Secrets and Masks

10. Mrs Zabini

25th December

Hermione woke on what used to be her favourite day of the year sluggish, exhausted, and to a gift sitting proudly atop her window ledge.

She blinked and immediately rubbed the sleep from her eyes when she saw it, thinking she'd hallucinated the box that was elegantly wrapped in shiny green paper. She hadn't. No matter how many times she blinked, no matter how furiously she rubbed at her eyes, it remained.

For a long time, Hermione just stared at it with her brows knitted together. She must've looked insane; sat up in bed, her back pressed firmly against the headboard, not blinking and her hair a wild mess - she imagined the dark purple bags around her eyes didn't help either.

By observation, the gift looked harmless, nothing sinister or malevolent about it. It was small and square, compact, roughly the size of a microwave, and tied with a silver ribbon that was carefully threaded together to form a bow at the top. The wrapping paper was that deep shade of green that one could only associate with Slytherins - the one they all wore proudly like a badge of honour; the colour she recognised in the halls of this manor and in the hue of the leather armchairs. The same vile shade of green that hung in the tapestries in York Cathedral, the ones she had stared at while she screamed as Voldemort had mutilated her with dark blood magic. The shade of green that made her feel sick.

The more she stared at it, the more confused she became - and the more suspicious.

The elves couldn't have gifted her the box. They wore the same pillowcases each day, and although Hermione had never detected any signs of physical abuse on their small bodies, she doubted Malfoy afforded them luxuries like galleons or gifts. They were slaves to him; objects meant to serve and obey, as much of a possession as this manor was.

That only left Malfoy himself, but that possibility sounded just as ridiculous as the elves did. He wouldn't send her a gift, he just wouldn't. He was horrid and cruel. They hated one another. His mere existence repulsed her, and every breath she took was an insult to him and his malicious ideology. He wouldn't send her a gift unless it was meant to cause her harm. Well, that was a theory she could work with. She wouldn't have put it past Malfoy to tamper with the thing, charm it so it grew legs and teeth and spontaneously tried to maul her to death. She imagined he would have gotten a sick little thrill from watching her nose be ripped from her face on this usually joyous day.

Perhaps it was laced with an exploding charm? Or maybe it contained the decapitated head of one of her fallen friends? That was certainly something he would do; murder one of the opposition during a battle, slice their head from their shoulders and deliver it to her disguised as a gift. A threat wrapped in shiny green paper.

Sometime later, her breakfast materialised on its own - without the aid of a house-elf. Apparently, Malfoy had given the tiny creatures the day off. How fucking noble of him.

Hermione didn't eat her breakfast that morning, just continued to stare at the box as her mind worked and worked and worked over what it could possibly be. By the time her lunch appeared - a full Christmas dinner - she moved.

She slid out of bed, ignoring the mouth-watering scent of roast potatoes and cranberry sauce - and approached the offending box slowly, carefully, pausing between each timid step. The exploding charm theory was probably the most likely - so she decided it best not to sprint towards the wretched thing.

She lightly ran a finger over the top of the box, half expecting it to detonate at the most delicate touch.  To her surprise, it didn't explode when she picked it up and it wasn't ticking either. It was lighter than she'd imagined, it caused no strain at all on her muscles to balance its weight in one hand. She shook it once, and her breath hitched when she heard something rattle inside. It sounded like several things, several small things knocking into one another.