Covered in Crimson

Draco stretched out on the sofa and leaned his head against the pillow that he’d propped against the armrest. He and Hermione had talked for a few more minutes about who might have knowledge of their current predicament and his on-going memory issues, until she had begged exhaustion and curled into the bed for a kip. He’d been glad to allow her the time to rest because he needed the space to come to grips with the startling and confusing revelations they’d discussed.

She’d been terribly quiet after he confessed to killing Professor Snape, almost as though she was reliving a painful memory. He guessed that it was probable that Snape had continued to be in contact with Dumbledore and his loyal army. He had a vague recollection about intercepting messages or some such thing, and luring the former Death Eater into a trap. He didn’t really recall the circumstances; just that he’d killed the man in cold blood after stripping him of all of his defenses. Granger probably remembered more about it than he did, and that was likely why she’d gone all silent and upset. Maybe she’d even liked the batty git. One more thing for him to feel terrible about, he thought.

He couldn’t bear the idea of thinking any more. This afternoon had been utterly draining, both emotionally and physically. The last two days had felt longer than his entire life to this point, and they’d only begun to scratch the surface of what was really going on. His own… affliction was still largely a mystery, and what he’d really been up to for the last five years was nothing more than a blur of disconnected fragments. It was all too much to process. Maybe Granger had the right idea. A little rest couldn’t hurt; everything would look better when he woke up again. Draco pulled up the blankets that Granger had discarded and settled deeper into the sofa’s worn cushions. He allowed his eyes to drift shut and sleep to claim him.

He was running, chasing someone. Several people, actually. There were two other men sprinting with him and wand-fire was flying freely around them. Purple, red, green. Always green. Their targets were a group Mudbloods who’d been detected casting magic. The new tracking spells that the Dark Lord had devised always gave away their position. Easy pickings, whenever someone who was not a pureblood wielded a wand. Ingenious.

It didn’t take long to catch up to them. The brush had been thick and full of brambles, and they’d been chased out of their hiding place without shoes or cloaks to protect them from the icy cold. They were no match for the better equipped and prepared aggressors. The stunning spells had hit their marks, and three males were felled quickly by the Avada Kedavras that the pursuing Death Eaters cast. There was one woman in the group, and she wouldn’t be so lucky. They’d not bothered to bury the dead men. The wild animals and the elements would deal with what they’d left behind. The female would be their source of amusement for the next couple of hours, and then she’d join her… husband, brother, father, friend? - Who knew? It really didn’t matter – in permanent sleep.

“Me first this time, Draco,” the taller of the two dark-haired men had asserted. “By the time you’re done with them, there’s not enough left for any fun.”

“Quit your whining. You get plenty of fun, Nott,” Draco had snorted back. “But if you’re so anxious to get at this one, be my guest.” He waved at the bound, silenced, and terrified woman as though his offer was a grand, magnanimous gesture.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he’d accepted.

Once they’d dragged her back to the cottage they’d commandeered as their base of operations for the month, Nott had shackled her hands to the top of a platform that he and Dolohov had conjured to facilitate their little games. Nott’s two compatriots each held one of her ankles, all the better to see the action up close and to further intimidate and terrorize the presumptuous bitch. Her clothing had been magically stripped and Nott was anxious to get started. He removed the Silencio spell that he’d cast on her earlier because he loved to hear them scream. There was no one to hear them for kilometers around, so she could screech at the top of her lungs and it would only amuse her captors.

For Nott, roughing them up always came first. He used his fists and feet to batter every part of her body. She was bruised and bloody within minutes. Draco felt himself harden as she cried out in pain and as the coppery smell of her blood hit his nostrils. It wasn’t quite as stimulating as inflicting the damage himself, but her pain was glorious to him. He watched with interest as Nott stripped off his trousers and exposed his own erection to his small audience. Without further preamble, Draco and Dolohov took the ankles they held and spread the woman’s legs to the fullest, clearing the path for Nott’s intrusion. Adding insult to injury, he spat on his victim’s slit. The little it would do to ease his entrance was only for his own benefit, to be sure. With a vicious thrust, he breached her opening and heard her shriek as his thickness tore at her delicate flesh. He laughed, pulled out, and thrust violently again. And again. And again. Over and over, until he felt the oncoming rush of his orgasm. He growled deep in his chest and filled the unwilling woman with his semen. On either side of him, Draco and Dolohov were both breathing heavily, each anxious to punish this woman for her crime of using magic while “unworthy.”

Draco released her leg to Nott’s grip and stripped off his own trousers, lining up his rock hard penis with her abused vagina. He…

Draco woke with a start, his dream erection translating directly to a real one, and his arousal so advanced that a single shift of the rough fabric of his jeans against his penis finished him. He tried to strangle the sound that erupted from his throat as his orgasm overtook him, but it was beyond his ability to control. In his fogged brain, he absently hoped that Granger was still asleep and hadn’t heard what was obviously his sexual release. He was grateful, at least, that it had happened while he dozed on the sofa and not while he was in the bed beside her. That would have been an unmitigated disaster, thankfully avoided. His next thought was for the devastating headache that was rapidly developing behind his eyes. Merlin, it wasn’t a dream. It was a memory. He groaned again, but this time in pain and frustration.

The realization that he’d participated in gang rape, and had unequivocally enjoyed both watching and personally inflicting pain as a means to his own sexual release was both horrifying and appalling. Had this happened more than that one time? If what he’d done to Granger was any indication, compounded with what dream-Nott had said about his proclivities, he’d have to conclude that it was a fairly regular occurrence. Why, then, did he not remember those episodes? What, exactly, had he become? His body started to shake and shiver, compounding the stress from his building migraine. There was something very wrong with him, he had no doubt. He wondered if he was having a seizure of some kind, and pain began to grip his joints and muscles before he could finish the thought. He had to stop thinking, or he’d die, he felt certain.

His twisting and moaning had, unfortunately, not gone unnoticed by Hermione Granger. She was still unable to move very much on her own. Her earlier crawl to the bathroom and then to the adjacent bedroom had taken nearly all of her slowly rebuilding strength. The most she could manage right now was a verbal effort, and she called out to her attacker-cum-savior. “Draco! Are you alright?”

He heard her question but was unable to answer it articulately. Something that sounded like “Unngh” escaped from his gritted teeth, and he squeezed his eyes tightly in denial of the tremors that shook his thin frame. All his movement had finally succeeded in dislodging him from his position on the sofa, and he hit the floor with a resounding thud. This caused another yell from Hermione. “Hey! Draco! What’s wrong?”

When he failed to respond, Hermione’s inner Gryffindor felt she had no choice but to try to make it back to the sitting room. She carefully eased herself off the bed onto the floor by way of her knees. She cautiously shifted so that she was balanced on all fours. Moving gingerly and slowly, she inched her way toward the room where Draco still lay moaning in agony. Grateful that the house was tiny, Hermione believed that it would only take another minute or two before she could see what was happening to the man who was making such pitiable noises. Rounding the corner brought a sight for which she was unprepared.

Draco was shaking violently on the floor. It appeared that every muscle in his body was seizing up and contracting in spasms. He was sweating profusely and his complexion was mottled with red blotches splashed everywhere that skin was visible. It was a frightening scene, made more daunting by Hermione’s understanding that she had little strength and few resources with which to help him, even if she knew what the source of the problem was. A thought tickled at the back of her brain, and she tugged it forward to recall that his affliction looked very much like drug withdrawal symptoms. Her decidedly limited medical knowledge included the awareness that this was probably something that he’d just have to “ride out.” The thought wasn’t a pleasant prospect. It did, however, almost certainly confirm the suspicion they’d discussed earlier that he’d been under the influence of some kind of potion. She almost felt sorry for him, and wondered who would have done something so cruel to another human being. It had “dark magic” written all over it; when he recovered sufficiently, she’d revisit that topic again.

Draco seemed unaware of her presence only a half meter from him, and rolled onto his side, groaning again through his fog of pain. When she whispered his name, it did not reach his consciousness. When she reached out to touch his arm, it only added to his agitation. His arms flailed and his back arched off the floor against a perceived assault, and she flinched away, putting a little more space between them. It would not be prudent to allow herself to be injured further. As screwed-up as they both were, neither could even qualify as “walking wounded” right now. She resolved to watch and wait for a moment, hoping that he’d calm soon.

The seconds seems to stretch to hours, but it was really less than two minutes later that Draco’s thrashing began to abate. His breathing seemed less labored, and visible musculature looked less taut and corded. He seemed to become more aware of his surroundings, and emitted a more deliberate and communicative moan. He brought his arms up over his eyes, blocking out the light with his forearms, and drew up his knees so that his feet rested flat on the floor. Since his movements indicated conscious awareness, Hermione tried to get his attention once more.

“You scared me, Draco. Are you alright?” she asked, her voice purposefully quiet and soothing.

Through the screen of his arms over his face, he croaked out an answer. “Mmm, I guess.”

“Do you know what happened?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Will you tell me? Maybe I can help somehow,” she offered.

“Unh uh.”

“No, you won’t tell me, or no, I can’t help?”

“Both,” he answered shortly, still hiding his face.

Hermione Granger, however, never gave up. “Why not?”

“Humiliating.”

“So?”

“Degrading.”

“So?”

“No, Granger. Not gonna happen,” he insisted.

“Draco, after everything that’s happened between us in the last two days, there’s not a thing that you could tell me that would shock or embarrass me,” she proposed.

“Not worried about your embarrassment this time, Granger.”

“Draco, whatever happened may give us some insight into your problem,” she pushed.

Reluctantly and with a great, deep sigh, Draco used his arms to lever himself up to a sitting position, his back resting against the front of the sofa. “You’re never going to leave it, are you?” he confirmed, daring to make brief eye contact with the exasperating witch. “Persistence, thy name is Hermione Granger.”

She greeted him with a broad smile, which although not really apropos to the situation, was all the confirmation he’d ever need of her character and intent. She was clearly as evil as he’d ever been. “You’re learning, Malfoy. That’s good,” she needled. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?” she encouraged.

He snorted and mumbled something that sounded like “You asked for it…”

“I had an orgasm.”

“Oh, uh, oh,” she stuttered, a bright pink blush staining her neck and cheeks. “That’s, uh…”

“Too much information?” he offered.

“Well, uh, maybe. More like, so not what I expected you to say. Why do you think it’s important? Um, other than the obvious?”

“And pray tell, Miss Granger, what would be the ‘obvious importance’ of my orgasm?” In for a penny, in for a pound, he figured.

She worked her mouth open and closed several times, having no rational answer to his question before finally settling upon throwing it back into his proverbial lap. “Well, how should I know, it wasn’t mine!”

At that, he had no choice but to laugh, despite the pain still coursing through nearly every inch of his body. “Well, I suppose you’re right about that, at least.”

She just glared at him, not amused in the slightest.

“The obvious importance, Granger, can be found in why I had an orgasm,” he instructed. “And the answer is not that I was wanking off. I haven’t had the desire to do that since we got here, and if I had, I certainly wouldn’t have done it in the middle of an open sitting room.”

“Okay. Then why did you have an orgasm, Draco?” she capitulated, mumbling the next under her breath, but it was loud enough for him to hear. “Now that’s a question that I can guarantee I never imagined would ever come out of my mouth.”

“And if anyone had every told me that you and I would be sitting around discussing my orgasms, I’d have used the Avada on them for being bat-shit crazy.”

“Fair enough, but let’s get back to the subject at hand, um, whatever. Go on, please.” She waved at him.

Desperately resisting the urge to smirk, he continued his explanation. “I fell asleep on the sofa and I had a dream…”

Before he could expand, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, is that all? Well, that’s entirely normal, Draco, though not as common once a boy is out of his teens, and…”

“Granger! If you’d let me finish, please? I had a dream about a raid, followed by a chase and the capture of a prisoner. A woman. We brought her back to our camp and, uh, did things to her. Vile things. And it aroused me.”

“Oh, well, again, you can’t really control what arouses you in your dreams…”

“No! What, Granger, are you an expert on Wizard sexuality now? You wanted to know, so please just listen and let me get through this.”

“Sorry. Go on,” she apologized, appropriately chastised for her untimely interruption.

He took another deep breath and began once more. “It wasn’t the sex that aroused me, it was the pain. We were hurting her, and I got off on it. I think I’ve become a sadist. But the other half of the problem is that I realized that it wasn’t a dream, but a memory.”

Hermione gasped involuntarily, causing Draco to wince in humiliation. “Well, that explains a lot, but it gives us more questions too,” she replied.

“What does it explain?” he wondered. His head was pounding too much to allow for much deduction and reasoning. He’d have to rely on her substantial brain to work for both of them for a while.

“It explains part of why you were writhing in pain on the floor earlier, because your brain called up a memory, so you probably still have some residual of the potion in your system. But I think you were also suffering from withdrawal symptoms. In the Muggle world, when someone suddenly stops taking a drug they’ve been addicted to, like alcohol, cocaine or heroin, they get what’s called the DTs. It stands for delirium tremens, and the addict gets chills, shivers, sweating, muscle spasms – the whole works. It was exactly what you were doing when I crawled in here.”

“Huh. Interesting. Anything else?”

“It explains what you did to me,” she said, trying deliberately not to sound accusatory.

Draco dropped his face to his hands in shame. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“That’s not why I said it, Draco.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“I know you are. Let’s try to be dispassionate about this, and just look at facts and possibilities. I’m more convinced than ever that a preponderance of the atrocities you’ve committed were not of your own volition.”

“English, please, Granger. My brain hurts.” Draco massaged his throbbing temples deeply, keeping his eyes closed against the brightness in the room.

“Someone has been controlling nearly everything you do, and for a very long time. Do you have any idea when you might have started feeling, um, sexual gratification that way?”

“It’s been a long time. Probably around the time I took the Dark Mark. But I was sexually active before that, and never got off on hurting anyone. Give me a pretty witch with big tits, and I was a happy bloke. Yeah, I’d say that the control would have started after that. I can’t recall doing any of those things.”

“It seems to me that it’s undoubtedly dark magic, so that means it is most likely another Death Eater and probably someone in Voldemort’s senior ranks, because there’s likely some strategy to using someone the way they’ve used you. And whatever potion they’ve administered, you haven’t had any of it for a couple of days, so that’s why you’re getting the DTs. I hate to tell you this, but it will probably get worse before it gets better.”

“You’re just full of good news, aren’t you, Granger?”

“I’d also lay Galleons on the fact that whoever did this to you added a powerful addictive agent, so that you’d crave whatever it was that they dosed.”

“What did you say?” his voice was low and dangerous.

“I said that you would crave lots of whatever it was that had the potion in it.”

“Yeah, I heard you. I’m just trying to process this in my head. Crave, huh?”

“Does something come to mind? Something you just have to have?”

“Yeah. Chocolate truffles,” he snorted.

Hermione laughed. “Me, too.”

“No, Granger, seriously. I love chocolate. It’s my single greatest weakness.”

“Okay, so we may be getting somewhere. How often do you eat chocolate?”

“Every day, twice a day, if I can. Honestly. I really love chocolate. Always have.”

“Is there a particular type of chocolate that you eat more often than others?”

“Mmmhmm. Like I said before, chocolate truffles. The ones with the macadamia nuts in them. Sooo good, Granger. I bet you’d love them too,” he enthused, sounding much younger and more innocent than a twenty-one year old man normally would.

“Do you remember when you first started eating them?”

“Wow. That’s a long time ago. Maybe Fifth year.”

“Which was about when you started being a bigger git than usual.”

“Yes, that may be true. But I’m pretty certain we can rule that out. Those truffles were something that my mother sent to me personally, and I’ve always had them at the Manor, so I think those are probably not the source.”

“Hmm. You’re probably right. There’s no way your mother would do that to you.”

“Of course not. She’s the one good thing in my life. At least she was.”

“Draco, if she’s not really dead, and I’m nearly positive that she isn’t, she can be there for you again.”

He shook his head sadly. “No, Granger, that’s not even the point. She’ll never be able to forgive me for the monster I’ve become. I don’t deserve to have someone care about me.”

“Draco, there’s no denying that you’ve done some horrific things, and you’ll have to figure out how to live with that. But if you’ve been doing these things under something that equates to an Imperius, it’s not really you who’s to blame. The Wizengamot wouldn’t even send you to Azkaban under those circumstances.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t take the legal blame, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to live with what I’ve done, Granger,” he whispered.

The look on Hermione’s face could only be described as compassion, and he hated that almost as much as the fear he’d seen there the day before. “Don’t do that,” he warned her.

“Don’t do what?” she asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Don’t go all Hufflepuff on me. I don’t want your pity.”

“Who said I pity you?” she challenged.

“It’s written all over your face,” Draco accused.

“And you know me well enough to know what my facial expressions mean, Malfoy?”

“Uh.”

“Yeah, ‘uh.’ Don’t you go making assumptions.”

“Well, that’s kind of a universal expression. Most people know it when they see it,” he argued.

“I don’t pity you. I care that any human being has been subjected to the psychological torture that you’ve had to endure. It’s not fair, and that’s all I’m saying.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and bored into hers menacingly. “I fucked you to within an inch of your life barely two days ago, Granger. How stupid would you have to be to care about anything that ever happened to me? Hate me! Wish me dead! I can’t handle it if you care about anything even remotely connected to me!”

Hermione met his eyes without fear or rancor, and spoke calmly to the agitated man. “That’s the thing, Draco. You didn’t do that to me, not really. I don’t blame you for what you did; I blame whoever has been drugging you for so many years. That person, I hate. That person, I wish dead. You, I wish cleansed of whatever has infected you for so long.”

She wisely ignored the water that welled up in the young man’s eyes, threatening to spill over his pale cheeks, and simply shifted her position to lean against the chair while he dropped his head between his upraised knees in an effort to compose himself.

“Don’t worry, Draco. None of that means I like you. I still think you’re an insufferable git, if that makes you feel any better.”

The sniff she received in reply was close enough to a snort that both of them let the moment pass without further comment.

Both sat quietly, lost in their own thoughts for a few minutes until Hermione spoke up. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

“If it has anything to do with an orgasm, the answer is ‘no.’ Otherwise, I’m open. What?”

“Cheeky git. I’m really uncomfortable here on the floor, and I’ve just about exhausted every last reserve of strength I had left. Would you mind helping up to the sofa, or back to the bed?”

“I think I can do that. Which do you prefer?”

“Um, sofa I think. It’s warmer in here than in the bedroom. Plus it’s not as far for you to move me.”

Draco rolled to his knees and pulled himself into a standing position with a fair degree of effort. His pain had moderated, but he was still very sore and shaky. “Yeah, don’t know if I’d have the strength to move you all of five meters farther,” he scoffed.

When she quirked an eyebrow at him, he retracted his scorn. “Sorry. It’s just easier to be sarcastic than real, sometimes. Self-protection, you know.”

“I do. More than you might think. I’ve been known to employ that tactic myself.”

Draco bent to lift her, and was a little surprised when her arms folded so readily around his neck. It did make the process easier, but her subconscious – he thought – display of trust was unsettling. He chose not to comment, though, and hooked his arm under her knees to complete the procedure. He turned, placed her on the sofa that he’d so recently occupied and flushed when he remembered what had happened there not even an hour earlier. Thank Merlin for the heavy fabric of denim.

“I’ll just leave you to rest for a bit. I need to …” With a nod of his head, he indicated that a visit to the loo was his destination.

She’d seen his high color, but she just nodded in acknowledgement, and watched him leave the room. She’d been circumspect enough to resist commenting on his …problem that needed tending. Now that he was gone, she couldn’t help but blush furiously again at the conversation they’d had and brought her hands to her cheeks as she felt the heat rise in them. She mused disconcertedly that she probably had had more conversation with Draco Malfoy about sexuality than just about any other man with whom she’d ever been acquainted, including Ron, who’d been her boyfriend for a mercifully short time. The shudder that tore through her when recalling those decidedly odd four months had nothing to do with the slight chill in the room. She’d not had a steady beau since they broke up more than three years ago. Then again, who has much time for relationships in the midst of fighting a war? In any case, it was a very odd and uncomfortable thing to talk about with someone she barely knew, regardless of how pertinent it might be to solving their many individual and mutual problems.

In the bathroom, Draco lamented once more that his wand had not made the portkey trip with them. A scourgify would be so welcome right about now. The inside of the jeans was damp and sticky, but he had nothing else to wear. He stripped them off for the moment and decided to tend first to his body. He did not relish the idea of another frigid shower. A quick wash-up would have to do, for now. He found one of the towels that he’d used earlier as a cold compress for Granger’s injuries and unfurled it. Taking the corner that had been protected inside the roll, he dampened it with cold water from the tap and cleaned himself as best he could. As the rough fabric grazed his still-sensitive organ, he winced from both the ache and the remembered shame of actually telling Granger what had happened. Well, at least he was somewhat cleaner. He took the same towel and wiped the inside of the denim fabric, leaving it still damp but less sticky. He’d have no alternative but to deal with the discomfort, and he stepped back into the jeans, pulling them up over his hips and zipping them. He rinsed the towel out and hung it over the top of the shower stall to dry. If they were here for much longer, he’d need a towel for himself anyway. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and strode confidently back into the sitting room.

He was grateful that Granger made no comment or observation upon his return, and he sat in the armchair near the hearth, stretching out his legs in an attempt to relieve the muscle cramps he was still suffering. The sun was going down and the room had started to darken and cool. He’d have to add more wood to the fire and they’d have to discuss sleeping arrangements for the night. No time like the present, he thought.

“Granger, it’s probably going to be really cold again tonight. We should talk about what we’re going to do to keep warm.”

“Oh! I’m glad you mentioned that. I was thinking earlier that we might try to get the furnace started again. There may be something little that we missed in the last attempt.”

“I’m game. But what could that be? You seemed to know a decent amount about it, and your directions were quite thorough, I thought.”

“Yes, but there’s always the potential that I missed something.”

“Fine. Walk me through it again, then.”

“Alright. First, you said that the big tank downstairs showed a gauge marked three-quarters full, correct?”

“Yes, and I traced the pipes from that tank over to the furnace machine, so fuel shouldn’t be the issue.”

Her lips twitched slightly at his phraseology of “furnace machine” but she refrained from commenting. “And you found the thermostat to set the temperature and turned it to the number 22?”

He rose to show her where he found the dial and confirmed that it was turned to the correct setting.

Eyes flashing with a sudden thought, she asked, “Is there a little switch on the bottom of the thermostat?”

“You mean like the ones for the lights?”

“Sort of. This one would be much smaller, and would slide from side to side instead of up and down.”

He peered closely at the dial and found the tiny switch she’d described. “Yeah, there is one here on the bottom.”

“Can you see any words labeled there?”

“Yes. It says ‘Off’ and ‘Heat’ side by side.”

“Which one is the switch lined up to?”

“Off,” he replied, looking at her hopefully.

“Bingo!” she cried. “Slide it to the Heat setting and cross your fingers.”

He did as she instructed and went to open the basement door, listening for the sound of machinery starting up.

“Hear anything?”

“Unh uh. Nothing yet.”

Looking crestfallen, she pouted. “It would have been pretty much instantaneous.”

“Give it a second. Maybe it just needs to warm itself up.”

“Ooh, I just thought of something else. This room has warmed up because of the fire, so the thermostat might not be set high enough to get the furnace to kick on. Move the dial up to 25 and see what happens.”

“Whatever you say, I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about, Granger.” He did as she asked again.

“Hear anything now?”

He stuck his head back into the basement doorway for a moment, and reemerged shaking his head. “Nope. Nothing.”

“Shit.”

“Granger! Language, please,” he teased.

“I can’t think of anything else,” she bemoaned.

“Well, maybe something else will come to you later,” he offered.

“Maybe,” she acknowledged, not sounding terribly optimistic.

“I guess that means we still need to figure out a way to stay warm tonight.”

“Yes, but I’m not anxious to get back into that bed with you, Malfoy, regardless of how well-behaved you may have been last night.”

“We have some time before then anyway. It can’t be more than about four, five at the very latest. I’m certainly not ready for bed yet.”

“Me, either. I mean, we both had kips this afternoon besides…” her voice trailed off as she recalled how and why he’d awakened.

“Yeah, well, whatever.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be silly. Forget it.”

“What do you want to do for now, then?” she prompted.

“Maybe we should explore a little more on the idea of this place as a safe-house.”

“Sure. Do you have anything in particular in mind?”

“Nothing terribly concrete, but let’s go with your assertion that my mother is still alive and had something to do with us getting here. This is a Muggle house, correct?”

“Yes, without a doubt.”

“How would my mother know anything about a Muggle house? Does she even know any Muggles?”

“Well, I can’t pretend to have any idea who she does or doesn’t know, but there are a couple of obvious possibilities.”

“Like?”

“Well, Andy married a Muggle-born wizard.”

“Yes, but he is a wizard, even if he is Muggle-born. And you said you’d been to their house. This obviously isn’t it.”

“True, but it illustrates how it’s possible for your mother to know Muggle-related people.”

“Let’s think about this from another angle, since neither of us has any further idea who she might or might not know. Somebody – right this very minute – knows that we are here. Why haven ‘t we heard from them?”

“There are any number of possibilities, Draco. If your mother made the portkey, then she does know where we are. If not, we have to consider whether she does or doesn’t know who did create it. If she doesn’t know, then we should have no expectation that anyone knows we’re here. If she does know who made it, the chances are fifty-fifty that someone knows how to find us, depending on whether that person told her where we were transported.”

“That’s all very convoluted, Granger, but I think what you’re trying to say is that the only way we can be completely sure someone knows we’re here is if the person who activated the portkey is also the person who made it in the first place.”

“Yes. Sort of.”

“Well, why didn’t you say that?”

“I did!”

“Yeah, in at least triple the number of words.”

“Pthhffft”

Draco laughed aloud at Hermione’s raspberry. “Little miss maturity, aren’t we?”

“I was just trying to be thorough,” she protested, crossing her arms over her chest in annoyance.

“You really haven’t changed at all since Hogwarts, Granger,” he observed, shaking his head in vague amusement.

“There is one other thing to consider, Draco, if you’re done mocking me.”

“I’m done for now. What’s that?”

“If this is truly a safe-house, it’s probably unplottable and may even be under a Fidelius charm. Then, only the Secret Keeper and whoever they have told can have any possibility of locating us.”

“No. It can’t be under a Fidelius.”

“Why not?”

“Because we can see it when we leave the house.”

“No. That’s not necessarily true.”

“Are you going to argue with me, a pureblood wizard who’s lived and breathed magic his entire life, on this? Seriously?”

“Yes. Because there is a way to modify the Fidelius charm, and I know this because I designed the modification with Headmaster Dumbledore last summer.”

“No shit.”

“No shit. I’m not called the ‘brightest witch of my age’ for nothing, Draco.”

“So how can you change the way a Fidelius works? I’m dying to know.” He was clearly still skeptical, and defensively crossed his arms over his chest.

“You specify the property lines instead of the address when you cast, or re-cast, the charm. The only tricky part is if the spell is being re-cast, it requires that you completely take down all of the wards for a short while. That can be dangerous.”

“So you’re telling me that someone, since last summer, used your modification of the Fidelius charm to update this specific property so that if we went outside, we could still see it, even if we hadn’t been informed by the Secret Keeper. Sounds far-fetched to me.”

“Well, I admit it’s not the most likely scenario, but it is possible. Yes.”

He snorted.

“If your mother was in contact with Andy, as I know she was, then there was a strong possibility that she could have made contact with someone else in the Order. Maybe even Dumbledore himself. Don’t forget, we don’t know why she’s been faking her death. Maybe she’s been helping the Order during that time.”

“Well, I must say that I hadn’t really considered that angle of her being in contact with her sister. That would put a very different spin on things, now wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, it would.”

“But one other thing has been bugging me, Granger.”

“What’s that?”

“How did you not know my mother was supposedly dead? Wouldn’t that have been big news in the Wizarding world?”

“And just how would that have been published?”

“Uh, the Prophet?”

“Where have you been, Draco? The Prophet hasn’t been published in nearly three years. The offices were destroyed and more than half of their reporters were killed after they wrote a story that was slightly critical of raids that had flattened numerous businesses in Diagon Alley. They’ve never reopened.”

“Are you telling me that there’s no regular news source in the Wizarding world, and hasn’t been for all that time?”

“Fundamentally, yes. There are a couple of small, underground news sheets, but they’re not published with any regularity, and they certainly wouldn’t have mentioned a witch’s death, even someone as prominent as your mother, particularly if her death wasn’t the result of a violent act.”

“I don’t know how she died,” he confessed quietly.

“Supposedly died,” she corrected. “You don’t?”

He shook his head. “Never saw the point in asking. There was nothing I could do about it, so I didn’t want to dwell on how it happened.”

“I guess I can understand that. But, Draco, I have a question for you. How could you not know that there was no regular news being published?”

“I would say that I was otherwise occupied, Granger. The tiny pieces that I’m putting together would seem to indicate that I lived from raid to raid, waiting for orders as they came. I don’t recall caring much about news in a general sense.”

“Fair enough.”

“So, our mutual ignorance of news aside, we still both think that someone knows we’re here, and we still don’t have any clues as to why they’ve not come to retrieve us.”

“The most likely explanation for that is that they’ve been otherwise occupied, to borrow your phrase.”

“What could keep someone busy for two whole days when they know that a violent rapist and his victim are alone together somewhere out in the woods, Granger?”

“Good question, Malfoy.”