Beyond the Veil -- COMPLETE

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Updated 3-12-08


Thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I do appreciate the time each of you takes to click the Review link and write me. I get so excited when I get a new review. More precious than a gold Galleon, each one.

A few questions answered:

Ravenna – he won’t have the black hair for long.

blue artemis – will Lucius ever get Hermione to unbend? Ooooh yeah…

jw – I can’t get ahead of my story…

Now onward...

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Chapter Eight


Trouble



Lucius returned to their room in the wee hours of the morning, marginally more relaxed from his evening of sex and drinking, but still feeling twitchy and empty. He hadn’t done justice to the ubiquitous mutton stew because errant threads of guilt kept sliding through his mind at having spent himself on the blowsy, brothel whore while Hermione was diligently working on answers to their predicament. That wasn’t the entire truth and Lucius knew it. He was feeling guilty about seeking out another female and he didn’t like the unwelcome contrition that ate at him as he had sat among the loutish revelers in the overwarm, noisome taproom. His mind had vacillated as he silently argued back and forth with himself – he wasn’t answerable to her for his behavior, she had no right to ask it of him. She didn’t even care if he left. She liked that book better than him. He needed the sexual relief. She wouldn’t care.



Lucius was puzzled at the strength of his guilty feelings. It was excessive in view of his relationship with the tiny witch at home. At home? They weren’t a couple. Why on earth was he punishing himself for his very normal behavior. It was truly no business of hers what he chose to do as long as he didn’t bring trouble down on both their heads. He almost felt as though his actions were being guided or nudged toward the little witch and the more he railed against that inexorable pull toward Hermione the more unhappy he became.

To shut off the stabs of reproach, he’d drunk more than he had planned, becoming great friends with his tankard of ale and so it had been much later than he had thought to be gone when Lucius reluctantly decided he should return to the petite source of his squirmy feelings of transgression. He crept up the stairs, stealthily entering the darkened bedroom. He decided not to illuminate the room and disturb his reluctant bedmate. He rested his hat beside her bonnet on the bureau, then crept to his side of the bed, divested himself of his clothing, folding everything neatly on the chair and climbed into the bed where he pulled up the quilt to his chest.

The room was cold and through his pleasant alcoholic haze he vaguely worried that it was too chilly for Hermione before realizing she was an accomplished witch and could have heated up the space had she wanted to. Apparently she liked sleeping in a cooler room. So did he, especially warmed as he was from the tankards he’d consumed at the tavern, so he promptly fell into a sound, ale-induced sleep.

An hour later, Lucius suddenly woke up and wondered why he had. The night was still, there was no noise coming from anywhere, but he sat up feeling wrong somehow. Then he inhaled sharply, his breath hitching in his throat. There should have been some noise. He should be hearing Hermione breathing.

Lucius commanded, “Lumos!” of the wand that never left his hand as he slept and he looked over at Hermione’s side of the bed. “Oh Gods,” Lucius moaned. Her side of the bed was empty. And completely cold. He started to hyperventilate. She hadn’t been there at all when he had sneaked into bed. If he hadn’t been more than a little drunk, he might have noticed then.

Lucius activated the connection charm and felt an immediate, if attenuated, tug telling him she was not even close by, but she was alive. Lucius cleared the bed in a quick leap and redressed in record time, turning up the lamp and surveying the room. What he saw made his blood run cold. Hermione’s wand was on the floor at the foot of the bed and the book, Hermione’s one passion, was thrown onto the little table by the window, open and face down, the pages all scrunched up.

Lucius knew she would never have left her wand on the floor or the book pages crumpled that way and his fear escalated. What on earth had happened? It looked as though she hadn’t left of her own volition. Increasing rage swept over Lucius. He was going to roust out his landlady immediately for some answers and they’d better be good ones or she wasn’t going to see the light of morning.

The furious wizard pulled open the door and ran down the main stairs, first going to the landlady’s sitting room. It was empty and he moved outward from there, opening doors and finding several attractively decorated and furnished private areas completely at odds with the threadbare and dingy public rooms of the multistorey building. His anger and his suspicions increasing, he continued his search until he found his quarry on the second floor in an ornate bedroom, sleeping heavily with a lacy cap perched on her iron-grey curls.

The woman was unceremoniously yanked from her bed, screeching at the abrupt awakening, but Lucius was beyond caring about her sensibilities. “Where is she?” he dragged the old woman’s face up to his and spat, “if anything at all has been done to hurt her, you’ll suffer the same fate.” Lucius shook her until her head lolled back, “Now WHERE IS SHE?”

The woman, faced with two hundred pounds of irate male, tried to think, “I don’ know whatcher mean. Leggo o’ me this instant or I’ll call the watch, I will!”

“You won’t call the watch or anyone else.” Lucius looked into her eyes and called forth his legilimens skill, “We’ll see if you’re as innocent as you claim!” Lucius’ hands on her shoulders and his eyes boring into hers brought him rage and terror in equal amounts.

He saw through the old woman’s eyes as two heavyset men came down the front stairs, a tiny green-clad female slung over the massive shoulder of one of the men. She was kicking until the second man smacked her head hidden under a burlap sack, which had been crudely tied over her head and shoulders, pinioning her arms to her body. At the smack her body had gone limp. The villain had either knocked her out or killed her. Lucius saw a bag of what he figured were coins dropped into the landlady’s hands as the two men and their plunder left the building through the back hall.

Lucius remembered that his charmed connection to Hermione still held so she was alive and a slight lessening of his terror eased his chest, but conversely his rage increased. “Where did they take her?”

The old woman was trying in vain to wiggle away from Lucius’ hold, but his fingers dug more firmly into her scrawny arms as he growled, “I know you sold her to someone. You’ll tell me who they were and where I can find them or I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”

“ ‘ere, no need to make threats! If yer ladybird ‘as flown, it ain’t my fault. ‘Er muster gone out while I wuz in me sitting room. I didn’t ‘ear nobody leave. There be plenty o’ other sluts for a ‘andsome man like you be. Who knows why th’ lil tart decided to leave? Mebbe ‘er just stepped out like, and ‘er’ll come back.” The old beldame thought her story would be good enough against this ill-tempered male’s suspicions. Hadn’t she offered up the same story to many another couple who had rented her room? What could anyone prove, after all?

“Accio house deed,” roared Lucius, and the deed to the building emerged from somewhere downstairs and flew into his opened hand. “Accio quill,” and a sharpened quill quickly followed, floating to his hand in a splatter of dark ink.

“Oh, me sainted mum, who be yer then? An angel?” the harridan fell to her knees. “I ain’t done nuffink wrong, sir. ‘onest.”

“You and honesty haven’t even a passing acquaintance, now get up.” Lucius dragged the woman up by her arms and propelled her over to her dressing table where he swept her jars and ornaments off onto the floor, setting the deed onto the surface with the pen. “First you’re going to sign over this building to me,” he commanded, earning an outraged screech from the old woman, “then you’re going to tell me exactly where they’ve taken my woman. And then you’re going to pray I don’t kill you.” He handed the shuddering harridan the quill, which she took in a hand that shook so hard it was difficult to hold the feather still.

Lucius leaned down and whispered in her ear, “If I have to tell you again, I’ll fake your signature myself and see you into a pauper’s grave with all the other Newgate villains they hang. By sun up.” He stood up again, “Now sign!”

Lucius stood behind the old bitch, a heavy hand on her bony shoulder in menace, wondering where in hell the word Newgate and the idea of pauper’s graves came from. It was perturbing having entire ideas emerge from his mouth when he didn’t know exactly what he was saying. Then the comprehension of Newgate and pauper’s graves seeped into his conscious store of knowledge. He remembered Hermione’s assertion that they were assimilating into this era through their language. Apparently their base knowledge of the world in this time period was seeping into their brains too.

Lucius frowned. Hermione…her small body clouted into unconsciousness. If anything happened to his little witch, this time period was going to be awash in Muggle victims of his wand. And this old hag would be first.

He watched in dispassionate satisfaction as the woman signed over her property to one Lucius Malfoy after which he placed his wand on her temple and obliviated her recent memory of his two magic commands. Bundling her into a frothy, ruffled dressing gown meant for a much younger woman that hung on the open door of her wardrobe, Lucius grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her to the front door, pulling her down the stoop to the street.

“Which way, old woman?” Lucius stared down into her eyes and saw the place he wanted. It was in a better section of the city with nicer buildings and wider streets, but overlain with an undefined miasma of vulgarity which tainted it. “Tell me the address and I might let you live,” he said quietly with such a remote tone and cold eyes that the woman was certain he was going to kill her right at her front stoop. She gibbered, “They made me do it. I didn’t have no choice. ‘onest, sir.”

“You use the word honest so easily. The lies fairly trip off your tongue. I know the truth. Now quit wasting my time. Which way?”

The old woman saw an advantage to herself and she attempted to negotiate, “Now dearie, I can tell ye fer a price, but ye’ll need some coin fer me to tell ye, if yer wants that tart so much.”

Lucius brought up his wand, aiming it at the ancient crone. She thought it was a harmless stick and her face took on a hard, crafty cast, thinking she had won – for three seconds. The enraged wizard muted her voice and sent her a crucio, watching without pity as she folded into herself silently screaming as every nerve ending lit up, her twisting body winding up on the pavement in shivering agony, writhing as though she was on fire.

Several minutes were lost before she had finally recovered enough to be coherent again, and Lucius pulled her up restively and repeated, “Which way?”

The old woman looked at him in horror, unable to understand how he had made her hurt worse than she’d ever done in her life, but left no mark on her. She was panting uncontrollably from the pain as she tried to talk.

Lucius removed the mute spell and waited, one eyebrow raised in expectation. “Shall you tell me or shall you have another wave of pain? I don’t know if your old body can survive another attack, really. But I’m quite willing to try. How about you?” He said ferociously, “NOW WHICH WAY?”

The old woman could hardly walk, but she pointed in the direction of the place where Hermione was being held, hoping the unnatural monster would let her go. She was moaning in disappointment two seconds later as Lucius dragged her with him. They went down street after deserted street, its scurrilous denizens melting away in the dark after one look at the large man in a towering rage dragging an old woman many of them knew by reputation. They weren’t interested in helping her or courting the notice of the angry man.

Finally the area started to widen out and the properties had a look of careful tending. At last she stopped in front of the building Lucius had seen in her mind. The moment they arrived, Lucius apparated them back to her - now his - building and hit her with a petrificus totalis spell, stuffing her into a shed in the back garden.

The next morning he would deliver her to a delightfully unwholesome insane asylum one of the whores had told him of at the low class brothel he’d visited. The whore had described their day trip to entertain the handsome man as she was undressing for him; she had called it Bedlam and told him the inmates were crazy and usually kept in chains if they were at all active. She and an acquaintance had toured it one day for a lark, laughing at the inmates and poking them with sticks. Lucius thought it fitting as a new home for the vicious, old slattern.

Lucius quickly changed his hair color to a burnished auburn wincing that he was using a Weasley shade, added a slight bump to the bridge of his nose, changed his eye color to a cobalt blue and redesigned his garments to reflect a wealthy rake (rake? Ah, a rake!) then apparated back to the building where Hermione was. How many times had he changed his features and coloring in Death Eater raids? At least now his old expertise at dissembling would prove valuable for an honorable enterprise.

His connection charm was telling him he was very close to her now. Lucius went to the mews behind the property and easily unlocked the back gate, entering through the kitchen silently as he covered himself with a disillusionment charm. It was child’s play from there to wander through the downstairs rooms seeing the very rich patrons at play, gambling and fondling the feminine merchandise. He saw a few men take females and ascend some ornate, marble stairs so he followed, having an excellent idea what happened above.

Nor was he wrong. Numerous rooms with a variety of sounds muffled by solid doors told him all he needed to know. The connection charm was vibrating now and he knew if Hermione was conscious, she would feel his nearness too, but the numerous doors defeated his efforts to discover exactly which one Hermione was behind. Even under a disillusionment charm he didn’t want a door opening by ‘itself’ to alert whoever was inside.

Lucius retraced his steps out the back of the upscale ‘house’ and advanced boldly to the front door, knocking quietly. The door flew open immediately, letting Lucius know it was guarded. One of the two men Lucius had seen in the old bat’s mind stood there, a suspicious frown on his face.

“Who the bloody hell are you?”

Lucius understood from the man’s speech that he was of a slightly higher caliber than the old woman, but still not the upper class that Lucius was. Lucius’ cultured voice instantly made the guard relax slightly, but he still stood in the doorway blocking the red-haired wizard.

Lucius made to move toward the man who put out an arm, touching Lucius’ chest, keeping him from entering. That was precisely what he wanted and in a trice he had an answer plucked from the guard’s own mind.

“I am new to London. But one of my circle mentioned this place to me. He said you would know of him, Viscount Reedly?” Lucius knew that of course the guard DID know the man. Lucius prayed that Viscount Reedly, whoever the hell he was, hadn’t decided to visit the premises that night. The advanced hour wasn’t a concern. These ‘houses’ were always open until mid-morning for their lingering customers.

“Yeah, he’s a regular. Ain’t here tonight though. Did you want to see him or are you a customer? We ain’t cheap, you know. And we don’t know you. But if you’ve a mind to, you can come in and discuss terms with the Madame.” The guard stepped back and let Lucius enter the house – for the second time that night.

Lucius wanted to gather all the information he could before barging into the unknown. But Hermione wasn’t going to be kept in this elegant bordello even one more hour without him finding her.

He was shown into a beautifully decorated office and met the woman who had taken his witch. Lucius smiled, bringing all his charm to bear on the astute older woman, but saw that it had only minimal effect. Right. So, on to plan B. The moment the door closed after her henchman, Lucius hit her with a Petrificus Totalis – such a useful spell - and touched her shoulder, boring into her open, shocked eyes with his own and calling forth any memories of Hermione. He saw immediately that Hermione was indeed on the premises and had been ruthlessly stripped, bathed, her body inspected, redressed in some diaphanous robe and threatened with intense bodily harm if she so much as squeaked. He saw that her own clothing had been tucked into that very office in the cupboard behind him.

A cursory examination of the rest of the office brought up a series of keys, probably to the upper rooms, which he left in their drawer and a large packet of high-denomination bills in a strong box that was but the work of a moment for him to open with a transfigured hole in the side. He removed the entire stash of cash and returned the safe to its previous condition, pocketing the money. Hermione’s clothing was shrunk and transferred to a second pocket in his coat. His dratted pantaloons hadn’t room enough to house a sneeze.

Lucius leaned forward and touched her again, “Which number room is your new female in?” He instantly saw the number four surface in the Madame’s mind although she thought she was stubbornly refusing to tell him. She couldn’t have answered him anyway, but Lucius only wanted the number to appear in her mind for him to read.

Lucius stepped back, sat down and hit her with an Obliviate, waiting for her to return to herself. “Madame, good evening, my name is Lucius Malfoy. An acquaintance of mine from the country, Lord Reedly, recommended you to me. I’m hoping you have something in my ‘style’ as it were.” A slight, feral smile accompanied his suggestive words.

The Madame blinked, wondering where her mind had wandered, but said, “I’m certain we can accommodate you.” She sat forward, clasping her hands on her desk, “What exactly are your requirements?”

“Young, petite, soft coloring, a fresh-looking girl. Someone who can appear, shall we say, unused?” Lucius pondered a second, “And if you can supply it, I do prefer curly hair rather than straight although that’s not a requirement. I am, of course, willing to pay well for your offering if it meets with my approval.”

The Madame looked at her guest a bit suspiciously, but decided anyone with the uppercrust accent and superlative clothing this well-groomed man sported would be highly unlikely to be acquainted with a lowlife slut from the classy end of the stews. It did worry her some that the slut had spoken with a high-class accent also, but the old biddy she did business with had said the man with the little tart had been black-haired with spooky, light gray eyes. This man’s hair was definitely red and his eyes were a dark blue. Nevertheless, she needed some reassurance, “I beg your pardon, but I can’t be too careful. I’m sure you understand. I will show you a possibility that I think will meet your tastes, but I’ll require the blunt up front.

Blunt? thought Lucius. Ah, yes, money. The word’s meaning slithered into his mind and he reached for his coat pocket where her roll of money now resided. “How much, madam?”

She named a large sum and Lucius peeled off the required amount, impressing the woman with the roll of money he held. This new customer could be valuable if he stayed in town much, she thought, her greed overcoming any remaining hesitation. “Follow me, please. This girl is new and may not be quite as acquiescent as you could wish?” She left the end of the sentence as a question, waiting for Lucius to reply.

He smiled with an air of conspiracy, “All the better Madame. Lead the way.”

Well pleased, the Madame led him up the stairs to the door numbered four and opened it to a room that looked like a valentine from a nightmare. It was festooned with white lace on nearly everything, the furniture was solid but painted white and the rest of the room was host to every shade of red known to the human eye. Lucius gritted his teeth and gave the Madame another smile, hoping it didn’t look like he felt. Twelve years in a gray prison cell had never prepared him for this… this paroxysm of reds. The room looked like it was bleeding to death on a doily. He stepped across the threshold to see his little witch huddled on a white side chair in the farthest corner of the room, trying to be inconspicuous in her thin, lacy negligee.

Hermione had heard the key turn in the lock and didn’t know what else to do. She’d be damned if she would look like she wanted to be there. The petite artifacts expert had little education in the seamier side of sex; her knowledge had never extended to knowing some men actually liked to bed a reluctant woman and the house harlots often pretended fear as part of the entertainment. Where was Lucius? She’d felt the connection charm activate. He’d better get moving or she was in deep trouble.

“Thank you, Madame, she will do nicely,” said Lucius flicking a negligent finger towards Hermione as he turned toward the Proprietress with a raised eyebrow clearly expecting her to leave the bedroom.

At the sound of his voice, Hermione’s head snapped up. She was flummoxed for a second, but she’d already seen her wizard in his unnatural dark hair so she caught on quickly. Lucius! she cried. What? Her voice didn’t work!

The woman turned a fierce eye on Hermione with a warning, “See to it that this gentleman is pleased with you or you’ll have me to deal with. I hope you understand me, lovey.” With a last simpering smile at Lucius she turned and left the room, patting her pocket with the money in it.

tbc...

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Our cunning Lucius is three parts hero and one part hard-headed businessman. He’s never made a secret of wanting to be rich, the faster the better. If he can add a piece of real estate to his portfolio while saving Hermione, what’s wrong with that? It makes perfect sense to his Slytherin psyche. Perhaps he has justified it by telling himself it is for her, too. He is so very talented at explaining his dubious actions away – to himself, anyway. And really, he would ask, who else counts?

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