Hail Mary

Big thank you to Anjel22 for being my beta!


Always so cold that stare of his. Mary shuddered and wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. So cold. Her anger, she thought, should be enough to keep her warm. It was burning inside her, like a furnace in her gut. But no, the biting wind and the first snow of November was numbing her skin. And her fathers stare was numbing her soul.


Of course, he wasn’t bothered by the cold. As if to demonstrate to his daughter that he was in fact made entirely out of ice and marble, he stood in front of her wearing nothing but a pair of black breeches, chest completely exposed to the wind. His long blond hair whipped around his face like shooting moonbeams gone mad.


“How dare you!” he snarled. Mary looked down at her feet, her pretty, pale blue, satin shoes. She didn’t have the courage to face his gaze now. His gloved hand took hold of her face and yanked it up so that their eyes met. She tried not to whimper.


“You know the law Mary,” his voice nothing but a hiss. “Muggles can be kept for a fortnight, no longer. And you, you have no business bringing Muggles to this castle!”


Her father let her go, turning around to face six Muggles, bound and gagged in the snow. They were a lot colder than the wizard and witch standing in front of them.


“This one here,” her father pointed at a Muggle woman in her thirties. “Says she’s been here since Easter!”


Mary didn’t say a word. It was true, after all.


“And this one,” he pointed his wand at another Muggle, a youth kneeling practically naked in the snow, his large eyes terrified. “Has been here for at least four months! Our family is purer than most, everyone knows how we feel about Muggles, but that does not give you the right to break the law! You live under my roof Mary, and I’ll be damned if you give me any trouble for it!”


All Mary could think about was that youth in front of her. He was her favourite. She’d sit in the dungeon for nights on end, listening to him when he was praying. Hail Mary, full of grace… His voice shaking as he desperately tried to fold his hands properly, she’d broken quite a few bones in his hands, but he was so beautiful. The other Muggles would call upon a whole host of saints when she visited them, but this youth, a year or two younger than herself, he would only call on Mary. He insisted on saying that name, over and over. Mary. Mary. Praying to that divine woman, the star of the sea, to come and help him, to set him free. And all that time, she was standing right in front of him. Oh, he was so beautiful.


But now her father was standing in front of her, so close she could feel the heat of his body and she had to wonder, yet again, how come this man was impervious to the cold. When he spoke to her again, his voice was soft but mocking.


“Your maid tells me that these Muggles are your favourite playthings. That you are with them each day, desperately trying to learn some Dark Arts, I suppose. Let this be a lesson. I forbid you to bring any more Muggles to this castle. You will not break the law again!”


“But you have. I’ve seen it.” The words escaped Mary’s lips before she could stop herself.


The words were rewarded with a hard slap that sent her tumbling to the ground.


I know you have.


She could taste blood; her lip had split. Her cloak and dress were slowly soaking in the snow. Her head was spinning and all of a sudden she was six years old again, playing hide and seek with her maid, Margareta. She had snuck down the stairs that were hidden behind the large painting of Mary's Grandmother; surely Margareta wouldn't find her down there. She’d walked along a hallway until she reached a large oak door. There were voices coming from behind it. Peeping through the keyhole, she saw her father and her two older brothers, Theobald and Lukan. Chained to the wall in front of them were three Muggles. Her father was teaching her brothers the Dark Arts.Every day after her discovery she’d spy on them; watching them torture Muggles with the excitement only a child can feel. For years and years this went on, and the fortnight-rule was being overlooked completely. Her father kept Muggles for as long as they lasted, and some lasted for almost a year.


I know you have.


Tentatively, she looked up at her father, her eyes so dark they were almost black.


I know you have.


“You are worse than your mother,” he spat finally. “Hardly a Malfoy.”


One by one, he killed the Muggles. Avada Kedavra’s shot so easily from his wand, hitting each and every one squarely in the chest. Mary could have screamed. The Muggles belonged to her. She’d never find Muggles like that again; she was sure of it. Especially not one like that youth.


“You will not touch a Muggle until you come of age. Do you hear me?”


“I turn seventeen next month,” Mary replied.


For a moment it seemed that her father was shocked. It was as if he didn’t know that his only daughter would soon come of age. But he regained his composure soon enough and said no more. After all, why should he care?


Mary got up and brushed the snow off her cloak. She spat, leaving specks of blood on the ground, before turning her back to her father and running back inside the castle. She ran all the way up to her chamber, furious, threw her cloak on the floor and sat down near the window, feeling tears of white hot anger trickling down her face.


She could see that her father was still in the courtyard. He was studying her Muggles, her dead Muggles; turning them over; stripping them naked; examining every bruise, mark and broken bones on their bodies.


You are so cold.


----------------------------------


Four weeks later, on the darkest night of the year, Mary was celebrating her seventeenth birthday. Mary's maid, Margareta, had organized quite a feast for her mistress, and Mary was indulging herself completely. She’d gotten an invitation to have her dinner down in the great hall with her father and the rest of his entourage, but she couldn’t stand the thought of being invisible on her birthday. Instead she’d have a private feast in her chamber, with large jug of red wine and roasted venison. Lovely.


She was seventeen now. She could leave this place forever if she chose to. Maybe that was what she should do. Her father wouldn’t mind; he had never cared for her. Why care for his dark, little daughter when he had two perfect sons who were replicas of himself? No, she should leave.


Margareta knew she couldn’t stop her mistress, so when Mary told of her plans, she merely nodded. She couldn’t stop Mary no matter what. She’d learned that when she had first met the child. The child that was born on the darkest night of the year, and so unlike her parents. But there was something in Mary’s eyes that was definitely like her father, and sometimes she even curled her lip the same way he did. Deep down Margareta had always suspected that Mary wasn’t completely of this world. She’d told Mary this, but Mary had just laughed at her for being a superstitious squib.


Mary, on the other hand, knew she was her father’s daughter. They didn’t look the same, but they walked the same and had the same way of waving their wands, not to mention the identical way of flicking their hair back. But her father had never acknowledged that. He had hardly ever acknowledged her existence. First of all, she was a girl; secondly, she had dark auburn hair. Everyone else in the family were shades of silvery blond. And her eyes were too dark. Light blue or grey were the norm among the Malfoys. Although her eyes were indeed blue, they were the dark blue of the sea at night.


Deep down, her father knew it as well. He had kept Mary’s mother locked up in her room ever since he married her, making sure she was all his. He knew he was Mary’s father, no other man had ever touched his Andromeda. Mary couldn’t remember her mother very well; she’d been raised by a wet-nurse and then by Margareta. Her mother had, sensibly enough, killed herself by jumping out from a window when Mary was five. Not that it mattered much. Or maybe it did. Thinking about it hurt just a little bit. What would life be like if her mother was still alive? Would her father care more about her? The big, black thing in her stomach lurched.


Mary took a large mouthful of wine. She was so full she didn’t think she’d be able to stand up, and the wine was getting to her head. She was warm and almost happy. Drunken, shallow happy. But at least she had now made a decision: she was to leave this house tomorrow, go off into the world, and explore all the magic it contained. Her father would be left to rot alone here at Malkin Castle. She would be free like a bird, like a raven.


She giggled and spilled some wine on her dress; pale, blue velvet now stained with red.


“Damn! Margareta, get me my wand!”


Margareta went over to the windowsill where her mistress had left her wand. She didn’t even get halfway across the floor when there was a knock on the door. She changed directions and moved towards the door, opening it after Mary had given her a nod.


Her father entered the room. He was wearing black and green today; with a white shirt, and the gloves. Always the gloves, Mary noted. He pointed at Margareta.


“You. Leave us.”


Mary had gotten up from her chair, knowing full well that the stain on her dress was getting larger and that her father wouldn’t like it. Also she was much more drunk than she’d like to be in front of him.


“Hello, father,” she said quickly.


He said nothing, simply waved his wand and removed the stain from her dress before he sat down in one of the chairs.


“I expected to see you at dinner tonight. I guess, now that you’ve come of age, you will become even more independent than you already were…” he leaned back, flicking his hair the same way Mary would have done it. “Of course, I should have married you off years ago, but for some reason I never bothered. You can sit down by the way.”


He paused, looking at her as she sat down in the chair opposite his, a faint smirk on his face. His stare was undressing her, layer by layer it seemed. Damn, why was her father always so uncomfortable to be around? His eyes traveled all over her body, and Mary had never felt so self-conscious in her life. She decided to face his stare, prove to herself and to him that she wasn’t afraid of him.


“You’re going away tomorrow,” he said casually. Then, seeing Mary’s surprise, he explained. “I read the squib’s mind as she walked past me. She can’t conceal anything, that one. It’s how I found out about your Muggles, actually.”


“Don’t mention my Muggles again; they were not yours to kill. And yes, I am leaving this place tomorrow. I am going off to learn what I can from the world. You won’t see me again, but that won’t bother you at all, will it?” Mary dared to cast a defiant look at her father. He laughed softly and poured himself a glass of wine.


“Right. Well, I’ve come here to give you an offer. The Muggles you had, lets just say I was shocked to know that you’d taken up a hobby like that. I always thought you were more into knitting and other women’s things. What you had done to those Muggles impressed me. Sure, your methods are crude, but still, there must be some talent in you. I have never even considered teaching a woman before, but now I want to teach you. Teach you like I taught your brothers.” He leaned closer to her, “You’re a woman and, though you don’t look it, a Malfoy. I’m not sending you out into the world without having learned the finer ways of the Dark Arts. Do you understand?”


“Yes, I do. It's all about your pride,” Mary quipped.


This time her father laughed out loud.


“True, but consider it, will you? I can show you things, teach you things that will make a future husband envious, for believe me: you are getting married. I will make sure of it.”


“You have taught me,” Mary replied. “I used to spy on you when you taught Theobald and Lukan.”


“I figured as much. Where else would you have learned what little you know? And also, you know my methods. I teach with love, intense love. I have already grown to love you, after seeing the state those Muggles were in.”


Mary was dumbfounded. Love? Her father? Sure, she’d seen what had gone on when he taught her brothers the Dark Arts, but to openly admit that he loved her---after years of not even looking at her---made her heart skip several beats. She swallowed hard, letting herself be filled up with the knowledge she’d yearned for all her life but had never dared to think about: her father loved her.


“Be my pupil, Mary. I will teach you all I know, and after that, I will not hide you from the world. I will help you enter into it, as a Malfoy.”


He was expecting an answer from her, and that answer was simple. Learn everything her father have to teach her? Yes. Be loved by her father? Yes. Be acknowledged among other purebloods? Yes. Power? Yes. Yes, yes, yes.


“I want it. Teach me.”


“Good,” he stood up and kissed her on the cheek, his lips soft and moist. “I’ll expect you in my chamber after dinner tomorrow. I won’t be having dinner with you though, I have some business in the village.”


‘Business in the village’ could only mean one thing: Muggle-hunting.


“I’ll see you tomorrow, father.”


“No please, call me Andreas.”


And, when Mary went to bed that night, her body and soul felt thawed out. Spring had come to her on the darkest night of the year.


---------------------------------


Next day, after dinner, Mary was skipping down the stair and down the hallway leading to her father's room. She was wearing her usual pale blue, and had taken the care to weave pearls into her hair and charm them so they seemed to move in and out of her curls like secretive moons.


She knocked on her fathers door, and it opened silently. She entered, but couldn’t see her father anywhere. Wondering what to do, she checked the hidden passage behind the large painting. Finding the painting standing slightly ajar, she pushed it open further and walked down the cold steps to the dungeon. It was dark down there; the torches in the tunnel hadn’t been lit.


Lumos!


It was the only spell she’d learned to use silently, and as her wand gave light to her steps, she saw that the door leading to the chamber was wide open. It was dark in there. Quietly she entered; holding her wand high, and trying to get a good glimpse of the room.


I know you are here.


His scent filled her nostrils, yet she couldn’t see him.


I know you are here, but where are you?


Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed her from behind, wrapping themselves around her waist. She felt his hard body against hers and on his breath, the smell of brandy.


“Why did you shudder?” he asked, whispering in her ear.


“You caught me by surprise, father.”


“Not ‘father’; Andreas,” he reproached her before letting her go. With some wand waving Mary couldn’t see in the dark, he lit the torches surrounding them and a fireplace in the corner. Mary hadn’t seen the fireplace before; peeping through keyholes gives limited vision. It cast a warm glow on her father, who, again, was wearing nothing but black breeches and the usual gloves.


The room was quite large; empty except for two chairs and a small table in front of the fire, and a Muggle whimpering in one corner.


A house-elf walked in with a bottle of brandy and two glasses, then vanished. Both Mary and Andreas ignored it completely.


Mary was filled with excitement; her heart was beating; she didn’t know what to expect, or what to say, so she said nothing. She just stood there, looking at her father like a silly little girl, while he sat down in one of the chairs and poured the brandy in two glasses.


“Drink,” he said. And she did, but she didn’t sit down. She was focusing on Andreas, the way the glow from the fire touched his skin. “Look at the Muggle. What do you see?”


Mary turned to face the shaking thing in the corner. It was a young woman with auburn hair and filthy curls. She approached the Muggle silently, and the Muggle looked up at her displaying two large, dark blue eyes.


She looks just like me!


The resemblance was uncanny. Andreas embraced Mary from behind yet again, smelling her hair, and Mary shuddered again; she couldn’t help it: “She’s the Muggle me!”


Andreas turned her around so quickly her head spun, and dealt her a slap that stung like hell.


“There is no Muggle you,” he spat. “She merely looks like you. Remember always what you are, and who you are.”


Right.


Mary’s head was spinning. Her cheek was turning red and her father was perfectly right. There was no Muggle her. There were only Muggles, filthy mud-veined Muggles, and then there were pureblood wizards and witches, pure Malfoys like herself. No Muggle Malfoy. Only the pure witch and wizard standing in that dark dungeon, father and daughter, a bit too close.


Come closer.


“Don’t tell me that you’re sorry, I know you are,” Andreas was caressing her hair, the tips of his fingers barely touching her earlobe. “But remember to think before you talk. Compose yourself; always. Oh, don’t say anything; I know how you women are. Always blurting out whatever is on your mind.” He planted soft kisses on both her cheeks and held her tight against him, smelling her hair.


Is this love? Love me! I am afraid to speak.


“Now,” he said to her, turning her around to face the Muggle girl. “Do something to her. Anything.”


Mary had no idea what he expected from her. All she could thing about was his scent, still in her nostrils; his soft hair and his hard body; the fact that he was Andreas, that he was her father, that this was wrong. But she was a Malfoy and had seen him love her brothers. This scared her so much.


Composing herself, she lifted her wand and muttered “Crucio!”


The Muggle screamed; her body cramping and bending and twisting, all pain and so intense it was like watching something beautiful that should not be. When the curse ended, Mary turned back to her father who stood in complete silence, watching, his arms across his chest. When he finally did open his mouth to speak, Mary felt as if she’d stood there for two nights waiting for it:


“By Merlin girl! You are so crude! Have you not learned anything about finesse from spying on me and your brothers? Nothing?”


“I was a child back then…” Mary began, wanting to touch him and run away from him at the same time.


“Well, now you’re a grown woman. Behave like one!”


“Why are you so angry with me?” Oh all my Merlin’s and snorkacks, I’m snapping at him again and I can’t help it. “I do my best! Always! Everything I know I have had to learn by myself; no one has ever given a damn about my magical education before, least of all you! So forgive me, dear father, if my curses do not have the standard you are looking for!”


His laugh was enough for her to almost do an Unforgivable on him. She was seething with anger, anger built up for years. She had a right to be angry with her father, no wait, Andreas, and he was just standing there laughing at her! Damn him to Muggle Hell!


“Right then, no need to be that upset. Let me show you how to properly wreck this Muggle apart,” he approached Mary like a cat on the prowl, embracing her and showering her neck with kisses. “Margareta told me that you are still a virgin. I would have disowned you if you weren’t, you know.”


He knelt down before the Muggle and poked her until he got her attention.


“Catherine,” he said slowly. “My name is Andreas; this is my daughter Mary. Your life will end here tonight. Do you understand me? Nod if you do.”


The frightened girl nodded and tears ran down her face. Andreas leaned forward and licked them up, and Mary thought it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen her father do.


“Mary, take my hand.”


She walked over to him and grasped his left hand firmly.


“The Cruciatus can be exercised with a lot more control than you just showed. The trick is to focus, like when doing wordless spells, only you have to feel it even more, give it purpose and direction. Understand? Like this.”


Andreas pointed his wand at the girls foot and he didn’t even utter a word; she just started screaming, clutching her foot, wanting to tear it off, wanting it to stop. Mary was fascinated. A Cruciatus only on her foot? That was incredible.


“Now you try,” Andreas said after letting go. “But give the girl a moment or two first; she needs to breathe for a while.”


Focus. Make him proud.


With all her heart she tried to feel the curse as she spoke it. Her wand was pointing at the girls shoulder, and the curse hit its mark. Mary gripped her wand and concentrated so hard she could feel droplets of sweat breaking out on her forehead and on her chest. But she could feel it; dear heavens, she could feel the Cruciatus. She knew it, owned it, willed it to stay where it was: on that filthy Muggle shoulder.


The girl was screaming, crying, knocking her head against the wall, anything to block out the pain in her shoulder, and Andreas was smiling. He tenderly kissed Mary behind her ear and told her to move the Cruciatus into the girl's chest.


“Don’t worry, it is only pain. Pain has never killed anyone; she will last,” he whispered as Mary gritted her teeth and tried to will the Cruciatus to move.


The girl screaming, her father kissing her neck and ears, tugging her hair gently, those gloved fingers discreetly touching her breasts; Mary had to use all her willpower not to lose focus. Slowly, the Cruciatus moved. She could feel it move, and the Muggle could definitely feel it. The bond between her wand and the curse tugged at her arm; the curse begged to be free. And with a final burst of thought, Mary let the Cruciatus spread from the centre of the girl's chest and outward, in the end swallowing her whole body. Then she let it go.


Trembling, Mary lowered her wand and let her father kiss her.