xliii. the house of malfoy
Dread filled Hermione's veins when she heard the approaching tap, tap, tap of his walking stick striking the floor.
It was such a pretentious thing, Hermione thought, his need to strut about with a walking stick like he was the bloody king of England himself. Or one of those white-feathered peacocks on the grounds. She often daydreamed about taking the blasted thing in her hands and cracking it in two over her knee, though these daydreams never moved past the act itself—never included the consequences such a move would reap. There would be consequences, too. Hermione guessed she probably wouldn't survive breaking Lucius Malfoy's concealed wand into pieces.
Across from her, Jamie Ingham, the Malfoys' older Muggle-born ward, heard the same tapping as Hermione and quickly straightened in his chair as he flipped through the text before him and lowered his head. Draco, at the head of the polished table, either didn't hear his father coming or didn't care, because he continued to slouch and play with the miniature broom in his hand, sending it sailing around paper obstacles, his school books forgotten on the side.
Mr. Malfoy entered the dining room through the far archway, dressed in his usual Wizarding garb, robes black and his vest royal purple with gleaming, golden buttons. He looked quite prim—puffed up and stuffy, Hermione's mind provided in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Elara Black—and as she watched him through her lashes, she saw his mouth curl into a sneer.
"Draco," he barked, startling the pointy-faced boy. "Sit up."
The younger Malfoy did as told, his cheeks flushed pink, and Hermione fought down her satisfied smirk. She must have not been as discreet as she thought, because Mr. Malfoy rounded on her and extended one long-fingered hand, waiting for Hermione to glance up and meet his unimpressed glower. "Your work, Miss Granger."
Hermione gave him her incomplete essay on Dr. Ubbly's Oblivious Unction, and Malfoy skimmed the topic, tutting under his breath.
"Pedantic at best. A shallow analysis reflective of a shallow mind. My, my. I must write the school and ensure you really are the best student of your year. I find that highly suspicious."
Color invaded Hermione's cheeks, but she didn't tear up. Draco snickered—and Mr. Malfoy rounded on him now, his cane striking the table with a heavy thump that caused all three students to jump. "If you've time to laugh, Draco, you've time to better your own assignment. I seem to recall you were sixth in your year, boy."
Draco paled and shrank as he fidgeted with his books, not quite meeting Mr. Malfoy's eye. "Yes, father. But it's not my fault!" he grumbled. "Two of them were Ravenclaws! And Nott. He's such a bookworm. And—." He glared at Hermione. "Granger and Black cheated."
Mr. Malfoy scoffed, a noise as pompous as his own appearance. Jaime sank farther into his chair like he wanted to disappear into it, and Hermione wondered what his rank had been. "Granger is a Muggle-born, and Black is a ridiculous, thoughtless girl who has little regard for the time and effort of others," he spat, his tone as vicious as it ever was when Elara came up in conversation. That one of her best friends could hassle and aggrieve Malfoy so much when Hermione couldn't brought her private joy. "That you could be so easily surpassed by either shows your lack of conviction. If you don't prove yourself more capable, Draco, I will rethink my offer."
Draco instantly pulled his books closer, both horrified and elated, a look Hermione couldn't rightly understand. She looked to Jaime for assistance, but he hadn't lifted his head from his work and pointedly refused to acknowledge all of her friendly overtures. They'd exchanged a handful of greetings over the summer, half-heard grunts or vague, distrustful looks on Jaime's part that Hermione didn't understand—just as she didn't understand Draco's suddenly smug mood.
Sometimes, she wished Elara hadn't been emancipated, that she'd come to stay at the Malfoys as well so Hermione wouldn't be stuck alone for weeks on end. Elara—pure-blooded and proxy to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—could've stood up to Mr. Malfoy, unlike Hermione. Draco's father never struck her or mistreated her of course, but…the revulsion became unbearable after a time.
Mr. Malfoy strutted—for it could not be called walking—out of the room again after verbally tearing Jaime's work to shreds, leaving the trio to study in peace. Draco shoved off the task once more with a broad grin.
"What has you so pleased?" Hermione demanded. "You've done nothing all summer but smirk and gloat, Malfoy. It's insufferable."
The blond boy lifted a brow and gave a smug, faux laugh Hermione had heard him practicing in his room before. "Oh, father's promised me a gift is all, Granger. You see, next year I'm going to be on the Quidditch team, and father's promised to buy the whole team new brooms." Malfoy studied his nails. "He's quite generous."
"You're not on the team," she replied, frowning. "Try-outs don't take place until the new school year." Really, Hermione had very little interest in Quidditch or any sport; she knew try-outs hadn't occurred yet because Harriet was looking forward to them. Attending Quidditch practice would cut into Harriet's study time, but Hermione thought the rambunctious witch would actually benefit from the exercise. She usually spent an hour of their free period pacing around the table in the library and would only sit when Hermione—or Madam Pince—snapped at her.
Malfoy scoffed and retrieved the toy broom from his pocket where he'd hid it from his father. "Don't be stupid, Mudblood."
"Don't call me that."
He mouthed the word again, and it took everything in Hermione not to hurl a tome at his fat head. The book didn't deserve that.
Mr. Malfoy returned soon enough with Mrs. Malfoy and the trio of students stowed their books and assignments in their bags to prepare for lunch. Draco relinquished the head of the table to his father and sneered as he sank into a seat by Hermione.
"Draco, don't make rude faces," his mother reprimanded.
"Yes, mother."
Mr. Malfoy leaned his walking stick against the table's edge as he took his seat and cleared his throat. "Dobby!"
A crack preceded the appearance of the stooped, green-skinned house-elf in his tattered pillowcase. "You called for Dobby, Master Malfoy sir?"
"Serve lunch."
Dobby disappeared again, and a few moments later he came tottering out of the adjoining kitchen bearing several plates of fresh salad, scones, cream, and jam. Hermione resisted the urge to reach out and assist the short creature as he passed her chair, bowls balanced on his head, his motions quick as he slid dishes before Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, their son, then Jaime and Hermione. She'd tried to help before and had been promptly chastised.
"How was the Minister today, father?" Draco asked as Dobby poured tea. Again Hermione had to stop herself from offering thanks or gratitude.
"Minister Gaunt is well," Mr. Malfoy answered. "And busy, of course. He has little time for idle pleasantries, though he sends his greetings to you and Narcissa." He speared a water chestnut and placed it in his mouth, chewing thoroughly before continuing. "He assures me you will have a…most interesting term at Hogwarts this year."
What does he mean by that?
Hermione looked up and caught Jaime's eye, and though the older boy quickly looked away, they did share a single moment of disquiet at the pleased tenor in Mr. Malfoy's voice. Draco didn't notice and happily went about eating his food and taking a deep swig of pumpkin juice. "Really? How so, father?"
"Now, now, Draco. You don't want to ruin the surprise, do you?"
Just then, a saucer slipped through Dobby's spindly fingers and cracked in two upon the floor. Mr. Malfoy reacted without a word; the cane found itself in the wizard's hand once more and lashed out, striking Dobby's head, earning a squeal out of the poor creature and a sharp gasp from Hermione. Dobby cowered, cupping the the bleeding cut above his drooping ear, and Mr. Malfoy glared as he dropped the walking stick back into place.
"Clean it up," he spat.
Dobby snapped his trembling fingers and the saucer floated upward to the table after repairing itself. Hermione could feel her hands shaking, so she dropped them into her lap, balling them into fists as she stifled the need to shout and rail. She hated this. In any other circumstance, Hermione would have told Mr. Malfoy precisely what she thought of him and his heavy-handed ways—but Hermione couldn't insult him, couldn't give him a piece of her mind, because if Mr. Malfoy chose to do so, he could rescind his wardship and she would be forced back to the Muggle world. The Ministry would snap her wand. She would never see Hogwarts again.
It wasn't right—but what could Hermione do? She was a not quite thirteen-year-old witch with no autonomy in this society, no voice. She had to be practical and cunning, not bold and brash like a Gryffindor. Intervening with no plan of action would only reap consequences for Dobby and herself, and the last thing Hermione wanted to do was make life harder for the house-elves living at the manor. Quite frankly, she feared the end of Mr. Malfoy's cane as much as the servants—slaves—did.
Mrs. Malfoy noticed how pale the children had gone, including Draco, who hunched his shoulders and stared at his plate, not meeting his mother's eye. "Lucius," she reprimanded. "What have we said about punishing the servants at the table?"
Her husband's pale eyes narrowed at the rebuff, but Mr. Malfoy simpered and nodded. "Of course, my dear. Quite unseemly of me."
Lunch continued without conversation. Dobby shuffled back into the kitchen, muttering about being a "bad elf," and Hermione ate little of the provided food, her stomach too twisted into knots for her to force anything more than a few mouthfuls down. Mr. Malfoy excused himself first, and after Dipthy—another Malfoy elf—scuttled through and cleared the meal's remnants, Mrs. Malfoy set about lecturing them in manners and Wizarding history. Hermione kept her head down for the lesson's duration.
She could do nothing. She wasn't powerful or connected, didn't have the right name like Elara, or six feet of venomous serpent stuffed beneath her shirt like Harriet—but inaction had never sat well with Hermione. She wanted to change how things were, both for house-elves and Muggle-borns, because she knew some Muggle-borns in different families were treated just as poorly as Dobby. Hermione may have been powerless, and yet she refused to give in; one day she'd be able to tell wizards like Mr. Malfoy off. One day she'd be able to stand up and say, "That's enough!"
Later, the house-elves would find a little packet of Muggle ointments and first-aid items outside their pantry door, and Hermione would say nothing at all when she saw Dobby running about with pink and blue plasters stuck to his bruised head. She'd say nothing, but the sight would only further solidify her resolve.