DISCLAIMER: Lawyers on behalf of Ms Rowling specifically noted that she has "no complaint about innocent fan fiction written by genuine Harry Potter fans."

Most of the characters in, and the basic idea of, this fanfic belong to J K Rowling and the story conforms to her wishes about fan fiction. Some parts may be AU.

A/N: Sorry it's taken so long to update. I'm working on two other stories as well and don't get much time to write plus been away on holiday! Thanks to 4Eirlys, Vipera411 and Guest for your reviews.

***chapter 7***

***Divided We Fall***

Draco Malfoy never felt more alone. His heart thudded furiously against his chest while his blood was surely turned to ice. Moments ago he was breathing normally. Now his breath was trapped in his throat and he doubted he would ever breathe normally again. He stared unseeingly at the odd little being who had announced his wife's death. Perhaps Malfoy Manor had shaken free from its very foundations, perhaps he or the house-elf or both were trembling. Nothing was certain anymore. Nothing was real. Unable to find his voice, unable to breathe or think or be, he indicated for Skip to follow. Because – well, because even a house-elf was company when there was nobody else.

The master of the manor expected to Apparate into Astoria's study, but instead he was in the kitchen. It was an area he hadn't visited in years, not since the days of Click and Rilla, when Draco, Lucius and Narcissa had no choice but to venture into the very bowels of their grand home to collect their own lunches, and there would often find the two rebellious elves surrounded by a haphazard mish-mash of dirty dishes and half-finished cleaning, laughing and dancing, or chatting and nibbling whatever treats took their fancy.

The kitchen gleamed and sparkled and dazzled now. Draco had the feeling since Skip it was always so and a twinge of some unrecognisable emotion briefly brushed his heart. But there were more important things than house-elves. More emotions surging through him than he had ever known before. If Astoria were dead...how would he and Scorpius ever live again...?

At first all seemed well. A welcoming aroma he could almost taste, of cake mixture and fruits and chocolate, assailed his nostrils; the pleasant, rain-scented air, filtering in through the basement windows, caressed him. The large kitchen table was weighed down by pots, pans and jars, bags of flour and sugar, flavourings and potions, and as yet unmixed magic. Attracted by the sweet aromas, and though they could never enter unless the protective spell was lifted, magi-bees clustered around the window panes, humming the gentle lullaby his wife had always loved and would often sing to Scorpius when he was very young.

Astoria lay on the kitchen floor. Wearing the same emerald green and silver-tinged robes she had worn to see their son off to Hogwarts that very morning, looking just as beautiful. Long black hair spread about her shoulders, eyes fast closed, lips parted in a butterfly smile, she seemed lost in deep, contented sleep. Except there was no rhythmic rise and fall of her chest where her arms were lightly folded, nor tiniest flicker of movement on smooth brow or shuttered eyelids.

Her face was cold and white and still as marble.

A flash of bright green light indicated the house elf's arrival, as Draco fell to his knees beside his wife and whispered her name as though he would wake her tenderly from gentle slumbers. He knew instantly what had happened. He knew instantly he was to blame. For in one pale hand she clutched a wand while the other held a long parchment containing the complicated formula for Wizzlewick cakes. And added to the recipe, in the looped, aristocratic handwriting that always fell from the tip of any quill Draco magicked to write for him, instructions for the extra spell.

Two days before, he had told his wife about St Mungo's being contacted by a hieroglyphics expert. About how the wizard had succeeded in translating some of the more obscure symbols of the Wizzlewickian Age, and suspected the potion mixture related to the earliest practise of giving and receiving Wizzlewick cakes. But of course he couldn't release such information to the general wizarding public without first ascertaining that the mixture wasn't poisonous. Storing magic was already dangerous enough for the non-mathematically inclined. And St Mungo's had an excellent reputation for potion research.

Draco, who was working on analysing the mixture, personally believed, as he told Astoria, the potion kept both the cakes and surprise magic fresh for months. His wife had asked lots of questions and flattered by her interest – Tori was normally never interested in anything involving figurework – he enjoyed showing off his knowledge, and so described in great detail the ingredients involved, writing it all down upon her request.

All the while knowing how bad Astoria was at multiple wand spells. All the while knowing how much she missed the family that had ostracised her. One day, Tori said every year, after Draco had helped her calculate the hidden magic, they just might open the basket of Wizzlewick cakes miniaturized and Owled to them, and be tempted to nibble just one cake and maybe...just maybe, she would add, eyes glistening, Mother or Father or Daphne or one of her nephews, if they were old enough now to write - being eight and six now, or so she'd heard, she thought they might be - would send a short note...

It was never going to happen. The Greengrasses would never forgive her for accepting muggleborns and half-bloods as equals. Draco couldn't quite understand it himself. He'd gotten over believing they shouldn't be allowed to share the same air space as purebloods, which was very magnanimous of him, but it was a fact they were inferior. Astoria was simply too soft and kind-hearted to see it. But he loved his wife despite her flaws. He cradled her in his embrace, rocked her, kissed her hair, her cheeks, her ice cold forehead. He said her name over and over, his throat raw, his voice a hoarse rasp. He'd forgotten about Skip until he spoke.

"Whatever will we do without her, sir?"

We?! How dare a mere house-elf equate himself with wizards and witches? Draco looked up to glare, and was shocked to observe small tears trickling down the plump fellow's face, rolling like a river over the curve of his rosy cheeks and dribbling down off the end of his round chin. These creatures cried? These creatures had feelings? His throat burning from his own tears, he swallowed several times before answering. "Your mistress is not dead, Skip. Not exactly."

The odd being looked at him questioningly. It was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous, that the great genius and pureblood Draco Malfoy should be explaining himself to a lowly house-elf, but unless he counted the magi-bees there was no-one else to confide in. And even though they were, being magic-bees, non-stinging and their buzzing evolved centuries ago to hum the favourite music of the nearest passer-by, they hadn't evolved highly enough to be able to talk.

"My wife was attempting to create Wizzlewick cakes," he added, choking back another sob.

Malfoy's softened emotions made Skip unusually bold. His generous heart twanged as he watched him broken, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his robe. He shook his head in bafflement, sharing his distress. "But it's not Wizzlewick Day for..."

"I am perfectly aware of the date on which Wizzlewick Day falls," his master snapped, causing the house servant to jump and quickly take refuge behind a kitchen chair.

Draco rolled his eyes. Why in the name of stinging blue billywigs was he conducting a conversation with an elf? But somehow he couldn't help himself. It was as though someone had charmed his tongue. His words ran away with him, just as they had done that terrible day on the Astronomy Tower.

"If the correct mathematical formula is not followed precisely," he continued dully, as if reading from a particularly bland reference guide; "stored magic will not kill, but may cause the spell-maker to suffer Locking."

"Will...will the m-mistress recover, sir?" Skip queried timidly, his head barely reaching the top of the little wooden chair he quaked behind.

Draco nodded, trying not to break down completely, smoothing his wife's thick, glossy tresses away from her calm, lifeless face, remembering a time long ago in Hogwarts' Great Hall when the sunlight glinted on her raven hair. There was no cure for Locking. He'd worked on it himself. St Mungo's admitted around 20 new cases each year and all they could do was settle them into the hospital and care for them until they woke. The worst case was still Locked after twenty years. And though he kept on hoping Astoria would suddenly open her eyes, the reason he was delaying taking her to St Mungo's, he knew no witch or wizard had ever woken so soon. "Though it may take days, week, months..." His voice shook and became almost as high-pitched as the house-elf's, "...even years..."

Skip ventured slowly out of his hiding place. "The mistress has always been very kind to Skip, sir. Perhaps if would help if Skip were to punish himself?" He suggested, albeit careful to keep his distance, sidling along with his back flat against the wall. Unfortunately, he had drawn closer to the window, where the magi-bees immediately began humming "It's Good for Your Elf".

The magi-bees' buzzing of the hated song was the last straw. "DON'T BE SO BLOODY RIDICULOUS!" Draco roared. "How in Merlin's name is that going to help my wife? Just...just clean the Manor or something while I'm gone, you nincompoop, before I have you mixed into a potion!"

It was an empty threat, but the house-elf wasn't to know that. And Draco didn't know how much he was going to regret yelling at Skip. The poor little fellow was already trembling more than he'd ever trembled in his life before...

XXXXX

Instead of putting on the pair of shoes she had selected for that very purpose, Hermione Granger threw them against the wall. Which didn't exactly help matters – in fact, it rather delayed them – but it did make her feel better for a fraction of a second.

After they'd seen Rose off to school, Ron, with their young son Hugo in tow, had immediately set off for New York, to discuss the possibility of opening a Weasleys Wizard Wheezes store in the Big Apple. Harry and Ginny had long planned their own holiday - or vacation, as Hugo and Lily liked to call it. Ever since being told of the long-distance trip and by muggle transport, they had been vying with each other over who could come up with the most Americanisms. Elderly Mrs Charmdragon had been baffled when, while out walking with her great-grandson Algernon, Lily and Hugo stopped her, Lily to remark didn't baby Algernon love his pacifier, and Hugo to enquire about how often the baby wizard needed his diaper changing; and had quite seriously told their parents they needed to explain to their children that the correct words were dummy and nappy, and some English coaching might be advisable.

Hermione didn't begrudge Harry or Ginny their time away. Harry worked damned hard as Head of the Auror Dept and, since Ginny had been selected for the international Quidditch team, she was juggling motherhood with intensive training. And it was really kind of them to offer to take Hugo "to keep Lily company". The cousins were close friends as well as rivals and hated being separated from each other. Merlin help Hogwarts if, when they were finally old enough to enrol, they were put in different Houses! The wizarding school would never recover from the meltdown.

Ron's holiday was another matter altogether. Looking pleased as a goblin who'd found gold, he'd sprung the news on her two days ago. Apparently, he'd booked last-minute plane tickets and, thanks to another holidaymaker's cancellation, had even managed to book into the same hotel. It was a "great opportunity" to promote the Weasley joke shop empire, he added, and what a pity Hermione was always so busy in the Dept of Magical Law Enforcement, or else she could have joined them.

It was true Hermione was always busy – she sighed at the sheer amount of paperwork she brought home to wade through every night – but, given a lot more notice, she could perhaps have swapped round some jobs, put others on hold, and worked like a house-elf to get essential issues sorted. Ron was a great believer in putting himself first however and it never occurred to him for a second that Hermione might like a break too. Even Harry and Ginny, just before they'd Apparated to Heathrow Airport, had pulled her to one side to ask was she okay about them going so far away without her, because if not one of them would...

Hermione cut short their generous offer with an affectionate hug for each. No way was she letting either of her friends forego their well-earned rest. They were worn out. Ginny looked pale and had lost weight; there were bags under Harry's eyes and Hermione was shocked to notice flecks of silver in his hair. She told them to have a great time, to tell her all about it and be sure to remember everything or else she'd be forced to use a pensieve if they didn't. She would have said more but just then Ron returned with Lily and Hugo, all three eating chocolate frogs and arguing about Quidditch player pictures. Sometimes it seemed like she had three children instead of two. And to begin with, that had been sweet and endearing, one of the things she loved most about Ron. But now, as he gave her a chocolate flavoured kiss and a big, clownish grin, it wasn't funny anymore. It was just...silly. And, unlike Harry and Ginny, he didn't ask if she was fine about him leaving. As usual, Ron told jokes, fooled around with the kids. Because being a clown was what Ron did best.

He was the last to Apparate and as an afterthought told Hermione not to work too hard. It was odd and sad and even kind of liberating to realise she wouldn't miss him.

Only an hour after they'd Apparated, and just after Hermione had settled down to work quietly on some Ministry files, the owl flew in, with a message attached to its leg requesting her presence at Hogwarts:-

"I regret to inform you that a disturbing incident of racism arose today at Hogwarts," Professor Gladthink had written. "As we at are determined to stamp out any prejudice regarding blood status, we are taking the unusual step of naming all individuals involved. We would appreciate the immediate attendance of parents and guardians of the students listed below in order to discuss this matter further".

Hermione frowned. Surely they'd brought Rose up to respect everyone, no matter what their blood status? And she knew Harry and Ginny had done exactly the same with Albus, for whom she was acting as guardian while they were away. They had told their kids all about the war, about Voldemort and his attempt to kill muggles. About the derogatory names the followers of the most evil wizard of all time had called wizards and witches like herself. She glanced down at the list of names. And there it was. Right at the very end.

Albus Potter; Cosmo Blakewood; Jeremy Preston; Rose Weasley; Scorpius Malfoy.

Malfoy. It had to be, didn't it? Draco Malfoy would have fed his son the same hatred. She'd noticed them briefly at the station. He looked exactly like his father. Peas in a pod. Cut from the same cloth. The apple never fell very far from the tree.

She picked up her shoes again, opting not to throw them at the wall a third time. It hadn't been a good idea the first. Ron's stupid purchase of a No Nonsense Wizarding Wall meant they had twice bounced back in defence and only a quick reflex wand action had stopped them from hitting her head. And Ron's oh-so-very-amusing (at least Ron thought so) Curly Whirly Rug, fresh from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, was not helping. "Calm in a crisis," the blurb on the label read (aloud in an irritating "soothing" female voice whenever the rug was touched, either in case there should be any doubt about how it operated or for maximum annoyance) "When you're feeling down, the curly whirly rug will pick up your mood and pick YOU up! Find yourself walking on air and helpless with laughter!" With a tinkling laugh, the rug kept curling at the edges, determined to lift her into the air, and just as determinedly Hermione kicked it back.

She heard herself give a low growl of anger, as finally she grabbed the offending rug and threw it at the Wizarding Wall, and then needed another reflex wand action to divert the wall's return attack before the rug enveloped her. She was far from being helpless with laughter though hysterical laughter just might fit the bill. The frizzy-haired witch wiped a hand over teary eyes. She was exhausted. Was this all her life was? Work, work, work. An inconsiderate husband who didn't even stop to think his wife might like a holiday too. Now another Malfoy who was obviously making a hobby out of bullying, nastiness and blood racism just as his father had done before him.

And what she wouldn't give right now to vent all her anger at once and punch Draco Malfoy's stupid, smug, smirking ferret face...