POV: Ron
The pure silver concoction that coats my tongue is all at once spicy and sweet. It leaves a peculiar icy hotness behind as it slides down my throat, leaving a delicious aftertaste. Of course it would look like the icy cousin of Harry's own unique polyjuice brew.
Essence of Malfoy.
Who knew Snape's new and improved potion wouldn't taste like death considering the owner of the potion's last essential ingredient? Thank goodness it doesn't look like Crabbe's polyjuice. I scowl at that distasteful memory.
Draco's doppelganger. That's me.
It's a playact I've been perfecting since Snape called me down to his office for months— since the night after Draco revealed all in Dumbledore's office. Thank Merlin, I've been imitating, mimicking, and mocking Malfoy's arrogant, princely self for nearly six years after the tosser insulted me during that first ride on the Hogwarts Express. If I hadn't first hated the prize-winning prat, all of this would be near impossible. Oh, and as an added perk, my vocabulary has vastly improved, which might explain my higher scores this term.
Unfortunately, the Ferret didn't see any immediate benefits when he found out what I'd been doing and how Snape had been training me. The git stopped speaking to us, only to come to his senses after he'd been hexed by Harry. Faced with his mortality, he at last realized the brilliance of being able to infiltrate the large Manor with a look-a-like in tow, if only for the use of confusing the Death Eaters and to have another trusted person available to get Hermione safely out should things get too dangerous. Once I passed muster, Draco's own mother wouldn't be able to tell the difference between her real son and me.
This wasn't enough, however, because Malfoy demanded he be trained to play the role of me, Ron Weasley. It was only fair, he'd argued, considering what I'd already seen of him under his clothes. Disturbing, that.
When you looked at it from his shoes, Draco's request seemed fair and it was difficult to argue against it, especially since he knew my backup plan to keep Hermione safe had been to leave with her and Harry on a search for horcruxes. Draco wanted in on being Ronald Weasley in that case ... at least he did at the time. Once the Slytherin lowered himself to finally master being me, even Harry would be fooled, but Draco was having a bit of trouble with being anything like me-failing miserably, actually-which made him even more resentful of Snape.
But now, this ability to identity-switch shows the greatness of Snape's plan, because I can go about rescuing Emmanuelle while Draco watches out for Hermione and her barmy self.
Regardless of my success with Snape, I haven't yet tried the adjusted polyjuice out of the professor's office, though I did manage once to fool some Gryffindor blokes out on the quidditch pitch for a few minutes. I delightfully recall slaughtering the house boor, McLaggen, with a mere look and a few well-rehearsed Malfoy lines. His gobsmacked face was priceless. Never had I realized the benefits Fred and George had until that very moment.
The mirror I'd brought along to check myself shows me my evil little smirk, the final touch to my complete transformation as the Slytherin prince. My own clothes hang loosely on my shoulders. Hurriedly, I slip out of my shirt and trousers and into Malfoy's clothes, trying not to examine my super-polyjuiced self too closely. I stop a moment to place a small vial in my pocket. All that's left is the adjustment of the vest and tie.
"The tie is all wrong."
I nearly jump out of my skin. I turn to glare at the real Draco Malfoy who is staring critically at me. "You have to be pristine when we arrive. When we find Hermione, we are going to have to let her in on the plan, like you meant to do in the first place."
I nod at his clipped, business-like tone. Standing still as he fusses, I try not rushing his reworking of the tie. Besides, I know we'll have at least twenty minutes on Hermione once we get on our Nimbus 2001s. The perk of being able to call one of those beauties my own is nearly worth all the botheration of this.
"When you arrive at the Manor, you'll land directly in the Floo in my room. Ring for Gahtoo. The name sounds like cake in French. He is my elf. He has to tell you everything even if someone else has forbidden it. He will tell you the truth. Ask him if Emmanuelle is a visitor. Say visitor, not prisoner."
"Draco, I'm not an idiot!" I protest. He sends me a dubious look. I wonder if along with the hair some of the personality also gets transferred over. "We've gone over this thousands of times. When I find out where she is, I go to her and Floo her out. Back to Snape's office or Dumbledore's. I know. I get it."
"Try imbecile," he criticizes, "and act like you own the Manor, Weasel. Keep your nose in the air. Do not speak unless giving a command. Use complete words. Do not shorten them. Try not to be awed by the surroundings. Stay out of sight. If there are Death Eaters there, keep your gaze down and look scared."
"That won't be hard," I murmur, trying to stem my nervous quivering at the thought of having to face Voldemort and his minions. Wasn't Draco supposed to be Marked soon? The worst-cast scenarios start infiltrating my brain and I realize I have to stop them or I'll be paralyzed with fear. I force myself to turn to thoughts of Harry, the plan he told me about just yesterday, and Hermione's disturbing revelations of what a horcrux is. I think of my two best friends' bravery. Now it is my turn to swallow down my fear.
"Will not be difficult," Malfoy corrects, giving my tie one last yank.
"Look, Draco, we have done the practice runs in the Room of Requirement," I remind him, not sure if I am comforting him or myself. "I know what your house looks like, for Merlin's sake. Every little nook and cranny, thanks to you and Snape. We've... ugh!... we have run every possible scenario. I can follow orders and I know how to improvise. I will speak clearly and will not shorten my words, you prat. Just trust me."
I see something flash in his quicksilver gaze as I make my last request, and just as the look appears, it is instantly gone.
"Uncanny," he murmurs, smiling sardonically as he hands me a broom identical to his, smoothing my collar before patting my shoulder. "If you get in trouble, tap the charmed coin in your pocket three times and I will know which room I will have to go to so I can help. Otherwise, we will keep to the plan."
I nod, thinking of the galleons Hermione fashioned for the D.A. and again take a moment to thank Merlin for the Protean Charm.
"I never thought I would ever say this, Weasley, but you look quite dashing," Draco compliments with a rare, genuine smile, before turning to jump on his broom.
"You might think so, Ferret," I reply with a snarl and an eye roll, "but I feel like shite. It blows to be you."
I hear him laugh hollowly as he pushes off toward Hogsmeade. I mount my broom and follow in his wake.
POV: Draco
Our feet land soundlessly in the alley next to The Three Broomsticks. We both pull on a dark cap and store our brooms. My twin seems unhappy about leaving his Nimbus unattended. I shake my head at him and cast Evanesco knowing we can retrieve them later.
I shove my hand in my pocket, fingering the mate of the flower pendant on Granger's neck. I pray she hasn't taken it off and close my eyes, waiting for the vision of her.
"She is at Honeydukes and still has a bit of a walk to where we are."
I watch Ron, my mirror image, rub his chin thoughtfully. I would never do that, would I? It is a strange sensation watching oneself do everyday things, not too unlike the magicked mirrors we have in the loo, I suppose.
"Draco, I don't think Hermione would be able to handle seeing two of you right now. She was in a right snit when I saw her storm away earlier. Maybe we should go through with the plan without telling her that I'm involved. We don't have a lot of time to explain anyway."
"Do not," I correct mechanically as I consider telling him that keeping things from Hermione always seems to backfire. I look at him-myself-staring at me, and suddenly I realize maybe a plan adjustment might be in order. Ron could go and get Emmanuelle while I work on keeping Hermione from going to the Manor at all. We could always tell her about the polyjuice after the fact.
The more I think about this little deception, the more palatable it becomes, except now I have a flash of conscience and think it should be me who goes to do the actual dirty work to save Emmanuelle. I could not abide it if Ron was detected and caught by Death Eaters. Besides, it would be faster if I went and I would less likely be killed in the process. I suggest this to Ron.
"No, Malfoy. You have to stay and try to convince Hermione not to go," he says. "You've got a better chance at it. I couldn't be you for very long with her, and once she figures it out, she'd be hopping mad and then make her way to the Manor without either you or me just out of spite."
I rub my temple, knowing the truth of this. Besides, she would be here any minute now.
"OK, OK ... but Ron, you must not go until Hermione and I leave. So, if I can convince her to stay, you have to stay, too. Then, I will go and get Emmanuelle on my own, after I know you and Hermione are back at Hogwarts."
I watch him consider it. After all the planning and preparing, I know it would be a blessed relief for Ron not to have to impersonate me. It is not his responsibility anyway. I firm my resolve.
"Mate," I say, the unfamiliar endearment slipping from my tongue as I slap the image of myself on the shoulder, "you go in only if you see me use the Floo to go to the Manor with Granger and only after you feel the heat of the coin to signal that the coast is clear. Agreed?"
He nods reluctantly.
"How long will the polyjuice hold?" I ask.
"I took Snape's newly altered potion. It will work up until I drink the antidote," he says, holding a little vial up to the light. He quickly slips it back into his pocket.
"Brilliant!" I say, "When you find the girl and are ready to re-enter the Floo, hold your coin and let me know so I can make sure the Floo system will allow you out of the Manor."
Just as he nods his agreement, the bells on the front door jangle indicating the witch we've been waiting for has just arrived.
POV: Hermione Granger
Blind to all else, I march to the Floo in the back corner of The Three Broomsticks, trying to remember the plan I'd overheard Draco and Ron talking about but I can't seem to remember what I need to do to allow me to cross the wards and get into Malfoy Manor.
Bugger.
I'd thought I'd committed it to memory, but in my fury I'd managed to forget the words Malfoy was going to use. I wish the prat were here so I could strangle the information out of his lying, deceitful throat.
"Granger."
Well, speak of the devil.
"Muestildae," I snap, though I am secretly pleased he'd come. It would be easier with him in tow.
"Regardless. You are not going."
I ignore his overbearing decree and ask instead, "Do you have it? The orb, I mean. You remembered to bring it with you, right?"
Self-consciously his hand travels to his pocket and I hide a pleased grin. Good. He has it.
"Let's go, then," I say grabbing hold of his hand. We are both shocked at the flash of bright light the touching of our hands emits. He raises an eyebrow as I frown.
"Look, Gra-Muest.. ugh!" He scowls. "We are not going."
I drop his hand and stalk over to the working Floo. "Either you're coming or not. I am going. Decide."
I step into the Floo, and as soon as I do, he's in there with me as quick as lightening, wrapping his arms around me. Before I can shout "Malfoy Manor", he shouts out something else, and I see the vision of hundreds of open Floos pass us. He pulls at me when we reach our opening.
"Damn it all, Hermione! You are the most stubborn-" He's brushing off the soot as he glares at me from under his dirtied blond lashes.
"Where are we?" I ask, ignoring his angry muttering as I take in the musty surroundings.
POV: Draco
"The old gamekeeper's house on the Malfoy property," I reply, thoroughly annoyed. It was the first place that came to mind since I do not want her anywhere near my room, the only place I can directly Floo into the Manor without setting off the wards. I do not want her seeing Weasley, who has just signaled he's gotten in without incident.
Lumos!
An inch of dust covers the items in the room where we landed. I enchant a few floating candles, but not enough to attract attention from the outside. I pull my hand away from the coin and watch her start for the door. I send out a small hex to forcibly repel her hand from the knob.
"You stay put. This is my domain. I will summon you when I know it is safe," I say haughtily as I watch her gaze narrow and a scowl form on those pretty lips.
"I am warning you, Hermione. Stay here. It will take me only a few minutes to— "
"Don't tell me what to do!" She grabs onto my robe and pulls me toward her. I push at her. She fights me, her breath heightens and I find myself loosing some control. I realize that I am much stronger than her when I feel something give under my grip. She slaps my hands away and then tries to hit me. I reach out to pull at her hair. Hellion.
"Ouch! Let go, you vile beast!"
"Behave!" I seethe at her. Her hand grabs my necktie and yanks on it so it feels like a noose. I pry her fingers loose, amazed that I manage to keep hold of my wand. "You are going to get the both of us killed!" I choke out. "Get a hold of your emotions and stop being so childish! Have you forgotten all of the training? This pain," I tighten my grip in her hair and shake her a little, just enough for her to cry out, "this is nothing compared to what they could do to you if I don't ensure that you are properly introduced. Stay here, or so help me, Hermione, I will Body Bind and Silencio you! And then I will leave you to rot in here. Do you want that?"
She sharply shakes her head twice, wincing at the movement which causes me to pull harder at the unruly hanks of hair in my grip.
"Will you do as I ask?"
Her brown eyes glitter in defiance. I hold my wand threateningly at her. She nods sharply again, not at all looking cowed.
"Good girl."
I let go and bodily push her a bit further into the back of the room. She stumbles backward. Then, I stride out the door and charm it locked, just in case. I am frankly surprised she was so easy to subdue.
In the fading afternoon light, I take a casual walk around the grounds, hiding behind the tall bushes to peer into the house. Very little movement. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary outside or in, I am just about to return to the gamekeeper's hut when I feel her hurrying up beside me. "All's clear, Malfoy."
I silently reprimand myself for forgetting to relieve her of her wand. I growl at her and grab her elbow to drag her through the front door.
In the upper rooms of Malfoy Manor
POV: Ron
"Get out!" the high-pitched shriek rings in my ears as Gatoo and I materialize in the room. The house-elf steps in front of me. To his surprise and, it seems, great distress, I reflexively shield him from something hard and shiny whinging through the air heading straight for us.
As soon as I spot the Floo in the corner, I order Gatoo back to Draco's bedroom. Too stunned at my kindness to refuse, the house-elf leaves the room with a loud crack.
"Get out! Get out! GET OUT! GET OUT!"
The continuous screaming is ear splitting. Sharp little household objects that she was already holding continue to pepper me.
The hollering sharp-shooter hurries to place herself behind a huge ornamental bed, as far away from me as possible. Clearly, the helpless Muggle prisoner hadn't spent her time wasting away in despair. She'd been working, it seems, to gather anything and everything in the room that she could possibly throw and building it into a strategically placed fort. It's doubtful that her meager Muggle attempts would be much protection against a wizard or witch with a working wand, but the effort is impressive.
Looking closer, I see that this innovative Muggle is blonde and blue-eyed— just about the prettiest girl I'd ever seen.
Having dealt with a violence-prone sister nearly all my life, I know instinctively when to duck and dodge. As expected, several heavy items miss me, shattering, instead, against the wall behind me.
A murderous look is etched on the girl's face. Her chest is heaving at the exertion of throwing things and yelling at the same time.
"Stay where you are!" she warns loudly, growing more furious as I ignore her command.
"Emma?" I take a careful step closer.
"Who are you to address me with such familiarity?" She throws something else at me and calls me something that sounds crude and French. I'm supremely glad I don't know the language.
Then a book hits me square on the forehead as I stare at her. My pride stings at having been hit. Reflexively, I start to charge at her just to stop her firing. I take no more than two steps when I spy her hauling a fairly large, sharp-edged vase from the floor. I halt for a moment, then decide to approach more cautiously, hands open to indicate I mean her no harm.
"Now, calm down, Emma," I engourage softly, as though trying to soothe one of Hagrid's monstrous creatures. "My name is Ron Weasley. Your grandfather sent me to help you escape."
Her eyes flash again as I call her by a nickname that I can't seem to stop from coming out of my mouth.
"You are lying! And stop calling me that," she snaps, each exclamation punctuated with another small object hitting the wall or bouncing off of me. "You are not called Ron Weasely! You and your family are insane! Très fou! Get the fucking hell away from me!"
My eyebrows rise at the pretty, French-accented voice continuously shouting obscenities, both foreign and not. She's like an enraged mini-Fleur Delacour.
A petite woman warrior.
I smile at the thought, forgetting what that looks like on my current face and how the smirk seems to incite most intelligent women, with incredibly good aim, to instant outrage.
The vase is hurled at me and its edge pierces my forearm. I can feel blood start to seep through my shirt sleeve under my robe.
Owww! Bloody hell, she's got an arm!
Losing my patience, I take another careful but long step toward her, my hands still open and visible.
"My name is Ronald Weasley," I repeat, "and I'm here to help you, Emma. Please stop screeching! Someone might hear!"
She clamps her mouth shut and cocks her head at me. I figure I must have said something that might get her to believe my story. I move toward her again and she grabs up something else from her rapidly dwindling supply of expensive weaponry. I do notice that she's keeping the most harmful artifacts for the last, though, and I have no desire to feel them rip into my skin.
"I DO NOT SCREECH, you pompous ass!" she screeches. "Besides, I can scream if I like! Your Aunt Bellatrix said the room is muffle, or something like that, so no one can hear what vile words I call you... Only you can hear me! And you are a..."
She pauses for a breath and to swallow, then sends a string of what I can only guess are the worst sort of French words for swine and jackass flying out at me. I try not to smile because this is such a ridiculous situation, and my smirking face would only make things worse. Besides, we need to speed things up. I really do need to haul her pretty derriere out of Malfoy's mansion as quickly as possible.
At my lack of response she stops.
"I thought you know French," she asks, eyeing me suspiciously.
"Not a word," I reply happily.
Her eyes narrow. Now if looks could kill, I'd be one dead wizard.
"Do not lie to me, Draco Malfoy. You have been speaking French to me for nearly four days." She looks to a magical portrait of the blond git who appears to be watching the events with obvious interest.
I shrug.
Emma tries another tactic to get me to reveal her understanding of the truth.
"Your aunt said you and tous vos amis would be soon coming to convince me to see the right way. Your auntie insists I'll be won over by your incredible charms."
She spits all of this out as an insult and continues her name calling and cursing. Fortunately, I'm not Malfoy, so I do what comes naturally.
I laugh. Uproariously.
Apparently Aunt Bella is a big Draco fan. What sticks with me is the way the girl says Malfoy's name, like it's bad cheese that leaves a bad taste in her mouth. I can certainly understand that feeling.
Emmanuelle stops her intense verbal attack in a confused moment of sanity when she hears my laughter. A little pout forms on her lips at my absurd reaction to what should have been a pretty winning zinger.
"Say, Emma?" I begin curiously, "How do you know…"
"… what, you bastard fucking shit? Are you wondering how I know your incredibly ridiculous name?"
I wonder at how her slight accent makes such words, even misused, sound so sexy. Despite the attraction, now my temper starts to boil and I suddenly feel like playing the part of the prat since I can actually understand her latest insult.
"Not really," I reply arrogantly in my best rendition of the guy she was currently cursing to hell and back. "It would be a sin not to know who Malfoy is. But I am curious. Has his infamy truly crossed over the Wizarding border and into the Muggle world? How do you, pray tell, know the Malfoy name?"
Her hand holding some new ammunition drops, and so does her mouth. She stares at me with wide-eyed incredulity. The silver thing in her hand lands with a soft thud onto the thickly carpeted floor.
Shockingly supreme vanity. Sometimes it pays to look like Draco.
She glares at me. I inch forward until my knees almost hit the opposite side of the king-sized bed. Her eyes slit dangerously, taking in my nearness, and for protection she gathers up two long crystal looking things.
Candlesticks. I shudder.
"I knew you were lying! Ron Weaselee, my ass! How? How can I not be aware of who you are? This room is a shrine to you, is it not? You imbecile!" Her fluttering hands motion to the wall and shelves which I now notice are indeed decorated with no less than fifteen portraits and pictures of the Slytherin prat and his friends.
"Your bitch of an aunt locked me in here so I could familiarize myself with you and your equally disturbing friends. It was not wise for her to do that. Your vile mouth has made me deeply disgusted with you even before this meeting. Your image in these peintures have been schooling my-comment dites-vous? Ahhh yes-filthy Muggle-self in the correct pronunciation of your name for days. I'm a squib, if you must know, and vous êtes une merde baisante!" she shouts, her voice ringing in my head.
Like this, she was one scary bint. I back up just a little. I know she's just called me something really bad. I just know it.
"... and besides that, I am the foretold heir of Slytherin," she continues passionately. "So you better keep your filthy hands off of me or your Lord will kill you for dirtying me with your less than worthy touch."
She sounds like she's parroting this last warning from something she heard before getting thrown into her cozy little prison. I wonder if she perhaps heard Bellatrix warning off some of Voldemort's minions. It would certainly explain why Emma hadn't been Crucio'ed to insanity yet.
Emma's gaze is warily trained on me as she tightens her hold on one of the candlesticks and starts to raise it in the air.
"You are not the Heir of Slytherin," I announce with conviction, keeping close watch of her hand movements. "You can stop pretending with me, Emma. My name is Ronald Weasley. Your grandfather, Leo Muestildae sent me. I have his portrait here in my pocket. I a—"
At the movement of my hand toward my pocket, I feel the sharp bite of one the candlesticks hitting my shouler.
"For fuck's sake, Emma!" I shout, enraged and in pain.
"Watch your dirty mouth! And keep your hands in the air! Stop calling me Emma! I know you are trying to reach your wand, you swine!" she screams this while hurling the other crystal candlestick at my head.
I shift quickly, thanking Merlin for my Keeper skills which allows me to avoid decapitation.
"Maybe this would be a good time to do your little light show," I suggest loudly to my magically-enlarged shirt pocket. I swerve to the left to avoid a bruised shoulder. A razor-edged crystal paper weight nicks my elbow.
"Emmanuelle! Stop throwing things at the boy or I'll give him permission to Silencio and bind you. We need to get you out of here. Stop immediately!"
"Grand-père?" She breathes incredulously. She at last stops her attack to stare wide-eyed at my glowing shirt pocket. "Take him out! Let me see!" she commands.
I bite back a sharp retort about how that's what I'd been trying to do in the first place and immediately dig my hand in my pocket before she can reconsider. My fingers grasp the gold-tinted frame and I pull it out.
I watch her face crumple a little at the sight of a family member before she pulls herself together to stare at me and then back at the image of Mr. Muestilde. Her eyes are rounded and she's completely off-balance now that she sees that I do indeed have her grandfather in the palm of my hand.
"Savez-vous même qui il est?" she poses the French question at the portrait.
"Yes, Emma. I know who he is," Muestilde answers with an impatient sigh. "This is Ron. He's disguised as Draco for protection. Ma fille chérie, please calm down. We need to get you out of this place."
"Qu'est-ce qui passe? Pourquoi est il ici et vous n'êtes pas?" her French is rapid and she's chosen the language due to her instinctual distrust in me.
"English, s'il vous plaît, Emma," Mr. Muestilde reprimands. "Ron is here to help. Listen to him. Go with him. I couldn't come because of your father's condition."
"Mon père? Il est vivant?" She cries excitedly, tears welling im her eyes, staring at me. I don't know what she said, so I don't know how to respond. "Oh, je m'excuse, Ron. My father, he's alive? I've been so worried."
She looks so relieved that I want to go to her, but stop myself since she still held some fairly sharp objects.
"Well, let's get you out of here then, so you can stop worrying," I extend my hand out to her. She hesitates a moment.
I touch the coin in my pocket, hoping to hell that Draco can feel it and has cleared the way.
Relief flushes through me as I feel the responding pulse of warmth from the coin in my other hand.
"Emma, let's go," I say more urgently.
She hesitates.
"I don't know," she says, gnawing at her lower lip, a familiar nervous movement I recognize that could just as well have been Hermione's. If it meant the same thing, this decision of hers could take days.
I curse and pull the antidote out of my pocket, pop the top and take a swig. I feel the effects immediately because the clothes I'm wearing are far too small. I have to undo some buttons while she watches me curiously.
I loosen the tie, pop two buttons at my neck and open the ones at my wrists. When I reach for the one at my trouser fly, her look turns from mildly curious to a little predatory.
"You have red hair," she says sashaying toward me. I try to keep from taking an instinctive step back. "Even on your chest. Vous avez de beaux yeux bleus. Splendide." She is smiling appreciatively at me for the first time since I apparated into the room. Her French tongue has gone from enraged to sultry.
I didn't have to understand French to understand her interest. I nod and gulp.
You've got no time for this, I silently warn myself.
"Take my hand, Emma," I order, ignoring my libido. "Trust me."
She does as I command. I sigh, relieved, and we step into the Floo.
As I shout out our destination, I realize that she hadn't corrected me for the use of her shortened name.
POV: Narcissa Malfoy
No, He is not.
I write the words in the magical notebook. The pages absorb my words as quickly as I write them.
Are you alone, then? These words flash in reply.
Quite. I smile as I write the word.
A hushed pair of voices in the foyer interrupts my correspondence and the peaceful silence of my afternoon tea. It is an unusual time to receive visitors and the voices, at least one of them, seems an unlikely one. I place an eavesdropping charm on the pair, so I do not need to move from my comfortable position to hear what they are hissing at one another.
"Stop telling me what to do, Malfoy! I'm tired of it. I've come for two reasons: I mean to see Him and I mean to save her!"
"You are infinitely lucky I followed you here to allow your entry. You should be kowtowing to me, you brainless twit! Stop rolling your eyes! You are doubly lucky that no one was at the front gate or patrolling the perimeter, save one of mother's peacocks! For Merlin's sake, Granger, you cannot just waltz into my home demanding an audience with V-the Dark Lord!" he hisses loud enough for me to hear. "Did you take Snape's serum, the one..."
The last few words are too faint for me to hear. I shake my head. How thoughtless of Draco to make such a noisy appearance. It is a good thing I do not expect any company besides the girl upstairs until tomorrow evening. I tune into their conversation.
"I did, but I won't need it. And stop calling me that! I am NOT Granger. I am the girl in the prophecy, Draco! He'll want to see me! You have it, the orb, right? He needs to see it!" she seethes, undaunted.
I hear my son harrumph his answer and then swear colourfully at the owner of the feminine voice. I am slightly taken aback by his poor manners but am extremely curious. There has been relatively little with which to occupy myself since my home has effectively become as restrictive as my husband's jail cell. Besides, Draco has never brought a girl home before, nor have I ever before heard him quite so peeved about someone else's safety.
The two teens pass the Manor's solarium where I am seated. Beyond the glass doors, I recognize the girl as the one from the Hogsmead pub – Harry Potter's friend – the very girl Draco chose not to play messenger for Bellatrix that day.
Interesting.
Tonight, the girl looks extremely disheveled wearing Muggle clothes, hair flying every which way and her vest askew. It would seem as though she's just been in a tussle. To her left, my son comes squarely into view. He continues his low growling at her and he, too, appears similarly mussed. I move to stand and his ever wary eye catches my movement from behind the french doors.
"Draco," I call. "Were you looking for me? Why have you come home? I wasn't expecting you so early."
"Mother!" I watch him catch hold of the wandering girl's arm, yanking her toward the conservatory and me. She is fighting his grasp, quite insulted to be dragged about.
As she should be, I think, as I watch him haul her over.
"Draco, darling. Who is this?" I say, holding a hand out to him. He drops his hold on the girl and quickly strides to me, taking my hand. He moves closer to bend his head towards me to peck my cheek. I place my palm against his face and smile.
"Mother, you look beautiful as always."
"And you look much better than the last time I saw you, Draco." I flick my gaze at the girl who, instead of straightening herself to be presentable, has been avidly watching our little greeting. I find it interesting that she hasn't cowered like that Pansy strumpet who generally scampers to hide in Draco's shadow when confronted by the mere sight of me.
"Good evening, my dear," I say, holding a hand out, "and you are?"
For a moment, I think the girl will do the unthinkable and leave my hand hanging in the air, that is until she shakes off her initial shock at my warm welcome. I wonder what stories the child has heard of me. I smile benignly.
"Good evening, Mrs. Malfoy, my name is Hermione Granger M-Mustelidae," she says her voice quavering only a tiny bit. She takes hold of my offered hand and I find myself impressed with her confident handshake. "I've just discovered the Mustelidae part, thanks to Draco and to you for providing that amazing book of Wizarding Family Trees. You see, I am the girl in the orb that your husband revealed to Draco over the summer. I'm the female heir of Slytherin he's been trying to find. Despite your son's reticence, I have decided to fulfill the prophecy to help your family. I'm here without Mal-Draco's approval. Professor Snape has made us all aware of your... ah... assistance."
I purse my lips, wondering how unwise it was of Severus to reveal my involvement. I think about this as I curiously watch how she tugs at my son's arm. Presumably, she wants him to take his hand out of his pocket along with what I surmise is the aforementioned prophetic orb. He stubbornly refuses to budge, nudging her away with his elbow and a dark look. I watch bemused at their little skirmish, perhaps this is the cause of their dishevelment?
Miss Mustelidae's mouth tightens; her chin tilts slightly upward. I see the darkening of Draco's irises and his scowl deepens when he notices her movement. Very little brings Draco to such obvious emotion. I nearly cry out in surprise when he takes both hands and places them against her shoulders to shove her away. He has never in my presence, and of his own accord, touched anyone except me, not since he was a small child. He even keeps the Parkinson chit at arm's length when she is about the Manor.
I feel the rise of my eyebrow as I notice the girl begin to reach into Draco's trouser pocket.
"Hermione!" He uses her name as a strong rebuke and sharply steps aside. This takes him away from her searching hand, but the loss of him pushing against her nearly causes her to topple over. He swiftly moves to catch her up, assisting her in regaining her balance. This unusually gallant behavior from him does not escape my notice, nor does his head motions at her that point directly at me. I watch amusedly as she realizes her faux pas. Her cheeks flush a bright crimson and she lets out a horrified gasp. It seems the poor child forgot herself in her stubborn desire to best my son. Somehow I find this doggedness to stand up to my irrefutably belligerent child and her resulting fluster at having gone too far to convince me of her heritage quite... fascinating.
"There's no need, Miss Mustelidae. I've seen the orb many times. After all, I was the keeper of its puzzle box," I say with a negligent wave. Then, I turn to Draco. "I, darling, have been expecting you. Severus implied that you would be coming soon. I should have known Miss Mustelidae would be the real one. Please, both of you, have a seat."
The girl seems thankful to take advantage of my offer. I wonder how far she's come to at last find herself on my chintz armchair. It could not have been easy. I notice her eyeing the tea cakes. Draco remains standing, pacing. I abhor pacing. He notices my look of disapproval, bows slightly, and settles to lean lazily against one of the floor-length windowsills.
"Is He here, Mrs. Malfoy?"
I turn my attention to the girl's determinedly eager voice that barely hides what I imagine must be some intense fear. I watch her furrow her brow, as though she is deciding whether to accept a cup of tea from Lulu, one of the house-elves.
"Take it, Hermione," comes the gruff command from Draco, who has moved to stand at the Floo's mantle, his hand in his trouser pocket, agitated. "It is just some blasted tea, for Merlin's sake! Must everything be a crusade with you?" He leans unnaturally close to the Floo, as if to examine the painting above. He has one foot in what would have been ashes had the house-elves not been diligent in their job of keeping the Manor spotless.
The Muestildae girl frowns at him but turns to smile at Lulu, gingerly accepting the teacup with a whispered, "Thank you very much. I appreciate the kind offer." Lulu averts her eyes, unused to such effusive gratitude. I wonder at the girl's reticence and her kindness toward her lessers.
"Would you mean The Dark Lord?" I query, moving back to her question and trying to keep the sneer out of my deliverance of the half-blood's self-proclaimed title. "No, He is not. I do not expect Bellatrix until tomorrow night and she was unsure if He would be arriving with her or if He would wait until the weekend when Draco and the rest of the more senior members of Slytherin are expected."
I hear the audible outtake of breath from both teens. I cannot tell if the pair of exhales are of relief or distress.
I turn back to the girl. "You are aware, my dear," I warn, "that you will have to address Him as The Dark Lord, regardless of where your loyalties lie."
She looks startled by my words. I send her a small, encouraging smile.
"My loyalties lie with my friends, Mrs. Malfoy, and I count Draco among them," she announces decidedly, her eyes unwavering from my stare. She turns to sip her tea, and I hear her mutter to herself, "whether he wants me to be his friend or not."
I try to hide a pleased smile at her afterthought.
"This is why I am here, after all, for my friends," she continues more loudly. "But, yes, I see what you mean. I'm determined to speak to The Dark Lord. I've been wanting to tell him for a long time of my... ah... relationship to Him, but I have been thwarted at every turn." She turns her angry gaze accusingly at my son, who is now looking out towards the darkened grounds, searching, I suppose, for the presence of any remaining Death Eaters.
"They have not been here since the Yule," I say, unable to hide the relief in my response. "They have been gone for some time, thankfully."
"And Aunt Bella?" Draco's insolent drawl tries to hide the true fearful curiosity in his query.
"She comes and goes as she pleases. She left this afternoon to spend time with Him, or so she says."
"Are you alone, Mother?"
Before I can tell Draco that we indeed have company, the Floo suddenly comes alive. Out steps Severus holding the scruff of an all too familiar-looking young man who looks wholly unhappy to have been whisked away from Hogwarts.
The intrusion has both teens simultaneously crying out.
"Ron?" Draco shouts, confused.
"Draco?" Hermione gasps, staring between the two young men.
Snape appears unmoved as he angrily shakes the belligerent boy he holds by the collar, then turns abruptly to address me.
"Narcissa?"
Even as my eyes take in the incredible sight, I fight my initial shock and think back to the question Severus posed in the magic notebook earlier. I shake my head telling him, no, Voldemort is not here. My son's godfather visibly relaxes.
With that, everyone turns to stare intently at the boy still held by Snape — a boy who happens to look exactly like my son.
"I thought you already left!" Draco shouts at the young man Severus still has in his grips.
"I found him waltzing down the corridor just outside the Slytherin dungeons," Severus says. "Was he not supposed to be with you?"
My jaw unhinges as I watch Draco nod very slowly while glaring at the boy imprisoned under Serverus's grip.
"He was, Sir, just as we planned. He was with me until I Floo'ed here with Granger," he answers the professor, then turns to address the other boy being held at the scruff by Severus. "Did something happen that you had to go back to the castle, Ron? Why didn't you signal if you were in trouble?"
"Why do you keep calling him Ron?" Hermione demands of the two men.
"I'm not Ron," groans the young man in question.