So, Malfoy Manor is big.
Not quite Hearst Castle big or Versailles big, but definitely like Belton House big. I might have just switched from Harry Potter to Pride and Prejudice, but a quick glance at my Bulgarian wizard date confirms that that is not the case.
Upon apparating to the edge of the grounds, my first impression has been that I truly cannot find another vestibule as far as the eye can see. The amount of privacy allotted here is troubling, but not entirely surprising. The Death Eater home-base would hardly be ideal if it had nosy neighbors.
The dewed lawn wets my toes and makes me shiver. Krum has wound my arm through his, which is fortuitous because we run into at least four layers of magical wards before actually emerging onto the pebbled drive. While Flitwick's ingenious spellwork got me through them relatively unscathed, it was not exactly smooth sailing. Krum had to physically put his arm around me and muscle me through some of them while we attempted to keep our stride steady and our faces straight. Needless to say, my hair needs a little fixing now that we've reached the arched entryway of the front guardhouse. The hairs of my arms spring to attention; I can feel eyes on us as we continue through the structure.
Krum secures my hand in the crook of his arm as we trudge onto the long-ass drive, heading towards the majestic front doors. There are sparse other couples in front of us and behind us. For the most part we are definitely some of the last to arrive.
Despite its isolation, Malfoy Manor is still elegantly walled. Cast iron lampposts line our way through the tunneled entry and to the drive which cuts through the front lawns, leading to the main house. We begin the trek, no longer hindered by discernable magical barriers, and follow the now well-lit path until we are at the foot of some sweeping cultured stone stairs. A beautifully carved bannister slopes alongside the steps, which narrow as you near the front doors.
"Do your best not to be separated from me," Krum speaks low as we ascend, "Say the vord 'Hufflepuff' if you think ve are in danger of discovery, and I vill do the same." I squeeze the top of his arm with my free hand to let him know I understand. They could have secrecy charms or listening spells littered anywhere around the property; we should no longer speak freely.
The massive, polished, mahogany front doors swing open before we've even cleared the top step. Inside, about knee-height, is a wrinkly-faced, bat-eared creature which can be none other than a house elf. "Your names, if you please?" it squeaks as we approach the threshold, and I struggle not to stare. It looks like a large, bald gremlin. Viktor, who has definitely fucking seen a house elf before, responds for us, his voice resonating importantly, "Viktor Krum and Sjofn Kent."
Its bulbous blue eyes widen only slightly, but the implication is clear. Our arrival has been anxiously awaited. The pointy-nosed being bows low, its striped pillowcase outfit swaying with the energy of the action. "Please follow," it squeaks again, and it straightens and begins to bounce away, leading us into the manor. We can't be more than two steps inside when the doors bang shut once more, despite another couple ascending the stairs imminently. To my left I see a line of similarly-dressed house elves waiting just inside the doors, presumably to act as guides to each guest as they enter. I turn back to our elf as we are quickly led through the marble-tiled foyer of the mansion. I glance around the entry just in time to catch sight of what is clearly a collection of wizard Renoir paintings adorning one massive wall before we enter a dim hallway.
All of the furnishings are rich – forest green, satin-embossed walls paired with gleaming silver sconces. The trim moldings along the ceiling and shiny mahogany floors are painfully intricate, screaming wealth. We stride past several handsome mahogany doors on our path to the back of the manor, all shut tight. I mentally try to assess each painting we pass, but although they watch us and move in their frames, none of them make a sound.
We turn a corner into a slightly larger hallway that is lined on one side with windows and French doors. Several sets of the doors are open, allowing for elves with serving trays to exit and enter freely. They're servicing the party, which is now visible, sprawled in silvery splendor all about the gargantuan back patio, steps, and in the rear gardens. The set of open, diamond-paned doors nearest us is clearly the main entryway to the gathering.
As we step out, I take in the atmosphere as quickly as possible. Elegant witches in muggle evening gowns stand diligently either by the sides of their dates, or in groups chatting behind their hands. The wizards I can see are all in dress robes of varying shades, conversing amicably with one another or smirking knowingly at the witches beside them. Everyone is remarkably relaxed, they're all in their element. Safe.
Fuck, there's got to be over 150 people here.
The patio itself is huge, comfortably accommodating at least twenty-five impeccably decorated high-topped tables and their chairs. Twinkling fairly lights – actual fairies? Don't look too closely – are strung in alternating hues of gold and silver, shedding shadowed light upon the festivities. Above the patio, on a balcony which juts from the third story, is a pianist. Upon further consideration, it could just be a spelled piano, but whatever it is, it's currently playing Chopin's Nocturne No. 2 in E-flat.
Honeysuckle grows riotously along the edges of the stone bannisters, hedging the area, punctuated occasionally by excessively thorny white rose bushes. The combined effect is a sickly sweet smell which makes me have to resist the urge to wrinkle my nose.
My eyes flicker as they scan –once –twice. I flinch in confusion, but as understanding dawns, my stomach drops. Nausea roils to the back of my throat.
Oh, god. Oh, shit.
My stride falters, and I feel Viktor stiffen next to me – he must have seen them as well. He recovers faster than I do and strengthens his grip on my arm, practically hauling me along behind our elf-guide.
What, at first glance, had appeared to be hyper-realistic statues in varying poses are not statues at all. Perched on intermittent stone pedestals, located on the outskirts of the main space, are actually naked people, frozen where they stand.
Muggles. In chains.
Outwardly, I struggle to regain my composure. Internally, I'm screaming. Our mission tonight was simply to get a foothold in the organization, violence was only supposed to be an afterthought. How are we going to save them? My heart rate refuses to slow as I take in each one of their terrified faces, eight of them in total. If I start shooting right now, there's almost no way we'd make it out alive.
Their bodies are spelled to be still, but that doesn't stop many of them from crying horrified, fearful tears. Many of the witches and wizards are assessing them from afar with ill-disguised revulsion and loathing. A red film assails my vision, and I'm reaching for my spelled ring to change into my ass-kicking uniform when Viktor squeezes my arm with his, stopping me.
Furious, I flit my gaze up to his. His jarringly dark eyes bore into mine, but they convey an unbearable sadness which he means for me to see. He must have known we might encounter something as horrible as this, and he's trying to tell me he's sorry.
My hand drifts away from my transformer-ring, my heart breaking. Our mission tonight is fucking critical, and it would be hugely irresponsible to jeopardize it. We may not be able to save them.
Steel bands encircle my heart as my stubborn soul digs its heels in. I refocus my gaze on one captive in particular, a girl. She can't be more than eleven, the youngest one by a long shot, and I feel a resolute sort of determination.
If nothing else tonight, I will fucking save her.
My face is composed, my body calm, as our guide finally halts in front of a foursome standing comfortably along the patio edge. Our designated house elf bows low in front of its master and squeaks importantly, "Mister Krum and Missus Kent, if you please, sir."
Lucius Malfoy simply flicks the wrist of one hand, sending the elf away. His cold gaze looks me up and down before flitting to Viktor. "Mister Krum," he greets my date with an authoritative tone laced with some derision. Viktor simply nods in greeting, muttering, "A pleasure, Mister Malfoy." His face is impassive, neither unimpressed nor simpering.
Lucius turns to look at me once more. He is wearing dress robes of a green so dark they're nearly black. His signature cane rests lazily in his hand. "Miss Sjofn," he sneers, "So pleased you could join us."
I give him a wide, dazzling smile, despite my roaring insides. "Well aren't we formal?" I tease, and his mouth tightens just a tad, "I tell you, I've been looking forward to this shindig since we bumped into each other at that tacky-ass joke shop. Sjofn Kent, so pleased to meet you, thank you for the invitation." I've turned abruptly to face the blonde waif standing stiffly beside Lucius, my hand outstretched.
Narcissa Malfoy takes the tips of my fingers delicately in her small hand, sniffing. "Narcissa Malfoy," she introduces herself, in a soft, cold voice. I wink and give her fingers a slight squeeze, answering conspiratorially, "Don't I know it."
As she withdraws her hand, Narcissa gives me a haughty once-over. Her modest satin gown, in the same dark green as her husband, sharply contrasts my loud, denim number. Beside the Malfoys are a witch and a wizard my Harry-Potter-educated mind cannot place.
"Rabastan Lestrange," The lanky, brown-haired man in front of me introduces himself, as though reading my mind. He doesn't offer a hand to shake, keeping his narrowed eyes on Viktor. "And while pleasantries are fine enough," he continues, his voice low and dangerous, "I think I'm going to have to cut them short and get right to the point."
Lucius and Narcissa look at Rabastan irritatedly, but say nothing. Behind us, I can feel at least two figures have approached our backs. They crowd even closer, and I feel the prod of a wand on the exposed skin between my shoulder blades, giving me a small burn.
"Vot is the point, then?" Viktor snaps at Lucius, not addressing Lestrange, "If you have questions, ask them. But do so quickly before I decide to take offense vith McNair for pointing his vand at my guest."
Lucius flicks his eyes up to the wizard standing behind me, giving a minute shake of his head. The wand withdraws from my skin, but I sense that it is still poised, not far away. I toss my hair over my shoulder and give Narcissa a small, sympathetic smile. "It's quite alright," I tell her, as though it's just us girls, "Scars tell the best stories, I'm sure you agree." Her cold mask flickers, and a small modicum of interest seems to light behind her eyes as she considers me.
"Lucius," Rabastan spits out, having turned to the pale blonde Death Eater, "Just because he's a famous quidditch player-"
"The Dark Lord," Malfoy interrupts him with an impatient drawl, "Considers his loyalties worth investigating, Lestrange. Do you wish to contradict the Dark Lord?" His tone turns mocking as he continues to stare down his colleague, "Hmm? Shall I call him here for you to voice your concerns?"
Lestrange growls but says nothing more. The witch standing between him and Narcissa gives a low, rumbling chuckle. "Sweet Salazar, Rabastan," she teases him coldly, "You're beginning to sound like your sister-in-law." Her catlike gaze returns to Viktor and I, specifically me. She's positively stunning in an almost ethereal way. Her pixie-cut, black hair shines with natural gloss, and her almond-shaped blue eyes assess me with predatory ease. Her mocha-colored skin glows with sensual promise, and her full, painted lips are upturned with an inviting sneer. She's curvaceous, like myself, but tall like a model. Her shimmering silver gown displays her assets with almost indecent clarity. "I am Gaia," she purrs – yes, actually fucking purrs – to me, "Gaia Zabini."
Recognition must have shown on my face, because she gives another low chuckle. "Yes, I'm afraid the rumors are true. The death of my late husband-," Which one? Haven't there been like, seven? "-has left me positively desperate for worthy company." She widens her predatory smile, her tone almost a seductive whine. Her eyes appraise my chest and hips more daringly than almost any man I've encountered, and I feel my eyebrows rise toward my hairline in genuine surprise.
"You requested attendance this evening, Mister Krum," Lucius interrupts Gaia lowly, his sinister grey eyes focused on Viktor. "I know you to be a skilled and clever man; I watched you play the World Cup two years ago, and followed your progression in the TriWizard Tournament." Lestrange scoffs aloud, but Lucius continues, enunciating each word as though weighted with importance, "But we have a great many reasons to suspect you are not being entirely honest in your motivations to make our acquaintance."
The air around our huddle is incredibly tense. I keep my face impassive as Viktor responds, impatiently, "I vos taught at the greatest school of the Dark Arts in the vorld. Vere I come from, ve know the difference between friend and foe." Quickly, he turns his head and spits onto the stone next to his feet. "Karkaroff," he practically growls the name, "vos too great a coward to stand for his beliefs. To stand for vot is right." He's practically vibrating with irritation now.
Absolutely fucking brilliant.
"May ve do this more privately?" he snaps, aiming his ire still at Lucius, "Avay from this show of filth you've insisted on making part of your decoration?" He lifts his chin at the closest captive, which happens to be a young man, maybe my age. Though his body cannot even twitch, I see the beads of sweat which dot his forehead and chest.
Lucius ignores him, but Narcissa leans just slightly towards Gaia in order to whisper into her ear. Both women's eyes are alight with something akin to excitement. "You were correct in thinking I would need to ask you about Igor," Lucius' lip curls as he speaks of Karkaroff, "His penchant for cowardice is one we fear may have been passed along to his students."
But Krum is already vehemently shaking his head. "I can assure ve most certainly have not adopted the practice." As an afterthought he adds, "He vos a good headmaster." Lucius raises a pale eyebrow. "He restored Durmstrang to its former glory," Viktor explains, as though it were obvious, "He refused entry to the mudbloods, and dismissed those currently attending. Not everything he did vos vorthless." Lucius eyes are sharp on us, and I can't discern his mood. Lestrange has turned his back on everyone, his arms crossed, pouting like a child.
"But," Viktor's tone changes, to an almost conspiratorial playfulness, and I see Lucius' attention intensify, "I expected the mistrust. That is vhy I brought vith me a gift. To illustrate that my sympathies lie in the correct place."
"Wot gift?" The rather massive, buzz-cut wizard rumbles out from behind Viktor, his wand still aimed at our backs.
I swing my arm quickly behind Krum, extending my hand as far as I can reach in the direction of the man who spoke. With a cheeky grin and a wink, I chirp at him, "Sjofn Kent, bona-fide American witch, certified chaos expert. Nice to meet you."