Dinner was deafeningly quiet.
The Malfoys sat on one side of the table while Antonin and Mathilde sat on the other, drawing a clear line between blood: pure and impure, muddled and clean. Alas, Lucius Malfoy did not seem reassured by the distance. He took long, loud drinks of red wine that were hardly appropriate at the dinner table, an act that earned many a glare from his perfect-postured wife and his disapproving brother-in-law. From afar, Draco noticed his father's stubble and deep lines surrounding his puffy, grey eyes. The man had not slept.
"Thank you again for the lovely meal, Antonin. It was exquisite," lilted Draco's mother. She dabbed her lip with her azure cloth napkin before refolding it in her lap.
"It was my pleasure. And Wimby was quite ze 'elp in ze kitchen."
Wimby was standing alert with her hands behind her back. She seemed surprised to receive credit.
"That is what she is meant to do," Lucius said hoarsely, his upper lip and teeth stained as burgundy as his pinot noir. "Wimby, tidy up!"
"Y-y-yes, M-Master—" Wimby looked at Draco and coughed before hurriedly collecting the dirtied dishes.
Antonin leaned back and arched a bushy, greying brow. "You know, Lucius, my muzzer worked as a maid for most of 'er short life. She came to zis country from Croatia and worked 'er fingers to ze bone to provide for me and mon frère after my fazzer left. Without 'er, we would have been in ze streets."
"How quaint Muggle work is," Lucius said lightly. "It's fortunate for you that you inherited your father's gift."
"Even more fortunate to 'ave inherited my muzzer's decency."
Draco saw his father's mouth open to protest once more, though it closed upon his mother clearing her throat.
"If you would excuse us," she said, evenly, "Lucius and I are going to go sit in the living room and enjoy the fire."
Aware that he was the least controversial party in the room, Draco knew this to be his cue to occupy his aunt and uncle. His parents sauntered out of the dining room, and as Wimby clanked dishes together, he was forced to face two people that were somehow kind enough to let his parents stay on their property, no matter how terribly they were treated. The legacy of the Malfoys was great, but there was a human cost, and Draco was looking at a witch and wizard that knew that all too well.
"You were so quiet at dinner, Draco," Mathilde pointed out, lacing her small fingers, "but of course zat is not your fault. It is razzer strange being 'ere, no?"
The polite response was not the truth, and Draco had never learned how to interact with straightforward women. Maybe that was why Hermione Granger confused him so.
"It's okay, it's okay. I am not offended," Mathilde said with a chuckle. "Your uncle and I are so 'appy you were able to make it. Far too many years have passed without knowing our only nephew!"
Draco offered a small smile. "Well, I do appreciate the hospitality you've shown us. I know my parents are very grateful."
Antonin pressed his lips into a firm line and stood to assist Wimby. Mathilde suddenly seemed flustered, and it was then that Draco realized he must have touched a sore spot.
"Ahem. Excuse me." She reflected Draco's smile—the small, tentative type. "So you are back at 'ogwarts zis year?"
"Er—yes. I'll be done in June."
"Ah, oui. I read zat ze last year did not count for anyone due to ze—uh—circumstances." She watched him, gauging his reaction. "Ahem! Pardon me, I get—uh—I am not sure of ze English phrase... After meals, I feel a bit sick. Anyway...your muzzer tells me you were sorted into Slyzerin like her and your fazzer?"
Draco nodded. "I was."
"Green and silver, no?"
Draco nodded again.
"I remember seeing zose colors as a girl. My fazzer—your grandfazzer—'e 'ad a brooch he gave my muzzer... Green and silver wi' za snake. I always wanted zat brooch, but I do not know what 'appened to it..."
The fragmentation of the Malfoy family was undeniable, for there they were, discussing family heirlooms, yet never was his aunt gifted with the Malfoy name. Never would she be added to the family tree, and as far as his father was concerned, she would never be his sister.
"Well, I suppose I should be a good 'ost and check on your parents." She patted Draco's hand. "You are a good boy, Draco."
They were words he could not quite digest.
At Malfoy Manor, Christmas Day was a spectacle. Narcissa Malfoy detested tacky décor, so colorful ribbon and garlands were, unlike at Hogwarts, permitted only on the main day of celebration. Overnight, elfin magic filled the air and sparkling ornaments and a tall spruce tree would be the only proof that tiny, calloused hands had done any work at all. When Draco was a boy, he would wake up and stare in wonder, quietly wishing that his home looked like that year-round.
Unfortunately, they were not at Malfoy Manor.
The morning did not beckon the ostentatious display of a Malfoy Christmas, and instead of making a scrumptious breakfast, Wimby was nowhere to be found. In the two sitting room armchairs were Mathilde and Antonin, both dressed in their nightrobes and humming contentedly.
"Joyeux Noël, Draco," Mathilde said before taking a loud sip from her mug. Atop her lap was a rising and falling Veri.
"Yeah you too," Draco muttered. "Where are my parents?"
"Still sleeping, I sink. Sit, sit."
Draco warily lowered onto the sofa. His aunt and uncle were warm people, people he never thought would want to even speak to him, let alone welcome him so cordially.
"When we came downstairs, every cupboard in ze 'ouse was open," Mathilde said, stroking Veri. "I suspected ze elf."
"Very sorry about that. My mother will have a talk with her."
"Oh no, no!" Antonin exclaimed, shaking his head. A newspaper lay across his lap, but Draco could not understand the partially covered French headline. "Zat will not be necessary. She is as welcome as ze rest of ze family."
Despite having been raised with house-elves, Draco had never once considered them family. To be fair, he had never considered Mathilde and Antonin to be family either, yet he was in their house, and even after his father's continuous prejudice, they seemed happy to open up their property to him, no matter how estranged he and Draco's mother were.
Mathilde cleared her throat and Veri's shiny black eyes cracked open. "Speaking of ze family, I wanted to ask you, Draco... How are zey treating you?"
It was a question he had never been asked, though he had considered it a number of times. Ever since he was a boy, his father did not treat him the way other boys seemed to be treated by their fathers, yet to him, it was impolite to admit as much, so all he said was, "Fine."
His aunt and uncle exchanged knowing glances.
"Even considering your little—er—girlfriend?"
"I don't have a girl—oh, you read the Prophet," Draco mumbled. "I didn't think they printed it in France."
"Not the Prophet, no," Mathilde replied. She took another sip from her mug and made a face that told Draco it was far from tea. "Antonin, what newspaper was it zat we saw zat in?"
"I can't remember. Maybe ze Gazette?"
The article had gone international. Draco wanted to groan, but he was too nervous to do anything other than listen to the two of them. If his parents saw the publication, he was sure to face the consequences, even if it was yet another public misconception of the Malfoys. Their family's image was already smeared. Having a blood traitor for a son would surely send both of his parents over the proverbial edge.
"Wherever we saw it, we couldn't be prouder," Mathilde gushed. "'ermione Granger! A Muggle-born war 'eroine!"
"I think you have the wrong idea—"
"Oh, don't you worry," Mathilde cut him off, pressing a finger to her lips. "We won't say anyzing in front of your parents."
"No, you don't understand—"
"Don't understand what exactly?"
Draco's eyes bulged as he turned around to see his father standing in the stairwell. His nose was puckered and his searing winter eyes were panning across the room as though he were searching for something.
"Oh, nothing, Lucius. Draco here is just trying to explain 'ogwarts 'ouses to us," Mathilde lied, easily. "I trust you slept well?"
"I did, though it does not smell like the elf has started breakfast and it is well after ten. Has anyone seen her?"
Mathilde cleared her throat. "No, but she was looking for somezing, I sink. All ze cupboards were open."
"Ruddy elf," Lucius spat.
"I can make breakfast, Lucius," Antonin offered. "Mathilde and I don't usually—"
"No!" Lucius forced a tight smile. "No, I will find Wimby and we will resolve this. Please, enjoy your morning."
His smile immediately disappeared and Draco slumped his shoulders. It was bound to be a very long day.
The year's gifts were less costly than usual. Draco's parents exchanged theirs, a bracelet for his mother and a set of velvet robes for his father, before giving him his. A book with a matte black cover and a silver tree bore a title he expected, but was less than thrilled to see. When he was a boy, he could not wait to receive his own copy of the book, but as a young man, there was something lackluster about it.
"The Malfoy Tree," he murmured. "Er—thank you."
"A must for any Malfoy heir," Lucius said, his gaze flickering towards his estranged half-sister.
"Is it accurate?" Mathilde asked, judgmentally.
"I'm sure I do not know what you mean, Mathilde. Please, elucidate."
"Lucius—" Draco's mother warned.
"Please, Narcissa, I'm a grown woman. I sink I can 'andle my own bruzzer." Mathilde paused. "What I mean, Lucius, is that I doubt very much zat ze book 'as bastards like me."
"You aren't a Malfoy," Lucius hissed, pointedly.
"Ah, but our fazzer was, was he not?"
Lucius scowled, but Narcissa grabbed his wrist and shook her head. It was not because she disagreed. Draco knew that his mother did not mind that her own sister had been removed from the Black family tree and despite hearing the news, she still refused to acknowledge she had a young great-nephew. The Malfoy matriarch was simply too bright to let a silly argument get in the way of their housing, and if her husband pushed Mathilde too far, they might have to return to the shame they faced in Britain.
There was not much that Draco knew about his aunt and uncle, but one thing seemed certain. They were much better people than the man and woman that raised him.
Wimby did not turn up until after Mathilde and Antonin left for Paris late that evening. Draco heard his father scolding her from his bedroom, so he cast a muffling charm upon the door and continued flipping through The Malfoy Tree.
The tree itself, he knew by heart. The many stories within, he mostly knew. Of course, the book would only feature tales that made the Malfoys proud, and these would be the tales he had heard. His father would never divulge information that may be damning of their heritage, especially to a hired scribe, so Draco was unsurprised when he read mentions of his grandparents having only one child: a boy with grey eyes and platinum hair.
Mathilde, as she had expected, had been erased.