A trip to Malfoy Manor and some disturbing news. Hermione's suspicions of Draco Malfoy grow...
2. Elsinore
Hermione desperately tried to focus on her book - Eoin Grumigen's controversial biography of Albus Dumbledore, 'The Dithering Diplomat' – but her eyes kept skating off the page. Hot, prickling perspiration peppered her forehead and her stomach was churning. I'm being ridiculous, she thought. Completely irrational. Blood tests at St Mungo's were nothing like 'real' injections, thanks to specially-honed, analgesic wands - there wasn't a needle in sight.
She closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath... And yet she still couldn't stop remembering, with terrible clarity, the time her Mum had taken her to the local church hall to give blood as a teenager and the dark, jellied, queasy warmth that had overwhelmed her moments before passing out …
'You alright, love?' came a friendly voice close to her ear.
Hermione forced a smile for the benefit of the round-faced Mediwitch and put her book aside. There was no point in looking as scared as she felt…
The Mediwitch gently took hold of Hermione's arm and prodded her veins with practiced fingers, seeking out the sweet spot where the blood flowed fastest.
No point in panicking. No point at all, Hermione thought. This would be simple and painless.
Her mind flitted back to her Mum… Where was she now? What was she doing? Probably soothing a scared child about to have their first filling or chatting to her receptionist, Kate, over a hot cup of tea and a Rich Tea biscuit in the cramped back office of her practice surgery. Hermione had a strangely wistful, almost painful pang of yearning to see her, to skip work for an hour or two, to jump on a bus to travel the long, meandering journey through the heavy London traffic to Parsons Green, where her parents still practiced dentistry and lived in a tall, red-brick, semi-detached house, with mock Tudor frontage and a Volvo Estate on the drive.
It was another life. Another world. One that sometimes seemed to be fading into the distance, to the point that she had to remind herself that once upon a time she'd lived as a Muggle in a world of Muggles, and never known anything else.
'Nearly there, love,' clucked the Mediwitch.
Did her parents feel the same way? Hermione wondered. She often worried that there had been a subtle disruption to their connection since the Second Wizarding War, when she'd been forced to erase her very existence from their minds and move them to Australia for safekeeping. Despite assiduously restoring their memories, Hermione had an uneasy sense that since then they'd been performing their relationship, rather than simply being.
But maybe the damage had already been done? And maybe this was the same for all Muggle-born witches and wizards? Perhaps the inevitable loosening of those family bonds was the price you had to pay for the gift of being Magical? But it seemed an incredibly high price when you thought about it, made even worse for those vulnerable children in an alien community who were then subjected to further exclusion and nastiness. Other children, prideful in their superior sense of self-entitlement - kids like Draco Malfoy, Hermione thought bitterly – were often the worst offenders.
It was a tough road for Muggle-borns growing up in the wizarding world and Hermione wasn't sure if it made them more determined to succeed or fatally undermined their confidence.
Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't immediately notice that the round-faced Mediwitch had finished drawing blood from her arm and was already decanting the blood into small, silver vials.
'All done,' she said chirpily. 'Mediwizard Alcock will examine these later. I take it you'll be wanting to know what he finds out?'
'I'm a Muggle-born,' Hermione said flatly. 'I already know the answer.'
The Mediwitch shrugged. 'Maybe you're different? Not ALL Muggle-borns are Gamma blood-types.'
'99.9% are.'
'Well, maybe you're the one that's different…' the Mediwitch said with a reassuring smile.
'The 0.1…' Hermione muttered irritably, roughly pulling down her sleeve. Her arm ached a little. 'And I don't need to be different. I'm fine as I am.'
This had been a stupid idea, Hermione thought crossly. How had she ever let Ginny talk her into it? Ginny had assured her that the point of this testing programme – the widest Pan-European trial of its type to ever be conducted - was to prove that different blood-types didn't confer special powers; that blood was irrelevant. However, Hermione wasn't so sure about this, ever since Mediwizard Alcock had let slip that Hermione had been selected as a test subject because of her 'exalted magical achievements'. He made particular reference to her ability to deploy powerful wandless magic; a skill usually reserved for the rarest blood type in the magical world – Epsilons – who were universally pure-bloods or half-bloods.
Still, it gave her something to talk about with Tony Goldstein, who she was due to meet for lunch. His academic field was Magical Haematology, Padma had proudly told her, and his chief area of expertise was the Epsilon allele and how it differed from Alpha and Beta alleles – the most common blood types found amongst the non-Muggle-born wizarding population.
'Can I get you anything?' the Mediwitch asked. 'A cup of tea?'
Hermione brusquely shook her head.
XXX
Padma was waiting in the foyer at St Mungo's, armed with a sheaf of papers and a quill.
'These need signing immediately,' she said breathlessly, thrusting the papers into Hermione's arms. 'Mr Jinks has been in the office all morning. He says there have been complaints that we aren't passing on case files to the appropriate departments quickly enough and holding up crucial Ministry business.'
'I can't sign these here,' Hermione said, suddenly flustered. 'We'll be back in the office later; two hours at most. Can they wait?'
Padma shook her head vehemently. 'Mr Jinks insisted.'
'Insisted? Who the hell does he think he is?' This had become a particularly pertinent question in recent days…his investigation into her department had morphed into a position of permanent oversight. He'd effectively taken control.
Hermione flipped open her briefcase and with a deft tap of her wand expanded its interior to accommodate the thick wad of reports, contracts and copious unapproved minutes of departmental meetings that Padma had brought with her.
'Anyway, I thought you were taking me to lunch today with Tony?' she added in brighter tones. 'I've been looking forward to it all morning.'
'He had to cancel,' Padma said apologetically. 'Work's gone crazy.'
'How very inconvenient,' Hermione sighed grumpily, ignoring the sharp look her colleague was giving her. She'd promised Ron she'd take care of this Goldstein business, hoping to prove that his latest silly obsession that Jeroboam was a new 'Dark Lord' was utter nonsense.
'Well, it suited me just fine,' Padma said in brittle tones, defensive of her boyfriend. 'I was about to cancel too.'
'Whatever for?'
'I'm surprised you have to ask!' Padma huffed. 'Mr Jinks, of course.'
XXX
'Can't you just owl Tony yourself and invite him out for a spot of lunch or supper?' Ron asked that evening, as they both brushed their teeth in readiness for bed. Ron spat a glob of toothpaste into the washbasin; it landed close to the rim of the white china bowl. A trail of saliva trickled slowly and inexorably down the side of the bowl towards the plughole. He then wiped his mouth with a hand-towel. 'Padma's not really needed anyway and the fewer folks who know what we're doing the better.'
'I can't invite him without Padma,' Hermione explained. 'That'd be wrong.' She attempted to brush a thickly knotted tangle from her hair before giving up and straightening her curled tresses with a quick swish of her wand instead.
'Rubbish,' Ron scoffed. 'You know him from school. You're old friends.'
Ron eased himself into their king-size bed, hugging their goose-down duvet so tightly that Hermione's half of the bed was left completely uncovered.
Hermione sidled onto the bed next to him and tugged defiantly at the duvet until it had shifted a few inches towards her.
'I don't know Tony that well. Certainly not well enough to arrange to see him without Padma, at any rate. And I can't think up a work-related excuse to visit Arcana.'
The truth was, of course, other than the failed lunch with Padma, Hermione hadn't put much effort into this at all… Work was frenetic and her home life had been even more hectic than usual, in the light of Hugo's near-expulsion from school for 'accidentally' setting ablaze a teacher's umbrella.
Ron looked perplexed. 'Seriously, Hermione, I don't get it. You're a married woman. You're Padma's boss, for Merlin's sake. She's hardly going to think you're trying to get into her boyfriend's pants now, is she?'
'Of course not! It's a question of etiquette.'
'Etiquette? It'd just be lunch with an old friend while asking him a couple of questions about the bloke who funds his research. It's not exactly difficult now, is it?'
'Then why don't you do it?' Hermione snapped. 'You probably know him better than I do.'
'Bollocks. I hardly know him at all. A bit of a boring bastard, if you ask me. Always had his nose stuck in a book. Crap at Quidditch.'
'Now that's plain nasty.'
'See. It's obvious you're better for the job. You're much more tolerant than I am.'
Too tolerant by far, Hermione thought wearily. She really should have knocked this harebrained scheme on the head the moment Draco Malfoy tried to recruit Ron.
'I'll see what I can do,' Hermione said, if only to shut him up.
'You'd better,' Ron said sternly, pulling the duvet over his head. 'We've been invited to Malfoy Manor for tea tomorrow. He'll be expecting some news.'
XXX
Hermione was still seething with her husband when they stepped out of the grand Inglenook fireplace into the palatial entrance hall at Malfoy Manor.
'I can't believe you agreed to this,' she hissed in low tones. 'Have you forgotten what this place means to me?'
It was over fourteen years since they, along with Harry, had been snatched and brought to Malfoy Manor to be interrogated, but even so, how could Ron have forgotten what had happened here? Draco's aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, had tortured her in the drawing room – just a few feet away from where they were now standing - while Ron, incarcerated in the cellar below, had been forced to listen.
Ron didn't have time to respond. There was a sudden flurry of activity as a small troupe of house-elves, decked out in ill-fitting royal blue livery and weighed down with huge gold epaulettes, Apparated before them.
One of their number - the most curmudgeonly and authoritarian-looking of the bunch, Hermione thought – stepped forward. He extended a long, gnarled finger and pointed in a threatening manner at Ron's chest.
'Who are you? What are you doing here?' the house-elf demanded in a high-pitched, querulous tone.
Ron stepped backwards, colliding with the vast iron overhang of the Inglenook fireplace behind them, his cheeks ablaze with scarlet embarrassment and outrage.
'Your master, Mr Malfoy, invited us,' Ron cried, rubbing the back of his head where he had struck the fireplace.
'How else could we have passed safely through the wards?' Hermione reasoned, feeling genuine alarm at this odd turn of events.
She should have known it. This was a trap of some kind. Draco had set them up; the devious, little snake.
One glance at the angry, contorted expression on Ron's face told her he was thinking precisely the same thing.
'Yeah,' he blustered, swerving to avoid a second gnarly prod from the leading elf. 'If he hadn't invited us, we'd be chopped liver by now, wouldn't we?'
This made the elf pause for thought, and certainly the rigid, aggressive stance of his companions visibly wavered.
Ron fished frantically in a deep inside pocket of his gown, pulling out a silvery piece of parchment that was prominently crowned with the Malfoy crest, and shoved it towards the elf.
The elf momentarily closed his eyes, as if sensing the origins of the paper and its writer vibrate through his brown, leathery skin, before magicking the paper into thin air with a brisk flick of his bony wrist.
A sly, papery smile slowly spread across his face, and his formerly harsh glare softened into deference. Even his voice had lost its hard edge, assuming instead a cloying meekness.
'Kind Sir. Madam,' he said, with a respectful bow which his fellow elves immediately copied. 'Master will be along shortly.'
Hermione wasn't fooled for one moment by this little charade.
Draco may have invited them, but he'd forgotten to show up himself.
'Let me escort you to the drawing room where you can await the Master in greater comfort,' the elf said in obsequious tones.
Hermione's throat constricted involuntarily at the thought and even Ron looked a little green. He did remember. Of course he did. How could she have been so selfish?
To her surprise, however, the elves hurried them away from the entrance hall at breakneck speed, past the drawing room's heavy, oak door. It appeared to have been magically sealed, judging by the gossamer-thin stream of white light which encircled the door frame.
They followed the head elf along a wide, wood-paneled corridor, lined with austere mahogany or ebony framed portraits, all featuring the sharp-faced, aquiline features of former Malfoys.
The elf ushered them into a large, square room, dominated by a vast fire blazing furiously in a white marble fireplace.
Hermione wasn't sure if it was an effect of the heat generated by the flames or the consequence of a strangely pungent odour which suddenly assaulted her senses, but there was a distinctly shimmering, translucent quality to the scene - akin to a mirage on an empty road on a scorching summer's day. An array of tall, slender white candles hovered majestically above them, presiding over three white sofas – deep and welcoming – facing the fireplace, and framing a low glass, rectangular table which supported a splendidly ornate silver samovar. A line of crystal tumblers, nestled inside silver filigree holders, sprang into view at the bidding of the head elf, who summoned their tea with a curt snap of his fingers.
He turned to Hermione and Ron, bowed deeply, then Disapparated.
'Bastard,' Ron grumbled.
'I didn't like him, either,' Hermione said stoutly.
'I meant fucking Draco Malfoy,' Ron sneered, flinging himself onto one of the plush white sofas.
'Finally!' Hermione said triumphantly. 'Finally, you see sense. So, can we just go home now? I've got a stack of paperwork to get through by tomorrow for this blasted audit, and this really is a waste of time. Surely you can see that?'
Ron cast her a sidelong glance.
Hermione's high spirits quickly faltered. She knew that look.
She should never have gloated. Ron was very sensitive to her 'always having to be right,' as he put it.
Ron opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again as the distinct sound of whispered conversation, and the soft, shushing noise of rapidly approaching, slippered feet on tiled flooring, alerted them to fresh arrivals.
Hermione could make out the calm contralto of Narcissa Malfoy, Draco's mother, and a similarly toned female voice, with a faint American accent, that she didn't recognise.
Much as a panicked 'Sssh' in the wings of a theatre has the power to be heard with undue force in a hushed auditorium, these whispered voices also seemed to be magnified by their own sense of unexpected melodrama.
'Did he say anything to you before he left?' the unknown voice asked sharply.
'Not a dickie bird,' Narcissa Malfoy replied. 'It's most peculiar. And to think, the Weasleys, of all people.'
Moments later, Narcissa Malfoy, flanked by a handsome woman of Amazonian proportions with an impressive mane of pale gold hair, was shaking their hands with polite enthusiasm, greeting them rather as long-lost friends than the intruders they were clearly considered to be.
Hermione cast a swift appraising eye over Narcissa Malfoy. It had been many years since she had met her. Since Lucius's complete retirement from public life some years ago – it was claimed he was 'indisposed,' although his disappearance had sparked innumerable conspiracy theories, none of which had ever been confirmed or denied by the Malfoy family – sightings of Narcissa had become rare, exciting uncommon degrees of gossip-fuelled interest.
Years of semi-seclusion hadn't harmed her, Hermione thought. She was positively radiant, her silvery hair wound into an intricately coiffed chignon, and her lean, elegant figure was clad in a simple white, silk toga. The overall effect was calm, serene, classical. The fingertips she extended in welcome were soft and cool to the touch.
Hermione sensed that Narcissa was similarly regarding her with that polite, slightly competitive gaze shared between women who haven't seen each other for a long time and are wondering if the other has piled on the pounds or developed an unattractive facial hair problem. Luckily, Hermione was still relatively young-looking for her thirty-three years. A little curvier perhaps, compared to her youth, but that was to be expected after giving birth to two children.
To her surprise, Hermione sensed an even more penetrating stare from Narcissa's fair-haired companion.
'This is Sylvestra,' Narcissa said, stepping aside to allow Sylvestra to come forward.
Hermione noticed that Ron's eyes instantly lit up. Always a sucker for blondes, Hermione thought ruefully. Although she had to admit, this Sylvestra was a particularly magnificent specimen.
But she was pretty darned sure that Sylvestra wasn't the name of Draco's wife. Or rather, his second wife. Wife number one, Astoria Greengrass – a snooty little number, she recalled from their schooldays at Hogwarts – had famously run off with a Quidditch player from Brazil, even though her baby son was not yet out of nappies.
However, Hermione was the first to admit that she hadn't taken much interest, if any, in the personal affairs of Draco Malfoy since the Second Wizarding War ended. He was someone she didn't care to think of.
For all she knew his wife might well be Sylvestra. She decided to be polite, whoever she was.
'Do sit down,' Narcissa said, gesturing towards the voluminous white sofas.
Hermione chose to sit as far away from the roaring fire as possible. She was already unbearably hot. Unfortunately, poor Ron wasn't so lucky, as he had already positioned himself on the sofa closest to the blaze. Moments later, he was throwing off his robe and loosening his collar.
Narcissa sat directly opposite them, while Sylvestra seated herself in the middle of the sofa facing the fireplace and the long, glass table, on which the samovar was quietly steaming.
'Tea?' Narcissa asked, in a clear, bell-like voice.
Ron nodded, surreptitiously wiping a film of gleaming sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve.
'Draco should be here shortly,' Sylvestra said.
'He sent a message to say he was late,' Narcissa lied. 'I-I forget the precise nature of your business. It's been an extraordinarily busy day. Hasn't it, Sylvestra? But… if there's any way we can be of assistance?'
'It's a work matter,' Hermione explained breezily.
'Oh. I see.'
Narcissa passed them a steaming glass of golden-brown tea and retreated from the rather tense, birdlike poise she had been holding, perched on the edge of the sofa, into the sofa's capacious white cushions.
She stared pensively into the fire for a few short moments, as if thoroughly digesting this particular piece of information, and then turned abruptly to Hermione, smiling sweetly. 'How about some music while we wait?' she chirruped.
Hermione nodded amiably.
'Wonderful!' Narcissa cried and she clapped her hands with almost childlike glee. The room was instantly alive with loud strains of thumping, throbbing classical music - emanating, it seemed, from every direction. Ron looked around the room in some confusion…
'Isn't that simply marvelous?' Narcissa sighed. 'Brahms 4th.' She fixed Hermione with a bright-eyed stare. 'But I guess you already know that, don't you?'
Fortunately, Hermione did know. It was one of her mother's favourite symphonies. Even so, it struck her as odd that Narcissa automatically presumed she would be familiar with the piece. Was it because she was Muggle-born? And Brahms, of course, was a Muggle composer.
Her suspicions were all but confirmed by Narcissa's next statement.
'To give credit where it's due, music is the one area of civilization where the Muggle population has truly excelled, don't you think?'
She cocked her head jauntily to one side and surveyed Hermione beadily.
Hermione flushed. She wasn't sure if Narcissa was being deliberately rude or this was a rather wooden attempt to be nice.
'I'm not so sure about that, Narcissa,' Sylvestra intoned. 'Don't forget, the Muggles have critical mass on their side.' She flashed a dazzling smile at their guests. 'There's a lot more Muggles than wizards, aren't there?'
'Perhaps it's also about training,' Narcissa mused. 'I don't recall any musical instruction at Hogwarts. Do you?'
'No, Mrs Malfoy. None at all,' Ron spluttered.
'Do you play, Mrs Weasley?' Narcissa asked. She demurely sipped her tea, awaiting Hermione's reply.
'I-I used to,' Hermione said. 'I played the piano.'
'Ah! The pianoforte. How very lovely,' Narcissa breathed. 'Sylvestra plays too, don't you, dear?'
Sylvestra beamed in agreement.
'And Draco played awfully well when he was a child,' Narcissa continued. 'But he never had time to practice. He was always so very, very busy.'
'Actually, Narcissa, he does still play from time to time,' Sylvestra said, a little too smugly for Narcissa's liking, Hermione thought with some amusement.
But Narcissa was having none of it. 'I think you'll find, Sylvestra, that Draco has all but given up. He told me so himself, just last year.'
'But I've heard him play since.'
'I very much doubt it.' Narcissa firmly pursed her lips and poured herself another glass of tea.
'He does play. Believe me,' Sylvestra said emphatically.
Narcissa rolled her eyes in exasperation. 'Dearest Sylvestra. I haven't seen him play for a very long time. And I rather think I would know if he did. After all, this is my house.'
By now, Sylvestra was bristling with indignation. 'For your information, Narcissa,' she said pointedly, 'he plays the piano in her room.'
Narcissa's eyes flicked nervously to Sylvestra, and then to Hermione and Ron.
'Why don't we just ask him?' Ron said, looking over Narcissa's shoulder towards the open doorway behind her.
Draco was leaning nonchalantly against the doorpost, arms folded tightly against his chest. He looked thunderous.
'I don't play. I don't like to play. And I certainly won't be playing anymore,' he drawled, leveling a particularly furious look in Sylvestra's direction.
Sylvestra didn't seem to notice. Or if she did, she certainly didn't seem to care.
'Just as I thought! Come and have some tea, darling,' said Narcissa, pouring her son a glass of tea into which she spooned three teaspoons of a curious green powdery mixture, extracted from a Meissen China sugar-bowl.
'We have been entertaining your guests,' Narcissa said. 'Charming people,' she added with a sickly smile.
Draco cast Ron a withering look. 'Weasley. You're two days early,' he growled. 'I said Thursday, not Tuesday.'
Ron blushed bright scarlet. He rummaged desperately – and unsuccessfully - for Draco's note, before remembering that the head elf had vanished it.
'It's as well, really, isn't it, Ron?' Hermione said. 'We have to be somewhere else anyway.'
She carefully placed her glass of tea on the table and was about to stand up when Draco sauntered into the room, collapsed onto the sofa next to his mother, and gestured to Hermione to stay put.
'Now that you're here, we might as well talk,' he said. He turned to his mother. 'And if you care to turn down that blasted music, we might be able to hear ourselves think as well.'
Narcissa's face darkened, although, with a brisk click of her fingers, Brahms's soaring violins, dancing round and round, higher and higher, were instantly stilled.
'The problem with my son, Mrs Weasley,' she said with an air of exaggerated confidentiality, 'is that he hasn't got a soul.'
Hermione stifled a giggle, amused at Draco's stricken expression.
'If you've quite finished entertaining our guests at my expense, Mummy dearest, we have some important matters to discuss,' he said sardonically.
'I was doing no such thing!' Narcissa retorted with an injured sniff. 'Come on, Sylvestra. Let's leave these people to their ever so important business.'
Both ladies rose to their feet and glided elegantly out of the drawing room, leaving two out of three of the room's occupants in slightly stunned silence.
The silence continued for some time, as all ears strained to hear the last of Narcissa and her companion, ensuring they had quit the vicinity.
Draco leaned closer.
'There's been another attack,' he said bluntly.
'An attack?' Ron exclaimed. 'Of Dark Flux? Are you sure?'
Draco nodded.
'That's ludicrous! How come we know nothing about it?' Hermione demanded. 'I've got high-level clearance at the Ministry and Ron's an Auror. Section A. He'd be the first to know if something like that happened.'
Draco hadn't actually looked directly at her to properly acknowledge her presence since his arrival, and even now, to Hermione's profound irritation, he allowed his gaze to switch from Ron to herself for the briefest of moments only.
'I have sources,' he said, with a dismissive, almost Gallic shrug.
Hermione didn't want to let him off that lightly.
'What sources?' she asked incredulously. 'The slightest inkling of Dark Flux and it would be all over the Daily Prophet.'
Draco flipped open the Meissen China sugar bowl and dipped the little finger of his left hand into the mound of green granulated powder skulking inside.
'Not to mention the Muggle newspapers and TV reports. A number of unexplained deaths in a single community is bound to make the headlines,' Hermione continued. 'It'd be big news.'
'But it was on the news,' Draco said silkily.
To Hermione's disgust, he licked the end of his finger, before plunging it back into the sugar bowl. 'You just didn't notice,' he said wearily. 'The outbreak was reported in South America. A village in Paraguay,' Draco continued in clipped, efficient tones. 'I'm planning to go out there; take a look at what's been going on.'
'What happened?' Ron asked.
'Seven Muggles dead. Usual symptoms. Bluish lips, ghostly pallor, rolled-back eyes. Eyewitness accounts described a strange rash on the bodies.'
'What was the official Muggle explanation?' Ron asked, a little too disdainfully for Hermione's liking.
'Contaminated water. The village shared a single well.'
'How can you be so sure that it wasn't whatever was IN the well that killed them?' Hermione asked tetchily.
'Like I said, Mrs Weasley, I have my sources,' Draco said, this time fixing the full force of his bleached, grey gaze in her direction.
Hermione gritted her teeth, refusing to flinch from the unguarded threat she had momentarily sensed in his stare.
There was more to this business. Much, much more. And she didn't trust Draco Malfoy one jot.
'This rash. What was it like?'
Draco shrugged. 'Pink, mottled, blue, green? I've no idea.'
'But isn't it important, Malfoy? I've been doing a little reading around the subject and historic claims of Dark Flux have NEVER been associated with a rash. Looks like your sources might be sending you on a wild goose chase.'
Draco ran his long, pale fingers through his surprisingly unkempt, silvery hair, and smiled - a crooked, smug little smile, which Hermione itched to smack from his face.
'Well, it won't just be me, will it? Ron's coming too. Aren't you, Ron?'
Ron looked a little startled at this information. 'I am?'
'Next week. I've got a few business matters to attend to first in that part of the world. But once that's out of the way...'
'You can't expect Ron to just hang around while you conduct your – your shady deals!' Hermione scoffed.
'I'd hardly call Herb Healing business, shady,' Draco countered.
'And he's needed at home.'
'He's an Auror, Mrs Weasley. Dangerous missions are what they do.'
Dangerous? Did he say dangerous?
But before either Hermione or Ron had a chance to question Draco further, the silver-haired wizard had already unfurled his lean frame from the plush cushions of the sofa and was moving towards the doorway – a clear indicator that their meeting was over.
'In any case, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said, with a supercilious smile, 'I've no doubt you'll be far too busy rooting out insider information on Mr Jeroboam to even notice that Ron has gone.'
'That's enough, Malfoy!' Ron barked, levering himself clumsily off the sofa. 'You've no right to speak to my wife in that tone.'
'He's just a prat, Ron,' Hermione sighed. 'Ignore him.'
She rapidly made for the exit, but Draco was blocking her path, hands on hips.
'Look, Mrs Weasley, Ron,' he said in a far more diplomatic tone than his cocky stance implied. 'Okay, so we have history. We … we don't particularly like each other.'
'Too right,' Ron mumbled.
'Which means this isn't going to be easy for any of us,' Draco continued. 'But wouldn't it be better if we just put old antipathies aside? Just this once?'
'Well. We can try,' Ron conceded. 'I just don't want you giving my wife any lip. Is that clear?'
Hermione rolled her eyes in exasperation. She was perfectly capable of looking after herself.
'Have you spoken to Tony Goldstein?' Draco asked Hermione, ignoring Ron's intervention.
'Actually, no,' Hermione said truthfully. 'He cancelled our lunch meeting.'
'Why didn't you say so?' Draco said. 'That can only mean one thing…'
'Yes. He had too much work to do,' Hermione said snidely, securing the fasteners at the collar of her gown in readiness, she hoped, for a speedy departure. 'It happens to the best of us, you know.'
'Hold on. When was this latest Dark Flux case?' Ron asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.
'Oh, come on, Ron!' Hermione sighed. 'Tony had nothing to do with it.'
'While Jeroboam's his paymaster, nothing can be ruled out,' Draco said darkly.
Ron agreed. 'Exactly. I bet Jeroboam needs all the help he can get when there's a Dark Flux outbreak. Don't forget, his aim is to get hold of the stuff and weaponise it.'
'I haven't forgotten, Ron,' Hermione said blithely, pushing past Draco and into the refreshing cool air of the gloomy corridor. 'I'll get onto it, I'll talk to Tony,' she added, already trotting away from the drawing room, back to the entrance hall. Appeasement and escape was her preferred tactic at this juncture.
Ron and Draco followed soon after, making, what felt to Hermione, like slow, funereal progress. They were talking together in quiet, low tones.
Hermione waited impatiently by the Inglenook fireplace, desperate to leave as soon as she could. She curiously eyed a large wooden barrel, filled to the brim with Floo powder. Some of the powder had been decanted into a circle of small, portable silver vessels, arranged in a floral pattern on a side-table, next to the fireplace.
Her eyes drifted upwards, trailing the curved length of a vast staircase, its wooden balustrades freshly polished and gleaming in the light afforded by an ornate, round window, poised high above the atrium.
The staircase led to a spacious landing with vivid red walls, adorned with gilt-framed paintings depicting gently bucolic, pastoral scenes and the occasional colourful portrait. One half of the landing was plushly carpeted and brightly lit, leading East towards what looked like the family apartments. A left turn, however, moved away from the wide, welcoming landing, narrowing into a gloomier passage and snaking westwards.
Hermione couldn't help but wonder if the West Wing was where the true master of Malfoy Manor resided, victim to some mystery illness; or, as some rumours would have it, kept under lock and key for his own well-being and those around him. It was insinuated that he had finally run mad with sorrowful regret for his former dark deeds and the shame he had inflicted on the Malfoy family.
Hermione's ruminations were disturbed by the rapidly advancing pitter-patter of footsteps scurrying towards her. It was Narcissa Malfoy, arms outstretched, with Sylvestra close behind. 'Mrs Weasley! Thank Merlin you're still here!' Narcissa gushed. 'I've had a fabulous idea!'
Hermione had a very bad feeling about this.
'It's so very rare I meet anyone else who shares my appreciation of truly wonderful music. I have tickets for the Berlin Philharmonic this Friday. Sylvestra's otherwise engaged and Draco's away on business, so would you accompany me instead?'
The slight quaver of insecurity in Narcissa's voice shocked Hermione into nodding her assent.
'Of course, Mrs Malfoy. That sounds lovely.'
But even as she spoke, a vague sense of dread crept over her – largely based on the briefest of glances exchanged between Narcissa and her son, who had finally arrived at the fireplace with Ron and was now standing directly behind her. In that tiniest of moments, something had been communicated, promptly vanquished by Narcissa's effusive expressions of joy and gratitude.
They arranged to meet in Berlin, seeing as Hermione had a departmental meeting to chair until at least six o'clock. Narcissa informed her that a special Portkey station was being set up at Widford Hill in Oxfordshire, as the concert was bound to be a tremendously popular event. She knew at least half of the Southern Counties branch of the Slytherin Women's Institute had already purchased tickets, so it was set to be a perfectly adorable evening's entertainment.
'Shall we meet at half past six?' Narcissa asked.
'Sure,' Hermione agreed, already feeling a little queasy at the prospect.
Throughout this exchange, Draco stood in silence, an inscrutable, even slightly bored look on his face.
'Come on, Ron,' Hermione said, tugging at her husband's sleeve.
'I'll be in touch,' Draco said crisply, before turning his back on the party and walking quickly away.
XXX
Ron just didn't get it, even though Hermione explained her misgivings about working on this investigation with Draco – and indeed any association with the Malfoys - over and over again the next morning. They were walking back from St Botolph's Primary School in Ottery St Catchpole where they had just dropped off Rose and Hugo.
As far as Ron was concerned, nothing major seemed amiss. Sure, Draco was an irritating little shit, but Narcissa had been surprisingly pleasant - a little kooky perhaps? But what else would you expect of someone who had lived with Lucius and Draco all these years?
'But, Ron, don't you think it's a tad strange that she's invited me to this concert on Friday, claiming loneliness, when it sounds like half of Slytherin house is already going? I feel I've been roped into this under false pretences!' Hermione complained.
'Blimey, Hermione! You really are a conspiracy theorist, aren't you?' Ron cackled.
'No, Ron. There's something wrong. Something… off,' Hermione said, thrusting her gloved hands into the deep pockets of her duffle coat in an effort to keep warm on what was a particularly cold, autumn morning.
'She never said she was lonely,' Ron muttered, lagging behind as he kicked mounds of dry, brown leaves. 'Just that Sylvestra couldn't make it.'
'And that's strange too, don't you think?'
'What's strange?'
'Sylvestra,' Hermione said, waiting impatiently for Ron to catch up. 'Who is she?'
'Dunno,' Ron shrugged. Then, after a moment's thought; 'She's not Draco's wife, that's for sure.'
'You've met her?' Hermione was burning with curiosity.
'A couple of times.'
'When? Where? What was she like?'
'Nice enough, I think. Too nice for him. But I don't really remember,' Ron said in a casual tone, which never failed to infuriate his wife.
'And you're sure she's not Sylvestra?'
Ron threw her a puzzled look. 'Quite sure, Hermione. I'm not blind, you know!'
'So, who is she?' Hermione repeated.
'Who? The wife or Sylvestra?'
'Sylvestra! And the wife. Both of them.'
Ron shook his head in exasperation. 'You've lost me now.'
'What a surprise,' Hermione mumbled under her breath.
They had reached their cottage on the outskirts of the village. Ron pretended to rummage for his key, for the sake of random passers-by, and then subtly flicked his wand, which was poking out from his coat-sleeve, whispering a brusque Alohomora. He nudged the door open and stepped inside.
Hermione followed, hanging up her duffle coat, hat, scarf and gloves by the door.
She was running late. She'd have to Apparate to work.
'Maybe they're lovers?' Ron said suddenly, raising his eyebrows saucily.
'Sylvestra and Draco?' Hermione shrilled.
'No, no! Sylvestra and Narcissa.' Ron's eyes glinted wickedly at the thought – a little too wickedly, Hermione thought.
'Really, Ronald. You have a mind like a drain,' she tutted.
XXX
CHAPTER TRACKS:
"SYMPHONY NO.4 IN E MINOR: OP.98" by JOHANNES BRAHMS
"PSYCHO" by MUSE
Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters.
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