Chapter 4 Dark Commander. So Draco thought he would be
delving into her mind for information.
Good luck finding anything, Malfoy, she thought spitefully,
quickly reviewing the orderly emptiness of her inner mind.
That will be all, Heela Saran. I'll have Kip show you out.
A short hell self with a heart-shaped face and puffy
cheeks rushed from her comfort underneath the stairs and
crossed the entrance wall with speed towards the sound of her
Master stumbling clumsily over her oversized feet.
Hermione had never seen a house elf youth before, and she
seethed at having to add new child labour protections to her
S. Pew.
Manifesto, at least once the world was back in order, if it
ever would be. Kip is shoving you out, Sir.
Hermione heard the little elf pant out, parroting her Master.
You is following this way. Hermione waited on the stairs,
out of sight, until HeLa Saran had been escorted out of the
hall and gathered herself together one more time.
I arrived here by Time Turner, summer 1998, she thought, and
knew that whatever plan she'd had before losing her memory,
she had succeeded, at least so far.
Her heart ached trying to recall what she'd left behind, and in a
way akin to the First Doctrine, Hermione knew she'd come from
somewhere much worse than this, her future, that of the entire
wizarding world. The empty hole it left behind
was a dark and nauseating pit in her stomach.
Why the memory loss? Why would she do this to
herself? If indeed she had done this to
herself, surely being armed with all the information would lead
to a higher chance of success. She was clearly missing
something. She was missing too much.
Just focus on the next step, the next right thing.
Taking a deep breath and stepping down the stairs, she
went to find Malfoy, her mind armed with questions and her
body prepared for war. Hermione stepped into a dark
country kitchen cabinets lacquered in Forest Green
countertops, a black rough granite, a breakfast bar taking
centre stage, and a grand cast iron stove that Hermione was
certain had never been touched by human hands.
Draco glowered at her from an armchair by the patio doors that
appeared to lead to a luscious courtyard.
He was lean with the grace of a deer and the precision of a
scorpion poised to attack. His ice blonde hair swept back,
a single errant flick of blonde on his forehead.
He was a crisp winter morning at Hogwarts, the sharp icicles
shaken from the wamping Willow daggered into the ground, the
unexpected presence by a roaring fireplace.
He was a Death Eater, and she hated him for it.
Pleasant nap? He drawled.
Not really, she snapped back. Hadn't expected to wake up to a
Death doctor scanning my brain. Draco stretched languidly, like
an albino cat lazing in the sun, and pressed her finger to his
lips, contemplative. She watched to those lips for a
second too long before jolting her view to his eyes.
Windows to a storm. Well, what do you expect?
He quipped. She felt his eyes boring into
the blood stained scars on her arm where the word Mudblood had
been cursed and carved into her flesh.
Her skin prickled in response and she rubbed the raised red
letters reflexively. You show up here direct from the
Phoenix rebels with no clothes, chest or mobile library insight.
And dressed like a Slytherin aristocrat, no less.
Wanted to make a good impression for your new master?
He sneered. The healer was merely here to
check the quality of my goods. Hermione bought herself a moment
to think, traversing to Malfoy's end of the kitchen and leaning
against the breakfast bar, feigning nonchalance.
She needed to get a bearing on their relationship.
Was this her first time here? If so, then why did Malfoy
expect her to arrive with a travel case and books and the
Phoenix rebels, she thought. Odd terminology for the Order.
She needed to get her hands on a profit.
And what, precisely did your Healer discover?
She asked, holding her voice steady.
That your mind is as sharp and as exacting as ever.
Hermione breathed a hopefully imperceptible sigh of relief,
but Marfo's eyes turned to steel.
That said, if I detect you've been tampered with by whomever
had the gall, believe me, they won't live long enough to
benefit from their interference. Good to know that you have it
all under control. She grimaced.
I'm serious, Granger, don't play with me.
The D hit hard, a dagger to the throat.
We've worked too hard to broker this deal.
The Rebels last bargaining chip the Golden girl for a temporary
ceasefire. I won't be able to keep you to
myself for long before the new regime hears you made it here.
And if, as you say, you can't have anyone else's blood on your
hands, then the Dark Lord will need to be informed soon of your
arrival for the ceasefire to be enacted.
She glared at him, trying to see through any mask, but his eyes
fogged over and gave nothing away.
A cease-fire. She scoffed.
Like Voldemort would ever agree to such a thing, and she would
never give herself up to a Death Eater.
She knew she could do far more good for the Order, surrounded
by her peers and magical tomes readily available somewhere she
could search and theorize and devise their next move to
finally rid the world of Voldemort.
But Malfoy had been choosing his words very carefully, and
Hermione felt caught on the wrong foot.
Was he with her or with Voldemort?
Is that my wand? She blurted out involuntarily,
looking down at his hands for the first time.
Draco had been rolling her wand under his fingers against the
arm of the chair rhythmically. He flicked it up high, rose from
the chair and caught it mid air with a boyish grin like he'd
just caught the Golden Snitch. It was hard to reconcile the
dichotomy of this polished young man standing before her with a
smile that could thaw 1000 hearts and Draco the Death
Eater. Hermione recalled seeing that
grin so many times in the Great Hall while he was surrounded by
his Pure Blood fan club and had wondered what someone had to do
to earn a smile like that from Draco Malfoy.
Apparently, all it took was to yell at him.
Draco twirled her wand in the air, watching her intently.
Something was definitely off. He could feel the nervous energy
radiating from her. Such a difference from their
last interaction, when she'd vehemently convinced him,
shaking and full of grief and rage, that something needed to
be done, that they needed to change course.
Even so, it was delectable, getting a rise out of her.
She stood rigid, cheeks angry, nostrils flared, fists at her
side like she was getting ready for battle.
One only needed to check what you've been up to of late.
With a little help of Priori Incantato, I found it rather
illuminating. Hermione stilled.
But Draco would give nothing away for free.
Vinewood, he mused, and held out her wand.
Perfectly suited for your abrasive personality.
She snapped it up immediately. I am not abrasive, she said
abrasively, and tucked the wand within her skirt's waistband,
snug against her ribs. The curse on her arm stole his
attention, blaring at him in a loud, obvious sort of way.
Like a muggle siren. She'd usually be wearing a long
sleeve muggle shirt or 1 of Weasley's hideous jumpers to
cover it. He was convinced Weasley made
her wear it whenever she met with Draco, marking the
territory that he wasn't even interested in owning in the 1st
place. Yet now here she was, with her
cursed mark on show like his own, as though she'd forgotten
it was even there. What had changed?
His mother entered the kitchen, head down on some architectural
papers. Draco, we really do need to talk
about. Oh.
She absorbed the scene. Draco and Hermione had gotten so
close that he could taste the salt in her brow.
How had that happened? He took a long stride toward the
patio doors, straightened his robes, and grazed his tongue
lightly over his lips. Hermione, welcome back.
His mother said warmly, setting the design papers for the new
wing on the counter. Oh, don't you look lovely.
You know, I think I've got that exact combination in my
collection. She said, gesturing sweetly to
the new ensemble Hermione had donned.
I didn't realise my wardrobe was so on trend with the muggles.
Trico winced as his arm flared to life, suddenly turning away
from his mother and Hermione. Keep an eye on her.
He said through gritted teeth and twisted in the air, wrenched
from the scene, leaving his charges behind and hurling
towards his master. Malfoy landed softly in the
Transfiguration courtyard, cloak billowing along with plumes of
black smoke, death mask already in place.
The square was still littered with broken statues,
deconstructed suits of armour and general war-torn rubble.
The castle's wards hadn't reinstated themselves since
Potter had fallen, the grand castle's own way of defying the
Dark Lord who'd taken Hogwarts as both his home of operation
and court. He wondered what would happen
come September 1st, when the hopeful students would embark on
the Hogwarts expressed from King's Cross station.
Would platform 9 3/4 be empty? Would the trolley lady travel
the length of the carriages with a full stock of chocolate frogs?
Bertie bought every flavour, beans and pumpkin pasties.
Would the train arrive in Hogsmeade and be greased by
nothing but smoke and ghosts? The questions left him numb.
Most of the families, serious about keeping their children
alive beyond the summer had already signed their children up
at Beaubaton, Ilva Morni and even Wagga Do.
Had it been Draco's own children, not that he would ever
get the chance now with the life his father had ministrated for
him, he would have done the same.
There was no doubt in his mind that he would have sent them as
far away as possible, even if that meant never seeing them
again. But would the offspring of his
fellow Death Eaters still make the journey?
Study under the Carrows again? Would Voldemort make himself
headmaster? Jigger decided time would tell
and headed toward the Great Hall.
Malfoy bellowed. Mulsibur arms spread wide in an
ostentatious display as Malfoy approached the hall doors.
The soles of his impeccably polished shoes grated against
the sand spilled from the shattered house points
hourglasses, the green, red, yellow and blue all mixing
together to create a muddy brown colour of dried blood.
Dark Commander. Bowed Avery so low his sharp
nose touched the floor. We are delighted that the Dark
Lord's new favorite has deigned to join us.
Eh? We can even walk into the Great
Hall with you. Maybe some of that light that
shines out of your ass can beam on us a little.
What do you say? Lord Ling, Mulsibur Avery, He
greeted, his voice devoid of emotion.
As delightful as I find your company, I'd rather not keep the
Dark Lord waiting with your antics.
Let's attend. Look, kid.
Said Avery in a low growl, mercurially flipping the energy
of his greeting and pressing a hand to Malfoy's chest, stopping
him from pushing open the grand doors.
He was no stranger to this sudden shift from hot to cold
from Avery. I don't give a fuck if the Dark
Lord thinks you've proved yourself enough to lead the
regime's forces. I was there in Nocturne Alley
and I could have sworn it was my curse that took out the Weasley
boy. Careful Avery, you wouldn't want
our Lord overhearing you question his judgements, Replied
Draco darkly, matching Avery's tone.
One could easily say that I saw that same curse hit my father
instead. Avery removed his hand from
Draco's chest. I wonder what the Dark Lord
would say to that implication that you took out one of his
most loyal defenders, ha? Mulsibur roared again.
Did this man not have any vocal range?
You've certainly inherited Lucius's flair for spirited
camaraderie. Maybe you'll surprise as yet.
Draco went to push forward when Avery grumbled under his breath.
When I get that Granger whore. Granger will be mine, Avery, as
you are well aware. Tricca's voice was a razor blade
slicing through the air. This was dangerous ground, and
his voice was betraying a true territorial nature.
A dragon hoarding his gold. Why did Avery think he had a
chance at making her his? Had he already gotten to her?
Was that why she'd been acting strangely?
A deep concern setting his bones, his body tensing up?
He would need to be on his guard with Grainger.