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Two days later
“Your wife’s absconded.”
Oblivious to his father’s cordial greeting, Draco sets down
his valise with a weary sigh, and glances around the Entrance
Hall. He’s just returned from a week of gruelling business
meetings, and he’s been looking forward to kissing and making
up with Hermione. “Where is she?”
“I’ve told you,” says Lucius. “She’s
gone.”
“It’s true, darling,” says Narcissa, nervously.
“She’s not here.”
Draco shakes his head. He’s flown non-stop from Marseilles,
he’s tired and hungry, and he wants his wife. “What
are you talking about?”
“Oh, darling...” His mother takes his arm. “Come
into the Morning Room, and—”
“No, Mother!” Draco shakes himself free. “Where’s
Hermione?”
“She’s gone, darling,” says Narcissa. “Your
father and I were only away for one night, and...”
Draco stares at her foolishly. Then he turns to Lucius.
His father nods. “I will say this for her: she’s
taken nothing with her—apart, that is, from a house-elf.”
Draco runs a hand through his long hair. “So you’re
telling me that both Hermione and a house-elf disappeared
on the same night?”
“Yes, darling. I’m so sorry.”
“And it happened when you were away, and Hermione was alone
in the Manor?”
“Yes.”
Draco closes his eyes.
He knows she hasn’t left him.
For one thing—aside from the odd tiff—they’re
happy together—surprisingly happy—she fits him
better than his wand.
For another, if Hermione were to leave him, she wouldn’t
sneak away when he and his parents were out, she’d announce
it over breakfast, enumerate her reasons, and storm down the Manor
steps like a force of nature.
And she wouldn’t take one house-elf, she’d liberate
the whole bloody lot.
Which means, he thinks, that either someone has broken
into the Manor and taken her, or that some ward or curse inside
the Manor has caught her—some Dark fucking shit—
“Draco, darling,” says Narcissa, “I know you’re
upset, but please don’t use such uncouth language.”
She takes his arm again, and herds him towards the Morning Room
and, this time, he doesn’t resist, but, “Father,”
he calls over his shoulder. “I need to know everything you’ve
done to find her. Absolutely everything.”
…
Half an hour—and an untouched cup of tea and plate of biscuits—later,
Draco’s in full possession of the facts.
There aren’t many.
Lucius and Narcissa had returned home early the previous morning
to find the Manor strangely quiet. Narcissa had knocked on the
door to Draco and Hermione’s bedchamber and, when there’d
been no answer, she’d gone inside. “I was afraid she
might be ill, darling.”
She could see that the bed hadn’t been slept in, so she’d
tried the adjoining sitting room, and had found the curtains closed
and the candles still burning. She’d alerted Lucius, and
he had cast various Locating and ward-testing charms but had found
no sign of Hermione, nor evidence that anyone else had entered
or left the house.
Some hours later, they’d discovered that Twinky was also
missing. “The house-elves say that your wife summoned him
around midnight,” says Lucius, “and he did not return.”
“Right,” says Draco, rising to his feet.
“You should get some rest, darling,” says his mother.
Draco can’t think of any way to express his frustration
at his parents’ attitude without using the language his mother
abhors, so he says nothing.
…
A thorough search of their chambers confirms that Hermione has
not left him a note, and the tiny, weaselly fear that had somehow
worked its way into his chest is banished forever.
His wife hasn’t abandoned him.
But where is she?
And how is he going to find her?
Draco approaches the fireplace, takes a handful of Floo powder,
and calls in professional help.
…
Potter and Weasley, in their Auror robes, seem to fill the entire
room.
Draco persuades them to sit, and—pacing up and down in front
of them—he gives them a full account of Hermione’s disappearance.
“The only thing I can add,” he says, “is that a
candelabra also seems to be missing—look.” He points
to an empty space on one of the sideboards. “She hasn’t
left me—you can take my word for that—and she hasn’t
gone out of the grounds—wards are a Malfoy speciality, and
we’d know if anyone had been in or out.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m convinced that
she’s still somewhere inside the Manor. Obviously, I could
search for her by myself, but...” His voice suddenly cracks,
and he’s forced to swallow hard before he can continue. “My
father will oppose it, but I need your expertise. This house can
be aggressive, and we have to be quick—please Merlin we’re
not already too late.”
“Malfoy,” growls Weasley, with an authority that’s
both unexpected and reassuring, “we’ll find her.”
Draco nods. “Thank you,” he whispers.
…
He procures a plan of the Manor for Potter and Weasley and—whilst
they’re casting various charms upon it—out of courtesy,
he approaches his father for permission to search the West Wing.
“No,” says Lucius.
A tiny part of Draco had considered this possibility, but the
refusal’s still devastating. “Why, Father?”
he cries. “Why?” He rises to his feet and, standing
toe-to-toe with Lucius, he suddenly realises that he’s
the taller man. “What could possibly be more important than
finding my wife?”
“You have no proof that that foolish… woman
is still in the house, much less in the West Wing!”
“Proof? Since when have I needed proof to search
my own home? This is Hermione we’re talking about, Father;
this is,”—he bites his lip—“this is the mother
of my son.”
Lucius’s eyes narrow. “Are you saying—”
Draco nods. “We think she’s pregnant.” He can
see that Lucius doesn’t believe him. Hermione’s failure
to give him an heir has been a bone of contention between him
and his parents since the early days of his marriage. “Look,
I don’t know what you’re hiding,” he hisses, “and
I really don’t care any more. I’m taking Potter
into the West Wing.”
He turns to leave.
“No you are not.” Lucius follows him. “I
will not have that… that half-blood meddler trampling
over my property! I will not—”
Draco swings round, roaring: “PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!”
The curse carries the entire weight of his love, and fear, and
anger.
Lucius’s eyes stare out of a frozen body.
“I’m sorry, Father,” says Draco. “I’ll
release you as soon as I’ve found Hermione.”
And I’ll face my punishment like a man, he thinks.
…
“Good,” says Potter, when Draco returns to the sitting
room. “We’ve just finished.”
The plan of the Manor’s spread out upon the table. Various
sigils hover above it, glowing in diagnostic colours—Draco
recognises Auror magic, and cannot help but be impressed. “What
do they tell you?”
“Around midnight, two days ago—”
“When Hermione disappeared,” says Draco.
“—yes—a large magical disturbance took place,
here.” Potter taps the plan with his wand.
“The White Tower.”
“The magic was certainly Dark but, beyond that, we can’t
tell you much. Except,”—Potter sighs—“it involved
death.” He points to one of the sigils.
Draco swallows hard. “Well,” he says, “I’ve
just discovered that my father’s hiding something up there—Dark
artefacts, I suspect—so there could easily be blood magic,
maybe even death magic, and—”
“Recent death,” says Potter, gently.
“No.” Draco pulls away, edging backwards, shaking his
head. “No.” It’s almost a sob.
“Malfoy,” says Weasley and, again, his manner’s
unexpectedly kind, “we’ll find her. Alive.”
…
The door to the White Tower’s physically locked and magically
sealed.
Draco curses.
His Malfoy blood gives him a head start, but it could still take
days to unpick his father’s magic and, even then, there’s
no guarantee he’d get all of it. “My father won’t
cooperate,” he admits, and wonders whether he should confess
what he’s done to Lucius.
“All right,” says Potter, “stand back.” He
levels his wand at the slab of oak. Effrego totalum!”
The door falls off its hinges. “Auror magic,” he explains.
“Merlin’s balls,” mutters Draco.
Weasley grins. “It’s all about having the confidence,”
he says. “Most of us can handle a handful of wards, but Harry
can open just about anything.”
“Let’s go up,” says Potter, modestly.
…
As they climb the stairs, Draco’s heart’s threatening
to burst from his chest. “Why would she come up here?”
“And how did she get in?” says Weasley.
“The house-elf must have Apparated her here,” says
Potter.
They reach the top. “We’ll go first,” says
Weasley, firmly.
Draco’s not used to being ordered around—and certainly
not by a childhood enemy—but he wants Hermione found, so
he stands back, and watches the Aurors enter the tower room, waiting
until their silence becomes unbearable. “Is she there?”
he grates out.
“No…” says Potter.
Draco scrambles through the door.
The first thing he notices is a thick layer of dust—undisturbed,
apart from Potter and Weasley’s footprints. Then his eyes
are drawn to the centre of the chamber, and he sees the missing
candelabra—its candles burned out—lying beside an ornate
wooden chest, about the size of a hatbox, and—next to that—a
dead house-elf.
“Twinky.” Draco rushes to the little body.
“Don’t touch him,” warns Potter.
“He was her favourite,” says Draco. He looks around
anxiously, but—thank Merlin—there’s no sign of
Hermione. “There are no footprints,” he mutters.
“No,” says Potter. He’s passing his wand back
and forth over the tiny victim. “He was killed by some sort
of Dark curse,” he concludes, “which isn’t surprising,
given what’s in these cabinets.” He turns to the open
box. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know.”
“It looks like something’s usually kept inside it—something
valuable.” Potter scans the room again.
Draco tries to pull himself together. “It could be anything,”
he says, reaching into the velvet hollow. “This is sort of
head-shaped…”
He frowns.
His fingers are tingling.
He strokes the fabric, and the sensation grows stronger, spreading
up his arm, and down into his vitals, reviving memories of the
war and, with them, feelings of anger and aggression—
“What the…?” cries Weasley, suddenly.
“Shit,” hisses Potter, flinching as though someone’s
shoved him aside.
“Ow!” The box flies from under Draco’s
hand, and crashes into one of the cabinets. He sucks his bloodied
fingers. “What just happened?”
“Someone pushed me,” says Potter. “What did you
feel, Ron?”
“The same… It felt like a hand.” Weasley casts
a disclosing charm. “But there’s nothing…”
“Hermione,” cries Draco, getting to his feet, “Hermione,
is that you? Please, Bookworm, if you’re there, come to me.”
He holds out his arms. “Please…”
Nothing happens.
“Please?”
Potter, meanwhile, is casting another spell. “There’s
no one here.”
Draco runs a hand through his hair. “There’s something
wrong with this,” he says, prodding the box with his
foot. “It’s all about this…”
“Be careful,” says Potter, coming up behind him.
“Why don’t you ask your father what it is?” asks
Weasley, joining them.
Draco sighs.
…
“You’re sure you want to do this on you own?”
Draco can see that Potter’s almost as anxious to find Hermione
as he is, but he has to insist: “It’s my only
chance.”
Weasley grasps his shoulder supportively. “Good luck, Malfoy.
We’ll be waiting to hear—if you need us, just Floo.”
“I will.” He watches them prepare to leave. Then, “Potter,”
he says, “what will happen about my father’s—you
know—things?”
“I’ll send him an Official Notice in a couple of days.
Provided he disposes of everything within a fortnight, and uses
a licensed Dark Artefacts Destroyer, the matter’ll go no
further.”
Draco knows that Potter’s sticking his neck out for Hermione’s
sake. “He’ll face no charges?”
“No.”
“Thanks. That’ll help.”
Potter nods. “Keep us informed,” he says, and the pair
Apparate away.
…
Lucius is—of course—still standing where Draco had
left him.
Wearily, Draco raises his wand—“Finite Incantatem,”—and
prepares himself for the fireworks.
To his surprise, Lucius simply slumps into a chair. “Did
you find her?”
“I…” It’s too hard to explain. “No.”
His father sighs. “I realise now that I’ve always underestimated
you, Draco—underestimated your feelings for your—for
Hermione—and, it seems, underestimated your strength
of character. The son supersedes the father. You are an adult,
at last.”
“I never wanted to hurt you, Father. But—the thing
is,”—Draco shrugs, sadly—“I love her…”
Lucius sighs again. “I assume that Potter found my collection?”
Draco waves a hand. “He did. But that’s all dealt with.
There’ll be no repercussions, provided you do as he says.
What I need to know,”—he pulls up a chair and sits before
his father, leaning forward—“is: what was in that box?”
“What box?”
Draco describes the chest, and its velvet lining. “What
was in it?”
“You’re saying it’s empty?”
“Yes.”
“How can it be?”
“What do you mean, Father? What was in it?”
Lucius shakes his head.
“Look,” says Draco, “I think that Hermione
took whatever it is,”—he remembers how something
had ripped the ensorcelled box from his hands—“and that
she’s somehow fighting it. What in Merlin’s name
is it, Father?”
Lucius sinks further into his chair—suddenly, he’s
looking old, and frail. “It’s your Death Eater mask,
Draco,” he says.
And he tells his son the story of the Dark Lord’s gift—how
Voldemort had presented it to Lucius; how he—suspecting
a trap—had ensured that Draco never wore it, inventing more
and more bizarre excuses to keep the boy safe; and how, after
the war, he’d locked it in the White Tower, behind wards
designed to preserve and protect his new collection of Dark artefacts.
“Why Father?” Draco’s at his wits’
end. “Why do we keep on making the same mistakes?
Fuck!” He’s touched, of course, by this further
proof of his father’s love for him but, at the same time—so
help him—he could beat the man’s fucking brains out.
He forces himself to calm down. “Look—just tell me everything
you know.”
…
It’s late.
The White Tower’s in darkness.
Draco retrieves the lost candelabra and, setting it upright beside
the box, he conjures fresh candles and lights them with his wand.
Then he sits down in the pool of light and, leaning back against
one of the cabinets, he waits.
It’s torture.
The Dark magic Voldemort had prepared for him has ensnared
Hermione. He doesn’t know what it’s done to her; he
doesn’t know if it can be reversed. Earlier, it had seemed
to him that she was resisting it—and protecting him
from its influence.
But she clearly can’t escape it.
Should he summon Potter, and tell him what he’s learned?
Who better than Potter to deal with Voldemort’s magic?
But, when Potter had tried, he couldn’t find Hermione.
The curse has made her invisible, to the eye and to magic,
thinks Draco. But she’ll come to me. If it’s
at all possible, she will come to me…
…
He wakes with a start.
The candles have gone out—the chamber’s pitch black—and
a weight’s pressing down upon his chest.
He grasps it—it’s a hand, fingers splayed.
His heart races. “Hermione?”
She doesn’t answer, but he feels her leg slide over him,
feels her lower herself upon him, and pin him to the floor.
“Bookworm?” He’d hoped she’d make contact,
but he’d never expected it to be like this. He reaches
up, finds her arms, runs his hands upwards, over her shoulders,
her neck, touches her face…
And it’s there—cool and hard, with sneering lips and
jagged teeth.
She’s wearing the mask!
“Hermione?”
She grasps his wrists, and moves his hands to her breasts. They’re
bare.
“No, Bookworm...”
But her insistence is a powerful love charm, and he can’t
stop himself shifting his hips and pushing the hard ridge of his
erection up against her.
She rises and, when he tries to pull her back, she gently deflects
his hands, and then he feels her unbuttoning his fly, and he gives
in to her completely—could he possibly do otherwise?—until
she’s freed him. Then, grasping her waist, and lifting her,
he helps her impale herself upon him. “Ah…”
She knows his body, knows what he likes, and she gives it to
him, riding him like it’s the last time they’ll ever
be together.
Oh, please Merlin, no…
He wants it to last forever—he tries to make it last—but
his climax is building fast, and he can’t hold it back—he
can’t—oh fuck, he can’t—and he sobs
her name as his body betrays him, exploding inside her with spasms
so powerful he blacks out from their intensity.
…
When he comes round, he can’t find her.
“Hermione, please!” he cries, but she doesn’t
respond. “I don’t want this,” he shouts.
“It’s my mask—taking the Mark was my
mistake—I should be the one to pay the price, not
you!”
He knows what she’s doing.
She’s protecting him.
He’s never properly held the mask—never felt the full
force of the curse that dwells upon it—but he’d felt
an echo of it, when he’d examined the box, and he knows something
of the horrors Hermione’s experiencing now. She must have
tried—again and again—to take the thing off; she must
have used every form of magic she knows and failed; she must have
resigned herself to being trapped forever.
The sex had been her farewell.
Merlin, he thinks, she must be terrified.
“Hermione,” he pleads into empty space, “let me
help you—let me get Potter and Weasley back.” He makes
no attempt to hide the emotion in his voice. “I can’t
lose you, Bookworm. I love you.”
He sees nothing, hears nothing, but somehow he senses
that she’s come to him, that she’s kneeling beside him,
and he finds her hand and raises it to his lips, whispering her
name as he kisses it. Her flesh is invisible, but it’s also
strangely insubstantial, and he wonders whether the effect’s
progressive—whether she can feel herself fading away, and
if that’s what’s made her despair.
“Listen,” he says. “The mask was meant for me.
I’m sure that, if I pull it, it’ll come off.” He
feels her move—a flurry in the air beside him—and he
knows that she’s protesting. “No, listen,” he insists.
“All we have to do is stop it attaching itself to me.”
Her wispy fingers squeeze his hand—How? he imagines
she’s asking.
“I’m not sure…”
He clasps her hand to his breast and, bowing his head and pressing
a kiss to it, he thinks hard.
He can feel her other hand stroking his hair, and he longs to
surrender himself into her arms, longs to feel again the way she
holds him when he’s tired, or anxious, or after they’ve
made love.
They argue sometimes—yes, they can fight like cat and dog—but
that means nothing.
Their marriage is forever.
He’s not going to lose her.
Suddenly, he has an idea: Who can protect me from the mask?
The person who protected me before.
He gently releases her, and scrambles to his feet. “Wait
here, Bookworm. Don’t move—and don’t worry. I’ll
be back as quick as I can.”
…
Lucius is still sitting in his study.
“I’ve found her,” says Draco.
“And?”
“She’s wearing the mask.”
“And I was right—it’s cursed?”
“It’s eating her away. But I have a plan, Father.”
He explains it, such as it is. “We must be quick.”
Lucius hesitates. “If it fails—”
“Then I’ll be cursed,” Draco admits. “Listen
to me, Father. All my life, I’ve been a coward; all my life,
I’ve let people down—you and Mother; Snape; Potter;
Dumbledore… But this is my wife—this is the only woman
I,”—he sighs—“this is my wife, Father.
If I don’t do this…” He shakes his head. “I
wouldn’t want to live without her—I wouldn’t know
how. I want you to promise that, if anything should happen
to me, you’ll make sure she’s all right—she probably
won’t let you, but—well—just watch over her. For
me, Father.”
Lucius eyes him, sadly. “You were lying about the grandson,
weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I wish—”
“So do I, Father, but we haven’t time for that now.
Please—will you let me use it?”
Lucius nods. “I have no choice…”
He rises stiffly, and crosses to the fireplace, where—with
a curt acknowledgement of its inhabitant—he pulls aside a
portrait of Abraxas Malfoy and—to Draco’s astonishment—reveals
a Muggle ‘safe’. He turns its circular lock this way
and that, casting counter-charms between turns, then wrenches
open the heavy door, and draws out a large velvet bag.
“I’m coming with you,” he says.
…
The White Tower feels empty.
“Hermione?” Draco tries to sense her presence. “Hermione,
please don’t back out of this. Look.” He takes
his father’s Death Eater mask from the velvet bag and puts
it on. “See, Bookworm, if I’m wearing this, my father’s
magic will come between me and the curse.”
He feels her fragile hand touch his arm, and his heart leaps
into his throat. “It’s going to work, Bookworm,”
he assures her, softly. “I’m going to save you…”
He reaches out, blindly.
“Wait,” says Lucius. He’s picked up the
wooden box, and he sets it, upright and open, on the table. “Once
you have the mask,” he explains, “put it in here, and
I’ll seal it in.”
“Right,” says Draco.
His heart’s pounding, and he’s finding it hard to get
enough air into his lungs, but he’s determined—no lurking
cowardice nor instinct for self-preservation is going to stop
him this time. “Are you ready, Bookworm?”
There’s no reply, but he trusts that she is, and he reaches
up, and finds her hair, as thin as a cloud, and—instinctively
closing his eyes to focus better on his sense of touch—he
searches with his fingertips until he discovers the edges of the
mask.
That, alone, is solid; he curls his fingers around its metal
rim.
Magic rushes into his arms, filling his body with a sense of
power, and his head with dreams of violent domination, but he
turns from them, and pulls—
And the mask comes away so easily, he almost falls over backwards!
He catches a glimpse of his wife in her pussycat pyjamas, her
face red and swollen, before he’s fighting the mask, struggling
to keep it at arm’s length as it tries to fly up to
his face, and seal itself to his flesh.
“Draco!” croaks Hermione, grabbing it and pulling and,
together, they wrestle with the accursed thing—him pushing
and her pulling, him shoving and her dragging—and his father
moves the box beneath their joined hands…
But it’s a losing battle. He feels the mask attach itself
to his father’s mask, feels a dozen points of silver graze
his skin as the curse invades the protective layer of metal…
Then he feels Hermione lose her grip, and his heart sinks.
Everything’s lost.
He’s been beaten—
“PROTEGO MARITUS!” bellows his wife.
And, suddenly, Draco feels the mask’s power falter—and,
at the same time, his own magic soar—and, with a surge of
confidence, he wrenches it off, and rams it down into the box
and slams the lid shut.
Lucius drops the box on the table, and draws out his wand.
“Obfirmo infinitum,” he declares, and imprisons the
mask in its casket, forever.
…
Later
Draco sighs.
They’re still sitting where they’d collapsed when the
fight was over—him leaning against one of the glass-fronted
cabinets, Hermione in his arms—and he’s just noticed
how perfectly she fits on his lap—how her head lies, just
so, upon his shoulder; how her hand rests over his heart; how
the soft yet firm curve of her hip presses him in exactly
the right place...
Mmm.
And—as he gently shifts her, so that he can burrow inside
her pyjama top and tease her delicate skin—he realises that
he’d almost stopped noticing how wonderful his wife is—how
bright, and beautiful, and right for him—that he’d
got so used to having her there, whenever he wanted her, he’d
started taking her for granted—
“I am never staying behind again,” she says,
interrupting his foreplay.
He lifts his head, and looks at her.
“From now on, Draco, when you go on your business trips,
I’m coming too.”
He smiles. “They’re very boring, Bookworm.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’ll have to fly.”
“I’ll manage.”
“And you’ll have to give up your job at the Ministry.”
“So? You’ll have to employ me,” she says,
cheekily.
He presses his lips to the top of her bushy head. “Sounds
like a plan,” he says and, because she tastes of dust, he
adds, “now let’s go and have a bath.” And he grins,
because it’s been a while since they’ve splashed around
together, and that’s given him another idea: “Then we’ll
spend at least a week in bed.”
“Hmm,” she says, yawning theatrically, “I could
sleep for a week.”
“Well,” he replies, nuzzling her neck and making her
giggle, “if you’re lucky—very, very lucky—you
may get the odd nap, when I need a rest.”
THE END
…
Coda: nine months later
“Scorpius,” says Draco, watching the tiny hand curl
around his finger—
“Hyperion,” says his wife.
She sounds exhausted; he decides to compromise. “Scorpius
Hyperion Malfoy,” he declares, kissing his son’s forehead,
“you have your mother’s hair...”
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