Blood and Wine
Part 3
She dreams she's in Draco's second house. They're kneeling on the floor and she's got his cut hand cupped between hers. The blood wells up like a fountain and pools on the floor between them.
"You can't fix everything, Granger." His breath, heavy with alcohol, breaks over her face.
"I can fix this though. If you'll let me."
He puts his hand over hers and she smiles up at him, only to be met with his Death Eater mask. Something sharp cuts into the back of her hand. His Dark Mark has come to life, the snake is emerging from his skin, snapping at her while the skull laughs. She backs away and he's suddenly pushing her into the wall. He's got her right arm twisted painfully between his chest and her back. Her left he holds against the wall beside her head so she can see the snake twisting around their wrists. The mask is gone when he presses his face into her exposed neck, inhaling her scent. He takes a bit of her skin between his teeth and sucks on it gently. The snake leers at her and opens its mouth wide. She can't tell if it's aiming for her fingers or Draco's knuckles.
"You can't even fix yourself," Draco says into her neck, kissing a trail up to her ear, "what makes you think you can fix me?"
The snake strikes and Hermione's eyes snap open.
The bed she's laying on is too soft to be anything the Order has access to these days. Her fingers feel rough against the sinfully smooth fabric. The room is dark and it takes time for her eyes to adjust. While they do she listens closely for any sound. The wind is blowing outside, odd that she'd be put in a room with a window. She hears no one breathing, maybe she's been left without a guard? She strains her ears, focusing with all her might just to be sure. She hears nothing new save faint music in the distance. She can distinguish between the dark of the ceiling and the canopy now and gently lifts her head.
She's in a bedroom. The only light comes in thin beams where the curtains over the single window don't close properly. Everything she sees is the height of opulence, from the couch near the window to the book resting with one corner off the bedside table.
Hermione pushes herself up onto her elbows and gasps. There's a tug in her chest like she's got stitches. She has her robes half open when she realizes she was wearing Muggle clothes before and what she's in now are far more expensive than any robes she ever owned. The skin just below her breast is puckered and pale. It must have been one nasty curse to scar so she's thankful she was seen to quickly even if it did have to happen in Malfoy Manor.
Gingerly she slides out of bed, using one of the bedposts for support while she catches her breath. Her feet are bare and she searches the floor for shoes. She puts on a pair of slippers that were peeking out from under the bed and finds her boots beside the small desk in the corner. Her clothes are folded atop the desk and her wand lies next to them. She hurries to grab it and is fortified once her fingers touch the smooth wood.
"Lumos," she breathes, her voice too loud in the silence. Nothing happens. Malfoy must have charmed her wand not to work again.
There are four doors in the room. Two won't open. A third leads to a closet the size of her old bedroom. The fourth leads to a bathroom. Hermione searches every drawer for anything useful. There's nothing but powders and perfumes and bottles of potion. She considers breaking any one of the delicate perfume bottles to make a weapon but none are big enough to do much damage. Everything in both rooms is in exactly the right place so she takes special notice of the trash behind the toilet. It's filled with blood-soaked towels. She reaches for the one hanging over the edge to the floor then thinks better of it and pulls her hand back. Her knuckles graze the basket, pushing it back. The towel drags along the floor, leaving a trail of blood. She feels lightheaded with the realization that it's hers.
She stumbles back into the bedroom and realizes there's something wrong. There are three lamps in the room but every flat surface has at least one candle sitting atop it. She picks up the closest one and carries it to the window. In the thin shafts of light she can see it's the same color as the ones Malfoy was making. She looks around in confusion. Why would he spend all his time brewing a potion just to turn it into candles?
The knob on one of the two locked doors twists. Hermione doesn't have time to hide before the door swings open and Malfoy enters. His eyes widen at seeing her up and he looks carefully from the candle in her hand to her face. He closes the door softly behind him.
"You're up," he says quietly.
"Where's Harry?"
He takes in a deep, calming breath. "You're lucky. That spell could easily have killed you."
"Where's Harry?"
He steps up to her, using his full height in an attempt to intimidate her. "You are here under my protection. As you can no doubt imagine this puts me in a great deal of danger, so you might want to be a little grateful instead of demanding information."
He snatches the candle from her hand and crosses the room to replace it exactly where it was.
"What are they for?" she asks, glad when his spine stiffens. He's the one who wanted a change of subject. "You spend all that time on them and they're not even a weapon."
"Are you so sure they're not?" he asks, using his wand to light the one he took from her. He breathes deeply for several beats before turning to her. "Would you like to see what they're for?"
She hesitates a moment - they could be dangerous, but that's all the more reason to see what they do and every minute in his presence is another chance to find out what's happened to Harry. She nods decisively and he offers her his arm. Tentatively, she takes it and lets him lead her outside.
He keeps his pace slow so that she doesn't have to rush. Her slippered feet pad quietly down the carpeted hall. He fills the silence with talk of the house, like she's a welcome guest he's showing around.
"This wing is devoted to the family. The others never come here, not even him."
He's talking about the other Death Eaters, she realizes and is surprised to find they have some social graces.
"Are there many of them in the house now?" she asks, keeping her voice casual.
He looks at her sideways and she swears she sees the ghost of a smile on his lips. "He's not here," he says and Hermione deflates slightly. Of course it wouldn't be that easy. "The room you're staying in," Malfoy goes on, "was my mother's. No one ever goes there except my father and me, not even Bella. It's the safest place for you."
Her fingers tighten involuntarily on his arm. "I-I hadn't heard," she says, "about your mother."
The only sign of any pain he gives is a slight tightening of his jaw. She squeezes his arm comfortingly.
The music she heard earlier grows louder the further they go, reaching its peak when they stop before a door at the end of a hallway. While he produces a key to open it Hermione wonders what candles and a slow waltz have to do with the war. When the door swings open she gasps. The room is vast, about half the size of the Great Hall at Hogwarts. She steps through the door onto a balcony that runs around the edge of the room. Along the railing and all over the floor at the edges of the ballroom below are hundreds of candles. With so many the smoke and smell of blood and wine is choking. In the middle of it all is Lucius Malfoy, arms raised in perfect dancer's posture, waltzing across the floor.
"He broke after she died," Malfoy says, stepping up to the railing beside her. "He's almost as bad as Bella now, as you've probably noticed," he adds wryly. "But he doesn't stop. When the battle's over he just keeps going, attacking everything in sight until he's either stupefied or collapses in exhaustion. The only time he was ever calm was in her room. I found him crying into her robes one day, muttering about the fading smell." He runs his fingers through the flame on one of the candles, flirting with danger. "It took a bit of fiddling but I finally got Amortentia to take a solid form. It lets him feel like he's close to her again."
She pushes aside the impulse to take a deep whiff and analyze it. Instead she asks, "Why do you brew it at your other-" Her hand flies to her mouth. "You inherited the house from her, didn't you?"
He smiles unhappily. "Yes. I brew it there because Voldemort has a habit of stopping in on my lab here. I'd rather he not read my mind while I'm under Amortentia's effects."
"What do you smell?" she asks and instantly regrets it. "No, don't answer that. I shouldn't have asked."
"It's all right." He takes one last lingering look at his father, dancing alone beneath them, and turns to the door. "Let's get you back, you still need your rest."
She stops him once they're in the hall again. "Tell me where he is," she says firmly.
His scowl frightens her but she refuses to be cowed. "I'm not on your side, Granger. My reasons for helping you are mine and mine alone. Do not presume that I give a damn for Saint Potter or the Order."
She opens her mouth to argue with him, convince him he has good and decent reasons for helping them, but he grabs her arm in a bruising grip and drags her behind him. With the ache in her chest it's all she can do to keep up.
The doorknob turning wakes her. She quickly sits up on the couch, clutching her chest where the wound still hurts her.
Malfoy stops, the doorway falling closed behind him. In one arm he carries a silver tray. Angry heat is rising to his face.
"Tell me you didn't sleep there," he says, his voice dangerously low.
Hermione tugs the thin blanket up around her shoulders. She went to sleep fully dressed but something about Malfoy seeing her first thing after waking feels indecent. "I didn't think it would be right-"
"You already slept one night in my mother's bed, or would doing so consciously be too disturbing to your fragile Order sentiments?"
Her hands fist in the fabric. "Given your mother's rather outspoken stance on blood purity I imagined she might be the one disturbed."
"My mother isn't disturbed by anything these days, Granger," he says coldly. He turns away from her entirely to set his tray down on the end of the bed.
"I'm sorry," Hermione says instinctively. "But you know that's not what I meant."
"Lay down," he orders, gesturing to the bed.
"Why?" she asks, frowning.
He rings out a cloth over a bowl of potion. The stink is strong enough she has to cover her nose. Malfoy doesn't seem affected.
"If you want that injury to heal properly you'll need a bit more care."
"What do I need to do?" she asks, forcing herself to endure the smell and stand next to him over the tray.
He looks up at her with a raised eyebrow. "Lay down," he repeats slowly.
They engage in a silent battle of wills. She finally gives in, figuring if he wanted to hurt her he could have done so a million ways by now. And, she thinks as she sinks into the mattress, if she complies he might actually tell her something about Harry.
The bed is a blessing after a night on the couch. The muscles in her neck and shoulders immediately relax into the soft mattress, hoping to lull her to sleep. She pulls open her robes and tugs up the shirt beneath. Malfoy sits on the edge of the bed beside her, his hip resting against her thigh.
"You'll have to pull it up more," he says.
She feels herself flush as she rolls the fabric up over her breasts. She's wearing a bra of course, but she can count on one hand the number of men who have seen her covered by that alone. Malfoy is the last man she ever imagined on that list. She looks resolutely up at the canopy. Looking at him will only make it worse.
He presses the wet cloth on the scar and burning heat crackles out from it, making her gasp. She screws her eyes shut against the pain.
"It's okay," he says, his breath ghosting over her neck. His fingers wrap around her side, resting between her ribs to roll her over onto her side. Tears well up in her eyes as the pain continues to spread.
"What are you doing?" she asks.
"There's still dark magic in you, I have to draw it out."
"Won't it just dissipa-ah!" The pain stops spreading, all at once coalescing in one place just below her left breast.
Malfoy makes soothing sounds and slowly the pain lessens, becoming a dull ache. An eternity later a warm cloth wipes at her stomach before being pressed over the single spot where she still feels pain. He takes one of her hands and presses it to the cloth, silently telling her to keep up the pressure. He pushes her gently so that she lays flat once more. Her breath is heavy as she tries to focus past the pain. She opens her eyes and sees his face, white as parchment, bent over her. She angles her head down so she can see what holds his interest beside her. On the bed is a shallow bowl, filled near to the brim with her blood and a dark shining substance that makes her stomach roll.
"Did you really have to cut me open?" she asks faintly.
"You'll forgive me if I think I know more about dark curses than you do."
He twists to set the bowl gently on the tray, along with the potion-soaked cloth and the knife she hadn't seen. Now that there's nothing in the way, he scoots a few inches closer to her and begins to pull away the cloth she holds. His fingers graze her skin, making her jump. The memory of her dream returns and her eyes fly to his lips, slightly parted as he surveys the damage. She wonders how the reality of his kiss would differ from her dream. She must be very warm for his breath to feel so cool over her breasts and stomach, she blames it on the pain and dark magic.
His eyes slide up to hers. "One small healing spell and you'll be good as new," he says.
The cool rationality of his words shocks her back to reality. She nods. She doesn't realize he was asking for permission until relief shines in his eyes. She pulls down her shirt quickly once the spell is done, glad when he steps away like nothing is amiss. And that's because nothing is. She's just having a bad reaction to the pain and the dream. She mentally scolds herself. She should be thinking about Harry, not having impure thoughts about Draco Malfoy.
"Is-" she begins, figuring now is as good a time as any to ask about Harry again. Malfoy presses a glass of pumpkin juice to her lips, in his eyes is a clear warning that she had better drink. The moment he pulls the glass away her eyelids grow heavy.
"Bastard ferret," she says weakly. "You spiked it with a sleeping draught."
"Of course," he says as she drifts off. "Can you think of a better way to keep your curiosity contained?"
She sits at the desk. She's tried every other spot in the room. The couch is too opulent, the floor feels like she's hiding, and she's never been one to sit in bed all day. She recites old school facts in her head, useless things like the major events of the Goblin Wars and how many stars are in Cassiopeia. There are books but Hermione's realized the one on the bedside table is askew because that's how Narcissa left it. She can't bring herself to touch anything in the room after that.
One of the candles on the edge of the desk is burned down to nearly nothing. Though they fill the room the smell is faint, apparently activated by exposure to flame. She tugs the small candle free of the desktop, leaving behind a broken ring of melted wax globs and a circle of discolored wood. She holds her breath while she examines it, studying the texture to see just how Malfoy managed to make it. She peels some of the wax away with her nail and rubs it between her fingers, taking note of the texture. She has the candle halfway to her nose to take a whiff when she realizes what she's doing and pulls it away. At almost the same moment the doorknob begins to turn and Hermione, feeling oddly guilty, stuffs the candle into her pocket.
"Finally," she says quietly, "do you have any idea how long I've-"
But it's not Draco Malfoy entering the room. Lucius Malfoy seems to fill the doorway, dark robes contrasting starkly with his pale hair and features. Hermione's breath catches in her throat. He's mad, Malfoy said so himself. Her wand, still enchanted not to work in the Manor, will be of little use if he decides to take issue with a mudblood in his late wife's room.
Lucius' eyes don't focus on her, though. They don't seem to focus on anything at all. The door swings slowly shut behind him and his hand finds the wall. His head shifts toward the spot where his fingers touch the simple molding, and his eyes focus momentarily. Pain crumples his aristocratic features. Hermione feels her heart break in sympathy. She's never seen love like this, the kind that could turn something so simple as a wall fixture into something of sentimental value. She lets out a sad, quiet sigh.
Lucius' head snaps around, his gaze fixing on her with predatory precision. He stalks toward her. She tries to get away but the chair legs catch on the carpet and he's at her side before she can get out. His eyes, darker than his son's, study her face and his fingers catch a lock of her hair, twisting it idly.
"My fault," he mutters slowly, words spilling out of him in disjointed snatches of thought. "Let her choose. My old friend. Always so clever. Thought he was best. Never thought he'd corrupt the boy. Should have known."
"M-Mr. Malfoy," Hermione says slowly, hoping to snap him out of it.
"Father," Malfoy's cold voice stills his father. "Ms. Granger is our guest. You know that." Hermione's gaze flashes gratefully to Malfoy in the doorway. His steely eyes are fixed on his father, though his posture is relaxed. He leans casually to one side, wand nowhere to be seen. His left hand rests lightly atop a dark coat, draped over his opposite arm as if he just came in from the cold.
Lucius gives her hair a soft tug, his face twisting into a sneer. "Better than hers. Less Weasleyish."
"Yes," Malfoy says long-sufferingly. "Ms. Granger looks very different from Ms. Evans."
Lucius whirls to face his son. "Didn't even know her," he sniffs.
"I've seen memories," Malfoy says simply.
His father approaches him. They stand eye to eye, one calm, one crazed. Lucius lifts a finger to tap his son's temple. "He taught you well. Not even he could keep our master out."
"I know, father," Malfoy says, sadness creeping into his expression and tone.
Lucius glances at Hermione then back at Malfoy, his finger pressing against his son's temple. "He'll kill you if he sees."
Malfoy nods solemnly. "I know, father."
Lucius lets his hand fall to his son's shoulder and squeezes it tightly on his way out.
"I'm sorry," Malfoy says once the door is closed. "He promised he'd stay out while you're here."
It's on the tip of Hermione's tongue to ask about Harry again but instead she says, "Thank you."
Malfoy smirks. "I didn't exactly do it for you. I doubted he'd appreciate my mother's memory being tarnished like this."
"I meant for bringing me here at all."
He looks sharply at her and she quickly continues.
"I didn't understand much of what he said, but that last part was pretty clear. If Voldemort finds out you've hidden me, you'll die."
Malfoy turns away, adjusting his hold on the coat in his arms. "I have entirely altruistic motives, I assure you."
"I can't see any from where I'm sitting."
He smiles at her. "Are you so perfectly noble? You're Potter's right hand. Should we lose this war a word from you, a confession that I've been helping you-"
"That's not why. That can't be."
"Believe what you will," he says, waving a hand dismissively.
She frowns, wishing he'd just admit to being a good person. But maybe he's not. Maybe she only wants him to be so this strange fluttering in her chest will feel less like a betrayal of all she believes.
"Snape taught you Occlumency?" she asks, hoping to change the subject to something that will put him in a better mood. She doesn't question why she'd want such a thing.
He sighs and leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. "Yes. He started training me when I was very young, long before I was even aware it was happening. Mother asked him to, I think." He pinches the bridge of his nose as he mentions his mother.
She nods and bites her lip. She'd hoped to get a bit more conversation from that, if only to fill the silence. "Who was Ms. Evans?"
Malfoy laughs softly. "A mudblood."
She doesn't react to the word. "Not - Lily Evans? Harry's mother?"
"Right in one, Granger. She and Snape were good friends once upon a time. My father worries I'm developing a similar softness for you."
"Oh." The fluttering in her chest strengthens.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of changing my opinions of you."
"Good to know," she says primly. "Will I be leaving here soon or do I require more treatments?"
His eyes fall to her chest and she shifts uncomfortably. She reminds herself he's seeing only the wound in his memory, not a woman's body.
"No," he says softly and swallows as he looks away. "That should have done it. I have a portkey to my mother's house if you're ready."
She nods to cover her surprise that they're going so soon. She gathers the few articles of clothing she's not wearing - tattered jeans and a threadbare blouse - and her wand, slipping them into bigger-on-the-inside pockets in the robes he's given her while he pulls a tea cup wrapped in a napkin from his pocket. He taps it once with his wand and nods to her to take it. She slides a finger through the handle while he takes hold of the rim. Seconds tick by and she feels him watching her. She looks up and meets his eyes. In that moment they look so much like his father's, so sad and hopeless, that it breaks her heart. She reaches instinctively for his arm at the same moment the portkey activates.
She stumbles into him when they land in the familiar kitchen. He holds her, letting her decide when she's ready to stand on her own. She pulls back, self-conscious.
The room stinks of Amortentia. Her only excuse for not recognizing it before is that her feelings have obviously changed since sixth year. There's no parchment, no freshly cut grass. It's no longer as crisp and clean as that. It smells thick and messy and sits heavily on the roof of her mouth when she inhales. The war has changed her.
"Come with me," she says impulsively. "You can tell us where Harry is, help us save him. When they know what you've been doing for us-"
"Why do you keep harping on this, Granger?" he snaps, already gathering ingredients for a new batch of Amortentia.
"Because you belong with us. You wouldn't be doing all this if you didn't. You said Snape didn't leave you a message in his journal. You helped me because you wanted to, because you don't believe those things anymore."
"I helped you because I was guilty!" he snaps, rounding on her. "He was my godfather! He was like family! He protected me! And when he died I wasn't even there! That's why I helped you, Granger. I owed him a debt I could never repay."
Hermione clenches her hands to stop their shaking at his sudden eruption. "I'm sorry," she says, truly meaning it as she looks in his haunted eyes.
He sags against the table, unmindful of the jars of ingredients he knocks over. He runs his hands over his face and through his hair. Hermione begins to edge towards the door, thinking it well past time she leave.
"Also," Malfoy says, his voice tight, "I can't leave my father. He won't survive and- and he'd never accept changing sides. Not now. Not after…"
"I understand," Hermione says.
He nods, not looking at her.
"At least tell me where Harry is."
He lets out a harsh laugh and his head drops back. "Merlin, Granger." He pushes off from the table and returns to work.
"Please, Malfoy!" she begs, rushing to him. She grabs his arm and he stills instantly, eyes going to her hand. "Please. We need him."
He looks away, shaking his head.
She bites back a sob. "Is he alive?" she asks quietly, her voice shaking.
"Yes."
She feels tears in her eyes. Knowing he's alive is almost worse. What must he have been going through all these days while she's been living in luxury?
"Just go, Granger," he says, shaking her off. "And don't forget your coat this time."
Surprised by the order, she glances to the chair where she usually throws her coat. On the table before it is Snape's journal, which she always kept in her pocket, but the old coat is missing. In its place is the coat he had at the Manor. She sees now it's a woman's coat, warm and dark, perfect for her needs.
She looks up to Malfoy but he's pointedly ignoring her. Any thanks she gives him would be ignored or twisted to sound like an insult, it's better not to say anything. Is the coat his way of apologizing about Harry? If so it's a bad one.
She pulls the coat around her shoulders, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth when he's clearly already thrown her old coat away. The left side hits her thigh heavily and she reaches curiously into the pocket. Inside is a small vial with a few strands of unicorn hair and, sitting heavily at the bottom, a bloody clump of black hairs.
She runs to the door, has her hand on the knob when he asks, "What does it smell like? To you?"
She takes a deep breath though she already knows the answer. He doesn't wait for her to speak but instead comes up behind her, close enough that their bodies touch. It's enough like her dream to sent a thrill up her spine.
"To me it smells like this," he says softly. "Like the night I caught you in the garden. Like the battle when you refused to leave your friend. Like the morning I woke up beside you and thanked whatever deity was listening that you'd survived the night." He runs his fingers lightly down her arm. "You should know that if you ever decide to come back.
reviews=love