This is long-about where I remind everyone that 'ridiculous' doesn't necessarily mean hilarity ensues from start to finish, it more means that because it's a completely unplanned story, some turns it will take as we go on might feel completely out of left field. That being said, there might be some dark moments/themes that come into play as we progress.


Chapter Eighteen

The room the staircase let out into was a simple bedchamber with another door that probably led into the kitchen. Four beds were pressed into the corners, leaving the center of the floor bare. They were small—definitely house elf-sized. Her first thought—a terrible one, to be sure—was that given what she was now, perhaps the 'sweet' scent was blood. And that would have to mean something tragic had befallen these creatures, far beyond the sadly expected, mundane horrors of an elf's life in servitude to cruel masters.

But the scent did not end here. She wasn't even certain it led here, at all, but merely . . . passed through here, somehow?

Indeed, the room was covered in a layer of dust—there was likely a different, more accessible area of the manor the elves lived in by the time Dobby had come into the Malfoy's service, because this room's undisturbed state appeared ancient.

Yes, Hermione nodded to musty air. Passed through, traveled this way, yes, that seemed more fitting. Ignoring the wild curiosity that prodded her to investigate the dusty old quarters, she continued trailing the strange smell.

Giving herself a shake, she moved through the room toward the door. Yet then she felt something, like the whisper of a breeze against her skin.

But from where?

Turning her head, she gazed about the room once more. Realizing it was very dark in here despite that she could see perfectly was startling, but she ignored that, as well.

Holding out her hand, she tested the air. The sensation led her to a panel that seemed to take up half of one wall. Away from the beds, she noticed. Much like the door that led here, it was blended into the surface surrounding it—one would not spot it unless deliberately searching for something out of place.

"Time to test that strength, Hermione," she said in a whisper, the thought of speaking at normal volume somehow unnerving.

Finding the seam, she jammed her fingertips beneath it and wrenched. The panel tore free of the wall, hitting the floor with a strangely soft and hollow thuck.

A narrow window with a crack in the lower left pane was the source of that soft wind. Hermione neared it, raising her fingers against the breeze.

One mystery solved. But she could guess that panel hadn't been in place to block a broken window. More likely the door beside it. The door with its knob conspicuously missing.

Reason was screaming at her to proceed no further alone—to run up and get Mr. Malfoy. Not for any sort of aid or protection, she was a bloody vampire after all, but simply because she could not know what awaited down there. A faulty floor? Some enchantment triggered by a wrong step?

Yet her body would not listen as she tried to will herself back across the room. Instead, she was gravitating toward that door.

Pressing her palms against it, the old wood creaked before opening outward. She crossed the threshold, finding herself at the upper landing of another staircase.

And the smell was finally stronger, now.

She knew if her heart still beat, it would be rattling her ribcage this very second as she started down the steps. Trailing her fingers against the narrow stone walls to guide her way despite that the pitch-blackness was not compromising her vision, she kept her pace steady, calm. Vampire or not, she imagined taking a spill down a stone staircase would still hurt.

At last reaching the bottom, she forced herself to stop breathing. The odor was no longer sweet. Down here, it was terrible and cloying.

Turning her head to look around, she froze. A chill itched along her shoulders and her stomach twisted into a knot.