Azael's Chains

Formalities

Lunch was a fairly innocuous event with only herself, Narcissa Malfoy, and Draco present. She'd thanked the woman for the lovely room and her gracious hosting and Narcissa Malfoy had responded in kind. And then Hermione had barricaded herself once more in her room, hoping to avoid any Death Eaters who might appear.

She was interrupted by a house elf appearing in the center of the room. "Oh! Oh, er, hello."

The elf, clothed in an immaculate white pillowcase and staring over at her with wide violet eyes, bowed low so that the ends of her stringy yellow hair brushed the floor. "Good evening, Miss. Pippa is here to help Miss get ready for dinner."

Hermione shut the book with one finger marking her place. "Is it time already? I thought I had nearly an hour." She glanced toward the gathering darkness outside her window. "I believe I should be able to find the dining room on my own, thank you, Pippa."

The elf imitated an owl, blinking curiously at her. "Miss misunderstands. Lady Cissa sent Pippa to get Miss into proper evening attire."

She peered down at her pale dress, hesitant annoyance pricking at her skin. "I'm dressed fine. Aren't I?"

"The Malfoys are being a very old family, Miss. Very traditional. Come, Pippa will help."

By Pippa's measure, Hermione was in great need of her assistance. She was poked, prodded, polished, preened, and all manner of other things until the elf approved her appearance. Hair up, far too formal emerald gown, face defined and lined and rouged. She felt like a magical painting. But the elf was satisfied and finally deemed her fit for the Malfoy table with just minutes enough to tread downstairs to the room she'd spent the majority of her last visit.

She was sat across from Draco Malfoy, who'd hesitantly stood upon her entrance. Lord and Lady Malfoywere both in attendance, but no one else, and the unease twisting Hermione's stomach dissipated enough to allow her to eat more than she had all day.

Hermione regretted it the moment the meal was finished.

"Miss Granger," came the manicured voice of Lucius Malfoy. "You are to join Draco and I in the drawing room. The Dark Lord has requested your presence."

Her blood flash-froze. "Sorry?"

The solid plink of his cane against the floor preceded his steps toward her. "Was I speaking French that you did not hear me?"

Had her palms now shaken with cool sweat, she might have blushed in either embarrassment or anger. Still, she refused to be cowed. She rose slowly on modest heels and rolled her shoulders back in attention. "I speak French." Her voice was soft as moonlight, but the silver glare of the patriarch told her he had heard.

The drawing room. Her heart threatened to beat free of the confines of her chest as she crossed the threshold. It was a handsome room to be sure, but it echoed with her screams for mercy and the cackle of her tormentor. But it was blessedly bereft of Dark Wizards until the two Malfoys entered behind her.

It was not quite as she recalled, though it took moments for her to realize exactly why. While the floor had been mostly clear before there were a number of elegant high-backed chairs arranged around the fireplace. One was deep, velvety green and dwarfed the others, nearly a throne, undoubtably Voldemort's position.

"Sit, Miss Granger." Lucius Malfoy had posed himself in a black chair that gleamed with a slight fleur de lis pattern visible in the fire's gleam. He was Lucifer incarnate, white marble bathed in golden light, and she realized that the dark pallor marking him during the war had eased somewhat, perhaps due to Lord Voldemort's common absences as he dealt with the issues of ruling the wizarding world.

He raised an oddly dark brow at her appraisal and she pursed her lips before turning to curl in a chair as far from the horrid Dark Lord's own as she could. It was a peony pattern beside the hearth, the warmth sinking into flesh that could not stay heated in this glacial white manor.

"Granger." A tumbler of fire whiskey obstructed her view and she blinked up at Draco Malfoy's solemn expression. "You'll want this before the others arise."

Suspicion flittered around her and she tipped her head to study him. "Why?"

Malfoy's Michaelangellan features twisted into its familiar sneer. "Far be it from me to expect a Gryffindor to accept a kindness from a Slytherin. You're in the snake den, Granger, I had thought a little liquor would be welcome."

Something akin to guilt swam through her before she brushed it aside, fingers wrapping around the offered glass. "Thank you." He was right. This was about as dangerous a situation as any she'd been in recently and here was Draco Malfoy giving her a way to-- well, not escape, but perhaps ease the weight of it.

Disdain drained from his features until only the previously noted solemnity was left and he nodded before taking the seat beside hers. He nursed his own tumbler, though his drink was a bloody red that was too crimson for wine. His gaze flitted from her to his father, the fire, then back again in a nervous cycle, and she belatedly recognized he was nervous as well.

Lucius Malfoy sipped whatever amber liquor was in his own glass and stared into the fire, forefinger of his wand hand tapping the serpent head of his cane.

Never had Hermione contemplated herself in such a situation and she was unsure of the etiquette of it. She was certain there was etiquette as Purebloods seemed to steep themselves in useless traditions, evidenced by the ridiculous satin sheath gown that covered her legs completely now that they were folded beneath her on the chair.

It was silent but for the comforting rattles of the fire and she felt as though an expectation for something had settled between her and her classmate, but could not fathom what.

"Drink, Granger. Try to relax." While you can. He had downed nearly half his own. "I haven't laced it with anything if that's your worry."

"Not trying to get me to moon over you with Amortentia then?" His mouth twisted but he didn't respond to the barb; Hermione sipped the heady whiskey, suppressing a cough as it burned down her throat. She was not a drinker, as the night of three wine glasses proved, but she'd had her fair share thanks to her boys.

Ron and Harry. She pressed her eyes closed as her mind conjured their faces. Not as she'd last seen then, but as they were to her in perpetuity. Ron with his sparkling blue eyes and cheeks warm beneath his freckles, and Harry sheepishly dragging a hand through windswept hair nearly as wild as her own.

"I find it helps to drink enough for a buzz, but not enough to get drunk. Drunk lips can more easily offend." Draco sodding Malfoy was offering her advice, she realized with a jolt. She frowned and he read the question. "You've already suffered in my home once, Granger. Your screams gave me a headache."

"Thank you."

Sardonicism, an emotion she'd imagined much too complex for a bigot like Malfoy, underlaid his words. "That's the second time you've thanked me. Are you sure I didn't potion you?"

"If you had, would it even be effective? You're hardly on my brewing level after all," she replied archly.

Hermione relished in the momentary comfort, Draco Malfoy's odd friendliness, the warmth of the fire, and the whiskey that subtly softened the edges of the world. It was a needed respite cut all too short as the Dark Lord appeared in their midst.