li. slytherin games

Hermione stared at the grim rocaille on the ceiling and released a gusty sigh.

Despite the Charms inlaid into the parlor walls, August's heat still seeped inside and filled most of the residents with a warm, sleepy lassitude. She said most and not all because Draco, like the majority of twelve-year-old boys, was an endless turbine of potential energy even on the hottest and stuffiest of days, and when Greg and Vincent couldn't come over, the Malfoy scion had taken to following Hermione around and pestering the daylights out of her.

Hermione huffed. I don't know why he can't harass Jaime, she thought. If I could get away with hexing him, I would!

She lay with her back pressed against the unyielding metal balcony, her robes bundled up in an impromptu pillow behind her head, a thick volume on topical potions open and forgotten against her middle. Frankly, Hermione was bored of studying. She loved reading, but the Malfoy library leaned toward dubious, dry tomes, and spending almost every day ensconced in the Manor with her nose buried in a ponderous book got dull even for a girl like her. There were only so many pages on the viscosity of pureed webcaps and speculations on orellanin viability Hermione could read before her eyes started to glaze.

It was lovely outside, if hot. She would rather swallow her own tongue than admit to any Malfoy how beautiful she found their home, the lush grounds hemmed in yew hedges, the gardens bursting with wild, delicate flora from remote locales, the antique furnishings all crafted by hand or wand by Wizarding craftsmen or Malfoy ancestors. She stared at the railing quite near her face and marveled at how all the fine, intricate whorls had been formed and set by spells instead of by hammers and fire.

The balcony itself was part of the library, though it extended past the library confines and above the neighboring parlor—the Yellow Room, Hermione thought it was called, though most of the walls were paneled in old, oiled oak with only small stretches of visible bricks painted pale chartreuse here and there. The Malfoys only occasionally visited the library itself as far as Hermione knew, and she'd never seen anyone aside from herself utilize the upper balcony. It made for an excellent, if boring, place to hide.

Hermione wrapped her arms around the book and huffed again. She'd had no letters from Elara or Harriet, not that she was terribly surprised by this, not when she could barely write to them herself, or to her own parents. She missed her mum and dad a great deal, and yet Hermione wished to speak with her friends more than with her family, veritably bursting with magical curiosity as she was, a curiosity her parents wouldn't—couldn't—understand.

Voices drifted in the distance. Hermione dozed, thinking about mushrooms and home, a Slytherin green dorm room beneath a lake and the cool common room lit by silver lanterns—until the voices drew nearer and Hermione shook off the daze just as the door into the Yellow Room popped open.

"—Draco, of course, is looking forward to Potions next year. He was tutored by Lucius as a boy, you know—and he speaks highly of your management style in the classroom."

"I imagine he's more enthralled by the idea of joining the Quidditch team than he is by my curriculum, Narcissa," a familiar baritone drawled. Stiffening, Hermione rolled onto her side and peeked into the parlor below, watching as Mrs. Malfoy—draped in summery, robin's egg blue robes—came sauntering in, followed by the ominous presence of Professor Snape.

What is he doing here?

"Can I interest you in something to drink?" Mrs. Malfoy asked as she sank into one of the armchairs and Snape sat on the opposing sofa, not bothering to remove his outer robes. Must not be here for long, then. "Tea? Or perhaps something stronger?"

"Tea would be adequate."

Mrs. Malfoy simpered and called for Dobby, ordering the nervous house-elf to deliver a tea service. He did so, and Draco's mother used two delicate swishes of her wand to pour the Potions Master's drink and levitate the cup into his long-fingered hands. Snape pressed the rim to his lips, but Hermione could tell from her vantage that he didn't drink anything.

"It's been too long since your last visit, Severus. I suppose the old fool keeps you busy throughout the holidays."

"Exceedingly so," the professor replied, setting his cup and saucer down upon the coffee table. "When other…individuals aren't demanding my attention."

The subtlest of ticks touched Mrs. Malfoy's face and she upturned her nose. "Indeed." She sipped tea with practiced grace. "One has to wonder whose business brought you to our door today."

"Allow me to be plain and allay your fears; I am here to ask you for a personal favor, Narcissa."

Hermione shifted, rustling slightly, and Snape's vaguely avian profile twitched in her direction, the sunlight coming through the window playing over his face, deepening those strange scars surrounding his left eye and brow. He moved again, ducking from the light, and Hermione held her breath until the wizard resumed faux-drinking his tea.

"A favor?" Mrs. Malfoy asked, her mouth tipping into a very smug grin. "Well now I am intrigued."

"A favor for your family, I should specify."

"For the family?" The witch quirked a brow and drank her tea, little finger extended with perfect ease. "How charitable. Are you certain you're not here for Lucius?"

"No, I'm certain Lucius' attentions are best spent…elsewhere."

Hermione frowned in thought as she peered down at the two Slytherin alumni, watching as they traded seemingly innocuous comments, all the while circling a point of conversation Hermione hadn't yet grasped. If Snape meant to ask for a favor for the Malfoys—a concept that confused the young witch in its redundancy—wouldn't he want to speak with Draco's father? But what was it he had said? 'A favor for your family.' That could mean the Malfoys, certainly, and yet it could mean something else entirely; after all, Narcissa had not been born a Malfoy.

Mrs. Malfoy set down her own cup on the coffee table. "Oh?"

"How often do you brush off your copy of Etiquette and Artifice?" Professor Snape folded his hands together and leaned forward.

"Often enough, I should say. Darling boy, my Draco, but Lucius lets him run wild—." She paused and considered the wizard. "Why do you ask?"

"I have been charged with two wards, so to speak. Scions of old families." He smirked when Mrs. Malfoy's interest visibly piqued. "As I've not the time nor the inclination to play nursemaid, other…minders have been arranged by invested parties. I simply mean to make certain at least one such individual is outside a certain purview and more amenable to a Slytherin mindset."

Hermione's brain whirred as quickly as Mrs. Malfoy's, the two people in the parlor falling into a stilted silence as the Malfoy matriarch turned over the Potions Master's words and Hermione did the same.

"And this would be a…favor for my family?"

"Indeed."

Black! The name pinged off the inside of Hermione's skull and she nearly gasped aloud. Of course! Draco's mother is a Black by blood, making them her family! If Professor Snape is talking about a pure-blood scion in the Black family, he must mean Elara. But why ever would he be minding her? And who is the second person he mentioned?

Mrs. Malfoy crossed her legs with an elegant flutter of silk and leaned into her chair, seemingly at ease in her own parlor, playing Slytherin word games like the conversation was little more than an afternoon jaunt on the lawn. "How very interesting. Poor boy, this hardly seems a favor."

"The favor would be asking you not to inform Lucius," he scoffed. "And to bring that bloody book."

Mrs. Malfoy laughed. "You must exaggerate, dear Severus. I've met the girl, you know, and she isn't so wickedly terrible."

"You've not met the other."

Who is he talking about? Hermione growled in frustration. Who besides Elara? A pure-blood heir—but wait! You're an idiot, Hermione Granger! He said old families, not pure-bloods! Is he talking about Harriet, then? Is Harriet with Elara? If they were speaking of that stuffy book on wizarding etiquette Mrs. Malfoy tutored her and Draco out of, then Professor Snape must mean Harriet. Hermione let out a silent sigh at the thought of the younger girl's table manners—all elbows and unwieldy knife action. Her relatives are horrid people.

"Hmm. Perhaps I will consider the arrangement."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Rubbish. It wasn't really a favor at all; Professor Snape was asking Mrs. Malfoy to mind Elara and Harriet like she minded Hermione and Draco, which would give the Malfoy matriarch influence over the current Black proxy, even if only a smidgen, though Hermione had serious doubts if Elara would allow even that much. The Malfoys were not a family who overlooked what clout they were afforded in any magical affairs, and Mrs. Malfoy wasn't going to pass up this opportunity, not when it could later reflect poorly on the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, and thus reflect poorly on Narcissa as well.

There were always layers upon layers to the interactions of Slytherins.

Her hands itched with the need to write a letter to her friends. What was happening out there in the wider world? Hermione hated feeling so stifled, kept isolated and ignorant, while events transpired beyond the manor walls. Something significant must have occurred if Professor Snape was minding Harriet; had the Headmaster removed her from her relatives? If he had, then why had she been placed in Snape's care? Or, as she assumed, thrown into the man's hands and promptly shuffled into someone else's? Was Harriet staying with Elara? Were they in danger? Would she be foisted off into a pure-blood family for mentorship like Hermione?

No, the bushy-haired girl surmised. That's why the professor doesn't want Lucius to know. He doesn't want word trickling down to the Ministry, and the Headmaster won't want Harriet foisted into potentially dangerous hands.

"I'll have to consult my schedule. I'm terribly busy, especially in the summers, with Draco home—and I do mean to keep him close during the holidays. I wish Hogwarts would allow students to come home during the weekends. Surely you could slip a word to that old fool—?"

Mrs. Malfoy paused mid-word and gazed into the middle distance, snapping back to herself just as swiftly as she had drifted off, hand pausing above her drink. "Lucius is home." Hermione grimaced and guessed Draco's mum must have felt the wards shifting from her back to the head of the household. "I'll go and gather him. It really has been too long since your last visit, Severus. Lucius will be glad to see you."

She rose and disappeared with the sharp click of heels, and Hermione laid still on the upper balcony, watching the Potions Master's countenance slide from snide superiority to a tired grimace, then to nothing at all, his expression like opaque glass she could see nothing through. I should leave, Hermione decided as she nibbled on her lip. Before Mr. Malfoy shows up. Heaven help me if he catches me eavesdropping….

Another glance into the parlor showed that the dark wizard had vanished without a sound, which shouldn't have surprised Hermione, given how Professor Snape glided through Hogwarts' corridors like a sure-footed cat harrying his prey, yet did so all the same. Swallowing, she made up her mind and quickly rolled onto her knees, yanking her wrinkled robes on over her arms before plucking the heavy book up from the balcony floor. Hermione made her way through the open portal between the walls and hustled into the library proper, letting out a small breath of relief as she reached the iron ladder and started down.

I probably won't get to hear what happened until September, Hermione groused as she held onto the railing with her free hand and clasped the book under her arm with the other. It's not as if I could write and ask, even if I could send a letter. That'd be terribly irresponsible and, well, stupid of me if I went about probing into Elara's business and brought it to Malfoy's attention. I hope Harriet's all right. What could have possibly happened to have her removed from her family? Why would Snape risk Mrs. Malfoy telling her husband just to have her watch them?

Hermione hopped off the last step. She turned—and let out a breathless shriek when she found herself standing before the looming Potions Master.

"Oh, you—you scared me, Professor!" she said, blood draining from her face. Why was he in the library? When had he gotten there?

He smirked, the same half-crooked simper he delivered right before verbally eviscerating a misbehaving student in his classroom and Hermione felt her blood run cold. "Did you hear anything…interesting, Miss Granger?"

"I-interesting, sir?"

"Yes, interesting, girl. Do you hear anything you might…think to repeat?"

Hermione clutched the thick tome to her chest like a shield and shook her head. "N-no, Professor. I—I was just studying. I fell asleep in the rows. Didn't hear anything at all."

The wizard wasn't convinced of the lie, of course, but he did give a single, affirming jerk of his chin before he swept back under the mezzanine and to the parlor's closed door. Hermione didn't move until he disappeared from sight, and a moment later she could hear the faint drone of Lucius Malfoy's unctuous voice greeting the man.

She made good on her escape while she could and all but ran from the room.