XIX
Hermione had never experienced a home with this much extravagance and splendor. It was early December, but the gardens had been enchanted to withstand the barrage of winter. Vibrant florals bloomed in deep reds and whites. The emerald shade of greenery broke through the fallen snow and made her feel like she was in a greenhouse, not outdoors. Malfoy led her through a maze of shortened hedging. The bushes were sprinkled with twinkling lights that illuminated the path they walked on.
It was a dreary and overcast day in Wiltshire. Hermione and Malfoy walked next to one another as he gave her historical facts about the various garden renovations and landscaping projects over the last several centuries. Malfoy’s mother had championed the cause for a whole estate makeover after the war, and Lucius agreed to it. Narcissa saw fit to make over the landscaping as well. Malfoy commented that the years of werewolf inhabitants had damaged a significant amount of the natural wildlife in the area, and Narcissa had worked tirelessly with the game management departments in the ministry to restore it to its former glory.
“Where are your parents now?” Hermione asked.
“My mother finds it difficult to withstand the winters,” he said. “They’re in the south of France.”
“Do you visit them often?”
“No,” he said plainly. “But they have a habit of coming around here when I’ve gone too long without seeing them.”
Hermione quietly detoured her mind off the topic of parents. It was still too difficult to think of her own.
The gardens were a welcome distraction from her current situation. Was she technically kidnapped? He’d taken her magic from her and kept her here against her will. She supposed that was kidnapping. But he also fed her, rescued her from her nightmare, and treated her with an uncharacteristic amount of kindness. She found his behaviors strange. He could be so cool and calculating one moment and then show her the most sensitive thoughtfulness the next. Like how she took her coffee. Or that she took coffee at all! He was an enigma. He noticed so many details, yet she would have sworn ten years ago that he was her greatest enemy.
They cleared another row of hedges and were met with the center of the maze. Inside was the most elaborate fountain. A huge dragon, like the one tattooed along his back, reared to life. It shot water from its snout like fire. A delicate golden tree stood in the fountain’s center, and the dragon wrapped its tail and body around it, protecting it. The dragon would move every few moments but remain coiled around the tree.
“It’s from the Greek legend about Draco,” he said. “Hera placed Draco in the garden of Hesperides. He was there to guard the golden apples, the daughters of the Titan Atlas.”
“Did he protect them?”
“He fought Heracles and died trying. Hera mourned him and placed him in the sky. His foot is on Heracles’ head.”
Hermione grinned. Draco, the stubborn protector. It seemed his name was more accurate than she’d previously thought.
“Does your tattoo depict the same scene?”
He nodded.
“My mother loves that story. She is fascinated with ancient stories of the Greeks.”
Hermione watched as the dragon moved again. Its tail was always tightly coiled around the base of the tree as it hovered over it. He protected it from danger in all directions.
Malfoy led them out of the maze and near the far side of the property. A small wooden hut sat at the entrance to a great field.
“My practice field.”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. Quidditch. Of course.
“Filled with high-end brooms?” she asked, motioning toward the hut.
He shrugged, but a smug grin played at his lips.
“A few.”
Hermione noticed a few stands near the side of the field for spectators. Nothing like a real quidditch pitch, but it would accommodate probably a dozen or so onlookers.
“I heard you had gatherings for Ministry members,” she said. “Is this where you’d all meet and play?”
He nodded.
“We still do. Once a month. However, I can’t get that coward Potter to join in. He always has some excuse. But I think it’s because I’m better than he is now.”
“Oh, are you?”
Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes again.
“One of us never stopped practicing.”
He led her back to the walking path toward the manor. He’d helped her take away some of the fear associated with the manor today. Her only experience before had been so negative and traumatizing. Seeing it in this light helped. It was open and inviting. Not the place of her nightmares. But perhaps a place she could escape to during a nightmare.
“I’ve got some work to do,” he said as they approached the doors of the house.
He led them through a maze of rooms and staircases until he stood outside large French doors. He waved his wand in front of the door, and it opened, revealing the most stunning home library Hermione had ever witnessed. She audibly gasped as she stepped inside. All four walls were lined with shelves, and they went up at least three stories. Various couches, chairs, tables, and lamps dotted the center of the room. It was remarkably welcoming and cozy, which was so different than what she’d thought the manor would be like.
The air around them cracked, and Kippy stood with a huge smile before Hermione.
“Miss is back from her walk!”
Kippy stood before Hermione with three different skirts layered over one another and two blouses.
“I love your…erm style.”
Kippy preened as she twirled for Hermione. Draco snorted from somewhere behind her.
“Master Draco pays us all so wells,” she said. “Kippy can buy all the skirts she likes!”
“Kippy, is there something you need?” Draco asked. “We’ve got quite a lot of work to do.”
“Kippy is offering tea,” she explained. “Miss does like afternoon tea?”
“Sure,” Hermione agreed. “Of course.”
Kippy popped away before Hermione even finished her thought, and she looked at Malfoy, who was scouring the shelves for something.
“You pay your elves?”
He shot her a look over his shoulder but didn’t answer.
“Ever the gentleman, right?”
She watched him snicker. But his attention stayed on the shelves. Kippy popped back in with a wheeling tea tray filled with delicious baked goods and a steaming pot of tea. She pushed it over to the small sofa and popped away with an ungrateful curtsy. Malfoy had found the book in question and made his way toward the tea cart.
“Sit,” he commanded.
She tolerated the tone out of curiosity more than anything. He flicked his wand, and her warmer winter attire vanished, leaving her in just the fuzzy socks, denim, and sweater. He handed her the large book in his hands and turned back to the tea cart.
Her heart stopped as she looked at the cover.
“This isn’t-”
She held her breath as she opened the cover. It was a first edition of Hogwarts: A History. Her hands delicately turned the pages as she looked over the original text and illustrations. It was in immaculate condition. The text was already so different than the later edits she was used to at the castle. She turned to chapter four, her favorite. It outlined the structuring of all the dormitories and the magical properties that made them unique.
“Granger.”
Malfoy’s voice pulled her from her literary fog. She looked up and saw him offering a cup of tea to her.
“Oh, it’s all right,” she said. “I can get it. I’m kind of particular about my tea.”
He gave her a bored look, still offering her the tea cup and saucer.
“Tea bag in. No sugar. Stirry, stirry. A least a dozen times while you pour in water. Leave room at the top for cream. Squeeze out the bag. With your fingers!Barbaric. Add cream. Stirry, stirry, stirry. Continue with the stirring an obscene amount of times to create little bubbles and foam.”
Hermione stared at him, mouth agape. Her own mother didn’t know how she took her tea.
“I must beseech you. Do not ever let your fingers touch a tea bag in the presence of Narcissa Malfoy. You will give her an aneurism.”
He pushed the saucer into her hand and turned back to the table. He’d completely stunned her into silence. He couldn’t know this much about her. It wasn’t written in a file somewhere. They hadn’t spent intimate amounts of time together where he could observe these behaviors. So how did he know?
She noted that he took his own tea with a small splash of cream, no stirry stirry, and the bag was taken out without pinching every last ounce of liquid from it. How refined. She kept her tea on the edge of the table, far away from the precious pages of her first edition. He sat next to her with his tea and a scone he had loaded with cream.
“Another exchange?”
She’d turned sideways on the couch and balanced the book on her knees while she leaned back against the armrest. She lowered the book and looked at him through her parted knees.
“I didn’t care for the last one.”
His smile darkened as he looked down at her. She brought the book back up and hid from his view. His long fingers pushed the book down, and she brushed them away, worrying they were covered in scone cream.
“I will guess the locations of your safehouses,” he said. “And you will give me information about why you left the Ministry.”
“Leeds doesn’t count.”
“What number was it?”
“Seven.”
“Very well. I will guess the remaining eleven in exchange for information.”
She scrutinized him over her text. He’d never be able to guess them all. She can keep the information vague enough about her exit from the Ministry. She weighed the pros and cons of the situation in her head. It might distract him for a while. Give her a chance to figure out a way to escape.
“Deal.”