Gods & Monsters
“He died a hero,” declares Luna Lovegood. Her thin fingers are wrapped around the bars that connect her cell to Hermione’s. Her face is wide open and she blinks slowly at Hermione. The mannerism reminds her of the way Crookshanks would perch on her chest in the early morning and slow blink at her. She’d read somewhere it was a sign of affection in cats. All evidence points to it being a sign of affection in Luna Lovegood, too.
Hermione sighs and leans her head back against the wall. She sits on the far side of the cell, across the room from the bars that attach her cell to Luna’s, and next to the bars that lock her inside of it. She knows that Luna is trying to console her, or at least provide Harry the honor he deserves. As Hermione looks at her surroundings, she finds that little consolation exists. And honor… honor died with Harry.
She shudders with the thought. Her captors left little to be desired in that regard. She pushes the thought aside, neatly places it into a box in her mind.
Hermione wants to tell Luna that a heroic death is still a death, and those that survived through no fault of their own are left to the fate of government sanctioned executions as traitors. Luna’s a pureblood witch; she may be spared the worst. But Hermione was in Harry’s inner circle, and muggle born to boot. A treasonous blood traitor. Harry’s death is a tragedy, the kind that she can taste when she grinds her teeth at night, but his pain is ended. She suspects that hers is yet to begin.
But she says none of these things. She simply offers Luna a weary smile and a nod. It’s a deliberately wistful expression, like she’s grateful for the memory of her best friend, grateful that his death is lauded so highly. Luna’s the only ally she has and Hermione blanches at the prospect of hurting her feelings. Harry and Ron and Ginny are dead. Neville is slowly descending into madness down the hall. Luna provides a running commentary of her thoughts that are far more optimistic than Hermione’s, and serve as a welcome distraction. Everyone else is dead.
Everyone’s dead.
Everyone’s dead.
Hermione is buffeted with this fact, yet again. She’s been imprisoned by the Death Eaters for nearly a month, and she managed to hide for a month before that. Even so, every reminder feels like the day after the Battle of Hogwarts, when she woke up in a sleazy Muggle motel and cried into her hands with the realization that it was all for nothing.
Another thought placed neatly into another box. The despair is a problem for later.
As Hermione is tucking her dread and horror into bed, she hears footsteps approaching from the hallway. Keys jingling, hushed voices. She pushes herself onto her knees and presses her face against the bars, trying to make out the approaching figures. She doesn’t know why she does this. There’s no good news coming, no rescue, but she can’t help trying to gather information. The figures draw closer and she recognizes one of them by the flash of long, pale hair. Lucius Malfoy. The other man looks familiar, but Hermione can’t place him. They slow as they approach her cell and she’s struck with a flash of panic and nausea. They’re coming for her. She shoves herself back from the bars and skitters to the far end of the cell. Her eyes are wide and her heart pounds so violently that she’s sure Luna can hear it. As Lucius inserts a key into the lock that separates her from certain death, Hermione feels fingertips brush against her hand. Her head snaps to the side and she sees Luna, still peering at her, reaching her hand through the bars to take Hermione’s hand.
“You will too,” Luna whispers, nodding encouragingly. Tears burn at Hermione’s eyes. She doesn’t want to die, a hero or otherwise. There’s no mission. She succeeded at nothing. Her life, her death, reduced to platitudes and the weight of losing Harry Potter. One of thousands of Mudbloods who will be killed because she failed to save them. Their hands twine together. Luna blinks at her slowly.
Lucius and his associate enter Hermione’s cell and she feels like a trapped, feral animal. She begins frantically shaking her head. She can hear her own voice, but not her words. The hand not holding Luna’s instinctively reaches for her wand, but of course she doesn’t have one. Lucius regards her with glittering eyes and a cruelly amused expression. Hermione is dragged from the floor by her wrist. Her other hand is ripped from Luna’s. She screams and she struggles against them and manages to free her wrist from the grasp of the man she doesn’t recognize. Hermione flings punches and kicks desperately at the two men, wanting to hit them anywhere. Just wanting them to get away from her, as far away as possible, an ocean away. Her fist collides with Lucius’ mouth. Pain explodes through her hand and shoots up her arm all the way to her shoulder. Lucius’ face twists with anger; he spits blood into the floor and snatches her wrist again. His grip is so tight that she cries out with pain as she feels her tendons and bones crush together. A kick lands behind her knees and she’s sinking, dropping to the ground, losing any leverage she had. A fist cracks across her face, swift and brutal, and her head strikes the cement floor. Everything hurts, and her vision leaves her.
——
Hermione is sinking through the water. She didn’t even try to float. She drifts from the sky, towards the surface, and extends her arms out at her sides. She expected contact with the water to hurt, but it was more shocking than painful. She can barely feel the cold and she sinks slowly, arms still extended, eyes closed. After a moment, she can feel nothing at all but the slow descent. She’s reminded of watching Harry disappear into Black Lake in their fourth year. Bated breath. Fear tracing through her like lead. Not knowing if he’d live. Then, what felt like hours later, seeing his head break the surface. A deep exhale.
No one was waiting for her, bundled up in their winter kits, willing her to break the surface so they could breathe.
Everyone’s dead.
She didn’t want to die, but in the depths, the prospect was comforting. She wouldn’t have to ascend to land, alone, knowing the war will never end for her.
Her lungs seize with the need to breathe. The water is freezing, suddenly. She didn’t watch Harry dive under the water during the Triwizard Tournament. She was at the bottom of the lake, suspended between life and death, a trophy for Viktor to collect. Harry nearly got disqualified because he wouldn’t leave her or Gabrielle Delacour. Viktor brought her to the surface.
Hermione’s dreaming.
Her eyes snap open and she gasps awake. She’s laying on a floor, but she’s in the dark. She can’t see anything. Her hands reach to feel around her—cold metal tugs at her wrists. She’s shackled. Her fingers find the chains, thick and strong. Hands wrap around her shoulders and yank her upright into a sitting position. A firm pull on the chains pulls her to her feet. She’s pushed roughly into the wall behind her and a hand wraps around her throat. Not choking her—constraining her further.
She’s bathed in light and her eyes squeeze shut at the sudden change. Something was pulled off of her head. Her hair falls into her face and she instinctively lifts her hands to push it away, but she can’t raise them past her chest. She flinches with the sensory onslaught, using what little motion allowed by the chains and the hand around her throat to push away the attacker. Her attempts are so feeble that they elicit a laugh from whoever is holding her.
She tries to open her eyes, but it’s so bright. They squeeze closed again. A door opens and slams shut and she flinches again.
“Release her.”
The voice is cold and familiar. Nearly snappish. She can’t place it, but it fills her with dread. The hand around her throat vanishes and the tension on the chains loosens significantly. She can hear footsteps, louder as they approach. Her hair is pushed out of her face by a pair of hands. Cold to the touch. The motion pushes her head into the wall behind her. Another type of restraint, she thinks, but far less terrifying.
“Open your eyes, Granger.”
Her heart skips with the use of her name. No one’s called her by her name in months. It’s always Mudblood or something even more foul. This must be someone she knows. Maybe something better is coming.
Hermione takes a deep breath and forces her eyes open. The brightness isn’t so painful this time. The face in front of her swims into view, and her stomach twists painfully. Gray eyes, angled cheekbones, and a head of snowy hair.
It’s Draco fucking Malfoy. Damn it. Damn it.
She shoves herself away from him and is met only with the unyielding embrace of the wall behind her. His grip on her hair tightens. “Legilimens.”
No. No. You foul little sewer rat.
Moved on from loathsome evil little cockroach, have we?
His voice echoes painfully in her skull as his mind tears through hers. Through the pain, she tries to pull her head away, trying to break his hold on her. It only tightens. She closes her eyes, but it’s not enough. She bombards him with distracting memories, enough to slow him down so that she can draw her Occlumency into place. He casts the memories aside like it’s nothing, like they’re just smoke. The initial attack has subsided and he’s wandering through her memories slowly. He’s looking for something specific, she realizes. What the hell could he possibly want from her? Secrets about the Order? He’d have to kill her.
The thought draws the memory of her capture. She was at the train station when she saw the cloaked figures. How long they’d been following her, she didn’t know. She was so close to making it out of London. She sent a flurry of hexes at the pair and took off running. Curses zipped past her and she lurched to the side to avoid a spell that came dangerously close to her ear. The motion had thrown her off balance and she fell. In a flash, she was immobilized and silenced. One of the figures loomed over her, masked and anonymous, danger and dark magic radiating from him like a plague. She was violently torn from the ground. Everything after that was rough, violent, unyielding, cruel. Cold.
Malfoy used that memory to skip down all of her memories of her imprisonment. The ever-present terror, infrequent meals, her alliance with Luna, Neville’s shrieks from down the hall, taunts from the Death Eaters, slaps and punches when she wasn’t compliant, being dragged from her cell for questioning, sleepless nights due to the noise and the light, culminating in the moment that Lucius Malfoy and his associate came into her cell. Malfoy combs through the memory of the skirmish, Hermione’s fist connecting with Lucius’ mouth, and the brutal retaliation. Her head and face ache.
Finally, he pulls out of her mind. Hermione gasps raggedly and drops to her knees, the crouched position allowing her hands to cradle her head. Her brain aches. Even though that’s impossible, her brain aches and feels inflamed.
There’s a moment of silence broken only by Hermione’s ragged breaths. She opens her eyes so that she can be ready for another attack. Malfoy’s feet turn away from her to face the other Death Eaters in the room. There’s four that she can see by the number of legs, but she can’t see anyone’s face.
“You hit her?”
Malfoy’s voice. Soft in volume, but with an unmistakably cutting edge. He sounds disbelieving. Hermione nearly scoffs. Of all of the brutality and horror, he draws the line at a Death Eater punching her in the face?
“It was the quickest way to subdue her.” Another voice. Definitely Lucius’. Malfoy gives an icy chuckle.
“All of the wizardcraft available to subdue someone, and you choose wanton violence. You let your anger get the best of you. A little girl hits you, and you can’t control yourself.”
“That is no little girl,” Lucius growls. The vitriol is nearly palpable. “That is—”
“I know who she is.” Malfoy cuts him off. “Potter’s Mudblood, highly ranked Order terrorist, insurgent, person of interest. But she is, in fact, a little girl. Look at her, father. What danger does a wandless, half-starved Mudblood pose to you that requires so much force to subdue when a petrification charm would’ve done the job?”
By the way Malfoy’s body repositions, she can tell he’s pointing at her. As much as she resents being labeled as helpless or feeble, she lifts her head. Her eyes lock with Lucius’. His son has a point; Hermione had to resort to violence. Lucius did it out of sadism, just like the rest of them. To really lay it on, her fingers brush against the dried blood on her lip. She winces as pain twists through her face. Lucius’ expression grows thin and hateful. His eyes break to his son. Malfoy ignores him and turns to the man across the room.
“And you. You captured her, is that right?”
Hermione recognizes him as Graham Montague. What had gone so wrong with him that the simple bully of her Hogwarts years was the man who hunted her down and left bruises all over her? But she could wonder the same about Malfoy.
Montague draws himself up, puffing his chest proudly. “Got my Mark for that.”
Malfoy’s head tilts and his eyes narrow. “Interesting. And the beatings? Did the Dark Lord request that, specifically?”
Montague’s eyes flicker with uncertainty. “Sorry?”
“You’re going to be.” Malfoy steps closer to him, his movements unhurried. “The violence, Montague. Was it sanctioned by the Dark Lord, or did you sully precious cargo with your own desire?”
Montague stares at Malfoy, his eyes flashing towards Hermione. She can’t help but shrink closer to the wall. This must be the most bizarre moment so far since her capture. Malfoy seems abjectly offended by the cruelty she’s endured, but refers to her as cargo. He’s slinging allegations and accusations, and the men in the room are heeling to him. What has he done to earn such respect? Such authority?
Montague’s silence seems to agitate Malfoy. He nods once, swiping his wand through the room in a motion that’s so quick that Hermione nearly misses it. Montague’s mouth falls open, blood sprouting from a gash in his throat. He makes a horrid gurgling sound and falls to his knees, clawing at his throat.
Malfoy bends slightly to draw closer to Montague, his eyes gleaming as he watches him. “Now you’ve got two Marks for that. Congratulations.”
Everyone watches silently as Graham Montague drowns in his own blood. Hermione turns her head to keep from vomiting. She hopes it’s done. She wants out of this room, away from this company. She’s in a den of Death Eaters, and she’s a sitting duck. Malfoy was right. Wandless, half-starved. Now shackled. She’s no threat, and she’s helpless. The dead body on the far side of the room is a stark reminder that she’s certainly nearing her own death.
The click of Malfoy’s heels brings her attention back. He’s pacing through the room, his hands clenching into fists and relaxing. There’s a half-crazed look on his face. Even Lucius withdraws from him slightly. If Hermione didn’t know any better, she’d think he was cowing from his own son.
“What would it take?” He asks, his voice rising. He turns from Lucius to the other two surviving men in the room. Hermione has never seen them before. Their faces are pale, eyes wide. Neither of them reach for their wands, but they both look like the same cornered, feral animal that Hermione likened herself to when Lucius entered her cell. Malfoy continued, full-tilt shouting now. “What would it take for you sorry lot to show some FUCKING DECORUM?”
His voice and rage shake the chandelier on the ceiling. Hermione jerks backwards towards the wall, wanting to put as much space between her and Malfoy as possible. The heads of all three Death Eaters bow, and they’re muttering. They’re apologizing, Hermione realizes. She’s curious again about the dynamic that’s spelled out clearly in front of her, but that she doesn’t understand. They’re all Death Eaters, all presumably Marked—Lucius has been a Death Eater since before Hermione was born. But the youngest of them, almost certainly the newest of them, has them bowing and apologizing. He just killed a man, and they look grimly afraid rather than horrified and offended. They’re not shocked.
Malfoy shakes his head and laughs. It’s a ludicrous gesture. He spreads his arms wide and spins to look at all of them. “I mean, it’s so bloody embarrassing. We fight a war to validate blood purity, and a gaggle of pureblood Death Eaters resort to violence befitting Muggles to exact their pound of flesh against someone who can’t even fight back.”
Malfoy sweeps through the room towards one of the men. They both stand frozen. Malfoy draws short of making contact with his victim by a mere inch, his wand stabbing at the man’s throat. The Death Eater’s eyes widen and he swallows. The wand is fitted so tightly against him that it bobs with the motion.
“Are you weak, Rowle?” Malfoy’s voice is velvety soft. Nearly a purr. Rowle shakes his head, his lips drawing into a thin line. Malfoy tuts and shakes his head, pointing his wand instead at the other man. “And you, Yaxley? Are you weak and helpless like the Muggles, or are you a pureblood wizard fit for service to the strongest wizard ever known to walk this planet?”
Yaxley stares at Malfoy for a moment and bows his head again. His clenched fist raised to rest against his chest.
“I have strayed in my restraint,” Yaxley says, his voice low and reverent. “My loyalty never falters.”
Malfoy’s mouth schools itself into an expression of satisfied consideration and he nods. His attention returns to Rowle. “And you? Are you so pathetic that you can’t even speak?”
Rowle clears his throat. Hermione can see that he’s trying to lean back imperceptibly, instinctively wanting space between himself at the possibly insane blonde breathing his air.
“No, my Lord,” Rowle says. His eyes fall from Malfoy’s. “I have erred. I will not make the mistake again.”
Malfoy lingers for a moment, his face inches from Rowle’s, before stepping back. He sheaths his wand and claps, rubbing his hands together. He’s looking at his consorts like a manager that just announced a holiday bonus.
“Well then,” Malfoy says jovially, “you two are free to go. Father, stay behind.”
Yaxley and Rowle do not waste time evacuating the room. They both look nervously behind them as though they’re expecting Malfoy to hex them in the back. Hermione can’t blame them; she expects the same.
As the door closes behind Yaxley and Rowle, Malfoy turns his attention to his father. Lucius lifts his jaw. It’s not quite insolent, but it’s bold enough that only someone who isn’t fearing his death would dare. Malfoy raises his eyebrows and flips his wand over his knuckles. He points at his father, derision clear on his face.
“This family has just started to recover from your cowardice and incompetence,” Malfoy hisses. “Do not disgrace us again. Get out.”
Lucius’ eyes drift to Hermione, holding her gaze for one unpleasant moment, before nodding once towards his son and exiting the room silently.
Now it’s just Hermione and Malfoy.
She swallows as she stares at him. He regards her with an expression of consideration and a thread of disappointment. There’s a strange levity to his eyes. He tuts his tongue again, shaking his head.
“You’ve been quite a little shit starter, haven’t you?” Malfoy sounds like he’s teasing her. Hermione is frustrated. Whatever he wants from her, she wishes he’d just tell her. Tell her and get it over with. Malfoy crosses the room and crouches down in front of her, using his wand to tilt her chin up. “Filthy and bruised. But you know what they say. If you want something done, you do it yourself.”
His wand releases her chin and he rises to his feet, running a hand through his hair. “I could never aspire to doubt the Dark Lord’s intentions, but you can’t trust peons to carry out an important job, can you?”
Hermione says nothing. Her breath is caught in her throat. Malfoy snaps and a House Elf apparates into the room. Hermione realizes with horror that this room must be inside of Malfoy Manor. She truly is in a death trap.
“Get the Mudblood a bath and some clean clothes. And a meal. Alert me when it’s done.”
The House Elf nods dutifully and Malfoy leaves the room, whistling as he goes.