Chapter XVI

Make Thick Thy Blood

Hermione found Lucius Malfoy in Borgin and Burke's. He was standing in front of Hermione's King Arthur collection. The collection was incomplete now. Lancelot's sword and Guinevere's necklaces were still there, but Arthur's crown and the Holy Grail were gone. Hermione supposed that someone must buy things here, or else it would go out of business.

"You are early," he said without looking up.

"I guess," she replied. "The bus made better time than usual."

He grunted. "You are ready, then?"

Hermione nodded. He held out his arm. Hermione grabbed it, and he apparated them away. They walked up the gravel path to the manor in silence. The sun was setting behind the hedge rows.

The front door opened before they reached it. Professor Snape came out and stopped mid-stride when he saw them. His eyes darted between Hermione and Lucius.

"Ah, Severus," Lucius said, "Mustn't keep your master waiting. Dumbledore might start wondering where his dog has gotten to."

Without a word, Snape shot a mocking, squinty look at Lucius and was on his way.

Directly inside was Villy, standing at attention. "Master!" he cried softly. "Miss Hermione!"

Hermione smiled at him and waved. Villy seized upon her travel bag and started lugging it upstairs, but Mr. Malfoy flicked his wrist at the elf. "Later. See to our guests now." Villy blinked and watched them from the third step.

The house itself was in a somber mood. With the sun set and few lamps shedding light down hallways and stairs, it was distinctly dark. Lucius strode meaningfully down the hall next to the main stairs and through the double doors to the dining room. Hermione followed at a distance.

Draco had told his parents of Hermione's choice, and they had invited her to their home over the summer. Hermione agreed, but it was some time before she heard from them again. She had been holed up in Watford. Waiting. Reading the Prophet. There was not one word about Tom, nor, indeed, herself, but pages upon pages smearing Potter and Dumbledore. The Ministry seemed to think it all a hoax, a power grab, or something between the two.

Almost bewilderingly, subsequent "impossible" escapes from Azkaban were consigned to the back pages. The Prophet blamed Sirius Black for the breakout of, among others, the Lestrange family, no doubt using Dumbledore's Voldemort rhetoric to regroup support for the Dark Lord. The Prophet rubbished the notion that Voldemort was back, of course – though managing not to mention Voldemort or any Dark Lord in text.

Hermione finally received a letter in mid-July. Lucius wrote her to arrange a pickup later in the month. Draco also wrote her informing her that there would be other guests. He took extreme pains to not to name them, but made sure she understood that it would be a high-profile event.

So she wasn't completely taken aback when she stepped into a room with six fugitive dark wizards. The first she recognized was near the door, cowering in the dark corner. She may not have seen him but for the reflections of the fireplace in his silver hand. Hermione flinched back from Peter Pettigrew, nearly drawing her wand. He whimpered and drew further away from her. Hermione quickly passed him and followed Lucius forward.

This room was dark as well, lit only by sparse lamps on the walls and healthy flame under the mantle. A long table stood at the center, with the fireplace at one end. Along the table were seated figures that she recognized. Edward Nott looked as displeased as ever, sitting next to two large men that resembled two large Slytherins that Hermione knew. She saw Draco nearest the fireplace, and he smiled at her. Narcissa was there, too, and others she didn't know. Hermione was surprised, too, to see Nicholas Greengrass, comparatively small and unimposing in this company. He sat very still and was intent on watching the table.

Past these, further from the fire and less well lit, Hermione screwed up her eyes to identify faces from the Prophet. Augustus Rockwood, Rabastan Lestrange and his brother. Sat at the head of the table, a figure whose face was shadowy, and at his shoulder stood a woman Hermione recognized even in the poor light by her mess of hair: Bellatrix Lestrange. Every few moments the flicker of flames would illuminate her grinning face, more unsettling in person that in Dumbledore's memories.

"My lord," Lucius said, bowing to the shadowy figure, "Hermione Granger."

So it was Tom. Hermione had worried, wondered, wished for this. Tom had wanted her as a child, he would want her now, too.

He raised a pale hand and gestured with his long fingers for her to step forward. Lucius retreated past her, taking a seat further down the table.

"I am told you are close to Harry Potter." His voice was cold, airy – unlike the Tom she had talked with. And he said it like a threat.

"Oh, no," Hermione said quickly. "Only by proximity, and not by choice."

"Oh?" he said, and waited.

"I… we seem to run into each other," she said. "It's not like I like him. I don't. Really. Him and Weasley annoy me to no end. Really."

Tom rotated his wrist so that the bones cracked louder than the fire. "As with Dumbledore?"

Hermione couldn't help a moment of cold panic deep in her chest. It took her a second to move her mouth again. "What of him?" she choked out of her dry mouth.

"Child, do not dance around when I question you. I will know your answers, so speak straight the first time."

"I…" Hermione hesitated. Snape had been here just earlier. No doubt Tom already knew Dumbledore had given her lessons. It made no sense to protest. "He promised to teach me. After last year, he didn't want me to talk about Sirius Black –" Bellatrix almost barked, a snapping, cutting noise. Tom raised his hand, silencing her, and then gestured for Hermione to continue. "He didn't want Fudge to know about Sirius or anything about that night, which is to say, when –"

"I have heard from Peter," he interrupted.

"Oh, of course," Hermione said, glancing momentarily over her shoulder to the man in the corner. "In exchange for telling his version of the story, he would give me private lessons."

"Lessons of what?"

"Nothing," she said. "Well, they were supposed to help me. Teach me advanced magic. But he was only interested in manipulating me. He wasn't helping me at all."

Tom stared at her. Hermione thought back to Dumbledore's lessons, trying to recall if he had taught her anything, after all. But she only remembered the memories he showed, the lectures on morality, and the meeting the night of the third task.

"You are not here on his orders?"

Hermione shook her head emphatically. "He wanted to keep me away from you."

The Dark Lord let out a long hiss, something Hermione imagined a snake would sound like if it were to laugh. The sound faded until there was silence. Behind him, Bellatrix licked her lips and stared blatantly at Hermione. Hermione felt sweat drip down the small of her back, though the room was strangely cool for a summer day.

"She is convincing," Tom said at last. "is she not, Augustus?"

A stooping man several seats down stirred. He had blotches on his neck, like the marks of a swift shave that Hermione had seen on her father from time to time. His hair had been sheered close, unlike the stringy hair of his photo in the Prophet. "I might suspect a memory charm, Lord," he said. "Dumbledore is more than capable."

Tom murmured agreeably.

"Severus said nothing of the kind–" Narcissa cut herself off and stared straight across the table at nothing.

"There are questions over Severus, my dear," Lucius said.

"My apologies," she whispered. "I should not have spoken."

Tom didn't pay attention to the Malfoys. "But nothing from your contacts in the Ministry?"

Rockwood sat back in his chair. "Those I trust within the Ministry, even in the Department, are numbered few. But even for Dumbledore, I think it is too desperate a move to involve this girl." He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed his fingers against his temples. "In any case, I doubt she could hide her intentions from you, Lord, were she aware of them or not."

At last, Tom nodded slowly. "I am satisfied." From within his robes he produced a thin, pale wand. "Approach."

Hermione jerked forward, awkward at first, but slowing herself enough to hopefully appear calm. Her insides were screaming incoherently, her heart between panic and ecstasy. This was the moment. There was no choice now that Tom had decided. She would be marked, just like in the last war. Her fate would be tied to his. Draco's bright face at the other end of the table was all she needed to be confident that she was being inducted into a new family, one that would value her for her abilities. Blood could be overcome. Blood was only what flowed through her veins. Magic flowed through her soul and that was all Hermione needed.

She held her forearm out and waited for a pinch, a burn, some sensation she could bite down and show that she was as strong as any pureblood.

Bellatrix let out a long, winded cackle. Her eyes were wide and jubilant. "The dog thinks she's one of us."

Murmurs of laughter spread down the table.

Hermione looked around. Gleeful, cruel faced greeted her.

Above it all – or below it – she heard Tom's hissing laugh. When she turned back toward him, his wand pointed at her chest. "Crucio!"