Out of the Silent Planet

Title: Out of the Silent Planet (34/39)
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: MA/NC-17
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Plot driven smut, Darkfic, Romance, Drama, Angst...
Warnings: M/F, Bondage, slight non-con, voyeurism, oral, anal, Dom/sub issues, Dark!Draco, and HBP spoilers.
Summary: Post-Hogwarts - Hermione Granger fulfills Severus Snape's final wish, to journey to Japan to ‘retrieve' something of importance. Set eleven years after HBP.
Author's Notes: This is my first DM/HG ficlet, so please be kind to the newbie! The title of this fic is taken from C.S. Lewis' book, first in the Perelandra Chronicles.

All hail kazfeist! Uber thanks goes to her for beta-ing this chapter, and for her help in the future!


Out of the Silent Planet
Chapter Thirty-Four – Of plays for power, shadows, and time.





When the Portkey deactivated, Hermione swayed dangerously, but managed to stay upright and in possession of the bronze key. Running a hand over her belly and over the rough, dark fabric of her cloak, Hermione felt a tickle as the spell of the key on her and the being in her womb.

It took a few moments of deep breathing for the momentum of her arrival to allow her to about and realize where she stood. Hermione was in a room, dimly lit by wall sconces accenting the dark wood, marble, and décor. It was the foyer of the Malfoy Manor and she stood in the focus of the rounded vestibule, fireplaces on either side of her.

A shuffling sound caught Hermione’s ears and slowly, from the dark of the hall, a small figure came into her vision. The shuffling sound had come from the movement of an ancient green velvet drape with golden fringes and the dragging of a cane against travertine marble.

“Hobbin,” Hermione said softly, half in greeting, half in recognition.

The wizened elf stared at Hermione through bushy brows and jaundiced eyes. Slowly, elfish eyes moved up and down the witch that stood so unabashedly in the sacred halls of its pureblooded masters, and an eye brow quirked slightly.

“Master is awaiting the Granger.”

Hermione tensed, and her resolve nearly vanished, but she cleared her throat, patted her concealed wand, and followed Hobbin as the elf slowly ascended the staircase further into the Manor. The halls were just as dim as the foyer, and Hermione ignored the snickers of portraits that lined the walls, and the peering eyes that seemed to size her up and find her lacking. She followed patiently, as Hobbin grunted and groaned hobbling along the thick-carpeted floors, glancing back disapprovingly. Finally, the ancient elf stopped before a large door, a sliver of warm light flowing into the hall, the door having been left slightly ajar. It was then Hobbin bowed to Hermione, uncharacteristically, and waved his hand to the door in gesture to enter. Hermione nodded and steeled herself to move forward.

The door made no sound as Hermione passed inside, and she closed it behind her, leaning back into the dark walnut wood. She found herself in sitting room, a large marble fireplace set into the opposite wall, a large bronze mirror reflecting the room in perfect clarity. A black silk divan set before the fire with a pale figure sprawled upon the soft fabric. All about the room were crystalline vitrines displaying artifacts of various sorts: books and jewels, but the most brilliant of the displays rested below the only large window of the paneled room. Hermione felt a distinct wave of pressure emanating from the glass case, and inside rested a silver object set upon deep verdant velvet. It looked to be a bracelet, a manacle, with familiar runes moving upon the surface of the silver, slow and indistinguishable.

“You feel it, Granger, even there from the door?” a tired voice drawled from the divan.

Hermione let her amber eyes swivel to the source of the voice, and she, for the first time in months, came eye to silver eye with Draco Malfoy. She took in a breath and held it, feeling a nudge gently nudge behind her eyes. With an exhalation, the mental nudge was gone; a weak attempt at Legilimency, and it was no wonder, Hermione saw as she let her eyes move from his. Draco Malfoy was ragged, bruised, cut, and filthy. It seemed he only had the strength to lift his head from the divan, staring pointedly at Hermione.

“I am glad you have come, Granger, come closer…”

Hermione hesitated, her hand slipping through the folds of her cloak to her wand. She could feel no danger standing in the same room with the man, who had changed her adult life so drastically, but she felt caution and it had more to do with the state of the man on the divan than anything else. Stepping closer, Hermione moved around the cases to stand over Draco, her senses suddenly inundated with the smell of hashish, wood smoke, blood and body odor.

“I have looked better, I know.”

“Why haven’t you healed yourself?” she asked coolly, taking note of the gashes in Draco’s face, the clotted blood along his temple and the filth matting his hair. The gashes, scabbed over, ran down his neck and under the collar of his torn and filthy shirt. He wore no shoes, and the soles of his feet were blackened with dirt and blood. Even the pants he wore were ruined, seemingly too large for his emaciated form. Only the left arm seemed unchanged, hanging off the divan, the knuckles resting on the floor.

“I’m exhausted. I’ve only just returned, and you were the first person I wanted to see,” he said softly, his eyes moving all along her face. His gaze was like a caress along her jaw, her lips…

“Let me heal you,” she whispered, moving to pull her wand.

“No, I’ll manage in a moment. I wanted to tell you…” he said softly, but trailed off, his eyes moving toward the case below the window and the artifact inside. “I found the second piece.”

Hermione blinked, and slowly, she began to understand. With this understanding came a boiling up of ire. Draco Malfoy had broken his word to meet with her because of…

“The surviving manacle of Ixion, and I have it.”

Hermione stumbled back at Draco’s words, giving a sidelong glance to the artifact.. Ixion…the king of the Lapiths…bound to a wheel for all eternity, bound by manacles forged by Vulcan. It was not like the Arm; it exuded an aura and pressure very much different from the silver attachment on Draco’s left side. There was darkness about the silver bracelet, not a malevolent force, but an ambiguous danger.

“The night I was to meet with you, I received an owl from our friend Signore Divina telling me that a party was interested in selling one of the last surviving pieces crafted from Vulcan’s Etna forge. Divina wanted money to act as an agent to facilitate the purchase, and being the magnanimous man I am, I agreed. So, there is my excuse, and my apology.”

Turning her eyes back to Draco, Hermione grimaced.

“So, all the things you conveyed in your letter were swept aside in your pursuit of attaining more power…” Hermione whispered, her eyes becoming clouded with her growing anger.

Draco said nothing, closing his eyes, his face shuttering. “There is only piece left, and I intend to find it.”

“Why?” Hermione whispered, her face contorting, but unseen to Draco’s closed eyes.

“I must.”

Her eyes stung, and she knew she was crying. The anger, the disappointment, and the growing feeling of loss crept into her mind. Turning, Hermione began moving to the door. It had been a waste of her time to believe in Draco Malfoy…after all.

“Where are you going, Granger?” Draco asked a hint of anger in his voice.

“Home. I have my answer as to why you did not meet me, and, it seems I have been wasting my time expecting an answer that would explain everything,” she growled, pausing in her stride to the door.

“Wasting your time?” Draco asked, sitting up on the divan, the sound of ragged clothing whispering against the black silk.

Hermione closed her eyes. The anger was moving through her blood now, turning her vision dark.

“I needed you to come, Granger. I needed to offer a proposition…no, I want to offer you one now.”

Despite her better judgment, Hermione turned and looked upon the battered man. He was reaching toward her, his silver hand open in a plea. Draco Malfoy’s face was no longer shuttered, and there was a spark of longing in his eyes. Hermione could only shiver and cast her eyes to the rug below her feet to keep herself from relenting to him.

“I sent you that letter, and the key, as a sign and a promise. I need you to stay, Granger. I want you to stay.”

Hermione met his eyes once more, and she could not deny that his eyes conveyed his need and the truth of the words.

“And why should I stay, Draco? Why should I bother with you at all?” she hissed cruelly.

“Because you are all I need to maintain everything I have built.”

Hermione snorted derisively. “To keep you sane, perhaps?”

“In part.”

“To watch over you?”

Draco nodded, a smile creeping to his lips and to his eyes.

“I need you to allow myself to grow, Granger, I need you to help me…aid me…”

Hermione smirked. “Power then…more power?”

“Absolute power, over myself and my world,” he said, nodding.

“’Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely,’” Hermione whispered to herself, her eyes moving to the rug again. It was clear now, she knew, so clear that the fact of the matter pierced her heart. She was only another ‘thing’ to be possessed, another piece in his collection, to be kept under glass just like the tiny treasures in the vitrines around her.

“I will not help you, Draco.”

At those words, the hopeful smile twisted into a sneer, and Hermione faced the Draco Malfoy of years ago, the mad, maimed Draco Malfoy.

“I have suffered enough, Granger. I overcame trials, nightmares and immense pain…because of you, and now you refuse me?” Draco whispered, his demeanor no longer weakened and battered.

The change was frightening and Hermione instinctually grasped her wand in her cloak.

“I gave you money, gifts, my attention in penance to you and your efforts to fulfill Severus’ request…more than enough to ask you to let me have a part of you.”

Hermione began stepping back to the door as Draco rose unsteadily from the divan, his matted hair falling about his face, obscuring his eyes and his madness from her sight.

“I-I am not some possession to be bought,” she answered weakly, the aura of caution turning quickly into one of danger.

“Anything can be acquired by money and power, Granger.”

When her back hit the door, Hermione gasped despite herself.

“Come to your senses, Draco Malfoy…can you not see…” she whispered, her hand searching for the doorknob as her eyes stung with unshed tears. She was afraid, afraid for the tiny life in her womb more than herself.

“I can see well enough, Granger. I can feel your fear, and you have nothing to fear. I have only asked for one thing, a simple thing really…you. I want you, Granger, I need you to help me…”

Hermione’s breathing quickened as Draco stepped closer, his bare and dirty feet leaving indentations and prints in the thick rug.

“You’re mad.”

Her hand found purchase on the knob and turned. The door sprang open from the latch and Hermione turned to throw the door open, but before she had a chance to open it wide enough to pass through, a filthy, bruised hand slammed against the door, snapping the walnut door shut, nearly catching Hermione’s nose. Hermione froze, feeling the heat of Draco Malfoy against her back.

“I have never been saner,” he whispered into her ear, his silver hand burying itself into the back of Hermione’s hair.

Hermione tensed. She knew very well that he could hurt her if he wished, she had lost her grip on her wand and now the Vinewood was lost somewhere in the folds of her cloak.

“I will have you, by hook or crook, Hermione Granger. I have already given you my oath of protection by means of the Malfoy key. I have given you my trust by asking you here tonight…by sharing what I intend to do. What I need now is your word, perhaps your love…”

Slowly he released her hair and stepped back. Hermione wanted to turn to him, scream at him. All of her illusions of him and the possibility of his truly loving her were shattered. He could never love her, and therefore he could never know how much of her heart she had already invested in loving him.

It was obvious he had not noticed her change, even in all his power. He had not noticed the subtle change in her magic, and for that Hermione could not help but feel relief. Draco Malfoy had no capacity for care, she realized, and she knew that it would be a long time before he would ever know what it was to love her. So, without another word or glance, Hermione escaped to the hall where the shadows seemed to save her from feeling the weight of Draco Malfoy.

* * *

Hermione watched as her owl took flight through the spring air just below a gibbous moon. It was her formal letter of request to the Firm of a leave of absence, and Hermione felt as if she were almost giving up on life entirely. She loved her work, at least the work in the labs, but with her delicate condition, she was barred from entering her domain. Now, with the knowledge that Draco Malfoy would never be the man she wished him to be, Hermione felt useless and lost.

Settling back into Severus’ old chair, Hermione listened to the wind blowing across the heath in the distance. She had made up her mind, for the time being. There was no need for her to be in the labs. Hermione was as much a theoretician as she was a Potions Mistress. The safety of her home and the love of her friends would have to suit her. Dreams of what could have been were pointless…now that she knew that Draco Malfoy was perhaps lost forever to his own quest for power. In truth, Hermione knew that Draco’s actions were not totally unexpected. Considering what she remembered about the boy Draco, it made sense…

However, Hermione wondered what it would mean if the man were to acquire all three remaining pieces of Vulcan’s manufacture. So little was written or had survived in the annals of Wizarding history, and there were so many dangers that Hermione knew Draco Malfoy would think harmless to him while he was possessed the Arm. Perhaps Draco Malfoy’s end would be due to his arrogance. The thought brought Hermione no satisfaction. In fact, none of her thoughts after seeing Draco again brought her satisfaction.

The child in her womb moved often as the weeks passed, and Hermione had tired herself out with crying. The child was a reality, the most precious reality she left. No longer did she entertain notions of a happy life with a man who loved her, and no longer did she try to see Draco Malfoy as anything more than a dangerous element that would have be pruned from her life like a dead bloom from one of Millie’s prize rosebushes.

When Hermione’s robes could no longer hide the bulge of her budding womb, Hermione knew it was time to isolate herself and makes plans to remove herself from Britain. Already there were rumors in the Firm about Hermione’s sudden absence. After two years of appearing to work every day, her absence was noted by her assistants in the lab and by the other employees she greeted warmly every morning on her way to the labs. The rumors ranged from the mundane to the ridiculous, but it mattered not to Hermione. All that mattered was the safe delivery of her child and the continued safety of herself. Millie emphatically agreed that Hermione should leave, and after many afternoon teas at Rowena’s Respite, Hermione no longer felt a nagging guilt and selfishness for leaving her friends and her business.

But there one last issue Hermione knew she had to clear from her conscious. The matter of the child’s father…

Five months to the date of conception, Hermione held a hand over her mouth as the Portkey deactivated and she stood once again in the foyer of Malfoy Manor. She knew that she had only two Portkey travels left in her before she would have to take to bed rest until the child was born, one being the travel out of the Manor.

Holding her wand firmly in her hand, Hermione took only one step forward when a soft pop sounded and the ancient and familiar house elf appeared just at Hermione’s toes. Hobbin looked up at Hermione, his face just as it ever was, wrinkled, sour, and taciturn.

“The Master is not here.”

Hermione said nothing and looked about her, the morning light changing her original perception of the Manor. The rich colors of the marble and paneling had not been so uninviting and dark as Hermione first believed. The foyer was elegant and despite first appearances, pleasantly inviting.

“I see.”

“The Granger was not expected,” Hobbin began, but seemed to change his mind with his stern tone, and then said, “But Granger has the key, she can come and go as she pleases, she and the child are safe in this sacred hall.”

Hermione blinked, glancing back down at her toes and the miniscule figure there.

“Yes…” Hermione whispered, moving to grasp the key again and return to her humble cottage and away from the lavish setting she could, if she wished, call sanctuary.

“The Granger will come with Hobbin. Hobbin wishes to speak with her,” Hobbin wheezed, moving as he spoke, toward a door just beyond the foyer set into the eastern part of the Manor.

“With me?” Hermione uttered quietly, having to move a bit quickly to follow the elf that had opened a door with a wave of a crooked finger.

“There is no other Granger here, come along,” Hobbin growled, stepping into a sun-filled doorway.

Hermione felt as if she were suddenly consumed by the late spring sun, stepping into a room seemingly made of windows. When her eyes finally adjusted, she found herself in a parlor decorated in warm reds and golds and she wondered suddenly if she were still in Malfoy Manor. A large casement window dominated the eastern wall, framing the morning sun to light every corner of what Hermione believed to be a lady’s morning room. A cheery fire crackled in a white marble fireplace and a massive painting of a pastoral scene hung just above the mantle. Sofas were positioned around the room as if strategically placed to place the sitter in the warmest sunlight. But the centerpiece of the room was an elegant cherry desk with tiny porcelain figurines of slowly moving flora and fauna, knick-knacks befitting a queen.

Hobbin cracked his fingers and a silver tea service popped into existence, floating next to a sofa swathed in striped red and gold Italian silk. Gesturing for Hermione to sit, Hobbin began serving tea, levitating a cup and saucer of the finest China to Hermione. The elf watched her passively as Hermione drank the perfectly prepared tea and let the saucer rest upon her lap. When the elf somehow deemed it suitable to speak, he moved to a large ottoman before Hermione, tucking his cane across his green velvet lap, his large, hairy feet stretched out directly before him.

“The Master knows nothing about the heir you carry, Granger. Hobbin noticed it immediately when you arrived before, but Hobbin has said nothing to the Master. Hobbin can see that the Master is preoccupied and not entirely himself.”

Hermione frowned. “Is it the Arm?”

“No, not the Arm, Master conquered the disease of the Arm long ago. It is Master’s insatiable drive that moves him now. In that way, Master is very much a Malfoy. And now, with the heir, it would be no good to distract the Master. An heir would only disrupt and prolong the Master’s obsession. The Master is not ready for an heir, even a half-blood…”

The elf hesitated, his large orb-like eyes moving to Hermione’s belly, a scowl forming on its lips.

“There is a potion the Granger could take, it is not too late…”

“No!” Hermione growled horribly, nearly spilling hot tea in her lap. “For you to suggest such a thing is not fitting to your station, Hobbin. I may not be a Malfoy bride, and Merlin forbid I be such a person, but I am still a witch, and I am not above hexing your miserable existence into another plane!”

Hobbin smirked, or at least that was what it seemed to be to Hermione’s eyes. There was an air of satisfaction and pride about the elf at Hermione’s words.

“The Granger mistakes Hobbin’s intentions.”

Hermione sighed and took another drink of tea before answering, “Oh? And what intentions were those?”

Hobbin’s smirk faded slowly and old elf hands clutched at the cane in its lap. “Hobbin only suggested such a measure to protect both the Master and the Granger. Has the Granger considered that the Master would not want an heir now, or one from the Granger at that?”

“I have considered that, but I am the mother of the child, one half of a unit. If Draco Malfoy were to try and harm this child,” Hermione said, a hand running over her belly again, “he would find himself unable to have any other…I would hex his bollocks off.”

“The Granger wants the Malfoy heir?”

Hermione blinked, “Of course.”

“Will the Granger love the heir?”

“I already do, Hobbin.”

“Then the Granger must hide the heir until the time is right. The Master needs not know, not now.”

Hermione sighed again, her eyes focusing on the swirling tea set inside the china.

“Such arrangements are being made as we speak.”

Hobbin hummed in amusement, sliding off the ottoman to stand before Hermione again. “The Granger is very smart for a Mudblood, Hobbin will say nothing to the Master until the Granger has given her word.”

Hermione nodded, not taking her eyes off the tea.

“The Granger may stay as long as she likes. The Master will not return for some time. But when the Granger is done, she can show herself out…”

Hermione sat for a long while until the sun had moved overhead, casting the morning room into shadow. Her conversation with Hobbin had been brief and to the point. The elf was not excited about a Malfoy heir, but it had not denied the importance of Hermione’s child, either. Hobbin’s words had simply validated Hermione’s decisions; she should leave Britain. Nevertheless, Hobbin’s words had held an ounce of hope that Hermione simply could not accept. There would probably be no ‘right’ time for Draco Malfoy to ever know about his child.


* * *


Tempus fugit…or so Draco Malfoy thought as he lay back into the black silk divan, the green flash in the fireplace ending his last Floo call. It had been a two years since he had spoken to Cormac McClaggan, and it seemed that in those twenty-four months his solicitor had aged. Of course, Draco knew that if he were look into the mirror above the mantle he would be able to map the course of new scars and age in his own face and body. So much could happen in two years.

Draco’s face was more deeply etched, his eyes unaccountably softer, and his body tighter and scarred. An ache had begun in his knees when the weather was damp and cold, and Draco knew that he was no longer a boy… Why had it taken so long for him to realize time had passed? Perhaps it had been his many breaks with reality? Draco sighed, running his silver hand over his face, the sensitivity afforded by his false hand allowing him to realize how rough his face had become, unshaven and sunken.

He had so much, after so long. He was the richest wizard in the known Wizarding world, and he was suddenly and painfully sane. Draco had faced himself again and again; and after all was said and done, his desires had not changed. He had power, he had wealth, he had the admiration of his colleagues, and he had erased the taint of his progenitors. All that was missing was the one thing he wanted the most in the world…Hermione Granger.

The news from McClaggan had not been encouraging. Two years previous, Hermione Granger disappeared from Britain, given up her place at Longbottom Apothecaries Ltd., and removed all traces of herself from Draco’s world. Even the reason as to why or how was a mystery, and Draco was getting no answers from Millicent. Legal methods had proven ineffective, and Draco knew that Hermione Granger had purposely removed herself from his reach.

Anger had been the first reaction, and then puzzlement. There was some guilt involved, Draco knowing that his behavior toward Hermione Granger had been nothing short of vile, but still, he needed to know. No owl could reach her, no tracking methods, legal or no, could find her, and Draco felt, for the first time in his miserable life, worried.

Hours passed, Draco lying on the divan, his silver arm thrown over his eyes. There was only one person he had not contacted, intimidated, bribed, or annoyed. It was his last resort and it seemed his last hope. Draco bit the inside of his cheek, annoyed that Hermione Granger was so damned brilliant. So, Draco moved to sit up on the divan, and reached for more Floo powder.

“Ronald Weasley, office of the Chudley Cannons, Chudley!”