Chapter 6: Unexpected
You know that feeling? The one where you are confused but your mind can't understand why? With that intangible perception from the same sense that tells you when someone is staring even when you don't look to see for yourself. When your feelings or intuition, or whatever it is, tries to tell your mind something but the practical part of your mind tells you there is nothing to fear.
This is what Hermione is feeling at the moment.
It isn't fear, as stated. In her line of work there is no room for fear—but that gut feeling warns her of the worst and makes her hyper-aware of everything. However, unlike other times Hermione couldn't see any danger—quite the opposite in fact.
The deep red carpet, the large floor-to-ceiling shelves and the red-brown leather sofas, seating only a person each are left facing one another in quiet conversation. The hearth lies right behind the sofas, the orange-yellow flames tickle its roof, dancing and growing as she steps in. The smell of old and yellowed parchments having recorded the untold tales of centuries past with the bent withered spines of the hardbacks from a patron's exploration through the years, all are tucked into the bookshelves like a child in sleep. This is a familiar scene, a home-away-from-home: a library. What is it? Why I am I feeling such anxiety?
Then it struck her.
She could hear no noise.
It is so silent, it's deafening.
Not even the familiar and expected warm crackling of the fire is heard. Her eyes open in horror and she glances around swiftly, clinging her back to the nearest wall with immediate attention. Despite her training and precautions, her other senses had somehow mistaken this illusion for truth. Her ears are the one thing that had a small piece in them, reporting her location to the Order and when activated, conveyed all the sounds in that room as well. Somehow, they did not fall victim to the spell.
Now I know what I am facing, she thinks. Her mind bitterly berates her, Quite the equivocal statement, no? The optimistic part of her says, it is true, she knows that she is up against an illusion. But the realistic side of her chides her, saying it is not true, she does not know if and what else she is facing.
But what she also knows is that in her semi-panicked state, nothing can be done rationally or logically. With a quiet huff, she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the air stream through her body; a cooling wave blankets over her hyper-aware nerves and she feels every inch of her skin but without the jittery electricity of hasty agitation.
As she exhales, she begins to sense the difference in the air. No longer is there the pleasant smell of ancient stories captured in the many leaves of a book, replaced by the very faint smell of damp glass and wet ink, contaminated by water. Then she hears the first sound since coming to the basement, a small drip-drip somewhere to just to the right of her.
Slowly she feels the shift through her nerves. No longer does she feel the flat plaster wall on her back, replaced by the many grooves between brickwork, bringing the numbing chill to her touch. Her small black flats seem to harden from the dampness beneath them, freezing the soles.
Finally, she rips off the bandaid. Without a moment of pause she opens her eyes fully, taking in every aspect of the room—not in amazement but with strategic, calculating analysis. The sight before her is enough to set anyone on edge with the sheer eeriness of it—but not her. Despite having worked at McNair's for 2 ½ months already, she has only now come across the nest of the snake, caught in the tree that spread its dark roots throughout the manor.
The black motif from the staircase carries into the basement, the brickwork painted black with the crumbling and weathered facade revealing the grey cement under its skin. The room was very small, a mere 15 feet by 15 feet room in all and only about 10 feet tall, like an alcove hiding away the secrets of the world. But no amazing nor fantastical wonder of the earth resides there, only the embodiment of the gritty filth under it.
The fireplace reveals to be empty, traces of floo powder all about it. The walls are mainly bare, save for a single ceiling height, narrow bookshelf in the far right corner, perpendicular to the fireplace. The centrepiece of the room is nothing more than a shabby wooden desk, messy and bent over with one uneven leg and papers all askew as if thrown in a rush. The only light came from a small, four panel skylight from above the bookshelf, filtering in a stained green light from the pond in the McNairs' courtyard, not unlike the Slytherin Common Room.
For a moment longer Hermione stayed in stark calculation. Her eyes catch the trail of dead rodents at the edges of the room—witnesses killed in hasty, paranoid flight. But what was cleaned up so hurriedly?
Completing her analysis of the room, she steps forward, cautiously, towards the most important part of the room: the desk. The desk speaks of use and misuse like a child crying out after being mistreated and terrorized time and time again. The papers scattered across it's surface lay naked in all their haphazard glory. But there isn't anything special about them, absolutely nothing to see.
Why?
They are all blank.
Tattered edges, stained with water and covered in a fine layer of dust. Scattered and left forgotten on that desk.
And, in the middle of this miserable scene lay… absolutely nothing.
Amid all of the papers is a near perfect rectangular space, empty and covered in that translucent layer of dust as well. Something was there. Just what was it?
Hermione purses her lips, not touching the scene for fear of contaminating it. She stares at that space, her eyes narrowing zooming closer into that empty cavity. Closer and closer and closer-
Flicker—a small brown heap, the unknown book.
"Whaa!" She jumps back, touching her head with her right hand and cutting off the rest of her speech with the left. What on earth was that?
"Penny! What was that?! You better not be messing around in my items!" She can hear the anger in his voice, even at the mere notion of rifling through his private belongings. His footsteps start to thunder down the staircase. She doesn't reply, knowing it would give away her location. I need to get out—NOW!
Hermione starts, jumping towards the staircase, albeit a little less gracefully than the gazelle-like movements she had before. She turns back to the room one last time and then she notices it—the ink bottle knocked over on the corner spilled onto the table but the papers which should be leeching in the water-diluted ink showed only to be wet, not smudged.
Invisibility Ink! she thinks. Looking up the stairs with near-panicked alertness, she realizes that McNair must be only moments away from reaching her. She makes a split-second decision.
Grabbing all of the papers, she promptly puts them in her small bag (Undetectable Extension Charm, remember?), with a quick Disillusionment charm to make it appear as if the table was untouched. Fleetly, she darts up, running down the hallway towards the left, away from the incoming boar of a man.
Once she is about 20 m down she waits a moment, long enough for McNair to notice the closed highly secretive door and runs back in his direction.
"Oh, I am so sorry, sir! There was a rat down the hallway and I got frightened. It really is too bad that I did not have a strong man like you around to help me." She holds her hands together in front of her, swaying back and forth and pouting up at him with feigned innocent fear.
The gullible man believes the trick, and with a self-satisfied smirk, pats her head. "Well, yes. What could a small, innocent girl like you do on your own?" he replies with a belittling smile.
The maid gifts him a sweet little smile, and turns back to head down the way she came, off to do some dusting with a flouncy little skip, her red bag bouncing alongside her.
Smirking all the while.
***
BANG.
Draco shuts the door, it becoming a loud slam unintentionally. His left hand grabs his temple, the pounding headache now echoing the slam of the door as well in irritating cacophony.
"DRACO! Where's my new purse?! Vionito Gazelli JUST designed it and I was the first to get it! Come on Draco. Where is it?" The annoyingly high-pitched voice nags his ears, whining and moaning like a fat cat being asked to move.
"How should I know, Astoria? Why would I care?" came his tired response. He sighs and puts down his work bag, his head falling into his right hand.
"Oh Drakey! I just spent 10 000 galleons on it! It was one of a kind! Don't tell me I have to wait until next week for the rest of my allowance?" Yikes, now her voice raises an octave, sounding as if her long, perfectly manicured, nails were scratching against a chalkboard, just reverberating throughout Draco's fatigued mind.
"Was it not just an early release? Won't it come out on official line soon anyway?" He plonks his bag on the floor, the house elves quickly whisking it out of sight before even the hollow thud on the porcelain-like white-and-black tiled floor could be made. Two maids are seen dusting various piecemakers along the walls. No less than Halfbloods and Pureblooded Bloodtraitors work in plain sight at the Manor, of course. He walks forward into the adjacent sitting room, taking a seat on one of the sofas and leaning his elbows on his knees, his head falling into the waiting palms.
The spoiled heiress walks down the curving staircase like tantrum throwing child—flailing arms, loud voice and all "But pleeeeeea-"
"Enough Astoria. That is enough." His eyes flash towards his wife. That single glance towards her speaks of his seriousness. He looks for only a moment, then returning to his slumped position, but his wife is struck by his look.
But, an heiress cannot show concern! Not attachment! That is too personal. That means your heart can get scarred. Which is why despite being greatly aware of her husband's, not distraught, but almost hurt mood, she ignores whatever little compassion she has still lodged somewhere in the deepest pit of her heart, and goes back to her act, huffing and stomping off to the second floor once more.
This is becoming very difficult. He stops to think about all that he must accomplish. All that he does to stay sane and right. All that he does to rectify his own guilt.
It is his daily routine but it is becoming harder than ever with the growing suspicions of the Dark Lord. It is not something that he does out of "pleasure," and if you ask him he would not say that "I would not trade this life for the world." It is something out of necessity.
Draco Malfoy is not a selfless man. Do NOT get it confused.
Both his elbows rest on his knees, his hands gripping the hair one either side of his heavy head.
For five more seconds, he allows himself to indulge in his misery.
5... That annoying voice.
His lips part.
4… Those horrid screams.
His eyes open.
3… His lonely suffering.
They stare unblinkingly ahead.
2… His guilty burden.
They drop lower on the floor.
1… The task.
His eyes close. His lips bring together a small smirk. Those orbs open and the steel returns, its determinedly malicious shine reflecting in the light.
***
"He's coming! He's coming!"
The servants quickly clean up the surrounding area, fulfilling their respective tasks. The house elves speedily grasp the wooden handles of their brushes, combing and flattening the furry red-and-black wallpaper, not that there was anything to comb in the already tamed bush. In the right light, it could look like Hell's fire, but to its inhabitants, it's home. The Mudbloods hurry to the kitchen, preparing all of their Master's favourite dishes, the wonderful scents mingling in the air.
One would think they all had the look of horror, of absolute nervousness to see Draco Malfoy, and that their increased efficiency is reflective of their fear.
But, is that really the case?
If so, then why are the Mudbloods smiling as they whisk their spoons and cut their vegetables. Why does no one cringe at the mere sound of the knife hitting the chopping block because it is reminiscent of his shoes click-clacking on the tiled flooring of the kitchen?
And why, do all of the room's occupants take a deep bow as soon as the Master stepped into the room, willingly forcing their backs to bend as low as possible?
"Yes, yes. Enough of that," says the aristocrat, waving his hands and looking away from his servants, lowering his head as if almost embarrassed (or guilty?) with the attention and regard. All the servants flock to him, (while maintaining respectful distance, of course) and shower him praise, one talking over the other.
"It is so excellent to see you, sir!" says one, holding her cleaning rag in hand.
"Is there anything we can get you, sir?" asks another, rushing to the crowd.
"We're preparing your favourite dishes, sir! We're deeply grateful for that book you gave us with the recipes. They are brilliant!" says the old Head Cook.
"Yes sir! Your mother was a real genius with the stove, wasn't she?" adds one young cook.
CLANK.
Somewhere a pot drops in shell shock, heard ringing throughout the suddenly silent room.
"You never mention his family!" whispers the Head Cook, urgently in her ear.
The girl looks around surprised, realizing she had said the wrong thing. "Deeply apologetic, sir?" she asks, her eyebrows curling together in fearful worry as she averts her eyes to the floor.
"What is your name?" asks the man at the center of all the glory, his voice hard, his eyes narrowing at the offender.
"Amelia, sir. Amelia Johnson. I just started working last wee-ow!" An elbow to her side warns her that she is speaking too much. She braves a look up at her employer who has moved to be right in front of her, towering over her frail body.
The man evaluates her, looking up and down her frame. His face like stone, the judgementally pursed lips seem to be carved in the eternal gravity of their decision. Must be, 12? 15 at most if she was starved a great deal.
His eyes bore into the top of her head, since she looks down in absolute terror at speaking her Master directly for the first time. Had he looked, he would have seen her eyes looking back and forth in nervousness, but even he is not so blind to have missed the drop of water that dripped from her face to the floor, with a muted tup.
He sighs, "Yes, they were good recipes. Don't do them injustice." He stares a moment longer, just long enough for the girl to look up at his stoic face in wide-eyed relief, shock and wonder, before he left the room, his black cloak billowing behind him as always.
"Yes, sir!" rings out faintly behind him and he indulges in a smirk that may just look like a smile, if he cares to admit it, which he never would.
***
"Was that really him?" inquires young Amelia Johnson—jaw dropped and all—to the elder cook who had been helpfully guiding her throughout the ordeal. The other servants smile at her compassionately.
This loving atmosphere, where she doesn't live in fear. One where she isn't mocked by her equals because of the insecurity of it all. One where no one appears to worry about "punishments" or worse, "rewards" through nightly visits to the Masters room. One where she is cared for and cares for others.
Silently, she looks up, seemingly past the tall ceiling, far away to a place no mortal eyes could see. With the stars as her witness, hearing the unspoken oath, she swears that from then on, she would answer to any need her Master asks for and made sure he knew the gratitude she felt. She closes her eyes, sealing the promise and locking it in their depths. Finally at peace, she faces the glance at the smiling Apple-Doll face of the Head Cook.
"Not what you were expecting, right?"
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, or any related characters, places and intellectual property. All rights are to JK Rowling.
A/N: *Peeks out impishly from the non-existent curtain* H-Hey guys!
Sorry for such a long break! I hope the extra long chapter makes up for it (though the length kinda just happened...I wonder how? ;D ) I was on vacation, and some of you know of the spotty and unreliable wifi in other countries, so really sorry about that! I will try to upload weekly again starting next week, but I am traveling more again this long weekend and have relatives visiting (busy, busy!). But be assured I will try my VERY best!
Not too many other announcements this time, except for the most important:
Thank you. I have realized I don't really say this and that I really should. For all of those who have taken the time to read my fanfic and moreover follow/fav/review it, please know that I truly, truly appreciate it!
And of course, I am always looking for criticism for writing and drawing (for those of you who checked out Hermione linked to chapter 3), so drop me your thoughts on the story. Or on life. Or on the state of matter. Whatever floats your boat ;)
Write you later!
-Phoenixriser