Bring Him To His Kness

20.

Hermione stood outside the gate, staring down the long drive at the house. The front was dark, no lights showing at all, and the door was invisible through the fog. She scraped her teeth across her bottom lip, took a deep breath, and put her hand on the lock.

The iron gate creaked open to let her through and she made her way through the fog up the gravel lane. A ghostly white shape moved on top of one of the tall hedges, freezing her in her tracks until she realized it was a peacock staring down at her. It lifted its head and let out a raucous screech, nothing like the muffled screams she'd heard before.

Hermione shuddered, holding the strap of her bag tight in both fists, and hurried up the lane. The front of the house emerged from the fog. Draco was in shadows to one side of the door, still in his black cloak. As she approached, she saw his hand lift to his face, saw the bright orange glow of a cigarette. He flicked the cigarette to the side, where it vanished in mid-air, before exhaling two long twin streams of smoke through his nose.

His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed, as if there was a weight on him that he was losing the strength to bear. Hermione thought of how he'd trembled when he held her outside the gate. Whatever he'd been doing for the past few days, it had worn him out.

She reached out, putting her hand on his arm. "Draco, what—"

"You need to be quiet," he said. He wrapped his arm around her and tugged her close, his cloak falling over her. "I need you to understand that first and foremost. Keep your voice down. I sedated her after you left but I cannot risk having you wake her."

Hermione furrowed her brows. Sedated her. Two simple words, and they made her heart race. "Your mother," she murmured. "What's going on, Draco?"

"I'll tell you. I promise, I'll tell you." His voice sounded dispirited, like he'd lost some kind of battle and was waiting for the final defeat. When he took her hand and brought it up to kiss her knuckles, his mouth was nearly as cold as his fingers.

Without speaking further, he led her into the house, where he put his cloak on a hook by the door. Hermione clung to his hand as he took her through the dim entrance hall. They passed a door that felt frighteningly familiar to her and she shied away from it unconsciously. Draco glanced down at her as she pressed closer to his arm, but only squeezed her hand.

He took her to a study at the rear of the house and closed the door behind them. Dark green paper covered the walls; dark, overstuffed chairs flanked an extra-long leather sofa and a wide fireplace with logs burning atop tall, spiked andirons. A crumpled blanket was in one corner of the sofa, with several abandoned coffee cups and a nearly-empty bottle of whiskey on a small table at one side. On the low table in front of the sofa was a full ashtray, the silver case for Draco's cigarettes, and scattered files and books. A glance at the titles told her they were medical texts. James and Hebb, Molaison, Ebbinghaus. All the books were on the mind and memory.

Draco took her bag and set it on a desk in front of a leather wing chair. He leaned heavily on the desk, both hands flat on the polished surface. "Sit," he said.

Hermione looked at the end of the sofa where Draco had obviously been spending his time. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the full ashtray. Draco's smoking didn't bother her, but from the looks of it, he'd hardly paused between one and the next. She dumped the ashtray's contents into the fireplace as Draco pushed away from the desk and came to join her.

Draco lit a fresh cigarette with a snap of his fingers, poured the remainder of the whiskey into a squat glass, and stood with his back to her, staring into the fire.