Breath Mints / Battle Scars

Chapter 47: XLVII

February 23rd, 1999

The portkey's magic is unrefined and haphazard, yanking them through too violently to plant their feet. She hits cold stone fast and hard.

"Fucking hell," spits Pansy from somewhere off to the side. Hermione gathers up her limbs, clutching at the rib she might've bruised and trying to hold her wand steady.

The hallway is dark.

"Lumos."

Light unfolds across marble walls and arched ceilings, portraits in obsidian frames lining the expanse.

Oh god, she thinks, breath catching painfully in her chest. Not here.

"Why are we at the Manor?" Pansy asks under her breath, adding to the light with her own wand. She must've spent time here as a child.

"I don't know."

They get to their feet at the same time, almost instinctively standing back to back and turning in a circle. The corridor is empty. Empty save a small, dark trail of what looks like blood, glinting in their wand light.

Hermione glances over her shoulder at Pansy. She's bleeding where she hit her head upon arrival - a slow trickle down from her temple.

"This isn't yours, is it?" Hermione gestures to the trail.

It's the sort of obvious question Pansy might've snarked at not so long ago, but now the shake of her head is sober.

"Let's go."

They follow the blood. Slow, careful, deathly silent steps. Neither of them make a sound, but Pansy's movements are so dexterous - so like a cat - that Hermione wonders how many times she's had to do this.

When they reach the end of the corridor, it proves hard to turn the corner. Hermione knows next to nothing about the layout of Malfoy Manor, but every step could be a step closer to the dining room. To that expanse of floor she's not sure she could handle seeing again. Bile rises up in her throat, and she nearly stumbles before Pansy grabs hold of her - a sharp grip on her elbow.

"Steady on, Granger."

"I'm fine," she breathes, but she can feel the way the color's drained out of her face.

Pansy takes her word for it either way. They move on. Past several more corridors and a winding staircase, not grand enough to be the entrance hall but still incredibly lavish.

All the shutters have been closed, blocking out the daylight. The gleam of their wands will reveal them long before they reach anyone.

Hermione tries to settle her stomach by running through her best hexes in her head. Silently rolling the shapes of them across her tongue. She tells herself she'll cast at the slightest movement, the faintest sound - no hesitation.

The trail of blood begins to taper off as it rounds another corner. She and Pansy exchange a look. Her grip tightens on her wand, rib throbbing with each breath.

And they turn the corner, flanking one another, wands out.

"Well that took ages," says a voice.

Her eyes have to adjust. There's light in this room, bright from the fire at the hearth.

But the moment she can properly take it in, she's swallowing back a gag, joints locking in place. Somehow she knew it would be the dining room.

And yet it's not that. It's several things at once.

It's Dawlish, leaning casually against the mantle, surrounded by fellow corrupt Aurors - other Crusaders, as he calls them.

It's Narcissa Malfoy, bound to the chair beside him, too close to the fire, expression wan and hair disheveled, sweat dripping down the sides of her face.