Murder at Malfoy Manor

Chapter Eight

The Witching Hour

'I'll take you to your room now,' Draco said. It was nearly midnight, and he hated to admit it, but he was tired. Witnessing two murders and running slam into Harry Potter was enough to exhaust anyone.

'Fine,' said Ginny. She stalked beside him, arms crossed. He had said something to annoy her, but he had no idea what the transgression had been. Useless to dwell on it; she was only a Weasley after all, even if she was an uncommonly attractive one.

Three turns of the hallway later, they reached Ginny's door. 'This is me,' she said, opening the door and slipping inside.

'Wait,' said Draco, slamming his hand against the door to prevent it closing.

'What is it, Malfoy?' Ginny sounded as tired as he felt.

'We don't know that your room is safe,' he said. 'No splitting up, remember?'

'If you think for a minute that I'm going to let you spend the night with me -' Ginny's eyes flashed warning in the darkness.

'I'm just going to check your room for intruders, Weasley,' Draco said. He tried not to let hope creep into his voice. Of course he did not want to stay the night with her. He was just worried about the objective safety of one of his guests. That was all. 'Unless you want to be murdered in your sleep.'

Ginny sighed. 'All right, all right,' she said, opening the door wider to let him in.

Draco took his time searching her room. He even looked in her trunk, until Ginny protested from her sitting place on the bed. There was no one else in the room, as Draco had well known. 'Well, you're safe, I suppose,' Draco said, walking over to her.

'Thank you ever so much, Malfoy.' The sarcasm was unmistakable.

'You could show a little more gratitude,' said Draco. 'This room is probably bigger than your entire house.'

Ginny glared at him, turning her head away.

He let out a frustrated sigh. This was impossible. 'You're welcome,' he said, extending his hand.

She looked down at it, and reluctantly shook it.

'I'm going to bed,' Draco said. 'If you need me, I'm sixteen doors down on the left.'

'I won't need you,' Ginny said.

'I should hope not. But that's -- that's where I'll be.' Draco broke the handshake and left the room.

When he crawled between the cool sheets in his own bedroom several minutes later, the anger at Ginny Weasley had faded, to be replaced by a vague sense of disappointment. Now that she was out of his company, he thought it might be nice to have another person next to him, especially since a murderer was on the rampage in his vast house. Draco shivered. Lucius, Bellatrix...who was next?

****

After the clumsy run-in with Draco and Ginny, Harry's tiredness had departed as swiftly as it had arrived. There was something about tumbling over stairs in a great heap that woke you up. He thought Pansy's suggestion of sandwiches from the kitchens was an excellent one. He was starving.

Harry had barely touched his food at dinner, what with Voldemort sitting at the same table. It had been impossible to gain an appetite. Now, the night's adventures caught up with him and his stomach rumbled. He glanced over at his companion, hoping she had not heard the embarrassing growl.

She had. Pansy smiled at him. 'You sound hungry.'

'Yeah,' he said. 'Didn't eat much at dinner.'

'Can't blame you,' Pansy said. 'Not every day that the Dark Lord comes to dinner.'

'Unless you're Lucius Malfoy, apparently.'

Pansy giggled. 'Well, the Malfoys have always been the first to welcome that type of character.'

'And you're going to be a Malfoy soon, I suppose,' Harry said, making an educated guess.

Pansy fell silent for several awkward seconds, during which her heels sounded unnecessarily loud in the corridor. 'It looks that way,' she said.

He could not imagine having an arranged marriage, like the pure-bloods so often did, and he felt fleeting pity for Draco that his parents should choose his wife for him. Although, if that wife were Pansy Parkinson, he certainly could have done worse. Millicent Bulstrode, for example; Harry shuddered at the thought of being within ten feet of her. 'Do you want to be a Malfoy?' Harry asked.

'I used to,' said Pansy. 'I'm not sure anymore. Draco and I were always intended for one another, you know. Since we were children. I became resigned to it some time ago, and there is regard between us, but...I don't know.'

'There's something missing,' said Harry.

'Yes!' Pansy said, glancing over at him. 'Yes. Draco's heart's not in it, and mine - I guess I just try not to think too much about the alternative. Of having a choice in the matter.'

'I'm sorry,' said Harry, for want of anything better to say.

'Don't be,' Pansy replied. 'Besides, you never know what the future holds. Sometimes unexpected things happen.'

As Harry contemplated what she meant by that, he realised they had arrived at the kitchens, and everything fled his thoughts aside from food. They ducked their heads through the short doorway to find a grouping of ten house-elves, hopping about, eager to serve.

'Young mistress, and young master! How might we help you's tonight?'

'Some sandwiches, I think,' said Pansy. 'Bacon rolls?' she turned to Harry.

'Perfect,' said Harry. 'And some chips.'

'Ohh, yes,' said Pansy. 'How about some more pumpkin juice?'

'Beauty. With vodka,' Harry grinned wickedly.

Pansy went into peals of laughter. 'There you have it, then!' she said with a merry snap of her fingers to the house-elves.

Five minutes later, Harry and Pansy sat on the large kitchen table, feet swinging, with plates of food on their laps. Harry held the bacon rolls, Pansy had the chips, and in convivial silence they ate together. The pumpkin juice with vodka had been a brilliant move on Harry's part, he thought, and he felt his tension over murderers and Dark Lords fade away with each passing second.

Besides, he thought, Dumbledore's around here somewhere. Even with Voldemort in the house, Dumbledore would never let us stay here if he thought it were truly unsafe. I like magical storms. Harry smiled vaguely to himself, glancing over to look at Pansy. She got prettier the more he looked at her as a person rather than as a Slytherin. Sure, she had a bit of a crafty, mischievous streak; but then, who didn't? Pansy knew how to be a girl. While her fear and lack of physical courage had annoyed him before, he now started to appreciate it. Made him feel more like a man, with the 'little lady' to protect.

'Good idea, with the pumpkin juice,' Pansy said appreciatively. She smiled at Harry again.

'Thanks,' said Harry.

When the bacon rolls and chips were gone, and Harry was contented with a full stomach, he and Pansy drank their laced pumpkin juice. Pansy readjusted herself to sit cross-legged on the table itself, facing Harry. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light. 'So, Harry, tell me. What are the Gryffindor girls like?'

'They're nice,' Harry answered. 'Very nice.'

'Hmm,' said Pansy. 'I always thought you and Ginny Weasley were a bit of an item.'

Harry wondered why Pansy cared about this, but decided there was no harm in being honest. 'We kissed once,' he said. 'But after, we decided to just be friends instead. She's pretty of course, very attractive, but there wasn't really a spark. D'you know what I mean?'

Pansy nodded slowly.

'And then,' Harry said, 'I haven't kissed anyone else, since. I've been a bit pre-occupied with defeating Voldemort. Not that I don't think about girls a lot.' He was starting to say more than he intended. It must have been the vodka, he thought, and wondered exactly how strong the house-elves had made their drinks.

'Which other girls do you think about?' Pansy asked, wide-eyed.

'Oh, you know,' Harry said. 'Pretty ones. I like girls with shiny hair.'

'Do you?' Pansy appeared to have leaned in closer to him.

Harry imagined the air between them had grown thick and warm.

'And nice eyes,' Harry said, looking deep into Pansy's olive brown orbs.

She fluttered her eyelashes, looking at his lips.

He leaned forward further.

Then, there was no space between them at all, as Harry's lips touched Pansy's, and they were soft and warm and moved in response to him. Her hand reached up to run through his unruly hair, and he set down his glass of juice to put his hands on her shoulders, her neck, the back of her head.

They broke apart, breathing heavily, and looked at each other in silence.

Several seconds later, Harry put aside their glasses of pumpkin juice on the counter, and wrapped his arms around her, and they entwined themselves on top of the bare kitchen table, kissing as though it were going out of fashion. Harry relished her slim, light body on top of him, her glossy hair falling about her face, her sweet-tasting lips.

The first knock on the door should have alerted them, but it took a creak of the hinges for Harry and Pansy to spring apart, fearful of being discovered. They were very rumpled, Harry noted with dismay. Ah, well, there was nothing for it now.

He turned his head toward the door to the kitchen. The house-elves congregated in anticipation of further service to the 'masters.' The door swung open, and Lord Voldemort stepped in.

Harry scrambled to a sitting position, awkwardly, on the table. He brought out his wand out of habit alone, and his other arm he held protectively in front of Pansy.

'Potter,' Voldemort hissed. 'Of course I would find you here.'

Hermione slipped in behind Voldemort, silent as a ghost, and closed the door behind her. 'Hi, Harry,' she said. Her brown eyes, shadowed by the light, took in Pansy's half-unbuttoned dress and Harry's messier-than-usual hair. She raised her eyebrows.

Harry glared back defiantly. 'What do you want?' he said, addressing Voldemort.

'A snack,' Voldemort said. 'What else?'

Harry suspected Voldemort was being sarcastic. 'Yeah, right,' he said.

'Potter, I assure you, I am perfectly capable of harming you even without the use of a wand. One of these knives, perhaps?' Voldemort picked up a large butcher knife that had been lying on the wooden countertop, next to the empty sandwich plate.

'That's enough,' Hermione interjected. 'My Lord, I hardly think that hacking Harry to death with a butcher knife is your style.' Voldemort smiled imperceptibly at this. 'And Harry,' she continued, 'perhaps you'd better just leave. We need to talk to the house-elves.'

'Huh?' Harry was confused. Whose side was Hermione on, anyway?

'We're making ourselves useful and trying to solve the mystery,' Hermione snapped. 'Please. Pansy, you seem to have, ahem, a pull over Harry. Why don't you convince him?'

However, Harry needed no further convincing. He did not want his last stand against Voldemort to take place in the Malfoy family kitchens, a duel with knives, with Pansy, Hermione and ten house-elves looking on. 'Let's go,' said Harry, grabbing Pansy's hand. She hopped off the table without a word to follow him. As he hustled out the door, he heard Voldemort say 'well done, my dear.' Harry scowled.

*****

Hermione felt grateful to have an occupation for her thoughts. Without a murder mystery to solve, she thought she might go mad from the fear and tension of spending hours on end with Lord Voldemort. He was unstable, and she found it impossible to read his mood or predict his next move. Several times already, she had thought her time was up and he would murder her in cold blood. Without a wand, he would need to strangle her or some such; either way, his constant presence put her on perilous edge.

However, she was a practical person, and did what she could to retain her dignity and control. When they reached the kitchens (and interrupted something going on between Harry and Pansy Parkinson, Hermione had noted), she turned her mind to the task of learning from the house-elves what had happened to Bellatrix Lestrange.

'Well done, my dear,' Voldemort said, once Harry and Pansy had left.

'Thank you,' she said. There was no need to be impolite, even with the Dark Lord. She knelt down, to bring herself to the level of the house-elves' faces. 'Hello there,' she said.

The house-elves chirped profuse greetings, offering all manner of midnight sundries in case they had not had enough for dinner.

'Enough,' Voldemort hissed, holding up a skeletal hand to silence the house-elves. 'Do any of you know how Bellatrix Lestrange died?'

The house-elves fell silent, their large watery green eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.

Hermione's heart went out to them. They looked so bewildered, poor creatures. Probably oppressed and threatened to within an inch of their lives. 'Please, if you can help us, we would be most appreciative,' she said in a kind tone.

'Young mistress, we have nothings to say,' squeaked one of the elves. 'We are mostest sorry.' The house-elf hit itself once on the head. 'Sorry, sorry, sorry.'

'Stop that!' Hermione reached her hand to prevent the house-elf from further abusing itself. 'What's your name?'

'Heffy, young miss.'

'Heffy, my name is Hermione.'

Voldemort scoffed as he looked on. 'You're being friendly with house-elves. Unbelievable.' His eyes gleamed. 'Although, your blood status must put you toward an even keel with them.'

Hermione whirled around and stood up. 'House-elves are oppressed!' she said. 'It's nothing better than slavery. They're treated like filth, and they don't deserve it.' She heard herself growing more impassioned. Causes of justice had always been at the forefront of her mind. Hermione's greatest ambition was to reform the wizarding world away from its many discriminations. 'Of course, my Lord, I would not expect you to understand such a thing.'

'Of course I don't understand it,' Voldemort said. 'It's ridiculous! Wasting your considerable energy on house-elves. You, Miss Granger, are a fool.'

Hermione turned away. The last thing she wanted was a full-blown argument with Lord Voldemort. She doubted she would survive it. 'As you say, my Lord,' she said in a meek voice, to signify she had not further wish to dispute him. She knelt again. 'Please, Heffy,' she said, 'has anyone told any of the house-elves to do something in the parlour?'

'Y-yes, miss,' Heffy stammered.

'What was it?'

'I cannot say, miss.'

'Did it have to do with Bellatrix?'

Heffy flung herself onto hands and knees, pounding her head into the floor. 'Yes, yes, oh no, Heffy is a bad elf...'

'Have one of you handled a rope tonight?' Hermione asked. She knew that to use house-elves as a murder weapon, the elves must be barred from saying so directly. If she could infer, in a roundabout way, the method of murder, it would be enough.

'Rope, rope, knotted rope, oh yes,' Heffy sobbed. 'Not me. All of us. None of us, togethers...'

'Who was it, Heffy? Who told you to handle a rope?'

'Cannot say, cannot say,' Heffy shook her head stubbornly.

'It's all right, Heffy,' Hermione said. 'It's all right. Can you at least tell me who your master is, now that Mister Lucius is dead?'

At this, Heffy got tears in her big green eyes, and the other house-elves started to sniffle and sob. 'We has no master, Miss,' Heffy said.

'We belongs to the Manor,' added another tearful house-elf.

'Your loyalty is to the Manor only, then?' Hermione asked.

'Yes, miss,' Heffy said. 'The house is our master now. And it asks us to do bad things, bad things!' The elf wrung her tiny hands together, the large tears threatening to spill into a storm of misery.

'Please don't cry,' Hermione said, trying to console the elves. 'It will be all right.' There was something that disturbed her about the house itself giving orders, but she pushed it aside for the time being. She stood and faced Lord Voldemort. 'I think they,' she gestured over the house-elves' heads, 'are the murder weapons. They are bound to secrecy as to who, but I think we can infer that someone ordered the house-elves to murder Bellatrix.'

'Hmm,' said Voldemort. Hermione knew he would not openly acknowledge that she was right. His lack of biting comment was enough for her.

'It pays to be nice to house-elves,' she could not resist adding.

Voldemort shot her a look of warning, and she lowered her eyes again.

'Child, I do believe you are underestimated by your friends,' he said.

Hermione raised her head in disbelief. Was he complimenting her? This night could not get any stranger, not even if Dumbledore dressed in drag and Celestina Warbeck showed up to serenade them and Snape announced that he was giving up his job as Potions Master to live as a bohemian. She felt suddenly exhausted.

'Sir, if you don't mind, I think I need to sleep,' she said, reaching up with both hands to rub her aching shoulders.

'That would be acceptable,' Voldemort said. It was shocking how she started to get used to his cold, smooth voice. It contained high hatred, of course, but a man could not only communicate in tones of evil. There was far more depth to Voldemort's silken voice: charisma, humour, command. It compelled Hermione more than she cared to admit. 'Allow me to escort you,' he said.

She knew it was an order, not a request. She nodded.

They walked back through the halls, and a grandfather clock somewhere dinged midnight. As her heels clicked on the floor, Hermione realised she was still dressed in her finery from the formal dinner, her hair still pulled into an elegant twist. She had the wild thought that this was a date, and Lord Voldemort was walking her back to her door. Would he ask for a kiss? Hermione repressed a hysterical giggle.

In silence, they arrived at Hermione's room.

'Be awake at seven,' Voldemort said. 'The diagnostic potion should take about an hour to brew.'

'Okay,' Hermione said.

A moment of awkward silence hung between them.

'Er, good night, then,' Hermione said.

'Good night, Miss Granger.' Voldemort turned on his heel and disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

*****

Draco could not sleep. He tossed and turned, punched his pillow to give it better shape, counted leaping hippogriffs in his head, to no avail. Other images kept flitting through his head; the shape of a white hand in the dark, a flash of golden eyes, long red hair dancing in front of him, a pretty face. Ginny's face. He growled to himself. He could not believe he was insomniac over a Weasley. It was absurd.

I'm just traumatised, he thought to himself. My father's been murdered, my aunt's been murdered, my mother is having an affair with my professor, and Ginny just happened to be the one who was with me when it happened. That's all. His mind turned back to her, sixteen doors down. Was she asleep? Was she thinking of him? Doubtful. She was probably scraping off the gold leaf paint on the walls in hopes of selling it later. The uncharitable thought made him feel more normal.

A few moments later, he got up and paced around his room. His legs felt tense and restless, the urge to move them a tingling interruption on his journey toward sleep. Dressed in only his black silk boxer shorts, Draco ignored the cold seeping into the room from the storm outside. In fact, he welcomed the chill. It was a familiar friend in a house that was suddenly unfamiliar.

It must have been fifteen minutes of pacing before he heard it: a soft rapping on his door. Draco's ear perked toward the sound. Should he answer it? It could be Ginny. It could be his mother. Or it could be the murderer, lurking, waiting for him to be so stupid as to answer the door at one-thirty in the morning. With the smallest of death-wishes, he opened the door.

It was Ginny. She slipped inside his room, quick as a cat, and Draco realised that she was shaking.

'Ginny?' he whispered. There was no one else in the room, but it seemed too dark and too late to speak in normal conversational tones. 'What's wrong?'

'There was someone in my room,' she whispered back, voice quivering. 'They must have snuck in. I don't know how. I locked my door, after you left, but I heard a whisper, and someone breathing, and I thought I was dead.' She set her wand down on his desk and twisted her hands together. 'I just ran down the hall, fast as I could. I'm sorry.'

'It's all right,' Draco said. He noticed she wore a thin white cotton nightdress, and had not even put on slippers or a dressing-gown over the top. He pushed back the urge to wrap her into his arms, just to see what she felt like pressed up against him, with so little clothing between them.

'I -' Ginny stopped. Her eyes flicked quickly down over his naked torso, pausing, and then back up. Draco started to smirk. Was she checking him out? He thought she was. 'I think we ought to check your room for intruders.'

'I already did that,' Draco said.

'So did I,' Ginny said.

Draco was puzzled by her account. He had checked the room himself, and there was no one - oh. 'Wait a minute,' he said. 'You're in the green bedroom. There's a passage. I can't believe I forgot.'

'A secret passage? To my room?'

'Not to your room. It goes past it, behind the walls. There's a spy-hole, but no entrance.'

'Okay, so where does the passage go to and from?'

Draco thought for a moment, visualizing it in his head. 'It starts in my father's room, and comes out in the dungeons.'

'Who could have been in either of those places?' Ginny asked. She shivered, drawing her arms about her.

'I don't know,' Draco said. 'But I don't like it.'

'So, someone could have been spying on me as I slept.' Ginny sounded accusing.

'Well, yeah,' Draco said. He decided not to tell her about the secret passage in his own bedroom; it led from behind his wardrobe to the blue guest room. Sometimes he used it to escape when his mother or father knocked at his door. Now, who was in the blue room? Draco tried to focus. He was fairly sure it was Granger. Safe enough.

He stared past Ginny at his bedroom door. Something else tickled at the back of his head, but he could not grasp it. She smelled of flowers, and it was distracting. Then, with a lunge, he grasped the bolt lock on his door and slammed it closed, securing his door.

'What was that for?' Ginny asked, startled.

'Just a hunch,' he said.

Draco could have had a heart attack a few seconds later, when the doorknob jostled. They both turned to look at the door in fascinated, silent horror. 'Who could it be? The murderer...' Ginny breathed, barely audible.

'Oh, no...' Draco whispered. He put his hands on Ginny's shoulders and pulled her away from the door. The latch shuddered, and without magic wards it could have been broken with a display of force, but the potential intruder apparently wished for stealth.

They sat on Draco's mussed bed, both staring at the closed door. It held fast, and the jostling stopped. Draco thought he heard footsteps outside, but he could not be certain. What if it was the Dark Lord? He went numb at the thought, and felt profound gratitude for the magical storm thundering outside. Even Voldemort was helpless to use magic in these conditions. But the fact remained that someone had just tried to break into his room...or perhaps was trying to get into Hermione Granger's room via the secret passage. Either way, Draco's fear threatened to overwhelm him into complete worthlessness.

'Wait here,' Draco said. He stood up from the bed and grabbed his carved wooden desk chair, carried it across the room, and lodged it underneath the doorknob. It gave him solid reassurance. 'There,' he said. 'No one else is coming in here tonight.'

'Muggle solution,' Ginny said. He could see the white flash of her smile in the darkness.

'Logic,' Draco said. He sat back down next to her on the bed, and she yawned. 'Tired?' he asked.

'Mmhmm,' Ginny nodded. 'I hadn't fallen asleep yet.'

'Me neither,' Draco muttered. 'Well, I would offer you my sofa, but I don't have a sofa in this room.'

'I see,' Ginny said in a low tone. 'I'm sorry, Malfoy, but I don't really feel like going back to my own room.'

'I don't think you should go back to your room,' Draco said, loathing himself for the slight crack in his voice.

'Oh?'

Draco smirked at her innocence. Was the Weaslette trying to get into his bed? Well, she had succeeded, probably with no idea of the thoughts in his head. 'What makes you think you're safe with me?' he leaned over, whispering in her ear.

'Just a hunch,' Ginny whispered back. 'And if you do anything to me, my six brothers will hex you within an inch of your life later on. And that's after I get done with you.'

Draco shuddered, remembering a particularly nasty Bat-Bogey Hex she had used on him a few years ago. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'Here.' He pulled his heavy silk duvet up towards her. 'My bed is certainly big enough for two. And move over, you're on my side.'

She dutifully scooted to the other side, pulling the covers up in a display of modesty. He crawled in after her, feeling the warmth where she had just been sitting. He placed his head on the pillow, facing her.

She smiled at him. 'Thanks, Draco,' she said.

'You're welcome,' he replied, feeling the urge to grin like an idiot. He fell asleep in no time, listening to the rhythm of youngest Weasley's deep, even breathing beside him.