Devil Doesn't Bargain

The Gala

Malfoy circled Hermione, tapping his chin in thought. Wiggy had finished with her a few minutes ago and called him to make sure she looked ready for a gala. He was making her nervous. Finally, he cleared his throat and met her eyes in the mirror.

"It's passable." Wiggy had placed her in a floor-length emerald dress, and the silk was so smooth it felt like a second skin. The back dipped embarrassingly low, and she was in a pair of heels so tall she was sure she'd stumble. Underneath the dress, she had a leather strap around her thigh to store her favorite dagger, and she had another disillusioned at her side. She wore long, golden earrings, shaped like feathers to match her mask, and her hair was gathered in an elegant bun atop her head. A few curls framed her face, which only bore some rouge. She liked it to remain natural.

"You think?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes," he paused, eyes drifting down her shoulders to her fingers, "but the sleeves are such a bore."

She tugged on them anxiously. Usually, her arms were covered by her gear, so she hadn't had any issues. The idea of having her arms bare, with both her scars and the dark mark out for everyone to see made her feel ill. Malfoy frowned.

"Neither of those warrants any shame."

She didn't respond but looked down at her feet. She'd avoided glancing at the serpent; knowing her decision to follow Voldemort was out of necessity did not make the reality any less ugly. The symbol lumped her into a category of blood purists and sociopaths; anyone who saw the ink on her forearm would immediately have assumptions about her and for good reason. She was the slave of a monster. She had stolen for that monster, and she would do far worse if it meant protecting her family. She deserved the shame that followed it, she knew that, but it still was difficult to stare it in the eyes. Much simpler to keep her discomfort hidden.

As for the other arm...the level of pain it invoked was so unbearable she'd settled for pretending it didn't happen. It reminded her that she was in a pit of snakes, serving with the very people who scorned her for her blood. The very people who would cleanse the earth of witches and wizards of her heritage. The very people who believed she was less than human, an animal better off extinct. The scars were more than a brand...it was a reminder that she was worthless, only something to be used and then discarded. It reminded her that her situation was hopeless; even being in the dark lord's favor would never be enough. She would never win, she would never be more than that broken girl in the cell. Who was she kidding, joining the Death Eaters? She'd never be able to save her parents. The second she slipped up, they'd be dead, and she would have sold her soul for nothing. The scars, those jagged eight letters, reminded her that the world would be a better place if she had died in that cell.

"Woah there," Malfoy turned her to face him, indignation filling his eyes. "You can't be serious...you can't really think that?"

"Hmm?" She replied in shock. "Did I send that down the bond? Sorry," she mumbled.

His hands gripped her shoulders tightly. "Don't ever say that again. Don't ever say that you...that you should have died in that cell."

She eyed him in curiosity. "Why does it matter?"

He rolled his eyes and dropped his hands. "We're a team, remember? If I didn't have you, who else would I bicker with? Who else would throw shoes at me? Who else would 'save' me by launching me out of a tower? If you weren't here, I'd be stuck with someone like Rabastan, who by the way, is an idiot."

The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "If you say so."

He grunted a response and reached out a hand. "May I?"