The gardens of Malfoy Manor were considered the finest in Wizarding Britain. This was partially due to Narcissa Malfoy's keen eye for beauty, color, and expensive florals; and partially due to the team of "garden elves" that Lucius gave her on their first anniversary. The three house elves had been specially trained in the gardening arts, and could do anything with a plot of land and a few seeds.

It was no surprise that it was a favorite spot for weddings. At least once a year some relation of the Malfoys showered Narcissa with gifts and casually requested to hold the ceremony in the gardens. Narcissa rarely approved, but every once in a while a lucky couple were permitted to use the gardens furthest from the house for the event.

Hermione, who was nearing the end of her second year in school, grinned as smoothed the silver dress robe. It was customary to wear your family colors to Pureblood Societal events, so she, Draco, and her father were all dressed in Malfoy silver.

Her mother, dressed in stunning robes of Malfoy silver and her original Black black, tied a green sash firmly around Hermione's waist.

"You're growing up so quickly," she said, smiling over Hermione's shoulder at their reflection in the mirror. "Stop that."

Grinning back, Hermione rested her cheek against her mother's, "Sorry, can't."

Her mother kissed her cheek gently, and then pulled away. "If anyone asks you why you haven't been at school-"

"I'll tell them it's because Father doesn't trust Professor Dumbledore to keep us safe." Hermione frowned at her reflection, "I wish you would let me go back," she sighed, "I'm going to fail my exams at this rate-"

"You won't," shot her mother, now working two goblin-made hair combs into Hermione's thick mane, "It's better to have you here, knowing you're safe. When the attacks on Muggleborns stop you can go back."

"Draco should go back, at the very least."

"That would raise questions too. You're safer here, away from that mess." Narcissa summoned a jar from an open chest on Hermione's bed, and began to spread something thick and sweet-smelling on Hermione's hair. Ringlets formed instantly.

I look like a doll, she thought.

"You look very pretty," countered the familiar voice in her head. A voice that was supposed to stay silent when they weren't alone.

"Stop that," Hermione growled.

Narcissa sighed, "I'm not pulling at all, darling. Just one more- there. All done." She closed the jar, and raked Hermione with an appraising eye. "Perfect," she said finally, breaking into a smile. "If we don't get five betrothal requests before day's end I'll be surprised."

A furious blush spread across Hermione's features, as Bellatrix howled with laughter in her head.

"Now, let's go find Draco and your father. Our guests will be arriving shortly."

The wedding of Priscilla Drew to Anthony Burke was lovely, traditional, and utterly boring. Hermione reflected later that she would have hated to be Priscilla. Instead of the focus being on the bride, it was on the hosts. All through the ceremony the guests twittered about the flowers- especially the softly glowing cherry blossoms that rained down on them from the glorious pink canopy above.

During the reception, more toasts were made to the host than the couple, and people kept coming up to them to say thank you.

"Why do they keep telling me I'm next?" whispered Hermione to her father.

He chuckled, and wrapped an arm around her, "Because they think my little lioness is going to settle for the first proposal she hears."

"Ugh. Why is it that when a girl grows breasts they think the only thing she cares about is marriage?"

Hermione privately thought that Bellatrix was right.

Draco, who was sitting on her other side, sighed audibly. Like Hermione, he too had been subjected to the contents of Narcissa's store of beauty products. His hair had been slicked against his head. There was so much gel in his hair that Hermione was grateful the day was cloudy. Had the sun been out, she was certain they would all surely have been blinded.

Glancing at him from the corner of her eye, Hermione smiled. She had missed being close to him. They spent as much time as they could together at Hogwarts, but unfortunately their schedules were so different that "as much time as they could" turned out to be a few hours during the weekend.

Since their forced absence from Hogwarts, Draco and Hermione had been each other's constant companions. They studied together (Narcissa had marched into Hogwarts right after they returned home and demanded copies of the Professors' lesson plans), played together, devised plans for their futures together… It was nearly like old times. Except that when they built a blanket fort in the corner of The Lookout- thus creating their customary 'secret-sharing hideaway'- Hermione found herself holding back the biggest secret she had. True, when she shared how lonely she was in Gryffindor, especially now that Harry was spending most of his time with the Weasley's, Draco felt it was a just trade for his confession of the crush he had on Professor McGonagall.

But guilt washed over Hermione every time she decided to keep her secret a little longer.

"He can't know," came the cool response. "Not yet. He'll tell Cissy."

Indignation caused Hermione's cheeks to pinken, and she forced a smile as her father glanced over to smile knowingly at her. She must have missed something that was said. We don't know that he would tell Mother, she contradicted. And stop reading my mind!

"I can't help it. Your thoughts are very loud today. Here I am, trying to sleep, and all you can do is angst."

They were still figuring out what Bellatrix could and could not 'see' in Hermione's mind. Most of her thoughts and memories were protected, especially if she used Occlumency (much to Bellatrix's disapproval). But her dreams could be very easily read, as could any train of thought that Hermione didn't shield first.

Of course, not even Occlumency could keep Bellatrix out completely. Although the imprisoned witch was incapable of reading Hermione's thoughts, she was still quite able to speak. On her more impatient days she was prone to singing obnoxious songs over and over until Hermione started 'talking' to her again.

Angst isn't a verb.

"It is when it's applied to teenagers."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione turned her eyes to the bride and groom. They were clasping hands for the binding ceremony, each was shooting ribbons from their wand to wrap over their joined hands.

Were you ever married? It was a tricky question, Hermione knew. While Bellatrix was perfectly happy to tell humiliating stories about Narcissa, and wax poetic about the glory of Lord Voldemort, she loathed talking about herself. Most conversations in that area lasted a few minutes before Hermione felt the same rolling unease in her stomach.

Apparently, Bellatrix was in a talkative mood today. "Yes. I think I still am."

Think?

"I was a much prettier bride though. They put my picture in the Prophet. Should have kept it, now that I think about it."

Who did you marry?

Bellatrix's annoyance shot through Hermione so unexpectedly that the brunette gasped. Her father glanced over questioningly, and she flashed him a smile. "Pretty," she whispered, nodding to where the ribbons around the bride and groom had begun to glow with golden light. Luckily, her father bought it, and turned his attention back to the ceremony.

Bellatrix's voice was edged with something hard when she finally answered the question. "Rodolphus LeStrange. What an idiot. It's thanks to that stupid halfwit that we got caught."

And sent to Azkaban? Asked Hermione carefully.

Bellatrix ignored her, "But I rarely saw him. He prefered the company of whores- oh, get over it, they exist- to his wife, and I would rather-" Apparently she decided that it was better not to finish that sentence, "Let's just say that the marriage was fruitless, and one day I intend to have it annulled."

Oh.

A laugh sounded in her head, "Not everything is romance and fluff, little dove. Most of life is vinegar. So it would be better to build up your tolerance now."

I have a pretty high tolerance now.

There was a fleeting feeling of warmth, and then it vanished. In its wake grew a frigid cold that raised goosebumps all over Hermione's skin.

I'm sorry.

There was a sigh, "Don't be, it's not your fault. It's never your fault."

Bellatrix was always shivering, it seemed. It was the worst part of this place, the biting cold that stung but never numbed. Her bed, thankfully, had a warming charm. As did the thin woolen blanket that she wore as a cloak.

She sat on the foot of her bed in the tiny cell, feet tucked under her body for warmth. The steel door had a small circular window at the top, just large enough for someone to stick their wand-hand through. Maybe a ladle full of porridge or watery stew. On christmas they received a splash of weak tea and a hunk of dry fruitcake.

The walls were so close together that if she sat on her bed she could rest her shoulders against one wall, and press her feet flat against the other. the space between the edge of her bed and the wall was so small that she had to turn sideways to walk.

Today, she sat facing the barred window. There was no glass, so whenever it rained the water came pouring in. As a result, her cell was almost always damp, the foot of her bed nearly always soaked through. Mold had bloomed across the walls and ceiling. The sickly-sweet musk of mildew tainted the air and made her wheeze.

A red metal bowl sat on the windowsill, collecting drinking water. This was her most prized possession. It held her porridge in the morning, her stew in the evening, the daily rations of water they gave out at noon and at bedtime. It also collected rainwater for drinking during the day, because no person could live off of the splash of water twice a day that they received. When the stench of a life without bathing became too much she dunked a corner of her uniform in it and did her best to scrub herself clean. On her birthday each year she used it to wash her hair. When she lost her temper she threw it across the room, but always lamented the chips and scrapes in the enamel afterwards.

Slowly, she unfolded her legs and stood. The icy stone beneath her feet made her wince, but she was grateful to stand and shake the pins and needles from her limbs.

With shaking hands she pulled the red bowl to her, and drank thirstily from it. The water was cold and tasted of mold, but it soothed the itch of throat in her throat.

The movements caused the chapped skin of her hands to stretch painfully. Cracks that had recently scabbed over re-opened, and she hissed as new beads of blood pebbled across her knuckles.

Is everything ok?

She cursed privately. Although Hermione had not yet learned how to enter Bellatrix's mind (she was constantly grateful for that-the girl was scandalised far too easily) she was keenly aware of Bellatrix's emotions. "I'm fine, doveling. Just a little sore."

I'm sorry.

The corners of her lips quirked up into something resembling a smile. "Nevermind me. How is the wedding?"

Dull. Draco is chatting with some Quidditch player, Father is talking to the groom, and Mother hasn't left Mr. Gibbon's side for the last-

Head cocked to the side, Bellatrix interrupted, "The elder Gibbon or the younger?"

I'm not sure…

"Show me."

It was always a strange sensation to look through Hermione's eyes. It was very simple, but after years of imprisonment in the North Sea, surrounded by the mists and fog that came hand in hand with Dementors, Hermione's vibrant world seemed too… bright.

As Hermione twisted her head to take in the guests, Bellatrix zeroed in on her sister and her companion.

"The elder then. Hmm." What was Narcissa playing at? Edwin Gibbon had been one of the 'Grey Families' in the last war. Those who refused to side with either the Dark Lord or the Order of the Phoenix. It was well known that many of the Grey Families gave their allegience to Gibbon, and whomever he chose to ally with they surely would as well.

Something's happening, isn't it?

"Of course it is. Something's always happening. But this something is important to us."

Why?

"I don't know yet."

But for the first time since the charismatic Lord Voldemort kissed her hand and invited her to join his legion she felt her convinction waver. It happened so quickly that later that night, while Hermione dreamt of horseback riding through the woods, she denied it had ever happened. She was loyal to her lord. She would always be loyal.

But that did not change the fact that it had wavered.

A/N: The next update will not happen so quickly, but I hope to have it out before too long. Your reviews were just so wonderful that it fuelled my muse. Also- I know that there is a Gibbon among the Death Eaters, so I've decided that there are two Gibbons, the younger who could (in canon) be caught up in the glory of Voldemort's return and join his ranks, and the older, less enchanted Gibbon.

I hope you like it. We are going to be jumping forward in time in the next chapter too. Let me know what you think!