Chapter 2 Mission Draco must die July 28th, 1998 Midday Malfoy
Manor. Master Malfoy, Poppy.
Draco's fourth favorite house elf squeaked in an even higher
pitch than usual as the Lord of Malfoy Manor brooded over the
Prophet's propaganda for the day. 10,000 Galleon reward for
any information on Phoenix rebels in hiding.
The successful quashing of the last rebel raid led to the
apprehension and termination of undesirable #2 Ronald Weasley,
well known Co conspirator of the illustrious Harry Potter,
deceased, who readers will remember murdered Albus
Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft
and Wizardry in June 1997. Hermione Granger, so-called
brains of the Golden Trio, is still at large.
Harry Potter, The Boy Who lied Harry Potter, known to many of
our readers as the Boy Who Lived, was responsible for
countless deaths at the Battle of Hogwarts in May, including
his own. But who was he really?
A disturbed young boy who told outrageous stories and incited a
rebellion? Or was something more sinister
lurking inside his cursed mind? Today I, Rita Skeeter, sat down
with Interim Minister for Magic Dolores Umbridge for her take on
the troubled boy who broke all our hearts.
All's well. Malfoy junior takes new Dark
Commander role Draco Malfoy, 18, has been presented with an
elevated role under the new Magicis Might regime after the
devastating murder of his father Lucius Malfoy last month by the
last dregs of the Phoenix Rebellion who are still holding
deceased undesirable #1 Harry Potter in martyrdom, Malfoy
senior would be proud of his progeny for overcoming adversity
and for standing for what is right for the magical community.
Your guest has arrived. Thank you, said Draco, standing
from the Velvet Shea's lounge in his private study and heading
towards the entrance hall. The elf followed behind him.
He could feel her hands ringing in anxiety, additional thoughts
still whirring in the air. What is it, Poppy?
Ah, Sir, it is only that miss. Miss Grainger seems a little out
of sorts, Sir. The elf wobbled.
Explain. Said Draco, his steps speeding
up, freshly polished shoes snapping against the hallway
tiles, his disturbance echoing across the marble Poppy.
Is only noticing, Sir, that Miss isn't bringing her suitcases as
expected piped. The elf struggling now to keep
up with her Master and. She isn't letting Poppy bring
Miss into the Manor. Miss isn't even knowing Poppy's
name, Sir. Draco stilled.
He knew for a fact that Miss Hermione Granger had taken it
upon herself to know every unfortunate creature she came
across on a first name basis, especially those residing in
Malfoy Manor. He swung the heavy doors open,
Poppy murmuring something gloridly by his side, and peered
down the front garden path, past the Rose bushes in summer bloom,
the Peacocks preening, the fountain splashing, and towards
the elaborate wrought iron gates where Grainger stood.
His breath hitched at her deep ground, curls untamable as
always. She looked a little fuller than
she had been the last time he saw her, only last week,
slightly rounder hips, breasts bursting as of her blouse, like
they had no business being bound in something so tight.
That didn't make a great deal of sense, but before he had time to
pursue the observation further, he was Apparating by her side.
Some moments earlier, Hermione had whirled into the past and
was about to throw up her breakfast when she steadied
herself, blinking into the midday sun.
Wiltshire. Malfoy Manor, summer.
Right, 1998. OK, she thought, what?
What do I know? She racked her brain viewing all
the missing compartments of information where she usually
would store her daily, monthly and yearly to do lists.
Miss Grainger, what is you doing by the gates?
A tidy hell self squeaked, Hermione quite taken off guard
by the loud crack of apparition that had preceded.
The elf clutched at her chest, fingers meeting metal.
Looking down, the familiar bronze glint of a time Turner
caught her eye. The centre sand capsule cracked.
The elf teetered on two spindly small legs.
They're doily fashioned as ADI Way maid's outfit against a
black children's T-shirt quivering against a non existent
breeze. What if someone is seeing you?
My apologies. Umm.
Hermione searched her mind for the elf's name coming up short.
Odd, she felt that she should know the information.
She took to the broken necklace behind her blouse.
The elf started to look even more.
Alarmed Poppy, Miss. She said with an unsure curtsy,
worrying her lip. You is coming with Poppy.
Hermione looked around hurriedly.
The gardens looked just as pristine, vibrant and dripping
with pure blood sentiment as the first time she was
unceremoniously thrust upon them when she, Harry, and Ron had
been captured here, which in this timeline it would have only
been last month or so. She held her panting breath and
dived deeper into her mind. What am I doing here?
She pushed past the metal cabinets of childhood memories,
kicked away dusty cardboard boxes of time spent studying
under the sun as the trio on Hogwarts grounds.
Come on faster, Hermione chastised herself as she threw a
music box across her mindspace that was housing a forgotten new
ball waltz and a handsome, long dead Bulgarian long dead.
Her breath stuttered. The music box chimed an off key
lament as it rolled into a shadowy area.
She delved deeper, deeper than she'd ever needed to, even when
occluding. When had she learned?
Including parking? That question for another
inquest. Hermione spun around the space
with her inner eye rifling like a nifla searching for remnants
of gold in an abandoned mine, blocking out all of her external
senses. She felt her bushy brown hair
still, the sound of the garden fountain trickling away, the
sweet smell of roses fading into obscurity, and a gleam of light
bounced off a trove before her, a small rectangular metal box
like a miniature mind fault. Aha, she thought, feeling the
same self-conscious satisfaction as getting a question right from
her favorite teacher. Got you.
Her mind's hands clasped on the rim of the vault, heavy,
unyielding. Gotrick, help me, Hermione
fumed, cursing at no one but her own self-made wards.
In another moment, she'd have given herself a little
congratulatory pat on the back for some excellent top clemency
work. She tucked the box away in the
blackened corner of her mind, watched it disappear, and
quickly began uprighting boxes and tidying up the inner space
before returning to the moment at hand.
When she opened her eyes, the elf was gone.
She hadn't heard a crack, but perhaps so deep inside her mind
even the loudest senses couldn't reach.
She pondered again on the levels of study needed for such a mind
vault, baffled as to where she had learned such deep precluding
practices. No one in the order not to even
Shackle Bolt would have been able to teach her this.
She peered instead towards Malfoy Manor.
In the distance, past the austere stone fountain, the
intimidating Peacocks, and the sharp gravel path.
There, atop the stone steps, stood a solid and upright
figure. He was glaring at her with the
force that she felt deep in her stomach, that low, hollow place
where only butterflies and bile resides.
Draco Malfoy. The vault opened, flooding her
mind with a bright white light overtaking her vision of the ice
blonde hair, cutting cheekbones, solid shoulders that had made
even her 14 year old heart leap out of the rim of the vault.
Black ribboned lettering elegantly arranged itself,
dancing in the mind. Space mission.
Draco Malfoy must die by Halloween.
Shadow him, never leave his side.
She felt herself falling a crack by her side.
Eh, what the fuck, Grainger? Her head cradled by a sturdy,
rigid hand, a thumb grazing her cheek.
Then nothing.