The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy

Chapter 15: Lillimont Lake

Malfoy Manor was a 17th-century estate with a single point of entry: the elephantine, wrought-iron front gate. The grounds were sealed by anti-intruder wards, which extended underground and created a closed circuit overhead. Now that the estate had passed to the Lestranges by magical law, Hermione knew that they wouldn't be able to sneak past the wards—not even Draco.

The front gate was their only option, and in the days after their visit to Rita Skeeter, they spent every waking hour trying to think of a way through it.

The Daily Prophet had printed a long, splashy, very helpful feature about the Christmas Gala—they'd been nicking copies of the paper from a poorly disguised Wizarding home on the other side of Godric's Hollow. According to the article, the Ministry was contracting nearly two dozen companies for the gala, all pure-blood-owned, of course. Among them was a private security service called the Greengrass Guard. Draco had described Elinor Greengrass to them: strict, ruthless, and rigorous. There would be no hoping for laxness or luck at the front gates.

"But," Draco said one afternoon, as they sat on the library floor, poring over the diagram he'd recreated of the Manor, "the gates are fifteen feet wide, and there's the Cloak."

"Yeah," Harry said, "but Snape will have told the Death Eaters about the Cloak by now."

Hermione sighed. "If that's the case, I'm sure they'll place a Semi-Permeability Charm on the entrance, so that if you haven't been given express permission to enter, you'll be immobilised if you try to get in."

A brief silence. Hermione's eyes lingered on Draco. His hand was still resting on the diagram; she saw hints of conflict in his eyes. She tried to imagine how she would have felt if her childhood home had changed into a haven for Death Eaters.

No, though—that wasn't quite right. The manor had always been used for the Death Eaters' purposes. He was the one who'd changed.

Hermione wanted to ask him about it, but in front of Harry, she knew Draco would deflect. She could imagine the easy drawl: Yeah, I really miss the place the Dark Lord promised to murder me. So many happy memories.

Draco looked away from the diagram and leaned back against the sofa, crossing his long legs at the ankles. The neck of his dark green jumper pulled so that the weathered edge of his scar from the Ministry showed. He thumbed a strand of hair away from his forehead.

Hermione forced her eyes away from him.

She'd waited for this to stop happening after Halloween. But it had been ten days now, and she still kept noticing him: at breakfasts, when he tapped one finger thoughtfully on the back of his fork; or during these brainstorming sessions, when he wrote down notes in a quick but fluid hand; or whenever he came within three feet of her, at which point she remembered the feeling of his cheek, flushed and soft under her fingertips, the shape of his cheekbone, the hard angle of his jawline.

She knew he'd caught her at it, too. The noticing.

Sometimes she even thought she saw him noticing her, too.

She looked blankly down at the parchment. Without even blinking, as if an apparition were laid over her vision, she could see Draco's expression in the mirror on Halloween, both cautious and vulnerable, like in that second she could have done anything and he would have just watched it happen. Even his features, naturally as sharp as edges honed to cut, had seemed to soften in uncertainty.

Focus, she told herself. "I really think," she said too loudly, "our only option is disguise and infiltration."

She pulled out another excerpt from the Prophet and laid it atop their notes. The clipping was a hiring advertisement from the gala's caterers, Lizzie Spizzworth's Finest Feasts and Magical Mixologists. It read: "Now interviewing service workers for prestigious single event at high pay. Only exceptionally professional and experienced candidates will be considered. Confident use of Culinary Charms, Balancing Enchantments, and Anti-Spilling Spells a must."