𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍-𝘏𝘈𝘙𝘙𝘠 𝘗𝘖𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙

Chapter 27

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The days grew shorter and colder. There was a chill about the Manor whenever Hermione was left alone in it — her fireplace never quite working to its full potential, the water from the taps never quite warming her bones. She hadn't felt this ill at ease in the Manor since she first arrived.

Narcissa had returned only hours after the three of them left. She'd arrived at Hermione's door with Mippy, the tea and coffee, and a forced smile.

"He's settled in Zürich. The French took Geneva with the help of the Swiss rebels, so for now, he is safe." But her teacup had rattled on the last word. And she had quickly changed the topic.

A week after they'd left, the Prophet reported that Lucius had been sent to the Netherlands to begin negotiations. Two days later, the Dutch Minister pledged allegiance to the Dark Lord, and the day after that, Lucius was seen in Switzerland again, inspecting a new military installation at Lausanne.

Hermione took her breakfast with Narcissa in the dining room every morning. The two of them slowly found a balance between reading the paper with held breath and discussing books and the weather in between stilted pauses.

Two weeks after she'd said goodbye to him, Draco's face appeared in the Daily Prophet. He stood silently next to Bellatrix as they both watched the new Swiss Minister address his government. The old Minister had joined the rebels in Geneva — "abandoning his people" as Skeeter had framed it — and Voldemort's new puppet was brought in to transition the Ministry. Draco was pale and thin, his expression completely Occluded as he nodded once to something the Swiss Minister said. Bellatrix looked bored. Hermione had excused herself from the table and spent the next hour in her bedroom crying.

At the end of November, the French attacked Basel. Skeeter reported that the Dark Lord's armies had managed to quell the attack from French and Swiss rebels with the help of German allies, leaving at least three hundred dead. The picture on the front page of the Prophet was of Draco, wand tip smoking, as he stared down the burning remains of the Basler Münster. The picture caption read: General Draco Malfoy victorious in Basel.

Narcissa didn't meet her for breakfast that morning, sending an excuse with the elves. And Hermione was glad she didn't have to poke at her eggs and pretend to eat. She read the paper five times over, searching for more mention of him, but all she found was the picture of his steely eyes turning towards the ashes.

She missed him. The feeling was too visceral to ignore. At night, she tossed and turned over the memory of their last fight, as if dissecting every detail would somehow make it less painful. She still had no idea how to "decide what she wanted" — or what he'd even meant. But it made her chest clench to think of the million things she wanted to tell him throughout the day, but was unable to.

Several times a week, she would wander through the passageway between their rooms and imagine she might find him twisted up in his sheets, snoozing soundly with his hair askew. She would examine his trinkets, thumb through his bookshelves, and press her face into his sweaters and shirts. Some days she would stare down at the drawer containing the knife and the Portkey, and wonder. But then she'd slam it closed.

Even if she cut off her arm and escaped, she still had no idea how to find George and the others. Snatchers and Death Eaters were roaming the country, and if she was caught, the Malfoys would certainly be tortured and killed, if they hadn't been already. She couldn't leave without saying goodbye. She might never see him again—

No. She'd resolved to stay. The Order needed her here. Even Theo had said that she was the only one who could break the tattoos. No one else had the same access she did; the most expansive library in Great Britain and all the blueprints for their spells were at her fingertips. She would stay, even though Draco had left behind the keys to her cage. She'd stay so she could free Ginny and Ron and the others from theirs.