Murder at Malfoy Manor

Chapter Five

Noises in the Night

Draco kept hold of Ginny all the way out the door, down the grand entrance hall, and into his father's book-filled study, where he closed the door softly. He exhaled. His mind whirled, pounded, reeled with the knowledge of what had just happened. His father was dead. Murdered. And Draco Malfoy had just inherited Malfoy Manor, the vast fortune locked away in Gringotts Wizarding Bank, and the titular leadership of the Malfoy family. However, none of these things mattered to Draco, in that breath-filled moment after his father's violent death. Instead he felt a horrifying mixture of relief and shock. The anger, bitterness, and resentment toward his father had, in one swift moment, been resolved, and Draco was left grasping for something to stand on.

As he leaned up against the inside of the heavy wooden door, looking at his feet, Draco remembered that he was not alone with his thoughts. He glanced up to meet Ginny's burning gaze.

'What?' he muttered.

'I want to know something from you, right here, right now,' she said. 'Did you do it? Did you murder your father?' Ginny's tone was firm and fearless.

Draco sighed. 'I wish I had,' he said honestly. 'But, no. I didn't. Someone beat me to it, and I don't even know who to thank.'

'Why do you - I mean, did you, hate him so much?'

With a glare, Draco pressed his lips together and walked across the room to sink into an armchair. 'It's complicated.'

Ginny followed him to sit in the chair beside him. She seemed unsure of what to say next.

'Never mind,' Draco said. 'He's dead now, and that's all that matters.'

'And that means there's a murderer loose in your house,' Ginny pointed out.

Draco shot her a wicked grin. 'There are several murderers loose in my house. The Dark Lord, my Aunt Bellatrix, Dumbledore -'

'Dumbledore?' Ginny interrupted, incredulous.

'Well, yeah. He killed Grindelwald. Everyone knows that.'

'Oh, that's right.'

'So, it could have been anyone. But don't worry, this is my house. I know every secret passage, hidden room, lock and cabinet and doorway that exists.' For a reason unknown to his conscious mind, Draco wanted to reassure Ginny that no harm would come to her under his roof. Then he remembered something: Ginny herself had reason to hate Lucius Malfoy. Perhaps he, Draco, was the one in danger. 'So, Ginny,' he said. 'How well did you know my father?'

'Not at all,' she replied blandly. Her eyes met his directly.

'Yet you had reason to hate him.'

Ginny scowled. 'Obviously, I'm not shedding tears that he's dead.'

Draco suddenly could not contain his curiosity about the Chamber of Secrets incident of his second year. He had only learned of his father's involvement by eavesdropping, and that information was incomplete: from what he could gather, Lucius had somehow orchestrated the opening of the Chamber, by giving an eleven-year old Ginny Weasley some kind of book that induced her to go into a trance and unleash the basilisk. 'What was it he did to you?' Draco asked her, as gently as he could manage. 'With the Chamber of Secrets?'

Ginny fell silent, and for a moment Draco thought he had pushed too far. Then, she began to speak, a shadow falling across her pretty face. 'He slipped a book into my cauldron, that time we ran into you at Flourish and Blotts. It was an old diary - the school diary of - of someone named Tom Riddle. Otherwise known as You-Know - Lord Voldemort.' She choked out the name, and looked away from him.

'What?' Draco murmured. This was definitely news to him.

'Silly, stupid me, I wrote in the diary. Poured myself out to him. And in the end, You-Know-Who's sixteen year old self possessed me, made me do things, and then lured me down into the Chamber of Secrets. He tried to suck the life out of me, so that he could be restored.' Ginny's voice was dull, in the manner of someone who had built up defences of apathy against horror.

'Dear Merlin,' Draco swore softly. 'I had no idea.'

'Then, Harry saved me,' Ginny looked up, defiance in her chin. 'He destroyed the diary, and the basilisk that lived in the Chamber.'

'Of course, Saint Potter to the rescue,' Draco said. A familiar surge of irritation washed through him at Potter's antics. For some inexplicable reason, he got an image of himself, charging into the Chamber of Secrets, battling a monster, outwitting the Dark Lord, and gathering Ginny into his arms, except she was not eleven years old but seventeen, and looked at him with those thick lash-fringed golden eyes...Instead, he just sneered at her.

'If it weren't for Harry, I'd be dead,' Ginny growled. 'But then, I doubt you care about that. You probably have no idea what it is to care about anyone at all.'

'That's what you know,' Draco said, standing up. This girl was getting on his last nerve.

'Whatever,' Ginny said, also standing with a rustle of her tight-fitting taffeta dress. 'I've had enough of this. I'm going to bed.'

'You're doing no such thing!' Draco strode over to her, grabbing her arm once more. 'No splitting up, remember?'

'I'll be fine,' Ginny said stubbornly.

'Actually, I want you to protect me,' Draco said.

Ginny grinned. 'Really.'

'Yes, that's right. I'm all scared of being murdered. I'm the new head of the House of Malfoy, prominent social figure, and all that. And with your temper, I'd rather have you here with me.' Draco did not release her arm; he liked the way her white skin felt under his fingers.

'It's your own house, Malfoy. You said yourself that you know all the secret passages. Surely you can find some rat-hole to hide in...or should I say ferret-hole?'

'Hey,' Draco said, offended. 'It's not my fault that Dumbledore hires maniacs as teachers.'

'Let go of my arm,' Ginny said, as if suddenly realising she was under his grip.

He did not let go, exactly; instead, he loosened his hold and let his fingers trail down her arm, until he found her hand. She shivered.

'Malfoy,' she said.

'Weasley,' he said.

Then both their heads snapped up, as the doorknob to the study jostled. All else was silent. Draco had the wild thought that the murderer was after them, and his heartbeat went from normal to overdrive. 'Come on,' he whispered, and dragged Ginny with him to a bookcase next to the fireplace. With practised fingers, he pulled the title marked 'Goblin Language During the Rebellions' and the bookcase swung inward to reveal a black passageway, cold wind blowing through.

He pushed her into the dark, hands around her small waist, and pressed himself up against her in the small space. Draco could hear her breath coming hard and fast next to his ear. He was very aware of the shape of her next to him. 'Shhhh,' he whispered, moving his lips only centimetres from hers.

The bookcase swung shut behind them just in time.

*****

She still could not cry. Narcissa Malfoy allowed herself to be tugged along by Severus Snape into her now-late husband's study. Snape's hand held hers in a death grip, pressing hard on her dainty bones, as though he could elicit a tear with the pressure. If she could not show some better reaction, the other guests would suspect her of murder. She sighed inaudibly. Not that everyone doesn't suspect everyone already.

'Severus, please,' she said. 'Please stop.'

Snape closed the door behind them, and stopped as if sniffing the air. 'Did you hear something?' he asked, peering about the fire-lit room.

'No,' said Narcissa. 'Why?'

'It's nothing,' said Snape. 'Just thought I heard something.' With one more keen look at the fireplace, he finally released Narcissa's hand.

She rubbed her knuckles, as a manner of reproaching Snape for his tight grip.

'Now,' he said, and brushed a strand of Narcissa's blonde hair back from her face. In her distraught state, her perfect coif had become mussed. 'What's this about, Narcissa? Did you kill your husband?'

'I didn't!' she burst forth, trying to ignore the pleasant shivers of her skin under Snape's long fingers. 'I would never ruin a dinner party in such a way!'

Snape's lips tightened to a thin line. 'Really. You are telling me you had no motivation to see Lucius dead?'

Narcissa fell silent for a moment, before speaking up to defend herself. 'Motive does not mean guilt!' Thinking of something else, she turned the tables on Snape. 'What about you? All those years of his ill treatment of you, building up? My husband was no angel, Severus, and don't pretend for a moment that you're not rejoicing that he's dead.'

'It was not his ill treatment of me that was so intolerable.'

Narcissa looked up at the Potions Master with a quizzical expression. He was lying, had to be. She knew Snape's character; he took every insult, every slight, and let them built up to boiling point. He was a man to hold grudges for life, to never relinquish agonies that should have been forgotten. He was not a happy man. 'Severus, what are you talking about? Lucius was horrible to you. Surely you've taken your revenge, tonight!'

'I haven't,' Snape whispered. 'Though for your sake, I wish I had. You don't know how I've longed for him to be gone, for you to be away from his vicious grasp.'

Narcissa stared. Could it be? Could Severus Snape, the famously acerbic professor, the cold, logical, emotionally stunted man, have feelings for her? Narcissa was at a loss for words.

'You see,' Snape continued, 'I couldn't bear to see you so unhappy. To be attached to that man, who has done his best to ruin your family and reputation, placing you in severe danger...I admit my feelings for him are, were, rather, pure hatred. Narcissa!' he grasped both her hands, gently this time, and with snapping black eyes looked deep into her face. 'Let me take care of you! I've been watching out for you, from behind the scenes, all these years, and Draco is like a son to me. I could not bear to see you alone in the world. Please.'

'Severus,' Narcissa rolled her head backwards, feeling the strength of her bones giving way. Snape begging was not a sight with which she was prepared to deal. And yet, did she not feel trembles under his touch? Did she not look forward to their dealings with pleasure beyond that of mere acquaintance? Suddenly, violently, Narcissa was glad that Lucius was dead. 'Severus, I had no idea,' she said.

The professor's mouth quirked upward in a wry smile. 'Did you not?'

'Well,' said Narcissa, 'perhaps a little inkling, some of the time.' She brought her hand up to caress Snape's hollowed cheek, and he closed his eyes under her touch. 'I'm glad Lucius is dead,' she whispered hoarsely.

'So am I,' Snape murmured. Then, he dipped his tall frame down, and kissed Narcissa gently on the lips.

Behind a bookshelf, someone gasped, but it went unheard by Narcissa and Snape alike.

*****

For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was at a loss. This was a situation that she had never encountered, never read about in any of her precious books. Hermione did not deal with unpredictable situations very well, and right now...well, right now she was walking on eggshells. Walking alongside Lord Voldemort himself.

When the party adjourned from the sitting room where Lucius Malfoy's dead body lay cooling on the floor, Voldemort had twisted Hermione's words, forced her into his accompaniment for the entire weekend! For the duration of the magical storm which, as Dumbledore had said, could last for weeks! Hermione suppressed a surge of panic at the thought. Bad enough that they had shown up at all, Voldemort and his lieutenant in evil, Bellatrix. Worse that they should all be stuck in the same house together. And now? Hermione felt she had hit rock bottom, the worst of the worst, as bad as things could get. It was all she could do not to scream.

Voldemort's tall frame glided along the corridor, silent and repulsive, and Hermione was afraid to say a word. With morbid curiosity, Hermione glanced up at his face. It was partially concealed by shadows, but she could make out the white skin, glowing crimson eyes, a well-formed skeletal face that gave only a hint of the handsome man he had once been. He led the way by half a step, Hermione unable to make any important decisions such as where to go next. The Dark Lord appeared to know the ins and outs of Malfoy Manor quite well, and Hermione hurried to keep up with his long-legged strides. All was silence, apart from their footfalls on the marble floor.

At last, they reached a set of double doors, and Voldemort waved his hand, sending the doors flying open. Wandless magic. Show-off, thought Hermione. For a moment she recalled the paragraphs she had read about magical storms; was it even possible to do wandless magic? Her mind scanned the remembered lines: 'Magical storms make most magic impossible, all spell-casting, and Apparition. Only low-level magic can be done, accidental magic, and the peculiar energetic form of house-elf magic.' Perfect; in theory Voldemort could still use magic to kill her. If he focused hard enough on his wandless abilities...Then she forgot her distress, and flew into the room, her face lighting up in spite of itself. 'The library!' she exclaimed.

'Yes,' said Voldemort, 'this house has one of the world's finest collections. The Dark Arts, in particular, are well-stocked. As is Divination.'

'Divination,' Hermione scoffed. 'Very woolly subject, if you ask me.'

'I didn't ask you,' said Voldemort. Hermione turned to glare at him, but the protest died on her lips when she saw the amusement in his face. 'But,' he continued, 'I agree with you. Divination is a discipline wrought with frauds, although genuine prophecies do, of course, exist.'

'Of course,' Hermione echoed, thinking of the prophecy that they had pursued at the Department of Mysteries, at great cost.

'Though, if I were you, I would be most interested in the sections on Ancient Runes. There's a marvellous book in here, now where is it...' Voldemort's long spidery fingers ran over the leather of the books. Hermione could almost feel the tingle of leather herself. 'Ah. Here. Rune Magic and Ancient Spells. It outlines the basis for ancient magics which have been largely banned by the dear Ministry. Here.' He held out the book to her.

Hermione's hands itched to take it. She loved Ancient Runes. And she loved ancient magic. And, as of late, she loved reading books that would anger the Ministry of Magic. She took two steps forward, then stopped herself. 'No,' she said. 'No, thank you.'

'Come, now, Miss Granger. I can see the longing in your eyes. I know all about you, Potter's clever friend.' He spat the name Potter with vitriol. 'It will be a long night. I suggest you settle yourself in to pass the time somehow.'

Hermione glared as best she could. The firelight flickered across Voldemort's white face, softening it somehow. Or perhaps that was the wine she had consumed at dinner. In any case, the calling of the written word overwhelmed her hesitancy at accepting it from Lord Voldemort. She stepped forward, and took the book from Voldemort's hands. His fingers brushed her own as she did.

Ignoring the queasy feeling engendered by touching him, Hermione lowered her eyes and sat before the fire. The book opened, and she was lost in it. Vaguely aware that Voldemort had chosen his own reading material, had sat down in an armchair across from her, Hermione's eyes skimmed rapidly over the pages, taking in knowledge, categorising it with joyful abandon. She had a mind to pocket the book and take it with her when she left. Surely Lucius Malfoy had no further use for it.

The hours passed easily, and with a start, Hermione looked up as the clocked dinged eleven o'clock. 'Oh!' she said. 'I didn't realise it was so late.' She yawned on cue.

'Interesting reading?' said Voldemort.

'Oh, yes,' Hermione said. 'I think there's something to be said for the ancient Gaelic rituals of Transfiguration. Spells with a runic base have far more power than Latin spells.'

'Ancient magic has the sort of permanence that modern wand-waving cannot compare to,' said Voldemort. 'Something for you to look into, perhaps.'

Hermione said nothing. Would he try to turn her to the Dark side, she wondered? Offer her unlimited resources, experimentation, a library like this one? A moment of temptation was shrugged off with effort.

Then, Voldemort asked her something unexpected. 'Did you murder Lucius Malfoy?'

'Excuse me?'

'You heard me. Did you murder him?'

Hermione spluttered in indignation. 'Of course not! I'm not a murderer. He was a nasty character, certainly, but I would prefer to see him brought to justice, locked away in Azkaban.' She looked at Voldemort. 'That was a very direct question, for a Slytherin.'

'You have no idea,' said Voldemort. He seemed amused again, and Hermione felt inexplicably annoyed at him. 'I can be direct, if the occasion calls for it.'

'So can I,' said Hermione. 'Did you murder Malfoy?'

Voldemort laughed, disconcerting in its cold delight. 'No. As I said before, if I had been the one to kill poor Lucius, you would not be left in any doubt of it.'

'Hmm,' said Hermione. It made sense, really; Lord Voldemort was a murderer and everyone knew it. If he were to kill Lucius Malfoy, there was no need for him to be circumspect about it. 'I do believe you're telling the truth,' she said.

'Of course I am,' Voldemort replied, raising his hands in a gesture of innocence. It was ludicrous, coming from him.

'Right,' muttered Hermione.

'The real question is,' said Voldemort, 'who did murder Malfoy? As I observed, there were several possible murder weapons.'

Hermione thought over the events of the evening. It was very curious, the multitude of injuries on Malfoy's body, the multiple avenues of death. Was it one person, acting to make sure of the deed or confuse investigators? Or had it been several people, acting with the same goal of Malfoy's murder? 'I don't believe the cause of death was the rope, or the candlestick,' said Hermione. 'Strangulation by rope would take longer than the few seconds the room was dark. And the candlestick? Perhaps it hit him over the head, but I didn't see any evidence of bludgeoning wounds.'

'Indeed,' said Voldemort. He sounded impressed. 'I had reached the same conclusion. It had to be the knife, the poison, or the gun.'

'A Muggle gun, at that,' said Hermione. 'Who might have had it?'

'You are, to my knowledge, the only mudblood in the company,' said Voldemort.

Hermione winced at the insult. 'Do you mind keeping a civil tongue?'

'Yes, I do.'

She made a disgusted noise. 'As I seem to recall, you yourself have less-than-pure blood, my Lord.'

Voldemort fell silent. Hermione instantly regretted her choice of words. What is wrong with me? she thought. Aggravating the Dark Lord is not a good way to go. Just shut up. 'Anyway,' she said. 'I agree with you that it was one of those three weapons. Obviously, the gun went off. But was Malfoy already dead when it did?'

Voldemort swallowed visibly. For a tense moment, Hermione thought she saw him holding back his rage at her. She felt profoundly grateful for the anti-magic wards on Malfoy Manor. Then, cool-as-can-be, Voldemort spoke again. 'It's impossible to tell what killed him. Only a thorough magical investigation could determine it, aided by Pensieves and retracing spells. However, with all of us trapped in the same house for the foreseeable future, I would not be surprised if the murderer inadvertently revealed himself. Or herself.'

'You think there will be another murder?' Hermione asked, alarmed.

Voldemort chuckled. 'It's always a possibility. Why? Are you scared?' A flare of red brightened his eyes. Hermione wondered if that meant he was pleased.

'Of course not,' she snapped. 'It's only a theory.'

'I would say you are the safest person in Malfoy Manor right now,' said Voldemort. 'After all, I'm sure no one would attempt to murder me. Not even Dumbledore or Potter, without their magic to aid them. And I'm with you. Therefore, you are safe.' Voldemort smiled at this last, in the manner of a child having logically proved some impossible thing.

'Safe,' Hermione said. 'Right.' She settled back in to finish the chapter on elven runes in the Burren of Ireland.

It was approximately thirty minutes later that she heard the scream.