A Conspiracy of Books

Chapter 5 Saints and Sinners

"Is this where you found him?"

"Yeah."

"Blimey," Ron whistled. Hermione and Harry squeezed around him so that they were standing behind the book stacks in the empty alcove. She doubted they'd been seen--very few students had been at the tables. The very lack of people made her feel on edge about being in this isolated spot. Even the morning light couldn't totally dispel the creepiness. Ron shoved his hands in his pockets and toed the edge of the bloodstain. Hermione's stomach turned over. It was considerably larger than she'd remembered.

The stain reminded her of Mary Queen of Scots' turret room. Last summer during the Edinburgh Music Festival she and her parents had taken an afternoon out to tour Holyrood Palace. She'd admired Mary's portrait in the antechamber and perused the contents of the glass cabinet--jewels, Robert the Bruce's skull and Bonnie Prince Charlie's sword. When she'd gone to the window overlooking the grounds she'd noticed a brass plaque mounted low on the wall. The inscription ran,

On this spot David Rizzio, the Queen's Italian Secretary, was brutally stabbed 57 times by Scottish

nobles loyal to Lord Darnly. His blood still marks the floor.

Not until she was bent down reading did she realize she'd been standing on it.

"That's a hellova lot of blood." Harry grimly wiped beads of perspiration off his forehead and pushed his glasses farther up onto the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah." They stood there a moment longer, staring at the ruined carpet. "They haven't bothered cleaning, have they?" Ron observed.

"They won't have done, not yet."

"Actually, they have," Hermione said quietly. "I overheard Dumbledore mention it this morning." This was not, strictly, true. Dumbledore had specifically told her, right before he'd specifically told her that Ron and Harry weren't allowed to know she was, technically, spying. It was exasperating that he'd had to say it in front of Draco, but there it was. "It won't come up."

"No kidding." Ron withdrew his toes.

Thinking of Mary's chambers, something twigged. "You know what that means," she said, giving them a significant look.

Ron thought for a moment. "Oh, right," he cottoned on, nodding dolefully.

Harry stared at them. "I'm missing something."

"It means that Goyle's death wasn't an accident. He wasn't just in the wrong place at the wrong time," she clarified.

"But we already knew that," he protested.

Ron shot Hermione a look. "Harry, you know all those stories Fred and George used to try and scare us with, about blood that won't wash out?"

He was silent a moment. "So that's real then."

Was it her imagination, or did he seem unusually anxious? "Yeah, it's real," Ron said.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "So you can spot the murderer by blood on their hands? Like Lady Macbeth or something."

"Sort of," Hermione agreed. When had he hidden his hands in his robes? She tried to focus--it was way too eerie talking about this here. In spite of herself, she was beginning to feel something blossoming in the pit of her stomach--a steady certainty. She forced the next words. "But it's a bit more complicated than that. Usually, it has to be a really horrible murder."

"Like Nearly Headless Nick?"

"Right," Ron said. "Or the motive has to be really awful, like--" Hermione shot him a warning look. He caught himself and said, "like treachery. Lot of problem with that when You-Know-Who was mucking about." She knew he'd been about to say like when your parents died.

Harry thoughtfully nodded, his face closed off. Hermione saw he was thinking it anyway. Hurriedly she said, "Yeah, but there's lots of reasons for it--not just betrayal. It can occasionally happen in accidents. It's not an exact science. The thing is, when it happens, there's always been some kind of blood magic involved. At least according to the records."

"You wouldn't happen to find any of those records in the Restricted Section, would you?" Ron murmured to no one in particular.

Hermione ignored him. "Harry, the thing about blood magic--"

"It's a nasty piece of work," Ron stated flatly. "Look at Snape. With all the shite he brews up? Has to be."

"Well, yes, and no," she argued, hoping they didn't think she was defending Snape. "It's tricky stuff. Even when you want to use it for good, it binds you in funny ways. It's in the gray area, between normal magic . . ." She trailed off, lost in studying the stain.

"And dark magic," Harry finished for her. "And you think Goyle's death involved blood magic."

"It seems to mix up that way," she said, cautiously regarded them. She wished she knew exactly how much she could trust them. "Because, you know, more often than not, blood that won't wash is dark magic."

* * *

With precisely two minutes left in which to get to History of Magic, they hurriedly rounded the corner outside the library. Still shrugging off the memory of the dark-tinged stain, Hermione stumbled over Ron's big feet.

He steadied her. "Mind the gap."

"Sorry," she said, glad he wasn't Harry.

As luck would have it, the corridor was jammed with students. They caught up, jostling their way in. Suddenly Hermione felt a familiar prickle at the base of her neck and surreptitiously scanned the crowd. Nothing. Nobody even seemed to notice them. Annoyed with herself, she pushed forward. A moment later the feeling was back. She grabbed Ron's elbow, doing a double-take.

"What?" he asked, concerned.

"Nothing. Nevermind," she apologized, dropping his arm.

"Come on, then." He clicked his tongue at her clumsiness and steered her in front of him. She looked over her shoulder again as she elbowed people. It proved fruitless. There was nothing to see. But she'd swear that Malfoy had just melted into the jumble of hats and backpacks, his expression wary.

* * * *

Damn that Parkinson.

Draco shuffled the now out-of-order notes, trying to ignore Professor Binns, who, floating deferentially in front of him, again cleared his throat. "As you are group leader, I leave the decision to you. If you would prefer to wait, given the circumstances--"

"No." Draco repressed the urge to stride through his ghostly teacher as he got to his feet. As it was, Binns had to shift most ungracefully out of the way as Draco swept past him to the front of the room. He placed the notes on the podium and surveyed the class distastefully, silently daring anyone to even glance at Goyle's empty seat.

"I have," he began coldly, "chosen to research the history of Saint Thomas a Becket--" A soft but audible gasp came from Neville Longbottom, among others. Draco continued, making his voice as casual as he could, "invoked against blindness."

Pansy glared at him, her face the same red as her blouse. He ignored her. "Born December 29, his feast day celebrated on the same day. . ." He could hear himself droning on as he glanced through Pansy's notes, which were well-organized after all. Why I picked you, of course, he thought, returning her unfriendly gaze with a dismissive nod of finality, the one his father reserved for his highly underpaid secretary.

Crabbe wasn't listening with his usual rapt attention either. Instead, his expression was as black as his robes as he sat fuming at the back of the chair in front of him. Draco pictured himself shooting little darts at him. Git. It was annoying enough to have to present without Crabbe sulking for everyone to see. A red star in the margin next to former friend of King Henry II caught his eye. He took care to work in his own observations; after all, history was never that impartial. "It's too bad, really, that he fell out of favor. Such a promising chancellor."

"Of course, some people just never benefit from the advantages of power." Draco sneered at the three Gryffindors seated near the back of the room. Weasley yawned ostentatiously.

Sad bastard, Draco thought satisfactorily. Professor Binns cleared his throat peremptorily. Draco quickly ploughed through to the bit where the king, after making Thomas Archbishop of Canterbury, got tired of the endless arguments over the balance of power between the church and the state--good, solid English politics. Potter pretended to take notes, which, considering, would do him a fat lot of good.

"The real problem, though," he said scornfully, "stems from the fact, still unknown to muggles, that Thom had far more magical ability than the king. Today we know Henry as a notorious squib. Had to do with an impurity of the bloodline--a telling example of how that sort of carelessness causes weakness. But early accounts indicate that at the time the wizarding community only half believed it, passing it off as rumor. Probably Thomas finally disagreed with Henry so drastically that he threatened to expose him. One brisk afternoon, King Henry just happened to mention in passing that he wished Thomas would settle their disagreement. Permanently."

A tense silence had taken hold of the room. Longbottom fidgeted uneasily. "Obligingly, that night a couple of soldiers went to the cathedral." Draco paused, making it clear he was relishing every word. "They very efficiently and nastily bashed him over the head. Must have caused quite the mess."

Ha. Granger was staring at him with a look of incredulity followed by dawning horror. It was much better than the startled one she'd produced in the hallway before class. He beamed glacially over the success of his unsavory pronouncement.

Yet she had no reason to continue staring. She wasn't even taking in his calculated nonchalance. Draco's smile faded. He quickly ran a hand through his hair and glanced down at his unblemished front to check his robes. What the bloody hell is she on about?

They locked eyes. It was unnerving. Draco hastily returned to the notes. He lost his place and faltered, "Sainted they so him."

Damn. I'll get you for that, Granger. He recovered amid anxious stares, and shifted his gaze away from Gryffindors, Slytherins and every-bloody-one else to stare at a thankfully inanimate stone in the back wall. He squelched a brief, irrational fear that it might suddenly sprout eyes and blink. It was very lamely that he summed up his conclusion, during which he noted several covert glances at Goyle's chair. Not waiting for the customary polite applause, he beat a retreat back to his seat with what deadly calm he could muster.

There followed an uncomfortable interim during which the next presenters straggled up to the front. Under the pretence of giving Weasley what he assumed was a triumphant sneer, Draco eyed the witch in the back corner. Her wide, dark eyes were still fixed on him, face far from composed. He felt a sudden urge to escape. Not meeting her gaze, he held his scowl as long as possible before turning back around. Pansy was waiting for him, unbelievably furious.

She pointedly glanced from Hermione back to Draco, raised an eyebrow, and glacially retrieved her notes from his desk. Then she too faced the front of the room and scooted her chair closer to Crabbe, who hadn't even looked at him once today.

Getting tired of dealing with them, too. He slouched down, not daring to look again at the Gryffindors. He couldn't shake the feeling that all in all, that last sneer hadn't come off as well as he'd planned.

* * * *

Hermione felt like she'd been caught between twists in the time-turner. Draco had just begun his account of Thomas a Becket's death when, in an unwelcome rush, a flood of forgotten images from that morning's dream surfaced in her memory. Harry naked, before her--the planes of his thighs and stomach wonderfully smooth and concave in all the right places--the hollow at the end of the fuzzy trail under his belly button--his green eyes, his dark hair, his hand running through it nervously, five fingers slightly spread--the glint of the light. . .

She watched, mesmerized as Draco self-consciously slid his slim fingers a second time through his gleaming hair. He glanced down at his front. Irrationally, Hermione felt vaguely alarmed. He looked up, directly at her. Their eyes locked.

The confusion fell away. Hermione freely stared right into Draco's grey eyes as he silently challenged her. Calm, like the surface of the lake, and in this light clear like when the water's cold and you can see the pebbles right down on the bottom. She couldn't breathe.

He broke contact, swiftly scanning his notes. She sensed in him an undercurrent of growing desperation that matched her own. He said distinctly, "Sainted they so him."

Hermione winced. Then, like recovered footage, the true end of the dream unspooled, a running filmstrip of satisfyingly connected images. She could suddenly see the gesture again, free from whatever restraints her memory had placed upon it --the slender fingers, the strands of hair glinting in the early morning light, then the contoured form bending over her. And then unbidden, the part where with delicious fullness the censor in her mind stopped blurring the picture out.

The dream figure reached for her, slowly resting the weight of his firm slender body upon her. Just as he was about to gently stop her mouth with an almond-smooth kiss, she stared into his clear, amazingly calm eyes. Hermione realized with a shock that they weren't Harry's.

They were Draco's.

* * * * *

"What's the matter?" Harry asked as Hermione haphazardly crammed her books into her bag and scrambled madly for the exit.

"Nothing!" she sang out over her shoulder with false brightness.

"Wait! Hermione!" Too late, he started after her. She was gone.

Out of necessity, Hermione finally stopped running halfway up the stairs to her room. She couldn't breathe. Her heart was pounding frantically. Since no one was around, she allowed herself to fall back against the wall, closing her eyes.

"Goodness, you're in a state!"

"Oh!" Hermione jumped. "It's you," she said, relieved to find Jane Austen gazing out from her portrait in consternation.

"Sorry dear. It's just--your hair--" Putting down the letter she was writing, Jane fished through the pages of her latest manuscript for a hand mirror.

"Thanks, but no. I'm just on my way to my room," Hermione refused.

"I must insist!" Firmly, Jane held up the mirror. Hermione grimaced wretchedly at her pale face and obligingly smoothed down the offending mass. "Better." Jane smiled, and tucked the mirror away. "Now, what on earth is bothering you? I'll bet," she said shrewdly, "it's a young man."

"Oh, really. . . I'd better go. . ." Hermione stammered.

"No, no. You and I must have a tête-à-tête." Checking to be sure her door was closed, Jane leaned closer to the painting's surface. "Above all, is he a Gryffindor?"

"Erm. . . no. I mean, yes."

"You aren't quite sure?"

"Yes. But. . . I seem to be getting him mixed up with someone else," she admitted. Why had she said that?

"Ah. I see," Jane said a bit slowly. "This occurs often?"

Hermione sighed. "No. Nevermind."

"Not nevermind!" Jane protested. "Likely it's perfectly sensible. They look alike."

"Well, no," she said, remembering Malfoy's grey eyes with uncomfortable clarity.

"Ah, so you aren't sure which of them you like better." Hermione was silent. "I knew it!" Jane cried happily. "Well, there I think I can help you."

"Really?" Hermione asked doubtfully. Drawing room intrigue was one thing, murder and stratagem quite another.

"Of course! Now, first off, what House is this other chap?"

"Slytherin," Hermione said, playing along.

Jane made a sympathetic face. "Ooo, that's bad. Of course, it all depends on whether you really think you like him, or," she lowered her voice, "if you merely wish to cultivate a professional relationship. In this situation, that particular angle could work out to your advantage," she hinted.

Surprised, Hermione sized up Jane, who gave her a sly wink. "Do you mean. . ."

Jane waved her ink-spotted quill. "My dear, it's not all tea parties and balls, you know. This is much easier than scrying and spells. Give it a go. I'm sure this fellow will see reason. You need a cover, he needs a ruse--after all, it's all about keeping up appearances, isn't it?"

She laughed merrily at Hermione's dumbfoundedness. Suddenly she froze. There came a second brief knock, then the handle of Jane's door began to turn. "Quickly--off with you!" she hissed, planting an open romance novel firmly over her narrative and taking up her unfinished missive.

"Oh, Elizabeth! How lovely to see you!" she trilled as Hermione vanished up the stairs.

* * * *

That night, alone in her tower room, Hermione tiredly got out The Warlock's Guide and began leafing through the yellowed pages. After overturning a particularly spotty one, she decided she'd pretty much exhausted turtledove oil, so she put it aside and picked up The Warlock's Guide to Blood Potions, with the same unimaginative subtitle.

She scanned the table of contents. The topics were in no particular order, like they'd been taken originally from the warlock's journals and loosely collected into the semblance of appropriate sections. She'd already read Historical examples involving blood potions. There had to be something else useful. Potions that mimic blood and actions of the blood, Uses of blood in healing, Cooking with blood. Disgusting.

In need of a diversion, she turned to it anyway. The chapter began by extolling the virtues of blood sausage. Fantastic. The author was not only extremely unorganized, but probably also a vampire. Going back to the list, she found Methods of obtaining blood, How to mix blood with the essential elements, including woods and metals, Notes on the virtues of Saint's blood and the blood of enemies. . . Hermione couldn't get to page 397 fast enough. There was no mention of Thomas a Becket, however. Disappointed, she scanned the remaining section. Just a lot of drivel about the origins and traditions of purity myths. For all the tantalizing talk of revenge in the second half, it was equally boring, promising that duels were the best methods for attaining levels of potency in the blood of enemies. What one did with it after they had been killed and the blood collected, the warlock declined to mention. Hermione sighed. Surely Goyle hadn't been dueling--and he definitely didn't qualify as a saint.

She thumbed slowly through the volume again from the beginning, becoming engrossed with a series of illustrations of medieval daggers. When used in conjunction with metals such as iron, blood can be harvested with very high magical potency. This is especially true if the spells are performed on a night with no moon. Iron is also highly effective when combined with blood for protection, hence the growing popularity of iron weapons following the Bronze Age. A warrior could travel far from the protective bonds of hearth and hall bearing both the means of defense and destruction--a double-edged blade, if you will.

Hermione groaned. Perhaps just writing on this subject made the author thirsty--the text was so very dry. She couldn't take any more. She knew there was something vital here, but right now she was too tired to put it all together. She needed more time. Besides, Goyle hadn't been stabbed. And with all that blood on the floor, and her right there, nobody'd had much chance to drain him, had they? She gave up. She needed to talk to someone in the Order.

Kneeling by the fireplace, she hoped it wasn't too late to catch Ron's mum. She scattered a handful of floo powder, stuck her face in and said, "The Burrow." As she did, she accidentally stirred up a small puff of soot, which entered the vortex of green sparks, grittily scouring her vision. She squeezed her eyelids shut, wiping away the tears. When she could see again, she realized she'd missed the Weasley's kitchen by several stops.

Frustrated, Hermione tried to slow down and review the circuit. The square and arched openings blurred by so fast she couldn't separate them from the kaleidoscope of patterns. She fought for control. At last she slowed, skipping randomly every second or so to another fireplace, like her CD player at home. Abruptly, the swirling sensation stopped. She nearly toppled into an unfamiliar fireplace.

Keeping her knees firmly planted on the common room hearth, Hermione cautiously leaned out. Soot-stained stones framed a dimly lit room. On her right she glimpsed a bed with a black spread, a wardrobe and vanity; on the left, a desk, half obscured by the fireplace edge. Above it black curtains hung open to reveal the moon riding low over the treetops. Directly across from her, oddly turned away from the fire, half-facing the wall, was a mahogany-dyed leather armchair. The room seemed unoccupied, which was probably for the best. She sat back, making sure she was steady, and reached into her pocket for more floo powder, to scatter in if necessary. She hesitated.

Uncomfortably, an odd sense of recognition niggled at her. She had to be inside the castle. The room was similar to hers, minus the armchair. She drew back a little more. Its owner likely wouldn't appreciate her just popping by to say hello at nearly midnight.

Then she started, a dusty trickle escaping her fingers. A boy wearing ear buds sat forward in the chair, the floo powder causing his hair and the side of his face to glint green. She frantically shrank as far as possible into the fire, at the same time trying to keep hold of the grate. It was Draco Malfoy.

Not noticing her, he reached forward with his left hand and withdrew an object from the wainscoting, his sleeve riding up in the process. A set of raw, angry scratches stood out luridly against the pallor of his skin. The floo tugged at her again, insistently. She fought it. He sat up and ran one now-familiar slender finger down a greenish sliver, testing its edge.

Draco deftly tucked the dirk into the sleeve of his robe. In her panic Hermione let go of the grate, and simultaneously lost her grip on the spell. With wild triumph, it dragged her out of the fireplace, spun her madly, and flung her on.

Hearing a faint noise, like a cross between a cough and a muffled squawk, Draco glanced up. As the floo system spiraled Hermione dizzyingly back to Gryffindor Tower and spat her out onto the common room hearth, Draco frowned thoughtfully at his now Grangerless fireplace.