Negotiations
November 12th
Hermione was finishing packing, her wand waving confidently as she murmured, "Capacious Extremis." The bottlegreen rucksack expanded effortlessly to accommodate one more essential item. Casting a glance outside, she cast an Impervious spell to shield her belongings from the incessant onslaught of the rain.
Choosing the mid-morning hour for her departure, when the majority of students and professors would be busy in their classes, Hermione set out. Hogwarts students and fellow faculty members had been notified prior of her absence, and a medley of rumours had begun circulating. One suggested she might be pregnant, another that her Muggle parents were on their deathbeds, and she wished to spend their final moments with them. Another particularly imaginative rumour making the rounds at Hogwarts suggested that Hermione Granger had temporarily left the school to lead a goblin uprising, supporting them in their quest for more equitable treatment and the right to wield wand. Hermione dismissed the fantastical tales with an amused snicker, and refocused on the task at hand. The rumours didn't particularly bother her. The less people knew about the real reason behind her leave, the better.
The castle corridors, usually bustling with activity, were unusually quiet as she made her way toward the gates. Stepping into the courtyard, the rain-drenched landscape greeted her with a serene but melancholic beauty. Hermione paused for a moment, taking in the sight, before raising her hood and Apparating away from Hogwarts, perhaps for good, if her mission proved unsuccessful. Unfolding the note with the written address she had received from Mr Mallard, she focused on her destination. The Wizarding Village of Chudleigh, Devonshire, was the hometown of the Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons. Ginny frequently teased Ron, their staunch supporter, saying that their bad streak had a silver lining: their fans were the only ones with vocal cords still intact, even after enduring marathon-length matches.
Standing on Sycamore Lane, hand gripped firmly, Hermione scanned the row of charming cottages adorned with colorful flower boxes, its contents now withered and dry. She approached the first few houses cautiously, checking the numbers on the doors, until she found a quaint cottage with a brass plaque.
"63 Sycamore Lane," she read. Excitement and anticipation coursed through her veins as she raised her hand to knock on the aged wooden door.
The muted echo of approaching footsteps filled the air, and after a brief pause, the door gently swung open. In the doorway stood a woman, likely in her thirties, attired in an unanimously Muggle fashion. Hermione's gaze traversed from the rather unflattering brown Muggle skirt to a well-worn knitted sweater, eventually settling on the woman's face.
She wasn't wholly unattractive, but her brown hair lacked lustre, with an untamed fringe casually draping over her forehead. Amidst the subdued palette of browns and greys, the only vibrant punctuation came from her eyes—large and almond-shaped, cast in a striking deep blue hue.
In the ensuing silence, she reciprocated Hermione's assessing gaze. Eventually, Hermione broke the quietude, revealing the reason for her visit.
A soft clearing of Hermione's throat broke the stillness "Good evening. I hope I'm not disturbing you. My name is Hermione Granger and I am looking for… Miss Seraphina Bristlecone," she finished, referring to her note.
The woman produced a sigh before answering, her voice carrying a weight of fatigue as she admitted, "That would be me. " Then, summoning strength, she spoke louder, as though bracing for a potential confrontation. Are you from the Enchanted Exterminators? If this is about that neighbourhood pixie eradication and gnome management nonsense, I have already spoken to another of your representatives, and I am not interested. Magical creatures simply don't show up here." A bitter undertone coloured her words.
Sensing the woman's apprehension, Hermione hastened to clear the understanding, "Oh no! It's nothing like that. I'm actually looking into the history of a wizard, Emeric Blackthorn, and I believe he may have had ties to this area. I thought you might have some family knowledge that could be invaluable to my..um..research."
However, her assurances that she had nothing to do with the magical pest control proved futile. The woman's demeanour, initially dipped in suspicion, quickly transfigured into outright hostility upon the mere mention of the name.
"Emeric Blackthorn? Never heard of him." The woman's words sliced through the air, her denial carrying a sharp edge.
Hermione nodded, sensing the woman's reluctance. She had anticipated it, having been forewarned by Mr. Mallard. Observing the woman's grip tightening on the doorknob, she fixed her with a pleading gaze before the door could slam shut.
"Please, Miss Bristecone. I promise I won't take much of your time, just a few questions."
The desperate note in her plea seemed to have some impact on Miss Bristlecone. A sigh slipped from her lips as she relented. "Alright, go ahead with your questions, but make it quick. I've got lunch on the stove."
Appreciative, Hermione followed the woman to the kitchen, a snug and compact space wrapped in beige walls and tiled floors. The layout, replete with numerous cabinets, resembled something straight out of the glossy pages of a cheap furniture magazine, the kind Hermione would idly flick through while waiting for her parents in their dental clinic.
A white table occupied the centre of the room, where Hermione now found herself seated. It was a very ordinary looking kitchen, quite out of keeping with the predominantly magical neighbourhood. It was evident that Miss Seraphina had taken deliberate measures to distance herself from her Wizarding heritage.
The inviting aroma of tomato soup, rich with the fragrances of onions, garlic, and tomatoes wafted up as the woman diligently stirred the pot. Hermione, standing hesitantly in the middle of the room, contemplated whether to take a seat uninvited.
As the woman reached into the cabinet for spices, Hermione noticed the subtle tremor in her hands. It made her wonder if her unannounced visit had genuinely unsettled the woman. Meanwhile, the soup inside the pot reached a vigorous boil, and with an abrupt surge, it spilled over the edge, cascading onto Seraphina's skirt. A yelp of surprise escaped her lips as the hot sauce met fabric, creating a sizzling sound and an immediate mess around.
"Shite, my favourite skirt.," Seraphina exclaimed, immediately trying to brush away the sauce with her hands, and hissing as it burned her fingers.
"Good riddance," Hermione mused to herself. But, assessing the situation, she extracted her always-ready wand and, with an unobtrusive flick, she cast a quiet, "Scourgify!" The stains vanished into thin air, leaving no trace behind. Seraphina stared in awe at the spotless skirt, her earlier frustration replaced with gratitude.
Hermione smiled, seeing her surprised expression," A handy cleaning spell. It's a standard trick for witches and wizards. Saves a lot of laundry trouble."
Seraphina let out a nervous laugh, "I know. My mum used to use it a lot. Thank you."
"No problem at all," Hermione reassured her.
With the soup simmering gently under a lid, Miss Bristlecone gestured toward the table and Hermione installed herself into the seat across from her host, who joined her soon after, slipping her a cup of tea.
"What do you wish to know, Miss Granger?" the woman asked, her spoon tapping an anxious rhythm against the rim of her teacup, as she continued to stir.
"Please, call me Hermione, I can tell we're around the same age," Hermione offered, seeking to break the ice. "I realise discussing the matters pertaining to your wizarding heritage may be challenging for you, and I apologise if it causes any discomfort—"
"Do you know what truly unsettles me?" The woman broke down in an unexpected vulnerability, interrupting her mid-sentence. "It's the constant reminder that I am no better than a Muggle, as if magical blood doesn't course through my veins. Except, of course, when people want something from me, like prying into our ancestral files and artefacts. You're not the first, Hermione," she added with a bitter edge, "It's as though they consider me unworthy of holding these possessions. Do you have any idea of what it's like to reside in this neighbourhood and still feel utterly disconnected from it all?
Despite her accusatory tone, Hermione felt a twinge of empathy for Miss Bristlecone as she opened up to her. Understanding the sensitivity surrounding her magical heritage, Hermione knew she had to navigate cautiously if she wanted to uncover anything substantial.
She took a quick sip from her cup, trying to hide her grimace as she tasted the room-temperature tea, way too sweet for her taste.
"Why haven't you considered moving? Living among Muggles could be easier. Many squi…non-magical folks integrate well with them," she finished somewhat awkwardly.
"Call me for what I am, Hermione. A squib." She looked as if she was daring Hermione to use the term.
"Yes, a squib," Hermione affirmed, holding her gaze. In this instance, she believed stating the facts plainly was the best approach. ""But it doesn't diminish your value as a person, magical or not."
"What would you know about it? You're a witch, a skilled one, I can tell. Have you ever faced ostracism and rejection on the account of your birth?"
"I have," Hermione answered, leaving Seraphina in stunned disbelief.. "You see, I was born to non-magical folks. I discovered I was a witch around the age of ten, though I sensed my uniqueness even earlier. When strange things happened around me, my friends gradually distanced themselves - a somewhat expected reaction, I suppose. The months following my Acceptance Letter were incredibly lonely. I mostly stayed in my room, immersing myself in new textbooks, learning about the new world I was about to enter. Stepping into Hogwarts
for the first time was nothing short of extraordinary; it felt like finally coming home. Simultaneously, there were individuals quick to remind me I would never be their equal. They called me names, such as…"
"Mudblood," Seraphina finished for her, familiar with the derogatory term.
"Yes, among other nasty terms," said Hermione, her gaze dropping to her cup. "But I also gained a group of friends who loved me for who I was and stuck with me all these years. They never let me feel anything less, even though my ancestry was less than pure."
Leaning back in her chair, Hermione's posture relaxed, her body language conveying a sense of ease despite the weight of the conversation. She continued, "As I got older, I understood that it's not where one comes from that defines them but the choices they make and what kind of people they are. Today, if given a choice, I would not have it any other way. I love my parents and I believe my experiences are richer as I can draw from both worlds."
Seraphina looked unconvinced. Her fingers traced the rim of the teacup thoughtfully.
"But you're a witch. You have all these amazing powers," she uttered, her voice breaking with a raw honesty. "And I am…just someone caught in between, struggling to find where I belong."
Hermione's heart went out to the woman and she responded with heartfelt empathy, "I understand." Being a teacher, she was used to offering guidance, resolving conflicts, and aiding young witches in their self-discovery. Yet, what words of comfort could she offer to this young, embittered woman? Especially, when she yearned so desperately for comfort and reassurance herself?
A heavy sigh escaped her as she chose to reveal her secret, "Well, you have one advantage over me."
"And what might that be?"
"Time."
Seraphina peered at her without comprehension.
Hermione's voice was steady, though laden with an undeniable gravity, "I'll be honest with you," she began. "I've been cursed and according to the best Healers at St Mungo's, I have less than a few months left." She allowed a moment of silence, letting the magnitude of her world settle fully.
"Your ancestor, Emeric Sylvan Blackthorn was rumoured to have created an object capable of undoing all curses- a moonstone ring. As his direct descendant, I had hoped you might possess some knowledge more about it, perhaps within ancestral records…" she trailed off, a hesitation lingering in the air, as if she wasn't quite prepared to confront the potential shattering of her hopes.
The woman regarded her with a sorrowful expression, blended with something that akin to guilt. After a moment, she spoke. "You're not the first one to inquire about my family history. The other day a wizard came, asking me questions about my ancestral heritage."
Recognition flickered in Hermione's mind. It had to be Mr Mallard. He had mentioned to her about his unsuccessful attempt to uncover details about the Blackthorn/Bristlecone family history and lay claim to the valuable family heirlooms.
"He was rather handsome," the woman continued, her high cheeks taking on a slightly rosier hue, earning a casual shrug from Hermione. Everyone, after all, was entitled to their opinion, though 'attractive' was not the first word that crossed her mind when she thought of the elderly wizard. "Maybe you know him. His surname started with an M, and he had such a peculiar name, even for a wizard - unusual but strangely beautiful. It escapes me now," Seraphina said wistfully, twirling a lock of her slightly uneven fringe.
"I happen to know him," began Hermione. I owe him your address after all. "Mr Mallard–"
She was abruptly cut off by an enthusiastic exclamation as her interlocutor finally recalled the name.
"That's it, Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy. He paid me a visit last week, asking about the exact same thing."
Startled by this revelation, Hermione nearly tumbled from her chair. What twisted motives could that scheming serpent be harbouring, showing up here? Had he been spying on her all this time? A whirlwind of questions stormed through her mind, and her desire to test a few forbidden spells on his person had never been so profound.
"He seemed very pleasant for your kind," Miss Bristlecone continued in a tone of justification, noticing Hermione's evident shock. A peculiar sensation rippled through Hermione; it marked the first occasion where she was labelled as part of the wizarding community, rather than Muggles, despite being a Muggle-born. "I must confess, I found myself quite taken up by his manners."
Still trying to come to terms with what she'd just learned, Hermione tuned out the rest. What did it matter? Clearly, he had tried to weave his charm on this unsuspecting woman, and she had unwittingly taken the bait. But why would he be interested in the moonstone ring? Or could this be a calculated act of spite, a deliberate fulfilment of his earlier threat? Regardless of his motive, she would not let it go unchallenged.
Yet, her immediate priority was to gather every bit of information available about the wizard and his moonstone ring. The realisation that Lucius shared an interest in it only heightened her sense of urgency.
Her disbelief must have been painted quite clearly on her face, for Seraphina stared into her cup, averting her gaze.
"He was... unlike the others, Hermione," she admitted, her voice revealing a trace of vulnerability. "Usually, I don't entertain wizards or witches. As a squib, magical folk barely notice me.. But Mr. Malfoy, he had a way about him, a charm that was hard to resist."
Oh, Hermione had no doubt Lucius could be remarkably charming when he set his mind to it. Even when he wasn't putting in much effort, her body whispered, replaying its animated response stirred by his unintended proximity. He might be the most physically attractive wizards she knew, but he was also one of the most odious, bigoted, privileged men she had the displeasure of knowing. Enough to send her treacherous body right back to its place- vehemently opposing any notion of finding him remotely appealing.
Miss Bristecone paused, her gaze distant as she recalled her encounter with Lucius.
"I felt..seen, you know? It was as if my lack of magical ability didn't matter to him. He was polite, too. Before I knew it, I was willingly sharing information about my family that I'd never imagined discussing with a wizard."
Hermione's concern deepened as she listened to the squib's account, finally regaining her ability to speak. "Did he happen to mention why he needed this information, Miss Bristlecone?"
"He spoke of preserving magical heritage for future generations. Described it as a legacy project, an effort to ensure that the knowledge of the most noble, ancient families, including ours, isn't lost. He even promised to include my name in the acknowledgments."
You gullible woman, Hermione sighed inwardly, a hint of sympathy tingeing her exasperation as she recognised the vulnerability that Lucius Malfoy had exploited. Something in the woman's face made her refrain from unveiling the harsh reality- that Lucius wasn't working on any book any more than she was.
"Miss Bristecone," she addressed the woman with newfound urgency, "Can you please tell me precisely what you shared with him?"
"There isn't much I know. My father was reluctant to talk about Emeric. As you know, our family took on a different name to put some distance between us and his bad reputation, to avoid the the ceaseless questions about the ring he's said to have crafted," she explained in a lilting Scottish cadence, affirming what Hermione had learned from Mr Mallard. "Do you reckon there's any truth to it? That the ring holds the power to lift curses?" she asked, sudden interest adding a spark to her otherwise colourless expression.
"I can't say for certain," sighed Hermione, "but I've witnessed stranger things, and they say there's no smoke without fire."
As it happened, the woman was clueless. The bitter aftertaste of disappointment lingered, realising that after all the invested efforts, there were no tangible gains. Amidst the frustration, a faint comfort emerged- Lucius, too, departed empty-handed. Perhaps, she mused, there lay an opportunity to not just savour her adversary's disappointment but to relish it.
"I imagine Mr Malfoy must have felt quite let down when he found you wouldn't be able to assist him?" Hermione probed, trying to fight the lightness in her voice.
However, when Seraphina glanced at her, a flicker of uncertainty crossed her expression, as if deliberating whether to say more.
"He left with the family records," she finally spoke, averting the witch's gaze. "He assured me it was a temporary loan for the completion of this book, and he promised to deliver them back to me. I'm sorry, Hermione," she concluded, detecting Hermione's disappointment. "He appeared to be a genuinely nice man, I'm sure he'd let you have a look at them first, especially when he learns about your situation."
Hermione knew that willingly helping her ranked pretty high on the list of things he'd never do. Moreover, considering their mutual strong dislike, she had every reason to believe that him finding out about her curse would guarantee his refusal.
The room lapsed into a heavy silence. Hermione finished her now-cold tea, setting down the cup with a clink that resonated in the quietude. trying to control the tremor in her hands. But Miss Bristlecone proved more discerning than she gave her credit. Following a reflective pause, she cautiously proposed, "Miss Granger, can I show you something?"
Hermione nodded weakly, a feeble attempt to hide the tears threatening to well up. She fought against the emotions, determined to keep them at bay until the solitude of privacy allowed their unrestrained release.
The woman guided Hermione up a narrow, creaking staircase. At the end of a corridor, she opened the door to a small room, so cramped that it scarcely qualified as a bedroom, even by English standards. Stepping inside, Hermione's jaw dropped in astonishment as her eyes traversed over a curious assortment of wizarding paraphernalia, diverting her thoughts from the darker, gloomier subjects on her mind.
The room housed a curious mishmash of items-quills, parchment, an open jar of Floo-powder now intermingled with dust, moth-eaten wizarding robes, and ageing Charms and Transfiguration textbook. Everything appeared haphazardly crammed into standing shelved, and a cabinet with cracked glass, lacking any semblance of order or arrangement.
"My mother belonged to Ravenclaw," Seraphina explained, noticing Hermione's interest: a bronze and blue brooch. Perched on its glittering surface was an onyx-stone raven, unfurling its wings as she held it in her open palm.
"I moved it all here after she passed away. She was the last tie keeping me connected to the Wizarding World. I never truly knew my father; he died when I was just five. At least, his early death spared him the shame of witnessing his only daughter turn out a squib. His Slytherin pride would not stand it," said Seraphina, clasping her arms in a self-soothing gesture, "Mum handled it better, she accepted me for who I was. Still, I am sure that deep down, she carried disappointment to her grave. At times, I comforted myself with the thought that I was adopted from a Muggle family. It was more bearable than accepting that, despite having two magical parents, I turned out to be nothing more than a pathetic squib."
Hermione offered her a sympathetic look, as the woman continued her tale, "But I knew I truly belonged to my parents. My mother shared the same eyes and everyone insisted that my hair and nose were exactly like my father's. Did you know that on my seventh birthday, the whole family gathered for celebration, expecting my magical abilities to finally manifest? They told me to make a wish and put out the candle flames without blowing on them. I tried earnestly, attempting to will the flames away until my face felt hot from exertion. However, when I opened my eyes, I discovered that the flames had already burnt through half of the candles, with melted wax dribbling onto the cake," Seraphine recounted, her voice shaking from emotions that she must have suppressed for years. Hermione, taken aback by this unexpected display of openness, found herself at a loss for words, her own affliction momentarily forgotten.
"I still vividly recall them, shaking their heads sadly as they departed, their well-wishes sounding more like condolences as they spoke to my mum. I was just at the time, but even then, I sensed something was profoundly wrong. That was the last time I saw them until my mother's burial fifteen years later. I guess they were deeply embarrassed about having a squib in the family."
A wave of fresh sorrow washed over Hermione as she contemplated the isolation and pain that the woman had suffered. To have an entire family turn away because you failed their expectations, through no fault of your own, seemed like a devastating ordeal. In that moment, Hermione no longer questioned the woman's bitterness or her yearning for solitude. The mere acknowledgement of her magical heritage must have been an excruciatingly painful experience. Any lingering frustration Hermione held towards Seraphina for unintentionally aiding Lucius dissipated, replaced by a deepened understanding of her struggles.
Hermione, not one to readily express her emotions through physical touch, hoped that her simple gesture would effectively convey what words might fail to articulate. With care, she rested her hand on Seraphina's arm. Instantly, the woman tensed, swiftly veiling her emotions with a mask of indifference. Hermione gently withdrew her arm.
As they resumed browsing through the collection, Seraphina's hand went into the cabinet, carefully sliding the fragile glass aside. From within, she retrieved a stack of journals, their pages bound loosely with a weathered leather ribbon. They were falling apart due to age; clearly no one, even her clever Ravenclaw mother, thought of preserving them with an anti-ageing spell. Perhaps no one thought they were of any value, thought Hermione.
"I gave Mr Malfoy all the official written records documenting the life of Emeric Sylvan Blackthorn, but these journals could be of interest to you," said Seraphina, passing them over to Hermione. "They're from around the time Emeric lived, and were supposedly written by his fiance. I don't even know how they've lasted this long."
Hermione surveyed the leather-hide cover with interest. Using the side of her hand, she brushed away the ages-old dust, releasing into the air, where the particles pirouetted and twirled, caught in the beam of light. At the bottom of the journal, inscribed in neat, elegant cursive, were the words, "The property of Rosalind Rivers."
Hermione remembered Mr Mallard mentioning her and Emeric's engagement, and the wedding that never took place due to her premature creation of the moonstone ring supposedly occurred after her passing, piquing Hermione's curiosity- perhaps there was more to the person of Rosalind Rivers than she had initially assumed.
November 12th, later that day (the day was fucking long)
Hermione, her knuckles throbbing from the persistent hammering on the colossal double doors of the Manor, was stunned as Draco forcefully swung them open violently, nearly yanking her inside. She steadied herself, evening out her breath, assessing the situation. She had rather anticipated to be greeted by an elf instead.
It had been years, yet he appeared mostly unchanged, perhaps less pale than she last saw him; his white-blond hair, sharp features, and stormy grey eyes stirred memories of their heated school interactions. Unconsciously, her expression hardened a little.
A fleeting thought crossed her mind that he bore a striking resemblance to Lucius, albeit lacking the refined ruggedness that comes with age. Quickly dismissing the comparison, she felt a blush creep onto her cheeks, and she awkwardly stammered out her request.
"Is your father home? I need to speak with him now."
Draco's face displayed a mix of incredulity and cool detachment, as he replied, "A 'Hello' would suffice, Granger. And what business could you possibly have with him? I can relay the information." his tone, though lacking the venom of their school years, was not exactly warm.
Without missing a beat, spat out her brewing frustration, "Fine, inform that this contemptible, conniving elitist snake that–"
Draco, caught off guard, held up a ringed hand, to halt the string of epithets that rolled out of her mouth. "Easy, Granger, you'll hyperventilate". There was a sly twist to his lips. Before she could react, he added, "Actually, why don't you tell him yourself?"
A similar figure, tall and dressed in unanimous black emerged from behind him.
There was only one thing worse than handling a Malfoy. Handling two of them. At once. Hermione had faced mountain trolls, three-headed dogs, raging werewolves before but this was just pushing it.
"Now, now, Draco, it wouldn't be fitting to leave our guest standing in the cold," Lucius chided with a gentle, fatherly tone, prompting a snicker from his son. His words, though seemingly considerate, had a way of reducing her to a shivering, pleading intruder.
With that, Lucius opened the door further, graciously stepping back to create ample space for her to enter. Draco, in a disgruntled murmur, complained about having to perform a "bloody-elf's job" before withdrawing into the dimly-lit recesses of the building.
Hermione's gaze swept across the opulence. Tapestry-covered walls, lined with portraits of pale-faced ancestors, antique furniture - a display of wealth and history. The magnificent carpet ran the hall's length, culminating at the base of a grand staircase. She had been there only once, following the Trio's capture during their hideout in the Forest of Dean. The interior, well preserved in time, exuded a blend of oppressive grandeur and sombre gloom. Much like its owner.
Concluding her survey of the foyer, Hermione's gaze shifted back to the wizard before her, sensing his watchful eyes on her. He was radiating a particularly smug aura that triggered a fleeting self-doubt about her own appearance. She felt much more at ease in more neutral settings, but she determinedly held her ground in this distinctly Slytherin lair. Only a subtle, nervous adjustment of a stray lock hinted at her discomfort.
"Miss Granger, what is it that you wished to tell me?" the older Malfoy addressed her, upholding a front of impeccable politeness.
Silently, Hermione questioned his game but showed no intention of playing along.
Her eyes narrowed and she huffed an irate sigh, "Oh, cease with the pretence. You know exactly why I'm here."
"Enlighten me, I haven't the foggiest…" Lucius maintained a perfectly innocent expression.
"You've been spying on me, deliberately attempting to hinder me. I can't fathom what compels you- boredom, perhaps?"
"The Wizarding World, as small as it is, does not orbit around you, Miss Granger. Whatever reasons I have, rest assured they serve my interests first and foremost. Trust me, my dear, when I say that getting in your way is merely a fringe benefit."
A sharp intake of air.
"I need those family records." Inadvertently, Hermione took a step toward him, as though he physically held the documents in question and she could retrieve them from his possession.
"That makes the two of us." Lucius remained stoically unmoved, his posture annoyingly relaxed.
"And, what on Merlin's blue balls, could you possibly need them for?' she demanded, folding her arms across her chest.
With a smirk, Lucius responded, "Miss Granger, You are supposed to be intelligent. The moonstone ring holds incredible value. It would be imprudent of me not to pursue it."
"But I discovered its trail first," she argued, her lower lip jutting out, akin to a petulant child staking a claim on a coveted toy.
"First come, first served." Lucius' hand gilded smoothly across the polished surface of the table, his eyes fixed on Hermione. "Contrary to Mallard's warnings, Miss Bristlecone handed over the files containing her ancestral history surprisingly easily. A handful of flattering words and empty promises did the trick, though the tea I had to endure proved rather insipid."
Hermione levelled him with a severe stare. "You lied to her about the book," she said, injecting her voice with accusatory contempt.
Lucius's shoulders lifted in a half-hearted, unconcerned shrug. "So I did, which should hardly come as a surprise," he spun her words into an almost complimentary tone, "Don't tell me you've never bent the truth to suit your cause."
Granted, she did, but her intentions served a good cause. Mostly. This, at least, became the mantra she clung to, fending off the occasional prick of her conscience.
"You're truly without remorse, aren't you?" her hands dropped to her sides, her fists clenching briefly, and the gold of her eyes turned to steel.
Lucius chuckled, the sound rich and mocking.
"I parted with such sentiments long ago."
"You're despicable."
The soft radiance of the antique lamps cast shadows across his face, emphasising the sharp contours of his bone structure.
"Despicable, am I?" he mused. " I'm merely a realist. In this world, my dear, honesty is a commodity reserved for the naive."
He was knowingly pushing her buttons.
"There's a difference between pragmatism and deceit," she shot right back, "You manipulate the truth to suit your own agenda, consequences be damned."
Lucius strolled toward her, his movements deliberate, "Consequences are for those who can't control the narrative," he retorted, his voice low and smooth like the murmur of silk. "In other words, they are for the dim-witted and weak. Frankly, even considering your multiple/numerous faults, I wouldn't have pegged you as either. Perhaps my initial judgement was overly generous."
Hermione fumed, aware of her diminishing patience, easily triggered since the curse took hold. Despite the strong temptation to unleash a torrent of frustration, she quelled the impulse, settling instead for a searing glare. Lucius, unfazed, observed her silently, cool silver meeting incandescent gold.
When he spoke at length, his tone was almost languid. "Miss Granger, now that you appear to have cooled down sufficiently, I suggest that we explore the possibility of an agreement - one that could prove mutually beneficial."
Anger still flickered in Hermione's eyes, but beneath it, an undeniable intrigue began to surface. Despite the simmering curiosity, she maintained a piercing glare, "I won't engage in negotiations with a Death-Eater," she asserted.
"A former Death-Eater, mind you. Surely enough years have passed to put the past behind. Besides, wouldn't you like to rid yourself of that curse?"
Hermione's mouth fell open, suspicion carving lines of doubt across her features. The irony twisted like a sharp knife in her belly - Lucius Malfoy had now a better understanding of her plight than her parents and friends she had known for years.
"How do you know about it?" The question sounded painfully naive after the initial shock. Borgin and Burkes, of course. It dawned on her that their random encounter there must have provided him with more gleanings from her conversation with the shop's owner than she had initially suspected.
"An obvious question, Granger. It's quite simple, really: why else would you put your burgeoning teaching career on hold to chase an object explicitly designed to dispel dark curses? And contrary to any assumptions you might entertain, I didn't pick it from your chat with Borgin, nor did I bother questioning him about your visit." A haughty huff accompanied his words.
"Good, because it would be quite pathetic if you had- stalking a Muggleborn witch half your age."
Lucius' nostrils flared in indignation at the insinuation, perhaps even more so because it was specifically what he would do if he hadn't been so pressed for time that day… Not that the motive behind his interest was her young age or the fact that she was an attractive female. No, she was simply an irksome, self-righteous know-it-all, so when he spotted her in Borgin and Burkes, his curiosity was naturally piqued, justifiably so.
Sensing his discomfiture, Hermione deftly seized the opportunity to press her own point.
"And why are you after the ring, then? Suffering from an excess of smugness?I doubt any object is potent enough to remedy that."
Back at his self-assured self after a momentary disruption, Lucius yawned ostentatiously, as if he found her attempt at a jab thoroughly unimpressive.
"Depleted pockets and a tarnished reputation, as you've aptly pointed out before, Miss Granger - the aftermath of the post-War trials. I simply seek to reclaim what was lost", he explained, his smug undertone implying that it was a matter of rightful restitution, and not an outcome his actions warranted.
It sounded just like Lucius, and Hermione had no reason to doubt the sincerity behind his words. Her gaze shifted to a portrait hanging nearby - an old family portrait, capturing the Malfoys in their prime, at the pinnacle of prosperity and sway. Narcissa poised on a regal chair, a vision of elegance, Lucius standing tall behind her, bejewelled hands resting on the chair's back with princely assurance. And a young but already sullen Draco sulking on the right side of his father, his discontent apparent as a result of being coerced into the portrait. All clad in dark, all pale-faced. Self-important, pasty snobs.
"And you suggest we collaborate?" she asked sceptically, referring to his earlier words, her eyes returning to the larger-than-life version of Lucius in front of her.
"As I said, the arrangement would be mutually advantageous. Think about this: I possess the records you want, and, as its Professor," said Lucius, with mocking emphasis, "you, my dear, have the means to access Hogwarts."
Hermione pursed her lips.
Since the conclusion of the War, security measures intensified, making it more challenging than ever for unauthorised individuals to breach the school grounds. But what did it have to do with the Moonstone ring? In spite of herself, her interest was growing.
"And they're connected, because…? Mr Malfoy, I am not sure I follow."
Lucius cocked his head, a wolfish gleam in his eyes, "It requires a more extensive explanation. Perhaps we could continue this conversation in my study upstairs?"
A/N: I'd love to know your thoughts :)