Theo and Draco never talked about the issue again, and Draco was only too happy to forget about it himself. So when both of them, along with Crabbe and Goyle, spent hours together while their fathers and other "friends of the family" were holed up somewhere in the Manor, he remained the one who was best informed.

Draco knew, for example, that the letters from school were late because Dumbledore was failing to find a Dark Arts teacher (this his father had told him gleefully over breakfast last week).

Draco also knew that he would be the Slytherin prefect for their year (this the Minister of Magic himself had confirmed during a dinner three days ago; Vince and Greg were appropriately impressed by this, which made up for Theo's lack of response).

Finally, Draco was aware of the fact that Pansy would be their female prefect — and only because her father, Ares Parkinson, had made a generous contribution to the Department of Magical Education (Crabbe and Goyle roared with laughter at that bit of information; Theo only raised his eyebrows).

'Pansy's not even that smart, is she?' Crabbe said, still guffawing.

'Compared to you, she is,' Draco said haughtily. He smirked, remembering how he, too, had almost snorted into his soup when he'd first heard this—had it not been for his mother's serious eye digging into his skull.

'No,' Theo said matter-of-factly. 'She's really not. Especially when compared to Granger. Rather pathetic that we can't compete with Gryffindor.'

'Of course we can!' Draco shot back. 'We have me!'

Theo stared at him. After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. 'Yes. Though you've never surpassed her, have you?'

Draco face heated. 'Absolutely I have!' he retorted hotly, 'I—' Draco was about to boast how he had saved her bloody life from eternal sleep in Oz. He only caught himself at the last second. 'I—' He faltered.

Theo peered at him curiously. Crabbe and Goyle glanced at each other, confused.

'I—made the "Potter stinks" buttons,' he finished.

'Yeah,' Theo said slowly, frowning.

'And anyway,' Draco continued, anger starting to burn in his chest, 'she's a dirty little Mudblood. Pansy might not be as smart, but at least she doesn't have buck teeth or a rat's nest for hair!'

'Neither does Granger.' Theo shrugged, an evil glint in his eye. 'I seem to remember that last Yule Ball—'

'Shut up!' Draco erupted, whilst Crabbe and Goyle snickered quietly. ' SHUT— UP! ' he shouted and grabbed his wand. Crabbe and Goyle ducked as though afraid of him.

Just then, the door flew open and his mother came running into his room.

'What's wrong? What's all this ruckus about?' Her blue eyes dug into Draco. 'Are you duelling again? I've told you to behave! You're not supposed to perform magic.' Draco blushed, mortified by his reaction, stringing together a half-way believable excuse. As usual, the other three backed up his story.

On the last day of the holidays, the letter with his prefect's badge finally arrived. Even though they had known all along, his parents seemed to burst with pride. Dinner that evening featured all Draco's favourites, and afterwards, his father took him into the Cigar Room where he had his first (official) taste of Ogden's finest.

'Excellent. Your grandfather would be proud of you,' his father said, nodding, and Draco's cheeks heated. 'You're well on your way to becoming Head Boy.'

The sip Draco had taken burned down his throat, making his stomach twist. 'Not if Dumbledore has his way. Potter's pretty much a given at this point.' He scowled, thinking how Potter and Granger both had probably long been logged in as the headmaster's picks. He let the drink roll around in his mouth just like his father had taught him. It still tasted bitter.

His father looked straight into his face; his eyes glinted. 'I wouldn't worry too much about the Potter boy. I don't think he'll be a problem for long.' He smiled knowingly, and a tiny shiver tingled down Draco's spine.

'Well,' he muttered, 'let's hope so.'

'Hope, my dear boy, is for fools.' His father swirled his drink. 'Power is what's important. Influence. Knowledge.'

'Yes, father,' Draco said, thinking that knowledge was a field where he also came up lacking compared to—

'For that reason, it's paramount that you behave respectfully towards your new Dark Arts professor. If you follow her lead, your position at the school won't be in question.'

'Of course, father,' Draco said.

'Good.' His father leaned back into the armchair, the old leather gnashing. 'As a matter of fact, the occasion warrants a reward. What do you think about having your likeness taken this Christmas?'

'My portrait—' Draco sat up straight. 'But I'm not yet seventeen!'

'One can never have too many portraits,' his father said, lips twitching.

Draco looked over to the space above the carved fireplace where the Malfoy family tree hung. It was a palm tree that, instead of fruit, had oval portraits hanging on every branch. A magicked version of his own face, set into the trunk of the tree, was scowling across the room. The tree was centred around him, the heir, and the branches sprouting off at every level were dedicated to the parents of the person below. It was a rather constricted genealogy, not sprawling like the Black family tapestry his mother owned, for example, only showing certain ancestors. But it was a tall tree, generation after generation growing into the sky, connecting him with the great ancestor at the very top.

Directly above his, hanging side by side, were the two portraits of his parents. From there, the right side of the tree was dedicated to Draco's Black ancestry, the left showed the Malfoy side of his family.

Draco's gaze fell onto the name that loomed large in their lives. Abraxas Malfoy. He had never got to know his paternal grandfather well. He couldn't tell if his childhood recollections were actual memories, or stories his parents had told him over and over again. He could measure the marks of his accomplishments by the way his father would talk about them. There was the nod, there was "good," there was "well done," and, the epitome of praise, "your grandfather would've been proud of you."

This last praise had only occurred three times so far: the first time was when he had summoned a book he had wanted his father to read from when he was four; the second time was when he'd been sorted into Slytherin; and the third time today.

'We should talk about the future,' his father said, suddenly looking serious. 'Have you given any thought about what to do with your life?'

Draco considered this for a second. He didn't have his eye set on specifics, he just knew that he wanted people to envy him; to have a position of power. He wanted to set the direction, and have other people follow it.

'What about—Minister for Magic?'

His father lifted an eyebrow. 'A bureaucrat? Really, Draco?'

'I want to be the one to decide,' he replied quickly. His eyes swept over the family tree. 'Even Pansy has a Minister in her family history. It's high time that we Malfoys had one, too, I think.'

'That's why you want to do it? To compete with a witch?' His father's eyes were digging into his skull.

'No!' Draco said emphatically, his cheeks heating, 'It's the most prestigious and important office in all of Wizarding Britain. And I would do a lot better than Fudge, I can tell you that!'

His father chuckled lightly. 'That's all and well, Draco, but as a Malfoy, you ought to know that there's more power if you're the one—' his lips curled into a dangerous smile '—pulling the strings.' He turned to face the family tree. 'Look up there. Septimus. Brutus. Armand. All paragons of Malfoy excellence. They've all wielded immense influence by being close to those in positions of power. Weak politicians, politicians like Perseus Parkinson, disappear all too soon. We Malfoys though kept our influence for centuries by guiding those who do the footwork.'

Draco frowned. 'I see.' He knew that his father had been spending a lot of time hanging around the ministry lately, running after Fudge or whatever he did. That didn't quite seem like the Malfoy way of having others do the work for you. 'I'll have to think about that a little more, I suppose.'

His father nodded again. 'Think of grandfather Abraxas. He knew important people. People who knew people. My old head of house, Slughorn, was the type of person who had a great sense of how to make people indebted to you. If people owe you, it's easy to get them to do your bidding. So. Make people owe you. That's the way to build strong connections.'

Draco froze.

A witch with wild hair and flashing eyes, flicking her wand, saving his life.

'I see,' he said, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Lucius Malfoy crossed his legs. 'How well does Miss Parkinson do? Could she be considered for the Head Girl position?'

Draco frowned. He struggled to think of anyone other than— her filling that position. 'I don't believe so.'

'Well. Then you best see who amongst the Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff witches of your year might be suitable for the job.'

'All right.'

'Another drink, Draco?'

'Yes, please, father.'

His father pointed his wand at the crystal carafe, and it floated over to Draco, pouring more of the amber liquid into his glass. It sailed steadily back to the sideboard—but landed with a clank.

Startled, Draco turned his head around. His father sat there petrified, his face deathly pale, staring with wide eyes at his left forearm which he held in a tight grip. Never before had he seen him like this.

Abruptly, his father jumped into movement, and Draco realised with sudden clarity that he was scared. 'So sorry, Draco, but I've got to go. Urgent— business.'

'Should I tell mother or—'

'No. No, I'll inform her myself.'

Lucius Malfoy disappeared so quickly that the door to the Cigar Room slammed shut, leaving Draco behind, sitting rigidly, his hand clasped tightly around a full glass of firewhisky.

Draco sat a long time staring blankly into space. After a while, he realised that he had been looking blindly at the family tree. His own face was sneering back at him. He looked so very young, Draco realised. The thought made him angry. The new portrait would show what he really looked like. Not like a haughty little boy. Like a man.

He turned his head, his eyes sweeping over the rest of the painting.

Septimus. Brutus. Armand. All paragons of Malfoy excellence.

His eyes fell on Septimus Malfoy who his father had undoubtedly thought of when he'd remarked on the Malfoys shaping England in the background. It was a badly kept secret that the then Minister for Magic, Unctuous Osbert, had been Septimus's puppet. His father credited Septimus with amassing much of their family wealth, but through his History of Magic classes, Draco was aware that the state of the magical community was in a rather bad shape after Osbert's tenure. So bad, in fact, that the country had elected its first witch minister. That — in Draco's eyes — made this grand feat of influence considerably less awesome.

Just a little above him was Brutus Malfoy. His enormous blond moustache couldn't hide the wild, almost deranged expression in his eyes, and neither his slightly crooked mouth, which was opened. Draco could almost hear him say the words the other, grander portrait of him in the east wing liked to shout at whoever passed: "Nothing is a surer sign of weak magic than a weakness for non-magical company."

Not that Draco didn't agree, but the extravagant coat made him look rather ridiculous.

And then there was Armand Malfoy. He was at the very top of the family tree, scowling down on him. Hard lines were etched into his old face, but his hair was still pitch-black as though he hadn't lived to be well over 100. Draco wondered, what came before his great ancestor, what Armand's legacy had been? Who had he looked up to?

Beneath Armand, there was the young, gentle face of Robert smiling down on him. It was his only portrait, and not much was known about him. Yes, he had been awarded a majestic grave, but the exact reasons for it were long forgotten. The fact that he had died for his lord much too early, long before his father Armand, had worked against him. So his greatest achievement remained to have sired an heir before he'd snuffed it. Draco scoffed. How pathetic if your greatest achievement was your child.

Draco took a sip of firewhisky; the drink still hadn't much improved.

On the other side, the Black side, were a few family members that had dared to be prominent. Decision-makers. Phineas Nigellus considered him through shrewd eyes. Draco had always been proud that his great-great-great-grandfather had been headmaster at Hogwarts — until he had found out that he'd been almost universally disliked. The most notorious Blacks, however, were not even represented on this particular family tree.

It didn't show his aunts, Andromeda, the blood-traitor, and Bellatrix, the hero, or the most famous Black these days, cousin Sirius. His mother never talked about either of them, and nowadays, she tended to avoid the Green Closet[1] where her copy of the Black tapestry was on display altogether.

Oh how delighted Draco had been when the news first broke that a relation was the first person ever to break out of Azkaban. And what a disappointment to learn who he really was.

Draco remembered clear as day how his father had laughed and laughed and laughed at the idea that cousin Sirius had been a Death Eater. How mummy had sat there stony-faced while his father regaled the true story of Sirius Black. That he'd been Potter's best friend. That he'd abandoned his family. That it wasn't Sirius who'd been the Death Eater, but Regulus. And that Sirius had been sent to Azkaban for a crime he likely hadn't even committed.

'Serves him well,' his mother had said finally. There was a sharp edge to her voice. 'He broke poor aunt Walburga's heart. And so unfair, too, with Regulus having died much too early. He was such a sweet boy. A little too fond of his idiot brother though.' Her mouth tightened. 'At least the blood-traitor got what he deserved. Aunt Walburga did well to burn him off the tapestry.'

That was the first Draco had heard about the tapestry. He'd never taken particular notice of the strange tree sprawling all across the walls of the Green Closet. The Manor was full of much more interesting tapestries. Besides, it was mummy's room and, therefore, almost as much off-limits as his father's study.

Now, of course, Draco knew all about it. With cousin Sirius out of Azkaban and in hiding, his mother had been fretting about the old Black town residence and the family treasures it contained, constantly worrying he might be getting rid of the precious, historical possessions, amongst them the original of the largest surviving ancestral tapestry in England.

If the tapestry was still where it was supposed to be, he'd be on there as well. He wondered briefly what he looked like on it. His portrait-self frowned at him from the Malfoy ancestral tree, raising an eyebrow. Maybe he'd been burned off as well. If the traitor Black was indeed back at Grimmauld Place, he probably had razed everyone who'd hated the blood-traitors. The tapestry was likely nothing but holes at this point.

Thinking about it, Draco grew increasingly upset by the idea that someone might have erased his face from the family history. What a horrific fate. To think that those closest to you would rather you'd never existed. People like cousin Sirius, aunt Andromeda, or cousin Nymphadora, the half-blood. Draco shuddered. His chest tightened at the notion of being somehow related to a Mudblood.

They were Blood-traitors. They deserved to be forgotten.

But who's to say, an unbidden, Theo-like voice in his head piped up, that they don't have other people to remember them? Maybe they just want to be remembered differently?

Draco grimaced, resolutely pushing that thought to the back of his mind.

No.

Blacks and Malfoys had values, and it was important to live according to those values. Those values were at the heart of the family, and if you honoured them, the family won't ever forget about you.

Yes, said the voice sarcastically, that's why you remember all about Robert Malfoy, don't you?

Draco shot up from his seat, the drink sloshing all over his hand.

Robert was remembered. He had the grand tumulus at Stonehenge, and he was revered by his descendants. Unlike the blood-traitors who'd been wiped from their collective memory. Cousin Sirius, on the run, without family, without friends. His aunt Andromeda alone, an outcast.

Not alone. With a family of her own.

Draco frowned, wiping his hand on his trousers. He had never got around to asking what had happened to her; his mother never seemed to have the time to explain.

He didn't recall who had told him, but he remembered someone telling him that she had run off with a Muggle-born, and that they had had a daughter. A Metamorphmagus.

Draco clenched his jaw. He wasn't supposed to know this. Maybe it wasn't even true. Metamorphmagi were a sign of strong magical capability. And how could that be true when her father was a Mudblood?

"Nothing is a surer sign of weak magic than a weakness for non-magical company."

But Mudbloods were still magical, weren't they?

'That's why you love Granger so dearly.'

Draco stood stiffly, scowling at the tapestry and gnashing his teeth. His portrait scowled back. Screw the Blacks, he thought. Maybe it's just something to do with their bloodline that some went off their rocker. He pushed back the sudden thought that he, too, was a Black.

He marched across the room and defiantly plopped into his father's seat, glaring at the Malfoy side of the family tree.

There had never been a Malfoy who had deviated from the norm, Draco was sure of it. Armand Malfoy had established the Malfoy line in England; Robert had brought the family honour and glory. They were a wizarding family as pure as it could get.

But how about their fathers and their father's fathers? the irritating voice sounded from the back of his head.

Wizards are wizards, Draco thought angrily.

Except when they're not, the voice retorted.

And now that the question had materialised, he couldn't not think about it. What about the first wizard? Did they all trace their heritage back to wizards?

'Why don't you say it the other way 'round?'

Or was the first wizard a Muggle-born? Draco's head started to swim. He put down the half-empty tumbler.

'I'm merely wondering about whether the way we say things are, is the only way they can be perceived.'

From the top of the painting, Robert Malfoy smiled kindly down onto him, and he was reminded of the fateful afternoon four summers ago when he had mistaken Hermione Granger for a pure-blooded witch.

He jumped up again. Draco didn't want to think about the rubbish Theo Nott was poisoning his mind with. That sort of talk wasn't only wrong, it was dangerous. Dangerously wrong.

He stormed out of the Cigar Room, slamming the door behind him. The Manor was deserted, his mother nowhere to be seen despite the ruckus. He might as well take advantage of that. He ran into the library and scoured the bookshelves for something he had been meaning to consult anyway.

A little while later, Draco went to bed, head still pounding, but feeling considerably less agitated. He placed the book he'd been reading on the tiny stack on his night desk. Atop Quidditch Through the Ages and Charms of Defence and Deterrence, there was Minding your Mind. An Introduction to Occlumency. He fell asleep, visualising the rise and fall of waves, dancing around his ankles, drowning out the noise of his perturbed mind.

Hermione turned and took a look around. The room she had shared with Ginny over the summer was almost bare. Her trunk and Crookshank's carrier were neatly packed, and even Ginny's things were orderly arranged next to her bed.

Hermione made sure to straighten out everything she'd laid out for tomorrow's journey: a selection of school books, jeans, her favourite periwinkle blouse with tiny flowers on it, socks, her favourite violet bra and matching knickers, her school robes, and – of course – her brand new prefect's badge.

As Hermione closed her trunk, the realisation hit her that this was the very first summer that she had not run into Draco Malfoy. Tomorrow they'd be on their way to King's Cross without seeing as much as a single blond hair of his.

To Hermione, the concept of fate was ridiculous— prophecies, destiny, fate… that was not how the world worked. The world was made up of people and decisions, of actions and consequences. And yet, something at the back of her head had kept wondering about the odds of both of them happening upon each other, year after year after year.

This summer had proved to be a satisfying return to the laws of chance and probability. Five times in a row might have been a bit too much to be considered entirely coincidental, even for her.

She walked out of the room onto the landing, listening attentively to hear if the bathroom was free.

'He lives in a house, a very big house in the country—'**

Hermione grinned. Judging by the sound of the energetic, out of tune interpretation of Blur, Ginny still had it occupied. Instead of waiting, she decided to go through the house one last time. It seemed virtually empty. From the floor above theirs, Mrs Weasley's angry voice drifted down to her, confirming that Ron was still not done packing. There was no sign of Harry and Sirius, and Hermione was certain that they were spending their last moments together. Fred and George, too, were absent, likely holed up in their room, concocting more nonsense.

Hermione wandered down the landing towards the drawing-room which was just across from Ginny's and her room. She peered through the door, making sure that Kreacher was not hiding inside. All was clear, and she quietly slipped inside, careful not to alert anyone or anything, least of all the screeching portrait of Walburga Black in the hall downstairs. The door clicked shut behind her.

The room didn't look quite as dirty as it had been four weeks ago. Through the heavy, now doxy-less moss-green velvet curtains the warm glow of twilight streamed inside. But still, the room appeared dingy and menacing. The reason for that was the large, dark tapestry that covered the entirety of the wall of the far side of the room. Hermione moved closer, itching to finally inspect it. All of them had been so busy cleaning during their time here, she'd had barely the time to take a proper look at it. The emerald green carpet swallowed her footsteps.

Standing up-close, Hermione marvelled at the craftsmanship that had gone into it. The faded green of the leaves was no less splendid; the golden threads were darkened but still slightly shimmering. Hermione felt reminded of the Bayeux tapestry which was so similar and yet completely different. While the Bayeux tapestry showed pretty serious, weighty stories in a colourful, light, sometimes even quirky manner, the Black family tapestry seemed serious and ominous even though its subject matter was comparatively light. And then of course, this was a charmed work of art, while the Bayeux tapestry was Muggle.

'The original is much nicer.'

'You're lying. You're always lying.'

Hermione frowned, edging closer, her eyes roaming generations of Blacks. The tree was full of strange names, Cepheus, Cygnus, Orion, Alphard— names she knew from Astrology as stars and constellations. Sirius, too, was a star, so it was definitely a Black tradition.

The tree was impressively large, sprawling across the wall, and yet so many twigs branching out had withered, or at least, they had remained bald and brown.

There were a couple of holes here and there. One, she realised with a glance at the name underneath, used to show the face of Cedrella who had married someone called Septimus Weasley. Septimus remained a name tag without a face.

Hermione remembered Sirius telling them that his mother had burnt him off the tapestry. Not only him, apparently. Hermione walked along the tapestry, her eyes wandering over the many faces of the Black family members and the nameplates of their paramours, silently wondering why it only portrayed the Blacks, never the partners, and only a few of their children.

When she reached the right end of it, Hermione immediately spotted a constellation of ugly blackened holes, all very close to one another. Almost directly next to the one entitled Alphard was Sirius's name, his face scorched off the wall. Beneath him was a burn mark entitled Andromeda & Ted Tonks. As she had expected, there was no image of Tonk's father, but the portrait-sized spot below labelled Nymphadora was also charred.

Hermione traced her fingers around the rough and blackened edges having erased the portraits of the Tonks family. Her eyes slid over the names listed above theirs: Bellatrix and Rudolphus Lestrange, and then Narcissa, Lucius, and—

'Draco Lucius Malfoy,' Hermione whispered.

Her heart thrummed in her chest. His portrait, just like all the others, was a simple likeness. His silver hair and his straight nose seemed true, and yet his smile was gentle, so unlike his usual sneer. It made him look like—Hermione blinked. At the Yule Ball, he had looked at her like that, and she faintly recognised that expression from Oz. There had been a couple of instances when he had regarded her with something akin to—curiosity perhaps?

Hermione couldn't figure it out, and if she was being honest, it didn't matter anyway. She plopped down onto the floor and crossed her legs, still staring at the tapestry, thinking, her fingers tracing patterns on the carpet.

Four years ago, she had met Draco Lucius Malfoy at the grave of his paternal ancestor, and now she sat here, in the ancient home of his maternal line, staring at the patchy documentation of his pure-blooded history. Draco. A star like all the others, and yet a Malfoy too.

Hermione dragged her eyes back to the row where the three Black sisters used to be. She didn't know Andromeda, but she felt a strange sense of pride of the fact that Draco's aunt had run off and married a Muggle-born. Sirius, too, had defied his family. So it was possible to stand up against bigotry and hatred, even if it must have been extraordinarily difficult to leave your family behind to do the right thing.

A sense of sadness spread over her shoulders like a heavy blanket. If only he had grown up to know either of them. Maybe then they would've been able to be friends...

A door opened and closed, and Ginny's humming sounded from the landing as she sneaked back into their room.

Hermione scrambled to her feet. For some reason, she preferred not to be discovered here. She tiptoed out of the room, and quietly shut the door behind her.

Later, as she lay in her bed, her thoughts still circled the Black family tapestry hanging in paradoxical shabbiness in the room across the hall.

If pure-bloods had to burn off the evidence of Muggle-borns and so-called half-bloods, Hermione couldn't help but wonder just how many instances of not-quite-so-pure-bloods had actually occurred in the course of these very long, very patchy family histories. Crookshanks purred contentedly on her chest, and Hermione eventually slipped into sleep, dreaming of exploding stars and realigning constellations.

A/N: *The Green Closet is a room I borrowed from one of my favourite English manor houses, Ham House.

**Ginny is singing Blur's Country House (1996)

Sorry for missing the last two updates; I forgot. Then again, the following on here has been pretty slow anyway so it probably doesn't matter either way. In any case, comments and reviews are appreciated – even troll reviews. Thanks for reading! x