Chapter 3: A Tour of Shadows
The bedroom was a gilded cage. Hermione slept in fitful bursts, the heavy damask curtains blocking any true daylight, leaving the room in a perpetual, watchful twilight. When she woke, it was to the sound of a soft pop—the same milky-eyed house-elf placing a tray of strong black coffee and a single, perfect croissant on a bedside table before vanishing.
She dressed in the clothes provided: tailored black trousers and a silk blouse the colour of bone. It felt like wearing a uniform of surrender. The mirror showed her a sharper version of herself, her curls defiant against the elegance of the outfit.
The dining room was a lesson in emptiness. A vaulted ceiling vanished into shadows, and the infamous long table of polished mahogany could have seated fifty. Only one setting gleamed in the vast expanse: a single china plate, silver cutlery, a crystal goblet filled with what looked like water, and a small pot of something amber. The blood orange marmalade.
The air smelled of beeswax, dried roses, and a faint, coppery tang she couldn't place. She took the seat, the scrape of the chair legs echoing. She spread the marmalade on a piece of toast. It was, as he’d promised, exquisite—a burst of sweet citrus with a bitter, almost ferrous undertaste.
“He loves that stuff. I think it’s the colour.”
The voice came from the archway. Pansy Parkinson leaned against the frame, dressed in an emerald sheath dress that seemed painted onto her. Her black bob was perfectly sharp, her mouth a slash of crimson.
“It’s very good,” Hermione said, keeping her tone neutral. Ophelia Sharp would be wary, but not intimidated.
“It should be. The oranges are grown in soil fortified with… special nutrients.” Pansy pushed off the wall and glided into the room, her heels silent on the Persian rug. She circled the table like a shark. “Sleep well? I imagine it’s strange, sleeping in a house that doesn’t breathe. We don’t, you know. Breathe. Not unless we want to.”
“I managed.”
“I’ll bet you did. Tough little thing, always were.” Pansy stopped behind her, just outside her peripheral vision. Hermione kept her eyes on her toast. “Draco’s told me about your little wager. It’s adorable. He’s giving you a week to play detective.”
“He’s giving me a week to win.”
A cold, pointed laugh. “Optimism. How very Gryffindor.” Pansy’s hand came to rest on the back of Hermione’s chair. A long, pale finger trailed along Hermione’s shoulder, the touch like satin-wrapped ice. “He didn’t offer you a tour, did he? Men. So focused on the big picture, they forget the details. I’d be happy to show you around. Give you a proper… orientation.”
Hermione forced herself not to shiver. “That’s kind.”
“It’s not kindness. It’s curiosity.” Pansy moved again, coming to lean on the table opposite her, palms flat on the dark wood. “I want to see what he sees. So, a tour. We’ll start with the west wing. The gallery is there. Some of the portraits are quite old, quite chatty. Then the conservatory. Nothing grows there anymore, of course, but the skeletons of the plants are rather beautiful. And then,” she said, her smile widening, “the lower levels. Where we keep the permanent guests.”
The phrase hung in the air. Permanent guests. The dungeons. Theo’s warning.
A sudden, violent crash echoed from a distant door—the kitchen entrance. The sound of shattering porcelain and a high, keening wail of an elf. Pansy’s head snapped towards the noise, her concentration broken for a single, fractional second.
Hermione’s eyes darted. Next to a massive silver sideboard was a small, free-standing display case, all velvet and glass. It was unlocked, the little latch hanging open. Inside, on a black cushion, lay a collection of oddities: a glass eye that swiveled to look at her, a knot of tarnished silver, and a single, ornate key. It was small, ancient, wrought iron with a bow shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail.
Without conscious thought, her hand moved. She palmed the key as she stood, the metal cool and heavy against her skin, and slid it into her trouser pocket in one smooth motion. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Pansy turned back, the irritation clear on her sharp features. “Useless creatures. They get nervous when we have… visitors.” She looked Hermione up and down, the smirk returning. “Shall we? The day won’t last forever. Though, for some of us, they rather do.”
Hermione met her gaze, her fingers brushing the outline of the key in her pocket. It felt like a spark in the dark. A tangible piece of the puzzle, stolen right from under the predator’s nose.
“Lead the way,” Hermione said, her voice steady. “I’m ready to see the real Manor.”