Chapter 16
A cold stone of dread dropped into Draco's stomach.
Hermione had found Antonia's diary just in time for Brutus to have found them.
He stepped into the vault, the sound of his boots on the stone quiet compared to the background clang of the Clankers.
"I never thought to see our family so reduced." Brutus surveyed the vault with disdain. "In my time, we filled our bank with treasures and protected our fortune like a dragon covets its hoard. And now?" He pinched a stained, slashed cloak between his thumb and forefinger and held it aloft as evidence, his lips curled in disgust. He tossed it aside. "How we have fallen."
"What are you doing in my vault?" Draco drifted a step left. The movement drew Brutus' eyes like a falcon sighting a mouse amongst heather. Hermione used the opening to take a few, shuffling subtle steps backwards, increasing the distance between herself and the threat.
"Your vault?" Brutus barked a laugh. "I believe this is the Malfoy vault. From what I have observed, you do not deserve the surname."
"And you do?"
Hermione whipped her head to glare at Draco, her expression one of disappointed disbelief. He realised his mistake the same time Brutus did. Mitchell's brown eyes widened behind his glasses, a moment of genuine surprise that reminded Draco strongly of his assistant. The moment passed; Brutus' sangfroid returned.
"You know me, then. Good, perhaps you are more clever than I credited. I will admit, after being lost for centuries, I was not sure how this would feel. To be recognized. To be named." Another step closer, a smile that bared too many teeth. "Do you know my name, boy?"
"I wish I didn't."
"Humour me." His fingers shifted their grip on his wand.
"Brutus."
He sketched a casual bow, awkward on Mitchell's lanky frame. "At your service."
Hermione had used the distraction to close the distance between them. Three quick steps brought Draco to her side. Strategically, it lowered their possible angles of attack. Two separate targets had a better chance of winning over one, no matter how outmatched. Nevertheless, Draco felt more confident with her beside him. Safer, though the danger grew with each minute.
"Well, as lovely as this has been, we should be going."
A hand to Hermione's back communicated urgency. Unnecessarily: tension radiated off her. He felt the quickening of her breath beneath his palm, saw the muscles bunching in her shoulders and neck.
She was preparing for battle.
"Oh, I think not." Brutus raised his wand, aiming somewhere between them, keeping his possibilities of a final target open. "I learned from our dear elf that the Malfoy family history had been stored in this Creature-controlled crypt decades ago. Like it is something shameful. Something that should remain hidden." He spat on the floor. "Disgraceful. I am here, therefore, to bring our storied history back into the light. To remind myself of the man I once was and of the treacherous witch I once loved. Work I see you have already begun." He gestured to the marble busts. "And as you now know my aim, I desire to know yours. What are you doing here?"
"Antiquing."
Hermione shifted her weight and pressed the heel of her trainers against the top of his booted toes. A warning.
"Antonia thought herself droll. At times, she was. A silly woman, amusing in her naïveté. You are like her in that way. And in others. The chin, for example." Brutus tilted his head, his lip pulling into a tooth-bearing snarl. "The eyes. And so I ask again: why are you here?"
Draco shuffled back a step, casting his gaze to each side, trying to calculate which route gave them better odds of successful escape.
"I've inherited some of her better qualities, then," he said, scrambling to delay. "What do you want with us, anyway?"
"I want what every gentleman seeks: peace in my home. It is a boon you seem incapable of providing."
Draco scoffed. "If memory serves, you came into my home."
"It is our home, by blood and bone. Could we not live in it together as companions?"
Hermione's weight on Draco's toes increased. Brutus' offer of cohabitation sounded far from sincere, and Draco was already treading on thin ice. Though good sense told him to retreat to safer ground, he could not resist a final jab.
"I doubt it."
"A pity," Brutus remarked with a smile, followed shortly by a sigh. "I tire of this game. Twice you have dodged my question. A third will require you to dodge a hex as well. What are you doing here?"
They were out of time. Whatever Draco had hoped to achieve by delaying—some heretofore hidden avenue of escape, the formulation of a plan that didn't involve blasting their way through towers of worthless family heirlooms—was not going to happen.
At this point, the truth seemed like the most strategic answer he could give.
"We're picking up some light reading."
"Liar."
"Believe what you will, but we've found what we came for. We have no further purpose here and will leave you to your nostalgia." Draco shrugged, his mien so casual that Brutus' wand lowered a fraction.
His eyes narrowed. "Show me."
Draco curled his fingers into the fabric of Hermione's shirt.
"I think not."
With a twist of his wrist, Draco's wand was in hand. He fell left, dragging Hermione with him as he cast a poorly aimed Stunner at Brutus. The spell went wide, scorching the vault's stone wall. He pulled them behind an old chifferobe, ducking beneath his arms as the corner exploded in a shower of wood splinters, struck by Brutus' return fire.
"We need to get out of here." Hermione held her wand ready and craned her head for vision. She flinched backwards, and a jet of steaming, white light cut past.
"On three?"
She nodded. He held up his hand.
One…
Two…
They emerged from behind the chifferobe simultaneously, wands outstretched.
"Stupefy!"
"Incarcerous!"
Brutus flicked away Draco's Stunner like a fly at a picnic.
But Hermione's spell hit.
Brutus staggered as thick cords wrapped around his wrists and arms. They snaked down his torso and wove around his thighs and calves, but the ropes flailed at either end, unable to find purchase against the smooth stone floor. With nothing to hold him in place, Brutus shook himself free, ripping through the weakened cords with a furious shout.
"Wench!"
He whipped his wand, his curse filling the vault with the sound of a buzzsaw. The air filled with the smell of burning wood and a burst of sawdust as the curse struck the wardrobe, cutting it in half. Hermione pressed herself against Draco.
The destroyed furniture fell backwards, landing just where she'd been standing, jarring them both with a teeth-rattling crash.
Their eyes met. Panicked, overwhelmed, Draco could think of only one option. "Run!"
He dashed left, following a thin, winding trail through the vault's contents. He kept low, casting unaimed Stunners over his shoulder as he ran, heedless of what they struck so long as they distracted Brutus.
Results were mixed.
A stack of Muggle records exploded to his right. Hard plastic and charred bits of paperboard scattered against his skin, sharp pricks of pain he couldn't afford to notice for long. The path ahead split into three: left, leading them deeper into the vault; dead-ending ahead; right, towards Brutus.
Brutus set a pile of old scrolls aflame. Acrid smoke filled the air ahead, and their options narrowed to two. Left or right. Further into the trap, or closer to the threat.
"This isn't working!" Hermione shouted, a hand on his back. He ducked them behind a bar cart. The bottles clinked on impact. "We're sitting crups here!"
She was right. They were little more than target practice for Brutus, and the vault was too small to continue running.
"This is your choice?" Brutus punctuated his shout with a hex. A grandfather clock fell across the leftmost path with a jangle of discordant bells and gongs.
Out of options and out of time.
They needed to face Brutus head on.
"You have betrayed your own flesh for this whore!"
In all their years together, Draco had never heard Mitchell's voice so twisted by hate.
"She's not a whore!" Draco shouted.
But Hermione had no need for his defence. She popped up from behind the cart and lashed a Stunner at him. He deflected it with a snarl, then brought his wand down in a violent arc.
The bar cart exploded.
Shards of glass and stinging alcohol shattered everywhere. Draco threw his arms over his head, hissing at the stomach-churning scent of pine gin and peat-bog scotch. His heart jumped into his throat when Hermione cried out in pain. He chanced a look between his crossed arms and saw her crouched, huddled, hair dripping with old booze. Blood ran in a thin line down her forearm.
Cold practicality suffused him, ice coating his veins with each pounding heartbeat.
Hermione was hurt. This needed to end.
"You are just like her," Brutus growled. Draco heard him kicking objects out of his way.
Crash of wood; clank of metal; tinkle of broken glass.
He knew exactly where Brutus was.
"Treacherous, underhanded, murderous—"
Draco stood, aimed, and with a sharp flick, hit Brutus with a hex that sent him stumbling.
A second toppled him.
It was a temporary reprieve.
He turned to Hermione and helped her to a crouch. Her eyes were blown wide with terror, her face scratched and bloodied. She held her right arm—her wand arm—across her chest. Protruding from it was a large sliver of amber glass. She held her wand left-handed, the grip awkward and imprecise.
"I'll get us out," he said. "I promise. Stay low, and stay here."
She grit her teeth and nodded. Her hand caught his sleeve.
"Distract him," she said. "I'll handle the armour."
"Okay." Draco had no idea what she meant by armour, but providing a distraction was easy enough.
He kissed her—a desperate press of his lips that left her gasping—and sped off.
Draco retraced his steps back to the half-standing chifferobe as Brutus struggled to his feet.
"From what I've heard, you deserved what Antonia did to you."
His Stunner pinged off Brutus' Protego, knocking over an old cloak rack instead. Brutus scowled, dropped his shield, and sent a hex flying. Draco dodged it with a spin and a laugh.
"You'll deserve what I'm about to do to you, too!" He punctuated the threat with another hex, easily repelled.
But the distraction worked.
Brutus changed direction, heading toward Draco instead of Hermione, stalking him through the vault's crowded aisles. He looked feral. Mitchell's placid brown eyes were dark with rage, and his hunched, hunter's stance looked uncomfortable on Mitchell's slim shoulders. He held his wand left-handed, grip relaxed and loose. Like duelling Draco was no more taxing than a walk in the garden.
"I should have expected as much," Brutus said. He flicked his wand, the motion so subtle Draco almost missed it.
Draco pivoted, the air hot against his arm as the invisible curse sailed wide.
"Rotten fruit from a poisoned womb."
"Mother would have your hide for that." Draco lunged toward the bookshelf, casting a shield charm as Brutus' hex landed. He staggered back a step, absorbing the impact with a grunt.
And that's when he saw the armour.
A full set, more decorative than functional, with intricate flowers and vines etched in silver against blackened steel plates. A family heirloom with half-remembered history: one of Draco's great-great-whatevers had taken it off a Muggle knight after besting him in a tournament. The rout had been won handily, or so the story went.
Knowing his family, Draco suspected foul play.
He bit back a grimace as Brutus shot two more hexes in quick succession, both colliding hard with his weakening shield.
Maybe cheating was genetic.
"Lifetimes I have waited," Brutus continued. "In the dark. In the silence."
He flicked spells like droplets of water from wet hands, casting without apparent effort. Each one impacted Draco's Protego with the force of a cursed Bludger. He didn't know how much longer he could maintain the spell.
Fortunately, Hermione worked fast.
Even with her wand arm injured, her subtle swish-and-flick brought the armour off its stand with barely a whisper of scraping metal, easily attributed to the crashing Clankers and Brutus' ranting.
"I will destroy that gods-forsaken mirror!" Brutus shouted. His next hex dropped Draco to one knee. The shield charm wavered. "I will not be returned to that prison. I refuse to be caged like a beast or hidden away like a bastard child! I will live the life that was stolen from me, and kill anyone who stands in my way!"
"You can certainly try," Draco grunted. "Now!"
With a flick of her wand, Hermione sent the heavy heap of metal flying across the room.
Brutus shot off one last curse, this one strong enough to collapse Draco's faltering shield. Pain bloomed in his right side, punching the breath from him and knocking him flat.
When reality reappeared, it came with a persistent, high-toned ringing.
Hermione leaned over him. Blood dripped from at least a dozen lacerations on her cheek and chin, some of the cuts still flecked with slivers of dark wood and bits of shining glass.
"Are you okay?" Draco saw her lips move, but heard her as if through cotton. He lifted his hand to his ear, touched the space beneath it, and examined his fingers. They came away clean; no blood. Whatever the issue with his hearing, it was temporary.
He rolled over onto his side and immediately regretted it. Stabbing pain shot through his chest. His gasp redoubled the discomfort. He returned to his back and pressed a hand to the right side of his abdomen. His skin felt hot with injury.
"Bastard cracked my ribs," Draco wheezed.
"Shite." Hermione lifted his shirt, despite his wince, and pressed gentle fingers to what was going to be one hell of a contusion. "Hold still," she said. "I think I can bind these."
The tip of her wand warmed against his skin, then brought another excruciating stab of pain as bandages snapped into place around his torso. Light danced behind his eyes.
Hermione gave him a moment, holding his hand as he caught his shallow breath.
"Did we get him?" he asked, panting around the pain.
Hermione's tone was as flat as her mouth. "No. A cart's missing. He's gone. And now he knows we know."
Draco closed his eyes. Failure hurt deeper than muscle or bone. It was an ache that bloomed in his heart and spread to his gut, blistering beneath his skin like a body-wide burn. Even the lance in his side dulled in comparison, a single pebble in the ocean of his misery.
"Help me up."
They managed to get him standing. In the centre of the destroyed vault lay the armour, mounded in a confused heap, its delicate design dinged and dented. Even though he knew it was pointless, Draco levitated the ruined breastplate and confirmed: there was nothing beneath it but scratched stone.
They must have nicked him, though. The trail leading from the vault was uneven, and droplets of blood followed the limping footsteps to where the cart had been parked.
It was little consolation.
They'd come to Gringotts with the intention of getting the upper hand. Instead, they'd been cornered and beaten.
Again.
"Fuck!" Draco threw out his arm. The bookshelf exploded, raining down wood, parchment, and leather.
Hermione regarded him with a frank expression. Her right arm remained cradled against her chest, though she had removed the glass shard that had speared her. Probably when he was unconscious; he had not heard her shout.
"At least we have the diary," she said.
Gained the diary, and lost the element of surprise. A poor trade, in Draco's estimation. One that put them on the back foot and eliminated one of their few advantages.
They limped from the vault, Draco leaning heavily on Hermione's arm. Denbit waited near the cart, still shaking his Clanker.
"Lot of help you were," Draco grumbled.
The goblin gave him a mean smile. "I do not meddle in the affairs of men."
"Not even when there's one intent on killing your customers?"
"He was a customer," Denbit said. "He presented his key, as you did."
Hermione tugged him away from the goblin and into the cart.
"This isn't helping," she muttered. "Leave it be."
Though she spoke quietly, the goblin's ears twitched in pleasure. "Your woman is wise."
"I'm no one's woman," Hermione snapped. "Just get us back to sea level. Our business here is done."
The ride up took longer than the ride down, and they left the bank without further conversation with the goblin. Even through clouds, the sun shone bright enough to bloom a headache behind Draco's eyes. Diagon Alley's crowds had dissipated from the lunch rush, but those who remained stared as Draco and Hermione stumbled down the bank's steps, drops of red blood stark against the white marble.
Hermione hurried them toward the Apparition point, then gasped. "What about Harry?"
Draco laughed weakly. Lunch with the Potters… He had already forgotten. The conversation had happened less than an hour ago yet felt ancient.
"Send a Patronus with our regrets," he said. "I don't think either of us are fit company at present. Unless you think now's the time to get the Ministry involved?"
Indecision played across her face. "Let's see what's in the diary first. Maybe the situation isn't as dire as we thought."
Draco hung his head so that she wouldn't see his disappointment.
Brutus had trounced them once again. He knew about the mirror. He was going to try to destroy it.
The situation felt more dire than ever.
But more than Mitchell's life was at stake. Hermione's Ministry career hung in the balance, too. The decision to escalate to the authorities had to be one they made together.
And whatever she wanted, he would support.
He owed her that much.