A/N: Thank you very, very much, Riversgirl75, for working together with me as a beta.

Music: Gotye feat. Kimbra – Somebody That I Used To Know

"Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily." - Napoleon Bonaparte

13 The Snake Pit

The biweekly meetings held by Perkins were the only time Hermione met her MLE department team at the Ministry. Hermione's colleague to her right fidgeted tediously with his quill while Perkins carried on, announcing some top-down information. What the team really wanted to hear today was the long-awaited official announcement of his retirement, which he, after the last agenda item, finally declared. It earned him some earnest but also half-hearted objections, the team impatiently expecting to hear who he would recommend as his successor.

"This will be all," Perkins said with his sluggish voice, much to everyone's disappointment.

Hermione sighed. Perkins was a man who had spent his entire career at the Ministry and now that he was about to leave, the only thing most of his subordinates thought of was to replace him in order to run the department the way they thought it ought to be run. Soon, Perkins' legacy would be forgotten. What was the point of dedicating one's life to a cause without making a lasting impression?

"Hermione, could you stay for a moment?" Perkins asked as she was about to leave for a coffee break with the others.

"Yes?"

"I trust you're happy with your current work? Or is there anything you'd like to discuss?"

Now was good as any time. "I'm actually thinking about returning to England."

Perkins looked at her with a weak smile. "I understand. It can be hard to work far away from friends and family. Of course, it's not possible to draw you back within a month-"

"Oh no, that's not what I've meant. I've just wanted to let you know in advance that I'd like to have a change sometime – if that's possible."

"I'm glad you feel as you do about it. Because too many changes in the department would be counterproductive. My successor needn't worry about finding a new replacement for you on top of all the workload."

She gave a short nod.

"Good. I was sure I could rely on your good sense of understanding."

Hermione quickly left for the canteen, unable to focus. She filled her mug with coffee. Feeling her coworkers' curious stares, she barked, "It's not me," which settled the matter. She should have known better; the Ministry measured professional competence in years of service, Harry being the only exception.

"Morning," Harry croaked as he came in, followed by his team. Hermione nodded and indicated him to move to a quiet corner.

"Do you know where Brown is? I couldn't find him in the office," she said in a hushed voice.

"Yes. Listen, he's taking some time off since last week, apparently to care for his sick wife. But I've got his address." Harry slipped her a note. "You have to apparate into the village, then walk north for about a mile until you see his house."

"Thank you so much, Harry. Any luck with Shafiq?"

"Humph, I'll catch him at the Wizengamot meeting this afternoon."

"Ugh, have fun with the crumbly club."

Harry cackled. "I'm going to use this from now on."

Feeling slightly better, Hermione went back to her neglected desk and drew up the letter she would later send to Derek Bobbins. Her primary concern was to get back behind her desk, regardless of whether she would be the one taking orders or the one giving them.

Hermione checked her calendar. Her day at the Ministry was packed with meetings, leaving her with little time to prepare for the visit to the snake pit. How she wished not to showed how much her hand trembled at the mere idea of visiting Lucius in his home.

The closed-knit community of Little Hangleton was generally weary of change and everything that could possibly threaten the serenity of English country life. The perfectly average English village was content with the general disinterest of the world towards them. The feeling was mutual. But in such a village, where observing one's neighbours was one of the few affordable recreational activities, everyone knew everything about anybody and everything within their perimeter from cradle to grave; although the general consensus was not to show that one did.

It happened on a perfectly ordinary rainy day that a dark limousine with tinted windows drove up to the ruins of the country home on top of the hill that was once known as the Riddle Manor. Curious eyes peeked through pulled window curtains. No ordinary person could afford a chauffeur. Was this the new owner of the cursed house? Was it a wealthy business owner? A celebrity? Some villagers voiced their concerns over that matter, detesting the idea of any new neighbour who was not one of their own – or worse – a person of public interest. Much to their relief, the mayor assured them that the house had been bought by a very private person with the intent to use it as a very private home.

Weeks passed during which the illustrious stories surrounding the Riddle Manor had been rehashed, its history growing more and more fantastic than it already was. Not long after, half a dozen vans drove up the hill, and men in suits armed with helmets stomped through the overgrown gardens, taking photos while inspecting the bedraggled estate. About a year later, after the workmen put the finishing touches on, the manor and its surroundings showed all the signs of attention it had received with such radiance one would have expected it to be found in a country home & living magazine.

To Little Hangleton's great but hidden disappointment, they never caught a glimpse of the manor's new and, indeed, very private inhabitant. Staff were not willing to satisfy the public curiosity either; tight-lipped they went about their own business and only referred to their boss as 'he' or 'the master,' an alleged advocate of self-sufficiency who only ate what he grew and bred on his lands. The local farmers marked it down as the latest fad of the upper crust like the Prince of Wales, who believed in organic farming and other preposterous eccentricities. By the time curiosity gave way to annoyance and annoyance to indifference, in their eyes, the mysterious owner probably felt too posh a person as to engage with ordinary village people.

The bus stop of Little Hangleton was right in front of The Hanged Man. This was very convenient for the regulars of the pub who liked to be up-to-date with what was happening in the village. They were already wondering for whom the beetle-browed chauffeur of the manor was waiting there. With narrow eyes and craned necks, they watched the people descending from the coach, looking out for any deviation of the norm, which presented itself in form of an unfamiliar young woman in smart business attire. Strangers were a rarity in the village on any day of the year, especially a young female, especially alone and especially smart dressed.

Half-a-dozen pair of curious eyes watched narrowly as she exchanged words with the chauffeur from the manor before stepping into the car. In united collusion, the regulars stuck their heads together, discussing their theories about their very private neighbour, scraps of their conversation being "MI6, "Russian gangster" and "Jimmy Savile."

It was a windy afternoon and the sky was shredded with clouds, whilst the weather was determined to peeve people who broke out in sweat as soon the sun came out or shivered from the cold when it hid.

They passed verdurous fields as they drove up the dusty gravelled slopes to the manor through a pillared stone gate that marked the beginning of the estate. The car shook for a second quite as if it was held back by an invincible obstacle and Hermione felt an unpleasant tingling in her limbs. They must have passed a magical barrier. Otherwise, the journey was uneventful; only few words were exchanged, both being too polite to show any curiosity for the sort of relation the other had with the man she was about to meet. But she made a mental note to inquire into the career of the 'chauffeur' with tattooed knuckles. It took one more curve until the house and its land came into plain sight: An impressive, red-bricked and two-storey high manor with tall windows looking imperiously over an herbaceous garden flanked by high yew hedges, and surrounded by greenhouses on one side and grazing livestock on the other. At the entrance on top of the stairs waited Lucius Malfoy looking just like his house; proud and stately, defying modern times and taste with a generous pinch of eccentricity. Hermione sank into her seat, closing her eyes for a moment to envision how Lord Voldemort had killed his family in there. What on earth possessed Lucius Malfoy to live in this place?

While Lucius was processing the new information Hermione had just given him on his case, she let her gaze drift. His study, daunting by its elegance, was not without a certain rarified cosiness and it was easy to find traces of the person who currently inhabited it. She took note of the elegant marquetry desk, which was busy with documents, notes and a half-full ashtray; book shelves that were overflowing with reading material of Muggle origins; the Daily Prophet which laid half open on the sofa. There were also some black-and-white pictures of him and his son on the marble mantelpiece.

Contrary to what she expected, Lucius' home exhibited no paintings of puffy Malfoy forebears in crumbling pigment. Instead, she found herself facing an oversized oil in an opulent gold frame high above his desk, which showed a naked woman holding up the head of a decapitated man in one hand and a dagger in the other. The background was tinted in dark shadows, whereas the light transfixed the subject in a binding shaft of light. Collectors would saw a leg off to acquire such an Italian masterpiece. There were other noteworthy works of art in this house too, she noticed as he had led her through the multiple dimly lit corridors and staircases that smelled of wood and furniture polish. Did Lord Voldemort ever live here, Hermione wondered, and where did he actually grow up? It must have been somewhere in the hills, which she could see from the windows.

"I do not approve of you letting Harry Potter in on this, Hermione," Lucius spoke calmly, interrupting Hermione's train of thoughts.

"I can very well imagine. But I believe that it's the easiest way to make progress, don't you think? Besides, I didn't break any terms of our arrangement."

"And what exactly do you think might happen if he decides to share his knowledge about us to anyone else?"

"He won't."

Lucius' lips formed a grim line of displease and Hermione hastily added, "I'm sorry that I didn't discuss this with you beforehand, but I was careful enough to withhold the more…delicate parts of our arrangement."

"This won't happen again," he replied with a tone which suggested that perhaps this issue was not yet entirely resolved. "So, Mundungus Fletcher... the thief who might know more than we do now if he participated in shady business with members of the Wizengamot. This is indeed something that escaped my notice. What is he? A half-blood?"

"Oh, he is. There's a good chance that he might be hiding among Muggles. At least that's what I'd do if I were him."

"Doing things he does best, I believe. Where does he hide?"

"I haven't the faintest idea. But the Ministry has a handful of people infiltrated in the British Muggle government; I'll find out if there's a possibility to check if the Muggle police have him on their radar."

Lucius looked satisfied. "Good."

They both sat for a while unspeaking. Words were not easy to find, it seemed, when both detested the inevitable.

"Shall we go on then?" Hermione asked.

Lucius gestured towards the middle of the room and stood up.

Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm going to speak out loud for you to follow what I'm doing. As I'm not used to analysing living magical beings, this might take a bit longer than usual so please be patient."

Hermione stretched her shoulders and stood before him, too near for their tastes, to which Lucius' notably tensed. A deep frown of distrust showed on his face and he fixed his eyes firmly to the big painting.

Just a moment ago, Hermione had been very adult, very professional, very confident about herself and her skills. But the task beforehand raised doubts, made her feel insecure and embarrassed, which all the more made her determined not to show any weakness at all on her side.

"Well then…" Hermione pointed her wand at herself, "Per oculos arcanos videam."

As if a switch had been turned on, several webs of entwined, brightly glowing filaments pulsed and flew like a cluster of living organisms around and through Lucius and herself, only for her to see. "Structuram arcanam cerneam."

The filaments stopped pulsing at once, then unravelled and structured themselves anew in one-dimensional, multi-layered geometrical figures, ready to be analysed.

Slowly, Hermione began to circle Lucius, deciphering the pattern of arcane energy around his body.

"Primo: Several anomalies are apparent. Atypical pulsing intervals suggest congestions in the arcane streams caused by the unknown curse."

Hermione pushed the tip of her wand onto his chest, tracing along the arcane strings. Just as anticipated, they flared up in reaction to the intruding magical energy from her wand. "Secundo: The formula has the basic structure of a curse of human origin. From the defective strings in the mid-layer of the formula, the curse is not taking full effect as it should."

She continued pushing her wand onto him to weed out any other possibilities.

All of a sudden Lucius commanded in a harsh aristocratic voice, "Stop stabbing me with your wand."

"I have to provoke a reaction from the matrix in order to properly analyse it," she explained patiently.

"Put that thing away," he ordered with more vigour.

"I won't hurt you!"

"Just put that ruddy thing away. Now!"

"Okay! No need to yell!" She tucked her wand into her pocket, "Have it your way then."

Only after a deep, calming breath, did she dare to touch him tentatively, testing if it caused a magical reaction. Nothing happened, although she almost hoped for the opposite. Hermione drew her fingertips across his chest along the lines of the arcane strings that caught her attention. Lucius sucked in his breath, which made the whole situation even more embarrassing.

"Get yourself together," she told herself silently and counted to three before resuming.

Here and there she pushed her fingers into his chest, provoking reactions from both the arcane strings and Lucius, whose firm warmth and strong heartbeat she suddenly noticed through his crisp shirt.

"The behaviour of your affected arcane matrices is very odd. The malign strings should be intrusive, not adhesive… I wonder…"

"Wonder what?"

"I've heard from a colleague, who used to work as a healer, about similar symptoms on people who carry scars caused by Dark magic." She looked up at Lucius with a watchful expression, but his introspective face not budging at all.

"Do you perchance have any scars?"

The vein on his temple twitched noticeably. "I may."

"Show me."

"That wasn't part of the arrangement."

"Show me," Hermione insisted, "They might have an active influence on the curse."

"Absolutely not," Lucius said brusquely.

"I cannot continue this analysis if you won't show me."

Now visibly angry, Lucius relented and undid his shirt and removed his undershirt, which he tossed onto the next best chair and spread his arms.

She stared and got angry herself. By every rightful instinct she should have felt grim satisfaction: Someone did to Lucius what most would say he deserved. Scars scattered in zig-zags over Lucius' entire upper body from shoulders to waist as if they had been inflicted by flogging. The worst formed thick, glaring wedges. Covered by the scars were silvery blue magical symbols and runes, which had been crudely inked onto his skin. His muscular back looked even worse.

Her fingertips now traced along the deep, purple-glowing scars that cut across his solid muscles.

"Who did this to you?" she whispered.

A slow cynical smile crept over Lucius' mouth. "The Dark Lord."

Hermione's nails grazed his skin. "What spell?"

"An elemental modification of Carpe Retractum."

"Which element?"

All she heard was a sudden soft tapping of rain against the windows.

"Which element?" Hermione asked anew.

"I don't recall," Lucius rasped.

Hermione chewed on her lips and her fingers travelled at their own accord down a long wedge over his flat stomach to his navel. "The arcane strings on the chest react much more aggressively than the ones on your back. I may…no- I have a hypothesis...what if-"

Lucius took hold of her wrist. "Careful," he said coolly and in strong contrast to the fierce expression in his eyes, upon which Hermione broke free from his grasp and terminated the spells immediately.

"Tertio et Conclusio," she croaked, as she felt tears welling up from anger and sudden embarrassment and which she barely managed to swallow down. "The curse had been cast correctly. However, the scars, caused by the modified Carpe Retractum, contains arcane components, which prevents the curse from taking full effect."

Silence swelled in the room and burst.

"Impossible!" Lucius spat whilst getting dressed, "And it lacks any compelling evidence. You yourself just called it a hypothesis!"

"I call it a hypothesis because the only way to verify it is by removing your scars," she fired back with equal asperity. "Have you been trying to heal the scars on your front? Because that might very well be the reason you're actually getting worse."

"No!"

"Lucius, the only reason you aren't dead is because of them. Stop with your treatment immediately. If you don't, you'll die."

Her last sentence struck; the wizard slumped into the chair behind his desk. His shirt was still open at his throat, exposing runes and parts of another tattoo. The rain had grown stronger and the sky darker, casting darker shadows onto their faces. She noticed for the first time how strongly set his cheekbones were. Maybe it was just a trick of the light.

"Are you ever going to say what's on your mind?"

"Not if I can help."

"Lucius…" Her voice gave out, leaving words of comfort unsaid. She felt that they would have neither been deserved nor appreciated.

"I want you to explain exactly why you believe that those scars are preventing the curse from killing me."

Hermione nodded, dug around in her bag for her notebook, and Lucius turned on the green brass lamp on his desk. Across an empty double page, she drew an elongated hexagon and a straight line through the middle. "Every magical being has an undefined and flexible amount of arcane energy, which it draws from different spheres in which it exists." She drew circles along the lines and connected them to one another. "Our body serves as a vessel for the arcane energy, which we're able to control and release through our conscious intellect and emotions. It results in the manipulation of everything that physically or non-physically exists on the lowest spheres of consciousness." She pointed at the circles at the bottom of the hexagon.

"Go on," Lucius said with a nod.

She turned the book around and bent over his desk. "Look at it as if it were different dimensions of the same world." She scribbled some more circles along the lines. "With those first two spells I've just used, I'm able to see arcane energy on those spheres of consciousness in which it exists." Hermione drew up what seemed like a dozen star constellations upon each other. "Every magical being has its own arcane structure, which corresponds with the type of arcane energy they have. Human magic is different than Elf-magic and so on. And every spell has a different arcane structure too, which follows certain patterns, depending on the type of magic. "This-" she tapped her pen on the drawing "- is you."

"Surprisingly one-dimensional."

Hermione smiled a little but chose not to look up from her notebook. "Dark magic has the property to change arcane patterns of magical beings permanently by leaving traces of active energy. They clog or rearrange the channels through which one's individual arcane energy flows in or out. In your case, those scars clogged your channels. This wouldn't be a problem for a spell caster, as the arcane energy will simply seek other ways to get out of the body. However-" and she drew up a similar geometrical pattern, "this is what sticks onto you like a parasite and wants to get in and spread its poison, while simultaneously working as a one-way dam that prevents your arcane energy from flowing out.

"So, we have two foreign arcane matrices in stalemate; the scars not letting the curse through, while the curse keeps your energy from flowing out. However, you are a living magical being that creates and absorbs arcane energy which wants to flow out but dams up because of the curse. If the arcane energy from within you finds a way through, it will destroy the curse along with you and you'll die. If the scars disappear, the curse will take full effect and you'll die. Which is why we need to find a way to destroy the curse. But in order to so, I have to know what form of magic and spell was used."

Lucius tore his gaze from her sketches. "So, you're telling me that the Dark Lord's tortures saved my life?"

"Essentially…yes."

Lucius laughed. Loud, dark, cynical, and continuing longer than she felt comfortable with.

"You alright?" Hermione asked in growing concern for his mental health.

"Ah, the irony..." Lucius said after he managed to calm down. He poured himself a glass of something strong and moved towards the mantelpiece. Hermione suspected that it was not the drinking that had been his real trouble but his own temper.

"What do you suggest for how to proceed?" he asked, swirling his glass, looking at the photographs.

"I could compare the results with those from my colleagues..."

"But?"

"I doubt I'd find anything that resembles the pattern of this curse. Among us we share every new discovery. But this," Hermione shook her head, "is unique."

Lucius turned with a shrewd look in his eyes. "I have an idea."

AN/ II: Hurrah, I managed to publish a new chapter! I hope you liked it.