Chapter 11 My greatest servant of all.
Hermione thought she'd been prepared.
She'd visualized the place she'd called home for the better half
of her young life, its grand moving staircase where you could
get lost for it had no discernible pattern of motion.
The historical portraits of chatterbox witches and Wizards
that hung along every corridor, and the Great Hall where she'd
been sorted with what should have been her lifelong friends,
a space for community and belonging.
Yes, she'd visualized all these spaces, but with a filter of
realism. Malfoy had explained the level
of disorder it was in, the disrepair, the desolation
untouched since the battle, dried blood becoming part of the
porous stonework, the coldness of the castle not in its
temperature but its temperament. Hogwart's castle was making its
allegiance known, and it did not approve of its current occupant
one iota. Despite all the magic in its
walls, Hermione had never once considered the castle could be
sentient. Silly, really, for what was
Peeves if not a manifestation of all the magical trouble makers
who had studied at Hogwarts before, what of the
manifestation of the studious, stalwart and Wondrous?
Perhaps their errant energy had seeped into the hallowed walls
themselves, giving the castle life.
She felt a sudden, bittersweet kinship with her old school.
What Hermione had not expected, and what also came as a
revelation to Malfoy, for he bristled beside her, was the
majestic vision. Beyond the rich dark oak doors,
the Great Hall was resplendent and abuzz with merriment.
Were the forced or genuine? She couldn't make out yet.
The ancient flagstone floor had been freshly paved with a bright
soft stone. Over 50 round tables were draped
in black lace and decorated with fine silverware large enough to
fit 10 persons each. They were situated strategically
to create a grand circle in the centre of the hall and a pathway
to the head table. A new ceiling had been
installed, depicting a calm, starry night sky with streams of
green and silver hues, a Slytherin branded Aurora
borealis undulating in waves through gaps.
In this apparition, however, she could make out the blackened
void. Hermione had ascertained that
the construction team must have been unable to dispel the
original magic, and they'd instead opted for warding it off
and enchanting a fresh sky beneath it.
Anyone who'd been sitting rose to take in the pair.
If they hadn't been known to the crowd, Hermione and Malfoy might
have looked like forest Faye, monarchs from a Muggle dark
fantasy story returning from a hunt.
But they were known, and she was just a mudblood being escorted
to slaughter. The commotion died down,
replaced with hushed whispers of intrigue and bloodthirst.
She couldn't breathe, couldn't move.
Her heels were magnetized to the floor.
Like we practised. Malfoy said under his breath,
and she nodded, imperceptible. It was ridiculous, putting her
faith in Malfoy to get her through tonight, She knew that,
but desperate times called for desperate measures, and she held
on to hope that his possessive streak would ensure her safety.
Tucking her arm under his, she allowed him to lead her forward.
The murderers, cowards and coerced, began applauding and
they headed straight down the central aisle.
Malfoy and his golden prize. The old fireplace to the right
had been knocked in and expanded upon, now a grand archway
encased 1/2 Dome recess where a bandstand had been erected.
Musicians were playing a jazzy instrumental, and an older,
beautiful dark skinned woman whom Hermione vaguely recognized
from somewhere, was swishing her shimmering frock to the beat by
a hovering old school microphone.
A film of silver magic fell from the archway, caging the band.
So I'm not the only one here under duress.
Merlin, if Voldemort wanted to make a spectacle of the evening,
he'd certainly achieved that. It made her want to vomit on the
sting of bio climbing her throat.
With Malfoy only announcing her surrender 7 days ago, the
magical renovation team must have been spell casting at all
times of the day since to achieve the masterpiece they
had. They approached the dais where
the teacher's table once stood. In its place, the grotesque
throne of bones and tissue leftovers from the battle,
seated the Dark Lord himself. His pallor was pale as a corpse,
skin slack like an underfed snake.
His lips were creased thin and grey.
Hermione, fortunately, had had very few run insurance with the
creature before her. For truly, he was a creature,
very little of the horrific being screamed human.
My Lord, may I present Miss Granger?
Malvoy said, stilted. Good of you to join us, I've
been so looking forward to meeting you personally.
His S slid languorously off the tip of his tongue.
She wouldn't have been surprised to see its tip forked.
Thank you for inviting me to your soiree.
Hermione responded curtly, closing off her mindspace.
Occluding the way she'd practised on her own the past
week. Hermione had found the schools
of thought behind the mental blocking with only a little
rummaging in her memory. She hadn't any clues towards the
acquisition of the skill, nor the teacher who had imparted
such wisdom, but she had been very grateful that whomever had
Obliviated her had at least the grace or sense to leave the
skill behind. Voldemort raised an arm slowly,
gesturing to the room the occupants at which had gone
silent. Even the band had ceased its
playing, watching their master with rapt attention.
Is it not impressive, Miss Grainger?
The first of many halls to be reclaimed for the new age of
education at Hogwarts School. A new dawn for the whole magical
community. Very, my Lord.
She said quietly, feeling the itch of the lace dress against
her skin. Malfoy, sit the girl by me you
can stand. Draco unlinked his arm from hers
and she immediately felt like her Patronus had just been
extinguished, the Dementors swooping in.
Panic, panic, panic. When had Malfoy become her
lifeline? He conjured her an ornate high
back wooden armchair with a plush Gryffindor red cushion and
she took her seat, the golden girl and the Dark Lord facing
the room at large. Hermione felt so far away, out
of her body. She knew she needed to breathe,
but she couldn't make her lungs move.
A flash of light shocked her back to the scene, followed by
three more by the insistent photographer.
A blonde woman stood, and it had not been for her.
Bejeweled spectacles perched precariously off the end of a
swollen blue nose. Hermione would not have
recognized Rita Skeeter, a heavyweight plunged into her
chest, the nemesis of her formative years, the woman who
had slandered her to high heaven in print.
The unregistered Animagus she'd locked in a jar for the better
half of a week had been beaten to a pulp, her sharp features
hidden below mounds of black, blue and purple.
I said no photography, Voldemort cried, high and terrifying at
the now quaking photographer. Another flash of light, this one
in a shocking green, struck Skeeter's colleague in the
chest. He flew back, spinning once in
the air before crashing into a table of haughty women.
Narcissa, the youngest among them, who scrambled from their
seats with small gasps. Voldemort collapsed on his seat
with a groan. She felt Draker's hand on her
shoulder and took in a much needed swig of oxygen, releasing
her fingernails from where she dug them into the wooden arms of
the chair. It took so much of her will to
not react, to not run to the man and check his pulse.
If the photographer had any family or friends in the crowd,
they weren't forthcoming with their distress.
You may begin, Draco. Voldemort seemed to huff out
with difficulty. Hermione couldn't understand it.
This was their leader. He was tired.
Everyone could surely see that she could use that to her
advantage. Her task was clear.
Malfoy needed to die. But if she terminated Voldemort
first, maybe that wouldn't be necessary after all.
So Norris Malfoy spelled, walking to the point the
Headmaster's podium used to stand while the photographer's
broken body was dragged to the side by Theodore Nutt and two
other Death Eaters. Welcome loyal servants.
Magic is might. Draco began addressing the
attendees, who repeated back the rehearsed tones.
Magic is might like trained foopers.
It had been a mere 3 months since Voldemort had fully
assumed open control over the Ministry after he came out of
the shadows at the battle, and wizarding society had succumbed
so quickly, Hermione felt the dread creep in at what moves he
would make next. What did he plan for her?
Was she to be made an example of?
As you can see, we have a special guest here tonight.
Draco continued, his voice devoid of emotion and Hermione
stiffened in her chair, a chill causing goose flesh up her bare
arms. Hermione Granger, Mudblood,
so-called Brightest Witch of her age and the terrorist
responsible for countless raids of magical businesses and
residences, including the bombing of the Lovegoods and the
attack on Gringot's bank resulting in the death of
Xenophilius Lovegood, editor of The Quibbler and the Goblin Grip
Hook. With each moniker, Hermione lost
a degree of heat, her lungs icing over.
Has handed herself in to the Malfoy family for the regime.
There was a whoop from the crowd and Hermione panned to the room,
falling on the sauce. Greyback, the vile werewolf from
her nightmares, stood in the corner with a small rabble of
men and women who either hadn't got the dress code or had
ignored it entirely, donning their usual leather snatcher
cloaks. She could feel the phantom of
his rank breath on her neck from here.
Hermione had been so close to an unimaginable fate with him, a
death she was sure he would have prolonged and savoured.
He told her as much. By her side, Voldemort sat
languidly, and if she didn't know any better, she'd say he
was even bored. I, as your Dark Commander, make
it my responsibility to ensure that she is able to do no
further harm to your families and communities.
She will be rehabilitated, signifying a new merciful path
forward. We wish for no further magical
blood to be spilled. There was an unhappy buzzing
between the members, like someone had released an angry
swarm of bees. Draco cleared his throat and
stepped forward. We have experienced some heavy
losses in recent years, and it is the Dark Lord's wish that we
begin rebuilding once more. Blood of purity will always be a
mark of power, he said cautiously.
But our foreign opponents are increasing their numbers and
magical strength. They're doing this by
multiplying their members more rapidly than we will ever be
able to do if we continue to be overly precious about our
bloodlines. Hermione couldn't believe what
she was hearing. Malfoy had not warned her about
this. Had he wanted her to be caught
off guard? Did this mean that she was in a
very different kind of danger at Malfoy Manor?
The Malfoy she had known at school would have never stooped
so low as to sully his bloodline with Mudblood filth.
Had that been what he meant in the study?
That she was now his to do as he wished He hadn't touched her
since then. Mortification dawned on her at
the heat between her legs, at the thought of his hands on her
once more. Those numbers ultimately will
result in the fall of our ministry and our magical
traditions here in Britain. The Dark Commander took in the
room, allowing his words to settle, ensuring he had their
attention. The bees warped into low murmurs
of consideration. The Dark Lord understands that
this is a difficult redirection of our values.
He is grateful for your continued trust, service and
devotion to the regime. Our enemies are at our gates,
and we must ensure the future of our families if we have hope of
staving them off long term. Babies aren't made in a day, nor
are soldiers, Hermione thought, which meant Voldemort believed
that this was going to be a long war with little hope of
receiving international recognition as the legitimate
political power. Our army patrols the borders
around the clock and is eliminating illegal apparition
points as they are instated. Rest assured, we will always
endeavour to protect those who remain loyal.
He stepped back then. I believe then we have come to
the celebratory point of the evening.
He said, turning to Voldemort who gave a slow nod in
agreement. Music.
Draker commanded. Simple and direct.
The band did not hesitate in striking up their tune.
The soulful voice of the gorgeous singer grazed against
the tension in the hall like a match against its box.
The still energy blazed. The new ceiling crackled and
popped fireworks of green and silver, their embers floating
down to sizzle the lace coverings of the tables, leaving
no scorch marks behind. She was instantly transported to
the Burrow, dancing around the kitchen with Jinny and Missus
Weasley, helping to prepare for Bill and Fleur's wedding.
Tears threatened to leak from her eyes and she blinked them
away. Missus Weasley would be
devastated to hear that her favorite singer, Celestina
Warbeck, had not made it out of Britain in time.
A dance Grainger. Draco held out his hand to hers
and she took it, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor
where people crowded around, waiting for someone to take the
first step. It was always going to be Draco,
of course. And then she was in his arms
again, a place she had no right to feel so safe in.
Her mind was a mess. Draco must die.
The Order's information cannot be trusted.
Draco, the Death Eater who killed Ron, twirled her to the
music. He was her solid, elegant black
frame, and she was his muggle born portrait flowing in
Slytherin green lace. Hermione relinquished her need
to make sense of her emotional pull toward Malfoy and simply
fell into his step, blocking all thoughts away in her mind and
tucking them into dark alcoves. Dancers joined around them, pure
bloods pairing off as Malfoy spun her around.
She saw Narcissa in an intense waltz with Theo and smirked.
Hermione wouldn't be able to cope with Theo's level of
flirting, so playful and cheeky and open.
It reminded her of Fred and George, and she was hit with a
wave of sadness. She tried to catch her dance
partner's eyes, but he was somewhere else.
She wanted to scream at him, to be with her.
Don't leave her alone in this. Hermione squeezed his hand, and
he blinked down at her with a reassuring smile.
Her stomach fluttered, his dependable hand at her waist,
his controlled grip of her small hand, Godric as he held her.
The oxytocin flared and her arousal pooled his skin against
hers, feeling so familiar and so completely wrong at the same
time. You're doing great.
She heard a drawl in her head, tripping over Malfoy's foot, who
lifted her up in a whirl. I thought I told you to stay out
of my head. I thought you wouldn't mind the
intrusion. Hmm.
Also, you left the back door open, Was that not an invite?
I mind if I cut in. A gruff voice broke through
their private consultation. Actually, dog, I do.
Draco retorted with more venom than he seemed to expect.
Possessive, indeed. I heard that, Grainger.
Didn't Daddy ever teach you to share?
Greyback growled, nostrils flaring.
My father taught me to care for one's possessions.
Greyback's eyes suddenly went wide, pupils dilating like he
was potion drunk. A bead of drool weeped from the
corner of his lips. You really couldn't wait, could
you, rat? She and Draco stilled.
Those around them also paused to their dances to watch the tense
interaction between the two Death Eaters.
I can smell you inside her. The girl is with child.
What? The shock reverberated around
the room, gasps and slanderous whispers.
The music trailed off. Granger, what is he talking
about? You're pregnant.
No, of course not, that's not possible at all.
Malfoy took in Hermione's baffled expression, then panned
to her stomach, the extra weight she'd been carrying secured
behind Greta's handiwork with the corset.
I can't. It's, it's not.
Hermione's thoughts spiralled frantically around her mind.
What's this? They all turned to the dais.
Malfoy retreated, closing off their mental connection.
The snake like man practically slithered from his throne to the
central dance floor and Hermione stumbled back.
He grasped hold of her arm and placed a spindly hand on
Malfoy's shoulder. You've done it already, young
Malfoy. You are proving to be my
greatest servant of all. Voldemort circled them both,
facing out to the crowds, addressing his audience with his
arms splayed wide open and triumphant.
The new age is upon us, the dawn of a greater, more powerful,
more populated community. The girl is with a purebloods
child.