Chapter Four: Silver Bells and Cockle Shells
Hermione hadn't slept. She hadn't eaten. She was a woman on a mission, the only one capable of ensuring that Draco Malfoy got what he deserved, which was nothing. Not a single galleon, even when the road to righteousness was paved with frozen rats.
There was also something she'd realised the previous night, laying awake in her bed: this wasn't just about some dirty bet anymore. In fact, that was worth very little compared to the jackpot she was about to hit. She was in a position to explore parts of Malfoy Manor that not even the Unspeakables knew existed. They were the ones who'd made her flimsy excuse for a map, and they'd left off four whole wings. She couldn't imagine what she'd find there, but she had an educated guess as to the nature of the material.
She knew it was dangerous, but it was worth the risk: this was going to make her name. All she had to do was plot the extra wings on a new map and take a few photos of the contents, and then she could take them back to Reinhardt and offer to lead a team of Aurors to help her finish the job. Harry and Ron would be tripping over themselves to sign up, and she knew they'd be proud of her.
During the War and dangerous months directly after, she'd been happy to give Harry as much of her glory as possible - it was a strategic move on the Order's part. She was supposed to be Harry's little girlfriend or something, just some silly Muggle-born girl, trying her best to help out but hardly doing anything: it was imperative that the Death Eaters never found out how indispensible she really was. It worked, but the Ministry and the general public never quite forgot their lie. She didn't regret it or resent it, but she was finally in a position to do something about it.
While Harry's or Ron's current achievements were chronicled in the Prophet, Hermione stayed firmly in the Who's Who of Wizarding Britain section. Pictures would show up periodically of her getting coffee or going shopping in Diagon Alley; hasn't she grown up to be pretty?, the captions would say. Or, on an off day: Hermione Granger's really let herself go!
It was enough to make even a mature, professional woman such as herself dress to the nines every time she left her flat, because it hurt more than she could ever admit to see those nasty comments. So she wore make-up daily (something she'd never done before), and she did her job better than anybody else she knew, and she waited as patiently as possible for the day when she could blow them all away and prove to everyone what Harry and Ron already knew: she was capable of leading the whole country.
When she arrived at the café for her second attempt at a meal with Ginny - breakfast, this time - she ordered an omelette and strong tea immediately, before casting another anti-eavesdropping charm. The waitress brought their tea, but Ginny stopped her before she could reach for it.
"Hang on, I have some Pepper-Up." She produced a tiny vial and squeezed a few drops into Hermione's mug. "I figured you'd need it. How goes the search?"
"Endless," she said. "And thanks. I tried to sleep last night, but it wasn't working. I thought I'd been to Malfoy Manor before, but it isn't how I thought it was. When you're in there, it feels bigger than Hogwarts."
"I was afraid of that," Ginny said. "I've been in some of the ancient Pureblood castles before, all around Europe when my family would take vacations, and I can't imagine trying to find something as small as a person's body in one of those."
"It's not just that. The house is like a living thing with its own mind. There were times when Malfoy would say something, and I could sort of feel it shifting like it heard him, and it was trying to do what he said. He and his house are conspiring against me."
"That can happen. When we'd go on tours of those castles, a lot of times even the guides would get lost, because they weren't part of the family that the castle was loyal to. We went to the old Bones estate in France when I was seven or so, and these weird tentacles came out of the ceiling because stupid Percy was wearing this cologne with clove oil, and the corridor didn't like it for some reason, and we all had to run away. The poor guide got so turned around that she had to use her special Portkey to take us back to the foyer." She gave Hermione a sympathetic look and added some Pepper-Up to her own tea. "I wish I didn't have practice every day this week, or I'd come and try to help you."
"I'd never ask you to - that's your job, and I wouldn't ask Harry or Ron to take off work."
"They would, though. They're Aurors, after all. I bet they'd be happy to help you out, if they weren't still busy sorting out the riots in Scotland."
"Yeah, Ron was telling me about that. I always thought Brownies were supposed to be so peaceful."
"Me, too, but I guess enough was enough."
"Anyway, this is my job, and I have to do this part myself," she said. Of course, things like that were easy to say when she wasn't trapped in an evil house that would very much like to murder her. "It's just going to be hard, that's all."
"I figured you'd say that, but that reminds me of something else I wanted to talk to you about." She paused, as though gathering her resolve. "There's a way that I can help you without coming with you. I did some more digging, and I'm almost positive that the Malfoys' connection to the Falcons is Marcus Flint."
That didn't mean much to Hermione, except that she remembered Flint being a first-class arsehole. "And?"
"He's their Seeker," Ginny said. "And Quidditch games are hard to lose on purpose if you play any other position. We'll be the only two people on that pitch who can throw the match all by ourselves. He doesn't even have to tell the rest of the team he's doing it, and I doubt he's planning to. Maybe they suspect it, but he's also the captain, so it's not like they could do anything about it."
Hermione caught her meaning then, and she immediately felt guilty. "Ginny, no. I know how badly you wanted to beat that team. They're the worst!"
"That's the thing - if the only reason they lose is because Flint's deliberately ignoring the Snitch, that means nothing to me. If we win, I want it to be an even match, and this is the only way I can think of to keep it that way."
Hermione considered it, then nodded. "I guess you're right."
"The Chasers and the Keepers can decide this one, and I trust my team. When we rack up so many points that we'll win whether I catch the Snitch or not, that's when I'll catch it, because that'll mean we won fair and square. But that also means it's going to be a really, really long game, and it'll buy you some extra time - you've got until the very end to prove Lucius Malfoy is dead."
"I hope that's enough," she said. She did still want to win this part, even if it wasn't the most important thing.
She couldn't think of anything else to say about it, despite wanting badly to talk, and she eventually gave up and lifted the charm. It didn't seem like the right time to tell Ginny about her larger plan. Her food came, and she devoured it like a beast.
After breakfast, she walked to the Leaky Cauldron and took the Floo to Malfoy Manor at nine o'clock sharp. Malfoy was waiting for her on his living room couch, sitting exactly in the centre and taking up very little space. It didn't look like he'd slept well, either.
"Good morning," she said, all business. "Are you ready?"
He met her eyes defiantly. "You don't want to do this any more than I do," he said. "And someday you'll learn not to be so damned stubborn."
"It's all up to you. If you don't want to do this anymore, you can come back to the Ministry with me and report your father's death. We'll even forget about the bet. It'll be our little secret, and you can tell Marcus Flint he doesn't need to throw the match, so you might even get to watch your team win on Saturday."
She only said that because she knew he wasn't going to do it, and she was curious to see how much this meant to him. She wondered, not for the first time, if this was about more than just galleons. Maybe someday they'd both learn not to be so stubborn, but today was not that day.
"They're my father's team," he said. "And I don't see why they'd lose. They're playing the Harpies, who've got a Weasley for a Seeker, in case you forgot."
She was about to tell him to stop playing dumb again, but then she remembered what Ginny said earlier. "You know, you're right," she said instead. "The Harpies' Seeker is a Weasley, and I just saw her this morning. She wasn't looking well at all, and something tells me she's not in any condition to catch a Snitch. I'm pretty sure the Falcons are going to win after all, now that I think about it."
She smiled, watching him try to hide his anger with limited success. "All right, Granger. We'll see what happens, not that I care."
"I don't care, either," she said, as mildly as possible. "May the best team lose."
He stood and patted his wand pocket, a routine compulsion shared by most magical people, but he didn't bother drawing it. It wouldn't be necessary in the West Wing, and Hermione had to keep reminding herself of that, just as she had on every other search of the Manor. The East and West Wings were safe, provided she was with a Malfoy that didn't want her to die. The house obeyed its masters always, and Hermione's death was not in their best interests. He crossed the living room and started up the stairs, and she followed.
One funny thing about Malfoy Manor was that it only had one route to the stairs, right next to the living room. Malfoy had explained to her in the past that this was for convenience: the house already knew which way he was going. The system made sense, considering the vastness of the home for a family of three. It would be downright silly if the internal layout reflected its true size - they'd spend half their free time just trying to walk from one side to the other.
It made her uneasy, though, and she didn't think she'd ever be able to put her absolute trust in a semi-sentient magical house. It could read her mind, and what if it didn't like what she was thinking?
Malfoy must sometimes have thoughts against the Pureblood dogma, or he would've identified Harry in the dungeons during the War. What did the house think about that? That's assuming it could "think" on its own, and no - she didn't know where it kept its brain.
The West Wing was darker than the East Wing and the first floor. There were just as many windows, but they had a dusty film that couldn't be scrubbed away. The wallpaper was deep blue, nearly black, with a design that reminded her of tiny spiders piled on top of each other, and it seemed to twitch and writhe when she looked at it the wrong way. This wing featured a sitting room, a study, a broom storage loft, a luxurious bathroom, a guest room, and Draco's bedroom. She was duty-bound to check all the nooks and closets, but she knew it wasn't there.
They checked the sitting room first, which was slightly more welcoming than the surrounding corridor. It did feature Hermione's least favourite portrait in the whole house, though: Bertram Malfoy was a handsome blond man who'd lived in the early 19th century, and he'd been the Head of the DMLE, and he found their situation very humourous.
None of the other portraits acknowledged Hermione, except for some minor glaring and head-shaking and derisive tongue-clicking, but Bertram always laughed when she came to inspect the West Salon. He flashed his credentials at her and pointed to his Ministry-issue robes, grinning and cackling, and Hermione got the joke - don't be too proud of your shiny badge, Mudblood. You can't escape my legacy. People like me will always be there to tarnish the honour of the whole institution, and some of us are your boss, even if you're allowed to come over and confiscate our Hand of Glory. You think those glorified parlour tricks are what make us who we are? You think that's what gives us our power?
Yep. Real funny.
She usually checked this room as quickly as possible and tried her best not to look at Bertram, and today she gave a cursory glance under each of the couches and pronounced it corpse-free. She realised they hadn't spoken the entire time, and the silence was making her uncomfortable.
"Did you ever even use that room?" she asked, as they continued through the corridor with the spiders in the walls.
"Sometimes," he said. "Is this part of your investigation? I don't see how it's any of your business."
"I was just curious. If I lived here, I wouldn't want to bring my friends around."
"I'd imagine you wouldn't. Your friends and my friends have little in common."
"So, your friends hate sunlight?"
"No, but they aren't afraid of the dark," he said, and she gave a derisive laugh.
"Right. And mine are." She was going to say more, something about the time they'd spent in the dungeons of this place, not to mention fighting Death Eaters in graveyards and getting up-close-and-personal with Inferi, but she stopped herself. That wasn't the kind of conversation that was going to set her at ease. "Don't you get sick of it, though?" she asked instead.
He didn't answer, and she gave up. She didn't want to talk to him anyway.
They moved quickly and efficiently through the study and the bathroom and the guest room and the storage loft. The last room was Malfoy's bed chamber, and there was no way it was there. How could it be?
They went in anyway, and she planned to circle it in one motion without stopping, but things didn't go according to plan. As she walked past the bed, something cold touched her ankle and wrapped itself around, firm and spindly like bones, and ice shot up her leg, and she was back in the graveyard in her head. She jerked her foot away and screamed, looking down, but it was gone. Before Malfoy could stop her, she readied her wand and crouched to go after it, but there was nothing.
She stood and looked at him. "What was that?"
"What did it feel like?" He didn't seem surprised, but he wasn't making fun of her, either. He appeared genuinely curious.
"Something grabbed me." She felt foolish as she said it. Now that she was thinking logically, she was certain she'd imagined the whole thing - it would've had to grab her over her sock and pant leg, but she'd felt it against her skin.
"Are you afraid of things grabbing you from under beds, by any chance?" he asked. Yes, she was. Very much so.
"Who isn't?" she asked, defensive.
He glanced around the room and shrugged. "Look, nothing's going to actually harm you here. The West Wing is mine, and I don't want it to. It's just trying to scare you."
Well, it was doing a fine job. "I see," she said. "It wasn't real, then."
"No - well, sort of. It's like how regular houses will creak in the night. The noise is real, but it's not what you think it is. It's just the house settling."
"Is it going to keep doing that?" she asked, inching away from the bed. She didn't mind fake skeletons grabbing her ankles, per se, but that was far from her worst fear.
"Probably. I'm not telling it to, though. Tricks like that waste time, and I'm not looking to spend extra time with you."
The thing grabbed her ankle again, as though in direct contradiction to his words, and she jumped just as high the second time. He looked away in an effort to conceal his smile, but she saw it and glared at him.
"Anyway," he continued after a moment, "I promise you won't find it in here, whatever you're looking for. It's probably not something I'd want in my bedroom."
She knew that, but she really wished he'd stop beating around the bush and own up to it. They were looking for his dead father's body, and she was beginning to think he didn't know where it was, either. She didn't want to see it, and she didn't think she'd be prepared for it if and when she did. On the other hand, she'd probably see something terrifying enough to desensitize her to human fear if she kept looking long enough.
"That does it for the West Wing," he said, as she followed him back toward the stairs. "You're searching one wing per day, correct?"
"Not anymore," she said. "That was when I thought you only had four. We need to continue if we're going to finish in time." She checked her watch. "Besides, it's only ten thirty."
She heard him sigh heavily from up ahead. "Fine. Where do you want to look next for that thing you're never going to find?"
"The North Wing," she said, even though it hurt to say it. I don't think I want to go there, she thought desperately, but she kept herself from saying it out loud. That was just the magic talking; she had to go. It was her job.
He stopped and turned around at the bottom of the stairs. "You want to go to the North Wing?"
Yes. Her mouth wouldn't say it. No, thought her traitorous mind. Maybe we could go somewhere else instead...
He stood and watched her, smirking as she fought her internal battle between will-power and ancient magic. It's just like fighting off an Imperius Curse, she reminded herself. She'd beaten those before, from formidable opponents, and this was just a house. It was just a house, and it wasn't really going to hurt her.
"Yes," she said. "I - want - to go to the North Wing."
His eyebrows went up. "I've never heard anyone say that in my whole life," he commented. "But we don't need to do that right away. Maybe we could go somewhere else instead." He realised what he'd said and shook his head to clear it. "You forgot half the first floor, plus the dungeons."
"It's not there, Malfoy. You know that."
"I don't know that, actually, seeing as I don't even know what you're looking for."
"Will you please just admit it already? I'm so sick of this act! We both know exactly what's going on here, from start to finish, and I'm obviously not going to give up." She crossed her arms and put on her sharpest look, and he fought back with his own. She wasn't sure who was winning, but nobody was giving up. It was a long time before he spoke.
"Fine," he said at last. "I didn't hide my father's body. I don't know where it is any more than you do."
"But it's probably not in the library."
"Probably not," he agreed, with his jaw so tight it she half-expected it to snap from the strain. "But you have to check anyway. And let's be honest: nobody wants to go to the North Wing."
"If you have to take a walk around the library first to get your nerve up, then that's what we'll do," she said. "But we're going to search all eight wings of this house, no matter how long it takes."
He shook his head, and she could see the muscles through the skin of his neck. "You really don't know what you're doing, Granger. I have to take you to these places if you make me - and I swear on my blood, I don't know what I'll do if you read me my parole terms one more sodding time - but you'll regret it. Even my father hasn't been to every part of this house." He paused, letting it sink in. "What does that mean to you? Even the Dark Lord himself didn't stay long in the North Wing. He tried to use it for, let's say, its traditional purpose. He couldn't stand it, despite the fact that he was barely even human by that point. What does that tell you about the North Wing?"
She wet her lips, struggling to maintain eye contact, about as scared as she'd ever been in her life. This was why the Sorting Hat didn't put her in Slytherin - she had the ambition, sure, and all the cunning she'd ever need. But she also had that special kind of head-long, passionate, foolhardy courage that both started wars and ended them, and running away from risks had never gotten her anything worth having.
"It tells me that I'll be the first one brave enough to go there for a good and honest reason," she said, measuring her words carefully. "And it won't be the first time that's happened."
