Blaise must have Apparated them a great distance. Apparition had always been difficult for her — it reminded her too much of flying on a broom — but the lengthier trips wreaked havoc on her equilibrium. Hermione spit one of her curls out of her mouth, which watered from nausea, and tested the ground with her snow boots. Fresh snow crunched beneath her as she got her bearings.
Behind a massive black gate, barren trees lined a long lane which climbed a hill and disappeared into dense white fog. Snow and ice coated the gate, and more flurries poured from the sky. The air had a heavy quality, a stillness made possible only by an approaching storm. She shivered in her down coat.
Blaise looked at her expectantly. "It's freezing out here. We should get inside. I'll need your assistance."
Still a bit woozy, Hermione drew her wand and prepared to dismantle the wards. But before she could begin, Blaise lowered her arm.
He approached the gate and brushed away the coating of snow and ice. Two interconnected Ms stared back at her, delicate filigree snakes slithering within the gilded letters.
Malfoy Manor.
She stepped back in horror, nearly losing her hard-fought footing. "Blaise, we can't be here."
"Hermione, I know this place holds terrible memories for both you and Draco. I would never suggest coming here unless I'd exhausted all other options. The Malfoy library is legendary, and may have some answers for us. But with no house-elves to bring us the texts, we'll have to venture inside ourselves."
Terrible memories. Of course, Blaise was talking about her torture on the drawing room floor. The birthplace of her scar, Bellatrix Lestrange's handiwork. After she testified on Draco's behalf, the details of her violation were plastered on the front of every major newspaper.
Blaise would have no way of knowing that inside these gates lay the final resting place of Narcissa Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass. Draco had been clear that only Theo and Pansy, his two closest friends, knew the exact details. Blaise had been pursuing his advanced degree at that point in time and wouldn't have even been in the same country. But her skin erupted in goosebumps all the same.
"Draco told me the gate unlocks for Malfoy magic and Malfoy magic alone."
"You're a Malfoy, aren't you? We can at least try. Call it the favour you owe me. Of course, if it's too much for you to go inside, you can open it and I can go in alone," he looked at her, the question plain on his face.
How far will you go, Hermione Malfoy?
She didn't know the layout of the Manor. What if the path to the library took them by the dining room? Would they see two skeletons, metacarpals and phalanges intertwined, jaws open from when they gasped their last breaths? How would Hermione even begin to explain?
What if Blaise didn't believe her — she hadn't been there after all, hadn't seen what happened with her own eyes — and he turned Draco in? They were friends, but Hermione sincerely doubted they were the type of friends who'd cover for the other in dire circumstances. If anything, they had a casual relationship rooted in shared proximity during their formative years. Besides, Draco was Marked, and Blaise had never been a Death Eater. Would he suspect Draco committed the sins of his father?
"I don't know," she said, reading the irritation in his face.
"You said you'd never give up. I'm here. I'm willing to set aside my better judgement, which may I remind you, is evidence-based and backed by other Healers."
"Why would you do that? Why now?"
"Because I feel sorry for you," he said, his face twisting into a look of disgust as he spit a snowflake from his mouth. It was really coming down now.
Anger bubbled up within her. She was so sick of people feeling sorry for her, underestimating her magic. Why couldn't Blaise believe? He should believe her parents can get better. There was so much power in belief. She believed in Harry. She believed in Draco.
Maybe it was Muggleborn, to believe. Muggles had no proof that wizards, witches, fairies, daemons, spirits — anything magical — existed. Their world was a hard place, any softness stamped out by those with money and power. But Muggles were stubborn. They insisted on singing, dancing, writing, praying — creating. Some stumbled upon the truth. But most had nothing but old stories and an unexplainable faith.
In the magical world, what was there to believe in? They didn't require belief, only skill and ingenuity. Magical people could create nearly anything through Alchemy. They invented new spells. Even the future held less mystery than it did for Muggles, because at the bottom of a drained teacup, the leaves told a story.
It was the one story Hermione refused to read. She chose to write her own.
If she had Divined this moment a thousand times, she would have never predicted that she'd reenter Malfoy Manor. But she'd delayed help for so long. She couldn't do it again.
And she kept her promise to Draco — she wasn't alone.
"Alright, I'll go. Besides, even with warming charms, I'll freeze to death out here."
Blaise moved back, giving her a wide berth.
Hermione had no idea how to open the gates. Was there a password? A spell?
All at once, she recalled what Draco had said about the day he identified his father's body. Even when I saw him in St. Mungo's, dead and missing a finger… The years in Azkaban had been kind to Lucius Malfoy, as he looked mostly the same the last time Draco had seen him, save an unaccounted-for missing finger.
Suddenly it clicked into place. The murderer gained access to the Manor with Lucius's missing digit. Had Lucius given it willingly, or had the murderer removed it from his person by force?
She withdrew a hand from one of her mittens and slowly, shakily pressed the tip of her finger to the lock. Something sharp pricked her skin, drawing blood, and she jerked back, bringing the finger between her lips.
The gate wriggled as if waking from a long slumber. Two miniature cameos, which had escaped Hermione's notice during her last visit to the Manor — if one could call kidnap and torture a visit — were thrown into sharp relief. The men depicted in the ivory silhouettes were mirror images of each other, their bone structures classical and pointy. Their upturned noses spoke of the Purebloods of old, calling to mind the portraits at Hogwarts lining the descent into the dungeons.
"A Malfoy commands us to open, brother," the cameo on the right said in a booming, jovial voice.
"A Malfoy, yes, but only by marriage. And a Mudblood." The voice of the cameo on the left curled like smoke from the tip of a fine cigar.
"Now, now, you shouldn't use such crude language in front of the Lady of the Manor. Times have changed," the first one scolded. "Come in, Lady." The right side opened to her.
"You'd have made a much better doormat," the other one lamented, swinging the left side in on its hinges.
Blaise and Hermione walked through the gates, when suddenly Hermione realised she could ask them who they last let into the Manor. Draco would never have thought of asking them before since only Malfoys can enter. Her heart raced as she turned around, an exasperated sigh escaping Blaise's lips.
Hermione paused. "Do you by chance remember the last time you opened for someone?"
The right side of the gate hesitated. "That was almost ten years ago now, my Lady."
"And do you recall who was the last person who you granted entry to?"
"Of course, Lady. It was Master Draco's friend. Gregory Goyle. Rather interesting means of gaining entry, I must say."
"Brought a bit of the old Lord Malfoy with him," the left cameo said with a shudder.
Gregory Goyle.
It was so obvious. Lucius must have sent him, and knowing the gates would only open with the press of a finger with Malfoy blood, provided his own. She could see it now, the old lunatic slicing off his wrinkly flesh to seal the fate of his son's intended bride. Not only did he eliminate the possibility of a Squib sullying his bloodline, but he also got revenge on Minister Podmore and his anti-Pureblood policies by killing his daughter, knowing he couldn't tell the world about her relation to him.
Hermione thought she might be sick.
They'd had their suspicions, but now she knew for sure. If Goyle still kept the finger and the Aurors found it, they'd have their proof.
Hermione faced Blaise. "I'm so sorry. We have to go. I have to tell Draco."
"What? Hermione, we just got here."
"Can you Apparate us back? I don't want to faint. This is too important," she grabbed her curls at the top of her head, walking back towards the gate. "Or I could send a Patronus, yes, that's perfect," she raised her wand. "Expecto-"
"Imperio," Blaise's voice cut through her own.
The spell hit her in the back. Hermione was wholly unprepared for it, and the Unforgivable's fog slithered over her brain, numbing her tongue and muddling her thoughts. A great sense of ease washed over her, as if she would be content to drift along this way forever.
"I would say it gives me no pleasure to do this, but you've been a particularly difficult case. Give me your wand."
Her hand floated into her field of vision and placed her wand in Blaise's outstretched palm. He closed his fist around it for a moment. Then he took his other hand and snapped it with a sickening crack.
Something inside her screamed out, but the fog's nimble fingers smoothed away all emotion, all pain. She relaxed into their touch, eager to submerge herself and drown everything out.
Blaise tossed the remains of her wand into the snow.
His magic poked and prodded at her mind, giving her instructions as they made their way towards Malfoy Manor. Hermione suddenly had the inclination that she should fight, that she shouldn't follow. She paused, long enough for Blaise to notice, and searing pain shot through her legs. When she took a tentative step forward, the relief was instantaneous, and so she continued behind him.
Soon they were joined by two hooded figures wearing masks. One was tall and slim, the other short and corpulent. Hermione again felt her body revolt. Death Eaters. Something was very wrong. Why were she and Blaise accompanied by Death Eaters?
As soon as she tried to pull more information from the shelves of her mind, the fog rolled in again. But this time she was not as receptive, and its tendrils didn't root themselves as deeply as they did before.
"It took you long enough," One of the Death Eaters grumbled to Blaise. "We came as soon as we got your letter."
Goyle. Her heart raced. Something about Goyle, something she had to tell someone….
"She's resisted me every step of the way. I'd need to run more advanced diagnostics to say for certain, but something in her magic evades the effects of the tea."
The other Death Eater piped up. "What do you mean?"
Daphne Greengrass.
Blaise folded his arms and tapped his wand against his shoulder. "It's designed to dull the drinker's senses and make them compliant; almost as if they're hypnotised. It's performed to expectations on all my other patients and their families, including the many you've sourced for me, but of course the Golden Girl had to be a unique case. No matter, because as you can see, the Imperius Curse works just fine."
Daphne's next question came out as little more than a squeak. "The tea you get for me, Greg?"
Goyle coughed. "Of course not, love. I nick yours from Madam Puddifoot's."
Images flashed in Hermione's mind. Drained teacups by her parents' bedside. Sachets of leaves in the circular tin at the bottom of her bag. Humming as she lit the hob and waited for the water to boil.
She put her hands over her ears as the piercing whistle of Draco's antique kettle sliced through her skull.
Her magic surged to battle back against Blaise's, but he didn't seem to notice, as they'd reached the front door to the Manor. Blaise pushed it inside and guided her to the right. They walked down a stone corridor past slashed portraits and cobwebbed sconces.
Hermione curled a fist at her side, fighting the urge to unleash her rage. It was an unequivocally terrible idea to waste her energy now — she was physically weaker, practically defenceless without her wand. Still, fury rose within her again.
Blaise Zabini, who she'd trusted with her parents' lives, had lied to her, and to all his patients and their families. It all made sense — no one would be the wiser when his patients died, and he could take over their vaults and estates. To what end, she didn't know.
Oh gods, her parents. Were they even dying? Or had Blaise made it so they would?
The worst part of it all was that she'd served her own parents the tea, in the belief that it would soothe their pain, when all it did was make them pliable, suggestible. For all she knew, Blaise could've been accelerating their decline. Once again, in her attempts to help her parents and heal the harm she'd caused, she only hurt them more. The taste of bile filled her mouth.
And now she was all but certain the tea was responsible for her hallucinations. She'd been so focused on the dark magic she'd been practising, and the appearance of the Mark on her skin, that her brain had filled her head with images related to Voldemort. On a subconscious level, her mind had tried to warn her of the danger she was in.
It was a relief to know she wasn't losing her mind, and Blaise had been unable to control her. But the knowledge that she'd put herself and Draco through so much unnecessary pain made her heart ache.
"What are we looking for?" Daphne removed her mask as they rounded the corner. The hallway diverged in three places. Hermione didn't know where they led, and she didn't want to find out.
"You're welcome to take anything of value. I'm headed to the library to search for a book on the origins of the Dark Mark. I need to figure out how to make use of this," Blaise tugged up her sleeve and ripped off the bandage underneath.
Goyle scoffed. "A Mudblood with a Dark Mark? That's impossible."
"She claims she gave it to herself."
"No. There's no way a Mudblood could… Well, unless..." Goyle's expression teetered between confused and thoughtful.
"Unless what?" Blaise bit out.
"Unless she found a way to manipulate the Dark Lord's magic. Maybe she reactivated everyone's Marks when she gave herself one. She branded the new recruits, too."
"That's ridiculous," Blaise dismissed Goyle with a wave.
Goyle set his beady eyes on hers, and Hermione suppressed a shiver. He raised his wand to her. "You were always too smart for her own good. Now, tell me why you did it. Crucio."
She collapsed on the floor, her limbs contorting as she shook, but the haze of the Imperius Curse receded. Goyle clearly hadn't been paying attention in their Defence Against the Dark Arts classes. Only one Unforgivable can be used at a time, and Goyle's Cruciatus Curse had nothing on Bellatrix Lestrange's, which had been fueled by deranged malintent. Goyle was merely inconvenienced, and that made all the difference.
Hermione writhed as if the agony were unbearable, trying to give herself more time to think. Blaise hadn't yet noticed that Goyle's attempt to command her had fractured his hold over her. But she still hadn't answered him, and so he ramped up the torture. It hurt to breathe, to think.
A memory of Remus Lupin broke through the pain. The mind is a powerful thing, Hermione. Before the hand tightens around the wand, the mind knows the spell. The hand moves only because the mind commands it.
The mind. Her wand was gone. She would have to trust her own mind.
What had the basilisk told her?
Summon us if you have need.
She struggled against the curse, her hand clawed and trembling as she moved for her forearm. Fortunately, Blaise had exposed the Mark. All she had to do was make contact…
Hermione closed her eyes and pressed her shaking hand into the snake writhing in the inky skull. The darkness behind her eyelids immediately changed to the familiar snow-covered graveyard, and through the dark connection she saw every Death Eater standing at attention in their assigned grave. She found herself running to the top of the hill towards a platinum blonde head.
Precious seconds elapsed before she reached him. She climbed into the grave with her husband. He was cold, stock-still like a toy soldier.
Draco Malfoy was dressed to kill. His all-black ensemble consisted of a knit turtleneck, trousers, and his dragonhide boots. His wand, snug in its holster, poked out from underneath his wool greatcoat. Is this what he was wearing when he left the flat this morning?
"Draco," she gasped as she threw her arms around him. He didn't move.
Maybe she wasn't doing it right.
"Draco Malfoy," she tried again. "I, Hermione Malfoy, summon thee to Malfoy Manor."
"As my mistress commands," Draco said, as if hypnotised. Suddenly his eyes came to life, snapping to hers. "Hermione?"
"Draco! Help!" The graveyard swirled into the blackened sky, collapsing in on itself as the place between worlds faded away. She couldn't hold on to him, try as she might. Her husband slipped through her fingers and into the ether.
Her sudden return to Malfoy Manor delivered a shock to her system. How long had Goyle been torturing her? Did they know what she'd done? Hermione gasped for breath as Blaise yanked her off the floor, her magic crackling weakly across her skin.
"You're going to regret this," she spat.
Blaise clapped his hand over her mouth, threatening to cut off her air. "Imperio," he said, countermanding her surge of magic. The fog settled its weight on her again, and she sagged against the wall.
Hermione whimpered as he held her chin with his fingers, stroking the skin there. It was completely different from Draco's touch. This was an inquisition. No, an examination.
"Summoning Draco Malfoy," Blaise's eyes narrowed. "It shouldn't be possible."
No. They'd heard her. And she had no way to warn Draco. She hadn't had enough time to tell him what he was walking into.
"Mate, you said she gave herself the Dark Mark. That's plenty powerful. And none of us have been able to summon each other since the Dark Lord died."
"So what was that, then?"
"I'm telling you, this is all part of Lucius's plan," Goyle crowed. Daphne slunk towards the wall behind her, eyes trained on Blaise.
Blaise pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly regretting his recruitment of Goyle. "Greg. Why would Lucius, the Dark Lord's favourite Death Eater, anoint his son's Mudblood wife as the Dark Lord's successor?"
"I'm sure he had his reasons."
"And did he illustrate this plan of his in great detail? I've heard so much from you, and yet so little of any value."
"Well, uh," Greg began, but did not continue. Daphne covered her mouth and coughed.
Blaise sighed. "Make yourself useful and go intercept our uninvited guest."
"With pleasure," Goyle said, his grin half-hidden by shadow. "Let's go, Daph."
The witch followed him as if tethered to him by an invisible string. They disappeared around a corner, and Hermione vomited onto the stone floor.
Blaise turned his attention back to her, cracking his wand in his palm like a whip. "Now, what am I going to do with you?"
00000
Draco Apparated in a blind panic.
He'd long suspected Hermione might be able to summon him. But she would never use the dark magic unless it was an emergency. His Mark tingled, demanding he answer her call.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Why would she be at Malfoy Manor?
What if Goyle, in a moment of uncharacteristic clarity, realised what he'd let slip at the ball last night? Would he go after Hermione? Had he set some sort of tracking spell on her? He must have cornered her and forced her to let him through the gates.
Gods, he'd let everyone know how much he loved her without saying a word. He'd let his guard down, and now she was in danger.
Draco landed in front of the Manor gates, his wand drawn. They were propped open with some sort of charmed rock. The cold cut him to the bone even through his greatcoat, the darkening clouds indicating night would soon fall upon the Wiltshire countryside. He knew he didn't have a moment to lose. He ran towards the opening, only to be thrown back into the snow by an invisible force.
"So sorry, Master Draco," the gate on the right said sorrowfully. "We can't let you in."
Draco lay flat on his back, trying to catch his breath. Damnable chattering gates.
"Worst Unbreakable Vow I've heard of, although that time Abraxas vowed he'd parade naked through Knockturn Alley is a close second," the left side admitted.
Fuck. Why hadn't he pushed for them to end their Vow?
A loathsomely familiar voice interrupted Draco's thoughts. "Oh, good. You're already here. I'd hate to wait out in this weather. Stupefy."
Draco rolled to his feet and dodged the spell. It was difficult to see much in the swirling snow, but he soon identified the toad-like form of Goyle striding through the gates, Daphne trailing behind him. They both wore Death Eater robes, their hems crusted in ice.
"Expelliarmus," he cried, but he missed, adrenaline making him sloppier than usual. "Where's Hermione?"
Goyle didn't answer, instead instructing Daphne. "Come on, just like we practised. You have to mean it." He fired another hex at Draco, and Draco returned fire with a few of his own. One hit Goyle in the leg, leaving the Death Eater limping.
The men shot increasingly darker spells back and forth while Daphne fiddled with her wand. Draco willed his Sectumsempra to hit, but Gregory Goyle was a wily opponent.
"Don't do it, Daph," Draco warned, squinting at Goyle, trying to predict his next move. "I'm not the enemy here."
The driving snow made it impossible to tell, but the slight woman seemed to tremble as they circled each other. Her eyes darted away from him for only a second. "Crucio."
The light from her wand sputtered and died out, but Draco leapt out of its path anyway.
A costly mistake.
Goyle waited behind him, the sharp end of his wand pressed against Draco's back. "Petrificus Totalus."
His body seized, and Draco noiselessly fell to the snow.
"Take his wand, Daph."
Draco tried to plead with his eyes, but Daphne obeyed, stripping the wand from his stony grip.
"Draco, Draco, Draco," Goyle's spindly grin, healed from the previous night's encounter, hovered over him. "Do you always come when a Mudblood calls? I suppose you're used to denigrating yourself with women of inferior blood. Isn't that right?"
Draco couldn't move. Couldn't say a word. Daphne cowered behind Goyle, her eyes shut, as if she could plausibly deny her involvement.
Goyle laughed. "I gave myself away last night, didn't I? Shame you aren't as quick as you used to be. Your blood's tainted now that some of the Mudblood's runs through it. Your father and I, we tried to save you. All that time we spent in Azkaban, we tried to keep you on the path to glory and power. But you thought you knew better than us."
He shook his head and continued. "He commanded me in the name of the Dark Lord to take the life of that Squib you had your heart set on. It was for your own good, you know. She wasn't a true Greengrass. Barely related to my Pureblood bride. If your mother hadn't gotten in my way, she'd be alive instead of rotting with Astoria on your dining room floor."
Daphne's jaw dropped. Draco saw it in her face — she hadn't known Goyle killed her sister.
"I could kill you outright. But the Killing Curse means instant death, and that's much too fast for a blood traitor. Besides, there's a lady present," he gestured to Daphne, frozen with fear. "This is harder for me than it is for you, Draco. Your father meant everything to me on the inside. I wanted to be you more than anything in the world. He opened every door for you, won the Dark Lord's favour for you, and when we lost the war, even then Lucius prepared a path for you to take everything back. But you wouldn't listen. You strayed. I was more son to him than you, in the end. And now I'll heed his call while you die out here, alone."
A dark spell he didn't recognise rang through the air. Draco couldn't pinpoint where it hit him. He only felt the instant burn of the spell, his Occlumency unable to shield him from the smell of hot iron permeating his nostrils.
"Sanctimonia Vincet Semper," Goyle said, spitting in Draco's face for good measure. Draco heard the crunch of boots as the man walked away. Daphne remained still, her eyes locked with Draco's. She shed no tears, but neither did she seem able to tear herself away.
As Goyle called Daphne to follow him back to the Manor, she paused, flicked her wand, and kicked something towards him. It was cold against his hand, probably ice. One last cruel act for good measure.
He didn't know how long he lay there, only that he wanted to sleep, and it became more difficult to resist closing his eyes. The world around him darkened at the edges.
The spell had worn off, but with horror, he realised he still felt numb. He looked over his shoulder to see crimson blood advancing quickly through the snow.
Too quickly.
Draco knew at once the wound was not survivable. He was out of moves.
It was Zugzwang.
His finger twitched and touched something that felt like glass. He moved his hand again, tapping the side of the object with his fingernail. Clink clink clink.
Something in his fuzzy brain shook loose.
Daphne hadn't kicked ice at him. She must've seen the phial laying in the snow and assumed it was his, and that it might save him.
This wasn't a solved game.
With any luck, he'd see the love of his life again, even if it was for the last time.