithered past several members of the Order, turning into different forms at such a speed that Hermione had trouble catching what they were. But she did notice that the most frequent shape assumed by the Boggart was a corpse that looked slightly different for each witch or wizard.

But when it reached Arthur Weasley, something very peculiar happened. The Boggart turned into a copy of the Daily Prophet that hovered in the air in front of his face.

The Weasley patriarch stared at it for a second and paled drastically. "No, no, no! R - Riddikulus!" But nothing happened.

Hermione wished she could see what was on the front page that scared Weasley so much. She was sure she would find it highly amusing. But she knew better than to approach the Boggart.

Arthur's wand fell out of his hand and clattered to the floor. His horrified eyes were fixed on the paper as though he could not tear them away. "No - just a Boggart - no ..." he whispered in a trembling voice. People around him were staring in bewilderment, wondering what this was all about.

Dumbledore walked forward, something akin to understanding in his eyes. "Riddikulus!" he said firmly.

As soon as the old wizard was within reach of the Boggart, the newspaper disappeared and a dead Harry Potter appeared on the floor instead. Looking nonchalant, Dumbledore waved his wand again, and the Boggart disappeared in a puff of smoke.

"Arthur, what was that?" asked a distressed-looking Molly Weasley.

"Yeah, Dad, why are you scared of a newspaper?" said Ron with his usual tact (or lack thereof).

Arthur gave them a smile of embarrassment. "Never you mind. Being silly ... I'm sorry, Molly. There are much worse things to be afraid of ... and it's not like it would ever happen," he said, sinking into a chair. But Hermione heard him whisper to himself, out of the hearing range of his wife, "Just a Boggart ..."

Glancing around the rectangular room from her place in the back of the crowd, well out of reach of the Boggarts, Hermione found it impossible to determine how many Boggarts had emerged from the crate brought by Mundungus, but it was obvious that most of them had been banished. A few people were still struggling with one, but the majority were recovering from the ordeal. Professor McGonagall, who seemed to have succeeded in putting the giant snake out of her mind, was now standing in front of a cowering Mundungus. Her beady eyes were flashing and her mouth was set in a thin line.

"Did you even bother checking what was in that - that thing before bringing it here?" she screeched, looking livid. "It could have been a bunch of poisonous snakes for all you knew!"

Hermione moved towards the door as quietly as she could. She was worried. There were still several Boggarts left, including the particularly evasive one that had attacked Lupin, McGonagall, and Mr Weasley in turns, and if one of the Boggarts got close enough to her ... she feared it would turn into something that would reveal too much to the onlookers - and she could not perform a Memory Charm on such a large group.

People with secrets should not face Boggarts in public.

Hermione's worst fear had always been failure. But there were different kinds of failure ...

At Hogwarts, it had been failing her exams and being expelled. When she had had to face a Boggart during Auror training, it had been failing all her examinations. Later, on a raid in her first year as an Auror, a Boggart had turned into Fudge telling her she was sacked.

But now? Losing her job wasn't her worst fear anymore. She had more important things to worry about.

If it wasn't professional failure ... then what was it? Probably another kind of failure ...

Maybe ... failure as in failing to protect the ones you love? She thought of Mrs Weasley fighting the Boggart as it turned into the corpses of those she cared about ... her worst fear ... those she cared about ...

Oh!

She paled. This could blow her cover!

Hermione edged away from the crowd and the Boggarts as noiselessly as possible. She opened the door and crept through it, rapidly slamming it shut behind her.

But not quickly enough, she realised as she heard a crack behind her. One of the creatures, in its invisible form, must have followed her into the hallway.

At least I won't have to face it in front of them, she thought. She was sure she could overcome it, even though she had had some difficulty in her third year at Hogwarts. The Boggart form of Professor McGonagall telling her that she was expelled from the wizarding world had scared the brains out of her, but she had still managed to banish it in the end.

She could deal with it.

Hermione pulled out her wand and turned around determinedly. She had an idea of what - who - she would be facing, and she was not mistaken.

The Boggart had assumed the appearance of a familiar tall, pale wizard with shiny blond hair, who glared down at her mockingly, sneering. "You are nothing but a filthy Mudblood. Did you ever believe otherwise? Did you think I believed otherwise? Then you are very much misguided."

She backed away slowly, momentarily forgetting about the wand in her hand.

"No. You are not real," she whispered. She could feel tears forming in her eyes.

The Boggart, ignoring her words, chuckled coldly.

"Did you really think I cared about you?" He laughed derisively. "Stupid girl. You are nothing to me -"

Not real ... just a Boggart, she told herself, raising the wand in her shaking hand.

"- and you always were. You have indeed been a convenient devotee, but now that you have fulfilled your purposes ... I never want to see you again, as you are but an annoyance to me. Did you really believe you could please me? Naïve girl. You are just an ugly little Mudblood -"

Hermione was suddenly aware of the tears streaming down her cheeks. "No! R - r - Riddikulus!"

Crack.

Lucius morphed into a tall, thin, hooded figure with gleaming red eyes. Voldemort.

For some reason, Hermione found this form of the Boggart less frightening than the previous one. And she wondered why the spell wasn't working. Why did she have multiple fears? Most people feared one thing over all others, and rare were those who had several 'worst' fears that frightened them to an equal degree. The only other she knew was Mrs Weasley.

The Dark Lord - no, the Boggart posing as the Dark Lord - fixed his pitiless glare on Hermione. "You are not loyal to me," he hissed, his high, cold voice pulsing with anger. "But know this, Granger: no one challenges the noble line of Slytherin. I have no need for furtive servants who conspire against me behind my back ... I don't tolerate mutiny within the Dark Order ... the Dark side will not be divided. I killed him, and now, I kill you."

Voldemort slowly raised his wand ...

"Riddikulus!" shouted Hermione.

Crack.

The Dark Lord's black robes turned red with golden stars on them, the red eyes turned a piercing blue, and he grew white hair and a long white beard. It was Albus Dumbledore, cold fury etched in his lined face, his wand out and aimed at Hermione.

"It will never happen," said Dumbledore quietly but firmly. "You, Miss Granger, will make sure it never does." The ancient wizard smiled grimly at her. "Imperio!"

Hermione froze in horror. She had read that Boggarts did not just look like the thing you feared most - they became it. Thus, when Harry faced a Boggart, the Boggart literally became a Dementor, with all the creature's powers and abilities. That was why the Boggart posing as a Dementor had the effect of making Harry hear his parents' dying screams. Hence, if a Boggart were to turn into Lord Voldemort - like this one had done mere seconds ago - and cast the killing curse, the curse would work as if Voldemort himself had done it.

Technically, a Boggart possessed all the powers of the person or thing it was impersonating.

And - Hermione realised this in the split-second before the spell took effect, as she stood petrified with shock - when the Boggart pretending to be Dumbledore cast the Imperius Curse on her, it would be as effective as a spell cast by the real Dumbledore. It would work ... like a normal Imperius Curse cast by a powerful wizard.

And since Hermione, unlike Harry, had never had the innate ability to fight the Imperius, nor had she ever been trained to do it ... if it was even possible to learn, which Hermione wasn't sure it was - the capacity of resisting a mind controlling spell seemed to be a natural faculty, but it was not unheard that a person, if pushed far enough, could eventually learn to withstand the spell ... she wondered, for a moment, if Dumbledore would really do such a thing. Of course he would, she thought, you know what he is capable of - what he has done.

Her thoughts were interrupted briskly as she felt a dreamy haze settle over her brain. She felt so peaceful ... there was nothing to worry about ... she was calm, she was happy, and she didn't care ...

Kill him, said Dumbledore's voice in her head.

Under the effect of the spell, Hermione turned and walked towards the door ... she went to leave the room, pulling out her wand already, preparing to Apparate, her mind empty of thought or emotion ...

And then something awoke in the back of her head, something she had not felt during the previous times she had been subjected to the Imperius.

No, I will not, said a voice in her mind, a voice that sounded much like her own. I will never.

It was the first time Hermione had managed to fight the Imperius Curse. If pushed far enough ... yes, she had finally learnt to defend against the spell.

Kill him ...

I will not.

But - just like Harry - she could not fully fight off it on the first try. She had just learnt to resist the spell's compulsion to some degree, but she could not fend it off completely. After some practice, she would probably be able to throw it off entirely, but for now, for the first time, she could not. She couldn't resist the order itself, but she could interpret it differently.

Kill him ...

Never.

She could not fight the 'kill' part, and if she did not have another target, she would probably have pointed her wand at herself. But luckily she did have a convenient target right here ...

Hermione aimed her wand at the creature that looked like Dumbledore.

"Avada Kedavra!" she shouted.

A green flash surged from her wand; Dumbledore's image dissipated into thin air, and the dreamy fog in Hermione's mind disappeared with it. She had wondered, once, what effect an Unforgivable Curse would have if cast on a Boggart. Now she knew. The Boggart simply disintegrated, leaving no trace that it had ever existed.

Breathing heavily, Hermione wiped beads of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. At least I can resist the Imperius now ... might prove useful in the future, she thought. But if she were to look into a mirror, she would have realised she was pale as a ghost.

"Hello there, Granger," said a low, growling voice. Hermione whirled around, her wand raised, to face the person standing in the open doorway. It was Mad-Eye Moody.

The disfigured, grizzly-haired ex-Auror was standing by the door - which, Hermione recalled clearly, had been firmly closed a mere moment earlier. His wooden leg clanked on the floor as he limped towards her, both of his eyes fixed on her with a frightening intensity. Hermione found herself facing the wizard who, in his days as an Auror, had managed to instil fear in all who considered themselves part of the Dark Order.

Alastor Moody, who could see through walls ... he had probably watched her plight with the Boggart from the beginning ...

Hermione paled even more, her grip on her wand tightening.

"H - how nice to see you, Mad-Eye. How long have you been ... standing there?" How long have you been watching me with that blasted eye?

"Long enough," growled Moody, whose magical eye spun in its orbit until it settled, finally, on Hermione's left sleeve. "Filth," he sneered, looking at her with an expression of great distaste. "Deserter. Spy. For one of the Aurors to turn on their own ... I have rarely heard of a viler, more despicable act. It's for filth like you that the Dementors exist -"

"Fool," spat Hermione. "The Dementors would never harm one of the Dark Lord's followers. Obliviate!"

Mad-Eye's wand appeared in the blink of an eye, deflecting the spell back at Hermione, who ducked to avoid being hit by her own Memory Charm. The almost transparent gush of white light flew over her head and smashed into a wall.

"Oh no you don't! Don't think you can do away with me so easily, Granger," Moody said quietly. "A lot of filth like you has met a most unfortunate end at my hands ... no less than they deserved, too. No less than you deserve, you lying, traitorous piece of dirt. Stupefy!"

"Protego!" By the time Hermione finished saying the word, Moody had already sent a barrage of other spells at her. The old Auror was quick, she had to admit, and it would be difficult to overcome him in a duel. Unless she tricked him using his weaknesses ... Be a Slytherin, Hermione, she thought as she jumped out of the way of the multi-coloured jets of light flying from Moody's wand. She had to distract him so that she could cast the one spell she knew Moody could not defend himself against - unless he dodged it. And she had to make sure he didn't see it coming, so that he would not have the chance.

Moody's weakness ... it was also her own. Or it had been, until a mere minute ago ... for a moment, she had thought it would be her undoing. However, the terrifying experience would not stop her from using that spell on her opponent. She had nothing against the Imperius Curse - as long as she was the one casting it.

"Petrificus Totalus!" yelled Hermione. The ex-Auror blocked it, just as she expected, and she sent a stream of spells at him without pausing to breathe. "Stupefy! Impedimenta! Accio magical eyeball!"

Mad-Eye blocked the first one with a shield, ducked out of the way to avoid the second, but was caught off-guard by the third. His magical eye popped out of its place and flew in Hermione's direction; she used her wand to drive it away, repelling the object, which fell to the floor and rolled across the room, spinning in all directions -

An angry Moody rushed after it, chasing the eyeball around the room, his attention momentarily diverted from Hermione. She wasted no time and shouted the only spell the experienced old Auror could not fight. Moody's only weakness. "Imperio!"

The ex-Auror froze, and Hermione felt a connection form in her mind. She felt control, and she knew she could speak to her victim by directing her thoughts at him. 'Go back to the meeting room and act as if nothing happened,' she said firmly in her mind. 'Tell no one what you have seen or found out. Tell no one of our duel. Tell no one about this. Do nothing that could give them reason to suspect me.'

Moody obeyed the instructions, a blank look in his eyes. But Hermione was not going to rely on the spell for long. The ex-Auror could learn to resist it any second, just like she had ... but it would have looked suspicious if he did not return to the kitchen where everyone, including Dumbledore, was still gathered. No, she was going to wait until the end of the meeting, then instruct him to Apparate to an isolated place - a forest, for instance - where she would follow him and deal with him properly, like the Death Eater that she was.

*

Hermione stayed at the meeting until the very end and was one of the last to leave. It was about time she upheld appearances, she had realised, and now she and Harry were best friends again (or so everyone thought).

She had also talked to Ginny, trying to talk her out of her depressed condition, much to the tearful gratitude of Mrs Weasley. She still did not speak to Ron, but that wasn't anything unusual - back in their time at Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione used to have violent rows after which they didn't so much as even look at each other for days and sometimes weeks.

Mad-Eye took less than five minutes to deal with, everything going as planned. They would find his body with the Dark Mark shining green in the sky above, and no one would be able to trace the murder back to her.

And now, Hermione was finally back at her house, where she hadn't set foot for days, and she could not put her experience with the Boggart out of her mind.

Her worst fears ... the last two involved his death, and the first one ... the first one was rejection. It was understandable that she feared being rejected by him above all else, because if he rejected her, she had nowhere to go. She had left everything behind, she had betrayed everyone because of him ... everything and everyone she used to care about ... she had renounced her old goals, her dreams, her values ... she had left her old life behind, to become what he wanted her to be.

He had become her life ... she had nothing else left. And if he decided he no longer wanted anything to do with her ... she did not know what she would do. She would have nothing to fight for, nothing to do ... except to die, perhaps?

A drawling voice cut through her thoughts. "Now what is the cause of your despond this time, Hermione?"

Not for the first time, he had somehow entered her house without making any noise, not even the conventional crack of Apparition. It made her wonder whether his usual noisy Apparition was deliberate, if he could perhaps do it soundlessly, like Voldemort and Dumbledore ...

"Some idiotic crook decided to set a couple of Boggarts loose at the Order meeting," she said shortly.

"I see," said Lucius. "Dumbledore must be even more senile than I thought, if he let a thief into his crowd ..."

"Oh, he has a whole assortment of odd creatures in his little group," Hermione said offhandedly, glad for the change of topics. "A werewolf, a half-giant, a squib ..."

"No vampires?" he hinted with a smirk.

"I don't think he succeeded in turning one of them to his side, though I would not be surprised if he tried. You know, he even sent emissaries to the giants," she said with all the incredulity she had felt when she had first been told about Hagrid's mission for the Order, in her fifth year at Hogwarts.

"So I have heard," he drawled. "You faced a Boggart. Were there any - ah - witnesses?"

"Only one - Moody the Auror. I ... got rid of him."

"Good. The paranoid fool was something of a nuisance with that eye of his ... what shape did the Boggart assume?" he asked all of a sudden.

Hermione looked away, silent. Lucius placed a finger under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Answer me," he commanded.

She looked up, her eyes so frank and forthright, more like the innocent girl she had once been rather than the Dark witch she had become. "You."

He stared at her for a second, then shook his head in exasperation. "How easily you forget, Hermione, though I distinctly remember reassuring you on the matter ... but as a Boggart is all it takes to make you overlook everything I have said in the last few months ..."

He gave her a long, searching look. "Perhaps ... if you want ... would you like a more - tangible - reminder? One that would never come off, similar to the Dark Mark ... a sign burnt into your skin, to remind you that you and I are bound together, through struggle and harmony, forever and until the end of time ... to remind you that you belong to me ..."

"Do it," she said suddenly, surprising both of them.

In truth, he had never done this before. But he knew how; he had managed to coax the Dark Lord into explaining the way the spell worked, and he had experimented with it when he had nothing better to do ...

"This will hurt ... much," he warned her. "Not as much as the Dark Mark did, obviously, but still ... I ask once again, are you certain?"

"Just do it, Lucius. Please."

He hesitated for a second, trying to hold his instincts at bay. She was begging him for something that felt worse than the Cruciatus Curse ... and it was so tempting ... oh, how he wanted to do it ... And then he felt it. Power. Something called to him, his blood tingled, itching to do this, and he could hold back no longer. His self-control was gone, and yet, he had never felt more in control. This was what he was behind the mask.

His true self took over, the masks and restrictions he had placed upon himself in the Dark Lord's service torn to shreds. In a fluid motion, he pulled out his wand and touched the tip to the delicate skin on Hermione's forearm. She shuddered visibly. His hand closed around her wrist, holding her arm in place.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, preparing herself for the pain. And it burnt. He spoke no incantation, but the wand pressed to her skin grew hot, unbearably hot, and she tried to jerk back, so much it hurt ... she tried to wrench her arm away, but was held in place by a hard, unyielding grip. Tears formed in her eyes and trickled down her cheeks. This was worse than the Cruciatus Curse, worse than when Voldemort had imprinted his mark into her skin ... Hermione screamed.

It was over before she knew it; the pain ebbed away, leaving behind only a faint itch. She looked up at the man who had done this to her. His grey eyes were gleaming with power, and Hermione shivered, realising that she had fallen to her knees on the floor of the lounge. She tried shakily to stand up, but something stopped her from doing so. An instinctive knowledge that this was how it was meant to be. Hermione dismissed the peculiar impression, focusing instead on the brand that stood out clearly against her pale skin.

She had expected this to hurt; she had been warned. Only it was much more painful than when she had gotten the Dark Mark. And he did not even speak the spell out loud. Oh dear ...

Hermione looked at the symbol that had appeared on her skin. Much more detailed than the Dark Mark, more vivid too ... it was a diminutive image of the Malfoy crest, a dagger pointed upwards, surrounded by two snakes intertwined, with a crown above ... only this one was different. There was something else in the design, something that had not been on the representations of the Malfoy crest she had seen so far. There was the moon on one side and the sun on the other ...

"It looks different ... the sun and the moon, they weren't on the tapestry ..." she remarked. Lucius looked down at her from where he sat, and she knew he was pleased by her reaction of academic curiosity, by the fact that she did not complain, that she made no mention of the pain she had just endured.

She looked so desirable like that, kneeling at his feet, her eyes were brimming with tears, droplets of crystal clinging to her eyelashes ... so vulnerable ... and completely at his mercy. If he concentrated on it, he could feel the emotions she was experiencing, through the link that had been created between them, and he knew he could also send her flashes of his own mood if he wished.

He brushed her tears away with his hand and drew her in for a kiss. Gentle yet passionate, it lasted for a few moments, after which he let her fall back upon the ground.

He made no move to help her out of her position on the floor. He answered her earlier comment speaking as though there was nothing unusual about the situation:

"This is more than a mere representation of the Malfoy family crest. This is my personal shield. Every member of the line has one, constituted of the family crest, plus a distinguishing feature, different for each one of us. Draco's is - obviously - a dragon. Narcissa does not have one, as she is not of Malfoy blood. My father's, as I remember, was a sceptre. And mine is, well ... you can see ..."

"The sun and the moon ... what do they signify?" asked Hermione. "What's the meaning?"

"Think, Hermione ... what is the role of those two planets?" he questioned. "What do they have in common?"

"The sun ... the sun sheds light upon the earth during the day ... and the moon shines down on us at night. That's their role ... to give us light."

"Exactly. That is indeed what they symbolise - the light. Not necessarily in the word's literal sense ... but as you can see, it is my personal mark. The light. It is my name. The Light of Dark Faith. Quite paradoxical, is it not?"

"Depends on the way you look at it, I suppose ..." said Hermione, wincing as the brand gave a particularly sharp tingle.

He extended a hand and touched the tattoo, which was an angry red colour, like the Dark Mark, only somewhat brighter. At the touch of his hand, the image turned jet-black, and it stopped burning. His touch had a cooling effect on it, and as if by magic, the pain disappeared completely. Satisfied, he withdrew his hand, leaving Hermione to wonder how he knew she no longer felt the throbbing sensation that had been there a moment earlier.

"It has all the functions of the Dark Mark. It will enable you to locate me regardless of where I am. It also gives me the power to call you to me at any hour of day or night ... when you will feel it burn, all you have to do is to place your palm on it, and you will appear immediately by my side. Naturally, it will not function if either of us is in an Anti-Apparition zone, nor will I call on you during your duty hours."

Hermione contemplated his words for a moment. "That is convenient, my Lord," she said at last, smirking. "By the way, I would say it looks a lot more ... stately ... than that thing," she gestured to the mark on her other arm.

"Clearly ... though I would advise against repeating what you just said in our master's presence. He might not appreciate the - ah - competition."

"Of course ... but I have to tell you this," she took a deep breath. "It hurt much more than the Dark Lord's mark, Lucius ... you must remember, I did not scream at the initiation ..."

Draw the conclusion ...

There was a sudden spark of triumph in his cold grey eyes, though it lasted less than a second, leaving Hermione to wonder whether she had imagined it.

"Are you saying ..." he started slowly.

"I am saying that you are more powerful than our half-blood master," she said boldly. "Think about it ... the Dark Lord gained most of his power through Dark rituals he has performed on himself. All these experiments ... to gain immortality, yes, but also to increase his magical power. But his power level did not exceed yours to start with ... in fact, this proves that you surpass him in natural power, since most of his legendary power is not his by nature, but borrowed through those Dark transformations ..."

"And how did you come to that conclusion, Hermione?"

She tilted her head to the side, gazing up at him candidly. "Logic, my Lord. Nothing but logic."

Smiling triumphantly, he stood and pulled Hermione to her feet. His arms snaked around her slim waist, and soon enough, he was kissing her again, the cold night outside quite forgotten.

His hand crept over to where his mark was carved in the flesh of her arm, hidden under her sleeve. Hermione let out a quiet gasp.

"Do bear in mind that if you ever betray me ..." His voice was menacingly soft as he snarled in her ear, "I will kill you."

"I know," she said simply. "Believe me, I know."

*

Hermione approached her desk, on which were neat stacks of books, a dozen quills and bottles of ink of all imaginable colours, along with a well-ordered pile of parchment.

And then she noticed a black spot on one of the scrolls. It seemed to be ... moving? What on earth ...?

It took Hermione a few seconds to grasp what she was seeing and to recognise the thing crawling through her papers. When she did, her eyebrows shot up in shock and she let out a shout of anger. "Argh!"

"What's the matter, Hermione?" Lucius drawled, walking over to stand beside her. When he caught sight of the insect on the desk, he paused.

"Well, well, well," he said maliciously, while casually wrapping an arm around the Auror's waist, "it appears that our favourite reporter has gotten herself into something of a tight hole ..."

The thing scurried towards the open window, trying to get away. Hermione hastily shut the window, shuddering at the very idea of the disaster the snooping Animagus would cause if it were to escape right now.

The unregistered Animagus would be elated to finally get revenge on the 'Miss Perfect' who had blackmailed her. In fact, Hermione was sure its insect heart had to be bursting from excitement right now. And she could already imagine the headlines in Witch Weekly magazine. It would be something along the lines of Muggle-born Auror and You-Know-Who's Right-Hand Man: A Ghastly Affair. Hermione chuckled quietly. As if she would ever let that happen.

"Oh no, you don't," Hermione snarled in an unintentional - and quite scary - imitation of Moody, drawing her wand. "Impedimenta!"

The beetle froze, the peculiar markings around its eyes standing out clearly when it wasn't moving. Markings that resembled winged glasses ...

Hermione, who had her wand pointed firmly at the nosy little creature, grinned nastily. A flash of pale blue light shot out of the tip of her wand and hit the creepy-crawly. It rose into the air, writhing and twisting in all directions - another jet of light, white this time, surged from Hermione's wand, and suddenly, the beetle was growing in size at an alarming speed. In a second, there was no sign of the insect that had been there a moment earlier.

In its place stood a woman dressed in a hideous raincoat over her acid-green robes, her hands clenched around a crocodile-skin handbag. Her hair was styled in neat curls and she was wearing winged spectacles incrusted with jewels. But the most striking detail was that she looked as though she was about to faint, judging by the sickly greenish colour of her face. Her eyes were bulging and her jaw was hanging open.

Hermione, whose wand was aimed directly at the reporter's heart, glanced over at her lover, only to find a cold smile on his face. She could sense his amusement, and it caused her worries to diminish. Then she wondered how she could possibly feel his emotions. A tingling sensation on her right forearm gave her the answer, and only then did she realise that the connection forged between them by that particular spell was much deeper than she had originally thought.

"Ah, Skeeter."