It's been such a long time, so, I thought to provide a synopsis:
Through a portraiture meeting of her real magical grandparents, Hermione discovers Emmanuelle has been abducted by Bellatrix. In a fit of rage against Draco and his lie of ommission, Hermione decides to floo to the Malfoy compound, somehow save her adoptive parents' daughter, and get on with the duties of being the Slytherin heir. A still reluctant Draco, fearing for her life, decides to accompany her, though, they quarrel the entire way. Unbeknownst to Hermione, a polyjuiced Ron, acting as Draco, successfuly enters Malfoy Manor and saves Emmanuelle from Bellatrix's evil clutches. We left off last chapter with the unexpected appearance of Snape and an unknown boy wearing Draco's face.
POV: Hermione
This Draco look-alike is not Ron, of this I am absolutely sure. There is something missing in the way the blond stranger looks at me. After denying his identity, his mouth hangs open as he stares. I realize, with some disgust, that this is not an attractive look on his borrowed face. Besides, he is far too surprised to discover me with the Ferret to be Ron.
I turn to the snarling Draco at my side. The boy in Snape's clutches is most certainly not the real Draco Malfoy as no one wears a scowl quite like the blond next to me.
I look to the mystery boy again. He still appears gobsmacked. The wide-eyed astonishment at finding me at Malfoy Manor is enough evidence for me to rule out one other. There just wasn't enough hatred flowing out of the unknown lithe figure to make him Harry Potter.
"Of course he's not Ron," I exclaim. "Can't you tell?"
All eyes turn to me and then quickly back toward the stranger.
"Crabbe? Goyle?" Draco starts naming off his male housemates. With each spoken name, the collared blond bares his teeth and vehemently shakes his head no.
"How dare you impersonate me without my express permission!" Draco bellows once he's finished with his list. Eyebrows rise all around the room and I wonder exactly how many people have permission to play Draco's twin.
"Honestly, Malfoy! Just ask him who he is and be done with it," I interject impatiently. There's a dangerous glint in Draco's eye, so before he does something stupid, like hex his undesired twin, I step in front of Snape to address the stranger. "Who are you?" I ask flatly.
"How could you, Hermione?" the voice is low and gruff, full of self-righteous indignation. Despite the strong emotion in it, the voice is familiar, but not one I instantly recognize. I sift through my memory trying to place it. "How can you be here with the likes of him?" Malfoy's mystery twin continues. "I thought you had your hands full what with all your Gryffindor men. But now, you bitch, it seems to the shame of your House you would rather have a snake in your bed." The fake Draco spits the last at me as if he finds my actions a personal affront. Now this is a look and tone more suited to the false face. A familiar sort of rage wells up inside me. Ironically, I feel the real Draco behind me take offense to the character attack.
"You dare speak to her in this manner? Watch your mouth," Draco growls menacingly, his wand pointed at his doppelganger. "Shut it instantly, or I will shut it for you."
Bewildered, I turn to stare at the real Draco who does not seem to notice my attention. I turn back to the stranger and snarl my own retort, "How dare you make assumptions about me and my relationships with Ron and Harry!" As the words fall from my lips, I realize I should be more outraged at the name-calling and crude insinuation about Malfoy and myself.
"Seems you've become quite adept at hiding some very tawdry facts about that Slytherin from your Gryffindor housemates. Did all of this start at Slughorn's party when I saw you with that filth?" The stranger's hot accusation suddenly seems a bit like sour grapes as his attention turns toward Draco.
Cormac? I wonder as I notice a flicker of recognition in the depths of Malfoy's pewter stare.
"McLaggen? You bastard!" Draco thunders, pushing past me to grab on to the robes of the unknown boy who hasn't yet confirmed or denied his identity. "Your thievery nearly cost Weasley his life, you arrogant little shite! And now, you could very well be ruining Granger's chances of coming out of this mess alive. If you so much as breathe a word of this—"
"CISSY! WHERE ARE YOU? CISSY!"
Bellatrix's frantic shrieks tumble down to the solarium from an upstairs corridor, stunning the five of us into a silent, petrified tableau.
I feel my heart stop mid-beat as Draco curses under his breath. Glaring at the polyjuiced boy, Draco lowers his voice and sneers. From the snippets I catch, it sounds like Malfoy's employing a tongue-tying curse on the stranger who might be Cormac. As I notice the exchange, I also watch a soundless conversation pass between Mrs. Malfoy and Professor Snape above the boys' heads. Snape's hand closes more tightly on Malfoy's look-alike.
"Go, Severus," Mrs. Malfoy breathes, terrified. With one last lingering look at her, Snape launches himself and the mystery Draco into the the Floo and away from the Manor.
As for me, I find myself taking a determined step toward the glass doors, preparing myself to face my fate. Instead, the tip of Draco's wand forces me to a grinding halt.
Before I can shield myself, Draco grabs tight hold of my hand, and I feel the cold slimy sensation of an invisible raw egg messily spilling over me. With it comes the frustration of sudden, undesirable invisibility. What's worse is that Draco's mother has a similar thought to hide me in plain sight and adds her own spell to Draco's Disillusionment Charm.
I round my lips to shout a horrified, "No!" but find I am quite literally robbed of speech.
Silencio'd!
I turn to glare at the interfering mother and son. When I recognize their shared look of smug self satisfaction at their handiwork, I attempt to stomp off but am forcibly yanked back to the Ferret's side.
Tethered! And in a most aggravating manner!
Malfoy's hand clamps more tightly around my fingers in a vice-like grip. I can feel the remnant electric sparks of the curious magic that always flares at our touch. I narrow my eyes at his sharp-featured face and notice his mouth pinch, echoing the tight, stealthy movement of his hand.
Though he cannot see me, I scowl, tugging violently against his hold.
"Do not make a nuisance of yourself, Granger." Draco hisses this into my ear as he drags me to the table near his mother. He sits, forcibly trapping my hand atop the arm of the chair I'd occupied only minutes before. "I will not hesitate to pull you onto my lap if I have to."
I wish desperately for the ability to make some sort of infuriated retort. Again, I attempt to wrench myself away, but his fingernails dig into the side of my hand, sending me a silent warning to immediately cease my fight. The fierce look on his face tells me not to cross him. I fume, watching him comfortably settle into my former seat. He casually reaches over with his free hand to take hold of my teacup, calmly raising it to his lips. I track his Adam's apple as it bobs up and down in response to his slow sips of my orange pekoe tea. Witnessing his lack of fluster further incites me.
Then, the doors to the solarium crash open. At the shocking sight of the ghostly pale, petite witch filling the entrance way, I realize that Mrs. Malfoy need not have bothered to silence me. I am bereft of words. The witch's arms are outstretched. Her long-nailed fingers grasp the door frame. She is bedecked in a pitch black gown and possesses a wild abundance of hair that surprisingly is in even more chaotic disarray than my own untamed mane. Her lips, blood red, are thin against her bared teeth, which I half expect to be fanged.
My eyes round and my mouth falls open as I watch Malfoy and his mother continue their pretense of casually observing an early evening tea. Their lack of response to the deranged woman at the door would be laughable had the menacing power emanating from the witch not been so terrifying.
What sort of place is this? Had Draco lived in constant fear all summer? Perhaps even longer?
"CISSY! WHERE IS SHE!" the crazed woman shrieks.
"Calm yourself, Bella," Mrs. Malfoy replies softly, evidently practiced in the art of soothing her sister. "Of whom are we speaking?"
"The squib, the squib! Cissy! Emmanuelle, of course!" Bellatrix howls.
"Oh, yes, her," Narcissa murmurs distantly, carelessly waving a hand toward Draco who nods imperceptibly. "She's gone."
Bellatrix's eyes bulge, her scarlet lips fall open and her chest heaves, gulping in air, perhaps to fuel her screech of outrage.
"Aunt," Draco's composed voice interrupts her on-coming wail. "The squib was not the girl you were looking for."
Stormily, she regards her nephew. Her mouth clamps shut, her eyes hold a demonic glow, and she is all but trembling with tempestuous rage. Her approach is unearthly, a sort of flying glide, like that of a spectre. Her soundless rush toward my invisible self has me instinctively shrinking away, but Draco's hand stays me, and I am forced to stand still at the sight of his swiftly advancing aunt.
To my great relief, Draco stands just before she might ram into me, managing to put himself between us. He still imprisons my hand. To everyone else, his own appears casually hooked at the V of his vest. Beneath it, my palm is flat and firmly pressed against his chest. His other is held up, palm forward, a silent command for Bellatrix to tread no farther. The way he traps my fingers beneath his forces my front against his back. I hear his barely audible intake of breath at the feel of me so near.
Left with little choice, I rest my face against the side of Draco's arm as I peer at Bellatrix from behind the wall of his body. His muscles tighten beneath my cheek.
Had my hand not been flat against his thundering heartbeat, I would have thought Draco was experiencing no more fear than if he were truly enjoying a quiet cup of tea with his mother.
"Where is she, you self-serving brat?" Bellatrix shrieks. Her expression is openly venomous and her wand is at the ready. "How dare you interfere with my work for the Dark Lord. I should Crucio you within an inch of your life. Produce the squib. RIGHT NOW!" Spittle flies from her mouth at her viciously spoken command. I feel the slight jump in Draco's tricep and a twitch in his hand against mine as his body responds to her high-pitched threat.
He shifts slightly, pulling at my arm, intertwining my fingers with his, leaving me nowhere to go but flatter against the broad plane of his back. The feel of his tautened muscles against my cheek nearly distracts me from the fact that he places both our clasped hands into his pocket where I feel the smoothness of the prophetic orb against the back of my hand. The touch of it instantaneously calms me.
"I have damning evidence, Aunt Bella, that you are quite wrong about the squib. You should not have abducted that useless girl to present to the Dark Lord as the Heir of Slytherin," Draco plainly states. "You should be thanking me, dear aunt, not threatening me. My discovery may have saved you from certain death over your careless mistake. Fear not, however. Your misstep was so easily fixed that I have already done the correcting for you."
Wary, but curious, Bellatrix tilts her head at Draco, who, in the confines of his pocket, still threads his fingers with mine. My knuckles slip against his palm. Damp. I realize suddenly that despite his outward calm and unyielding manner, Draco is afraid of her. My heart lurches for him.
Suddenly, his grip tightens, almost as though he is trying to milk raw courage from my smaller fingers. I squirm against his body and his hold releases slightly. My gaze slowly moves upward and I crane my neck to view his face. There is no real outward tension, only his jaw muscles twitch slightly as he stares at his now eerily silent aunt.
Sour breath spills out of her mouth. She is standing so closely that her acrid exhale steals into my nostrils, filling my lungs with her noxious second-hand air. I grimace, as does Draco.
"The Dark Lord and the others will be here within the hour," Bella says with both reverence and fear. "Where is this girl, Draco?" she again forcefully demands.
"The true Slytherin Heir is within my grasp," comes Draco's cool reply. Surprisingly, I find myself smirking at his wit. "I only have to summon her to the Manor, and she will be here, more than pleased to serve the Dark Lord."
"There, you see, Bella? There is no longer need to worry," Mrs. Malfoy adds with some bored finality.
"I will not be made a fool by a mere child!" Bellatrix stomps her foot like a spoiled toddler. "Summon the heir NOW, Draco!" she impatiently commands.
"So that you might gain the credit for producing her?" Narcissa speaks softly, but her words are underlain with cold steel. "I think not, dear. It was my son who discovered the true heir, and he is the one in possession of the prophetic orb. You, Bella, have neither the heir nor the orb. And you will not rob Draco and the Malfoy family of the great honor of presenting both of these to the Dark Lord. Simply be grateful, darling sister, that we do not mention your bumbling attempts when we present her to Him."
Bella shifts uncomfortably at the truth as spoken by Narcissa.
"And what of the squib?" Bella inquiries more meekly. I watch Mrs. Malfoy stiffen. I wonder if she is just as confused as I am about Emmanuelle's disappearance.
"Taken care of," Draco's dark reply fills the room. "I disposed of her myself with the assistance of my house-elf."
Bellatrix looks about ready to explode. I itch to pinch him. What was this? How could he have done anything to Emmanuelle when he was with me all this time?
"Draco, there is much to be done to prepare for the Dark Lord's arrival. Please see that the servants are put to their tasks," Narcissa orders dismissively, giving us a segue out of the room. "I have things to discuss with your aunt."
POV: Draco
Mother escorts us out of the room, providing the still-disillusioned Granger with ample cover to shield any charm discrepancies from Aunt Bella's sharp, unwavering gaze. Once out of sight of the solarium, I heave a relieved sigh. Though I can neither see nor hear her, in my pocket I can still feel Granger's hand. The solidity of her fingers wrapped around mine comforts me, and I tug her more gently to the sanctity of my bedroom.
Upon entering, I spy a quivering Gahtoo who rushes toward me, bowing so deeply his nose brushes the plush oriental carpet touted as one of the last ever to fly the London skies.
"Master!"
"Gahtoo," I reply, a smile in my voice, quite pleased to see him safe. "I trust you are well?" I feel Granger freeze beside me when she hears me speaking so kindly to my wizened house-elf.
"Only as good as Master Draco keeps Gahtoo," a frown forms on the house-elf's wrinkly face. "Master should not send Gahtoo away when Master is in danger."
My allowance for this slight scolding stems from the knowledge of Gahtoo's undying devotion to me. It was, after all, Gahtoo who often bore the brunt of punishments for my childhood misdeeds.
"Mother needs the house prepared for the Dark Lord's arrival, Gahtoo. Inform the others," I announce. Granger pinches my arm to remind me of her presence. "Ouch!" I slap at her invisible fingers as Gahtoo stares wide-eyed. I pinch her back, strangely gratified to feel her outrage in the stomp she plants on my foot. I grab onto her invisible waist and shake. "Stop it, Granger," I hiss.
Looking at my elf, I worry my lip, thinking of her upcoming meeting, and I realize Hermione is still in Muggle clothes. Hastily, I add, "Oh, and tell Fifi and Lulu to fetch some material, towels, old rags and the like. Tell Mother of my request that she transfigure or charm them into a nightdress and robes that might fit a—" I hesitate, unsure how to continue. I turn my cheek and feel the top of Hermione's invisible head hit just below my chin. "—a witch about the size of my Aunt Bellatrix."
Like any loyal servant of a grand manor, Gahtoo does not blink an eye at the unusual request. He disapparates quickly to do my bidding.
The sound of Gahtoo's departure has me turning and grasping my wand. I let go of Granger's hand and wave a Finite Incantatem at the space beside me. The charm lifts, and I watch her curiously as she digests the fact that she is alone with me in my bedroom. The reality of this flickers in my head and I turn away from her, suddenly in need of fresh air. I stride over to the window and throw open the sash. A gentle evening breeze lifts the light curtain.
"I thought you'd forgotten me, you prat," she grouses. "And I thought for sure your room would be done all in silver and green." With a frown, she quietly trails her finger along the shelves of books and school memorabilia on the wall furthest from the window.
I shrug. The constrained feeling does not abate. Giving in to the need to swallow, I loosen the tie at my neck to undo the top button of my shirt whites. Slowly, I lower myself to sit on the chaise beside the window. It surprises me that I am not bothered as I watch her studious examination of my most private retreat. I take a moment to wonder about Ron as she lifts a picture up off the shelf.
As if reading my mind, Hermione turns toward me, her mouth already working. I prepare myself for the impending onslaught.
"What happened to Emmanuelle, Draco? Why did you think that polyjuiced version of you might be Cormac? Not that I disagree with you, but you were accusing him of some serious crimes! Besides that, what has Ron got to do with all of this? And... and how dare you order me a nightgown made of old rags!"
I shut my eyes against the sight of her enraged self. Such a shame Mother's Silencio was so short lived, I was quite liking the silent Granger. I lay my head against the cushioned arm of the chaise and move my fingers to first massage my temples, then glide them across my closed eyelids to pinch the bridge of my nose.
She deserves answers, I think reluctantly. But I seem to have precious few to offer. The last I'd heard from Ron was the warm pulse of the coin that indicated he was safe with Emmanuelle to wherever Dumbledore had sent him. It certainly was not Snape who intercepted Ron and the squib, since the greasy professor had been here at the Manor demanding the identity of my second clone.
"Ron was polyjuiced as me. He was the one who saved Emmanuelle. As far as I know, Ron and the squib are fine," I say tiredly, fingers still massaging away an oncoming headache. "Ron makes a fine Draco Malfoy, by the way," I add. "That is why I initially thought he had returned with Snape. Weasely even saved my blasted house-elf from whatever trouble that squib might have caused him in the rescue attempt."
The smell of apricots strengthens again, driving me to distraction. I can feel her presence hovering above me.
"So how sure are you about the identity of Draco number two?" she asks wonderingly.
"McLaggen must have pilfered the polyjuice I keep in my trunk that I give to the First Years I make serve my detentions for me," I mutter, wondering exactly how he might have gotten his filthy hands on the potions. I hear her make a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. I swear to myself that Crabbe and Goyle are going to pay if they had anything to do with my polyjuice falling into the hands of that good-for-nothing. "Honestly, if it isn't McLaggen, I think it could be any Gryffindor, Granger."
"But not Harry," she states confidently.
My eyes snap open, my heart slams against my chest at the sight of the strong conviction in her dark brown gaze.
"Why not Potter?" I demand hotly, wondering what convinced her of what I already knew was the truth.
"He spoke about Harry in the third person. And even if he hadn't, simple deduction would have worked just as well."
My gaze follows the incessant light tapping of her finger on her chin.
"Your look-a-like was shocked and angry to find me with you, that's for sure, but Harry would have been throwing Unforgivables. And did you notice the way he said Ron? As if it was ludicrous that you'd even consider Ron a possible polyjuice drinker? As if Ron was worthless, and hardly worthy to be thought a considerable threa— "
"Must you yammer on with such rubbish?" I scold impatiently. "If what you are saying is true, Granger, then my polyjuiced thief most certainly can be anyone whodespises me, admires your pristine Gryffindor traits, and was fed Potter's lies. The thing of it is, I am the idiot for trusting those imbeciles, Crabbe and Goyle, with the spells that would allow them through the charmed portion of my trunk!"
A loud crack interrupts our conversation as two heaps of kitchen towels and rags magically appear between us. A squeaky girl voice emanates from beneath the stack with a deep crimson tea towel atop it.
"Mistress Malfoy tells Fifi and Lulu to bid young Master Malfoy to meet with his mother in Mistress's sitting room while Lulu and Fifi help Miss-" Two pairs of wide elfin eyes stare at Hermione from beneath the heaps of towels.
"Muestildae," Granger supplies after an awkward moment. I roll my eyes disgustedly. She stares pointedly at me.
I watch as Granger bends to pick up one on the towels. At her touch, the whole load turns into piles of dresses and underthings that would leave Pansy panting in pleasure. Clever witch, my mother. The sight of the clothes have the house-elves leaping away.
I stride over and bend to gingerly pick up some scrap of light, gossamer fabric. My eyes go wide, and Granger's do too, at the sight of the barely-there knickers. I smirk and lift an eyebrow.
"Seems Mother's taken a liking to you, Granger. She is intent on matchmaking despite all that we face tonight." I shake my head with a sad sort of chortle as I make my way out the door. As an afterthought, I turn to place a spell on the doorknob, disallowing all but myself in and out.
"You will be meeting the Dark Lord in little more than a half hour," I say through the heavy wooden barrier. "It would be best to make yourself somewhat presentable,if that is even possible. Good luck with the task, Fifi and Lulu!"
I smile when I hear what can only be one of Grangers's trainers hitting the back of the bedroom door at my last remark.
POV: Hermione
"So, you're free elves?" I ask, quite pleased at the sight of clothes within their arms reach. I regret having thrown my shoe at the door because the two trembling elves look as though they might disapparate at the first sign of any more strong emotion from me.
"Oh, no, Miss! These is not for Lulu and Fifi," splutters the one with ridiculously long eyelashes. "These is for you. Mistress Malfoy says very clear that these is for you, not Lulu and not Fifi."
I grab up another swath of near nothing, unable to keep a gasp from escaping at the otherworldly silkiness of the fabric, and thrust it toward them.
"Here, take it then."
I watch the elves shrink away, aghast at the offering in my outstretched hand.
"No! Lulu and Fifi loves Mistress Malfoy and Master Draco. Theys needs Lulu and Fifi," the other says quite proudly, pointing a shaky finger at the crimson robes I've just grabbed up. "You is not our Mistress. Lulu and Fifi belongs to Malfoy Manor. And thems only charmed tea towels, not real robes, Miss. Mistress Malfoy says Lulu and Fifi helps prepare you now."
Letting out an incredulous snort, I turn to the elves who take extreme care not to touch any of the charmed tea towels heaped on the floor... just in case. With elfin magic, they shake out, hang and fold each robe, stocking, trouser, brassiere and vest, letting each linger in the air in front of me before carefully stacking it away in the armoire or dresser drawers. I despise shopping, but the sight of such fine garments has me gaping and, frankly, the idea of my potential underthings in such close proximity to Draco's unmentionables sends my heartbeat skittering.
"Miss must chooses her robes now." Fifi says, as the last stocking is tucked away. While darting quick, not-so-secret looks at me, Lulu whispers something to Fifi, who nods vigorously. "And Miss, Lulu and Fifi must fix Miss's... hair?" The last is spoken as a question as though the elf wasn't quite sure what to make of my tangled mess. With a frown, I wonder if the Malfoy elves are just as judgemental as their young master. With a huff, I turn toward the armoire to pull the crimson robe off its hanger. At least I don't have to face the Dark Lord while wearing Slytherin green.
POV: Draco
Already I hear the scurrying feet of his Death Eaters frantically preparing for His arrival. Fenrir is here, and the same dread I'd felt all summer falls on me like a dark cloak when I hear the Carrows' voices. With this deep seated terror returning, and the added strain of worrying over Granger's safety, it is growing more difficult for me to live behind the long-cultivated Malfoy mask of dispassion. Fear itself is an infection that festers.
The chill in the air signals the presence of the dementors Voldemort has in his entourage. With their appearance at the gate, their mere numbers suppress the light and suck what little humor is left of my earlier parting from Hermione. I peer out the hall window and watch their dark shadows block out the remnants of the delicate spring sun. I swallow again in an attempt to whet my parched throat. At last, I stop in front of my bedroom door, hoping that while I was gone, she had prepared herself for what is to come.
I take in a shallow breath, reminding myself I must remain strong. I'd spent my time away from Granger with my Mother, warning her off of any more harebrained matchmaking attempts, though telling her I did appreciate the sentiment. Mother reluctantly admitted she needed the distraction of something as normal as trying to make her son happy in order to handle the tension of Voldemort's visit. We spoke briefly, but meaningfully, helping one another restore our confidence and composure. With my fear now somewhat in hand, it is time for me to ensure Granger has also smothered hers.
I knock twice at my bedroom door.
"Draco?" she calls quietly.
"Yes," I answer.
"Come in." Her voice shakes and her wobbly nerves give me pause. I take in a deep breath and turn the knob. The door opens, and my eyes fall on Granger and my two weary house-elves. I can only imagine what sort of ordeal they'd undergone to gain such surprising results.
The vision of her fairly glows in the crimson robes she has chosen to wear. Her hair was— impossibly tidy ... attractive even. I fight a smile. It will not do to allow myself the luxury of welcoming any emotion I have for the witch because all will be open to the Dark Lord's scrutiny in just a few minutes.
"Is He here?" she asks, hurrying toward me.
I gulp and shake my head. It was only a matter of time, though, and the worry I had pushed aside for her crashes over me once again. The Death Eaters are crawling all over the Manor, and I fear losing my mind if any one of them dares touch her.
"Granger, we can still leave," I suggest desperately. "We can go meet Ron and your squib and run away. It is not too late."
"Do I look alright?" she asks, purposefully ignoring my pleas. "Is this OK?"
I stare at her and her gaze clashes with mine. She sends a silent but clear warning at me not to start the old argument again.
"It will do." I am purposely neutral in my response even though I know she is more than simply presentable. Secretly, I fear the house-elves might have gone a little overboard. I want to throw one of my own dark robes over Hermione to make her less appealing. I watch her nervously pick at the red robe and discover that, despite the need to distance myself, I have to assuage her worry. "You look fine, Granger. Perhaps, too fine." I add softly.
"You'll be there with me?" she asks with a tentative, hopeful smile.
"Of course," I say with some surprise.
"Are you ready, then, Malfoy?"
"No," I answer truthfully, the unbearable anxiety washing over me again. "Are you?"
"I suppose so."
I nod, and when I look at her again, Gahtoo appears.
"Mistress Malfoy bids Master Draco and Miss come to the salon. The Dark Lord are here, Master."
POV: Hermione
Draco grabs up my hand in a painful grip. I don't think he's realized he's even done it. He half drags me into the hallway. It seems he's angry and is making haste even though our steps feel heavy and reluctant. He glances my way again, and I feel his scrutiny. His eyes plead for me to reconsider. For a moment, I do honestly think perhaps it would be better if we abandoned this madness and apparated away together. Beyond Draco's shoulder, however, there is a window from which I can view the floating specters of the dementors that have taken up residence outside the Manor's walls. Their presence puts a chill in the air and I shudder.
The despair that accompanies their mere presence reminds me that I must go on to fulfill the prophecy to let in the Light. It is darker now, both inside the mansion and out. The shadows in the corridor are long, and I tighten my grip on his hand as we continue to take measured steps toward our destination. I lose track of the twists and turns Malfoy takes to get to the hall where Voldemort waits. I notice Draco's head is held high, though he takes care not to gaze anywhere but where he is headed. I feel the leering looks the Death Eaters make at me from behind their masks. It freezes my blood, and I long for a less flashy robe to hide behind. Many of them know me as Potter's Mudblood. The faces behind the masks belong to the pureblood parents of Hogwarts students, and if they don't know me through that channel, my face has been in the paper enough times for the rest to identify me as Harry's best friend, or perhaps more. I know the only thing that keeps them from attacking me is the orb that Draco still better be carrying in his trouser pocket and his hand that holds tightly to mine.
It seems an eternity, but at last we stop in front of two grand double doors. Malfoy squeezes my fingers before pulling away to push against the dark wood paneling. The fearsome sight of Voldemort on a high backed chair with the monstrous snake, Nagini, twining around the intricately carved wood is enough to make me turn tail and run.
For a room so filled with people, it is eerily quiet save for the breathing, and it is dark but for a strange light bereft of warmth, glowing at the front of the room. I am surprised no one can hear my thundering heartbeat. I raise my eyes to Voldemort, for the first time taking in His full face. It is without the prominence of a nose; two long slits split His countenance. He looks more serpent than human. His slitted eyes come to rest on me and, for a moment, I witness an unholy pleasure light the depths of His gaze.
"Come," He commands. My feet are compelled to move on their own. Malfoy is beside me, matching my stiff approach. On either side of us, Death Eaters stand watching, clearing a path as we near. It feels oddly like walking down a center aisle to receive sacrament, but this is a dark church that worships an unthinkable evil. As I pass the curious onlookers, I notice Professor Snape has returned to Mrs. Malfoy's side. Bellatrix is up on what seems like a dais, standing beside the Dark Lord's throne. Draco and I both stop just before having to kneel at His altar.
"Young Malfoy, your aunt informs me that you bring me good news," Voldemort's velvety voice holds more excitement than menace. I am surprised at the almost friendly tone He uses to address Draco.
"Yes, my Lord," Draco replies, his voice sure, though the tick at his jaw is more pronounced than it had been when he'd confronted his aunt in the solarium. "My father left me with the mystery of a prophecy, Master. I have worked to discover its secrets as I completed the initial task You set before me. I hope You will be well pleased to know that that task is complete, and that I am also bringing You more than perhaps any of us could have ever imagined."
I watch Draco pull the orb out of his pocket. I am surprised to find his hand steady. He does not approach Voldemort, only holds out the glass sphere, waiting for the Dark Lord to beckon him closer. A slight wave of Voldemort's fingers and the orb levitates out of Malfoy's hand. The unease fades for the blond. I suppress my own sigh of relief that he need not venture any nearer to the sinister figure.
Voldemort's eyes glow as He reads aloud the lines of the prophecy to His minions.
"There is one, a Slytherin heir, who will be the Dark Lord's most effective weapon against The One who threatens to vanquish Him … He shall use her to weaken and overcome the powers of The Chosen One. For she alone can ensure that The One marked as His equal will not survive-"
There is a flurry of soft murmuring around me, and the dark message of the prophecy slithers further into my understanding. It is the first time I have heard the words spoken aloud since Malfoy revealed them to me in a darkened classroom. Completely surrounded by what amounts to the Wizarding version of the Klu Klux Klan, I suddenly am aware of how truly precarious my situation is.
The sinister chuckling emanating from the grotesque figure on the throne chills me to the bone. I watch Nigini's eyes slit with pleasure as Voldemort absently strokes her scaly head with His long fingers.
"Is this the witch?"
Though Voldemort addresses Draco, He tilts His head towards me. The Dark Lord's voice is smooth, not at all the sort of dreadful hissing I'd imagined He might make.
Malfoy's hesitation is imperceptible. With carefully concealed dread, he turns to me, holding out a hand. His mouth is a tight hyphen as I look into his face. I press my own lips together as I place my icy fingers against his palm. He pulls me closer beside him. "My Lord," Draco announces with some pomp, "I present the female heir of Slytherin, Miss Hermione Muestildae."
At the sound of my name, Voldemort visibly brightens. "Yessss," He hisses malevolently, the sound slithers up my spine. My insides cringe at the reality of the voice that had infiltrated my worst imaginings. "I have been waiting a long time to meet you, Miss Muestildae." His reptilian gaze entraps mine. It is impossible to look away, and I know he is about to practice Legilimency on me.
Before Voldemort enters, however, I feel a familiar magic sneak inside my head, one that sends some added protection over the little knot of knowledge I do not wish the Dark Lord to see. I mask my surprise, as I realize Draco has been doing his own sort of training while he and I practiced tirelessly for this harrowing event. Clever of him to realize that Voldermort, though seemingly all-powerful, would not be able to penetrate two minds at once. I lightly squeeze Malfoy's hand and focus on flooding my thoughts with the memories surrounding my legacy and fate. I feel the pressure of Voldemort's magic infiltrate my insides. It is insidious, a light but vile touch that leaves me with a desire to scream in protest as he sifts through my thoughts.
He touches the truth and discards it. To my horror, of all the things Voldemort does choose to examine, it is my feelings and memories of Malfoy, ones that I had not thought to guard as closely as I do my feelings for Harry.
"Interesting," He murmurs before turning to Draco. As soon as the Dark Lord breathes the word, I feel a startling relief from the internal weight of His scrutiny. Scant moments later, Draco's magic releases me. With both gone, I am empty and left trembling in fear for Malfoy, on whom the Dark Lord now focuses His energies. A malevolent smile slips onto Voldemort's face.
In his stealth efforts to hold his own against the Dark Lord's oncoming magical invasion, I watch Draco's jaw clench intermittently. His lips clamp together so slightly it would not be noticeable to anyone but me. I know the moment the Dark Lord releases him because Draco's grip on my fingers eases and he releases a tiny, barely audible breath.
"Fascinating," Voldemort whispers, half to Himself, a disturbing half-smile playing on the outer curve of His lip-less mouth. I watch as it disappears, and as it does His focus returns to me. "Raised by Muggles. My dear, how wretched for you."
I say nothing. Despite my outward calm, I am scrambling to clear my mind of images of the only parents I know, not wanting to provide Voldemort with more ammunition to hurt me.
"Have you anything to say, child?"
Trembling, I stare at the Dark Wizard before me, and with a voice far stronger than how I feel, I reply, "My magical parents denied me my birthright by handing me off to Muggles only minutes after I was born. I mean to make them pay for their abandonment of me by taking up the mantle of Slytherin heir under your tutelage, of course, My Lord."
"Indeed?" he queries.
I nod, gulping.
"I fear that I require some proof of your sincerity, Miss Muestildae," He caresses His snake as He speaks. His fingers glide against the scales in a movement that is nearly erotic. Voldemort's voice lowers to a more sinister pitch, bordering on sadistic sensuality. I watch a cruel grin split His grotesque face as if a brilliant idea has just struck Him. "Yes, I'd like to witness your fidelity to me, heir of Slytherin, blood of my blood."
My heart races, waiting for His almost gleeful request. The Death Eaters start chanting in hushed tones. The sound of it raises the small hairs at the back of my neck. I cannot make out what they are saying, but it is an eerie backdrop to what is surely going to be some horrifying initiation rite.
"Place the Cruciatus on young Malfoy!"
POV: Draco
She gasps at His demand.
The Dark Lord's piercing gaze is unwavering on Granger's horrified face. He does not bother to spare me a glance. Feeling some safety in this, I close my eyes for a moment and breathe, taking a valuable second to shove away the remnant fear for her safety that threatens to seize me. I concentrate on Granger's face in my peripheral vision. I spy her eyes rounding in terror over the task. Even without Legilimency, I know her mind is stuttering. I know she's thinking, "I didn't train for this."
Bugger all, Granger! Do as he asks! I think frustratedly. I am not scared of Granger's curse. But I truly fear for her if she refuses to do as He wishes. From what I know of Granger, it is quite unlikely she would be able to hold a Cruciatus for long. I have undergone far greater torture under Aunt Bella's wand, so I highly doubt Hermione's casting would cause me even a backwards step. All she needs to do is show Him she is willing to torture me despite whatever it was He saw in her mind. Damn if he didn't see something in mine, as well! Bugger! Why did we not anticipate this? She could have practiced!
Damn it, Granger! Just do it!
I try with all my might to capture the unique magic I discovered that one night when I could speak to her without words. It doesn't appear to be working. Her mind has shut down. I turn to prayer, wishing with everything in me that she hears my silent demand. And just as if she has, Hermione whips her gaze toward me.
I capture her stare for a stolen, heavy moment. With all her attention aimed at me, I purposefully paste on the sneer I know she despises. Her mouth rounds to match her eyes as I work to harden my expression, blocking from her all the truths that she had managed to unearth in me since the beginning of term. When I forcefully drop her hand, I witness the worry begin when that lower lip disappears between her teeth.
Good!
I lose sight of her when I turn again to stare stoically at Voldemort.
DO IT! I send the lashing thought out to her again. YOU WANTED THIS! NOW LIVE WITH IT! I desperately wish to roar at her for her hesitation.
"Malfoy?" Her voice is meek, guilt-ridden, tear-filled.
"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, girl?" a new, shrill voice mocks. Aunt Bella seems to have abandoned the earlier reverent whispers she used to address the Dark Lord. A casual flick of His wrist seems to allow my barmy aunt the freedom to speak her mind. "You need to mean the curse!" she scoffs, dancing down the step toward Hermione, wand extended as I'd seem McGonagall do a million times when teaching a new spell to her students. Without Granger's fingers in mine, I tighten my hand into a fist as Aunt Bella approaches. I dare not look at her.
"Heir of Slytherin!" Aunt Bella sing-songs. "Indeed. Poor, pathetic girl. You need to really want to cause pain, dearie. You have to enjoy it," she adopts a new tone as she speaks to Granger. It is nearly seductive and grows more aroused at the prospect of actually causing me harm. "Any old fury or self-righteous anger will fail to hurt my nephew for very long—I'll show you how it is done, shall I? I'll give you a lesson—"
"No!"
The one word reverberates through the room. Masked faces whip toward the sound in a single, disturbing rustle.
The horrified shriek does not come from Granger but rips from my mother's throat. My own eyes round to discover my hand reaching for my wand. I try to work against what I know will come, but resistance is futile against the Voldemort's immense power, which far greater than any mere witch's or wizard's. My mind blanks, but not before I watch myself raise my wand at my mother. Passively, I watch the scene play out. The familiar numbness that comes with the Imperius Curse relieves me of emotion. Gone is my new-found conscience and renewed love for the woman at the receiving end of the spell. Without remorse, I witness the poisonous light leave my wandtip to blast my mother in the chest, sending her flying backwards and bouncing off the floor.
As the Imperius on me begins to lift, I notice that I do not feel the least bit drained. It occurs to me that the curse that had shot from my wand had not been mine. I had been but a conduit of the Dark Lord's immense power. While a horrifying thought, true terror seizes me when I witness Snape lose his cool reserve. My heart stops to witness him so thoroughly shaken at seeing my mother so carelessly handled. I watch him rush to her, still convulsing on the floor. Blindly, I too start toward her fallen figure, but not before Snape, for I cannot imagine anyone else, immobilizes my legs.
"Leave her," Voldemort orders the professor, ignoring all else but my godfather's uncharacteristic display of concern. "She knew of the prophecy and acted without informing me. She deserves no compassion, especially from the likes of you. How dare she interfere now? And in my moment of triumph!"
I watch, amazed and a bit awed at how thoughtlessly Snape ignores Voldemort's command. For a moment, the Dark Lord is distracted by Aunt Bella, who is singing unintelligibly and dancing delightedly around a terrified Granger. The disturbance my aunt creates is just long enough for Snape to send me a speaking glance. I nod imperceptibly, acknowledging his message. I carefully look away from the sight of him and my mother, returning my attention to the Dark Lord. I cannot make out what Aunt Bella is telling Granger, but I see the defiant upturn of the latter's chin, an enraged glint brightens her eye. I half-expect the younger witch to jab a finger at Aunt Bellatrix.
"Severus!"
Voldemort's voice makes me jump. No longer does it hold its tone of regal boredom and crass amusement. The seething command claws at my eardrums, insisting that my godfather bend to His will— immediately. When Snape refuses to move from Mother's side, I honestly expect my wand to raise against him as well. Instead, I watch Granger's hand move until her wand is level at Snape's head. I notice Granger's eyes have gone blank. Now she is the marionette in this terrifying play.
"Get up, Severuss," Voldemort hisses, "or suffer the same fate."
"Professor," whimpers Hermione, in an unexpected flash of lucidity. "Please, Professor."
I fight back a shocked gasp. Hermione has managed to fight Voldemort's Imperius for only a split second, but even so, that moment of free will is incredibly impressive—and everyone in the room knows it.
Voldemort appears just as stunned by Granger's yet untrained power. He watches her release the Crucio He'd ordered. She is glorious with her head thrown back and her hair blowing behind her. The power that is released from her wand causes even Aunt Bella to gape.
The Dark Lord rewards Granger for her proficiency by lifting His Imperius just as the Crucio from her wand blasts Snape from his kneeling position and up into the air. With legs and arms outspread, my godfather's body tumbles to the ground. His torso is rocked by seizures from the fierce impact of the curse. Granger cuts off the Crucio as soon as she comes to her senses, and I watch the twin expressions of guilt and astonishment cross her face. Clearly, unlike me, she had been the one in control of the curse. The truth of this shines on her face. I purposely turn away from the proud, fascinated way she examines her wand. Again, I take in the frightful sight of Voldemort as I try inwardly to prepare myself for Granger's next curse which will surely have me spread-eagle on the floor next to my mother and Snape.