Murder at Malfoy Manor

Chapter Ten

Dangerous Dungeons

The first thing Ginny noticed when she awoke was a white hand, relaxed, in front of her face. The hand extended into an arm, a strong one, wrapped around her from behind, holding her close. Her eyes flew open. What in the world -- ? Then she remembered. She was in Draco Malfoy's bed, and this was presumably Draco Malfoy's arm snaked about her waist.

'Oh, Gods,' she muttered. As feeling returned to her body, she felt the rest of Draco, snuggled to her back, his breath hot in her hair. She smiled a little. This was not entirely unpleasant, she had to admit. Draco may have been a git, but he was also strong, and warm, and holding her close. Then, in another wash of horror, she remembered other flashes; hot kisses, skin, touch, feeling, oh feeling...Ginny blushed, forcing her mind to work properly. What had happened last night?

She had heard voices in her own room, came to find Draco, she was in her nightgown, he had locked the door and someone had tried to break in...then she had curled up and gone to sleep. With a sigh of relief, Ginny sorted out which memories were real, and which had been merely dreams. They had not kissed, nothing had happened, except Draco's somnambulant cuddling. The rest had been in Ginny's dreams, her imagination only, and she was not sure whether this made her happy or regretful. Besides, she thought, Draco Malfoy would never kiss me, not in a million years. He's probably mistaken me for Pansy Parkinson in his sleep. At this sinking realization, she pushed his arm off of her and slipped out of bed. Draco's clock read five minutes past nine in the morning.

Ginny unlocked the door and left Draco's bedroom in silence, scampering back down the hall to her own room. The house was still quite dark; one look out her windows and Ginny saw that the magical storm raged in full force. She dressed quickly in a brown tweed skirt and green jumper.

With a snap of the fingers, she summoned a house-elf (ordering house-elves about came entirely too easy to Ginny) and followed the pointy-eared creature to the breakfast room. There she found Pansy Parkinson alone.

'Hi, Pansy,' she said.

'Hello, Ginny,' Pansy said. 'Sleep well?'

Yes, in your boyfriend's bed, Ginny thought. 'Oh, yes, very soundly, thank you. And you?'

'Oh, very well, thanks. The sausages are delicious this morning.'

'Mmm,' Ginny nodded, taking three. 'Is that a mimosa?'

'Yes,' Pansy nodded. 'The champagne in this house is unequalled.'

'I think I shall have one,' said Ginny. Merlin knew she could use a little pick-me-up this morning, and she was generous with the champagne and thin on the orange juice.

'Your skirt is lovely,' Pansy said.

'Thank you! And I love that shirt on you, it flatters your eyes.'

'Thank you.'

Silence.

'I think there's something wrong with Mrs. Malfoy,' said Pansy.

Ginny looked up from her breakfast. 'Pardon?'

'Harry and Dumbledore and your brother Ron were here, just a few moments ago, and then Professor Snape came in. He said that Mrs. Malfoy was hurt in the dungeons.'

'What!' Draco appeared in the doorway, looking pale. Ginny blushed again, remembering her dreams of him from the night. She hoped she had not mumbled anything incriminating in her sleep. However, Draco did not even glance at her; his eyes were trained on Pansy.

'Draco!' Pansy said. 'Have some breakfast.'

'What's wrong with my mother?'

'I'm sure she'll be fine, Drakey,' Pansy said. 'Snape, Dumbledore, and two-thirds of the Dream Team are already down there.'

'Down where, Parkinson? I swear to God if you don't tell me--'

'The dungeons,' Ginny interrupted. Draco's grey eyes locked on hers. Then, he turned and was gone.

Pansy sighed.

Ginny finished her sausages and got halfway through a marmalade-slathered scone when she lost her appetite. 'I'm going to the dungeons,' she said.

'Suit yourself,' said Pansy, examining a fingernail.

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

'Double, double, toil and trouble,' Voldemort murmured to himself in a sing-song. 'Fire burn and cauldron bubble.' He held a secret love of Shakespeare, especially the tragedies.

He stirred a viscous pink liquid manually using a long wooden spoon, three clockwise turns for every four counter-clockwise. The potion was starting to resemble Tummy Tonic. On the other side of the room, Hermione Granger rolled the bindweed pollen between her fingers to create a fine powder which would be added to the potion at the last minute. It was coming along nicely; the other ingredients had been in stock and if the potion worked properly, it would turn from bubble-gum pink to bright, frothy blue as reaction to poison.

Fortunately, Lucius Malfoy kept the potions cauldrons heated and ready at all times with low-light magical fires. If the fires had been dead, it would have been impossible to make the potion without the use of wands. Voldemort felt happy for the Slytherin motto of 'always be prepared.' Or was that the Muggle Boy Scouts? Voldemort could not remember. He swore sometimes that Wormtail had done something wrong in the re-birthing ritual to make him senile.

As he stirred the potion, his eye fell upon Hermione again. It was too bad she was a mudblood; something about her presence soothed him. Perhaps it was her clear, precise voice, or her ruthlessly logical manner, or her dry and unimaginative mind. Perhaps it was her self-isolation from her peers; he had sensed it as he probed gently into her head, the intrusion so soft she would never notice it. Her back was turned to him now; her brown hair was pulled up into a casual ponytail, leaving a few strands hanging. One small tendril of a curl grazed the back of her white neck and Voldemort stared at it. Such a pretty little neck, undoubtedly soft skin. He could break it, with one wave of the wand, snap it in two. He could make it bleed. Or he could reach out with his fingers and touch it, gentle and tender, making her shiver against her will.

'Miss Granger,' he said, and she turned. 'We will need the asphodel powder. It's in the storage closet.'

'Yes, sir,' Hermione said, reaching for the closet. She opened the door and let out a shriek of surprise. Voldemort's skin jumped. He whirled to see...Minerva McGonagall? It had to be. She was much older than when he had last seen her, but the green eyes and stern expression were unmistakable. Yeurgh. She had not aged well.

'Hermione Granger,' Minerva said, shaking a stack of papers at Hermione. Voldemort was reminded of how McGonagall had been when she was Head Girl, two years ahead of him at Hogwarts. Uptight, self-righteous, and rule-abiding; add fifty years of wrinkles and it was not a pretty sight.

'Miss Granger, you have failed! Every single on of your NEWTs is a T! Troll! Troll! You've failed!'

Hermione stepped backward, shaking her head, her lip quivering. 'No,' she whispered, 'no, no, I'm sorry, I tried, no...'

When Voldemort saw the fear on Hermione's face, the pale look of a worst nightmare confronted, he realised that Minerva McGonagall was not actually in their presence. A Boggart, he thought, and automatically reached for his wand to dispel it. Then he remembered he could not, and felt a surge of irritation.

'You are a failure, Miss Granger! You are expelled! And I will have to burn your copy of Hogwarts: A History!'

'No!' Hermione cried.

Even Voldemort felt a wrench of despair at the idea of Hogwarts: A History being burned. 'Miss Granger!' he said, forcing her attention away from the Boggart. 'You do know what this is?'

She gulped once and seemed to come back to herself. 'A Boggart,' she whispered. 'It's just a Boggart.' Then her eyes grew bright with panic again as the false McGonagall advanced on her, waving the papers with large, red 'Ts' marked on them. 'What do we do?' Hermione shrilled.

Voldemort glanced around the room, looking for something to force the creature into retreat. He grabbed a jar of Sizzling Serum, a toxic-acid substance that was used to scour dirty cauldrons. He twisted off the lid and splashed the substance all over Minerva McGonagall, a tiny, little-boy part of him laughing with glee as he did. The Boggart crumpled in on itself, squalling in protest, and turned into a black shadow that fled back into its closet. Hermione slammed the door on it.

'Thanks,' she said, pressed up against the wood.

He nodded his head once at her. How interesting to know that Granger's worst fear was failure. It shouldn't be, he thought, because she seemed to be very capable. Perhaps that was what motivated her: an attempt to prove that fear out of existence. Very interesting indeed.

'You've read Hogwarts: A History?' he asked.

She smiled wistfully. 'Oh, yes. It's my favourite book.'

'Mine too!' Voldemort said, then cleared his throat. 'I especially enjoy the chapter on the changing enchantments and hidden rooms.'

'Chapter Twenty-six!' Hermione exclaimed.

'I have a first edition.'

'Really?' Hermione squeaked. 'How in the world did you find it?'

'Stole it from the possessions of some old lady I murdered.'

'Oh.' Hermione realised what he had said, and a mix of horror and sympathy played across her face. Voldemort laughed, high and cold, at the bookworm girl. She was properly appalled at the admission of homicide, but he could see the understanding, too; if there was one thing to commit murder for, a first edition of Hogwarts: A History might be it.

'It's time for the bindweed pollen,' Voldemort said. Hermione looked relieved to have something to do, and she brought the yellow powder from the other side of the room. 'Good girl,' he whispered.

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

Draco felt frantic. What had Pansy been talking about, his mother hurt? Was Pansy pulling his chain? It would not be the first time. Yet there had been the ring of truth about it; first his father, then his aunt, why not his mother? The thought spurred him to run faster down the stone steps into the guts of Malfoy Manor. 'Mum!' he shouted as he ran through the dank corridors. 'Mum!'

'Mr. Malfoy,' said a voice, and Draco skidded to a halt as Professor Snape materialised outside a low doorway.

'Where is she?'

'Someone has poisoned her. I've gotten help to break into the potions stores and fetch a bezoar. Without magic, even I cannot open locked doors.' Snape seemed calm, but Draco saw the little vertical line between his brows that indicated he was very worried. 'Come, I'm certain she wants to see you.'

Draco entered the small room, one of the dungeon cells from the looks of it. The door was left open and his mother lay upon the wooden cot, her face deathly pale but eyes open. Dumbledore was there, and Potter and Weasley stood behind him, eyeing Draco with suspicion.

'Mother!' Draco rushed forward to Narcissa and grasped her hand.

Her lips moved in response, but no sound came out. Her eyes moved to look at Draco, but her neck and muscles stayed paralysed. He barely noticed when the others, Professor Snape included, left the room. He heard a muffled clanging; they must be breaking into the storeroom where the bezoars were kept.

'Mother,' he whispered again. He hoped she did not die. Who would do this? Who was killing off his family, one by one? Draco went through the party guests, looking to assign blame for his current situation. His mind rested on Potter. The old antagonism burned in Draco's chest as he thought about his nemesis. Potter had every reason to want the entire Malfoy family dead; he was probably going through them one by one. Or Ron Weasley! Now that Draco thought about it, he decided it was Saint Potter and his entire motley crew, in cahoots as usual, taking matters in their own hands.

Draco looked up as Snape came back into the room, holding a bezoar in his hand. 'Move aside!' Snape snapped.

He scrambled up and watched Snape shove the bezoar down his mother's throat. Draco suppressed the urge to gag, or cry out in protest at the violence of it.

Narcissa's chest heaved up in down and her eyes grew wide and frenzied. Her hands grasped Snape's robes, and Draco felt a twinge of possessive annoyance. In the excitement of the morning, he had almost forgotten that he had witnessed Snape kissing his mother only last night. And the gods only know what else they did, his mind added in an unwelcome note. His lip curled under in distaste.

The bezoar worked, and Narcissa coughed once and sat up, bracing herself with her hands on the hard wooden slats. 'Oh,' she whispered. 'Draco!' she said, reaching out for him.

Draco sat next to her and embraced her with force, missing the look of total relief on Snape's face. 'You're all right,' he said. 'It's all right.' He turned up to face Snape. 'Where are the others? Dumbledore, and Potter?'

'They've stayed in the potions room. Someone else was there before; ingredients were out and a cauldron was freshly used. The Headmaster is trying to determine what the poison was.'

'Someone was down here brewing potions to kill my mother with!' Draco was furious. Using his own potions stores against him. Intolerable.

'I'm not sure,' Snape said. 'It did not look like any poison known to me. Narcissa?' his hand reached out to support her head. 'Do you remember what happened?'

'The juice,' she croaked. 'The juice.'

'What kind?' Snape prompted. 'Where did you get it?'

'It was on the breakfast table,' she said. 'Atacama cactus juice.'

'It's her favourite,' Draco said. 'The murderer must have known that.'

'Not necessarily,' Snape said. 'It could have been an accident. You are aware of the properties of Atacama cactus juice?'

Draco shook his head.

'If it is not prepared and filtered in the most delicate manner, it is a toxic substance, a neurological poison. This could have been an accident of negligence on the part of the house-elves or the manufacturer. Or, it could have been deliberately mis-prepared. Or, it could have been external poison.'

'I--I drank it all,' Narcissa whispered. 'I'm sorry there's none left for you to look at.' She looked pale and miserable.

'It's all right, it's not your fault,' Snape cooed.

Draco blinked at the professor, feeling nauseated. If there was one thing he did not want to witness in the morning, it was Snape talking in lovey-dovey tones.

The sappy moment was interrupted by a light knock. It was Dumbledore. 'It was not poison in the cauldron,' the old man said. 'It was an ingenious mixture designed to detect poison, I think. I found remnants of bindweed pollen, as well as asphodel powder. Improvised, of course, but perfectly functional.'

'Ah,' said Snape. 'But who could have brewed it?