Knowing and Believing
She could hear the child's screams even now, even after the cries had faded from the echoing walls and throughout the house. They came to her again in her dreams, haunting her as she slept with visions of her husband's cruel fantasies, his glee at the girl's capture, and his manic obsession with cruelty.
Shivering against the cold sheets, she pressed closer to her pillow, and was grateful he would not come to her tonight.
"Speak, you Mudblood bitch! Speak!"
Slap! The whip sliced through the air, connecting with human flesh loudly.
"Speak, damn you! Tell me what I want to know!"
The tall, blond man's face was red with exertion and anger. He stared at the body before him, hanging by the wrists in chains extending from the ceiling. Gaunt, emaciated, wet with blood as he tortured his silent victim. Of all the things, he sighed disappointedly, it was the screams that made it all the more amusing.
The wine in his glass swirled as he drank its contents, wiping his mouth with an elegant handkerchief. Closing his eyes in relaxation, he languidly called out:
"Have you learned well, my son?"
A tall, blond boy of seventeen moved from the shadows, his face twisted with a cruel smirk.
"I bow to your expertise, Father. I never realized that blood and teeth could be used in such a way. I must practice that at a later time, if you would allow me the sport?"
Lucius Malfoy chuckled heartlessly, and answered:
"Only if I may watch, my son."
At that, the boy's smirk grew even more vicious, his eyes glinting in the firelight. He bowed.
"As you wish, Father."
Against his better knowledge, he shivered at the dankness of the dungeons. Tightening his cloak around him, his cruel smile fell and was replaced by a look of self-hatred as he walked down the dungeon steps. Making certain his footsteps were silent, he pushed open the door in front of him, his breath catching as he caught sight of her again.
Her thin body was stretched along the table carved into a cross, arms and legs pinioned to the rough wood. He remembered the day his father had ordered him to watch her crucified, to learn as the nails were driven through her palms and feet.
That day the veil lifted from his eyes about what he would truly become, what would be required of him. He had been filled with glee when his father told him of the powers he would acquire at the Dark Lord's side and the promise of purification of the wizarding world given by Him. Until he realized the price such power would call for, the cost he would forever pay as he looked into the eyes of one of his enemies, and felt sadness.
In her eyes that day he had seen more than the suffering; he had seen the defiance that had labeled her Gryffindor. The refusal to bow even under torture and certain death. Eyes that he had seen with such happiness, were now tortured and full of anguish that seared his mind; he would never forget the expression in her eyes that day.
Silent, he stood at her side, his gaze intense as he stared at her face. Finally, the eyes of the girl opened, and he recoiled inwardly at the suffering in them. Lightly, he placed a hand on her face, pulling it away quickly when he saw a muscle in her temple ripple at his touch.
"Is this what you dream to become, Malfoy?" she rasped, her lips chapped and blistered; he noted that they were bitten through, multiple times.
Blood from her wounds dripped silently onto the cold stone, puddles of her red life staining the dungeon floor. Dirty blood. Filthy blood. Foul, unclean, polluted. Blood; life as red as his own.
Her hair was matted and ratty, its bushiness long exhausted and replaced by dirt and sweat. Her breathing was ragged and labored; he knew she suffered from at least a few broken ribs and a damaged larynx. Silently, he ran his hand along her body, tracing her face, down her arm, to where the thick nails were embedded into her palms.
Touching the blood-rivers formed there, he suddenly buried his head in his hands, a low, animal moan scratching his throat as he wept for her.
She truly had died, then, if Draco Malfoy was crying for her. In truth, she really hadn't been expecting anything when she asked him the question. A sneer maybe, some pain perhaps, but that hardly mattered anymore. She was familiar with pain. Never compassion; or regret.
Raising her head with the little strength she had left, she said:
"You should go. If your father finds you down here without hurting me..."
"Why won't you tell him what he wants to know?" he cried, his voice tormented and full of anguish:
"He'll end it easier for you! Are you so blind in your loyalty to Potter that you won't save yourself when you have the chance? Why?!"
When she looked up at him from the table, she smiled sadly, past caring for the consequences. His chest tightened as he remembered all the pain he had caused her, and how he never wanted to hurt her again, not after this.
"Because I have something power alone has no control over; that your father cannot touch."
"What could possibly be worth this much suffering, that you would live through so much pain only to die?"
Quietly, the girl beneath him, her body broken and bloody, lowered her head and tilted her eyes to the ceiling. He watched as the suffering left her face, replaced by a calm that baffled him.
"I have the life of a little girl to fight for: to die for."
An instinctive sneer twisted his lips.
"Your family is dead, Granger. The little Muggle brat was killed."
Hermione shook her head gently, that calm smile unnerving him.
"I don't need her face to fight for her; I'll fight to protect the little ones like her, keep them safe from your father's Master."
"He is my Master, as well," replied Draco in a dull voice.
The girl tilted her head toward him, and said:
"You wouldn't be here if you served Him. There is still good in you; don't let it be destroyed."
A harsh bark of laughter split the air as Draco fell to his knees beside her.
"I tormented you for seven years, Granger. I don't have a choice."
"There is always a choice. It may not be what you want, but there is always a choice."
He wiped the tears from his cheek, and stood. Silently, he looked at her, then pulled his wand from his pocket. Tall and silent, he spoke harshly:
"Accio nail."
Pain, hot and searing, ripped through her as she felt the thick nail pull itself from her palm. Uncaring of anything but the fire racing along her nerves, she screamed aloud, her cries echoing along the dungeon hallways.
Above them, a blond man smiled to himself at his captive's suffering. Finally, his son had begun his torture of the stubborn little bitch. On the other side of the Manor, a blonde woman turned fretfully in her sleep, as if troubled by guilt.
Twice more he Summoned the nails to his side; the third, by far, had been the grisliest. He had remained expressionless despite her cries, but oddly enough, it was the sight of the nail itself, the one that had been driven into her feet, that made him cringe and recoil even more from his other choice.
Blood and mucus left on the iron pike caused his stomach to churn, slivers of bone having dried to the nail leaving him with a strong urge to be sick.
By the time he was through, she was weeping silently, her chest heaving from restrained sobs. She looked at him, her eyes a whirlwind of emotion as her body spasmed in aftershock.
"Torpeo sensus!"
An instant too late, she fell unconscious. Cursing to himself, he tore strips from his robes and tied them around her wounds, taking care to knot them tightly.
A.N.:
Disclaimer: All characters recognizable belong to J.K. Rowling; everything else is mine.
The Latin translator I used can be found at http:www. cdsjcl . f2g . net / translate . html [note: remove the spaces for the address]
Translation:
Torpeo sensus = torpeo (to numb) and sensus (sense of feeling, touch)