Chapter 13: Potpourri
By Callisto Callispi
Disclaimers: Don't own Harry Potter. Never have or will.
Author's Note: I actually updated within two weeks! WHOA! What a dramatic shift of events! Lol. This is going to be a short chapter, though...focusing on Draco's dream and developments in the story other than Draco and Hermione. There might be a dash of Hermione and Draco, though. ^_^ And you get a snippet of Rowena and Salazar's story.
For clarity regarding the text: Please note that I have designated Salazar and Rowena's time around the year 1066. It is during the feudal times in Western Europe, and might I warn you that Western Europe was quite a mess around then. It's also the time of William the Conqueror when he established his rule in the British Isles, thus basically establishing, more or less, England. Though I am fairly confident on historical facts I figures, I apologize in advance for historical inaccuracies.
* ... * thoughts
### change in view point of the same scene
Love takes off masks
that we fear we cannot live without
and know we cannot live within.
"The Fire Next Time" by James Baldwin
He walked through the stone passageway, the heels of his boots clacking discordantly. He reached an arching passageway and breathed in deeply. The moment of truth. He had to face her, his once-betrothed.
He entered into a chamber constructed entirely of white and gray stones. It was a lady's chamber, one out of three in this vast castle. Certain plants and rugs decorated the chamber. It was nothing too fancy—he was hardly an artistic man. That, he would leave to Rowena.
However, his pounding heart seemed to land in his stomach with a thud when he saw her, Nícola, seated near a window. The dusky light streaming in through the open window beautifully accentuated her Iberian and Mediterranean features. She had high cheek bones, a prominent Roman nose, and large eyes of penetrating depth.
He felt a twinge in his stomach as he spotted a small tear roll down her cheek. She maintained her stare out the window, but he knew that she acknowledged his presence.
"Hello, Nícola," he said quietly.
She still did not look at him. She merely sat there, her back straight, her chin tilted upwards. "Hello, Salazar."
"You've heard, have you?"
She glanced at him. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "How could you, Salazar?"
"I'm sorry."
"You're not. I see it in your eyes."
He could not say anything.
"For two years I have allowed this to go on. For two years did I turn a blind eye towards your fascination with that Capetain wench. Now, you're saying that you are fleeing to the Western Isles with her?"
He breathed in deeply and covered his face with his hands.
Nícola's voice rose in pitch. "You are willing to leave Castile for her? You're willing to leave to surround yourself with those Saxon and Norman barbarians? With that Capetain whore?"
Salazar stared at her. "She is not a whore."
"She has Saxon blood. It might as well makes her one."
"Do not ever call her that again, Nícola."
"You can't leave, Salazar! What of the Order? You're father was the head of it. And you're willing to give everything up, the rituals, the tradition, to be with her? Does she possess the Gifts, as we do?"
"She does."
"She has the blood of mud," Nícola snarled, her hands curling into fists. "She is the child of those Catholics! The same people who name us as the filthy pagans! As witches! As the servants of the Devil!"
"I will warn you once more, Nícola de Lonclé-Navarra, to not call Laure that."
Nícola at last stood. She shook her head, her long black tresses falling from her bun. "You are not to leave, Salazar."
He felt the heat rise in him. "And you are to stop me?"
She came up to him, and without the slightest bit of hesitation, she got on her tip-toes and kissed Salazar on his lips.
He pulled back, shocked. She smiled a devilish smile, one that chilled his blood. She leaned in closer, but instead of kissing him, she placed her lips by his ear.
"Even if I have to sell my soul to the Devil, I will make sure that you will be mine. That Laure, Rowena, whatever you call that bitch, will not get between us. We were meant to be. The prophets have claimed it so. Will you deny destiny?"
A cold wind breezed in through the open window. Salazar shivered and pushed Nícola away from him. His eyes were wide at that revelation. Of course he had not forgotten that damned prophecy.
"They have said to avoid her. You can gather than from context, at least? For the 'children of the snake born to those with the wing will—'"
"Stop," Salazar said sharply.
"Where has your honor gone, Salazar?"
He glared. "How am I obstructing my honor now, may I ask you. Whether you like it or not, I will board the next caravel to the Isles."
Her eyes sparkled, this time with panicking worry. "War ravages the countryside. You shall be killed!"
"Do you believe swords can kill me?"
Nícola's fists shook.
Salazar looked out the window. He grimaced, feeling anger pulsating from his once-lover. "I will survive in the Isles. Perhaps I shall flee to the hills until the war stops. Laure shall deliver her child there."
He suddenly felt a stinging blow to his cheek. He kept his head still, despite the force of that strike. Nícola's hand quivered in mid-air.
"How dare you speak of that bastard child in front of me?" she hissed.
Salazar shook his head, trying to clear the cloud of ire fogging his thoughts. His child will be no bastard. As soon as he arrived in the Isles, he planned to wed his Laure, his Rowena. He turned on his heel and started walking away.
"You are making the biggest mistake of your life Salazar! You are dooming your line! You are corrupting Fate's fabric of destiny! You are to be with me!"
Salazar glared at the cold, stone floor. "Fate does not rule me, Nícola!"
After a short pause, Nícola snarled quietly, so that he could barely hear her, "Yes, Fate will consume you. And your sons and grandsons and their sons and their sons. Any of your blood will be consumed by this! A pox on you, Salazar, and your Capetain whore! May you live in misery, and may Fate be merciful enough to grant me the life so I can watch you suffer!"
He did not hear anything else. He rounded a sharp corner and stomped to his chambers
where he knew that his beautiful Laure, his beautiful Rowena, was waiting for him.
Draco's lids withdrew as soon as the dawning light touched upon them. He yawned and slowly rose
from his bed. He checked his watch then cursed. He was up much too early. He had been asleep
for no more than four hours.
What had woke him?
He sat in his bed, staring at the black and silver sheets. He had dreamt up something that may have once happened almost a millennium ago. And not just any happening. It was about Salazar's excursion to the Isles where, a decade later, he would establish the Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry with the other three of the Founding Four.
He groaned slightly. His back, though the throbbing had been considerably less than before, was sore. Incredibly sore. He wondered how long he would have to put up with the pain, then wondered if it would ever subside.
Draco got out of bed, shivering as soon as he set his bare feet upon the cold, wooden tiles of his bed. He walked into the Slytherin commons, lit the hearth, and sat down on to the nearest couch, his head swimming with vague notions and ideas. Sleep did not come easily for him this morning.
Nícola de Lonclé-Navarra. Her name run in his mind like a bell. He closed his eyes, listening to crackling of the wood on the ash-black mantle. He knew he had heard that name before. But where?
His mind jolted. He opened his eyes.
"Of course," he said out loud and stood up. He rushed over to the nearest window that overlooked the Forbidden Forest. He grimaced as he remembered that episode.
"The Red Widow," he whispered.
Possibilities and doubts ran though his mind. No doubt that the woman who cursed Salazar's blood line was indeed the present-day Red Widow. Draco frowned, however, casting dark purple shadows over his weary features.
That scene had occurred one thousand years in the past. How was she still alive today? Surely she wasn't the metallic vampire that he had seen that gruesome night when Hermione almost died.
His shoulder twinged again. He clapped his hand immediately over the mark, cursing. It hurt more frequently these days. He did not know why. Was it because of his dreams? Draco smiled wryly, wondering what Voldemort's blood type was. Perhaps their blood types were in discordance with one another.
Just then, he felt a chill shiver up his spine. The warmth that filled the commons seemed to plummet into an icy breath of wind.
Nícola de Lonclé-Navarra had repeatedly cursed Salazar's heirs. It didn't fit in with some prophecy. What curse was that? What purpose did it hold? Draco wished that he could know the answer. Perhaps he was under the same, age-old curse? Would he die because of it?
Of course, no one knew the answer. Perhaps except the Red Widow. Draco grimaced. He would definitely not run into her lair again. Perhaps she'd stop wishing this time and simply seduce him. After all, if she was the previous lover of Salazar, why not make love to his heir to fulfill her desires? She seemed quite frankly to do just that in their last meeting.
But Draco immediately abandoned the thought of another encounter with the Red Widow. He wasn't even sure if this dream wasn't something that his imagination conjured up.
He sat back down onto the couch and stared at the dreary stone walls if the commons dully, starting to doze off.
****
Hermione stepped out of the Head Girl's bathroom with a towel wrapped around herself. She twisted her dripping hair in a towel and rubbed the water off her face. She rubbed away the water vapor that clouded the mirror and frowned as she stared at her reflection.
She lifted her neck and grimaced. There were red spots on the pale skin of her neck. It was where Draco had kissed her. She turned red immediately. She closed her eyes and could almost remember his lips suckling her skin, caressing it with his tongue, sending jolts of electricity through her nerves.
Just then, she glared, straightening her face. Reality was that Draco Malfoy had given her this unattractive hickey. Three in total. She leaned into the mirror and licked her lips. They were unusually puffy and red.
Damn him and his lips. And his tongue. She flushed and spun around, marching out of the bathroom.
She threw open her wardrobe doors, donned her golden sweater-neck and a black skirt. It was too early to put on her uncomfortable uniform. She stared at herself in the mirror frowning. Two precarious marks were still visible. She grabbed her scarf, draped it around her neck, and tied up her wet hair. If it weren't for the sudden Heads meeting, then she wouldn't have even gotten up this early.
She stared at the mirror once more, examining her puffy lips. Oh, God. Dumbledore would stare at it, and in one glance, he would know that the goody-goody Head Girl had just been snogging someone.
She dug in her drawer, taking out a tube of lip gloss. She dabbed some on her finger and gently rubbed it on her lips. It gave the swelling some coverage but not much. Oh well. She would just have to deal.
Hermione soon ran out of her room and to the Head professors' meeting room. Upon her arrival, four heads snapped up to greet her: Gregory Hawking (the Head Boy from the Hufflepuff house) Professor Dumbledore, and two men whom she did not recognize. One of then smiled up at her. Hermione blinked. He was handsome and no more than twenty-five. The other man was middle-aged, perhaps the age of her father. He had striking blue eyes and a thick, black mustache.
"Miss Granger! I am pleased that you had gotten my message after all. I had thought that the midnight owl might have found you asleep." Professor Dumbledore smiled warmly, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. He knew that she was in detention.
"Come, Miss Granger. Gentlemen, Mister Wellington and Professor Hopkins, this is Hermione Granger, the Head Girl from the Gryffindor house. Miss Granger, this is Professor Hopkins, the head of Study of the Ancient Runes department at the Oxford University of Magic."
Hermione smiled and shook the older man's hand. "How do you do."
Dumbledore then extended his hand towards the younger man. He smiled.
"And this is Mister Thomas Wellington, the student representative of this program."
Hermione smiled and shook his hand as well. "Pleased to meet you."
He nodded his head and flashed her a charming smile. She felt the heat rising up in her cheeks and looked quickly away.
"Professor," she said, turning to meet Dumbledore's eyes, "program?"
"Please take a seat, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, sitting down himself.
Hermione did as she was told, taking a seat next to Gregory Hawking. She met his dark eyes questioningly. He shook his head and stifled a yawn. Hermione understood his fatigue. It was five in the morning after all.
"Now, I have understanding that you are taking a NEWT class in Ancient Runes?" the headmaster asked her.
Hermione nodded. She spotted the forming smile on Thomas Wellington's face.
"Well, I am pleased to announce to my Heads that after many years of letters and correspondence, I have agreed to participate in the abroad program for the students studying Ancient Runes at Oxford to continue their studies here. At Hogwarts."
Hermione could not help thinking, *Study with what?* Hogwarts was very short on Ancient Runes material. In fact, there were no more than five students in her NEWT class.
Dumbledore smiled. "Tomorrow, twenty students from the university shall arrive at Hogwarts. They will remain here, pursuing their studies, until the Yule Ball."
Hermione and Gregory looked up interestedly.
"They shall depart the day after."
Hermione and Gregory both blinked. Hermione felt a girlish excitement well up her throat.
"And yes, both of you, the scholars will attend the Yule Ball. I am counting on you, Miss Granger, to quell the girls' excitement regarding this matter."
"Pardon?"
"The scholars will be exclusively male."
"Oh!" she said in a squeaky voice. Only male? "Of course."
"We're thrilled that this school has accepted our proposal. It's not every day that such an institution gains the personal recollections of the Founding Four."
"Sir?" Hermione asked, looking up at Dumbledore. She spotted the briefest flicker or a frown. He did not seemed the least bit thrilled or as enthusiastic about this at all. But then he smiled in her direction, perhaps telling her to keep quiet, and turned towards the middle-aged man.
"I thank you for making such an excursion from Oxford to here. Now," said the professor, getting up, "I seem to remember that I have promised you brief tour of the castle?"
Gregory stood up and motioned the two Oxford men to the doorway. "if you'll follow me, gentlemen..."
Hermione stood as well, about to assist Gregory in the tour, but Dumbledore stopped her.
"Miss Granger, there is another reason that I called you this morning. Please...sit."
Hermione did. She didn't dare meet the headmaster in the eye. Did he know about her and Draco? Did he see the marks on her neck? Maybe he noticed her puffy lips.
"Yes...professor?"
Dumbledore folded his hands. He sat behind the table, his eyes hardening, losing the light twinkle. "I must ask you something regarding your detention."
*Oh...no.*
"I must ask you... Has Mister Filch assigned you and Mister Malfoy to any work in the library?"
*Oh. My. God. Did he see us kissing?*
"Yes...?"
"Miss Granger, I'm sorry to tell you that—"
"I'm sorry, professor!" Hermione burst out. "I'm really sorry. It...really meant nothing! I swear! Please, don't strip me of my title. I really...it will never happen again! Please, prof—"
Dumbledore held up his hands. "Miss Granger, calm yourself. You are getting hysterical. Please, remain seated."
Hermione, in her panic, had noticed that she leaned on Dumbledore's desk. She sat down, mortified beyond all imagination. So he had seen them kissing.
"Now, it seems that we both are having difficult mornings. Would you like a cup of tea?"
Hermione sunk in her seat. "No, thank you."
"Please, I must ask you to remain calm. Questions later, is that understood, Miss Granger?"
She nodded.
"I do not understand what your side of the story is, Miss Granger. But, however, I wanted to ask you whether Mister Filch has asked you to stack a chest-full of books... All volumes in four distinct colors."
"What?" Hermione narrowed her eyes. She scruched her nose and stared down at her lap. "Is that all you wanted to ask me?"
Dumbledore looked bewildered. "Yes. Did you have anything else in mind?"
"No...no, of course not. Er...the books...I don't quite seem to remember..."
Hermione's mind spun with relief. Oh...he did not know!
"Miss Granger, I must tell you that those books are of the utmost importance." Dumbledore stared piercingly at her. "You must try to recall anything."
Hermione shook her head. "No. I'm sorry professor. I don't remember... I'm sure I would have told you if there was something..." She paused. She narrowed her eyes slightly, suddenly remembering.
She and Draco were heading down to the dungeons...he wanted to put a feather-weight on the chest, but she refused. She told him no...
They arrived at the library door to find it locked. They argued for the longest time until Draco had found the solution to the problem. He used the key that was meant to open the chest to open the library doors. She remembered. Those books were in the chest.
"Actually, yes...I do remember those books. I...stacked them all. With Malfoy. It was a long time ago, though."
"Ah." Dumbledore leaned back in the chair. "Do you have any idea what they are, Miss Granger?"
She shook her head. "I opened one," she admitted. "But the language was gibberish to me. I think it resembled some ancient runes...but they were to intricate."
"You're correct on that account. They are runes. In fact, they are really memoirs."
"Memoirs of what?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Not of what. Of who. Those are...autobiographies of the Founding Four."
Hermione gasped. "The Founding Four? But then those texts must be so old! They lived during the early middle ages, didn't they? Around 1066?"
"During the time of William the Conqueror, yes. The texts were reproduced twice to preserve their memories by students and scholars at Hogwarts. However they had been stolen some fifty years before from the school. We have just recently retrieved them."
Fifty years ago... Voldemort's time... No, he couldn't have possibly stolen them. Could he have?
"Is there anything wrong with them?" Hermione asked.
"It seems that Salazar Slytherin's recollections, the green cover books...they have gone missing."
Hermione lifted her eyes. "I haven't done anything to them. I don't think that Malfoy has either."
Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, perhaps appraising her words. At last, he nodded. "I didn't believe so."
"Er...so is that all you wanted to know, professor?"
"Yes." His blue eyes regained that lively glimmer. "Of course, is there anything that you would like to tell me, Miss Granger? You seemed quite flustered since we've began this discussion."
"Oh, no! I was...thinking of something else..."
"I hope that Mister Malfoy and you are getting along?"
"Yes, sir..."
Dumbledore nodded and stood up. Hermione did also. He led her out to the doorway. She glanced at the clock. Six in the morning.
"I daresay you have some time before classes?"
She nodded.
"You may want to sleep a bit more. You look fatigued."
Hermione shrugged. "I'm handling it."
Dumbledore laughed richly. "I'm happy to hear that, miss Granger. Oh, and I have word from Madame Pomfrey that Harry Potter shall be released from the infirmary tonight."
She looked up at Dumbledore and smiled.
"I daresay that it will be a happy reunion."
"Thank you professor!" she cried, running off the Gryffindor commons. He waved at her. "I must tell Ron!"
****
Potions. Draco rolled his eyes. Back to slaving over that Polyjuice Potion with Weasley. He despised this whole project.
As soon as he entered into the chamber, he spotted Hermione Granger rapidly scratching down notes onto her parchment while balancing a thick potions book on her lap. With pleasure, he noted her puffy lips and the scarf draped around her neck.
She looked up briefly. After flashing him the most hateful glare, she grit her teeth and went back to scribbling on the parchment.
Draco stared around the room. There was no one else but him and Hermione Granger. He walked slowly up to Hermione and peered over her shoulder. He noted with an amused smile that those were the notes that they were to take for today.
She stared up at him suddenly. Her dark eyes flashed with anger. "Sod off!"
"Temper, Granger. Say, isn't that today's assignment?" he sneered.
She turned back to parchment on her desk. "So what if it is?"
"Naughty, naughty. I hadn't even dared to imagine the Head Girl behind on her work."
He felt a spurge of pleasure watching her shoulders tense. He backed away a bit, a smirk crawling up the corners of his lips.
"You're so annoying," she remarked angrily.
"You're probably the most unsociable person I've ever met."
"Leave me alone!" she yelled, slamming the book down onto the table.
He raised an eyebrow and leaned back on the table. He crossed his arms elegantly and smiled pleasantly, his eyes flickering over to the scarf covering her neck. "Or what will you do?"
"I'll throw a toad into your potion!" she near-screamed.
He laughed at her response. "Not everyone is as uptight over grades as you are, Granger. Why don't you think of something better?"
"I think she means, Malfoy, that she will make your life hell."
Draco's head snapped towards the direction of the new voice. He caught the growl escaping his throat. Blaise Zabini strolled in, his book back slung casually over his shoulder.
"What the fuck do you want?" Draco asked.
"I have class, here, if you haven't figured that out already," snarled Blaise. He then looked down at Hermione and tenderly watched her scribbling some last minute notes onto the parchment. Draco felt that same anger bubbling inside of him. But this time, he felt something else; was it envy?
"Do you want my notes?" asked Blaise.
Hermione looked up in surprise. Draco stared at him in shock as well. Why was Blaise being so nice to her?
"No, no. Thank you. I'm done..."
"Right."
Draco and Blaise watched her close the potions book, carefully studying each other as well. Draco wondered what his motives were.
Just then, Snape strode in. He raised his eyebrows, probably surprised to see two prominent Slytherins towering over the Head Girl on her sides.
"Good morning, professor," Draco said.
"Draco."
"Good day."
"Zabini."
Draco stared at Hermione to find her fiddling with her skirt. She smiled weakly but neglected to say anything.
Students began to file in slowly. Draco and Blaise both took their designated seats toward the back of the chambers.
"Why are you up to?" Draco asked quietly.
"What do you mean?" asked Blaise, rummaging through his bag. He pulled out his potions text and raised an eyebrow.
"You know bloody well what I mean. Why are you being so nice to her?"
"Oh." He grinned. "To Hermione Granger?"
Draco didn't respond. He watched a gaggle of Slytherin girls enter and take their seats.
"Why not? I think I'm starting to like her."
Draco stared at Blaise irritably.
"Truly! And she likes me, I know that much."
Draco snorted with disbelief.
As soon as all of the students found their seats, Professor Snape began to lecture the class. This time, they weren't experimenting, seeing as how they were waiting for the ingredients to dry. Toward the end of the class, Draco had written down five pages of notes. His hand throbbed horribly.
Just as they started to pack their materials together to leave for the next class, Professor Snape stopped all of them in their tracks.
"Remember! We meet here at seven to pick the fluxweed! Today's the full moon, or have you all forgotten?"
Draco narrowed his eyes. He had detention then. When everyone left, he found himself with Hermione next to him facing an annoyed Snape.
"Yes, yes, that bloody detention of yours," he muttered when Draco addressed this concern. "You're excused this one night. That's no reason to celebrate. Identifying fluxweed is no stroll in the park. Be prepared."
"Of course, professor," Draco said happily.
Hermione nodded beside him.
As soon as they exited the chamber, Draco smiled, rather content with the turn of events. "No detention! I deserved a break, anyhow."
Hermione remained silent.
He risked a quick glance at her and scowled. "Come now, don't tell me that you wanted to go to dentition."
"Of course not!" she snapped.
"Are you still angry about last night, then?" he asked hotly.
She didn't answer, which meant that she was.
"Get over it," he snarled. "We both agree that it didn't mean anything, right?"
"Just leave the issue alone, Malfoy."
He did, but he silently fumed all the way up the stairs. Just then. when he did reach the stairs, his eyes widened.
"Blaise?" Hermione asked.
"There you are!" said he, strolling up towards them. "Glad I caught you. I wanted to ask you about metaphysics."
Hermione blinked, clutching her book bag. Draco felt anger tense his muscles.
"All right," she said, walking slowly up to him.
"Oh, good! You see, I'm rather hopeless when it comes to things like these... I hope I wasn't interrupting anything?" He stared over at Draco then smirked.
Hermione sniffed and looked away from Draco. "No, in fact. You weren't."
"Good. Well, let's head over to the library. Do you have a free hour now?"
And so did they walk off, chattering rather loudly, leaving Draco by the entrance to the dungeons.
****
Lucius Malfoy roared in anger when he read the forwarded correspondence from Dumbledore. It seemed that the old coot was making it impossible to rid the school of mudbloods. He had rashly reported that Oxford students were to arrive at Hogwarts on the seconds, which was tomorrow, to pursue their studies over the old texts.
This was a double strike against him and his lord. First of all, he couldn't possibly order the mudbloods home with the university students and administrators here. Not only would that bring Malfoy name bad light with the muggle sympathizers, it would disgrace his family by insulting the prominent members of the British nobility in both the muggle and wizarding world.
Those who went to the Oxford University of Magic were not just ordinary, run-of-the-mill students. Among the scholars were many prominent young men and women of the nobility, those of titles and vast lands. Those whom Lucius associated himself with. And they were very well-known muggle sympathizers.
Second of all, they were students of ancient runes. And Lucius knew what the subject of their study was. It was those books of the Founding Four's recollections. He cursed. Over the summer, Dumbledore had somehow managed to infiltrate through the death eater ranks and steal them.
Dumbledore was most likely offering those texts for study to the students. Now, it was even more harder to get them back to the dark lord.
Lucius sighed. Despite the horrendous turn of events, he still planned to go to that school and confront Dumbledore. After all, it was his duty to his lord.
"Oh, Lucius?"
Lucius turned away from the fireplace. He spotted Narcissa in the doorway wrapped in a thick robe.
"Narcissa? What are you doing up? The doctor said that you should be resting."
"I know, but I thought to write a letter to Draco. I do hope that he is eating well. We should have sent him to Beauxbatons. They know how to treat the aristocracy."
Lucius rolled his eyes and stared back into the fire. "Nonsense, Narcissa. Remember, I wanted him to attend Durmstrang. But we settled on Hogwarts."
"I can't believe he's in detention."
"It's because of that filthy mudblood."
Narcissa remained quiet. Lucius knew that they shared similar dispositions towards mudbloods, but while his was pure, undisclosed hate, she simply disdained them.
"Go back to sleep, Narcissa."
"After I write the letter."
"For God's sake, woman! I'll write it. You'll fall ill just standing there." Lucius stood up and escorted his wife back to their room. There, he helped her into bed and gently brushed away a few wayward strands of blond hair.
He couldn't help it. While he felt nothing for his son, he could not possibly neglect Narcissa. He had met Narcissa during his early teenage years. She attended Beuxbatons, and they met at an inter-scholastic ball.
They met years later as Lucius was preparing to find a suitable bride in order to inherit his money. He had married Narcissa quickly, thinking not much of her. She was beautiful and pureblooded. That was all that mattered. Besides, he had been planning to send her away for months at a time to foreign countries on an on-going vacation...but somehow, he had grown fond of her.
"Please write Draco for me, then, Lucius," she pleaded weakly.
Then, before Draco's birth, he had met Voldemort. His life had changed for the better. He taught him that affection were a great weakness. Emotions were as fickle as the changing moon as were the bonds of matrimony.
Lucius managed to pull himself away from Draco before it was too late, but with Narcissa, it was completely different. They had been married for five years then, and those years and the memories and emotions that came along with it couldn't be severed on one allegiance.
He tried, oh God he tried, to remove Narcissa from his life. He took in whores, kept mistresses, and occasionally didn't come in at night. But her affections towards him never changed. Never did she waver from his side and he found the woman completely loyal and devoted to him. He failed at tearing Narcissa away, and at times, he was glad. Life could be awfully desolate with just yourself to trust.
He felt guilty for betraying Voldemort at times, but all the while, he tried to shield his wife from the death eaters, despite his attempts to hurt her. She didn't know of half the things that went on in his life. She knew of his status as a Death Eater and even disapproved of it but never the in-detail things. Least of all Draco's new destiny as Voldemort's heir.
He cringed at the thought of Narcissa's reaction to all of this and mostly at the outcome of his plan.
But she would have to deal with it. He wasn't too fond of the ungrateful, teenage boy as he was of Narcissa, and even then, Lucius doubted that his wife ever hindered him in the direction that he chose.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"I've bought some wonderful dress robes for him. For the Yule Ball. Please send them over with my love."
Lucius nodded and left her bedside. But not before giving her pale hand a small squeeze.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
End Notes: I know this is a bit unorthodox, but it was thrilling to write a Lucius who wasn't a Satan-incarnate. I've yet to read a Lucius who is portrayed as anything but an unfeeling, perverted, wife-raping monster. ^_^;
I guess the Red Widow will make an entrance in the next chapter...perhaps a very brief one. I don't know. Depends on the story. ^_^ Keep reading though!
Look, I have people asking me in reviews to basically have conversation more "casual"... Truthfully, the dialogue represented in the story is basically how I speak. *_* I really can't think of any less "proper" or more "casual" way to do it. I guess I'm just saying that I won't really make a HUGE effort to alter the dialogue...I truthfully like it the way it is. Thank you for your comments, though. I really appreciated them. ^_^
And, as always, review, por favor!