Harry Potter: The Price of Silence.

He seemed weirdly fascinated by their Muggle activities, like he almost enjoyed observing how the 'lesser species' lived. She caught the way his brow furrowed slightly, the only flaw in his otherwise expressionless face, when he'd watched her and her mother dance in front of their television when she was nine, copying the steps of the dancers on the screen with elated giggles.

She didn't miss him cock his head to the side, a tiny movement she would have missed if she weren't observing him so closely, when he'd watched her younger self and family pile into a caravan on their family holiday, huddling together and sheltering from the unexpected rain.

He made snide little comments along the way like the bully he would always be; he took stabs at her awkward posture, made never-ending comments about her hair, and even-

Hermione was dragged from her meditation by three delicate knocks on her bedroom door.

To start with, she thought she'd imagined it. Malfoy didn't knock when he was ready for her. Not once, not ever. He just barged in, often swinging the door open so violently it added to the ever-growing dent in the plaster on the other side of the wall. So why was he knocking now? Maybe she'd imagined it. She was so bored, deathly spiritless. She'd probably hallucinated it. Her usually busy mind had probably created the sound to entertain herself. Or maybe she was finally starting to go mad.

Hermione turned from the window and stared at the door, waiting to hear Malfoy's snide voice from the other side of the wood.

Knock, knock, knock.

No, definitely hadn't imagined it.

Curious, Hermione swung her legs off the window ledge and walked towards the sound. She stopped in front of the oak doors, her fingers curling around the brass knob while she pressed her ear to the door. "Hello?" she asked quietly.

"Hello Granger," a soft, feminine voice said from the other side.

Hearing another woman's voice took her completely off caught, Hermione couldn't help but gasp and jump back. She stared at the door, eyes wide and mouth agape. Who was that?

"Would you be so kind as to open the door?" the voice asked, still soft as a whisper. "I do think it's time we met. Don't you?"

Did someone else live here? No, that wasn't possible. Hermione had explored the manor every day for almost two weeks. She'd spent hours and hours wandering the halls and gardens, if someone else lived here, she'd have run into them by now, wouldn't she?

"Who are you?" Hermione snapped strongly, confidently, despite the unease she felt creeping into her stomach.

"Won't you please open the door? I would hate to have our introduction through a piece of wood. It's so much more personal to do it face to face."

Hermione kept her hand firmly clasped around the doorknob, her muscles refused to twist the handle and let the stranger in. Her pulse quickened, and her mind started to buzz with a hundred questions. What if it was a trap? What if she was another Death Eater? What if she was armed? Hermione wouldn't be able to defend herself. Did Malfoy know she was here?

After a few seconds of hesitation, Hermione drew a deep breath and pushed that panicking voice to the back of her mind. She started to twist the handle.

Because, no matter who was on the other side of that door, they couldn't be worse than Malfoy.

Hermione froze when she locked onto a pair of brown eyes. Her skin pebbled under her jacket and her gut-twisted uncomfortably, both common responses when one first caught a glimpse of a poltergeist.

Because the owner of that soft voice, the blonde that stood in the doorframe, looked exactly like someone Hermione knew to be dead.

The rational part of her brain told her that the petite woman standing in front of her wasn't a ghost, she couldn't have been. She lacked the opacity that all poltergeists possessed. Her skin was pale but solid, and she certainly didn't have the soft blue tint of the undead, but still ... she looked just like her; a mirror image of that girl with flowy blonde hair that Hermione had shared classes with at Hogwarts.

There were some differences though, if Hermione looked closely enough. The girl in front of her was slightly shorter and paler than her deceased older sister. She had a much smaller frame than Hermione could remember Daphne ever having, her waist and hips were narrower, and her face was a little fuller. There was an artificial flush colouring her cheeks, and her full lips were painted an eye-catching shade of red.

In truth, the woman was dazzlingly beautiful. Hermione couldn't remember the last time she'd seen anyone as striking, as undeniably alluring as the woman stood in front of her. Her brown eyes practically sparkled under her long, mascara coated lashes. Like the rest of her, her hair was perfect; softly styled golden curls wove their way to her shoulders, catching the light as she tilted her head to the side. She was dressed modestly, in high heeled black stilettos with a black, tea-length dress that nipped in elegantly at her small waist and flared out in a tiered A-line skirt. The top half of the dress was embroided and had short, lace-covered sleeves. She looked as though she could be on her way to the Opera, not roaming the halls of this lonely manor.

"Do you know who I am?" the blonde asked, beaming.

Hermione nodded. "You took me off guard, I thought you had long brown hair?"

The woman's expression fell slightly. Her smile dropped for a moment as her dainty, perfectly manicured fingers twisted the handkerchief in her hands.

"Astoria Greengrass, isn't it?"

The blonde's smile returned, wider and brighter than before - it made dimples appear on her cheeks. It was an authentic, kind smile, one Hermione didn't expect. It made her stomach twist uncomfortably. Suspicious. "It's Astoria Zabini, now."

Ah, yes, of course. Hermione had almost forgotten that life went on as normal for those under Voldemort's leash. Weddings for his followers were probably great big events, nothing like the tiny, reclusive things the Order called 'weddings'. Harry and Ginny had said their vows inside a rubble filled base, Luna and Neville said theirs in the infirmary at one of the Order's bases after an attack. Astoria Zabini's wedding was probably nothing like that.

It seemed... strange, that weddings and such lavish events still went on despite the war around them. It seemed wrong, unfair that the Death Eaters and the rest of Voldemort's loyal follower's lives were relatively normal; a world apart from the constant stream of death the Order was forced to endure.