Author's Note: You are welcome to join the Harry/Fleur Discord, a lively and inspiring place: discord.gg/CpzggZbfyU
I'd like to thank Ajjaxx and androidrainbow for their help as Beta Readers.
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The past few days had been hell, and it was unlikely to change in the near future. This thought was a constant in his mind. First there was the fiasco where he lost the family casting focus that his great-grandfather had received from the king for his services.
His father had gone and failed to retrieve the focus back from the dragonrider that took it. It should have been a simple affair.
He felt his dragon partner move restlessly, his own disquiet influencing even Aruldred. Not that the dragon was going to help him much in this situation.
And then it had all escalated. Father had tried to wash off the stain of dishonour that the dragonrider's stubbornness had caused his family, but that dragonrider had a friend from the Order of Battlemages of all things.
Even so, Father had been an excellent swordsman, he should have made mincemeat of that woman, but no… His stomach still turned when he recalled the scene, his father, slumped over, the Battlemage's feral grimace and then…
He swallowed, recalling the deluge of blood and gore. The Battlemage had torn his father in two.
Without any regards for honour, or for prestige, for all that the family could have given somebody of her talents, she had mercilessly slaughtered his father.
And now he stood there, in the same hall where he had received the honours of a royal dragonrider from the King himself.
Once again, he stood before the formidable man, surrounded by the heads or representatives of the noble houses of the kingdom; knights, dragonriders, Battlemages, master enchanters. This time, the atmosphere was entirely different.
"Draco of House Malfoy," the aging king intoned, and his voice carried throughout the hall, "You stand before us, having brought grave dishonour to House Malfoy and by proxy to your King."
Even without the dais, the man would have stood over Draco, but with the additional height of three extra steps, he resembled a mighty tower. If Draco wanted to look into his King's face, he had to crane his neck.
Draco gulped. The looks on his peers' faces ranged from indifferent to cold. People who used to drink and feast with his father now seemed to tower over him, looking down their noses at him, eyes resembling chips of ice.
His own friends, Theo, with whom he had spent many a night drinking, Blaise, his partner during amorous escapades, Pansy… He stood alone before the court.
His mother, ever a lady of impeccable manners, showed no emotion at all. Her eyes bore into him, and while she did not speak, she conveyed her meaning louder than had she roared. He remembered the talk they had a day prior, her eyes almost glowing with feverish energy, her voice coming out in a hiss, reminding him of the family legacy.
"A dishonoured house has no place in our service," the king continued, his eyes hard. "Therefore, you are left with two options."
Draco knew, painfully aware of the traditions.
At the king's gesture, a servant stepped forward, carrying a short, one-edged blade.
"Remove the stain of dishonour from House Malfoy," The king nodded at him solemnly, "Or accept discommendation for House Malfoy."
None of the audience moved a muscle, and Draco wondered if they even forgot to breathe. Silence reigned, louder than any gong heavy and oppressive. But that did not stop them from looking at him, and he felt as if showered by spears. Weighty looks from judging, cold eyes fell upon him, impaling him and sticking him to the ground.
It was difficult to breathe, as if right before a storm, and sweat stung in his eyes. Was he in front of the King, or facing a horde of snakes measuring up their next meal? Were there any sympathetic to him? Or have they all sentenced him already in their minds?
When he looked at his friends, none offered even a sign of compassion. None of them even moved a muscle, merely looking on. Were they simply waiting to see him spill his blood? What thoughts ran through their minds? Did they realize how easily they too could fall from grace?
He turned to look at his mother, but she may have as well been carved of marble, just as cold and hard. Her look was the heaviest and most piercing of them all, and he well knew what she meant. He looked away from her.
The King patiently awaited his response, giving away no sign of his thoughts, and Draco wondered. How many men and women had the King sent to their deaths? Would this weigh on him, or would any thoughts on this affair evaporate come the evening? Would he be so quickly forgotten?
The ceremonial blade gleamed in the cold light, almost blinding him.
He swallowed nervously, and looked back at the king.
"Your decision?"
"I…" Thoughts swirled in his mind, a thousand and one. And that one thought won over all others in his mind. "I accept the discommendation." He didn't want to die.
If before he felt pressure akin to an oncoming storm, his declaration was the lightning, and thunder soon followed. The silence was broken by a wave gasps, hissing, and whispers. And still his friends' eyes were so incredibly cold. They sneered at him now, and whispered to each other.
And his mother? Her look was the coldest of all, sharper than any blade, and it dug deeper than any wound he had ever suffered.
"Very well." The king nodded, his voice resolute. House Malfoy is hereby stripped of all its holdings and titles. In two days' time, should any Malfoy be found on the aforementioned properties, their life will be forfeit. Now go and may you avoid any further disgrace."
As the king finished speaking, he laid his left fist on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, while his right fist was clenched above his heart. With ceremonial pomp, the king stomped and turned his back on him. This was a signal to all the gathered peers, who followed the king's example, literally and figuratively turning their backs on Draco and the Malfoys.
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A whole day had gone by since he had accepted the discommendation, and the atmosphere in what would soon cease to be his home was one he was unlikely ever to forget.
His cousins and the few people who stayed loyal to his family were frantically packing what they could manage. His mother, however, had called him to a private room.
"I believe," she hissed at him, a half-empty goblet of wine in her hand, "that I tasked you with remembering this family's legacy." She aggressively jabbed him in the chest.
"For generations, the Malfoys have gathered titles, lands, and riches. And with the marriage to the Blacks, that power was consolidated."
"Mother, I…" He tried to remind her that he was still her son, that the family could continue, that…
"Do not interrupt me when I am speaking!" She took a swig of her wine and put the empty goblet down. "With your foolishness you have undone generations of work. You must have inherited that from your father."
She sniffed. "Escalating things to a duel, and against Bella's niece at that. What possessed him?"
"But mother, father was…" He tried again.
"Silence! Your father could be a great man at times." She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "No matter how great, no man is greater than the House. The House must come first." She speared him with a frustrated look. "Always. And yet, here we are."
"But, after father, I—" Once again, he tried to speak up.
"After your father, you inherited his position." She waved her hand. "And after your death, it would have fallen to your uncle. He is still unmarried." She shrugged. "And I am young still. We would have made it work. But now, we have lost our holdings, our positions. Do not look so surprised, nobody will want to touch a Malfoy."
They were interrupted by loud voices from outside, as people were moving valuables from nearby rooms.
"Now, we will have to scatter, you and your cousins will have to seek postings elsewhere." She furrowed her brows further. "It will be nothing glamorous, but there are always some villages needing their dragonrider garrison strengthened. This way, we will recover at least a semblance of respect for the family. Hopefully, at least some trading partners will be willing to work with us." She looked at him again. "What are you still doing here? Go to the bathhouse. You want to look respectable. You will be looking for work."
There was no arguing with her when she was in such a mood. And he knew she was right. He needed to look presentable if he wanted to be able to persuade at least somebody to accept him.
He sighed. "Yes, mother."
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The news had spread like wildfire, of course, and many people were openly pointing at him, mocking him, jeering at him, even spitting at him.
He growled, remembering the respectful bows he had enjoyed only a few days prior.
The public bathhouse was busy, as usual. It was a popular establishment, after all. As soon as he entered, he was sought out by the proprietor, a matronly sort of woman. "What services do you desire?" She asked him, casting a suspicious look at his money pouch.
"A barber, then a bath, and take care of my clothes."
"Payment upfront."
He growled, and took out the usual amount of coin. They expected him to be poor now.
"Very good, go this way, please, and relax. The barber will be with you shortly."
Grumbling, he went to the indicated room. A chair was prepared for him, at least it looked comfortable.
He washed his face in the prepared basin and sat down with a weary sigh. It really was comfortable. The barber, however, was taking their time.
He was just getting ready to stand up and complain when he felt it. Magic. Bindings crept along his skin. Before he could formulate a counterspell, he couldn't move.
Paralysis.
He heard the figure come up behind him, steps light, silent, trained. However much he tried, he couldn't move a muscle, so he couldn't even look at the person coming up from behind. However, he felt them come close, smell their perfume.
The person leaned close to his ear.
"Your uncle sends his regards." The whisper came followed by the sound of a sharp blade being bared.
He felt the chill of cold steel on his throat, the sting as it cut into his skin.
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Within minutes, screams tore through the bathhouse. The barber, who had come a few minutes late, found her client motionless, pale and surrounded by a pool of blood. Others came running in, summoned by her screams, and joining in a chorus of terror.
Nobody noticed a particular slim figure slipping out. By the time the guard came in, it was too late. Draco Malfoy was dead and the assassin was long gone.
An investigation would be launched, fruitless and short. Even before the investigation finished, the dragon Aruldred, silent in his grief, would leave the capital, making his way to the mountains, choosing the life of a solitaire, avoiding human company.
The members of the former House of Malfoy would leave the capital shortly after, scattering around the country, taking odd jobs and wandering from place to place.
Brutus Malfoy would go on to marry Narcissa Malfoy and their lives would be spent trying to regain at least a fraction of the riches and influence their family had once held. It would take generations, but the Malfoys were nothing if not determined. And indeed, a Malfoy would receive honours from a king once again, in a couple of centuries.
That, however, is for a different story.
