The Malfoy Manor, cloaked in black brick and smoky marble, leered over her like a vengeful undertaker. Its darkened windows gazed empty and soulless, a mocking reminder of an alternate fate. Her breathing became shallow, every breath a stolen payment to feed the greedy house and distant fountains panted like hungry dog waiting for table scraps.
Run, her brain warned, but her legs would not obey. Stubborn Gryffindor bravery overrode her most basic instincts. Her courage, she learned, is like a river running constantly forward. She knows this is what the sorting hat had seen in the quiet and unexplored places of her mind. A smoldering determination, waiting to be stoked by the right breeze. But as Hermione fought to reclaim herself from the sinister creature before her, she wondered if the sorting hat had been wrong all along.
Not a creature. Just a house.
Draco stood tense at her side, but if he noticed her unease, he did not acknowledge it. Hermione, at last realizing she was still grasping Draco's arm tightly, released her grip. She cleared her throat and without speaking they began their ascent to the Manor.
Stygian gravel crunched beneath their feet, carrying them toward the entrance. The front doors gave way to an entry hall lit by white wax tapers in gold sconces. Persian rugs with great, winding serpents, their tongues whipping, stretched out on the wooden floorboards. The flickering candlelight gave the illusion that the snakes were moving.
Hermione followed Draco down the hall until her breath left her again. Two large intricately carved doors stood to her left. She remembered those doors. She had been through them before. Looking over his shoulder, Draco's voice echoed against the cold hall, "The archive room is only a little further."
Just a house, Hermione reminded herself. She walked on wooden legs until they reached another set of doors, as solid and beautiful as the last, but these Hermione did not recognize.
Archive room was an understatement. Museum would have perhaps been a better descriptor. Towering bookcases lined the walls, their shelves bulging with worn books. Rich leather couches and reading chairs were peppered along the stacks. Large glass display cases filled in the cavernous expanse and Hermione could barely see the far wall. Weaving through the immaculately preserved collections, Hermione saw the wicked and the wild: hands of glory, shriveled heads, and other beautiful and terrible treasures no doubt enchanted with nefarious curses and spells.
A small gasp escaped Hermione's mouth, her words a near shriek. "This isn't what I think it is, is it?"
Draco shrugged. "Depends on what you think IT is."
"Tell me that is NOT the Three Brethren," She pointed to a piece of jewelry in the glass display case closest to her. "Because that particular piece has been missing since 1645 when it was stolen from the King of England!"
"Then it is definitely not that. Keep it moving, Granger. I don't have all day." When it became clear that Hermione would not keep moving, her eyes locked on the jewels, Draco added, "Don't make me regret offering my services to the Ministry."
In the center of the room, six elegant drafting tables were stacked with old, battered books. "I've selected a few books of interest. You are free to look around and inspect whatever artifacts you like, that is," Draco smirked, "if they will let you."
Before long, Hermione was submerged in a rather large record of early sixteenth century law. Draco sat in a chair not far off from her, alternating between reading a book of his own and lazily sending smoke rings into the air from the end of his wand. After some time, Draco spoke. "It wasn't stolen."
"Hmm?" Hermione was too immersed in records of old Wizenagmot court proceedings to lift her head.
"The jewelry. The Three Brethren. It wasn't stolen, it was won. The muggles were in the midst of some civil war, desperate for an advantage. Dear old Auriga Malfoy bet the muggle King a massive amount of gold in a fishing contest. You can imagine Charles' disbelief when fish were literally jumping out of the water into Auriga's basket. He certainly couldn't tell his court about flying fish, no one would believe him, so he said it was stolen."
"Was the Florentine diamond also won?" Without lifting her head, Hermione peeked through her lashes to see Draco's reaction. To her surprise, his lips quirked up into a smile.
"Whatever helps you sleep at night, Granger."
"You know," Hermione said thoughtfully, "For a family with such… severe views on muggle relations, you sure seem to have a lot of muggle artifacts."
"The one thing my family has always valued is power and glory. It matters little how it is acquired." Draco studied her a moment. "I think it's time we wrap up for the day."
Draco stood abruptly and Hermione followed suit. A momentary pause.
"The drawing room has been permanently closed." Draco said quietly, not looking at her in the eyes, but rather at the spot where Hermione's old scar lay hidden under her sleeve. Mudblood. Hermione's skin burned; it felt like stitches being ripped out one at a time, over and over again. "For as long as I'm living here, anyway… We can take the back entry next time you come."
"Next time I come?" Hermione asked.
"Nothing can leave this room. All the items are sealed through years of magical protections which would take years to crack." Draco explained.
"Can we take the back way to leave today?" Hermione asked. Draco nodded and led her out of the archive room. Hermione breathed in relief. She made it through. Until next time.