Last summer, Draco's father had not been present to pick him up from the station. This summer, neither of his parents were there. Instead, an elderly-looking woman who claimed to be the Malfoy's housekeeper met him; she had with her, a hand-written letter from Narcissa, explaining to Draco that there were matters that required her immediate attention and that she would see him when he arrived home.

"Come on now," the old housekeeper said with a rather youthful smile, as she ushered Draco into the waiting car. Once inside the car, the housekeeper turned into his Aunt Andromeda. "Hello Draco," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "How was school?"

"Why isn't Mum here to pick me up?"

His Aunt's smile was replaced with a look of concern. "She's barely left the house since the New Year, Draco. There have been some rumours – and once those started spreading, she fired the housekeeper, cancelled all her functions, refused to see any guests, and pretty much shut herself in. She begged me to look after the house for her, but only in disguise so that your father wouldn't know."

"Is everything alright?" Draco asked, his concern growing.

"You'll have to see for yourself when you get home."

The house was so different. The windows were shut, curtains drawn, doors were closed; it felt cold and empty, and the least like home in Draco's fifteen years. He found his mother in the kitchen – and immediately knew something was terribly wrong, because Narcissa Malfoy was never in the kitchen.

"Mum?" he called, approaching cautiously.

Narcissa sat at a small table by the windows, where the staff normally sat for their meals. She was well-dressed, well-groomed, holding herself with poise as she stared out into the grounds – a good thing, a good sign that she hadn't lost her mind. Still staring out the window, Narcissa lifted a large glass of red wine to her lips, and drank slowly.

"Hello," she said to her son, without looking at him. She carefully put the glass back on the table.

"Is everything okay?" Draco asked, stepping closer until he was right next to the table. He waited patiently for his mother to respond, to turn and look at him.

"Everything is not okay," she answered in a low voice. "You of all people know that, don't you?" Finally, she turned. "After all these years, after everything I've done for you – given you… You go and do this."

Now Draco was confused. He had thought his mother's anxiety was from the Dark Lord's return, but clearly, it was not. "What are you talking about, Mum?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"You and that Muggle-born, Mudblood girl!" Narcissa answered angrily. She got to her feet and towered over her son. "Pansy Parkinson told me you were dating that awful, vile –"

"Mother!" Draco interrupted loudly. "Her name is Hermione Granger, and –"

"So it's true?" Narcissa's voice was growing shrill, and Draco worried if he didn't calm her down, she might attract dogs to the manor.

"What's true," he said, speaking slower and in a calm, confident tone. "Is that I rejected Pansy Parkinson." He pulled out a chair and took a seat at the table. "You were the one who taught me that some women are only interested in the family name. Perhaps, now that she cannot be a part of it, she means to disgrace it."

For a moment, Narcissa carefully considered her son's words. "You're quite right," she exhaled, her expression relaxing. Draco tried not to smile as his mother then drew herself to her full height, and with a raised head, she turned from the kitchen and marched out – presumably, to her study, where she would rip every remaining shred of dignity, and drain every ounce of credibility, from the family name of Parkinson, leaving them hopeless and destitute among the upper class of Wizarding Society – pure-blood or not. Because no one messed with the Malfoys.

True to form, Narcissa hosted a brunch the following morning, with all the high society women in attendance. She excused her behaviour with some trifle lie, and in the same breath, decimated the rumours surrounding her son. Draco made his token appearance, looking proper and polished, as if to remind all the women how perfect he was, and how those rumours were just ludicrous. He even overheard Blaise Zabini's mother saying how she was going to have a talk with her son as soon as she got home, to make sure he kept his distance from Pansy.

By tea time that afternoon, all was right in the Malfoy house. Well, except for one thing.

"Where's father?" Draco asked, looking at his mother over his cup of tea. He wasn't sure if she had heard the news about the Dark Lord's return; he certainly hadn't heard it floating about as a topic of conversation during the brunch, though he knew a handful of them to be in the Dark Lord's circle.

"Away," his mother answered. "But we'll be meeting him in Paris tonight."

"Tonight?" Draco repeated, nearly choking on his tea. "Why wasn't I informed of this earlier?"

"Because it's a surprise, dearest," his mother said sweetly, though he caught a hint of something behind her smile – a tension, an uncertainty, as if she were holding her breath. Draco wondered if this was a surprise for his mother as well.

That night, after a late dinner, Narcissa relieved her sister of the housekeeping duties, and after she Disapparated from the property, she gathered their things in preparation for their trip. "Now remember," she said to Draco as she tossed Floo Powder into the large fireplace. "Speak clearly and hold onto your luggage tightly. Your father should be waiting for our arrival."

She checked the time before gently pushing Draco into the tall, green flames. The boy looked one last time at his mother before saying, "Saint James Paris." The flames flickered and danced around Draco, enveloping him in their heatless tendrils. His mother disappeared from sight as he was whisked away through the Floo Network, and he emerged in the grand hearth of the Saint James Paris, specially located in a foyer dedicated to their Wizarding patrons. He stepped out and was immediately greeted by one of the hotel staff.

"Young Master Malfoy," he said with a polite smile and slight bow. "Right on time." They waited a moment more for Draco's mother to join them, and then, together, they were led to a drawing room where Lucius Malfoy sat waiting. He stood to greet them, squeezing his son's shoulder affectionately and giving his wife a kiss.

"My but you're in a good mood, Lucius," Narcissa said with a smile as she took her seat. Draco and his father sat after, and he had to admit, his father did seem rather happy.

"I'm in Paris with my family, staying at one of our favourite establishments," he said with a wide smile. A waiter brought Narcissa a glass of wine and Draco a sparkling mineral water. "And," Lucius continued, raising his glass to his family. "The Dark Lord is back."

"What?" Narcissa breathed, her voice barely audible to even Draco, who sat next to her. Her eyes scanned the room before she sat forward, leaning toward her husband. "He's... back?"

"Yes, my love," Lucius replied, taking a deep drink from his glass. "To his full power and glory. The days of old are upon us, Narcissa, and this time, we will not fail." He turned to Draco and raised his glass again. "To the future."

Draco raised his glass as well, though his expression remained blank. "To the future," he echoed.

From the balcony in their suite, Draco watched his parents take a long walk in the garden. His mother hadn't shared in his father's joy at the news of the Dark Lord's return – neither had Draco, but it appeared his father was going to divide and conquer, starting with his wife. With a sigh, he turned back into the room and wandered about; Imperia had been left at home to leisurely roam the family grounds, which meant Draco had no other means to communicate with his friends. He glanced momentarily at the device Muggles used to contact each other – what was it called? A telephone? He shook his head. Hermione had tried once to explain to him how it worked, but he just couldn't wrap his mind around the Muggle invention.

When his parents returned later that evening, his mother looked considerably happier.

"Your mother tells me those rumours about the Mudblood girl are just that: rumours," Lucius said with an expression of mild amusement. "Hell hath no fury like that of a scorned woman," he added with a cold laugh. "But there will be others – more suitable to uphold the Malfoy name."

"Let me guess, a pure-blood," Draco remarked, trying to maintain a neutral tone.

"Of course," his father answered. "There is no guesswork, Draco."

"Just a figure of speech, Dad."

"I would be pleased if that were true," he replied. With a wry smile, he put his hands on his son's shoulders, gripping them firmly. "Tomorrow morning, we will have a chat, man-to-man, father-to-son. But for tonight, your mother's mood has finally settled, and we don't want to upset that now, do we?" Draco shook his head in response. "That's a good boy. Good night then, Draco."

The following morning, Draco woke up at his leisure and found his father reading the Prophet in the living room. The young man noticed that there was no headline about the return of the Dark Lord.

"Where's Mum?" Draco asked.

"I arranged a day at the spa for her," his father answered with a smile. "Despite all the potions, salves, and Magical concoctions she has access to, she still enjoys those silly Muggle treatments."

"She's going to miss them then, when the Dark Lord achieves world domination."

Expecting reprimand from his father, Draco was surprised that he smiled kindly at him instead – kindly, and a bit patronizing as well. "My boy," he said, shaking his head a little. "You misunderstand if you think the Dark Lord seeks to eradicate Muggle-kind; he simply seeks to enforce a hierarchy that properly positions Wizards above others – and are we not superior?" The question was rhetorical; Draco knew that, and kept his mouth shut. "Yes, Muggles will die, and while unfortunate, it is necessary. Sacrifice is essential to change and the greater good."

It was a heavy topic to get into on an empty stomach, but Draco knew it couldn't be avoided. "Giving up a spa treatment is very different than giving up your life," he pointed out. "Or someone you love."

The kindness and warmth that exuded from his father started to diminish; his eyes grew colder as he regarded his son. "Draco, you're still very young, and your world is so small. You're so infatuated with her – so sure she's good for you, but she's not. She will break your heart. And that is the last thing your mother and I want for you."

"Yes, what you want is to marry me off to some pure-blood girl, to live unhappily in a world built on death and despair."

"Open your eyes!" His father said with a voice that was not loud, but reverberated within Draco. "The world already is built on death and despair, but this time, it will be to our benefit – we will be at the top, where we belong."

"That's not the sort of world I want!" Draco argued.

"The world you want does not exist – it will not, or do you not understand that? If she doesn't come to loathe you for the crimes of our people, she will die at the hands of them; and if you don't grow up and understand that we don't always get what we want, then you will be crushed, and…" Lucius Malfoy took a deep breath before finishing. "And that would break your mother and I." A sadness Draco had never known his father to be capable of saturated his words as he spoke, and he understood – perhaps for the first time, how deeply his father loved him. "You are a prince," he said softly. "A prince, Draco – among pure-bloods. You're the heir to the Malfoy name – and to the Noble House of Black. In your veins runs the most ancient and pure blood our people have ever known. You are meant for greatness. And that is all your mother and I have ever wanted for you."

It was difficult to further argue with his father. Draco knew all too well the voracity of the pure-blood families who stood alongside his own, knew the bitterness of having their entitlement to rule supreme stripped from them that woeful night the Dark Lord met Harry Potter; he knew it because he had felt it himself.

"Well," his father said, folding up the newspaper. "Quite a start to the day, I'd say. I had planned on taking you out to choose a birthday present."

"Dad, I'm…" He wasn't sorry – no, he was sure of where he stood, but he did feel bad. "…I'm starving."

Despite the seriousness of the words they had exchanged, the clashing of their world views, and the impending change that would inevitably hit their world like a meteor striking the Earth, Lucius Malfoy chuckled. "Of course you are."

The Malfoys stayed in Paris for two weeks. Draco's parents took him to the Wizarding District of Paris where he received new goggles and boots for Quidditch, as well as a handsome watch for his birthday. They lived extravagantly during their vacation, and it was clear to Draco that this was a celebration of better things his parents were sure to come. His mother, whose wardrobe had been completely refreshed with the finest of Parisian fashion, had been won over by her husband's words and gifts, and was now convinced that the Dark Lord's return was a good thing. Draco had done his best to keep in touch with things at home by sending letters to his friends from the Paris Owl Post Office. To his surprise, he received the most correspondence from Harry, and though his letters were always short and never about anything of importance, he was consistent. Every so often, he would ask something about the Dark Lord – if Draco had heard anything about his movements, his plans, or any under the radar mumblings – all of which Draco hadn't. In turn, Draco would ask about how Harry was holding up, to which the reply was always "Fine."

After returning home, Draco arranged to meet Hermione in Diagon Alley. The letters were fine, but he wanted to see her. To his surprise, she did not meet with him alone; she had with her, a chaperone: Remus Lupin.

"Professor Lupin," Draco greeted politely, shaking the man's hand. "How have you been?" he asked, but, looking at his tired expression and patchy robes, he guessed not quite as well as he'd hoped for his former teacher.

"I've been well," Lupin answered with a thin smile. "I hope you don't mind my being here with Hermione today; it was uhh, suggested that you not meet on your own."

Words normal teenagers could expect from normal guardians, but Draco knew Lupin's presence held a much greater meaning: that Draco was not to be trusted. But he wasn't offended; on the contrary, Draco was pleased to see that the Headmaster had taken his request to have his friends protected seriously.

They talked first about school: how they were finding the new material for their Fifth year, how their continuing preparations for Ordinary Wizarding Level exams were coming along. The conversation then moved onto more serious matters.

"How is Potter?" Draco asked, lowering his voice.

"I don't really know," Hermione answered sadly. "We've been writing him, of course, but we haven't been allowed to say much – and I know that must be so frustrating for him."

"Not allowed?" Draco questioned, glancing at Lupin.

"By Professor Dumbledore," Hermione explained, speaking even more quietly. She, too, glanced at Lupin. "There are a lot of things going on, things we can't talk about."

"Not with me, I understand, but not even with Potter?"

"It's what Dumbledore wants," Lupin said with finality. He took a sip of his coffee and put his book on the table. "He may not have objected to Hermione meeting with you, Draco, but I'm afraid – going on my personal judgement – that this conversation cannot continue."

"My father has been disappearing for days at a time," Draco said quickly. "And they've been planning several gatherings with various members of the Ministry – important people, maybe even including the Minister."

"Draco," Lupin said slowly, meeting the younger man's grey-eyes. "This conversation cannot continue on our part or yours. We will not compromise your safety –"

"But I want to help." Draco looked from Professor Lupin to Hermione. "There's not much I can offer, but I do want to help."

With a loud sigh, Professor Lupin sat back in his chair and ran a hand through his greying hair. "It's just that… you're still children," he said at length. "Both of you, and Harry, and Ron. This is not yet your war to fight."

"But –"

"No," Lupin said forcefully. "The matter is closed."

Hermione exchanged looks with Draco. He knew – despite the one hundred and one thoughts racing through her mind – there was nothing more she could do or say, and his heart ached to see her look so helpless.

"Professor, I have a proposition for you." Lupin didn't say anything, but looked at Draco with eyes that encouraged him to speak and warned him to be cautious at the same time. "For personal reasons, my private tutor will not be able to adhere to the schedule my parents have laid out to prepare for this coming school year. While they were prepared to work around this, I think it might be more sensible to … find another tutor."

Hermione's eyes widened as she looked between Draco and Lupin; her expression was excited though she refrained from smiling. Professor Lupin, on the other hand, studied Draco for a long while, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "I'll talk to Professor Dumbledore," he said at last.