Nightcall

On the first day of winter break, Hermione arrived at the Manor before the morning sun had melted the frost from the grass.

She slipped the heavy metal key– an ancient, patinated thing that Narcissa had pressed into her palm the week before– from the warmth of her pocket and into the frigid outside air. It fit smoothly into the waiting lock, and in another moment, she was in.

The high ceilinged foyer felt more sinister now that she was alone inside of it. Without Draco’s near constant witty remarks, or even Narcissa’s impassive presence, the Manor felt cold and sterile.

Of course she wasn’t truly alone in the house. Kreature was around somewhere, and so was Bellatrix. Bellatrix Black Lestrange. For some reason she could not quite articulate, a shiver ran through her at the thought of the older woman wandering the halls, like some kind of beautiful, terrifying apparition. Watching her perhaps.

“Hello?” she called out, her voice high pitched and tentative. She hated how anxious she sounded.

After a moment of silence, she let out a low breath, shaking her head. She wondered vaguely if perhaps the place was haunted. She’d have to ask Draco when they talked that evening.

She went through her expected duties with impressive efficiency. She straightened the cushions on the lower floors, and opened the heavy green velvet drapes to let the light in.

She wandered out the back sliding French doors, which were more modern than she had been expecting, towards the glass structure tucked beside the orangerie. She felt strangely as though she were being watched. Looking back abruptly at the Manor’s facade, she saw only darkened windows and billowing drapes. Perhaps the place was doing something to her, messing with her usually impervious faculties.

The aviary was warm and well-lit, and the peacocks and eagle owls had all been fed and watered as Narcissa had promised they would be. She noticed that a bit of bird seed had fallen into the wash pans for the owls, and she swiftly cleaned and replaced them with fresh water. A peahen with soft, shining, white feathers followed her about, clipping at her heels from time to time without any real malice.

“You’re a beauty, aren’t you?” Hermione mused, offering her palm face up for the bird to examine. The peahen clucked once before moving off again, curiosity satisfied.

With that settled, she made her way back inside, making a beeline for the library with a little help from the map Draco had penned for her the night before.

***

The library was everything and nothing like Hermione had imagined it would be. Her eyes tracked the shelves upon shelves of leather bound ancient tomes and aged first editions, the vibrant illuminated manuscripts in sleek climate controlled cases, the vaulted ceiling and multiple cherrywood sliding ladders to reach the higher offerings. Her breath caught in her throat, and a delighted smile flirted across her face. A massive, ornately carved escritoire stood in the center of the room, piled high with haphazard piles of books, some splayed open on the floor, some peppered with post it notes.

She slipped on the black leather gloves waiting on a divan beside the door, and got to work.

After a quick inventory, she was fairly certain that no one had organized the library in at least a quarter century. The books sat on the shelves with no semblance of reasoning in relation to their neighbors.

“It’s carnage,” Hermione muttered under her breath, moving towards the crowded desk, “Do they maintain this place at all?”

She worked for a few hours, organizing what she could of the desk (the drawers were locked, and therefore inaccessible to her), and making notes about the scope and content of the Black collection before deciding she had done enough for the morning. She was hungry, and had no desire to force Kreature to make her something.

Shrugging her fleece on once more at the door, she returned to the real world, outside of the Manor’s clutches, shivering slightly with residual chill.

***

That evening when she returned, the entrance hall was dark. She let the lightly packed duffle bag she had hastily packed slip onto the marble floor, with a little sigh of relief. Moving in could no longer be avoided, now that the Malfoy’s were well and truly away. Hermione bit her lip, moving quickly to turn on a few of the waiting lamps.

Kreature materialized from the darkness, her pale forehead looming out of the shadows like the moon, and Hermione stifled a shriek.

“Oh, I’m sorry– you scared me,” Hermione gasped, her hands trembling as she let out a choked little laugh.

Kreature frowned, holding out her emaciated hand to take Hermione’s bag.

“Oh, no, it’s alright,” Hermione protested, “I can carry it.”

The scowl carved upon Kreature’s lips deepened.

“Come,” she growled at last, turning on her heel and disappearing up the marble staircase, “I’ll show you to Master Draco’s room.” She put a special emphasis on Draco’s name as she spoke, as though to remind Hermione that she did not actually belong in the Manor.

Hermione gulped, reddening, and followed the maid.

Draco’s room was much as she had remembered it, with its size and shadow.

“Towels is in the bathroom. There is a bell by Master Draco’s bed that you can ring if you need me in the night,” Kreature listed off.

“Thank you so much,” Hermione offered the older woman a smile which was not returned.

“Is you hungry?” Kreature grunted, her displeasure palpable.

Hermione could only shake her head.

“Goodnight, then,” the maid hissed, slamming the bedroom door shut behind her.

“Right,” Hermione muttered, running a hand through her hair. She would bathe she decided, and then, make one last trip to the library before bed, just to tidy up.

***

The bath was even more decadent and luxurious than Hermione had expected, and she emerged from her new chambers with her perfumed hair slightly damp and disheveled, clothed in her favorite oversized sleep shirt and pajama shorts. The outfit revealed rather more of her legs than she was used to showing in public, but she doubted she would run into anyone else at this hour.

She picked her way quietly to the library, only making two or three wrong turns.

To her surprise, the double doors stood slightly ajar. Hermione froze, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“Hello?” she called, “Is anyone there?”

When no response came, she pushed through the entryway and into the darkness, palming the adjacent wall for a light switch. When at last she found one and the room was filled with warm yellow light, she repressed a groan.

The escritoire, which she had so carestakingly organized that morning, was as chaotic as before she had first encountered it.

Bellatrix, she realized. It must be.

She moved silently towards the desk, attempting to reign in the surge of annoyance coursing through her.

A single torn piece of parchment waited for her in the center of the expanse.

In a neat copperplate script were four words:

“Who let you in?”

Hermione froze, her heart thundering in her chest.

She opened her mouth and closed it again. Surely Narcissa would have told Bellatrix about Hermione’s employment, wouldn’t she? Was Hermione herself expected to respond?

She paused, taking a deep calming breath through her nose, and ransacking the desk for a pen. Finally, fingers shaking slightly, she flipped over the paper and wrote her own message.

‘Dear Professor Lestrange,

I hope it is not too presumptuous to imagine that it was you who left this missive.

Narcissa has hired me for the duration of the winter break to catalog the library collection, oversee the birds, and generally watch over the Manor.

I’m a student at Black Hall, and a friend of Draco’s. I will do my best not to be an imposition on your territory or time.

Warmly,
Hermione Granger’

Sighing, Hermione replaced the pen, and once again did what she could to straighten the books on the desk, before padding back to her room.

***

The next morning, after popping out for a green tea and a raspberry scone at the coffee shop in town, Hermione returned to the library, in slightly better spirits. The note from Bellatrix had been weird, yes, but Hermione was no stranger to weird. She could handle it.

As she stepped abreast of the escritoire, however, a flash of yellowing parchment caught her eye.

Another one? Hermione wondered, biting her lip.

This note was in the same copperplate script as the first.

‘So formal, Miss Granger.

Cataloging the library? Is that what my sweet sister told you?

This desk is mine. Do not touch it or anything in its vicinity if you value those pretty hands of yours.’

Hermione broke out in a thin sheen of sweat, glancing around the room frantically, as though Bellatrix might still be there, observing her.

With trembling fingers, she let the parchment flutter back onto the desk.