Chapter 4


Hermione swore inwardly. Damn him!

She hovered at the threshold for a while, trying to decide her next course of action, but even in the dark of the room she could make out the haughty set of his features. Finally, she let go of her disillusionment charm and lighted the tip of her wand to brighten the room.

Draco Malfoy was lying bent and lopsided next to the same wooden desk she'd found yesterday. Gone was the sour arrogance, the tight clasp of his mouth – he looked downright cheerful to see her.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked. Pretense had never been her forte.

"I see better from this side of the world."

"Really? Or am I the only person to have visited this putrid hovel in ages?"

"I see you haven't lost your timeless charm, Granger."

"And in your case, Malfoy, the ability to make eerily astute observations."

"What brings you here though?" he asked, the 'again' obviously implied in that trademark smirk.

Her bravado was slipping. She had to play this right. She trusted him as far as she could throw him, and it was undoubtedly the same for him. It was crucial that she pick the right words.

"I have to be honest with you. I got curious."

He stared at her.

Conversely, she stared into him.

Out of all his features, the painter had seemed to have conferred the most justice to his slate grey eyes. They flitted over her face, acutely intelligent – rendering his otherwise unexceptional impression almost alive. His hair was parted to the side in that aristocratic manner characteristic of the rich and pure blooded. The deep emerald jacket was fitted to his chest, adorned with rows of silver buttons and a high necked collar, complete with a black wizards' robe. He was seated on a large upholstered chair with extravagantly detailed artwork – goblin crafted, no doubt. His long legs were pushed out leisurely in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Dangling from one hand was his wand – Hawthorne, she believed. The right hand was propped beneath his chin, index finger planted alongside the line of his jaw. Even in death, Draco Malfoy was literally the picture of self-importance.

"About what?"

"Well," she began guardedly, "I trust you know that the Malfoy Manor is in ministry hands now. I have no idea for how long it has been in their grasp, but six months from now it will be opened for the common folk. I was gone for a couple of years, you see. And I…I just want to know what happened."

He twirled his wand between his fingers, apparently trying to gauge her sincerity.

"I don't know."

What?

"You don't know – ?" she said, raising her brows disbelievingly.

"It's true, Granger. I haven't a fucking clue."

"Come on. How can you possibly not know how you died?"

He shrugged. "I am but a portrait."

"Portraits derive their subject's mannerisms and memory as a rule," she said, dismissively.

He shrugged again.

"Do you remember the events before that?" she pressed.

"Hazily."

"Well, try to recall it. I can help you, I want to help you."

Abruptly his face clouded over with hostility. Wrong words.

"You're a sanctimonious bitch, Granger. You always were. You think you can help me? You do? Fantastic. Let's start with this simple fact – I'm already dead. It would be just like you to disguise that meddlesome curiosity of yours with a misguided desire to help me."

"But – "

"There's nothing you can do. Not a single thing! My life ended at seventeen. All I got to witness in my life was a slit faced nutcase with a god complex take control of my family and play crucio at the next sorry victim, and the best part? I dabbled too. I was taught by the best. I saw their fingers claw at my floor, saw the whites of their eyes turn red and bleed onto their faces. You've been there, Granger. My father was there. My mother too – "

"But Narcissa – " she began.

"Don't," he bit out. His face was screwed up in hatred, nostrils flared – as if the mention of his mother drew a deep visceral response from his person.

"Your mother is alive, Malfoy!"

The cheeks which had gone flush with all that emotion paled slightly at the news.

"Shut your mouth."

"I'm being completely serious."

His breaths were coming fast and shallow; the picture perfect poise had shattered. He didn't know. He didn't know a freaking thing.

"I asked my friends. Ginny Weasley works at St. Mungo's. Your mother is alive and has been a resident of the Janus Thickey ward of the mentally injured for the past two years."

He looked at her for several long seconds, watching but not seeing. She waited for him to digest the news. Eventually, he spoke.

"But the house . . I had no idea how. ."

"This is what amazes me. I've been around this place and this is the only portrait of yours which I've come across, and it's hidden in a pile of rubbish. And by the way you startled yesterday, I knew you were as ignorant of the magical world as I have been for the past three years."

He was staring blankly at her. She felt sorry for him. But then, she'd always felt sorry for him.

"So I want to know what happened, Malfoy. What was it that killed you and your father at the same time? Did you have any enemies?"

He took the time to send one exasperated look her way.

"Right. That was silly of me.. You've had enemies aplenty. But you have to give me something."

He glanced at her warily.

"We didn't die at the same time, not even the same day. I knew of my father's death. It was in the Prophet that morning. He died many hours before I apparently did."

"Do you have any idea how he did?"

"I'm not sure. They said he was cursed during the trial, but there wasn't any flash of green light. He collapsed in the middle of the Wizengamot and all they said that how easy was the manner that death eventually got to him, that although mysterious, they'd have wanted for it to be more deserving." He spat.

This was probably not the time to say that she agreed with them.

"So it was some kind of curse which led to his spontaneous demise. No questions asked, I'm assuming there wasn't even any primary investigation. With all the Death eaters being rounded off and sentenced to death, I'm not surprised at how carelessly your father's was treated at that time. He was just another bad apple. But then there's you."

He looked up at her.

"You were at Hogwarts completing your final year, correct?"

"I was on probation, yes. Underage and just of age wizards' trials were being conducted at the very beginning. Merely three months after the battle of Hogwarts, I was re-entering my seventh year."

"Just you?"

"No. There were ten from our year, but we shared few to no classes. I was confined to a separate room on the sixth floor in order to – ", he stopped suddenly, his grey eyes staring warily into hers.

"To what?"

"To prevent getting targeted by bullies," he admitted, looking as if he'd swallowed something bitter, "...and except for a few old acquaintances, the entire Slytherin house had turned against me. I was also deemed as a potential threat for the younger students."

"I see."

"Do you?" he asked, making a mockery out of her efforts. She chose to ignore it.

"And did you display any behaviour enforcing that attitude?"

"Did I torture and maim any kids during my stay at Hogwarts, Granger? No. I kept my nose clean, did as I was asked. In fact, I had been in the middle of writing a letter to my mother when – " he stopped abruptly.

"Yes?" she pressed.

He was no longer looking at her, lost in a memory that seemed to have occurred three years into the past, holding a clue about what had really happened. She wished – how she wished that it were possible for her to retrieve that memory, but she would have to rely on spoken word alone.

"I remember now. When I collapsed, the last thing I recall is knocking over my inkpot. . . the letter had gotten soaked in black," he spoke as if in a trance, and she could make out several beads of sweat dotting his hairline, "I needed my wand to clean it up. .I'd been cursing . . .I was – why is this so hard?!" He was pressing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

"Was there anyone else with you?"

"No," he moaned, but his voice came out pained and lethargic – not at all what she would expect out of Draco Malfoy's mouth, "I was alone. I was always alone. There wasn't any – "

Abruptly his eyeballs rolled up into his sockets, his eyelids drooped low to cover them, his jaw fell slack and his head dropped sideways onto his shoulder. Seconds later, a soft snore escaped his mouth.

Dumbfounded, Hermione stared at his face. How in the blazes is it possible for a portrait to fall asleep so fast?

All of a sudden, the situation felt so comical that pinched her arm to check if it was real. Taking a seat in the nearby chair, she let herself relax for a while. The sounds of him sleeping became background noise, allowing for her to piece together the few fragments of information she had collected. But if anything, it all seemed even more challengingly interlaced now. One thing was plainly apparent: this magical portrait of Draco Malfoy somehow held the answers.

There was another thing. Portraits in the magical world were all interconnected with each other, every single one adjoined to another in whatever Wizarding construction they happened to exist, or at the very least with its own twin somewhere in the world. Going by its state and placement, it didn't seem like it had been moved in for a while. And by the astonished wonder on Malfoy's face and the way he seemed so receptive to her presence, it looked as if he'd been trapped into this golden frame for ages.

Another rush of pity ran through her.

Stepping up, she lifted the surprisingly heavy portrait into straighter position. It still didn't look right. There were no markings or nails in the room for her to properly hang it on one of the walls, so she settled for lifting it by her arms and placing it vertically onto the table against the wall. This would have to do. After all, his portrait deserved some semblance of dignity in his own ancestral home.


At twenty minutes past six, she Apparated in front of her flat.

It was a small, two-roomed establishment located in the muggle part of the city, but the neighbourhood was nice and the space was more than enough for her and Crookshanks. The living room was filled with second-hand mismatched furniture and old little odds and ends from her parents' house in Australia. They had wanted them gone, and she was all too happy to take them in. The craziest thought entered her mind – Draco Malfoy's portrait would have looked good on her peach coloured walls – except that it would have been totally weird.

On her left, Crookshanks came into view to give her one superior glance and then sauntered away in the direction of the kitchen, his fluffy tail raised rigidly towards the ceiling. Hermione followed him in to fill his bowl with kibble and make herself a cup of tea.

Once she was curled comfortably in the sofa with her worn copy of Hogwarts: a History open in her lap, she remembered that she had forgotten her working gloves back inside the room.


A/N: Please let me know what you think!