Work Text:
Snow Angels
By Bunnyhops
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
As she slowly walked down the corridor, the eyes in each portrait followed her with varying degrees of snobbery worn in their expressions. Some smirked; some sighed and rolled their eyes, some nodded in greeting. Many portraits didn’t move at all. It seemed that centuries of sitting in a portrait, watching the Italian elite walk by did nothing for the portrait’s demeanor. However, Hermione wasn’t certain that she would be a ray of sunshine either, after sitting in the same spot, looking at the same portraits for centuries. She shuddered at how incredibly dull it must be for them.
She’d been advised by the museum’s curators that these portraits were not allowed to roam. The spell to keep them stationary was by order of Duke Cosimo I de Medici, who built this kilometer-long passageway in the sixteenth century.
The museum rarely added or removed portraits to the gallery, but today they were adding one. The portrait and his legacy were direct descendants of the Duke, himself. The heritage had just been discovered through his great-great-great grandfather, Pietro Medici of the Medici family aristocracy.
OoO
Pietro had had a paramour. Paramours were a common occurrence for the upper echelon of society, but this one was special. He loved the way she smiled and how her white-blonde hair gleamed in the sun.
Armandine had traveled from France to Italy as a young woman, a lady’s maid to one of Pietro’s aunts. It didn’t take long for Pietro to become enchanted with her.
When Armandine told him that they were to be parents, he became angry and violent. She was so panicked at his reaction that she began to fear for her life and the life of her baby.
Escaping a fate of shame and possibly a sketchy death, as she had been witness to before, she ran, but not before her baby’s sire assigned her the moniker ‘mal foi’, meaning bad faith.
Out of spite, she kept the name and started a life in the Netherlands; the land of North Men - Vikings, where she would not stand out with her beauty, height, and trademark white-blonde hair.
For all of Pietro’s flaws, he’d been generous with his gold, and Armandine Malfoy established herself as a rather wealthy widow, with her young son, Lucius, in tow.
Armandine reared Lucius to be confident in his intelligence and physical appearance; to bow to no one. He grew up with such arrogance, that he persisted in trying to win the hand of Queen Elizabeth I.
The Queen was infatuated with his magical abilities and agreed to keep his secret, though it was common knowledge that Lucius and his mother could make things happen or disappear in the blink of an eye.
The Queen had entertained the idea of marrying Lucius on numerous occasions, and it was rumored that the two were lovers for many years. However, in the end and after council from her Protestant advisors, she did not marry Lucius. His abilities frightened her to the point that she could not trust he would act in her best interest, but she was reluctant to make an enemy of such an ability.
Lucius ended up collecting quite a treasure through his many business transactions with the royal families, and his generous benefactor in the queen.
He later married a comely woman and sired a son, Brutus Malfoy, who would go on to name his great grandson Lucius, after his father.
Upon Brutus’ birth, the Queen gave Lucius a noble title of Viscount and property to accompany his new status. When he accepted the status, the Queen made him promise to never perform magic in her presence or the presence of other non-magical people.
OoO
Hermione stood, waiting anxiously for the reveal. The museum curators had offered her the opportunity to be one of the first to set eyes upon the new portrait addition. It was because of Hermione’s interest in pureblood ancestry and her discovery linking Muggle-borns to magic in the first place that she was given certain opportunities that others were not. She had spent more than a decade after the final battle completing her education, helping to rebuild Hogwarts and travelling for her research. Her exploits as a war heroine were well documented, but it was her research that validated her infamous intelligence and verified her acumen in solving mysteries.
One of the shining facts that she had confirmed as a young researcher was that no pureblood family was of pure blood; at least none that were still in existence. Hermione had also genetically mapped a specific anomaly present in all Muggle-borns to a corresponding gene present in each pureblood family.
Hermione herself was linked to the Peverall line, much like Harry. But the Peveralls had faded out of existence. Madness and disease had permeated the family until there were no living relatives with enough of a Peverall bloodline to be considered a valid heir.
This research was what brought Hermione to the Vassori Corridor for the unveiling. The Malfoy’s were the only line that could boast purity, or at least, to a leaner degree. She also hadn’t found any Muggle-borns that were genetically mapped to the Malfoys.
Lost in thought, Hermione hadn’t realized that she had reached her destination and that she was now staring back at the clearest crystal blue eyes on the planet.
“Ms. Granger, is it?” His speech was measured and vibrated with a deep timbre that came across as both authoritative and welcoming. From the portrait, his eyes never wavered from hers, and she thought, for a moment, that he was slightly intimidating in his intensity, as well as ridiculously good-looking.
Her eyes took in the scene in front of her. She recognized the location. It was Chamonix Mont Blanc in France. It was the highest summit in the Alps. He was sitting on a snowy peak, with the wind blowing his hair, watching her.
Her manners came slamming back into her being and she stepped forward. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy. My name is Hermione Granger. It is nice to meet you.”
Abraxas leaned forward, bringing both knees level with each other and resting his elbows, one on each knee. “The curator Margery briefed me on what to expect and why I am to speak with you.”
Hermione frowned. “And why are you to speak with me?”
Raising a perfect eyebrow, he smirked. “Because you are Hermione Granger.”
That statement struck Hermione funny and she smiled, swallowing down a giggle. She caught her breath a moment later when she noticed that he was smiling too.
“A sense of humor then.”
Abraxas nodded. “I can be very charming.” He could have stopped there and would have just been endearing, but he didn’t. Like every Malfoy Hermione had ever had the pleasure of meeting, he continued, “It is who we are as Malfoys. Charming, intelligent, attractive. We possess business acuity and are strong magically. I won’t mention the depth of the Malfoy vaults to you, it would be crass, but you understand. “
While he spoke, Hermione watched, mesmerized.
When he finished, she smiled again. “Not to mention humble and unpretentious.” She half expected him refuse to speak to her any longer, but instead, he laughed. The sound that came out was full-bodied and joyous, and completely transformed is stature.
It was then that the connection was made.
Hermione returned every day to speak with Abraxas and it was never lost on her that she would find a mate in a portrait; someone she could never call a companion.
“Hermione, we cannot continue. It is not healthy for you.” Abraxas looked forlorn. He had grown attached to the young witch. The portrait’s essence that was Abraxas Malfoy wanted to see her more; to talk to her more; to have her by his side.
Her curls hung low, hiding her tears. “There must be a way,” she nearly pleaded. Her time in Italy was ending, “... a spell or a ritual?”
He slowly shook his head. “You cannot bring me back from the dead, Pet.”
She repeatedly closed and opened her fists. It was a sign he recognized as her frustration. “But Sirius-“
“Was not dead,” he finished for her. “He fell through the Veil. He and others could be pulled back to the physical plane.” Hermione nodded as he explained.
They’d had this conversation; so many conversations. She had learned so much from him about old magic. The way his eyes lit up as he shared his knowledge and life experiences with her; she just could not imagine a life without him in it. Her heart yearned to hear him speak, to see him smile. Each night, as she lay alone, she fought the tears that would not make him real; her tears would not enable him to touch her or for her to touch them. She abbhored the portraits and found herself hating the idea of having one painted. She would grit her teeth at the idea of some part of her being trapped in one.
He paused for a moment and looked at her. The wheels were turning and the dots connecting. She knew that look. It mirrored her own when she was following a trail. But for a moment, she saw hope and excitement in his expression, but in the blink of an eye, it was over.
“No,” he shook his head.
“What?!” she practically shouted at him.
Still shaking his head, he responded, “No… It’s too much.” He said the words, but something was not right; not genuine. "So many nights... alone," he whispered, but she didn't hear him. All she could think was how to bring him to her, so they could be together. He turned away, seemingly to walk away.
Suddenly panicked, she stepped forward, placing her hands on the frame. “I’ll do anything!”
Something in the way his face turned, his eyes sharpened, his posture straightened. It reminded Hermione of someone – a predator. The thought was fleeting and was gone altogether when he stopped and turned; his hand splayed on the front of the portrait. Compelled, she placed her hand against his.
Abraxas began to chant, and Hermione felt her magic being pulled from her soul. Her mind was fuzzy, making it difficult for her to think.
Pain. Panic. Pressure. The sound of someone screaming. Then... Nothing.
Hermione blinked open her eyes and shivered when her brain recognized the cold beneath her.
Above her, smiling triumphantly was Abraxas. “Where am I?” she asked, looking around.
“French Alps.”
Terror seized her. “The portrait…” she whispered more to herself than to him, but he answered anyway, “Yes.”
“Am I in here … forever?”
His smile was treacherous. “Yes.”
She wanted to cry or vomit or scream. Instead, she did nothing but look up at him, in shock.
He gently pulled her up.
There was nothing to do.
Nothing.
Before they turned towards the snow, she caught glimpse of a body crumpled on the floor of the corridor. A mass of brown curls swallowing the face and shoulders. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t breathing. Lifeless.
Paralyzed, Hermione felt numb. After a moment, she felt Abraxas standing next to her. “Your essence… your soul is here. You have no more need of your physical body,” he told her.
She didn’t reply.
He sighed and seemed to decide on a course of action. With renewed energy, he turned away from her and looked around the beautiful snow-capped mountaintops. “Do you want to make snow angels?” he asked.