Chapter One

The House on the Hill

Tact had never been Ron Weasley's strong point and now, as he paused at the top of the flight of stone steps, desperately trying to catch his breath, he wished he'd paid more attention to his wife before going ahead with his plans.

"You'll just muck the whole thing up, you know." She had said that very morning, pulling her bushy, brown hair back into a loose ponytail. "Leave it to someone else. You'll drive us further apart..."

Now, standing in front of the ruin that used to be the Malfoy mansion, he cursed his prior flippancy and wished he'd thought up some sort of plan.

The house, standing on a barren-looking hilltop, gazed mournfully into the distance, its cracked, lead-lined windows whistling as the cool, November breeze blew through the jagged holes, as if composing its own solemn funeral march. Ivy crawled up the brickwork, knotting itself around the occasional brick that stuck out from the wall, wafting in the wind. The vast oak doors, carved with the Malfoy crest, stood slightly ajar, creaking in their rusty hinges.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he pushed the door open and stepped into the dusty, rubble strewn hallway of the mansion.

A great, dusty dining table stretched the length of the room, most of the chairs were now missing and the few that remained were splintered and broken, the stuffing pulled out of the once ornate cushioned seats. A huge, black chandelier crouched, as if ready to attack, on the ceiling like a dead Acromantula, and Ron froze for a second before regaining his composure. Portraits lined the mouldy, wood panelled walls, all of them empty, save for one.

The portrait in question took pride of place over the mantelpiece on the eastern side of the room. Lucius Malfoy stared down at Ron Weasley from behind the frame, his grey eyes narrowed with distaste.

"You. Blood traitor." The spoken words echoed throughout the hollow hall, magnifying the malice. "Have you come to gloat?"

"No, actually." Ron stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. He stopped and looked around him. "Where is he?"

Malfoy Senior breathed deeply, straightening himself up. "Outside." He said, finally. "He rarely comes into the house anymore."

Ron glanced round at the broken objects littered around the room, privately thinking there were several reasons to not want to enter the ghostly mansion. Malfoy glared at him.

"Anything else?" He snarled.

"No." Without saying another word, Ron turned on his heel and continued his journey through the house, leaving Malfoy's portrait to stew in his own disgust.

Ron only visited the Malfoy residence once or twice since he had been on the run all those years ago, and he paused at the door leading down to the cellar, where he had been held captive while Hermione had been tortured. Any joviality he had ever felt at Malfoy's discomfort swiftly evaporated and he continued his quest quietly, his mouth set in a grim line.

Every room in the house seemed to be exactly the same: sad, mournful, unkempt and unwanted. Dust coated nearly every surface; books, lamps, curtains and chairs were all suffocated under a blanket of grey fuzz. Cobwebs adorned the corners of the rooms and Ron quickly shuffled onwards.

A thin trail of footprints in the dust ran the length of the corridor, never diverting into a room or upstairs. They continued into the vast, cold kitchens and through the back door, out into the gardens beyond.

The door leading outside was well oiled, one of the only ones in the house that seemed so, and Ron breathed deeply as he stepped out into the late Autumn sunshine, glad of the fresh air that flushed the dust out of his nose.

The garden was overgrown; wild grass had grown on either side of the muddy path up until Ron's shoulders, completely suffocating any hint of life that may have been dwindling in the borders. He followed the muddy, footprint - encrusted path through the grasses. The path seemed to be going downhill, although the grass was so long that he almost lost his bearings. Occasionally, he would spot the odd bit of wall or an old, broken fountain that would stick out from the mass of overgrown plants, a miserably reminiscing of exactly how grand the Malfoy residence had once been.

Finally, after walking for some time, he could just make out the rooftops of some run-down outhouses above the tips of the grasses; this seemed to be where the path was headed. Ron quickened his pace, now having a goal and marched through the marshy puddles.

As he drew nearer to the houses, the tall grass seemed to gradually fall away, until he found himself in a clearing, giving way to a brick cottage and a small, slightly boggy pond. A small dining chair that Ron recognised as being a member of the dining set he's seen earlier in the hall, under Lucius Malfoy's portrait, had been set up next to the pond The sun had now begun to set and he found himself shivering in the phaeic atmosphere. He crossed to the cottage and knocked on the door.

He was left standing there for a few moments and was about to knock again when the door opened. Draco Malfoy, hair now thinning and with the slight suggestion of a beard playing about his jaw, was standing holding the door open. He wore a blue knitted jumper and a pair of wellington boots; quite different to the ensemble Ron had expected.

"Weasley." He said, narrowing his eyes much in the same way the portrait of his dead father had done in the hallway of the great house standing on the hill.

"Malfoy." Ron nodded his head. "I'm here on behalf of the Ministry."

"I see." Malfoy studied him for a moment. "Where's Luton?" He said, after a moment. "It's always been Luton that's done the collection before."

"Luton was busy."

"I see." Malfoy paused before opening the door further, obviously weighing up his options. "Well you'd better come in, then."

As Malfoy turned, Ron allowed himself to breathe again; it had gone better than he had expected. He'd had visions of turning up home with all sorts of strange growths appearing on his body, courtesy of Malfoy, and Hermione having to hex them all off, one by one.

He followed into the cottage. Immediately, Malfoy moved towards a glass-fronted cabinet mounted on the wall.

"It's in here." He said, unlocking the cabinet with a key he'd retrieved from the back pocket of his trousers.

"Right."

The cottage was plainly furnished, although everything seemed clean and well looked after. The only real decorative feature seemed the photograph of a young boy on a broom, propped up on the mantelpiece. The boy looked about twelve in the picture, with fair blonde hair, ruffled from flying. As he watched the photograph, the boy fell off the broom and picked himself up again, laughing with his face full of mud.

"Your son?" He pointed towards the photograph. Malfoy half turned towards him.

"Yes." He said, his tone suddenly icy.

"He'll be in..." Ron racked his brains. "...his...fifth year?"

"Yes. He's fifteen."

"So is my daughter." Malfoy didn't reply but turned back to the cabinet. Ron frowned. The Weasleys and the Malfoys would never be friend; there was too much history. Yet, something had definitely changed over the years, an understanding had been reached and the families were not as acidic as they had been all those years ago. Hermione especially despised the hostility; she thought it stupid and immature and she was probably right, although she wasn't the one having to actually talk to the creep, though Ron bitterly.

"So..." He began again, determined to start up a conversation so that he could at least tell Hermione he'd tried. "...why down here? Why don't you live in the house? It could be a nice place if it was cleaned up."

"Memories." Malfoy answered simply, without turning round. Ron understood. God knows what actually went on during those months that You Know Who had occupied it. Malfoy's memories could scar him forever, although that didn't let him off for being a total prick.

Malfoy turned, a small wooden box clasped in his hand.

"It's in here." He set it down on the table. "I found it the other day in the house." He said, slowly opening the lid of the box. "It must have belonged to my mother." Inside the box, nestled in amongst folds of silk, was a jewellery box. It was engraved with the profiles of two snakes, coiled and ready to attack. Tiny emeralds had been inserted for eyes and they glimmered dangerously in the dusky hue of the room. Ron took the jewellery box from Malfoy and tried to prise it open.

"I've already tried." Malfoy said. "It won't open. I've used all sorts of spells and enchantments..." Ron nodded.

"Can you hear it?" Malfoy suddenly asked, his eyes large and wide.

"What?"

"Listen." Ron listened for a moment. He was just about to tell Malfoy he was talking a load of old rubbish, when he heard it. A faint, dull hissing. Parseltongue.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" He asked. Malfoy shook his head.

"I don't speak it." Bet you'd like to. Ron thought, before feeling a bit guilty.

"I'll have to run a few tests." He said, taking the box from Malfoy and shutting the lid. "But if they're harmless, you'll have it back before the end of the month."

"I don't want it back." Malfoy murmured.

"What?"

"I don't want it back." He said, louder this time.

"Why not?" Malfoy shrugged.

"Heirlooms don't really mean that much to me anymore." He stared at the box. "Keep it. Or give it away. It doesn't really matter to me." Ron nodded.

"Fine. I'll let you know the test results anyway."

"Thanks." Malfoy said. They were both silent for a moment, awkward as neither knew what to say.

"I'll erm...go now."

"Yes."

"I'll show myself out." Ron left the room and Malfoy heard the door shut behind him. Squelching footsteps soon started to sound quieter and quieter, as they made their way up to the house on the hill.

Malfoy turned to the mantelpiece. His son, frozen in time, smiled back at him.

A/N – Thanks for taking the time to read the first chapter of this story. This is actually a Rose/Scorpius fic, even though you've not met them yet. You do later, don't worry.

I'm new to Romance as a genre and so harsh, flaming, soul-destroying criticism is welcomed with open arms. I will not be offended, unless of course you say I'm fat, which would be hard considering you can't actually see me.

Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be great.

Ellen