Fic: Clockwork Doll

[luckybrans]

Title: Clockwork Doll
Author: dangerous_angel
Pairings: Montague/Angelina Johnson, Montague/Daphne Greengrass
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 3879
Summary: Marcus isn’t the only monster in the family.
Author’s Note: Can be read as a prequel to Not a Beauty, Very Much a Beast.



“If you don’t mind my asking, what happened to my friends?” Katie asked. “I know what happened to Oliver and the twins, but not to Alicia or Angelina.”

“Spinet’s dead,” Marcus replied. “She was caught in the second battle at Hogsmeade. Johnson…”

“What?” Katie’s breath was bated as she waited anxiously for him to go on.

“She’s breathing.”

-Not Quite a Beauty, Very Much a Beast (missing piece)

i.
Marcus Flint enjoyed being a Death Eater. He never said it out loud, but others knew he did and were disgusted by it. He was not like some of the Death Eaters who saw their service to the Dark Lord as some holy burden to be carried out to the best of their abilities. He was also not like the other Death Eaters who worshipped the Dark Lord’s ideas and saw their means as justified and therefore to be revelled in. For Marcus, the means was foremost and the ideas didn’t factor into why he became and remained a Death Eater. Truth be told, Marcus had given much thought to becoming an Auror before he saw it would be to his advantage to become join the Dark Lord.

While others spent time getting lost in fancies about philosophy, the sciences, or literature, Marcus was always present in his body. He was aware of every muscle, every ache and pain. Marcus reduced the people around him to anatomical systems: skin to be bruised, organs to be pierced, vessels to be severed. He would’ve made a terrifying criminal if not for, what he saw as, common sense. As much as he liked to hurt people, to test the limits of their bodies, he needed a sanctioned reason to do so.

After four years as a Death Eater, Marcus was as feared as he was respected. He was known because he was allowed to distinguished himself from the other Death Eaters. He wore the same robe and mask, but also a pair of heavy metal gauntlets. Moulded with a series of spells, they allowed him to move his hands as if he were wearing a light pair of gloves, while retaining their weight and strength. The damage Marcus inflicted with the gauntlets would become legend.

His victims would’ve called him sadistic, but to his family and friends Marcus was infinitely generous and attentive. No one knew that better than his cousin, Montague. Not once had Montague asked Marcus for anything; he never had to. Marcus always knew when to give. Though, that was in situations removed from their work as Death Eaters. Here, when Marcus was drunk on his power and refused to see identity, only anatomical structures, Montague had to ask. He stared at his cousin from behind his mask, eyes pleading.

Marcus caught his cousin’s look and glanced down at the woman who lay between them, surrounded by four other Death Eaters. She’d stopped screaming even though the Crucios had continued. She was convulsing, her back arching once every few seconds. Her mouth was full of blood, as she’d repeatedly bitten her tongue. She’d choke in a few minutes if her heart didn’t shut down or explode. Glancing down at her, Marcus had a glimpse of awareness. He remembered her. Angelina Johnson. Once a Quidditch rival and now a nuisance, who had close ties to the Order of the Phoenix. She was also the woman his cousin had long been infatuated with.

Why Montague had become fixated on Johnson was a mystery. She’d never seen him as anything but an obstacle towards the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup. She had never seen him as anything other than a disgusting Slytherin, a Death Eater from the womb.

Marcus could see what his cousin wanted and wondered if he could give it. His orders hadn’t been specific, but Marcus never left anyone alive unless he was told to do so. He would be called to task. What would he have to say in his defence? “Well, Mr. Dark Lord, sir, my cousin is in love with the woman in question so I thought I’d spare her.” It would take a long time for his reputation to recover. He had to come up with something else by morning.

“Stop!” Marcus shouted.

The Death Eaters looked up at him, their confusion evident in their body language.

“What’s wrong?” one of them asked.

“Nothing’s wrong. There’s been a change on plans. I want you all gone.”

The four Death Eaters glanced at each other. The boldest and most stupid, Hutchins if Marcus remembered his name correctly, stepped forward.

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to go,” he said. “We come together and we leave together. I won’t be blamed for anything you two get up to.”

Marcus stared at the four, making sure to connect his eyes with theirs. The remaining three shrunk away, trying to make themselves small.

“And I suppose the rest of you feel that way?” he asked them.

There was no reply.

Marcus turned to Hutchins, grinning, anticipating what was to come. “Take off your mask,” he told him.

The man seemed not to understand. When he tried to protest, the men who were his comrades a moment before held him and removed his mask. He was pathetic, the sort of man Marcus hated. Without his mask, he cowered and his lip trembled. It would be easy to get anything out of him, easy to break him.

The crunch of bone was like music to Marcus’ ears. He imagined the blood vessels under Hutchinson’s skin breaking, the bone cracking and collapsing into the muscles, digging into them. It was a good thing Hutchinson closed his eyes. The healers wouldn’t have been able to do anything for him if he hadn’t.

Marcus hadn’t even worked up a sweat when Hutchinson went limp.

“Take him home,” he told the men, disgusted. “Make sure his family sees him. He’ll start to understand what’s at stake.”

The men nodded and Disapparated, glad they were not in Hutchinson’s place.

Montague immediately rushed to Angelina, turning her on her side so could spit out the blood. She likely did this on instinct. Marcus was sure that after such prolonged Cruciatus her mind was no longer was what it had been.

He kneeled down and looked at his cousin squarely. “Is she worth it?”

Montague would not meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

It was not what Marcus wanted to hear, but the gift had already been given.

ii.
Daphne had not married for love. She believed in the notion that love was for romantics and fools; one in the same if you asked her. As ambitious as she was, she was too lazy to make her way into the world on her own. When her parents suggested a match with Montague, an old schoolmate, she jumped at the opportunity. He was wealthy, handsome, and from their few meetings he seemed to lack any habits that would be of any particular annoyance.

Montague provided her with the stability she craved. He made sure she was well taken care of, that she had even galleons in her Gringotts vault and never interfered in her affairs. Sometimes they enjoyed a good meal together and once in a while they were compelled to have sex. He had made it clear that he wouldn’t mind if she took a lover. He would turn a blind eye as long as she was discreet. He warned her that any attempt to pass of any bastard children as his would lead to her death or worse.

Two years into their marriage, Daphne and Montague led separate lives, coming together only when they had to make an appearance as a couple. However, Montague had been shirking his responsibilities in that department. He’d refused to attend four parties and three dinners in the last month and a half. He blamed his “duties”, but Daphne was not fooled. Montague was one of the Dark Lord’s favourites and was usually called into service once or twice a week. It was only the ones the Dark Lord was unsure of or were displeased with that were called into service nightly. They were expendable and could be risked. It was possible Montague had displeased their Lord in some way. However, that was unlikely, as he still had all his limbs.

It was another woman. It always was.

The only thing that concerned Daphne was the question of whether or not the woman was suitable. She wanted to make sure no one pitied her if the affair became one of those unspoken things everyone knew about.

To meet Daphne’s approval, Montague’s mistress had to be as beautiful or slightly more attractive than her. It wouldn’t do for her to be amazingly beautiful. She didn’t want anyone thinking the woman superior to her. She had to be from a good family, preferably already married. Entanglements with single women could become ugly and would sour the Montague name. Like it or not, Daphne had taken on the Montague family responsibility when she’d married. She hoped Montague wasn’t consorting with some common girl off the street. What would people think if her husband chose to spend all his time with someone so inferior to her?

Determined to know the identity of the mystery woman, Daphne did what her mother had done in the first year of her marriage. She placed a tracking spell on Montague’s boots. At the end of the month Daphne determined that Montague was meeting his mistress at his family’s country house outside Lamberhurst.

On a warm Friday morning when she knew Montague would be spending most of his day at the Ministry, Daphne put on her best robe, a new pair of shoes, and donned her favourite cloak. She fixed her hair in an intricate coif, complete with jewelled clips. At noon she set out in a thestral carriage for the Kent countryside.

The ride was pleasant but Daphne’s stomach did continual somersaults until the carriage touched down in the front garden of the country house. Daphne didn’t stop to admire the beauty of the place. She quickly went up to the front door. She didn’t have to knock. A house elf was waiting for her with grim and nervous features.

So, the woman was here. And why would that be? This was not just a meeting place. Montague had had the audacity to put up his mistress in one of his houses. Why? Couldn’t the woman afford her own house? What was her situation that Montague had to take care of her in such a way? Daphne’s worst fears were being realized. This woman was inferior.

She levelled a harsh glare at the house elf. “Take me to her,” she ordered.

The woman was waiting in the drawing room. She sat on an overstuffed settee below an imposing portrait of Montague’s father. One moment he was busy writing on a piece of parchment and the next looking back and forth between the two women with a fearful expression.

The woman was attractive, Daphne noted. She was tall and brown-skinned. The serene, yet vacant expression she wore made her look like one of those still Muggle portraits. She dressed like she belonged in a portrait. She wore a long white dress that was made from a light fabric that moved when a breeze came in from the open window. Her dark hair was a mass of simple spiral curls. She was distantly and lifelessly beautiful.

The woman seemed unaware of Daphne until she sat across from her. She gave something like a smile; it didn’t register in her eyes.

Daphne had come with a speech prepared but now had nothing to say.

“Would you like some tea?” the woman asked mechanically.

“No,” Daphne replied, barely audible.

“Alright.” The woman continued to stare at her blankly.

The more Daphne looked at the woman the more her memory began to stir. She knew this woman. Her first glimpse of her had come in second year. The woman had been a young girl, just as tall, known in a crowd because of her long braids. Then, her beauty had come because of her hard and cool beauty. She was an excellent Quidditch player. Even the Slytherin players respected her. It seemed one more than the others.

Angelina Johnson.

But she was a Gryffindor and a supporter of Dumbledore and Potter. Her future should have had her dying a gallant death in support of the Ministry, not playing house with Montague when he saw fit to get away from his wife. This was all too strange.

“Are you sleeping with my husband?” Daphne asked without thinking.

“Oh, so you’re Daphne, then?” Angelina was still smiling that vacant smile.

Daphne cringed, offended that her husband’s mistress had used her first name, as if they were old friends. “Yes, I am. Are you sleeping with my husband?” she repeated.

“Yes,” Angelina replied. “And sometimes we have sex.” She spoke as if she were reading an instruction manual. There was no emotion behind her words and yet she still smiled, wider now.

“Are you alright?” Daphne asked, carefully looking at Angelina, trying to find some physical sign to confirm what she thought.

“I’m well.”

Daphne sighed. “You live here?”

Angelina nodded. The motion was not fluid and came off as a series of jerks. “I’ve lived here for the three hundred and thirty days, almost a year.”

We’ve been married for two years, Daphne thought.

“Where did you live before you came here?”

“I don’t remember.”

Daphne got the distinct impression that Angelina would answer any question she asked promptly and monotonously.

“What do you mean you don’t remember anything?”

“I don’t remember,” Angelina repeated.

“What do you remember, then?” Daphne demanded, on the edge of hysteria. She didn’t understand any of this. What the bloody hell was going on? “What do you remember before you came here?”

The first real flash of emotion came to Angelina’s eyes. It was panic and the distinct look of horror that came from reliving something traumatic. “I remember pain. A lot of pain. Someone was screaming,” she trailed off, her attention shifting from Daphne to her right hand. It was caught in a fit of spasms, clenching and unclenching erratically.

Angelina’s vacant expression returned. “I’m afraid I have to cut this meeting short. It was very nice to meet you. Goodbye.” No longer concerned with Daphne, she left the room, the train of her dress trailing behind her.

Outside, Daphne sucked in a mouthful of air. She felt as if she’d been suffocating up till now.

-?-

Daphne was in the sitting room, seated in her favourite chair when Montague came home. His eyes immediately fixed on the bottle of Old Ogden’s on the coffee table. Daphne’s face was flushed and her pupils dilated.

“A little bit early for that, don’t you think?” he asked.

Daphne giggled in response.

“You don’t normally drink at all,” he said uncertainly. After two years he knew little about his wife’s habits.

“I think the occasion calls for it,” Daphne replied, pouring another glass.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I decided to take a trip today, to the country house.” She locked eyes with him. “I met a woman. She seemed a bit off to tell you the truth.”

Daphne waited for Montague to say something. He didn’t. He stared back at her, his features unreadable.

“I deserve an explanation,” she said quietly.

“No, you don’t,” he said in the same tone, but colder.

There was a span of time where neither of them spoke.

“A year ago, Marcus and I were on a mission,” Montague began. “When we got to the place there were three other Death Eaters there. They were torturing Angelina with Cruciatus. Marcus made them stop. I took her to the country house. I got as many healers and specialists as I could to look after her, but the damage had already been done. Everything that made Angelina who she is was gone. She-”

“Has no feelings,” Daphne shrieked, no longer able to keep her emotions hidden. She almost lost her grip on her glass. She held it tighter for a second before throwing it at the wall.

Montague didn’t flinch as the glass shattered. Some of the liquid splashed onto his face.

“I saw her. She is nothing but an automaton. Like one of those toys we used to play with when we were children. You’d say a few words and it would do exactly what you wanted it to. It’s just so bloody convenient that after all the treatments and potions she turned into some grinning fool you can dress up and fuck whenever you like. I bet she never says no to you. Whatever you want she just smiles and rolls over like a dog.”

She wanted to rouse his anger, have him scream and spit. She wanted him as mad as she was. Montague, however, remained silent.

“You’re not even going to deny anything I’ve said,” Daphne continued. She deserved more than this. “You’re bloody sick, you are. Having sex with someone who can’t even refuse you? It’s disgusting. If she were like she was before she would never touch you. She’d likely spit in your face.” As she went on Daphne’s voice rose and her tone became increasingly vicious. She smiled, baring her teeth. “I used to think Marcus was the monster in the family. At least he doesn’t make excuses for what he does. He knows what he does and doesn’t try to play the hero. You’d like to think you’re dashing knight that you saved her. But you’re in Slytherin, remember? It’s you she needs saving from. I can’t--”

“Daphne, be quiet!” Montague’s eyes were wild, but his expression was still blank.

Daphne’s heart stilled and the glass fell from her fingers. The confidence she’d had only seconds ago was gone, replaced by a fear that cut through all her pretensions and high-handed notions about herself. Even when Montague appeared to have control of himself, Daphne’s back was still pressed to the back of the chair.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Montague said, his voice taking on a desperate and fragile edge. “I have loved her since I was a fourteen. I love her in a way that you’ll never know.”

Daphne and Montague locked eyes once more. She could see the obsession he called love written under his skin. He wanted her to understand it, to make it easier for both of them. Daphne couldn’t understand nor did she want to.

“I’m going for a walk,” Montague muttered, seeing the rejection in her bewildered face and rigid form.

When he returned an hour later it appeared as if Daphne had not moved from the chair. She had, though. A glass was back in her hand, filled to the rim. Her body was slack and she sat at an angle, her head resting on the arm of the chair.

“I could tell people,” she said. She wouldn’t. There was no question she would be believed, but she would be looked down on for bringing the affair to light.

Montague was not moved, not by her threat or her pathetic appearance.

There was nothing else to be done. Daphne sighed and finished the liquor in three large gulps. It wasn’t long before it began to take affect. Daphne’s eyes began to droop and she felt her body become heavy. She shifted so that her head was resting on one arm of the chair and her legs dangling over the other. “I don’t ever want her in my house,” she slurred, refusing to fight for lucidity.

Montague nodded and left the room.

iii.
It was warm afternoon with a two to five chance of rain, according to the newspaper. When the tremors in her hand stopped, Angelina seated herself by the window in the master bedroom, watching the sky go from a vibrant blue to ashen grey. When night fell there still was no rain and she had not moved. The dinner the house elves had left for her in the anteroom was untouched.

“You didn’t eat,” Montague said, coming into the room.

Angelina turned to him, smiling. “I’ll eat now.”

“You have to eat. If you don’t, the potions won’t work and everything we’ve worked so hard for will come undone.”

She nodded absently, getting up. She fell because her legs had fallen asleep.

“How long have you been sitting there?” Montague asked worriedly.

“A long time.”

He tried to help her to feet, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. Montague took her in his arms and carried her to the anteroom. He settled her on the chaise and went about feeding her. At this stage, Angelina could eat by herself but Montague liked doing things for her.

After dinner, Montague carried her back to the bedroom, laying her on the bed.

She was beautiful. Angelina’s white dress was a stark contrast to the dark green bed linen. She looked liked some ethereal thing he was never meant to touch-but he could touch her and he cherished that more than anything in his Gringotts vaults.

Montague couldn’t resist her. His life came to the height of perfection when it was just the two of them, bodies against each other, skin meeting skin. She made him powerful. Montague felt like he could do anything, be anything when he was inside her. It was the same feeling Marcus experienced when he killed, but Montague convinced himself that it was different.

Angelina felt only half of what Montague thought she did. She kissed him the way he’d taught her to, touched him in the ways she knew brought him pleasure.

Montague’s face was buried in her neck when she had the feeling of thousands of pins pricking her skin. Then there was nothing. Paralysis, the healer told her after her first fit. It was caused by the damage to her nerve endings and was to be expected after what she’d been through.

The healer had looked her sadly and Angelina had stared back with a vacant expression. Montague had explained that the man felt sorry for her. It had taken him the whole night to explain the concept and even now she didn’t understand it completely.

When these fits of paralysis came on, Angelina was left only with her mind. Sometimes, like now, her eyes were open, fixed on the scene in front of her. She preferred it when her eyes were open. When her eyes were closed there was only darkness and nothing to think about.

The ceiling had never been of any interest to Angelina, but now it called to mind many things Montague had said to her. The old house had been built at the turn of the century, made from brick and stones from Italy. The old wooden beams had come from the Carpathian Mountains and he could point out all the places damaged by dragon claws and fire. Montague had only been to the Carpathian Mountains once. He’d gone there to rest after an incident in his last year of school. He’d told her that maybe after the war he’d take her to see the dragons.

How much time went by Angelina wouldn’t have known. Time, like the ceiling, was of no importance to her. As she was recalling what Montague told her about the uses of dragon scales, Angelina blinked. Her limbs began to tingle as feeling returned. Montague was draped over her, breathing deeply, his head still buried in the crook of her neck. It was uncomfortable to have him on top of her, but Angelina didn’t say so. She could now feel his tears drying on her skin.

end.

It's belated, but I'm thanking everyone who commented on Not a Beauty, Very Much a Beast. I don't know what the rules of the exchange are about commenting in the actual story post.