Vacivitas

Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Exploring the manor is as much an interest for her as it is a default.

There's nothing else to do beyond it, and if she's going to be trapped here forever–or until he kills her–then she might as well get to know the place. Her right knee is still tender and she's nursing a slight limp, but knowledge trumps pain for her.

She starts at the top floor, where her bedroom is, making her way down the hall.

Aside from the same lush green carpet and black marble walls that adorn her room, the ceilings are high and the ornate wooden doors are numerous. She tries the doorknob of each one, finding that they all open except for a set of large double doors on the side parallel to her room. She assumes it's Malfoy's, so she passes it by with no more than a curious glance. Most rooms that she can access look like guest rooms, with the others being collections of art from various artists, a room full of very active magical artifacts locked behind glass boxes and shelves, and a bedroom decorated with Slytherin memorabilia that can't be anything other than his former room.

If this is his childhood bedroom, then the double doors are his adult room. How utterly Malfoy of him, to grow up and decide to simply take a new room in the house while leaving the previous one intact. Hermione can recall the amount of times she redecorated her bedroom at home with her changing, maturing interests. Her family home had two rooms: one for her parents and one for her.

Thinking of her parents brings a wistful twist to her heart. The bridge between her old life and her life after the war is so wide and so long that she can no longer remember what it looks like on the other side. She's left with memories that fracture, pieces raining down into the darkness of her mind. They disappear, taking the happy faces of her family, friends, and classmates with them. Those bright memories have become replaced by memories of their deaths.

How could anyone stay strong if everyone they loved was dead?

Not everyone, Hermione thinks, hearing the voices of Faye and Tillian ringing out in her head. The image of Ron, a flash of possibility and hope in the dark.

The Malfoys live in a house that's cold, empty of the warmth that existed in the Burrow, or her own home. Every room is decorated as though belonging to a palace, but every portrait seems to be dormant. Almost Muggle. Like they were once awake but something's put them to sleep.

When she comes to the foot of the stairs, she's able to fully appreciate the entryway. The ceiling is so high that it hurts her neck to look at it, chandeliers hanging dormant and unlit. The windows set into the walls offer a clear view of the grounds–the same view she has from her room upstairs. The entrance door that the windows frame is two times Malfoy's height, so large that it's dizzying to look at.

It's as she turns down the hallway she knows leads to the drawing room that she realizes it's not just quiet—it's too quiet. The Malfoy family portraits are immobile, ancestral eyes staring out at nothing, locked in the past. Hermione wonders how much they've seen. How many people were dragged down this hallway to their deaths by Snatchers? By Fenrir Greyback?

The thought of Greyback brings a chill to her spine that's nothing like the one Malfoy brings. Her memory is not so faint that she can't remember what the claws of a werewolf look like. That she can't remember what they promise and what they do.

She nears the drawing room doors, her hands freezing over the twin knobs and her hesitation warring with natural curiosity. Looking upon the room would be akin to coming back to the scene of a car crash that nearly killed her, or like meeting the person who tried to murder her through prison glass. If she walks inside, what will she feel? Does she want to feel it?