Chapter VI: Welcome Home, Milord.

It felt as though Delphia lived and breathed work. She woke up with the sun to leave the house, the elves having breakfast ready on the table so she could take off quickly. Once she had eaten, she was gone, through the gardens to the Apparation point, her bag slung over her shoulder, filled with the work from the night before. When she got to the Ministry and to her office, it was work until lunch, then work after lunch until she went home. Once she was home and had supped, it was even more work, finishing off cataloguing parchments, rewriting torn or otherwise damaged, incomprehensible papers by others, and doing all that wonderful sundry writing for Umbridge. By the end of the week, she had invested in quite a few self-inking quills, defending her expenditure to her tight-lipped mother. Mercifully in the end Preia had nodded sharply, allowing her child this one shortcut. With all the writing she was up against, at least she wasn't asking for a quick-notes quill. As well, Preia was pleased with Delphia's work and thought she deserved this one small reward.

Thankfully, by the weekend, the mansion was completely spotless. Everything had been scrubbed as Delphia had ordered, even the ceilings and walls were gleaming in their perfection. The place looked almost new again, if one could ignore the lived-in feel, the centuries of history and curios and the ease with which the inhabitants drifted from room to room, wing to wing. The house-elves were quite pleased with their work as well, but when Delphia went to double-check that everything had been done, down to the branches in the fireplaces, she was ignored.

"We is busy Miss," one of the female elves squeaked, bustling about in the kitchen, making dinner Delphia assumed. Though, it looked like quite the feast. A congratulation on her first weeks of work perhaps?

"She is meaning no disrespect Miss," a very old male with a long, long nose and droopy ears said as he bowed deeply. "She is being very young and being very occupied Miss. We is having orders from the Missus, we is having no time for anything else."

Frowning slightly, Delphia gave the assembled elves a nod, knowing that she was being nit-picky anyhow. Everything was finished, she had made sure of it, and if her mother was having them do work on something else, who was she to interrupt? Especially if it was her dinner. Sniffing the air, she nearly salivated at the luxurious scents. Fresh puff pastry was being rolled out on a large marble counter, layer after layer of butter and dough, repeatedly folded and rolled again to continue the process until there were hundreds, thousands of layers. Pots of bones and vegetables were scattered across the range, the beginnings of demi-glace and espagnole visible. Walking over to an oven, she caught a whiff of a lamb shank and she knelt to better smell the savoury rosemary-olive oil rub. Ohhh, this was a meal she would never forget. She could already taste the complimentary wines, the multiple courses as they passed over the table . . . In a slight daze she left the kitchens, her stomach rumbling. There was only one way to get her mind off her appetite and it sure as hell wasn't work.

Gliding through the halls to the library, she entered and made her way down to the bottom floor. She glanced around bookshelves and around partitions to make sure no one else was in there, then settled into her chair and yanked her "Dark Arts" book out from underneath. Tapping her wand in the corner of the book, it quickly changed back to her copy of "Infamy of Deeds: a History into the World of Werewolves". Brushing her fingertips tenderly over the embossed letters, the shape of a woodcut etched in leather, a smile crept to her face. She had earned it. Earned it as surely as the meal awaiting her a few hours from now. The rumble in her belly could be ignored, easily ignored, with the prospect of that glorious dinner.

Flipping the pages to the chapter on modern werewolves and their signatures (ie: their methods, the way they killed and the theories why), she first read up on Synrax Bentclaw, a werewolf whose slight deformity in no way belied his absolute ruthlessness. He had been known in the Mediterranean for at least a century and the best guess was that he had come from somewhere in Europe. Though that, even the author admitted, was complete speculation. Those who had somehow seen him or heard him speak swore he was Italian, but there was absolutely no substantial proof on the matter. He was a mystery, though his attacks were well-known. It seemed he quite enjoyed wiping out blocks of people. Muggles more often than not, the occupants of lengths of houses slaughtered mercilessly. On the dusk of the full moon, he would randomly "choose" a set of homes and rape nearly anything that moved, gathering every person into one area. How he managed that feat was still a mystery. There was some talk about a pack aiding him. However, there was no question about what happened next: when the moon came up and touched him, he went into his frenzy, killing everyone that had been gathered together. Why he did it wasn't known, and what point he was trying to prove was just as nebulous. It was further surmised that he just did it for the sheer pleasure of his visceral, debauched desires; either way, it couldn't be proven.

The next werewolf on the page was one Corinthe Sanguine, whose history was an absolute mystery. No one knew where he had originally hailed from, or where he was bitten, or which century either happened. All people had known was to fear him. He was nothing like the other werewolves; he was smarter, stealthier and preferred more brains to his brawn. Unlike the other werewolves of the time, he took more after his cousin wolf, hunting in a definite pack with strategy, stalking out singular prey, flushing his victims from a larger group. Rumours had said he had a mate, but no one had actually seen anything resembling that, nor had names or a corpse. It was generally accepted that he had been the one to sire Fenrir Greyback (see below) and had spent a long time leading his pack afterwards, before finally being put down.

Eyes drifting downward of their own accord, Delphia took in the bolded, underlined name of Fenrir Greyback. A chill went down her spine. This was by far her favourite werewolf. Perhaps it was because he was still (technically) active, or because her father had actually known him. And maybe, just maybe, because he had the most written on him. Where the other werewolves had a few paragraphs, he had a few pages. And anyone deserving pages upon pages in a general book made them special in Delphia's eyes. Turning the page over, she saw a rough drawing of the man-wolf. It wasn't all that flattering, in fact, she could remember a better picture of him in her father's things. It was a group picture, he and his associates, one that had been kept hidden from the Ministry all these years. While the Death Eaters weren't stupid enough to leave evidence just lying around, they were also people and for the most part, friends. Her father, she recalled, had respected Greyback's brutality. And what brutality it was. Scanning the pages, she read voraciously, as quickly as she could before settling back for a more languid read.

Some girls swooned over the bad-boys in Azkaban. Delphia had a thing for men who shifted into an unearthly form at the full moon. Even Lupin hadn't escaped her stare, though he was much too tame for her tastes. He tried overly hard to be a normal wizard, instead of embracing his feral side. Still, he was the closest she had ever come to a werewolf and it had been so difficult to contain her knowledge and excitement in sixth year. Where the others had been oblivious to the signs, she recognised all of them: his agitation near the full moon, his days missing when the moon was full . . . Snape's essay (which she heard the whole school had partaken in, though at different difficulty levels depending on the year they were in) had been the clincher, telling her exactly what she already knew. She was being taught by a werewolf. A trained, docile one, but a werewolf nonetheless.

Delphia remembered a small, tight-knit underground fan club that had started in the Slytherin Common Room when Sirius Black had escaped. The girls involved said that someone who had done so much for the Dark Lord only deserved to be praised. She hadn't bothered telling them what her mother had said about Black being a Death Eater as much as Harry Potter was. Besides, the Death Eater thing was their excuse; they just wanted that bad boy who had faced the odds, killed a bunch of people (so was said. Mother had always been tight lipped about that one) and had escaped Azkaban yet. Delphia couldn't judge nor blame them. She had her own perversion.

Hearing footfalls on the winding stairs down to the main floor of the library, Delphia tapped the corner of her book with her wand once more, reading casually. As the sound became louder, a soft rustling of silken dress robes and the toeing of covered feet, she lifted her face to gaze at her mother.

Preia took her studious daughter in, revelling in the sight of her further learning the Dark Arts. The child really needed more practise; theory, however, would help as well. For some reason her hex-work was a bit underdeveloped, and so if she could find help in one of the ancient, or not so ancient, books dotting the over-stocked library, so be it.

"The house is magnificent," Preia said as she eased herself into one of the large chairs near Delphia.

Nodding at the compliment, she allowed her eyes to drift shut momentarily. "Thank you Mother. I was hoping my work was satisfactory."

"Hm," was all she returned, though thoughtfully. "The elves said you were in the kitchens?"

Starting slightly, Delphia's brows arched. "Yes. I wished to double check with them, to make sure everything had, in fact, been done."

"Quite the feast they're preparing, isn't it?" Preia's voice was as smooth as the resplendent, almost modest gown of deep green she wore. Her quick eyes took in the spark and sudden smirk of her daughter.

Yes, quite the feast, Delphia thought to herself as her eyes glinted. Oh, she couldn't wait to taste the living-greens salad or the slices of perfectly tender lamb. Upon seeing the almost mocking look her mother was giving her, she realised she had done something very wrong.

"Eager, are we?" Preia wondered with a snicker, knowing her child thought the food for herself. It was unfortunate that the girl was so easy to read, but perhaps she would learn with time. Once she could start hiding herself from her own mother, begin lying with confidence, she would be completely prepared for her life.

Delphia's mouth attempted to form words but her brain just wouldn't settle on what to say. After a moment of silence, she shrugged as if she didn't really care. "I'm just very hungry. I haven't eaten much today." Letting out a little laugh, she tossed her hair and leaned her head back against the chair. "My hunger is getting to my mind as well."

Very good child, you almost had me. Smiling sweetly now, Preia lifted herself gingerly out of the chair, the only hint to her advancing age. "That mauve dress-robe of yours," she began, causing Delphia to grasp desperately onto this new conversation, "you will wear it tonight." Seeing her daughter's question forming in her face, she shook her head. "Do not question me Delphia, you know the punishment for disobedience. Take your book to your room and remain there until you are called. You are to be dressed and presentable when you enter our home proper. If you are not . . ." the matriarch trailed off with an indulgent smirk and pinched Delphia's cheek none-too-kindly. "Again, you know your punishments, don't you darling." It wasn't a question. Yet it still demanded response.

"Yes Mother," she sighed, rubbing her cheek as her mother let go and wandered off, leaving her alone once more in the massive library.

Having no choice but to listen to her mother, Delphia scooped up her forbidden book and tromped off to her room. She was so wrapped up in her mind that she didn't even notice the impulsive duel that had broken out in the upper landing. Makrin and Kieran were shooting hexes at one another, running and ducking all over the hallway that was almost as large as a ballroom. Delphia strode right through, not even taking heed, until Jaeger grabbed her arm and hauled her around a corner.

"You want to get killed you idiot chit of a girl?" he snapped, shaking her slightly.

"What?" Staring at her eldest brother, the sounds of giggles, grunts and shouts filled her ears. "Oh, yeah, sorry."

He gave her a look, wondering what the hell was going through her head, then stormed off with a snort, going back to his refereeing. Delphia shook off the feel of his hands and continued onto her room, where she shut the door on Kieran's wails as some curse or another finally made contact. Really, mother coddled him too much. Sometimes he acted like an absolute baby. Walking through her sitting room, she tossed her book on her bed then went to her wardrobe. Searching through the masses of colourful and not-so-colourful robes she owned, Delphia finally spotted her mauve one. Pulling it out, she decided she would wear her bronze jewellery with it. Silver just wouldn't look right, and anyhow, it looked as if her mother had the monopoly on silver this night.


The house was perfect for His arrival. Preia hadn't felt the urge to be giddy in a long time, but right now, she could feel it welling up inside her as if she was a young woman on her wedding night. In a way, it truly was almost like that. He would be coming, along with most of the old crowd. Oh sure, some were still stuck in Azkaban, but there were enough left for a revel. The Dark Lord, at least, seemed to think there were more than enough to continue with the old ways. Or, to make a start on them once more.

Straightening up the vast dining room herself, she wanted to make sure everything was just so. When the table was fine and had passed her dust and shine test (a finger across the surface), she ordered the doors onto the living room opened. That way, everyone could mingle, get their foods as they wished, then continue mingling in the comfort of the living room, or take to the outdoors through the clear, polished glass doors at the back. A small stone porch wound around the back, statues visible in the distance as one walked its expanse, tasteful plants drooping over their cement pots on each small pillar dotting the walkway. Men had such the habit of wandering aimlessly outside when they were discussing important things. She had chosen this room with care, knowing who would be arriving.

Looking over the room with a careful eye, she wondered if perhaps it was too hot to leave the doors to the back open. Maybe she could tempt a breeze – but no, it was best for them to stay shut until the party had already commenced, allowing those bored with the topics freedom and time to themselves or their favourites for hushed conversation. It wasn't wise to hand that out right away, when important issues had to be discussed. Eyes scanning the room once more, it was only practice that kept Preia's hand from flying to her mouth as she gasped.

His chair. She didn't have a proper chair set out for Him! How insulting, what a travesty that would be. To invite Him into her home, as she once had done, and to not even have it fully prepared. Well, she would have to rectify that immediately. Clapping her hands sharply, a pair of elves appeared before her in rags that were once dishtowels, bowing deeply.

"The Missus is calling us? Is she in needing of something?" the old male elf squeaked.

"Yes, quite," Preia murmured. "I need a chair befitting the Dark Lord to be set up for Him, and He alone."

Daring to lift his head up to look at his mistress, the house-elf almost looked to have tears in his eyes. "The Dark Lord He is coming here? Again? Oh Missus! We is finding His old chair, we is!" And he disappeared with a little poof, the second elf disappearing a split second later. A few moments later they reappeared with a dusty old chair that resembled a modest throne; where they had managed to scrounge up the old thing, Preia had no idea. The attic, or the cellar. Somewhere she never went. Leave it to the elves to keep something so precious, on the off-chance of needing it once more.

"Clean it. I want it gleaming as if it was new," Preia demanded, eying the chair with distaste now. What had happened to it? Her husband had brought it home, so proud of finding something suitable for the Dark Lord's first meeting in their house. Now it looked pathetic and old. She examined her hands momentarily and shut her eyes. They lived on through their children, and she would prove that fact. No matter how old she was getting, she would never stop.

"We is having it clean, Missus," the second elf said after some time, Preia lost in her own thoughts. Her pale eyes opened slowly and she took in the chair, nearly smiling at the sight. As she had commanded, it looked almost new. It could never be as stunning as it had been over a decade ago, but still, it held that charm, that power it always had. Within its curves and sharp lines was the reminder that the Dark Lord alone was great enough to sit on it. He would remember. Would there be a slight turning of His mouth as He gazed upon their past, as if nothing had happened in the interim? Would there be praise of her loyalty, a loyalty so firm and everlasting that she would think of even the tiniest things for Him? The opening of her home alone to so many pure-bloods and all available Death Eaters, not to mention a sumptuous meal, was more than enough to prove her fealty. This, this was subtle reminder of who and what she was, and was still. It was the tiny things. Always the tiny ones.


The grouping started with the Notts, Parkinsons and Malfoys arriving nearly at the same time. Preia greeted her guests kindly but with haughty airs that were befitting her. They all murmured at the opulence that still bedecked the manor home, being led off personally by Preia herself to the dining room. Thankfully everything they needed was in the immediate area, so they wouldn't have to brave the labyrinthine home on their lonesome. When in the dining room, Preia had to beg off to gather her children, receiving accepting nods from the couples, Lucius bowing and scooping up her hand in a rather gentlemanly manner, kissing her still smooth flesh. A flutter went through her, reminding her of the old days. Could they be coming back? Sweeping off, Preia first went to a near-by room to gather her sons, magnificent in their robes, each tailored to augment their bodies and features. Upon seeing their mother, they stood respectfully then followed her out of the room and down the halls to the dining room, where their guests had been waiting barely a minute.

"I apologise," Preia murmured to those gathered, knowing full-well she could have had an elf get her boys, but wanting the image of her leading these three powerful men seared in the minds of those gathered. They would gossip, murmur breathily about the stunning juxtaposition of the family, the strength they all exuded, as well as the absolute obedience the sons had for their mother. These second-hand tales would prove more useful than a full gathering catching glimpse.

"It is quite alright," Lucius said congenially, walking over to shake the hands of the men, who fell right into step. "Who could blame a mother for wishing to show off her great sons?"

Preia fell into murmuring, allowing her cheeks to blush somewhat. "Thank you Lucius, you are too kind."

"And your daughter?" Narcissa wondered as she peered around the bulk of the men blocking the doorway, "is she coming as well?"

Before Lucius could retort with the scathing bite on his tongue, Preia smiled amiably at the others.

"She will be joining us later in the night. Poor dear, she has so much work to do. She practically begged me to allow her late entry, as she's finishing up some paperwork for Dolores. How could I deny her?" she finished, looking the image of the embarrassedly indulgent mother. Her reply took Lucius aback somewhat and he returned to his wife, wondering if perhaps the girl wasn't too young and irresponsible after all.


Tossing a crumpled bit of paper up towards the canopy of her bed, Delphia repeatedly caught it, only missing it twice in the last half-hour. Even she had become bored of her book, her trepidation over the night interfering with her concentration. Finally she had set it aside out of frustration and the questioning of how many times she needed to read the same damned section. Now she had settled on tossing a makeshift ball to herself even as the wafting scent of food lulled her into thinking about heading downstairs. She could smell that meal and it affected her greatly.

The talk about not really eating all day hadn't been a lie. And she had so wanted all that food to herself. As she thought about it, her mouth watered slightly, knowing she could make a good dent in everything on her own. The image of puff pastry filtered through her mind, wondering what it was going to be turned into. Salmon Wellington? Beef? Little slices topped with miscellaneous foods for hors d'oeuvres? The demi-glace told her there would be more than lamb shank on the table, for the lamb itself needed next to nothing to top it; perhaps a simple jus? Breathing in deeply, she thought she caught the whiff of fresh dill, butter and lemon; fish, oh, how she adored fresh seafood. She knew that was the failsafe for fish, though she did adore a mango-jalapeno salsa with her blackened catfish. Bolting upright in bed, she couldn't take the torture anymore. What if her mother had ordered blackened catfish with her favourite fixings? Could she even dive in with her ravenous hunger? From below, she could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and the clinking of glasses; she could feel the movements and talk vibrating up through the floor into her bed. With so many people partaking of the feast, she would have to be demure and pick daintily at her food, instead of leaping in. If it was up to her, she'd have used her hands to scoop everything within reach into her rapacious mouth. Unfortunately, not much seemed to be up to her, and she knew she had better self-control than that.

Lobbing the wadded up parchment from one hand to another, she waited another half-an-hour, now worrying idly about wrinkling her meticulous robes. She had even put on makeup in her boredom, knowing it would go over well though she usually didn't wear it. When she stood and threw the paper into a corner, she walked over to her vanity and stopped short. She knew what she looked like, but the way she looked now caused her breath to catch. The image staring back at her was that of a grown woman, ready to face the pure-blooded world, to partake in their merrymaking. Not that of a girl fresh out of school, in a world she was worried was far too big for her. Still staring at her reflection, wondering when this seemingly sudden maturity had occurred (or was it her mind playing tricks on her?) she didn't even notice the house-elf until it tugged on the skirts of her robe.

"Miss? If Miss will be coming down with us?" the elf said in the high pitched voice characteristic of the whole race. Delphia stared at the elf with an almost sad expression. They had both been born into something they couldn't do anything but accept. Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she nodded at the elf who took off, heading across her rooms and out the door.

Well, I had been kinda hoping for reviews, but I'll just keep posting I guess. And thank you so very, very much to those who take the time to review. Even though there aren't many, it means a lot to me. This story is eating up a lot of my life and it's good to know it's worth it, on some level. Anyway, there's a LOT more story to come; I'm on chapter 34. And chapter seven, which should be up in relatively short time, is when the story REALLY starts. Hint-hint, nudge-nudge, say no more, a wink's as good as a nod, eh? Anyhoo, I hope whoever is reading is enjoying. This is an absolute joy to write, it's so much fun, and I hope that those individuals who are actually reading are enjoying it as much as I am. Stick in there; you're getting into the "good" stuff SOON.

BL