Chapter 5 The Kingdom Where Nobody dies.
The three cloaked men entered the Great Hall.
Gone were the four house tables cast aside to the outer walls.
The banners on display, though torn and scorched, were slither
in green. The air, usually rich in the
delights of the Hogwarts house elves, now reeked of iron and
bone dust, and the ceiling above represented a stormy night, its
lightning flashing and striking the metallic masks of the Death
Eaters assembled. It was an impressive turn out,
and the congregation only grew at each of the summons.
The attendees made a natural path between them where Draco
strode to the top table, now broken in two parts.
He avoided looking at the corpses floating in stasis above
the once teachers table. He knew who he would see there.
His third year Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, the
werewolf Lupin and his wife Tonks, Draco's disowned cousin,
the Gryffindor brown girl Trelawney and the latest edition
Weasley. Hanging limply beside his
brother, head lolling, eyes clouded over their cadavers
dangled in mid air, reminiscent of how his Muggle Studies
teacher had hovered over his own dining room table before being
fed to Nagini, Voldemort's last known hawk.
Crooks. According to Granger, Malfoy
stole his mind away from his ward and walked to the centre of
the macabre display, where Voldemort sat like a king on a
grotesque throne of sinew and bones.
He gave a sharp bow, to which Voldemort responded with a flick
of his death stick, directing Draco to stand by his right
hand. He heard someone scoff from the
crowd through the bleak tableau. A cacophony of chaotic colour
and noise heralded the arrival of Peeves.
Trico was glad his expression was hidden behind a mask, a
glimmer of a smirk. This common event has come to be
his personal highlight of audiences with the Dark Lord.
The Poltergeist's ghostly form, always a riot of shifting hues,
flew through the air through a smashed stained glass window.
Behind them both, his spectral body swooped down through
Voldemort's throne and burst from his chest with an
unsettling brilliance, a swirling maelstrom of electric
Blues, sickly greens and garish purples that seemed to pulse
with a life of their own. Peeves floated erratically above
the room. His colours are mocking contrast
to the solemnity below. While the Death Eaters shot
jinxes and secession spells at the blur of colour, his manic
laughter echoed through the hall, a discordant Symphony that
pierced the heavy silence. Mouldy Vouldy.
Sat on his throne, Mouldy Vouldy died all alone.
All the Lord's Eaters and all the Lord's men couldn't suck
Foldy off together. Peeves splattered like a popped
balloon filled with paint as Draco heard Theodore, not his
not so subtle and only friend, give an uninhibited whoop the
winning blow. All the while, Voldemort had not
reacted. His movements, Draco recognized,
were slow and deliberate, which Draco took to mean he was always
conserving his energy. A snake assessing its prey, then
striking with sudden, deadly accuracy.
Voldemort rose, and the room froze, enraptured.
He spoke in his high, breathy voice of the might of the
regime, the winds, the strength of our numbers, the moves they
were making in the Muggle world. He spoke of the success of the
Dark Commander in quelling the rebels.
Draco acknowledged Voldemort's bid with a short nod.
The golden Girl. Shall.
Soon be ours, Voldemort shrieked, and the room cheered,
several members clapping in celebration.
This will mark. A pause in our assault on the
rebels. We will allow them to bow out.
Gracefully and soon. They will come to accept the new
regime as we steadily assert our rightful control over the
magical. Community, He shot a piercing,
slit eyed look at Draco, a sickly smile on his thin pale
lips. I look.
Forward to welcoming her to our. Next assembly, Draco buried his
emotions within layered Russian dolls and placed them high on a
dark shelf. He returned to the scene with a
blank mind. Why?
Voldemort rattled on. Hermione was safe for now.
The Dark Lord did not expect her to hand herself over to Draco
for at least a few weeks, but worry started to creep in that
even this wouldn't be enough time for Draco to work out what
was off about her. Draco scoured the Great Hall,
attempting to gauge sentiment of the crowd, but Legilimacy, while
Occluding, was nigh on impossible.
Eventually, after an update from the Snatcher crews and
Mulsibur's border force, their master dismissed the rabble.
He watched the masses vacating the hall, some in plumes of
black smoke and others fresh to the regime, through the double
doors. He stepped down from the dais.
My Lord. He bowed, untwisted in the air.
The countdown had begun. It surprised Hermione how
quickly she and Narcissa fell into comfortable small talk.
Mother Malfoy had greeted her like an old friend and it
solidified Hermione's assumption that she must have been here
multiple times from May 10th to now.
Enough time or pleasant conversation to have layered
over their first interaction. All she could look from her mind
was Narcissa's horrified expression.
While Hermione has screamed her soul roar writhing in agony
beneath a grand chandelier. Bellatrix's laugh still scraped
the inner walls of her memory like nails on a chalkboard, claw
marks permanently etched on her skin.
She glanced at the architectural drawings on the counter while
Norsissa offered her tea. Hermione had so many questions,
but she needed to keep conversations surface level
while gaining her footing. Narcissa smiled softly at
Hermione, moving to the kettle. Missus Malfoy.
Narcissa. She corrected.
Narcissa, sorry, are these from today?
She asked, gesturing to the drawings.
Yes, they arrived by owl this morning.
We'll soon have a new wing replacing the drawing room and
some of the outer grounds. She handed Hermione her tea
carefully, like offering a parched baby bird some water,
hoping it wouldn't fly away scared.
It's a brave thing you're doing, Hermione.
I know you and Draco have had your differences in the past,
which I'd say were largely the fault of his parental
influences. Draco is his own person,
Hermione retorted snappily without thinking.
Where had that come from? Indeed he is.
What I mean to say is that I'm sorry it has come to this, and
even more sorry that my family and our choices are the ones who
have pushed you into this. There it was again, that niggle
that she was missing some vital context for the conversation.
Who had she enmeshed herself with?
Was it Draco, the Death Eater, Her captor?
Her Master, or was it Draco the spy, her liaison, her man on the
inside? As if Narsissa could sense
Hermione's mind rummaging for information, she offered.
Trico said you took a bit of a turn on your journey here.
Oh no, that was nothing. Nothing to the portrait's talk,
dear. Narsissa gave her a knowing
look. It took you 15 minutes to find
your way from the guest suite to the entrance hall.
Hermione blanched. She would have to perpetuate the
ruse that she lost some brain cells splinting.
Would you like Poppy to reacquaint you with the Manor?
A new tool, perhaps? I the drawing room excluded.
Of course, renovations have already begun.
That would. That would be lovely.
And perhaps a little later though.
Narsisa gave a small nod in agreement and Hermione continued
carefully. Actually, I'd quite like to do
some reading if possible. I'm behind on the prophets
latest issues. You don't perhaps keep records
of them? Hermione tried not to give too
much of her eagerness away. Certainly we do.
Narsisa responded warmly. Hermione was shown to the study
when Narsisa summoned the young elf.
Kip, would you like to assist Miss Grainger this afternoon?
She will be needing a librarian. Hermione was taken back by the
gentle way Narsissa addressed the elf.
It was a far cry from how she'd seen how selves treated in the
past, even by the Malfoys themselves.
And if she was to believe Dobby's tales of mistreatment at
Malfoy Manor, which of course she was highly inclined to, then
either times had changed or Missus Malfoy was putting on an
exquisite performance. Once Massasa left her and Kip
alone, she felt like she could finally breathe again.
Her back, arms, and even her face ached from controlling
every minute expression, attempting to naturally fit into
the new and foreign scenario. Hermione Granger, Muggleborn
mudblood, sipping tea in the Malfoy's kitchen and exchanging
pleasantries with the Lady of the Manor.
The strain of maintaining her composure was exhausting, but
she couldn't afford to slip. The study itself was a picture
of decadence. Dark mahogany shelves lined the
walls, filled with leather bound books that smelled of aged
parchment and old magic. A massive oak desk in the
centre, its surface polished to a gleaming finish and adorned
with quills, ink pots, and brass candelabrum.
Rich burgundy drapes framed tall windows that allowed beams of
sunlight to filter in rays caressing the real wood floor.
Kip was bright, cheery, and surprisingly methodical in her
librarian duties. The little elf moved with swift
efficiency despite the odd tumble here and there.
Before Hermione knew it, she had a stack of daily profits, witch
weeklies, and even Quibblers as high as her head to rifle
through. The sight of towering stack
filled her with a mix of anticipation and dread, pleased
to see that Luna had still managed to publish The Quibbler,
hopefully from a more secure location this time, she noted 3
monthly issues since the battle. Intrigued by who in the Malfoy
house might have been its reader, she set them aside as
the front page of the Prophet caught her eye.
The daily Prophet June 30th, 1998 Heroic Malfoy defends
wizarding world community in Nocturnali skirmish In a
dramatic turn of events late last night, Nocturnali became
the stage for a fierce confrontation between the
steadfast magic is might regime and the notorious phoenix
rebels. Draco Malfoy, known for his
unwavering dedication to the cause, valiantly defended the
wizarding community by engaging the rebels in a heated battle
resulting in the neutralization of Ronald Weasley, 18,
undesirable #2 the youngest male of the disgraced wizarding
family and well known member of the Phoenix rebels.
Eyewitnesses report that Malfoy junior, despite facing numerous
adversaries, exhibited remarkable skill and bravery,
further solidifying his reputation as a true defender of
magical might. The chaos of the skirmish did
not spare the elder Malfoy, though.
Lucius Malfoy, 43, a stalwart supporter of the regime,
sustained severe injuries from a rogue spell amidst the
commotion. The exact nature of the spell
remains unclear, but sources close to the Malfoy family
confirm that Lucius Malfoy succumbed to his injuries on the
scene. The tragic loss of Lucius
underscores the ever present danger posed by the Phoenix
rebels and their reckless actions.
Speculation abounds regarding the rebels motives for their
presence in Nocturne Alley. Some suggest they were seeking
to procure dark artefacts to further their illicit activities
against the regime. Others believe their objective
was to recruit disillusioned Wizards and witches to their
dwindling ranks. Whatever their intentions, the
outcome remains clear. The steadfast efforts of the
Magic as Might regime have once again thwarted the dangerous
plots of the Phoenix rebels, ensuring the continued safety
and order of our magical society.
The enchanted black and white image accompanying the article
portrayed Malfoy standing resolutely outside a smashed in
Borgen and Burke's, his expression blank and unreadable,
wand tip still smoking, with Ron's body lying across the
cobbles, his head out of shot. Something died inside her, or
maybe it had been dead all this time, and she was now simply
looking at the corpse, the husk of her childhood in an open
casket on showing her mind. What was that Saint Vincent
Millay quote? Childhood is the Kingdom where
nobody dies. Well, it did die, and Malfoy was
the murderer.