Perished Dreams

Perished Dreams - Chapter Nine

The Cold Embrace

Chapter Nine: The Cold Embrace.

The moonlight wrapped her in its cold embrace as she stood by window, gazing out on their little kingdom without really seeing. She dared not go to sleep, of course, knowing that he would be furious with her anyhow, and even more so if she defied his command to stay awake, waiting for him. She was unsure what he had in mind for her. It was years since the last time she had acted against his wishes. The thought of what had followed then made the silvery threads that surrounded her, bound her as surely as the ropes of the existence bestowed on the disentitled upper-class women seem warmer than her icy skin.

This time she sensed his presence before she heard the nearly soundless footsteps. Unable to suppress a shiver as she felt his hand on her shoulder. It was a mystery how a hand that could touch her so gently in intimate moments, a hand that had once tenderly stroked the cheek of their newborn son, also could be the same to inflict on her such unbearable pain. Comforting herself that his chastisements were usually swift, although thorough, she found again consolation in the thought that she could bear the occasional physical ache as long as he did not mistreat her in any other way. Many of their society's most respected men had wives who did not only periodically suffer from mysterious illnesses, but also in silence endured a public parading of mistresses and other signs of lack of respect, while their husbands either found a perverse joy in or where indifferent to the humiliation of those dependent on their mercy. One did not have to be a Death Eater to have crossed the line of cruelty.

For her, complete obedience and maintenance of her duties as his wife lead to safety from the dark brutality she sensed in him, and which never ceased to frighten her. Strangely enough this clearly defined rule of their existence was reassuring to her. Because, despite that it, as all laws do, brought the terror of the consequences of breaking it, it also held the assurance that there were means within her power with which to stay secure. Her life, spent among the suppressed members of her class, had long ago taught her the value of to a certain degree no matter how small, be in control of one's destiny.

In the beginning she had wondered about why he saw it as necessary to abide to this concept of justice, since the word 'evil,' so enticing in all its simplicity and associations to handsome Italian mafia leaders and beguiling vampires, was truly only ordinarily a definition that harboured cruel, mean and petty people who rejoiced in others pain and terror. Rare were those who in spite of an indisputable malice yet held some principles, some code of honour which differed them from the worthless filth. Time had taught her that her husband was one of them. And also, her son...

Bending her head she kissed his hand as a sign of submission, an action born out of her desperate wish to relieve his anger. He lifted it and rested it against her cheek. "I just had a very..." his penetrating grey eyes scrutinised her, "informative little chat with our son."

"Really?" She tried to keep the fright out of her voice.

"Really," he confirmed, a thumb tracing her trembling lips, noticing. "And you know the oddest part? Our conversation left me with the impression that you, yes, you, Narcissa," he continued in feigned wonder, "was aware of that our son had brought that half-blood," he said it as if it were a swear word, "into our house? Isn't that strange? Since you would, of course, never oppose to my wishes..."

The tears stung behind her eyelids. "I'm so sorry..."

"So you did know." The words were uttered in mock surprise. She didn't dare respond. Any attempts of begging him to stop playing with her, of excuses or explanations would only serve to infuriate him further.

Taking her chin roughly between his thumb and forefinger, Lucius said, treacherously softly, "How very unfortunate that another little demonstration of the consequences of disobedience seems to be in order." Noticing the intense fear that made her shake, a trepidation born out what she was aware of what he held the capacity to do her, he paused to lay one finger on the vulnerable spot just beneath her jaw line, feeling how a vein throbbed violently. In the shadowy room, only lit by the moons erratic radiance, she looked so young, as girlish as she had the last time she had stood before him, awaiting what his wrath would demand. "Because, you do of course realise that I will have to punish you for this?"

"Yes." It was a mere whisper.

Removing his hand, he lifted it languidly, as if to slap her. Narcissa forced herself to stand still, repressing the instinctive impulse to recoil. Any resistance would merely prolong her punishment. Then he thoughtfully lowered it. "No... We don't want to do anything that would leave a mark, do we? It seems as if I must find another, shall we say, more imaginative way to discipline my unruly wife..." Slipping a hand inside her nightgown, he ripped the cloth, the soft silk giving way to creamy skin.

The loathing of being exposed like this made her nails draw blood from her palms. Submitting her to this pitiless inspection was a perfect reminder of her position in his life. Her happiness, her well-being, her very existence depended on how well she managed to stay within his grace. Failure would lead to whatever corrections he saw fit. Her gaze stiffly fastened on the floor, unwilling to meet his examining stare, she didn't notice how his eyes suddenly locked on a thin white streak barely visible on her back under its shimmering veil. Although shivering, she daringly looked up. He had not commanded her to remove the rest of her clothes, could this mean that he perhaps intended to show her some mercy? Her frail hope was shattered as his eyes darkened, the silver deepening to a stormy black. Wincing, she involuntarily took a step backwards. She realised her mistake even before he grasped her shoulder and held her firmly. Unable to escape from his fierce assault, she was helpless as his tongue invaded her mouth, his hands mercilessly tearing what was left of her negligee off.

Rarely had he ever been brutal to her in this way. Even now, as his hands branded her as his, leaving faint bluish bruises in their trail, she knew that he would not take her until her body to some extent was prepared. Causing her pain was not his goal this time, but rather to remind her of his complete dominance over her. She was a belonging, who was to be treated as it suited him. As his mouth left hers to trace her neck down to her breasts, she bit her lip so a ruby drop of blood blemished her soft skin. Still she could not hold back a whimper when one of his fingers pressed on an already sore spot. Instantly he became gentler, and closing his mouth around one of her nipples, his tongue teased it, making it so hard that it nearly was painful, causing her to feel a mingling between hurt and pleasure.

She slipped her fingers through his blond hair, enjoying the feel of it, savouring this simple act for all the times she had wanted to simply brush his hair away from his forehead in the past. And for all the moments she would want to do so in the future but would be prevented by the lack of emotional intimacy in their marriage.

The passion altering what had begun as an act of degradation into something of the most special two people can share, she was too enveloped in the heat that spread through her every limb to notice that Lucius moved her over to the bed. Lightly he placed her on the four-poster, while she was desperately trying to remove his clothes, finding herself wishing that he were still in the towel. Quickly she stifled a giggle against his shoulder, quite sure that his male pride would not find this an appropriate time for laughter.

When he finally did enter her, she was indeed prepared, and eagerly met his every thrust until the paradise denied those who were in the Dark Lord's service for a glimmering moment revealed itself.

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

Supporting himself on one arm he peered down at her. A little stab of guilt went through him at the sight of the traces of blue that flawed the milky white skin. Sternly reminding himself that in truth he had been very indulgent on her, she had after all gone against what she must have been aware of were his explicit opinions, he absentmindedly lifted one finger and started tracing one of the faint marks on her left breast. Immediately she lifted a hand as if to remove it, then lowered it again, her eyes downcast, pressing a blushing cheek against the chilly sheet, knowing full well that she was not allowed to object.

It was strange, he thought musingly, that even after all these years and everything that had taken place, and what, he clenched his jaws together, had been done to her, she was still was so shy. He lifted the finger lazily and stroked her hair, enjoying the silky feeling.

"Sire... Lucius," she corrected herself quickly, he did not any longer approve of her addressing him in the other manner, then continued in the fearful timid tone people use when they know they are going to regret uttering the question, but the answer is nevertheless so important that not to enquire is an impossibility. "You are not..." She swallowed hard, "You are not going to kill our son, are you?"

Interpreting his shocked silence as indecisiveness, all her fear and helplessness were evident as she begged in a whisper, an agony too deep for tears in her voice, "Not Draco! God, please, no!"

He could not believe that she actually thought him capable of that. And especially for a silly thing as marrying a half-blood. "I'm not going to take his life for this youthly foolishness," Narcissa," he snapped, his fury emanating from him as a large, threatening shadow.

As if shrouded in its cold darkness, Narcissa curled up, closing her eyes to avoid seeing his enraged expression. She was going to be beaten, there wouldn't be any lenience this time...

Surveying how she wrapped her slender arms around her small frame, Lucius suddenly noticed how thin she had become. She had always been slim, delicate of build, but now her nearly every bone was visible. Her skin was translucent, revealing fine veins, except from where the bluish colour originated from elsewhere. The recollection of how she had fainted earlier, a memory that in his mind was inseparably intertwined with that of the injuries of the young woman his son intended to marry, and those of...another. Desperately trying to ban the image of a girl crying uncontrollably into her pillow in a frenzied effort to strangle the sound of her sobs, lest she disturbed him and would be punished further, his anger slowly vanished and was replaced by concern. "Do you want me to send for the doctor?" he inquired softly.

Narcissa's eyelids flew open and she stared at him, terrified, one slender hand gripping him arm convulsively, her breath coming out in uneven gasps.

Lucius inwardly cursed himself for not recalling that when a husband in the Wizarding World used the phrase 'send for the doctor' to his wife, it usually meant that he planned to have her declared mentally ill and incarcerated to Detondested, a place referred to as worse than Azkaban, when mentioned at all. The subject was rarely spoken of, as most sought to avoid the sound of the dreaded name and the air, the stench it brought with it, of rats, filth and the shame that clung to the ones that had developed a closer acquaintance with this place of crushed hopes, who nonetheless had been fortunate since most remained until another departure liberated them.

Of course, originally having a third person's opinion about that matter had not been necessary, but about one generation ago people whom the conservative branch still contemptuously referred to as emancipists, although usually with a descriptive word in front, had infiltrated the Ministry and thereby managed to adjust the law on two points. One, that a spouse could not be confined to a mental institution without a medical statement that that was advisable, two, that one could not kill one's wife without having a reason to suspect infidelity...

These revolutionary changes had caused quite an uproar, particularly amongst the old Slytherin families, but also some of Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff and even Gryffindor had objected. However, although the intention behind such a proposal undeniably had been good, in reality it had made little or no difference, because there were plentiful of practitioners quite willing to sign certificates doubting a person's psychological health when faced a large fee or intimidation. As for the other, it was of course only a matter of stating that she had been unfaithful or that it had been a tragic misunderstanding.

It was commonly assumed that if adulterousness were claimed, it was merely an excuse, while if the demise were an 'accident,' it was in all probability the result of a decision that in many cases could be characterised as understandable, but nevertheless somewhat unwise.

The lives of the prosperous and influential therefore remained unaltered, which was the reason, most meant, that the Malfoys had not protested to these reforms, in which case the general opinion was that the motions would never have been carried.

"I didn't mean..." Usually Lucius Malfoy was not a man had difficulties expressing himself.

"I know." Her hurried reply clearly revealed she was far from certain that he held an affection for her that would prevent such a punishment. "I'm quite all right, honestly."

"Good." He looked away. After an awkward silence he said sternly, seeking to bring some colour to her still pale features, "Draco is not to be punished for this, Narcissa. Of course," the addition came with a faint smile, since the very thought was absurd, "if he had insisted on marrying a Mudblood, that would have been entirely another thing all together."

Narcissa laughed, although somewhat nervously, and the fear in her eyes did not fade. Rather it seemed to...increase? Frowning Lucius studied her more intently, before he sighed and laid down on the bed. It was strange what illusions the dim light could make appear, he thought, pulling her close, falling asleep nearly instantaneously.

However, his wife's dark lashes did not rest against her cheeks before long into the silent night hours.

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

Also another woman, although this one so young that she still possessed that indefinable quality called innocence, was admiring the still landscape from afar. The peace and beauty of the silent night made it nearly impossible to believe that only a few of hours before her existence had been completely deprived of hope. And so is it now, whispered the voice inside of her that she desperately sought to silence, lest the bleakness would obliterate whatever there was left of the determined, strong willed little girl who had once attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Surely not. It couldn't have come to this. Certainly she, Hermione Granger, head girl, top student, predicted a brilliant career as an Auror, or as any profession she could have chosen, was not going to end up as a plaything for a man who would never respect her mind merely enjoy her body. A sigh that resembled a sob escaped her.

The soft creak of the door betrayed his entrance. As his footsteps neared, Hermione hastily removed something reminiscent of specks of moonlight from her dark lashes. One arm seized her waist. She shivered slightly by how familiarly he did it, as if he had every right to hold her that way, like a friend, lover or...husband. Closing her eyes, she lent backwards, enjoying the comfort of resting against another, warm body, even if it belonged to the person who was the cause of her impossible situation. Suddenly she gave a soft laugh.

His lips nearly brushing her ear, he whispered, "What?"

Hermione shook her head. "Nothing." But sensing that he was still beholding her questioningly, she continued, "You remember that I was one of the best students at Hogwarts, right?"

"Yes," he replied dryly. Professor, that's wrong, dragon blood can't be used in twelve ways, in can be used in thirteen. Professor Dumbledore found the last one after he became headmaster, it says so in Hogwarts, A History, and...

"What?" This time it was Hermione. She gazed wonderingly at the grin that slowly spread over his face. He looked at her in a strange way, one that if he had been Harry or Ron she would have described as affectionate. "Nothing," he said, teasingly repeating her answer. Although she still regarded him slightly suspiciously, her attention turned to his next comment. "Anyway, you were bragging about your grades..."

Hermione shot him the look of death. "I was not bragging. I was merely stating a fact."

"And that can of course not be mistaken for boasting," Draco muttered under his breath.

Hermione ignored this with dignity. "What I was going to say was," she hesitated, a timbre of sadness creeping into her voice, "oh, it's so silly, really. The battle was, as you of course recall," he flinched slightly, although there was no accusation, only weariness in her tone, "in the spring of our seventh year."

The beautiful garden, resting in silence under its patronage of the gentle stars, was slowly occupied by fighting figures. Some mere shadows, whose screams now existed nowhere except in the minds of those who had heard them. Others were more vivid, their images as clear as those who made them wake up screaming every night. The smell of lilac, sickeningly sweet, intermingling with the one of blood. Come, dear, there's nothing more you can do for him now. Professor McGonagall had sounded so strangely choked as one of her hands had gripped Hermione and dragged her with her. She had struggled, both against the professor, and to see through the sticky substance that trickling down from her forehead clouded her vision and gave everything a tint of crimson. No... That one word was the only she uttered, stubbornly repeating it again and again, as if objecting enough times could somehow alter what had taken place. Oblivious to everything except for the pain that burned like a seething fire inside of her, she did not notice the dark clad man who had stepped in front, raising his wand to perform the most deadly curse, then for a fleeting second met Minerva's eyes before hurriedly stepping to the side and allowing them to pass.

"So we didn't have our finals." Her lips curled into a little smile. "'The only good thing about this whole damned affair' as Ron put it."

"But you didn't see it as a benefit." The statement was followed by another one of those peculiar stares.

She made a negating gesture. "No." One of her fingers languorously traced one of the exquisite roses of the wallpaper. "You know, I had worked so hard for my N.E.W.T's. So hard..." Interpreting his silence as judging, she hastily added, "Of course, with everything that was going on, I hardly even thought about it. It doesn't matter. It's just..." She went quiet. How could he possibly understand how it felt to put so much hard work into something and not get anything for it? And the time her studies had occupied... Minutes she could have used to tell Ron off for not doing his homework, hours she could have spent watching Harry practise for Quidditch, days she could have enjoyed a form of life, a world, that fate had mercilessly taken from her forever. "I didn't even get to take the stupid N.E.W.T's..." The bitter irony of thinking of such a petty little thing regarding that horrible night, which had made her laugh earlier no longer seemed amusing, as the echo of her barely audible whisper lingered in the room.

Enwrapped in her dark reflections, she had nearly forgotten about his disturbing presence. Therefore she violently jerked free when his lips touched her neck.

Draco straightened up and observed her coldly.

Her bitter memories serving as fuel to the anger that had hovered beneath her fear all evening, she stared at him glaringly. "You don't have the right to do that."

Smiling icily, he reached out a hand to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. "You are mine, Hermione. If I chose to, I could have taken you down in those dungeons without anyone raising an eyebrow. Or here for that matter... I have the privilege to do far more than this, my dear," he bent forward, his mouth closing in on her neck, Hermione shivered, reminded strongly of his vampire butler, "soon also both morally and legally. Be glad I have decided to be a kind master."

As his lips disconnected from her soft skin, Hermione vainly hoped that he intended to release her. But instead they captured hers unwilling, firmly forcing them to part. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she desperately tried to push him away. He caught them with ease, for a second withdrawing to regard her with what would have a smile if there had been any kindness to it, as if amused that she still had not seen the futility in her attempts of resistance.

Still wearing that faint smirk, Draco lowered his head again, exposing her to another fierce assault. When his absolute control and her powerlessness was painfully demonstrated like this, it was nearly impossible to believe that there existed moments of informality between them, as the one that had followed his parents visit, in which she dared treat him as if he were a friend or someone else close to her she felt secure of. The silver-haired man, who locking her hands behind her back silently mocked her complete helplessness, was very much a Death Eater, someone who was accustomed to have his every desire fulfilled and did not hesitate to use force, if it were necessary, to accomplish that.

Struggling nearly as intensely against his firm grip as the treacherous warmth that spread through her body, Hermione was divided between the urgent craving to follow its age old bid and the long ago shrieks still resounding in a distant place in her mind. Several of which in all probability had been caused by the very person who was now overpowering her senses into feeling a yearning more demanding than morals, the notion of right or wrong, even memories...