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The Downfall of Greed	By : tcarlson Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 40804 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I make money off this fanfiction.

Chapter List
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In the morning, I brought her down a slice of bread and a cup of broth. Not because I cared for her welfare, but because her dying of thirst or hunger was not in my best interests.

As I lit the torches, I saw that she was curled up in a corner of her cell. She didn’t move, but stared at me with wary eyes. I swung open the bars and put the tray of food on the floor. Just as she was about to pounce on it like a rabid animal, I stepped in front of it.

“One moment, Miss. Granger. I don’t give anything out for free,” I told her.

She sat against the wall, regarding me suspiciously. “Well, I won’t sleep with you if that’s what you’re after.”

I barely held back a sarcastic snort. “As amusing as it would be to have an inexperienced and less-than-pretty wretch try and pleasure me, I’d have to decline even if you did throw yourself at me. After all, what Pure-blood would lower themselves to have a dalliance with a Mudblood?”

“But last night you…”

“An idle threat to be sure, but don’t push me or my threat may come true.”

She swallowed audibly. Looking anywhere but at me, she asked, “May I have the food or not?”

“You may...” She went to reach for it. “…if you admit that you are a lowly Mudblood that doesn’t deserve her magic.”

She stood up to her full height and lifted her chin. Anger flashed across her face. “I am a witch, Mr. Malfoy. I gained my powers and wand fairly. I admit that I am Muggle-born, but I am not ashamed of that. My blood is no dirtier than yours.”

I slapped her. Hard. She wasn’t expecting it. Eyes watering, she held her hand to her reddened cheek and backed away from me.

“Say it,” I ordered.

“Never!”

“Crucio!” She writhed on the ground, screaming. I knew the pain intimately. Your skin is on fire, your eyes ready to pop from their sockets. It’s said that any more than a minute under the curse and a person will go insane. I held it for less than ten seconds. Generous me.

She was taking deep, heaving breaths on the ground. Sometimes the aftershock can be worse than the curse. You can’t get comfortable and you feel drained, vulnerable. It hurts to move and put pressure on any body part. She was gingerly balanced on her palms and knees, trying to have little contact with the stones’ hard surface.

“Say it,” I repeated. “Tell me you’re a dirty Mudblood who isn’t fit to lick my boots.”

“I won’t!”

“Do you enjoy pain that much?”

“I’d rather be tortured than admit to something that I know to be wrong.”

I growled and grabbed her hair, forcing her to look at me. “You’d better enjoy pain because I could go at this all day.”

She made eye contact. “So could I.”

I let her drop to the floor and used the Cruciatus Curse on her again and again. Every ten seconds or so I’d stop and ask again for her to acknowledge her lowly blood status. Every time she would refuse. I grudgingly admit that she used that stupid Gryffindor courage and fortitude.

After I reached the one minute mark, I switched to other curses I knew. None as nearly as nasty as the Cruciatus, but I didn’t want to compromise her mind. After those yielded no results, I moved on to physically kicking her.

She was bloody and bruised. Her voice has hoarse from screaming. One eye was swollen shut. I was out of breath and disheveled. My neat queue had come undone and hair fell across my face.

I paused and ordered one last time, “Tell me what a filthy, no-good, brainless Mudblood you are.”

She shook her head slowly and then squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the next round of blows.

Instead, I kicked over the tray. The broth trickled in the divets between the stones of the floor. I crushed the bread with my boots, making it dirty and crumbled.

“No!” she cried.

I slammed the bars closed, pounded up the stairs, and banged the door shut. I regard this as the first time I lost my control.

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I was seething. I’ve known Death Eaters that would succumb to such torture. She was insufferable and a challenge. A challenge that I was eager to meet. I just needed to get creative.

Once my temper had cooled, I grabbed some potions and went back downstairs. The broth and bread were gone. She must have sucked the liquid off the floor and eaten the dirty bread. Survival over pride apparently.

She was leaning against the wall, her knees pulled against her chest and her head leaning back. Her face was contorted in pain. “I think you broke my ribs,” she ground out in between gasps of pain.

I rolled a bottle of healing potion through the bars across the floor. It hit her foot. She looked at it warily. “Drink it and you should be completely healed by morning,” I informed her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, picking the bottle up.

“I didn’t do it for you,” I sneered.

“Oh yes because when has the great Lucius Malfoy done anything for anyone but himself?”

“I’d watch my tongue if I were you,” I warned, my voice low and dangerous.

She smartly remained silent. The bottle still remained at her feet and she picked it up. She shuddered as she gulped down the liquid and then rolled back the empty bottle to me.

I caught the bottle under the toe of my boot. Extinguishing the torches on the wall, I made my way back upstairs, her ragged, pain-filled breaths the only thing I could discern in the pitch black.
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The Downfall of Greed