Narcissa Malfoy knew that her grandchild was facing a dilemma as soon as she broke the garnet wax seal. Once she deciphered Minerva McGonagall's spindly handwriting, she decided that it was time to involve her son. After all, it was his hard work that was meant to absolve them of their wrongdoings. If his only child was paying the price, he would be sure to put an end to it.
Furious, the woman rapped on the moss green door, the cold wind whipping her hair in every direction. She squinted through the glittering snow glare. It was not often that Lady Malfoy went outside, and judging by the winter frigidity, it would be last time for as long as she could help.
After a moment, the door cracked and she was greeted by her tall son, who was in her eyes, her spitting image. He was dressed from head-to-toe in all black with his platinum hair parted handsomely to one side. The affluent witch inwardly congratulated herself for raising such a well-adjusted gentleman. Despite her many attempts to protect him, he had still faced hell. Nevertheless, he prevailed.
"Mum?" he asked, confusedly.
"Yes, I am your mother," the older woman snapped, shivering. Usually, she would not take such a tone with her son, but between the cold air and her fear for her grandboy, she was in a bit of a mood. "May I come in?"
Draco stepped aside. "Yes, yes, of course." He closed the door behind her. "I wasn't expecting you."
"Ah, but you must have been expecting someone, looking as dapper as you do so early in the morning," she retorted, pointedly. Her sullen stare carried judgment as she seated herself at his dining room table and placed her silver-pleated handbag in front of her. "Would it be the lady-friend you mentioned a couple of weeks ago?"
"No, actually," Draco quickly fibbed, sitting across from her. Avoiding her gaze proved just as difficult in adulthood as it was when he was a boy. "Just business, Mother."
Her interest was piqued. "What kind of business?"
"Regarding the artifact we discussed several months ago," he explained, steepling his fingers. "The one that Pansy and Theo were so…unfortunate to find."
"Bella's vase? You still haven't done away with it?"
"Sadly, my attempts were unsuccessful."
In truth, Draco had never attempted to dismantle the object. There was another that loathed Bellatrix Lestrange just as much as he did, and she deserved to have her revenge. His sinister aunt's magic would be no match for her hatred—or her integrity.
Narcissa drew in a deep breath. "This is a problem, Draco. I was under the impression you destroyed it as soon as you determined that it was possible."
"It seems that it is a bit beyond my learned style of magic."
Her enraged stare could have killed a lesser man. "I hope this person you are doing business with is well-qualified for the task. I don't think I could hold this family together any longer if you were sent away."
"I think the candidate was quite obvious." This was the first bit of truth to escape his lips. The candidate was much more obvious than he was. "Anyway, I suspect that isn't why you came. Have you already had your morning tea?"
"Yes, darling. Don't be bothered by it," she murmured, waving off the notion. "And no, it isn't why I came, though I must say this is all quite troublesome news. The Ministry is undoubtedly aware of Dark Magic of such caliber." With a sigh, she reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. It had already been opened. "I think you may want to read this."
Draco reached across the table and accepted it from her. The letter inside was written by the hand of his former headmistress.
Dear Mrs. Malfoy,
I regret to inform you that your grandson, Scorpius Malfoy, has been the victim of an act quite cruel. We have contacted you instead of his father, at his request.
Mr. Malfoy, along with his friend, Albus Potter, was taunted by a number of his fellow classmates from Slytherin House. To my understanding, this was due to the role your family played after the Second Wizarding War. The boys' school robes were transfigured into those of Gryffindor House and they were then stupefied. After this, they were dragged to the Forbidden Forest and hung in the trees by their collars, only to be pelted with rocks. You may thank Firenze the Centaur for retrieving and returning them to Rubeus Hagrid. Both boys were placed in the Hospital Wing and are healing rapidly. Madam Pomfrey suspects they will be fighting fit by tomorrow morning.
This is a rather unusual circumstance, as the aggressors belonged to Mr. Malfoy's own house. In order to keep him safe, he will be staying in a private dormitory with Mr. Potter until further notice.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has zero tolerance for the perpetrators' actions and they have been disciplined accordingly. As a result of this attack, we will be reviewing our dress code.
If you have any questions, please contact me directly.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Headmistress
"Those stupid little dunderheads," he seethed, his hands turning white from grasping the letter so hard. "Just like their bloody parents. I told McGonagall those house robes were a terrible idea. There was nothing wrong with the plain black ones."
Narcissa craned her neck. "Perhaps, he ought to be removed from the school. I'm not sure that they're equipped to deal with the situation."
"Oh, that's preposterous," Draco barked. "He has to learn to stand up for himself. No other Malfoy would have fallen for such rudimentary spells at his age. And rocks? How utterly barbaric. He certainly could have put an end to that, at the very least."
"He is not you, Draco," she said, coldly. "Cursing his classmates does not come so easily."
"Then he must learn! He's bound to face this sort of animosity for the rest of his life, considering his situation. In the eyes of those cretins' parents, we're Potter sympathizers—traitors. As far as everyone else is concerned, he's the son of Voldemort. If we pull him out, we're teaching him to surrender. We're teaching him that you'll coddle him forever and frankly, Mother, you don't have enough life left in you to keep such promises. He has to start defending himself."
Lady Malfoy's lips were fixed in a firm, slim line. Before she could find an adequate response, there was a knock on the door. She followed Draco's steps with her grey, worried eyes.
The door creaked open and a familiar Muggle-born launched herself at her aristocratic child. Her mouth fell agape as Draco cleared his throat and pulled away, gesturing the woman in her direction. It was clear that she thought they would be alone and, in all of her excitement, forgot to peer through the wide archway leading from the kitchen into the dining room.
"Mrs. Malfoy, lovely to see you," the Minister for Magic croaked. She awkwardly rubbed her forearm and hurried towards the table to shake the Malfoy matriarch's hand. They did not see each other often, but whenever they did, it was usually in a much more professional setting. "Always a pleasure."
"Likewise," Narcissa drawled, her expression calculative. "Draco, is this the business you mentioned?"
"Yes, precisely. Minister, my mother and I were just discussing the vase."
Hermione Granger looked from her lover to his mother. "Of course. The vase," she repeated, slowly. "The one we discussed yesterday."
"The very same."
"An unusual choice, son," Narcissa burred, still not convinced that the woman was only there on business.
"Is it? She seemed to be quite fitting," Draco continued, pulling out a chair and beckoning Hermione. "Given her past, I can't think of anyone more qualified."
Narcissa laced her fingers together and leered, resolute. "Draco, I'd like to have a word with you."
Hermione's heart pounded in her ears as Draco nodded and tailed his mother into the sitting room. She wondered how much the fair woman knew. The Malfoy clan had always been rather observant, and Narcissa seemed to be the sharpest of them all.
The mother and son sat on the sofa. Across from the two of them, the fireplace crackled, warmly. Perhaps, it would have been a comforting scene if the circumstances were not so awkward. Before Draco could speak, Narcissa cast a muffling charm. The fireplace was, all of a sudden, silent.
"I know what you're thinking but—"
"The Minister for Magic? Son, have you gone absolutely mad?"
Draco closed his eyes. "I—"
"You told me you met with her for appearances—to discuss her book," Narcissa accused, thinking back to the press conference debacle. "Perhaps not a great political move for her, but admirably brilliant on your behalf. This, however—this is absolutely imbecilic."
"She's the best possible person for the job." He was adamant. "There's no denying it."
"But at what cost, Draco? Not only could she have you arrested for every single thing you keep in that room of yours, but she could have you tried and sent to Azkaban with one snap of her fingers. No waiting. No time to prepare. No Harry Potter to testify on your behalf," she warned. "Why her? Why not one of the hundreds of others that Bella tortured?"
"Most of those people are dead," he countered through gritted teeth.
"I just hope you know what you're doing, Draco." Her eyes were telling. "Scorpius needs you."
He shot her a dark look. "Is that why he asked McGonagall to contact you instead of me?"
She gave him a sad smile. "He'll come around. Besides, you said it yourself. I don't have enough life left in me to be here for him forever."
Draco stood straight, hiding his worry. He knew that Hermione Granger could keep quiet, but he was not so sure that his mother could. "I suspect you'd like to see it destroyed."
"Given the circumstances, I think it's best you have a witness. I won't let you leave Scorpius on his own. He's a troubled boy, Draco." Narcissa looked him up and down as she got to her feet. "Not unlike you were at his age."
Morning tea at the Potters came much later than usual, as their late-night libations had left both of them feeling rather beat. Harry groaned as he picked up a sugar cube. Ginny cradled her head, the sour flavor of the hangover potion still on her tongue.
"It's nearly noon," Ginny grumbled. "Hermione can't still be sleeping?"
"Her room was empty. Must've went out again." There was a distinct vocal fry in his tone.
Ginny still believed that her sister-in-law was hiding something, but her head ached far too much to address it at that moment. Instead, she slowly sipped her tea.
The husband and wife sat together for nearly thirty minutes, silently drinking cup after cup and nibbling teacakes. They often drank with Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander. After all, the strange couple was good company. Their home in the country was a mysterious wonderland full of bizarre creatures and magic that the Potters did not even know to be real, making every get-together more exciting than the last. Incidentally, the many distractions also made it quite easy to lose track of the number of drinks consumed.
Just as Ginny found the energy to clean up the teacake plate that she and Harry had cleared, a knock echoed throughout the kitchen. To her misfortune, it was not one knock, but incessant rapping that drilled through her skull.
"Will you stop with that infernal noise?" she barked, padding towards the foyer. As soon as she opened the door, she let out an audible gasp. "Ron?"
"Gin," he wheezed. A plum shopping bag was in his freckled hand. "You gotta let me see Hermione."
"Ron, it's really not a good time," the once-Weasley barked, massaging her temples. "Besides, Hermione's not here."
Ron furrowed his brow. "Not here? Where is she?"
"I don't know, and frankly, I don't care."
Semicircles had become permanently embedded in Ron's facial features, but they were much more pronounced since the last time that Ginny had seen him. His hair was greasy and unwashed, leaving a shiny patch on his bald spot. Skin that was once pale was a rosy red and his breath reeked of firewhisky. Even if she had been home, Hermione would not want to see him in such a state.
"I-I brought her chocolates." He lifted up the plum bag so his sister could get a better look. "Sugarplum's too. Expensive."
Ginny sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "I'll relay the message, Ron, but I can't promise it'll change anything. She's been—well, I don't think she intends to see you any time soon. Let's just put it that way."
"She would if she knew everything I'm doin' for her. I-I'm gonna get my old job back," Ron argued. "Just some rounds of potions and I'll be better and George'll let me start workin' for the shop again. She'll come home then, don't ya think?"
"I don't know, Ron. Look, it's not the best time right now. I'll give her the chocolates, okay?" She reached out for the bag, hoping that he would leave as soon as she accepted the apology gift for Hermione.
"Are you so hungover you don't even care about my marriage? Some sister you are," Ron spat, pushing past her, the bag still in hand. He walked past the foyer. "How long 'til she's back?"
Annoyed, the redheaded woman closed the door and stalked after her brother. As they entered the beige-and-ruby living room, Harry gave them both a curious look. He was leaning back in the armchair, his feet sprawled out on the matching ottoman as he nursed a second cup of tea.
"Ron?"
"Harry," the older redhead acknowledged, sitting on the sofa. "Do you know where my wife is?"
Harry shook his head. "She left before we woke up."
Ron narrowed his eyes. "You two hit the bottle pretty hard last night, did you?"
"You're one to talk," Ginny jabbed.
"Fair, but I can handle it," Ron bragged. He didn't take his eyes off Harry. "So she's just been off on her own then? Dangerous, considerin' who she is, don't ya think?"
"She's probably with Katie Bell. The two of them can take care of themselves." Harry took another long drink of tea. The messy-haired man was trying his best to converse despite his migraine, but the more questions that Ron asked, the more irritated he became.
"That wench?" Ron scowled. "Malfoy, Katie Bell—seems like she never fails to keep the worst company."
"I wouldn't equate Katie to Malfoy," Ginny grunted, standing over her sitting brother, hoping to intimidate him into leaving.
"He's a slick git. She's a loose barfly. Not much of a difference, if you think about it."
"How do you know she's a barfly?" Harry inquired.
"Seen her out and about," Ron mumbled, folding his arms. "Buyin' booze in the mornin', draggin' her feet about Diagon Alley, absolutely trolleyed. Any time there's a Ministry event of some sort, she can't even string her words together. Hell, she was at the Leaky just yesterday. Caught her rollin' in as I was leavin'—already sloshed, mind you. Stopped in to finish the job, I reckon."
Ginny knit her brows together. "Wait, Katie was at the Leaky yesterday?"
Ron nodded, seemingly sure of what he witnessed. "Some bloke on 'er arm. Looked quite a bit younger than her. Someone oughta tell that woman she ain't twenty anymore."
Ginny shot a glance at Harry. "She was with a man? Nobody else?"
"Just the two of 'em, from what I saw." Her brother twisted his face in disgust. "Prob'ly didn't want anyone to witness her pouncin' on some young thing like the deviant she is."
"Ron, are you sure it was her?" Harry said, carefully, understanding quite quickly that his wife was starting to make assumptions. "A lot of witches have—"
"It was her alright," Ron asserted. "Saw her not too long ago at some holiday gala Hermione dragged me to, hair the same kind of mess. Was at the bar the whole time—just a few seats down from me and—" He stopped, trying to determine how to best describe the woman he had been with. "—one of Hermione's colleagues. Different bloke with 'er that time, though. Loose barfly, like I said."
"What time?" Ginny asked.
"Well, there was some fancy gala for Christmas. Don't think you and Harry made it—"
"No, you idiot! What time was she at the Leaky?"
Ron frowned. "Round six thirty, I think. Wasn't too late. Why?"
"But that means—" Ginny stopped as Harry shook his head. She turned her attention back to her brother. "Ron, why don't you leave the bag here with us? Harry and I were just leaving to—" Her eyes were on her husband once more, begging him for an excuse.
"—visit Andromeda."
Ron did not look convinced, but nodded, nonetheless. "Yeah, sure. I uh—I suppose I'll stop by again another time." Defeat was laced in his words as he set the plum bag onto the coffee table. "Can you have a talk with Hermione? She shouldn't be hangin' around that Katie Bell. She's trouble."
"Oh, believe me, Ronald. We'll be having a chat." Ginny growled, walking him out.
As they reached the door, she gave him one last reassuring pat on the shoulder. Once he Disapparated, she waltzed back into the living room and faced Harry. Her nostrils flared much like that of a Hungarian Horntail. Harry knew the look well.
"She lied."
"She probably had a good reason for it, Gin. We used to lie all the time when you were in school," he noted. "Your mum had to know, but she didn't nose her way into our business."
"And think about what we were doing!"
"I mean, she's not doing that," he chuckled, fondly remembering many a visit to Ginny's room during her holiday break. "Is it really our business, anyway?"
Ginny folded her arms, not finding his laughter as cute as usual. "As long as she lives under our roof and she's still married to my brother, it is our business."
"It's Hermione," he reminded her. "She probably just wanted to spend the day by herself and knew you'd weasel your way into following her if you thought she was alone. She used to do it to me and Ron all the time when we were kids. C'mon, Ginny. We know her."
"Do we?" Ginny shot back. "I'm hungover as hell, Harry. This is the last thing I want to think about, but I mean she met with Malfoy. Alone. Maybe we don't know her as well as we think."
Too much had happened in a single week. As she reflected on her budding affair with Draco Malfoy, her separation from Ron, and her duties at work, the Minister for Magic was becoming increasingly uncertain about the task that was bestowed upon her. Yet, Narcissa Malfoy was staring at her, expectantly. While her hand hovered over the doorknob, her stomach was gnarling in every possible direction.
"Certainly you've opened a door before, Minister," the blonde woman intoned.
"Y-yes, of course." Hermione gulped and looked at Draco, who was standing a head taller than his mother. With a deep breath, she turned the knob and slowly opened the door. The brunette shivered and let out a nervous laugh. "Cold, isn't it? M-maybe there's a draft." In actuality, the Dark Magic was beginning to do its work.
"I don't feel a draft." Narcissa's grey eyes bore into her.
"Ah, that room always is a bit chilly," Draco cut in, his hands in his pockets. He stepped between his mother and his inamorata. "Shall we?"
Anxious, Hermione nodded and walked inside of the candlelit room. The feeling of dread was painfully familiar as she trod down the glowing aisles, her breath hitching as the shadowy feeling penetrated her deeper and deeper. Gleaming jewels, gold, and silver lined her way and the two pale Malfoys trailed behind her, one tense and the other quite keen.
"We must be close," Narcissa concluded, running her long, ethereal fingers over the glass protecting a sapphire-studded chalice. "I feel its presence. Undeniably my sister's magic."
Draco glanced at Hermione, concernedly. Her palms were pressed hard against her forehead as the numerous Dark artifacts assailed her, tearing apart her soul slowly and excruciatingly. Years of exposure to the Dark Arts had immunized him, but a veracious Gryffindor like herself stood no chance without the only cure. How desperate he was to comfort her.
"Here it is," the bushy-headed woman announced, tightly. The emerald-encrusted vase sparkled before them. "N-now to destroy it."
Narcissa pursed her lips. There was something callous about the way that she stood, her arms folded and her long, stiletto fingernails barely kissing her own elbows. The black-and-gold robes that she wore were a constant reminder that she was wealthier than most, and therefore, more valuable. "And have you any idea how to do that, Minister?"
"Well—I-I—"
"We don't have to do this today," Draco interjected, worry dancing in his features. "This is merely an assessment—"
"An assessment?" Narcissa hissed, hurriedly turning on her heel to face her heir. "An assessment won't keep you out of Azkaban, Draco."
Hermione could hardly hear the arguing Malfoys. Odium and terror scraped at her very essence, pressing every other thought to the darkest, untouched corners of her mind. Her remedy was only inches away from her, yet she could not touch him.
"You do not even understand the magic, do you?" Narcissa seemed unaffected by the wickedness surrounding them. "There's no shame in it, Minister. This is, after all, magic that your organization has worked quite hard to oust. Its creators existed only to destroy and to protect itself, it must too destroy."
Draco watched his paramour with agony as she contorted her face in dread. She swallowed back an aggrieved sob.
"Ah, yes," Narcissa whispered, coolly. "You feel its power. I do too, Minister, yet I doubt I feel it as strongly as you. You see, only those that truly felt hate towards Bellatrix—hate towards Voldemort—only those misfortunate many will feel the full force of its magic. Enchantments such as this are quite old—ancient even. It took my darling Draco quite some time to discover all of its...history." She glanced at Draco from the corner of her eye. "I suspect he was unable to produce a Light spell strong enough to annihilate it, and thusly, he has brought you here."
What felt like thousands of knives cut at Hermione's skin. Alas, she was too terrified to open her eyes and see the damage. Narcissa's words seemed to only worsen the pain, as with each slow enunciation, the knives cut deeper and deeper.
"A fitting candidate, he claims, and I must agree," the blonde continued. "A woman that's been tortured by Bellatrix. A woman who Voldemort wished to see dead. A woman whose friends were targeted by the both of them. A Muggle-born. Yes, Minister, you do hate them. You hate them both and even the daughter they so quietly conceived. I only hope that he has had a good sense of judgment, because I will not watch him go to Azkaban. Mark my words."
Hermione's knuckles were paler than usual from pressing hard against her forehead. The knives stabbed and sliced, white-hot and growingly impious. If she would simply look, she would know that it was all in her head. The vase played its malevolent games and it played them oh-so well.
"Granger, we don't have to do this today," Draco reassured her, his face strained. "It can wait until you're ready."
"It cannot wait," Narcissa insisted. "My grandson needs his father, Draco Lucius! Until the vase is gone and the Ministry can no longer trace the Dark Magic to this house, you are in danger of imprisonment. If you are sent to Azkaban, he is alone—nothing more than an orphan. He would never forgive you, son. You know he wouldn't. And I wouldn't have the heart to ask it of him."
"She's clearly not ready," he said through gritted teeth. "We have to get her out of here, consequences be damned."
"It's not a risk you can be willing to take. What allegiance does she have to you? How do you know she isn't going to report this entire incident and come back with a team of Aurors? Do not rob your son of another parent, Draco. Don't you dare."
"She isn't strong enough!"
Suddenly, Hermione let out a bloodcurdling scream, her eyes stinging not from the tears but from Bellatrix Lestrange's terrible magic. Draco's voice was distorted and deep—otherworldly even.
"Destroy it." Narcissa demanded. "Destroy it now!"
The brunette fell onto the floor, curling into a ball as every ounce of love and happiness was robbed from her. If she could have sorted her thoughts, she may have equated it to a Dementor's Kiss.
"Hermione!"
Two strong arms pulled her close, and her eyes fluttered open.
Author's Note: Reviews are always appreciated. Thank you for reading!
