— CHAPTER ELEVEN —
Christmas at Malfoy Manor
Hermione stood in front of the floor-length mirror in her bedroom, looking at herself in her new dress. The dress had been delivered to her the day before in a box carried by five owls, and when she tried it on, she could not stop staring at her reflection. The dress clung to her like a second skin. The corset bodice fit perfectly, making her chest look sexier than ever before. The long velvet skirt reached the ground, making her appear even slimmer than she was.
Today was the 24th of December. This would be the first Christmas in six years that Hermione would not celebrate with the Weasleys. She had politely declined Mrs Weasley's invitation to the party at The Burrow. She had written her an apologetic letter stating that she wanted to spend Christmas with her parents for once – it was, after all, a family holiday.
Slowly, she turned in front of the mirror. Yes, this dress was perfect; it brought out all the assets of her body. The long skirt swirled around her ankles like a dark waterfall, accentuating the narrowness of her waist.
The fabric of the dress was a very deep, dark shade of green, so dark it almost looked black, except in the spots where it reflected the light in vivid poison-green.
She hadn't used any potions to fix her hair. It had lost its tendency to frizz, except right after it had been washed and dried. She had tucked part of it into a bun on the top of her head, and she had managed to magically attach a silk flower (a golden rose) on her head by interweaving it through her brown tresses with some magically conjured golden threads. The rest of her hair flowed freely down to her shoulders, and Hermione had to agree with Madam Malkin: the forest-green fabric created a beautiful contrast with the chestnut shade of her hair. It had taken her three hours to fix her hair like this, but it had been worth the time.
Absorbed in the contemplation of her reflection, Hermione did not move when she heard a cracking noise somewhere in the house. The door to the room opened and closed; only as a draught ruffled her hair did she turn around, gracefully and unhurriedly, to face the only man whose approval mattered to her.
She looked at the not-so-unwelcome intruder who was leaning casually against the doorframe, gazing at her appreciatively. He was dressed in robes of black velvet with silver snakes embroidered on them, the fabric contrasting with his snowy white skin in an almost otherworldly way. His luminous hair, with its golden sheen, and his glittering steely eyes added to the eerie, intimidating image.
He looked like the devil described in Muggle fables, albeit a terribly handsome devil … a personification of evil, which, in a certain sense, he was. The enemy of the Light side, one who commanded the demons of Hell and tempted people to sin … didn't all these characteristics apply to Lucius? The wizarding world's equivalent of Hell's demons, the Death Eaters, obeyed him … wasn't he the reason Hermione bore the mark of evil on her arm? Hadn't he corrupted her, turned her, a rule-abiding Auror, into a betrayer and a criminal?
Right now, Lucius looked more sinister than the scarlet-eyed, serpentine-faced Voldemort, and as his cool hands rested on her bare shoulders, Hermione had the impression of being touched by the embodiment of evil. She trembled in fear and thrill. The devil's mistress...
He spun her around to face him and Hermione closed her eyes as he leaned down to kiss her.
"You look enchanting, my dear," he drawled, brushing his cool fingers over the nape of her neck. "No, I will go further than that. You look like a perfect pureblood lady of high social rank."
The young Auror smiled at the Dark wizard. "Thank you."
She turned back to the mirror and gave her reflection one last glance. She looked quite the Dark witch herself, mainly because the sleeveless dress did absolutely nothing to cover the mark on her arm. The crimson skull-and-snake tattoo was in plain sight, though Hermione saw no necessity to hide it from view now – her mere presence at the gathering would reveal her allegiance, and if Lucius thought it was safe … he knew these people better than she did, didn't he? The entire Dark side would be attending the celebrations, and perhaps she would be regarded as a hero or at least as someone worthy …
"Are you ready to go? It is nearing seven o'clock."
"I'm ready," she said after a nervous final attempt to adjust her hair.
"Not quite," said Lucius. Hermione saw him pull something out of the pocket of his robes and a spark of green caught her eye. It was a pendant on a chain of gold, which he fastened around her neck. She stared at the gem's reflection in the mirror. It was a large emerald of the same deep shade of green as her dress, set in gold, and it sparkled magnificently against the whitish beige tone of Hermione's skin.
Lucius lifted the silvery fur coat resting on the back of a chair and placed it around Hermione's shoulders. "Now you are ready," he said lazily, grabbing her arm. With a crack, they were gone.
Hermione looked around. They were in front of the Malfoy mansion. The trees around the house had shed their leaves and a thin layer of snow covered the grounds.
"I need to ascertain that all is in order," said Lucius. "I suggest you employ the remaining time to socialise with the other guests." And he Disapparated.
Hermione walked up the path towards the grand house of white stone. Two-storey and at least sixty yards long, the building looked austere with its two round towers. She climbed the stairs to the massive double doors, in carved metal.
She pushed the doors open and walked into the entrance hall, a spacious rectangular hallway with oak-panelled walls and shining marble floor, partially covered by a carpet. A cluster of witches was gossiping by one of the half-dozen hall stands, where the guests were hanging various kinds of coats, hats and cloaks. The stands looked as though they had been made of cut-off giants' legs.
All her fellow Death Eaters were there, and for many, it was the first time she saw them without masks. There were also women she did not know, and a bunch of young children who ran around chasing each other. One of them slipped on the smooth floor and immediately started crying, "Mum! Muuuuuuuum!"
Hermione recognised many of her former Hogwarts classmates, Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws. Theodore Nott, the quiet, stringy boy from Hogwarts, was chatting with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle – who were dressed in green dress robes like at the Hogwarts Yule Ball – while their parents stood to the side of the room. Goyle was accompanied by Millicent Bulstrode, the sturdy black-haired girl who had tried to smother Hermione in the duelling club in their second year, and Crabbe's escort was a girl Hermione did not know, though she recalled seeing her among the Slytherins at Hogwarts. None of them paid Hermione any particular attention, so she concluded they did not recognise her. Thankfully.
A thin, dark-haired man rushed over to Hermione. He was smiling nervously. "I haven't seen you here before. You are the Dark Lord's newest recruit?" he asked. Hermione nodded. "Rabastan Lestrange," he introduced himself.
"Just call me Hermione," she replied. "You are Bellatrix's brother-in-law, aren't you?"
"Yes, Rodolphus is my older brother."
Hermione removed her fur coat and hung it on one of the hall stands. Rabastan Lestrange's dark eyes went wide for a second, and he stared at her dress as if she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Then he kissed her hand and declared:
"You look stunning!"
"Thank you, Mr Lestrange."
"Please call me Rabastan. Oh, the dining room is that way," he said, pointing in the direction of a crowded hallway on the left.
Hermione looked around in interest. The hallway was lit by old-fashioned torches and plaques on the walls contained what on closer inspection revealed to be goblin ears.
She recognised all the characteristics that were to be found in houses inhabited by Dark wizards, like Grimmauld Place. There was no mistaking the fact that this was the home of the Darkest wizard family in all of Britain, Hermione thought as the tried to inconspicuously join the horde of guests.
A couple caught her eye: a pug-faced woman in a frilly dress of pale pink satin, clinging to the arm of a young wizard with white-blond hair. Hermione grinned. Oh, she couldn't wait to see these two people's reaction when they would recognise her …
Hermione waved to the former Slytherin prefects. "Hi, Draco, Pansy! How have you been?" she called cheerfully.
"Do I know you?" asked a startled Draco Malfoy.
"Don't you remember me?" Hermione asked in a falsely offended voice. "We were classmates at Hogwarts. I was Head Girl. Am I so easy to forget?"
Draco sputtered. "Granger? What – you, here – I never –"
He looked shocked beyond speech, while Pansy gaped openly. Their expressions reminded Hermione of the moment at the Yule Ball when they had seen her as Viktor's date.
Hermione smirked. "Your eloquence astounds me."
"Draco, what is the Mudblood doing here?" Pansy complained shrilly. "You didn't invite her, did you?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Pansy. Of course I didn't invite her! Granger, why in Merlin's name are you here? I thought you were an Auror!"
Hermione smiled again. "I am," she said, while turning arm to display the mark on her left forearm.
If there was anything that could shock Draco more than seeing Granger there, it was the fact that she was a Death Eater. But, then, he smirked too. Take that, Potter, he thought vindictively. "Don't tell me you've joined the Death Eaters. The Dark Lord would never accept a Mudblood into the ranks of his followers."
"But he did. You are seeing the evidence."
Draco's eyes were wide in surprise, but he couldn't argue with the facts. He had seen the Dark Mark on Granger's arm, and there was no way to fake the spell. The Dark Lord had made sure of it. Unbelievable as it was, the Mudblood was really a Death Eater. But her presence at the manor was quite a different matter.
"Even if that's true, what are you doing here? You, a Mudblood … when father hears about this … a Mudblood in the house …"
Hermione laughed at his disbelieving expression. "Your father personally asked me to attend, and brought me here."
"You're lying! Father would never allow a Mudblood into the manor. Did you cast the Imperius curse on him?"
"I did no such thing!"
"Yes, don't be ridiculous, Draco," Pansy said. "A Mudblood could never successfully cast such a powerful Dark spell."
Hermione smiled, hiding her anger at this cow who dared to act so superior when her grades at Hogwarts had never even been close to Hermione's. "Are you sure I can't cast the Unforgivables, Pansy?" Her wand was out at a speed only a trained Auror could manage. "Imperio!"
At a mental whisper from Hermione, Pansy turned to a horrified Draco. "You are a stupid ferret. I hate you!" And she slapped him across his face.
Grinning, Hermione removed the curse. "Well, Pansy? Does that change your opinion of my ability to do Dark magic?"
Pansy seemed too shocked and disorientated to respond. Hermione waved mockingly as she moved past the stunned couple to join the flow of people heading to the dining room.
She and the rest of the guests ended up in a big dining room with a high ceiling and a fireplace in which amber-coloured flames were crackling soothingly. The oak-panelled walls were decorated with sparkling magical frost; garlands of holly and ivy crossed the painted ceiling on which silver and green serpents were coiling and uncoiling restlessly in a pattern Hermione found hypnotising.
In the centre of the room was a very long dining table lined with silver plates and cutlery as well as goblets of solid silver emblazoned with the Malfoy crest. Candelabras in the shape of twisted serpents were aligned on the table at regular intervals, forming a screen of light that made it nearly impossible to communicate with someone on the opposite side of the table.
The hubbub of animated conversations mixed with the crackling of the flames in the hearth. There were so many people here that Hermione couldn't even estimate the number of guests, though it was over a hundred, she was sure. She glanced wistfully at where Lucius sat at the head of the table, his wife on one side and his son on the other, flanked by Bellatrix and that cow Pansy.
There were very few empty chairs, and Hermione chose one somewhere near the end of the table, surrounded by people she did not know. Many greeted her formally, asking her name; they all frowned and hissed quietly when she gave it, but after a glance at the Dark Mark openly displayed on her arm, their less-than-friendly looks made way to expressions of mild surprise, and after that, some even made casual conversation with her, mostly to ask about the activities of the Death Eaters.
Food appeared magically in the silver plates in a way reminiscent of Hogwarts. There was a wide variety of food, and along with the traditional English dishes, Hermione noticed several strange others that she knew were part of the French cuisine. The main meal, however, was the classic Christmas banquet. The oyster soup was followed by a roasted turkey. Its leftovers vanished magically, leaving the silver tableware as clean and shining as though it had never been used. The last course of the meal was the customary Christmas fruitcake, decorated with red berries and smelling of Firewhisky.
Hermione was pleasantly surprised to find here the aristocratic etiquette of the romantic Regency tales that had fascinated her during her childhood and of which she had often daydreamed being the heroine. It was a whole new society she never knew existed; a society she could never fully be part of. Every person she met would ask her name – her family name – and she, figuratively, had none. They would be shocked, disgusted to find a commoner in their elite society; she would be unwelcome and an intruder …
The sign on her arm was her only salvation. Once she showed it to every single witch and wizard she was introduced to, they were obligated, albeit reluctantly, grudgingly, to pay her respect as one of the Dark Lord's chosen. But they still wondered, whispering, disbelieving that the Dark Lord would have admitted a Muggle-born into his trusted circle.
Moreover, Hermione was ignorant of some of the customs necessary to appear in this court of wizarding nobility, but thankfully she was at least well trained in formal dining etiquette. These things did not differ between the Muggle world and the wizarding one, and Hermione's parents, cultured people themselves, had taught her when she was little.
Soon enough dinner was over and the company stood up and moved through an archway into an even larger room with the same oak-panelled walls and high ceiling covered painted with of snakes. The marble floor shone like glass.
The drawing room had been transformed into a ballroom. Chandeliers hung magically in bursts of twinkling crystal from the ceiling. Ivy, mistletoe and silver streamers crisscrossed like a spider web overhead and there was a tall Christmas tree in one corner, decorated with silver accessories and covered in magical snow.
Several dozen small, round tables had been placed near the walls of the room. Hermione noticed that all the women sat apart at a few tables at one end of the room while the rest was occupied exclusively by men, and there was a single table for the children. Hermione approached the ladies' side slowly, wondering which group she ought to join. There was one table that seated young witches of Hermione's age, most of them former Slytherins she had known at Hogwarts, including Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode. No, there was no way she was going to sit with them.
The remaining tables were mostly occupied by witches Hermione had never met. "Over here!" Bellatrix Lestrange called out, waving to her from the table in the far left corner, which was occupied by eight witches. "Sit with us."
Hermione did not like this, not because she minded Bellatrix's company – she was starting to like the crazy woman, actually – but rather because of who else was sitting at the same table. She did not feel like spending an entire evening in conversation with the woman she hated the most.
That woman did not appreciate the idea any more than Hermione did, judging by the irritated scowl on her face as she leaned over the table to hiss something at her dark-haired sister. Bellatrix appeared nonplussed, however, and as Hermione walked closer to them, she heard her mutter, "Don't see what your problem is, Cissy. You are being ridiculous … you haven't even met her yet."
Bellatrix, who looked impressive in her burgundy dress, motioned her sister to move over as she Conjured a chair between them and pointed a painted nail at it. Hermione sat wordlessly and the heavily lidded woman proceeded with the introductions.
"This is Pamela Parkinson," said Bellatrix in her usual hoarse tone, pointing towards the woman with a pug-shaped face sitting on her other side, who nodded. She looked like an older replica of her daughter, though her hair was much darker than Pansy's. "Helene Crabbe and Adara Goyle." Two brawny women nodded gracelessly.
"Miranda Bulstrode." Bellatrix indicated an aloof-looking, bulky witch, who nodded tersely. She had the same short, straight black hair as her daughter, hair that could have been mistaken for a cat's.
"Lyra Flint and Theresa Warrington." The mothers of the former members of the Slytherin Quidditch team inclined their heads as one.
"Sophie Rosier." A woman with sunken, vacant eyes inclined her head very slightly. Rosier … Hermione had heard that name at the Auror Headquarters. This was probably the widowed wife of Evan Rosier, a Death Eater who had been killed by Aurors the year before Voldemort's fall from power.
"Rosalind McAudrey." A slightly familiar-looking witch with curly black hair responded with a brisk nod. McAudrey … wasn't that the name of one of the members of the Wizengamot? In fact, all these women's surnames were familiar to Hermione. She had gone to school with most of their children.
"And this is my youngest sister, Narcissa Malfoy."
The two women glared at each other, tension hanging like a cloud in the air between them. Finally, neither wanting to be looked down upon by the others for lack of manners, Hermione nodded curtly at the hostess, who extended a hand to her. They shook hands briefly and one could be reminded of Sirius Black and Severus Snape making a reluctant truce upon Dumbledore's request. Only this wasn't even a truce but merely a show for the other guests.
For a moment, Hermione's eyes were drawn to the table on the other side of the hall where Lucius was in conversation with another Death Eater. As if sensing her gaze, he turned to meet her eyes over his wife's silk-clad shoulder, and she saw him raise his eyebrows upon seeing her choice of table. Hermione smiled before looking down into her empty goblet.
"This is Hermione Granger," Bellatrix said to the women around the table.
A few of the ladies glanced at each other uncertainly, then at the mark on Hermione's arm, and sniffed. She could easily tell what they were thinking. It wasn't every day they found a Muggle-born in their midst … Determinedly, she decided to ignore this less than friendly attitude.
"How do you do, Miss Granger?" the hostess asked in the customary greeting, with much visible disdain.
Hermione was about to answer 'Pleased to meet you, and you?' but stopped, remembering something her parents had once told her. According to them, the 'how do you do?' was a trick used in British upper-class society to distinguish those of high status from the commoners. A very proper person would not answer but merely repeat the question back. And Hermione realised it must be the same thing in the wizarding world, because she specifically remembered Fudge using that greeting at the Quidditch World Cup. Apparently, these signs of distinction were common to both Muggle and wizarding aristocracy.
Well, if this woman thought she could trap her like that and embarrass her for her ignorance of the nobility's ways … Ha! We'll see!
Tilting her head haughtily, Hermione replied in a tone just as indifferent, "How do you do, Mrs Malfoy?"
The blonde woman was starting to look livid. Hermione could have said something to infuriate her further, but there was no need – her mere presence, plus her deliberately affected mannerisms, seemed to incense the woman enough.
Bellatrix went on to elaborate. "Hermione is the Dark Lord's newest recruit and –" Bellatrix lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper, "– a spy among the Aurors."
Several of the ladies gasped. Sophie Rosier's eyes flashed with hatred at the word 'Aurors'. "You are one of them?" she said sharply, staring at Hermione.
Hermione understood the woman's reaction. Many people on the Dark side had suffered the death of family members at the hand of Aurors, and there was nothing they hated more than the Ministry and the so-called Light side.
She answered carefully, "Not really – I only pretend to be, so that we can thwart their plans and eventually defeat them once and for all." She omitted the fact that she had been a true Auror with a very developed sense of duty not so long ago.
"You're really a Death Eater, then?" said Mrs Parkinson doubtfully. Hermione nodded, showing the Mark to them, though they had already seen it – but it didn't seem to sink in. Even though everyone in the room agreed with the Dark Lord's ideas, she knew it, very few of them were actually part of the Dark Order. But those who did join the Death Eaters were regarded as heroes who had the courage to risk their lives for their beliefs. However, it was common knowledge that women did not join the Death Eaters, Bellatrix being the only exception.
Bellatrix spoke up in her usual harsh voice. "She is the second woman to join the Death Eaters, ever, and she has passed us a lot of useful information. All those Aurors we've killed off recently … all thanks to her."
"Really?" said the curly-haired Rosalind McAudrey.
"Oh, I remember … my husband mentioned something about an important Ministry official joining the cause," said Adara Goyle. "That's a good thing."
"You don't get it, do you?" said Rosalind McAudrey. She bore a strange resemblance to a wizard who worked in Hermione's department at the Ministry, and now Hermione realised who. "She's a famous Auror; she put many of us in Azkaban –"
"Are you in any way related to Frederic McAudrey of the Wizengamot?" asked Hermione curiously.
The witch scowled at the mention of her relative, the traitor who dared to side with the Ministry. "He's my brother, though he has never approved of our family's Darker connections … a disgrace, that's what he is. You know him well?"
"He works in my department … you seem to share his paranoia. No offence, of course, I have no particular sympathy for blood traitors, despite being one myself … that's very fortunate, don't you agree? I'm above suspicion at the Ministry and in Dumbledore's crowd … it's not like they would ever expect someone of my kind to support the Dark Lord. To them, it's unthinkable."
"Well, that's certainly good news for our side … don't you agree, Narcissa?" said Mrs Crabbe, turning to the blonde woman who had yet to say a single word. "You've been rather quiet."
"Very good news," said Mrs Malfoy through gritted teeth. "Though I wonder why an Auror would join the Dark Lord. Most of them have a very pronounced hatred of anything related to Dark magic …"
The older witch was probably trying to make the others think Hermione was a spy for the Ministry. But she wouldn't succeed, not if Hermione could help it. "That's true," she conceded, "but I've always had an interest in the Dark Arts, you see, it was part of the reason why I chose that career. They say you need to know Dark magic in order to defend against it, and what a better way to learn the Dark Arts with no risk of ever being compromised in the law's eyes … what a better way than to go into Auror training?"
The women exchanged glances. "Clever … very clever," said Mrs Flint, and her opinion seemed to be shared by the majority.
"But surely you wouldn't go as far as to kill one of your friends … Harry Potter, for example," Narcissa suggested shrewdly.
"He is no friend of mine," Hermione retorted coldly. She wasn't sure if she meant it or not, though. She did not particularly look forward to actually killing Harry, not that she would have to do so. She was just a spy, after all. But these women didn't need to know that. "I'm a Death Eater and I'll do anything the Master asks of me."
"Then I only hope you stay a loyal Death Eater for a long time," said Narcissa, sounding sceptical, and it was obvious to Hermione that she actually hoped for the opposite.
"The Dark Order is my life, Madam," said Hermione, glaring directly into the woman's icy blue eyes, "and I would never let down those who have done me the honour of overlooking my blood. The possibility of me turning away from the Dark side is about as high as that of Bellatrix here –" she nodded at her fellow Death Eater, "– betraying the Dark Lord."
And all those present knew Bellatrix would rather die than betray her Master. It wasn't for nothing that she was considered the Dark Lord's most loyal servant.
Hermione meant it. And it seemed that she had sounded convincing, because as she looked around the table, she saw a new respect in the ladies' eyes. To their knowledge, only Bellatrix spoke of their cause with such fervour.
Narcissa Malfoy did not share the general opinion. She had seen an entirely different direction in Hermione's words, something the oblivious guests had failed to catch. They thought she was speaking of the Dark Lord's cause … but she wasn't.
"That's good to hear," Narcissa said with a coldness no one failed to catch. The animosity, the hatred even, in the two women's interaction took everyone aback. It looked like these two had hated each other from the minute they had met. Judging by the reciprocal glares that they had been giving each other throughout the evening, they could hardly stand each other's presence.
They were interrupted by the Lestrange brothers walking up to their table. Rodolphus invited his wife for a dance and Rabastan did the same to Hermione.
"Well..." Hermione glanced around. She didn't feel like dancing at all. This was irritating, though it wouldn't be a good idea to antagonise these people – it was enough trouble that they weren't eager to accept her because of her blood. "All right," she said grudgingly.
She thought it would be impolite to refuse. She accepted, but only for one dance, and when it was over, she was very relieved to return to sit at the table.
Bellatrix soon complained about how she was "Already starting to feel hungry," and no sooner had she said it, a tray of refreshments appeared on their table, and their silver goblets were suddenly filled with various kinds of alcoholic drink.
Hermione sat chatting with the Dark side's women and she almost felt as though they were friends already (excluding the sulking, silent hostess). It felt like they had known each other for a long time, and for the first time, Hermione truly found out the meaning of the sense of family on the Dark side.
She drank some wine. When Bellatrix told her that she ought to try Firewhisky, she protested at first, but in the end she agreed, seeing as most people around them was gulping down the strong drink in goblets.
Bellatrix obligingly filled a goblet and handed it to her. "There – try it. You'll like it, I'm telling you – I was reluctant to drink such a strong thing for the first time too, but you get used to it quickly."
Hermione did not see a manicured hand linger, for a second, over her glass …
She gulped down the Firewhisky, her eyes watering as it burnt her throat. She looked up to see an oddly triumphant expression on Narcissa Malfoy's face … she dismissed it as a false impression; the alcohol must have been playing tricks on her.
Hermione stood near one of the windows in the drawing room, examining the frost on the pane of glass. It wasn't that cold outside, and she had the suspicion that this was a trick of magic, just like the seemingly natural snow on the Christmas tree, which failed to melt in the warm interior temperature.
She looked up from the window to see a stringy, black-haired young man approaching her. She recognised him as Theodore Nott, the only student in Slytherin who had been able to see Thestrals in their fifth year. From what Hermione had heard, he had seen his mother murdered by Aurors when he was very young.
"Nice to see you, Granger. Oh, look, it's snowing! We'll be having a white Christmas," Nott commented enthusiastically.
"Sure," said Hermione, not failing to see the way he was looking at her body.
"Why I never noticed you at Hogwarts, I'll never know," the young wizard said thoughtfully, advancing towards her with a predatory grin.
"What are you doing?" she asked, unnerved.
"For your information, you're standing under the mistletoe."
Hermione bolted.
She heard Nott set off after her and did not dare turn around. She ran as fast as she could, holding the hem of her dress so as not to trip over it. She ran through halls and corridors, not really paying attention to where she was going, until she could no longer hear Nott's footsteps behind her.
Hermione found herself in a dark passageway. She paused for breath. Now that she thought of it, perhaps it had not been a good idea to run off like that … she doubted she would be able to find her way back. She must have gone the wrong way; there were so many corridors in this house …
She let out a surprised squeak when she felt strong arms snake around her waist, and she could feel her assailant's breath on the back of her neck. She shivered.
"At that pace, young Nott could never catch up with you," he said in a drawling voice and Hermione caught a glimpse of gold as his hair reflected a ray of light. She heard him whisper something and torches flared to life on the walls, shedding a diffuse glow on the surroundings.
"You scared me, Lucius."
"Scaring people has always been my favourite pastime," he drawled, smirking. "Come, Hermione. I'll make sure young Nott keeps away from you."
He grabbed her arm, and with a crack, they were standing in a much better lit hallway.
A large tapestry embroidered with a colourful coat of arms covered a portion of one wall. It was the first time Hermione had the chance to see the Malfoy crest in detail.
"Quite grandiose, is it not?" Lucius, who had noticed her staring at the tapestry, remarked negligently.
Hermione nodded, gazing at the crest.
"This is the insignia of the House of Malfoy," he told her. "In the centre is a dagger shaped as the fleur de lys, symbol of the French royalty. That dagger has been in possession of the family since the Middle Ages – it is used for various formal rituals, blood ceremonies for instance.
"The adjacent serpents represent our family's attachment to the Dark – you have heard, of course, that snakes traditionally symbolise Dark magic. Above is a gold crown associated with the Saxon Kings who have ruled Britain for centuries. In the background, you can see the shield of Wiltshire County, with its horizontal green and white stripes, the colours echoing the district's pasturelands and chalk downs.
"This is a modern version of the Malfoy coat of arms. Relatively modern, considering it has last been modified in 1846. The original design did not include the crown, only the fleur de lys and the serpents, which had been the armoires of the early Malfoys of France. 'Oderint dum metuant' was our devise back in France and has not been changed since. Our second creed, which does not appear on the depiction you are looking at, is in dicio quod sanctimonia et nobilitas vereor."
"Pride in power, purity and nobility," translated Hermione, not at all surprised. "You really consider yourself royalty, don't you?"
His cold grey eyes glinted strangely. "We have every right to consider ourselves royalty, Hermione, because that is what we are. Not only can our lineage be traced back to the 8th century and over 40 generations of pure-bloods, but the Malfoy family had once held sovereign power over wizarding Britain …"
"Really?" said Hermione, her eyebrows knitted together. "I fail to remember reading anything of the kind, and believe me, I've studied History of Magic very thoroughly."
"You need to learn that books do not always tell the truth, Hermione," he said in a dismissive tone, "and when they do, they might – ah – omit some highly significant details. Come with me to the Portrait Gallery – I want to show my ancestors to you."
And he led her into a long hallway where the walls on both sides were made entirely of polished marble. The floor was of marble too, like in the rest of the house.
The walls were lined with magical portraits of witches and wizards dressed in all sorts of luxurious robes. All the wizards and most of the ladies had the typical Malfoy looks: shiny blond hair, grey eyes and a proud, haughty posture.
Lucius walked forward slowly, gesturing at the portraits of the ancient Malfoys and their spouses.
"The legendary Agatha Borgia, notorious for having single-handedly poisoned over three thousand Muggles – 3016, to be exact – using a flask of poison that she had transfigured into a ring and carried on her at all time. She created most of the poisons stored in the secret chamber downstairs."
"I never knew she was part of the Malfoy family!" exclaimed Hermione. She had read about the infamous witch's exploits. The Borgia family were well-known poison-makers and Agatha Borgia had been a deadly assassin who had dealt away with entire families of wizards, like her squib cousin Lucretia had done among Muggles.
"She was our Italian cousin and a Malfoy by marriage. Josephine Poiseau – also renowned for her deadly concoctions – was the wife of Antoine Malfoy, the founder of the English Malfoy clan."
Hermione listened with genuine interest.
"And this witch in the lace dress was a Russian princess in the XIIth century," he related. "According to the rumours, she strangled her first husband along with several of her other suitors …"
Hermione looked at the woman whose head was tilted back in an attitude worthy of the princess that she had been. Her hair was an ash-blonde colour and her blue eyes looked cold as ice
"In an act of grave imprudence, Lord Edmund Malfoy took her as his consort. One year later, he was found asphyxiated in his bedroom. The identity of the murderer was never discovered, though Tatiana did recover from her grief at a suspicious speed. She neglected her son, who grew up to hate his mother enough to smother her in her sleep when he was sixteen."
"So that's where your tendency to strangle your enemies comes from," said Hermione.
Lucius smiled coldly.
But Hermione's attention was drawn to a portrait a bit farther along the wall, in a frame of gold, where a blond man reclined on a splendid silver throne cushioned with dark velvet. A man who appeared to be the exact replica of Lucius, down to the same shade of hair and the same facial traits, and the same proud, dignified expression … only there was a crease of bitterness in the corners of his mouth. It was visible that this was someone who had suffered great disappointment in life.
"And here is my great-great-great-grandfather and namesake, Lord Altair Malfoy. He is regarded as the all-time hero of the family ... back in the days when wizard blood still counted in the eyes of society, he brought the Malfoy name to the height of power …
"This," he continued, gesturing to the frame on the left, which harboured a dark-haired woman, "is Antares Lestrange, a Malfoy by marriage vow."
Hermione looked at the woman. She had curly dark hair and brown eyes, and she was wearing a gold tiara incrusted with diamonds and emeralds on her head. A tiara that looked familiar, for Hermione had seen it before. She had seen herself wearing it in the Mirror of Erised.
She looked at the woman in interest … and the woman was observing Hermione carefully in return, a thoughtful expression on her face. I look like her, thought Hermione.
"Lestrange?" Hermione repeated, intrigued. The same family as Bellatrix's husband?"
"The same," confirmed Lucius. "The Lestranges immigrated to England at the same era as we did, during the times the Muggles refer to as – ah, 'the Inquisition'. The persecution in their native Spain was no less terrible than the witch hunts in France, you understand, and many of us chose to relocate to the more peaceful British Isles."
They had reached the portrait of a man with a distinctly sombre expression. "Eridanus Malfoy, grandson of Altair," said Lucius.
"He looks like someone who has both witnessed and caused a lot of tragedy," stated Hermione.
"An accurate assessment." He indicated two portraits a bit farther along the wall. "My father, Abraxas … and my mother, Cecilia."
The latter, dressed in pearly white robes, was delicately beautiful and lacked the haughtiness of most of the people in the portraits. Unlike her strict-looking husband, she smiled very kindly at her son, and while she watched Hermione with curiosity, there was no hostility in her eyes.
They had arrived at the end of the hallway and now stood in front of a set of intricately carved wooden doors, which presumably led to the drawing room.
"I feel privileged to meet your family, my Lord," Hermione whispered, her voice nearly inaudible, in Lucius's ear. The portraits did not hear her … except one. That of a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, eyes that misted over, a faint smile appearing on her face as she got lost in a memory.
Hermione had no way of knowing, of course, that the woman had seen a younger version of herself in her. More than the strange connection in their names, Antares Lestrange-Malfoy saw herself in the young witch her great-great-great-grandson seemed to be fond of. And had Hermione looked at her portrait at that moment, she would have had the impression that this witch expected something of her – great things, actually.
The witch in the portrait hoped that she would assume her role and achieve the things she herself had once done. Fate had not been with her, and her – their – empire had crumbled … but this young woman had given her a new hope. A hope that she would one day see restored the power of old, the power she had fought to create to bring glory to the name of someone she loved more than life itself. A name that would become hers...
"Very good … I believe it would be a judicious idea to rejoin our guests now, Hermione," Lucius drawled. He waved his hand at the heavy double doors, which opened of their own accord at his gesture.
He grabbed Hermione's hand and tucked it under his arm. Her eyebrows rose in surprise, but she did not say anything. She only wondered whether his wife would pass out from rage when she would see them walk in like that … But if he doesn't care, nether should I, she thought as he led her into the tumultuous drawing room.
The doors swung closed behind them.
There was a long moment of silence in the now empty gallery. The all the portraits started talking at once, their voices echoing off the marble walls. Some sounded displeased, others excited.
The woman with the tiara walked sideways out of her frame and emerged in the portrait next to hers, where a blond man reclined in a throne-like chair. In a medieval gesture of deference, she knelt on the carpet by his throne.
"My Lord, if there was such a thing as reincarnation …" she started. Her voice was melodious yet full of vivacity.
"Indeed, Antares," drawled the man on the throne, "but there is one tremendous difference between you and her. Your blood was among the purest in our world, whereas hers is pure mud."
"Perhaps it is a necessary evil in these times. Even the Dark Lord of the age is a half-blood."
"A disgrace if there ever was one. But we Malfoys have no lack of pragmatism. Let a Mudblood become Minister for Magic, if it returns to our family the power that is our birthright."
"It takes a woman's ambition to achieve that sort of power," she said matter-of-factly. She was rewarded with a slightly resentful glance from her companion.
"It pains me to admit my agreement, Antares, though I am not really in a position to deny it … yet I would remind you that precious few ladies have an ambition to move mountains."
The dark-haired queen smirked. "Well, let us hope she is one of those few."
"We shall see," drawled Altair Malfoy, "we shall see."
In the drawing room, the wizard orchestra was playing a lively tune Hermione recognised as some of Strauss's music (she knew the song – it was the Blue Danube, one of Hermione's parents' favourite melodies). Apparently, like dining manners, classical music was one of the things that were universal between Muggles and wizardkind, accepted equally in both worlds.
Lucius had finally invited her to dance, completely ignoring the incensed glare his wife was giving him. Hermione couldn't have been more thrilled, though she didn't except such an … intense kind of dance.
He twirled her in his arms, steering her across the floor at an alarming speed, lifting her into the air as though she were a weightless doll, his hands gripping her waist … Hermione was so dizzy she thought she would crash head-first into a wall, and she probably would have if it wasn't for his firm grip on her wrists. But she enjoyed herself immensely.
She remembered the dancing lessons her parents had forced her to take, painfully learning the precise steps and movements to all popular dances as well as a few of the more traditional, old-fashioned ones. She quickly caught up with the music and the body movements she had learnt as a child came to her automatically. Led by her partner, Hermione swirled in rhythm with the music, her movements supple and full of grace, her feet barely touching the floor.
This is incredible, she thought as Lucius lifted her into the air, holding her waist, then placed her back at her feet and forced her to make a series of dizzying twirls. She did not have the time to stop to breathe as he led her through another lively spin.
She had danced a few traditional dances with Viktor at the Yule Ball, earning enthusiastic remarks about her agility, but it had been nothing compared to this.
The overwhelming speed of the dance reminded her of Duelling class during her Auror training, where she had had to duck, dodge and swirl out of the way of curses. Only, unlike on the battlefield, here the routine wasn't motivated by fear or self-preservation.
She shocked many with her grace that day, and many of the other couples stopped in their movements as they watched their host lead the youngest Death Eater through a series of dizzying moves at lightning speed, their movements attuned to each other in an astounding synchronicity. Hermione, pliant in his arms, moved as though she were an extension of him, deciphering his intentions in time to move in compliance with his lead. They moved as one and many wondered what it was that united them so.
Lucius himself was taken aback by her knowledge of the steps as well as the flexibility of her body. "You are amazing," he whispered into her ear while pulling her into yet another twirl and she followed instinctively.
"Never have I seen a woman dance like you do … not even Narcissa, who has been taught to perform the most complex of dances since early childhood, can match your grace …"
She leaned against him, utterly relaxed in his arms as he lifted her by her elbows and flung her into the air, catching her only when she was mere inches from the floor. She let him jerk her body into odd positions; she was dizzy enough to collapse yet she did not fear he would let her fall. She had complete trust in him.
Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away from his grey ones, not even when he opened his mouth to murmur words of appraisal in her ear.
"Narcissa has nothing of your grace … she lacks the attitude that distinguishes you so, your unreserved abandon, your natural submission …"
Draco was staring at them open-mouthed, totally ignoring Pansy, who was tugging on his arm. He could not believe this. His father would never touch a Mudblood, even less dance with one for over a quarter of an hour …
Yet he did not dare to comment on it, fearing that his father would scold him in front of the guests as he often did for 'asking daft questions'.
Narcissa, dancing with one of the guests, watched her husband and the girl with narrowed eyes. Her upper lip trembled, but she did not dare say anything. She knew Lucius well enough to realise that nothing she said could change his mind. He was the master of the house and of the family.
But that didn't mean Narcissa would sit back and do nothing. Oh no. Everything was prepared and if things went as planned (and why wouldn't they?), she would not have to bear the damn wench's competition for long.