Chapter 3 Malfoy Liaison May 10th, 1998 Morning Shell Cottage
on the Cornish coast overlooking a thrashing spring sea.
The last members of the Order of the Phoenix gathered in the
shell adorned living room of Billynflur's cottage.
Hermione sat on the floor, cross legged by Ron, who was nervously
rubbing her shoulder in a circular motion that did nothing
but set her teeth on edge. She focused instead on the book
in her hands. The Kingsley Shattlebolt, most
senior Order member had said was once raided from Nocturne
alleys. Borgen and Burke's Kingsley had
acquired it from the Department of Mysteries the day after the
battle. The day after they failed to
kill Lord Voldemort, The day after she lost her best friend
forever. She swallowed down her disgust
at the tome. The Blackest Arts, Ancient
magics of True Darkness, Author unknown.
A book with such a title, no matter how fanciful and absurd,
would be better in the hands of those trying to rid the World of
Darkness as opposed to nurturing it.
Godric. The lengths some people would go
to just not to die. Soul branding, life forging
Horcruxes. But of course, yes, she knew all
about Horcruxes. Someone shuffled in by her and
she felt the room suddenly fill up, Closing the accursed book
before standing. Jinny said something that edged
close to a joke, something about the future being ginger, and
George looked to his left with a faint smile, as though he was
searching for something, until he realized that it was just his
missing other half and looked down to the floor again.
Percy stood, sombre by his mother, Molly, who had gained a
son and lost a son all in one day, her usually plump and rosy
face hollow. Arthur Weasley, whom Hermione
could see out of the short stone window, had been encircling the
cottage, enchanting additional wards and spells in case the
Fidelius Charm somehow failed. He stepped over the short grave
of Dobby before pausing for a longer moment by a new, longer
mound of freshly dug sand. Hermione's eyes glazed over and
wondered how this week could have been had they succeeded
when Arthur finally joined them in the cramped living space,
making the group complete. The room was made-up of the
Weasleys, Kingsley, Professors Mcgonigal, Flitwick and Sprout,
Madame Pomfrey, never Longbottom and his Gran, who Hermione
thought was dressed like a carpet bag transfigured to look
like a human woman, and Luna Lovegood.
Luna looked around the room fondly, like she was greeting an
old friend. Hermione caught her eye, and
they smiled sadly at each other. The Order of the Phoenix's
numbers had taken a blow, but the battle had truly solidified
sides. Those who had survived and
escaped through Aberforth's passage and hadn't run to the
international Apparition points before Makusa assumed global
control and blocked them were all here.
In a way, Hermione was glad that many of her schoolmates had made
it out. She envied their ability to just
run. Kingsley coughed for attention.
Right, we all know why we are here.
The past week has been 1 of mourning, recuperation, and
reconnaissance. We have had our moment's silence
for the fallen 50 and now it is time for us to come together and
mark the way forward. He eyed each of them intently.
Hermione felt him command the room with such assertiveness,
she wondered if he'd taken a confidence boosting quotient
before arriving here today. He threw Friday's profit down on
the coffee table. Fleur startled.
Magic is might. New ministerial order.
The Ministry is now fully and truly under his control, said
Kingsley. He has a Death Eater leading
every department. Those too scared or too
opportunistic have chosen to stay and help him build his
vision of the magical community. Dolores Umbridge.
Kingsley paused, looking at Mcgonigal, whose lips were so
purse they were in danger of disappearing entirely.
Has been made interim Minister for Magic.
We do not believe she is acting under the Imperious curse.
Yeah, that old toe wouldn't need to be scoffed, Ron.
The ultimate mission for the new Magic as Might regime is to
bring Wizards out of hiding and to have them take their rightful
place as masters of Muggles. I confess, from what we hear of
his plans and the power he has been able to garner for the past
year, the mission will likely not be a difficult one.
We have an uphill struggle against us.
What about the Prime Minister? Hermione asked.
You were his bodyguard, I imagine his boat to France may
have arrived by now. An informant with the Death
Eaters provided us with an exit strategy for him.
Answered Kingsley. There were both curious and
suspicious glances shared amongst the Weasley clan.
This update was significant. Hermione felt the weight of it
like lead in her lungs. They had someone on the inside
like Snape had been all that time.
And how do we know that we can trust this person?
Quizzed Charlie Weasley, the burliest of the tribe, dragon
breath scars tattooing his muscular arms.
Besides the fact that he gave us the exact time, location, and
means of transport to get the Muggle Prime Minister out
safely, he and his mother switched sides at the end of the
battle. Minerva and I both witnessed
them aiding at the escape of many of the Hogwarts students
who stayed to fight. It finally dawned on Hermione
who they were alluding to when one barked up.
Oh, you can't be fucking serious.
The Malfoys. Hermione rolled her eyes in
agreement. The Malfoys are only interested
in their own self gain. They must have thought the
battle was going our way. She added.
Be that as it may, Professor Mcgonagall interjected.
They have provided us with a wealth of information on what he
is planning next, information that we have validated.
And her voice caught his mother successfully brought Harry's
body back to safety. A silence fell amongst the
group. A few eyes glanced out the
window at the newly laid grave. We shall have to move very
carefully going forward. Drago Malfoy is willing to help
us from within, But of course, the greatest concern is about
communication lines while, you know, who still considers his
family loyal? Hermione rested her bum against
the arm of the chair and crossed her arms.
She thought of the boy wizard sneering mudblood at her, the
sniggering teen taking joy in the imminent execution of
Buckbeek the hippogriff. The way he looked at her at the
Yule Ball. Like how could she have the
audacity to turn up with Victor Crumb?
Filthy little mudblood. A real shame, she thought.
Piercing grey eyes, shrewd mind, impeccable bone structure, all
wasted on such a horrid person. She didn't believe he'd switched
to their side one bit, but she would make it her personal
mission to prove it. Miss Granger.
Mcgonigal interrupted Hermione from her indignant thoughts.
Hmm, so you'll agree to act as Malfoy liaison?
Oh I am. Malfoy mentioned you
specifically added. Kingsley dubiously said you were
the only brain he trusted. See, no, I don't like this one
bit. Ron argued.
Hermione worried her lip like there was an arithmetic puzzle
before her that needed solving. Yes, I agree, of course,
whatever the Order needs. July 28th, 1998, afternoon,
Malfoy Manor. Hermione woke peacefully under
heavily weighted quilts. She turned to her side, eyes
still closed, trying to recall the scenes following that first
post battle Order meeting at Shell Cottage.
A blank. She wanted to delve deeper when
a man's voice startled her and she opened her eyes frantically,
making herself upright in bed and bringing her knees to her
chin. She was staring at a man
possibly 30 years her senior, a very tired face and bulbous
nose. His coat would have marked him
as a Saint Mungo's healer, except it had been dyed black.
The emblem of the wand crossed with bone glowed a deep
Slytherin green. So this would be a magic, as
might Healer. Miss Granger, glad to see you
are awake. The healer looked at his chart,
quick notes, quill scribbling as he examined her thoughtfully.
You see him in perfectly good order.
Appear to have just had a short fainting spell.
Perhaps you splinched a few blood cells on your apparition
here, he trickled to himself. The laugh turned sad rather
abruptly, as though he suddenly remembered that there wasn't
much to laugh about these days, and he righted himself, heading
toward the bedroom door. I shall inform Mr. Malfoy of
your perfect bill of health. Thank you, she tried to say, but
it came out as more of a choke. He opened the door and turned
slightly for a moment, as if he wanted to say more, to tell her
he was sorry, to tell her it was a terrible mistake, coming here
to tell her goodbye. But instead he just continued,
leaving the door slightly ajar on his exit.
Hermione counted to 10, and as the sound of his footsteps ebbed
away, she leapt out of bed. She crept at her neck for the
time Turner necklace, happy to still find it nestled between
her breasts, and yanked it off. The bronze rings surrounding the
sand timer were different from those on the device she'd been
approved to use in her third year.
They had a signature look about them that was hard to place.
She stowed the necklace away between the mattress and the
laced Valance. So I've travelled in time on a
non ministry time Turner. She began recounting the facts
while pacing the ostentatiously decorated bedroom.
The air smelled like sandalwood and galleons.
Wouldn't that mean that there's another Hermione here in this
timeline? The fact that the necklace bore
a bespoke design meant she shouldn't assume anything as to
its ability. She continued to pace.
A mahogany 4 poster bed stood on display, framed by walls adorned
with soft greened A mask wallpaper.
At the centre of the room hung a bronze Candelabra, casting an
oddly inviting warm glow over the space.
Additional mahogany furniture, including a velvet armchair, a
Victorian vanity cabinet and imposing armoire with a full
length mirror completed the room's decor.
Hermione could feel NASA Malfoy's touch on the room.
She stared at her reflection intently, following the grooves
of minor Crow's feet and toying with her hair, searching for any
graze. She hadn't aged much, if at all,
though it had to be said that she was a little more
substantial than she had been in her memory.
Cheeks fuller, hips an inch or two wider, She looked down at
her cleavage. She didn't hate it.
She wore a puff sleeve blouse that she'd never seen before,
tucked into a knee length pleated maroon skirt.
She swore she would have never chosen this outfit for herself.
Perhaps Fleur dressed her. She looked like very old money.
How many turned about the room, hands raking through her mane of
wild curls. My last memory is early May 10th
1998, whereby I agreed to become liaison for the Malfoys, who
supposedly had taken our side and turned spy for the Order.
And I have a mission, a directive.
She couldn't find the words now, but they felt marked on her,
like an innate belief, akin to surviving or loving a memory
that couldn't be traced. A doctrine of deep belief.
Very clever, she thought, not knowing whether she's
complimenting herself or someone else.
Thinking that she'd done quite enough thinking, especially with
very little thinking material she'd been given, she headed out
of the bedroom in pursuit of her once school nemesis.
It was time to get some answers and face the Malfoy music.
Draco wrapped his long fingers against the granite kitchen top,
staring into his Earl Grey as if it held all the answers to life.
He could almost hear Trelawny now penetrate the veiled
mysteries of the future. The Falcon, my dear, you have a
deadly enemy. He smirked at the memories of
third year. Simpler times.
Finally, a class he could beat perfect Grainger at and wipe
that prissy accomplished expression off her annoying face
until she stormed out and conceded the match before he
could even start to take score. Even so, that year she'd
attended more classes than he'd ever understood.
She had been everywhere he looked in every class, every
corridor, every turn about the grounds, always in a hurry,
always rushing on to the next adventure or whatever
Gryffindor's got up to when bored.
He had eventually worked out her advantage, though of course by
the time Fortier came around he'd grown so used to seeing her
around the castle that he'd even started to look for her, much to
his chagrin. But it wasn't long before he
couldn't even enjoy the society pages of the Daily Prophet
without her being thrust upon him.
He snarled inwardly at the memory.
Draco, darling, I hate seeing you like this.
Nasus aside as she poured herself tea into a Blac Chyna
cook. Mother, I'm enjoying a quiet
moment before Granger sets herself upon me again like a
rabid animal. Said Draco, not looking up.
Narcisson knew that when Drika was in these moods, there was
nothing a mother's love could do to help him.
I'll leave you to your thoughts then, shall I?
Try not to brood too much, dear, It's bad for the posture.
She said, giving him a light squeeze on the shoulder.
Alone once more, he fell back into the spinning web of his own
making, trying to avoid the traps.
Grainger is here. As planned.
She took a funny spell in the garden.
That is all. He would park the fact that he
saw a strangely familiar glint of brushed bronze nuzzled
between her breasts. He was not thinking about her
breasts. He placed that memory somewhere
else for safe keeping. What he was thinking about was
how long he could keep her from the other Death Eaters and
Voldemort himself. How long before the inevitable?
It wasn't long before his brooding was interrupted once
more. So.
Draco asked as Healer Seron entered into the kitchen.
Your houseguest is quite well, Mr. Malfoy, Perhaps a little
winded from her travel here. The Mungo's healer patted his
hands on the side of his thighs, appearing eager to leave.
And her mind? Asked Draco, feigning
indifference. Man scans all came back clear
and clear. Nothing amiss.
Good. And you did heed my instructions
to not touch any other part of her.
She is mine for the taking, Saran.
I can assure you, Sir HeLa Saran spluttered, cheeks glowing pink.
I would never. Ah.
He croaked. Then he stood straight and
looked Draco right in the eye. I take the Dark Commander's
requests very seriously. Wonderful.
Draco smiled wryly. He so enjoyed making the man
bluster. Then consider this next one
carefully. Hermione wondered the upper
floors of Malfoy Manor for longer than she'd cared to
admit. The corridors twisted in a
labyrinthine fashion, each one lined with opulent tapestries
and gilded portraits that seemed to watch her every move with
disdainful eyes. She could have sworn the
portrait of the Prim, which from the early 1700s had tutted at
her, but at least none of them were spitting at her or calling
her a mudblood. Small mercies.
Finally finding the stairs to the entrance hall, she began her
descent, but upon hearing Drake her Malfoy's slow drawl,
Hermione halted in her step. His voice echoed easily off the
marble tiles. Could she really be blamed for
overhearing? The Dark Lord shall not know of
Miss Granger's presence here. She will be presented to him
once I have scoured her mind for information he might find
useful. If he discovers she has arrived
prior to me executing this task fully, you'll be dead before you
can even say Episky.