Chapter 10
The days were increasingly tedious and dreadfully long at the Koppsynn château. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were uncomfortable affairs for a number of reasons. Firstly, all appeared to harbour mistrusts for their meals, lest they be poisoned like Mr Wilby's whiskey. Secondly, each seemed to suspect those around them, everyone mentally questioning and assessing the others. Finally, there were not many more topics of conversations to entertain, making their shared meals thick with the most awkward of silences.
The storm outside, however, provided the survivors with a glimmer of hope. Mr Malfoy had been correct in his prediction that the storm was passing, for the clouds were moving off out into the sea. Alas, it remained dreary on the island, so for Mr Malfoy to swim to the mainland before the storm dispersed entirely would be wholly hazardous. He had offered another prediction in regards to the storm, declaring that he would begin his water journey to the mainland the following morning.
Hermione was eternally grateful to the man for his grand gesture of rescue. If he was successful in reaching the mainland, they would be rescued by boat by nightfall. If he departed the next day, there was a greater chance of all surviving the horrendous experience on Durrem Island.
Alas, Hermione was not joyously celebrating the glimmer of hope within her, nor the appreciation to Mr Malfoy for his offer to swim to the mainland. The memories of what had transpired between them the night prior were flashing in her mind repeatedly, never allowing her modicum of relief. Images of herself and Mr Malfoy making love for hours on end continued to assault her weary mind, and taunted her morals incessantly.
Doubts of Mr Malfoy's intentions toward her were prevalent as ever. For that reason, Hermione had yet to converse with the man since they had awoken that morning. In fact, she had made it her priority to avoid him at all costs – a difficult task, considering all survivors remained in each other's company for the 'safety in numbers' comfort. But there was no safety in numbers – Mr Wilby's public death supported that.
Regardless, all remaining guests at the château had found themselves occupying the ballroom – a grand and opulent room, mirrored with fine paintings, roofed with chandeliers, lined with marble statues of exquisite detail, and filled with scattered circular tables. The massive bar at the end of the grand room was currently surrounded by Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter and Mr Zabini, the three pouring drinks of the finest wines and whiskeys for all.
Hermione explored the room with Lady Sinclair, listening to the woman's drawl as she expressed her expert opinion on the paintings and brushworks. Well, Hermione wasn't actually listening to the woman of status. Yes, she nodded and hummed whenever the lady offered her opinion, but her attention was on the demoralised Miss Weasley seated at a table, mirroring the sheer definition of melancholy. Visually, Hermione was able to asses that Miss Weasley had not found sufficient sleep the night prior. Then again, neither had Hermione, but for reasons other than fear and gloom.
"Lady Sinclair," a smooth voice sounded out, catching the attention of the two woman.
Hermione and Octavia turned around to face the gentleman, Mr Zabini meeting Octavia's gaze as he smirked instinctually.
"Yes, Mr Zabini?" Octavia drawled expectantly, no hint of shame or affection betraying her.
"Would you care to dance?"
"To what music, sir?" Octavia quirked her brow, patronising him expertly.
"There is a gramophone by the bar," Mr Zabini smirked, Hermione feeling a little uncomfortable with the chemistry buzzing between the two. "There are several records to choose from."
"If you insist," Octavia sighed gracefully, waving her hand to dismiss the gentleman. "Anything but jazz will suffice. I do loathe that tasteless racket."
Mr Zabini grinned widely as he nodded once in approval. But Hermione knew that he didn't approve of the Lady's opinion on jazz. How could he? It was exciting music, completely fresh and innovative. It was splendid.
Mr Zabini expressed no such opinion, however, and strode away to the bar, presumably to fiddle with the gramophone. Averting her eyes from Mr Malfoy across the room, Hermione ignored his attempt to catch her gaze. Hermione took the presented opportunity, and excused herself from the presence of Lady Sinclair in order to approach Miss Weasley.
Suddenly, a beautiful harmonious tune sang out through the ballroom, but it was no ordinary melody. The music was undoubtedly jazz. While the melody possessed a gradual and sweet beat, it was a smooth jazz that allowed its listeners to dance romantically together.
Lady Sinclair wore the expression of one who had sucked the juice from a lemon. Utterly displeased. Mr Zabini, however, grinned widely, seemingly proud of his slight provocation presented to the lady he so fancied. As he approached Octavia, the gentleman continued to grin as he bowed before extending his hand to her.
"You wish me to dance to this racket, sir?" Octavia sniffed, ignoring his extended hand.
"What kind of man would I be if I didn't ask a lady to dance?" Mr Zabini teased, his hand remaining offered to the woman.
"The kind you so clearly are, Mr Zabini," Octavia drawled coolly, but placed her hand in his.
After his long, tanned fingers clasped around her slender hand, Mr Zabini stepped backwards toward the centre of the ballroom, guiding the snooty lady with him. When they reached the centre, Mr Zabini yanked Octavia against him, taking a formal dancing stance, their bodies a few inches apart. Despite the cordial distance between them as they began to sway to the music, Octavia noticed that Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter were observing the pair from the bar. If she were to interpret Mr Malfoy's gaze, she would regard it as one of disapproval, which was peculiar, for the man didn't seem to harbour any dislike for her.
Dismissing the troubling stare, Octavia flickered her gaze back up to her dance partner, discovering that he was already staring at her. Mr Zabini's black eyes captured her gaze instantly, but only due to the sheer intensity of his stare. It was clear that he was assessing her; calculating. But for what purpose, she did not know.
"You look ravishing, Lady Sinclair," Mr Zabini said, but Octavia suspected that his words were not manifestations of his mysterious thoughts.
"False flattery, sir. I do begrudge you, for you are the cause of my hideous appearance on this day, Mr Zabini. If you were able to keep those wicked hands to yourself, I may not have to wear the resemblance of scruffy vermin."
Mr Zabini smirked deviously, swaying her perfectly to the melodic tune echoing through the ballroom.
"You pretend to harbour resentment," Mr Zabini replied, "but I must argue – I expect you are reliving our deeds in your mind as we speak. I'd wager that you are aching for me, Lady Sinclair."
"Sir," Octavia smiled falsely up at him, "you are confusing your own desires with mine. I assure you, the only activity I wish to indulge in is nothing more than twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep on a boat leaving this island."
"Then that is what you shall receive," Mr Zabini promised, twirling her around before pulling her back into their dancing posture.
Octavia nodded once, but failed to be wholly reassured by his words. For all she knew, the next victim of the mysterious killer would fall within the hour, perhaps minute. It was all unknown until it occurred. And there was a very great possibility that she could be the next victim.
At least Octavia could take a sliver of comfort – however small – in the knowledge that Mr Zabini had taken a liking to her. At least a gentleman with such precise expertise had declared his love for her. For it gave her a slice of hope that she would make it off Durrem Island in one, living, breathing, surviving piece.
*.*.*
Hermione seated herself next to Miss Weasley at the table, her mind churning through a dozen possible conversation starters. Hermione wished to simply ask how the woman was feeling, but it was a silly and obvious question, for the response was clear on the woman's miserable expression. Also, it was fairly reasonable to assume that, given the circumstances, Ginevra was not feeling so great. In fact, Hermione suspected that none of them were, except Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini. The two gentlemen always appeared to be relaxed and perfectly at ease.
As she mentally constructed sentences in her head, Hermione watched as Mr Zabini and Lady Sinclair danced together in the centre of the ballroom. She wasn't exactly interested in watching the pair dance, but her gaze had wandered to them regardless. It was the only source of entertainment in the ballroom, for Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter remained silent by the bar further down the room, and Ginevra had yet to speak.
Settling for a feeble conversation starter, Hermione shifted in her chair to face the pale red-head.
"Did you sleep well?" Hermione asked unsurely, loathing herself for the sheer awkwardness of her inquiry.
"As well as one can," Ginevra mumbled bitterly, "when a killer is on the loose, hunting us all down like wild animals in a cage."
Hermione nodded slightly, pursing her lips together as she glanced over at Mr Potter. The bespectacled police officer seemed to be assessing her from a distance, narrowed green eyes darting between herself and Ginevra. Returning her attention back to Ginevra, Hermione continued in her futile attempt to converse with the woman.
"Mr Potter seems to have taken a fondness to you," Hermione observed.
"A fondness?" Ginevra scoffed, her blue eyes fixed on the table top. "We are mere allies, nothing more."
"Allies," Hermione repeated, her brows furrowing together. "Are we not allies as a group?"
"No." Ginevra clipped. "We are not."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because someone in this group is the killer," Ginevra said, turning to face Hermione. "I will not align myself with the culprit behind this disastrous situation, for it would only increase my vulnerability to danger."
"I have been giving the matter some thought," Hermione said softly, attempting to comfort the woman with her gentle tone. "I do not believe that the killer is among us. I believe that the killer is on this island, yes, but not one of us."
"Elaborate," Ginevra permitted, seemingly interested in hearing the more comforting of theories.
"We have already concluded that Lady Parkinson is at the centre of most crimes, no?" Hermione said, Ginevra nodding once in response. "That makes her the victim and the innocent, as we have already ascertained. If she was still alive, I would have suspected Lady Parkinson to be the culprit, but she is not. We all saw her body, and Mr Malfoy checked her pulse to determine the authenticity of her demise, so it is not possible that she tricked us. Which brings me to my conclusion – I believe the killer is allied with Lady Parkinson in a way. Perhaps an uncle, or a relative of some sort? I do not think they intended for Lady Parkinson to die, but it occurred, and now they are merely carrying out their plan regardless."
"We have searched the island," Ginevra countered. "Before the storm came, the men searched for Mr Nott, and found nothing. They found no other homes, or cottages, or caves. The killer cannot simply be hiding on the island, Hermione."
"I believe the killer is hiding in the château." Hermione countered. "We have searched the manor, but only once. We have both resided in homes such as this before due to our professions of service. We are both aware that homes like this one can have many secret compartments and passageways within them. I believe that the killer is here, and is watching us."
"How do you propose that we are being observed?" Ginevra quirked her brow. "We would notice a stranger hiding behind a statue, Hermione."
"What of the paintings?" Hermione whispered, pointedly glancing at the paintings lining the walls of the ballroom. "Every room in this château has grand artwork within. There could be eye-holes in some of them. That is merely a thought, however."
"An undeniably persuading thought," Ginevra approved, shiftily glancing at the paintings on the wall before her gaze rested on Octavia. "I have a counter theory for you, Hermione."
"I would be most grateful to learn of it, Ginevra."
"Lady Sinclair," Ginevra whispered, meeting Hermione's surprised stare. "I am aware of your growing bond with the Lady, but perhaps that is merely serving to thwart your suspicions in her direction."
"You suspect Lady Octavia to be the killer?"
"I do." Ginevra nodded. "As does Mr Potter."
"I apologise, Ginevra, but I cannot agree."
"What sort of man or woman could have the resources to orchestrate this trap?" Ginevra quirked her brow. "Only one of power and incredible wealth. For argument's sake, let us say that Lady Sinclair is the killer. It would make sense, for she is the only person alive that could pay off enough people to initiate her plans. I think she is behind this deplorable game, and I think she hired Mr Zabini to assist her."
"And what of Mr Malfoy?"
"He is in on it," Ginevra nodded. "I believe the three of them are in cahoots, Hermione. Lady Sinclair could easily afford to pay their fees for their assistance, buy a château and even the island, all to enact her revenge."
"And Lady Parkinson?"
"Mr Potter suggested that Lady Parkinson had agreed to the plan beforehand," Ginevra explained. "However, as the paranoia increased, and the truths were revealed, her fragile mind gave way to complete depression and hysteria. The Lady was …. in a similar state at the asylum. One week, she would demonstrate vast signs of improvement, only to have a dream about her mother or father, and would breakdown all over again. I think that is what has happened here."
"If what you are suggesting is correct, then how can you be certain that Mr Malfoy honestly assessed Lady Parkinson's suicide?" Hermione argued. "Do you disagree that she truly committed suicide?"
"I do not. Mr Potter also assessed her body," Ginevra explained. "Additionally, I saw it with my own eyes, as did you. If I hadn't, and it was only Mr Malfoy's word to go on, I would consider the prospect that she faked her death in order to trick us. However, I do not believe that to be the case."
Hermione went to respond, but her peripheral vision was caught by the approaching Lady Sinclair. Unwilling to further discuss Ginevra's ludicrous theories in front of the lady, Hermione cleared her throat, alerting Ginevra to the approaching company.
"Well," Lady Sinclair breathed, feigning exhaustion as she seated herself across from the women. "Mr Zabini's fondness for jazz may be the death of me."
"You think it appropriate to jest about death in our circumstances, My Lady?" Ginevra asked, pointedly glancing at Hermione as though her theory had just been proven beyond doubt.
Lady Sinclair frowned at the woman curiously before shifting in her seat and raising her nose snootily in the air.
"I will jest in regards to whichever topic takes my fancy, Miss Weasley." Octavia drawled importantly, demonstrating her higher status with her snobbery.
Ginevra and Octavia entered into a steely stare for a moment. But it passed quickly, for Ginevra bowed her head once in submission, not allowing herself to demonstrate signs of insolence. Ultimately, Lady Sinclair was Ginevra's superior, and should be respected accordingly within the boundaries of their social encounters. Even if their situation was less than typical.
Hermione only paid the matter brief attention, for Mr Malfoy had gathered her attention suddenly. The gentleman didn't purposefully catch her notice, but as he walked by the table she sat at, Hermione couldn't help but observe him. Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini remained silent, neither conversing with the other, as they departed the ballroom, but for what purpose, no one knew. Mr Potter used the leave to approach the women at the table, but Hermione paid him no mind, and instead, stared at the doors of the ballroom with narrowed eyes.
"They've gone to prepare dinner," Mr Potter informed gruffly, addressing all occupants of the table.
"Wonderful," Octavia smiled, genuinely pleased. "I am famished."
"Why did they go together?" Ginevra asked, suspecting the answers relative to her theory already. That much was clear as she smirked knowingly at Mr Potter, who in turn, shared her suspicions.
"Safety," Octavia shrugged gracefully. "I would not wish to wander the château unaccompanied, and would prefer a chaperone. It is understandable that they have decided to journey to the kitchen together."
"Maybe," Mr Potter nodded, entirely unconvinced. "Or maybe they've gone to kill."
"Kill who, Mr Potter?" Octavia laughed. "We are all seated around this table, so who, may I ask, do you suspect they are targeting?"
"The dinner!" Ginevra gasped, eyes wide and almost bulging out of her head. "They will poison the dinner!"
"Oh, please," Octavia sighed, waving her hand dismissively. "Your hysteria is becoming most tiresome, Miss Weasley. Mr Malfoy and Mr Zabini are not behind this shambles, and I would appreciate that you accept the fact quickly. If I have to endure your paranoia much longer, I will surely go mad."
"Of course you would say that," Mr Potter gruffed. "Nice and close with them, aren't you?"
"First of all, Mr Potter, when you address me, you will do so properly." Octavia drawled. "Secondly, I do hope that you are not insinuating what I suspect you are, sir. Thirdly, please shut up – you are quite the bore."
"Excuse me," Hermione whispered, rising from her chair, gaze glued to the doors. "I wish to use the powder room."
"I will accompany you, Miss Granger," Octavia nodded, making to stand from her chair before Hermione stopped her.
"No need, My Lady," Hermione said. "A moment of solitude is greatly desired."
Lady Sinclair raised her perfectly sculpted brows at the woman, half risen from her chair. After a brief pause, the lady nodded once before seating herself, but now possessed a most displeased expression on her pretty face.
Hermione inclined her head respectfully at the lady, but Lady Sinclair snubbed the gesture entirely. Thinning her lips slightly, Hermione hovered for a second before she took her leave, striding out of the ballroom and into the corridor alone. As the doors clicked shut behind her, Hermione abruptly took off at a jog through the hallways, hurrying through the manor, down towards the kitchens.
Due to her incessant inner speculations of Mr Malfoy, she found that his departure from the ballroom was a most tempting opportunity. To not follow and eavesdrop on the man whilst he was in the company of his closest companion would be an absolute waste indeed. Hermione was determined to learn what she could about Mr Malfoy, and it was the optimal moment to do so.
It took Hermione eleven minutes to reach the staff quarters, therefore she slowed her pace to a tip-toe, ensuring that the clacking of her heels did not give her away. As she snuck through the dimly lit corridor, Hermione attempted to soothe her rapid breathing, praying that the harsh sounds did not reveal her presence. A jolt of adrenaline surged through her body as she heard a loud clanging noise vibrating out, but relaxed slightly as she realised that it would have merely been a pan or pot.
Creeping into the galley section of the massive kitchen, Hermione followed the muffled sounds of deep voices, recognising them to be Mr Malfoy's and Mr Zabini's. She slinked further into the dark room before hiding behind a large pantry, concealing herself entirely should they enter the galley. The sound of plate breaking shattered through the air, Hermione using the opportunity to slide down the wall, further minimalizing her noticeability, her dress rustling at the movement.
"Be careful with that," Mr Zabini's voice snapped, palpably annoyed. "That's Lady Sinclair's favourite bowl."
"You must be joking," Mr Malfoy retorted, no hint of humour in his cool tone. "It is a bowl. I'm sure your precious Lady Sinclair will make do with another one."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Mr Zabini replied, Hermione almost hearing his smirk. "She's quite the princess."
"Snob." Mr Malfoy corrected. "She is an entitled, sheltered snob, born with a silver spoon in her mouth."
"I never claimed otherwise," Mr Zabini chuckled lightly.
"Why do you waste your time with her?" Mr Malfoy asked, the clattering sounds of pots and pans clanging out. "Surely she is not worth the bother."
"Of course she is," Mr Zabini argued. "The lady infuriates me, maddens me, and delights me. It is certainly worth the bother."
"Do you care for her?"
"I do. Very much so, in fact."
"To what extent?"
"I would estimate the same extent of your sentiments regarding Miss Granger," Mr Zabini said, a hint of warning to his previously humorous tone.
"That is quite the declaration," Mr Malfoy said. "For I care a great deal for the woman."
"Precisely," Mr Zabini said. "I do not insult your sentiments toward Miss Granger, therefore I would appreciate you displaying the same respect toward myself."
"You must understand, Blaise. More is at stake than your emotions toward a snob."
"The same could be said for Miss Granger, no?"
"Hardly." Mr Malfoy countered. "My intentions toward Miss Granger are achievable."
"What are you saying?" Mr Zabini asked dangerously, a darkness to his tone.
"You know what I am saying, Blaise." Mr Malfoy sighed. "Lady Sinclair is using you, and we both know it."
"I do not believe that, Draco."
"You should. You'd be a fool not to, and you are no fool, Blaise. Why, of all people, times and places, must you be so blinded?"
"I am not blinded," Mr Zabini retorted. "I see her for what she is, and I know of the things she has done. I am very aware."
"You think you are, but you are not." Mr Malfoy countered. "Lady Sinclair is entertaining an intimate affair with you to protect herself from harm. With you under the false impression that she shares your sentiments, she is safe. She is a cunning woman, and is using you as a human shield in the face of danger."
"So what if she is? It would be a smart move for her to make."
"Yes," Mr Malfoy agreed. "But what of when we leave this island? Do you truly believe that Lady Sinclair will continue to entertain you as a suitor?"
"Yes."
"There." Mr Malfoy said. "That is you as a blind fool, Blaise. Of all the years I have known you, I've never witnessed such idiocy from you. Lady Sinclair will return to her life if you get her off this island, and she will not think twice about leaving you out in the cold afterwards. You are poor by her standards, you have come from the streets and a brothel, and you are a contract killer. A lady like Sinclair is not attainable to a man like yourself, Blaise."
"You are quite the sceptic," Mr Zabini said, but his voice was much quieter than before. Hermione couldn't help but think that he was … hurt.
"Ask her." Mr Malfoy suggested. "Ask her to marry you, and you will learn of her true intentions. The lady will reject your proposal, and you will discover that you have been pursuing an unattainable woman."
"It is too soon to propose," Mr Zabini countered, but doubt laced his tone palpably.
"Too soon for yourself, or Lady Sinclair?"
"For her," Mr Zabini answered. "A woman like that needs to be wooed. If I ask her now, she will reject me."
"Then continue as you are," Mr Malfoy sighed. "When she dismisses you without care, just know how much you have sacrificed for a woman who does not return your feelings."
"Sacrificed," Mr Zabini repeated, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "That advice goes both ways, Draco."
"In fact, it does not." Mr Malfoy argued. "I am certain that Miss Granger will accept my courtship following our departure."
"And what are your intentions with Miss Granger?" Zabini retorted. "Marry her?"
"Yes."
"You think she will accept you?" Zabini mocked, but Hermione suspected that his harshness stemmed from his own hurt. "You think that she will accept your profession?"
"It hasn't hindered my progress with her thus far," Mr Malfoy said.
"Perhaps for the same reasons you are firing at Lady Sinclair." Zabini countered. "Perhaps Miss Granger is only entertaining you out of fear for her life? Protection possesses its allure, Draco. We have learned that before with many women, so what is different about this one?"
"What is different?" Mr Malfoy scoffed. "Merely the fact that I return this woman's sentiments, and that I actually intend to save her, unlike the others."
"Talk to me about sacrifices when we leave this island," Zabini said. "Until then, let us both continue to pursue our respective women, and do what we must in the interim."
The two gentlemen fell silent, no longer conversing as the sounds of pots and pans rang out again. Hermione lingered for a few moments, hoping that they would continue the discussion, but realised that Mr Zabini's words had ended it for the time being.
Pushing herself from the nook she crouched in, Hermione crept out of the galley silently, her thoughts on the conversation she had heard. Whilst she had learned that Mr Malfoy's intentions toward her were not what she had thought, it didn't ease the doubt in her mind. The talk of sacrifices was troubling to Hermione, for she couldn't fathom what they were referring to. Nothing sprung to mind as she mulled over their discussion, departing the staff quarters stealthily. Eavesdropping on the two men had left her with more doubts and questions that she initially had.
It was all very mysterious.
Following the lengthiest and most tedious day, Octavia had retired to her bedroom as night took over the sky. Nothing of noticeable significance had happened that day, which only added to the unease in the château. Nobody had fallen victim to the Reaper, for the killer had not come to collect. Octavia didn't necessarily want someone to die, but the fact that no one did had increased her fear considerably. The anticipation was torture.
Mr Zabini had escorted her to the bedroom, and presumptuously settled himself in the bed. The handsome gentleman lit himself a cigarette as he sprawled out on the mattress, his dark gaze following her wherever she went. Octavia could feel his eyes on her as she confidently changed into her nightwear in front of him, dismissing her bashfulness as he had already seen every inch of her naked body the night prior.
Unlike the night prior, Mr Zabini made no move to seduce her. But Octavia suspected that he sensed her less than receptive mood that evening, and remained silent as he lay shirtless on the bed, leaning against the headboard leisurely.
There was something new in the atmosphere between them, but Octavia couldn't ascertain what it was. It almost felt calculating. It almost felt like he was assessing her, figuring her out as though she was a complex puzzle. It was rather peculiar, but Octavia didn't mention it. She merely pretended that she felt no taint in the atmosphere at all.
Sighing quietly to herself, Octavia stepped in front of the vanity desk, eyeing her appearance in the mirror. The reflection showed Mr Zabini regarding her still, but she only briefly glanced at the man before returning her gaze to her wildly free curls. Bunching up the tresses in her hands, Octavia tried to pull the curly mess atop her head to fasten them for the night.
"Leave them down," Mr Zabini said between inhales of his cigarette.
Octavia met his stare in the reflection of the mirror, her hands still fisted in her curls as she considered his request – or demand. After a pause, Octavia shrugged and dropped her hands to her sides, watching in the mirror as her curls fell back into place.
"Better," Mr Zabini nodded, butting out his cigarette on the nightstand.
"Mr Zabini," Octavia sighed, turning to face the tanned gentleman. "I wish to clarify with you – I do not desire any intimate or physical unities between us tonight."
"Are you kicking me out?" Mr Zabini smirked, reclining on his mountain of pillows.
"No," Octavia smiled slightly, walking toward the bed in only her nightslip.
"I'm glad," he grinned. "Your bed is much comfier than my own."
"Oh, I see." Octavia sang, climbing onto the bed. "You do not wish to spend the night with myself, but with my bed, sir."
"Precisely," he grinned, pulling her to straddle his lap. "You are only the bonus."
"Quite an extraordinary bonus, one might say," Octavia sniffed, flicking her curls over her shoulder.
"Indeed," Mr Zabini laughed, running his hands up and down the sides of her smooth thighs. "Is there any particular reason my bonus doesn't wish to indulge herself in decadent affairs?"
The humorous glint in her hazel eyes faded swiftly, Octavia's smile faltering and morphing into puckered lips instead. Averting her gaze from his, Octavia rested her eyes on his bare chest as she fidgeted with the bunched up hem of her nightslip.
"I am afraid," Octavia answered honestly.
"You were afraid yesterday," he countered.
"It is a different fear today," Octavia whispered, frowning as she attempted to comprehend her own understanding. "Yesterday, Mr Wilby was killed in front of me – in front of everyone, sir. Yet, no one has perished today. I feel as though the killer is taunting us … Perhaps waiting for us to relax or gather hope …"
"You think the killer will strike again," Zabini nodded, finishing her train of thought. "It is a reasonable assumption, and one that I share. However, I am certain that it will not be you who falls next."
"How can you be sure, sir?"
"I am protecting you," Zabini said calmly. "Under my protection, no harm will come to you. I will ensure your safety, and we will leave this island."
"I do hope you are right, sir." Octavia said.
"Enough," Zabini sighed, running his hands up and down her thighs gently. "Not a soul is in this room with us, Octavia. You may call me by my birth name."
"Apologies," Octavia smiled softly. "It is but a mere habit to address gentlemen by their surnames and formal titles."
"I can think of so many other habits to replace it with," Zabini smirked. "Alas, not tonight."
"Not tonight," Octavia confirmed, smiling at the man.
"What of when we leave the island?"
"Pardon me?" Octavia frowned, blinking stupidly at the gentleman.
"When I get you off this island, Octavia," Zabini said, his dark gaze assessing her intently, hands still brushing over her thighs, "what will transpire then?"
"You present me with impossible questions, sir."
"It is hardly impossible," Mr Zabini countered, his jaw ticking slightly. "I wish to know what will occur between us after we return to our lives. A rather simple question, I believe."
"Simple for you, sir." Octavia muttered, fiddling with the skirt of her nightslip. "For me, it is an extraordinarily challenging question that I will require time to contemplate."
Octavia felt him stiffen, and sensed the shift in the atmosphere between them. It was obvious that he was displeased with her response, and had perhaps expected another response altogether. But she gave him the only answer she could in that moment.
"Am I beneath you? Is that it?" Mr Zabini asked coolly, his hands stilling on her thighs.
"Yes." Octavia whispered, her response entirely honest – she knew that he at least deserved the truth. "It … For you to court me, sir, my father must permit it, which he will never do with a gentleman of your origin, status, or upbringing."
"Origin?" Mr Zabini repeated, his voice low and beyond dangerous.
"Your … ethnicity, sir." Octavia whispered ashamedly, her cheeks flushed. "It is no matter to myself, but to my father and … my family … to those in my society, it matters a great deal. Additionally, your upbringing in London is not one that my father or society will favour, and your status is far too low for my father to consider otherwise."
"You speak as though your racist, blue-blooded father has total control over your choices," Mr Zabini clipped crisply.
"He does," Octavia frowned. "My father is in control of my every life decision."
"Only if you wish to remain under his influence," Mr Zabini countered. "If you are willing to forgo your inheritance, your father will have no control over your actions – he will have no control over us."
"My inheritance … is important to me," Octavia admitted, complete shame glistening in her sad hazel eyes. "My status, lifestyle, society, family and wealth are very important to me."
"More so than I," Mr Zabini said bitterly, his jaw clenched tightly as his eyes darkened.
"I am sorry," Octavia breathed, meeting his furious black eyes. "I am so very sorry, Mr Zabini. I did not wish to lure you into a false understanding of my intentions."
"Regardless of your intentions, My Lady, you did." Mr Zabini retorted, gently pushing her off of his body.
Octavia watched sadly as he swung his legs over the side of the bed before standing. He kept his back to her as he grabbed his shirt and pulled it onto his body aggressively. Once he had dressed himself, – completely interrupted by the silent Octavia – Mr Zabini grabbed his gun and cigarettes from the nightstand, turning to face her.
Their gazes met for only a moment before Octavia averted her eyes to the mattress, for he wore an expression of pure disdain, his black eyes betraying the sliver of hurt within him. Octavia only caught a glimpse of it, for he stormed off in a mere second, barging out of the bedroom, anger thrashing around him like the darkest and most dangerous of auras. The aura lingered even in his absence.
*.*.*.*
Hermione jolted upright in the bed, adrenaline surging through her body as sleep left her. The vibrating sound of the gong clanged through the château loudly, piercing her ears, awaking her instantly. Quickly leaving all traces of slumber, Hermione whipped the sheets from her body and scrambled out of the bed hurriedly. She grabbed her nightgown and fumbled to pull it onto her body before stopping suddenly.
A frown creased at her brow as she slowly turned to face the bed she had just left, seeing no signs of Mr Malfoy. That was odd, for they had both been in the bed before she fell asleep. He had spent the night in that very bed with her.
Suddenly, dread pooled at her stomach as the gong clanged out again. The horrifying realisation struck her. The gong was only used when another had died. And it could possibly be Mr Malfoy, for he was not where he was supposed to be.
With the morning light pouring into the bedroom, Hermione darted towards the door, suddenly panting from the sheer amount of adrenaline coursing through her veins. Pushing through the door frantically, Hermione sprinted down the corridor, bypassing Miss Weasley and Lady Sinclair on her way, outrunning the other two women.
The three of them clambered down the staircase to the foyer, all three in a panic. No men were in sight, and it was clear that each woman feared for their respective gentleman. Lady Sinclair feared for her lover, Mr Zabini; Miss Weasley feared for her ally, Mr Potter; Miss Granger feared for her suitor, Mr Malfoy. So when all women reached the bottom of the staircase, and therefore the foyer, two relaxed only momentarily before all three suddenly screamed at the sight they were met with.