Murder at Malfoy Manor

Chapter Nine

Of Potions and Masters

For the first time in years, Narcissa felt happy. Also for the first time in years, she was not alone in her bed. She turned her head to look at Severus Snape, who slept next to her. His face was unguarded, pale and worriless in sleep. She resisted the urge to run her hand along his hollowed cheek, afraid she might wake him. He did not seem the sort of man who slept easily; with a double-life as a professor by day, Death Eater by night, the strain must be immense.

Letting out a small sigh, Narcissa stared up at her canopy and let her mind turn over recent events, backtracking...oh, Severus, filling her world, his hot kisses on her skin...then she remembered the rest. Lucius was dead. Bellatrix was dead. A crack of thunder reminded her of the magical storm outside, unrelenting in negative pressure. The Dark Lord was under her roof, as was Harry Potter. Her happiness leaked away with each new remembrance.

She slipped out of bed without disturbing Severus and crept into her dressing room. The gold clock on the shelf read eight-fifteen, and Narcissa was quite hungry for breakfast after the night's aerobic activities. She dressed quickly in a pretty morning gown and summoned Ponkle the house-elf to set her hair. The house-elf was clumsy, but with the magical storm still pounding the house outside, there was no choice but to have a few strands of hair out of place. Once she was satisfied with her appearance, Narcissa went through her pink bedroom, caressing Snape's sleeping face as she walked past, and then downstairs to the morning room.

Noting with satisfaction the breakfast spread, she picked a grapefruit half from a tray of fruit, eating it with a small silver spoon. She was happy to be alone this morning; there were several people she did not want to run into. The Dark Lord, for one; she had always been uncomfortable around him. Those red eyes could see straight into her. Narcissa sighed as she sank into a chair. She noticed a silver goblet set out before her, filled with Atacama cactus juice, her favourite. It was very rare, and a valuable delicacy that even the Malfoys rarely indulged in. Pleased with the house-elves' apparent initiative, she took a sip, enjoying the tickle of the sweet nectar as it went down her throat. Tipping the glass back, finishing the juice, Narcissa felt warm with the well-being that sprung from having the best.

Two minutes later, she started to sweat. Her hands went numb, then her toes. A lacerating pain went through her chest, cutting into her heart and lungs, then settling into a clenching pain in her stomach. 'What's happening?' she croaked to herself. Her lips had gone very dry, and she was having trouble moving her tongue. Poison. Poison. The word played through her mind, and she stumbled up from her seat, frantic to get to the dungeons. There, Narcissa knew, they had a stack of bezoars in the potions room. Her mind was getting sluggish, and with a weak effort she tried to snap her fingers to summon a house-elf. It could bring her the bezoar! But her fingers refused to work.

Narcissa dragged her feet out of the breakfast room, down the hall, each step feeling heavier. She felt darkness swimming on the edges of her vision. Finally she was at the stairs to the dungeons. Leaning heavily against the stone wall, her feet went down, down, down. By some miracle she did not fall and tumble down the stairwell.

Time stretched to infinity as she walked down the hall, and Narcissa's vision tunneled to include only the stone floor as it rushed up to meet her face when she fell forward. She did not feel the crack of her bones when it happened; she had lost all feeling in her body. Then darkness descended.

******************

Hermione dreamed of a shop full of black cloaks. They all looked identical, but somewhere there was a clue; one of the cloaks was special. She did not know what she was looking for, but her hands grasped black cloth, pushing through the racks of hanging robes, flipping, pulling, tugging. She could not find it! Panic overwhelmed her; there was no time, it was imperative that she find the special cloak, and she did not even know how it was different from the rest. In her dream, she started to cry out in frustration. Her legs kicked, her arms flailed, no time, no time....Hermione awoke in a tangled mess of white sheets, which had twisted around her legs and torso. The room around her was dark.

She breathed a sigh of relief. It was only a dream, after all. There were no black cloaks.

With one elbow, Hermione propped herself up in bed, pushing her hair out of her face. She took three deep breaths to calm herself, a technique that often came in handy during examinations. With effort, she untangled herself from her sheets, and readjusted her nightgown back into place. It was her best (and only) 'nice' piece of bed-time lingerie. It had been a gift from her grandmother, who undoubtedly hoped for Hermione to get married to some boy who would appreciate a pink satin slip. So far, Hermione was nowhere close to marriage. But since it was Malfoy Manor, she felt the need to dress up, even for solitary sleep, and so had packed it in her trunk.

She grabbed hold of the magical time-teller from her bedside table, and waved it to discover the hour. Nothing happened. Then it all came crashing back: the murders, the magical storm, her seven am potions-making date with Lord Voldemort. 'Oh, no,' she muttered.

Hermione got out of bed, walked across the plush blue carpet of the cavernous guest bedroom, and pulled the curtains open, just enough to peek outside. It was a tremendous sight. What should have been the Malfoy gardens were a rain-lashed, windswept wreck of tree limbs, overturned stone benches, foliage ripped from soil homes. The storm had not relented overnight, Hermione was sorry to see. It may have been morning, but the clouds were so dark that a black pall was cast over the house, making the concept of 'day' redundant. Rain pounded against the windowpane and flooded the stone balcony, and she felt sure that if she opened the window, she would be sucked outside like Dorothy in a tornado.

'Oh, no,' she repeated. She closed the curtains tight, not wishing to see the storm any longer. She trudged back to her bed, sinking onto the feather mattress, playing with the white sheets in her hands.

'I hope,' said a voice, 'that your nightmares revealed the identity of our resident murderer.'

Hermione's heart must have stopped for at least three beats. She whirled around on her knees, and held the white sheet up to her chest. 'Who's there?' she demanded.

Then, in the corner, where she knew there was an armchair, she saw a pair of eyes. Red eyes.

'You,' she said.

Lord Voldemort stood, clad in black robes, and stepped closer to where she could discern his figure in the dim light. Hermione could only stare, feeling like a rabbit caught by a snake. How long has he been here? she wondered. And does he not sleep? An unbidden image flitted through Hermione's mind of Voldemort in a long white night-shirt and a pointy nightcap. She nearly choked with the effort of suppressing a laugh. Then, naturally, she wondered what he really looked like under his robes. Is he a man? A monster?

'How long have you been here?' she asked, giving voice to her first question only.

'Long enough,' said Voldemort. He took another step towards her. 'It's only five in the morning. The bindweed flowers will not open for another three hours, at least. You should sleep.'

'I- I'm sorry, sir, but with you in the room? Forgive me if I'm a little - disconcerted.' It began to dawn on Hermione that Voldemort had been watching her sleep already, twisting with nightmare, her short nightgown pushed up...her mind stopped itself right there, out of self-preservation.

'There was nothing for me to do elsewhere,' Voldemort said, with an air of petulance. 'No Death Eaters to order about, no havoc to wreak. And I'll need you to be alive to chop the flowers. With no wards in place on your door...' Voldemort turned away a little, as though unwilling to be caught in a good deed.

'You were protecting me from the murderer?' Hermione asked, unbelieving.

'No,' Voldemort snapped. 'I simply did not want your mind to be harmed, while I still have need of it.'

'Will you always have need of it, my Lord?' Hermione did not know why she asked the loaded question, but she still fought the strands of sleep, and was not thinking clearly.

Voldemort, however, did not answer her. He sat back down in the armchair in expectant silence. Hermione sighed. Well, she had been ordered by the Dark Lord to sleep. And she was tired. With one last apprehensive look at the corner where Voldemort lurked, she pulled the sheets modestly up to her neck and lay back, closing her eyes.

She did not fall back into sleep, knowing he watched her. She did not open her eyes, but felt sure Voldemort knew she was awake. Stubbornly, she refused to give up the charade, and even made an occasional few tosses and turns as though she were deep in dreams. It was impossible to tell how long she feigned sleep, but when her eyelids became weary of holding themselves closed, and her legs felt restless, Hermione made a show of yawning, blinking, and stretching.

A soft chuckle from the corner. Ah, yes, he was still there.

'Get dressed,' he said. 'We'll go to the conservatory, then the dungeons.'

Hermione shivered, and nodded. She pulled out a simple white blouse and jeans from her trunk; bundling her clothes up, she went into the bathroom and closed the door. A splash of water on her face, and she tried not to think about Lord Voldemort waiting in her bedroom. A tiny part of her wondered if she had not wandered into someone's dream, or someone's story, or perhaps a different universe. Even more baffling was his lack of outright aggression; he had not yet tried to harm her. Of course, Hermione thought, he can't be expected to unleash a constant stream of Crucios and Avada Kedavras, twenty-four hours a day. There must be some part of normality to his existence. She was not sure which thought disturbed her more.

She cleaned herself up, put her hair into a ponytail, and decided to sweep some mascara on her eyelashes, a move that was not part of her usual daily toilette. She did not want to contemplate why she felt the need to look good. She opened the door to find Voldemort standing by her door, hand on the knob.

'Ready, child?' he said.

'Yes, sir,' she said. She grabbed her brown herringbone hunting jacket on the way out, figuring the dungeons might be chilly.

She followed Voldemort through the house. They did not run into anyone else; the other guests must be asleep. Hermione wished she could check on Harry and Ron, see how they were holding up. Make sure they did not do anything rash and stupid. In the quiet darkness of early morning, however, all was silent.

'My Lord?' Hermione asked.

He turned his head ever so slightly, to acknowledge he was listening.

'Will the bindweed flowers open without light? The storm has cut off the sun, outside.'

'They should,' said Voldemort. 'They open based on the hour, not the light.'

'Oh. Yes.'

It took at least ten minutes to go through the wings of Malfoy Manor to the conservatory, located on a spur on the eastern edge of the house. Hermione gasped when the wooden door opened onto the largest, most beautifully-appointed magical garden she had ever seen.

It was ostensibly for the growing of herbs and magical plants for use in the operations of the Manor, the potions stores, and for general showing-off of rare or beautiful specimens. But to Hermione it was the Secret Garden, from the Muggle story she had read as a child. Wild vines crawled over carved rock walls; little marble niches held carved gargoyles, benches, and pots of large exotic flowers; entire trees soared up towards clear panes of glass overarching the ceiling, braced with iron bands that gave it the look of a gilded cage. Small creatures fluttered and squeaked; Hermione recognised the chirp of birds, the song of crickets. Butterflies and fireflies flitted about, points of light or flashing wings against the dark storm outside. With a backdrop of swirling black beyond the windows, the garden was a painting of wild, riotous, colourful life in an otherwise stone cold house.

'Oh!' Hermione breathed. 'It's beautiful!'

'It is, isn't it?' Voldemort said.

Hermione turned to gape at him. Impossible. Lord Voldemort, appreciate the beauty of a garden?

He noticed her stare, and smiled with a thin mouth. 'It may surprise you to know, Miss Granger, that I see beauty in many things. A well-reasoned argument, the feel of a book, leather and pages. A curse, perfectly executed. Even death, which has a symmetry of its own. Beauty. What else do you think magic is?'

Hermione was speechless. She never had possessed much of an imagination, especially in guessing of the inner nature of other people. But this - it made sense, in a way. Lord Voldemort strived for perfection, for the elegance of a finely-woven plot. And Merlin knew he had a flair for the dramatic. It should not have surprised her. She did not like how this insight into his mind made her feel: pleasant, sympathetic, just a little bit in awe of him. No, she thought. 'Shall we find the bindweed flowers now, sir?'

'There,' he nodded toward a patch of vines graced by large white, trumpet-shaped blossoms.

Hermione scurried over, and brought out a fine glass collection jar for the pollen stems. Voldemort tilted his head with curiosity at the sight of the jar, and she shrugged. 'It doesn't hurt to be prepared,' she said, picking off the yellow centers of the flowers with careful fingers and depositing them in the jar. 'Even for a hunting week-end, you never know if you'll need to make a potion.'

Voldemort told her to stop after harvesting five flowers. With care, she placed the jar in her pocket and looked at him. Waiting for orders, she thought of herself with a tinge of disgust. But she did nothing. She waited.

The black robes swirled behind him as he turned to leave the oasis of the conservatory. Hermione followed with one last look behind her, and a white butterfly caught her eye. It floated on the warm, thick air, flapping its wings. It was gross anthropomorphism to project things like joy or carelessness onto insects, but Hermione could not help but think of the butterfly as happy. Then it disappeared into a corner, eaten by a shadow, and Hermione shivered. She turned away and with a clang, the door to paradise closed. Lord Voldemort paused for a split-second, waiting for her, and they hurried toward the dungeons.

******************

'Ron! There you are!' Harry exclaimed, waving to his friend, relief pouring from his palms. 'Where have you been?'

Dumbledore stuck his head around the corner from which Ron had come, blue eyes twinkling. 'Ah, good morning, Harry.'

'Headmaster!' Harry looked from one to the other, young to old, and grinned. Where had Ron and Dumbledore been all this time? He had not seen them since that fateful moment of Lucius Malfoy's murder last evening. With a slight twinge, Harry thought Dumbledore might at least have checked up on the Chosen One, made sure he was still alive and unharmed, especially with Voldemort wandering around under this very roof. Hmm. In Harry's subconscious mind, the suspicion inserted itself that Dumbledore, and now Ron, were not telling him everything.

'Where's Parkinson?' Ron asked, peering behind Harry.

'She went to get breakfast. She said the house-elves usually make up a spread in the morning room, wherever that is...do you wanna go? I'm hungry,' said Harry.

'I'm starving,' said Ron, rubbing his stomach and yawning.

'If - Headmaster, shall we?' Harry turned to Dumbledore, who bobbed his head amicably and started humming some tune as he walked ahead of Ron and Harry.

'Come,' said Dumbledore, interrupting himself, 'I know the way.' He hummed again.

Harry turned his head to where Ron and Dumbledore had come from, and his brow furrowed. It was a staircase, heading down toward somewhere...the dungeons, perhaps? The stone walls looked rough, from what Harry could see. 'Where were you?' Harry asked Ron again.

'Oh, y'know,' Ron mumbled. 'Just walking around.' His face brightened. 'I slept well, though! For all that I hate the Malfoys, I have to admit their accommodations are bloody great. My room has its own house-elf assigned to it! Can you imagine! The thing's name is Grubby, or Lefty, or something.'

'Cool,' said Harry. 'Where's Dumbledore been? Did he get a guest room, too?'

'Well, yeah, of course,' said Ron. 'I think his was in another wing. I didn't see it. Wouldn't surprise me if he really spent all night pacing about the house, though.' Ron said this last in a whisper, so Dumbledore, four paces ahead, could not hear. 'Oh! That reminds me. Don't go in the drawing room. Bellatrix Lestrange was killed last night!'

'I know,' said Harry.

'You know? Did you see it?'

'No,' said Harry, 'but Pansy and I ran into Ginny and Malfoy - er, Draco. They told us.'

'Huh.' Ron's face screwed up a little. 'Malfoy? You don't s'pose he's the murderer, do you? And he's supposed to be protecting my little sister! The git!'

Harry sighed. 'I don't think he'd have killed his aunt,' he said. 'Maybe his dad, but not Bellatrix. Although, with this Dark lot, who knows. My money's still on Voldemort.'

'Ugh,' Ron groaned. 'I'd almost forgotten he's around here somewhere.' They reached the morning room, and Dumbledore gestured with his hand for them to hurry along. They reached the small, square room with a tile floor and a glittering table in the middle, loaded down with every breakfast food imaginable: sausages, eggs, bacon, toast, crumpets, fruit, pastries, cereal, tomatoes, beans, coffee and tea and juice and champagne.

'Whoa,' Harry and Ron said together.

'Wait a minute,' Ron said a second later. 'You-Know-Wh--I mean, Volde--you know, he's with Hermione! What if she's been killed!'

'I think she's all right,' Pansy Parkinson said from the corner, where she was making herself a mimosa.

'How do you know?' Ron said with suspicion.

'We saw them last night,' she chirped. 'Harry and I. Right, Harry?'

'Oh, yeah,' said Harry.

'You've seen Voldemort?' Dumbledore asked, a touch of concern in his eyes as he buttered a croissant.

'Yes, sir,' said Harry. 'Pansy and I - uh, we went to the kitchens for a snack,' he omitted what else they had done in the kitchens, 'and then Voldemort showed up with Hermione. They said something about interviewing the house-elves. She seemed to be working with him just fine,' Harry said, scowling.

'I see,' said Dumbledore. 'Well, Miss Granger is a clever girl. I have faith she will do whatever she needs to do to stay safe. And I'm quite positive that Voldemort will not harm her; it would not be in his interest to do so, especially without the use of magic.' Dumbledore started humming again, and Harry repressed a wave of annoyance at the old man. The Headmaster was far too trusting, far too lackadaisical, especially when there had already been two murders (even if they were of people whom Harry was glad to see the end of). Briefly, Harry wondered about Snape: was he still alive?

'Has anyone seen Snape?' he asked, giving voice to his thoughts.

'That reminds me!' Ron exclaimed, toast crumbs sputtering from his mouth. 'I saw Snape last night! In Mrs. Malfoy's room, half-dressed!'

'What?' Pansy turned with a glint in her eye. 'Snape and Narcissa? Oh, dear. Poor Draco.'

'That makes sense,' said Harry. 'When we first got here yesterday, I saw them in the drawing room, and she had her hand on his arm.'

'Spying on people, Harry?' Pansy smirked.

'Not intentionally,' Harry said. He smirked back, and he enjoyed the flush on her cheeks. He had spent the night in Pansy's room; on the sofa, yes, but still. He had liked watching her sleep.

Invoking the phrase 'speak of the devil,' Snape burst into the room, looking even more sallow than usual. 'It's Narcissa,' he announced. 'She's hurt, down in the dungeons.'

Dumbledore stood, chewing on an orange. 'What happened, Severus?'

'Just hurry, would you?' Snape glared at Harry, Ron, and Pansy. 'I need help breaking into the potions stores! If we don't go now, she'll die!'