Thanks to my team once again! LightofEvolution, In Dreams, and Mcal, I'm ever grateful to you ladies. And thank you, readers, for your comments and faves and just generally being here :)


Ultimately, Draco decides he will grant his mother's wish and visit her at the Manor. He further decides, he would prefer to go alone.

Whatever dramatics his mother has planned, whatever scheme or plot or operatic nonsense she has dreamed up to trap him back into his life, he does not need the added strain of explaining to his family that Hermione Granger is the object of his most ardent affection. He will not spend the afternoon defending her or listening as they belittle her or question his choices. This meeting will only be about the Malfoy family and the future he sees for himself in regards to his heritage. Hermione need not subject herself to the scorn and bigotry, nor dredge up memories of her previous time at the Manor.

As such, he waits until nearly the end of the week, knowing his witch will be at the Ministry for the day, lunch plans with Potter sure to keep her too busy for any surprise visits to Benedick. It is half eleven when he reaches the gate, hand poised to knock when it swings open with considerable force.

"Master Draco!"

He smiles at the elf, nodding his greeting. "Pipsy."

With no warning and much to Draco's dismay, Pipsy's large, dark eyes start to water. "Pipsy tells Mistress that Master Draco will return to his family. Pipsy knows Master loves Mistress very much."

"Oh for the love of-" Draco sighs, pinching his nose. Has his mother been dragging herself about the Manor, telling any creature who might listen that she has been forsaken? Ridiculous, dramatic, witch… "Please let Mother know that I've arrived. Perhaps we could have a visit in the solarium?"

He knows he will have only moments once the elf leaves before Narcissa Malfoy is sweeping across the house to equal parts smother and chastise her darling boy. Fuck, this is miserable. He chose the solarium because of its proximity to the entry hall. Depending on her theatrics, he can make a fairly easy retreat.

Noddling furiously, the elf agrees, "Oh, yes, Master. Splendid! Pipsy will alert Mistress. The solarium is one of the most preserved room!"

An odd comment, Draco thinks.

Stepping over the threshold, Draco has his first glance at the house. From the exterior, it seemed that the vines were a bit more unwieldy than usual, the grounds not quite as trimmed. From the interior, things are much more troubling. In all his years as a privileged socialite, he never found their ancestral home to be anything but picturesque. Now, there are corners of paper peeled from the walls, rough and chipped patches on the woodwork and banisters. This is not renovations in any form Draco has ever seen. He casts a quick charm at the banister along their grand staircase, only for the magic to feel as though it rejects him, the paint none improved.

He is studying the trims and walls, a growing sense of unease twisting his gut as he finds crumbling mortar and cracked finishes. He peers into the receiving room to his left to find a segment of moulding has broken off and crumbled onto a parlor chair. He's gaping at it, stunned his parents would allow this disorder, when not only his mother, but the Malfoy patriarch walks briskly to greet him.

"Son, you have arrived." Lucius looks wan at best, pale and drawn. Too thin and hair lacking any luster. He looks nearly as haggard as he had under Voldemort's rule, and he had been little more than a walking corpse at that time.

Seeing his father, hearing his familiar and dreaded voice, Draco momentarily forgets the state of the Manor. "Mother. Father. I read your missives." He holds his arms away from his body, presenting himself for inspection in a somewhat sarcastic fashion. "As you can see, I'm quite alright. No reason for concern. I'm sure Cronus is quite tired of delivering so many letters."

"You," his father says, a shadow of his old pride creeping into his tone, "would do well to learn humility." When Draco starts to interject, Lucius continues, asking, "Had you not considered your mother had a reason for her insistence? Could you not detect her urgency?"

That gives Draco pause, glancing between his parents and noticing the strain to Narcissa's usually placid face. "What's happened?" he asks, fearing the worst. "You're not… ill?" he questions her directly, bracing.

"No, my dragon. I am well," she answers and approaches him cautiously, arms extended to receive him. Unable to deny her his affection, Draco embraces her, relieved. Over her shoulder, Lucius watches the exchange patiently.

Pulling away, Draco places his hands on her shoulders, studying her face for clues as to the situation. "Mother, I know our coffers have suffered, but I had thought them sufficient to sustain you and the Manor…" He sweeps his arm wide, alluding to the state of their ancestral home.

"Our gold is not the reason for the state of the family seat," Lucius answers for her. Narcissa nods at Draco, and gestures for her husband to continue.

"There has always been a Malfoy to head the house. An heir. The Manor is built to survive the ages, magic suffused to slow the effects of time." He steps slowly forward, joining his wife and son in a tighter circle. "But it draws from the family, from blood, and the Ministry has stemmed my magic. The blood wards no longer recognize me as the patriarch."

He takes a deep breath and levels his son with a look. "The Manor is rejecting us, Draco. The damage will only increase until it collapses around us. The ceiling in the main dining room has already fallen through."

Looking around at the crumbling supports and peeling paint, Draco stares back at his father. "Why didn't you say anything? Mother has been owling for ages."

Lucius sneers and answers as though it's obvious. "The Ministry is reading our missives, tracking our owls. The last thing we needed was some undersecretary taking it upon himself to sweep for Dark curses."

"This curse isn't fucking Dark enough for you?" Draco bites back. "What is this, if not Dark?"

"It's familial," his father answers in his condescending drawl. "And family business is no concern of the Ministry. It has been that way for centuries," he adds, puffed up with his own worth. Draco thinks it's the stupidest thing he's ever heard.

"So, instead, you would stay here." He gestures to the room around them, a bit of plaster dropping to the floor punctuating his point. "Wait in your mausoleum for me to come home?" His father only raises a brow in response, and Draco has his answer.

"You can't leave," Draco finally whispers, remembering the situation and realizing why his mother has been so desperately seeking a change to Lucius' sentence. "You realize the Ministry would move you if they knew the home was uninhabitable? This house will fall apart around you, and you would stay here, lost in the rubble. Are you mad?"

"I am a Malfoy," Lucius replies. "Something I tried to instill within you as well, but it seems you are lacking in that regard. Have you no pride?"

Draco snorts. "Fucking pride… In what? This crypt you're buried alive in? Your affiliations during the war? I'll never be free of you. This is why I wanted to leave England, to escape being buried alive along side you." He spits out the last with venom, angry all over again at his namesake, his inheritance.

Lucius looks back with narrowed eyes and starts to speak but is interrupted by a harsh whisper to Draco's left.

"That is enough. You two peacocks have said quite enough and plenty to regret." Narcissa turns her body to Draco, smoothing her features into something less wrathful. "Draco, darling, I'm so glad you've come. You look well. Something in your life agrees with you."

They both know what she means, and Draco looks away with a faint stain of pink to his skin.

"Yes. Potter's Muggle girl," Lucius intones, breaking the momentary peace.

"She's not Potter's anything," he growls. "She's mine. And she's a witch, Father, lest you've forgotten that she helped destroy your master."

"Draco!"

"Your master as well if you recall," Lucius returns with a nasty smile.

"Lucius!"

"And who's fault was that? You let him brand me!" Draco clenches his fists at his side, both he and his father ignoring Narcissa's increasingly frantic bids to interrupt them.

"Both of you, stop this!"

Lucius sputters some denial or another, but Draco can't even hear him, can't process the words. He lets out a soft yell of frustration, reliving it all, his whole wretched life in a blink.

"He marked me like cattle, and you just stood by and allowed it. Your own son. Served me up like a fucking sacrifice," he adds with disgust. "Do you know what he used to do to me? Were you struck deaf to my screaming when he crucio'd me?"

"Draco, your father did his best for this family-"

He turns wide eyes on his mother, disbelief momentarily silencing him. "You're defending him? What, you couldn't hear me begging either? Didn't hear your sister cackling at Him to keep going?"

Draco shakes his head, his ire running its course and leaving him feeling empty, drained. No one speaks for a long time.

"For what it may be worth," Lucius finally says, "I had not intended for you to join the ranks. We protested, but the Dark Lord-"

"Tom. You can call him fucking Tom because that was his name," Draco spits out. "His common, uncouth, Muggle name."

Unfazed, Lucius continues. "He would not hear our concerns, and we paid for questioning his judgement."

Draco knows what that means. He can't look at his mother, because he knows she suffered the torture curse nearly as often as he felt the licks of it. This is a battle that no one can win. It's already fought and lost. "You never should have joined him," he finally says, speaking to the ground between them.

"No, I should not," Lucius agrees, and it's the closest to understanding they may ever reach.

"Draco," Narcissa tries, gently. "Draco, please come and sit. We will tell you about the spell that rules the house, and, if you would be so forgiving, perhaps you would complete the ritual so the house will recognize you?"

He looks at her warily, and she seems to know the question he's yet to ask. "It is not as though you will not be bound here at all times. You can travel or visit your Miss Granger." Lucius scoffs beside her, but they ignore him and his opinions, which Draco hopes to say is the new norm. "However, I would much appreciate if you might take tea with me on occasion?" She looks at him with hope and a more open countenance than that to which he is accustomed.

With a nod, he agrees at least to that. "I can do tea," he says, and she smiles at him in turn.

"Yes, let's all enjoy a drop of Earl Grey while the Manor deteriorates one more day," Lucius interjects, and Draco nearly chuckles as his mother rolls her eyes.

"He's just impossible these days," she says and turns to glide from the room.

Draco looks back at his father, thin and worn, but still standing straight; the king of his crumbling castle. Finding he has no words for the man, he shakes his head and follows his mother to the solarium, Lucius' uneven steps only moments behind.


Tea is fairly horrid.

Not that Pipsy serves anything less than the most perfect cup in all of England, but the conversation centers around Narcissa digging none too subtly for information on Granger while Lucius tosses out biting remarks in regards to her hair, her temperament ("She set Severus on fire, son."), and her affiliations. The only saving grace, for which Draco is thankful, is that nothing is said as to her heritage. Perhaps his father can learn, after all.

In the cavernous halls of the Manor, a clock strikes the hour, and Draco starts. The day has gotten away from him, and now is time to take his leave.

He stands, trying not to rush as much as he feels. It has somehow gone three in the afternoon, and Potter sometimes is earlier to arrive than Granger.

"I'm afraid I need to be off," he tells them, his mother's face showing obvious disappointment.

"Oh, Draco darling, must you? It feels like I've not seen you in ages." She looks him over, wringing her hands. "Why, you're practically grown. Where is my darling little boy."

It's typical maternal gibberish, and Draco tries very hard not to say uncharitable things like 'he didn't survive a war fought too young' or 'in the belly of a beast; he withered away when he watched a woman devoured on his dining table.' Instead, he hums in reply, only commenting, "We all must grow up, Mother."

Lucius stands along with his family, looking anxious. "And the ritual? You will take your family seat, yes? Do your duty by myself and your mother?" He sounds as though he is trying for stern, but there is a waver in his voice.

Draco's lips thin, but he doesn't allow his ire to overtake him. "I want to research the rite, and then I'll consider it. Pipsy?"

The elf is beside him in a flash. "Master calls?"

"Pipsy, I need anything in the library in regards to the familial wards that keep the Manor."

"Right away!" And with a snap of his fingers, the little elf is gone. Draco opens his mouth to speak, but before he can utter more than a sound, Pipsy is in front of him, two large tomes in his spindly hands. "Pipsy finds these, Master Draco."

"Efficient as ever, Pipsy," he says by way of gratitude, and the elf preens before popping away.

"Draco."

He turns to answer the call of his name, finding his father eyeing him. "Regardless of what you may think of your family, the name Malfoy means something. The path to follow the Dark Lord was a grievous gamble. Don't let that be what we are remembered for."

Draco bristles, uncomfortable under the weight of responsibility. "It is not my place to clean up after you, Father."

"It is precisely your place," the man counters emphatically. "This family is now yours as much as it was mine. You are the heir to more than a rotting house and a bit of gold. You are heir to a legacy."

"Of hatred," Draco adds, petulant and not even ashamed of it.

Lucius shakes his head at him, disappointed. "Of leadership. The Sacred families once looked to us for guidance. You could guide them into this new era," he adds, with no little significance, and it makes Draco think on the possibilities. He's never known his father to trade in hope, but he sounds almost wistful with possibility.

"An era of your own making," Narcissa adds.

Can he even dare entertain their hidden meaning? Is this their veiled support of his choices? Draco only nods, a bit brisk, and bids them a good evening as he shrinks the tomes and puts them into his pockets.

There is a lot to consider, and he knows no one he would rather see when faced with a dilemma than his witch. Not to mention, she's cracking at research. Draco thinks he is very grateful for her swotty tendencies and prepares for a date lit by reading light instead of candles.


Hermione is just arriving back to Grimmauld, her shoes still on her feet and robes still about her shoulders, when she is quite surprised by a knock at the door. Harry enters the room at the sound as well, drying his hands on a towel.

"Expecting someone?"

Hermione shakes her head in answer, and Harry continues his path and swings the door wide.

Standing on the stoop, looking like he'd nearly run here, is Draco. He has a large book in his hand and a determined but worn expression on his face. "Granger. Apologies for arriving unannounced."

"You should probably apologize to me, Malfoy. She's likely more happy to see you," Harry quips then turns to leave without even inviting him inside. Hermione rolls her eyes at him.

"Draco would you like to come in?" Then, turning to Harry, "Have you seen Benedick?"

"Yeah, I just fed him. He's right here in the kitch-" He stops mid-sentence, peeking around the corner then back at Hermione. "Well, the food's mostly gone, but he's scampered off as well."

She waves off any concern. "That's fine. I just wanted to make sure he'd eaten." She glances back at Draco. "I might be occupied, it seems."

With a grunt of acknowledgement, Harry leaves, and it's just her and her wizard, still looking at bit worse for wear.

"Has something happened?"

He nods and steps closer, shutting the door behind him. "Are you free? I need your help."

She nods, welcoming his approach and taking a step herself. She breathes out, "Of course," and reaches for him just as he nears. They greet with a sweet kiss, then she gestures to the book. "Tell me what's going on."

And he does. Hermione is quite shocked to hear of the state of the Manor. Perhaps a small, ugly part of her revels in it for only a moment, but then she is back to her problem-solving, altruistic self. Draco seems concerned for his mother above all else but is also hesitant to bind himself to his home. He might have decided to stay around England, but to reincorporate with the wizarding world gives him pause. His life seeming to be completely separate from Wizarding Britain, Hermione wonders, not for the first time, if Draco's mysterious roommates are Muggles.

Draco says he doesn't trust the ancient blood magic that runs the Manor any more than he trusts his father to having been upfront, haggard though he says the man has been.

At some point, they move into the parlour and sit close on the sofa where they had their last tryst. Hermione holds his hand while he speaks, offering assurance and, she hopes, strength. She tells him it will be his decision and his alone, and that his mother is thankfully free to leave, to be safe.

"Except, she won't," he says, a bit despondent. "She'll stay and die with him if that's what it takes." He shrugs and finishes, "She loves him."

"It's… understandable," she finally lands on, not sure what else to say. Hermione might not have affection for Lucius Malfoy, but, taking out his name, she can understand a wife not wanting to leave her husband to perish in the home where they raised their family.

Hermione is a pragmatic witch, but she also feels very deeply.

"So, tell me about the book," she requests, gesturing to the heavy tome he laid on the low table.

Draco reaches in his pocket, and pulls out a small item. Tapping it with his wand to enlarge, another ancient-looking book is laid beside the first. "I asked for anything in the Manor that had to do with the blood wards. I was hoping you might help me look?"

She laughs a little. "Why does this seem familiar? Only it's you instead of Ron, and it's this instead of Transfiguration homework." She means it in jest, but he grimaces and looks at his lap.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… It was presumptuous…"

Hermione reaches forward and takes his hand. "Hey. Draco, it's fine. It's only a bit funny, is all. I'm quite accustomed to being asked for research help."

"By him, sure. I don't want to use you like he always has."

She sits up straighter, her hand falling off of his. "You think Ron uses me?"

Draco looks up, eyes wide like he's made a mistake in speaking ill of her friend. The look on his face makes her even more curious. "What do you mean, 'always has'?

He hesitates for a moment before explaining. "At Hogwarts," he clarifies. "We all knew it. Everyone talked about how much you did for everyone else. Half of Gryffindor should have failed Defense, what with our poor instruction."

"Who's 'everyone'," she wonders aloud, nearly rhetorical as her mind sifts through possibilities.

"My House. We notice things like that. Hogwarts was more than learning; we were building alliances, looking for future leaders amongst our generation. In Slytherin, it's common practice for the smarter students to help the academically weak. Especially if it means keeping someone on the House team or if a family has a lot of social standing, so we know the signs."

She furrows her brow a bit, thinking through. "So you thought I was helping Ron…what, to make sure he could play Keeper?"

Shifting his position with discomfort, Draco clears his throat before continuing. "No. We knew he wasn't that great on the pitch. We thought you were trying to… secure a suit."

"You thought I helped him because I wanted to marry him?" She laughs a little again, not sure if she should be offended or not. She's not, in general, but he's so uncomfortable, she thinks she should be. "That's ridiculous. He was my friend before anything else. I just wanted him to do well."

"Yes, well, you're kinder than we gave you credit for," he says, tucking a curl behind her ear and brushing his fingertips along her cheek. His light touches aways melt her just a little.

"Well," she says decisively, back to the matter at hand. She speaks as she picks up the book, opening it carefully. "I assure you, I don't feel used, and I don't expect a ring as payment. I care about you, so I'll help you."

He doesn't answer immediately, and she grows nervous as she looks at the book, feeling his eyes on her. Finally, he says quietly, "Thanks, Granger," and turns her head with a gentle palm for a kiss.

"You're welcome," she answers with a smile, her lips still brushed against his mouth. She turns back to the book, and he settles in beside her, reading over her shoulder. "Now, let's start with the origin. Do you know which ancestor cast the spell? Or when?"

He doesn't, but they begin to read, searching for answers, Hermione resolved to help the man who has made her so much happier in recent weeks. It's the least she can do for him.