"Don't I at least get some tea?" I ask innocently. "My, my, what kind of host are you?"
"You have got to be kidding right now," Weasley says. I shrug as I seat myself at the table. He glowers at me and then takes a seat directly across from me. He has not lowered his wand yet.
"This isn't a game, Malfoy," Potter says with grit teeth. "We just escaped from your manor, where Ron and I were locked up with Luna, Dean, Ollivander, and Griphook, and we had to listen to your aunt torture our best friend." We glare at each other silently until he finally sighs. "Kreacher, could you get the three of us some tea, please?" Kreacher appears from around the corner and shuffles toward the stove, muttering under his breath.
"Bloody arse," Weasley grouses.
"Me, or the elf?" I ask lightly.
"Both," he snaps back at me. Potter takes his glasses off and rubs his face tiredly. He doesn't immediately put them back on as he starts talking again.
"That's enough, both of you. Ron, I told you that you could be here as long as you were on your best behavior. As for you, Malfoy…well, I think that we are overdue for a talk." He pauses as Kreacher comes back through and unceremoniously drops a platter with mismatched teacups and a chipped teapot onto the table. He disappears before Potter can say another word. Potter makes a show of pouring for all three of us. We drink without speaking; the only sounds that can be heard come from the crackling fire and the settling bones of the house around us.
"What the hell was that when I came in?" I finally ask. "Some sort of crappy joke?"
"Guilty conscience, Malfoy?" Weasley jabs. I rise several inches, ready to reach across the table and throttle him, before Potter pushes me back down into my seat.
"Ron," he says warningly. Weasley holds up his hands in surrender and then crosses his arms. "It's additional security for the house," Potter explains. "Congratulations on passing test number one. That's not nearly enough, though. Care to explain what yesterday was all about?"
"It's a long story," I hedge. Potter mirrors Weasley's posture and sits back.
"We've got time," Weasley says. "Talk."
Potter shows me to the room where I'll be staying. Against my better judgement, I have chosen their side over my parents', and I am left with no other options. They kept me awake and talking until the sun began to rise; I could swear that at one point, I even felt Potter attempting Legilimency on me. Joke's on him-I've been learning to hide and compartmentalize since I was a toddler. Whatever tests and qualifiers they had set for me, it would appear that I passed all of them. We barely speak as he leads me through dingy hallways and staircases. This place needs a serious overhaul; I can only imagine what my mother would say if she could see the state of it. Then again, its previous owner had spent 13 years in prison, so I suppose that would lead to its demise.
"Where is Granger?" I ask curiously.
"Why do you need to know?" he asks me.
"Just making conversation, Potter," I tell him, "no need to bite my head off."
"She doesn't…just…let her find you, okay?" he asks. He stops in front of a door that has a Slytherin banner affixed to it. I quirk an eyebrow at the décor. "Yeah, we couldn't remove it," he mutters. Without another word, he leaves me alone in dark, musty hallway. I let out a long sigh and turn the knob.
The door swings open to reveal a well-kept room. There is more dust than I can begin to fathom, but a simple spell and the dust disappears. I light the wall sconces to better assess my surroundings. The walls are coats in a heavy, velvet damask wallpaper, silver and green. A canopied bed occupies the left wall of the room, flanked by a bookshelf on one side and a side table on the other. A window seat with a torn and faded cushion runs beneath the large window. My footsteps are muffled by a thick black carpet as I walk the room, taking in my new home. It is better than living in Gryffindor gold-and-maroon, and I'm thankful for that at least. It is also nothing like my room at the manor, for which I am even more thankful.
If I am calculating it correctly, my family will be rising soon. It will cause quite the stir when the youngest Malfoy does not make an appearance at breakfast. I know that it will throw my mother into a tailspin, and my father will receive the consequences for his wayward son. I am not so worried about my father-he has plenty of sins to atone for-but I do worry for my mother. She has always had fragile mental and emotional health. Perhaps I will send her a disguised letter once the initial fallout has settled. I would like her to know that her son is alive.
I scan the room with my wand twice to ensure that there are no traps or unfavorable spells before turning down the comforter of the bed and dropping into it. I have not slept in a home with no death, torture, or prisoners in years. Even at Hogwarts, I was surrounded by budding Death Eaters. It is odd to me that I find myself feeling my safest surrounded by the people I claimed to be my enemies. I roll my eyes and flop onto my side with a huff. The sun continues its ascent into the sky and I eventually fall asleep cocooned in the comforter.
A searing pain racing up my arm rips me from my sleep. I clutch my forearm, biting back a shout. The Dark Mark is raised, hot and angry. My absence has been discovered. This is the moment that will make or break my future. If I go back, I will have to play the part of repentant Death Eater and face the wrath of the Dark Lord. If I stay…I leave my family and join forces with a side I never once considered before. I have approximately forty seconds to make my decision. I chew on my lip uncomfortably, racing through the choices in my head. I can feel the seconds ticking away and then the moment has passed. My indecision has made a decision for me.
There is not a chance in hell that I will be able to sleep at all anymore. I throw the comforter aside and groan as my feet hit the floor. Any time the Mark has been pressed, it wreaks havoc on my entire system. Today is no exception. I rub my face with my hands and then rise slowly. I suppose I should count my blessings where I can get them. This place seems to be accessible by invite only, and is clearly well-guarded. Weasley and Potter are not much of a reassurance in terms of protection, but once Granger is up and moving again, it'll be better than nothing.
This house is a maze, but I eventually find my way to the kitchen. I am the only one awake at this hour, and I have to light a fire to fight off the chill that has worked its way into the home overnight. I jump when I hear shuffling beside me; when I turn to look, I see Kreacher standing there, wringing his hands.
"Kreacher is happy to have a sir of the noble Black family in this home again, yes he is, for too long it's just been blood traitors and mudbloods-,"
"That's enough out of you, I think," I cut him off coldly. "Blood means nothing, you little fool." The elf sucks in an angry breath but says nothing more. He shuffles away and I refocus on fixing tea and some toast.
"Did you mean it?" Potter's voice cuts through the silence and I jump again.
"Merlin, Potter," I snap, "a little warning might be nice." I hear him draw a chair out and drop into it.
"Make me a cup, would you?" he asks. I grit my teeth but do as he asks. "Did you mean it?" he repeats.
"Mean what?"
"What you said about blood meaning nothing."
"I'm here, aren't I?" I ask, placing the teapot and two cups on the table forcefully. The china rattles against each other. I sit across from Potter, pour a cup, and push it to him.
"And you didn't go back when he called," he concedes. I frown at him, and he points to the scar on his forehead. "It's like a window into what he's doing," he informs me. "I can feel his emotions and see what he is doing, at times. It's saved me on more than one occasion."
"Merlin," I mutter, taking a sip of my tea. I do not know what else to say, and I have no doubt that Potter will soon fill the silence. He doesn't seem the type of bloke who understands or appreciates a good silence. He sips on his tea for a few moments and then says,
"Listen, Ron and I have to run out to do something today. I dunno if Hermione is going to wake up in that time, but if she does…can you take care of her? We'll be back by nightfall, most likely, but in case we don't, I need to know she is safe."
"Where are you going?" I demand. I did not sign up to be Potter's personal babysitter when I left my family behind. My motivations were somewhat selfish in the way of saving Granger, but that does not mean that I intended to be tethered down like a sitting duck.
"Can't tell you, not that we would anyway," Weasley says as he enters. He carries two packs on his shoulders and sets one next to Potter. He moves to the cupboards, pulling out a can of beans and opening it. Dumping it into a pan on the stove, he says, "Hermione has been set up with her medi-potions for the day. We wrote it out, but she may wake up. She's been in and out over the last few hours. I wrote her a letter explaining where we went and why she is here. Do us a favor, ferret, and keep out of her way."
"Gladly," I snap, rising. "Enjoy whatever adventure you and Boy Wonder are going on. Try not to muck it up too much, Weasley." I knock my shoulder into his as I pass, satisfied when I hear the sound of pans crashing together.
Potter and Weasley leave shortly after, and I am left to wander the house by myself. It is a shame that is has been left to languish for so long. If I look hard enough, I can see the remnants of the splendor that used to be here. It does not take long for me to find Sirius' old room-red, gold, and gaudy-on the third floor. My guess is that this is where Potter sleeps. I open the door and peer inside, suspicions confirmed. His school trunk is open and the contents scatter everywhere. The room itself is one giant middle finger to the Black family. Gryffindor banners, pictures of him and his pals, red-and-gold décor, and stationary photographs make the room up. I can only imagine what his parents did to him when they discovered where he had been sorted.
Further down the hall, I find Weasley's room. It is less of a declaration of house loyalty, but has the tell-tale signs of a Gryffindor living there, down to the mess and the poor taste in quidditch teams. I shake my head and close his door. I hesitate before the next door I find, a plain mahogany door with a large brass knob. This is clearly Granger's room; the heat coming from under the door is a clear attempt to sweat out the toxins created by the Cruciatus curse. I knock lightly on the door before I can talk myself out of it. When there is no response, I crack the door open and look inside.
An everlasting fire has been lit in the fireplace, blue and steady. Granger lies in her bed, wrapped in a large comforter. A table filled with medi-potions sits next to her, as well as an unopened letter-Weasley's and Potter's letter. My fingers itch to open it and read it, but I quell the need. If I am indeed trying to better myself as a person, reading another person's letters is not the way to start. I enter the room cautiously and make my way over to her. She looks pale and clammy, the after-effects of being tortured. Her arm is wrapped in gauze, and my stomach drops guiltily. I know what is under that wrap.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper, "so, so sorry."
I bolt out of the room without another word.
