The Shattered Dragon

Chapter 19: The Dangling String

Coming back from the dining room where she sat alone, enduring the quiet whispers behind the hands of the other girls, Hermione found herself wandering the halls of the second floor, poking her head into the reading rooms, the empty bedrooms, even the balcony that looked over the courtyard where she'd once found Draco watching her as she read outside in the sunshine. Without looking where she was going, she turned a corner towards the main staircase and ran into a broad, unmoving chest.

"I'm so sor—" Her blood ran cold as she found herself staring into familiar, glinting silver eyes. But they weren't Draco's. It was Lucius. "I..."

She stepped backwards, fully intending to turn on her heel and run, to lock herself into the first room she found open; but Lucius grabbed her arm before she could escape, pulling her back and flinging her against the wall.

"Ah well, if it isn't the valiant little princess," he hissed, holding her face tight in his gloved hand. "Not quite so brave and bold anymore are you?"

The touch of black leather on her skin made her stomach bubble with nausea, a cold sweat prickling her forehead as she was immediately transported back to the night of the Gala, Draco's hand heavy around her throat. Fear made her teeth chatter and she looked towards the black lacquer doors of his study.

"He's not coming for you," Lucius said, smiling in that small, condescending way that she'd known since she was twelve. "Too busy feeling sorry for himself." He looked her over, eyes lingering on the crescent shaped bruise on her neck, the shadows around her eyes, sunken from exhaustion. "Or maybe just regretting his investment."

"Please," she said, her voice as quiet and meek as a child, barely more than a breath. It was unlike her, but she was on the verge of collapsing in panic, her heart hammering against her ribs, her eyes stinging with tears. It had been a long time since she'd felt such unmitigated terror. She had no interest in fighting with him, engaging in a battle of wits and insults. She only wanted to get away from him, from the color of his eyes, the smell of leather, the angle of his jaw that was exactly like his son's. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Mr. Malfoy. Please let me go."

His frown deepened and he stared into her eyes, his brow furrowed with something like confusion, as if he were trying to translate her statement into a different language.

"Look at you now," he said, nearly whispering, as if discovering a secret. "Hero of the mudbloods, Dumbledore's Princess...cowering, begging me for mercy. Why, you look like you're about to cry, pet," he said, turning her face from side to side, inspecting her like an old broken down nag, his thumb stroking her cheek. "Just a shell of who you were before. Back when you thought you actually were somebody."

He looked down at her throat again, tipping his head to the side before closing his fingers around the bruise. She whimpered, flinching at his touch, her hands clenched into fists so tightly that she could feel the edges of her nails cutting into her palm. For a moment she was worried that her knees would give out, that she'd fall forward into his arms or face first onto the floor. For a moment she thought that her life would end here, staring into the hateful, icy eyes of Lucius Malfoy. Her breath came in short, shallow pants and before she could beg him again, he let go of her and she fell back against the wall. Her legs buckled and she slid to the floor, pulling her knees into her chest, holding herself as small as she could.

"Maybe I've underestimated my son," he said with a hint of pride. "It seems he's broken your spirit after all." He straightened his cloak and brushed an errant lock of hair from his forehead. "Good day Ms. Granger."

Draco,

There is still a red mark on my neck. It isn't as dark as it was yesterday, or as painful as it was the night you hurt me. What I mean is, it's healing.