"Celestina Warbeck is coming to the Grand Oak theatre in July, darling. Did you see?"
Lucius Malfoy, who had been, until this moment, enjoying a moment of peace and a new blend of tea at his desk in his study, ruffled his paper and raised it slightly higher. He had indeed seen. Three days prior he had read the announcement in the entertainment section of the Daily Prophet and had gone so far as to charm the entry with a notice-me-not. It appeared that his evasive action had not been quite extreme enough. He should probably have swept Cissy up on a surprise trip to somewhere beautiful, remote and decadently expensive. If he had, she may…. possibly….just possibly… have been distracted or merciful enough to ignore the upcoming event.
But there was a sitting of the Wizengamot tomorrow to discuss a bill he was quite invested in, to do with changes to the regulation of importation of certain materials used mainly in wand construction. It looked like it could be quite a close thing, with half the members ignorant and ambivalent and several…unfortunately respected…and highly vocal advocates of the banning of blood, venom and bone seeking to persuade them. If he were to be absent and not able to speak up for any reason, seven more wandcores primarily suited to dark magic might slip out of reach.
"I did" he responded neutrally.
"And…" came the pointed question. "You have already procured the best seats, I hope?"
He held in the long-suffering sigh he wanted to expel. Celestina Warbeck sounded like a parakeet being strangled under a sound amplification charm, and the prospect of spending a night among the rabble, no doubt surrounded by Narcissa's chosen crowd of gossiping hens, and their largely dull and overfed husbands was far from attractive
"I will need to review my calendar" he ground out, in hope that this would be enough to put his dear wife off, or at least procure a stay of execution.
It was not to be, of course. Cissy was more driven than a niffler after gold when she had set something in her sights.
"It is two months away darling, and takes place at seven in the evening. Don't be so silly. Whatever should happen to be planned can easily be rescheduled before then. I will send for the tailor to come by tomorrow morning and measure you for a new opera robe. The Gainesboro one you favour is unfortunately becoming a little worn, and absolutely everyone has already seen you in it."
Lucius twitched. He liked that robe. This was a threat. He needed to stand firm.
"I really don't think it is necessary to-"
"I have already had the elves dispose of it on Monday afternoon, so you will just have to endure the tailor" she informed him with a serene smile. "Don't fret – I am sure you will come to appreciate your new robes equally well in time. Let me know the seat numbers as soon as you have them – I shall have to inform Melissande and Georgette so that they might arrange their own bookings."
He felt the steam rise in him. She had disposed of them on Monday afternoon. A few short hours after he had hidden the listing in the paper. This was the reason why he adored Narcissa. She was formidable. She did not miss anything. It was also why he at times wished dearly to curse the life out of her.
There was no point in arguing further. He would be going to the thrice-damned concert. He would be gritting his teeth charmingly and making dull conversation with Georgette's husband Elgar, or it would undoubtedly be his favourite dragonhide boots on the chopping block next.
He lowered the paper and folded it briskly. "With each passing year, your grace and wisdom increase, my dear" he returned blandly, knowing his wife detested to be reminded of her age. "I shall look into it directly and will have Pip inform you of the seats I select.
Narcissa was of course a beautiful woman. She knew it, and he was still not immune to it. Long silken blonde hair, so unlike the rest of the Black family. Usually, as this morning, she wore it in a French twist that he delighted in unbinding in the evening. She had a porcelain complexion and truly perfect figure, long legged, lean and full busted. And, of course, her large ice-blue eyes, which could shift from limpid pools to razor-sharp steel at a second's notice. The latter variant were on display at present, although the rest of her face was still fixed in that light, airy, serene expression she most often wore. He managed to suppress the urge to retreat. Perhaps he should have conceded the point more fully.
"Excellent, darling. That will be lovely." She turned and moved to leave his study. He breathed out in relief.
And then she paused and half turned.
"Oh… another minor thing darling. I noticed that the heels were coming off those boots you picked up in Goettingen. Astounding to see them looking in such a state so quickly – you've only had them since November. It is truly unbelievable how the quality of crafting has declined. I have sent them to the cordwainer for repair, but he could not give me definite assurance that they can be mended. I shall know by next Wednesday."
And then she breezed out with a gentle self-satisfied smile.
His teacup hit the hearth two seconds after the door had closed.
Unbelievable! Not that the 'quality of crafting had so sadly declined' – what was unbelievable was that his dear wife would extort concert tickets out of him with the life of his favourite boots as a matter of course. The woman was mercenary!
He looked mournfully at the shattered pieces of the teacup. It was a petty thing to destroy it. The set had been specially made to Narcissa's preferences by a little known and extremely exclusive potter living in Lisbon. He could reparo the cup but it would always be imperfect now.
She would know. She always knew. He could swear she walked around the manor habitually finite'ing at random, just in case somewhere there might be an object or furnishing with hidden damage.
And of course, if one teacup was imperfect, the set was ruined. It had cost over 12,000 galleons.
He reparoed it anyway and tucked it away in his drawer, placing the newspaper over it. Possibly he might be able to commission a single cup and exchange it.
And then he flooed his assistant Petra in the Ministry and had her book the concert tickets, specifying that they were to be the best seats in the theatre, irrespective the cost, and that if they had already sold, she was to raise the offer until the theatre reconsidered their previous booking and sold them to her.
Out of sorts now, his day ruined, he decided that he might as well escape into reading for a while. At least he was likely to be left alone in the library. It was an unspoken agreement. Narcissa had her conservatory and garden, and he had his study and library. The most vital ingredient to a successful marriage, his father had once told him, was to be able to avoid one's partner entirely.
He strode out of the study into the library and breathed the scent in deeply, feeling himself unwind slightly, through long years of habit. The ancient parchment…the glossy polished wood and well-oiled dark blue leather soothed his senses. Not a single flower or ornament in sight.
Somehow it was less effective today. He found he still…itched…to curse something.
No. Not something. Someone. He wanted nothing more than to raise his wand and curse someone bloody. Curse them until they screamed and writhed. Until the light left their eyes.
It didn't even really matter who.
All that mattered is that while he stood and let the rage and frustration and power flow out of him, he could know …peace… at least for a time.
For only a moment he allowed himself to think on the past years fondly. The Great Cause.
The Dark Lord, his master.
He had thought… such power…such wonder could never be extinguished. When it had happened, and his master had vanished, he had waited with baited breath for his return. But it had been years now. His master had not returned.
He refused to consider that the Dark Lord was dead. It was unthinkable.
But still worse to think that he might have simply fled.
No – he had to believe that his Lord would return.
He had no contact with his brothers anymore. It had been a near thing at the time. Azkaban's doors yawned wide before him. Only his quick political dancing and connections had saved him and his family from ruin.
And yet…
If the man were to walk through the door now…
It was some errant sense of drama that his father had not managed to curse out of him that had him turning toward the grand entry doors to the library now. But of course, they did not suddenly slam wide with a boom revealing a shadow in the dust. He simply felt foolish.
Allowing a very small sigh, he turned away from the main aisles of the library, needing something darker. Something warm to comfort himself with. Down the last of the reference aisles he reached the painting of the castle on the moor and cast the intricate charm to lower the wards around it. This particular vault had cost a fortune, not to mention the life of its creator. He had to cast no less than three further specially created charms before the panel of the wall swung open and admitted him into the most secure room in the manor. The dark magic actually spilled out through the doorway upon him like a warm tingling wave.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him, moving quickly to the centre of the square room and closing his eyes, letting his head fall back and simply basking in it.
Not even Narcissa knew of this vault. His son – little Draco - who would be having his sixth birthday soon, was not even allowed into the family library, largely out of his paranoid fear that he might somehow wander too close and, however improbably, the warding around the vault might fail.
Dark magic was like any of life's great pleasures, he felt. Exquisite in moderation, but highly addictive and particularly dangerous for developing minds.
He frowned.
Something was different though. The thick magic soaked air was…not quite as it should be. It was thinner…or less concentrated. Had the warding failed?!
Opening his eyes, he was about to cast a diagnostic charm on the wards when he saw it.
A slim gap where there should be a book, on the left of the very top shelf.
He did not even need to approach to know exactly which book that was. He did even so, needing to verify it. Needing to be sure.
His heart sank even as he saw the red leather of the Tenebras Nigrae, which he knew was positioned right next to The Book.
The Book which was inexplicably absent.
His master's book. The only thing he ever gave him. Which he had commanded him to keep safe even on penalty of his own life and the end of his line.
Irrationally he searched around the room, as if the thing might have sprouted wings and flown from the shelf to perch in a dark corner. As he searched, he could feel the terror bubble up in him like blood from a wound. It was not here. How could it get out of the room?! The room that only HE knew of. That was keyed to entry only by him with lethal blood and magical signature wards.
For the first time in his life, he found himself praying that the dark lord was dead.
Unbeknownst to him, on the other side of London, in the house of his wife's family line, a very old house elf was sitting in the shadows of a kitchen cupboard weeping and looking down at an empty box that should have held a gaudy golden amulet, traced in diamonds in the shape of a filigree S.
"Oh master Regulus! He moaned to himself soggily in a voice that sounded like he lived on a diet of cobwebs, mold and gravel. "Kreacher has failed you again! Whole house upside down and tis still being gone"