Hostage of War

A/N: A huge thank you to Sempra for the fantastic beta and ongoing support and to Softobsidian74 for alpha reading and feedback!


Pavo


With a sharp motion, the seamstress poked her wand into Hermione’s back.

“Don’t slouch, girl! Have you had no upbringing at all?” She turned to Narcissa, clearly not expecting an answer. “Honestly Narcissa, you need to walk her up and down the staircase with a book on her head if you expect her to wear proper robes. The way she holds herself at present is common at best.”

Narcissa smiled and daintily stirred her tea with milk before taking a small sip.

“Do not worry, Arachne, she will be the picture of a young lady by the end of her stay with us.” She lifted her cup to her lips. “I think we should try some more walking robes now.”

Hermione closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. The pain was a welcome release for the urge to stamp her foot and slam the door on her way out.

Narcissa sat on a comfortable couch in front of the shop window dressed in burgundy brocade. Not a hair was out of place. Her makeup looked as fresh as it had early that morning when she had commanded Hermione to follow her to Diagon Alley.

Hermione looked as if she had been dragged through the scullery of the manor house and back. She was not a happy shopper, always trying to only get whatever she needed quickly and preferably painlessly. The experience of a Malfoy day out was draining her of her will to be civil.

The coiffeuse-witch from France had tsked over her dry, coarse hair, the split ends and the lack of a cut. She had tugged on Hermione’s locks, insulted her in French, thinking her client unable to understand, and concluded the curly mass unworthy of her full expertise and skill.

Thankfully she had got away with only a trim. And a bagful of hair potions.

This time.

The shoemancer had encased her feet in tightly-laced leather, making her feet look dainty and utterly useless for anything beside sitting politely or—she shuddered—slow walks with measured steps, preferably leaning on the arm of a strong wizard so she wouldn’t lose her balance on heels that were much higher than she had ever been comfortable with.

Now the seamstress found her posture lacking.

“I don’t understand why the young girls don’t wear corsets anymore; they do make for a delightful silhouette.”

Her wand poked into Hermione’s shoulder blade.

“Because we value our internal organs?”

Narcissa’s teacup clattered against her saucer and the teaspoon nearly, but not quite, fell from it to the top of the small polished mahogany table.

“Hermione!”

Behind her back, she could feel the frosty silence of a witch insulted but too afraid to lose a valued customer to act on it.

“I am sorry?” she offered without too much conviction.

The seamstress snorted softly and proceeded to place pins along the side of the bodice of the ankle-length robe. Carefully, she pricked Hermione’s skin with each new pin.

Narcissa had taken up her cup again and gazed at her with solemn eyes.

Guilt at the woman’s disappointment settled in Hermione’s stomach and made her stand straighter despite her weariness. Running from one shop to the next, hour after hour, had exhausted her, and she longed to wash her face with a cool wet cloth and then curl up under her deliciously soft duvet.

But now she stood, straight and silent, lifting her arms when prompted, turning this way and that, and being utterly ignored by the two chattering witches.

With growing resignation and dread, Hermione looked at the ever growing pile of fine fabrics, strewn over a bench next to the cutting table.

She closed her eyes and wondered silently what in Merlin’s name she needed walking robes for.


***


“How is life with Granger, Draco?”

Blaise Zabini leaned against the window frame in Draco’s room, appearing to observe something on the grounds outside with apt interest.

“Why do you ask?”

Draco came up next to him and followed his line of vision to a warmly bundled-up Granger on the front lawn.

She crouched down, making her woollen cloak fan out behind her on the damp grass.

A white peacock eyed her suspiciously, cocking his head to the side, seemingly trying to decide whether the lure of whatever she had on her outstretched, palm would be worth the risk of coming any nearer to the human.

Draco snorted.

“Unsurprisingly, she appears to have taken an interest in the livestock.”

The peacock could no longer withstand the temptation and took two more tentative steps forward.

“And the animals feel right at home with her.”

The white bird pecked at her hand a few times, becoming bolder and bolder until Granger suddenly jumped up, shaking her hand wildly.

“Or maybe not.”

Draco smirked.

“No, really, Draco. Is it that bad? She just arrived with your mother, who may I add looked rather satisfied with herself. There were at least two dozen packages levitating behind them, you might want to cut Granger some slack.”

Draco shrugged.

“I reckon it is not as bad as it could be. She does make an effort not to be in the way, but I still can’t imagine her being here for two years. She does amuse Mother, though.”

Blaise nodded with a pensive look on his face.

“Ginny is quite agreeable to live with.”

“The blood traitor?” Draco’s eyebrows nearly leapt off his face. “Ginny?”

Blaise ignored the disbelieving tone in Draco’s voice and carried on.

“Do you think this armistice is going to be good for anything?”

Draco had also been thinking about this. Returning to his studies in earnest had meant thinking about the future.

It was nice to think that one might have a future.

“I would not count on it, Blaise. We will probably just go back to where we left off and eradicate them or they will eradicate us.”

“The Dark Lord said we would need time to recover. Maybe the armistice could be extended? It has happened many times before...”

“What is this, Blaise? Dreaming of a future with a blood traitor? Has she managed to trap you already?”

And as an afterthought: “She is not pregnant, is she?”

“Gods, no!”

Blaise finally averted his gaze from the girl in the gardens, chasing and being chased by the peacock.

“But think about it. How many pure blood girls do you know that are not yet betrothed? How many are left?”

Draco looked at his friend in mounting horror. He had always assumed he would get married one day to uphold the Malfoy name, but since he had never expected anything but an arranged marriage, he had never wasted any thoughts on whom he would marry in the end.

“Ginny is someone I am comfortable being with, once we got over the awkward situation. She is easy to talk to and so ... enthusiastic.”

He smiled.

“I can make her happy with the smallest of things. She is so amazed and excited about anything new she experiences. We went to my grandfather’s house in Venice, and you should have seen her! The other pure blood girls I know would have feigned disinterest, or even worse, I think they would have been disinterested. With her it was like seeing the town for the first time.”

Draco watched Blaise becoming more and more distressed.

“I don’t want to face her in battle in two years time!”

“Blaise, you need to keep your wits about you! The war is not going to disappear just so you can be happy with your hostage!”

“I know!” He sounded miserable.

After a little while, Blaise added something seemingly out of context.

“I hear that Pansy has grown quite close to the Weasley mother. Unsurprising given that her own mother passed away when she was small.” Draco did not react. “The Weasleys have a lot of pure blood sons.”

Draco looked out of the window into the darkening gardens to the front of the manor.

Granger stood bent over, one hand resting near her knee, the other near her face with her forefinger extended. The peacock seemed nonplussed by her scolding.


***


The silky fabric of her robes felt strange when she walked along the corridors or climbed the stone staircases.

For years and years her choice of clothing had been dictated by practicality. It had to be resilient, warm in winter, and most of all it should under no circumstances hinder her movements while fighting.

Now she was wearing silken robes that fluttered when she moved. Narcissa had been devastated when Hermione had insisted on the more simple styles and darker colours. She would have so loved to see her in pastel pink.

In the end she had agreed that Hermione was not five years old and that she did not feel comfortable in the current situation to wear such happy colours. It would soon be the winter season anyhow, so darker colours were permitted.

Hermione could not help but wonder what her life would have been like without the war, without the murder of her parents, without the scars on her body and soul.

The thought of a life with her parents in the Muggle world felt just as awkward as her life now at the manor. In a way, war was all she knew. Her formative years had been spent fighting, and although the mere absence of wand-to-wand fights did not make her feel particularly safe with the Malfoys, she did relish the opportunity to rediscover simple pleasures such as reading without interruption or pressure to complete a certain piece of research before the other side struck again.

She had heard Narcissa call for Draco and his rushed exit from his room across from hers and down the corridor.

Her curiosity was piqued.

It was risky to eavesdrop on her hosts. Keepers. Hosts.

But knowledge was power, and she could always feign ignorance and claim to have just happened upon them by chance.

Near Lucius’ study she could hear voices. Narcissa and Draco she could clearly distinguish. Then Lucius and the voice of another man.

It could not be.

With a shaking hand, she pushed the door of Lucius’ study open a bit further. She had never been in this room, preferring to give the man a wide berth. He had been nothing but polite, but she did not want to take any chances.

Her hosts were assembled around the wide desk, Lucius seated behind it, Draco in the armchair in front of it with Narcissa standing behind the backrest, one hand placed on the aged leather.

A tall painting, not quite life-size but grand enough to warrant a wall to itself, hung to the desks’ right side.

She would have known the dark man anywhere.

“Severus?”

All three living Malfoys turned to her; her voice had been so strained, yet hopeful and starving.

“Loutre?” The paintings voice was just as hopeful.

Otter, the French term of endearment that Severus had found so fitting for her.

“Severus.” This time, her voice did break under the pressure of oncoming tears ending the man’s name in a high-pitched sob.

She rushed forward, past the shell-shocked Malfoy family, and placed a hand flat against the bottom of the canvas as far up as she could reach.

The man in the portrait immediately fell to his knees, robes bunching up in a black cloud around him on the painted stone floor.

“Albus sent you here? Is he insane?”

“I thought all your portraits had been destroyed!” She wiped the streaming tears with her sleeve that soaked through in a matter of seconds. “I thought you were gone for good!”

He placed his hand against hers, fingertips touching the ball of her hand, separated by canvas and paint and magic.

“Ma loutre, I am not really here, just a memory of my former self.”

She ignored what he was saying, resting her forehead on the gilded frame of the painting, crying violently.

“I miss you so much!”

“I miss you, too.”

The likeness of Severus Snape, executed traitor to the Dark Cause, remained silent while Hermione cried herself out.

When the shaking of her shoulders subsided a clearing of a throat drew their attention to the owners of the house.

“Care to explain this, Severus? Not only do you pretend to be sleeping until today but then you raise quite a few questions with your behaviour toward… our guest.”

“I don’t think this is any of your business, Lucius.”

“Why do you, of all people, have a portrait of him anyway?” Hermione cried indignantly.

“Why, excuse me. This is still my home, and I may have portraits of anyone I please anywhere I please.”

Hermione did not back down, but sniffed and stared into his face.

“I had a portrait of Lucius in my chambers, Hermione. We knew how dangerous this war was, and we wanted to ensure each other’s memories would be preserved.”

She eyed the aristocrat with a changing perception.

“Was he such a good friend?” And then, before the Severus’ portrait could answer. “Closer to you than I?”

Jealousy ripped at her heart.

“Nobody was closer to me than you. But the portrait was safe in the manor. Please forgive me for not telling you.”

His gentle voice mollified her, enjoying the long-missed baritone.

“Well.” Lucius was obviously uncomfortable with the situation. “I think we should give you some privacy.” He motioned to his wife and son to vacate the study. “But I warn you. Everything in this room is warded. Do. Not. Even. Try.”

Hermione nodded absently and clutched at the carved picture frame.

Narcissa looked reluctant to leave the room, but decided to merely place a comforting hand on Hermione’s shoulder to convey her understanding.

Draco seemed to be less inclined to leave, but a nudge from his mother made him get up from his seat and move to the door.

His godfather and the Mudblood were whispering to each other, looking sickeningly lovey-dovey.

It was disgust that was churning in his stomach.

Disgust.

Even if it felt remarkably like jealousy.

He trailed behind and watched as Granger once again forgot that she could do magic and lugged the heavy armchair across the room to the portrait. Pushing the backrest flush against the wall underneath the frame, she shed her shoes and climbed on top of the upholstered seat.

Now her face was at a level that allowed Severus Snape to sit comfortably and see eye to eye.

Draco huffed softly. They were oblivious to the rest of the world.

A dead man and a Mudblood.

How fitting.

Later, when he was sitting over his arithmancy parchments, his thoughts would wander back to the image of her before the portrait.

Suddenly so very vibrant and alive.

Granger had very pretty feet.

As delicate as her hands, coming to think of it.

****************************************************************************************************************

To RosieRaven: Thank you so much! I hope you liked this chapter :)