Dining with the Malfoys
July 2017, a month before the beginning of Scorpius Malfoy's education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. At Malfoy Manor, the historic home of the Malfoy family, the five key members of the family gather for a celebration before his admission; much to the detest of all involved. Draco, Scorpius' father, and Astoria, Scorpius' mother, are making the journey to Wiltshire with their son, from an upmarket flat they reside in in Kensington, London, designed to Astoria's specific, upmarket tastes; the opposite of the black, gothic tastes of those residing in Malfoy Manor. In fact, Narcissa and Lucius themselves are the opposite of Astoria and her principles.
There is something about Wiltshire. It is July, the height of summer, yet dark clouds still rumble above our carriage that is trundling along the remote lane. Darkness is setting in; Narcissa and Lucius' favourite time of day, it would seem, as they never seemed to invite us for a spring lunch, or a barbeque in the midst of summer, and mealtimes seem to move further and further back to meet with the recession of dusk. I dread dining with the Malfoys. No matter how many times Draco says it; it's only a couple of times a year, or it's just the principles they were brought up in, the principles I was brought up in too, or even well maybe if you were a little more understanding…
My husband the weasel. Well, if you had grown up with Narcissa and Lucius as parents, you would be too. He has to support both sides of the argument; no matter what he felt deep within that frozen heart of his he would not reveal his true feelings when it came to his parents, or even me to that matter, in fear of offence. Before I knew it, Draco had kindly accepted Narcissa and Lucius' offer of dining with the Malfoys. I ranted for a whole evening when he'd told me, not helped by the fact that I'd had a bad day at the office (the office of the Daily Prophet was full of spineless men like my husband, and I was not in the mood). Draco nodded and agreed in all the right places, but not a word against his parents actually came out of his mouth. Draco Malfoy, the diplomat. Judging by the stories I'd heard of his time at Hogwarts, I'd very much doubt Harry Potter, or any of his cohort, would have believed that to be true.
I know it is because he loves me, and he loves them. But I can't love them. They are vile. Despite He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's downfall, and the obviously better world that has succeeded his reign of terror, the Malfoys still support the pure-blood principles that He supported. Draco was brought up on those principles, but I like to think that I have 'knocked it out of him', as to speak. When we became engaged, on a snowy night in the extensive Hogwarts grounds, I told him, yes, yes, yes, on the condition that our son would be a better man than he is. But still, once, or twice a year, when the time coming to dine with the Malfoys, I grate my teeth as I see my Draco turn back into their Draco, snobby, discriminative Draco.
The carriage hits a bump, and I am lost from my thoughts, snapped back into the present like a rebounding curse. Scorpius is staring at me, concerned expression perched upon his brow, his blonde hair framing either side of his face as I like it to be. He has the distinctive Malfoy look, and I am proud of this, but I will not allow Draco to slick his hair back with a ton of Muggle hair gel like he does. The spiralling locks remind me of my father, and my family. Draco is gazing out of the window, knowing full well that when we turn the next corner Malfoy Manor will appear out of the darkness, looming over us. Scorpius smiles at me, only slightly, but his eyes lighting up. I smile back, with a mischievous grin that tells my son to grin and bear a trip to Grandma Cissy and Granddad Lucius. He hates it almost as much as I do, but for the opposite reason; while I tolerate cold stares from the Malfoys, he tolerates the hugs, the presents, the endless comments of his resemblance to Draco. It is not him, and it is not me. In all honesty, it is not Draco any longer.
The carriage turns, and I see it. The bumps of the country road are replaced by smooth, magical tarmac, which the Malfoys' Squib caretaker has spent days agonising over, and could have been done with a single swish of a wand. Another reason I despise my parents-in-law; they like to see people suffer. Draco once told me the story of Dobby, their house-elf, long-suffering under the Malfoy tyranny. That ended well. That lost You-Know-Who the war. That was the only justification for Lucius and Narcissa's many faults; it always seemed to come back to bite them.
Malfoy Manor is a towering structure, stretching far up across the skyline, currently illuminated by the dying embers of the day. Completely constructed on black marble, the original Muggle-built structure of the manor has been annexed by various magical structures over its 1000 year dominance over the local Wiltshire landscape, turning it into maze for Lucius and his ancestors' dark magic toys. Narcissa loves it, even if she moans about the regular purchases her husband makes on visits to Knockturn Alley. Malfoy Manor is their abode, their pride and joy; well, that and Draco.
"Be good," Draco says to me as the carriage slows. I nod shortly, grimly, an acknowledgement that I'll be good, as I always am. But despite my impeccably positive façade when dining with the Malfoys, Narcissa can see right through me, and they have always disapproved, right back to when I was little Astoria Greengrass, I wasn't good enough for her Draco. I dread to think what she would have said if he'd dragged a muggle-born home, or even a halfblood. But even my family, the pureblood Greengrasses, were not good enough for Narcissa. So, in short, I would be good, as I always am, and bite my lip when she makes some comment about Scorpius' manners, or their Muggle scum neighbours.
The moment I dread arrives; the carriage stops completely. The Squib caretaker (what is his name? Spurt? Spark? Smiths?) pulls the door open, revealing the black marble steps that ascend to the looming mahogany doors guarding the Malfoy abode. The glow of the setting sun has gone now, leaving the doors illuminated by two torches. The outside air is bitter, and I pull my black cardigan close around my shoulders, while my beautiful, jewelled purple dress provides little protection from the cold. My husband strides ahead of me, dressed in a smart, trim suit that I have picked out from Madam Malkins' for him, while my son trots after him, a mini version of his father. I take a moment to observe my handiwork with a brief smile; a real smile, most likely one of the few I will pull this evening. Then the doors are creaking open, by themselves, bewitched to measuredly reveal the interior of the majestic hallway. I grit my teeth as they appear; Narcissa, dressed from head to toe in the blackest of blacks, glittering with the occasional silver bead. Her hair is carefully knotted behind her in the most elegant of plats. But it is her face, bony, pointy, that describes Narcissa Malfoy. When she smiled, her face pulled tight around her mouth, wrinkling her withered cheeks and pulling her lips into a straight purse. Lucius is worse; his hair is slicked behind him, but much longer than Draco's. What was once gold has turned tinged with grey. He is dressed in his usual black robes, knotted tight with a silver snake clasp below his sharp chin. His green eyes glitter unpleasantly with his smile, which is curdled, more of a smirk, after years of practise.
I put on my fake smile and ascend the steps, where Narcissa has pulled my son into a suffocating hug and Lucius has clasped Draco's hand into a rather overformal handshake. When Narcissa obliges to release my son, she turns her gaze to me, and I see the shift in her eyes, from genuine happiness to extreme politeness and tolerance. She moves slightly towards me as I reach her, my own impeccable fake smile in full flow, and reaches across to kiss me on each cheek. The whole thing is a rather uncomfortable affair, and I am glad Draco and Lucius have already buried themselves in some meaningless conversation or other and fail to notice.
"Narcissa," I say politely, as she withdraws to survey me. She judges every inch of me in a moment, her smile faltering for a second as she disapproves of the rather bright purple I have chosen specifically to spurn them and their obsession with gothic black.
"Please, darling," Narcissa murmurs, her posh voice grating to my ears. "I have told you before, it is Mother, you are our child now." Over my dead body. "Of course," I reply sweetly, "Apologies, Narcissa." It flows out of my mouth, I am unable to control myself. I see Narcissa's smile drop, replaced by a disgusting downward turn of the lip. She turns and sweeps into the house, after her precious grandson, who, ignoring his grandfather completely, has disappeared into the treasure trove of dark ornaments that Lucius obsessively collects. I take a deep breath, and wonder whether it is too late to turn and run back to the carriage. As if a response, I hear the whinny of the horse as Spurt, Spinks, Smiths, begins to cart him off to the stables. It's just an evening, Astoria, I say to myself, take a deep breath, restore my impeccably perfect fake smile, and follow my husband, my son, my mother and father-in-law, in to dine with the Malfoys.
The large mahogany table is draped in a Slytherin green tablecloth at the centre, and silver placemats are aligned with the seats we are to sit in. As usual, Lucius takes his spot at the head of the table, the large snake statue behind him like a herald, imposing down on us, unlike the spineless man himself. Narcissa sits on his right, and Scorpius to her right; she has not let him out of her sight since we have arrived, spending every waking moment commenting on the blondeness of his hair, the tan on his skin, the two inches he has grown since she has last seen him. I notice at one point she fondled with his locks, and made a quiet comment; "Wouldn't you like to do something with this mop, my boy?" Bitch.
I set opposite my son, while Draco perches skittishly on his father's right-hand. I can tell he is waiting for me to make some comment, so he can sweep in, ever the dictator, to ease the tension between me and his snake of a mother. On seating myself, I 'casually' throw my hand down, and it finds itself on Draco's. I see Narcissa glimpse the subtle affection with cold, silent fury; a reminder of the lack of affection between her and her husband. Narcissa and Lucius' marriage is dead for all but aesthetic purposes, and has been since his actions in the Second Wizarding War. Spineless coward.
Narcissa has Smythe, as I have finally discovered his name to be, pour four glasses of the deepest scarlet wine into our glasses, the traditional drink of the traditional Malfoys. Lucius has told the story several times when I have dined with the Malfoys; my ancestor, Lucius the second, was introduced to this excellent drink by the Muggles when he served alongside King Richard III himself; an acquired taste, red wine, but of far greater quality that wizarding drinks, you know; goblin piss, is what I call it. Give me a Butterbear any day, or even a pumpkin juice. I eye my son's goblet, filled with the sweet yellow liquid, with envy.
"So Scorpius," begins Lucius, fondling his wine glass, "are we excited for your first term?"
My son's eyes light up bright green (Malfoy eyes, I admit) at the mention of Hogwarts. Mine fall; I dread the subject of my baby boy's upcoming departure. A term at Hogwarts, September to December, is such a long time to be away from Scorpius. Not to him, of course. Scorpius cannot wait for his first day, seeing the infamous scarlet express engine chugging into Platform 9 and ¾, the mindboggling turrets of the castle emerging from the fog, and most of all, the sorting ceremony.
"I can't believe it has come around so quickly." Narcissa cuts across my son as he goes to speak, before swilling her teeth with a gulp of wine. "Mind you, I remember with Draco Astoria; it does come around so fast. I remember the letter he sent us, bursting with the good news; I'm a Slytherin, Mother, I'm in! He was so nervous, weren't you darling?" Draco nods with a weak smile, embarrassed, I can tell, at the strong bond he has always shared with his mother. "Of course," she starts, switching her gaze to Scorpius, "you need not worry. Us Malfoys have always been Slytherins, and my family, the Blacks. You have good genes, my boy."
My anger flares; no mention of my family, the Greengrasses, as the ever-well researched Narcissa has obviously inspected my immediate family to realise my own brother was a Ravenclaw. Another flare as I remember Sirius Black, Narcissa's cousin, was a Gryffindor. I cannot resist once again; words jump out of my mouth. "But if you end up in some other house, they all have their merits, Scorpius. Uncle Gordon was Ravenclaw, remember. The house does not define the wizard." I meet Narcissa's eye with a smile of steel; Your Move. Her mouth tenses into a tighter purse of the lips.
"Well, yes, of course. Other Hogwarts house do have the occasional quality member." Aha! A shot fired back, but still a backhanded compliment. Astoria 1 - Cissy 0.
The dinner arrives. A corpse of fat duck, fried until golden, stuffed with all types of green leaves, and a single bright red apple perched on its crisp head, sits at the centre of a dozen other dishes; spaghetti, oysters, noodles, chicken, salmon, clams, and a single, small bowl of caviar. When I had dined with the Malfoys for the first time, three months before my wedding, the caviar bowl had been much larger, to Lucius' glee, but the aftermath of the war has significantly diminished the Malfoys' finances. Although they had escaped punishment in the form of Azkaban, Lucius never recovered his tarnished reputation among Ministry officials, or our great Minister Kingsley Shaklebolt ensured he didn't, and as a result Lucius begrudgingly handed in his resignation just two years after the reestablishment of the Ministry. Along with it, the position of Head Governor at Hogwarts, which had been even harder for Lucius to let go; or rather, Narcissa to see Lucius let go. All their influences over the wizarding world gone, in an instant. Brilliant.
Scorpius has eyes wider than the manor's entrance hall on seeing the banquet laid out before him, and Narcissa loves it. Spoiling her grandson rotten, unlike his evil mother, is Narcissa's favourite hobby. Presents by owl, anonymous donations to his Muggle primary school, monthly membership to the Broom Shop in Diagon Alley; all, in one way or another, stemming back to Granny Cissy. It was to my absolute joy that despite this, Scorpius still disliked his grandmother. He sensed my repugnance to visits, overheard my arguments with Draco over our next visit to Malfoy Manor, and stayed deliciously loyal to his mother. His plate is immediately full, and his face moments later.
In comparison, I delicately fill my silver platter with rather less than my competitor. I cannot allow Narcissa to think of me as a fat old bitch, now. Narcissa is completely aware of my every move; it is like chess, and one false move allows her to gain the upper hand. Narcissa is an expert at chess, and it is only by playing the game so many times that I stand a chance at winning.
Her move. "So Astoria, how is work on your column going? Still got the giggly witches of the Leaky Cauldron hooked?" I try not to let my inner rage show again by moving salad carefully from a bowl onto my plate, with a look of deep concentration on my face.
"Well, Narcissa. In fact, dear old Barny Cuffe renewed my contract last week. Another year of 'The Golden Witch' will grace the Daily Prophet. Of course, I think very little of the column, it's just something I throw together. Who would have guessed I would have won quite so many awards for it?" I give a short laugh. Draco is aware of the game, and shoots me a look; stop playing the game. I do not meet the look; no. I am locked in a long lasting gaze with Cissy, our fake smiles rising with fervent struggle every second that passes. A light bulb flares above my head. "And your charity work, Narcissa. How is building the family image going for her?"
The smile drops, completely. I have broken her. An angered look crosses her face. "As you well know, Astoria, there is no need to rebuild my family image. The Malfoys always have and always will be an esteemed family in the wizarding world." She slams down her wine glass, which magically refills; a sign she is not thinking straight, as if she was at her usual cruellest she would summer Smythe to do it. Never use magic where good old hard labour could substitute, eh! The slamming causes all members of the Malfoy family look up anxiously from their plates; Lucius, Draco and Scorpius, all making anxious eye contact with whoever they can before ducking back down into their overflowing pallets to avoid an argument. Oh, I've broken her now.
Then the smile resumes, crisp as ever, her eyes crinkling like a cuddly old lady (ha! The irony!). Caring Grandma Cissy is restored, and the action of raising her fork to her mouth is as dainty and careful as ever. It's hard to break a Malfoy, and even harder to break a Black.
Meaningless dinner chat resumes, as the main course begins to resolve itself. Most of the food has disappeared with the help of my son, my husband and my father-in-law. What is left, Lucius snobbishly informs me, is Smythe's; he talks like Smythe is privileged to be given their second hand food. Smythe bows deeply whenever his name is mentioned, a weasely smile sprouting across his chapped lips. He pretends as if he is in awe of his masters, like a petty house elf, but underneath I recognise a glint of resentment in his eyes. A glint I share.
Then dessert produces itself. Trifles, pavlovas, eaten mess, great bowls of cream, a tower of dark chocolate ice cream, teetering dangerously at an angle; a huge mass of wobbling, blackcurrant jelly with a magically emblem of the Slytherin snake crested with a flick of a wand/hours of Smythe and the kitchen hands' work. My son's eyes are bulging out of his head at this point, and a drop of saliva sneaks down his lip off his chin. With glee, Narcissa utters: "Dig in!"
It is not until after the ice cream tower has been disassembled, the blackcurrant jelly has been swallowed, and the great chasms of cream are mere smears at the bottom of an empty silver bowls, that the war begins again. With more fire than ever. And it breaks me.
"Scorpius, honestly, slow down! You will give yourself indigestion." Scorpius looks up apologetically, but does not slow his pace at devouring the huge bowl of eaten mess that is before him. Narcissa laughs at his ignorance; even Lucius and Draco smile. I do not. I am angry at my husband; with one simple smile he has sided with her and I'm unimpressed. A point to her, she is gleefully thinking, all because of one stupid grin by a stupid little man.
But this is not the last round of her ammunition. "Honesty, Astoria, his table manners are hardly to be desired. London ways, eh?" She gives off a scoffing laugh and I clench my fist under the table to stop myself from retaliating. "Well, we live in a modern world. Parenting is just not what it used to be in our day, is it Lucius? Draco, if you had eaten like that, I would have got Dobby to cane you!"
I highly doubted that. Nobody laid a hand on Narcissa's special boy. Before I could stop myself: "Well it's a shame Dobby isn't around now to teach my son a lesson or two. Where is he now then, Narcissa?"
Narcissa's face curled up into a ball of rage, her cheeks filling scarlet. Draco gasped, while Lucius dropped his spoon with a chink into his bowl, before leaning back, resigned to the fact a battle had just begun amongst our war. "Dobby… left our service a number of years ago. As I'm sure Draco…" She shoots a glare at her son, who conviently avoids her gaze. "…would have told you."
She picks up her spoon and stabs at the remnant of a kiwi fruit in her bowl, but does not attempt to lift it too her mouth. The tension can be cut with a knife, and I can see Lucius about to try and cut that tension when there is a loud clatter, and a crack, from Scorpius' seat. His bowl, having been pushed to the teetering edge of the table by his savage devoration of his desserts, has fallen, smashing on the cold stone floor below. He looks at me in horror for a moment, before 'Grandma Cissy' takes control. "No matter, no matter, my boy! Smythe! Smythe! Clean this up!" Smythe scuttles in, with a dustban and brush in hand. Before I know myself, I have pulled my wand out, and I am muttering, "Reparo!"
The fragments of the dish congregate and fly back onto the table, repairing themselves into perfect shape of the bowl that once was. Smythe stands there, looking bemused, and slightly horrified at wondering what Narcissa will do next. She smiles at me. "Thank you, Astoria. You are the most talented witch."
I smile, taken aback by this most unexpected compliment. I know it is not sincere, but it is most unlike my mother-in-law not to contain a subtle dig within her compliments. Then she continues, and the battle reaches its highest point. "Of course, the same cannot be said for you, Mr Scorpius! Your skill at controlling that bowl; honestly, my boy, they'll knock that out of you in Slytherin House! (Grrrr) There, you'll learn some real manners. Get taught how to behave proper, like the pureblood wizard you really are. You are the social elite, Scorpius, and you must remember that -a"
"ENOUGH!" I am stood, blood pulsing through my veins in an intense fury like none I have every experienced before. Everyone round the table reels; even Narcissa, who was not expecting this reaction. Bitch. I have ruined it now; she has won, I have shown weakness and she has shown control. But I have simply had enough.
Draco tugs at my sleeve, like a little boy, like his son does regularly. "Sit down!" he mutters angrily, loud enough for the entire table of silent Malfoys to hear. No.
"Scorpius, collect your coat. We are leaving. Immediately."
Narcissa chuckles. "Leaving? But, Astoria, we have made you all up beds for the night. It is getting dark and the horses will not be up for riding at this time…"
"Scorpius and I will not be taking the carriage," I say curtly, pushing my chair behind me in a short, swift move. "We will leave through the gates and apparate back to London."
Lucius and Narcissa both look at me with delightful horror. "But Astoria, it is not good for a boy of Scorpius' age to be apparating, even if it is sidelong! You have surely read the article in your own newspaper by Dr Janet Frankenmurray stating the dangers of apparating at a young age…"
"Everyone does it, Narcissa. Scorpius and I will not take another moment of you and your discriminative, disgusting ways, it is as simple as that. We are leaving now, and I will never set foot in this manor again. And until he comes of age, when he can make his own decisions, neither will my son."
A stunned silence proceeds my speech. Narcissa, Lucius and Draco are looking at me in horror. Scorpius, with a massive grin on his face. Go Mummy! This is when I realise I too am smiling; I am escaping these dreadful people at last.
"Now come on, Astoria," says Narcissa, all kindness or compassion removed from her voice. She is herself now. Her smile in gone, her lips are pulled tight in a careful frown, and her eyes are thin slits, glaring at me like she is wishing I would drop dead. "That is not just your decision. My son has an equal amount of control over our grandson as you."
"Indeed," I say calmly. "But the matter of the fact is, that if my husband supports you, and stands against me in this decision, I will leave, I will take my son, and he shall never see me again. It's Draco's choice." I turn to face my husband, our eyes meeting. He is pleading with me, begging me not to do this. But it is too late, and even if it weren't, I am glad, so so glad. "What is it going to be?"
I am walking, clutching my son's hand, down the path, towards the open gates of Malfoy Manor. I do not look back, although I feel Scorpius turn slightly, glimpsing his grandparents watching him at the door. Bitch. Spineless coward. I am walking, and I am not coming back. Goodbye, Wiltshire. The clouds have shifted slightly, to reveal the moon, which is almost full, and shining down on us and bathing us in a grey glow. I will remember this moment.
Draco is behind me. He turns back too, pausing for a moment as he meets Narcissa's eyes. She is not pleading, not desperate, but disappointed. She has lost her son, and her grandson, in one dinner with the Malfoys. I hope she understands now. I hope she understands that I have won. I hope she understands that I am more than a match for any Malfoy.
Finally, finally, Draco's hands slips into mine, and feeling Scorpius' tiny hand in the other, I imagine our flat. Then Wiltshire is gone. I will never have to dine with the Malfoys again.
