Chapter Twenty-Eight

Standing impossibly still behind her, Lucius merely stared at her for a few strained heartbeats. He could tell himself he'd imagined the tiny tremor that had just shaken her or he could allow himself to notice, yet lie about the source. Yes, he could certainly do that—he could tell himself that maybe vampires got chilly. After all, how would he know the difference? Whatever the source of her shiver, it could not be his nearness.

Clearing his throat, he returned his attention to the scroll he'd unfurled. "This is dated 18th of March, 1684."

"That's five years before the Statute of Secrecy went into effect."

His thoughtfully narrowed grey eyes flickered back to her for a split-second as he asked, "You think that might have something to do with what we found?"

"Well, of course we can't know it does, but . . . ." She shrugged, shaking her head. "Maybe you never knew anything about that chamber because whoever was responsible had to hush it all up to comply with the Statute?"

Those refined Malfoy features pinched in a troubled look. "That would mean those vampires were Muggles."

"Oh, another thing I have in common with the murder victims in your family's secret torture room!"

Lucius was tired already from her dramatics. Pinching between his brows with his free hand as he tried not to crumple the old parchment of the scroll with the other, he sighed. "You're not a Muggle, Miss Granger."

Her expression soured. "Muggle-born, so very nearly!"

Leaning sideways just enough to angle his head so that he could catch her gaze, he said, "Are you quite finished?" He waved the scroll in reminder.

Shifting where she sat, she folded her arms stubbornly across her chest and nodded.

With something of a flourish, he once more took the scroll between both hands, straightening to his full height behind her. "Once more, I have caught Patricia—"Hermione noticed that he said the name oddly, Pah-tree-cee-a, and she wondered if perhaps that specific pronunciation of it was a common girls' name in the Malfoy family—"down in the oubliette visiting them. It would seem she has . . . . Hmm . . . ."

Hermione turned a little in the chair, looking up at him. "Hmm?"

After a sigh, he frowned. "Well, you know what an oubliette is, don't you?"

"Of course." She was Hermione Granger, after all! "It's a secret dungeon, just as we found."

He bit his lip, wondering if he should wait for her to go that step further between what they'd found and what would make what they'd found fit the word, or if he should simply point out the discrepancy himself.

Already she recognized the look in his eyes as expectancy. The delicate skin under her own eyes tightened as she held his gaze. Why on earth was he biting his lip? Didn't he want her to think just now?

"No," she managed, finding her voice—stupid perfect Malfoy teeth sinking into a stupid, perfect Malfoy lower lip like that. "It's a secret dungeon accessed by a trap door, or hole, in the ceiling."

"Precisely." He rolled up the scroll and touched it to his chin. "My family has always prized the use of words, Miss Granger."

Of course they did, because clearly this entire incident was designed by the Powers That Be to illustrate that you're essentially perfect aside from your elitist pure-blood rubbish.

"So then why," he went on, unnoticing apparently, of her struggle to ignore his stupid, perfect face, "would any one of us use such a precise word incorrectly?"

She felt the wind get knocked out of her as she said in a breathless whisper, "Perhaps it's another place they're referring to?"

"Because you imagine there's more than one 'secret vampire murder dungeon' beneath my home?"

Hermione blanched at the mental picture of a network of torture chambers hidden under Malfoy Manor. "Or, perhaps it . . . ." She shrugged, retrying somewhat lamely, "Perhaps it was an oubliette at the time?"

Reluctant interest sparked in his eyes. "Perhaps it was. We never did look at the ceiling."

She shrugged again. "We'd need to check to be sure it's the same place, then."

Before Hermione realized they were moving, Lucius had taken her hand to pull her from the chair and started leading her back through the old servants' quarters. She ignored the warmth of his strong, stupid, perfect fingers clasping hers the entire way.