In the Viper's Nest, Fourth Year

Draco dons his softest silk pyjamas, sets the gramophone to play a quiet and calming piano sonata, and applies a cooling, overnight face potion. (This potion—marketed as healer tested and guaranteed to reduce pore size, lock in hydration, and leave your skin glowing like a baby unicorn—is incidentally the type of product that he can’t use at school unless he wants to be eviscerated by Greg.) Yet, even from the blissful comfort of his self-care routine,  surprise, surprise, after that scintillating conversation with Lucius, Draco can’t sleep. 

So when the Manor quiets, he sneaks out of bed again to search for the Weeper. Again, Draco finds himself turned around, suffocating on the wards that abandoned him. 

He returns to his room exhausted, with a raging headache. His face potion is dripping with perspiration, and disgusted, he wipes it off. His skin is not even marginally unicorn like, and his pores are the same size (invisible–he already has nearly perfect skin). He didn’t leave it on all night, but surely it should have worked some magic in the three hours he was tossing and turning in bed and then stumbling about the Manor, right? Wrong. ‘Healer tested’ his arse.

The next morning, after a fitful few hours of sleep, Draco is rudely awakened by the one and only Trinket. Bursting with energy, he bounces around the room, ringing a little brass bell and shrieking the chorus to his favourite Celestina Warbeck tune. Draco huffs at him and attempts to cover his ears with his pillow, but the cursed elf snatches the pillow away and wacks Draco’s bum with it. 

“Up, up, up!” he chirps. “No more lazy bones! Trinket’s favourite Young Master arrives soon, and Young Master Malfoy must rise to greet him.”

Draco rubs his eyes and observes the elf, practically quivering with excitement, bouncing on his little toes.“I thought Theo wouldn’t be here until next weekend. For Mother’s party? And wait—your favourite?”

Trinket smooths his bubblegum pink pillowcase-smock and averts his eyes. “Trinket’s favourite Young Master sent an owl this morning to Mistress, and Mistress left immediately to Nott Manor to collect him.”

“I thought I was your favourite,” Draco frowns, peeling his body out from under the sheets. 

 “Trinket cannot speak ill of his Masters, but, hypothetically, Trinket abhors sloth, and hypothetically, if Young Master is being a lazy-bones and not waking  up early to try Trinket’s newest Cookery Creations, then Trinket is being miffed. Trinket is being very bored while the Young Masters is gone to school, and when the Young Masters returns, he spends all his time sneaking around or sitting by the rose garden like a statue.”

“I don’t think you know what a hypothetical is, Trinket.”

“At least Trinket knows what a toothbrush is.”

Draco narrows his eyes, and Trinket smiles sweetly at him before popping out of existence to go bother someone else. 

Thirty minutes later, teeth brushed and otherwise ready for the day, Draco makes his way to the drawing room to await Mother and Theo. Lounging on a chaise, he traces the crown moulding around the ceiling, then the strings of crystal hanging from the chandelier at the centre of the room. He counts the gems painstakingly, one at a time, while he stews over the Weeper situation. As he tallies the last gem (number four hundred thirteen) he calls for Trinket, who pops out of the ether in front of him, dramatically sweeping into a wide bow.

“Young Master calls for Trinket? Has Young Master thought about what he has done and summoned Trinket to offer sincere apologies?”

“He has not. He— I have a question. Do we have a guest at the Manor?”

“Young Master Theodore is arriving soon?”

“No. Someone else. A girl, perhaps?”

Trinket shifts his weight and averts his eyes. He’s always been a bad liar. “Trinket couldn’t say, sir.”

“Trinket couldn’t say.” Draco sits up, leaning forward. “You don’t want to say? Or you were ordered not to say?”

“Trinket is very confused,” he says, raising his eyebrows. His already squeaky voice is reaching decibels previously unreachable. “Trinket thinks Young Master should be asking someone else since Trinket is so very confused about the question.”

“You’re confused about whether we have a guest.”

Trinket edges backwards, pulling on a long, floppy ear. “What's a guest? Trinket doesn’t... Oh, Mistress is calling. Trinket must go.”

Draco swears as the elf apparates away. 

***

With a blaze of emerald flames, Mother arrives with Theo in the fireplace, who grimaces at Draco. Mother burns with a quiet fury that is evidenced only from the tiniest twitch of her eye, a sign that any outsider would not be able to recognize, but Draco, knowing all her tells and fearing them accordingly, understands. She stalks elegantly out of the room, heading upstairs to Draco’s bedroom. Theo trails after her, and Draco follows apprehensively. 

For only being subjected to the Nott Sr. Special for a single week, Theo looks far worse than Draco ever expected. He looks like what Draco imagines an inferi would look like—he’s even moving like a reanimated corpse, stiff and jerky. His frame is sunken and his skin is a sallow, greenish-grey colour. His hair, which previously was as healthy and voluminous as Her—as Granger’s, is shorn so close to his skull that he looks almost bald, adding to the skeletal look. A stumbling skeleton, limping and clutching at his stomach like he’s about to hurl. 

As Draco climbs stairs behind him, he can feel fury churning in the pit of his stomach and collecting like raindrops at the tips of his fingers. He itches for his wand, to spin this storm of emotion into a curse.  

Theodore Nott Sr. is dead. He’s fucking dead this time. 

Behind the closed door of Draco’s bedroom, Draco slumps on his bed as Mother produces several potions and a healing textbook, motioning for Theo to sit. Theo sighs and strips down to his pants, exposing mottled purple and green injuries all over his body, harsh against his pale skin. 

Mother thumbs through the textbook, and upon finding the desired passage, traces her left index finger over the words, mouthing the spell before turning her wand on Theo. She casts a complicated looking diagnostic spell, a web of glowing, colourful magic that spreads like hieroglyphics out of her wand. She purses her lips, glancing at the spell, then down at the textbook, back and forth, back and forth, occasionally prodding the magic with her wand-tip. 

She sighs. “Most of these look like blunt-force trauma and reversible jinxes. You have two broken ribs and a fractured radius. Those are easy fixes, but there’s a curse on your small intestine… it’s hard to decipher. Do you remember what the spell looked like or the incantation?”

“Dunno,” Theo mumbles. “It was purple, I think.”

“Violet, lavender, fuchsia?”

“Lavender.”

“The incantation?”

“I dunno. It feels–” He clutches his stomach, wincing. “It feels awful. Really bad.”

“Lavender, lavender, lavender… Usually curses aren't… Some transfiguration is lavender. Let me…” She thumbs through the book again, frowning, and after a few minutes of silent reading, she turns her wand back on Theo, casting diagnostic after diagnostic, shaking her head after each new spell, then trying a new one. “That’s it,” she finally says. “He conjured maggots. I just have to vanish them.”

“Maggots? Inside of Theo?” Draco says.

Mother doesn’t respond. She’s too busy muttering spells and waving her wand at Theo’s abdomen. 

Once the maggots are vanished, Theo visibly relaxes, exhaling deeply and sitting back more comfortably on the chaise while Mother continues to mutter furiously and blast spells at various parts of Theo’s body. After several minutes, she huffs, motioning Theo to turn. She uncorks a bottle and dumps a liberal amount of sweet smelling potion on her hands, which she then applies to his bruises and abrasions on his back and shoulders. When she starts on one of his arms, he waves her away, taking the bottle. 

“I can get the rest,” he says, not meeting her eyes. 

She nods, squeezes his shoulder, then walks stiffly to the door where she hesitates, and looks back. “I’m calling our solicitor. You need to at least consider emancipation. We can talk through your options.”

“Okay.”

She leaves, shutting the door quietly behind her. Draco, vibrating with anger, watches as Theo lathers himself with potion in silence. 

Once Theo is dressed again, he rolls his shoulders and plops back onto the chaise. 

“Trinket.”

“Yes, Young Master Draco,” Trinket says, popping into existence. He doesn’t wait for Draco to respond. Instead, he rushes over to Theo. Puttering around him, he makes tutting noises while lifting Theo’s arms up and pinching his biceps. “Too thin, too thin.”

“Can you get a nutrient potion and a meal for Theo, Trinket?”

“Right away.” Trinket snaps his fingers, and a table appears in front of Theo, followed quickly by a bowl of soup and a goblet full of potion. 

“Thank you, Trinket.”  

Trinket pats Theo’s cheek. “Trinket lives to serve his favourite Young Master.” 

He apparates away. 

Theo cracks a smile. “His favourite Young Master. Did you hear that, Draco?”

“We’re not discussing it.”

Theo chuckles, and then he tucks into his meal.

After he’s finished, he stretches and marches toward Draco’s door. 

“I fancy a fly, how about you?” he says.

“Theo, you’re joking. You need to rest.”

“Draco,” he chuckles, “I’ve had a bastard of a week. Short of Blaise popping in to supply me enough potions to tranquilise a stampeding hippogriff, the only thing that will calm me right now is a good old fashioned jaunt on the broom.”

Unable to argue with that line of reasoning, Draco follows him outside to the broom shed.

***

Once the Manor is shrunken below them, Draco and Theo, circling the clouds like a pair of vultures, watch Mother, tiny and scurrying like an ant, direct the elves as they erect tents and assemble tables far below them. The vast expanse of the Malfoy grounds stretch in all directions, the gardens, the lake, the hills and meadows and thickets, the muggle village in the distance, and the white gravel paths that stretch like spiderwebs out from the imposing structure of the Manor itself, which sits like a spider in the centre of it all. Even this high in the sky, Draco can sense the Manor’s magic, buzzing and pulling at him like gravity. Far in the distance, Draco can see Stonehenge. 

Theo, clutching rigidly to his broom, falls into a dive, and Draco races after him. The wind stings his eyes and rushes past his arms and face. He loses Theo in a low hanging cloud, and the world becomes a white blur, where nothing exists except the wind whistling in his ears and a chill spreading through his body from the moisture of the clouds. Echos of Theo’s voice, shrieking with glee, whip past him, and he can’t help but grin. Free fall through the blurry, white space of the cloud feels otherworldly, like he’s skipped dimensions or found himself in a crack between worlds, where time doesn’t exist. It’s like occlumency at its most severe but without the stifling loss of self. 

The cloud dispels around them, and they both pull out of their dives, racing close to the earth. Draco, leaning forward on his broom and pressing himself into a streamlined arrow, shoots ahead of Theo, throwing a grin over his shoulder. Slowly, distance grows between the pair as Theo struggles to keep up, and Draco can’t help but to feel a rush of pride. Theo doesn’t stand a chance, as Draco is without a doubt the best flyer at Hogwarts. On the quidditch pitch, he’s unstoppable, and he can’t wait for school to start again so he can show Potter once and for all who’s the best.  

Draco, still a few lengths ahead, leads them over the lake. Skimming the water with the toes of his boots, his speed causes a barrage of spray behind him, which Theo is too slow to dodge. Soaked and spluttering, Theo pulls to the left and lands on an embankment, throwing expletives like hexes after Draco. 

“You fucking twat!” Theo shakes water off of himself, fumbling for his wand, as Draco lands beside him, cackling. 

Theo points his wand at himself, presumably a drying charm on the tip of his tongue, and hesitates, glancing at Draco. “Can I use magic this far out from the Manor?”

“Yeah, the Trace is still masked out here, the wards extend surprisingly far—OUCH! Bastard! What did my elbow ever do to you?” Draco rubs the spot on his arm that Theo just hit with an extremely unsportsmanlike pinching hex.

Theo, the smug bastard, turns his wand back on himself and casts the drying charm. “That elbow happens to be attached to a git that likes to push people while they're down. Merlin. Let a bloke lose with dignity for once without dunking him in the lake.”

“Should have been quicker.” Draco flops down on the grass. 

Theo doesn’t discuss his week with his father. He wants to talk about literally anything else. About school and summer plans and Daphne, Daphne, Daphne. When Draco tells him about his troubling conversations with both Mother and Lucius, Theo can’t seem to focus on the important issue (the possible hostage situation and impending spirit ritual on the solstice), and instead, focuses solely on the news about Daphne’s curse. 

“Do you think she knows about the Eidolon? ” 

“Is it still possible to integrate the spirit after it passes to a new host?”

“Daphne’s strong. She could do that, don’t you think?”

“Do you know if there’s a way to reverse the ritual?”

Draco knows just as much as Theo does and is similarly stumped. Only when he asks his own question, does Theo seem to grasp the gravity of the situation. “Do you think the ritual would require a human sacrifice?”

“The Weeper,” Theo says. “What if it’s…”

Neither of them can say the words, but they hang heavy in the air between them.

What if it’s Granger.

Theo clears his throat and looks away, pulling at the grass. It comes away in clumps, and he throws them at the water by their feet. “Narcissa said he’s disappointed and you needed to persuade him of your detachment to Hermione and Pansy?”

“Right, and I can’t stress enough how both conversations revolved around Granger. Lucius is… I don’t trust him not to do something drastic to punish me.”

They decide not to try contacting the Auror's Office or Granger and Pansy, who should still be at Granger’s house. Because what if they’re wrong, and this has nothing to do with Granger? What if it’s just Lucius being his regular brand of reprehensible, morally-grey megalomaniac, and the Weeper is just an elf or sphynx or centaur or some other magical creature that he needed for his dark pursuits. There’s no need to panic until they have proof.  

“We need to find the Weeper,” Theo agrees.

***

Try as they might, the Manor remains steadfast in its inability to be outsmarted or breached. By Sunday morning, panic starts setting in. Midsummer is on Wednesday, only three days away, and they’ve made next to no progress on finding the Weeper. They start their search every night and halt it sometime before dawn, yet even with Draco’s intimate knowledge of all the Manor’s secret rooms and false walls, each path they choose leads to a dead end and a headache. 

And they can only search at night, otherwise, they fear that Lucius may catch them. And during the day, their schedules are full. Mother has lessons planned for them with various pureblood tudors: Etiquette and Dancing, Eloquation, Penmanship and Literature, History and Culture, and Spellwork. These four, the duo has abundant experience with, as every summer they’ve been subjected to them without fail, and before Hogwarts, they were their main education. This summer, in addition, Lucius has apparently decided that Draco, and by extension Theo, is old enough to learn about finances and running the estate. 

Every day he either drags them to one of his many appointments or demonstrates magic that the head of household is responsible for, of which so far has included: stabilising and feeding the wards, testing the ley lines of the estate, and monitoring the blood-ties to the elves and laying compulsions into their bondage magic. (Which Lucius stresses is very important, as he, himself, lacked doing this for many years due to a certain fondness for the elves that came back and nipped him in the bud, as this lapse in control led to the refusal of service and eventual freedom of one of the family elves a few years ago. Draco, not knowing how to feel, recognizes this description as Dobby.) 

On Monday, Lucius deposits them into the chairs on the opposite side of his desk and informs them that they will be attending a meeting with Humkrid, Lucius’s finance manager and Gringotts liaison. 

Treasure, Mother’s favourite elf, shows two stocky Goblins, both wearing impeccable business robes, into the office. One of them is less wrinkly, and Draco assumes this must mean he’s younger, but it’s always hard to tell with Goblins. The younger one is wearing a stetson and an honest to Merlin pair of cowboy boots, which Lucius barely contains a sneer at. 

“My American cousin, Glurdmog,” the older one, presumably Humkrid, explains. “He’s shadowing me. I’m training him to take over some of our smaller clients.” 

“Howdy,” Glurdmog says, tipping his hat. 

Humkrid sighs, looking apologetically at Lucius. He then opens his briefcase, pulling out a stack of parchment and handing it to Lucius. “Page one is the Brockhurst financials. We’re only seeing a one percent return, but the CFO just changed hands and the new man has a good track record, so I don’t know if you’re wanting to pull out now or give them more time. Page two through five are muggle real estate—”

“Muggle real estate?”  

“Draco, don’t interrupt Humkrid.”

“Your father owns half of Wiltshire." Humkrid eyes Draco. "Muggle real estate is a lucrative business, young man.”

Lucius smiles. “Muggles may be animals, but gold is gold, son.”

“Muggle business,” chimes Glurdmog, “is the new frontier.”

“New? Maybe in America.” Lucius straightens in his chair. “Malfoys have been in muggle gold for centuries. My great-great-grandmother Amelia confounded the muggle King William IV out of several crown jewels, before, of course, that type of spellwork was ruled illegal.”

“A shame,” Humkrid says, not looking up from his papers. “Page six is the charity accounts. Barnabas Cuffe from The Prophet keeps hinting—”

“Barnabas Cuffe can eat his hat,” says Lucuis. “He’s already getting more gold than he’s worth. Which reminds me, I’ve decided on investing in Witch Weekly.”

“Witch Weekly, Father?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. Never underestimate women’s media. As frivolous as they are, they're a key demographic. Nothing fuels a dynasty like good gossip.”

“How much should I move, Malfoy?”

“Let's start with fifteen, Treasure!”

“Yes sir!” Treasure, Trinket’s sister and Lucius’s personal elf, pops into the room.

“I want an editor on Witch Weekly. Find time in my schedule and remind me tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” She pops away.

“And Mungos is losing a board member. You’re already donating ten yearly, so I doubt you need to burn any more money there, just say the word and the next member is your man. See section two on page six for that.”

“Noted.”

“Has Ludo Bagman contacted you about Hogwarts yet? That’s section three on page six.”

Lucius sneers. “I’ve already told him he can find someone else to fund his tournament.”

“Understood. Page six is Honeywater Industries. You’re still losing money there. Down six percent this quarter, two percent worse than last quarter.”

“Damn, that’s a shame.”

“So many shops are outsourcing potion ingredients these days. It was only a matter of time before English manufacturers started going belly up.”

“Let's look into that. I’d like a report on the best investments for over-seas potion productions.”

“I’ll have it for you by next week. Page seven and eight are your family and personal accounts and your Gringotts vault interest, no surprises there. The price of gold has gone down slightly, but you’re never selling your heirlooms anyways, so…”

Lucius waves his hand, agreeing. 

“Page nine is the payroll account. Ten through twelve are your credit accounts. The Marseille villa is completely paid as of…”

Draco’s eyes are glazing over, and Theo is looking even worse than him, slack jawed and slumped in his chair. By the time Humkrid gets to page twenty, Draco, exhausted from night after night of so little sleep, is desperately trying to keep himself from nodding off. He’s rigid, ram-rod straight in his chair, and biting the inside of his cheek. 

Finally, Humkrid finishes his monologue, and Lucius turns his eyes on Draco and Theo. 

“Since you’re so bored of your classes, and so fond of extracurriculars, Draco,” he smirks, “I’ve decided that you will learn to manage a small investment account, and Theodore, since I’m apparently responsible for your wellbeing as well as my own son’s now, you will do the same. I’ve set up an account each for you with a small amount that you will manage and invest where you see fit. By the end of the year, I want to see at least a seven percent return, which is…” He waits for them to respond. 

Draco looks down at the account statement that was just handed to him by Glurdmog, upon which is clearly printed G 5,000.00. 

“Three hundred fifty.”  

“Very good. You can withdraw what you like, spend what you like, and invest where you see fit. By next summer, I want to see a report on your returns. I expect you both to be reading the finance section in The Daily Prophet, and if you have concerns, you will owl Glurdmog, who will advise as he sees fit, and move money as applicable.”

Glurdmog hands them both a vault key and a business card, smiling with his pointy goblin teeth.  

“You’re dismissed.” Lucius makes a shooing motion with his hands, and the boys shuffle to the door. 

Glurdmog tips his hat at them, and then the door is shut firmly in their faces.

“Merlin’s balls,” Theo says, slumping against the wall, “be a pal and hit me with a rennervate, will you? Or I’m not going to make it through History and Culture.”

***

In a fortuitous turn of events, History and Culture lessons are cancelled by Mother, who gathers Theo for an appointment with the Malfoy solicitor, leaving Draco to his own devices for the afternoon.

He decides to visit the kitchens, where he watches Trinket bake macarons for the Midsummer party. The process is apparently long and elaborate, even with the help of magic. 

“Macarons are an art! Does Young Master know nothing about kitchen magic?!” Trinket squeaks, when Draco asks why he can’t just snap his fingers and make them appear.

(Draco knows shite about kitchen magic.)

He shrugs his shoulders and grins, swiping a macaron as Trinket launches into the latest elf gossip. (Treasure is currently not speaking to Benny, the grounds-elf, over an alleged insult to her intelligence.)

 “And you isn’t hearing it from Trinket, but Benny shouldn’t be calling anyone but himselves a mumpet-head, because he’s thicker than Young Master’s friend, Vincent.” 

Draco laughs, but Trinket freezes in horror. 

“Trinket needs to punish himself.” He darts towards the wall, but Draco grabs him around the middle before he can hurt himself. 

“You’re not allowed to punish yourself, do you hear me?” 

Trinket pats his shoulder and nods, then he wriggles out of Draco’s grip. 

***

That night, the boys are not overly anxious when their search remains unfruitful, sure that the financial homework that Lucius devised for them is the ‘punishment’ that they’ve been fearing. So they are lulled into the mollifying idea that they completely overreacted to the Weeper situation, and aware that Tuesday night is their last time to search, they’re fully prepared to not find anything. 

“My brain is feeling so fuzzy again,” Theo whispers on Tuesday night, as they cross the central corridor again. 

“Let’s look in here.” Draco takes a left through the wide double doors to the drawing room. “The false wall in the panels. I want to check it again.”

The false wall gives way to a narrow passage that runs the length of the drawing room, with peep holes positioned throughout, hidden on the other side by cleverly placed portraits, their subjects enchanted to look whichever way the peeper intends. 

“We’ve been through here at least twice.” Theo leans against the dusty wall, looking out from one of the peep holes absently as Draco runs his fingertips along the far wall, feeling for any disturbances in the wards. “My head is feeling clearer, though, so stay in here for as long as you like… Wait…”

They meet eyes as realisation dawns. 

“The central corridor,” Draco says. 

“We’re always the most disoriented there!” 

“And we keep turning away, each time we search through it.”

They quickly leave the secret passage, walk through the empty drawing room, and enter the main corridor again. The front entrance to the Manor sits at the far end, and each room connected to the corridor is one of the main entertaining rooms. The drawing room, the dining hall, the ballroom, the solarium, the library, the breakfast room, Mother’s tea parlour, Lucius’s office, the spa, the billiard room, the potions laboratory, the orangery, and then on the far end, an entrance to the west wing which mainly contains guest suites, an entrance to the east wing for family suites… 

“Wasn’t there…”

“Isn’t there a door missing?”

Once he remembers, it seems impossible that he could have forgotten, but that’s the genius of a Notice-Me-Not combined with a Confundus and repelling charm, isn’t it? 

“The entrance to the cellar.” 

They find the door with little resistance, and when it opens for them, they glance at each other before descending the stairs. ‘Cellar’ is a happy word for what the space actually is. In the Manor’s muggle days, before Draco’s ancestors liberated it, the cellar would have been used for pantry and wine storage. But as the elves, with their special brand of kitchen magic, don’t need it and prefer not having their supplies spread across multiple rooms, the cellar remains an empty cavern. It’s a huge, dimly lit space with thick, stone pillars supporting the ceiling and a cobbled stone floor. Iron manacles hang from chains bolted into the walls, and the stones are stained with dried blood. The cellar, of course, is Malfoy Manor’s personal prison. 

And thank Merlin and Morgana and anyone in the heavens listening to Draco’s prayers, because chained at the far end of the room is not Granger, as he feared. 

It’s not Granger. 

It’s not Hermione. 

But as quickly as he’s filled with relief, his hope is extinguished, because he recognizes the woman immediately. Blond, ragged hair and torn muggle clothing, she’s grimy from a week of imprisonment, and she stares at them with that look of fear, determination, and bravery that he would recognize anywhere, because he’s seen it so many times in the eyes of her daughter.

Because it’s not Hermione, chained to the floor. 

It's her mother.