Perished Dreams

Perished Dreams - Chapter Five

The Angel of Light

Chapter Five: The Angel of Light

The merry fire in the hearth made the shadows that lurked in the corners dance. It also illuminated the near sleeping form of a woman who, resting her head in her hands, sat by an antique vanity. The reflection of silver hair and beautiful features would encounter her from the frame of the ornate mirror if she were to open her eyes. However, her long eyelashes remained fanned on her porcelain skin.

Therefore she did not notice that the door connecting her bedroom to another, a door she of course was forbidden to lock, opened soundlessly and a man, whose presence even affected the shades to go from carefree playing into a dance macabre, entered.

Sensing that she was not alone, she said in a low, tired voice, "Would you mind brushing my hair while I sit like this, Blinky? I'm afraid I don't have the strength to even sit straight tonight."

For a moment there was no response, then she felt someone starting to take out the pins of her hair. It was done in a slightly clumsier manner than usual, but she assumed that this had to do with the house-elf feeling the same exhaustion as herself.

For a while she was simply silent, without moving enjoying the sensation of the brush sliding through her hair. Undone it reached past her hips, and she remembered that someone she had once known had said that it reminded him of rays of moonlight. "Oh?" one his friends had replied, his grey eyes alight with mischief, "I never knew that it was the hair that was supposed to awake the wild animal in you, mate." Her friend had blushed, looked nervous, and murderous, all at once.

She smiled a little bitterly. "Looked murderous." How strange that such a phrase could completely change content over the years...

"You know," she said sleepily, as the person behind her started braiding her hair, "when I was younger I used to have complexes about my hair. I always thought it colourless. Not anything like..." she hesitated, speaking that name in Malfoy Manor, even if it were just to Blinky, did not strike her as a particularly good idea.

"Well," she said quickly, to cover up what would have been an awkward pause, "what do you think?" She smiled into her hands, knowing full well that the house-elf would merely respond with a prim, "What I means mattern't. It is Master you is to please!" Blinky's entire life was dedicated to pleasing Master, and she never let any opportunity pass by without encouraging her mistress to do the same. Probably because she had heard ghastly tales about what had happened to Malfoy wives who had not managed this essential task. Although the tiny creature strongly disapproved of the dangerous intrigues Narcissa sometimes involved herself in (once she had bought herself new dress robes without asking Lucius' permission first), she was very devoted to Narcissa, and had committed her life to mould her into being the personification of Master's desires.

Without much luck, Narcissa thought, smiling dryly.

"Actually, I've always found it very beautiful..." By the sound of the low, amused voice, Narcissa quickly turned around, knocking a couple of jars and a book over in the process. "Sire!" she gasped, the shock making her fall back into calling him what he ordered her to do so long ago. "Lucius, what are you doing here?"

He shrugged, "Surely I am authorised to be in my wife's bedroom?" His tone of voice was not really sarcastic, but Narcissa assumed it a reprimand, and immediately said anxiously and apologetically, "Of course you are. I was just surprised. I thought you were Blinky, and when I heard your voice, I..." she went silent, realising that she was both rambling and stating the obvious.

Holding her gaze downcast, she did not see that in the flickering, unsteady light of the grate, the shadows darkening her husband's features gave him for a moment almost the look of sadness. Then one of the logs cracked, leaving the room even dimmer than before, and the illusion vanished.

Without giving any reply to her explanation, Lucius laid a hand on her cheek and let one finger trace her lips, before removing it and instead putting it where her neckline started concealing creamy skin. Gently nudging the soft fabric, he asked, "Shall I stay with you tonight?"

Of course they both knew that this enquiry was merely a gesture of politeness. That she would never refuse and what would happen if she did.

She shuddered slightly of anticipation and apprehension. From the moment she saw him standing there it was clear that this was what he had come for. After all, he never visited her chambers for any other reason. And it had been such a long time. The Dark Lord took up nearly all of his time and energy. And so, of course, did his newest mistress... As she opened her mouth to answer, she stubbornly pushed the thoughts of his other women away. Now, tonight, at least, it was her that he wanted.

He felt how she nearly imperceptibly flinched, and, before she could utter her obligatory, "If you like, dear," sighed inwardly and said, "No, not tonight. I had nearly forgotten that I have to be up early tomorrow. There's a huge conference." If he hadn't known better he could have sworn that he heard her mutter something bitterly under her breath that sounded oddly alike: "Yes, of course, keeping the world in terror isn't just women, booze and all-around fun." Slightly worried that he might have developed some kind of hearing defect, he lowered his head and kissed her. It was rougher than it would have been if he indeed had stayed over the night, as if he wanted to brand her, put his mark on her forever as a reminder that she was his.

As he turned away with a "Sleep well, Narcissa," the door closing soundlessly behind him, he did not see his wife sinking back onto the stool, a heartbroken expression on her face.

Once inside his own room, he leaned against the door, wondering for the hundredth time why he simply did not take what he wanted without regard to her wishes. After all, she was his. A possession or a belonging like everything else in the house. His to use or abuse as he chose. As anger intermingled with his other feelings, his more carnal instincts defeated his valiant ones. He opened the door with more force than necessary, slamming it shut once he was through it. Now that bloody house-elf was there. All he needed to do rid himself of that was to snarl, "Out!" Lucius never shouted, he despised any displays of emotion. Besides, he never had to. In his world he was omnipotent; his word was law.

The house-elf gave a frightened squeak and with a fearful, compassionate look at her mistress she disappeared. It had often puzzled him that these creatures were seemingly able to vanish or materialise where they wanted to, when no one else, even the Dark Lord, was able to either Disapparate or Apparate on these grounds. Now, however, such philosophical musing was far from his mind.

Narcissa looked as if she wanted nothing more than to follow Blinky's example, but aware of her duties, she stayed put. For her there was no escape.

As he approached her, she slightly recoiled. Taking this as an indication of aversion, his eyes darkened dangerously. He grabbed her shoulders, and as his silvery black met her blue, he felt her trembling in fear. So, you are still afraid of me, my Narcissa... Gentler now, he brought his lips down on hers and felt her unwillingly respond as he awoke the reaction in her it seemed that he was always capable of.

Both caught in the same surge of passion, Narcissa laid her arms around his neck as a wordless acceptance as he lifted her up and carried her to the large four-poster.

Afterwards, he lay silently, clutching her sleeping body in his arms, feeling the familiar mixture of peace and self-contempt. As he tenderly brushed a lock of the hair he always secretly adored off her forehead, he promised himself that the next time he would not be as weak as to fall for the temptation to compel her into complying. At least, he owed her that...

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At that very moment a piercing scream rose in the Manor...

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Hermione enjoyed the feeling of Harry's skin against hers. Her mouth met his in a nearly bruising wave of passion. She could feel one of his hands slip under her nightgown, touching the soft skin. His lips suddenly disconnected from hers and his tongue instead started making warm patterns on her breast, before taking a nipple in his mouth, gently playing with it, sending the most pleasurable sensations through her. She winded her fingers through his blond hair, and... His blond hair? His blond hair?

"Aaargh," yelled Hermione.

"Woken yet?" said Malfoy, grinning in a guilty sort of manner.

Without hesitation, without thinking about all the stories she had heard about him, what he could do, and that she was completely in his power, Hermione reached out and slapped him of all her might.

Except from the very distinct handprint that showed itself on his left cheek, he looked unperturbed. "You know, Granger, I'm not really into that sort of thing. But if you insist, we do have some nice chains down in the dungeons..."

Hermione spluttered. "You bastard!"

"If you take a good look at my father and compare, you would find that that is most unlikely."

"Yes, you're right, you being his son does make more sense. Since you're both heartless, evil, unscrupulous sons of bitches!"

"Can't we at least keep my grandmother out of this? I mean, one thing is my mother, although I must say that I've never quite understood what people have against her. I've always found her quite an agreeable person. But my grandmother? Honestly, the poor woman died before I was even born."

Suddenly noticing the disarray her nightgown was in, Hermione quickly adjusted it. Since the negligee was intentionally made to reveal rather than to conceal, it did not make that much of a difference. "I can't even find words to describe what I think of you!" she hissed fuming

"I'm sure you'll manage if you try long enough."

Embarrassed by her lack of proper garments, their previous activities, and irritated over his refusal to regard her upset emotions with respect, it vexed Hermione greatly that he could be so calm. She felt, as so many do when they are angry, the want to make him as enraged as she was. Or at least wipe that smug smirk off his face. Without the hesitation of a thought to whether or not this was actually such a good idea, she made to hit him again. But this time he was prepared and easily caught both the arm heading for him and the one with which she tried to liberate herself. Despite her desperate struggle he held her effortlessly, one of his hands firmly clasped around each of her wrists.

As she realised that her battling was in vain, Hermione suddenly became painfully aware of the fact that they both had very little clothes on, and that the manner in which they were standing gave him every opportunity to enjoy the view. And indeed he appeared to be a very appreciative spectator... As her insides turned to ice, Mrs. Malfoy's words from previously that evening echoed in her ears.

This might not be what he had intended when he first brought her to the Manor. But at some point he had apparently decided to draw advantage of the vulnerable position she was in. Probably around the time she had thrown herself all over him, if she remembered her 'dream' correctly, she thought, a burning feeling of shame in her stomach.

Draco knew nothing of the frantic thoughts that went through Hermione's mind. He only noticed that the emotions that always displayed themselves so clearly in Hermione's dark chocolaty eyes, underwent a sudden change from that of pure fury to terror. The surprise was all the greater when one her little feet landed firmly on his.

Although it did not hurt much (he thought, clutching the ill-fated limb while jumping around on one leg) the astonishment made his grip loosen and before one could say "Ooooooooooooowww" in a really loud and screeching voice, Hermione had retreated to the other end of the room.

Frenetically she looked around for a weapon, a huge candlestick, a heavy ornament, anything that could be used for protection. The only thing within her reach was a decanter, which regrettably was more decorative than helpful for defence. She doubted very strongly that she would be able knock Malfoy unconscious with that. Of course, she could break it, wait until he came up close and stab him with it, but for some inexplicable reason this idea did not appeal to her.

Soothingly she said to herself that this was only because she would not fancy a full demonstration of the use of the torture instruments in the Malfoy collection, some of which she had caught a glimpse of tonight laying in glass cases for display. She felt no desire for a closer acquaintance

Done dancing his very original version of the bolero, Draco was now closing in on her looking more threatening than the time Ron accidentally turned his new Firebolt into a newt.

Without hesitation, she grabbed the carafe and crushed it against the table. It brought him to a halt, but only so he could remove his wand from his robes. Shaking his head patronizingly, he said, "Granger, you don't seriously believe that that will stop me, do you?"

Hermione swallowed hard, but nevertheless she resolutely lifted the flask so that one of its sharp edges was pointed to her throat, at the exact spot where a vein at this very moment was throbbing fretfully...

Draco stood dead still. As if he believed that any movement could provoke her into doing what he so desperately wanted her not to. "Granger," he said warningly, but with a startle Hermione realised that there was a note of fear in his voice, "if this is some way to try to blackmail me into letting you go, it's not going to work. Besides, we both know that you wouldn't go through with it." He took a testing step in her direction. Hermione immediately pressed the razor-sharp piece of glass against her skin, and a single drop of blood trickled forth.

"Don't come any nearer, Malfoy. I mean it. Back away." She stared at him, scared but determined.

Creasing his eyebrows, Draco said astonished, "Is that what this is about? You're so afraid that I might kill you that you decided to do it yourself?"

"I'm not afraid that you might kill me," Hermione said between gritted teeth, annoyed that he apparently thought her both incapable of making rational decisions and stupid. She might not have been the Prom Queen (mainly because they didn't have proms at Hogwarts), but she certainly had had her share of admirers. And she had a whole stock of old Witch Weekly magazines presenting her as a 'scarlet woman' to prove it...She could recognise a lusty stare when she saw one. If you could take an O.W.L in recognising lusty stares, she would have obtained it. As she had the others. A light smile brushed her lips as she recalled Ron's shocked voice, "You got thirty O.W.L's? But there aren't even that many subjects!"

"Good." Draco bore the relieved expression of when he had found out that the newt was not his Firebolt, but Goyle. "I might not be the nicest guy and all," Hermione's look told him that he was not exaggerating, "but I don't have the tendency of murdering people for treading on my foot." At least not attractive young women, he mentally added. "Even if they do squash my pinky toe." This came out as an indignant mumble.

Hermione couldn't help start giggling.

Draco looked slightly hurt. "It's not funny. One's pinky toe is a very sensitive area, you know. I would like to see how you would cope with having something really hard thrashed down on it."

This of course only made Hermione laugh harder. Her merriment made her careless, and the decanter slipped away from its goal. In the blink of an eye - or the time it takes to say Expelliarmus - her only means for protection was in the hand of the triumphant Draco.

Hermione backed away from him, pressing herself against the wall, as if hoping that by some miracle it would give in or shield her from him.

Draco stared at the little shivering figure in front of him and asked uncertainly, "You're not going to start crying again?"

Opening her tightly shut eyes she snapped, "No! And besides," she added as an afterthought, I wasn't crying."

Draco lifted his eyes heavenward. "But why are you acting so strangely?"

She looked accusingly at him. "You too would have been behaving 'strangely' if you were about to be horridly violated."

"Horridly vio...? Oh." He stayed silent for a moment. "I seem to recall that I told you that I didn't have any interest in you that way?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, "but that was before I found you in my bed with your hands all over me." And not only his hands, she thought, blushing fervently.

He seemed to be reminiscing too, judging by his misty expression, "Granger, you were the one who came on to me, remember?"

"I was asleep! As a matter of fact, I would rather die than share any kind of intimacy with you!" She glared at him, while waiting for him to say 'That can be arranged.'

"That can be arranged."

Dark Arts people were so predictable.

"However," he continued, "there will be no death or any 'fate worse than death.'" Looking at her with an unreadable gaze, he said, unusually sincere, "I would never hurt you, Hermione." Then, recollecting everything that had happened the last 24 hours, he added "At least not like that." He walked over to her and laid his hand on her cheek. "From now on your happiness will be my responsibility. And I have always taken that very seriously."

Hermione had opened her mouth to reply that all you had to do to realise that, was to look at how he had cheated in Quidditch, but then she frowned wonderingly. Her happiness his responsibility? What in the name of God did he mean by that? She was about to voice her question when he said with great impact, "You see, Granger, we are going to marry."