Perished Dreams

Perished Dreams - Chapter Seven

The Stars

Chapter Seven: The Stars

The piercing scream penetrated the walls of the bedroom, and the canopies of the giant four-poster where Narcissa lay nestled comfortably in Lucius arms. With a startle her forget-me-not blue eyes flew open. "What was that?" she whispered, as if believing that speaking louder could attract the attention of whatever it was that had made the horrid noise.

"I don't know." Lucius was annoyed that they had been interrupted. It was only on rare occasion he could hold her like this, enjoy the feeling of her silky hair against his skin, for a moment at least erase all the problems and difficulties that ordinarily troubled his mind. "But it did sound as if it came from the part of the castle where you particularly enjoy being, my dear." Of course Lucius would never refer to it as 'Narcissa's rooms.' As far as he was concerned, the entire manor and everything in it - including Narcissa herself - was his.

His words brought a shadow of fear to her features. "I'll go see what it is." Hastily she made to climb out of the bed.

"I'll come with you." Without bothering to dress himself properly, Lucius grabbed one of the towels lying by the washstand and tied it around his waist. Luxurious bathrooms had long ago been installed at the Manor, but as in all homes of such a venerable age, the old and the new were constantly intermingling. Despite the somewhat critical situation, Narcissa could not help shooting him an admiring glance. He still looked as he had all those years ago when they first met, she thought. The fire illuminated his lean, muscular...

Lucius turned around and noticed his wife staring at him with a very peculiar expression. Meeting his enquiring gaze, she blushed and quickly looked away. Frowning he wondered if she after 23 years of marriage still were embarrassed to see him not properly dressed.

She bit her lip nervously as he fascinated watched the contrast between her little white teeth and the beautiful rose colour. "There is no need for you to do that, Sire. It is probably only Blinky who is punishing herself. I'll go and ask her to be quieter."

He creased his eyebrows in confusion. "But it has been years since you requested that spell taken off it-her!"

Narcissa raised her chin and answered sternly, "Yes, and I will not have her defying me."

Coughing, Lucius said, "Nevertheless, it is better that I come with you. As you very well know, there are hundreds of mechanisms in the Manor that were constructed to quite efficiently rid it of unwelcome intruders. They are dangerous even by day, but at night they are lethal." He viewed her tenderly, perfectly aware of that she was worried that the house-elf might be harmed in some way, and afraid that if he found it damaged, he would simply disperse of it. However, if the stupid creature was hurt, he was experienced in healing injuries, as well as inflicting them, from being a Death Eater. With a bitter smile he acknowledged the fact that her indifferent tone was entirely for his benefit. Losing Trinky - or whatever it was called - would be hard for her. She had always been such a sentimental little thing.

Narcissa sighed. Her long experience in interpreting Lucius's mood told her that protests would be pointless, if not foolish. Besides, there was no time. It was of crucial importance to find Hermione - and Draco (she closed her eyes in silent pain) - before... something happened. Trembling by the thought of what her husband would do when he discovered that she had kept the presence of Muggleborn in his beloved mansion - and not just any Muggleborn - concealed from him, she absentmindedly pulled a negligee reminiscent of Hermione's over her head. Lucius was not a pronouncedly violent man. At least not to Draco or her. But nor did he tolerate any disobedience or disrespectfulness...

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

The slight intimacy of their hands intertwining caused Hermione to somewhat awkwardly snatch hers away from his. Walking quietly over to the window, she gazed at the stars, marvelling that they were the same that had once shone over the castle of Hogwarts in the nights when she, Ron and Harry had sneaked around the deserted hallways. The same that glittered over the Burrow, where Mrs. Weasley lay awake on her husband's arm, fearing for her youngest son, twinkled merrily above another generation of Marauders, and illuminated an old battlefield, where a 17-year-old boy named Harry Potter slept.

"Did you help kill him?" It was little more than a whisper. The moment the syllables had left her mouth, she regretted them. After all, she was in a situation she was incapable of changing, and the mere thought of being touched by someone who was stained in Harry's blood made her feel ill. Certainty would be obliterating.

For a few seconds Draco remained speechless. He had never expected her to ask him so directly. In fact, he had believed the subject of her childhood friend to be one that would never be discussed between them. In the years after the combat it had often annoyed him he had not been able to participate in the smug git's death. Now he was oddly thankful. Not only because he could answer Hermione's question truthfully, but also because no part of the responsibility for the unendurable grief in her voice was his. "No."

There was no reply, but her shoulders lost some of their rigidity.

Surprised that she was actually willing to believe him without further evidence, the question of why slipped out of him.

Still pondering the mysteries of the eternal and unchangeable night sky, it took a while before she responded with a mere, "Why should you lie?"

Until this moment Draco could have sworn that nothing in her low opinion of him possibly could hurt him anymore. Obviously she thought him so uncaring of her feelings that he would not bother to lie simply to spare her pain.

By the window, Hermione swallowed hard. She had come to what appeared to be the only sensible solution of this situation. Nevertheless the conclusion she had reached gave her the same frosty sensation as eating a Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Ice Cube Bean. Clutching her hands so hard that the nails bore into the flesh, she turned to Draco and said, "Take me as your mistress."

"What?" Draco stuttered.

"Variation, Malfoy, variation." In spite of the anxiety that lay as one of Hagrid's rock cakes in her stomach, Hermione could not help be tempted by this small opportunity for retaliation.

Draco was for the first time in his life having a serious empathy experience and swore solemnly never again to tease Hermione when she was lost for eloquent replies. "You as my mistress?"

She nodded, nervously but resolutely.

"Why? What happened to 'I would rather die than bed you?' And 'I would rather kill myself than bed you?' And 'No fate could be worse than bedding you?' And... I'm really getting depressed now."

Hermione lifted her chin obstinately. "I still think any of those alternatives would have left me better off, yes. But as your mistress, our...relationship would only be temporary. If we marry, it is for life."

"Then why not continue refusing? Not that that would be of any use, of course (she glared at him), but why this sudden change of heart?" Before Hermione could answer, he did it for her. "Weasley..." practically spitting the name out, he wondered if he had been wrong about the guy's sex appeal. Or rather: Wrong about his relationship with Hermione.

Doubting the wisdom in testing the 'you could have had a hundred lovers and I still wouldn't care' thesis, Hermione said hurriedly, "Ron and I are friends, Draco. Nothing else. Haven't you ever had a friend you loved? In a purely platonic manner? One you were willing to do almost anything to protect?" Guess not, she mentally answered her own question. Somehow she couldn't imagine Crabbe and Goyle encouraging to that kind of loyalty.

Without replying to that, Draco calmly took her hands in his. They were cold, as if she had just participated in a snowball fight.

"You are aware of what would be demanded of you as a kept woman, aren't you, Hermione?" She made an affirmative gesture with her head, unwilling to look up. "Even if this had been an ordinary arrangement of that kind, your position would have been most insecure. As it is, you must be considered a female prisoner of war, which means to begin with that any sexual involvement between us would lead to you addressing me as 'Sire.' Never 'Draco', 'Malfoy' or even 'Mr. Malfoy.' If you were to forget that, or in any other way displease me, you would be beaten." His thumb rested on the tender flesh beneath her eye. "Of course, having an excuse wouldn't really be necessary. You wouldn't have any right or opportunity to complain, question my actions, or oppose to anything I might do to you. If you tried to escape, I would find you. And," he stroked her cheek as she shivered, "I can assure you that it would be the last time you attempted that." Letting one hand wander lightly just beneath her neckline, he continued, "It would be your duty to comply whenever I chose. Any reluctance would merely result in a... little demonstration of your obligations. Your personal emotions or wants would, of course, be of no significance. If we were to have a child," he could feel her flinch by the mention of a baby, "I could remove it permanently from your custody if I wanted to, without a word for explanation. Basically, I could treat you as I wished, and for you the only option would be to behave in a manner you believed pleasing to me." He tilted her chin upwards and asked softly, "Do you really prefer that to marriage, Hermione?"

"Yes." Her voice made nearly no sound.

"Very well." Abruptly letting her go, Draco strode over to the four-poster. "Take your nightgown off."

When Hermione did not move to fulfil his request, he repeated coldly, "Take it off. I would like to inspect my newest possession."

He couldn't possibly be serious? She stared at him. The merciless way in which he considered her told her that he definitively was. Her fingers quivered as she let one shoulder-strap slip down her arm. After removing also the other, she clenched the fabric stiffly, before starting to pull it down. But something prevented it from moving.

"You are awfully stubborn, you know that, Granger?" Draco sighed. Easily holding the cloth in place, he kissed her gently on the forehead. It wasn't a sexually laden caress, merely a small indication of affection, "Any other would have yielded almost immediately, but you... Do you ever give up?"

"Was that why you did this, Malfoy? To see whether or not I would 'give up'?" Hermione's eyes glittered dangerously.

"No!" He seemed abhorred. 'I did this to show you how unsuitable you would be for that kind of existence."

"Do you think anyone is fit for that?" She snapped in an anger born out of her previous powerlessness and desperation.

"No," he said silently, "which is why I chose, a decision I still maintain, to take you as my wife instead."

"But we can't marry! Apart from us, think about what people are going to say!" This did not seem to concern him. "Your father, for instance." She begged that the notion of Lucius Malfoy's possible wrath would help alter his conviction.

"Why does everyone keep assuming that my father is a bad person?

"Because there is this cloud of darkness that seems to surround him whenever he is mentioned, whether it be in the papers, in his own house, or just discussing Witch Weekly's 'Cute and evil' list with someone you know?"

Draco appeared confused. "I thought I was the one on that list."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "You both are."

Smirking, he dismissively waved away the fury of one of the Wizarding World's most feared and malicious men. "Leave handling my father up to me. I can assure you that he will not cause any difficulties for our forthcoming wedding."

"And the Dark Lord? No, wait, let me guess. He is too busy plotting new and inventive ways to wreck havoc and terror to an unsuspecting world to care about your love life."

Draco lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. "How did you know?" But then his grin vanished, and he asked quietly, "Do you really find the idea of marrying me so repulsive?" His tone was sincere and inquiring. There was nothing in it that could justify a spiteful retort.

Struggling to word her qualms, she began uncertainly, "All those things you said would be required of me as your mistress, is also true if I were to be your wife. Legally I would be a belonging, completely dependent on your whims. The only difference is that in theory I would be entitled to your respect." Seeing that he was about to protest, she hastily added, "It's not that I believe that you would abuse me." Her lips formed in a mischievous grin. "If you had had any violent tendencies, I probably would have discovered it around the time I told you that I was the one who hexed the Quidditch cup to sing "Wham, bam, thank you, Ma'am" all night when Slytherin finally won it." She stopped. "Wait. I didn't tell you that, did I?"

Shaking his head he approached her with murder written all over his face. Hermione retreated with amazing speed to the other side of the table. "Anyway, it's not that I'm afraid of you," she said, as they walked in a circle around the antique piece of Louis XVI furniture, "but it frightens me that I would be entirely in your power."

"You are now, too."

"And you think I like it?" There was a note of bitterness in her laugh. "You have no idea how that feels, do you? To be completely at someone's mercy and know that they can do anything they chose with you?"

Draco looked stricken. "Hermione..."

"Your entire life," she was practically yelling now, "you have never been helpless, have you? You want to be in Slytherin, you're put in Slytherin, you want to be on the Quidditch team, Daddy buys you in, you want a Firebolt, well guess what's under the Christmas tree! And in the end..." Hermione stared at him accusingly, "you even won the cup!"

He felt an inane urge to apologise.

"You don't know how it is to see all of these horrible things happen right in front of your very eyes and be unable to change it! To just have to stand by and watch, knowing that the next time it might be you! For every second of every day dread the next owl, wondering, who will it be now?" Her voice burst.

Pulling her close, he whispered softly down to her, his lips brushing her hair, "This isn't about you and me, anymore, is it?"

"No." The muffled answer was barely audible. Hermione enjoyed the sensation of being held against his chest. It gave her a sense of being secure and protected. As the modern, independent, self-secure woman she was, she should of course at once liberate herself with a well chosen, scathing reply, perhaps slap him again, too, to prove that she absolutely did not want nor need anything he could provide for her, that be comfort or anything else. But somehow she just didn't feel like it. Instead she just stood still, allowing him to keep her in the gentle embrace. Through the rough fabric of his robes she could feel what she had suspected all evening, Draco had indeed spent the last couple of years doing some serious workout. Resting her cheek against his shoulder, she took in his scent, which was one of brandy, the frosty fragrance of the air in long winter nights, and something strange, metallic it took her a moment to identify - blood.

This unwelcome reminder of that there was another, darker side of the man she had slowly started to see merely as 'Draco,' caused her reservations to flare. In a soft, defeated tone, with the painful clarity that she was again fighting a battle doomed to failure, she said dreamily, "Have you ever noticed that sometimes in the spring or in the early fall you can see these elderly people, perhaps eighty-ninety years of age, walking hand in hand?" Languidly her gaze swept over the indigo roses of the wallpaper before her chocolaty gaze locked with his silver. "That's the kind of marriage I've always wanted. With someone whom I'll still hold hands with after seventy years."

Enwrapped in their own confused emotions as they were, none of them heard the approaching footsteps from the hallway. "Dear, why don't you check that room, and I'll take this one?" The woman sounded agitated. "Narcissa, I'm positive I heard noises coming from in there." The edge of impatience in the man's voice silenced his female companion. The next moment he had torn the door open, and for the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy, notorious Death Eater, Master of Malfoy Manor, incalculably rich and infinitely powerful, found himself gawking open-mouthed. He could only gape disbelievingly at the sight of his son and some tart jerking apart from one another, viewing the intruders with shock. Behind him Narcissa let out an anguished gasp.

Draco was the first person to regain his composure. Although his complexion was paler than usual, he said calmly, "Hermione, may I introduce you to my father, Lucius Malfoy. Father," he bowed stiffly, "Mother, this is my fiancée, Miss Hermione Granger."