A Story of Blood
by Crow
Chapter 1
Ginny Weasley sighed. She reached behind her head and pulled her long red hair away from her damp neck, leaving a few scarlet strands stuck in place. Why was it so unfoundedly hot in here? Obviously the Italians hadn't learned of the use of a well-placed cooling spell, or even a Muggle air conditioner.
The Ufrizi, one of Italy's oldest, most sacred museums and libraries. Ginny gazed upward, eyes skimming along the tall stacks of books, listening to the soft murmur of rustling pages, whispered conversations, the scratch of pens on paper. The library was home to some of the oldest books in Europe, and the scent of age and dust settled on the people inside. Ginny looked up imploringly at the mahogany ceiling fans that did little but circulate hot air. Maybe she should just give up the search for the day; it wasn't like she found anything interesting. She had been trailing gossip and legend for weeks now, and she didn't feel any closer to her target.
When Ginny became an Auror ten years ago, she never imagined that she would spend so much time in libraries and civil offices, reading old journals and letters, combing through wills and deeds that would lead her to her prey, and the dark magical items they kept. In her time, she had recovered cursed gauntlets and jewelry, daggers and paintings, even a particularly devious antimacassarShe had helped hunt down and bring to justice over 100 Death Eaters. She had stood beside Harry Potter's side when he defeated Voldemort. And still…she found herself here, alone, spending more time locked in the past than living in the present.
Usually it didn't bother her much. She had discovered early on that she had a knack for solving puzzles—her mind could piece together bits of information that seemed to have no connection, moving the scattered bits around until she saw the overriding pattern. There was always a pattern. Chaos could be bent to her will. The actions of wizards and witches classified, put in boxes marked good and evil, black and white. It was a talent born out of years of observation, watching silently from the shadows, and never forgetting the baser aspects of human nature. Ginny was hardly ever surprised by how someone would react.
Today, though, Ginny felt frustrated, inpatient. She noticed her knee jumping up and down under the table, saw her fountain pen beating a staccato beat against her leather bound notebook. It was fine and good to track down potentially dangerous magical objects, to observe and predict power shifts, to hunt down the monsters. But now that Voldemort was finally dead, no one in the Ministry would listen to her anymore. And her vacation was almost up.
Vacation? Surely this isn't what McGregor thought I'd do with my time. She smiled. After five years of almost non-stop work, Ginny had been ordered to take some time off. But it was hard for her to just let go, to find a life outside of the Ministry walls. Her work left her little time to form lasting relationships with men. Her friends and family were scattered around the world, caught up in their own lives. Her parents, whom she loved dearly, didn't understand the woman their little girl grew up to be.
So, when it came time to take a vacation, the best idea she could come up with was to put some devoted time into a new hobby of hers: tracking Luna Lovegood's 900-year-old witch. When Luna, now the new publisher of her father's paper The Quibbler, had come to her with yet another unbelievable story, Ginny had smiled and nodded politely, remembering the odd Ravenclaw in her class at Hogwarts. And Luna hadn't changed much since school. Her blond hair was shorter now, but she still kept her wand tucked behind her left ear for safekeeping, still liked to read certain magazines upside down—and she still believed in fairy tales, tales like the legend of a beautiful witch from the 1100s who made a bargain with the devil for immortal life.
While Ginny wasn't sure about the bargain, she did look over Luna's notes and immediately saw the pattern—the change of names, how estates and titles passed from one witch to another, witches who had no background until the moment they arrived to claim their inheritance, the coincidences of timing and places to catastrophic events. And Ginny had to admit, she had been intrigued. Between cases, Ginny had managed to follow the trail of this witch over 800 years, losing it around the time of the fall of Grindelwald. If rumor and innuendo were to be believed, this witch, who went by the name Isabella Abi at that time, had allied herself, politically and romantically, with the dark wizard. When Albus Dumbledore defeated him, Isabella was conspicuously absent. If half of what Ginny had learned about the woman was true, she was grudgingly impressed—this witch, if she existed, knew what she wanted and how to get it.
Ginny glanced up again from her book, catching the eye of a handsome, young reference librarian who was looking at her appreciatively over a stack of books on his desk. Now, this looks promising. Ginny slowly raised her arms over head, stretching luxuriously like a cat, allowing him a chance to look over the goods. She lowered her arms and met his eyes, taking her time to look him over as well, slowly licking her lips. She smiled when she saw him blush. Tall, thin but muscular frame, tousled black hair, lovely blue eyes behind a pair of thin framed, scholarly glasses. Damn, I must have a type. Still, I am on vacation.
Ginny quickly collected her things, stowing her notebook and pens inside a well-worn black leather satchel. She gathered her books and made her way through the maze of tables and study corrals, determined to be a good library patron and return the books she'd used to the reference desk. Then, suddenly, out of the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of highly polished silver, moving quickly around a stack of books. Curious she stopped and took a step back, recognition dawning on her.
There was Peter Pettigrew, silver hand and all, walking through the library. Without a second thought, Ginny dropped the books she was carrying, pulling her wand from an inside pocket of her black linen jacket. The sound of the books hitting the floor echoed through the quiet library and Pettigrew turned to look in her direction. He bolted, and she ran after him.
"Signora!" an anxious voice called, as the young librarian ran around the desk and grabbed her. He started talking to her in heated Italian, pointing to the books she threw to the floor behind her.
"Go away, I don't have time now," she said in disgust, pushing the astounded man aside and running in Pettigrew's direction. She heard the front door of the library close and she raced toward the exit, hitting the doors at full steam. She stumbled out of the library into the piazza outside, crowded with tourists and students. She ran down the front stairs, pushing people aside, and swore. She'd lost him.
Ginny headed back to her hotel room. She'd have to owl the Ministry and let them know that she'd spotted Pettigrew. But first, she was going to send an owl to Dumbledore. He would want to know that the little rat had finally had made an appearance.
…..
"Mother, must we go tonight?" Draco Malfoy winced at the sound of his voice, sullen and whiny. No matter how he aged or matured, his mother was always able to reduce him to the spoiled prat he'd been at Hogwarts.
But Lady Malfoy was too preoccupied with her absolutions to notice. "Draco, we've gone over this before," she explained patiently, brushing her long black hair, now streaked with silver around the temples. "The diFirenzie family is one of the most powerful families on the Continent. We need their support."
Draco gracefully sprawled on the chaise beside the window of his mother's bedroom. He sighed. Even with the little power play he was currently waging with his mother, this room was usually a comfort to him. Perhaps because it was the only room in Malfoy Manor that didn't have Lucius Malfoy's stamp all over it. Instead of the dark woods and rich, dark brocades his father had favored, this room was full of bright reds and golds, delicate antique Queen Anne furniture and soft, delicate fabrics and pillows. But there was no comfort tonight. Draco rose and stood behind his mother at her vanity, looking at her in the mirror. They made a striking pair, a study ice, all platinum blond hair and glacier blue eyes.
"Yes, I know. We need them to support the Plan," he answered drolly.
His mother's eyes narrowed in annoyance. "Yes, son, the 'Plan' as you so blithely put it. Did your father teach you nothing all these years?"
"Yes, mother, I learned a great deal from my father—namely that you can get yourself killed when you play a game that you cannot win." Draco watched his mother's face twist in fury. She slammed down her silver hairbrush, knowing over the collection of exquisite glass bottles on her vanity. Point for me, he thought.
"How dare you call yourself a Malfoy? Did you forget what happened to your father, how they hunted him down like an animal and killed him? How can you live with that memory?"
Something deep inside Draco's eyes moved, and he became still. His voice was even, though icy cold. "You got your pound of flesh for the crime. Don't dare lecture me."
"Not enough, not nearly enough," she argued, ignoring the warning in his voice. "As the Malfoy heir, it is your job to avenge your father…"
Draco lifted a hand to silence his mother. He'd heard enough.
"As the Malfoy heir, it is my job to protect the house and restore us to our former position of power—a position that my father compromised by badly overplaying his hand." Narcissa opened her mouth to protest, but Draco's look kept her silent. "And with all due respect, my lady, I do not need lectures from you on what my job is or how to go about it."
Narcissa dropped her eyes, submissively. She reached back and grabbed his hand and patted it affectionately.
"My Draco, I'm sorry. I should never have questioned your love of your father," she ignored her son's raised eyebrow, "or your loyalty to our house. Lucius' death has left me rather shaken."
But Draco wasn't through. "Never make the mistake again of questioning where my loyalties lie. I will do whatever it takes to restore our power. I do not need, nor will I listen to, lectures from you."
"Of course not, dear. I never meant to imply that you needed my advice. I'm only telling you what you have surely already figured out. There is a power vacuum now that Lord Voldemort is gone."
Narcissa's strident tones were giving Draco a headache; he turned away, barely listening to his mother's commentary, picking up a picture of the three of them. Captured in an intricate silver frame was a younger Narcissa, gazing lovingly at her husband, her hand clutching at his arm as if she could draw his attention her way. And there was Father Lucius, forever regal and handsome in his finely cut robes, looking at the third person in the picture in anger. The object of his disappointment was his own 17-year-old self who slouched sullenly as far away from the man as possible. How typical.
"Draco, are you listening to me?" Narcissa's voice called him back from his reverie.
"Always, Mother. I am forever your servant."
She ignored his sarcasm. "Nature abhors vacuums, I was explaining to you. This is the perfect opportunity for us to rise to power in Britain, to fill the void before the Lestranges or the Averys try to."
Draco sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was definitely getting a headache. "Enough, Mother. I have spent a lifetime listening to Lucius' plans for my future. I know what is expected of me." She started to argue, but he cut her off. "You've won, Mother. We will go to this exhibit tonight, as you wish. We will meet the diFirenzie Clan and win them over to our side as only the Malfoys can do."
Narcissa's face lit up in a joy, like a child whose been told they were receiving a special gift. "I'm so glad, Draco. It will be a wonderful night, and you will enjoy yourself once you are there, I'm sure." She stood up from her vanity and walked over to her walk-in closet to survey the dresses that had been laid out. "Should I wear the burgundy gown or the emerald gown with the silver trim?" she asked over her shoulder.
Draco looked at his mother quizzically. "The green one, Mother, definitely the green one." He walked out of the room, pretending not to see his mother's satisfied smile.
…
Across Scotland, hidden high in the mountains, sat Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Its Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, sat alone in front of a burning fire.
"Why are you being so stubborn?" Albus Dumbledore asked the flames.
A disembodied voice answered him from the fire. The connection could not hide the voice's cultured, husky voice. "Because I can, Albus. It is my right."
"I received a report that Peter Pettigrew was spotted in Florence, searching for something in the Ufrizzi."
"Florence is a bustling city, full of tourists, Muggle and wizard alike. The Ufrizzi is beautiful to visit. You should go there one day."
"He is a former Death Eater. He stood at Voldemort's right hand."
"He fed Voldemort's snake, that's hardly the same thing. And why should I be afraid of a Death Eater? I breakfast with Death Eaters every morning."
"There is movement on the air, I can feel it. There are plots afoot, and they all seem focused on Florence. It makes me uneasy."
"Old age and guilt, Albus, that's what you are feeling."
"And you don't share these feelings, as well?"
There was a moment of silence. "I share many things with you, old man, but I refuse to surrender to guilt."
"Somehow, old friend, I do not believe that." Dumbledore smiled and popped a lemon drop in his mouth, making satisfied smacking sounds as he sucked on the hard candy.
"Believe what you want. I have no more time for this discussion," the voice continued from the fire. "We revisit this issue every few years when you get a 'feeling.' Nothing ever comes of it. Nothing ever will. The relic is safe with me, and it will remain here where it can do no harm."
"Listen to me, if we destroy it now…"
"No, you listen to me. I'm not Nicholas Flamel. I will not allow you to persuade me to give up my life's work. By the way, how is Nicholas and his lovely wife these days?"
Albus sighed. "They are dead. They died a year after we destroyed the Philosopher's Stone."
"But of course. You don't have much luck saving your friends, do you Albus?"
"Let me see you," Albus said quietly instead, looking down at his entwined hands.
The voice was gentle this time. "No." Then as if sensing that something else needed to be said, it continued. "Take care, old man. I will keep it safe."
The flames sparked and then died down. Albus sat staring at the embers, wondering what else he could have said. A gentle hand grabbed his shoulders. He placed his hand over hers.
"You did everything you could," Minerva McGonagall reassured him.
"No, I didn't. But I've only just started. This time…this time it must end differently. For all our sakes."