Chapter 3: The Last Time

The man who opened the door had precisely her golden brown eyes.

"Daddy," Hermione breathed, her face lighting up.

His expression glowed with happy surprise. "Hermione!" he exclaimed quickly, drawing her into a comfortable hug. "Weren't we supposed to fetch you from King's Cross on Saturday?"

"Oh, I'm of age now, I don't need to use muggle transportation," she lied, her voice taking on an unexpectedly high pitch as she subconsciously took half a step back and sheepishly eyed her shoes.

"What?" Her father tilted his head at her, looking confused. "But we picked you up at Christmas - "

She felt Malfoy stir beside her and she nearly jumped. "Oh, Daddy, I almost forgot - this is Draco," she said cautiously, shifting her shoulder back to allow Malfoy to step into view. "Draco, this is my father, David - "

" - this isn't Draco Malfoy, is it?" her father interrupted, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Hermione bit her lip nervously; she'd had the luxury of managing to forget who Malfoy had been before all of the turmoil of the the last six months. The last her parents had heard about the pale blond standing beside her was very much a reflection on a rather unsavory Malfoy of the past. "This isn't the Draco Malfoy? The one who called you a - "

She coughed loudly, looking down.

"I regret to see my reputation precedes me," Malfoy interrupted, his face showing rare traces of genuine disappointment. She watched with fascination as Malfoy looked intensely at her father, his eyes betraying the kind of sincerity that, until now, only she had been privy to. "Whatever choice words you've reserved for me, I assure you, Mr. Granger, I deserve them."

Hermione's heart thudded as her father crossed his arms sternly, letting his eyes flick up and down Malfoy's form. "Maybe you should go first," the older man prompted, waiting.

Malfoy glanced at her wearily and she gave him a weakly apologetic smile, suddenly comprehending the uneasy expression that had blanketed his face just prior to her knocking on the door.

"What are you hoping to accomplish tonight, Granger?" he had asked only moments before. "Surely you're not planning to accost them - "

"No, no," she'd assured him softly. "I - I think I'd like us to have dinner with them, if that's okay."

He'd eyed her closely for a moment before nodding his impassive agreement. "Okay," he'd said simply.

There had been no questions, no complications, despite her glimpsing a window of anxiety in his stormy grey eyes. She only now understood that its appearance had meant he'd seen this coming, even if she had not.

She felt another flicker of overwhelming gratitude to him - a moment of rapidly compounded appreciation and adoration and affection and thankfulness and love - knowing he'd been willing to brave the storm without complaint, and purely because she'd asked him to. That was the Draco Malfoy she had so desperately wanted her parents to know, before she was forced to say goodbye.

Malfoy was still looking at her when he opened his mouth to reply.

"I was raised to believe in someone else's truths," he uttered quietly, the implications of the statement ringing in the space between them as he finally tore his eyes away from hers to look respectfully at her father. "She showed me hers, and now hers and mine are the same."

Hermione suspected Malfoy had more to say, but the way he shifted uncomfortably seemed to indicate that this moment, as they stood warily on the threshold to her home, hadn't struck him as the time or place.

"Okay," her father pronounced uncertainly after a moment's pause. "If Hermione can look past your behavior - "

" - which I have," she interrupted hurriedly.

" - then I suppose for now I can accept your premise," her father finished, though he did not appear to have made much of a concession.

Malfoy winced apologetically. "I suspect she's smarter than both of us," he admitted, his eyes flicking back to her face. "She certainly knew something about me that I didn't."

"She's a bright girl, my Hermione," her father agreed, finally throwing an arm around her and moving to grant them entry to the house. "She certainly doesn't get it from me."

"Oh stop, Daddy," Hermione said exasperatedly, though she clung to her father's side.

She didn't want to let go. After all, it could be the last time, she thought painfully. It could be the last time he put his arm around her like that.

She had the same thought a little bit later. It could be the last time, she thought again, when her mother held out her arms and marveled at how fine she looked.

It could be the last time, she thought as she took her seat across from her parents, pulling the ivory cloth napkins her mother reserved for special occasions into her lap, laughing at her mother's story about an unruly patient with a penchant for cavities.

"Cavities?" Malfoy had asked, and her parents had frowned.

"Do you have time for a checkup?" her mother asked innocently.

"No," Hermione insisted hastily, hoping to spare him the agony. "Malfoy has perfect teeth."

It could be the last time, she thought as she watched her parents share the knowing glance she'd seen so many times before, the shared look between longtime romantic partners who were coincidentally also dubious dental professionals.

"Of course he does," her mother tossed out noncommittally, smiling warmly even as her voice carried hints of Hermione's own bossy air of general skepticism.

It could be the last time, she thought as she fought the urge to squirm in her seat, listening to her mother tease her about her bookishness.

"I have to say, Draco," her mother said innocently, carefully placing her fork beside her plate. "I'm surprised to see that Hermione stopped reading long enough to find a boy to bring home."

"Mum!" Hermione yelped, blushing, but Malfoy merely wiped his mouth delicately with his napkin, replacing it nonchalantly in his lap.

"Your daughter does have a certain proclivity for academia," he acknowledged with a charming shrug. "But I'm afraid I'm quite taken with her."

"Oh?" her mother asked, her hazel eyes dancing as she watched Hermione's cheeks flush.

"Yes," Malfoy replied seriously. "Quite taken, in fact." He glanced over at Hermione and she rolled her eyes at him, entertained by his rhetoric. She had to hand it to him - the young Malfoy heir certainly knew how to charm a mother. "And frankly it's been nothing but hardship, having to undergo such a disruptive change of heart."

Her father chewed thoughtfully, eyeing the pale young man. "A change of heart?" he echoed, waiting.

"Yes," Malfoy said somberly. "I won't pretend I wasn't cruel in the past." The glance he gave her father was sharp and unyielding. "I won't pretend that I wasn't an intolerant bully."

Her father's half-smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. "That's certainly good to hear," he replied airily, and Hermione watched both men closely, stunned silent with curious fascination.

"What Gr- I mean, what Hermione has done for me, it's more than I could have ever asked," Malfoy assured him. There was a barely perceptible tremor to his voice that served to indicate sincerity without betraying a single trace of hesitation. "She's far too good for me, sir, but I promise" - he paused, putting weight on the word and leaning conspiratorially towards her father - "I will always take care of her. She'll want for nothing, so long as she lets me stay around."

"She is everything to me," Malfoy added quietly after a moment, sitting back in his chair with the air of someone who'd betrayed the last of his secrets.

Hermione, dumbfounded, watched her father nod slowly as the two men reached an unspoken agreement, the muggle and the pureblood finding unexpected common ground for the first time.

It could be the last time, she thought, her heart full and waiting to be emptied.


Ron Weasley was having an epically bad day, and that was saying something, considering he'd once almost been murdered by giant spiders.

"I don't understand," he told Harry for the second or third or ninth time that hour. "I don't see why we can't just go to the Burrow. My dad will sort everything out - "

"I just don't know if that's a good idea," Harry said impatiently. "I've already said this, Ron, I just think we need to be very careful about what we do next."

"Since when is asking the Order for help not being careful?" Ron demanded irritably.

Harry closed his eyes as though trying to control his temper, which only served to infuriate Ron further. "Come on, Ron," Harry repeated. "You know we can't, not when we haven't figured out what to do about Malfoy - "

"Would you listen to yourself, Harry?" Ron snapped, standing up to pace through Harry's crowded bedroom. "Since when do we concern ourselves with what to do about Malfoy?"

If Ron hadn't been sick of Malfoy before, to say that he was at this point would be a wild understatement. It had been one thing when Malfoy had been merely the focus of Harry's suspicious scrutiny. Harry's investigation into Malfoy's comings and goings had been an odd pet project of sorts, but even when it had been at its worst, Ron had found it nothing more than simply tiresome in spurts.

But where it came to Hermione . . . that was a different matter altogether.

"You'll just have to accept it, Ron," Harry said bluntly. He'd been significantly more understanding the first time they'd had this conversation, but his patience was obviously wearing thin. "What happened in that tower involves him, and there's just no getting around it."

"But doesn't it make more sense for Malfoy to be on his own?" Ron pressed, frustrated. "We can't just run around hunting for horcruxes with a famously dead git on our hands - "

"Ron - "

" - we'd just be asking to get caught, honestly - "

"Ron, listen - "

" - you should really have a talk with Hermione, get her to see some bloody sense before this all goes to shit - "

"RON!"

He blinked. "What?"

Harry eyed him wearily. "Do you really want to force Hermione to choose between us and Malfoy right now?" he asked quietly. "Are you sure you want to know what her answer would be?"

Ron drew himself up angrily. "What are you saying, Harry?"

"I'm saying she loves him, Ron," Harry said gently. "If you make her choose, you might not like what she decides."

Ron shook his head adamantly. "No, Harry, she would choose us - of course she would choose us - "

"I don't think she would," Harry interrupted sadly, naked pity filling his green eyes as he watched Ron from where he sat. "I'm sorry Ron, but I think that right now, she would choose him."

Ron didn't want to admit the truth. That was obvious, of course, because if he did - if he could just admit to himself everything that he'd already heard Harry say - he wouldn't be having this conversation again.

Because the truth - the actual, real, painful truth, at the heart of it all - wasn't just that Hermione would choose Malfoy, it was that Hermione had already chosen Malfoy. The very worst of it was that Ron didn't even know how long she'd been choosing Malfoy. How long had she loved him? When Ron had been telling her he loved her, finally expressing the feelings he'd been keeping to himself for years, had she loved Malfoy even then? Had it been nothing to her, watching him bare his soul for her? Had she watched him with pity? Had they laughed about it afterwards, the two of them? Had they lain next to each other and laughed, the slimy blond bigot's hands pressing into her naked hip? Had the secret, forbidden lovers whispered to each other about what a fool he was, foolish Ron Weasley, to have found comfort in a love that he'd only imagined?

He'd known the whole time, somehow, even when it had seemed crazy that Hermione Granger, brilliant and kind, would choose Draco Malfoy, arrogant and despicable. And not only had she chosen him, but she'd had the nerve to make Ron, her oldest friend besides Harry, feel like a monster for suspecting.

He wanted to hate her. And maybe part of him did.

"Maybe we should just imperius her," Ron muttered. "Or just physically remove her, she's not that strong - "

"If you want to face lifelong wrath from Hermione Granger, you go ahead and be my guest," Harry scoffed with a shrug. "But you might be better off giving him a chance."

"Malfoy?" Ron felt his expression devolve into a mask of open disgust. "Since when do you side with Malfoy?"

"I don't," Harry said quickly. "But I trust Hermione. And frankly, he's not exactly useless - you saw him obliviate the Death Eaters, and he might be able to help us with the horcruxes. I mean, he had access to the inside - "

"How can you say that so casually?" Ron said, horrified. "He didn't just have access to the inside, he was a Death Eater - and now you think you can just blindly trust him?"

Harry barely bothered to conceal a look of frustration. "Ron, obviously I haven't forgotten - "

"You have! Evidently you have, and - and she has - but I haven't!" Ron yelled, clenching his fists. "He has hatred in his blood, Harry!"

"So what do you suppose we should do then, Ron?" Harry argued pointedly. "Go without Hermione? We wouldn't last a day."

Ron shook his head uncertainly, grumbling. "I can't believe you're not even willing to try to talk some sense into her - "

"I talked to him, Ron," Harry said, broaching the subject delicately. "And I know you don't want to hear it, but I think that whatever is going on between them is genuine - I believe him - "

"You talked to him?" Ron uttered blankly. "You talked to him without me?"

"You're hardly in the right state of mind to have that conversation," Harry reminded him. "And I certainly don't blame you for that, obviously, but - "

Something about the way this conversation was progressing suddenly struck a nerve in Ron's already fragile constitution. Losing Hermione was a blow to his ego; it was a strike to his heart, but eventually, maybe, he could heal. But Harry . . .

"You support them?" Ron said, dumbfounded. "Are - are you and Malfoy like, friends now, or something?"

"No, Ron, you're not listening - "

"Then what do you need me for?" Ron roared angrily, his pulse quickening. "What do you need me for, if you've made nice with Hermione and you have her Death Eater boyfriend waiting in the wings? He's clearly much more useful to you, so why should I even be here - "

" - Ron, please - "

" - I'm just your best friend who's almost died beside you so many times I've actually stopped counting - "

" - Ron, you're upset, just listen to me - "

"What else is he going to take from me, Harry?" Ron demanded, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He ran his hand through his thick red hair, grasping the roots of it angrily in his fingers. "What more will you let him take from me?"

Harry's features softened abruptly. "Ron, no - "

There was a tap at the window and they both jumped, startled. There was a large, official-looking brown owl waiting expectantly in Harry's windowsill, and for a moment, both boys promptly abandoned their argument.

"Harry," Ron said slowly, ignoring the dignified owl's impatient hoots, "were you . . . expecting something?"

"No," Harry replied uneasily. He took a step forward, eyeing the large envelope that was attached to the brown owl's foot.

"Harry," Ron said again, feeling his stomach turn. "Does that seal say - "

" - 'Ministry of Magic'?" Harry finished for him, turning the letter over carefully in his hands.

Harry looked up, his face colorless with panic, meeting Ron's fearful glance with a wide-eyed stare of his own. "Yes, Ron," he said numbly. "Yes, it does."


After dinner, Draco found Granger in her living room, holding a small silver frame in her hand and staring vacantly at the mantle.

He reached out to touch her elbow. "Granger," he said softly, pulling her gently to him and resting his chin on her shoulder.

She cleared her throat, leaning her head back against his chest. "This was after my first ballet recital," she said, gesturing to the picture in her hand. He took the frame from her, smiling.

"Funny," he commented. "I never saw you as the ballerina type."

"I wasn't," she croaked. "I'm not."

"Well then, maybe this isn't a memory you need to hold onto," he said matter-of-factly, replacing it on the mantle. "Maybe you don't need any of this," he added, gesturing to the variety of images and letting his hand rest on a picture of Granger as a toddler, frozen uncomfortably in an odd, unflattering glamour shot.

She let out a tiny peal of laughter. "Maybe not that one," she agreed, wincing.

"I know this is hard for you," he added, running his fingers up and down her arm. "We don't have to drag it out, if this is too difficult."

She blinked sadly. "It is difficult," she admitted. "I'm just trying to catalogue every moment, you know?" She sighed, leaning into him again. "I'm so scared I'll forget."

"Forget what? That your parents love you? That they adore you and admire you?" he murmured into her neck. "I won't let you forget, Granger."

And he meant it, too. He had suspected this would be a somewhat pointlessly torturous exercise for her, forcing herself to behave normally while knowing precisely what she had to do before the night was over. But he wanted to at least leave her with the comfort of knowing her parents had approved of him - and so he'd struggled through every moment, trying to cement that belief in her mind. He fought every instinct he had so as not to see the muggle strangers before him; he'd fought to see instead the source of Granger's warm golden eyes, her voracious mind, her pervading goodness, her indescribable light. He tried for her sake to see her in them, while aiming to be what they might have someday seen in him - someone who could be worthy of her love.

But he wasn't perfect. He was no angel. And after seeing the hollow look in his witch's eye, he resolved to take care of things his way, starting right now.

He turned her towards him, kissing her forehead and leading her gently to one of the plush armchairs by the fireplace. "Stay here," he told her, pressing her into the seat.

The look she gave him was startled and pained. "Malfoy - "

"Stay here," he repeated, leaning over her and tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "Don't ask questions."

"But - "

"I won't let you forget," he said again, and waited until her brown eyes registered a sense of recognition and relief before he turned and walked into the other room, his fingers lingering on Dumbledore's wand in his pocket.

The two muggles were cleaning up in the kitchen; Granger's father was washing the dishes while her mother dried them, wandering around and placing plates in stacks behind cabinets. It was almost fascinating to Draco, watching them do this. At his home, his mother had never lifted a finger, and it was the elves who usually attended to after-dinner cleanup. But clearly, the Grangers bore an indescribable warmth toward each other, and for that, he felt oddly comforted on Granger's behalf. Her parents visibly loved each other; they wouldn't be unhappy, he thought. He may have to deprive them of a daughter, but at least they wouldn't be alone.

He experienced a brief, squeamish moment of sadness as his mind leapt to contrast the muggle couple in the kitchen with his mother, who he'd left behind with nothing but his ghost of a father and their cold-blooded houseguest, but instantly shoved the feeling aside, steadying himself for the task at hand.

"Dinner was lovely, Mrs. Granger," Draco said innocently, lingering in the corner as he watched the muggle couple wander about the room. "What did you call the pasta dish?"

Draco had found that it was best, when it came to altering memories, to find a way to bring the most pliable thoughts to the forefront of the subject's mind.

"The tagliatelle?" Helen asked. "Oh, it's a favorite of Hermione's."

"I have an Italian friend who also has a liking for pasta," Draco commented, thinking of Blaise. "His mother is from Rome."

"Ah, we went to Rome once," David said, a smile flickering across his face. "A long time ago."

Draco ran his fingers uneasily along the curved edges of Dumbledore's wand, hidden discreetly behind his back. "Did you enjoy it there?"

"I did," David said, sharing a smile with his wife. "We both did."

"I've never been," Draco said thoughtfully, though this was not technically true. There was a Baroque-era Malfoy estate in Southern Italy that his mother had occasionally brought him to - not that that fact was relevant at this particular moment. "Do you recommend it?"

"Oh yes," Helen said with an enthusiastic nod. "Rome is wonderful. Though David and I have been thinking more recently of seeing Sydney."

"Yes," David agreed, nodding. "We've never been to Australia."

Draco knew that once the thought was planted, most of his work was done for him. He merely had to craft the image properly and add a flick of his wand.

"That sounds wonderful," Draco said. "A trip for just the two of you sounds idyllic," he added, his voice lingering deliberately on the word two.

Granger's parents looked at each other, sharing another warm smile. "True," Helen said. "Hermione's a lovely travel partner, but we haven't gone on a trip together in a long time. Work, you know," she added regretfully.

Draco was only half listening, thinking of details. Names? It would have to be something either he or Granger would remember, once they would be able to track them down. He reached around the corners of his mind for something that would be passable in muggle society, despite not quite having a firm handle on what that would be.

There had been a muggle-born two years above her in Gryffindor whose family name was Wilkins, he remembered . . . and he'd once had a governess named Monica, which he suspected would suit Helen just fine . . . and his father had worked with a kind, stately man named Wendell at the ministry, once, who had a similar good-natured air . . .

"Of course," Draco noted sympathetically, nodding as he mentally rejoined the conversation. "Though my parents have always said it would be a travesty to put work before family."

"Truer words were never spoken," David proclaimed, nodding vigorously. "I suppose the teeth of London could do without us for a few days."

Or longer, Draco thought with a grimace, gripping the wand tightly as he started to piece together their vision.

Monica and Wendell Wilkins. He supposed they could still be dentists; even by muggle standards, it seemed a commonplace occupation.

Monica and Wendell Wilkins, who want to go to Australia.

He swallowed uncomfortably.

Monica and Wendell Wilkins, who have no children.

"I'll take care of your daughter," Draco whispered, though neither David nor Helen heard him, occupied as they were with the dishes.

He raised Dumbledore's wand.

Obliviate.


Theo followed Narcissa down a long hallway he'd been intimately familiar with for nearly all of his life. It was the hallway leading to Draco's room - though it was really more like Draco's wing, in reality. To say Malfoy Manor was expansive would be a heinous understatement. While Draco had lived there, he had claimed multiple rooms for himself, designing among numerous things a library - a more sparse version of his father's, filled with school books and literature rather than rarities and heirlooms - as well as a room devoted to his quidditch obsession, complete with a collection of high-end brooms. Each individual room was neat and minimalistic, like Draco himself, but altogether they spanned at least a quarter of the Malfoy estate.

Not that that on its own was enough to impress Theo, of course, who'd had his own fair share of luxuries. After all, he was no less a pureblood aristocrat's son than Draco.

"It's like a shrine to him in here," Theo noted eerily as they walked, eyeing the way nothing was out of place. "How can you stand it?"

"I don't come here," Narcissa replied flatly.

"Fair enough," Theo said, grimacing. He rubbed his left wrist uncomfortably.

Narcissa stopped abruptly in the hallway, catching his motion. "How does it look?" she asked, more clinical than curious.

"Beautiful," Theo said darkly. "It really screams me, you know?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, impatient. "Show me."

He peeled back the cuff of his sleeve obediently, revealing the Mark. She yanked his arm up roughly, looking closely at the broken skin.

"His reacted this way too," she commented coldly, running her cool thumb along the raw, raised flesh. "It didn't take right away."

Theo did not enjoy the feel of her tight grip around his wrist. "Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Not sure what I'm supposed to do about it."

"Remind me to give you a balm for it," she said, releasing her grip on his arm as her voice regained a slightly maternal quality for the first time in days. "Draco's calmed down after a month or so."

"A month?" Theo grumbled, rubbing his wrist unhappily. "Delightful."

"Don't let the Dark Lord see it," she said warningly. "It's not a good sign that it looks like that."

"Not for him, anyway," Theo agreed, smirking. They paused at the door to Draco's bedroom. "Are you coming in?"

"No." She seemed to be having trouble even looking at his door, which was marked as everything Draco owned had been, with an elaborate scripted M. "Just come find me when you're finished."

He nodded. "Thank you," he offered, though she didn't seem to have a use for his gratitude. She walked away quickly and Theo sighed, pushing the door open hesitantly.

He half expected Draco to be sitting on his bed, looking up irritably, obnoxiously tossing out a "Fucking knock, would you Nott?" or something of the sort. Instead, the painfully empty room carried a thin, weak atmosphere of stillness, as though even the furniture knew its owner would not be returning. It felt as though even the dust could not be bothered to settle in his absence.

Narcissa had placed Draco's wand in a glass case on his dresser; an odd choice, Theo thought, given the more appropriate nature of Draco's library or study, but he suspected she hadn't put much thought into it. The wand looked lonely and forlorn, and seemed to buzz morosely - or maybe that was just the energy emanating from Theo himself.

Either way, it was not a happy occasion.

Theo picked up the hawthorn wand, eyeing it from all angles, as though there was any useful information to be gained from that. It didn't work - he gleaned nothing, of course, but what the fuck did he expect?

"Tell me your secrets," he muttered to the wand, placing it on Draco's bed and pulling his own wand out of his pocket for the spell. "Prior incantato."

The wand seemed to sputter before releasing a thin, hologram-like vision of Yaxley, who appeared to be in some kind of unconscious state. Theo frowned, racking his brain for every possible version of the story that he'd heard; hadn't Yaxley said he was stunned by an Order member?

The next to appear was Bellatrix, whose echo slipped out of the wand in a similar fashion, her ghostlike image facedown on the ground. At this, Theo began to feel extremely uneasy; he knew for a fact that Bellatrix had never mentioned being stunned in any capacity, whether by Draco or by an alternate assailant.

By the time the strange, translucent bodies of Rowle, Greyback, and the Carrows began to form around him, Theo had entered a thorough state of panic, looking around at the multitude of unconscious echoed beings around him. Either Draco had been the one to stun all of these Death Eaters - which was unlikely, given the volume alone - or he had done something to them while they were unconscious. And as if that fact were not bad enough on its own, given the additional fact that only Yaxley seemed to distinctly recall having been stunned, that likely meant that the Death Eaters had to have had their memories tampered with.

Theo lowered his wand abruptly, breaking the incantation as Snape's warning registered in his mind. Whatever had happened to Draco, the incantations on his wand seemed to indicate that he had to have been more than just a cog in the machine, somehow - though to the best of his ability, Theo couldn't think how. Was Draco even powerful enough to modify a memory with sufficient skill to evade detection by the Dark Lord? Could someone else have used his wand to cast these spells?

Theo's heart started to race remembering another key detail that had conspicuously been missing from Draco's past incantations. There had been no Avada Kedavra echo on this wand, Theo realized, eyeing it fearfully.

Who had killed Dumbledore, then?

The door opened behind him and he dropped Draco's wand clumsily, letting it clatter to the floor.

"Narcissa," he breathed, relieved. "I thought you didn't - "

She was avoiding looking around the room. "I was told to find you," she said by way of explanation, pointedly not watching as Theo bent to pick up her son's wand from the floor. "Did you find what you needed?"

"Yes and no," he said fiercely, stepping forward and pressing Draco's wand into her hands. "You need to destroy this," he told her urgently. "You need to destroy it, fast, and make sure nobody sees you do it."

She frowned, furrowing her brow. "Why? What did you - "

"You don't want to know," he said carefully. He was beginning to understand Snape's doctrine of calculated ignorance. "Trust me, Narcissa. Leave this in my hands."

She took the wand from him uncertainly. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, his lips pressed tightly into a hard, thin line. "Do it. Do it now."

Her fingers curled around Draco's wand as she nodded her regretful assent. "Fine," she said, though he could see her unwillingness to even consider parting with the last remaining piece of her son. "But you need to go. The Dark Lord is asking for you."

Theo's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked ominously, knowing there was no possible good answer for this.

Narcissa grimaced darkly. "He has a task for you."

Theo felt his blood run cold.


a/n: Sorry this one was a bit later than normal - still planning to stick to an every 3 day schedule but this weekend got away from me a bit. This chapter is for Archive of Our Own reader gay_briel (for those of you who prefer to read over there, Marked will go up tonight) who so far is Theo's biggest fan, and for CheeseyBri as an apology, because sadly, as you can see, Ron is still not as chill as you might have hoped . . .