Chapter One
The Minister of Magic
There were forty-seven rooms in Malfoy Manor, not including any of the dungeon compartments or the servants' quarters. On some afternoons the whole of the fourth floor would shift unexpectedly to reveal another series of powder rooms and guest bedrooms, bringing the total closer to sixty.
Under normal circumstances, you could find, at any given moment, four house-elves scouring the rooms in secrecy. However, these were not normal circumstances.
Each of the many rooms were still polished and cleaned with the utmost care every day; however, it was not elfish hands that worked meticulously for hours on end, but instead the hands of one human girl.
Hermione Granger walked the halls slowly, limping slightly; the heavy pails of ash she carried knocked into her knees with every few steps. Already covered in a layer of grime and dust, she did not notice the trails of soot spreading over her legs and coating the hem of her robes.
The word 'robes' was a misnomer, for all she was wearing was an oversize pillowcase tied crudely around the waist with rope. Once, the pillowcase had been white, though now it was a dingy brown with dark blotches staining the front. Fastened with magic to the neckline was a bright button reading 'S.P.E.W.', which Draco Malfoy had affixed magically with a malicious grin. He seemed to find great humor in protesting for elfish welfare when Hermione was nothing but a slave.
Already awake for hours, she hardly noticed the appearance of the thin, hazy patches of sun on the library floor, signifying it was nearing seven in the morning.
From the fireplace she raked out the ashes and scooped them into the buckets she held, thankful that this was the last bit of ash in the house for her to collect. Now all she had left was to bring it down to the kitchens and dispose of it, after which she had a day of cleaning ahead of her, like every day for the past two-and-a-half years.
No one else in the Manor was awake yet; Narcissa Malfoy would be the first to rise. Narcissa was nothing if not methodical, keeping to exactly the same schedule every day of every week. She was not cruel to Hermione, like her husband and son, and occasionally Narcissa even greeted her with a nod if they passed in the halls. Hermione treasured those tiny moments as if praised on high.
The kitchen was cold and empty, but soon the only remaining house-elf in the Manor would wake and begin her work on elaborate breakfasts for the Malfoys. Bunker was a friendly elf who loved the Malfoy family and was very happy that she had not been traded away like all of the other elves when Hermione had arrived. Lucius had been all but ecstatic to give his elves to his closest friends who were not 'privileged enough to own a Mudblood servant of their own'. Bunker, however, had remained; she had been the family cook for decades, and Hermione was as handy in the kitchen as she had been on the Quidditch pitch.
Hermione dumped the ashes into the bin in the far corner and dropped the buckets into a heap by the door, happy to have the worst task of the day complete. She hoped to have the dusting done by noon, and all the floors polished by four o'clock.
She did not notice the soot rubbed deep into her palms or the pale blue bruises beginning to blossom across her knees, as she was far more occupied with slumping down into a chair, eyes closed behind heavy lids. More and more she found herself lying awake long into the night, reciting textbooks in her head to try to mask the pain searing though her body, but the mornings came quickly and were viewed through bleary eyes.
"You is finished hauling the soot?"
Hermione's head snapped up at the sound of Bunker's tiny voice. The house-elf appeared smaller than most, hunched over from years of hard service and old age, and her eyes held a depth of wisdom that most house-elves would never reach. She smiled at Hermione as she clambered onto her tall stool at the counter.
Hermione let herself watch as Bunker floated the teakettle to the sink to fill with water, pushing down most of her envy at the elf's magic. Another snap and the water was heated to boiling and poured into the teapot. "Missus Malfoy will be wanting tea soon," Bunker said, as if this was a new occasion, and not one that had happened every day for years. As it was a Wednesday, and Narcissa liked routine, the teapot was white china with pink flowers, and the tea was to be served with a muffin instead of biscuits.
The clock over the door chimed eight. A soft ringing issued from the series of bells along the wall, coming from the bell labeled 'Second South Study'. Narcissa was awake.
Bunker made a tiny noise and pulled a blueberry muffin from a tin, setting it gently on its plate. The tray was silver and large, covered with an assortment of additives for the tea; a vase with a single rose had been placed lovingly in the corner. The house-elf picked up the edges and gestured it at Hermione as she gabbled, "You take it now!"
With a sigh, Hermione rose from her chair.
As she walked from the kitchen to the second storey, the paintings lining the wall hissed, "Mudblood scum!" and, "Dirty little wandless slave!" at her with sneers and laughs. She told them off once when she first arrived and thought that her pride mattered. Now, however, she kept her eyes on her feet and tried to ignore their whispers by focusing on the feeling of the tea tray in her hands.
On the last few steps of her walk to the library, she wondered what kind of mood would possess Narcissa on this day. When in a good mood she would be smiling over some photo album, or reading one of the many books from her expansive collection; in a bad mood, it would the newspaper. These days Hermione longed for the good moods, as it sometimes meant a kind word.
The Daily Prophet obscured Narcissa's face, but she took to folding it delicately as Hermione bowed her head and walked to the table in front of fireplace.
"Good morning, Madam."
Hermione set the tray gently in front of Narcissa, who was looking at the front page of the paper now lying in her lap. When Narcissa noticed that Hermione was straining to see a shifting picture, she folded the paper over again to hide it before placing it by her side. Not once in her time at the Manor had she seen a headline from any of the newspapers, and she longed for word from the outside.
Narcissa took a half a cup of tea and two scoops of sugar. She reached out, took the cup from Hermione, and murmured, "The series of guestrooms on the third floor, are they clean?"
"No, Madam."
"The Minister of Magic will be arriving by Floo quite shortly, and the rooms need to be spotless." Hermione straightened with a start. "Run along, girl."
Hermione tore off, leaving Narcissa to sip her tea quietly, pulling the paper out without a noise.
The third floor consisted of a block of storage closets and four guestrooms near the master library overlooking the back garden. Hermione had not yet gotten around to any of the cleaning that morning; the soot from the fireplaces was still smeared on the mantelpieces in all of the rooms, and nothing had been dusted, and the beds needed to have their linens changed, and -
Hermione skidded to a halt as she came to the door of the first guestroom. A cloaked figure stood with its back to her, muttering softly. It had been years since she had heard that deep, throaty voice, but she would never be able to forget it. With years of suppressed rage she ran at him, shouting, "Professor Snape!"
Without turning around, he whispered, "Protego." A translucent bubble flickered into the air around Snape, cutting Hermione short by three or four feet. The bubble was hot to the touch when Hermione pounded her fist against it, frantic tears streaming down her face.
"Look at me!" He did not turn, wand still visible at his side. "I'm here because you're a coward, because Harry was caught and you were there, because of what your kind thinks of me now." Only then did he spin on his heels, black eyes dark and unforgiving, but she did not falter. "Where have you been? Where are Harry and Ron?"
"Why would I tell you anything after you attacked me from behind like the coward you accuse me of being?" Snape spoke slowly, as if calculating what he was saying to her. She kicked again at the bubble protecting him and he sneered at her. "Your friends … you actually assumed that they're alive?" Snape paid no attention to the moan that escaped Hermione's throat as she took a step away from the magical wall. "Your friend Ron has been dead for years now. He made acquaintances with some very ... impatient people."
Hermione could not put the words together in her head yet; none of it made sense. Ron couldn't be dead, because he had to help Harry come and rescue her. "And - and Harry … is he - "
"Alive, yes, if you can call it that. The Dark Lord leads the bumbling fool around on a leash, like a dog." A dead weight settled in the pit of her stomach. "Miss Granger, if I lower this shield, will you -"
She never heard his words, stunned at the formal way that he had addressed her; she had not heard her name in years. Here at the Manor she was only ever called 'girl', and the sudden use of her surname stunned her and sent a wave of nostalgia and regret through her. The sheen of the bubble disappeared and in a heartbeat Snape had crossed the space between them and grabbed her chin, pulling her to face him squarely. "I am not a coward; I was doing exactly what I was told. If everyone else had done as they were told, there would be far fewer dead people." He looked deep into her eyes. "Your welfare here is of little concern to me. Do not blame me for all your problems, Granger." His grip tightened, and she spat in his face.
"We all trusted you!"
Snape wiped the spittle from his cheek. He pulled back the hood obscuring his face; where he had once looked aged and serious, his face now was criss-crossed with worry lines and dark circles ringed his eyes. For the first time, Hermione bothered to look at the robes he wore, her eyes falling on the shiny badge on his chest. He saw her looking and he quirked one eyebrow. "You are about to realize what a poor decision it was to attack the Minister of Magic."
It was like a jolt of electricity; Hermione felt the spell hit her body before she heard the shout of, "Crucio!" from behind her.
She screamed.
