Le Deluge
Chapter 2: Strange Land
~o~
Hermione awoke with limbs stiff as though she had lain the night on a mattress stuffed with gravel, not goosedown. She stretched, tugging the bedspread up to her chin, defence against a chill summer night. The sliver of sky visible between the heavy curtains was still black, stars unable to penetrate the thick blanket of cloud.
As she stared, the ceiling grew darker and darker, sucking her in as silence muffled thought and feeling. Some time, darkness must have become sleep, for Neville Longbottom looped the loop across Hermione's consciousness, whooping as he grasped the broom between his legs with one hand, the other, triumphantly punching the air. Borne on the adulation of a roaring crowd, his streaming robes rippled and shone in the sunlight, the streak fading from gold to green to grey.
Blinking, Hermione realised that the grey was weak daylight, filtering through the clouds and the cheers were merely the rain spattering against the window pane. A glance at her watch informed her that it was not yet five; disheartened, Hermione slumped back against her pillow. Curiosity stirred as a phuth sounded. Her eyes snapped shut and she tried to appear to be asleep as two large blue eyes studied her. Not until she heard the sound of metal scraping on stone did she dare open them a crack. The elf was stooped by the hearth, clearing the ashes and setting a new fire in its place. As she watched, a tune, soft and mournful, drifted across the room, every word slipping with ease into her mind. Her vision blurred for a second, then for longer and longer. She dreamed no more and when she finally awoke a shaft of sunlight shone across the floor.
~o~
Leaving the door ajar, Hermione entered the breakfast room. Sunlight flooded through the arched window, tinting yellow the white cloth that decked the table. Opposite was the sideboard, laden with shining dome topped dishes. As she picked up a plate a pair of silver tongs leapt up from their tray, dipping into the dishes, the lids of which raised at the touch of Hermione's gaze.
Satisfied, she went to the table. Only two places remained. She took the one that allowed her to see through the window and into a walled courtyard. The gravel was still dark from the night's rain.
A copy of the Daily Prophet, carefully refolded, lay between the places. Hermione unfolded it and browsed the headlines as she ate.
YOUR GOOD ELF
All is not well in the kitchens of the great and the good, writes our special correspondent for Ministry Matters, Rita Skeeter. Last night the Ministry (Office for House Elf Relocation) was rocked by a communication from a creature known only as Scargy. Scargy, believed to be an unemployed house elf, is president and founder of the National Union of Minions. He claims links to the network of elves that serve in many of our great houses (Hogwarts school is believed to employ more than a hundred). Scargy believes that he has enough support in those places to cause havoc by calling a strike if his demands for wages, paid holiday and statutory tea breaks are not met.
"Yes," remarked an official source, "House Elves are revolting – ah, don't print that," he said before going on to state unequivocally that the Ministry would not give in to such outrageous demands.
"Rogue house elves?" commented Mr Lucius Malfoy on departure from the offices of Cornelius Fudge, incumbent Minister for Magic, "It's a growing problem. Only a few years ago I had to dismiss one of mine. Such behaviour! To see it spreading is a sign of the decay that has set in. Paid holiday? They'll be demanding wands next, you mark my words."
What does this mean for the future of our society – are we to see the breakdown of our very world? Surely the Ministry will not allow one revolutionary to undermine the foundations of the wizarding world.
Hermione snorted. Skeeter had truly found her niche; wizarding politics was ideally suited to her particular brand of spin.
Hearing footsteps in the hallway, Hermione dismissed the story. She looked forward to her day with Draco and she turned, smiling toward the door, but she could barely hide her disappointment or her surprise when the door opened and Mrs Malfoy strode into the room clad in riding boots, jodhpurs and the tweediest jacket that Hermione had ever seen.
"Good morning Miss Granger," said Mrs Malfoy. "Do you always breakfast at this hour?" she asked, arching one thin brow.
"Good morning Mrs Malfoy," Hermione replied as Draco's mother turned to the sideboard. "I'm afraid I overslept."
"Really. How odd." Mrs Malfoy laid her plate in the empty space and sat down. "I believe the men have gone off for the day. I had no idea how late it was. I trust you slept well."
"Perfectly," Hermione lied. "If you don't mind me asking, where have they gone?"
"Who?" Mrs Malfoy asked, raising a forkful of scrambled egg to her mouth. She chewed slowly, swallowed, and replied, "Ah, my husband has taken Draco to visit friends. Did Draco not mention it?" An apologetic smile spread across her lips. "How tiresome. We must find something for you to do, dear. Anything in that?" she asked, pointing at the Prophet with her empty fork.
"Not much," said Hermione, laying aside her cutlery and reaching for the teapot, which immediately rose and tilted above her cup, saving her the effort of pouring. She took a moment to observe Mrs Malfoy in the reflection of its silver surface. She sat like waxwork, betraying nothing of her thoughts in expression or in glance. "A piece about the Ministry, and a delegation of Burmese wizards are asking for the right to carry a staff instead of a wand."
"What a sight that will be on the streets of London," Mrs Malfoy commented with a shake of her head. "Honestly, the ideas these people have."
"There's an exhibition of recent runes at the museum … a new ward is to be opened at St Mungos on Thursday, and there's a piece about a house elf causing a stir. Mr Malfoy is mentioned in it." Hermione sipped her tea.
"Is he really," Mrs Malfoy said, as though that bored her, "Rather dull, don't you think? All these newspaper people swarming about the place! House elves indeed -- dreadful little creatures but necessary. Have you ever had to train one? For all the effort it takes it would be quicker to do everything oneself."
"No, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione said tightly, "We don't keep a house elf at home."
"I'm sorry, my dear, how careless of me to forget." The words were spoken as if Hermione suffered from a terminal disease to which Mrs Malfoy had made a casual reference. "I have the perfect idea -- why don't you dash and put on something more appropriate. You may spend the morning with me."
Oh joy, Hermione thought, with a glance at her skirt, "More appropriate for what, Mrs Malfoy?" she asked, puzzled.
"I thought perhaps you would like to see my Granians. I assume that Draco has told you that I keep them."
"He has," she said, feeling that the enterprise might ease the ordeal of having to spend time alone with Draco's mother. "I'd like to see them."
"Run along then. I'll meet you outside." Hermione was about to reply but Mrs Malfoy had already seized the copy of the Prophet and had her gaze fixed firmly upon it.
Fifteen minutes later, Hermione had changed into her old jeans and a white shirt. The path between her room and the front door was becoming well worn, the doors taking care to open for her as she walked. She wondered about the doors that didn't open as she approached and what could lie behind them. Mrs Malfoy was at the bottom of the steps talking with Garak the goblin butler. She took a paisley scarf from his hands and tied it expertly over her hair, giving her the appearance of a remarkably well turned out gypsy. Hermione quickened her pace, passing Garak on the steps.
"Why Miss Granger," Mrs Malfoy said, gaze slipping from the retreating back of the butler to rest upon Hermione as she descended. "Much better. Now follow me."
The walk to the stables took them to the left of the house, through a courtyard filled with trailing roses of white and yellow. Their heady scent remained in Hermione's nostrils even after they stepped from the crunching gravel on to the rain damp grass. There was no path, but a crushed and stunted line indicated a well-trodden route toward a block of outbuildings. These appeared to be built of the same butter coloured stone as the house but patches of brick and beam showed in unusual places, as if they were covered by a stretched and badly fitted skin. Hermione glanced over her shoulder at the house wondering what lay beneath the fine regency façade.
Provided with an audience, Mrs Malfoy had begun to talk in detail about her creatures giving Hermione no chance dwell on her question. She always enjoyed listening to an expert speak about his subject and it was clear that when it came to her Granians, Mrs Malfoy was an expert.
"How long have you kept them?" Hermione asked as they walked beneath an archway and into a stable yard overlooked by many small square windows.
"An aunt gave me my first when I was eight," Mrs Malfoy replied, her booted feet striking loudly against the flagstones. "I was fascinated by them … so much more graceful than a broomstick. I have been breeding them since I left Hogwarts."
"Aren't they supposed to be very fast?"
"Not quite so efficient as Apparition, but swift all the same."
The sun had gained strength and it was a relief to step out of the muggy air into the cool shelter of the stables, where the air smelt strongly of hay and hair and wax.
Mrs Malfoy led the way past several empty stalls, and finally stopped and placed both hands on the gate. It took Hermione a minute to catch up, for as she passed she was reading the names engraved on tiny plaques set in the door of each stall … Hieronomous …Pallas…
Looking up, Hermione saw a soft nose of pearly silk nuzzling Mrs Malfoys hand, her other arm outstretched behind the massive head, fingers lost in the creature's smooth mane. "I currently have ten," she said, not taking her eyes off the animal. "Most of them are outside, but this one is ready to breed and she needs to be kept away from a certain stallion. I have another one in mind for her."
With a rustle of feathers, the animal swung its head away from Mrs Malfoy and turned a bright black eye on the newcomer. Hermione felt sweat bead on her brow as they scrutinised her, the dark gaze of the creature joined by the cool blue eyes of her hostess.
"This is Lucasta. I'll not bore you with her full name." Mrs Malfoy turned once more to the horse before stepping back and gesturing for Hermione to move closer. "She is a little wary of strangers. Though we might take her out for a run, so to speak. Do you ride?"
"I had lessons once, but the pony didn't have wings."
"I expect not. The principles are the same of course." Mrs Malfoy sighed.
Slowly, Hermione reached for its nose. "Palm flat!" snapped Mrs Malfoy, grazing Hermione's curled fingers with a sharp dash of her fingertips. Startled, the Granian jumped back. "Her teeth can easily crush through bone. There are some oats in that bag, which have been steeped in honey and vodka. She likes those."
Amazed at how similar the woman's tone was to Draco's, Hermione did not protest. Dipping her hand in the bag slung on a hook on the door of the stall, Hermione drew out a damp sticky clump. The aroma made her feel woozy. Immediately the beast came forward and in seconds its velvet lips were flicking over Hermione's palm. She took the opportunity to stroke its strongly muscled neck, astonished to find that it was covered in tiny opalescent scales. As she turned, she noticed that Mrs Malfoy had positioned herself on a beam that ran across the room, her fingers trailing over the polished surface of a dragonhide saddle. Around her were other pieces of tack to which Hermione could not put a name.
"Do you like her?" Mrs Malfoy asked, swinging her booted feet back and forth. "I can trace her blood line back more than seven hundred years. Yet last year she bore a foal of darkest black. I have no way of telling if it was the dam or the sire who introduced the weak strain. If it were to become public knowledge, then their value would be greatly reduced."
"What happened to the foal?" Hermione asked. She'd seen the others in the field, and everyone of them shone like black ink. Nothing she had ever read suggested that Granians gave birth to foals of one colour that changed as unicorns did.
"A friend took care of it. Do you know the Macnairs?"
That name stirred in Hermione the memory of an axe and a narrow escape. "Yes," she replied staring hard at the floor. "I know of them."
"I'm inordinately fond of Walden. It was very good of him to do me the favour." Mrs Malfoy slipped off the beam landing on the floor with barely a sound. "Shall we ride?" she asked, hauling the nearest saddle into her arms.
It was hard to squeeze the words out of her constricted throat. "No thanks," Hermione croaked, "I … I feel a little sick. Would you excuse me."
How could she, how could she? Hermione asked herself as she ran back up to the house.
~o~
Sitting with her back to the wall and her legs drawn up, flicking through the pages of an open book that rested upon them, Hermione passed the rest of the morning away. On her return to the house she had gone first to the Malfoys' extensive library and then, feeling that she was intruding, she had borrowed the volume and retreated to the schoolroom. Unable to face Mrs Malfoy across the lunch table, she had stayed there and at two o'clock a house elf had appeared unbidden with a plate of sandwiches which lay, barely touched, on the floor beside her. Unable to concentrate on the spell she was practising, she threw down her wand in frustration, sending a small shower of sparks across the bare floorboards.
It was late afternoon when Draco returned. She raised her head as he stalked into the schoolroom.
"Oh. Here you are," he said casually.
"Hello, Draco." Hermione closed her book and placed it aside. As she straightened her legs, she gazed up at Draco. There was a stiffness about his jaw. His face was set with the chill calm of a snow peak glistening in the morning sun just before it slid down the mountain to crush an unsuspecting village in the valley below.
"Whatever did you say to mother?" he asked, a sharp edge beneath the enquiry. He leaned on the edge of the desk, one leg slightly bent, weight on one hand.
"Nothing," Hermione replied neutrally, unwilling to be drawn into an argument. She clambered to her feet and joined Draco, laying her hand across his. "Have you had a nice morning?"
"Don't try and change the subject." He drew his hand away and turned to face her, arms folded. "I've just had the most extraordinary conversation with her and I'd like to know what you said."
Levering herself onto the desk, Hermione became very interested in a piece of dry skin on her thumb. "She was trying to make a point, Draco. About blood, about breeding."
"Don't be ridiculous, Hermione. Look at me, will you!" he turned her toward him and seized her shoulders, jolting her head upwards. "If my parents had a problem they wouldn't allow you to be here. I thought this was all behind us."
With a shrug, she knocked his hands away and jumped to the floor. "You're missing the point, Draco."
"No, you are!"Aagain his fingers bit her shoulders. Sunshine streamed through the high window behind him flooding into Hermione's eyes. Blinking against the light, she struggled, but it seemed he wasn't about to let go. "Mother was talking about economics, something I'd've thought you'd understand. It may have escaped your notice but unless you possess a philosopher's stone there are very few ways of obtaining gold – you inherit it, find it, steal it, earn it, or you marry it. Having nothing left but the house and the name -- that is exactly what father did. She's the secret behind our fortune."
A snort escaped Hermione's lips.
"Oh, that surprises you does it … spoils your nice little image of us does it?" he asked scornfully releasing her as if it stung to touch her. "Our wealth is sustained by those animals and by her reputation as a breeder. She will not risk that." Draco turned away and crossed to the window, his whole body a sigh.
"There's no reason to kill an innocent creature just because it's different," she cried. "It's like killing a muggleborn wizard or a wizard born squib."
"Who said she killed it?" He did not turn round.
"She said Macnair took care of it."
"Why must you always think the worst of us, Hermione? After everything we've gone through to get here … I thought at last that you understood but I'm wrong. I was wrong to invite you here. I…"
"You weren't wrong, I do understand." She grabbed his arm, turning him toward her, anxious to make him understand. "I just don't see why a creature should die just so you can make money."
"Listen to reason, Hermione. Nothing died! He happens to work for the department for Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures and is ideally placed to relocate a rogue Granian without mother's name coming into it. You're the one putting words in her mouth that she never said."
Hermione fell silent. It was true; she had no evidence for anything at all. It was her own worries making her read things that were not there. "I didn't mean to upset her," she said quietly.
"She merely found your behaviour bizarre, not to mention a little ungracious."
"I'm sorry, I just assumed that …"
"Well don't assume!" He drew a deep breath. "I'll see you at dinner," he said, then stalked out, taking care to slam the door behind him.
Authors Notes:
First, a huge thanks to my tireless (not to mention patient) betas – Wolf of Solitude and Satella.
Second, the Future of Le Deluge…
SPOILER ALERT:
Please do not read if you have not read OoTP
Following the release of OoTP, I have found it necessary to revise this chapter – there was a great deal of information regarding Thestrals which we now know is impossible. Chapter 3, in which we were to travel to St Mungos and meet Nevilles family and the condunded Lockhart, is now largely redundant (this is particularly galling as I have already written most of it).
The remaining twelve chapters I have plotted require a high level of secrecy surrounding the operations of Voldemort and the Death Eaters. New facts from canon make this impossible.
I regret to say that I may have to abandon Le Deluge.
Thank you all for your support, reviews, encouragment and comments – whatever happens I hope that you will read my next project … as yet, unknown.
~I~