Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Chapter Twelve
She was freefalling. That's the first sensation that registered in her brain.
Familiarity; that I've done this before feeling was the second.
Tumbling, spinning, the world turning into a jumble of mixed-up colors – it was easy to forget which way was up and which was down.
It only lasted a moment.
Hermione hit the ground hard enough that it knocked the wind out of her, her stomach facing downwards in the soft, lush grass. She let out a soft wheeze as she struggled to breathe and collect herself, and then she pulled herself up from the ungraceful heap in which she had landed and stood. A quick spell later and any dirt or imperfections on her disguise was gone (after all, she couldn't let anything happen to that dress or Scott would kill her; it used to be his mother's formal evening gown when she had been her age, and it had been packed away in his attic for decades, nearly forgotten about) and she looked around at her surroundings.
A huge gothic mansion loomed before her, daunting in its entirety; an architectural masterpiece to be gawked at, even as it approached its two centuries-old mark. She knew she was in the right place – there was no mistaking a home that boasted such prestige and wealth to be anyone else's – and she approached it cautiously; there was no telling what could become of her once she stepped through that heavy mahogany front door with its intricate black brass knocker. A great black and white marble circular fountain sat in the center of the yard and regal-looking white peacocks strutted around, bobbing their heads and pulling long white tails behind them in the grass, cooing and chirruping to one another in soft, subdued tones.
Wand clutched tightly in her right hand at her side, she made her way up the steps and onto the wide front porch, her heat beating erratically in her chest and a sense of foreboding coming over her the closer she got to the door. A trembling left hand reached up for the door knocker in the shape of a cruel snake, its glittering ruby eyes glaring at her as her hand neared it. She could almost hear its hiss of disapproval as the soft, delicate flesh of her palm touched the cool metal, and a round of gooseflesh made its way up her arm.
Imposter. Mudblood. Filthy, disgusting wench; you do not belong here.
She knew she was imagining the voice; cold, cruel, and unrelenting, a voice that cut like a knife with its harsh words, but all the same it terrified her.
Knock, knock, knock. Slow, medium-loudness; not too hard and not too gentle.
The wand shook in her right hand, the smooth wood held so firmly that her knuckles were white. The doorknob jiggled after a moment; the lock clicked. Hermione forced her hand to steady itself, and stood up straight in an effort to appear stoic, dignified. The door opened slowly, the motion bathing the porch in a golden glow as light spilled through it, and a small gray-brown skinned elf stood in the doorway. It stood rigidly, its face impassive, its large crooked nose pointed upward to regard her. Hermione threw her shoulders back and forced her face into a mask of superiority. "Invitation?" It posed in a gruff, raspy voice.
"My apologies to the Malfoys, but I'm afraid that I've left it at home." Hermione replied.
"You are not to come inside without it, miss." The elf said stiffly. Hermione's fingers twitched around her wand.
"Oh?" She asked, letting out a short, humorless laugh to cover up the fact that her heart was pounding. "There must be some mistake."
Its huge, bulging eyes blinked once. "No mistake, miss." It said. "Orders are orders."
Hermione flicked a white-blonde lock of hair out of her face impatiently and twirled her wand in a nearly undetectably small movement by her side, uttering almost inaudibly, cringing internally, "Imperio."
A soft golden light flew out of her wand tip and drifted slowly over to the elf, circling his head and then fading away into nothingness. He sneezed loudly, wiped his nose on the sleeve of his dingy clothes, and blinked a few times before looking back up at her and smiling dazedly. "How may I be of service, miss?" He asked, his voice taking on a dreamlike quality.
Hermione gave him a small, apologetic smile. "I've forgotten my invitation to the party at home."
The elf's grin merely grew. "No problem at all! Come on in." He stepped aside and she walked upon the threshold. As she passed in front of him, she felt a tap on her side and turned around to see the elf looking up at her.
"Yes?"
"And, ah, let's not tell the master about this, miss." He flashed another lazy smile at her.
Ruby red lips curled upwards, revealing two neat rows of white teeth. "You have my word." She walked away slowly, waiting until the elf turned back around, before releasing the spell on him and erasing the memory of the entire encounter from his brain.
Hermione's heels clicked quietly as she moved through the hallway of the house. The Malfoys obviously spared no expense for anything—they had quite lavish, aristocratic décor throughout each room and even the halls she went through that simply screamed of wealth; sumptuous wallpaper and flooring, luxurious furniture, and beautiful paintings in glistening, polished frames upon the walls. There were antiques of a wide spectrum of values, all probably worth more money than her own home.
She wasn't sure where she needed to go to find the library, and she was terrified of getting lost in the oversized mansion. However, she knew that if she asked someone any questions that she ran the risk of getting caught, and that she would possibly have her life to pay for the consequences. She turned down another long deserted corridor, having already lost all sense of direction by that point, and wondered down it.
I'm lost. The thought hit her like a load of bricks. I'm lost and I'll never find my way back.
A wooden floorboard squeaked nearby.
Body trembling in fear, she opened her lips and softly, quietly whispered, "Hello?" Doors lined the walls like soldiers, and she was nearly shrouded completely in darkness; there were a few wall scones nearby offering a feeble source of dim light. She flicked her wand in front of herself. "Lumos." She murmured, and the wand tip immediately lit up. Clutching the wand tightly with both hands, she found the courage to speak again. "Is anyone there?" Silence. And then…
Squeeeeaaaakkkk.
It sounded like it was somewhere behind her, but it was closer than before. Her heart began to race and adrenaline made its way into her bloodstream. "I-I'm lost," she said, voice shaking, "and I don't know which way to go from here. Please help me…"
In one quick moment, her wand was knocked from her hand and she was pushed roughly up against the wall by someone she didn't know. She couldn't identify them properly because of the poor lighting in the corridor, and as soon as her wand hit the floor the light went out. Her back hit the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of her, and it took her a brief second to get her disoriented brain to come to a startled realization: This is a dangerous predicament. Wandless, alone, and currently fixated to the wall by a strong forearm across her chest, she knew this was it. She was about to die.
She could smell the faint hint of a masculine cologne, no doubt an expensive brand if the scent was anything to go by, so she quickly assessed her assailant to be a high-class male. A pervasive voice hissed in her ear, "What do you think you're doing?"
Her heart skipped a beat. "I-I didn't mean to wander this far," she replied faintly, "I was just admiring some of the furnishings and by the time I realized what had happened I was lost…"
The vice-like grip on her loosened a fraction. "Why didn't you ask for help?" His voice was still low, but it only sounded annoyed now.
"I didn't know who to ask." She answered honestly, her initial alarm slowly ebbing away.
"You shouldn't be wandering about in a place that you don't know very well." he said. "Especially here. It's dangerous here; bad things happen to stupid ninnies like you within these walls."
Hermione let out a gasp of horror. "A-are you going to–?"
"No." He interrupted impatiently, his tone laced with exasperation. "If I were going to kill you or violate you, don't you think I'd've done it by now?"
She nodded at his logic. It did make sense. A sudden thought occurred to her. "Then…" she hesitated, squinting her eyes as she peered up into the black outline of his head, trying to find some sort of indicator of who he was. "Why are you here?"
He leaned in really closely and whispered, "To help you, mudblood."
Her mind was reeling as the voice registered in her brain as someone she knew.
What did he know? She had been so careful keeping her secrets to herself, darn it, so how could he possibly know?
"B-Blaise?" His name fell from her lips, a soft utterance of disbelief.
He leaned in closely to her, and her heart began to beat erratically in her chest as she felt his breath, hot and steady, in her ear. "Yes?"
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to swallow her growing alarm. This was all wrong. There was no bloody way she was going to trust a Slytherin, especially not him, not after everything he and Malfoy had done to her in the past. Years of torment—the name calling, the snide remarks, the violent acts of hatred toward her—and for what?
All because of that stupid little word he had just called her.
Mudblood.
"I don't trust you," Hermione whispered, her voice nearly inaudible.
He chuckled darkly. "I don't think," he pushed slightly harder against her chest, and his tight hold on her wrists, which were shackled above her head against the wall in one of his hands, "you've got any other choice."
"What do you want from me, Zabini?"
He took a moment to reply.
"A do-over." He murmured, and there was no mistaking the honesty in his hushed voice. She opened her eyes and squinted into the near-darkness into the black outline of Blaise's head where his face was, her eyes searching for his—even though she knew she wouldn't find them—to see if there was a truthful gleam there. But she couldn't see because of the dark, of course, so she had to trust him, trust the words that he'd just said to her.
First, though, she needed to know how he knew of her; the niggling voice of reason persisted her to inquire upon the subject. "How did you know?"
"Know what, exactly?"
"You know very well what I mean, Blaise." Hermione hissed, her eyes narrowing into annoyed slits. "How did you know about me?"
"Granger, I think I've known you long enough to recognize your voice." He replied bluntly.
Her heart skipped a beat as the reality of the situation set in. So far, he'd let on nothing that showed her he knew of her mission, so maybe, just maybe there was still hope...
"And I also know," she jumped, startled by his voice's sudden proximity to her ear, "that you're here because you want something. Isn't that right?"
Lie. Her conscience suddenly fluttered to life in her head, whispering softly to her, Lie to him. He could turn against you; you cannot trust this boy. "Y-yes..." She choked out.
Her eyes widened in disbelief at her lips' betrayal of the protection her mind had tried to set in place in a last-ditch effort to keep her secrets—Cedric's secrets, moreover—safe, and icy dread was released into her bloodstream.
His iron hold finally was relinquished, and she took a moment to collect herself and dust herself off, adjusting her dress and smoothing her hair in an attempt to look presentable once more in the presence of anyone who might cross their path. Quite suddenly, something cool and hard was shoved into her hand, and as her unsuspecting hand closed around it, she realized that it was her wand.
She peered into the dimness and saw his outline, faintly, and decided that he had been right; she had no choice but to trust him now. And since he'd returned her wand, it proved that he clearly trusted her not to harm him, so she decided that she would attempt to retain her discontent about her piteous plight.
"Milord, Pettigrew wishes to entertain your company to exchange some...intruiging information, sir." A cloaked man said, head bowed low. His eyes looked upward to see the back of the armchair facing him, the front facing the glowing fire crackling merrily in the marble fireplace.
"Very well." His reply was slow, careful sounding. There was so much meaning behind those two small words, meanings that the poor man did not wish to ponder upon for too terribly long. "Send him in."
"Yes, milord." He bowed again and walked out of the room, quickly ushering the small, timid man into the room.
"You may go now, servant." The Dark Lord said, his voice holding no room for argument.
Refusal was not an option when talking to Master, anyone who had even the slightest bit of sense knew that.
The servant bowed low at the waist. "Yes, milord." And then he exited the room and was gone. The sound of the door closing echoed about the silent room.
"Th-thank you, milord, thank you s-so much for allowing me to speak w-with you—" The rat-man stuttered, trembling terribly.
"Get on with the news. Pettigrew." The Dark Lord snapped, his voice dangerously low.
"Y-yes, m-milord." Peter rubbed his hands together, his filthy, dirt-encrusted fingernails running over his dirty palms. "It s-seems, sir, th-that there's b-been a b-b-break-in, sir."
"Oh?" The great snake hissed softly as the Dark Lord stroked her smooth, scaly head.
"I-indeed, milord." Pettigrew flashed a nervous smile. "Th-there's s-someone here at th-this v-very minute who w-was not given an invitation."
"I see." The Dark Lord mused, his extremely calm, deep tone masking the red-hot fury that Peter knew lie beneath the surface. When Master got this way, it terrified him more than ever to be in his presence.
It was silent for a long moment, a thick tension filling the air like a deadly poison, slowly suffocating Peter. "M-milord?" He finally managed to ask, licking his dry, cracked lips. "W-what's the plan of action t-to be t-taken, m-milord?"
His question was met by a sinister chuckle. "I do believe," the Dark Lord said slowly, a smile entering his voice, "that we should catch the pesky unwanted guest and teach them a lesson."