The next morning brought more clarity for Narcissa. Her head didn't throb so persistently anymore. It hurt but it wasn't the piercing pain that had incapacitated her yesterday.

Jocasta was still asleep. She looked at the other woman, to the soft slackness of her face as she slumbered on. She was very pretty, a typical dark Mediterranean beauty who bore a certain air of indomitability about her. It was easy to see why Lorenzo loved her.

Nonetheless, it still stung. It still itched and stabbed how Giacomo had betrayed her. Her very own sister could have asked her to sacrifice her husband to save Rodolphus, and no matter how she loved her or believed in family loyalty, she wouldn't have done it. One person's love wasn't more important than another's.

She couldn't hate Jocasta, though. The woman had taken care of her when there was no need to. Narcissa wasn't sure she would have done the same. They were both women of questionable morals, having supported husbands who participated in dangerous and illegal organizations, and as such they were not prone to selflessness.

They were in the same boat now, though. Their fates were intertwined and there was no choice but to help each other. Personal feelings about the actions of others had no place. With that firmly decided, Narcissa stood and began to examine their cell.

That was really what it was - a cell. She knew all about homes with dungeons beneath them; this was another fine example. The smell in the air told her there was water nearby. She hoped that meant they were back at the villa in Capri. Unfortunately, Italy was a peninsula and there were lots of places near water. Realistically, they could be anywhere.

She sighed. This would require a more Slytherin approach. Most people would be eager to blast their way out first. It wouldn't behoove them to do that. First they needed to figure out exactly where they were. Then they needed to know who was there with them. An informed escapee was always better than a clueless one. After they had a handle on the current situation, they could worry about finding their way out.

Narcissa was confident that Gaetano hadn't brought her here to kill her. If he was going to do that, it would have happened already. He had some purpose for her yet…and she was glad of that, but not looking forward to finding out what that purpose was. The fact of the matter was that he had two very beautiful women locked up and he had just severed ties with his wife.

But there was no time to think of the implications. Hopefully, if they acted intelligently enough, there wouldn't be any implications. Blowing out a shaky breath, Narcissa sat back down and tried to think.

She wished she could pace. She hadn't realized until that last year of the war how calming and thought-stimulating pacing was. Lucius was prone to it when a problem arose; it was easy to conjure an image of him traversing his study over and over while he tried to outsmart everything and everyone. Mostly, the repetitive click of his expensive shoes annoyed her and she would shout at him to go into a room with a carpet. Then, the year he was in prison, she had discovered the comfort of what she had always considered a bad habit.

Her ankle was still too swollen and painful to do anything more than limp a few feet. That was yet another reason they had to take their time. What good was she if she couldn't flee when the time came? Unless they found a broom, she was screwed.

Her injury had certainly worked in Scattori's favor. Cursing under her breath, Narcissa gingerly examined her ankle. It was inflamed almost beyond recognition and bruising spread in weals of red and purple all over her foot. It didn't hurt as much but it was obvious that it was not a minor injury. It needed healing, and if it didn't get it, it would take weeks to heal on its own. Perhaps if she could get some kind of splint…

"I felt the bones while you were unconscious," Jocasta said, punching through her thoughts. "It seems like they are all where they're supposed to be. But I'm no healer."

"Nor am I," Narcissa sighed. "Maybe if I ask nicely, someone will heal it." There was more than a fair share of sarcasm in her voice.

Jocasta chuckled softly. "I like you, Ms. Black. I think we will get along."

"I think we have to if we want to get the hell out of here."

"So we are on the same page, then."

Narcissa nodded. "Have you been here before?"

"No. Nothing looks familiar." Jocasta stood and stretched, her spine popping quietly. "It smells like the sea."

"I thought so, too."

"Then we've left Milan."

"Could we be at the summer home in Capri?" Narcissa questioned.

Jocasta gave her a surprised, if impressed look. "No, I have been there. I would know."

The blonde witch heaved a sigh. "Wonderful. That leaves only about 800 other places by the sea in Italy."

"If we are still in Italy."

Narcissa cringed. She hadn't even considered that. "But why would Gaetano leave after returning for this coup? It makes no sense," she thought out loud.

"No, it doesn't. He is certainly still in Italy, but we do not have to be where he is. If he has enforcers that he trusts he may have handed us off to them."

"I suppose we'll find out."

And they would after a moment of thoughtful silence. The sound of footsteps echoed down the subterranean corridor. Both women tensed visibly and moved back from the bars of the cell, Narcissa scooting on her bum, Jocasta more gracefully on her feet.

It was Renata. Once more, a powerful empathy welled up in Narcissa; this must be hell for Jocasta, betrayed by her daughter. The aforementioned teenager held a bag in her hand. She approached the bars, eyes darting between the two women, and when neither said anything, she placed the bag between the bars and set it on the floor inside the cell.

She had the gall to turn away as if she was going to leave. That was when Jocasta could no longer contain herself.

"I cannot believe you would do this to me. To your father. How could you, Renata?"

The girl whipped around, her chocolate hair swirling in the breeze of the motion. "Uncle Gaetano is right. Father has become complacent. If we don't act now, the Mancinis will wrest Milan from us."

"The Mancinis are our allies. They wouldn't betray us." Jocasta narrowed her eyes and poured some maternal intimidation onto her daughter. "It seems that the betrayal comes from within our own line, doesn't it?"

"You know nothing!" Renata spat, stomping her foot. "You are old and foolish and can't see what is happening right in front of you! While father blindly preaches peace the Mancinis are plotting our downfall!"

"They are doing no such thing. And there is no shame in being a peacemaker, Renata! It takes a greater man to instigate peace than war. Remember that."

"We are instigating nothing. We're only responding to what our supposed allies are plotting."

Narcissa watched the girl closely as she spoke. Never had she been so strongly reminded of Bellatrix. Bellatrix had become a parrot for the Dark Lord almost immediately after she had met him. No word that escaped her lips after that was of her own synthesis. She had always suspected some foul play on Voldemort's part; Bella was the only person, man, woman, or otherwise, that had ever held his attention so strongly, save for Harry Potter himself. In some twisted way, he might have loved her. However, there was also the distinct possibility that Bellatrix had been mentally ill most of her life. Narcissa had the childhood experiences to prove it.

Gaetano was exerting some kind of persuasive force on the girl. And Renata, being young and obviously passionate, bought into it. She sincerely hoped it was nothing like whatever Voldemort had done to her sister. More than that, she hoped that Renata would realize her stupidity; she was young enough to be forgiven.

"And what proof do you have of that?" Jocasta was saying, challenging her daughter's claims.

"Uncle Gaetano has shown me things. Letters. They are going to try to kill us, but we'll be ready for them. Uncle Gaetano only wanted us all to be safe, Mama, I swear," Renata returned vehemently. "He knew Papa could see nothing wrong in Desiderio Mancini. He had to take over! Nobody is going to get hurt, Mama."

That decimated Jocasta's control. Her voice rose to a shout. "Nobody is going to get hurt?! Renata, he SHOT your father! You were right there! People do not shoot their brothers for show or hold their wives hostage if they don't intend for someone to get hurt!" She stalked up to the bars and this time it was Renata who took a step back. Jocasta thrust her arm through the steel bars and pointed at her daughter. "You are young and you think you know how the family works, Renata, but you know nothing and you are only proving it with every moment you listen to your uncle!"

Renata opened her mouth to fire back but Jocasta went on.

"The Mafia was created for brotherhood! It is people like your Uncle who give it a bad reputation! Open your eyes, Renata – your uncle wants the power. That is all he wants. There isn't a single clean motive in him, not for you, for me, for your father, your sister…he shot his own brother without a trace of remorse. How much do you think it would take for him to harm his niece?"

"You're wrong!" Renata screamed.

"Yes, that's why your mother is locked in this cell, clearly," Narcissa couldn't stop herself from saying. She sensed that Jocasta was running out of control; the woman was close to tears. Everything was saying was spot on and Narcissa was glad that at least this particular Scattori had her wits about her.

"You shut up, you English bitch!" Renata said venomously. "The sooner we are rid of you, the better."

"Dio mio," Jocasta whispered, tears pooling in her eyes. "I did not raise you like this, Renata."

"Mama, I'm sorry, but I will not stand by while our family is destroyed by the Mancinis. When this is all over you'll thank me." Confident in her delusion, the young witch turned to Narcissa, who eyed her with some of the latent loathing she had always harbored for her irrational sister. Bellatrix seemed back to haunt her in the form of this slender teenaged spitfire.

Renata drew a bundle of paper out of her back pocket. She threw it at the bars; the stack hit with a solid thud and fell in disarray to the floor.

"Enjoy your breakfast," she snarled. Then she turned on her heel and stormed away. Like the paper, Jocasta sank to the floor, her hands over her face. Narcissa went to her without much thought. It was obvious that she was crying. She cradled the deceived woman against her chest and was glad that she was there to do it, for she had always secretly wished someone would comfort her after Bellatrix's fits of insanity.

Lucius inhaled. The air in Switzerland was quite nice. He had never been and wished he wasn't visiting for the first time under such circumstances. But things needed to be done. And he was usually very good at getting things done.

This plan had come together in his head while he waited for Shacklebolt to get him his auror papers. He could scarcely believe the man had agreed to it; it was a ballsy move and one that most people would have laughed at. Lucius had a strange suspicion that Shacklebolt bore some kind of respect for him – but not the kind that had enabled Lucius to manipulate Ministers past. Those days were gone, anyhow.

He was glad it was raining. It was as if the elements were on his side; it prevented him from having to use a glamour, because he could keep his hood up and his hair and features obscured without anyone thinking it was strange. Everyone around him looked more or less the same.

He looked at the address he had scribbled on a scrap of parchment. This was the building. He ducked in the door, sparing a moment to shake the water from his jacket and put himself in order. He was here to play Lucius Malfoy, accountant and financial advisor, and had to look the part.

The receptionist glanced up at him. Lucius nodded and walked toward her. Thankfully it was a her; he was much more effective if he could flirt his way into things and that wasn't always possible with a man. However, there were some men who would flirt right back. He'd found that out over the years.

Upon closer inspection, the receptionist seemed to be the starchy type. Charm might be a better approach than barely disguised sexuality. He smiled graciously and waited for to complete whatever memo she was typing. She smiled tightly in return and pointed at a small sign on her desk.

She was asking him which language to use. Understandable, since Switzerland used four, three official and one unofficial. Most Swiss people spoke French, German, and Italian, at a minimum, and many spoke English, as well. He indicated English, though he spoke French passably and enough Italian for basic exchanges.

"Welcome," the receptionist stated. "Who are you here to see?"

"Franz Lauten, please. I'm his accountant."

"Do you have an appointment?"

Ah, the inevitable question. Of course he didn't.

"No, but it's really quite important that I see him. I believe I've found something in the books that relates to the recent embezzlement scandal."

"I thought that was resolved?" She glared over her glasses at him. This woman wasn't cracking to his charm in the slightest. Such people did exist, though they were few and far between.

"As did I," he agreed. "This really requires Mr. Lauten's attention. We don't normally do our business in person so I'm certain it says a great deal about how serious I am since I am here."

She pursed her lips at him. Lucius resisted the urge to purse his right back in imitation and moved on to his next strategy. This usually worked.

"I'll just give him a call," he said, digging his phone out of his pocket. Well, it wasn't his phone; that had been disconnected, of course, since he was dead. Fortunately he'd had time to transfer his numbers to the new one. He didn't wait for the secretary to respond and hit the speed dial. This never failed; it forced his opponent's hand. No receptionist or secretary wanted to look like a fool for holding back an important client. This woman wasn't born yesterday but even she would probably fold to someone as aggressively confident as Lucius.

She did. The phone rang once before she waved a hand.

"Not necessary. He is on the fifth floor."

"Thank you so very much." He nodded to the receptionist and proceeded toward the elevators. He boarded with a smirk, content that he still had it because he had made it past the secretary without providing any real identifying information and a quick electromagnetic spell had disrupted the security cameras long enough that no record of his entry and ascension existed. The same would have to be done when he left and a minor Confundus charm sent the receptionist's way, just so she would forget his face.

Franz's office was easy to find, as it was the largest one. Yet another woman, this time a secretary, adorned a small alcove just inside the door. However, this one was young and pretty and appeared to have caved to his charm before he made it all the way into the room.

He smiled at her in an entirely different way than he had the other woman. The blonde secretary smiled back so brightly that he was actually amazed at the change it wrought in her face. The men that worked here must be a bunch of ugly buggers. He had just opened his mouth to greet her when Franz poked his head out the door of the office beyond.

"Lucius?"

They had met in person once before, when Franz passed off all the materials for the embezzlement investigation and audit. He didn't trust it to the mail, so neurotic Franz had flown to England and dropped it all off in person.

"Hello, Franz," he nodded, favoring the thin, dark-haired man with a smile.

"What are you doing here?" Franz asked amiably, grinning. "Did we schedule an appointment I forgot about? I thought you couldn't travel for a while?"

"My travel problems have been resolved, fortunately, and I wanted to see how things are going."

"Of course. Come right in." He stood aside, gesturing into the office with a sweep of his hand.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked, winking at the secretary as he went by.

"No, it's a slow day here." Franz sat down behind his desk and then immediately stood up again. "Would you like anything? Coffee, tea?"

"Some tea, please," Lucius requested. It had been rather cool and raw outside with the rain and he could use the caffeine.

"I'll be right back. Make yourself comfortable."

Lucius did just that, taking a plush chair across from the desk. He completed an almost habitual scan of Franz's office; one could tell a lot about a person from the way their personal work space was set up. Franz's was immaculate. He even had a can of compressed air computer duster on the bookcase. If the man wasn't obsessive compulsive, Lucius would eat his gloves.

It was in this sweep of the office that Lucius's eyes lit upon a photograph. He blinked. Then he stood up and walked over to it. There was no mistaking it.

The photograph was a black and white family portrait. Franz was there, holding a little boy that looked to be three or so. A girl of about seven stood between him and a woman, presumably his wife but at the very least the mother of the children. The resemblance was blatant.

The woman was Emma.

Well. That was an interesting twist.

"I see you've found my family," Franz said as he re-entered and shut the door behind him.

"Yes," Lucius remarked. "I may be mistaken, but is that Emma Houghton in the picture?"

"It is. I recommended you to her a while back. Has she taken advantage of your services?"

Lucius was glad he was not yet drinking the tea. He might have choked on it. Emma certainly had taken advantage of his…services.

"She has," he managed. "Though I'm not working for her currently."

Franz nodded. "We have been divorced for about two years now. It was for the best, I think, but I do miss her and the children. She is a hell of a woman, as I'm sure you noticed."

Yes, he'd noticed. He bit the inside of his lip. "I certainly have. I didn't realize you two were involved."

"Were," the other man said, a tad wistfully. "We did not end up happy together."

Lucius was quiet, allowing a moment of rumination to exist between them. Franz knew he himself was divorced, but in the typical way of men, nothing needed to be said. Then Lucius steeled himself. It was time to burst the bubble of pleasantry.

"I think you should send your pretty secretary on an errand, Franz."

Finley Greene was staring at the letter Draco had sent for the eighth time. A frown was etched on his face. When the young man had left, he'd said his father was recovering. What, then, had happened between his departure and the letter's arrival? He sighed. He had lost his father at a young age, as well, and was always impacted when one of his students suffered a similar fate.

He hadn't yet told the others. They would be upset even though they had never met Draco's father. Everyone except Henric, of course. He had taken the young man aside and given him a stern, but reasonable talking to. Henric just couldn't get past his bias. He had withdrawn from the program and left last night. Finley had given him an excellent recommendation nonetheless; he was a smart man and would do well wherever he chose to transfer to.

Now he had done everything else he needed to do this morning and had nothing left but breaking the news. With a sigh, he rose and moved toward the dining area where most of his students were eating breakfast.

Fortuitously, they were all in there.

"Morning, Professor," Telly said, his voice sleepy. Everyone else was in various states of groggy disarray.

"Good morning," he replied. "I have some news, so get your heads out of your coffee mugs for a minute."

Everyone perked up.

"First of all, Henric has left us. It was his own decision and I would appreciate if no one held it against him. There are very few doctorate-level potions masters so chances are you will see him again."

He got a few scattered nods and one or two glazed blinks of acknowledgement.

"Now, I wish I didn't have to tell you this, but I received a letter from Draco late last night. His father has passed away."

That woke them up.

"But he said that he was all right," Ryan said.

"What happened?" Chelsea asked.

"I don't know. He didn't indicate anything in the letter, just that he will be away for a while."

"We should go see him," Gabriel said, after dropping his spoon back into his cereal bowl.

"Is there a funeral?" Ernesto echoed.

"He didn't say."

"We have to go," Telly said. "No question."

"I agree," David nodded. All of them looked at Greene expectantly.

"Well, I have nothing against it," he shrugged. "He said he was staying at Hogwarts School. The only problem is that the contact I had at Hogwarts died in the war. I'll have to go through the process of contacting the Headmaster and requesting permission, and then getting a portkey from the British Ministry…it could take days."

"No it won't," Chelsea said, standing up. "I think I know how to speed the process. Anyone want to take a walk with me?"

Gabriel and Ernesto had volunteered and they now flanked her on either side, like bodyguards. She was entertained by it; they evidently felt it was necessary. She had to admit that she felt better with the two of them nearby. A pretty girl could get in a lot of trouble walking by herself in a strange neighborhood, even in broad daylight.

Her bodyguards were speaking in hushed, yet scandalized Spanish. She didn't understand any of it. However, it didn't take a translation spell to guess that they were probably speculating wildly about Draco's father's death. They all wanted to know what happened and in the absence of information the scenarios became more and more dramatic.

The walk was less grotty in daylight. At least it was light; autumn in Philadelphia was proving to be a two-faced affair. It was either dull, cloudy, and cool, or sunny and mild without a cloud in the sky. Today was one of the more beautiful days.

"What are we doing back here?" Ernesto questioned. He had finally realized where they were going. In another block, the painted façade of Finnigan's Wake became visible.

"One of the bartenders here went to school with Draco."

"To Hogwarts?"

"Yes."

Gabriel summed up their surprise. "Shit."

Chelsea smiled at them and raised her hand to pound on the door. It took a few minutes and some persistence on her part, but eventually the door cracked open and a bleary looking man stuck his head out.

"We're closed," he said, sounding exasperated and resigned at the same time.

"I know," Chelsea replied. "I'm looking for someone, one of the bartenders here. He's the nephew of the owner."

"What for?" the man demanded, casting a wary eye at Ernesto and Gabriel. Neither man was particularly beefy or mean-looking, but the fact remained that there was a very pretty girl at the door with two men as an escort. Such things rarely ended well for the cad they were looking for.

"We just need to ask him a question. It's important."

"I can give him a call for you. You three can sit in the bar, meanwhile." The man opened the door and stood aside to let them enter. He still looked faintly suspicious.

Chelsea and her companions took a seat at the bar. It was quite strange, being that the place was completely deserted and pristinely clean – markedly different than the other night. The man went around the bar and picked up a cordless phone.

"Can I have a beer?" Ernesto asked.

Chelsea rolled her eyes and swatted him in the arm.

"As long as you're going to pay for it, you can have whatever you want," the man grumbled as he flipped through a small book, presumably looking for the right phone number.

"Sweet," Ernesto said.

"It's nine-thirty in the morning," Chelsea admonished.

"It's an Irish pub, Chels."

"He doesn't have any money, anyway," Gabriel said, off-hand.

The man put the book down with a thud. "I'm not calling him until you answer a question for me. Seamus hasn't done anything, has he?"

"No," Chelsea assured him. "Really, we just need to talk to him for a few minutes."

"I'll take your word for it. But keep in mind, darling, that I don't take kindly to violence in my bar."

Chelsea opened her mouth to speak, but Ernesto beat her to it. "You think we're here to beat up this Seamus kid cause he dicked Chelsea over? That's rich." He chuckled. "She's practically engaged to some other guy."

"Right," the owner said, frowning slightly. Then he shrugged and dialed the phone. They waited a few seconds. "Oi. Seamus there?" Pause. "Tell him to get his arse out of bed. Someone's at the bar to speak to him." Pause. "Yes, right now. Tell him to put pants on and apparate over."

Chelsea looked up in surprise. The conversation was evidently over, because the owner hung up the phone. A moment later there was a loud pop.

"I'll have you know I was already wearing pants," Seamus said. He stood there in a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and a white cotton tank, arms crossed.

"How did you know we were wizards?" Gabriel asked.

"Wards on the door," the owner said, pointing.

"That's pretty handy."

"Indeed it is," he agreed. He held out his hand. "Garrett Finnigan."

The two men shook his hand, introducing themselves. Chelsea offered her hand, as well, and got a kiss on the knuckles instead of a handshake. Garrett winked at her.

"I didn't think Seamus would be dumb enough to forget about a girl as pretty as you."

"Shove off, Uncle G," Seamus muttered. Garrett chuckled and then made himself scarce.

Chelsea turned herself around in the barstool. "How's it going, Paddy?"

"I'd protest your little pet name, but my real name is so stereotypically Irish that there's no point," Seamus sighed. "I'm great. I worked til four last night. You better be here to tell me I'm your one and only and you want to make millions of Irish babies with me."

"Do it," Ernesto whispered.

Chelsea whacked him on the arm again. "We need you to help us get to Hogwarts."

Of all the things she could have said, that was the least expected.

"What? Why?"

"Draco's father died. We want to go the funeral."

Seamus did a visible double take. "No way! How did I not hear about this?"

"We just heard about it ourselves."

Seamus strode towards them and vaulted over the bar, landing behind it with an ease that suggested he had done it many times before. "Uncle G!"

"What?" Garrett's voice issued from somewhere they couldn't pinpoint.

"Did today's Prophet come yet?"

"Yeah, it's in the office. I didn't read it yet so don't make off with it."

Seamus went to retrieve the paper and was already muttering when he emerged two minutes later. "I can't believe it. This is why his card wasn't working the other night…and why his father didn't pick up the phone." He set the paper on the bar in front of them.

"Murder most black," Gabriel read out loud. Chelsea read faster and as a result she was one step ahead of him.

"Oh my God. His mother murdered his father!" She pressed her hand to her mouth in horror.

"For money…" Ernesto whispered.

"That's fucked up," Seamus said. "Even for the Malfoys." He turned to look at the clock on the wall behind them. "So, when do we leave?"

With some trepidation, Narcissa had reached through the bars to gather the newspaper Renata had thrown. It might give them some clue as to where they were. However, she doubted that Gaetano was that stupid, hence her trepidation.

The paper was in disarray. Narcissa righted it patiently, listening to Jocasta's hiccups. The crying had brought them on. At last she had the stack in the right order. Gritting her teeth, she turned the front page over.

"Oh, Merlin…"

Jocasta looked up. "What is it?"

Narcissa didn't know if she should cry or scream or both. Both won out.

"She wasn't bluffing!" she wailed, tears spilling over her lashes instantly. "She killed him!"

"Who?" Jocasta was at her side, anxiously trying to see the paper.

"Lucius," she moaned. "My husband. Lucius…" She folded in half, her forehead coming to rest on the newsprint. She could hear nothing but the roar of grief in her ears. Lucius was really dead. He was gone. He was dead and he had died thinking that she despised and betrayed him…

And as quickly and acutely as the overwhelming anguish had come, rage replaced it. She would kill Rita Skeeter. She would dismember her. She should have done it in that tiny pantry in Giacomo's house. She had to get out of this fucking cell so she could find that horrid bitch and choke the life out of her. The world already thought she was a criminal, so what difference would it make? If they were going to put her in Azkaban, it might as well be for a real murder…

Franz had gone very quiet. He stared at Lucius for a long minute, eyes blank. Then he stood up and went to talk to the secretary. Lucius heard him speak in quick French, dismissing the pretty girl on some meaningless errand. Then he returned, closing the door behind him.

"What is it then, Lucius?"

Lucius leaned back in his chair and sipped his tea, the picture of leisure. It was good to let one's adversary squirm for a little while. At last he spoke.

"You're a clever man, Franz."

"Doesn't one have to be, to run a business?" he returned.

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Not necessarily." He took another sip of tea and then set the mug and saucer down. "I took a closer look at your books."

"Did you," the other man said flatly.

"Yes, and I must repeat, you're very clever. You embezzled all that money and then planted the clues that would lead me to your poor underling during the personal audits. And conveniently, he is nowhere to be found, and neither is the money." It was a plot worthy of a Slytherin, but he couldn't say so because Franz was a muggle. "How much did you pay him?"

"Fifty thousand," Franz answered without hesitation.

"Clearly a novice." Lucius smirked. "That leaves you with five hundred fifty thousand Euros, doesn't it? None of which you have to pay tax on. All squared away somewhere, waiting to be subjected to your whim."

Franz opened a drawer and pulled out his checkbook. Lucius appreciated that; the man didn't beat around the bush. "How much do you want, Lucius?"

"I want all of it."

"Mr. Madovic may have been a novice, but I am not, Lucius. You concealed my embezzlement. You are in just as much trouble as me if this gets out."

"I didn't know about it at the time," he shrugged. "I was only doing my job. That's how the law would see it."

Franz glared at him. "What do you need the money for?"

"I find myself in a situation that requires emergency funds."

"And what will you do if I refuse?"

Lucius considered his fingernails. "Well, aside from the rather boring option of ratting you out, I do have some very interesting friends in Milan." They weren't exactly his friends, but Franz didn't need to know that.

"Are you threatening me with the Mafia?"

"Am I?" He affected a false bewilderment.

"To think I believed you were a good man," Franz said coolly.

"There is a certain idiom about glass houses and throwing stones that might apply here," Lucius replied, amused.

"Or maybe a pot and kettle," the other man groused, slumping in his chair.

"I am a good man, Franz. If you give me this money right now, I will return double the amount to you, and then I will quit and never speak to or of you again."

"Why should I believe you?"

"Well, because you have no choice." Lucius smiled pleasantly. "I could just tell you to give me the money and the hell with any incentive for you, but I'm trying to be diplomatic here. I appreciate a good scheme when I see one."

"Run many yourself?"

"Enough."

Franz sighed. "I knew you were a sharp man. I figured if I could fool you, I could fool anyone. I thought I had done it."

Lucius thought back to the time when he'd been going through the audits. His mind had never entirely been on the figures in front of him. There had been too much going on, what with Hermione and the various scandals and murder attempts. He hadn't had the presence of mind to delve deeper and deconstruct motives. When he finally did, he found that he really didn't care. Franz hadn't bankrupted his company. It would recover and no one under his employ would suffer. His investors would perhaps have to put off the purchase of their Bentleys another month, but that was hardly tragic. It was a benevolent theft, if such a thing existed. Franz was very lucky that Lucius was not only a damn good accountant, but also a specialist in moral relativism.

"So do we have an understanding?" Lucius asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes," Franz said resignedly. "Let me make a few calls."

As he watched the dark-haired man dial and wait, Lucius felt a profound sense of relief. At last he had a bargaining chip. Five hundred thousand wasn't much, but it was sizable enough to pique Scattori's interest if he didn't have success in simply stealing his wife back. If he had learned anything in his research about the Mafia, it was that the most important things to them were loyalty and money, and as this family obviously had no loyalty…money was his best bet if his other skills failed him. He didn't think that would happen, but it was best to be prepared.

Draco was sitting next to Hermione in the Great Hall, staring directly into his plate to avoid the whispers and stares that were coming from every direction. Her hand was on his knee, squeezing almost convulsively. It was meant to comfort him but each time she seemed to squeeze a bit harder. He was going to have a hell of a bruise.

He hadn't wanted to come to any meal, and Hermione had let him get away with skipping breakfast and lunch, but she convinced him it was a good idea to make an appearance at dinner. She was right that he couldn't hide in her rooms forever. He had to appear in public. He had to play the grieving son. So far no one had been tactless enough to be rude.

He ate another bite of his stew. Creevey's article was done very well and was a step away from the Prophet's usual incendiary coverage. At least he could be thankful for that. It was just all this social vulnerability that he hated; even though his grief was fake, it was still uncomfortable. Maybe it was more uncomfortable because of that.

A sharp jab of Hermione's nail made him reach under the table to disengage her hand. She looked up at him, bewildered.

"You were bruising me," he whispered.

"Oh," she whispered back. "I'm sorry. I'm so nervous. I don't know why. It's not even my ordeal!"

"It is, in a way."

"I'll kiss your leg better later," she smirked.

"Is this really the most appropriate time to flirt?"

"I'm just trying to take your mind off things."

He nodded. Even though her distractions consisted of giving him a contusion on his leg and ill-timed innuendo, he was incredibly thankful to have her there. If he had to face this alone, he wasn't sure he'd be able to pull it off. And the reality of his life was that he didn't have many friends that would want to support him in a pick-up Quidditch match, let alone something this major.

As if on cue, there was a commotion outside the door.

"Dude! I didn't believe you when you said it was a castle!"

Draco's head snapped up. He must have been hallucinating.

"There's a ghost! A real ghost!"

Nearly Headless Nick's voice could be heard a moment later, "But of course there are ghosts! What sort of place are you from that has no ghosts?" He sounded quite beside himself.

"Oh, there are ghosts, just none in the school I went to."

"What on earth?" That was McGonagall, who abruptly pushed her chair back and stood up.

A moment later, an excited group of people squeezed through the doors to the Great Hall. Draco couldn't believe his eyes. Telly, Ryan, David, Ernesto, Gabriel, Isamu, Chelsea, and Finley Greene himself were all there. There was no Henric in sight, which didn't really surprise him. What did surprise him was the sight of Seamus Finnigan in the lead. Sir Nicholas trailed behind them.

"What is the meaning of this?" Minerva demanded in her usual stern tone.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," Seamus said sheepishly, grinning.

"That's Headmistress to you, Finnigan," she said. However, she returned the smile. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"I'll answer that one," Greene said smoothly, stepping forward. "If we could speak in private for a few moments, Headmistress?"

"Certainly." She cast a look over the enthralled crowd in the Great Hall. "Carry on!" she barked, and everyone jumpily returned to their plates and tried to look like they weren't staring at the newcomers. They might as well have been the newest specimens in Care of Magical Creatures, though. Not that they noticed; they were busy admiring the enchanted ceiling.

Hermione leaned over to Draco. "Are those your classmates?"

He briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Yes they are." Draco sighed. Clearly the compounding of lies was just beginning. But he had to admit, in some small, seldom-used place in his emotional repertoire, that he was very glad they had come.

It took Narcissa a long, long time to calm down. She hadn't fully believed Skeeter when she told her what she had done. The woman was a liar and in the absence of proof Narcissa couldn't force herself to believe that Lucius was gone. Now she had proof. She wiped another set of tears away with the back of her hand. She had been so sad and then so incredibly angry and then sad again. The period of rage was a black spot in her mind. She couldn't remember what she'd done. It could have been five minutes or five hours. In contrast, the sadness was unbearably slow. She remembered every excruciating moment.

Jocasta was on the other side of the cell examining the newspaper. She seemed very fascinated by the pictures; she examined each one at length. When Narcissa's tears began to abate, she looked up.

"I don't understand," she said softly. "You love this man, yet you agree to marry Giacomo."

Narcissa had no fight left in her. She curled up on her side and murmured, "Just because you aren't married to someone anymore…does that mean you have to stop loving them?"

"I don't know. I have only ever been married to Lorenzo."

"Lucius is…was…my first love and the father of my child," she sniffled. "I'll always love him."

"Then why did you divorce him?"

Narcissa felt her eyes well again. "Because he was a difficult man to love."

Jocasta sighed. "Were you always an easy woman to love?"

"No." She said it out loud for the first time. "No, I wasn't. I was so angry at him after the war…" Jocasta probably didn't know very much about the war, as it had been relatively contained; Narcissa wasn't going to elaborate. "I knew he was trying to do everything he could to make it up to me but nothing was good enough. I just…kept at him." She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the tears. "Everyone hated him and then he had to come home to the same thing from his wife."

The full force of it hit her then. She had been incredibly difficult to love in the years after the war. Lucius had been reduced to almost nothing, in his mind. He had no wand and no status. She still didn't know what had befallen him in Azkaban or the true scope of what he'd seen and experienced in Voldemort's regime. He had been just as traumatized by the war as she had, and he was really the only one paying the consequences. She had come out looking like a saint because of her decision to help Harry Potter. Draco was the bullied child who was forced to take on his father's unsavory practices after Lucius got caught. It was her husband who had been labeled the disgrace.

She had never once considered any of that. She was so caught up in her own anger at what Lucius's stupid decisions had put her and Draco through. That anger was warranted, but Lucius had done the right thing in the end and she didn't think for one moment that he wasn't just as angry at himself. He had surrendered to the fact that he was wrong, that he was inherently flawed somehow. He had rolled over. What she mistook for indifference at the time had really been depression.

No one had done a damn thing for him after the war. Yet he had gone out of his way, wand or no wand, to do things for her and Draco. Draco had been cautiously thankful, if not immediately forgiving. Narcissa had fallen into the trap of thinking 'well, he ought to have been doing these things all along!' and couldn't spare an ounce of gratitude for something she thought she should have been getting anyhow. It was something she'd been guilty of before and she wasn't proud of it.

"And the worst thing is," she whispered to Jocasta, "he just took it. He tried so hard to please me in the ways he knew. I couldn't see that. I wore him down."

"A man gets tired," the brunette said softly.

"Yes. And then Giacomo came along, and the grass was greener…"

She remembered.

"I want a divorce."

Lucius looked up from his book, slowly, as if he wasn't sure what he'd really heard. He blinked three times.

"What?"

"You heard me. I want to get divorced."

"Narcissa…"

She stood there, hands on hips, waiting for whatever tactic he would use to try to talk her out of it. He swallowed and closed his book, carefully placing it on the end table. Then he rose to his feet.

"I love you. And if…if you don't love me anymore and you want to get a divorce, then…I…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I want you to be happy."


She had taken that as giving up, as a sign that he didn't care for her and wouldn't fight for her. If she had just looked into his eyes that night, she would have seen how it was tearing him apart. And she of all people should have known that Lucius Malfoy placing someone else's happiness above his own was a rare and precious event. It meant more than any fiery argument. But she had already been on her way out the door, unbeknownst to him. The divorce was only a formality at that point. She had decided she didn't love Lucius anymore and wouldn't have listened to any argument he made, anyway. She had set him up to fail.

What a fool she was. What a silly, silly fool. And now she could never tell him how sorry she was or how much she really loved him. Now…she could only avenge him.

Lucius looked cautiously around Adriatica Alley. The people must have known the Mafia war was back on; it was all but deserted. He cast a disillusionment charm on himself anyway. He would bet that Giacomo's house was being watched, even if he couldn't see anyone there to do the watching. Stealth was never uncalled for in his book.

But he had to admit, as he painstakingly dismantled the wards on one of the hidden back doors, that he was getting a bit old for this kind of crap. Oh well. The door gave at last and he stepped inside, wand raised. What met him was…

Silence. Silence and darkness. He stayed where he was, ears carefully tuned, straining for any indication of a human presence besides his own.

And there it was. A voice. He couldn't make out the words, but whoever it was, they were screaming and pounding on something. He took a deep breath. He wasn't going to get his hopes up that it was Narcissa. It would be too good to be true. And he didn't want her to experience whatever it was that was making this person scream, anyhow.

Lucius suppressed his urge to be reckless. Recklessness had nearly gotten him killed less than forty-eight hours ago. He moved through the house like a wraith, seeking the plaintive voice. It was definitely a woman. As he got closer, he could make out words.

"…can't leave me here! You can't do this to me! You son of a bitch!!!"

He was in the kitchen now. The voice was coming from a door on the left. It wasn't Narcissa's.

He cursed internally. He knew it wouldn't be, but that small part of him had still been stubborn enough to hope. Nevertheless, whoever was in that pantry could be very helpful in advancing his search. He examined the door. It was easy enough to unlock with an Alohomora. Whoever was locked in clearly didn't have a wand. Good. He wouldn't have to worry about hostility.

With one last scan, he crossed the kitchen and aimed his wand.

"Alohomora!"

The lock clicked open. There was no sound behind the door; the person was waiting.

"Step back from the door," he ordered gruffly. He heard a shuffle. Preparing himself, Lucius raised his wand and turned the doorknob with his other hand.

The door swung open. Lucius stepped into the doorway, effectively blocking it. It was a fairly large pantry with a light bulb in the ceiling. Its light revealed a woman crouched in the corner. A woman who was wearing his wife's clothes. Clothes he would recognize anywhere, because it was what his "wife" had been wearing when she attempted to murder him.

The two looked at one another, equally stunned. Then, at the same exact time, they both said,

"You have got to be kidding me!"