Touchstone || Dramione

Chapter III: Master

Malfoy's leash feels uncomfortable in her hand and now that he no longer dons the sack over his face, his feral eyes are darting everywhere. Hermione bites her lip and follows after her old professor. The smooth almost inaudible click of Nott's shoes echo behind her in the yawning foyer. Two green glittering chandeliers dangle above them and a curving staircase ascends to a second floor balcony.

They are in Bulgaria, Bourgas province, home of Avelina Zabini, mother of Blaise Zabini. Now, the home of Blaise Zabini and one of the many safe houses of the Order. Needless to say, the mansion does nothing to fit in with the atmosphere of the colorful coast. It's truly a shame.

Through the darkened hallway, she perceives Nott's stare and glares back at him. He isn't close, but she can see the predacious sneer distorting his lips. He reminds her of a bird of prey with his Roman nose and deep-set light eyes.

He'll make her pay for bringing up Astoria and the unwarranted jab at him. Not now, but considering all the mistakes she's made today, he'll attack when she least expects it. It's the Slytherin way. It's become her way, too. Acknowledging that still bothers her, but it is getting admittedly easier.

Malfoy shuffles quietly beside her and she looks down. She'd forcibly shoved her too-small socks onto his bare feet after they'd made it out to the alleyway behind the club. He couldn't very well protest, but he hadn't been happy about it. He'd bared his teeth like a dog, but more out of anxiety than anger. Filth and grit cover the socks and his bare heels make sticky claps against the cold marble floor.

The mansion's library is excessive, shelves upon shelves of books, fancy couches, chairs, tables and sprawling windows. Hermione has already marveled over the amount of knowledge in this room, so she needs no introduction, but the group of senior wizards at the round table near the center will take every ounce of her attention, whether she is willing to give it or not. Kingsley Shacklebolt, no longer the Minister of Magic but—like Minerva McGonagall herself—one of four senior leaders of the Order, stands with the Order's Russian liaison, Artur Petrov, a broad man with a cruel face.

"Impossible..." Shacklebolt stares in awe at Malfoy.

"I'm afraid not, gentlemen." McGonagall clasps her hands before her.

Petrov stares open-mouthed. "All of the Malfoy line was said to have been killed for their failure and betrayal."

"Assumed to have been killed." McGonagall corrects him.

"Obviously." Nott snorts.

Everyone ignores his jab at their rhetorical comments.

"How?" Shacklebolt hisses.

"Cowards find a way to survive." Hermione says flatly.

All eyes shift to her. She regrets the words and the attentive hush they bring. She hadn't meant the animosity. Not really. A sigh rushes through her teeth and she presses her fingers against the pounding in her left temple. These headaches come suddenly and disappear just as quickly. Sometimes though, they linger. Those are the bad ones and they seem to be occurring more frequently, as of late.

"I found him in Anam Cara where they've established fighting pits for slaves."

"You bought him." Shacklebolt frowns crossly.

"How did he get past the wards?" Petrov asks with a pointed glare at Hermione.

"It's likely the Master/Slave Bond. It's linked him to her magic. The wards probably can't distinguish where her magic ends and his begins." McGonagall suggests.

"That's highly likely." Shacklebolt agrees. "This isn't the first time that's happened."

"Are we done?" Nott sighs dramatically. "I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I can't decide whether Malfoy smells like pig shit or cat piss. I'd like to leave before it rubs off on me."