The Spring of the Satyr

Lucius stared around the ruins of his home in despair. Shaking uncontrollably, he sank into the shredded leather of his sofa and uncapped the bottle of scotch. As he downed a full quarter of the bottle in one swallow, he stared through the hole he’d blasted in the wall towards the entry. He closed his eyes and tried to process everything. He knew she was here, close to him, in this very house. He felt it, felt her body calling him through the spell that bound them! But where? He’d searched the manor from top to bottom, blasting holes in suspicious walls, tearing down through the thick Persian rugs on the floor; he’d cast spell after spell – location, revelation, destruction; whatever he could think of. Yet he’d found nothing, nothing except this strange pulling that in his despair he was beginning to think was imaginary.

Exhaustion trying desperately to overtake him, he groaned and rubbed his temples. It had been over three days since she’d disappeared, and almost four since he’d slept. The morning after the incident with Draco, he’d returned to the castle, intending to force the truth from his son by any means at his disposal, unforgivable be damned – yet the boy had gone. Slughorn had matter-of-factly told Lucius that he had approved a week-long pass so that Draco could “help his father look for Miss Granger”. Lucius had wanted to throttle the rotund old man.

He’d returned to the manor, intending to find his wife – sure that she had a part to play. The fact that Narcissa was also missing served to strengthen this certainty. He’d begun his destruction of the manor with her bedroom, decimating it within seconds.

He took another deep, pulling drink of the scotch, making his head throb in pain. His unfocused gaze fell on the empty fireplace, remembering in agony the happiest evening of his life, not so very long ago. He set the bottle down on the floor and crawled slowly to the spot where he’d lain with her, held her, professed his love and made his vow that he would always be there. He lay down on the hard, cold floor and curled into a ball, intending to sleep,,,, and dream.

Only a few moments later he gasped and sat bolt upright. The pulling bond was gone! He realized that, like his heartbeat, he had taken it for granted. It had been there all along, powerfully holding them together. Now, he felt its absence as if someone had removed a vital organ - without anesthetic. Bitter, grief-stricken tears rolled down his face as he contemplated the meaning of the loss. He had failed her. She was dead.

**

“Please Hermione!” Draco said, holding the mug of rich, fragrant broth in front of her unresponsive lips. “Help me!” She gave no indication of knowing he was there. Shit! He forced a finger between her lips and poured some of the liquid inside. It dribbled out of the corners of her mouth, onto the fresh fleece nightgown he’d dressed her in. “Scourgify.” He said, defeated. He laid her head gently back onto the pillow of the freshly made bed and stared into her vacant face, tears of fear and frustration filling his eyes.

When those strange radiant strings surrounding her body had been broken Hermione had screamed as if she were dying. Even his mother had hesitated, surprised by the girl’s violent reaction. Only the utter unexpectedness had made him withhold the curse he’d readied. After an eternity her screams abated and she’d lain crying silently.

“You’ve taken him from me.” Hermione had sobbed pathetically, she’d forced her heaving chest to calm and looked at Narcissa with a black, deadly expression. “I will kill you if I can you psychotic bitch.” She’d promised.

“It is too bad for you that you will not live long enough to kill me.” Narcissa had answered, meeting the girls eyes without hesitation. Enraged with the very audacity of the little slut, she’d turned to Draco, livid voice stern and unwavering. “Enjoy your father’s little whore for one more day Draco.” Then, before he could speak a word of protest, she’d slipped from the room, sealing the entrance behind her.

As the woman had melted out of sight, Hermione had looked at Draco, recently transformed back into his own body, accusingly. “I thought you loved me, once.” She’d said sadly, then her eyes turned toward the back wall and lost all focus. She’d felt Draco washing her, picking her up to clean her bed, dressing her, trying to feed her. What did any of it matter? She was too bruised and weak to put up a decent fight, and so traumatized by the amputation of her bond with Lucius she wasn’t even sure she could do justice to Draco’s wand if she could have taken it from him. Instead, she cleared her mind of the present and travelled – to Bath, to Paris, to Prague, to the only places that still held any meaning.

Draco knew with sudden clarity that she was losing her will to live. For his vain, selfish, arrogant father she was willing to die. It was so hard to understand! His thoughts drifted back to their first night together in the library, as she’d blasted off the floor and been so shocked and scared. How funny and endearing it had been! She’d filled his heart so completely then, before anything else had even happened. He thought of their nights in the Room of Requirement, the joy and passion they had shared. He’d loved her so! He’d even planned to ask her to marry him after school was over. Why had it happened? Had it all been a lie? How had she turned back to his father? Why had she never loved him? He cried harder, full of pained incomprehension, yet sure of one thing – he didn’t want her to die – even if it meant giving up.

**