"They're all dead," Hermione heard the High Reeve say after a long silence.
They were in the living room of Malfoy Manor – that same living room Hermione thought she'd never forget, but now it looked so different she didn't recognize it, so she treated it just like any other room – walked around curiously, looked at the paintings, admired the architecture and tried not to show her nervousness while the High Reeve read over what she spent the whole day writing. He was sitting on the fancy velvet armchair in front of the hearth where the fire was merely smoldering. He read it carefully, his eyebrows drawn together in focus. He finished reading the paper ten minutes later and Hermione shivered when he finally spoke up.
"Not all of them," she interjected, looking over his shoulder at the list she had written. There were a lot of names on it, and she whole-heartedly tried to write down every single one she managed to retain. "A lot of the members, unfortunately, died during the last few years, but a great number of them still reside at Hogwarts."
The sigh he let out sounded more like a hiss and Hermione could tell he was irritated. She sat down on the second armchair next to him, wanting to inspect every little expression of his from up close. He looked up at her, that same non-expression quickly covering up the irritation.
"As an insufferable know-it-all, you should be well aware that there is nothing in it for you to keep protecting them, Granger," he said, scrutinizing her with his stormy eyes. "After all, they were the ones who gave you to me as if you were a lamb brought to a slaughter without even knowing what my true intentions are."
His words hit a deep-seated, still-bleeding wound that she kept in her heart ever since she was little – of being an outcast from everybody else, of never being anyone's first choice, of comforting others after watching her friends die without ever being comforted by them, of protecting and caring for everyone in the Order while never getting that same treatment herself, of sacrificing her family, her own life to end this war and having none of the closest people come to see her out…
She could have asked, And what are your true intentions? Or could have said, I do feel betrayed, but instead, she sat up straighter and looked right into his eyes. "I am one of the Order's members, and I will protect it even if it's the last thing I do. But now is not that time. There's the whole Order of the Phoenix on that list. I have no reason to lie to you about that."
He sighed once more and threw the paper in the fire that was so small just a moment ago, but furiously ate up the list just now. "You don't win a war with numbers like these," he stated.
Hermione flexed her fingers in her lap. "Yes," she spoke up after a moment. "I'm familiar with how… complicated our situation has gotten since the Battle—"
"Complicated? The situation is completely fucked, Granger. I'm surprised Voldemort hasn't slaughtered all of you there yet," the High Reeve said, and she flinched upon hearing that name – he said it without pausing, as if it were a name like any other. That's what the pros of being Voldemort's right hand must be like.
"Well, we've been keeping safe—"
"Doing shit ton of nothing, from what I've gathered," he snarled. "Not a single victory, not a single battle won throughout all these years. And what has Potter been up to these days? Although I suppose that does not matter since Voldemort's been living his life as if the Chosen One no longer existed."
"The most important thing is for Harry to be safe and sound," Hermione said, frowning. "He doesn't like it either, but without him, everything's lost. If he dies, there is no more hope left for us to win anything…" she went on, feeling her skin get flushed with simmering anger.
The High Reeve scoffed, "Potter is nothing more than a symbol of revolt. If he died, yes, people would be a bit sad and shattered, but a saddened heart is nothing one couldn't recover from." His voice was filled with silent rage and simmering brutality as he leaned in closer to her and the mad look on his face made her tremble involuntarily. "On the other hand, while he's sitting there, doing nothing, waiting for the war to end without lifting a finger, do you have any idea what's happening to those who cannot simply hide at Hogwarts? Thousands upon thousands of people – muggles and wizards alike – and hundreds of non-magical creatures die every day, while hundreds of thousands wake up to live the nightmare that is this war, hoping to survive long enough. That's what's happening while you sit safely in your magical castle."
Hermione swallowed thickly when the High Reeve finished his furry-filled speech. "Since when do you care about the suffering of the people?" she asked, trying to make her voice sound cold and judgy, but it shook slightly, betraying her true emotions.
"I don't care for anything but my own personal matters," he answered. She had no idea if he was being honest or bluffing. And why would he bluff? He had no reason to reveal to her just how truly indifferent he was to everything, he couldn't expect her to relate to that.
Yet still, she wanted to tell him that Harry wasn't just sitting around doing nothing, that he was looking for ways to weaken Voldemort, that he has been searching for the remaining four Horcruxes, and that only after destroying them could Voldemort be forced to lose. But she couldn't tell him any of that, because even though his words rang true, she still didn't trust him, not that he'd given her a chance to do so.
"Harry is working on something that will help as beat… You-Know-Who," she said at last.
The High Reeve leaned back in his armchair, looking down at her. "And yet your Order expects me to get all the hard work done without a slip of gratitude. Then, after all of this is over – if it's ever over – I'll be the first one they'll put in Azkaban."
Hermione pursed her lips together, "I'm aware you've made a deal with the Order. If we win the war, all your crimes and mishaps will be pardoned—"
"Ah, yes, that little tale Snape and Moody told me – and you, for that matter. Neither of us is stupid enough to truly believe it, now, are we, Granger?" She realized too late he was smiling at her, but a grin on his scar-wrecked face seemed too bizarre to take in as an honest reaction – maybe because it wasn't. When she didn't say anything for a moment, he stood up gracefully, finished with the conversation, and whatever smile that was now melted away from his features.
Hermione addressed him before he disappeared on her again. "But that's why you married me, is it not? So you could use me to win them over afterward, right?"
She was already facing his back, but when she spoke, he turned his head. "Do you truly believe they would choose you over themselves? That Shacklebolt would care for your life when he could satisfy his bloodthirst for my head?" He tsked with his tongue. "And here I thought you were the Brightest Witch of Your Age."
With that, he was gone, and Hermione still stayed in the living room, staring at the now-roaring fire in the hearth, thinking of the conversation they just had. She spent an hour like that, but the more she thought about the High Reeve, the more confused she felt.
She wished she could speak with Snape and Moody so they would tell her what to do, how to talk to the High Reeve, what to tell him, and what to keep to herself. She was surprised and annoyed neither of them gave her instructions on what to do and how to approach the High Reeve – both of her ex-professors clearly didn't trust him, so how could she?
Hermione couldn't come up with any rational explanation, and the confusion in her brain could also have been caused by the lack of sleep. The first night at the Manor in her new room was nothing if not hellish. She tossed and turned, frightened by the dark shadows and by the wind howling outside. And when she finally fell asleep, she was tortured by nightmares of her time here five years ago, of Bellatrix Lestrange tormenting her and asking her things she had no answers to… She woke up soaked with sweat and drank about a gallon of water upon waking up. Still, that didn't help to exercise her critical thinking skills during the day.
Her thoughts were dispersed by a loud pop. Mipsy's eyes glimmered with excitement, confusing Hermione further.
"Missis, I have stumbled upon the books you've been reading in your room, and I've noticed they were all on the same topics. From what I can tell, you're quite fond of potion-making, is that right?"
Hermione stared at the house elf, frowning. "Why, yes, but I don't see how that—"
Mipsy hopped joyously, laughing. "Oh, that's great, Missis, I now know exactly what you'll love to occupy yourself with…"
The elf grabbed Hermione's hand with her small fingers, urging her to stand up and follow her. Hermione did so. They walked down the Manor for a few minutes until they got to the dungeons, and Hermione was about to ask a bunch of questions, but then she saw where Mipsy brought her, and her eyes widened in fascination.
All of the dungeons were now turned into a humongous potion-making laboratory. There were thousands of bottles and vials with labels written in neat handwriting on them, stacked carefully on the shelves by the stone walls. There was a colossal table right in the center of it, with plates and pipettes, knives and scissors, quill with parchment paper, pots and cauldrons of all sizes – everything one might need to make any potion in the world. The lab was bigger and fuller than Snape's.
Hermione walked around, staring at everything in awe, then turned to Mipsy. "This is magnificent, Mipsy, but I'm not sure I am allowed to… be here," she said.
The house elf's smile widened. "Oh, but don't worry, Missis, Master himself told me to bring you here." She gestured to something on the table.
It was a note addressed to Hermione and she read it.
Granger, use whatever you wish here whenever you wish to. I can always replenish my stocks. – D.
Hermione read it once, twice. The tone of that note did not resemble the High Reeve's speaking manner now, not even a bit. This note reminded her of a prideful schoolboy, bragging to his friends at the breakfast table that his mother sent him a bag of candy while they all watched him red with jealousy. This note said, I can let you take as much as you want because I haven't had a day of shortage in my life.
"How does he have all of this?" Hermione asked.
"The young Master always had a special talent for potions," Mipsy said, looking proud. Hermione always tended to believe that Snape showed extra attention to the young Malfoy not because he was good in that specific class but because he was Snape's godson. Although, on second thought, she did recall him being one of the best students, helping Crabbe and Goyle, and even Zabini and Nott get better grades than either of them deserved. "Master Lucius built this room for him as a gift for his fifteenth birthday."
Hermione could only dream of gifts like that, even back when she had parents. Still, no matter how much she disliked Lucius Malfoy, she had to admit he had been a caring and attentive father.
Hermione's lip corners lifted involuntarily when she looked over the potion lab, excitement bubbling in her stomach. She was more than ready to try it all out.