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Ring A Ring O' Roses	By : Gallivant Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 16636 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Tea at Malfoy Manor and some disturbing news. Meanwhile Hermione's suspicions of Draco Malfoy grow...

2. Elsinore

Hermione had always hated injections. Whether this meant compulsory immunisations at primary school, or that particularly foolish day in her teens, when she had accompanied her Mum to give blood at the local church hall of St Mary's, it amounted to the same thing... needles... nausea... blood.

A hot, prickling perspiration peppered her forehead. Even now, after so many years of enduring many truly terrifying experiences working with Harry against the dark deeds of Voldemort and his followers, the mere memory of that ill-spent morning at St Mary's still sent her stomach into a flutter of nerves - especially when, as now, she was waiting for a blood test.

It was silly, really. Blood tests at St Mungo's were virtually pain-free thanks to specially-honed, analgesic wands. There wasn't a needle in sight. Yet, Hermione was unable to suppress the familiar frisson of fear which jolted through her.

She had brought Eoin Grumigen's controversial new biography of Albus Dumbledore, The Dithering Diplomat, to the clinic as a suitable distraction. But it was no use. Her eyes simply skimmed over the words before her. Her mind wandered.

She couldn't help but recall, with uncomfortable clarity, the events of that morning at St Mary's. The dark, jellied warmth which had overwhelmed her moments before passing out…

She had collapsed onto the wooden tiled floor, which smelt of pine-odoured cleaning fluids and sawdust. Her mother had knelt beside her, cradling her head in her arms. 'There, there, my darling,' she’d said, softly stroking her daughter's hair. 'All over, pet. It's all over. Don't you worry.'

'You alright, love?' came a friendly voice close to her ear.

Hermione nodded, forcing a smile for the benefit of the round-faced mediwitch who was busy rolling up the sleeve of her cream, silk blouse and gently prodding her veins with practiced fingers, seeking out the sweet spot where the blood flowed fastest.

There was no point in looking as scared as she felt, Hermione thought desperately.

No point in panicking. No point at all.

She sighed, suddenly overcome by a strangely wistful, almost painful pang of yearning for her mother's company, for a glimpse of her kind, reassuring face.

Where was she now? What would she be doing? Probably soothing a scared child about to have their first filling, or chatting to her receptionist Kate in the cramped back office of her practice surgery over a hot cup of tea and a Rich Tea biscuit.

If it wasn't so hellish at work (remarkably even more hellish than usual), she'd happily skip an hour or two, she thought. Escape to Muggle London! Take the tube or jump on a bus to travel the long, meandering journey through the heavy London traffic to Parsons Green, where her parents still practiced dentistry and lived in a tall, red-brick, semi-detached house, with mock Tudor frontage and a Volvo Estate in the drive.

It was another life. Another world, but one that seemed to be blurring at the edges. Fading fast, like a creased old photograph stuffed in between the cellophane display pages of a photo album.

She sensed it was the same for her parents, too.

During the Second War against the Dark Lord, Hermione's parents had moved to Australia for their safekeeping. As one of Harry's closest friends, Hermione, and those she loved, had been a key target for Voldemort and his murderous Death Eaters.

Even though Hermione had assiduously restored her parents' modified memories – it had been best to protect them, to shield their true identities, by all magical means possible – she could still feel a difference in them. Or rather, a difference between them and her. Almost as though they were performing their relationship, their connection, rather than simply being.

That was why she sometimes missed her mother so very, very badly. She almost felt she didn't have one any more; not a real one, at any rate. Sadly, the feeling had worsened considerably once she had become a mother herself.

Hermione was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't immediately notice that the round-faced mediwitch had finished drawing blood from her arm and was already decanting the blood into small, silver vials.

'Mediwizard Alcock will examine these later,' she said. 'I imagine he'll want to speak with you about the results.'

'He can Floo me at work,' Hermione said, again with a forced smile. She knew she was perfectly fit and well. But there was always that lingering doubt. Just what if…?

And it wasn't as though these blood tests were diagnostic, either.

Hermione had agreed to take part in an ongoing Pan-European trial, testing Muggleborns who displayed traits peculiar to 'Epsilon' blood types. Epsilons were the rarest blood type in the Magical world and were associated with particularly impressive magical powers. The ability to deploy wandless magic, for example, was almost solely Epsilon.

And, to the unbridled joy of the band of bigots who continued to spew their doctrines of anti-Muggle hatred, Epsilons were almost always Purebloods, with a few particularly powerful Half-bloods too, for good measure.

Hermione's exalted magical achievements had ensured she was invited onto this trial.

She hadn't been sure at first, wondering if she was, in fact, condoning blood-based stereotypes by allowing herself to be tested.

It was Ginny Potter who had talked her into it, reminding her that the rationale behind the trial was to prove the Purebloods wrong, to show that blood type was actually irrelevant to magical powers.

She also thought these tests might make for an interesting opening gambit in her meeting with Tony Goldstein, which was due to take place later that day. She knew his academic field of expertise was Magical Haematology. Padma had proudly told her how Tony had published extensively on the magical properties of the Epsilon allele versus the Alpha, Beta and Gamma alleles, which were the most common blood types found amongst the wizarding population. It was an area Hermione knew relatively little about – although she felt sure it must be fascinating, if a little daunting – so she was glad to at least have something to talk about which might engage his interest.

After all, she had promised Ron, against her own better judgment of course, that she would subtly plug Tony for information on his company, Arcana, and, in particular, his research lab's reclusive benefactor, Jeroboam. It therefore seemed only fair to exhibit a genuine interest in his actual work.

XXX

Padma was waiting in the foyer at St Mungo's, armed with a sheaf of papers and a quill.

'These need signing immediately,' she said breathlessly, thrusting the papers into Hermione's arms. 'Mr Jinks has been in the office all morning. He says there have been complaints that we aren't passing on case files to the appropriate departments quickly enough, that we are holding up crucial Ministry business.'

'I can't sign these here,' Hermione said, suddenly flustered. 'We'll be back in the office later; two hours at most. Can't they wait?'

Padma shook her head vehemently. 'Mr Jinks insisted.'

'Insisted! Who the hell does he think he is?'

Hermione flipped open her briefcase and with a deft tap of her wand, expanded its interior to accommodate the thick wad of reports, contracts and copious unapproved minutes of departmental meetings that Padma had brought with her.

'Anyway, I thought you were taking me to lunch today, with Tony?' she added in brighter tones. 'I've been looking forward to it all morning.'

'He had to cancel,' Padma said apologetically. 'Work's gone crazy.'

'How very inconvenient,' Hermione said grumpily, all too aware of the sharp look her colleague was giving her. After all, Hermione had a long-standing reputation as a workaholic who expected similarly exacting standards from others. Merely eating lunch was deemed a special occasion at The Department for Magical Law Enforcement, let alone eating out.

'Well, it suited me just fine,' Padma said in brittle tones, defensive of her boyfriend. 'I was about to cancel too.'

'Whatever for?'

'I'm surprised you have to ask!' Padma huffed. 'Mr Jinks, of course.'

XXX

'Can't you just owl him yourself? Ask him over for supper one night?' Ron asked that evening, as they both brushed their teeth in their en-suite bathroom in readiness for bed. 'We don't think Padma's going to be much use to us, and frankly, we'd rather keep this as low-key as possible. The fewer folks who know what we're doing the better.'

Ron spat a glob of toothpaste into the washbasin; it landed close to the rim of the white china bowl. A trail of saliva trickled slowly and inexorably down the side of the bowl towards the plughole. He then wiped his mouth with a hand-towel.

'I can't invite Tony Goldstein without Padma,' Hermione explained, grimacing at her husband's slovenly habits as she attempted to brush a thickly knotted tangle from her hair before giving up and straightening her curled tresses with a swish of her wand. 'It would look odd if I saw him alone.'

'Rubbish,' Ron scoffed. 'You know him from school. You're old friends.'

Ron eased himself into their king-size bed, hugging their goose-down duvet so tightly that Hermione's half of the bed was left completely uncovered.

Hermione frowned.

She sidled onto the bed next to him and tugged defiantly at the duvet until it had shifted a few inches towards her.

'The thing is, Ron, I don't know Tony that well. Certainly not well enough to arrange to see him without Padma, at any rate. And I can't think up a work-related excuse to visit Arcana.'

The truth was, of course, other than the failed lunch with Padma, Hermione hadn't put much thought to this at all. She simply didn't have time. Work had been frenetic, while home life had been even more hectic than usual, in the light of Hugo's near-expulsion from school for 'accidentally' setting ablaze a teacher's umbrella. And she really didn't have the enthusiasm to investigate the supposedly evil machinations of a big, bad wizard she hadn't even met or had any reason to suspect of dark dealings – let alone trying to develop an anti-Muggle weapon of mass destruction. Her primary interest in the matter was making sure Ron wasn't doing anything too foolish and getting himself caught up in something he shouldn't.

Ron looked perplexed. 'Why can't you just take Tony out for lunch one day? You're a married woman. You're Padma's boss, for Merlin's sake. She's hardly going to think you're trying to get into her boyfriend's pants now, is she?'

'Of course not,' she said disdainfully. 'It's just a question of etiquette.'

'Etiquette? It'd just be lunch with an old friend while asking him a couple of questions about the bloke who funds his research. It's not exactly difficult, is it?'

'Then why don't you do it?' Hermione snapped. 'You know him better than I do.'

'Bollocks. I hardly know the guy at all. A bit of a boring bastard, if you ask me. Always had his nose stuck in a book. Crap at Quidditch.'

'Now that's plain nasty.'

'See. It's obvious you're better for the job. You're much more tolerant than I am.'

Too tolerant by far, Hermione thought crossly. She really should have knocked this harebrained scheme on the head the moment Draco Malfoy tried to recruit Ron.

'I'll see what I can do, Ron,' Hermione said wearily, if only to shut him up.

'You'd better,' Ron said sternly, pulling the duvet over his head. 'We've been invited to Malfoy Manor for tea tomorrow. He'll be expecting some news.'

XXX

Hermione was still seething with her husband when they stepped out of the grand Inglenook fireplace into the palatial entrance hall at Malfoy Manor.

'I can't believe you agreed to this,' she hissed in low tones. 'Have you forgotten what this place means to me?'

Even though it had been fifteen years since they, along with Harry, had been snatched and brought here to be interrogated… how could Ron have forgotten the sound of her anguished cries as Draco's aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, tortured her most horribly? Had he simply erased from his mind the terror they had suffered, incarcerated in the cellar beneath the drawing room… just feet away from where they were now standing?

Ron didn't have time to respond, however, even if he had wanted to. There was a sudden flurry of activity as a small troupe of house-elves, decked out in ill-fitting royal blue livery and weighed down with huge gold epaulettes, Apparated before them.

One of their number - the most curmudgeonly and authoritarian-looking of the bunch, Hermione thought – stepped forward. He extended a long, gnarled finger which he then pointed in a threatening manner at Ron's chest.

'Who are you? What are you doing here?' the house-elf demanded in a high-pitched, querulous tone.

Ron stepped backwards, colliding with the vast iron overhang of the Inglenook fireplace behind them, his cheeks ablaze with scarlet embarrassment and outrage.

'Your master, Mr Malfoy, invited us,' Ron cried, rubbing the back of his head where he had struck the fireplace.

'How else could we have passed safely through the wards?' Hermione reasoned, feeling genuine alarm at this odd turn of events.

She should have known it. This was a trap of some kind. Draco had set them up, the devious, little snake.

One glance at the angry, contorted expression on Ron's face told her he was thinking precisely the same thing.

'Yeah,' he blustered, swerving to avoid a second gnarly prod from the leading elf. 'If he hadn't invited us, we'd be chopped liver by now, wouldn't we?'

This made the elf pause for thought, and certainly the rigid, aggressive stance of his companions visibly wavered.

Ron fished frantically in a deep inside pocket of his gown, pulling out a silvery piece of parchment that was prominently crowned with the Malfoy crest. He pushed it towards the elf, who snatched at it. The elf momentarily closed his eyes, as if sensing the origins of the paper and its writer vibrate through his brown, leathery skin, before magicking the paper into thin air with a brisk flick of his bony wrist.

A sly, papery smile slowly spread across his face, and his formerly harsh glare softened into deference. Even his voice had lost its hard edge, assuming instead a cloying meekness.

'Kind Sir. Madam,' he said, with a respectful bow which his fellow elves immediately copied. 'Master will be along shortly.'

Hermione wasn't fooled for one moment by this little charade.

Sure, Draco had invited them, but he had forgotten to show up himself.

'Let me escort you to the drawing room where you can await the Master in greater comfort,' the elf said in obsequious tones.

Hermione's throat constricted involuntarily at the thought of entering that same drawing room, which still haunted her dreams and darkest imaginings.

Ron looked a little green, and there was a pained look in his eye which clawed horribly at her insides. He did remember. Of course he did. How could she have been so selfish?

To her surprise, however, the elves hurried them away from the entrance hall at breakneck speed, past the drawing room's heavy, oak door, which appeared to have been magically sealed, judging by the gossamer-thin stream of white light which encircled the door frame.

They followed the head elf along a wide, wood-paneled corridor, lined with austere, mahogany or ebony framed portraits, all featuring the sharp-faced, aquiline features of former Malfoys.

The elf ushered them into a large, square room, dominated by a vast fire blazing furiously in a white marble fireplace.

Hermione wasn't sure if it was an effect of the heat generated by the flames or the consequence of a strangely pungent odour which suddenly assaulted her senses, but there was a distinctly shimmering, translucent quality to the scene before her, almost akin to a mirage on an empty road on a scorching summer's day or a soft-focus camera shot where the lens has been smeared with Vaseline.

An array of tall, slender white candles hovered majestically above them, presiding over three white sofas – deep and welcoming – facing the fireplace, and framing a low glass, rectangular table which supported a splendidly ornate silver samovar. A line of crystal tumblers, nestled inside silver filigree holders, sprang into view at the bidding of the head elf, who summoned their tea with a curt snap of his fingers.

He turned to Hermione and Ron, bowed deeply, then Disapparated.

'Bastard,' Ron grumbled.

'I didn't like him, either,' Hermione said stoutly.

'I meant fucking Draco Malfoy,' Ron said with a sneer, flinging himself onto one of the plush white sofas.

'Finally!' Hermione said triumphantly. 'Finally, you see sense. So can we just go home now? I've got a stack of paperwork to get through by tomorrow for this blasted audit, and this really is a waste of time. Surely you can see that?'

Ron cast her a sidelong glance.

Hermione's high spirits quickly faltered. She knew that look.

She should never have gloated. Ron was very sensitive to her 'always having to be right,' as he put it.

Ron opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again as the distinct sound of whispered conversation, and the soft, shushing noise of rapidly approaching, slippered feet on tiled flooring, alerted them to fresh arrivals.

Hermione could make out the calm contralto of Narcissa Malfoy, Draco's mother, and a similarly toned female voice, with a faint American accent, that she didn't recognise.

Much as a panicked 'Sssh' in the wings of a theatre has the power to be heard with undue force in a hushed auditorium, these whispered voices also seemed to be magnified by their own sense of unexpected melodrama.

'Did he say anything to you before he left?' the unknown voice asked sharply.

'Not a dickie bird,' Narcissa Malfoy replied. 'It's most peculiar. And to think, the Weasleys, of all people.'

'Something's afoot, Narcissa, that's for sure.'

'Yes, it's most unlike him. Milton's sending an Owl to his club directly.'

Moments later, Narcissa Malfoy, flanked by a handsome woman of Amazonian proportions, with an impressive mane of pale gold hair, was shaking their hands with polite enthusiasm, greeting them rather as long-lost friends than the intruders they were clearly considered to be.

Hermione cast a swift appraising eye over Narcissa Malfoy. It had been many years since she had met her. Since Lucius's complete retirement from public life some years ago – it was claimed he was 'indisposed,' although his disappearance had sparked innumerable conspiracy theories, none of which had ever been confirmed or denied by the Malfoy family – sightings of Narcissa had become rare, exciting uncommon degrees of gossip-fuelled interest.

Years of semi-seclusion hadn't harmed her, Hermione thought. She was positively radiant, her silvery hair wound into an intricately coiffed chignon, and her lean, elegant figure was clad in a simple white, silk toga. The overall effect was calm, serene. Classical. The fingertips she extended in welcome were soft and cool to the touch.

Hermione sensed that Narcissa was similarly regarding her with that polite, slightly competitive gaze shared between women who haven't seen each other for a long time and are wondering if the other has piled on the pounds or developed an unattractive facial hair problem in the intervening period between their last interaction.

Hermione was mighty relieved that neither calamity, as no doubt someone like Narcissa Malfoy would view such an event, had occurred to her – not yet anyway. She was still relatively young-looking for her thirty-four years. A little curvier perhaps, compared to her youth, but that was to be expected after giving birth to two children.

To her surprise, Hermione sensed an even more penetrating stare from Narcissa's fair-haired companion.

'This is Sylvestra,' Narcissa said, stepping aside to allow Sylvestra to come forward.

Hermione noticed that Ron's eyes instantly lit up when Sylvestra squeezed his hand in friendly greeting.

Always a sucker for blondes, Hermione thought ruefully. Although she had to admit this Sylvestra was a particularly magnificent specimen.

But she was pretty darned sure that Sylvestra wasn't the name of Draco's wife. Or rather, his second wife. Wife number one, Astoria Greengrass – a snooty little number, she recalled from their schooldays at Hogwarts – had famously run off with a Quidditch player from Brazil, even though her baby son was not yet out of nappies.

However, Hermione was the first to admit that she hadn't taken much interest, if any, in the personal affairs of Draco Malfoy since the Second War ended. He was someone she didn't care to think of.

And, with that in mind, his wife might well be Sylvestra, for all she knew.

She decided to be polite, whoever she was.

'Do sit down,' Narcissa said, gesturing towards the voluminous white sofas.

Hermione chose to sit as far away from the roaring fire as possible. She was already unbearably hot. Unfortunately, poor Ron wasn't so lucky, as he had already positioned himself on the sofa closest to the blaze. Moments later, he was throwing off his gown and loosening his shirt collar, and a puce flush of colour had suffused his face.

Narcissa sat directly opposite them, while Sylvestra seated herself in the middle of the sofa facing the fireplace and the long, glass table, on which the samovar was quietly steaming.

'Tea?' she asked, in a clear, bell-like voice.

Ron nodded, surreptitiously wiping a film of gleaming sweat from his face with the back of his sleeve.

'We take our tea black,' Narcissa stated flatly.

Ron was too preoccupied with his profuse perspiration issues to care, although Hermione knew this was anathema to a man who doggedly liked his tea strong, white, and excessively sweetened to a tooth-rotting degree.

Narcissa poured the tea and Sylvestra passed around the glasses.

'Draco should be here shortly,' Sylvestra said.

'He sent a message to say he was late,' Narcissa lied. 'I-I forget the precise nature of your business. It's been an extraordinarily busy day. Hasn't it, Sylvestra? But… if there's any way we can be of assistance?'

Ron shook his head vehemently. A little too vehemently, Hermione thought sourly. Really. The man had the subtlety of a bus.

'It's a work matter,' Hermione explained breezily.

'Oh. I see.'

Narcissa retreated from the rather tense, birdlike poise she had been holding, perched on the edge of the sofa, and relaxed, luxuriantly, into the sofa's capacious white cushions.

She stared pensively into the fire for a few short moments, as if thoroughly digesting this particular information. Hermione expected a barrage of follow-up questions, but instead, Narcissa smiled sweetly and chirruped, 'Well, my dears. Shall we have some entertainment while we wait? How about some music?'

'I guess so,' Ron said, a little nonplussed, sipping his piping hot tea. Hot steam rose from the glass and mingled with the rivulets of sweat now trickling down his cheeks.

Narcissa clapped her hands with almost childlike glee.

Instantly, the room was alive with loud strains of thumping, throbbing classical music - emanating, it seemed, from every direction.

'Isn't that marvelous?' Narcissa sighed. 'Brahms 4th.'

Then she stared directly at Hermione. 'But I guess you already knew that, didn't you?'

Luckily, Hermione did know. It was one of her mother's favourite symphonies. Even so, she couldn't help but wonder why Narcissa automatically presumed she was familiar with the piece.

Was it because she was Muggleborn? And Brahms, of course, was a Muggle composer.

Her suspicions were all but confirmed by Narcissa's next statement.

'To give credit where it's due, music is the one area of civilization where the Muggle population has truly excelled, don't you think?'

She cocked her head jauntily to one side and surveyed Hermione beadily.

Hermione flushed warmly. She wasn't sure if Narcissa was being deliberately rude or if this was an attempt to be nice, to make amends.

'I'm not so sure about that, Narcissa,' Sylvestra intoned. 'Don't forget, the Muggles have critical mass on their side.' She flashed a dazzling, bright smile at their guests. 'There's a lot more Muggles than wizards, aren't there?'

'Perhaps it's also about training,' Narcissa said. 'I don't recall any musical instruction at Hogwarts. Do you?'

'No, Mrs Malfoy. None at all,' Ron spluttered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

To Hermione's shame, Narcissa Malfoy appeared to wholly disregard Ron's contribution – not even deigning to look in his direction. Instead, her eyes remained fixed on Hermione.

'Do you play, Mrs Weasley?' she asked. She demurely sipped her tea, awaiting Hermione's reply.

'I-I used to,' Hermione said. 'I played the piano.'

'Ah! The pianoforte. How very lovely,' Narcissa breathed. 'Sylvestra plays too, don't you, dear?'

Sylvestra beamed in agreement.

'And Draco played awfully well when he was a child,' Narcissa continued. 'But he never had time to practice. He was always so very, very busy.'

'Actually, Narcissa, he does still play from time to time,' Sylvestra said, a little too smugly for Narcissa's liking, Hermione thought with some amusement.

But Narcissa was having none of it. 'I think you'll find, Sylvestra, that Draco has all but given up. He told me so himself, just last year.'

'But I've heard him play since.'

'I very much doubt it.' Narcissa firmly pursed her lips and poured herself another glass of tea.

'He does play. Believe me,' Sylvestra said emphatically.

Narcissa rolled her eyes in exasperation. 'Dearest Sylvestra. I haven't seen him play for a very long time. And I rather think I would know if he did. After all, this is my house.'

By now, Sylvestra was bristling with indignation. 'For your information, Narcissa,' she said pointedly, 'he plays the piano in her room.'

Narcissa's eyes flicked nervously to Sylvestra, and then to Hermione and Ron.

'Why don't we just ask him?' Ron said, looking over Narcissa's shoulder towards the open doorway behind her.

Draco was leaning nonchalantly against the doorpost, arms folded tightly against his chest. He looked thunderous.

'I don't play. I don't like to play. And I certainly won't be playing anymore,' he drawled, leveling a particularly furious look in Sylvestra's direction.

Sylvestra didn't seem to notice. Or if she did, she certainly didn't seem to care.

'Just as I thought! Come and have some tea, darling,' said Narcissa, pouring her son a glass of tea into which she spooned three teaspoons of a curious green powdery mixture, extracted from a Meissen China sugar-bowl.

'We have been entertaining your guests,' Narcissa said. 'Charming people,' she added with a sickly smile.

Draco cast Ron a withering look. 'Weasley. You're two days early,' he growled. 'I said Thursday, not Tuesday.'

Hermione suspected that Ron had blushed bright scarlet, but under his currently over-heated circumstances, any fresh facial coloration was rendered quite irrelevant.

He rummaged desperately – and unsuccessfully- for Draco's note, before remembering that the head elf had vanished it.

'It's as well, really, isn't it, Ron?' Hermione said. 'We have to be somewhere else anyway.'

She carefully placed her glass of tea on the table and was about to stand up when Draco sauntered into the room, collapsed onto the sofa next to his mother, and gestured to Hermione to stay put.

'Now that you're here, we might as well talk,' he said. He turned to his mother. 'And if you care to turn down that blasted music, we might be able to hear ourselves think, as well.'

Narcissa's face darkened, although, with a click of her fingers, Brahms's soaring violins, dancing round and round, higher and higher, were instantly stilled.

'The problem with my son, Mrs Weasley,' she said with an air of confidentiality, 'is that he hasn't got a soul.'

Hermione stifled a giggle, amused at Draco's stricken expression.

'Ignore my beloved Mater,' he said sardonically. 'She's clearly having one of her little episodes.'

'I am doing no such thing!' Narcissa retorted. 'Come on, Sylvestra. Let's leave these people to their ever so important business,' she added, with an injured sniff.

She rose to her feet and beckoned to Sylvestra.

Sylvestra blithely shrugged her shoulders, prompting her hair to ripple sensuously down her back in harmony with her movements.

Both ladies glided elegantly out of the drawing room, leaving two out of three of the room's occupants in slightly stunned silence.

The silence continued for some time, as all ears strained to hear the last of Narcissa and her companion, ensuring they had quit the vicinity.

Draco leaned closer.

'There's been another attack,' he said bluntly.

'An attack?' Ron exclaimed. 'Of Dark Flux? Are you sure?'

Draco nodded.

'How come we know nothing about it?' Hermione demanded. 'I've got high-level clearance at the Ministry, and Ron's an Auror. Section A. He'd be the first to know.'

Draco hadn't actually looked directly at her to properly acknowledge her presence since his arrival, and even now, to Hermione's profound irritation, he allowed his gaze to switch from Ron to herself for the briefest of moments only.

'I have sources,' he said, with a dismissive, almost Gallic shrug.

Hermione didn't want to let him off that lightly.

'What sources?' she asked incredulously. 'The slightest inkling of Dark Flux and it would be all over the Daily Prophet.'

Draco flipped open the Meissen China sugar bowl, and dipped the little finger of his left hand into the mound of green granulated powder skulking inside.

'Not to mention the Muggle newspapers and TV reports. A number of unexplained deaths in a single community is bound to make the headlines,' Hermione continued. 'It'd be big news.’

'But it was on the news,' Draco said silkily.

To Hermione's disgust, he licked the end of his finger, before plunging it back into the sugar bowl.

'You just didn't notice,' he said wearily. He then tasted the fine green powder that coated his moist fingertip.

Only now did he allow his eyes to glance in her direction.

Hermione was momentarily transfixed, caught between a strange, unwanted, almost morbid fascination, mixed with heartfelt dislike.

Everything about his manner reeked of patronising disdain and facetious superiority. He loathed her like she loathed him. And he was reveling in her discomfort.

Hermione silently boiled with anger.

Draco swiftly returned his full attention to Ron, who proved a rapt audience for what he had to say.

'The outbreak was reported in South America,' Draco said in clipped, efficient tones. 'A small village, a pueblo, in Paraguay. I think we should go there; take a look at what's been going on.'

'What happened?' Ron asked.

'Sudden cataclysmic death toll. Seven Muggles in all. The usual symptoms. Bluish lips, ghostly pallor, rolled-back eyes.'

Hermione shuddered. 'Sounds like zombies.'

Both Ron and Draco looked at her quizzically.

'Sorry,' she said. 'That was a little distasteful.'

Draco continued. 'Eyewitness accounts also described a rash on the bodies of the victims, which is unmistakably related to Dark Flux.'

'I've never heard of a rash connected to Dark Flux,' Hermione said.

'What was the official Muggle explanation?' Ron asked. Hermione couldn't help but notice that he sneered a little at 'Muggle.' Or at least she thought he did.

Maybe she'd imagined it. She certainly hoped so.

'Contaminated water,' Draco said. 'The village shared a single water supply. A well.'

'How can you be so sure that it wasn't the well?' Hermione asked.

'Like I said, Mrs Weasley, I have my sources,' Draco said, this time fixing the full force of his bleached, grey gaze in her direction.

Hermione gritted her teeth, refusing to flinch from the unguarded threat she had momentarily sensed in his stare.

There was more to this business. Much, much more. And she didn't trust Draco Malfoy one jot.

For Ron's sake, she had to get to the bottom of this.

'This rash. What was it like?'

Draco shrugged. 'Pink, mottled, blue, green? I don't know to be honest.'

'But isn't it important, Malfoy? I mean, Dark Flux has not commonly been associated with a rash, which means this might not be Dark Flux at all! Your sources might be sending you on a wild goose chase.'

Draco ran his long, pale fingers through his surprisingly unkempt, silvery hair, and smiled - a crooked, smug little smile, which Hermione itched to smack from his face.

'Well, it won't just be me, will it?' he snorted. 'Ron's coming too. Aren't you, Ron?'

Ron looked a little startled at this information. 'I am?'

'Next week. I've got a few business matters to attend to first in that part of the world. But once that's out of the way...'

'You can't expect Ron to hang around while you conduct your dirty dealings!' Hermione scoffed.

'I'd hardly call Herb Healing business, dirty dealings,' Draco countered.

'He's needed at home.'

'He's an Auror, Mrs Weasley. Dangerous missions is what they do.'

Dangerous? Did he say dangerous?

But before either Hermione or Ron had a chance to question Draco further, the silver-haired wizard had already unfurled his lean frame from the plush cushions of the sofa and was moving towards the doorway – a clear indicator that their meeting was over.

'In any case, Mrs Weasley,' Draco said, with a supercilious smile, 'I've no doubt you'll be far too busy rooting out insider information on Mr Jeroboam to even notice that Ron has gone.'

'That's enough, Malfoy!' Ron barked, levering himself clumsily off the sofa. 'You've no right to speak to my wife in that tone.'

'He's just a prat, Ron,' Hermione sighed. 'Ignore him.'

She rapidly made for the exit, but Draco was blocking her path, hands on hips.

'Look, Mrs Weasley, Ron,' he said in a far more diplomatic tone than his cocky stance implied. 'Okay, so we have history. We… we don't particularly like each other.'

'Too right,' Ron mumbled.

'Which means this isn't going to be easy for any of us,' Draco continued. 'But wouldn't it be better if we just put old antipathies aside? Just this once? Don't forget, we're dealing here with a madman.'

Sure, Hermione thought moodily. But was Jeroboam the madman they should be fearing? Or was it the pale-faced bigot with the uncertain glint in his eye who was standing directly before her?

'We'll try to get along,' Ron conceded, with uncharacteristic humility. 'Hermione's already working on Tony Goldstein, aren't you?'

'Actually, no,' Hermione said truthfully. 'He cancelled our lunch meeting.'

'Why didn't you say so?' Draco screeched. 'That can only mean one thing…'

'Yes. He had too much work to do,' Hermione said snidely, securing the fasteners at the collar of her gown in readiness, she hoped, for a speedy departure. 'It happens to the best of us, you know.'

'Hold on. This case of Zametsky Effect was recorded this weekend, wasn't it?' Ron asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

'Oh come on, Ron!' Hermione sighed. 'Tony had nothing to do with it.'

'While Jeroboam's his paymaster, nothing can be ruled out,' Draco said darkly.

Ron agreed. 'Exactly. It makes sense that Jeroboam would corral all his forces – research facilities included – if there had been a manifestation of Dark Flux. Let's not forget, his primary aim is to get a hold of this stuff and to weaponise it.'

'I haven't forgotten, Ron,' Hermione said blithely, pushing past Draco and into the refreshing cool air of the gloomy corridor. 'I'll get onto it,' she added, already trotting away from the drawing room, back to the entrance hall. Appeasement and escape was her preferred tactic at this juncture.

Ron and Draco followed soon after, making, what felt to Hermione, like slow, funereal progress. They were talking together in quiet, low tones.

Hermione waited impatiently by the Inglenook fireplace, desperate to leave as soon as she could. She curiously eyed a large wooden barrel, filled to the brim with Floo powder. It seemed a little excessive. Perhaps the Malfoys were addicted to Floo travel? Some of the powder had already been decanted into a circle of small, portable silver vessels, arranged in a floral pattern on a side-table, next to the fireplace.

Her eyes drifted upwards, trailing the curved length of a vast staircase, its wooden balustrades freshly polished and gleaming in the light afforded by an ornate, round window, poised high above the atrium.

The staircase led to a spacious landing with vivid red walls, adorned with gilt-framed paintings depicting gently bucolic, pastoral scenes and the occasional colourful portrait. One half of the landing was plushly carpeted and brightly lit, leading East towards what looked like the family apartments. A left turn, however, moved away from the wide, welcoming landing, narrowing into a gloomier passage and snaking westwards.

Hermione couldn't help but wonder if the West Wing was where the true master of Malfoy Manor resided, victim to some mystery illness; or, as some rumours would have it, kept under lock and key for his own well being and those around him. It was insinuated that he had finally run mad with guilt, sorrow and regret for his former dark deeds and the shame he had inflicted on the Malfoy family.

Hermione's ruminations were disturbed by the opening of a door behind her, ranged opposite the old drawing room. She was wondering how she hadn't noticed this door before, when Narcissa Malfoy hastened forwards, arms outstretched and Sylvestra close behind.

'Mrs Weasley! Thank Merlin you're still here!' she gushed rather uncharacteristically. 'I've had a marvelous idea!'

Hermione stood stock-still. She had a very bad feeling about this.

'It's so very rare I meet anyone else who shares my appreciation of truly wonderful music. I have tickets for the Berlin Philharmonic this Friday. Sylvestra's otherwise engaged, and Draco's away on business, so would you accompany me instead?'

The slight quaver of insecurity in Narcissa's voice shocked Hermione into nodding her assent.

'Of course, Mrs Malfoy. That sounds lovely.'

But even as she spoke, a vague sense of dread crept over her – largely based on the briefest of glances exchanged between Narcissa and her son, who had finally arrived at the fireplace with Ron, and was now standing directly behind her. In that tiniest of moments, something had been communicated, promptly vanquished by Narcissa's effusive expressions of joy and gratitude.

They arranged to meet in Berlin, seeing as Hermione had a departmental meeting to chair until at least six o'clock. Narcissa informed her that a special Portkey station was being set up at Widford Hill in Oxfordshire, as the concert was bound to be a tremendously popular event. She knew at least half of the Southern Counties branch of the Slytherin Women's Institute had already purchased tickets, so it was set to be a fabulous evening's entertainment.

'Shall we meet at half past six?' Narcissa asked.

'Sure,' Hermione agreed, feeling a little queasy at the prospect.

Throughout this exchange, Draco stood in silence, an inscrutable, even slightly bored look on his face.

'Come on, Ron,' Hermione said, tugging at her husband's sleeve.

'I'll be in touch,' Draco said crisply, before turning his back on the party and walking quickly away.

XXX

Ron just didn't get it, even though Hermione explained her misgivings about working on this investigation with Draco – and indeed any association with the Malfoys - over and over again as they walked back from St Botolph's Primary School in Ottery St Catchpole, where they had just dropped off Rose and Hugo.

As far as Ron was concerned, nothing major seemed amiss. Sure, Draco was an irritating little shit, but the Malfoys had been surprisingly pleasant, all considered, and as for Narcissa? Well, she was a little kooky perhaps, but what else would you expect of someone who had lived with Lucius and Draco all these years?

'But, Ron, don't you think it's a tad strange that she invited me to this concert on Friday, claiming loneliness, when it sounds like half of Slytherin house is already going? I feel I've been roped into this under false pretences!' Hermione complained.

'Blimey, Hermione! You really are paranoid, aren't you?' Ron cackled.

'No, Ron. There's something wrong. Something… off,' Hermione said, thrusting her gloved hands into the deep pockets of her duffel coat in an effort to keep warm on what was a particularly cold, autumn morning.

'She never said she was lonely,' Ron muttered, lagging behind as he kicked mounds of dry, brown leaves. 'Just that Sylvestra couldn't make it.'

'And that's strange too, don't you think?'

'What's strange?'

'Sylvestra,' Hermione said, waiting impatiently for Ron to catch up. 'Who is she?'

'Dunno,' Ron shrugged. Then, after a moment's thought, 'She's not Draco's wife, that's for sure.'

'You've met her?' Hermione was burning with curiosity.

'A couple of times.'

'When? Where? What was she like?'

'Nice enough, I think. Too nice for him. But I don't really remember, it was some time ago,' Ron said in a casual tone, which never failed to infuriate his wife.

'And you're sure she's not Sylvestra?'

Ron threw her a puzzled look. 'Quite sure, Hermione. I'm not blind, you know!'

'So, who is she?' Hermione repeated.

'Who? The wife or Sylvestra?'

'Sylvestra! And the wife. Both of them.'

Ron shook his head in exasperation. 'You've lost me now.'

'What a surprise,' Hermione mumbled under her breath.

They had reached their cottage on the outskirts of the village. Ron pretended to rummage for his key, for the sake of random passers-by, and then subtly flicked his wand, which was poking out from his coat-sleeve, whispering a brusque Alohamora. He nudged the door open and stepped inside.

Hermione followed, hanging up her duffle coat, hat, scarf and gloves by the door.

She was running late. She'd have to Apparate to work.

'Maybe they're lovers?' Ron said suddenly, raising his eyebrows saucily.

'Sylvestra and Draco?' Hermione shrilled.

'No, no! Sylvestra and Narcissa.' Ron's eyes glinted wickedly at the thought – a little too wickedly, Hermione thought. He was enjoying himself far too much for her liking.

'Really, Ronald. You have a mind like a drain,' she tutted.

XXX

CHAPTER TRACK: "BRICK BY BORING BRICK" by PARAMORE

Disclaimer: I own nothing except my original characters.

Thanks to my betas Apurva, Lupinswolfie & Lou.
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Ring A Ring O' Roses