Murder at Malfoy Manor

Chapter Two

Arrivals

Draco Malfoy slammed the door of his wardrobe shut in frustration. It was already noon, and the hunting party guests would be arriving at any moment. He wanted to wear his sharpest tweed coat, but could not find it. He brought out his wand. 'Accio tweed coat!' Nothing.

'Gringle!' Draco snarled, summoning the house-elf. 'Where's my tweed coat?'

'I do not know, young master, I taked it for cleaning, downstairs, but I do not know where it has gone--'

'Well, you useless thing, go and find it for me!' Draco shouted. He was in a foul temper, and the coat was the least of his worries. His arch-nemesis Harry Potter was coming to his house, along with Potter's simpering little goody-goody friends. It was enough to sicken anyone.

'Yes, of course, master, I will go now,' Gringle cowered, hitting himself once with one of Draco's shoes, and then snapping his little elf fingers and disappearing.

With the house-elf out of the way, Draco swiftly buttoned his fine white cotton shirt, and tucked it into his khaki riding trousers. He glanced in the mirror at himself, satisfied; his platinum hair hung perfectly, as ever, and the outfit made him look tall and capable, even without the tweed coat. He felt like the young lord of the house, which was exactly what he was.

The hunting party had created a greater disturbance in Draco's state of mind than he cared to admit. Sure, his mother had invited several people who were perfectly acceptable, such as his Potions teacher, Professor Snape, and his fellow Slytherin classmate Pansy Parkinson. Draco knew that his mother and Mrs. Parkinson had been scheming for years to get the two children betrothed to one another, but Draco kept putting off the inevitable. He wanted some freedom before getting married.

Pansy was a fine girl, and came from a good family, and she had even turned out quite pretty, with her glossy black bobbed hair, upturned nose, and wide olive brown eyes. However, Draco was too familiar with Pansy; there was no thrill of the chase, no excitement, no real interest. It was safe, and deep inside Draco longed to do something that was unsafe.

As Draco admired himself in the mirror, a harsh knock at his bedroom door caused him to jump a little. A voice penetrated the large wooden door. 'Draco.'

Draco felt his mind go to mush. It was his father's voice, commanding, unforgiving, cold.

Without waiting for a response, the door opened and Lucius Malfoy stepped into his son's chambers. He was slightly shorter than his progeny, but his stature was so arrogant that no one ever noticed. 'I suggest you make yourself presentable,' Lucius said. 'Remember, you are a Malfoy.'

'How could I forget?' Draco muttered.

'What?'

'Nothing, father. Of course I'll be presentable, I wouldn't dream of being otherwise on such an important occasion for you.'

Mollified, Lucius nodded once at his son. 'I came to instruct you to be polite to our guests, every last one of them. I know it is especially distasteful to have Potter and his blood traitor friends under our roof, but we as a family must do something to reconstruct our reputation.'

Draco had been afraid of this. He had felt the sting of social rejection even at Hogwarts, after his father had been tossed into Azkaban for being a Death Eater, and now it would be even worse if Lucius decided to reject the Dark Lord. Playing both sides was never a smart thing to do, and Draco did not want his family and position in danger. However, he knew that to say something to his father would be useless. To Lucius, Draco was too young to have an opinion, and always would be.

'Yes, father,' Draco said, biting back his sulk until he was alone again.

'Good,' Lucius snapped. 'And do get yourself together, Miss Parkinson has arrived downstairs.'

Draco turned away. He loved his father, but he hated him, too. Draco knew he would never be good enough in Lucius's eyes, never quite worthy to carry on the Malfoy name. He knew he was weak where his father was strong, that he lacked conviction where Lucius was passionately involved in the cause of the Dark Lord. Yet, Draco was proud of his father, proud that he was a Malfoy. When he was away from home, during his Hogwarts years, he had negotiated his social place based on his family's name and money. It was the only way he could have some sort of identity, some sort of power over his own life.

Now, with Lucius's disgrace, all that power seemed to be fading. Draco did not know what to do with himself.

With a pop, his house-elf Gringle reappeared, this time bearing Draco's tweed jacket. 'About time,' Draco said, wresting the jacket from the house-elf's placating fingers and putting it on. Finally ready, he glanced in the mirror one more time, pocketed his wand, and walked briskly down to the entrance hall, where their Floo-connected fireplace was located. Pansy Parkinson stood there, with her French designer trunk, dressed in an elegant long green coat that hugged her figure, but made her appear shorter than she really was.

'Draco!' she waved with a manicured hand.

'Hullo, Pansy,' said Draco, sullenly. He stared a place on the marble floor, near her feet, as two house-elves levitated the trunk up to her guest room. He sighed, and glanced up to meet her eyes. 'You're never going to believe who else is invited,' he said, as he took her arm and led her into the parlour.

*****

Hermione Granger was nervous. It was not unusual for her to become tense at times, particularly when her schoolwork was concerned, but this time her anxiousness was social. She hated the feeling. She stood in the sitting room of the Burrow, her trunk neatly packed away for the weekend, her hands clasped together. It would be the first time she had ever been to something like this, and she was acutely grateful that her friends would be there with her. It was not a pleasant feeling to be a guest in a house where she knew the owners considered her dirty, unworthy, low.

With a sigh, Hermione pushed a strand of hair behind her ears and shifted on her high-heeled feet. It was a testament to her anxiety that she had fixed her hair so that it was glossy and smooth, and put on her nicest wool skirt and a pretty pink cashmere blazer. She did not want the Malfoys to be able to spot a single thing wrong with her. A glance at her watch, and she called out to the boys. 'Harry! Ron! Let's go!'

'Coming, Hermione!' Ron's voice echoed down the stairs, followed by a loud clatter. Harry and Ron tumbled down the Burrow's crooked staircase, trunks in tow. 'Where's Ginny?' Ron asked loudly.

'Here,' Ginny popped her head in from the kitchen. Hermione noted that Ginny, too, had made an effort with her appearance. She was glad she was not the only one with insecurities about a weekend at the Malfoys'.

'I'll go first,' Harry volunteered, stepping toward the fireplace with a handful of Floo powder. 'Ron, you follow me.'

Ron nodded resolutely, provoking a sigh of exasperation from Hermione. Honestly, if the boys were going to be overprotective and mistrustful, it was going to be a miserable weekend for everyone. They had to put the Malfoys at ease; otherwise, how were they to get good information on the enemy?

In a flash of green flame, Harry disappeared, followed by Ron. Hermione stepped forward, exchanged a look with Ginny, and then threw down her Floo powder. 'Malfoy Manor!' she shouted.

Several spinning rooms later, Hermione stepped into a beautiful marble-floored front hall, with a grand staircase splitting up the centre, walls covered in moving paintings of blonde wizards. Harry had his wand brandished, and Ron stood gawping up at the crystal chandelier, envy written across his face. Ginny stepped out of the fireplace several seconds later, setting her shoulders in pride.

With a quick 'Evanesco,' Hermione's clothes were cleaned of their ash residue, and she performed the favour for her friends, who were too distracted to think about keeping their clothing clean. Then, she had a proper look around her. It was exactly what she had imagined the Malfoy house to be: cold, echoing, elegant and tasteful in every proportion. The architecture held the grace of antiquity, the proportions of the hall mathematically perfect. Hermione felt like she was in a museum.

A pair of exquisitely carved double doors swung open in front of her, and a tall, refined blonde woman stepped forward. Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione recognised her from the Quidditch World Cup, all those years ago. Narcissa cleared her throat, capturing their attention, and began to speak. 'Welcome to our home,' she said. 'I am Mrs. Lucius Malfoy.' The name was given as though it were an aristocratic title, and Hermione suppressed the urge to curtsey to Mrs. Malfoy.

Harry stepped up, ever the leader, and extended his hand. 'Mrs. Malfoy,' he nodded to her. Hermione was next, and she held her ground as she met Narcissa's eye. The older woman gave her an appraising look, and Hermione was surprised to see a note of satisfaction, of genuine welcome, in those icy blue eyes. Ron and Ginny also gave genteel greetings (Molly Weasley had given them each strict instructions to be on their best behaviour), and Narcissa gestured into the parlour behind her.

'Please,' she said. 'Come in, the house-elves will take your trunks up to your rooms.' Narcissa walked into a large, blue brocade-upholstered room with light woods and many gold candles. 'You all know my son, Draco, and Miss Parkinson, from Hogwarts.'

Pansy was sitting on a chair, holding a bone-china saucer and teacup. She did not rise, but merely nodded at the four newcomers, her gaze pausing for a split-second on Harry.

'Hello, Pansy!' said Ginny.

Draco, standing by the window, turned and gave an elegant bow. To Hermione it seemed sarcastic. 'Welcome,' he said. 'We are delighted to have you.' He glanced over to his mother, as though to say 'See? I'm being polite.'

Hermione sighed. It was going to be a long weekend, she thought as she sat on the sofa and accepted a cup of Earl Grey tea from a house-elf with a soft muttered 'Thank you.'

*****

The storm came in quickly, whipping up out of the sky like black meringue, thunderclouds piling high on top of one another. It was highly unusual, for the west country of England was not known for extreme weather, but strange climactic occurrences were happening all over the world, these days. It fit Snape's mood perfectly as he Apparated on the Malfoys' front lawn. Albus Dumbledore popped out of thin air beside him. Snape was gruffly silent as he rang the bell, said nothing when a house-elf opened the door, refused to reply to Dumbledore's comments on the lovely crystal chandelier. He was even taciturn when Narcissa welcomed them into the front parlour, afraid his voice might break in front of her.

Snape regarded the rest of the company, an awkward dynamic suffusing the room to match the gathering storm outside. There was Potter, refusing to sit down, standing protectively in front of Ginny Weasley. There was the dim-witted Ron Weasley, glaring about suspiciously. The insufferable know-it-all, Hermione Granger, sipped a cup of tea; Snape was surprised to see that she had done something with her bushy hair to turn it into sleek curls. Draco sat next to Pansy Parkinson on the sofa, looking bored. It was a group of people he would never have expected to see together in any social situation, let alone a famous Malfoy hunting party.

'Professor Dumbledore!' Hermione Granger noticed the newly-arrived invitees. She stood up, smoothing her skirt.

Harry, too, lit up. 'Professor, we didn't know you would be here!' Snape tried not to roll his eyes. It really was sickening, the way Potter had wormed his way into being the Headmaster's pet. He had got away with all kinds of outrageous things during his years at Hogwarts and Snape was resentful. Like father, like son, he thought acrimoniously.

'Ah, yes, this is the second time Mrs. Malfoy has played the gracious hostess to me,' Dumbledore winked at Narcissa, who did not respond. 'It is always a pleasure.'

Snape felt certain that Dumbledore was stretching the truth about the pleasure of this visit.

'Well,' Narcissa brought her hands together. 'Lucius should be arriving home at any moment. Dinner will be at eight; Draco, dear, won't you show the Headmaster to his suite?'

Draco stood with a resentful expression. 'Yes, Mother.'

'Meanwhile, I would invite you all to dress for dinner.' Narcissa nodded her head at each person.

The younger guests filed out silently, leaving Snape alone with Narcissa. She turned to him, her face a studied blank. 'Where is Lucius?' Snape asked softly.

'At the Ministry,' she replied, just as quietly.

'This was his idea? This ridiculous guest list?'

'No,' she said, 'it was mine.'

Snape sighed. 'Narcissa...' He stepped closer to her. He longed to comfort her, tell her she would be taken care of, take away the pain of a convict husband who cared nothing about her. The old hatred of Lucius Malfoy reared its ugly head, and Snape wished the man would just disappear, leave Snape's lovely Narcissa to seek comfort in his arms.

'Severus, don't,' Narcissa held up a white hand. 'It will be fine. My family is falling apart, and I had to act. This is the way forward. The Malfoys will survive.'

'The Malfoys?' Snape's lip curled distastefully. 'Or the Blacks?'

Narcissa's eyes softened. 'I will survive,' she whispered. Finally, she put her hand on Snape's arm; a gesture of friendship, of comfort, but Snape could not disguise the heat he felt under the pressure of her flesh.

A pair of eyes watched them, peeking through the open crack in the door.