The flashbacks are to Chapter 21: The Cloud Princess
Snows must have completed the journey to Grimmauld Place in record time, because Harry and Ron, out of their minds with worry, appeared only fifteen minutes later. Ron took one glance at Hermione's distraught state and clenched his fists, stomping past the witch into the dim foyer of Malfoy Manor. "He hurt you," he growled into the chilly air. "That tosser, where is he? Malfoy! Come on out, you piece o' hippogriff shit!"
"What?!" Hermione closed her eyes for a second, clearing her head. Now, of all times, she needed a sound mind. "No. Ron." Her voice rose, growing stronger. "Ron! It's not that. He didn't. He's the one who's…" Taking a deep breath, Hermione relayed everything she had discovered. Harry and Ron listened intently, their forms still under the silver light of a glaring moon. Hermione paced back and forth, gesticulating, puffs of breath following her in the nippy air.
"Wait," Ron interrupted halfway through, "what was he doing at your house?"
"Not now, Ron." Harry said, having picked up on some suspicious omissions in Hermione's story. "Let's focus on the bigger picture for now. This sounds serious."
Hermione gave him a grateful nod and continued on with her condensed version of events. "And I apparated here as soon as I figured it out," she concluded, "but he was already gone. Linny – Dra…Malfoy's house-elf said that he'd come here for a bit, raving mad, bashing things, and then left, and she doesn't know where. So we have to find him. You can see how urgent this is, because if I'm correct in my theory, then he's being driven by the virus's needs, and that is…"
"To reunite itself," Harry finished grimly, "and become whole. So we have to locate either Malfoy or Antonin to prevent that from occurring. What about the potion you brewed at the Dolohovs? Won't it take us straight to them?"
Hermione shook her head sadly and said, "It's not ready yet. Our Portkey was scheduled to leave for Ural tomorrow, and that's when it'll be finished. But tomorrow might be too late! So how…how…"
An anguished silence fell over the trio as they pondered her words. "The Ministry… it didn't place any sort of tracking magic on Draco, did they?" Hermione finally grasped at an idea. "Or on his wand?"
"Nope," Ron answered ruefully. "Nothing of that sort. Hey…maybe his mum knows where he is?"
Harry turned to face him and scolded, "Not funny, Ron! You know Narcissa's been missing for years after she skipped her parole! There's a friggen warrant out for her arrest!"
Ron's blush was covered by the darkness, but it was there. "Skipped my mind," he mumbled. "Sorry. Then, maybe we should try–"
Neither of the two men noticed Hermione stumble and then whirl around.
"Ron."
"Huh?"
"Ronald Weasley."
"What?! Blimey, Hermione, I said I was sorry, it was a stupid idea–"
"No, you oaf!" She ran up, threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him full on the lips. "You're a genius!"
Ron stared back at her, shocked. "I am?" he asked breathlessly.
"Yes! His mum! I…how could I have forgotten?!"
"You know where she is…?"
"Yes! And not only that, but…" Hermione nibbled on her bottom lip. "Shut up!" she yelled suddenly. "Shut up, both you! I need to think!" Over the years, Harry and Ron had accumulated enough experience to realize when it was prudent to simply follow the witch's directions. Now was one of those times, and they obediently fell silent, tuning in to her frantic mumblings. "It was in Paris," she was saying to herself. "We were in the caverns…what did he say? There was The Cloud Princess, and we were gazing up at her, and he told me–"
"The Cloud Princess?"
"It's a flying cruise ship," Ron explained in a hushed whisper to Harry. "Bloody expensive one, too. Mum once told me that my great-grand–"
Hermione wasn't listening to them. She was focused on retrieving an almost forgotten moment, a single memory that was crucial to bringing her love back. It had been regarding Draco's mother, and how the Malfoys had retained a method of contact in spite of all the Ministry regulations governing their sentences. It had been in Paris…
"She can't return because of the threat of arrest," he had stated, speaking of Narcissa, "but if things ever got really tough, I could always run to her." She had inquired how and he had smiled mischievously, replying with a small gesture that revealed a silver chain with black onyx ring 'round his neck.
"Portkey," he whispered conspiratorially. "My mother has one just like it. They're made of one stone, meaning that–"
"They're linked together," Hermione guessed in similarly hushed tones. "One takes you to the other."
One takes you to the other! Hermione looked at her friends, her chest heaving. Draco had a Portkey! She'd seen it only once – he kept it hidden under a permanent charm – but it was there! And it led straight to its other half – the one with Narcissa! Which meant that Narcissa's half was, similarly, connected to Draco's! It was so simple! Now, all she had to do was remember where the witch's location. What was it Draco said? Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, recalling the moment, his words coalescing from the depths of her mind.
"We got her out of the country. Greased some wheels, paid the right people. She travels sometimes, but usually stays in a small property we own on the French-Italian border…and the Giardini Botanical Gardens are just a short stroll away…"
"Giardini," she rasped. "Small property near the Giardini Botanical Gardens. On the French-Italian border. Harry, we need a Portkey there, and we need one now!"
"But it's the middle of the night!"
"This morning," Hermione growled, poking him in the shoulder, "you were boasting about how the Ministry would do anything for you! Well use some of your fucking fame and wake everyone the fuck up! I don't even give a damn if you have to Imperio a dozen department heads, just get me that Portkey! You too, Ron!" she barked at the redhead. "Meet me back here when you have it!"
"Hermione, but all we have is a general location, what are we supposed to do when we get there: scour the countryside? Work on leads, question people, show her picture around? That could take days!"
"Don't worry about that. I'll find a way, you just get me the Portkey, alright? Now, go! Go!"
There was no arguing with her. Sharing a pointed look and with a quietly muttered, "She's mental, she is," the wizards took off towards the boundaries of the Manor's lands. Anxiously, Hermione watched them go, growing smaller in the distance, till with a flourish of their wands, they were gone.
Imperiously, she clapped her hands, calling out to Linny. The house-elf appeared instantly, bowing low, and Hermione strode past her, determination in every step.
"Come," she threw over her shoulder. "Let's see if we can discover a way to locate Narcissa. Perhaps some of the portraits can help. I always did want to interrogate a few bigoted Malfoy ancestors. Let's see how they like a muggleborn trampling all over their precious household. Keep up, now."
Running on her stumpy legs to meet the witch's brisk pace, Linny thought about that one portrait on the third floor that had always been particularly mean to any house-elf. She'd lead the good miss there, she decided, and with what could be classified as a smirk, turned towards the nearest staircase.
. . . .
. . . .
Dolohov Estate, Ural Mountains
Gingerly picking up the smouldering potion, Anastasia wrinkled her nose. It smelled awful, and the appearance wasn't much of an improvement either. Vomit, the witch decided. It was the color of vomit after a whole night of drinking. It was fitting, she supposed cynically, that the world's salvation would be held in such a repulsive concoction.
Ignoring the smell, Anastasia quickly bottled the liquid and hastily made her way outside. A blizzard was coming, and the wind was already strong. "Drakosha!" she cried out, sending up a flare with her wand. The dragon saw.
Anastasia watched the beast descend. Her stomach was twisting with worry, the cause of her unease secured in her traveling bag. The potion. Babushka had centuries of brewing experience, and she never made any mistakes. She had told the Englishmen that the potion would be ready in two days, and that had been a lie. It had been ready in one.
It was pointless to ask for the reason of such deception. Babushka would never explain. She had simply summoned her granddaughter, informed her of the potion's preparedness, and then fixated the young girl with an unblinking stare. Babushka would teach, advise, but never push. Anastasia was an adult, and she had to make her own decisions.
She knew that if Babushka had prepared the potion in a day, then it was needed in a day. Right now, her friends required its magic, and, for some reason, Babushka had left that decision up to her. To bring it…or not.
In Anastasia's mind, this wasn't even a choice. She had abandoned Hermione once, but not again. Never again.
"V Angliu," she whispered into the dragon's ear when it had descended from the heavens. "Davai, rodnoi. Davai."
The dragon roared, spurred on by the witch's pleas, and beat its wings, carrying its rider to the misty isles that have come to generate so many legends of old.
. . . .
. . . .
Malfoy Manor
It took three hours and two threats of arrests for a Portkey to be garnered. If they weren't war heroes, such actions would have cost the young men their jobs, but Harry and Ron figured there wouldn't be any major repercussions. They made a quick stop at Grimmauld Place to grab a pair of brooms and then, Portkey in hand, apparated back to Malfoy Manor, where Hermione was already waiting for them.
"Is it ready?"
Harry nodded. "Just takes a keyphrase to activate it," he said, holding out a plastic fedora with the words "Construction Crew" on the front. Hermione couldn't help but snort: the Portkey had obviously been intended to be camouflaged as a construction hat, but a fedora, really? Wizarding Ministry officials still had no grip on muggle culture.
"Then let's go," Hermione said. "I've manage to wrangle something that will help us locate Narcissa there."
"How'd you manage that?"
"Now's not the time, Ron, but–" a smirk flitted across her lips "–I blackmailed some of the deceased Malfoy gentry."
"What does that me–"
"Not the time! Let's go! Harry!"
"'K. Just place your hands here… and… Arda!"
Linny watched the magical device transport the group away, her trembling hands serving as proof of the little creature's concern. Her line had served the Malfoy family dutifully for over six hundred years, and she took pride in that history. Now, the noble lineage was on the verge of its downfall, and Linny, eyes prickling, wished that Miss Hermione and her friends would find Master Draco.
Find him and bring him home.
. . . .
. . . .
The Portkey placed Harry, Ron and Hermione in the small port town of Bordighera, twenty kilometers from the border to France. The air was much warmer here, and it smelled of salt and seaweed. A thin slice of moon, nestled high in its lofty perch, dreamed of the world below. Its image shimmered in the calm waters of the Mediterranean, a thousand pale bows that spread across the dark-blue stretch.
Hermione took a breath, trying to calm her hammering heart. A gnawing worry was scratching at her insides. Every second felt wasted, and Draco's image, helpless, alone, and broken, kept popping into her head. Was he hurt? Was he resisting Voldemort's magic? Had he found Dolohov yet? These questions had no answers, and tension swelled, rolling over the witch's body in stormy waves. She was here, and he was…he was…
He was gone. A picture from a dream – a pair of seagulls, divided by a storm – flitted into her mind. Hermione swore. She had known. Subconsciously, on some level, she had known, but had been too stupid or inattentive to pay the warnings any heed. And this is what her lack of action brought.
"Hermione?" Harry placed a hand on her shoulder. "You alright?" She gripped it, squeezing hard, sending him a silent thank you.
"Yeah," she replied after a moment, using the time to gather her wits. "Let's find him."
The mounted their broomsticks (Hermione seating herself behind Ron), and set off west, towards the border and the Giardini Gardens. By itself, this wasn't enough of marker to find Narcissa, but all Hermione required was reasonable proximity.
In her purse, gathered from a bureau in the Manor, was a hairbrush that had once belonged to the elder witch. Hermione had found it with assistance from some of the house's portraits, who, upon hearing of Draco's peril, became rather eager to assist despite the muggleborn's lowly heritage.
They still made some disparaging remarks though, and one even haughtily stated that the Malfoy line always found a way to persevere. "It already has, in fact," the portrait had smirked, torn between glee and disgust, but Hermione, the goal burning in her mind, brushed off the words. She'd acquired the hairbrush and then listened keenly to the description of an old scrying spell that had been used by the Malfoys several times to locate missing family members. The magic, unfortunately, was weak. It required a target's personal item and worked only in a radius of several kilometers. Thankfully, in this case, that should be enough.
The trio flew along the Italian coast, following the SS1. A few cars whizzed by below them, and, far off at sea, Hermione detected a line of flickering lights. A cruise ship, perhaps, or some merchant vessel going about its way. She looked away, sniffed, and then clenched her arms tighter around Ron's waist, willing him to go faster. Every second counted.
The Giardini Gardens came into view when the moon was starting to lean down on the horizon. In several hours, it would leave the night sky, letting its brother shine in all his daytime glory. Hermione retrieved the hairbrush and, carefully, gripping the broomstick with her thighs, reached for her wand to cast the scrying spell.
Nothing.
"Go north," she said. "I'll try there."
After north, they turned west and then north again, flying in circles until Hermione began to grow desperate. Maybe her memory had been faulty. Maybe Narcissa had moved. Maybe the spell didn't work or Draco had lied to her or…
A thousand possibilities trampled through her mind, and she resolutely ignored each and every one, casting the spell again and again until finally, when all hope seemed lost, the hairbrush reacted and started to vibrate.
"Here!" she yelled, feeling the handle pull south. "South! C'mon, Ron! Faster! We're close!"
Ron angled their broomstick down, speeding up. Hermione's stomach dropped, but instead of terror, she felt elation and profound relief. Narcissa was nearby! The Portkey to Draco was close! Hermione silently sent up a prayer of thanks; her state, at that moment, was akin to that of a drowning sailor who had suddenly been thrown upon the shore.
The air whistled in her ears, and Harry's form was right at her shoulder, the two broomsticks flying side by side and then banking up, as they wound over a hill and there, in the waxing moon's light, surrounded by lush bushes and orange trees, stood a small house.
Hermione sprang off the broom before it came to a complete stop and rushed up to the entrance. The magic in the area was light; the house lacked even the most basic warding spells. She pounded on the door and yelled, "Mrs. Malfoy, wake up! Please! It's Draco! It's about Draco! He's in trouble–"
A small light came on in the house, and a scuffle of footsteps carried over hardwood floors. Harry and Ron jogged up beside her, wands at the ready. "Put them away!" Hermione hissed. "Last thing we need is to frighten her!" Abashed, the boys complied.
"Mrs. Malfoy! Narcissa!" Hermione infused her voice with urgency, begging: "Your son, Draco, he's in terrible danger. Please, I need to speak with you–"
The door thrust open, and Narcissa Malfoy, dressed in a knee-length sleeping gown, stared out over the tip of a lit wand. Her face paled the instant she saw Harry and Ron.
"Aurors!" she gasped. "Mr. Potter! What an unworthy trick, using my son. I will not go to Azkaban!" Her eyes narrowed in fury.
Hermione used the moment to reach out and push both her friends away. "It's not a trick," she said quickly.
"Ms…Granger?" Narcissa still had her wand outstretched, but her pupils darted back and forth between her sudden visitors. "Are you an Auror too, now?"
"No. I swear it. Everything I said – everything you heard – it's true. Draco is in terrible danger right now."
The words and pleading tone had a tangible effect on the older woman, but Narcissa stood her ground.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry interjected. "I remember what you did in that forest. Your lie. I'm not here to arrest you, I promise. If you're still unconvinced, think about this: if I was, then I wouldn't barge up to your front door and knock. It'd be a raid. I'm here to help your son."
"You?" Narcissa asked, suspicious. "You want to help Draco? After everything's he's done?"
"Let's not rehash the war or our years at school. There's no time in it. Any moment Mal–your son might die, and we need your help to stop it."
"If my son is in danger, as you say, then you should be out there looking for him, not at my doorstep! What can I do?"
"The Portkey," Hermione said softly. "You have a Portkey that will take you to Draco. He told me about it. You're probably thinking of using it right now, but you can't help him. Please, Mrs. Malfoy. Give it to us."
"He… he told you?" Narcissa's defences were falling one by one. Her wand dipped. "Why should I believe you? Why should I believe anything you say?"
"Because I love your son. I'd do anything to protect him, just like you."
Hermione heard a choking sound from behind her, but ignored it, looking straight into Narcissa's pale-blue eyes, begging her to believe. She poured every ounce of affection she held for Draco into her gaze. Narcissa considered it only for a moment and then nodded, raising her hand to her neck with an agitated expression.
"He's in danger?" she whispered, making a small motion with her fingers. A necklace shimmered into existence, and she pulled at the metal links until a black ring with an emerald "M" – identical to Draco's – came into view. "How much danger?"
"I want to say he'll be alright," Hermione replied, biting back tears, "but I don't know. He might…he might already…"
Narcissa tore the ring off its chain and pressed it into Hermione's hands. "Is there anything else I can do? Anything at all? Where is he, what do you know?" The questions were pouring out now, but Hermione knew there was no time for discussion. She pressed the Portkey close to her chest.
"We'll bring him back," she promised.
"'We'll'?" Confusion crossed Narcissa's features. "But, Ms. Granger…the portkey can take only one!"
Hermione froze. This was not something she – or any of them – had ever considered. Only one person could go. Only one could be transported to Draco, who, possibly, was already in Antonin Dolohov's clutches.
And, as she distantly heard Harry's demand to hand over the magical device, she knew it had to be her. Not Harry or Ron, but her. This was just as clear as the fact that neither Harry nor Ron would ever willingly permit such an action. She came to a decision in less than a second.
Whirling around, Hermione yelled out a stunning spell, sensing a flare of guilt at Harry's betrayed expression just before he crashed to the ground. She stifled the traitorous feelings, steeling her voice.
"What the bloody hell, Hermione?!" Ron sounded furious, observing her with disbelieving eyes. She levied her wand against his chest. "Don't move, Ron," she said, watching emotions flicker over his face. He realized what she was about to do, but she cut him off before he could utter his first plea. "You can't change my mind. I'm sorry. Odds are Draco's still in England, so take Harry and go back to Grimmauld Place. Wait there for my Patronus."
"Hermione, wait, please don't–"
She didn't listen. She squeezed the Portkey under her fingers, sensing the ring heat up. Its magic expanded, sending shivers down her spine, and then tugged her sharply away.
Ron Weasley was left standing, staring at the empty spot where Hermione had just been, and cursing the entire world.
. . . .
. . . .
Hermione blinked, observing the large room she had been transported to. It had been grand, once. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows were set in one of the walls, the glass coated in kisses of dust. Overgrown gardens lay just beyond, the view partially obstructed by tattered tapestries tapering down. Random items littered the floor, lying next to broken frames and pieces of furniture in various states of rot. A figure of a monkey, dressed in Persian robes, caught her eye. It grinned ghoulishly, holding a pair of cymbals in its hands as if it were about to snap them together. Deep gouges scoured the walls – signs of an old battle. A chandelier, miraculously untouched and lavish, hung suspended from the ceiling. A pair of doors stood shut on the far side of the room.
Everything here screamed of past opulence...
And magic.
The room was doused in it. It prickled along Hermione's skin, raw and painful, like a set of skinning knives. She sensed its dark nature and eager malevolence. This magic was made to harm. The way it coiled around these premises made her think of a lair, the nesting place of some rabid animal. It scared her.
She turned her head, soaking in all the details. A couch, tilted on its side, legs broken. Dark stains on the floor – blood, probably. A liquor cabinet that had crashed down, bottles all out and shattered. A single red balloon, tied to the arms of an armchair, floating high.
And there, in the chair…
Draco!
Hermione clamped her mouth shut, stifling a gasp. She could see the back of his head, his blond hair hanging limp. She wanted nothing more than to rush up and check his condition, but didn't, even though he hadn't moved an inch since her sudden appearance. He just sat, motionless, like a mannequin. It took every fibre of her being to stand still and suppress the impulse to save him now.
Before anything else, she needed to notify Harry and Ron. Sending her Patronus was the number one priority.
The wand was in her hand already. She pointed it out and then flicked it, focusing on the happiest memory she could conjure – her Hogwarts letter. The moment when her world had expanded into untouched horizons.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A white mist drained from the tip of her wand, hazy and unclear. With a growing dread, Hermione saw it disappear. Another memory, then. The end of the war, the relief that it was all over.
"Expecto Patronum!" Again, the charm fizzled out. Happier, Hermione thought. Happier!
A third incantation failed to work, then a forth. Tears in her eyes, Hermione concentrated as hard as she could, recalling the moment that had brought her the most pure, unadulterated delight. And then, it clicked.
Her and Draco. Paris. The Eiffel Tower. Their first kiss.
Hermione knew it would work. Her wand rose again, this time with all the confidence in the world. "Expecto… Patronum!" A brilliant white light burst forth, growing, growing, growing, until…
Her otter was gone. A giant wolf – reminiscent of the one she had rode on – turned to sniff at her, baring its fangs in a toothy smile. Her Patronus had changed. Well, it could happen, she thought, leaning down to trace her fingers over the ephemeral being. A girl, she noted.
"Run," she whispered. "Go to Grimmauld Place and bring Harry and Ron here. As quick as you can, please." Her Patronus nodded and then glanced around a the room, a growl deep in its throat. Its fur stood on edge. "Go!" Hermione pled. "Go!"
The wolf leapt up into the air, setting off at a run. It sprinted, quick as lightning, towards its destination. It wasn't quick enough.
The magic in the room flared, and dark chains, forged from shadow, shot out of the corners. Hermione's wolf banked left, dodging one, then right, avoiding another, but then a whole net dropped from above, imprisoning the Patronus. The wolf howled, tearing at the cold metal, its claws shredding the dark, but more and more chains piled on until the light grew dim and with a pitiful yelp became extinguished.
It all took only three beats of the heart. Hermione stood stunned at the implications. The Patronus had been the only way of contacting her friends. Without it, Harry and Ron wouldn't be able to find her. Without it, she was alone, and–
Her thoughts were cut off by a sound from the other side of the room. The doors there burst open, a menacing figure looming in the darkness beyond. She could hear its ragged breaths, feel its hatred, rolling off in heated waves. It took a step forward, into the moonlight, revealing the twisted features of Antonin Dolohov.
"MUDBLOOOOOD!" he bellowed and then started to laugh, although the guttural sounds that exited his throat were so inhuman that Hermione could barely recognize them. He wheezed and chortled, phlegm flying forth, madness tinting the edges of his eyes.
And then, he stopped. It was so abrupt that Hermione's ears began to ring from the sudden lack of noise. Dolohov swaggered in, reaching into a set of stained robes and snapping out his wand. He cocked his head to the side as he continued his approach, studying her like an insect under a microscope.
"Have you come here to die?" he asked with a demented grin.
Hermione didn't respond. She turned her own wand, and, with a snarl on her lips, spat the first curse. She'd beaten Dolohov once; she could do it again.
Dolohov sidestepped the spell easily. He was different now, stronger, faster. The Other, in his system, was almost at its peak of maturity, ready to bond with The Key.
The witch stood no chance, really; she just didn't realize it yet.
The battle was on.