The Gallows Chapter 5

It took Malfoy three quarters of an hour to exit the floo.

Another twenty to make it to the base of the staircase.

Another ten to climb the grand steps to where Hermione assumed the family quarters lay.

Perhaps him dying would have been a mercy to this. To watching him navigate the world with his fists clenched, each echoing step making him wince, to the thudding of his pulse visible through the thin skin of his throat, right beside the prisoner tattoo.

Would he ever leave the manor again? Somehow, she could not imagine him ambling down Diagon Alley smirking at passing witches the way he had as a boy. As the heavy oak door of his bedchamber, carved with snakes and magnolias, shut, leaving her standing out in the hall wringing her hands, she thought it might be a miracle if he ever left his room again.

A soft pop echoed through the hall and she jumped, stumbling back from the tiny house elf appearing at her side.

“Apologies, mistress,” the elf said soothingly.

Discomfort crawled across her skin. “I… I’m not your mistress.”

The elf blinked wide eyes up at her, but the look was pitying. “You are Master Draco’s wife, yes?”

Hermione nodded, the discomfort pooling in her stomach until she wondered if she might be sick.

“Then you are Lottie’s mistress,” the elf finished with a shrug.

Working for the DMLE for the last five years and being entrenched within the ministry had taught Hermione many things — one being the relationship between house elves and their masters. She knew that Lottie must be tied to the Malfoy estate and also understood better than her thirteen-year-old counterpart that elves enjoyed their work. But the idea of owning a house elf still chafed against her heart, already rubbed so raw by the last few hours she was sure she was bleeding from the inside out.

“I…” Hermione swallowed. “I promise to treat you well.”

It was all she could say, and when Lottie merely blinked as if to say well of course you will Hermione gestured towards Malfoy’s door.

“Will you make sure he’s all right?”

Lottie hummed, sliding a hand down the front of her tea towel and rolling her shoulders back importantly. “Lottie will ensure master is cared for. The moment Lottie heard you arrive she had new linens placed on all the beds and tea is ready whenever Master and Mistress are.”

The little elf gazed questioningly up at her and Hermione shook herself. “Ah, right. Well… I’m okay right now, Lottie, thank you. But perhaps Mal—Mast—Dra—perhaps he might want some.”

Lottie nodded. “Just call for Lottie when you are ready.”

Hermione’s heartbeat spiked in her ears and she reached out to stop the elf from disapparating. “Wait! You… I think you should check with him, not me. I—I should find my own bedchamber and return to my home to gather my things.”

A heavy silence stretched between them, the elf’s ears drooping ever so slightly. “Mistress will not stay in Master Draco’s chambers?”

Did she have to stay in Malfoy’s chambers? Surely not. Surely cohabitating within the same house (well, manor) was enough. So, Hermione shook her head, working to keep the grimace off her face before lowering her voice to a whisper and flicking a silencing charm towards the door.

“You know where he has been for the last five years?”

The little elf nodded solemnly. “Master Draco has been in Azkaban.”

“I do not believe he would like me to stay in his rooms with him, Lottie, and it’s important that we give him as much space as he needs. Is there another bedroom I might stay in? Perhaps a guest room?”

Lottie pursed her lips before gesturing with a wave and guiding her down the hall. They stopped before another dark oak door, one inlaid with laurel leaves and pomegranates.

“Mistress can stay here.”

With a snap of her fingers, the door swung open to reveal a lavish room of blues and creams, complete with two French doors and a small balcony overlooking the grounds. It was lush, but understated in its luxury.

“Thank you, Lottie, it’s wonderful.”

The house elf hummed, drawing back the thick blue curtains framing the windows before touching the door on the far wall beside the white mantled fireplace. “Master Draco’s bedroom is through this door.”

Hermione froze in the act of dragging her fingertips across the dark blue bedspread embroidered with feathers and stars. Before she could argue, Lottie assured her she would have the other elves ready for her arrival with her things and disappeared with a pop.

“Bugger,” she cursed, before flopping down on to the bed that was too comfortable for its own good.

…

“You have a match tomorrow, Gin, you should be resting.”

Ginny rolled her eyes as she flicked her wand towards the trunk at the end of Hermione’s bed, neatening the haphazard folding charm she’d attempted. “I could play the Wimborne Wasps in my sleep with a full body bind.”

Harry chuckled from the other side, carefully placing Hermione’s framed photographs into a box surrounded by a cushioning charm.

When she arrived back at Grimmauld, she expected the three of them to be waiting for her. What she hadn’t expected was for Harry to have made an early dinner, Ron opening a bottle of wine, and Ginny already organizing her belongings into leave, take, and burn piles. They’d enjoyed a companionable dinner, allowing Hermione to relive the last few hours, describing the empty look in Malfoy’s face and the zombie-like way he’d traveled through the manor.

Now settled in her room, her throat burned at the thought of leaving them behind.

“We’ll be only a floo call away,” Ron murmured, throwing a heavy arm around her shoulder.

The sigh she loosed threatened to pull her through the floorboards, but she nodded. There was no sense in wallowing she knew, and yet the burn in her throat crept towards her eyes.

“Who knows…” Ginny started, holding up one of Hermione’s blouses for inspection before throwing it into the burn pile. “Maybe this will all work out, you know? Maybe you and Malfoy will fall madly in love and have tons of babies and have a happily ever after.”

A long stretch of silence greeted these words, followed by a riot of laughter. Hermione was unsure when the line of laughter and panic was crossed. When was it that she found herself gasping for air and clutching her chest, pressed tightly to Ron, Harry stroking her curls while Ginny held her hand. But she did not allow herself to cry, only clutched at her friends as if the moment she left the townhouse she would never see them again.  

But it was true, wasn’t it? Those were the things she had given up in order to protect Malfoy — a boy that had been cruel to her all throughout her childhood. A wizard who had spent the last five years in Azkaban and now trembled at the sight of his ancestral home. Her life would now be skirting through an empty manor, finding reasons to leave, watching her friends grow and find partners and have families.

And Hermione would be… well… alone.

Finally, she quieted and they packed the rest of her things in silence, waving away their offer to help her move her things. Nothing was so cumbersome that a shrinking charm would not fix, save for the books she would come back for in trips, if only for an excuse to leave the manor. Earlier that afternoon she’d received an owl from Kingsley that she was to take the rest of the week off work to adjust to her new circumstances.

By the time she found herself back in her new bedroom it was well past eleven. A fire had been lit in the hearth chasing away the chill spring night, but she had still opened the doors to the balcony once she’d restored her boxes to full size and settled them around the seating area before the mantle. Below her, the rose gardens looked wild, untouched perhaps for years, the blooms small and strangled through weaving ivy and grass.

“Would mistress like Lottie to unpack for her?”

Hermione jumped, a soft squeal slipping through her lips as she whirled to find the elf already going through the boxes. “Lottie, you scared me.”

“Apologies, mistress,” the elf said, sincerity clear in her tone and Hermione realized the little elf had already unpacked the trunk, her clothes floating towards the wardrobe tucked against the far wall.

She watched her for a little while, wondering if she should step in and demand to unpack her own things. But Lottie appeared so pleased with her task she was afraid to upset her, so instead Hermione turned back to the garden, lit by the light of the full moon.

“Lottie… why does the rose garden look so over grown? The rest of the estate appears well maintained.”

“Mistress Cissa told the elves she was the only one to care for the roses.” The words were said slowly and Hermione turned to see the elf had stopped in her task, smoothing her hands over the bedcovers she turned down. “When Mistress Cissa died… we…”

They did not want to go against the wishes of a dead woman. Hermione nodded, heat pricking in the corners of her eyes.

"You did the right thing, Lottie.”

At those words, the elf let out a sigh of relief, smiling brightly at Hermione and finishing what would have taken her much longer. “Is there anything else you are needing?”

Hermione grimaced, gesturing towards the door that connected her and Malfoy’s room. “How… How was he?”

It was as if all the air was sucked from the room. The elf gave a small shake of her head, her ears flapping around her face before she twisted the tea towel in her hands.

“Master Draco is… unwell.”

That might have been the understatement of the century, but Hermione nodded. “Did he eat?”

“Master Draco was unable to eat his favorites Hutch prepared for him, got sick he did.”

Of course he did, after years of surviving on prison food Hermione should have realized he would be unable to stomach most things. Something twisted in her heart, pulling against her ribs towards the door at the far end of the room.

Hutch must have been the elf that ran the kitchens. “Could Hutch possibly prepare a bit of broth for Malfoy? Maybe some toast?”

The little elf nodded enthusiastically. “Is Mistress needing dinner as well?”

Biting back another grimace, she shook her head. “Thank you, but I ate at ho—at my friend’s home.”

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when Lottie did not appear offended by this news and popped off to deliver the order to the kitchens. She quickly changed into more comfortable clothes, sliding off her pencil skirt and blouse in favor of a worn pair of leggings and a Puddlemere United sweatshirt she’d stolen from Harry a few years back.

When she was finally slipping between the sheets, ready to curl up with the werewolf romance novel she would never admit to a single soul she was devouring, a pop echoed through the room.

“Here you go, mistress.” Lottie’s voice was firm as she put down the tray laden with a steaming bowl of broth and a few slices of toast down on the coffee table, complete with a sparkling goblet of water.

“I didn’t need dinner, Lottie, but thank you.”

The elf gazed up at her innocently. “This is for Master Draco.”

And then with another pop she was gone.

Hermione fell back against the pillows with a groan. She should have accounted for meddling house elves. Flicking her wand to set a stasis charm over the tray, she stared up at the gauzy white canopy of the bed. She could try to summon another elf… or else command Lottie to bring it to him. But the idea made her stomach twist and a sweat broke out on the back of her neck. No, she would not stoop so low and for some reason she thought the little elf knew it too.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered, finally rolling from the bed and grabbing up the tray.

Balancing it one hand, she knocked on the connecting door, unsurprised when no one answered.

“Malfoy? It’s… It’s Hermione. I have some food for you.”

No answer.

“I’m going to come in if that’s okay.”

No response.

With a sigh, she turned the knob surprised to find it give beneath. Draco’s room was exactly as she imagined it would be: a swath of silver, black, and emerald. The large four poster bed, similar to Hermione’s, was empty and appeared untouched. But there was a large bookcase beside it overflowing with tomes she itched to inspect.

Another time.

Instead, she quietly padded through the room before finally spying a door cracked open on the opposite end. Dread sleuthed through her veins, but she took a deep breath and slowly pulled open the door.

There, still fully clothed in the robes the Ministry had dressed him in, lay Malfoy. She would have thought him asleep if his eyes had not been open, staring at the clothes hanging across. His knees were pulled tightly to his chests, knuckles bleached white where they wrapped around his elbows.

“Hello…” Hermione breathed, soft as a whisper.

But still he flinched, eyes squeezing shut. Carefully, she set the tray down on the floor and arranged herself into a sitting position at the threshold of the closet.

“Leave.” The word was sandpaper over a chalkboard, as if he had been screaming for hours.

Steeling herself the way she did when Teddy threw a tantrum, she took a deep breath. “You need to eat.”

She thought she might have heard a hollow chuckle, but it was gone in the next moment.

“You are not my wife, nor my caretaker.”

The words rang through her mind, salt in the wound already open. She would be alone; she would be trapped here with him. This was her life now, thrown away for a single moment of compassion.

“No…I’m both, it seems,” she countered after a moment, shifting to her knees and sliding the tray between them.

Malfoy did not reply, only clutched his elbows tighter until nails dug into the fabric of his robes. His entire body trembled and she clenched her own fists to resist the urge to touch him.

“Why are you in the closet?”

Silence stretched between them, the steam wafting from the broth filling the closet with the comforting scent of herbs and chicken, reminding Hermione of when she had been sick as a child and her mother had cared for her.

“Too open,” Malfoy answered, so low she wasn’t sure if she truly heard him.

Too open. She remembered the tiny cell in Azkaban with its low ceiling and sliver of window. The bedroom beyond the closet was vaulted, with multiple windows overlooking the same garden as her own. Hermione could not begin to imagine what it felt like, and the image of Draco there, huddled within his closet, misted before she blinked and nodded.

Without saying another word, she slid the tray closer to him, before rising to her feet, leaving the closet and closing the door behind her until only a crack remained. And she found herself proud that she was safely ensconced back in her own room before the first sob ripped from her throat.