Draco Malfoy and the Face of Death

“Well,” he sighs, kissing her forehead, “shall we talk?”

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “I’ll need to make notes.”

“Later,” he says, holding her still. “Talk now, write up later.”

He knows that Miss Meticulous won’t like that, and it’s a small but delicious victory when she gives in and, snuggling against his chest, says, “All right...”

He waits patiently, wondering whether she’s just gathering her thoughts—and, frankly, he’d be insulted if she weren’t finding it difficult to think after what he’s just done to her—or whether she has an embarrassing question to ask.

“Those things,” she says, at last, “on the table... What were they?”

Draco kisses the top of her head. It’s the embarrassing question. “You assume I’ll know.”

“You generally do when it comes to sex.”

“Mmm. Well, they were bondage things.”

“I know.” Her hand is cupping his balls protectively, and he wonders if she realises what she’s doing. It’s so... sweet. “But what are they for?” she persists. “I mean, there was something that seemed to fit over the penis...”

Draco shrugs. “From what I could see, he was planning to—well—it’s called ‘milking’, Granger. They keep jacking you off, taking you to the edge and pulling you back, until everything’s so fucked up, the spunk just starts pouring out of you—you’re not coming—you can’t come—and afterwards you’re begging for release, but your body can’t get it.” He bites his lip. “Or there’s another way—they make you come until you’re dry, and then they just keep going—and you’re screaming, and struggling, and ripping your arms out of their sockets, trying to get free and stop the agony...”

“How do you know—”

“I’ve seen it done.”

“At Madam Mafalda’s?”

“During the war.”

“I see...” She’s silent for a moment or two. Then, “Why would he want to do that to you?”

“To humiliate me. It’s the most humiliating thing you could possibly do to a man.”

“So could it—I mean—is it possible—could ‘he’ be a woman? Someone like your Aunt Bellatrix?”

“No,” says Draco, though he can see it’s reasonable question. “No, the voice was definitely a man’s.”

“Then maybe... Did any of the male Death Eaters seem to fancy you?”

“No.”

“Draco...” She shifts in his arms, and cranes her neck, her eyes searching his face.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Please, Draco. Tell me. Please.”

“Oh, fucking hell, Granger! They were sadists, all right? They liked to inflict pain. Pain. Some of them got off on torture, some of them liked to fuck their victims, and some of the fuckers didn’t care whether the victim was a witch, a wizard, a Muggle, or a goat. Is that enough detail for you?”

She doesn’t retreat. “Do you know who they were?”

“What?”

“Names, Draco! Names we can give to Harry!”

He stares at her, open-mouthed. She has an unhealthy fascination with his past sex life, and her flashes of jealousy and possessiveness sometimes worry him but, this time, he’s wronged her. He pulls her back into his arms. “Of course. You know, you never cease to amaze me, Granger,” he says.

“We’d better write them down.” She summons some parchment and a self-inking quill, and charms the quill to take Draco’s dictation.

“Mulciber,” he begins. “Yaxley. Jugson—”

“We know that Jugson’s in Azkaban.”

“Yes, strike Jugson. Selwyn. Rowle. And, of course, Crabbe—”

“Crabbe?”

“Crabbe, senior. McNair... I think that’s it.”

“Did any of them ever—you know—look at you? Or touch you?”

“Cop a feel of me under my robes? No.” The quill faithfully transcribes his vulgarity. “Oh, shit.”

“I’ll make a clean copy later,” says Granger. “So you were never forced to strip naked in front of them, or to take part in an orgy with them, and none of them ever saw you aroused?”

“Granger! I said, no,” he growls. “Why won’t you let this drop?”

“Because I can tell you’re hiding something from me...” She squirms free of his arms and, sitting up, looks down at him. “We talk about sex all the time, Malfoy—we have sex most of the time—what could you possibly be ashamed to tell me...?” Her eyes widen. “Did someone...?”

“What?”

“You weren’t...?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You weren’t raped?”

“Granger!” He runs a hand through his hair. “Fucking hell! No—I’m sorry to disappoint you but, no. I wasn’t raped, so I don’t need you to found a Society for the Protection of Fucking Draco.”

She isn’t deterred. “So what did happen?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! It was Mulciber’s wife, all right? I fucked Mulciber’s wife!” He sighs. “I was drunk out of my mind, and she cornered me and, when Mulciber found us going at it, she said I’d forced her. He would have killed me, but my father Stunned him, and the Dark Lord told him to leave me alone—he said it showed I’d found some balls at last.”

“Oh, Draco...” She slides her hands under him, and hugs him tightly.

He should be annoyed but, somehow, he’s not, and—although all the talk of Death Eater perversions and of Mrs Mulciber has somewhat dampened his ardour—he finds that he likes the feel of her arms around him, and of her breasts, pressing softly against his stomach—

“We’ll put Mulciber at the top of the list, Malfoy,” she says, suddenly. “We don’t need to tell Harry why.”

...

They dress, and go down to dinner and, afterwards, Draco persuades Lucius to let them join him in his study.

When Granger’s with his father, she can be quite aggressive—the way she used to be with him—and, of course, when his father’s with Granger, he’s at his most supercilious, so Draco knows that he can expect some fireworks, but he really can’t see any other way forward.

“This morning, Father,” he says, taking hold of Granger’s hand, “we went back to Crucible Court, and searched the house.”

“And found my letter, I hope?”

Granger boils over sooner than he’d expected.

“Your letter?” she snaps. “No, we didn’t find your letter! We found a table, and chains, and...” She describes the various devices with a brutal clarity that has Draco squirming. “Someone was planning to torture Draco. Torture him!”

She slams the list of Death Eaters on Lucius’s desk.

Lucius is obviously shocked. He looks up at her, and then down at the parchment. “What is this?” he asks.

“A list of madmen,” says Granger.

“Er,” says Draco, “why don’t I explain? Hmm?”

“All right.”

He sits her down. “The fact is, Father, this man seems to have a grudge against both of us—you and me,” he says, “and that makes us think that he’s a former Death Eater—someone who didn’t come out of the war as well as the Malfoys did. And the fact that wants to humiliate me—”

“Sexually,” says Lucius.

“Yes—suggests that it might be—”

“Mulciber.” Lucius fingers the parchment. “I suppose it could be. But, then, it might be any of the cuckolded husbands you’ve left in your wake, Draco.”

“Only if the husband also hates you,” says Granger. “You must draw up a list, too, Mr Malfoy,”—there’s steel in her voice—“of anyone you think might have a grudge against you. We’ll give both lists to Harry, and draw his attention to any names that appear twice.”

“Harry Potter? What does Harry Potter have to do with this?”

“He’s investigating the murder, Father,” says Draco. “It was Potter who cleared Gra—”

“The death of a Muggle whore,” says Lucius, fastidiously, “has nothing to do with me.”

“Harry already knows about your supposed dealings with Borgin, Mr Malfoy,” says Granger.

Lucius’s face freezes in an expression of horror; Draco looks anxiously from his fiancée to his father and back again.

“But, the fact is,” she continues, “you didn’t sell any Dark artefacts, so Harry doesn’t care. But poor Delilah was killed because this madman used her to get to Draco, and then needed to keep her quiet.” She frowns. “No,” she says, turning to Draco, “Obliviation would have kept her quiet. So why did he kill her?”

“Maybe he aimed the Avada at you,” says Draco, “but Delilah got in the way.” And, at that thought, he can’t stop himself reaching out for her.

“Then why poison me?” she asks, letting him draw her into his arms. “Why not just cast another Avada?”

Draco shakes his head. He has no idea.

“Perhaps this Delilah had defied him in some way,” says Lucius. “Perhaps he cast the Avada in anger...” He leans back in his chair and, pressing his fingertips together, appears to be considering what he’s just suggested.

“Delilah was with me when she died,” says Granger, thinking aloud. “So maybe that was her defiance. Maybe she contacted me. Maybe that’s why I was in Knockturn Alley...” She looks up at Draco, and it’s obvious that her mind has made some sort of leap. “You said you didn’t love her, but could she possibly have loved you?”

Draco frowns.

“I mean,” she continues, “suppose she suddenly realised that this man was actually intending to hurt you, and she wanted to warn you.”

“She was kind,” says Draco.

“We need to extract whatever memories I have left,” says Granger, decisively, “and look at them in the pensieve.”

Draco had been afraid she’d come up with this idea. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks, softly. “Potter’s healer and that fool at St Mungo’s both said that you were in shock, and I don’t believe that that was from seeing someone Avada’d.”

“You think I’ll see something and have a relapse?”

He leans closer. “I just don’t want you taking any chances.”

She smiles. “But you’ll be there with me.”

“Oh, spare me, please!” says Lucius, rising from his chair. “We will both be with you, Hermione.”

…

They move to the library.

“From what Draco tells me of your misadventure,” says Lucius, conjuring a glass flask, “I doubt that you’ll be able to extract a continuous memory. But perhaps if you focus on one or two of the clearer parts of the experience, and withdraw those, we’ll be able to see enough going on in the background to piece something of the rest together.”

Draco’s surprised—and ridiculously pleased—to see Granger look up at his father, and nod, with a glimmer of respect in her eyes.

“And might I suggest,” Lucius continues, “that Draco try to jog your memory with a few well-chosen prompts. But you must be careful Draco. We don’t want you creating any false memories.”

Granger nods again. “That’s a good idea.” She smiles—almost shyly—at Draco, then lifts her wand to her temple. “I’ll start by thinking of Delilah,” she says, and closes her eyes.

At first nothing happens.

Then her wand begins to move, very slowly, pulling out a silvery strand that’s not quite gas, and not quite liquid. She pauses, screws up her eyes tightly, and then continues withdrawing it for a moment or two more.

“There,” she says, opening her eyes. Draco holds out the flask, and she drops the memory inside. “What next?”

“Knockturn Alley,” he says.

Granger takes a deep breath, and starts again.

“Think of shadows and still air,” says Draco, remembering his own trips to Crucible Court, “the smell of damp and rot, and the sounds of dripping water.”

Granger adds her new memory to the flask.

“The Death Eater next,” says Lucius.

“Yes,” says Draco. “Think of a cloaked figure, with a mask, and see what happens.” He grasps her arm. “Don’t forget that he must have had a walking stick.”

This time, several minutes pass before Granger suddenly draws out a long, writhing memory, and quickly seals it in the flask.

“Are you all right?” asks Draco.

“I’m fine,” she says, but he knows she’s lying. “Do we need anything else?”

“Well... There’s your red underwear.”

“Draco!”

“No, think about it,” he says. “It’s what you were wearing when they found you, so—if we’re lucky—your memory of putting it on may just show us why you ended up in Knockturn Alley.”

Granger flashes him a smile that says, I believe you, though thousands wouldn’t, then slowly withdraws a final strand of silver. “There.”

“Very well,” says Lucius. “Let us see what we can see.”

…

Draco brings the pensieve out into the Library, and sets it on a table.

Hermione withdraws the stopper from the flask, and pours her memories into the bowl, where they seethe, like boiling snakes.

“The strands are destroying each other,” says Lucius, looking thoughtfully at the silvery storm. “We must be quick, and stay alert. I doubt we’ll get a second chance.”

They plunge their faces into the stone bowl, and Draco feels the now familiar sensation of being lifted off his feet and pulled down into the memories...

They’re standing in an empty white room.

“Look out,” cries Granger, and Draco flinches as a great, dark shape engulfs them—but it’s only one of the memory strands, demanding their attention.

Suddenly, they’re in Knockturn Alley, leaping aside as a figure rushes past them in a swirl of black robes.

“Follow him,” cries Lucius, his voice bubbling up from somewhere deep in his stomach, and the trio run down and down and down the narrow passage, never seeming to get any closer to their quarry until, suddenly, they shoot around a corner, and stumble into the bare skeleton of Crucible Court.

Directly ahead, Draco can see Delilah—dressed in a leather corset—bending over some trussed-up wizard.

She strokes his balls with a long, black feather.

“Could that be me?” he gasps, his voice distorting just as his father’s had. “Did she tell you the madman’s plans, Granger?”

The table disappears, and Delilah and Granger—the latter wearing nothing but her scarlet bra and French knickers—are standing either side of a window. Granger opens it, and admits a postal service owl.

“A-v-a-d-a K-a-d-a-v-r-a-a-a!” roars the mysterious Death Eater.

Draco knows he should turn and look at the man, but he can’t take his eyes off Granger, in her splashes of red.

The window’s slithered down, and wrapped itself around Granger’s body, pinning her to the blank-but-solid wall and making her a sitting target.

But, somehow, she manages to wrench her wand hand free, and cast an Avada of her own.

The two spells sail through the air like great green serpents, rear up, entwine, and swallow each other whole.

Draco lets out a sob of relief.

Then slates start falling from the roofs—Knockturn Alley’s disintegrating.

Delilah panics, blunders past Granger, and—wailing like a mandrake—runs straight at the Death Eater, who stops her dead with another Avada.

Both Grangers cry out in anguish, and their screams pierce the pale grey walls, admitting a million flakes of blinding light, which rapidly grow, and blossom into spurts of flame.

“Shit!” Draco grabs Granger by the hand and, together with his father, they flee the decaying memories, rising back into reality, but not before Draco has seen the other Granger fall, and the Death Eater plunge his walking stick between her thighs.