Nightcall

The last week of the fall term passed with devastating quickness. Hermione, a triple major in Classics, Psychology, and Literature, handled the influx of timed exams and essays as she always did, with militant precision.

“I have no clue how you manage it, Granger,” Draco told her as they exited the last class of their Oscar Wilde Seminar, his hand quivering slightly, “My fingers are about to fall off from writing until the last bloody second, and you finished nearly two hours early.”

Hermione shrugged, readjusting her satchel on her shoulder.

“Just passionate about the subject matter, I guess,” she sighed distractedly, compulsively going through her answers on loop in her mind as they walked.

“And I’m not?” Draco muttered, letting out a little laugh in spite of himself, “I am actually a gay man. Wilde has more in common with me than you, surely.”

Hermione shrugged.

“If you say so,” she smiled coquettishly, knowing it would rile him up.

He scowled in mock outrage.

“I’ll have you know I’m a regular Lord Henry–” he began, wagging his pale pointer finger under her nose, when a low, melodious voice cut him off.

“Um, excuse moi, ‘Ermione. I had a quick question for you about your exam.”

Hermione shivered slightly as the words washed over her– there was something rather distracting about the lilting French accent, the delicacy of it. She turned to see Fleur, the class TA.

Draco smirked at her, waggling his eyebrows. Inwardly, Hermione stifled a groan. He would never let her live this down, she was sure. He had been convinced that there was something between the two women all term, despite Hermione’s adamant objections that she would never compromise her studies by having an inappropriate relationship with a mentor.

“Catch you at the Manor sometime tonight, Granger? I have a few things for you before we leave,” he winked salaciously and dipped out of sight before she could retort.

Sighing, she turned to face Fleur. The woman was at least half a decade her senior, and Hermione had always found that in combination with her cleverness, slightly intimidating. Her eyes caught on the older girl’s glimmering blue eyes, the delicate pointed of her nose, the rosebud flush of her lips. It was rather terrifying, to stare up at someone so objectively beautiful.

“I am sorry to separate you from your ‘ittle friend,” Fleur gushed quickly, tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear, “You turned in your exam so early that I was able to grade it, and I just thought you might want to know ‘zat you have passed with– comment tu le dis– er– flying colors? I believe ‘zat is ‘ze American expression.” She broke off, smiling shyly.

“Oh, that was so thoughtful of you Fleur. Thank you for letting me know. I was slightly worried about my critical analysis of De Profundis, just because I know Professor Slughorn is rather partial to it, but really, it struck me as Wilde’s most narcissistic text to date and I–” Hermione babbled, as Fleur watched on amused.

Hermione gulped slightly, feeling a surge of redness muddying her cheeks.

“Can I tell you a little secret, ‘Ermione?” Fleur asked, her voice suddenly low and conspiratorial as she leaned in closer to whisper.

Hermione nodded, her mouth dry.

“I think you are completely correct,” she murmured, so close now that Hermione could feel her warm breath in her ear.

She took an abrupt step back, steadying herself on one of the stone walls. Fleur arched a perfectly tweezed eyebrow.

“Oh. That’s nice,” was all Hermione could think to say back to her. She was the brightest girl in her year, but even the most elegant of her thoughts devolved into anxious ramblings or outright silence when she was confronted by Fleur, or anyone with authority over her, really.

Fleur laughed softly, closing the distance between them once more, and proffering a copy of Hermione’s marked up essay.

“I’ll leave ‘zis with you then, clever girl,” she murmured, placing a warm hand on Hermione’s arm for the tenderest of seconds before withdrawing once more back to the classroom.

Hermione let out a shaky exhale, banishing the flash of disappointment she felt gathering in her chest. Had she ruined it? Fleur had been flirting, she was fairly certain of that at least. But there was some queer, inaccessible part of her, which, when confronted with beauty, became rigid and unbending and awkward, impossible to untangle or discern. Her usual eloquence became something abstract and far away.
She glanced down at her essay, biting her lip.

In bright purple pen ink, Fleur had written a simple message:

“Un cafe, avec moi?”

And below that, the graceful digits of a foreign phone number.

Hermione grinned in spite of herself, barely managing to keep herself from giggling like a fool all alone in the now deserted corridor.

***

By the time she had made it to the foreboding drive of the Manor, the sun was setting over the New England Hills. She shivered, drawing her patagonia fleece a bit tighter around her shoulders as she made the trek up the stone walk, past towering topiaries and crumbling water features.

She had barely reached her hand out to grasp the great snake head knocker when the door was pulled open abruptly, Kreature standing in the shadows just beyond.

“Miss Granger,” she muttered tersely, glowering, “Please be coming inside. Master Draco is expecting you.”

She led Hermione into the same gloomy drawing room where Narcissa had first interviewed her, and then disappeared again without a word.

A moment later came the discordant sound of skipping feet. Draco hurtled into the room, his pale cheeks slightly pink from the exertion of running down the stairs.

“Good, you’re finally here. I was beginning to wonder if Fleur abducted you,” he grinned at her slyly.

Hermione scoffed, feigning indifference, but Draco was rarely one to be deterred.

“So, did she finally ask you out? Now that you’re not officially her student, etc., etc.?” he inquired, his face a mask of pseudo-innocence.

“Shut up,” Hermione muttered, throwing an incredibly old embroidered couch cushion from one of the Rococo loveseats at him.

“You’ve got an arm on you, Granger, I’ll give you that,” he sniffed, righting himself and running a hand to check that his meticulously combed white hair was still in place.

“She gave me her number,” Hermione supplied, mostly to get him to stop badgering her.

Malfoy’s jaw dropped and an expression of unadulterated glee spread across his face.

“I knew it,” he hissed, “I knew she was into you. Uhg, Theo owes me twenty bucks.”

“Draco, please tell me you didn’t bet on whether or not I was going to engage in an obviously ethically tenuous relationship with our TA?” she moaned.

Draco merely shrugged, his usual sneer tinged with triumph.

“You’re insufferable,” she managed.

“Oh, come on now, Granger. Don’t be a buzzkill.”

“Whatever. What was it you wanted to show me?” Hermione asked, changing tact.

Draco’s face became a fraction more somber.

“Oh, right. That,” he paused, rolling his eyes, “Don’t shoot the messenger, but Mother has decided that she should give you an explicit list of erm– rules? For you to follow while you’re here.” He blushed profusely as she stared at him with a look of unqualified surprise.

“Rules?” she repeated slowly.

“Yes. And they might seem a bit strange at first, but I can explain them to you, if you like,” Draco hurried to expound, drawing out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

Hermione took it from him, her eyes scanning the paper curiously.

It was written in a spidery script that Hermione didn’t recognize– so definitely not Draco’s then. Narcissa must have written it herself, or else delegated it to Kreature.

The paper was headed with a single word: Expectations.

1. If you must require company on the Manor grounds, never bring more than one person at a time, and never let them into the house.
2. Do not make use of the kitchens. If you are hungry, ring for Kreature and she will prepare something for you.
3. When in the library, handling books of any age, gloves must be worn at all times.
4. If you find yourself tired, for whatever reason, you may repose in Draco’s room. Do not attempt to enter any of the other bedrooms, and do not fall asleep in one of the common areas.
5. No audio or visual recording of any kind may take place on the premises.

Hermione looked up into Draco’s anxious face.

“I can’t make myself a sandwich?” she asked lightly.

“Erm, no. No you can’t. Mother doesn’t want you hurting yourself.”

“Hurting myself? I think I can use a butter knife, Draco,” Hermione laughed incredulously.

But the boy merely shook his head.

“It’s non-negotiable for her. No activities where you could injure yourself in the house. Liability or something.”

“Right,” Hermione muttered, her eyes narrowed, “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” Draco said sheepishly, “I’ve got to show you my room, so you know where to crash if you get tired.”

Hermione felt a surge of excitement kindle in her breast.

“Are you actually going to let me into your inner sanctum?” she teased.

“Shut up, Granger. Come on,” he retorted.

In the end, Draco led her up two flights of stairs, down at least a dozen drafty corridors, and through a room filled entirely with animal heads.

“Hunting trophies,” Draco muttered as they passed, “Auntie Bella likes to shoot.”

Hermione shivered.

“I wouldn’t want to be alone in here at night,” she whispered, frowning at a taxidermied bear head mounted to the wall, “It’s rather gruesome.”

“You get used to it.” Draco shrugged uncomfortably.

“So Bellatrix…” Hermione began, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to ask.

“You’ll probably never even run into her. The Manor is huge and she keeps to herself.”

“Your mom seemed to think she was sort of disturbed somehow.”

At this, Draco paused, not looking at Hermione.

“She hasn’t been quite the same since her husband disappeared,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “Was honestly never that stable to begin with but that was the final straw I think.”

“What was his name?” Hermione asked, intrigued.

“Rudolphus. Lestrange.”

“What do you mean he disappeared?” she pushed.

“Just what I said. He vanished without a trace and dear Auntie Bella lost the plot.”

“That’s terrible,” Hermione breathed, her brain working at a thousand miles per hour.

Draco shrugged, his expression uncomfortable, and Hermione realized with a jolt that he was lying. At the very least, omitting some crucial piece of information. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t recall a time in living memory when Draco had ever deceived her. He could be pretentious, and infuriating, and a snob, but he was honorable.

His room was situated somewhere in the West Wing, guarded by a formidable mahogany door complete with a knocker and deadbolt.

“Father had it imported from a church in the Carpathians,” Draco explained as he opened it, gesturing for Hermione to step through.

Hermione let out an involuntary gasp as she stepped inside. The room was outfitted in sophisticated virescent wallpaper, and bordered on all sides with intricately carved book shelves. An impressive claw-footed four poster bed waited in the center of the room, complete with a mountain of silver pillows. The walls were hung with muted oils in faintly glittering gold frames.

“You sleep here?” Hermione whispered, her eyebrows disappearing into her hair.

“You should see the en suite bathroom,” Draco chuckled, “Do you like?”

Hermione simply nodded.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to find my way back here though. This house is like a labrynth,” she muttered.

“Formulated by Daedelus himself,” Draco quipped.

“Naturally,” Hermione rolled her eyes, “Only the best for the Noble House of Black.”