A/N: Ooh. Ooh, I say. Thank you again, Harry Potter Lexicon. I wish I could claim this idea as my own, but let's see if you all pluck it out. No, it's not in this chapter, but I'll be setting up for it throughout the story. I also want to apologize for the repeated notifications you all probably got about a new chapter being up—I'm getting used to new method for submitting stories, as it's been a very, VERY long time since I submitted anything here. I'll try not to do that to you again. And thank you, reviewers, so much.
One year ago tonight, he'd been standing in the hallway outside Professor Slughorn's Christmas party, sulking that he hadn't been invited. It seemed a ridiculously trivial matter now.
And then after the party, an argument with Professor Snape in an empty classroom that smelled of holly boughs and beeswax candles, the last time he could recall when he'd still been sure of himself—certain that he would accomplish the task the Dark Lord had set him, on his own, and finally give honor of his own to the Malfoy name.
He crouched down, his breath curling white in quick pants toward the stars.
There were no holly boughs here.
Resigned by now to shivering, he peered once more through the pine branches at broken-eyed Malfoy Manor. That was what the windows looked like, dark and staring, and it reminded him of things he preferred to forget.
The Manor might have been an apt symbol for the fate of his family.
And darkened windows or not, he knew that there was no guarantee he'd find it empty. The lights weren't on, but someone might be home.
The Mark burned, and he gasped, clapping his hand over it and squeezing, breathing open-mouthed through the pain. He didn't think it had anything to do with him; he'd felt it before, and couldn't see how what he was doing would cause it. Of course, tonight, there might be a connection…
He was a coward, a stinking, sniveling coward, standing out in the snow, too afraid to go in there. Had Potter been afraid, when he saw Voldemort reborn? When he'd faced him, year after year? And Granger…a Mudblood, and a girl at that, had more courage than a pureblooded Malfoy?
It was easier to make his legs work when he hurled insults at himself, insults more stinging than anything he'd ever said to anyone else, but his feet shuffled a bit—he was beginning to think they'd been rooted to the ground—and he reached for his wand, moving through the shadows along the paved edge of the forecourt, his shoulders knotted with tension.
The front door was slightly open, but perhaps he'd left it that way, nearly six months ago. He slipped through the narrow opening with only the slightest rustle of his worn robes, listening with all his might for footsteps, hushed voices, and straining his eyes for the green light that haunted his sleep.
Nothing. Yet.
Part of him wanted to go back to the library, the braver, less intelligent part of him, to face what had happened there. He could recall every step he had taken down the hallway. Every breath he'd drawn, shaking from more than mere cold, and he walked past the dusty staircase with its broken treads, crossing the marble foyer and noting with vague sadness that some of the tiles had already been prized up. Probably carted off to be sold.
The hall widened and branched from there, a long row of candelabras resting heavily on the walls, the silver varnished almost black after months of neglect. Here and there, though, a candelabra shone silver, newly polished, or even a single curving arm that was empty of its candle but gleamed even in the shadows.
His father's study was off the great room, and Draco hesitated there, his fingers running over the dusty brocade sofa, noting the wireless in the corner. One of the few good memories he had of his father were the evenings, with a fire in the hearth and the wireless on, playing quietly. When Draco was young, Narcissa would read to him while Lucius worked on reports: to whom and for what, he never said.
Sometimes Lucius would pause, glance at his wife and tiny son, and look…contented.
One door to the study was open, and he turned his back resolutely on the great room and went to his father's bookshelves, the collection that Lucius had referenced most often in his work, searching for the dark green book that was the touchstone of the puzzle. Pawing dust away from the shelves, Draco sneezed, his eyes watering as he tried to remember which shelf it was on.
Third from the left, four down from the ceiling.
The last time he'd seen his father search, the correct shelf had seemed much higher off the floor. Now it was on level with his eyes.
Covering his nose and mouth with his sleeve, he dusted with his other hand, and found the green book there, its title faded to illegibility. He edged the book to the edge of the shelf and lined it there precisely with his thumb, then sought the book with the black spine, two shelves left, one down, and the red book, three right and one up, holding his breath at the barest whisper of a sound when he lined them all correctly. In the center, a silver-spined book shone dully, and he drew it forward.
"Sanguinis Fidelis," he said softly, and took a step backward as the shelves inverted, folding like an accordion into wizard-space and leaving a narrow stone stair exposed in the middle. The Mark throbbed again on his arm, and he had the strangest idea that it was in response to his incantation.
He thought lumos, lifting his wand to illuminate the slick and mildewed steps, mold creeping in the corners.
And couldn't help a slightly smug smile, a trace of the old Draco, as he walked down into the darkness. No matter how many times Weasley had raided the manor, he'd never found this room. And unless Lucius had spoken a secret that had been kept in the family for centuries, the Dark Lord didn't know about it either.
Which didn't mean it was safe to linger, he reprimanded himself, and moved more quickly down the steps, sliding a little on the last and slimiest one, skidding to a stop on the dirt floor. It smelled as only an old cellar could, of dead earth that hadn't seen the sun in who knew how long, all but incapable of nurturing life.
Given the kinds of things Lucius Malfoy kept down here, it was highly appropriate.
In the furthest corners of the room stood the matching stone towers that Draco privately called Iron Maidens, though he knew they were meant for something far worse than that. Old, mostly useless potions in their vials littered the shelves, and the last of the supply of Polyjuice Lucius kept habitually—that he slipped into his pocket, remembered belatedly that there was a hole the size of his fist in that pocket, and transferred it to the other.
Who would have ever guessed that one of the spells on the top of his personal list of things to learn was a charm for sewing up holes in his clothes?
In one corner, he found a battered old briefcase and surveyed it with trepidation before opening it, braced for Morgana only knew what. Maybe the thing would lunge at him like the Monster Book of Monsters and take his arm off. If he was lucky, it would take the arm with the Mark on it.
Just a briefcase. He nestled the sealed bottles of potions in it carefully, figuring that he'd have time to identify them later. His father wasn't likely to notice their absence for some time.
Cauldrons gone rusty with disuse were heaped on top of the trunk he needed, and he hauled them onto the workbench, dragging the trunk out into the center of the room, studiously avoiding the sturdy lock. The lock was a trap; Lucius had once mentioned, laughing, that he'd gotten it from Borgin and Burkes for a bargain. Anything gotten at Borgin and Burkes was to be regarded with deepest suspicion.
Puzzling over it, he waved his wand brighter and held his breath as padlock wobbled ominously.
"Sanguinis Fidelis," he whispered again hesitantly; there was no other password that his father had ever used in front of him.
The twin snakes that formed the hasp writhed around, rubbing their cheeks together as they arched upward, iron bellies gliding along the lower half of the padlock. Twin mouths opened, and two pairs of fangs, wickedly sharp, gaped.
There was no slot for a key. His hand shook a little before he forced it steady, and held his thumb out, the soft underside facing up. The twin snakes struck quickly, and he jerked backward, shaking his thumb and sucking on it, hoping they weren't poisonous.
A drop of his blood slipped down their fangs, and the snakes nodded, coiling around each other as they slipped upward, through the latch, and then it seemed they almost braced for impact before the lock fell to the floor, the slightly larger snake covering the smaller's head with its own.
Sanguinis Fidelis, Draco remembered, roughly translated to blood loyalty.
The irony—the multitude of reasons for this theft—was enough that he laughed, even though a lump rose in his throat.
But this was the treasure trove he'd come for: books upon books of dubious origin and unpleasant intent, most with their covers decayed beyond recognition, others perfectly preserved and fit to be sold as new. Dark Magic, buried histories, all the knowledge that was forbidden—things his father had never let him see, and certainly never even hinted at in mixed company. It was, he thought, cradling a book titled The Cult of Walpurgia, history written—so far—from the loser's point of view…and this particular history should never have been written at all.
He would take all of them.
"Habetum," he whispered, with a cautious flick of his wand at the briefcase, and tried the largest of his father's books. It sank easily into the space, rattling a little against the bottles of potion, and with a few more flicks of his wand he created enough wizard space to pack the books tightly together. Clicking the locks shut, he froze, sweat breaking all at once on his forehead.
He'd heard something.
Nox, he thought belatedly, and the cellar was pitch-dark. He held his breath and listened for it again, the slightest creak which might just have been the sound of an old house, but he doubted it.
A squeak. Maybe a mouse.
Merlin, let it be a mouse. He'd leave a wheel of cheese for it, someday, if it was a mouse.
Something slammed into his knee, and he bellowed, flinging curses willy-nilly and snatching the briefcase up, almost dislocating his shoulder in the process, backing in the direction of the steps.
"Stealing…my masters' things!" Someone shouted, and he flung another stupefy before the words sunk in, and something hard pummeled his shins.
"Lumos," he said aloud, peering downward and yelping as Miggs slammed the serving tray into his shin again. "Miggs, stop! Stop! It's me."
The wizened elf peered upward through rheumy eyes and cringed a little, her tiny hand brushing a lock of grey hair out of her face.
"M-Master Draco?" Her eyes were the size of dinner plates and she sniffled, swiping a finger over her long, thin nose. "Master Draco is alive?"
"Yes. I thought you would…" He trailed off, unsure what she would have done. She was bound to the house, even if its owners were jailed, dead, or on the run. He dropped to a crouch, setting the briefcase on the floor. "You're still here."
"Yes, sir," she squeaked. "Waiting for the Master to come back, and my Mistress, oh my Mistress…"
"They're not coming back," he said roughly. "Do you want to go where…what's his name…Doddy went?"
"Dobby, sir?" She blinked, and fussed with the hem of her tea cozy. "Dobby left his family," she said reproachfully. "Miggs will never betray her family, that she has served all her life…"
"You wouldn't be betraying me. Look, it's not safe for you here." And he hadn't even thought of her, Draco thought, staring at her sad little wrinkled face as she fidgeted, clearly unwilling to go. "Go to Dobby," he said gruffly, and straightened, hefting the briefcase. "I'm the only free member of the family, so you have to go where I tell you. Go where Dobby is. If Profess—Headmistress McGonagall asks you questions, tell her the truth. Tell her I sent you to Hogwarts, and that…tell her the truth," he repeated, his voice breaking treacherously. "And if you see anyone wearing this," he added, rallying as he thrust the Dark Mark before the weeping elf, "come and tell me who, and where they were. Immediately."
"But…the house, sir, Malfoy Manor." She stared up at him pleadingly.
"Let it go," he said softly, and wished, as he trudged up the stone steps into the empty house that was all the home he'd ever known, that he could do the same.
The shrieking of Mrs. Black sent Hermione flying off the sofa and almost into the fireplace before she remembered what it was.
"Shut up shut up shut up!" roared Harry's voice, and clearly audible, the sounds of he and Ron wrestling to pull the curtains over the portrait that continued to defy all laws of man and God, stubbornly glued to the wall.
ACCURSED FILTH BEFOULING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS, TRAITORS AND MUDBLOODS THAT DARE TO CROSS THE THRESHOLD OF THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE OF—
Her screams ended abruptly, and neither Ron nor Harry dared to even mutter an aggravated curse as they tiptoed into the sitting room.
"If this house came down, that one wall would still be there, standing over the rubble," Ron said disgustedly, throwing himself into a chair, and brightening as he caressed the leather. "Watch, Hermione." He jerked the lever and the footrest popped up, prompting a delighted sigh.
"Yes, I know," she said, amused. "It's a recliner, Ron."
"It's brilliant. Blimey, I hope Dad doesn't notice the handle—he'll try to take it apart."
Noticing Harry's tight-lipped face, she turned and tapped his knee. "Mundungus?"
"Still unconscious. The Healers can't figure out what Wentworth did to him." His feet jigged impatiently on the carpet. "We have to work on one of the others. We know he's got Helga Hufflepuff's cup…"
"But we don't know where," Ron replied. "It could be anywhere."
"Yeah, but it'll be somewhere that means something to Voldemort." Harry's green eyes flicked to the map pinned above the mantle, a far cry from the genius of the Marauder's Map, but useful nevertheless. On scattered points throughout England, small black flags waved as though caught in a breeze. "The Riddle House," he mused aloud, and that flag swelled and turned red.
"It's too near the Gaunt's," Hermione objected, and faltered when Harry looked at her. "I mean—wouldn't it be better to spread them out?"
"It wouldn't matter. Voldemort never expected us to know so much about him, and he probably doesn't know I dreamed of him in the Riddle House when he killed the gardener." His face turned mutinous, and she could see him preparing for battle. "We're going there."
"Not just the three of us, and not tonight," she said flatly, and rolled her eyes at his expression. "It would be a stupid, reckless thing to do, Harry, and if the horcrux has sat there for twenty years, it can sit there another night."
"So who are we going to take with us?" He retorted. "Neville and Luna are probably a bit busy, don't you think? And Gin—" He cut himself off at the warning flare in Ron's eyes. "She'd want to go if she could and you know it."
"But she can't, and that's that. We'll see who can go. But Hermione's right, we're not going just because you're frustrated." Ron snapped the recliner down, agitated, and stood to look at the map. "Wonderful," he said, his lower lip curling. "What'd you call it—a broken-down ruin with a graveyard next door?"
"What, did you think Voldemort would pick a sunny spot of sand for us to find?" Harry grinned, and relaxed, leaning back and propping his feet up on the coffee table. "Why couldn't your Dad have got rid of two recliners, Hermione?"
"Oddly enough, he thinks a man only needs one." She smiled, relieved that Harry wasn't going to go kiting off on another possibly fatal mission. "I'll ask him, next time I see him." She stood up, slinging her satchel of books over her shoulder, and bent to kiss Harry's cheek—an affectionate gesture she wouldn't have managed a few months ago, but the constant and very real possibility of death made her a little more demonstrative.
"Where're you going?"
To be fair, she stood on tiptoe to kiss Ron on the cheek too. "Hogwarts. Lessons with Professor McGonagall. I mean, Headmistress."
The words still refused to trip off her tongue, but in their minds, there was only one Hogwarts Headmaster.
"Be careful," Harry said, unsmiling, and she nodded as she slipped out the door, to tiptoe past Mrs. Black.
She Apparated into Hogsmeade just as the tall clock in the square was tolling nine o'clock, shrugging her cloak higher over her shoulders, slightly unbalanced on the slippery road by the heavy bag on her back. Madam Rosmerta waved from the door of the Three Broomsticks, where she was sweeping snow away from the entrance, and Aberforth at the Hog's Head harrumphed and turned away as she walked by, slamming the door behind him.
Wandering past the second Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, where Zonko's Joke Shop used to be, she wondered both uneasily and fondly whether Fred and George were here or at Diagon Alley. If she ignored their questionable pranks, she could admit they were brilliant. She smiled slightly as she remembered the highly effective Daydream Charm she'd bought when Harry and Ron weren't looking.
The missed Arithmancy lesson had been worth it.
The wind cut like an icy knife and she burrowed deeper behind her scarf, walking half bent over as she turned off the main street of Hogsmeade. Her eyes watered, and she squinted as a familiar figure wove its way toward the castle, singing God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs at the top of his lungs and horrendously off-key.
Grinning, she sped as fast as she dared after him. "Hagrid?"
"Whozzat?" He turned, stumbled a bit, and his beard split in an answering smile. "Hermione! What're yeh doin' here, an' after dark?"
"Lessons with the Headmistress," she replied, and cocked an eyebrow. "What are you doing, out alone and after dark?"
"Liftin' a few glasses with Aberforth for Dumbledore." His lower lip trembled a bit. "Great man, Dumbledore."
"The best," she agreed softly, as he relieved her of her satchel, slinging it over his shoulder as if it were filled with feathers.
"How's Harry, then?" He asked.
"Restless." Hermione kicked a bit of snow glumly. "It's not easy."
"No, I wouldn' think so. Yeh don' need my help, do yeh?" Hagrid might've been reeling, but his eyes were steady as he peered down at her. Recalling the expedition to Little Hangleton, she nodded, chewing on her lip.
"Maybe. I have to ask Harry, but…don't make any plans for tomorrow night."
"An' I was plannin' to run off with Olympe," he said dryly, nodding. "All righ'."
That sorted it, then. Harry might not say so, but he'd be glad to have Hagrid with them—and most Death Eaters would think twice before attacking the half-giant. It would take a lot of wizards and one almighty effort to bring Hagrid down.
"How's Buckbeak?" She asked presently.
"I took him ter see Grawp…day before yesterday," He said, after thinking it over. "They'll get used ter each other."
He only used that particularly airy, careless voice when things had gone terribly badly. She checked his face rapidly—no marks that she could see. Between Grawp and Buckbeak, it was a toss-up as to who would win.
"An' here yeh are." Hagrid gave her an affectionate pat on the head that knocked her to her knees, and absently picked her up by her collar before dropping the satchel on her head. "Yeh're a good girl, Hermione," he said, staring at the castle gates for a moment before shaking his head, turning on his heel, and weaving off in the direction of his hut. "G'night!" He called over his shoulder.
"Good night," she muttered, brushing the snow off her knees and hoisting the satchel back onto her shoulders. The gates creaked open, and McGonagall was there, wrapped warmly against the cold and wearing a singularly ugly hat, her lips pursed.
"Good evening, Miss Granger."
Endnote: Before someone asks, I use the University of Notre Dame's Latin translation site for spells and incantations, and no, they are probably not grammatically correct. JKR wings her Latin, so at least I'm following in distinguished footsteps. Sanguinis Fidelis: fidelis meaning faithful, and Sanguinis means more than simply "blood"—it means family, and the blood bond between them.