Chapter 8 Hope Watch July 31st, 1998 Evening, Malfoy Manor
Hermione sat with her knees tucked in on the oversized
armchair in her bedroom, twisting the golden dial of the
radio and muttering the password.
GOLDEN from 6:50 PM every 10 seconds.
She waved her dragon heartstring wand over the box, just in case
the clocks were slightly off. She couldn't afford to miss
this. It had been days since she'd
last seen Malfoy. The morning after their dinner
blow up, he had swept into her suite like he owned the place,
which of course he did, while Hermione scrambled at the bed
sheets to protect her modesty. In the past, she would have
always worn pyjamas, but something about the silk sheets
against her naked skin felt so comforting.
See, this was the problem. She could not allow herself to
get so comfortable, but the luxury of every square inch of
Malfoy Manor screamed let me take care of you.
She needed to quell the desire to submit to it.
Can you not please? She had cursed at him.
I'll be out all day. Malfoy said.
Joel locked as his gaze landed first to her bare shoulder, then
quickly to the window, eyes glazed over, occluding.
I don't know when I will return. Do not make yourself a nuisance
to my staff or my mother. She has matters of her own to be
meddling with. But Malfoy, we need to.
She had begun, but he had already left the doorway,
leaving her again with her thoughts, the main one being
Potter Watch and finding a way to listen to it.
That coming evening, Hermione had scoured the Manor for an
enchanted radio. Malfoy's private study was
locked. Aloha Mora didn't work, and she
didn't think she'd become so desperate as to bombard her.
The door open. On the third day of her
detainment, she dared to creep into Narcissa's wing.
It had an emptiness to it, her coldness she couldn't quite
place, and despite her efforts she came up short.
By Friday morning she was becoming frantic and tried to
source out Narsissa, who had, on her son's orders, been keeping
herself scarce. She could practically hear him
now. Shouldn't let that ugly Swati
know it all. Granger in on any of our plans.
Best not to give her more rope to hang herself with.
She knew Malfoy's game. It was all about power and
dominance. Make her feel welcome, shower
her in the finest clothes, feed her the best food she'd ever
eaten in her life. Not that she'd ever tell Missus
Weasley that. And besides, the nausea from
time travelling hadn't allowed her to keep much of it down.
All to pull the rug out from underneath her at the opportune
moment. He looked at her like he could
devour her whole. He really was playing with his
meal. Well, she wouldn't let him.
She'd keep her eyes wide open, find a way to get into the
locked parts of the Manor while Draco wasn't about, and when he
finally decides to grace her with his presence again, she'd
show him just how swatty she could be when there were
questions to be answered. It was 6:00 PM when she almost
lost all hope, Having opened every cupboard she had access to
for the third time, she slammed the under sink cabinet closed
and shoved her frazzled hair out of her face with a hoof and was
suddenly surprised to find herself nose to nose with the
startled face of Poppy holding an ornate golden dialled radio.
Hermione could have kissed the elf right there, missus.
Melph, why he's thinking you was wanting this?
Said the elf, before inching slightly closer to Hermione
secretly. For tonight's broadcast, Missus
Malfoy is saying you can listen. In Mr. Malfoy's study, Miss
Granger will not be disturbed. Oh sweet Merlin, Hermione beamed
internally. If this was not Sissa meddling,
she could meddle all she wanted. Thank you Poppy, that would be
most welcome. She said while Poppy bit her
dusty pink lip. Would you be able to bring
dinner there for me instead? To night?
Yes, of course. Miss Poppy had acquiesced with a
courtesy at the stroke of 7:00 PM, the password leaving her
lips like a whispered prayer. The radio buzzed to life in
Malfoy's study. Hermione held her breath, fists
clenched, stomach doing nauseating somersaults.
Hello, hello, testing, testing. Is this thing on?
Hermione smiled at the northern gravelly tones of Neville
Longbottom. Yes, Resolute, I believe it is.
Hello everyone, I am Radish, said the unmistakably airy voice
of Luna Lovegood. And today you are listening to
Hopewatch. A rogue tear dropped on her
cleavage and she pulled her sleeves down to dab at her
welling eyes. Cruxshanks jumped in her lap and
snuggled in, purring loudly. We know it's been a while since
we were last on air. Neville continued, clearing his
voice as Hermione stroked rhythmically at Cruickshank's
course fur. But the time for mourning has
passed, and now we must look to the future once more.
The Order of the Phoenix is still going strong, and we have
fellow Wizards and witches all around the world working to gain
international support against Voldemort.
Yep, we said it voll der Mort. Now that the big DL is out of
the shadows and his antics are spread across the Daily Prophet
every day, the taboo is overloaded.
You can say his name in peace. Not they'll be making songs out
of it quite yet. Chuckled Charlie Weasley's lower
range, grimly. Ranger makes a great point, said
Neville. Things have been bleak, but we
have trusted people in powerful positions ready to fight for the
cause and order operatives in safe houses countrywide.
Plus, the Order and Hope Watch will be bouncing from house to
house, sharing information directly with all of you.
Chimed in. Luna.
All right. Neville paused.
Firstly, we've got some sad news to share.
Professor Horace Lughorn, Portion's master at Hogwarts,
has been murdered. Professor Slughorn has been
missing since the Battle of Hogwarts and according to our
sources, was being tortured by Voldemort and his Death Eaters
for information on experimental dark practices.
Secondly, we want to keep you up to date on our Golden Girl.
No pressure H, she's alive and well and helping us secure a
ceasefire in order to not lose any more lives while we gain our
strength and work on our next moves.
Do not believe anything you read in the Prophet.
Yes, some articles have a semblance of fact to them, but
it's getting too difficult to pass the flavour of the bean, as
they say. Yeah, it might be a nice apple
pie or a troll bogey. Shouted George Weasley from
somewhere in the distance. Armani could imagine them now,
SAT around a kitchen table, maybe Andromeda's cups of tea in
hand, standing in solidarity together.
Goderick. She missed them.
The Quibbler will continue to be sent by direct owl, and
donations to the Order can be made through that same owl
subscription service. Said Luna, and Hermione
marvelled at how business like Luna had sounded, smiling at the
thought. If you know of anyone who'd like
to fund the cause or receive a Quibbler, instructions on
identification and safe practices can be found in the
opening pages of previous editions.
Continues Luna. Thank you so much, Radish.
Neville began to conclude. Right, you've been listening to
Hopewatch. We're not sure exactly when the
next broadcast will be, but we'll put it on repeat in case
you miss it. The next password will be
Rapier. Bye for now.
Oh, I think you did rather a good job, praised Luna as her
mellifluous voice faded out into the crackle and static of the
box. You've set your home a little
close to the lion's den, Professor.
Remarked Draco as he walked stiffly beside Minerva
Mcconigal's modest fireplace, perusing an old photo in a
wooden frame of a younger looking professor smiling
brightly at an older gentleman. Hmm.
Well, Mr. Malfoy, as you and your comrades are well aware,
the cottage in Augsmead was completely destroyed.
Mcgonigal counted. She stood straight backed, lips
pursed, in robes a rich woodland green and a high pointed hat
that sat primly atop wispy grey curls.
Draco couldn't not admire her countenance.
His old professor had found refuge in A2 Story Cottage in
the woods. From the outside, it looked
nothing more than an overgrown woodcutter's shack, surrounded
by the dense copse of Birch and oak trees, with the sound of
evening birds hooting close to a nearby waterfall.
Draco thought, if he wasn't such a snob, that a little
nondescript place like this might be nice to hideaway from
the world. As if Mcgonigal could read his
expression, she added. If you must know, this was mine
and Alfenstein's summer cabin, our peaceful home away from home
among the wild deer and forest Glens.
I determined it an apartment place for an Order safe house.
Her eyes pierced into him, unyielding, daring him to tell
her otherwise, that she wasn't safe here, that he'd come to
tell her Hermione was dead and she was next.
I did offer the Unbreakable Vow, Professor, and as I told you,
Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Shaka bolt at the time.
She dismissed with a swat of her wand hand.
I find such magic to be untamable at best and downright
deadly at worst. There is far too much
subjectivity involved in creating unbreaking promises.
I will not be losing another Hogwart student to darkness,
especially one who walks such a dangerous line.
Not so long as I have anything to say about it.
Professor Mcgonigal had always been one of those teachers.
He couldn't quite seem to bend to his will.
She couldn't be frightened, upset, all embarrassed, for it
would simply bounce off her like she was encased in a permanent
Protego charm, and she certainly could not be bought.
It either made her a formidable foe or an incredible ally.
It's amusing you still think there is time to save me from
darkness. Drako responded, taking a seat
on a sturdy looking rocking chair by the window.
I know there is. She said firmly, with all the
conviction of a St. He couldn't stand it.
He held his chin, covering a finger over his mouth and
grazing a three day stubble with his thumb.
I'm not here to test your wards, which are excellent by the way.
I wouldn't have gotten within a one mile radius without the
password. Then what is it I can do for
you, Mr. Malfoy? I was under the impression that
communication lines were closed for yours and Miss Granger's
safety. That is precisely who I am here
for, Professor Miss Grainger. The radio box buzzed its static
goodbye from her friends, and Hermione jumped to life,
Cruickshanks yarling at her irately as he flew off her knee.
She didn't know how long she would have before someone came
to kick her out, but she started by opening all the drawers on
Malfoy's desk. Hermione had taken a brief
inventory of interesting things this room could divulge to her
on her first day here before dinner.
Frequently read books, stacks of drafting parchment on the Ebony
wood desk that was also wide and deep enough to house multiple
hidden drawers, and a suspiciously placed Persian rug
against the back wall that had a slight elevation at its centre.
Her heart began to race while she tore about the room.
Books on teleportation, ancient magic wards, and magically
protected weapons. Nothing that seemed to jog her
memory on what they could have been working on together.
The drafting parchment on Malfoy's desk was all crisp and
new, each embossed at the top with the Malfoy Crest.
An opened scroll sat to the side.
She rolled it out, noting the not family wax seal which had
been peeled off upon its initial opening.
She paused for a moment on the iconography of the emblem, her
nose scrunching at an errant thought she couldn't grasp.
But while she stood there, hair ferocious from her wild,
searching blouse, undone a button lower than she was
generally comfortable with to accommodate her new found
cleavage, a shadow leered from the doorway.
It strangled the chandelier light from her eyes and cast her
into an oppressive darkness and justice.
What do you think you're doing, Grainger Malfoy?