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Full Circle	By : pigwidgeon37 Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 7988 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Full Circle
- 2-part 2
- 1
- 2
FULL CIRCLE

Hindsight
is a cruel teacher.

you realize? Not a drop of sweat, not a single crease, always cool� That's
where your fantasy unmasked itself as what it was. An impossibility. Or maybe
not� But an impossibility with the man you chose. And again, the illusion, or
delusion rather. Are you still fooling yourself? Do you still believe that you
picked him? You were attracted, yes, from the first moment you set eyes
on him, but that doesn't mean the choice was yours. Did the rabbit-snake
simile, trite as it is, never even cross your mind? Did you really think� Yes.
You did. You really thought you were the one who took the initiative, made the
first step. You're guilty. Yes, guilty. Even though you're the victim now, that
doesn�t change a thing. You�re guilty of having manipulated your own memory, so
that you were able to ignore the danger. You convinced yourself of being
attracted, whereas in reality you had already been ht.

Not that he
wanted you right from the beginning, oh no. A filthy Mudblood, that�s what you
were�and still are�to him. He never even found you attractive. You were just�
No, don't cry now. Don't let him feed on your grief and humiliation. Face it.
With calm and composure. Work up the courage to look that truth in the face: he
never found you attractive or desirable. You were a thorn in his flesh,
sometimes�think of the fight at the Department of Mysteries, for example, or of
your sixth year, when you managed to identify his son as the culprit. He hated
you for having bested him. A Malfoy doesn't like being one-upped by a Mudblood.
He hated you, and despised you. And after the defeat, the Great Defeat, when he
almost lost everything and got away by the skin of his teeth, he chose you,
because you had been the instrument of his defeat, and thus became the ideal instrument
for his revenge. Delicious revenge, served�not ice-cold, oh no. Served at the
temperature of two heated, sweat-slicked bodies. The temperature of blood.
Blood is warmer than the skin, only a little. When it pours out of a living,
twitching body, it cools down rapidly. And the silk sheets have a new coolness.
Sticky and slippery, and soaked with bodily liquids. Blood, yes, and tears t and and sweat and� yes, it's humiliating. Face it. Urine. When the fear becomes too
overpowering, the brain has other things to do than control the bladder.

You wet
yourself, and he laug He He has been laughing a lot tonight, because you�re a
stupid teenager, who thought� who thought� Face it. A stupid, nineteen-year-old
girl who thought she was so clever and so above everything, a teenager who
wanted to get a life, enact her secret fantasies. Get a life, indeed. The way
things look, you�ll be getting the exact contrary.

It's your
fault. Your own, bloody fault, because you thought you were so superior. Told
Ginny to leave you alone. Told Harry and Ron you were off on a holiday, maybe a
week, maybe ten days� Oh god, unless Ginny overcomes her scruples�and why
should she, she�s young, younger than you, she merely thought it wasn�t
appropriate, but the danger of what you were planning never occurred to her.
She�s afraid of losing your friendship, she won't tell anybody. And so they'll
all believe you're lying on hot sand under the southern sun, while you'll be
lying in moist earth without light and sound.

Not that
you�ll mind. You�re probably going to enjoy it. No more fear, no more remorse.
Peace, maybe. Unless he keeps you alive and buries you� alive. No. Not even he
is capable� Of course he is. Don�t lie to yourself. If a man is capable of
luring a young girl to his house, of making her feel like a real woman,
desired, wanted� If he's capable of giving her Veritaserum�A game, Hermione,
just a game, you�re such a shy young woman, how else would I get to know your
deepest desires�and of leading her to a chamber even the Aurors didn't
find�Don't be afraid, it�s not as dangerous as it looks, not what you
use is important, it's how you use it�and of convincing her that a
Gryffindor, a true Gryffindor, should be courageous enough to go through with
her secret fantasies, then he's capable of anything.

The
terrible, terrible moment when you realized that your wand wasn't in your
sleeve anymore. When you tried to Disapparate, already naked, but you didn't
care, you�d have materialized in Diagon Alley without an inch of fabric on your
body, but you certainly wouldn't have cared. Only it didn't work. You crashed,
yes literally crashed, into the barrier. That was when the pain started. It
hasn�t ceased since. Not for a single second. The fantasy has become reality,
and reality is death. You�re a fool, Hermione. A bookish, brilliant fool. A
paradox? Maybe. You are intelligent, your N.E.W.T. results speak a very clear
language. You possess knowledge, hoarded in years of studying, secreted away in
the library when you couldn�t stand the others� company. You thought they were
superficial chicks, with nothing more in their small, girlish minds than boys
and clothes and make-up. Arrogance is your sin, Hermione. You should have
listened to them, from time to time. True, they aren�t as brainy as you, but
they would never have fallen for Lucius. They know the rules of the man-woman
game, they master the subtle language of hands, eyes and bodies. Parvati or
Lavender would have seen the leer behind the smile, the cruelty badly
camouflaged by desire. You�re an adult in many ways, but when it comes to human
relations, you�re nothing more than a child. A child with an adult�s fantasies.

You saw the
contours of his body under black velvet robes, in the crude direct light of a
winter noon; he reminded you of a black panther, muscles playing under shiny
fur. You saw the lazy arrogance of his hands, eyes scrutinizing everybody and
everything from under indolent half-closed lids, the smirk of superiority, the
perfection of white skin even in the revealing light of winter sun. You had
already felt the power the man radiated, more than once, and now you had become
aware of the graceful, muscled curve of a neck, platinum blonde hair cut to
perfection, every hair in place, a glimpse of pale forearm, the stroking motion
of a finger tracing the rim of a glass. And suddenly your forbidden
fantasy�forbidden in the plain light of day, allowed only behind drawn curtains
in the stuffy warmth of a four-poster�suddenly it had a face.

At the same
moment, you were absolutely certain that man would never spare you a second
glance. The Master of the Manor, subtly pulling the strings of a perfectly
arranged celebration, the wedding of his only son and heir. Why would he waste
another look on a perfectly plain Mudblood, invited only�like many other
guests�to keep up appearances? So you did what you always do when the grapes
are sweet and alluring, tantalizing but out of your reach. You put on your
haughty face, shot him one sideways glance, just one, smirked and turned your
back to him� deeply stricken by the knowledge that from now on, the faceless He
would have distinct features, thin but sensuously curved lips descending on
yours, hands of silk and steel holding your wrists just so, hovering on the
edge of pain. You tried to suppress the thought, keep it for later, because it
made you hot and tingly, and you�d already had two glasses of champagne on an
empty stomach. A tray was hovering near you, and you grabbed another glass�more
champagne, but who cared, it was cool against your cheeks�and slowly, so as not
to give the impression of a hasty retreat, moved to the far side of the room,
pretending to scrutinize the portrait of some long-dead Malfoy.

Sip by sip,
you drank your champagne, which, instead of cooling you, enhanced your
sensitivity. You shivered at the voice weaving a layer of heat around you�Are
you unwell, Miss Granger, you are shivering, let me�but you continued to
pretend, merely shook your head, awkward, childish impersonation of an ice
goddess, and walked away. Whispering over your skin you felt the new treasure
you had gleaned, his voice, for once not sneering or bellowing. The faceless He
had a face now, and a voice that would whisper obscenities into your ear,
things unthinkable, things you�d refuse to even contemplate, but the grey eyes
would mock you, the hands would make you comply, guide you, break resistance.

Then, a
week later, you received the letter. Elegant�of course, what else would you
have expected. Elegant, and just a little bit authoritarian. Calculated, of
course, enough to make you feel the challenge, but not too much. A thin,
glittering, mocking thread woven into the fabric of words, so dextrously that
you could even fool yourself into thinking no-one but you would have been able
to discern it. He had chosen the right moment, waiting until the heat of your
imagination had become unbearable, exactly at the point before frustration
would have taken over and rational thought kicked in. So of course you
accepted. In cool, measured words that betrayed nothing. Or so you thought.

Dinner at
the Manor� Admit it, Hermione, at least to yourself you ought to admit it, how
smug you felt allowing the thought that a man, who could have had every woman
he wanted�a few stains on a man�s past are rapidly wiped out by a sufficient
amount of power, money and good looks�that he had chosen to spend an evening
with you. A man who had been married to a half-Veela. A man who attended three
or four society events a week, and each with a different beauty on his arm.
Fascinating, unattainable, inaccessible, flighty, flirty, ice-cold. It should
have alarmed you, and instead it made you feel smug. You thought you had all
the choices. The first move�that arrogant brief glance at the wedding�had been
yours. You were free to determine how the evening would develop, your fantasies
notwithstanding, because you didn�t need to play them out, it was just one
option among many others. Rejection, more or less polite. Or playing for time,
fascinating him, only to slither from his grip and leave, to come back, maybe,
or not� You were so sure of being in control. You wandered into the trap,
because you thought it was all a subtle, cultivated game.

And in the
beginning, it was exactly that. Aperitifs, accompanied by sophisticated amuse-gueule
and even more sophisticated small talk. Testing, probing, prowling along the
other�s line of defence. Never a look beneath chin-level. You allowed yourself
the occasional glance, while he was looking elsewhere�or was he? Then, dinner,
served in a small, elegant salon. Six courses, each of them underscored by the
right wine. No more small talk. Verbal skirmishes, sparring, glittering
poisoned sharp-edged gems flung at the other, vying for superiority. You felt
you were holding your own quite well. You were being witty and slightly
malicious, without ever recurring to offence or insult. It was a fencing match,
and you knew how to wield your foil. So did he, masterfully, artfully, enjoying
himself. When the plates were cleared away after the third course, you noticed
you were drinking too much. The alarm bells, though, didn�t ring. They remained
silent, swathed in a haze of warmth and increasing erotic tension. The grey
eyes darted across the uncovered skin of your throat and forearms, lingered
briefly on your ears and hair, then, a little longer, on your lips, heavy
eyelids lowered themselves by a mere fraction, tongue gliding over the curve of
his bottom lip. You took another sip of wine. Heavy, red Italian wine, Brunello
di Montalcino, older than your mother. The one sip you shouldn�t have taken, or
taken later, after ingesting a little more food. You didn�t even enjoy that sip
very much�you had grabbed the glass and lowered your head merely to dissimulate
the sliver of embarrassment in your eyes. Or maybe it was fear? You had got a
glimpse of the panther, crouching, waiting, muscle bulging under shiny fur. And
after that sip which made you slightly dizzy, you decided you wanted to play
with the panther. See what was hidden under deep-green velvet the colour of
pine needles in winter. Touch the skin, inhale the scent you had only guessed
must be there, under the luscious layers of dark green fur.

So you
loosened the bonds you had imposed on every single of your muscles, to make
your movements less brisk, a bit more fluid, less inhibited, more natural. The
throat lost its stiffness, the fingers suddenly remembered that they, too, had
nerves winding through their flesh, the straight line of your lips curled into
the occasional smile, and your nape felt the weight of thick curls resting on
its skin. The unleashed awareness of your own body brought the sensation of his
nearness�he was sitting no more than two feet away from you, and you imagined
the warmth of his body seeping into the handles of his fork and knife.

The
conversation, up to that point perfectly unambiguous, began to grow additional
layers; words took on second meanings, were developing a life of their own, a
jungle of sultry, dark and moist flowers that continuously changed their
shapes.

And you,
forgetting that you were moving on more and more foreign territory, were
growing more confident by the second, your self-assurance fuelled by alcohol
and delicious food and, most of all, the barely veiled desire in his every look
and gesture. By the end of the meal, your hands and feet were cold, your face
hot, and all the rest of your body felt like boiling mercury, iridescand and
totally out of control.

To the
library, then, for coffee and brandy and Petits Fours�May, I, Hermione�he
sat down on the heavy couch, next to you, not touching though, just near. Near
enough to allow for body contact when he bent forward to refill his glass, or
to pick up the plate of sweets and offer it to you. After the second one, you
declined, but he chose one, a small wedge of candied tangerine coated in dark
and white chocolate�You have to taste it together with the coffee and
brandy, Hermione, believe me, it is highly� well, the choice of adjective is
yours�and put it to your lips, waiting for them to open, nudging them apart
with the sweet, forcing it inside with his index finger. Yes, forcing it into
your mouth, and the smile on his lips left little doubt as to his thoughts. His
finger remained on your lips, his eyes on your mouth, and you suddenly felt
very awkward, trying to chew elegantly without making any noise oformforming
your face. And still, he kept looking at you, not your eyes but your lips,
alwyouryour lips; they were beginning to feel stiff, unnatural, not at all a
part of your face. His smile broadened�somehow it seemed to freeze, or� detach
itself from his face, like a layer of gauze, painted with a smiling mouth that
wasn�t his anymore. You were so fascinated by the transformation that you
didn�t notice his hand creeping through yoair air to the back of your head, and
the other one on your shoulder, until they gripped you. Your mouth was still
full of the small, gritty fragments of candied orange mingled with saliva and
chocolate, when he bit don yon your lips and thrust his tongue into your mouth,
pressing the sweet-bitter crumbs into your soft palate.

His weight
was enough to make you keel over backwards, crushed by his upper body into the
upholstery of the sofa. Yes, that was your fantasy scenario come true, and part
of you felt elated that it was possible, just as you had imagined, just as you
had dreamed it so many times, the helplessness, that perfect ularular body on
top of you, his greed, his heat. His scent, too, but more than that his taste.
Brandy and coffee, and something metallic. It wasn�t your blood�he hadn�t
bitten your lips that hard�but maybe it was his? Or maybe it was just part of
his very own taste, the memory of shed blood turned into something more real.

Another
part of you was frightened. Fantasies ought never to become realities. Sooner
or later, one realizes that important aspects just aren�t part of the fantasy
one has pieced together in one�s head. You realized it the moment you tried to
change position�yours was rather awkward, upper body sprawled on the sofa, feet
still resting on the floor�and couldn�t. Simply couldn�t. Because he didn�t
give a damn whether you were uncomfortable or not, he had more important things
to do, ravage your mouth, tug at your hair, knead your breasts. And unless he
cooperated, you had no chance at moving or speaking. In your dreams of the
faceless He, who during the last week had had a face and a voice and
silvery-grey eyes, you had always left a loophole for you to get out. A nudge,
an urgent moan, were enough to let him know that something wasn�t quite as you
wanted it, and he stopped immediately. Not so the flesh-and-blood reality. He
stopped at exactly the moment he wanted to stop. That should have warned you.
Maybe you�d have still been able to get away.

Probably
you would have sought and found a pretext to leave, right then, if he had
broken the tension, said something, maybe something stupid or clich�d. Only he
didn�t speak. He just got to his feet, looked down at you for some seconds�not
sneering, or leering, or lecherously. He just took you in with a calm steady
glance that seemed to burrow through your eyeballs, further, further into the
retinae, to sizzle along the optic nerve, right into your brain. No secrets
possible, no pretending. And after that wordless measuring, to which you simply
yielded, because he had taken you by surprise and you weren�t very skilled at
erecting mental barriers� After the silent assessment, he grabbed both your
hands, quickly, in a movement so rapid it was invisible, pulled you to your
feet. You would have swayed, maybe even stumbled, but he put an arm around you.
To put an arm around an other person�s shoulder can be a protective gesture, or
a comforting one, even possessive. When he did it, when the panther�s front paw
slid across your back, pinning both your arms to your body, it signified
imprisonment.

The walk to
the chamber was quite long, and again not a single word was spoken. Just the
sound of footsteps, yours hastier and lighter, his determined and heavy. He
must have slipped your wand out of its pocket during that silent journey which
led through corridors, darker and more austere the farther you walked, no more
carpets, no more paintings, then no more painting just bare stone walls�it was
like a journey back in time, pace by pace, step by step, back into the darkness
of centuries long gone. There was an oniric quality to this travel, almost
ridiculous to call it thus, but that was how you felt. With every step you
moved further away from your reality, your life, and into something unreal,
surreal, which had hitherto existed only in your dreams.

At some
point he stopped and drew his wand�his arm still firmly around you, no escape,
no running away�and muttered complicated incantations, part of them in Latin,
the rest unintelligible, until a door appeared in the wall. It opened, and he
stepped through, almost carrying you, because you didn�t really want to cross
that threshold. You could feel the atmosphere of the room, even before having
entered it, you sensed that it was a room of terror. Only on a subconscious level,
of course, as there was nothing in or about the room to make it frightening.
You might have caught a whiff of pheromones, maybe. Or perhaps the emanations
of dread and fear were clinging to the rich, black carpet and curtains. No,
there was nothing in sight, no instruments of torture, no devices of unbridled
perversion. But the apparent harmlessness, the near-emptiness of the chamber
were what made you balk and rear like a frightened horse. The room was a
thousand possibilities turned stone, its emptiness was its threat.

Once
inside, the door closed of its own accord. You immediately felt the immaterial
weight of silencing spells. Now the alarm bells rang. Now
adrenaline was being pumped through your system, causing a state of high alert.
Now you wanted out. Don�t panic, you told yourself, don�t panic now,
Hermione. Try to at least appear calm. You�re a powerful witch, you�ve fought
in a war, you can take on and beat this opponent.

Not without
a wand though.

You almost
fell when you realized it was gone from the long, narrow pocket in your sleeve.
But you managed to keep your calm. You didn�t want him to notice that you had
noticed, so you didn�t say anything. Just stood. Stock still, trying to control
the tremor that shook your limbs. You saw a glint of something�appreciation of
your perfectly kept composure, maybe�in his eyes, and he smiled. He took your
hands again, an almost insubstantial touch, but the inaudible sound of skn
sn
skin resounded in your head like thunder: the very weightlessness of the
contact confirmed your worst fears. There was no need for him to recur to
physical force, not anymore. Inside this room, you were trapped, and he could
permit himself the luxury of gentleness.

In your
mind, there was still some residue of the conviction that you possessed a
modicum of control over the situation. You had a choice, there were options.
Blind panic, for one, fighting him claws and teeth. Or you might beg. Or you
might simply comply and try to talk him out of it. You didn�t waste a single thought
on what �it� might be. Any explorations of the possibilities, of his
possibilities, would have cancelled all your options safe one. Panic. And you
didn�t want to panic. You wanted to stay in control. Or rather, maintain the
illusion that you had it.

So you
followed him to the bed�empty except for satin sheets of a red so dark it
seemed black, only where the torchlight was reflected by a crease near the head
end did it become apparent that it was, indeed, red. You sat down. He remained
standing. You looked up at him, straight into his eyes. He smiled and snapped
his fingers at the bare wall. A vial materialized in his hand, containing a
clear, watery fluid. You felt another wave of adrenaline rush through your
body, sensed the momentary chill of a layer of perspiration forming on your
face and throat. You knew that liquid�yes, it might have been water or some
drug, but somehow you just knew it was Veritaserum. You felt your head reel
with thoughts, ideas, questions, all of them unfinished, all of them unanswered,
what does he want to know, what is he going to ask you, about the war, about
people you love, what could he possibly want to know?

You knew
there was no way to resist a powerful truth serum, and you had no reason to
assume he would use anything but the best, the most perfectly brewed, the most
powerful.

Another
threshold, another choice. You could refuse to take it. But a simple Imperius
Curse would solve that problem. You could bite down on the glass as soon as he
put it to your lips and try to swallow some shards. Too painful, and too
uncertain results�maybe just pain for you, pleasure for him. Try to get hold of
a shard and attack him with it? You wouldn�t cause much damage, just some
harmless cuts. No. You had to take it. Swallow the dose, and try to give vague,
noncommittal answers. You knew it was possible, because you�d been trained to
do exactly that, by Snape, during your seventh year at Hogwarts. So you might
succeed.

He stood,
and watched. Slowly, he pulled the cut-glass stopper out of the vial and
brought it to your mouth, speaking while you swallowed�A game, Hermione,
just a game, you�re such a shy young woman, how else would I get to know your
deepest desires�the words flowing from his lips as the liquid was flowing
down your oesophagus, down into your stomach, taking effect immediately. Like a
lullaby, you heard his words through the brief haze of disorientation following
the ingestion of the serum, and then everything was clear again, sharper than
before, over-defined, the empty room, churning with possibilities.

He didn�t
start asking questions immediately. Instead, he slowly shed his robes and left
them on the carpet, wintry-green velvet pooling on black. You had seen
Voldemort and his histrionics, his cheap third-class theatrical performance;
but this wasn�t dramatics, this was calculated tactics. Voldemort could�and
should�have learned from Lucius Malfoy. Centuries of aristocratic cruelty
coursing through his veins, his lovely ivory skin impregnated with the blood of
thousands hammered into his pores by their screams. For a brief moment, you
even admired him as he was standing there, without his robes, in nothing but a
pair of black trousers. Socks and shoes�if they had even been there�were gone
as well. Just a pale naked hairless torso, perfect in its flawless proportions.
You allowed yourself a single moment of respite from your pulsing fear, and
looked. As if he were able to feel the touch of your eyes, he let his head fall
back, just for a brief instant, and drew in a sharp breath.

Then,
completely recomposed, he stepped forward and knelt down in front of you. One
hand came to rest on your knee, then the other one on the other knee. Over the
whisper of your dress gliding up, up over your thighs, he spoke again, softly,
murmuring, asked questions, smiled at answers, asked further, more intimate,
prying deeper, enjoying your blushing and stammering and the vain attempts at
fighting the serum.

You told
him everything about your fantasies, realizing while you talked that you didn�t
have a choice, that you weren�t stalling for time, that this was what he had
wanted right from the beginning. You spilled your secrets into his quietly
composed face, hoping to get some reaction, but he remained as he was,
listening, waiting for more. When there was nothing more, he nodded, once, with
closed eyes. Opened them again, and smiled. A single flick of his wand, quick
and sober, and your clothes were off. He was still kneeling between your legs.
You tried to close your thighs, but he leaned forward a little, blocking the
movement with his ribcage. You brought your forearms up to cover at least your
breasts, but he caught your wrists, shaking his head. No protection. No
modesty. He was allowed to look everywhere, touch everywhere.

At a wave
of his right hand, you scooted backwards and reclined on the sheet. Yes, this
was a part of your fantasy that had remained untainted. The cool, slick satin
under your back. So comforting was this moment of congruence between fantasy
and reality, that you relaxed and closed your eyes. Maybe your fears had been
unfounded. Maybe you were just overreacting�after all, you�d never had sex,
maybe this was part of the game, not an everyday game, but this particular
game, your game, sprung from the depths of your mind.
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Full Circle