FIC - Consequentially Yours (OW/HG, R)
It’s a rescue, really. At least, that’s what Fred and George Weasley manage to convince him of. After all, Hermione is sure to be a target for revenge seeking Purebloods - what could any right-minded Wizard do but step in to help?
But with the shadow of Voldemort still hanging over a frightened community, Oliver is about to find out that the consequences of doing the right thing can get very out of hand!
An Oliver Wood/Hermione Granger Romance
Chapter Seventeen - (Most Definitely Not) Uncle Tom’s Cabin
-..-
THE CAMP was a mess. There was still a few smoking holes, for shite’s sake. How could he have possibly been so far behind her as to miss this?
This wasnae happening. There was no way that this could possibly be happening. She’d just been in the clearing. She’d been hurt by his thoughtless comment, and he was here to make it up to her, possibly by the strategic use of kisses - though whether more for him or for her, he wasn’t admitting - until she was no longer angry and at least put her wand down.
She was most definitely not missing.
Slowly, Oliver picked his way past the charred remains of their tent flap; inside was even worse. Last night, Hermione had playfully transfigured his chair back, trying to hold her laughter at his expression. He’d tried, honestly tried not to show his horror at the holes where the stuffing now poked out, victims of the broken spell’s backlash and one arm was distinctly lower than its mate. She’d teasingly promised to fix it when they got back this evening. It was now standing there, like the last survivor in a pub brawl. The room was trashed; a mess of splinters and stuffing and broken dishes. Even his pillow, which seemed to have been blasted to pieces, lay scattered among the wreckage. Though that part he was fairly certain had probably been Hermione venting her frustrations at him before the apparent disaster struck.
What the bloody shite had happened?
Her broom was still in camp, the leather harness a mass of twisted and charred straps beside it. Vaguely, he could hear rushing in his ears, the muted sound of voices.
It wasn’t until he felt the restraining hand on his wand that he realised it was his own voice he was hearing, yelling guttural profanities as he added to the general destruction. This was not going to help his Mouse; and there was no way in Merlin’s knickers that she was going to be captive a moment longer than his wand found its mark.
Warily, Krum watched him pull himself together, one painstaking muscle at a time. When he seemed sure Oliver wasn’t going to start Cursing again, he began methodically sorting through the wreckage. Without a word, Oliver started beside him, shifting debris in hopes of finding some answers.
The camp fire was small that night, and somehow seemed to lack any real warmth with only the two of them to share it. They had searched for something, anything to give them some kind of clue as to what to do next. Oliver honestly hadn’t realised how much he’d come to depend on Hermione until she was no longer here to help him make sense of things.
How much he’d come to depend on her smile, just to make the world seem right.
It took them over an hour to sort through the debris, using every charm and spell Oliver could think of to try and wrangle any more information out of what was left, but they hadn’t turned up anything worth the effort. Several Apparation point were detectable, though it’s not like the bloody things came with names, was it? As near as they could tell, this fiasco had started in the tent. Hermione seemed to have been taken down quickly after the fight moved out into the camp proper. Somehow, Oliver was not surprised that she’d fought like a wee hellcat - if only it had been enough. They’d managed to uncover some of her notes, left intact in the wreckage, but nothing that looked like it had been dropped deliberately, no note saying ‘They’re taking me to Gregory bloody Goyle’s place’, or something similarly helpful.
He sighed, looking around their stripped-down camp. “Assuming it’s the same one who’s setting off spells for the dragons, we should probably continue the way we were heading.” He knew it was the best course, the only course until they had something new to go on, but it still felt like he was quitting on Hermione, carrying forward as if she weren’t his primary concern.
Viktor Accio’d out a map from his tent, and moved closer to Oliver to unroll it on a rock. While he quietly took a moment to find the right section, Oliver tried very hard to ignore it was where Hermione usually sat for meals.
“The body wa’ in a rain-wash, right abou’ here,” Oliver indicated the spot with a jabbing finger, a bit north of their current camp.
Krum barely gave it a glance, black eyes focusing instead on tracing river ways and elevation lines. After a moment, grunted, and looked up. “Ve should start around here, maybe,” he said, pointing at a spot further North.
“Look, ye bloody bastard,” Oliver heard himself exploding, “I’m no’ so in love wit’ ye that I want t’ spend the rest of the winter freezing my knackers off wit’ you up here! I found the body south of there, why the name of Merlin’s balls do ye want to go tha’ far North?”
“You found body here, yes?” Viktor asked, ignoring his outburst as he indicated the area Oliver had pointed out. “Here, look at map.” Carefully, Krum began tracing the spidery trace of a river, just east of the rain-wash. “See? This is tributary of River Torne, which flows North-South, at this point.”
Oliver glared at him, understanding immediately what the bugger was getting at - and he was right, damn it. The Nifflers probably found it by the banks, and dragged it the quarter mile from the river. He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Fine. The body washes south, than what we want to look for is likely further along the river.”
Leaning further over the map, Oliver pointed to what appeared to be a largish town on the fjord twisted coastline. “We probably wan’ t’ head into,” he peered a little closer, “Narvik first. It looks like it migh’ be the best place for supplies”
Krum just stared at him for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. “There is no Vizarding settlements there, no Vizarding settlements anywhere this far north. They must get supplies from else place.”
“I still think this place is worth a look,” Oliver insisted stubbornly.
“Fine, ve check Narvik.”
Oliver glared at him, fully aware he was being patronised. “Just saying Narvik - I mean, where?”
Viktor snorted in disgust.
“What? It’s a city,” Oliver said, as if this should be obvious. “Well, town. You can’t just walk in and hope to find a something we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“Not so smart, English. This is North Country, not holiday in Soho. If ve find anything besides deer around Narvik, vill probably be vot ve look for.”
-..-
HER HEAD hurt. And her mouth tasted like something that might have been scrapped from the bottom of a first year’s cauldron. For a moment, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of leaving her eyes closed, and letting herself ignore the likely consequences awaiting her once someone was aware that she was awake.
She wondered idly what Crookshanks was doing - if he was behaving for Adrianne, looking out for her the same way he seemed to look out for his mistress. She missed his somewhat squashed face, and the way he would occasionally insert it between the covers to press his cold nose against the small of Oliver’s back early in the morning, causing the highlander to jump, and often fall out of bed in the process. Crookshanks always took advantage of his absence to insinuate himself between them, purring loudly as he kneaded Hermione’s side. With a few grumbles, Oliver would usually leave him there, and they would all drift back off to sleep. Somehow, by the time she woke up a second time, Crookshanks had usually managed to curl into the large man’s side, and she would watch the two of them sleep cuddled together.
It was with this somewhat playful image that Hermione braced herself to face her captors.
It was, therefore, a bit of a disappointment to find herself completely alone when she defiantly opened her eyes, ready to brace them.
She was lying across a rather comfortable lounge. It was covered in deep green fabric of incredible softness - she actually had to resist the urge to rub her cheek against it a few times, and snuggle in deeper. With a sigh, she pushed herself up, noticing that at least they hadn’t bound her, though a quick inventory told her that she no longer had her wand.
Too much to hope for, really. But, one can always hope for dumb captors. Malfoy was most definitely not dumb, though. Arrogant, snivelling and spoilt, but not dumb. She hoped, wherever he was, his head hurt as much as hers did right now.
It had been rather petty, she supposed, but as soon as she’d heard the soft pops of Apparition outside the tent last night, she’d known she wasn’t going to escape, so she’d settled for getting in as many pot shots at Draco as possible before they had a chance to restrain her. From what she rather foggily remembered, she’d done a fair job.
It had taken her less than a second to dismiss her shock and to force her body into some kind of action. Seeing the marten definitely took her by surprise. She put no stock in divinations, of course, no matter how old the method or how un-involved Professor Trelawney was, but it still was something so completely unexpected that she’d been momentarily unable to process anything else.
Her surprise worked in her favour; noticing her distraction, Malfoy had let his eyes flicker down, just for a second, to see what it was that was confusing her. A second was all she needed. Springing forward, she managed to cock her fist and smash in into his nose with a satisfying crack! Small pops and sizzles from outside the tent told her that reinforcements were waiting outside, so instead of diving for the front flap, she dove for the kitchen island. Ugly green pottery shards rained down, littering her hair with a fine coating of sharp, glittering powder. Twisting franticly for her wand, still thankfully in her back pocket, she slammed her back against the cupboards as she heard another explosion above her. She winced for her countertop.
The sound of Draco’s breathing told her he was only a few feet away, and there had been at least three Apparitions, that she had heard, outside the tent. But if they wanted her dead, Malfoy could have done that already, instead of pausing to speak with her, so she could only hope they wanted her alive.
Of course, that didn’t mean she’d go down without a fight. The other Wizards were outside; Malfoy, on the other hand, was conveniently right here. It would make whatever they wanted with her a little more palatable if she knew he was suffering just as much as she was.
Sweat was dripping down her neck, making the place between her shoulder blades itch uncomfortably. Dozens of little pottery nicks were tingling and stinging as she curled, preparing to roll. “Confringo!” she grunted, knowing her wild aim couldn’t be helped, but hoping she got lucky, even as she heard an answering “Confundus!” from a few feet away.
She slammed into the small wall framing the doorway, almost knocking the breath out of her lungs. Trying to huddle into the half-metre of cover it provided, she silently cursed her fondness for biscuits before bed as her hips seemed just a little too wide to skootch comfortably. Another curse winged by her, sending down a small rain of plaster from the edge of the doorframe above her, and she tried to scoot just a little closer to the wall.
“I really hope Oliver didn’t borrow this tent from someone,” she muttered, before taking a deep breath and sending back an answering hex. Faintly, she registered the sound of the coffee table exploding and Malfoy’s muffled curse, and she grinned, grimly. Crouching down, Hermione tried to peer past the doorframe and get a brief look at her opponent, before launching herself across the two metres to the opposite wall. “Episphaira!”
From the corner of her eyes, she caught the vague image of a large, Muggle glove, the kind used for fisticuffs, firmly catching Malfoy under the chin, before she skidded forcefully into the opposite wall. He was caught so by surprise, it didn’t look like he’d get his wand up in time.
“Nidorate!” The force of his anger was clearly behind it, as the wall actually bowed before snapping back and completely disintegrating, and, feeling that perhaps capture might be a virtue at this point, Hermione had flung herself through what was left of her kitchen, towards the tent flap.
The rest of the room she now found herself in was as nice as the lounge. A thick brick fireplace blazed merrily in one corner, making the room pleasantly warm. Several gilt frames adorned the walls, and even one ancient-looking tapestry, hanging by what turned out to be the door to the loo. The carpeting was thick, and would probably be wonderful to wiggle one’s toes in. A large sleigh bed rested against the far wall, dividing the room in two. All in all, it could have been much worse.
Everything, of course, was decorated in shades of green. For one moment, Hermione had the urge to stick her tongue out at it. Instead, she busied herself by examining the fireplace, but of course, it wasn’t connected to the Floo network. Just an ordinary Muggle fire, no matter how much Hermione strained her woefully limited wandless magic to will it otherwise. Pushing back on her heels, she blew a frustrated breath. No good there, then. The wide wooden mantle was ornately carved with tiny roses, all intricately intertwined in a repeating pattern of some kind. Frankly, staring at it too long was making her eyes cross, but still, she pushed up into an awkward sort of half-crouch, and gave some of them a perfunctory try, looking for any that could be pulled or prodded into revealing some hidden secret.
“Cleaning the fireplace, Granger?”
She really wished it wasn’t some sort of evil villain code, to always enter a room so silently so as to cause one, who, in the interests of escaping, was leaning under the heavy mantle, to jerk up suddenly; and of course, bang their head on said mantle hard enough to knock themselves silly.
Across the room, Draco sniggered.
“Was there something particular that you wanted, Malfoy, or were you just here to be your irritating self?” Thankfully, the stars were starting to clear from Hermione’s head, and she was able to force herself to stand properly, if a little wobbly, and feel less at a disadvantage.
Malfoy looked as awful as she felt. A beautiful bruise coloured the right side of his jaw a livid purple, while dark circles hung under both eyes, probably due to her fist knocking him square in the nose during those first few confused seconds in the tent. All in all, it made the ache in her head much more bearable, and she made no attempt to hide her satisfied smirk.
“Bad day?” she offered sweetly.
For a moment, she thought he might hex her. For a moment, she was pretty sure he thought he might, too. But slowly, his hand relaxed on his wand, and he let out a steady breath. “Just stay over there, if you don’t mind, Granger,” he said in an impressively even voice.
“Why am I here, Malfoy?” Under the circumstances, she was rather pleased of the asperity in her tone.
He sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Look, can we just try not to kill each other for the next little while, Mudblood?”
“Oh, yes, because that’s exactly the way to gain my cooperation!” she glared back.
“Fine. Granger. Can we try to pretend we don’t loath each other for now? Just for something different?”
Hermione continued to glare. “Why am I here?” she gritted out, slowly.
Looking away, over towards the mantle, Draco finally spoke, “Believe it or not, we’re just keeping you out of trouble,” he said tiredly, and moved to throw himself into a rather formal looking chair beside him. He regarded her, for a moment, legs dangling over the arm, focusing on her with an intensity she found more intimidating than any of his other odd behaviour.
Considering for just a moment, she settled to the floor in front of the hearth, and waited, though she was sure to keep her expression as sceptical as she felt.
“Frankly, your husband is being a royal ass, bringing you straight to them - practically had you wrapped in a giant bow,” he remarked, almost absently, watching as he twirled his wand between his long fingers.
“Who are they?”
His head snapped up at this. “Oh, come on, Granger, don’t give me that. You and that over-grown gorilla you call a husband have been working on this for a quite a few months now, haven’t you?”
How did Malfoy know what she’d been doing…? “Ethan Daniels,” she guessed, resignedly.
“One of ours,” he confirmed. “An old family…”
“Friend?” Hermione guessed when he paused. She couldn’t quite keep the condescension from her voice at the thought of the Malfoys having anything even resembling a friend.
“Debtor, actually.” He smirked, obviously enjoying her irritation.
Hermione started at him for a long moment. “So, you’re trying to tell me that you’ve suddenly taken an interest in - what? My health?”
Malfoy just rolled his eyes, as if it were she who were being obtuse. “Granger, you could take up Blast-Ended Skrewt farming for all I’m going to lift a finger for you, but unfortunately for everyone involved, you’re just a little too unwholesomely smart to be left lying around. You don’t really think Greg took a sudden liking to your buck teeth, do you?”
“And suddenly I remember why I punched your lights out in third year.”
“Funny, Granger. Funny. I’ll just leave you to your Cinderella impression, then, shall I?”
“A Muggle reference? You’re slipping.”
The blond merely rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows it’s a wizarding story, Granger.”
Damn it if the little prick didn’t actually make a move to leave. Glaring, Hermione seethed, “Wait. What is it you wanted, Malfoy?”
“That’s better,” he settled back in his chair, sighing obnoxiously in exaggerated comfort. “Now, what I need to know is, how much does that Puff-head Wood, know?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Hermione grinned sweetly.
So fast, Hermione wasn’t even sure she saw him move, Draco’s legs dropped from the arm, and he sat poised, looking like he were ready to launch himself at her at a moment’s notice. “Look, this is not a negotiation here - We hold all the fucking cards. This doesn’t have to be unpleasant; tell me what we want to know, and rest assured most of it is easily verifiable facts, so don’t bother screwing with me, and this won’t have to get uncivilized.”
She stared at him, incredulous, before glaring around her prison, pointedly. “And this is your definition of civility?”
“Try for one minute not to play the goody-goodly little martyr, will you? You’re surrounded; held captive by superior forces, if you’d like. Would it make you feel better if I were to stick flaming wand wood under your fingernails? Or perhaps deigned not to feed you? Or worse, fed you that overgrown oaf’s rock cakes, maybe? You have very little options, mud- Granger.”
The stubborn set of her jaw must have been enough to let him know how effective Hermione considered his threats.
He sighed, suddenly looking weary and much … older than the bratty boy she’d left back in Hogwarts just three months ago. “Don’t do this, Granger. The effects of Veritasium are not pleasant, especially when it’s not brewed by a master, and frankly, we don’t have one on hand at the moment. Besides, there’s no real reason for you to go through that. Answer some questions; a simple spell will tell us if you’re telling the truth or not, and frankly there’s no Gryffindor glory being lost by giving in on this, because in the end, you’d rather I win than they do.”
This whole conversation was taking on an eerie, almost surreal quality, as the known quantity in the situation, namely one Slytherin Prince, was subtly becoming someone else before her eyes. It was like finding out that Professor Trelawney was actually Professor McGonagal in disguise. Frankly, it was unnerving in the extreme. “Why do you care? I would have thought you’d prefer the hard way, or even the Veritasium. Why…”
Steel grey eyes were lost in thought, looking in the flames as they flared in a sudden draft. “I don’t like you, Mudblood. And frankly, what you stand for makes me ill, but there are some kinds of filth that I don’t want any part of.”
His gaze, when he turned it back to hers, was cold and expressionless once more. “So, Hermione, what’s it going to be?”
Hermione took a deep breath, before cautiously asking, “Who, exactly, are they?”
-..-
“Krum!” Oliver was shouting to be heard over the force of the wind. “Krum!” he tried again when his companion failed to respond; the howling gale conveniently covered whether or not he was simply being ignored. The wind gusted for the hundredth time, sending icy sleet against the exposed parts of his skin. It’d been half an hour since he last felt his fingers, though he was fairly sure the grip he had on his broom might only be broken by a spell - or crashing into the side of a mountain.
And there were mountains all around them; channelling the wind into a shrieking, driving thing intent on knocking them out of the air. Frankly, with the sky one uniform shade of grey, he was no longer sure if they were even travelling in the right direction, and he didn’t dare take his eyes off his malevolent surroundings long enough to check the Point Me charm mounted on the front of his broom.
The storm had hit, just as Oliver had predicted it would, and they were unable to outrace it as they’d hoped, leaving both of them as sitting ducks at the mercy of the elements. They should have taken cover when it first became obvious that they’d never out run it. Instead, with one determined look, they’d both urged their broomsticks higher, hoping to get above the worst of it. It worked for a while, but the higher they went, the colder it became, until eventually they were driven back into the full fury between the mountains.
Thoughts of Hermione; of where she was, what was being done to her, had him driving headlong into the wind behind Krum, trusting the other man to guide him in the fierce Northern storm, but this was rapidly turning into suicide. He had no time to be nursing broken bones or exposure. No time to go back and find a Mediwitch if the inevitable crash happened.
“Krum!” he bellowed, forcing himself to drive his broom closer, grimly enduring the sting as the sleet and snow drove into him that much faster, and with greater force. This time, the Bulgarian slowed and turned, the stubborn set to his eyes telling Oliver he’d been deliberately ignoring him earlier. In truth, Oliver felt the same need to fly faster, farther, to find Hermione before those bastards had a chance to hurt her in any way.
But not like this. Driving headlong into a howling gale wasnae going to save anyone, and he made sure the stern expression he sent back to Krum conveyed that. Briefly, Viktor’s features tightened, and he turned to glare out at the swirling wall of white ahead of them, as if wanting to hex the storm itself into submission. For a long moment, they both hovered there, surrounded by grey rock and biting sleet, and Oliver knew he’d have to jinx the other man if he stubbornly refused to take shelter.
Seconds ticked by, and slowly feeling was beginning to return to Oliver’s fingers as he continued to hover with his back to the wind, tiny pinpricks that screamed and burned in protest, and finally Viktor turned, pointing his broom towards the valley floor.
Oliver let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
The farther down they got into the valley, the darker it became as light was lost to the snow’s obstruction and the looming walls of the mountains surrounding them. There was no finesse to their descent whatsoever, and at times it was more like falling as they tumbled about roughly in the wind’s grip. Down here the winds were even stronger, and there were a few times when Oliver thought he or Viktor really were going to be smeared across the rock walls.
Growing determinedly, right from the mountain side, a tree loomed suddenly out of the grey uniformity, branches reaching from the bare rock like icy caltrops. Too late to swerve; but trying anyway, Viktor crashed into it sideways and his furious curses were loud enough to be heard even above the wind.
Each time the large man tried to extract himself, new branches would grab him, entangling his robe and broom even further.
“Sheeban po dyavolite!” he grunted, caught in at least three places. Oliver couldn’t help himself, and roared with laughter, even as he tried to pry his frozen hands off his broom to find his wand and help.
“’Mayka sheebanyak!”
The tree, of course, chose that moment to give way, and with a loud crack! Viktor and his broom tumbled gracelessly the rest of the way to the ground. Fortunately, that was only twenty feet or so, and when Oliver landed in the deep snow, the amount of cursing still coming from the prone Bulgarian convinced him he wasn’t seriously hurt.
He glared sourly up at Oliver when he came into his view. “You know English, you could try giving me hand, instead of laughing like hyena.”
Instead, Oliver made sure to kick some more snow at him on the way by.
By the time Krum had dug himself out, and found his broom, Oliver had already used his wand to make a wall out of the snow to enclose their campsite and block the wind. Of course, that did nothing to stop the wind coming over the top, and Krum glowered at him, daring him to object when he flourished his wand, and with a snarled “Coerceo!” had them completely enclosed. Still muttering darkly, he stomped off.
In truth, Oliver hadn’t been planning on adding to their structure any more than necessary, knowing that there were still hostile wizards and witches in the area and not wanting to stand out from the landscape any more than they had to, but he let it go. The storm provided more than enough cover for the moment, and any wizard who was daft enough to scout in it was welcome to join them for sausages and tea. Besides, the sudden silence was a relief.
Viktor had a nice blaze going by the time Oliver was finished setting a few heating charms and wards, and the tents were up. Firelight danced off the white walls and ceiling, making weird shadows in the reflected light, and Oliver could clearly see the twigs still stuck in the other man’s robes.
“Ye done acting like a little girl, then?” he asked, teasing.
Krum just shot him a tired look. “Shouldn’t you be doing useful thing, like make dinner?”
Oliver smirked, but moved to get a few potatoes peeling themselves, and some water on to boil. “If you’re not too afraid it’ll bite yeh, you could try helping.”
Viktor grunted, but got up and joined him.
They worked in silence, the wind muted behind their walls and allowing time for Oliver to think clearly for the first time in hours. It was easy to ignore his companion, who seemed to be equally lost in thought, and instead he tried to focus on their next move. Unfortunately, easy as it was to ignore the things around him, it was not so easy to ignore the thoughts of Hermione that kept intruding. He’d been pushing the desperate feeling away, locking it in a box and trying not to listen to it rattle. If he allowed himself to think of her abduction that hollow feeling that sucked at his insides, making him crazy with worry and fear, would take over. He needed to keep a clear head, to think for both of them right now. She needed him to stay focused.
Hermione had been right all along - obviously the key to what was happening was out here in this semi-frozen wasteland, and they’d obviously not been careful enough to avoid detection. Why had they simply taken Hermione and left Krum and himself alone? It didn’t make any sense, unless they truly didn’t believe they were any threat. But again, why leave two witnesses behind, who could just as easily raise an alarm back in England? Two lone Wizards might not be much of a threat, but they could easily come back with more. So why take Hermione, and betray the fact that they knew they were there?
“Vood,”
“Mmmm?” he acknowledged, still worrying the dichotomy of their enemies’ motives.
“Vhy did you Contract Herm-own-ninny?”
Startled, he jerked up to stare at the other man’s face in the firelight, but saw nothing but open curiosity. “A truce then?” Oliver asked sardonically, leaning back a little to grab another sausage to spear on his stick.
Viktor shrugged, a small smile tugging his features. “Nothing better to do during all this.”
Oliver stared into the fire for a moment, considering. With a shrug, he answered. “Honestly, Fred Weasley talked me into it. Seemed t’ think Hermione might get herself into trouble wit’ the wrong sort rather quickly. Turned out he was right.”
“Fred is one who vorks vit Dragaons, yes?”
“One of the twins, actually.”
Viktor shrugged once, not really caring, before getting back on point. “He vas right? Vot happened?”
“There was a duel,” he said shortly, not really wanting to think about those few dark hours when he thought it was possible he might lose.
“She told me about that part. She seemed to think you vere very braffe.” Krum seemed reluctant to add that last part, but for some reason seemed to feel compelled into honesty.
Oliver snorted, dismissively. “I’m sure she’s though’ me an arse many more times than she has ever though’ me brave.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind continued to hammer on their walls, and the fire crackled almost defiantly in its wake. Oliver smiled at his fanciful thoughts.
“Vhy did you fight for her? You could haff been killed trying to vin a vitch you neffer vanted.”
“It was the righ’ thing tae do.”
Viktor snorted. “I thought ve vere being honest. There must haff been some other vay, but you didn’t try to find other vay, did you?”
Oliver thought carefully before trying to answer. “I’d had a chance tae get t’ know her a bit by then,” he stopped, remembering their argument in the Library about the merits of fighting for creatures who didn’t even want freedom, just because it was the right thing to do. “She’s stubborn and prickly and no’ the easiest lass tae get t’ know, but she’s fiery, and has far more passion than one little body should be able to hold.”
It was Viktor’s turn to stare out at the fire. “You loff her.”
His voice was uneven, but Oliver pretended not to notice. “She’s easy to care about,” he responded, not exactly sure why he was so needled.
Viktor merely looked at him, his black eyes shadowed by his heavy brows, and making him look almost intimidating in the strange light. After a moment, he turned back to studying his hands were they hung clasped loosely between his knees. “Ve should get help. Maybe your Ministry -”
“No, we shouldn’t,” Oliver surprised even himself with the force of his contradiction, and Krum just turned to stare, one eyebrow raised questioningly, but Oliver wasn’t paying any attention for the moment. He was far too busy working through his sudden conviction that going to the Ministry right now would be the wrong thing to do. “Hermione said tha’ someone was playing silly buggers with the others - tha’ someone tried to prevent anyone from bringing Voldemort back by feeding him some kind of silver potion.”
The Bulgarian looked positively floored, but Oliver was following his sudden epiphany, and didn’t dare stop to let Krum catch up. “If there’s someone else mucking about up here, some small group of saboteurs, that might explain why they just took Hermione, and left us alone. I mean, there can’t have been that many of them.”
“But if they don’t vant the others to raise Voldemort, then vhy take Herm-own-ninny? She is best chance we haff.”
Oliver threw his sausage stick at the fire with some force. “I donnae know, damnit,” he growled. He stared out at the flames as they licked around the new fuel, fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to fight the urge to throw something else in after his stick. “All I do know is tha’ if they took Hermione, then the other rutting bastards don’ know we’re out here - an’ if we bring a great big mucking group up to search blindly, we’re goin’ to lose tha’ little advantage real quick.”
Krum blew out a breath, before speaking. “So, ve are stuck between two groups who vont to keep dead var going?”
“That’s about the shape of it.”
“And ve are outnumbered?”
“By quite a bit, I’d imagine.”
He nodded. “Vell, then it is good thing ve played Quidditch.”
Oliver threw back his head and laughed. It felt good to laugh right now, but it was still short lived. With a solid heave, he pushed himself up from the ground. “I’m goin’ tae bed. You can try yer Wronski Feint on them in the morning, if yeh like.”
Krum snorted once, his shoulders shuddering under the noise. “Go to sleep Vood. It may not help your beauty, but there’s some hope you’ll be less grumpy.”
He was still sitting by the fire when Oliver finished cleaning up and when to his tent.
“Vood,” he called after him, quietly mocking. “I’m offended I didn’t get invite to vedding.”
-..-
For days she saw no one but Maisy, the house elf who brought her meals and set the fires for her. In the interests of keeping what little company she had, Hermione had eventually stopped trying to talk Maisy into revolting against her foul master. She hadn’t seen Malfoy since she’d been brought here, though she wasn’t sure if her new isolation was somehow intended to bore her into being more talkative, or if he’d simply forgotten about her for now.
Frankly, she didn’t put much faith in either option. Which left her with one other thought.
What if Malfoy had done this on his own?
If this was some kind of personal power game, and he’d acted as some kind of maverick, and Lucius didn’t know what his son was up to? He could simply be away, covering his tracks and taking care of his responsibilities to his father.
But then, why did Draco want her? Why would he be acting separately from his father and his designs? Thousands of questions turned over and over in her mind, keeping her far too busy to notice any boredom. None of it made any sense. And of course, when she wasn’t worrying about her captor’s plans for her, she was thinking about Oliver - and Viktor. She had to presume, to keep her sanity, that nothing had happened to either of them. There were only three others in Draco’s little raiding party - and with two of them tied up in keeping Hermione under control, that would only leave even numbers to take the two men on. Surely, Malfoy hadn’t wanted to get into such an uncertain fight? No, that wasn’t something Malfoy would do; she’d just have to believe that they had what they wanted. She allowed herself to push it from her mind.
What was Oliver doing now? What went through his head when he came back to find her gone; the campsite destroyed? How can he find me when even I have no idea where they’ve taken me? If it were Harry or Ron, she knew they’d get help; start combing the country side for her, and making a lot of noise in the process. She had to hope that Oliver would think things through a little more, first. As near as she could tell, Malfoy was a completely separate consideration from the group who’d likely dumped the body. Several times, he’d referred to ‘they’, obviously not wanting ‘them’ to succeed. Just because Malfoy had known where they were, didn’t mean that other group knew, and if Oliver went floundering around with a search party, it wouldn’t stay that way for very long. Even the most dim of Dark Wizards would notice that much magical activity going on in such a remote area.
But what then? She was giving herself a headache, trying to imagine what he might do, but at least it was something to keep her occupied while her captors ignored her. Frankly, she thought she’d settle for being ignored; she still wasn’t sure what to make of Malfoy, of the fact that she hadn’t been harmed yet, or of his apparent motives. He was right, Veritasium would give them all the answers he wanted, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from spilling anything they wanted to know.
Instead, she settled into what was fast becoming her favourite green lounge, in front of a perfect fire. Maisy, once Hermione had stopped frightening her with talk of cloths, proved to be hopelessly eager to please, and had turned out to be most adept at acquiring books for Hermione’s reading pleasure. She felt so useful sitting and reading her afternoons away, she realised ruefully, that she might slip into hibernation at any moment. Still, that didn’t stop her from pulling the heavy blanket just a little tighter as she settled into Molière’s Cyrano de Bergerac.
“Where did that disgusting Muggle novel come from?”
She refused to show her surprise at his entrance, and made a point of finishing her page before turning and glowering sourly at his presence. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“Some light entertainment,” he smirked, moving over to the same chair as last time and making sure she was aware of the wand in his hand.
Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. “I have no intention of being entertaining for the likes of you.”
“And yet you manage it so nicely,” he told her sweetly, one corner of his smirk trying to twist into a real smile.
If anything, Hermione tightened her crossed arms even closer to her body, and glared.
“Come on, Granger. I’m not any happier to be here than you are to see me, but because I don’t want to extend your stay any longer than absolutely necessary, I’m actually trying to make headway towards solving our mutual problems, before you fucking take root here. As it is, I’m going to have to have the place fumigated, just to get your smell out of the upholstery. Any longer, and I might seriously have to consider burning the place to the ground.”
“With your House Elf still in it, I suppose,” she retorted, scathingly.
Malfoy had the affrontery to just shrug in the face of her, admittedly impotent, anger. “It is rather disgustingly friendly with you at the moment, it would seem,” he acknowledged suggestively.
He’s only doing it to get a rise out of you, Hermione. Do not go trying to give him a broken nose to match his bruised jaw. Just because he’s rich does not mean he’s going to throw away a perfectly good servant who can’t fight back. It was still several moments before she picked up her book, pointedly signalling the end to her side of the conversation.
“All right, knock it off Granger. Unless you want to stay here?”
“I can’t imagine anything you can possibly say that will induce me to help you in any way.” Of course, she was just staring at the page. It was impossible to concentrate on the words in his rather odious presence.
Finally, his amused veneer seemed to crack. “I could make you a widow,” he gritted out past clenched teeth.
“I think you already tried that, Malfoy. As I recall, Oliver beat you with a rather large stick,” she was pushing her luck, she knew, making him angry, and probably pushing him towards those methods he’d hinted at in their first meeting, but honestly, she couldn’t imagine any circumstances in which she could willingly help Malfoy. Besides, an angry Malfoy was one who would hopefully be prone to making mistakes, and she’d get every advantage she could for Oliver right now.
Her little altercation with Malfoy left both of them feeling unsatisfied, she suspected, but it did lead to one bright point for Hermione. As she watched him leave, she noticed that he didn’t bother to lock the door behind him in any way. Feeling stupid for not even checking once in the last few days, she’d sulked in her nest on the lounger for a full half hour before groaning in frustration, and pushing all the blankets to the floor. She stormed over to the door, still embarrassed that she had overlooked the fact that she apparently had more freedom than she’d thought for the last three days.
The handle turned easily in her hands, and she took a deep breath before easing it open, straining to hear evidence of anyone beyond. No one disturbed the quiet outside her room as Hermione slipped past the door. The hallway she found herself in was just as lavish as the room she’d been given. Rich oak wood wainscoting gleamed along the walls and from the framed portraits lining them, and Hermione allowed her fingers to run along the smooth wood as she crept cautiously over to inspect them. Of course, she didn’t recognise any of the pictures inhabitants, and none of them seemed to share the Malfoy blond hair, or sharp nose, and most of them took one look at her, and began whispering disdainfully to their neighbours. Hermione rolled her eyes. Figures someone like Malfoy would only have Purebloods up on his walls. But it also warned her that even though Malfoy was nowhere in sight, she was still being watched carefully. Somehow, the opulence of her surroundings just made her flesh creep a little bit; trying to cover a horror with a nice veneer didn’t make it any more palatable, and somehow she thought she preferred Grimauld Place; at least its vileness was out in the open.
Forty minutes of determined exploration turned up nothing. The wards surrounding the, well, what appeared from the inside at least, the cottage, made it quite impossible for her to leave without her captors assistance, and of course her wand was nowhere to be found - not that she hadn’t spent considerable time trying to find it. Two more bedrooms turned up on her search, along with a library - or perhaps a parlour with a lot of books, she wasn’t really sure; a kitchen and a locked and warded room that she was guessing was possibly some kind of a study. And of course everywhere, the colour green and furnishings that just screamed of wealth. Malfoy must have left after speaking with her, because she hadn’t run into a single soul during her inspection, besides two elderly House Elves in the kitchen. Even Maisy must be accompanying her master. None of the fireplaces seemed to be connected to the Floo, all the windows were actually spelled onto the walls, similar to the ceiling at Hogwarts, and didn’t really open up to the outside, and the only door wouldn’t open and actually threatened her when she tried. Hermione wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to inanimate objects being so cheeky.
Dejected, she allowed her legs to fold, dropping herself onto the chesterfield just inside the parlour. Of all the rooms in the house, this was the only one she found inviting. For some reason, a different hand had held sway here and the overall effect was warmer, though somehow minimalist, with less thought to impressing a visitor’s lowliness on them and more to serenity. Somehow, Hermione found it soothing.
Though it was getting dark, she didn’t bother getting up to light one of the many lamps, instead allowing her head to fall onto the back of the chesterfield. The material felt nice against her neck, no hint of the lumpiness that was admittedly present in the ones in Gryffindor Tower, and for a moment felt almost like she was committing a betrayal to be thinking anything of Malfoy’s better than Gryffindor House had had. She still hadn’t found any hint of where she was; each window she’d found had shown a different scene - even those right beside each other. Most had been trained on different landscapes; a rainforest, complete with colourful macaws and blooming orchids in every tree, what appeared to be a vineyard covering acres of rolling hills, a veritable maze of red rock stretching up from a barren valley floor. A few seemed to be used for other purposes, and one was even trained on the Atrium of the Ministry itself. Absolutely nothing she could even begin to deduce her location from. Instead, she just allowed her body to sink into the cushions, arms flopped loosely at her sides and tried not to think.
She’d almost surrendered to her Zen-like state when the faint pop of someone arriving permeated her muddled non-thoughts.
“…still don’t see why we’ve let it go this long,” someone was saying.
Hermione didn’t dare move, even to press herself further into the shadows, afraid of making a sound. When the second voice spoke, she was glad the room was as dark as it was, leaving her virtually invisible from the hall.
“You’re impatient, Edgecomb. Let them stumble around a bit longer - they might even discover something useful…” She’d bet Crookshanks and Oliver’s favourite broom that this unmistakably smooth voice belonged to none other than Lucius Malfoy. “Besides, steps have already been taken to ensure we have an insurance policy.”
Oh goody, Daddy’s home.
The voices were fading as Malfoy and his guest made their way further into the house. She sat there for a full three minutes before daring to move. Blowing out the breath she’d been holding, Hermione crept down the hall, thankful that this part of the house was filled with maps, instead of alarm-raising portraits. The door to the room she’d assumed to be a study was closed, but light spilled from under the door, belying their presence. Carefully, she pressed herself to the smooth wood, listening intently.
“…sure it’s wise, allowing them to get so close?”
“Second thoughts, Lucien? I’m surprised at you. You’re daughter’s not nearly so hesitant.”
The second man grunted, obviously not pleased, but not willing to pursue it further. The sound of a decanter being opened signalled a momentary halt in the conversation as Hermione could hear the soft splashes of two glasses being filled.
“I brought the device, though I don’t know why you’d want it,” Edgecomb was saying, and Hermione heard the sound of something heavy being set down.
“Call it forward planning. Somehow, I don’t think I want that just sitting around in that rabble’s rather unstable hands.”
“Just think - with this research, we can identify Mudblood children before they become a nuisance. We could, if we chose, prevent any of them from polluting our world ever again. That would put an end to Weasley’s Marriage Laws in a hurry, wouldn’t it?”
“And yet you still aim so low, Lucien. Rid ourselves of the Mudbloods? That was always his work - surely you didn’t suddenly become a believer?”
“That old claptrap? Not likely.”
“Besides, they fulfil a useful role, a few of them are even worth their magic. Blood will always count, and as long as they stay in their place, they’re welcome to their menial existence. I certainly have no interest in making sure the sewers flow and the commoners stick to the laws.”
“I’m not really sure where your loyalties lie, Malfoy.”
“I’m not really sure where yours do, either, Edgecomb, and right now I don’t really care.”
A drawer was closed with a faint bang!, and Lucius continued, “Weasley still has a man out in the field, and he’s getting very close to finding our friends. We’ll have to monitor events carefully; they have the child, and despite the fact that the man is an unwashed Shaman,” and the sneer was unmistakable in his voice when he said the word Shaman, “his research is very convincing.”
“You want to be in place to snivel before the Dark Lord when that rabble managed to wake him up?”
His voice was positively threatening, and Hermione could just imagine Lucius’s cold smile when he responded, “I’ll point out, Lucien, that I haven’t spent the last few years rotting in some shack on the tundra. We survive. We always survive, and we conquer. You would do well to remember that, when your spine starts to soften.”
“And Weasley’s Marriage Law?”
“What of it?”
“It’s… foul, that’s what.”
“The Under-Secretary won’t try to keep it up. It will fall to public opinion before the year’s out.”
“He certainly seems to be trying to shore it up - even used that publicity stunt with Oliver Wood.”
“Of course he did. He’s waiting for a reaction from the IWC.”
The second man, Edgecombe, was silent for a moment. “He’s aware of the Austrian’s influence, then?”
“Despite his unfortunate background, the Under-Secretary is a very shrewd man.”
“The Austrians will not be happy to have their connection to us known so widely, Malfoy.”
“You really are a simple creature, aren’t you? So he is aware of some irregularities in the IWC - Britain is in no position to challenge anyone. The Under-Secretary will be taken care of, when it becomes necessary.”
The clink of a glass being set down was the only sound before the soft noise of Apparation. Unfortunately, Hermione didn’t have time to scramble for cover before the door was thrown open.
“Why, Ms. Wood - I trust you heard something to interest you?”
Previous Chapter
Next Chapter
.
But with the shadow of Voldemort still hanging over a frightened community, Oliver is about to find out that the consequences of doing the right thing can get very out of hand!
An Oliver Wood/Hermione Granger Romance
Chapter Seventeen - (Most Definitely Not) Uncle Tom’s Cabin
-..-
THE CAMP was a mess. There was still a few smoking holes, for shite’s sake. How could he have possibly been so far behind her as to miss this?
This wasnae happening. There was no way that this could possibly be happening. She’d just been in the clearing. She’d been hurt by his thoughtless comment, and he was here to make it up to her, possibly by the strategic use of kisses - though whether more for him or for her, he wasn’t admitting - until she was no longer angry and at least put her wand down.
She was most definitely not missing.
Slowly, Oliver picked his way past the charred remains of their tent flap; inside was even worse. Last night, Hermione had playfully transfigured his chair back, trying to hold her laughter at his expression. He’d tried, honestly tried not to show his horror at the holes where the stuffing now poked out, victims of the broken spell’s backlash and one arm was distinctly lower than its mate. She’d teasingly promised to fix it when they got back this evening. It was now standing there, like the last survivor in a pub brawl. The room was trashed; a mess of splinters and stuffing and broken dishes. Even his pillow, which seemed to have been blasted to pieces, lay scattered among the wreckage. Though that part he was fairly certain had probably been Hermione venting her frustrations at him before the apparent disaster struck.
What the bloody shite had happened?
Her broom was still in camp, the leather harness a mass of twisted and charred straps beside it. Vaguely, he could hear rushing in his ears, the muted sound of voices.
It wasn’t until he felt the restraining hand on his wand that he realised it was his own voice he was hearing, yelling guttural profanities as he added to the general destruction. This was not going to help his Mouse; and there was no way in Merlin’s knickers that she was going to be captive a moment longer than his wand found its mark.
Warily, Krum watched him pull himself together, one painstaking muscle at a time. When he seemed sure Oliver wasn’t going to start Cursing again, he began methodically sorting through the wreckage. Without a word, Oliver started beside him, shifting debris in hopes of finding some answers.
The camp fire was small that night, and somehow seemed to lack any real warmth with only the two of them to share it. They had searched for something, anything to give them some kind of clue as to what to do next. Oliver honestly hadn’t realised how much he’d come to depend on Hermione until she was no longer here to help him make sense of things.
How much he’d come to depend on her smile, just to make the world seem right.
It took them over an hour to sort through the debris, using every charm and spell Oliver could think of to try and wrangle any more information out of what was left, but they hadn’t turned up anything worth the effort. Several Apparation point were detectable, though it’s not like the bloody things came with names, was it? As near as they could tell, this fiasco had started in the tent. Hermione seemed to have been taken down quickly after the fight moved out into the camp proper. Somehow, Oliver was not surprised that she’d fought like a wee hellcat - if only it had been enough. They’d managed to uncover some of her notes, left intact in the wreckage, but nothing that looked like it had been dropped deliberately, no note saying ‘They’re taking me to Gregory bloody Goyle’s place’, or something similarly helpful.
He sighed, looking around their stripped-down camp. “Assuming it’s the same one who’s setting off spells for the dragons, we should probably continue the way we were heading.” He knew it was the best course, the only course until they had something new to go on, but it still felt like he was quitting on Hermione, carrying forward as if she weren’t his primary concern.
Viktor Accio’d out a map from his tent, and moved closer to Oliver to unroll it on a rock. While he quietly took a moment to find the right section, Oliver tried very hard to ignore it was where Hermione usually sat for meals.
“The body wa’ in a rain-wash, right abou’ here,” Oliver indicated the spot with a jabbing finger, a bit north of their current camp.
Krum barely gave it a glance, black eyes focusing instead on tracing river ways and elevation lines. After a moment, grunted, and looked up. “Ve should start around here, maybe,” he said, pointing at a spot further North.
“Look, ye bloody bastard,” Oliver heard himself exploding, “I’m no’ so in love wit’ ye that I want t’ spend the rest of the winter freezing my knackers off wit’ you up here! I found the body south of there, why the name of Merlin’s balls do ye want to go tha’ far North?”
“You found body here, yes?” Viktor asked, ignoring his outburst as he indicated the area Oliver had pointed out. “Here, look at map.” Carefully, Krum began tracing the spidery trace of a river, just east of the rain-wash. “See? This is tributary of River Torne, which flows North-South, at this point.”
Oliver glared at him, understanding immediately what the bugger was getting at - and he was right, damn it. The Nifflers probably found it by the banks, and dragged it the quarter mile from the river. He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Fine. The body washes south, than what we want to look for is likely further along the river.”
Leaning further over the map, Oliver pointed to what appeared to be a largish town on the fjord twisted coastline. “We probably wan’ t’ head into,” he peered a little closer, “Narvik first. It looks like it migh’ be the best place for supplies”
Krum just stared at him for a moment, his expression carefully neutral. “There is no Vizarding settlements there, no Vizarding settlements anywhere this far north. They must get supplies from else place.”
“I still think this place is worth a look,” Oliver insisted stubbornly.
“Fine, ve check Narvik.”
Oliver glared at him, fully aware he was being patronised. “Just saying Narvik - I mean, where?”
Viktor snorted in disgust.
“What? It’s a city,” Oliver said, as if this should be obvious. “Well, town. You can’t just walk in and hope to find a something we don’t even know what we’re looking for.”
“Not so smart, English. This is North Country, not holiday in Soho. If ve find anything besides deer around Narvik, vill probably be vot ve look for.”
-..-
HER HEAD hurt. And her mouth tasted like something that might have been scrapped from the bottom of a first year’s cauldron. For a moment, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of leaving her eyes closed, and letting herself ignore the likely consequences awaiting her once someone was aware that she was awake.
She wondered idly what Crookshanks was doing - if he was behaving for Adrianne, looking out for her the same way he seemed to look out for his mistress. She missed his somewhat squashed face, and the way he would occasionally insert it between the covers to press his cold nose against the small of Oliver’s back early in the morning, causing the highlander to jump, and often fall out of bed in the process. Crookshanks always took advantage of his absence to insinuate himself between them, purring loudly as he kneaded Hermione’s side. With a few grumbles, Oliver would usually leave him there, and they would all drift back off to sleep. Somehow, by the time she woke up a second time, Crookshanks had usually managed to curl into the large man’s side, and she would watch the two of them sleep cuddled together.
It was with this somewhat playful image that Hermione braced herself to face her captors.
It was, therefore, a bit of a disappointment to find herself completely alone when she defiantly opened her eyes, ready to brace them.
She was lying across a rather comfortable lounge. It was covered in deep green fabric of incredible softness - she actually had to resist the urge to rub her cheek against it a few times, and snuggle in deeper. With a sigh, she pushed herself up, noticing that at least they hadn’t bound her, though a quick inventory told her that she no longer had her wand.
Too much to hope for, really. But, one can always hope for dumb captors. Malfoy was most definitely not dumb, though. Arrogant, snivelling and spoilt, but not dumb. She hoped, wherever he was, his head hurt as much as hers did right now.
It had been rather petty, she supposed, but as soon as she’d heard the soft pops of Apparition outside the tent last night, she’d known she wasn’t going to escape, so she’d settled for getting in as many pot shots at Draco as possible before they had a chance to restrain her. From what she rather foggily remembered, she’d done a fair job.
It had taken her less than a second to dismiss her shock and to force her body into some kind of action. Seeing the marten definitely took her by surprise. She put no stock in divinations, of course, no matter how old the method or how un-involved Professor Trelawney was, but it still was something so completely unexpected that she’d been momentarily unable to process anything else.
Her surprise worked in her favour; noticing her distraction, Malfoy had let his eyes flicker down, just for a second, to see what it was that was confusing her. A second was all she needed. Springing forward, she managed to cock her fist and smash in into his nose with a satisfying crack! Small pops and sizzles from outside the tent told her that reinforcements were waiting outside, so instead of diving for the front flap, she dove for the kitchen island. Ugly green pottery shards rained down, littering her hair with a fine coating of sharp, glittering powder. Twisting franticly for her wand, still thankfully in her back pocket, she slammed her back against the cupboards as she heard another explosion above her. She winced for her countertop.
The sound of Draco’s breathing told her he was only a few feet away, and there had been at least three Apparitions, that she had heard, outside the tent. But if they wanted her dead, Malfoy could have done that already, instead of pausing to speak with her, so she could only hope they wanted her alive.
Of course, that didn’t mean she’d go down without a fight. The other Wizards were outside; Malfoy, on the other hand, was conveniently right here. It would make whatever they wanted with her a little more palatable if she knew he was suffering just as much as she was.
Sweat was dripping down her neck, making the place between her shoulder blades itch uncomfortably. Dozens of little pottery nicks were tingling and stinging as she curled, preparing to roll. “Confringo!” she grunted, knowing her wild aim couldn’t be helped, but hoping she got lucky, even as she heard an answering “Confundus!” from a few feet away.
She slammed into the small wall framing the doorway, almost knocking the breath out of her lungs. Trying to huddle into the half-metre of cover it provided, she silently cursed her fondness for biscuits before bed as her hips seemed just a little too wide to skootch comfortably. Another curse winged by her, sending down a small rain of plaster from the edge of the doorframe above her, and she tried to scoot just a little closer to the wall.
“I really hope Oliver didn’t borrow this tent from someone,” she muttered, before taking a deep breath and sending back an answering hex. Faintly, she registered the sound of the coffee table exploding and Malfoy’s muffled curse, and she grinned, grimly. Crouching down, Hermione tried to peer past the doorframe and get a brief look at her opponent, before launching herself across the two metres to the opposite wall. “Episphaira!”
From the corner of her eyes, she caught the vague image of a large, Muggle glove, the kind used for fisticuffs, firmly catching Malfoy under the chin, before she skidded forcefully into the opposite wall. He was caught so by surprise, it didn’t look like he’d get his wand up in time.
“Nidorate!” The force of his anger was clearly behind it, as the wall actually bowed before snapping back and completely disintegrating, and, feeling that perhaps capture might be a virtue at this point, Hermione had flung herself through what was left of her kitchen, towards the tent flap.
The rest of the room she now found herself in was as nice as the lounge. A thick brick fireplace blazed merrily in one corner, making the room pleasantly warm. Several gilt frames adorned the walls, and even one ancient-looking tapestry, hanging by what turned out to be the door to the loo. The carpeting was thick, and would probably be wonderful to wiggle one’s toes in. A large sleigh bed rested against the far wall, dividing the room in two. All in all, it could have been much worse.
Everything, of course, was decorated in shades of green. For one moment, Hermione had the urge to stick her tongue out at it. Instead, she busied herself by examining the fireplace, but of course, it wasn’t connected to the Floo network. Just an ordinary Muggle fire, no matter how much Hermione strained her woefully limited wandless magic to will it otherwise. Pushing back on her heels, she blew a frustrated breath. No good there, then. The wide wooden mantle was ornately carved with tiny roses, all intricately intertwined in a repeating pattern of some kind. Frankly, staring at it too long was making her eyes cross, but still, she pushed up into an awkward sort of half-crouch, and gave some of them a perfunctory try, looking for any that could be pulled or prodded into revealing some hidden secret.
“Cleaning the fireplace, Granger?”
She really wished it wasn’t some sort of evil villain code, to always enter a room so silently so as to cause one, who, in the interests of escaping, was leaning under the heavy mantle, to jerk up suddenly; and of course, bang their head on said mantle hard enough to knock themselves silly.
Across the room, Draco sniggered.
“Was there something particular that you wanted, Malfoy, or were you just here to be your irritating self?” Thankfully, the stars were starting to clear from Hermione’s head, and she was able to force herself to stand properly, if a little wobbly, and feel less at a disadvantage.
Malfoy looked as awful as she felt. A beautiful bruise coloured the right side of his jaw a livid purple, while dark circles hung under both eyes, probably due to her fist knocking him square in the nose during those first few confused seconds in the tent. All in all, it made the ache in her head much more bearable, and she made no attempt to hide her satisfied smirk.
“Bad day?” she offered sweetly.
For a moment, she thought he might hex her. For a moment, she was pretty sure he thought he might, too. But slowly, his hand relaxed on his wand, and he let out a steady breath. “Just stay over there, if you don’t mind, Granger,” he said in an impressively even voice.
“Why am I here, Malfoy?” Under the circumstances, she was rather pleased of the asperity in her tone.
He sighed, and rolled his eyes. “Look, can we just try not to kill each other for the next little while, Mudblood?”
“Oh, yes, because that’s exactly the way to gain my cooperation!” she glared back.
“Fine. Granger. Can we try to pretend we don’t loath each other for now? Just for something different?”
Hermione continued to glare. “Why am I here?” she gritted out, slowly.
Looking away, over towards the mantle, Draco finally spoke, “Believe it or not, we’re just keeping you out of trouble,” he said tiredly, and moved to throw himself into a rather formal looking chair beside him. He regarded her, for a moment, legs dangling over the arm, focusing on her with an intensity she found more intimidating than any of his other odd behaviour.
Considering for just a moment, she settled to the floor in front of the hearth, and waited, though she was sure to keep her expression as sceptical as she felt.
“Frankly, your husband is being a royal ass, bringing you straight to them - practically had you wrapped in a giant bow,” he remarked, almost absently, watching as he twirled his wand between his long fingers.
“Who are they?”
His head snapped up at this. “Oh, come on, Granger, don’t give me that. You and that over-grown gorilla you call a husband have been working on this for a quite a few months now, haven’t you?”
How did Malfoy know what she’d been doing…? “Ethan Daniels,” she guessed, resignedly.
“One of ours,” he confirmed. “An old family…”
“Friend?” Hermione guessed when he paused. She couldn’t quite keep the condescension from her voice at the thought of the Malfoys having anything even resembling a friend.
“Debtor, actually.” He smirked, obviously enjoying her irritation.
Hermione started at him for a long moment. “So, you’re trying to tell me that you’ve suddenly taken an interest in - what? My health?”
Malfoy just rolled his eyes, as if it were she who were being obtuse. “Granger, you could take up Blast-Ended Skrewt farming for all I’m going to lift a finger for you, but unfortunately for everyone involved, you’re just a little too unwholesomely smart to be left lying around. You don’t really think Greg took a sudden liking to your buck teeth, do you?”
“And suddenly I remember why I punched your lights out in third year.”
“Funny, Granger. Funny. I’ll just leave you to your Cinderella impression, then, shall I?”
“A Muggle reference? You’re slipping.”
The blond merely rolled his eyes. “Everyone knows it’s a wizarding story, Granger.”
Damn it if the little prick didn’t actually make a move to leave. Glaring, Hermione seethed, “Wait. What is it you wanted, Malfoy?”
“That’s better,” he settled back in his chair, sighing obnoxiously in exaggerated comfort. “Now, what I need to know is, how much does that Puff-head Wood, know?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” Hermione grinned sweetly.
So fast, Hermione wasn’t even sure she saw him move, Draco’s legs dropped from the arm, and he sat poised, looking like he were ready to launch himself at her at a moment’s notice. “Look, this is not a negotiation here - We hold all the fucking cards. This doesn’t have to be unpleasant; tell me what we want to know, and rest assured most of it is easily verifiable facts, so don’t bother screwing with me, and this won’t have to get uncivilized.”
She stared at him, incredulous, before glaring around her prison, pointedly. “And this is your definition of civility?”
“Try for one minute not to play the goody-goodly little martyr, will you? You’re surrounded; held captive by superior forces, if you’d like. Would it make you feel better if I were to stick flaming wand wood under your fingernails? Or perhaps deigned not to feed you? Or worse, fed you that overgrown oaf’s rock cakes, maybe? You have very little options, mud- Granger.”
The stubborn set of her jaw must have been enough to let him know how effective Hermione considered his threats.
He sighed, suddenly looking weary and much … older than the bratty boy she’d left back in Hogwarts just three months ago. “Don’t do this, Granger. The effects of Veritasium are not pleasant, especially when it’s not brewed by a master, and frankly, we don’t have one on hand at the moment. Besides, there’s no real reason for you to go through that. Answer some questions; a simple spell will tell us if you’re telling the truth or not, and frankly there’s no Gryffindor glory being lost by giving in on this, because in the end, you’d rather I win than they do.”
This whole conversation was taking on an eerie, almost surreal quality, as the known quantity in the situation, namely one Slytherin Prince, was subtly becoming someone else before her eyes. It was like finding out that Professor Trelawney was actually Professor McGonagal in disguise. Frankly, it was unnerving in the extreme. “Why do you care? I would have thought you’d prefer the hard way, or even the Veritasium. Why…”
Steel grey eyes were lost in thought, looking in the flames as they flared in a sudden draft. “I don’t like you, Mudblood. And frankly, what you stand for makes me ill, but there are some kinds of filth that I don’t want any part of.”
His gaze, when he turned it back to hers, was cold and expressionless once more. “So, Hermione, what’s it going to be?”
Hermione took a deep breath, before cautiously asking, “Who, exactly, are they?”
-..-
“Krum!” Oliver was shouting to be heard over the force of the wind. “Krum!” he tried again when his companion failed to respond; the howling gale conveniently covered whether or not he was simply being ignored. The wind gusted for the hundredth time, sending icy sleet against the exposed parts of his skin. It’d been half an hour since he last felt his fingers, though he was fairly sure the grip he had on his broom might only be broken by a spell - or crashing into the side of a mountain.
And there were mountains all around them; channelling the wind into a shrieking, driving thing intent on knocking them out of the air. Frankly, with the sky one uniform shade of grey, he was no longer sure if they were even travelling in the right direction, and he didn’t dare take his eyes off his malevolent surroundings long enough to check the Point Me charm mounted on the front of his broom.
The storm had hit, just as Oliver had predicted it would, and they were unable to outrace it as they’d hoped, leaving both of them as sitting ducks at the mercy of the elements. They should have taken cover when it first became obvious that they’d never out run it. Instead, with one determined look, they’d both urged their broomsticks higher, hoping to get above the worst of it. It worked for a while, but the higher they went, the colder it became, until eventually they were driven back into the full fury between the mountains.
Thoughts of Hermione; of where she was, what was being done to her, had him driving headlong into the wind behind Krum, trusting the other man to guide him in the fierce Northern storm, but this was rapidly turning into suicide. He had no time to be nursing broken bones or exposure. No time to go back and find a Mediwitch if the inevitable crash happened.
“Krum!” he bellowed, forcing himself to drive his broom closer, grimly enduring the sting as the sleet and snow drove into him that much faster, and with greater force. This time, the Bulgarian slowed and turned, the stubborn set to his eyes telling Oliver he’d been deliberately ignoring him earlier. In truth, Oliver felt the same need to fly faster, farther, to find Hermione before those bastards had a chance to hurt her in any way.
But not like this. Driving headlong into a howling gale wasnae going to save anyone, and he made sure the stern expression he sent back to Krum conveyed that. Briefly, Viktor’s features tightened, and he turned to glare out at the swirling wall of white ahead of them, as if wanting to hex the storm itself into submission. For a long moment, they both hovered there, surrounded by grey rock and biting sleet, and Oliver knew he’d have to jinx the other man if he stubbornly refused to take shelter.
Seconds ticked by, and slowly feeling was beginning to return to Oliver’s fingers as he continued to hover with his back to the wind, tiny pinpricks that screamed and burned in protest, and finally Viktor turned, pointing his broom towards the valley floor.
Oliver let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
The farther down they got into the valley, the darker it became as light was lost to the snow’s obstruction and the looming walls of the mountains surrounding them. There was no finesse to their descent whatsoever, and at times it was more like falling as they tumbled about roughly in the wind’s grip. Down here the winds were even stronger, and there were a few times when Oliver thought he or Viktor really were going to be smeared across the rock walls.
Growing determinedly, right from the mountain side, a tree loomed suddenly out of the grey uniformity, branches reaching from the bare rock like icy caltrops. Too late to swerve; but trying anyway, Viktor crashed into it sideways and his furious curses were loud enough to be heard even above the wind.
Each time the large man tried to extract himself, new branches would grab him, entangling his robe and broom even further.
“Sheeban po dyavolite!” he grunted, caught in at least three places. Oliver couldn’t help himself, and roared with laughter, even as he tried to pry his frozen hands off his broom to find his wand and help.
“’Mayka sheebanyak!”
The tree, of course, chose that moment to give way, and with a loud crack! Viktor and his broom tumbled gracelessly the rest of the way to the ground. Fortunately, that was only twenty feet or so, and when Oliver landed in the deep snow, the amount of cursing still coming from the prone Bulgarian convinced him he wasn’t seriously hurt.
He glared sourly up at Oliver when he came into his view. “You know English, you could try giving me hand, instead of laughing like hyena.”
Instead, Oliver made sure to kick some more snow at him on the way by.
By the time Krum had dug himself out, and found his broom, Oliver had already used his wand to make a wall out of the snow to enclose their campsite and block the wind. Of course, that did nothing to stop the wind coming over the top, and Krum glowered at him, daring him to object when he flourished his wand, and with a snarled “Coerceo!” had them completely enclosed. Still muttering darkly, he stomped off.
In truth, Oliver hadn’t been planning on adding to their structure any more than necessary, knowing that there were still hostile wizards and witches in the area and not wanting to stand out from the landscape any more than they had to, but he let it go. The storm provided more than enough cover for the moment, and any wizard who was daft enough to scout in it was welcome to join them for sausages and tea. Besides, the sudden silence was a relief.
Viktor had a nice blaze going by the time Oliver was finished setting a few heating charms and wards, and the tents were up. Firelight danced off the white walls and ceiling, making weird shadows in the reflected light, and Oliver could clearly see the twigs still stuck in the other man’s robes.
“Ye done acting like a little girl, then?” he asked, teasing.
Krum just shot him a tired look. “Shouldn’t you be doing useful thing, like make dinner?”
Oliver smirked, but moved to get a few potatoes peeling themselves, and some water on to boil. “If you’re not too afraid it’ll bite yeh, you could try helping.”
Viktor grunted, but got up and joined him.
They worked in silence, the wind muted behind their walls and allowing time for Oliver to think clearly for the first time in hours. It was easy to ignore his companion, who seemed to be equally lost in thought, and instead he tried to focus on their next move. Unfortunately, easy as it was to ignore the things around him, it was not so easy to ignore the thoughts of Hermione that kept intruding. He’d been pushing the desperate feeling away, locking it in a box and trying not to listen to it rattle. If he allowed himself to think of her abduction that hollow feeling that sucked at his insides, making him crazy with worry and fear, would take over. He needed to keep a clear head, to think for both of them right now. She needed him to stay focused.
Hermione had been right all along - obviously the key to what was happening was out here in this semi-frozen wasteland, and they’d obviously not been careful enough to avoid detection. Why had they simply taken Hermione and left Krum and himself alone? It didn’t make any sense, unless they truly didn’t believe they were any threat. But again, why leave two witnesses behind, who could just as easily raise an alarm back in England? Two lone Wizards might not be much of a threat, but they could easily come back with more. So why take Hermione, and betray the fact that they knew they were there?
“Vood,”
“Mmmm?” he acknowledged, still worrying the dichotomy of their enemies’ motives.
“Vhy did you Contract Herm-own-ninny?”
Startled, he jerked up to stare at the other man’s face in the firelight, but saw nothing but open curiosity. “A truce then?” Oliver asked sardonically, leaning back a little to grab another sausage to spear on his stick.
Viktor shrugged, a small smile tugging his features. “Nothing better to do during all this.”
Oliver stared into the fire for a moment, considering. With a shrug, he answered. “Honestly, Fred Weasley talked me into it. Seemed t’ think Hermione might get herself into trouble wit’ the wrong sort rather quickly. Turned out he was right.”
“Fred is one who vorks vit Dragaons, yes?”
“One of the twins, actually.”
Viktor shrugged once, not really caring, before getting back on point. “He vas right? Vot happened?”
“There was a duel,” he said shortly, not really wanting to think about those few dark hours when he thought it was possible he might lose.
“She told me about that part. She seemed to think you vere very braffe.” Krum seemed reluctant to add that last part, but for some reason seemed to feel compelled into honesty.
Oliver snorted, dismissively. “I’m sure she’s though’ me an arse many more times than she has ever though’ me brave.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind continued to hammer on their walls, and the fire crackled almost defiantly in its wake. Oliver smiled at his fanciful thoughts.
“Vhy did you fight for her? You could haff been killed trying to vin a vitch you neffer vanted.”
“It was the righ’ thing tae do.”
Viktor snorted. “I thought ve vere being honest. There must haff been some other vay, but you didn’t try to find other vay, did you?”
Oliver thought carefully before trying to answer. “I’d had a chance tae get t’ know her a bit by then,” he stopped, remembering their argument in the Library about the merits of fighting for creatures who didn’t even want freedom, just because it was the right thing to do. “She’s stubborn and prickly and no’ the easiest lass tae get t’ know, but she’s fiery, and has far more passion than one little body should be able to hold.”
It was Viktor’s turn to stare out at the fire. “You loff her.”
His voice was uneven, but Oliver pretended not to notice. “She’s easy to care about,” he responded, not exactly sure why he was so needled.
Viktor merely looked at him, his black eyes shadowed by his heavy brows, and making him look almost intimidating in the strange light. After a moment, he turned back to studying his hands were they hung clasped loosely between his knees. “Ve should get help. Maybe your Ministry -”
“No, we shouldn’t,” Oliver surprised even himself with the force of his contradiction, and Krum just turned to stare, one eyebrow raised questioningly, but Oliver wasn’t paying any attention for the moment. He was far too busy working through his sudden conviction that going to the Ministry right now would be the wrong thing to do. “Hermione said tha’ someone was playing silly buggers with the others - tha’ someone tried to prevent anyone from bringing Voldemort back by feeding him some kind of silver potion.”
The Bulgarian looked positively floored, but Oliver was following his sudden epiphany, and didn’t dare stop to let Krum catch up. “If there’s someone else mucking about up here, some small group of saboteurs, that might explain why they just took Hermione, and left us alone. I mean, there can’t have been that many of them.”
“But if they don’t vant the others to raise Voldemort, then vhy take Herm-own-ninny? She is best chance we haff.”
Oliver threw his sausage stick at the fire with some force. “I donnae know, damnit,” he growled. He stared out at the flames as they licked around the new fuel, fists clenching and unclenching as he tried to fight the urge to throw something else in after his stick. “All I do know is tha’ if they took Hermione, then the other rutting bastards don’ know we’re out here - an’ if we bring a great big mucking group up to search blindly, we’re goin’ to lose tha’ little advantage real quick.”
Krum blew out a breath, before speaking. “So, ve are stuck between two groups who vont to keep dead var going?”
“That’s about the shape of it.”
“And ve are outnumbered?”
“By quite a bit, I’d imagine.”
He nodded. “Vell, then it is good thing ve played Quidditch.”
Oliver threw back his head and laughed. It felt good to laugh right now, but it was still short lived. With a solid heave, he pushed himself up from the ground. “I’m goin’ tae bed. You can try yer Wronski Feint on them in the morning, if yeh like.”
Krum snorted once, his shoulders shuddering under the noise. “Go to sleep Vood. It may not help your beauty, but there’s some hope you’ll be less grumpy.”
He was still sitting by the fire when Oliver finished cleaning up and when to his tent.
“Vood,” he called after him, quietly mocking. “I’m offended I didn’t get invite to vedding.”
-..-
For days she saw no one but Maisy, the house elf who brought her meals and set the fires for her. In the interests of keeping what little company she had, Hermione had eventually stopped trying to talk Maisy into revolting against her foul master. She hadn’t seen Malfoy since she’d been brought here, though she wasn’t sure if her new isolation was somehow intended to bore her into being more talkative, or if he’d simply forgotten about her for now.
Frankly, she didn’t put much faith in either option. Which left her with one other thought.
What if Malfoy had done this on his own?
If this was some kind of personal power game, and he’d acted as some kind of maverick, and Lucius didn’t know what his son was up to? He could simply be away, covering his tracks and taking care of his responsibilities to his father.
But then, why did Draco want her? Why would he be acting separately from his father and his designs? Thousands of questions turned over and over in her mind, keeping her far too busy to notice any boredom. None of it made any sense. And of course, when she wasn’t worrying about her captor’s plans for her, she was thinking about Oliver - and Viktor. She had to presume, to keep her sanity, that nothing had happened to either of them. There were only three others in Draco’s little raiding party - and with two of them tied up in keeping Hermione under control, that would only leave even numbers to take the two men on. Surely, Malfoy hadn’t wanted to get into such an uncertain fight? No, that wasn’t something Malfoy would do; she’d just have to believe that they had what they wanted. She allowed herself to push it from her mind.
What was Oliver doing now? What went through his head when he came back to find her gone; the campsite destroyed? How can he find me when even I have no idea where they’ve taken me? If it were Harry or Ron, she knew they’d get help; start combing the country side for her, and making a lot of noise in the process. She had to hope that Oliver would think things through a little more, first. As near as she could tell, Malfoy was a completely separate consideration from the group who’d likely dumped the body. Several times, he’d referred to ‘they’, obviously not wanting ‘them’ to succeed. Just because Malfoy had known where they were, didn’t mean that other group knew, and if Oliver went floundering around with a search party, it wouldn’t stay that way for very long. Even the most dim of Dark Wizards would notice that much magical activity going on in such a remote area.
But what then? She was giving herself a headache, trying to imagine what he might do, but at least it was something to keep her occupied while her captors ignored her. Frankly, she thought she’d settle for being ignored; she still wasn’t sure what to make of Malfoy, of the fact that she hadn’t been harmed yet, or of his apparent motives. He was right, Veritasium would give them all the answers he wanted, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself from spilling anything they wanted to know.
Instead, she settled into what was fast becoming her favourite green lounge, in front of a perfect fire. Maisy, once Hermione had stopped frightening her with talk of cloths, proved to be hopelessly eager to please, and had turned out to be most adept at acquiring books for Hermione’s reading pleasure. She felt so useful sitting and reading her afternoons away, she realised ruefully, that she might slip into hibernation at any moment. Still, that didn’t stop her from pulling the heavy blanket just a little tighter as she settled into Molière’s Cyrano de Bergerac.
“Where did that disgusting Muggle novel come from?”
She refused to show her surprise at his entrance, and made a point of finishing her page before turning and glowering sourly at his presence. “What do you want, Malfoy?”
“Some light entertainment,” he smirked, moving over to the same chair as last time and making sure she was aware of the wand in his hand.
Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and huffed. “I have no intention of being entertaining for the likes of you.”
“And yet you manage it so nicely,” he told her sweetly, one corner of his smirk trying to twist into a real smile.
If anything, Hermione tightened her crossed arms even closer to her body, and glared.
“Come on, Granger. I’m not any happier to be here than you are to see me, but because I don’t want to extend your stay any longer than absolutely necessary, I’m actually trying to make headway towards solving our mutual problems, before you fucking take root here. As it is, I’m going to have to have the place fumigated, just to get your smell out of the upholstery. Any longer, and I might seriously have to consider burning the place to the ground.”
“With your House Elf still in it, I suppose,” she retorted, scathingly.
Malfoy had the affrontery to just shrug in the face of her, admittedly impotent, anger. “It is rather disgustingly friendly with you at the moment, it would seem,” he acknowledged suggestively.
He’s only doing it to get a rise out of you, Hermione. Do not go trying to give him a broken nose to match his bruised jaw. Just because he’s rich does not mean he’s going to throw away a perfectly good servant who can’t fight back. It was still several moments before she picked up her book, pointedly signalling the end to her side of the conversation.
“All right, knock it off Granger. Unless you want to stay here?”
“I can’t imagine anything you can possibly say that will induce me to help you in any way.” Of course, she was just staring at the page. It was impossible to concentrate on the words in his rather odious presence.
Finally, his amused veneer seemed to crack. “I could make you a widow,” he gritted out past clenched teeth.
“I think you already tried that, Malfoy. As I recall, Oliver beat you with a rather large stick,” she was pushing her luck, she knew, making him angry, and probably pushing him towards those methods he’d hinted at in their first meeting, but honestly, she couldn’t imagine any circumstances in which she could willingly help Malfoy. Besides, an angry Malfoy was one who would hopefully be prone to making mistakes, and she’d get every advantage she could for Oliver right now.
Her little altercation with Malfoy left both of them feeling unsatisfied, she suspected, but it did lead to one bright point for Hermione. As she watched him leave, she noticed that he didn’t bother to lock the door behind him in any way. Feeling stupid for not even checking once in the last few days, she’d sulked in her nest on the lounger for a full half hour before groaning in frustration, and pushing all the blankets to the floor. She stormed over to the door, still embarrassed that she had overlooked the fact that she apparently had more freedom than she’d thought for the last three days.
The handle turned easily in her hands, and she took a deep breath before easing it open, straining to hear evidence of anyone beyond. No one disturbed the quiet outside her room as Hermione slipped past the door. The hallway she found herself in was just as lavish as the room she’d been given. Rich oak wood wainscoting gleamed along the walls and from the framed portraits lining them, and Hermione allowed her fingers to run along the smooth wood as she crept cautiously over to inspect them. Of course, she didn’t recognise any of the pictures inhabitants, and none of them seemed to share the Malfoy blond hair, or sharp nose, and most of them took one look at her, and began whispering disdainfully to their neighbours. Hermione rolled her eyes. Figures someone like Malfoy would only have Purebloods up on his walls. But it also warned her that even though Malfoy was nowhere in sight, she was still being watched carefully. Somehow, the opulence of her surroundings just made her flesh creep a little bit; trying to cover a horror with a nice veneer didn’t make it any more palatable, and somehow she thought she preferred Grimauld Place; at least its vileness was out in the open.
Forty minutes of determined exploration turned up nothing. The wards surrounding the, well, what appeared from the inside at least, the cottage, made it quite impossible for her to leave without her captors assistance, and of course her wand was nowhere to be found - not that she hadn’t spent considerable time trying to find it. Two more bedrooms turned up on her search, along with a library - or perhaps a parlour with a lot of books, she wasn’t really sure; a kitchen and a locked and warded room that she was guessing was possibly some kind of a study. And of course everywhere, the colour green and furnishings that just screamed of wealth. Malfoy must have left after speaking with her, because she hadn’t run into a single soul during her inspection, besides two elderly House Elves in the kitchen. Even Maisy must be accompanying her master. None of the fireplaces seemed to be connected to the Floo, all the windows were actually spelled onto the walls, similar to the ceiling at Hogwarts, and didn’t really open up to the outside, and the only door wouldn’t open and actually threatened her when she tried. Hermione wasn’t sure if she’d ever get used to inanimate objects being so cheeky.
Dejected, she allowed her legs to fold, dropping herself onto the chesterfield just inside the parlour. Of all the rooms in the house, this was the only one she found inviting. For some reason, a different hand had held sway here and the overall effect was warmer, though somehow minimalist, with less thought to impressing a visitor’s lowliness on them and more to serenity. Somehow, Hermione found it soothing.
Though it was getting dark, she didn’t bother getting up to light one of the many lamps, instead allowing her head to fall onto the back of the chesterfield. The material felt nice against her neck, no hint of the lumpiness that was admittedly present in the ones in Gryffindor Tower, and for a moment felt almost like she was committing a betrayal to be thinking anything of Malfoy’s better than Gryffindor House had had. She still hadn’t found any hint of where she was; each window she’d found had shown a different scene - even those right beside each other. Most had been trained on different landscapes; a rainforest, complete with colourful macaws and blooming orchids in every tree, what appeared to be a vineyard covering acres of rolling hills, a veritable maze of red rock stretching up from a barren valley floor. A few seemed to be used for other purposes, and one was even trained on the Atrium of the Ministry itself. Absolutely nothing she could even begin to deduce her location from. Instead, she just allowed her body to sink into the cushions, arms flopped loosely at her sides and tried not to think.
She’d almost surrendered to her Zen-like state when the faint pop of someone arriving permeated her muddled non-thoughts.
“…still don’t see why we’ve let it go this long,” someone was saying.
Hermione didn’t dare move, even to press herself further into the shadows, afraid of making a sound. When the second voice spoke, she was glad the room was as dark as it was, leaving her virtually invisible from the hall.
“You’re impatient, Edgecomb. Let them stumble around a bit longer - they might even discover something useful…” She’d bet Crookshanks and Oliver’s favourite broom that this unmistakably smooth voice belonged to none other than Lucius Malfoy. “Besides, steps have already been taken to ensure we have an insurance policy.”
Oh goody, Daddy’s home.
The voices were fading as Malfoy and his guest made their way further into the house. She sat there for a full three minutes before daring to move. Blowing out the breath she’d been holding, Hermione crept down the hall, thankful that this part of the house was filled with maps, instead of alarm-raising portraits. The door to the room she’d assumed to be a study was closed, but light spilled from under the door, belying their presence. Carefully, she pressed herself to the smooth wood, listening intently.
“…sure it’s wise, allowing them to get so close?”
“Second thoughts, Lucien? I’m surprised at you. You’re daughter’s not nearly so hesitant.”
The second man grunted, obviously not pleased, but not willing to pursue it further. The sound of a decanter being opened signalled a momentary halt in the conversation as Hermione could hear the soft splashes of two glasses being filled.
“I brought the device, though I don’t know why you’d want it,” Edgecomb was saying, and Hermione heard the sound of something heavy being set down.
“Call it forward planning. Somehow, I don’t think I want that just sitting around in that rabble’s rather unstable hands.”
“Just think - with this research, we can identify Mudblood children before they become a nuisance. We could, if we chose, prevent any of them from polluting our world ever again. That would put an end to Weasley’s Marriage Laws in a hurry, wouldn’t it?”
“And yet you still aim so low, Lucien. Rid ourselves of the Mudbloods? That was always his work - surely you didn’t suddenly become a believer?”
“That old claptrap? Not likely.”
“Besides, they fulfil a useful role, a few of them are even worth their magic. Blood will always count, and as long as they stay in their place, they’re welcome to their menial existence. I certainly have no interest in making sure the sewers flow and the commoners stick to the laws.”
“I’m not really sure where your loyalties lie, Malfoy.”
“I’m not really sure where yours do, either, Edgecomb, and right now I don’t really care.”
A drawer was closed with a faint bang!, and Lucius continued, “Weasley still has a man out in the field, and he’s getting very close to finding our friends. We’ll have to monitor events carefully; they have the child, and despite the fact that the man is an unwashed Shaman,” and the sneer was unmistakable in his voice when he said the word Shaman, “his research is very convincing.”
“You want to be in place to snivel before the Dark Lord when that rabble managed to wake him up?”
His voice was positively threatening, and Hermione could just imagine Lucius’s cold smile when he responded, “I’ll point out, Lucien, that I haven’t spent the last few years rotting in some shack on the tundra. We survive. We always survive, and we conquer. You would do well to remember that, when your spine starts to soften.”
“And Weasley’s Marriage Law?”
“What of it?”
“It’s… foul, that’s what.”
“The Under-Secretary won’t try to keep it up. It will fall to public opinion before the year’s out.”
“He certainly seems to be trying to shore it up - even used that publicity stunt with Oliver Wood.”
“Of course he did. He’s waiting for a reaction from the IWC.”
The second man, Edgecombe, was silent for a moment. “He’s aware of the Austrian’s influence, then?”
“Despite his unfortunate background, the Under-Secretary is a very shrewd man.”
“The Austrians will not be happy to have their connection to us known so widely, Malfoy.”
“You really are a simple creature, aren’t you? So he is aware of some irregularities in the IWC - Britain is in no position to challenge anyone. The Under-Secretary will be taken care of, when it becomes necessary.”
The clink of a glass being set down was the only sound before the soft noise of Apparation. Unfortunately, Hermione didn’t have time to scramble for cover before the door was thrown open.
“Why, Ms. Wood - I trust you heard something to interest you?”
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