Title: Arsenic and Old Leather (3/3)
Author: Lucia de’Medici
Summary: Once upon a time, great families dominated the Renaissance world in Italy – known simply as Borgia, Medici and sometimes Zabini, their brood overran and spilled into the Muggle bloodlines – mixing and causing new alliances to arise in the breaking light of an underground empire. This is the tale of one such suppression in the struggle for power.
Pairing: Blaise/Hermione
Warnings: Death, despair, darkness.
Author’s Notes: Somewhere in Solidarity-verse, a long time ago where the Harry Potter reality overlaps on the events of the past. Loosely related to the major fic, and defiantly AU – the dialogue and mannerisms have been adjusted to suit the period.

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Act III: Scene I
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She awoke, bleary-eyed and heavy headed, and her chest aching from the residues of his curse.

The wearisome burn in her bones seared as she rolled onto her side and coughed, flinching against the ashen taste resting on her palette. Hermione yearned for her nurse, for medicines to staunch the sting of her feebleness at that moment – but it would be long before she would find such comforts from this dismal cell.

Across the room, her captor lay on his back, motionless.

Hermione choked down a sob, struggling with the tight lacings of her corset so that she could draw a proper breath. Already, her vision swam with spots. Still, this should be a victory – no matter how small – she lived.

Wheezing, she pushed herself from the floor with trembling limbs and crawled to a kneeling position with her skirts pinned beneath her.

She peered over the fallen aristocrat. At the center of his doublet, a small, but significant scorch mark tarnished the rich fabric that covered his chest. A boon, surely, that her mark would strike true and cause him to fall. But how long the devil would slumber was another matter entirely.

She needed to make haste from this place.

Bearing that thought in mind, Hermione crawled, entirely undignified, over to the dusty corner where her wand had fallen and snatched up the instrument. Muttering several breathless transfiguration spells in hushed tones, and not without several pained breaths as her garb loosened around her figure; her skirts receded, and left in their place a pair of well-fitted hose and laced doublet.

She paused for a moment, regarding her queer appearance as she stood with quaking knees. The leggings were strange, her legs beneath them too fine to be boyish and with a ripple of panic, she stood and flung herself over Zabini’s sprawled form and towards the settee. There, she snapped her wand at a cushion and throw blanket, giving one plumage and room enough to fit her head as a beret, and affixing the other with clasps to wear as a voluminous cape to shield her curves.

“Fine enough,” she breathed quietly, and covered herself in the garments.

It was only a matter of moments before she had slid the Great Book from Blaise’s grasp, and tucked its bulge beneath her arm.

Still, he did not wake, nor move.

Dove-footed, she crept forwards – the soft leather of her slippers muffling the barest whisper against the stone floor. Perhaps, for the better, she had killed him.

It was a pity indeed when she spied his chest rise.

She bent over the fallen lord, with the instrument of his failed destruction trained on his relaxed and beautiful features. Perhaps, she thought, she should send his soul to the next world.

It was a tempting goad indeed to see him lying so stricken in the filth of his very chambers. The place reeked of dark magic. Surely, he deserved no better than to die by her hand. She drew a hasty breath to quell her malice, and raised her wand once again.

It was then that she heard it – a swell so faint and so permeating that it spurred the small hairs on the back of her neck to rise, and she shivered.

It was the sound of many voices, pained and undying, singing in the shadows and beyond her reach even though they lay pressed to her breast and bound in the book.

It was the sound of angels and devils alike, and it humbled her so that she lowered her weapon and tucked it into her tunic like a man would a sword.

“Coward,” she breathed into Zabini’s face, and clenched the Principia closer. “You’ll live to see great things happen. Our world will change, balance will be restored – and you’ll see just how foolish your forebears have been.”

Lady Hermione Granger, of the green land of Angles smiled ruefully at the Italian’s cursed rest, before rising, straight-backed like a boy, and sweeping from the room.

The catacombs beneath the Zabini Villa seemed to sprawl for acres – a twining monstrosity of stone and flickering torchlight that coaxed the shades from their corners and slid about her, pressing her forwards and up into the light of revelry, and to her flight.

She walked as a man would; her chest thrust forward and her gait confidant, though she moved with haste. It was a small victory, and perhaps some divine being had graced her with their favour to let her slip away unscathed – but until she reached her coach and was spent of this damnable land, she would not be safe.

The flittering cast of the torches unnerved her. Here and there, little inlets gave way to enormous, low-stooping doors embedded into the walls and veiled by shadow. These were servant’s quarters, or other rooms that led to store cupboards, or other laboratories like the one she’d made quick work of.

No one emerged, but still she quickened her step until the stair leading to the upper levels of the villa was in sight. With a quick glance over her shoulder to assure that she was not followed, she broke into a run.

She burst forth into a Great Hall. The flare of numerous candelabras and hanging chandeliers illuminated the gilt sconces and monstrous, overhanging vines that decorated the ceiling in a twining mass of lush greens and deep purples blinded her but briefly, and she flinched. Few revellers lingered in the hall, preferring to be led outside to the festivities, food and drink.

This was but a mere passageway to the outdoors and to the dancing, jubilant crowd.

Furtively, Hermione glanced behind her into the murk of the Villa’s netherworld, and to the gleaming corridors above. Should she turn and attempt to pass through the main causeways of the villa, she would undoubtedly be spotted. Those halls were too bare. Someone would spy her departure, certainly.

Hermione drew a breath and strode forwards. She would claim a mask and slip through the crowd, and none would know the better.

“Signore?”

She moved to curtsy to the servant, but quickly caught herself. Carefully, she drew the book beneath the folds of her cloak.

The servant did not meet her gaze, but merely proffered a masque to conceal her visage.

“It is customary, signore,” he insisted weakly.

“So it is,” she murmured, clearing her throat and lowering her voice. “So it is,” she tried again. The servant glanced upwards but made no comment at her hesitation – nor the feminine lilt of her cadence.

It would be best if she spoke to no one, she asserted, and took the costume with her free hand.

It was a fine artefact; a heavy paper construction that gleamed eerily in the amber light of the great room. Tiny, intricately carved gold swirls spun across its plum surface – dancing like the first stars as they came out after twilight. Smiling gently, she brought the masque closer to inspect.

The lines were so delicate, the paths so erratic that when she noted the first tiny, beating pair of wings, she nearly cried out.

The masque was covered in the clumsy flight of bumblebees as made their way between darkened, withering blooms.

“How now, Lucio! What holds the line?”

The servant jumped to action as Lady Granger hastened to fix the ribbon behind her head one-handed.

It was the voice of a cold, brusque-mannered man with the barest of French accents that approached. His flaxen hair hung to his shoulders, framing a silver masque through which a matching pair of eyes stared. The pallor of his cheeks paid compliment to his haughty demeanour as he paused abreast of her. French Aristocracy, she thought, flushing as she looked to the ground, and silently praying that the masque would fix itself to her face at last.

“A trifle, signore,” the servant quavered, fumbling with the ribbon.

“Indeed, it is – for one as clumsy as you to be appointed this position. Here –” The servant’s hands were brushed away, and with a firm tug, the man tied the ribbon into a firm bow.

Hermione held her breath; bowing curtly as boys were ought to do, and turned to press through the crowds mingling on the portico.

“Good sir!” the young man called.

She struggled forwards, jostling some of the revellers as she cut through the crowd.

“Sir! I say!” he called again. Hermione stumbled, turning to glance over her shoulder – she spied him vanish into thin air. Gasping, she spun on the spot; her eyes still fixed on the ledger where he’d disappeared between the refreshments table and the portico’s stone stair, and stumbled backwards.

Her legs tangled beneath her and she felt herself falling. In a heartbeat, a noisy crack split the air, and a pair of hands were hefting her back up before she’d hit the ground.

“Really!” he huffed. “Such rudeness I’d expect of the English, but not of the Italians.”

He set her to her feet and brusquely spun her by the shoulders so that he could peer down into her face.

“It’s not hospitable,” he concluded indignantly, while brushing hastily at her cloak. Beneath the garment, Hermione stiffened. Gradually, the man’s hands slowed. It was becoming apparent that he was looking a little too long and a little too curiously for comfort.

Cautiously, Hermione peered up from beneath her broad hat. The man – not much more than a boy, really – had a shrewd look about him. His features were very thin; his chin angular and his lips tinged with the stains of wine.

Like two perfect red blossoms.

“M-my apologies,” she muttered, pulling out from beneath his grasp. “Forgive me.”

“Tarry a moment!” he called, reaching out again and clasping her by the elbow. “I did not mean to startle you, signore. It is a new magic, that.”

“Sir, I –” she stammered.

“But a brilliant thing, it is. Merveilleux, as we say in my homeland. C’est une magique pur. ‘Apparition’, it’s been called.”

“Sir,” she said again with more force, and tried to prise her arm from his grasp. “I must beseech you, release me!”

“I did not move to offend,” he paused, clearly unimpressed by her lack of enthusiasm for the new parlour trick, and bent down to peer into her face with a broad smirk. “I admit, it was your costume that caught my eye.” He smirked, and with a wink he added, “Such a disguise would cause quite the stir amongst the nobles… signora.”

“How –?”

He pursed his lips and spoke with an indulgence befitting a child, “Your chin is unmarked by the telltale hand of manhood.”

She froze, hastily covering her face with her fingers splayed. She hadn’t the time to disguise herself with beard.

“Your hands are too fine,” he added with a smirk, and she bristled before him.

“Though I will say the flush of your cheek is most alluring.”

“Scoundrel!” she hissed, and looked about her to see that none had overheard.

“…Though you flee the revels as a mischievous child would, even a boy of poor breeding would swagger with his victory of breaching the Villa’s walls,” he added indolently. “The Zabini are renowned for their reprimand of the young and foolhardy… And by the by, you’ve the posturing of a woman.” He leered.

“And what of it?” she hissed. “It is a masked ball, is it not?”

“And we are all conjurers and villains,” he drawled. “Enchanté, mademoiselle. I am the Lord Malfoy, formerly of the provinces of the lost Gaul.”

“France,” she muttered dryly, and fought not to wince as he bowed to kiss her hand.

“Pish!” he grimaced. “What romance lies in the name? It is as tawdry and plain as ‘England’, is it not?”

Hermione tore her hand away. “I will thank you, sir, to not slur my homeland,” she said through clenched teeth.

“My sincerest apologies,” he said, sounding less sincere than a wolf who walks amidst the sheep and starves further which each well-placed step. “Come, let us remedy our differences with the medicines of this strange kingdom.”

He moved to her side, and stepped near – effectively banging into the book clutched beneath her arm.

Hermione froze, a sudden and instantaneous dread setting her heart to gallop in her chest.

Lord Malfoy paused with a frown, “Come now, what holds? Surely a cup of ale will mend our differences.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and tried a small, but gracious smile. Gracious to whom, to what divine being, she did not think on. Nonetheless, he did not suspect her deception.

“If you please, sir, I must be off,” she protested, a shade more gently.

“Nonsense,” he clapped her on the shoulder, and smiled a smile of a predator – indeed; this boy was a wolf in a noble’s dress. “It would not be just to insult you and give you leave without apology. Come, it is but a cup – or perhaps, a sparkling wine native to this land?” In a whisper, he added, “We could conceal such a blatant show of your identity with a man’s goblet, and none would know the better.” He winked.

“A cup,” she conceded with a cordial dip of her head, and added with haste, “but then I must depart. It grows darker with each passing moment.”

He grinned broadly, displaying a row of brilliant white teeth. “Away, then, to the heart of the revels where I beg your pardon with the language of pressed grapes and thickened tongues.”

He led her through the crowd of mingling courtesans and nobles, tricksters and kings; all dressed splendidly with the most lavish robes. Here and there, between the topiaries of the adjoining gardens, peacocks strutted unmindful of the drunken and disorderly conduct of the company.

She saw no difference between the birds and the guests themselves, she thought wryly, and hugged the book more tightly to herself.

“Here, mademoiselle,” the Lord Malfoy pressed a cup into her hand, and gathered one for himself from a nearby servant. “You will find that this is a most elegant honeyed wine, tempered with sweet berries, and will bring the most coy flush to your cheeks.”

“You are a flatterer, signore,” she smiled ruefully, and sipped the heady brew.

It was sweet, scented with the barrel and – curious, she thought, taking another sip.

“Jasmine?” she inquired, and swallowed again – savouring the exotic aroma.

“Among other blooms.” The flaxen-haired lord smiled, drawing closer. “It is that faint and obscure perfume that would relieve you of your burden.” His smile was too bright, the teeth too white, and his lips too rouged.

She felt the numbness before the swoon, spreading from her gut and outwards so that her limbs felt dreadfully heavy. “I – I have no burden to speak of,” she murmured, her eyes fluttering.

“Nonsense,” he chuckled, and grasped her firmly by the elbow to hold her steady.

“It is much too strong for me, signore. Far too strong,” she laughed nervously. The drink was going straight to her head – warming her from head to toe in a manner that begged her strip off her outer garments and avoid the flush. “I mustn’t – if you please, take my cup.”

Her knees weakened, and she near fell to the floor were it not for his arm twining about her waist, serpentine and firm.

“That,” he murmured, his breath hot and insistent, and laced with stale drink, “would be an offence to my host.” He grinned wickedly, but she barely saw it as her eyes fluttered again – she was so warm, and yet, she felt her fingers growing cold in almost the same breath.

“You see, my dear mademoiselle Granger of England, monsieur Zabini knows his guests too well,” he spoke softly, and still for her ear it was too loud aside the slowing thrum of her heart.

“I must –” she stammered, trying to pull away from his embrace and staggering. The flags of the ground swam up to meet her – a rush of pinks and sand that swirled together and blinded her so that she shut her eyes again. “I – I think I may be ill.”

The Lord Malfoy chuckled, and heaved her from her feet. “Come, child. This is no illness, this is permanent.”

“W-what?”

His face was a haze of pale white and silver in the ghastly glow of the lanterns lining the revels. She sagged against his chest, the book a leaden weight beneath her arm.

“Surely you are not such an imbecile that you’d dare escape with that trinket?” he hissed.

In the haze, her mind cleared for just a moment, and she knew, as it became increasingly difficult to breathe, she knew.

“S-sir, it grows dark,” she muttered weakly.

“That it would,” came the wry, silken baritone that she had learned to loathe in her short stay in Italy. “It is the work of La Cantarella, signora.”

His sun-kissed face and fathomless blue eyes swam into view – a mottled patchwork that dimmed around the edges as Hermione struggled to stay conscious. The pair of them stood over her – the angel of death and the devil himself, both smiling ruefully.

“It is a family recipe,” Zabini continued, prising the book from beneath her slackened arm. “A wine, mingled gently with the most subtle arsenic.”

“Poison,” she breathed, and this time with effort.

“A recipe of my Great Grandmother’s; she was a cunning woman indeed. She used it once for revenge on her lover.”

The breath in Hermione’s lungs rattled as she wheezed, her hands dropping to the ground where they’d lain her. She could no longer lift her arms.

“Do you know why?” he asked gently, kneeling beside her and stroking her cheek with a solitary, warm finger.

She was so cold.

“He tried to take the Book from her.” He grinned nastily.

Her vision darkened.

A tear slid from her cheek as she struggled to see his face, that vicious smile, the plain indifference of the silver man at his side.

“And my family – indeed, our families…” His voice was distant – a bare tingling wind against her cheek. “We keep that which we treasure safe from outsiders.”

She struggled for breath, vainly, and it rattled in her lungs with the last doleful, defeated thud of her heart.

The world slid to black.

And to silence.

And to nothing.

 

-fin-