"Toti!"
Hermione is standing in the doorway of Draco's London flat. The sitting room appears untouched, no object on the mantel piece of the fireplace or the end tables moved or altered in anyway. Although the elves are obviously impeccable at their job, she wishes that there was some sign of them actually being there to keep things in order. That way, she would have the chance to speak to one.
Cautiously, Hermione enters the room, one foot slowly following the other. No elf appears to greet her or take her coat, which mystifies her. No matter how much she has trained the elves to not greet her in the past, one of them always managed to – usually Toti – if only to make her feel welcome at the flat. Normally, she would be ecstatic to know that her efforts have actually proven fruitful, but at this precise moment, under these circumstances, it scares her.
Edgy and uncomfortable, Hermione hollers for Toti again. It takes energy, too much, to make such an awful sound. She prefers to not yell at the elves, especially Toti, but she can't stand being in this flat. It reminds her of times when she was angry, loathing toward Ron. She doesn't want to feel that way anymore. She tries once more, the elf's name weakly passing her lips, almost like an aching sigh.
No reply.
Hermione groans now, wringing her hands in frustration and warily sits on a black armchair, carefully perched on the edge of its seat. She looks around, seeing the familiar black velvet draperies, the crown molding, and the two-toned Victorian wallpaper; all simple elements that, when combined, scream status. Hermione, quite frankly, hates this room. It's all chrome, black and white and greys – the Wizarding world's sad attempt at a contemporary muggle room. It appears new age by color, but is too lush with traditional furniture and décor to actually qualify as anything 'contemporary.'
She doesn't understand why Draco hires wizard interior designers. They're too flamboyant, try too hard to be politically correct and blend two worlds that, in this particular way, cannot be put together. Despite her ideas and dreams for the Wizarding world, very little about it could ever match the modern muggle. She prefers the Wizarding world as it is, anyway; plush and comfortable. That's what makes it feel so much like home.
With stiff arms, Hermione pulls her wand from her cloak sleeve. She pauses to look at it before loosening her fingers and letting it land lightly against her chin. Her eyes wander about the room, briefly imagining herself on the lounge chair, staring into her cup and saucer; imagining herself through the doorway to the kitchen, crying against the stove. She can still taste the tears on her tongue, in her soup, and in her tea. Too many nights, too much grief was spent here in this flat, too close to be forgotten. Things are better at home, with Ron, and she feels a warmness swell in her gut and in her cheeks. But the bitterness still haunts her, looms in the walls and tea cups she stared at for so long. It will take time, she knows, before all this can be forgotten.
Hermione pushes herself up onto her weak legs, slowly straightening out. She's determined to get a hold of an elf, because she needs to talk to Draco. She looks around the room for it, that monstrous photo Ron took of her when they were first married, the one that Draco has hidden in this room to annoy her. Despite their friendship of sorts, he loves to find things and ways that get a rise out of her. Hermione thinks it makes him feel young again - like a bastard.
She nods. Yes, a bastard. A selfish, and irritatingly narcissistic one at that.
Turning, she finally spots the dreadful thing poking out from behind a vase on one of the book shelves. She makes her way toward it, and plucks it from its hiding place. Hermione snorts at herself, her sunbathing, sand covered self. Her hair's hidden in a ridiculously large straw hat and she's clad in a bright blue one-piece; her small hand is covering her face, and her toes wiggle dangerously close to the camera, almost in a vain attempt to knock it out of the photographer's hands. The life-size Hermione glances around the room, and then back to the picture in her hand – the only one that has any color in it – and throws it to the ground.
Instantly, there is a loud pop, and as Hermione turns around to face the elf, it squeaks.
"Miss, youse is not supposed to being here!"
Hermione ignores the comment, and tries to stand a little taller, look a little more imposing, intimidating to the elf.
"Toti, I must speak with Draco."
Toti shakes her head violently, inching away from Hermione and hiding behind the wooden leg of an end table.
"Master does not wants to be disturbed, Miss. Toti must chase owls away, he's not wanting to hear from his works, too.
"I know. I've been trying to owl and to fire call all week."
"Youse musn't try any more, Miss. Master will be very angry if youse is trying again; very, very angry. Toti will get her ears in the ovens again if youse do."
Hermione's eyes widen, and she feels clammy and sick. She drops to her knees to be eye level with the elf, giving up the act of being intimidating.
"Toti, he mustn't do that! He promised he wouldn't!"
Toti grabs her ears and squeezes her eyes shut. She whispers, skulking dangerously close to the couch, ready to cause lethal damage to her head. "Master's not being himself these past days, Miss. He's not been liking anything or any elf. We's all being too scared to do anything, now."
Hermione puts her hands on the ground, and although she's tempted, she doesn't crawl toward the elf in fear that Toti will start hurting herself if she did.
"Toti, I must speak with him. He hasn't been to the office in over a week, and no one knows how to get a hold of him anymore. Please, Toti, you must understand, I must speak with him. I need to help him. I promise I won't let him hurt you or any of the other elves if you let me fire call him just once." The elf shakes her head again, and Hermione's afraid that it will fall off if she doesn't act quick. "Toti, I can help bring Draco back to himself, I'll make sure he's normal again – but you must let me speak with him. Please!"
Toti looks at her warily. "We's elves don't want to be hurting anymore."
Hermione nods. Toti looks behind her, then behind Hermione, and leans closer, being unnecessarily secretive. "I'll be opening a fire for youse, Miss. Wait until its green."
Smiling, Hermione thanks the elf and begins to stand. Toti watches her before trotting past. Bemused, Hermione turns.
"What are you doing, Toti?"
"Must fix the picture, Miss; it must have fallen when youse came in."
Hermione shakes her head silently, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips, and turns to the fire to wait.
Sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, Hermione listens as the glass from the frame tinkles, falling back into place and repairing itself. Eventually, there is a small clicking sound, as the frame lands back on its designated space behind the vase on the shelf, and a pop as Toti Disapparates from the flat.
Hermione leans forward, her elbows resting against her knees to provide her upper body some support. She has not been able to speak to Draco since that day at the Manor not just because her time has been occupied with Ron. Draco hasn't been replying. Their office notified her of his absence some days ago; he had missed an important meeting, then an important trial, and many had already started questioning his authority. Hermione knows he will not like this, not like others doubting him, but he's apparently not been himself lately. Not showing up for work, not even letting her know he would be gone – something is wrong, and Hermione doesn't need three chances to guess the cause.
Maybe she was wrong to force Draco into taking Harry home. She knows Harry wouldn't have been helped at St. Mungos with the Ministry in charge, but she hadn't anticipated the fact that something might happen to Draco. She knows, deep down, Draco cares for Harry – and Harry would have wanted to be taken care of by Draco, or so she believes. But she cannot imagine what could possibly be happening to Draco.
For a time, she thought the worst; that something fatal might have happened to him. But as Toti has proven, Draco is indeed literally alive and kicking. This makes Hermione snort, and she shakes her head. It disappoints her, knowing that Draco is mistreating his house elves, and normally she would be livid. But he – and her gut seems to fall out of her into a deep, dark, never-ending well at this thought – is not himself. Something is happening, and she doesn't know what.
Quite suddenly, the fire in front of her grows larger, brighter, and definitely green, and as she looks up, there is a deafening scream.
"Which one of you blasted creatures put on the fire?!"
It is unmistakably Draco she hears, but there is no dignity or the usual elegance to his yelling. When angry, Draco usually whispers, dark and foreboding. This is not him.
Sticking her head into the fire as quickly as she can, Hermione is unable to brace herself for the blood rush the floo causes, and it travels swiftly from her fingers to collect in her head. Her eyes loll up and down as she tries to find some sort of balance and stability amidst her blood-filled haze. Her fingers and toes back at the Malfoy apartments clench and flex against the rough carpet, and she tilts her neck a little to try and relieve some of the stress that knots it.
When her vision returns, Hermione looks up, through the fireplace, and sees a bedroom. It is one of those at the Manor, with tall windows facing the east side and the four poster bed at the north end of the room. She doesn't know the room, at least not immediately – it's white, like many of the guest rooms, and the only color is the wood furnishings and the rug in front of her.
She doesn't see Draco at first, although she knows he must be there, somewhere.
Hesitantly, her voice suddenly very lost and nervous, Hermione whispers, "Draco?"
Slowly, a figure sits up in the bed, and it covers itself with a sheet, its face barely visible through the small gap in the fabric. It's hard to tell if it is Draco, as the bed feels like it's at least 25 meters away from her. Hermione strains to move her head further up, and she and the person in the bed stare at each other. She's half afraid that whoever is in the bed will decide to lie back down, and so she coughs a little, almost like Umbridge used to. She shudders at the thought, but it seems to have gotten the person's attention. Their head tilts, and after what feels like centuries, they climb out of the bed, and slowly make their way toward her.
Once she realizes that the person with the sheet is actually Draco, she lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.
"Draco, you don't know how hard it's been to get a hold of you."
Draco hesitates a little, one foot poised in front of him. He seems to croak a little as he coughs out her name.
"Weasley?"
"If, by that, you mean Hermione, then yes; it's me."
Swiftly, Draco turns away, and begins heading back toward the bed. Hermione panics.
"Draco, stop and listen to me!"
Although he stops, a frail white sheet barely touched by the sparse light that comes through the cracks in the curtains, he does not turn around. Hermione musters what strength she has left, attempting to put on her strong, commanding voice.
"I don't know what's happening, but you must come back to work."
She sounds positively weak.
In front of her, she hears Draco give a small, feeble laugh. "It'll take much more than that to drag me away from him." His head turns slightly toward her, and Hermione can see from his profile that he is sneering.
Bastard.
"Draco, there is something horribly wrong with you," she tries, and suddenly he is crouched in front of her, his face ghostly white and blotched with angry red spots on his cheeks. His eyes are dark and wide, the circles around his eyes purple, and he's snarling, barring his teeth at her, and he spits.
"You – mudblood, scum of the earth – leave us alone. You know nothing." And he swipes at her, his hands like talons as he tries to claw her face through the fire. Startled, horrified, Hermione pulls back and scampers away as quickly as she can before putting the fire out with her wand. Her heart hammers in her chest and a ringing starts up in her ears, almost like the scream she hears in her head; her terrified, helpless scream that cannot escape her, but remains trapped within her.
Hermione knows she must get Draco out of there, but she doesn't know how. There must be some way to make him understand, but she knows how stubborn he is, how intolerably indifferent he can be when it comes to her opinion. But she needs to get him out of there; she must.
Falling onto her back, Hermione is out of breath and her mind is racing. The carpet presses into the back of her neck as she stares up at the grey ceiling, and her eyes sting. She thought she was through with crying, but obviously she was wrong.
There is something awful happening, she knows as she wipes at her face with the tough fabric of her cloak. And she fears that she is what caused it.