xcviii. for family
Of all the things that frustrated Hermione Granger that summer, her utter lack of a relationship with Jamie Ingham bothered her the most.
She couldn't fathom his reticence. By all accounts, they should have been friends—or at least allies of a sort, living together as Muggle-borns in the Malfoy household. However, Jamie seemed to go out of his way to avoid Hermione. He always appeared to meals on time, ate quietly, attended his private lessons, then retreated to his rooms, refraining from visiting the manor's common areas. The older wizard put Hermione off whenever she tried to strike up a conversation and would only ever reply when asked a direct question by one of the Malfoys.
To say it frustrated her was an understatement.
"It seems to me he'd get lonely, don't you agree?" Hermione commented to Dobby as the elf bobbed about the sideboard, rubbing an oiled rag against the wood struts. "He doesn't ever write to his friends and he's intolerably antisocial. Now, I enjoy studying and reading more than most people I should think, but shouldn't he get—I don't know—bored? Even the best students need a reprieve here and there."
Dobby nodded along with everything she said and Hermione repressed a sigh.
She'd formed a friendship with the elf, a fondness forged in the inequality of their status and the mutual disregard they suffered. Well, in truth, Hermione didn't like to equate their living situations because she was treated far, far better than Dobby, who complained much less than she did. He didn't have much in common with Dipthy and Delby, the other two Malfoy elves, and Hermione was ashamed to admit her own surprise when she learned house-elves could have their own personalities and quirks. It seemed a terribly narrow-minded mistake on her part, and she'd devoted a better part of her holiday getting to know Dobby better.
He finished polishing the sideboard and moved to the coffee table on the other side of the lounge, Hermione following behind. "Dobby," she ventured, perching on the edge of a convenient armchair. "May I ask you a question?"
"Yes, Miss Herme-ninny?"
Hermione plucked at a loose thread falling from the chair's fabric as Dobby turned his protruding green eyes to her. She took a moment to put her thoughts together, having witnessed how touchy elves could be and how an errant statement could send them off into a tearful fit. "This is just a hypothetical question, mind you, but what do you think…about freedom? About being a free elf?"
Dobby stopped polishing and froze, his little body going stiff as a board.
"Or—or!" Hermione rushed on before he could punish himself for a perceived fault. "What do Dipthy and Delby think about free elves? What do house-elves, in general, think about it? Hypothetically, of course. No need for—erm—punishments or the like."
He kept cleaning, though he moved with more intent, one hand coming up to tug on his flapping ear. "Dipthy and Delby not be liking free elves, Miss Herme-ninny."
"Why not?"
"They say free elves aren't good elves! They not be serving their families right, not at all! So they get clothes. That's what Dipthy and Delby and most elves think."
"Why wouldn't they think freedom a good thing? Don't you wish to be able to do things for yourself?"
He heaved a small, exasperated sigh. "Miss Herme-ninny isn't understanding elves very much."
"Well, I really don't understand the point of clothes, Dobby. Is it ceremonial? Symbolic?"
"Clothes is for bad elves," Dobby whispered, tugging on his ear again, giving it a small twist. "Bad elves get clothes from master and go free. Bad elves, bad Dobby—."
"All right, all right. Enough of that," Hermione muttered, her mind working, the thread winding tighter and tighter around her finger until she let it go and began the process again. Neither Dipthy nor Delby cared much for Dobby and she had the impression Dobby wasn't fond of his fellows either, not that he'd ever say as much. Courtesy appeared ingrained in most of their mannerisms. Hermione knew the other Malfoy house-elves didn't like Dobby because he toed the line between servitude and outright insubordination; he went out of his way to make life incrementally more difficult for Mr. Malfoy, never finishing his tasks quite right, moving furniture just enough for the elder Malfoy to slam his toes into things at inopportune moments.
It would have been funny if Dobby didn't catch the backlash for his antics more often than not.
Hermione's first inclination toward house-elf servitude was fury and indignation; it came intolerably too close to slavery and was not something she condoned. However, after two summers of living in direct contact with Dobby, Dipthy, and Delby, she knew approaching the issue with that kind of Gryffindor outrage wouldn't help anyone, and most definitely not the poor elves. They needed to be heard, not have someone else tell them what they should think or feel or how they should behave.
Of course, Hermione had no intention of sitting on her hands and doing nothing at all. She despised inactivity.
The afternoon beyond the tall windows grew cooler in temperature but warmer in hue as it wore on, the summer coloration deepening as the sky faded from crisp blue to sullen orange, the white peacocks wandering out from beneath their shelter. Hermione gazed into the middle-distance and thought she heard Draco's laughter echoing from the Quidditch pitch. Crabbe and Goyle had come over today, giving her a much sought after reprieve from Draco's bored haranguing. He'd taken to asking her if she was Petrified whenever she sat too long reading. Surprisingly, Hermione didn't believe he meant to be malicious, just that his sense of humor bordered on the outright offensive, and the little prat didn't know how to talk to anyone outside of his snotty, pure-blooded circle. He kept on with his joke until Mrs. Malfoy overhead and put an end to it.
Quiet, shuffling footsteps passed the open lounge door and pulled Hermione from her thoughts. She sat up and looked to the hall in time to spot Jamie Ingham passing through on his way to his rooms. Jumping to her feet, Hermione rushed after him and didn't even pause to give Dobby her goodbyes, instead hurrying to catch the other Muggle-born. He glanced at her once and looked away, something like irritation swimming in his tired eyes. He groaned.
"Hi, Jamie!" Hermione chirped. "Beautiful afternoon, isn't it?"
Jamie kept walking.
"Are you busy this evening? I was hoping I could ask you some questions about upper-level Transfiguration," Hermione endeavored on, wishing she could get the wizard to speak with her, wondering why he wouldn't. "The tutor was well-pleased with the progress I've made, of course, but sometimes I find her lessons rather dull. What about you? Are you keeping up with your summer assignments? If you'd like, I can look over your work. I know I'm a few years younger, but I'm quite advanced in several subjects, I assure you—."
Suddenly, as they neared the door closing off Jamie's rooms, he whirled on her and Hermione took a step back, surprised. "Stop it," he hissed in a low, warning tone. "Just stop it."
"I—what?"
"Just bugger off already!"
"I…don't understand."
"Don't you get it, Granger? I don't want your help, and I'm not giving you mine. We're not here to make friends. Why can't you get that through your thick skull? We're in competition!" he seethed. "The Malfoys are the best pure-blood family, the best placement, the best way for a Muggle-born to get a leg up in the Ministry or whatever bloody field they want. Every Muggle-born would kill to be here and they'll be perfectly fucking happy to see you and I fail everything and get kicked out. Stop talking to me, stop trying to distract me! Do you understand now?!"
Paling, Hermione nodded and tried to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat.
"Good. Leave me alone."
Jamie stormed into his rooms and slammed the door in Hermione's face, the shock of it blowing back her hair. She stood still for a moment longer, trying to make sense of what had just happened—and then it came over her, the sudden pall of enraged mortification, her cheeks hot and her hands shaking, eyes glazed in tears. It reminded her too much of school before Hogwarts, back when she'd been an isolated little busy-body the other children relentlessly teased or ignored, and all her teachers despaired of her being too much.
Hermione missed Elara and Harriet something fierce as she whirled about and stomped back down the corridor, wiping her face on her bundled sleeve. Jealousy stung in her heart when she thought of how they got to spend the whole of the summer together, but the logical part of Hermione knew it wasn't their fault nor their intention to exclude her. They didn't have families and Harriet wouldn't have a home at all if not for Elara opening her house to her. They also had Professor Snape minding them, which undoubtedly meant a summer of rules and restrictions even Hermione didn't want to consider. She just wished she could see them.
"Just trying to be friendly," she muttered as she descended the stairs and each furious thump of her shoes on the marble steps echoed in the wider hall. "Just trying to be considerate, and what does he do? Spit in my face. Why do I even bother?"
What did Jamie—Ingham—mean about competition? Yes, Hermione knew her grades and good standing had brought her to and kept her at Malfoy Manor, but was Ingham so utterly insecure of his own prowess he couldn't spare an ounce of attention to anything beyond studying? Was his situation really so tenuous? Was hers?
She entered the main foyer, which in a Muggle home would have been attached to the front entrance, but here instead resided at the heart of the Manor with a hearth big enough for several fully grown men to stand inside, an Apparition point in the middle of the floor kept clear and marked with an inlaid insignia. Hermione loved the chandelier in here—not that she'd ever admit that to anyone. She loved the gentle, whimsical curls of white gold wrapped around glass ornaments and crystal pillars, the candles Ever-Burning and flickering, catching the wings of the faeries who resided in the holly wreaths bound to the wider arms. It was beautiful and yet whimsical, so unlike the Malfoys. Hermione stopped on the bottom step and looked up at it, sniffling.
The steady, confident click of heels approached from one of the outer corridors and Hermione jerked into motion, hopping off the step and rounding the newel post, ducking beneath the balustrade as Mrs. Malfoy neared. She didn't want to get into an argument with the witch, and seeing as crying had made her eyes puffy, Hermione knew Mrs. Malfoy wouldn't let her go without demanding what had happened. Jamie would get into trouble, and considering the other Muggle-born apparently already hated her, Hermione didn't want to fan the flames of his antagonism.
Crouched, she inched her way into the cloak closet and waited in the dark for Mrs. Malfoy to pass.
She didn't leave; no, the sound of her footsteps came to an abrupt halt when the fire banked in the hearth's belly suddenly rose, spitting green flames, and the dark shape of Mr. Malfoy came forward from the grate. The wards shifted to accommodate his entrance. Hermione watched from the ajar door as he stumbled to a knee and grunted. His cane fell to the floor by his feet with a clatter, the wand detaching from the top.
"Lucius!" Narcissa gasped, rushing over to her husband's side, reaching out to smooth back his rumpled hair. He lifted his face and, in doing so, revealed the livid bruise ringing his eye and the fresh blood smeared back into his hairline. Mrs. Malfoy's fingers grazed the injury. Hermione almost didn't hear her whisper, "Not again."
"It is nothing for you to worry about, Narcissa."
"Nothing for me to worry about?! What am I meant to do when my husband is returned to me day in and day out in such a manner?" She withdrew her wand and traced the tip against his cheekbone, knitting the open gash together. "Lucius, tell me what is happening. Tell me."
"He's displeased with what has occurred at Hogwarts," Mr. Malfoy murmured, eyes on the floor. His tongue worried at the inside of his cheek, and Hermione thought he must have bit it when struck. "Whatever plans he had failed. He goes into these silent ravings about Slytherin and the Potter girl and expresses his mood quite…indelicately when in private."
"The Potter girl? Whatever for?"
"How in Merlin's name should I know?" he grumbled, shooing her hand away from his bruises. He stood under his own power, one arm braced against his middle, every breath slow and measured.
"This can't keep happening. Circe's blessings, Lucius—."
He snapped at her, cold and short and exasperated. "Do you think I have any other choice in the matter?"
"What if you went to Slytherin? To Dumble—?"
"Gods' sake, don't finish that statement, Narcissa. If he detects even a whiff of dissension now, it would be the end. The end of me, you, Draco—." His voice hitched and lowered, parts of his dialog lilting too soft for Hermione to hear. "The family. He found Dogbane….There wasn't much left for the Dementors to Kiss in the end—."
Mrs. Malfoy covered her mouth, her eyes wide and anxious. Hermione's heart thumped too loud in her chest despite her best efforts to calm it. She hadn't heard a proper name, but who else could Mr. Malfoy be referring to if not Minister Gaunt? Who else would dare strike a Malfoy—the Lord of the whole snooty House—and not suffer repercussions? Why had the Minister mentioned Harriet? Oh, God, Hermione thought, desperate and confused. What does he want with her?
"Leave it," Mr. Malfoy huffed, jerking his head up and away from his wife's questing fingers. "I will tend to it, don't fuss. Where is Draco?"
Frowning, Mrs. Malfoy lowered her hands and brought them together. "Outside with Crabbe and Goyle's boys."
"And what of Ingham and the Granger girl?"
"I was on my way to check on them now, in fact. Both of them have been a bit too quiet this afternoon."
"Go on, then. This isn't a conversation for the foyer, dear."
She sniffed but did as he suggested, her heels snapping once more on their way up the stairs somewhere over Hermione's head. She waited for Mr. Malfoy to leave—but he remained in the foyer, eyes on his wife until she disappeared, at which point he let his shoulders slump and cursed aloud, his hand clutching his side. In her head, Hermione extrapolated a scenario: a fist whips out against Mr. Malfoy's face and, stunned, he falls, taken off guard by a following kick to the middle. She couldn't be certain of what had occurred, and yet the gruesome image held a sick integrity. What kind of rage drove a man to do something like that? What rage or—or madness?
And that madness seems directed at my best friend. Brilliant.
Hermione shivered.
Malfoy took a long, settling breath, chest rising under the dark gray cloth of his robes, then disengaged his cloak's clasp, shucking it from his arms. He took hold of it by the collar and started toward the cloak closet—the very one Hermione stood in.
Merlin! she shrieked in her head, scuttling backward into the fancy cloaks, robes, and shawls lining the wall. She had nowhere to go. Why is he even wearing a cloak?! It's the dead of summer! Hermione would never understand Wizarding fashion and would probably never understand anything ever again after Mr. Malfoy found her there. An Obliviation was assured after what she'd just heard and she doubted the wizard would be delicate about it. You're in for it now, Hermione—!
Malfoy neared, his stride uneven, pain and anger simmering in the cold, sweaty lines of his patrician face—and, all of a sudden, tiny hands grabbed the back of Hermione's jumper and yanked. She almost yelped aloud as she felt herself fall, the flutter of cloth moving against her face, and then—.
"Oof!" Landing on her back forced all the air out of her lungs, and Hermione stared at the kitchen ceiling, the smell of pastry jam and chimney smoke tickling her nose. Next to her, Dobby shuffled from foot to foot and straightened his smudged pillowcase.
"Miss Herme-ninny is needing to be more careful!" he squeaked before toddling off.
"Oh," Hermione breathed, sagging into the floor. The relief overcame her in a wave. "Thank you, Dobby."
x X x
Things, Hermione knew, were not as they seemed in the Wizarding world. She knew this because she could not return home to her mum and dad in the summer—because her best friend wore a scar around her neck like a necklace while Neville Longbottom strutted about like he was the king of the world, and because men of no relation wore a variation of the same face. She knew this because Harriet warned them Slytherin "Was, and wasn't, the Dark Lord," however that was possible. Something lurked below—an oozing, pus-filled wound beneath a clean, tidy plaster, and despite her youth, Hermione found herself looking more closely with every passing day.
The discrepancies existed in Mr. Malfoy's mounting frustration, in Mrs. Malfoy's nervous, surreptitious fidgeting, the hushed, worried meetings they had in the drawing room in the dead of night. They existed in Ingham's exhausted studying, in an ancient Founder's tome, in Headmaster Dumbledore's empty sleeve and Professor Snape's scarred eye. The Prophet said, "Everything's fine!", and yet the older Hermione grew, the more she learned, the more she saw, the more she came to understand nothing was fine. Not in the way that people wanted them to believe.
Her summer wore on, and all she had were more questions and no answers.
She almost felt…sorry for the Malfoys, sorry for their hidden plight, sorry for the son and wife's worry every evening when they sat down for dinner and Mr. Malfoy winced. Even so, that didn't stop her from slipping a pair of Draco's muddy Quidditch gloves onto Mr. Malfoy's seat, nor did it stop Mr. Malfoy from jerking those gloves out from under his bum and berating his son. He chucked the gloves aside—right into Dobby's waiting hands.
"Master has given Dobby clothes!"
A dish shattered. "What?!"
"Dobby is free! Dobby's a free elf! Ha!"
The elf did a jig right there on the dining room floor, then vanished with a pop! Mr. Malfoy raged, Mrs. Malfoy did her best to calm him down, and Draco stared, gobsmacked, at the spot where Dobby had disappeared.
Yes, Hermione might have felt a bit sorry for the Malfoys—but she wasn't that sorry.
She allowed herself a secret smile and sipped her tea.
A/N: I saw this question a lot after the last chapter, so I think we need a refresher. From the end of Chapter IX: Where Stars Dwell; "I think his punishment fitting," Cygnus said as he sank farther into the pillows and his tired gaze roved from Elara to the far wall, focusing on the empty portrait frame there. "He doesn't know about you, after all. He gets to sit in that prison every day, gets to wake up every morning on that dismal island, and gets to remember again that his only child is dead." Sirius believes Elara is dead.
