21

**Warning: this chapter contains dark themes of familial violence and sadistic/sexual perversions.

Not explicitly detailed, but please heed the warnings to avoid being triggered.**

Chapter 21

Monday 03 March 2003: Noon

Potter has commandeered Interrogation Room Two again, performing an identical ritual of muting and obscuring the enspelled one-way mirror before he plonks himself behind the steel table. After ensuring Hermione is safely seated, Draco resigns himself to another uncomfortable session of a gradually-numbing bum as he sits ramrod straight on the same frugal chair as last Friday. Without conscious thought, Draco resumes holding Hermione's slightly chilled small hand, bringing it to rest on his knee as he slides his hard Ministry-approved chair closer to bridge the gap.

She's obviously still distressed by that goatish bozo McClaggen. Draco forces himself to remain calm, despite his overpowering desire to seek out the lecherous fool and dole out some satisfyingly physical discipline. As in, reducing Cormac's nasal bones to something closely resembling smashed pumpkin pulp.

Hermione gives his unconsciously-tightening hand a tiny tug; Draco shoots her an apologetic look for his thoughtlessly tense squeeze. She smiles reassuringly before returning her attention to The Boy Who Lived.

The incredibly pesky expression of indulgent – 'smuggery' – hasn't left Potter's affable face since he joined them in the elevator. Draco resolves to ignore it and instead focus on passing on his father's Death Eater intel as quickly and summarily as possible. Harry finishes sorting through the disorganized heap of parchment, ink and quills in front of him, his countenance finally settling into a more professional aspect as he nods at Draco.

"We're listening, Malfoy."

As Draco begins his edited tale of interrogating Lucius for any and all scraps of information after Friday's dinner, his mind inescapably provides him with the rest of the impressions and atmosphere attached to the memory…

"Have a seat, Lucius." Draco waits for the hollow-cheeked man to lower into his favoured sanguineous studded-leather Westbury armchair. He is jarred by how shrunken his sire appears in it now; as a child, he'd thought his father a king perched regally in his throne, such was the impression of haughty privilege that both Lucius and the furniture had projected.

He strives to keep his unwelcome pity at bay; even in this depleted state, Lucius Malfoy has mobilized enough contumelious wiliness to bear watching carefully. Despite his touted regret over his past crimes and woefully poor decisions, Lucius has never before offered any opportunity for discourse on the subject of Voldemort, or the subsequent forced adaptation of the grand estate of Malfoy Manor into the tawdry quarters for all manner of Death Eater scum.

Well, it's not as if we were ever going to sit down to hot tea and fresh scones to have a nice little chat about the best way to scrub gobbets of blood from the dungeons after a productive day of torture and murder. Draco scoffs at his errant musings.

He chooses to remain standing; he suspects that Lucius would have preferred not to cede the looming advantage, had his physical stamina been sufficient. Blaise and Theo sit opposite the scowling Lord Malfoy, waiting for Draco to begin.

"Lucius – tell us everything you know of Death Eaters and their sick pastimes, fantasies and schemes," Draco sternly exhorts. "Spare no detail, no matter how depraved. We need this information, and quickly."

Lucius bristles at his son's contemptuous decree. "I demand to know why –"

"You will demand nothing," Draco sharply interrupts. "Your sole choice is divulging the information to us here and now, or I'll bring Aurors here on the morrow. Cease stalling; and remember that I will know if you lie," he reminds Lucius of his Legilimency.

Lucius resorts to sarcasm, glaring up into the granite-grey eyes so alike to his own. "I require more specificity, Draco; the degenerate fantasies of the Dark Lord's followers were nigh innumerable," he sneers.

"Begin with my father," Theo quietly prompts. His words are imbued with an undercurrent of steel that causes Draco and Blaise's head to swivel to him in surprise.

"And what would you truly know of the illustrious Senior Nott, Theodore?" Lucius's voice drips venom; his jealous contempt of the younger man clearly hasn't dwindled. "He told me more than once that you represented his greatest failure." Lucius slips the metaphorical stiletto between Theo's ribs with cold precision.

Theo's wintry response to the bitter jibe rattles Draco to his bones.

"Do you believe that is a revelation to me, Lord Malfoy?" Theo's quixotic eyes are harder and blacker than Draco has ever seen them.

"I watched dear old daddy hurl my mother down a flight of stairs when I was three years old," Theo's voice is that of an automaton; he could be reciting dry historical facts from 'Hogwarts: A History' – such is his apparent detachment from the subject matter. He continues relentlessly, ignoring Blaise and Draco's gasps of shocked horror. Even Lucius sharply inhales at the disclosure.

"Mother had been pleading for him to cease beating me – I'd gotten into his study, you see; he usually kept it tightly locked and warded, but he must've been too drunk to bother that night. He roused from his inebriated stupor on the couch and caught me playing with a quill that had fallen to the floor. Mother ran in when he began whipping me with his belt – my shrieks awoke her. She told me to run and hide, but I only made it as far as the landing when her screams began."

Theo is gazing sightlessly at the antique Persian Tabriz rug at his feet. He whispers the rest.

"He dragged my mother from the study by her hair; her face was already swelling from his brutality. She opened her eyes just before he threw her to her death… she saw me cowering against the banister… her last words were 'Lauf, Liebling!'."

"Her name was Sabine. I did not remember that until I went to live with my grandmother. Father removed all traces of her from our lives as easily as he'd covered up her murder." Theo comes back to himself with a slight lurch, his eyes refocusing as the other occupants of the luxurious masculine retreat remain frozen in place.

"Therefore – hearing that my father bruited about his pervasive condemnation of me as a son and human being does not surprise or bother me in the slightest, Lord Malfoy. I'd be more insulted had he sung my praises," Theo peels back his poet's lips in a facsimile of a smile.

Draco is the first to react. "Theo… I'm sorry." As inane as it is – he cannot think of anything better to say.

Shrugging dismissively, Theo states, "It was a long time ago. I mentioned it because it speaks to my father's historic penchant for violence, misogyny and murder. And I do know that he was an enthusiastic member of a perverted sub-group amongst Voldemort's upper echelon."

"Rabastan Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Walden Macnair, Corben Yaxley, Fenrir Greyback – and Nott Senior." Lucius offers the names with no display of his earlier antagonism. Both of his atrophied hands rigidly clutch his serpent-headed cane.

"'The Sadistic Six'. A subset specializing in abduction, torture, rape, sadism, mutilation, murder, and cannibalism. Or a combination of those elements. And before you ask, Draco – I did not become aware of the true nature of their debased and degenerate proclivities until after the Dark Lord's return and his forcible seizure of our ancestral home for use as his war base," Lucius stiffly informs him. "I heard rumours that they were experimenting with illegal lust potions and yes, there were some fanatical murmurings of force-breeding witches to bear the next generation of Death Eaters. I tried to avoid becoming involved in such discussions at the time."

Too preoccupied trying to keep a low profile after unenviably winning the position of Voldemort's Number One Whipping Boy. The criticism snakes into Draco's mind.

"What about Voldemort himself?" Theo presses. "Was he involved in those plans?"

Lucius frowns. "He encouraged any scheme designed to debase and denigrate Mud- Muggleborns and Muggles – and he definitely enjoyed sadistic physical and psychological torture – but to the best of my knowledge, he didn't personally practise the Sadistic Six's 'hobbies'. Well, apart from murder, of course."

"Disappointing, Lucius – I was hoping you'd finally confirm that Voldemort did return dick-less, as well as nose-less," Blaise muses in apparent seriousness.

Bloody Zabini – zero filter, zero shame. Draco shakes his head in exasperation. At least the irreverently uncouth flippancy has made Theo smirk.

"You will address me as Lord Malfoy, young Zabini – and it's painful to note that your juvenile wit has failed to mature over the years," Lucius scorns, as Blaise chuckles at his own joke.

Theo sets the discussion back on track. "Lestrange and Greyback were killed at the Battle of Hogwarts; Dolohov and Yaxley are serving life in Azkaban; is Macnair still missing?".

"What of your father?" Blaise interjects.

"He's dead. Trust me." The grim finality in Theo's assertion is a deep, dark well that the other men have no desire to climb down.

"Macnair is indeed missing, presumed deceased," Blaise confirms. "That's the Ministry's party line, for what it's worth."

Draco chips in. "Lucius – was there any talk of the Sadistic Six building a legacy? Passing their systemized deviance down to the next generation?".

Lucius rubs his forefinger over the jewelled cane's snake eyes, brows lowering in thought.

"I once saw them poring over a huge, leather-bound tome; initially I believed it to be yet another text on the Dark Arts," he admits. "But Macnair gloatingly called it 'The Manifesto'… from the brief glimpse I obtained, it was stuffed with loose-leafed parchment, as well as print. I've no idea what became of it."

He begins to rise to his feet, staying Draco's instinctive reaching arm of support with an imperious hand; ire has lent him the strength to rise with reasonable steadiness.

"I am not an invalid, Draco – and I've told you everything I know on this matter. Inspect my mind with your invasive Legilimency, if you don't believe me; but I am done for the evening." Lucius glares around the room.

Draco doesn't need to push any telepathic tendrils into his father's brain to know he is being honest. The man still looks defiant, but his utterances following Theo's exposé have borne a ring of truth.

"Fine. Be aware that Harry Potter may come here for further questioning of his own. And I expect you to cooperate fully with his investigation. No exceptions," Draco warns.

Lucius looks as though he's just stood downwind of a flatulent Erumpent, but he refrains from expressing his distaste at the possibility. He nods once in sour resignation and makes for the door with a measured gait.

Hand on the handle, Lucius turns. "Draco – you would tell me if your mother were in danger, would you not?". His hoary eyes peer anxiously at his son's.

"Of course, Father." The words leave Draco's lips without conscious volition.

Neither acknowledge the slip; but Lucius's tension fractionally abates. "Goodnight, Draco. Young Zabini." He pauses as his gaze slides to Theo.

"Master Nott – I did not know of your father's atrocity. He told us your mother abandoned you both for a German wizard…"

This is probably the closest he'll ever come to an apology, Draco cynically decides.

Theo jerks his chin, but stays silent. Lucius quietly exits the study.

The ex-Slytherin alumni look everywhere but at each other.

Blaise scrubs a hand over his face, exhaling in relief.

"Fuck me. That was rough as Murtlap guts!". He bounces to his feet to begin rummaging through the sideboard. "Where's the bloody firewhiskey hiding, Draco? I need a shot – or the whole ruddy bottle."

"Mother told you – they don't drink. Your impertinent ransacking is fruitless," Draco acerbically replies. "There's elderflower cordial in the left cupboard."

"Elderflower… cordial… ?" Blaise caterwauls in heartfelt horror. He claps a hand on Theo's hunched shoulder.

"C'mon, mate – let's find the nearest watering hole. And… I'm awfully sorry about your mum." Zabini is unusually awkward as he squeezes Nott's shoulder in affectionate sympathy.

"Theo – I'm so sorry; I wish I'd known… " Draco's eyes are smarting with choked emotion. Despite the lengthy gap in their friendship, Nott was – and is – his first, closest friend. The thought of Theo's silenced trauma and suffering makes him sick to his stomach.

The young man mutely accepts their condolences, plunging his hands into his trouser pockets. He keeps his tousled brunet head down bent as his throat convulses.

"Group hug!" Blaise suddenly announces; he drags Theodore and Draco into a tight clinch, laughing as they try to evade his strong arms.

"Just submit to the Zabini love bubble, you dour bastards," he laughingly chides.

Draco expels a rusty laugh as he and Theo are squeezed even tighter by their rambunctious, tenacious friend.

"You're an arsehole, Blaise – but you're alright," he grumbles. "Occasionally."

Draco finishes his redacted retelling of the eye-opening session in Lucius's study with relief; although he'd omitted any mention of Theo's appalling familial history, the remaining subject matter is hardly palatable. He'd rubbed soothingly at Hermione's taut back as he'd listed the Sadistic Six's revolting interests; she'd visibly blanched at the confirmed plans for breeding enslavement.

Potter nods as Draco mentions instructing Lucius to be available for follow-up inquisition.

"Good. I'll advise you when I intend to visit. Thank you, Malfoy." Harry's busy quill scratches across another sheet of parchment.

"I wouldn't mind talking to Nott and Zabini as well, actually," Harry remarks, thoughtfully steepling his fingers in front of his face.

"They're both here now – well, they were as of eleven o'clock," Hermione offers. "I attended a meeting with them regarding Marcus Flint's ambitions to import Portuguese wines to Britain."

Harry blinks in surprise. "Have you switched departments, love? I wouldn't have thought that international trade law was one of your specialties."

"It's not – I was bulldozed into participating; apparently Zabini asked for me personally, and the Director backed his request," Hermione says, a tad peevishly.

"He did what?" Draco barks. At Potter's raised brows, he amends, "Did Blaise act professionally throughout?".

Hermione nods. "Yes – I still find his motives for my inclusion a bit odd, but he was perfectly correct."

Harry jumps up. "I might run up to Level Five and see if they're still around – saves me time hunting them down later," and he darts out the door, shoving it closed behind him.

Draco doesn't waste the unexpected opportunity; he swings his legs to sit sideways on the chair, bringing both of Hermione's hands into his in a light clasp.

"Hey – how are you coping, Granger? Really?". He closely scrutinizes her ashy face.

"I'm OK, thank you," she quietly answers. Her dignified bearing only cracks as Draco traces her quivery bottom lip with a gentle thumb; Hermione closes her eyes and turns her cheek into his hand.

As Draco releases her hands to feather his fingers against her temples, Hermione presses her palms to his hard-muscled chest. Her big, sad, cocoa eyes flitter closed as Draco slowly kisses her forehead, sprinkling tiny caresses across her angled dark eyebrows, moving south to the lateral edges of her eyelids.

Hermione's sweetly sensitive mouth opens in a gladdened sigh as Draco's attentions focus on her strawberry-pink lips. She rewards each delicate kiss with one of her own, until their lips meet and hold with developing hunger. The sound of their aroused breaths magnifies in the soundless chamber.

Draco is seriously considering hauling Hermione into his lap – damn the consequences – when the door bangs open with a rude thwack; he and Hermione spring apart like a couple of guilty, amorous teenagers.

"Nott – you owe me fifty Galleons, suck-ah!" Blaise Zabini crows gleefully. Draco briefly squinches his eyes closed, fighting the urge to dash from the room before his powerful, creeping blush somehow stains his platinum hair the colour of an adult flamingo.

Theo objects, "I never took that bet, Blaise – I simply pointed out that if Draco wanted you to know, he'd have told you himself."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Blaise perches on the near end of the solid table, rubbing his hands together showily. "Isn't this interesting – eh, Harry? I take it you've been privy to this clandestine romance for a while – you don't seem shocked by the development."

"Shocked – no. Wishing I'd knocked before we entered – yes," Harry groans. He exaggeratedly shields his vision with one hand as he moves back to the seat behind the desk. Theo folds his arms as he leans gracefully against the left side wall, nodding at Draco before smiling at Hermione.

Draco's eyes narrow at the gesture.

Hermione's face rivals Draco's for the right to be described as 'beetroot-red'.

She jumps to her feet, hastily exclaiming, "I have to go – Marilda must be ready to send out a search party by now – right, goodbye – " she cannons against Draco as she sidles away. He stands and holds the door as Hermione slips him a shy, upward glance.

"See you soon, Granger," Draco's discomfiture at having their private moment impertinently interrupted subsides as he gazes at Hermione's candid, pulchritudinous face.

"Bye, Malfoy," she whispers.

Closing the portal, Draco keeps his back to the others as Zabini starts to hoot.

"Draco – you are so bollocksed," he titters, clapping as he rocks in jollity.

"That's what I said!" Potter concurs. "Don't bother trying to make either of them see sense, Blaise – they've bought a family pass to Cloud Cuckoo Land and are stubbornly determined to get value for money," he laughs.

"I didn't entirely understand what that metaphor meant, Harry – but contextually it sounded like taking the piss out of this deluded prat – well done," Blaise praises.

The pair exchange fist-bumps as Draco seethes.

"Zabini – why did you push for Hermione to attend your dullard meeting this morning?" Draco demands, marching back to the table. "That's not her area of legal expertise – explain yourself. You'd better not be harassing her!"

"Ah-ah-ah, mate – you're barking up the wrong (jealous) tree there," Blaise carries on taunting him. "We needed a legal eagle: Granger's a crack lawyer; and I wanted to get to know her a little better – seeing as how we'll be seeing a lot more of her," he winks odiously.

Fuming, Draco opens his mouth to growl another remonstration, but Blaise hasn't finished.

"If anything, you want to keep an eye on our slippery friend here," he indicates to Theo with a lazy thumb. "Nott and Hermione shared a tender moment of mutual appreciation as she bid us adieu."

"Thanks, mate," Theo mutters. He quickly extends his open palms to a suspicious Draco.

"He's baiting you, Draco – nothing happened. We smiled at each other, that's all."

Draco is unappeased. "What kind of smile?"

Harry sighs mightily. "Gentlemen, as amusing as this is – and trust me, I'll be laughing about it for the rest of the week – we need to concentrate on the real drama. Theo, Blaise: do you have any additional thoughts on unravelling the identities of these rapist bastards?". Potter's glass-filtered glare is fierce and uncompromising as he scans their faces.

"Well?".

Theo rolls off the wall to stand beside one of the scattered notes on the table. "Where's your Ministry potions analysis? I'd like to have a quick look… if I may?".

Harry roots through the pile, locating the document. "Have at it."

Pursing his lips, Theo rapidly runs his eyes over it. He lifts his head to address the room at large.

"I checked on some archaic lust potion recipes in my father's collection of Dark works; according to that research, I calculate that each new experimental concoction takes approximately six to eight weeks to cure. If you assume that the failure of their last attempt to abduct a witch sent them back to the drawing board to refine the potion – that may be your rough timeline before they are prepared to strike again."

He looks soberly across at Draco. "I searched thoroughly for the Manifesto – there was no sign of it. Sorry, Draco."

Draco shrugs off his disappointment at the news. "Thanks for looking, Theo. If you think of anywhere else your father may have hidden it, let us know. I scoured the Manor after – after our trials, and I didn't find anything like it at the time. The Aurors also went through the place with a fine-tooth comb; they never mentioned discovering it."

He pauses. "Not that they necessarily would have bothered to tell us, unless they intended to use it as further evidence. Potter – do you think you could check on that? Officially? Please," Draco adds stiffly as Harry arches his right eyebrow.

"Yes – shouldn't be a problem," Potter replies evenly. Although Draco remains riled by the teasing he's been subjected to from his peers (and Blaise's intimation that Theo has been deliberately flirting with Hermione), the mood in the room is surprisingly relaxed and collaborative. Wonders will never cease.

"Does anyone have anything else to add?" Potter commences rising, butting his notes into some semblance of order.

Blaise speaks up. "I do – can we confirm that Hermione is the witch most recently targeted by these pricks? Being the incredibly intelligent and unique specimen of masculine perfection that I am – hey, they don't call me 'Blaise the Praised' for nothing, am I right? – I already figured out that the gorgeous Ms Granger is Draco's current (and enduring) obsession; but I want to know what exactly happened to her? And is she safe now?".

Zabini's customary impish expression hardens as he asks the last question. "You did promise to tell us all, Malfoy – at that first meeting in the White Wyvern," he reminds Draco. "I reckon we've earned some transparency by now."

"Why haven't you told Zabini and Nott the particulars yet, Malfoy? I assumed you would have by now – given how you've entrusted them with chasing down leads." Harry's puzzlement is clear.

"Look – a huge part of the reason Hermione was so resistant to go to the Ministry and St Mungo's for help after she was drugged is because she is paranoid about attracting more scandal – and censure. You of all people should understand that mindset, Potter," Draco explains, huffing out an exasperated sigh.

"Despite the indisputable truth that she is a victim of a couple – or more – revolting predators, Hermione is worried that she will be blamed somehow. And I intend to do everything in my power to ensure she isn't hurt by indiscriminate rumour-mongering, or judgemental arseholes who are simply jealous of her innate goodness, giftedness, and pure beauty…" Draco's clipped, annoyed rationale fades away as he registers the smirking, pitying expressions of the other men.

"Dibs on being best man," Blaise pipes up with a waggish grin. "Harry – reckon you'll get a run as the maid of honour?".

"It would be a privilege and a pleasure," Harry comments, keeping a perfectly straight face. "Where are we thinking, for the reception?"

"OH, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" Draco explodes as the tormenting trio fall about laughing at him.

"You can all shove it where the sun doesn't shine – and stick it sideways, at that. Potter – tell this pair of twits whatever you deem appropriate. I have somewhere I need to be. Stay in touch."

He slams out of the room with another of Blaise's mockeries hot on his heels.

"Give the Golden Girl a big sloppy smooch from me, Draco – you delusional dummy!"

'Blaise the Praised' needs a proper bloody thrashing – I should have hexed him when I had the chance at the townhouse. Draco stalks off in high dudgeon.

He is reasonably sure his face has cooled from 'tropical swelter' down to 'comfortably warm' when he arrives at Hermione's work cubicle; Draco dabs a surreptitious hand to his brow to make sure he hasn't succumbed to an embarrassing, temper-bred flop sweat. No, he is merely dewy. Thank Merlin.

Hermione's straight little nose is buried deep in a gigantic legal text, her eyes skimming across the pages with fascinating rapidity. Draco has to tap lightly against the partition to attract her notice, such is her dedicated focus.

"Oh! Hello!" Hermione bangs her knee as she tries to push back from her desk, rubbing it ruefully as Draco leans in to do the same. Their heads clang together with a dull smack; both yelp and rebound.

"Ow!"

"Cripes!"

Covering his dinged left brow, Draco peers cautiously around his cupped hand. "Did you really just say 'cripes', Granger?". He can't help his amused grin at the old-fashioned expression.

"Did you really just creep up on me again, Malfoy – and get your stealthy head knocked as a direct result? What's wrong with 'cripes', anyway?" Hermione rebuts, prodding gingerly at the crown of her wildly curly head.

"Here – let me check," Draco doesn't wait for her assent as he swiftly moves to run his fingers gently and thoroughly through Hermione's lush chestnut ringlets and scalp. She stills at his careful touch; and if he lingers a little longer than necessary for the injury inspection – she fails to comment.

Bringing his tingling hand back to his side, Draco hurries into speech.

"I wasn't trying to sneak up on you, Granger – it's not my fault you're lost to the world when you fall into a book," Draco justifies.

"Pfft." Hermione rolls her eyes, but a tiny smile ticks up the corners of her shapely mouth.

"I just wanted to – that is, I thought I'd check – to see if you need any help. With security, and so forth," Draco is disgusted by his sudden inability to enunciate complete, comprehensible sentences. He unnecessarily adjusts the knot of his dark silver silk tie.

"Is Macdolas settling in alright? Anything I need to talk to him about?". Draco regathers his composure as Hermione smiles at the mention of the eager little house elf.

"Oh, Mac is a darling – I do wish I could get him to just call me 'Hermione', though. I'm worried his tiny tongue will be permanently twisted by all his adulatory titles," she sighs good-naturedly.

Draco laughs, "Impossible to effect, I'm afraid. I'd somehow forgotten about your heroic reputation in the house elf community – Macdolas certainly hasn't! What was that funny club you were forever banging on about at school? S.L.E.W?" he teases.

"Malfoy, you know perfectly well the acronym is 'S.P.E.W.'," Hermione primly reproaches. "The Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare – and while I'm pleased and flattered that Mac appreciates my paltry emancipation efforts, it's taking him half a minute to answer me every time I ask a simple question!".

"Ah – that brilliant brain of yours will figure a way around it," Draco states. Hermione stares at him, faint clouds of pink tinting her cheeks at his compliment.

"Well, I'd best leave you to it," Draco can feel the damnably sensitive points of his lily white ears beginning to burn again.

"Will I see you Wednesday evening, Granger? Shall I come to your flat – makes it easier for you to head to work the next day? If that's OK with you, of course."

"Yes… that would be nice – I mean, sure. Mac will be thrilled with the opportunity to prepare dinner for us both," Hermione agrees, twisting her hands in her lap.

"Excellent. Be safe, Granger." Draco hesitates as she looks up through her luxuriant lashes. He quickly bends down to plant a firm kiss on her surprised lips.

"Jusqu'à mercredi, ma petite."

Translations:

'Lauf, Liebling!' - German for 'Run, darling!'

'Jusqu'à mercredi, ma petite.' - French for 'Until Wednesday, my little one'.