King's Cross Station was as busy as it always was during the holidays. While Draco's schoolmates found their families, Muggles darted back and forth between the other platforms, some shouting about being late while others cooed at their small children.

"Adrian, come along, dear," a woman sang. A blond toddler ran towards her and proudly offered her a bright blue toy. "Brilliant! You did it, bubby!"

Even when he was as tiny as the Muggle boy, his mother had never spoken to him with such a swell of affection. Alas, he still looked forward to seeing her. Unlike his father, she had shown him the type of love he needed when the world was crashing around him, and for that, he was eternally grateful.

It was between a group of hurried Muggles, that he finally placed her. She was standing with her neck craned and worry spinning in her crystal blue eyes, almost like she thought he may not have shown.

"Mother," Draco said, dragging his luggage towards her. "It's lovely to see you."

She embraced him and pecked his cheek. "I have missed you, my son."

"And I've missed you." He pulled away and frowned. "I assume Wimby will be joining us when we go to the Portkey?"

"No," she said, grimly. "We decided it was best that she stayed home. I don't know what has gotten into her but she has been acting—" She glanced at a nearby Muggle. "Well, let's just say that she has not been herself lately."

Guilt overwhelmed Draco. He suspected that Wimby's mistakes led back to the day that she escorted him to that very train station. He had informed her that the way she talked was annoying, and according to his mother's letter, this sentiment had been looming over the elf ever since.

"Anyway," his matriarch sighed, "we ought to be going. The Portkey will be leaving shortly."

Draco nodded and followed her. He was not looking forward to traveling all the way to France via Portkey, but he did not have much of a choice.


Chateau Chausse was perhaps half the size of Malfoy Manor. The estate was perched upon a hill in a wealthy neighborhood—probably the wealthiest Wizarding neighborhood in the French Riviera—but it was the smallest property on the street. It was the type of home that Narcissa Malfoy would refer to as "less luxurious than expected", the type an acquaintance of the family may live in—someone the Malfoys never intended on visiting again.

Draco could not picture his parents living happily in the chateau, though he did not mind the quaint rooms or the exceptionally brown courtyard. Only people could make him loathe the place—and they did.

As promised, Wimby and his father had been waiting in the sitting room when he and his mother arrived. While his mother complained of having to touch the Portkey—a rather grotesque banana peel that was in a King's Cross bin—his father nodded from behind a book that was holding his attention. Beside him stood Wimby. With wide eyes, she glanced from him to Draco.

"...as if I were some sort of common Mudblood!" Narcissa Malfoy hissed with disgust. "They issued it to us on purpose, Lucius, I just know it. They saw the Malfoy name and they found the filthiest object that they possibly could..."

Before she could finish her tale, Draco had wandered up the stairs to claim one of the many guestrooms. He opened three doors—two bedrooms that were clearly already occupied and a bathroom decorated with seashells—before settling in a room comprised of a crush red velvet duvet and curtains, three towering bookshelves, and a walnut writing desk. The books were all in French, but he picked one out, nonetheless.

Two days had passed since then, and he still had not spoken more than two words to his father or the house-elf. Instead, he spent his days tucked away in his temporary bed-chamber, reading books that he could barely understand.

Unfortunately, he could not avoid them forever.

It was well past noon when the inevitable happened: The black door cracked open and his mother peered inside, pearls on her neck and silver dangling from her ears. Something somber was etched in the lines of her face, yet it was gone as soon as he noticed it.

"Mathilde will be arriving today."

"Wonderful," Draco muttered from behind his book. "Will her husband be joining us?"

"Draco, she is allowing us to stay on her property. Whatever differences we have, we must set aside for our own sake—no matter how unpalatable it may seem."

"Will Father be setting aside his differences, then?"

"Your father will treat her with respect as he has been for the past several months." Her voice wavered, but only briefly. "You will join us in the sitting room at no later than seven. Dress well."

"Yes, Mother," he said, stiffly.

A hint of a smile graced her lips. "That's a good boy."

The smile disappeared as she closed the door.


Seven o' clock arrived much faster than Draco would have liked. No matter how often he wore dress robes, they were still terribly itchy, and he found himself scratching his neck as they awaited Mathilde's arrival.

"Quit scratching, Draco," his mother said, quietly, almost as though someone else could hear her.

"Yes, Mother."

He clasped his hands in front of him to deter himself from clawing at the collar again. His father's hands were clasped in the same way, although Draco assumed that was to maintain his composure when his least favorite relative entered the room.

The loud knock finally came. The three Malfoys turned to their house-elf, whose bare feet were planted on the floor.

"Wimby!" Narcissa hissed. "Answer the door!"

Petrified, Wimby glanced at Draco.

The elf wordlessly marched out of the living room and Draco heard the French doors creak open. If the house-elf had been using her manners, she would have greeted Mathilde. Alas, she said nothing.

"Please, please, I am more zan capable. Sank you."

Footsteps sounded upon the mahogany floorboards. Draco straightened his shoulders as his mother had always taught him to do, and in walked a mousy Frenchwoman with wild hair and an orange, oversized purse. Inside the purse was a fluffy, growling dog.

"Narcissa, Lucius," she purred, reaching out with her free arm. Draco noticed how uncomfortable his parents looked as they gave her a half-embrace. "So lovely to 'ave you both." She pulled away and squealed. "Oh, and you must be Draco! 'ow wonderful it is to meet you at last!"

Draco tried not to wince as she pulled him into an informal half-hug and kissed his cheek. He felt her waxy pink lipstick stain his skin.

"Enchantée."

"And 'e speaks a bit of French too! What a darling, darling boy," Mathilde gushed. She bent over and released the poof of a canine to skitter across the hardwood floor. Immediately, it began barking at Draco's heels. "Veri! Veri, non! Non! Oh, don't mind 'er. She's just a bit feisty with strangers. Typical of Pomeranians..."

The disgusted expression on Narcissa Malfoy's face was shortlived as she stared down at the small dog, but Draco noticed it, nonetheless. Regaining her composure, she kneeled down to halfheartedly pat its head. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth and the disgusted expression came and went once more.

"Mathilde," she chimed, "we cannot thank you enough for being such a gracious host and we are so glad you will be joining us for Christmas. I do hope it isn't an imposition."

"Not an imposition, no," Mathilde replied, sinking into the tufted sofa. She patted the spot beside her. "Come, Draco. Narcissa, Lucius, please do sit. It's been too long since we've 'ad a visit."

The woman quite reminded Draco of Professor Trelawney. Manic and dressed in clothes that were even strange for a Muggle, she sported gnarled hair as white as his father's and a large pin of the Beauxbatons crest. Draco knew he had several relatives that he had never met, but never did he think they would be so vastly different from his parents.

"It certainly has." Draco's mother sat in one of the two armchairs, while his father took the other. Unlike many of the Blacks, she had always been the pinnacle of charm—noticeably when she was lying through her teeth. "Will Antonin be able to accompany us for our Christmas feast?"

"Yes—and for Christmas Eve. 'e'll be 'ere tomorrow in the afternoon," Mathilde fished through her large, pumpkin-colored purse. At her feet, Veri sat and panted.

"That is just wonderful," Narcissa said, clasping her hands together. "Isn't it wonderful, Lucius?"

"Yes, just wonderful," he muttered. Whatever he wanted to say, he stifled by chewing on his thumbnail.

"It would've been better if 'e could 'ave joined us tonight," Mathilde said, plucking a large bone-shaped treat from her purse. She tossed it to the floor. "Va chercher!" Giggling with glee as Veri tore the treat apart, Mathilde went on. "'is work is not easy, you know. Zere 'ave been many nasty crimes all around France since 'e-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was defeated... Many Death Eaters 'ave come to our country to evade British Aurors."

"And how exactly would that affect the Muggle Management Department?" Lucius asked, acidly.

"Certainly it does not shock you zat zey would attack Muggles?" Mathilde leaned forward; Draco noticed a waft of her terribly strong perfume. "Zey do 'ate zem, after all."

Lucius swallowed. "Yes, well, how fortunate for them that Antonin works so hard to help them."

"'ow fortunate indeed," Mathilde said, darkly.

Draco always knew that his father and Mathilde did not get along, but it was the first time he was feeling their resentment as it hung in the air.

"So have you been enjoying Paris, Mathilde?" Narcissa asked, trying to cut the tension. "I have been meaning to ask if the cheese is as divine as I remember."

"Of course it is! It's Paris!"

"I will have to go back one of these days." For the first time that evening, Draco heard genuineness in her tone. "When things have settled, will you take me, Lucius?"

"Anything you want, my love."

There was strain in his voice. Mathilde noticed it too, because she glanced at him and sighed. "Well, I am going to go read a bit before bed." Leaning closer to Draco, she whispered, "I am looking forward to getting to know each other, Draco. An aunt should know her nephew, after all."

"It is early for bed, is it not?" Narcissa asked. "Surely, you will join us for a late dinner before you retire?"

Again, Draco picked up on his mother's forced manners.

"No, no, I am not 'ungry. Far too tired to sink of food," Mathilde replied, getting to her feet. Her knees cracked. "Veri!"

The Pomeranian abandoned her treat and waddled across the room to her master. Her small pink tongue poked through her black fur, and for the first time since meeting the creature, Draco understood why she chose to keep it.

"Well, it was lovely to visit. We will have plenty of time to continue our chat tomorrow," Narcissa said, clearly relieved. "Wimby! Come help Mathilde with her things!"

"Oh no, I do not need any 'elp. All I 'ave is my bag and Veri..."

"Nonsense, it is her job," Narcissa insisted. "Wimby!"

Shoulders sagging, Wimby trudged into the sitting room. She looked frazzled, as though she had been doing something she was not supposed to be doing.

"Lady Malfoy calls W-W—" She gulped and glanced at Draco. The sentence died on her tongue.

"Yes, yes. I called you. Help Mathilde with her bag."

"I can manage it myself, as I said," Mathilde replied, firmly. She flashed Wimby a smile. "You aren't looking well, dear. If you need a potion, there are plenty in the cabinet in the second-floor salle de bains."

Then, she went up the stairs with Veri in tow. Draco's mother was dumbstruck, and so was he.


Dodging Malfoy melodramatics had proven more difficult than Draco would have liked. All through breakfast and lunch, he stayed in his room, but as his watch's hour hand crept towards three, his mother knocked on his door to inform him that Antonin had arrived.

He slunk down the staircase, unsure what to expect. The only uncle he ever knew well, Rodolphus, was one of the most wretched men he had ever met—a purist that believed all Muggles should be put to death. Antonin, a helper of Muggles, was quite the opposite.

"Draco, dear! Come meet your uncle, yes?" Mathilde's voice was warm and bright as she escorted him into the kitchen. "Antonin, this is Draco."

A short, plump man with a receding hairline spun and grinned. Draco was surprised to see that the man was cooking alongside Wimby—something he was certain made Wimby terribly uncomfortable.

"Draco! Je suis ton oncle! Enchanté, enchchanté!" the man exclaimed. "I 'ope you're looking forward to ze Christmas Eve feast! Wimby and I are making quite the team 'ere, I sink."

"Enchanté," Draco echoed, confusedly. He averted his gaze to Mathilde, who was beaming. Behind her were his parents, who both looked far less than pleased. "I—erm—is there anything I can do to help with...all of this?"

The messy kitchen was overwhelming, and Draco had never seen a wizard cook a meal with a house-elf. It was unprecedented.

"You will not!" Lucius hissed. "Malfoys do not cook, Draco."

"He is being polite, Lucius," Draco's mother said through gritted teeth.

"Oui, zough it is not your fault for not recognizing it, Lucius. You would not know much of politeness being raised by Malfoys," Mathilde chided. "You are fortunate to 'ave raised such a good boy."

"How dare you speak ill of the House of Malfoy!"

Narcissa grabbed her husband's arm and shook her head. Draco had feared his father would be unable to control himself, and finally, he had lost the last dash of etiquette he had left.

"The House of Malfoy never did me much good, Lucius. I didn't sink I'd have to remind you," Mathilde said, coolly. Wrapping an arm around Draco, she said, "Your Uncle Antonin is a fantastic chef. 'e always makes zee Christmas feasts."

The hate in Lucius Malfoy emanated from him, but for the first time since Draco was a boy, he did not care. Mathilde and Antonin were warm and kind—the type of people he always wished he could have had as parents.

"Draco, come with me to the sitting room."

"Lucius—" Narcissa warned.

"Yes, Lucius, listen to your wife," Mathilde said with a grin. "Clearly, she has more sense zan you."

If Lucius Malfoy became any angrier, steam might have billowed from his ears. Though Draco had lost a great amount of respect for his father, he sensed it was best to minimize the tension, so he followed him out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. There, Lucius sunk into one of the armchairs.

"Draco," he started, "I do not want this experience with Mathilde to blind you of your worth. You do understand that Malfoys do not stoop to the level of elves."

"Of course, Father."

"Good." He laced his fingers. "When ample time has passed, we will return to Malfoy Manor and never again will we be forced to visit these people."

Draco muttered some words of agreement. Alas, he was not so sure he meant them.


Author's Note: I've been ill on and off so if updates slow down, please excuse me while I take care of my health. I will update as I can, but my chronic illness has taken a difficult turn so I may not be able to provide an update every week for a little while.