Chapter Seven

I awaited the scream of rage, the tortured cry to come from the bottom of her soul and burst into real life through her mouth...but it didn't.

I didn't notice that I closed my eyes waiting for all of her emotions to breath to life. Opening them though, I quickly wish I hadn't; Hermione is staring at the page, mouth open and tears pouring down her face. Words seem to have become too complicated for her and the pure sadness that paints her delicate, bruised features, makes an ache leap to my chest.

I act out of instinct and step towards her, and then realize what I'm doing. She didn't notice my movement, luckily, but I know if she had she would probably miraculously find that voice of hers and attempt to wandlessly hex me. I take my stride backwards, whisper another apology and, for lack of brain function, retreat back up the stairs.

Once the wall closes behind me, I regret my actions. I know to her I must have looked one of two ways: either a tosser who threw a newspaper with her dead friend's name plastered across the front of it in plain calloused indifference, or like a heartless Death Eater who just wanted to watch her pain in real time. Or possibly even a mixture of both.

In either aspect, it's not the light I want to be portrayed in because the actions I just exhibited are not a true reflection of my personality. I have no idea why my first instinct was to leave. I don't know why seeing her in so much emotional pain, while I've witnessed others in significantly more physical pain, was so devastating to me that I couldn't think straight. I'm still trying to get my thoughts in order.

Why am I so bloody panicky lately?

Like the damn bird read my mind, the gorgeous eagle owl my family owns lands on his perch outside of the large bay window that shows off the front garden. A fringed piece of parchment is grasped in his claw, and the pressure in my head threatens to explode.

I walk to the front door and out to the garden. In the winter months we have a coup that all of our owls can keep warm in. The letters usually come down through a small drain like tube in the kitchen area and from there the house elves distribute them to the correct person.

I lightly scratch the top of the birds head and he replies by letting the parchment fall into my hand.

"Good boy, I'll get you your treat later. Promise." With a discontented "hoot," the large eagle owl takes off. He makes sure to brush my cheek with his wings as he passes, and I rethink giving the greedy thing anything.

The parchment moves in my hand as the wind picks up, and I decide the best place to open it is in the den. My father began keeping the extra expensive fire whiskey in the den when it became apparent that the Dark Lord would just waste it all against a wall.

Thanking the foresight of my father, I make my way back into the Manor, down the hall and down four stone steps. The carpet in here is a dark shade of green to offset the light grey walls, and the air has the distinct smell of cigars. I take to the large oak desk in the center back of the room, neatly placed so that the love-seat and two reclining chairs faced it. As I sit, I pull out the middle drawer and take out a large bottle covered in dust and a crystal whiskey glass.

After pouring myself a healthy portion of the bottle, taking a large sip, and then pouring more, I neatly unfold the parchment. The message was short but it's meaning was concise:

Draco,

Still on the hunt for the Potter boy. Will be stopping by next week to check on your..progress.

Until then, send word on what you've been implementing and how well it's working. We will correct it when I arrive.

-Aunty Bella

Also, did you see the paper today? My handiwork. The Dark Lord was very pleased!

I down the rest of my glass' contents and begin writing a note back.

I inform her that I showed Granger the paper, making sure to use the word 'mudblood' at least three times, and that the girl was beside herself with grief. I also write that things are moving slowly, but they are improving by the day. It's a lie, but it's a realistic lie. Will it make the Dark Lord angry? Yes. Angry enough to kill my family and myself? Probably not.

In all honesty, Voldemort probably anticipated that I would have a tough time at first. If anything, it will make him a twisted sort of satisfied to know that he was 'right' about my inadequacies.

I finish the letter and give it to a house elf with instructions to tie it to an owl and send it on it's way to Bellatrix. Voldemort would find out either way, but hopefully it will sound less disappointing coming from her. And maybe Aunty Bella would even lie a little herself to make her teaching techniques look good.

I pour myself another glass of the fire whiskey and decide to grab the second glass out of the drawer. I balance the three items and make my way back to the dungeon. By this point, the whiskey is hitting me and I'm feeling less and less burdened, but I hit the bottom stair and notice that in the hour that it had taken for me to deliver the paper to her, read my Aunt's letter and find a way to make my reply look realistic and long enough to convince her believe I was proud of her for taking out the Lovegood girl, Hermione had not moved a muscle.

A small amount of my anxiety returned and I second guessed myself yet again. The drink helps me push through and do what I came down here to do.

I stride across the floor, put down the empty glass, my full one and then uncork the whiskey bottle. I pour out a large amount of the brown liquid and as I move her glass forward, I move the paper backwards so that it's no longer in her line of sight. This was enough to wake her from her worrying state, but she still doesn't say anything, but a question forms on her face. It startles me that I know what it is she wants to ask, but I answer it without hesitation:

"No, I didn't know, and I don't know how it happened." She nods her head, as if this was an acceptable response. Whether or not she believes me, I don't know, but I have very little time to worry about that as she takes the glass and tries to bring it to her lips, but can't quite reach it with the shackles.

Ah! Stupid!

I quickly assist her with her glass and put it to her lips. She chugs almost all of it before motioning for me to take the glass away. After I do, I absentmindedly wipe away her tears with my thumb. I'm not quite sure why I did it, but I know that she didn't pull away. It takes only a moment for me to register what this girl needs, but I hesitate.

What's the worse she can do? She can't hit my face, the shackles won't let her hands go up that far!

With that thought in mind, and the whiskey warming my body, I go for it. I embrace Hermione Granger in a hug, but the most surprising thing?

She hugs me back.


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