For those of you demanding Deatheaters….
When their dinner guests arrived, in ones and twos, rarely in larger groups, Nym made every effort to be charming. This did not mean, as it had back home with her parents, that she laughed and chatted with the guests, making them feel welcome in her home. No, here it meant she was carefully and exactly polite, that she kept her tongue in check and her face calm and empty, that she was, in short, the perfect young lady of high society.
Most of the guests, for their part, ignored her, which seemed their way of showing regard. Had she met with disproval, she would have heard it from all sides, a regular tongue lashing from people she had never met before. A few gave her cool nods, acknowledgement of her progress as a good hostess. A young man, a few years older than her and evidently in some sort of apprentice position to the creepy Mr. Rookwood – who apparently worked in the Department of Mysteries, and Nym had always hoped would get lost in the strange, twisting tunnels where he worked, or swallowed by some hideous beast therein, but so far neither had happened – actually gave her a small, half hearted smile, as thought to say 'well, you're stuck here too? Imagine that! We'll both have to make the best of it, won't we?' Nym instantly disliked him. It wasn't just that anyone who could tolerate creepy Mr. Rookwood for any length of time must be absolutely and without question a twisted person; there was a strange light in the young man's eyes, the feverish sort of light Nym sometimes saw at church on Sundays, when the highly repentant sinners scrambled to be the first in line to receive the priest's blessing.
Macnair, a good friend of Lucius, seemed about to stop and talk to her. From across the room, Nym was sure she felt the ice of her uncle's glare as it blazed past her and froze the young man in his tracks. Without a word, Macnair turned and seemed to decide that what he had really wanted all along was one of the crystal wine flutes the butler was serving. In fact, his expression said, if the butler might happen to know where anything a touch stronger could possibly be, Macnair would be his best friend for life.
More arrived, surely more than Nym remembered ever having to dinner before. Most were younger, perhaps thirty or so, and Nym supposed they must be school friends of her uncle. All swept in with their long black cloaks, and longer names, trying to look farther down their nose at people than everyone else. The black robes at Hogwarts had never bothered Nym. There was something about that black that was comforting. It was a studious black, the sort of black that said 'I was too busy digging through the library for some lost old tome to bother much with my outfit, but black goes with anything, doesn't it?' The black of these clothes was a different sort of black, one that whispered to Nym of dark meetings and secrets and her great-uncle's funeral, and the tight-lipped priest that had thrown dirt into the grave with an expression that had seemed uncaring and untouchable.
It was strange to think how many of these people had once passed through Hogwarts's great halls. Their names, announced in a deadpan voice by one of the butlers, buzzed through Nym's head, echoes of names she heard tossed back and forth at school, or written on plaques in the trophy room. Avery, Nott, Rosier, Lestrange, Karkaroff, Travers, Mulciber, Dolohov, Crabbe, Goyle. And names that Nym dreaded to hear, that made her feel like shriveling up or hiding in the shadows, had she not felt her uncle's compelling gaze on her, silently telling her to stand up straight and behave like a Malfoy, goddammit, not a spineless Black. There they were; Snape, Pettigrew. Black.
Regelus and his grandfather arrived at the last moment, just seconds before the guests were called in to supper. It was an insult or sorts, one Nym was sure Lucius carefully noted and stored away in that ice-cool head of his, but at the same time it was a relief. There would be no time for Regulus to do her harm before supper, at least. Despite that, he seemed intent on doing so, turning away from his grandfather with a word when he spotted Nym. He had almost reached her when another figure appeared at her side. The young man was perhaps a year older than Sirius, tanned and lean as James, though more heavily muscled about the shoulders. Alone of all the guests, he had a broad grin which he flashed about indiscriminately.
"Miss Nymphadora?" he inquired, giving her a bow that was just right to be mocking, and a grin that said he mocked the formality of the gathering, not her. She nodded, turning to face him but keeping a careful watch on the approaching Regulus. It would be just like that bastard to attack her from behind while she was talking to someone else. "Ludo Bagman, at your service."
Nym couldn't help smiling in return. How had this young man, seemingly energetic and cheerful, ever ended up in a place like one of her uncle's formal dinners? "A pleasure, Mr. Bagman."
He waved the words away with a laugh, but cordially offered his arm. "Please, none of that Mr. Bagman stuff. Makes me feel a right old duffer. Your uncle has asked me to be your companion for dinner tonight. If," he added hastily, "you have no objections?" Perhaps he was not so at ease here as he pretended.
With a last, worried glance at Regulus, Nym nodded, smiling. "I think I should like that."
Narcissa caught them just before they entered the dining room, moving at Nym's side for a moment. "I slipped some pepper up potion into your goblet, darling. You look dead on your feet." Nym smiled her thanks at her aunt. It wasn't concern for her that had prompted the action, she was sure, but concern that she might faint during her uncle's dinner, but she appreciated it none the less.
Bagman raised an eyebrow when Nym looked up at him. "A little early in the evening for you to be needing one of those, isn't it, even for a youngster like you?" Nym tried not to take offence at his words, putting on her sunniest, most insincere smile.
"Oh no. It's been a terribly long day. It was my birthday, you see," she added, as Bagman pulled back her chair for her, "and some friends took me to the Ministry contest."
Bagman was suddenly very interested. "You don't say? I wanted to take part in that, myself, but the coach wouldn't give me time off to try. I play Beater for the Wisborn Wasps, you see," he explained. "How was it? I'd heard it was a trial and a half. Friends, did you say? You seem a bit young to be consorting with anyone over eighteen, if you'll forgive my saying."
Nym giggled, remembering just in time to cover her mouth with her hand, as was 'only seemly and proper', according to her aunt. "It was a trial, to be sure. The creators did a magnificent job."
Bagman nodded enthusiastically. "I heard they quite outdid themselves this year. Funny thing, though, Gideon Prewett, you'll know him, of course, Head of Gryffindor House back at Hogwarts, strangest bloke I ever met except maybe that headmaster of theirs, anyway, helped design the thing, and then told the Prophet he didn't think it would be enough."
Nym paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. "Pardon?" she tried. She was quickly learning that it could be quite difficult to get meaning out of Bagman's excited chatter.
"Prewett, that crazy old bat," Nym narrowed her eyes at that, but Bagman didn't seem to notice, "got interviewed by the Daily Prophet. He said the challenge this year was the toughest it had ever been. But, nutter that he was, he said he didn't think it was tough enough."
"Why's that?" Nym asked, trying to hide her interest. Too much interest in anything was frowned upon in Malfoy Manor.
Bagman shrugged easily. "Couldn't say, really. He seemed to think the competition was going to be stepped up a few notches this year. Well, maybe it is," again the shrug, "but the Prophet's team will win again, you see if they don't. They have every year since they banned the Ministry and Hogwarts from sending teams from their staff."
"Really," Nym commented. "I would have thought Gringotts would have a strong showing."
Bagman looked at her in surprise. "They don't let goblins compete."
Nym stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but only just. "Not them, of course. I meant the curse-breakers."
"Oh, them," Bagman sighed rather theatrically. "Funny thing, that. They always lose on a technicality. Them and the Auror's college." Nym thought she detected a slight chill pass through the room when Bagman mentioned the Aurors, an almost imperceptible dip in the noise level. "They'll be tied for first, or so close as to make no difference, and then they'll protest each others' scores on technicalities. Knock each other out of the top spots, and the Prophet staff grab the gold, as it were." As he talked, the tension seemed to ebb away in the room, as people realized he was talking about some silly little nothing.
Some people were still listening, though, because creepy Mr. Rookwood, across from Bagman, decided to chime in. "Saint Mungo's could win in a flash, if it ever occurred to them to enter."
His assistant, one Bartholomew Crouch, laughed shortly, the laugh that seemed to be the trademark of Lucius's friends. "Impossible, sir. They're too high minded for that sort of competition."
"Besides," Nott chimed in, "they have all the answers, didn't you know? Just in case someone needs rescuing and," he smiled viciously, "putting back together."
Nym gave a delicate, lady-like shiver. She'd found it an easy way to stop a conversation, and perhaps then Nott and creepy Mr. Rookwood would lose interest in her. "Please, let's not discuss that over supper." Nott seemed content to let it go at that, and turned to talk to Travers on his other side, but creepy Mr. Rookwood leveled Nym a hard stare.
"I could have sworn I heard you say you partook of this challenge, young lady," he said severely. "Surely it cannot distress you to merely talk about it." He was challenging her, she knew. He suspected she was hiding something – you could comment that it looked like rain, and creepy Mr. Rookwood would see an ulterior motive – and he seemed determined to find out what it was.
Nym studied the fish on her plate intently. "I did, sir."
"But you do not wish to talk about it?" he pressed. "Why ever not? Surely you did well, as befits a Black." He put a certain sneer on her last name, causing the elder Black present, Nym's great-grandfather, to look up. The look he sent creepy Mr. Rookwood was cold enough that Nym silently forgave him for spawning filth like most of her extended family.
What answer could she give, Nym wondered. If she said she did well, she would be bragging. If she said otherwise, it would be a slight to her family. And of course she couldn't say anything about her family, because then she'd be on the defensive. It seemed no matter what she said, or didn't say, creepy Mr. Rookwood would win, embarrassing not only her but her uncle and aunt.
"Who can say?" Nym said, smiling as sweetly as she could. She was sure the guests at the other end of the table could hear her teeth grinding. "I had heard that Mr. Dumbledore had a hand in the creation of the challenge." Her smile grew slightly more sincere when she saw creepy Mr. Rookwood's scowl. "And it has been said he has some distinctly off ideas." From the exchanged glances around the table, Dumbledore's 'odd ideas' were a topic of frequent, and no doubt heated, discussion. Nym silently apologized to the headmaster. She'd only met him a few times, hardly at all, really, but he seemed a likable old coot if, admittedly, a bit of a barmy one, and she didn't like to insult him. But she'd read the guests here tonight aright. More than one black look was exchanged, their participants no doubt thinking that 'odd' was a bit of an understatement, and perhaps painted the situation in too positive a light.
Creepy Mr. Rookwood leveled a thoughtful gaze at Nym, one she found far more disconcerting than any scowl of his. "Indeed," was all he said, and for a wonder turned away to talk to his assistant, leaving Nym blessedly alone.
The meal dragged on, leaving Nym bleary-eyed and disoriented. So many black robes, so many boring conversations… it might have been a meeting of parliament, had the food been any worse. If only her uncle had agreed to let her stay with Mandy for the summer. But neither he not Narcissa would hear of it. Lucius's normally pale cheeks had flushed a brilliant, angry scarlet at the mere mention that she might, just possibly, stay with muggles over the holidays.
It seemed forever before Nym could escape to the solitude of her room, falling into a deep, but terribly troubled, sleep, tossing and turning but unable to wake up as monsters and black cloaked figures chased her through her dreams.