Sorry for the delayed post. Holidays are just murder -_-
Canon-related note: For those who've only seen the films, the Malfoys didn't walk away from the Battle of Hogwarts. Narcissa and Draco didn't turn their backs on the fighting and stroll off with Lucius scrambling after them like a coward relieved to finally have an out. In the DH book, Narcissa and Lucius actually run into the fray, without even the thought to fight, without even caring to defend themselves, searching for Draco (and there is no completely awkward hug that Voldemort gives Draco, because there's no scene of him crossing back over battle lines after Harry's faked death).
Chapter Twenty-One
Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy always looked both out of place and as though there was no place they fit more, whenever they walked through the gates of the Hogwarts castle grounds. Their sleek refinery and glossy sheen—they certainly had gotten back to themselves after the Dark Lord's demise—did not match the roughhewn grey stone, some of which was still not yet back where it should be following the war, nor the shadowed, fear-evoking backdrop of the Dark Forest that edged the property. Yet, their regal bearing, with their postures so poised and perfect it nearly looked painful, and the era-less style of their impeccable robes seemed to belong nowhere else in the world except there, at a castle built for the very sake of housing magic in all its forms.
It was possibly the one thing about them that Minerva McGonagall could honestly say she admired—their ability to look as though they owned the very ground beneath their feet, no matter where they stood. Well, that and their sense of family, perhaps, but that was sort of it. That did raise a curious question, however. The Malfoys did have a long and close history with the families that branched out from the Slytherin line, tracing back before the Founding, in fact—did they now view Hermione, with her true lineage revealed to them, as family?
As the impeccably-attired and coifed couple drew close to the castle doors, Minerva moved down the wide stone steps to meet them halfway.
"Thank you for coming," she said, her voice almost impossibly low as she nodded, slapping on a stiff smile for the sake of appearance—not that anyone was around to witness this strained moment. "The reason for your visit has been cataloged as discussing donations to the school's continued restoration."
Narcissa's perfect, mauve-painted lips dipped at the corners in a thoughtful frown as she nodded. "Then I suppose we had better make sure to donate a notable contribution to your efforts before we leave today. Hadn't we, Lucius?"
Lucius' shoulders moved in an already exhausted shrug. Money was coming to mean less and less to him these days. They had more of it than the current members of the Malfoy family could spend in their lifetimes, and everyone knew it—but that was the thing. Everyone knew it, so no matter how much they spent, or what cause they lavished money upon, it didn't actually matter, because it was something they would not be able to do if they hadn't such financial freedom.
"Of course. Now, shall we?"
"We will be in my office. The walls and lift have been charmed against eavesdropping, and the portraits, well, ever since Helena caught up with me in a blank corridor, I've had them under the same charm. Dumbledore's portrait doesn't even know what time of day it is."
The pale-haired couple each raised their brows at her.
Minerva shrugged in an offhanded manner. "I have a morning routine which now includes mixing a Confundus in with the Muffliato, just for him. As far as any portrait inhabitants are aware, Helena Ravenclaw's occasional appearance in my office is simply another of the things about the castle out of place since War's End."
Now it was Lucius' turn for a thoughtful frown as the Headmistress turned on her heel and began leading them up to the castle doors. "You certainly seem to have thought of everything, Minerva."
The elder witch smirked and nodded. "Yes. You know, when I was a student, the Sorting Hat struggled over whether to put me in Gryffindor or Ravenclaw?"
The Malfoys exchanged a glance while they followed her. That certainly explained why Minerva McGonagall and Hermione Granger got on so well.
It was not lost on either of them that The Grey Lady stood in a corner of the Headmaster's Office that was not visible from any of the portraits vantage points. Sooner than they could ask about this particular precaution, Minerva waved a dismissive hand. "She spends more and more time in my office these days as she's become quite comfortable here. However, for the sake of appearing as though she's off wandering the castle, when she doesn't feel like leaving, she goes over there."
Helena looked up from where she sat on the floor, seeming to have been playing with a loose thread on her robes until she heard her friend's voice. "She is quite capable to speak for herself, thank you."
Minerva rolled her eyes ever so slightly and hissed under her breath, "Here we go." Louder, she said to the specter directly, "Sorry, Helena, I did not mean to speak for you."
Floating to her feet and hovering over to them in silence, Helena nodded, though she certainly appeared as though she'd had a retort prepared. They might be friends, however Helena had always possessed an argumentative streak, and at least once a day she satisfied her urge for feisty debate by sassing Minerva into a lighthearted bit of bickering. But then, Minerva usually seemed to understand this about her and entertained it. That she was so quick to apologize just now clearly indicated this was not a time for the relaxing exercise of arguing over inconsequential things.
"Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy," Minerva said with another sweep of her hand, "may I formally introduce Lady Helena Ravenclaw."
The Malfoys both bent their heads in gestures of greeting. As they raised their heads, they each could not help noticing that the ghost's attention was fixed on Lucius' face.
His grey eyes widened and his brows pinched together. "Is there an issue, Lady Ravenclaw?"
Minerva wasn't quite sure she knew what was happening as Helena's misty grey cheeks darkened a little.
"Lady . . . ?" Helena breathed the word in what sounded like wonderment. Sure, her title as a specter haunting the castle was 'the GreyLady', but to be called Lady Ravenclaw? "Why, I never thought I would hear myself addressed as such."
Sooner than any of the room's living occupants could think of something to say, the ghost drew uncomfortably close to Lucius' person. She peered up into his face in a disconcerting, unblinking way.
He desperately wanted to backpedal, but refused to give up any ground to this intrusion of his personal space. "May I help you, Milady?"
"Are you really a Malfoy?" she asked, her attention rapt on his face. "I simply mean . . . you have the bearing and colouring, but . . . ."
One brow arching severely, he echoed, "But?"
Helena's semi-transparent lips pursed in consideration as she puzzled over just how to state her observation tactfully. "But you are quite a bit taller than I would have imagined . . . and you are far more striking than your ancestor was."
Narcissa's own lips folded in on a half-smile as she glanced at the floor. Minerva's eyebrows lifted as she made a small, thoughtful sound.
Lucius, for his part, did not seem to know how to respond. He was well aware his ancestor Armand's attempt at courting Helena Ravenclaw had not so much been spurned as simply ignored—an attempt which he later dropped entirely, as it set him square in the crosshairs of that dreadful and vengeful Baron. Lucius had believed that, well, he wasn't really certain what he had believed about her memories of Armand Malfoy, as he was hadn't actually considered it at all until this moment. He supposed, if anything, he would have thought she gave him so little consideration that she did not recall very much about him, at all, let alone how striking he might or might not have been.
He was accustomed to intimidating people with his bearing or his status, or to at the very least inspiring annoyance and hatred of the sort that went unspoken in mixed company lest it be taken as a grave insult, but this? This . . . doe-eyed stare? Lucius Malfoy had not the faintest notion how to handle that.
Darting his gaze about the room as he pondered what to say, he finally settled for a clipped smile and a polite nod. "Well, I suppose a 'thank you' is in order, then."
Helena beamed up at him and seemed to fidget in place where she hovered above the carpet, so very unlike her usual behavior that it took Minerva a strained moment to recall that despite how long she'd been a tragic spirit haunting the halls of Hogwarts, Helena Ravenclaw was only a young woman. A young woman who's notable part of her more recent story—since Minerva now knew the entirety of that fiasco with the Horcruxes—was that she had been charmed into revealing the hiding place of her mother's diadem by a youthful, handsome Tom Riddle.
Minerva winced, though it was a good-natured sort of expression. She caught the glint of humor in Narcissa's sharp blue eyes, however. Apparently, the pale-haired elder witch found the specter's apparent infatuation with her husband absolutely hilarious. Oh, how Minerva would love to be a fly on the foyer wall in Malfoy Manor when the couple arrived home after this.
So much for hoping the Grey Lady's presence might serve as an unsettling reminder to the Malfoys to withhold nothing about their intentions for, and connection to, Hermione.
"Might we all get to the point of this 'tea'?"
The Malfoys and the enamored ghost all snapped their attention to Minerva McGonagall at her slightly impatient prodding.
"Of course," they said, one after another, in tones that ran from confused to abashed to quietly amused.
"Bloody madman," Draco said in a hissing whisper as braced himself on his elbows and looked about.
On the staircase leading down into the cellar, he had found a tripwire. He'd stepped over it, neatly and carefully . . . only to get caught by a second, far more well camouflaged wire on the steps below. He had narrowly missed triggering a shock charm as he landed hard on the floor on his stomach.
He looked back over his shoulder at the staircase as he got his bearings. If the intruder hit the first tripwire, they'd have broken a bone—if not their neck—in the tumble down the steps. However, if they bypassed that, as Draco had, the second wire would land them in crippling paralysis, he'd only missed the field of the shock charm, himself, because he had suspected such a thing awaited, and despite his panic as he fell, he threw his body to the side, refusing to land in a direct line with the foot of the staircase.
He might be growing to despise Antonin Dolohov more and more with every passing breath, but he was also beginning to feel an odd, grudging admiration for the bastard. These traps really were ingenious.
Rolling gently onto his side, he winced. There was a chance he might've cracked a rib upon impact with the gritty, uneven basement floor. Touching a hand to his midsection, he tested carefully for any tender spots.
He exhaled, deep and grateful, finding what was bound to be no more than some spectacular bruising. Yup, he knew precisely what he was going to ask for from Granger in payment for this. He was going to insist she make good on her idea to talk him up to Astoria Greengrass, tell her he was a goddamned unsung hero of the War! Maybe . . . maybe, since everyone in Wizarding Britain was under the impression he and Granger had been sleeping together as it was, she could woefully lament to Astoria about the loss of him as a lover despite their continued friendship. Yes, that would be the recompense for this sort of unnecessary physical harm befalling his person in pursuit of assisting Granger and Rowle. Hermione Granger would shout from the bloody rooftops that Draco Malfoy was a goddamned war-winning sex god, for pity's sake!
Okay, so perhaps the fall had jarred his mind just a bit. . . . Shouting from the rooftops was a bit excessive, sensibly, he'd settle for Hermione simply having a pleasant, Pro-Draco-Malfoy chat with Astoria. He nodded, now he was making sense, again.
Rolling onto his back, Draco simply let himself breathe for a few moments. He permitted the pain to subside before he moved again.
But he'd bloody well had enough of fretting that every other step might be his end, or at the very least his maiming. Snatching up his wand from where it had landed in the fall, he cast a reveal charm and sent it across the floor, stretching the magic until it covered the entirety or it, the bounds of the charm brushing against the basement walls.
Nothing more popped out at him . . . . But something in one of the far corners did resist the charm. A shadow shuddered, like a breeze traveling beneath a dark blanket.
Narrowing his eyes, Draco climbed to his feet. He glanced about—it was clear someone had, indeed, been living here. There was a rumbled bedroll in the center of the room, surrounded by papers and scattered documents. Something about the sight unsettled him. There was an overturned table . . . signs of a struggle? Or maybe a lashing out in frustration? The second did, certainly, sound far more like something he'd expect to find any place Dolohov was calling home, even temporarily.
The answer as to which it was, more than likely, lay in those scattered papers, but first thing was first. Satisfying his curiosity about that strange shroud in the corner took precedence over satisfying his curiosity about Dolohov's motivations.
His wand gripped tight, Draco stepped back from the immediate scene of whatever scuffle or meltdown had occurred and moved toward the far right corner of the room, where he'd noted the disturbance in his reveal charm.
He cast the charm again—perhaps the reason for said disturbance was that this was something directly shielded, and his charm had been spread thin. Still, this section of the floor refused to unveil itself to him.
Groaning, he rolled his eyes and tried once more. The concealment charm, he could sense after a few moments of struggling to undo it, actually seemed to be fighting against his efforts.
Then, with a pulse that rippled through the room, the concealment fell away. Just like that.
Draco's brows drew upward and his wandarm fell to his side. "Oh," was all he managed to say.
"What do you mean her parents are missing?"
Narcissa and Lucius exchanged a glance, setting their tea cups down in a strangely synchronized movement. "Her Muggle parents," he said, nodding, "they've vanished. The children are looking for clues to their whereabouts as we speak."
Minerva frowned, holding up a hand. "Looking how, precisely?"
Narcissa shrugged. "It was a very short missive, with reason as you can imagine. They did not provide details. But we are speaking of Miss Granger, Thorfinn Rowle, and my son. Though young Mr. Rowle can be a bit . . . reckless, the other two would proceed intelligently, and more importantly, cautiously."
"Cautious? My sister? Dear Lord, being raised by Muggles certainly must've changed her," Helena said with a strained grin. She flitted unexpectedly toward the far wall of the office, the one which would lead her out into open air rather than back into the castle if she were to slip through it.
"Where are you off to?" the Headmistress asked, arching a brow.
"Since Sabina's visit, I have been free of my binding to not only Ravenclaw Tower, but to the castle. I simply haven't left, yet."
"You're leaving the grounds? You've not been outside in literally a thousand years," Narcissa pointed out, her tone a shade concerned.
"I'll be back." Helena nodded, a determined scowl tugging at her misty features.
"That's good, I suppose," Minerva said with a nod, "but that does not answer the question of where you're going."
Helena shrugged vanishing from sight, though her voice remained, answering, "To find my sister and make sure she is all right."
Silence followed the specter's literal disappearing act. All three living occupants of the room looked around at one another.
"Perhaps we actually should've tried to stop her," Lucius said with a pensive frown.