The Job
It had been years.
Hermione Granger might have been destined for big Ministry glory or to write a bestseller, but she hadn’t. In all likelihood, she never would. With a practised, uniform flick of her wand Hermione opened the double doors in front of her, her thoughts collecting as she waved at Mora, the secretary, her hair always up in a regulation bun, honey blonde locks collected together, hair gel topping it off like an anti-climatic gift. Her red glasses were tacky, rectangular, plastic and they magnified Mora’s eyes so much that she adopted the appearance of a bug. Her robes are drab and dull, but at this, Hermione cannot give the secretary fault. Everyone in this department has about as much personality collectively as a wet sponge.
It was, after all, the Department of Magical Transportation—a far cry from the ambitious, world-changing pursuits Hermione once envisioned for herself. She hadn't set out to spend her days overseeing Portkey regulations, Floo Network disputes, and broomstick registration complaints, but life had a way of steering people off course.
With a nod to Mora, and a suppression of the amusement of her bug-eyed gaze , Hermione made her way through the narrow, gray corridor, her high heels clacking with the monotonous regularity she's used to. She’s already anticipating the mountain of paperwork awaiting her in her cramped office as she places a few hairpins in her mouth while she ties her hair up in the usual style, no-nonsense and practically able to withstand a hurricane with the amount of pins she places into it. It’s not like she’s going to need to withstand a hurricane though, unless you count the indoor thunderstorm in a certain Mrs Collins’ office three weeks prior that Hermione was sent to fix. That’s right, cleaners work. She’s restricted to her office filing paperwork and the only time she was freed was to cast weather spells any first year can perform in their sleep. She was living out the perfect quintessence of what Muggles call an ‘office job’. It was stifling, having Harry and Ron on the front of the Prophet, the latest titled
‘Daring duo take down giant in Mongolia: Was three becoming two the best idea yet?’ Her former best friends were successful Aurors while her bureaucratic life was decidedly lackluster. And the last time Harry and Ron had darkened her doorstep was simply for business. Nothing more than that. Three had become two and she was in no position to squeeze back into her vacated space. She was vastly disconnected from the trio that had once defined her very life.
Sipping on her last dregs of coffee, she unlocked the door to her boxy office adjacent to lots of others, she was just a serial number- the etched 219 plated onto the door. She dumped the cup into the bin, levitated her bag and coat onto the hanger and stared at the files littering her desk. After fifteen minutes of aimless flicking through, she realised she was simply reading and rereading one sentence, ‘A very pivotal issue provoking Wizengamot headaches today is the lack of apprenticeships at the Ministry.’ She almost laughed. Her job was this mundane that all that vaguely entertained her was repetition. More and more of the fiery Gryffindor girl was being progressively lost to the everyday boredom she put herself through. A sudden knock at her door jolted her into the present. Who could it be? The last time anyone in this department got called on was when Larry (office 345) was sent to St Mungo’s with a severe case of mandrake exposure.
She resumed her dull mannerisms and called, ‘Come in,’ to her visitor.
For a fleeting moment she thought it might be Harry or Ron. Here to make amends, to re-awaken what was once lost in their friendship. Maybe this is why naivety is usually common in the hopeless. It wasn’t her former friends knocking on her office door. Far from it. It was, in fact, Draco Malfoy’s frame that filled her view.
‘Granger.’
His voice dripped with superiority still, but none of the hatred he had harboured for her during their school years. Instead, something that seemed to Hermione a sort of respect. But that was lost in his next words.
‘I see you’re still slogging away at this desk, hoping a promotion will come and smack you in the face. It never comes for the sort of folk around here I'm afraid.’ His expression was one of faux pity, as he rambled on. ‘But no longer. Since you are the only individual of slight competence in the entire department, I require,’ he said this as if it physically hurt him, ‘your help.’
The hope she had had faded as quickly as it bloomed. Of course it wasn’t them. Of course fate had been cruel. Sent Malfoy practically to her doorstep, like a damned angel. In this case though, he was an unwanted, arrogant one. She deadpanned him back, giving him no satisfaction.
‘Well I see you’ve not changed a bit. Still the same pompous Slytherin, just now perhaps even more irritating than before. You’ve no right to insult me, my position, my department and then brazenly ask for my help. Leave me alone Malfoy.’
He regarded her with a quirk of his brow, continuing his smooth talk as if her biting monologue had never been. ‘I’m afraid you have no choice Granger,’ he remarked smugly, ‘The Malfoy name isn’t just false accolades. I have many connections with the hierarchy here. I am the puppeteer, pulling the strings and you, a simple pawn. All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players after all. Now, you’re a player in my game.’
Hermione felt herself fuming. How dare he. He must’ve recited Shakespeare to annoy her. Practised the Muggle literature, knowing she would be familiar with it, knowing it was a way to push her buttons.The mind games Draco was fond of had only just begun. He began talking of his father’s previous entanglements with the Ministry but she wasn’t even listening. It was presumably set in stone that she would endure any tasks set before her. At least it would be a change of pace, she thought as Draco’s voice continued to prattle on.
‘So as I was saying Granger, this will have to be in the strictest confidence. No-one knows the extent of this situation except me and,’ he paused before saying it, the words struggling to come from his mouth, ‘And now you will be.’
‘So I'm to meet you where?’ Hermione questioned, a look of complete disinterest on her features. Draco reached surreptitiously into his blazer pocket, as Hermione gazed at the office wall and a business card onto her desk, crackling with magic as he pointed his wand at it, casting several times.
‘Just a few protection enchantments,’ he said coolly, ‘To make sure no-one else can read, or pick up this card with the exception of the individuals in this room.’
He said this with a practised ease but she detected something below it, a sort of panicked demeanour. He had smothered it with arrogance when he first arrived, but she was perceptive. If something was bothering Draco Malfoy this much, she wanted to find out what it was. Hermione cleared her throat before she began to speak, carefully choosing what she was to say. It was very ‘Malfoy’ to be meticulous.
‘So,’ she enunciated, ‘What is exactly the big secret that has the ‘great’ Draco Malfoy down to my department? Don’t you think I should be let on if I'm to be fixing something for you? Besides, I can’t just leave my office. I've got work to be getting on with.’
She referenced the paper piling up on her small desk with a huff. Draco smirked.
‘Oh this is all Ministry approved Granger, far more than the trivia you put up with daily. I finally need to cash in favours from before you were born.’ He lowered his voice as he continued, ‘The manor’s in trouble. I’m familiar with you, you’re the only one in the department I trust. Well, trust is a relative term but… The boss likes you at least, by personal recommendation I went down to your office. Follow the card. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
With a sharp crack, he apparated away. Hermioen’s curiosity got the better of her as she turned the singed card over to reveal a set of coordinates. Apparition coordinates. And a note, ‘4:00 tomorrow. Don’t be late.’ Hermione scoffed indignantly as she slipped the note into her bag. Typical Slytherin, cryptic and cunning. She had asked for the string to unknot the mystery and he’d given her a loose end, leading to nothing. Trouble at the manor. She’d tried to unpick his words fruitlessly, after all she’d been given nothing to go on. Rifling through the files on her desk, summoning resources and endless cups of coffee completed her day.
At home, a modest cottage on the outskirts of a Wizarding town, Hermione couldn’t stop how helplessly enthralled she was with Draco’s affairs. The apparition coordinates were precise, she’d never seen them so conscientiously written, such perfection unknown to her, except her own. She’d always been careful, with everything she did, apparition included. Back in school, she’d received top marks in the extracurricular, and indeed throughout her life she’d never once missed a location and, perhaps most fortunately, never splinched herself once. She found herself evermore intrigued with the mystery. As she prepared and ate her soup, where might they lead? As she showered, the soapy studs hugging her body she wondered who may she find there? As she made herself a mug of tea, what if she went… early? No but she couldn’t. It wasn’t apparating back that frightened Hermione, it was what she might find upon arrival. What if she was transported right near the manor and discovered by a house elf? Dismissing her thoughts, she picked up a crime novel and attempted to focus on Agatha Christie’s characters. But for the first time, she couldn’t. Her mind was buzzing, almost electric with… him. Or rather what he thrust into her mundane life. She both hated and loved the interruption. She just wanted to live out her routine life, free of distractions. But she thirsted for the adrenaline fueled adventures of her school days, the heart thumping, devil-may-care, danger. The same thing her life was devoid of. While Harry and Ron lived it. She slid into her slippers and, casting a quick lumos, she crept down the stairs.
She grabbed the card, pressing her wand-tip to the burnt edge illuminating the array of numbers, her impulsiveness blazing as her heart leapt to her throat. Draco’s teasing note peeked out, his slanting, copybook handwriting coating the edge, and she could see him even now, his blonde sweeping hair, his gloating grin and his haughty, badgering tone swimming into her mind. The way he emphasised every letter on her surname. He was still annoying, but he’d shed all his prejudices, all his cruelty. He treated her respectfully, and amongst the witticism of his language, he was far from the boy he had once been. The magnetic pull she had to the adventure ahead, to him, was too much to ignore. Ahead of her was years of files, but before that, she deserved a chance to live a little. And if Draco Malfoy was the architect of one splash of colour in her grey tedious existence then she was apparating there in a heartbeat. She had to take the chance, or one might never arise again.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The groan of the alarm clock jolted Hermione awake, her eyelids glued shut with crust from her short night. Her woozy gaze surveyed around as she adjusted to being awake. She realised, suddenly, that she was in her kitchen, lying on the stone floor like a cat under a hearth. And, in fact, she was directly disturbing Crookshanks, her cat who clearly wanted a rest by the hearth himself. Making it known as he sank his teeth into Hermione’s wrist, deep into her vein.
‘Fuck!’
The pain hit her suddenly, blood flowing freely, crimson dancing across the floor as her cat took his place by the fireplace. She accioed her wand and scourgified the floors and her pyjamas, leaving a space for her to wrap leftover bandages from her healing days onto her wrist, providing a decent stopper for the blood. She poured out Crookshanks’ milk in a saucer and a bowl of cereal with her wand while summoning her clothes down the stairs.
She would apparate not in the kitchen but the pantry, as the cracking sound unnerved her cat. She pinned up her hair, adjusted her collar, held out the apparition coordinates and marched to the pantry. She opened her purse, raised her wand and memorised the coordinates using her exam technique, block out anything but what you need. The numbers danced around her head ordering themselves out and with a crack, she was gone.
Thud.
Her body made contact with the ground alarmingly fast, her face meeting the sodden winter mud unceremoniously. She spat wet grass out of her mouth, her cheeks burning at her humiliating landing. She righted herself quickly (in case anyone saw), brushed down her jacket and gazed at the view before her.
Peacocks sauntered round the fancy- extravagant English garden, where garishly red roses grew in line. Drops of rain glistened on their petals, bending them to one side. As Hermione moved, she realized the roses were magically enchanted to bow in the direction of their guest—a discovery that both awed and unsettled her. A silver gate towered above her, intricate patterns carved in the twisting railings. Acres upon acres of land were spread about, seemingly never ending. The manor was something else. Twenty versions of her house could have fit into the mere entrance. She turned and her awe-struck face was met with more surprise as it was mirrored on the numerous reflecting pools. The opulence struck her, the sheer wealth of one family was ridiculous. Grandeur seemed a pitiful word to describe Malfoy Manor. Growing up Muggle, Hermione had seen the queen’s palace on the television, it was always huge and admirable but this was a fortress. The royal family’s abode paled in comparison to the manor. A fortress indeed. One of untold privileges, built on centuries of Dark exploits.
She reminded herself she was on a mission. Her criteria for the day was to simply endure whatever toils Draco put forth for her. Then she would leave and slip back into her usual procedures. Work and coffee. The endless cycle. She was thinking of it now, if he hadn’t walked into her life then she wouldn’t be on whatever wild goose chase she was about to be set on. She couldn’t deny her excitement, but she could quash it with resentment she once held for the occupant of the manor. Remember that Draco Malfoy is not a man to be fraternising with unless it's completely necessary. Work and her adventurous streak were the only things that were leading her to this doorstep, for her to be tapping her wand on the old oak doors, to be stepping her feet onto the marble floor and to be here anyhow. Hermione waited for a response to her knocking amicably, rocking on the sole of her feet in anticipation. Her frustration grew as there was still no response. She buried her annoyance and knocked again, more rapid than last time. Still, no response. She kicked the heel of her boot against the steps, guilt flooding her features as a chip fell to the floor as a result. She muttered a quick ‘Reparo’ and the discarded marble reconnected with ease. She still marveled at the spell even now, the way the object is reinstated flawlessly.
‘Granger?’
She snapped her head up so quickly it was a wonder she didn’t get whiplash. Draco was standing at the top of the grand staircase that curved behind the entrance, leaning casually against the railing. His arms were folded, a knowing smirk plastered on his face.
‘Breaking my property already, Granger? I’d say you work fast.’
Hermione flushed in embarrassment but stood her ground.
‘Maybe if you’d answer the door to your own house faster, I mean… Well, I saved your stairs from premature ruin. You’re welcome,’ she snapped, brushing her hair out of her face, revealing her minute freckles, illuminated by the morning sun. She noticed his gaze linger on her
face for a moment longer than necessary before he smirked in amusement.
‘Thought you left those antics back at Hogwarts.’ He said pensively, ‘Or has anger at being overlooked resurfaced? I’m sure you keep up with the Prophet’s bullshit about the heroics of your former friends back in transportation, all the lavish compliments Weasley and Potter get.’
This stung and she was sure he knew it. Bringing up her old friends’ escapades, while highlighting the paucity of her own. She tried to keep the boys at the back of her mind, ignoring all the comments about the war heroes supposedly ‘at their prime’, they had front page excitement, a loving wife and kids, all the praise and adoration the Wizarding world had to offer. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time anyone even mentioned her if it wasn’t a dig. The only recognition she got was when Harry had been asked in an interview about his Hogwarts days: Oh Hermione? She was our friend back a long while ago, people called us the golden trio!’ Cue laughter. And then move on.
To something a lot more interesting than Muggleborn witch Hermione Granger, department of transportation worker.
A voice interrupted her pessimistic musings.
‘Granger are you alright? You were spacing out.’
Embarrassment took over Hermione and she suddenly became all too interested in her shoes, eyes boring into the plain silver buckles as she felt his no-doubt judgemental gaze sweeping across her. He was probably smirking. The rest of his words were white noise to her, unable to penetrate her alarming self-consciousness. He held out a hand to her, signifying she should enter the house. She stepped over the threshold and
Hermione quickly shook off her self-consciousness, but the sting of his interruption remained.
As she stepped in, the coolness of the air struck her. It was like holding your breath, before the warmth was released. But in the manor, it never was. Goosebumps prickled their way up her arms, and she cast a quick wandless Focillo, and felt the heat envelop her from head to toe. Draco was helpfully not engaging in any sort of interest in what she was doing, instead opting to set the pace up the near staircase, spiralled and adorned with designs in the black marble. She began the ascent, but instead of the gruelling walk she’d expected- the manor’s stairs were after all the size of a small mountain- it was as if she’d pranced onto a cloud you see in storybooks, light, fluffy and altogether enjoyable. It must be a charm of some sort, as the ground below her felt like a pillow-cross-trampoline but still looked like a marble, sharp slab. As she was wondering of the extent it would’ve taken to enchant the thousands of steps, she noticed her host, standing at the top, eyes fixated on her.
She rolled her eyes, likely his attention carried malice. Her response was biting as she looked up at him.
‘Stop staring, Malfoy. I’m not going to trip, if that’s what you’re waiting for.’
He looked away so fast she could’ve sworn she’d seen a fragile flush to his cheeks, contradicting the frozen atmosphere of the entrance hall. She dismissed it though, the very notion that he’d be blushing at her. Well it was outright ridiculous. Why would anyone want to spend time with Hermine when they could extort her instead. Her dating life was non-existent, only amounting to coffee dates that went nowhere, but that didn’t mean she wanted anyone. She was content by herself. Sure it could get lonely but she was built of strong stuff. She realised she’d reached the top and she laughed inwardly and shook her head at her delusions. The stairs had been seamlessly interminable, she thought as she followed Draco into a side room, which she would’ve surpassed if she’d not been led there.
‘So,’ she said in a lilting tone, ‘What’s the immense, arduous challenge that’s been set forth? What’s so difficult in this giant estate that you might possibly need my help with?’
Draco looked at her for a moment, arching his brows in bombardment of her questions. Hermione blinked at him, bemusement clear on her face as he pushed open the small door, the worn wood out of place in the marbleized corridor. She stepped in, suddenly far too aware of the size of the room.The room was too small, the air too warm, and Draco was far too close. Her curls brushed at the stone walls as the cramped environment forced them to be almost shoulder to shoulder.
Draco cleared his throat,‘We’ll probably be quite… compacted until this corridor stops narrowing, just a precaution. If I hadn’t run facial recognition when we entered the manor, let's just say it wouldn’t be a pleasant death,’ he said carefully, ‘Incineration, lightning blasts and multiple lacerations to any visible skin.’
Hermione winced at the thought, as the continuous brushing of their clothes distracted her, aggravating her evermore. She tensed, an unwanted blush creeping across her cheeks at the proximity of the two. She’d truly not paid attention to Draco before, but how much he’d changed since school was evident. Not only in the loss of his adolescence and prejudice mannerisms but his physical appearance too. His face had lost all trace of boyhood, sharpening into defined angles, his jawline carved like marble, his cheekbones prominent beneath the glow of the dim lighting. His hair, still the same platinum shade, fell in an artful disarray, strands slipping forward as if daring her to reach out and push them back.
Hermione exhaled sharply, cursing herself for noticing. This was Draco Malfoy—irritating, insufferable, and too aware of his own appeal. And yet, her body betrayed her, her pulse quickening at the press of his arm against hers.
Thankfully, he gave no reaction to her silent observations, instead firmly gluing his eyes onto the sight in front of them, stiffening at their repeated touch, obviously embarrassed by the situation he’d created for them both, she thought. Tugging at her jumper, Hermione let out a throaty cough, as her curly hair began to frizz, the excessive heat increasing the volume as the humidity began to take a toll on her. And the heat still hadn’t dissipated, it was cloying her senses. The heat had a grip on her, it was physically and mentally draining. She couldn’t take it. Fiddling with the buttons on her jumper, she eventually managed to bring it over her head, proceeding to tie it round her waist. The change it brought was a welcome one, the momentary cool air was a stark distinction to the boiling, oven-like sensation of the corridor prior. If he hadn’t been there, she would’ve simply stripped to her camisole by now. She noticed Draco’s eyes flick to her, an unreadable expression on his face. Indecipherable, with the exception of a discomfort that was evidently down to the heat. It looked as though it was wrapping around him, suffocating him. His sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, like it’d been a month in the desert. She stared in front of her, and almost couldn’t believe it. A wooden door, marked with a padlock stared glaringly at her. She almost thought it was a hallucination, and then she heard the delighted groan from Draco as he lifted his wand to ‘Alohomora’ the door. The relief coursed through her, the sense of not having to be squished together anymore, the blistering sticky-heat of the way in.
It was a simple room.The room was bare, its plain walls unadorned except for a single painting, hung up on the four walls like a sacred monument. The painting was intricate, the leaves on the trees swaying gently about, falling to the seamlessly endless grasslands, the perfectly hand painted individual lines of grass. A vacant space in the middle gave the impression it was unoccupied by someone. Hermione knew that portraits could move around in the wizarding world, they were more than static images. She couldn't help wondering whether this one was a backdrop for a departed person, or just an attractive spring view. Surely a space like that had framed a figure once. Was this the task she was to be given?
‘I couldn’t help but notice,’ she quipped cautiously, ‘ It appears the painting is missing its inhabitant? I can’t be sure, but it looks so… empty. Am I to fix it?’
The crack in Draco’s cool façade came as quick as it went. He paused before he spoke, his gray eyes lighting up with something she didn’t understand. Collecting himself, he responded with a curt, emotionless, ‘Yes.’
His eyes briefly surveyed the painting before resuming the stoic demeanour he usually adopted, grave and revealing nothing. It was very different from the arrogance and self-assurance Hermione had seen when he barged into her office yesterday. It was almost vulnerable. She had thought almost… almost that he wasn’t capable of emotion. Those deep feelings were not something Draco Malfoy associated with.
She reviewed charms and counter-charms over the next few days, always coming back to the manor. She noticed that her attitude had improved since the task he’d set forth, reassessing him as the days went by. They both spent hours poring over the portrait: note-taking, spell practise, even at one point checking if there was a mechanism to the frame. All had proved fruitless so far, but her days hadn’t been. Sharing buttered scones, illimitable cups of tea, the occasional conversation about whatever rubbish the Prophet had cooked up. But, although it hurt to see Draco’s face every time an attempt failed, watch the color drain out of his alabaster skin when they were sure, so sure they’d cracked the puzzle. The toll it was taking on him was impossible to ignore, the bags under his eyes from sleepless nights Hermione knew he’d had once she left, the gray of his irises, previously aglow, had dulled to nothingness. And she’d begun to care. Really care. Not just about reinstating the portrait, but him too. It terrified her.
Caring wasn’t something she’d had the mental capacity to do for years. Draco had suddenly appeared in her life and the search for a restoration had consumed her daily routine. From mind-numbing office hours, she’d gone to magical investigation, burying her head in textbooks. Every morning Hermione would apparate to the front door of the manor, she knew the apparition coordinates by heart now, could recite them with her eyes closed. Once before she’d even had breakfast, so invested in the task she was. She’d even found herself making tea for the two, she now knew his preferences, sophisticated brands and never sugar. She’d tried once, and was met by such indignance that it was clear a sweetener was far too plebeian for his taste. It felt like a habit now. That’s what it was after all, mere change in routine, it didn’t mean anything that she knew where everything was, it didn’t mean anything that he’d started to cook for her. And it certainly wasn’t plausible that when they’d both fell asleep in the portrait room, exhaustion overwhelming them, that their bodies continuously came together while unconscious. It was just the craving of the natural warmth of another person. It had nothing to do with him. Mora had tried to press otherwise, when the secretary had attempted to knock on Hermione’s front door to drop off some work and she hadn’t been there. Because-she pressed on to the insufferable woman-she was in one of Draco’s guest bedrooms.
For business reasons.
The owl came suddenly. Hermione didn’t expect it, it wasn’t often she received a letter that wasn’t from work- if she ever did. The owl was a barn owl, a light beige color and the feathers were spattered and unpredictable. It looked like a painting. The piece of weathered parchment in its beak only contained two words, ‘Thank you.’ And the ache in her chest had no right to be there. She should have been relieved that it worked. That everything went according to plan.But she wasn’t ready for this to be over.
24 hours earlier…
He’d gone to get more scones. She was boring her eyes into what felt like the billionth textbook today when it happened. A 16th century alchemist was spouting nonsense in what she was reading, Draco’s book adjacent to hers scripting a nonsensical riddle to bring back lost dead, not very plausible by the way it was written. But, tucked in the corner of the left shelf, was a book Hermione had never noticed before. It was bound by red leather, and adorned with gold leaf inscriptions in a sort of mystical language she couldn’t decipher. She performed what was necessary with each book, not feeling particularly hopeful.
‘Accio portrait!’
The pages flipped, a deafening crescendo of turning and finding, worn out paper dancing about like figure skaters. Finally, it opened on page 309, to a ritualistic Olde Magick called, ‘Ligamen Aeternum’. The instructions were simple.
Hermione accioed the painting down from the wall, where it landed neatly on the floor below her. She pulled out the alum and vinegar mixture she had prepared, sympathetic ink in a miniature bottle. She wrote the necessary containment runes on the inside of the frame, and placed the kelpie lung black waxed candle directly under the frame, and lit it with her signature blue flame. The flame waved around happily, spitting occasionally and singed the mahogany flooring with burnt particles. She traced her wand line across the painting and her feet, drawing the sacred circle in an ancient gold. The magic was an old tongue, not taught at Hogwarts, but relatively self-explanatory. Molten gold coated the floor as she brought the circle to a close, shimmering with the strength of a thousand suns. The next step: mark the binder.
‘What the fuck Granger?’
Draco’s voice interrupted her reading, as the scent of raisins and buttered cakes entered her nostrils. Salivating, she turned her head in amusement. There he was, his hawthorn wand levitating two china plates, each with buttered fruit scones and cups of tea beside them. The kettle in his other hand was the only item that wasn’t floated towards her delicately, but instead placed on the coffee table Hermione had conjured a few days ago, when she realised they brought too much consumables to the room for the floor space to handle.
‘Can you help me draw some blood?’
Her inquiry may have been perceived as a strange one, but since Draco read the required ritual he answered with a blunt denial. His reasons being that he wasn’t going to let a guest in his home bleed for work. He insisted on doing it himself.
‘Draco. I will conjure a dagger from this teacup and slice my wrist open.’
He lunged for her the moment she did it. His hand grasped hers the moment the
three
drops
of
blood
fell.
Her reckless determination, matched with the wandless magic she’d spent years honing. Well he’d had no chance. She stepped gingerly into the circle and spoke the words of the curse.
‘Per cruorem meum et nomen tuum, ego te alligo ad aeternam domum.
Si fugere tentabis, dolore ligaberis.’
A strange sort of fire burned in Hermione’s eyes as she spoke the words. She knew the Latin, but the mention of pain in the last recital shook her. Who was the person in the painting to Draco? What was the significance of getting them back? No time to dwell on that though. She had a job to do.
Splattering the page with blood, she attempted to see the next instruction while he attempted to gain access to the binding circle, to no avail. His eyes had a fire in them too. His shadow was penetrating the invisible wall, but the magic was too strong. She didn't fully understand what exactly she was invoking yet, but as she pressed her palm to the frame and a horrific burning sensation crawled up her arm, as her eyes watered in the unbearable pain it caused, as the fiery glow bathed her face in its light. The spreading wildfire in her body.
That's when she knew. That’s when she found out the identity of the portrait’s subject. She tore her eyes away from the canvas, shock spiralling through her like electricity. It wasn’t just a surprise, it was something deeper, something shattering. Her heartbeat raced against her ribs, threatening to break out and release the palpable weight of what she’d just seen. It was burned through her brain and she could never let go.
Blurry vision was inescapable as she read the next page, desperate to break from the permanence of her reaction.
‘The binder will feel a slight sting—a permanent mark of their control.’ And she felt it. Twinging through her wrist like an injection. Her veins were reacting to the sensation, spreading the sharp, tingling pain up her arm. It wasn’t prolonged, it was spiked and piercing. A sense of power coursed through her and she breathed it in. She could control the portrait by sheer will now, her body felt connected to it on a deeper level. This ancient magic wasn’t taught. And she knew why. This was the only surviving copy of this book. And it had been owned by the occupant of the painting, Narcissa Malfoy.