The next morning, Hermione arrived at the manor around eight. Part of her was hoping to catch Malfoy off guard, not letting him have the satisfaction of actually waiting for her. If there was anything she could probably guess about Malfoy, it was that he was the sort of person who would lie about in bed until he absolutely had to get up.

Unfortunately, he wouldn't let her have the satisfaction of being right.

When she arrived, this time the floo dropped her directly into the Heir's Library instead of forcing her to wait in the foyer for a house-elf to fetch her. Malfoy sat at the same round table as the night before, a steaming teacup and two plates before him, a leather duffle bag on the floor at his feet.

"Mipsy insisted on serving us breakfast before we leave. I convinced her to keep it light, in case your operation of a motorcar causes me irrevocable physical harm," he said as he waved the floo open.

She stepped through, placing her own weekender bag beside the fireplace to take the seat she'd sat in the night before. A croissant sandwich and a cup of coffee sat at her place setting. How Mipsy continued to get her perfect meals without knowing hardly anything about her would continue to surprise her.

"You can just call it a 'car', Malfoy. I don't think anyone has called it a motorcar since the 1920s."

"Remind me of the details of your plan," he said, taking a bite of his muesli and waving off her correction of his antiquated terminology.

"Well, after we eat, we'll apparate to the airport in Glasgow. There's a dedicated apparition space there, so we don't have to worry about being seen. We'll hire a car there—airports always have places to hire cars. From there, we'll drive to Ayr and start our way up the coast until we get to Greenock. We can return the car to Glasgow, and then do the same down the east coast."

He sighed, but obviously chose to hold his tongue instead of arguing with her.

"Well, eat up, then. It sounds like you have everything planned out and I would hate to derail your plans. I want to take a quick sweep of my mother's room one last time before we leave, so we will need to get moving soon."

"What's in your mother's room?" she asked, tucking into her breakfast.

"Nothing? Everything? I just feel as if we're missing something. It's her bedroom, after all. I know people have this idea of us as very proper and uppity. And in many ways, I suppose we are. All the so-called Sacred Twenty-Eight are indoctrinated from a very young age to comport themselves properly when in public. But, believe it or not, we are human. When we were there the last time, I found it odd that it didn't seem to be lived in at all. There didn't appear to be anything at all in that room that would have made me say, 'ah, yes, this room belongs to my mother out of all the women in the world'. And that doesn't feel correct to me. So I'd like to take another look before we leave."

She nodded, taking a moment to finish chewing before she spoke. After all, despite his assurances that the Malfoys were human, it still seemed unthinkable to do something as uncouth as speaking with food in her mouth.

"Will you tell me more about her?"

Malfoy sighed and lightly scratched his chin as he looked off somewhere in the middle distance.

"It's quite odd, you know. I always thought that I knew her, but I've been reading her journals and there's so much more to her I never knew. I knew she liked to spend time out in the gardens, and would stay out there for hours. But it wasn't until I started reading her journals I learned that Herbology was her favorite subject in school, and she was actually out there working in the garden, not just taking a turn through them, or taking her sea at the table in the middle of the labyrinth. She was actually approached in her seventh year about pursuing a mastery, but of course it isn't fitting for a proper, pureblooded witch with a betrothal contract to pursue a career or further her education after Hogwarts."

"A betrothal contract?"

"Yes. It's fallen out of favor as of late. I certainly don't have one, although there were talks of forming one with the youngest Greengrass sister. They fell through during the war, for some reason," he said with a sarcastic shrug.

"But yes, my parents had a marriage contract. I don't know that I would say that there was never any love there, but certainly none that I remember. I think my mother was around six years old when her parents began talks with the Malfoys. It was certainly in stone and signed before she started at Hogwarts, at any rate. He was a few years older than her, and I highly doubt they had much substantial contact with each other prior to their wedding. Whatever reputation you think the Malfoys have, I guarantee that most of that came from my grandfather, Abraxas. He and Cygnus Black were certainly cut from the same cloth. While nowhere near as uncouth as Walburga and Orion Black, my maternal grandparents were very obsessed with blood purity and image over all else. I'm sure that they were absolutely overjoyed when my mother's hair stayed blonde as she got older, because it increased the odds of the Malfoys accepting a marriage contract. All that dark hair, and the dark eyes—Abraxas already refused one for Bellatrix."

"Is that common?" She asked, leaning back to finish her tea. "Essentially substituting one sister for another?"

He shrugged lightly, grabbing the teapot and topping off the tea in her cup. "It's not exactly uncommon. Hypothetically, say my father refused the contract with Astoria for some specified reason about her in particular, as opposed to saying that we didn't want to align our families. Had my father said that Astoria's grades weren't high enough to keep up with me in conversation, or that her general demeanor didn't seem agreeable, it wouldn't be unheard of for Pembroke to have suggested Daphne in her place, assuming Daphne didn't already have a contract of her own."

"How interesting. Do you wish you had one?" she asked, surprised to hear that this practice she had assumed had ended in the nineteenth century was apparently still alive and well in some communities in the wizarding world.

"Not particularly," he shrugged. "There's something to be said for not having to worry about going through the traditional stressors of pining after someone who doesn't want you in return. But I think that I'm far more grateful that there's not some witch tethered to me for the rest of our lives under an unbreakable bond who would—apparently—rather die than carry on with me."

"Malfoy—"

"We should go," he said, standing from the table. "It's gone nearly nine now, so I think it's time to go upstairs to look around her room before we leave."

Instead of pushing the issue, as she would have if it had been Ron or Harry, she let the issue drop. Quickly knocking back the rest of her tea, she stood to him as he made towards the door. He cut a quick pace through the hallway, and she felt herself almost jogging to keep up with him.

"Why are we walking so fast? We're not in that much of a rush."

"Yes, Draco," a voice called from further down the hallway as a tall, darkly clothed figure stepped from a room further down the hall on their right. "Why are you walking so quickly, indeed?"

"Father," Malfoy said, coming to a dead stop and holding out a hand, as if to stop Hermione from moving forward past him.

"Heir. Where are you going?"

"I believe I left something in Mother's room, and I sought to retrieve it before we left," Malfoy replied. Watching him closely, Hermione noticed a slight tremor in his still outstretched hand. Was he... afraid? Did he think Lucius might have something to do with Narcissa's disappearance? He had been fairly cagey in his answers as to whether he considered his father capable of involvement. She wasn't sure that she herself thought that the notoriously dark man would be ultimately innocent in all ways. He may not have complete access to his magic, but she was well aware that he was far from neutered.

The elder Malfoy inclined his head slightly, looking at her over Malfoy's shoulder.

"My, my... what do we have here?"

She opened her mouth to reply, and Malfoy must've heard her slight inhalation because he spread his fingers and lightly flicked his hand backwards, silently urging her to remain behind him and stay silent.

"She's willing to help me look for Mother, which is more than many others would be willing to do after what you've done to our name. Far be it from me to cast aspersions against the only person willing to help me find answers," Malfoy replied calmly, although the tension in his shoulders and the slight trembling of the hand stretched before her belied his discomfort.

"Answers?" Lucius asked, beginning to walk slowly towards them down the long hallway. Despite the sunlight streaming through the domed roof of the hallway, the pale wallpaper, and gleaming marble floors, the atmosphere turned palpably darker as he stalked towards them. His cane rapped out an unsettling tattoo on the floor as he approached.

"Answers are what you seek? I could easily tell you about your mother."

"Then speak!" Draco said, the veneer of calm cracking as he raised his voice and dropped his hand to his side. His knuckles went a stark white as he clenched his fist so tightly that she would be surprised if his nails didn't break the skin of his palms.

Lucius continued to approach, coming to a stop just within a distance that clearly invaded Malfoy's personal space. This close, she was surprised to see him clearly. He was noticeably shorter than his son, despite the indomitable presence he'd held in her mind since their first encounter. His hair had faded from a brilliant platinum to something ashier, dingier. He looked much as he had during the final days of the War—as if the leashing of his magic had deprived him of his very lifeblood. Although, as he was someone who equated magical strength and power with vitality itself, perhaps it had.

The hand clenching the head of the cane trembled slightly, and unlike the tension causing Malfoy's hands to shake, his appeared to be due to pain. It seemed as if the cane was no longer an ostentatious show of flamboyancy, but a vital walking aid helping to keep him upright. His hand appeared slightly arthritic where it clenched the head of the cane, his posture far less imposing than she remembered from her childhood nightmares, his pale grey eyes almost filmy. While part of her wondered why she'd ever been afraid of this man, a larger and louder part of her warned it would be dangerous to let her guard down around him now.

"Answers? Your mother was a coward. Narcissa Black was a coward who refused to take responsibility for herself and her actions. And instead of owning up to what she did, she took the easy way out and took her life."

"For 'herself and her actions'?" Malfoy spat. "For what you made her do, you mean?"

Lucius chuckled, the sound dry. "If you think anyone ever made that woman do anything she did not want to, then you did not know her half as well as you think you did. You may have known her all of your life, but I have known her longer than she knew herself. I watched her turn into the wretched woman that for some forsaken reason you think must have personally hung the moon. You may have been a disappointment, but I assure you, it was because of her damned influence."

Malfoy's right hand- his wand hand- clenched and released a few times before he slipped it in the pocket of his trousers, drawing his wand. With a vicious flick, he cast wandlessly. Before she had time to draw her own wand and react to hold him back, she stilled, realizing he had only cast a Tempus.

"Come along, Granger. We'll miss our portkey."

Quickly realizing that he'd given himself an out from the conversation without requiring him to actually draw his wand on his father, she accepted his proffered hand and moved to follow him.

"It is one thing to accept its help, but you deign to touch the Mudblood?" Lucius asked as Malfoy side stepped him and began to pull her down the hallway.

"I'll do far more than just touch her hand if it means that you'll be spinning in your grave when you finally die. And her name is Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin First Class. Awarded for excellent service to the Wizarding World during the war—not that you would know what that means," he called over his shoulder as he led her into his mother's room, closing the door firmly behind them and locking it with a series of charms.

As soon as the war door shut and warded to high heavens, the confidence and the tension fled from his body and he leaned heavily against the door, slowly sliding down to sit on the floor with his back against the door. He tipped his head down, resting his elbows on his knees, wand dangling lightly from his fingers.

"Are you... are you okay?" she said quietly, crouching down to sit cross legged beside him.

He chuckled wryly, eyes still on the plush, pale blue carpet of Narcissa's room. "I don't think I've been 'okay' for a while now, but thanks for asking, Granger."

She reached a hand out and lightly rested it on his forearm. "I think at this point, you might as well call me Hermione."

His head shot up and his bright grey eyes, rimmed in red, met hers.

"I... Hermione. Hermione," he said, all four syllables of her name falling off his tongue with a preciseness that few people save for her and her parents generally bothered with. Ron, especially, was particularly guilty of dropping the third syllable entirely, or just shortening her name to 'Mione' entirely.

But the sound of Malfoy so carefully saying her name—for the first time in his life, as far as she was aware—felt so oddly intimate that she'd be surprised if she wasn't blushing.

"If that's the case," he said, still looking into her eyes, "I suppose you should probably just call me Draco. Every time someone calls me 'Malfoy', I can't help but think of that lovely fellow we just met in the hallway. So I'm sure you can understand why I'd prefer not to hear it if possible."

She nodded at him, rocking back on her heels to stand and reaching a hand down to him to pull him up off the floor.

"Alright, Draco. It's time to get to sleuthing if we're going to make it to Glasgow in time to get our car."

For a long moment, she stood there with her hand outstretched while he looked at her, before he reached out to grasp her hand with his. His hand was large and warm in hers, easily dwarfing her own. His fingertips and the tops of his palms were surprisingly calloused until she had a quick flash of remembrance of how he looked on a broom. He must still fly regularly for his hands to still bear the callouses that they did.

"Then let's get to it. Hermione."

He pulled himself to standing, and walked over to one of the beside tables, beginning to rifle through it. Sensing that whatever moment they'd had earlier was over, she followed suit and walked over to look at the curios and books on the bookcase near the fireplace. As she made to walk past the fireplace, a large portrait above it caught her eye.

It was unmistakably a young Narcissa Malfoy. Her thick blonde hair was cut into a blunt bob just below her chin, shockingly modern in appearance, given that the portrait appeared to depict her at eighteen or nineteen. A tiara sat in her hair, gold and silver starbursts rising from the band to frame her in a sort of halo. She was perched delicately, as if just about to stand up, on the edge of a dark green velvet armchair, brilliantly trimmed in gold down the thin arms that branched out as if to grab her and pull her back into it. The same dark velvet hung behind her, and bunches of dark flowers surrounded her on all sides. Her dress was of the lightest blue, nearly silver, with short sheer sleeves that hung off the tops of her arms. The bodice was tight with a deep sweetheart neckline; her pale skin glowing as the light bounced off of her severe collarbones, leaving dark shadows in the hollow of her throat. The bodice was delicately embroidered with starbursts that matched those on her tiara, before flowing dramatically from her impossibly thin waist in a waterfall of chiffon and silk.

From her position on the very edge of her chair, she stared off to the side, as if refusing to look at the portrait artist. Her eyes looked blank, almost hollow, and her full mouth was closed but completely slack. She was completely expressionless, yet nonetheless her beauty could not be denied by even the most casual observer. Her hands were resting in her lap, not quite clasped but also completely relaxed—palms facing inward and fingers tucked. She looked beautiful, but so incredibly dispassionate.

"Their wedding day," Draco called, only half paying attention to her as he continued to dig through the bedside table. "That portrait was painted just before their binding."

"She doesn't exactly look... enthused."

"Well, a relaxed posture and face are better suited to a formal wizarding portrait, as it ensures the portrait will be more capable of a full range of emotion. Go too far in one direction when the portrait is taken, and the after image might turn into a caricature of that emotion. But you're right—although I'm not sure I can fault her for not looking any more enthused about marrying my father."

For a brief moment, the fact that the portrait was still motionless comforted Hermione. After all, wizarding portraits only began to move after the sitter was dead. But that moment quickly ended when she realized something quite surprising. None of the portraits in Narcissa's room were moving.

"Draco...?"

He looked up, placing something back in the drawer and closing it firmly.

"... Yes?"

"Is it common for a witch of your mother's stature not to have moving portraits?"

He scoffed and walked over. "No, of course not. All the portraits in the Manor are magical. What are you..."

He trailed off, realizing what she was getting at. Naturally, he'd never seen this large, dominating picture of Narcissa moving, so he wouldn't have been looking for it to. But the other portraits in the room, few though they may be, were also motionless, all of their occupants frozen within their frames.

"Those all move. I'm certain of it. Let me try something."

He pulled his wand from his trousers, and with a flourish, waved his wand toward the portraits. In unison, they all came to life.

And began to scream.

A/N I'm so sorry!

I haven't felt particularly inspired lately. I'm at a weird place where I know exactly where I want this story to be in a few chapters, but it doesn't feel quite right to time jump to get us there. I fully expected that they'd be in Glasgow this chapter, but then Lucius happened.

Let me know what you think, and thanks to everyone still reading and reviewing.