Lucius watched his wife sleep. She'd been giddy with exhaustion most of the night, but nothing had suppressed her need for him. It had been an adventure helping her settle back into herself. She pushed his libido to the breaking point. He didn't bother to fight the smile riding his face.
It was a day and a night he would never forget.
Narcissa worked magic beyond his ken, surrendered parts of herself and been rewarded with bits and pieces of others. Then, she'd found her way back to him despite his failures and his failings. She was a miracle, his miracle.
Draco's wife might be the driving force behind the changes in his world, but Narcissa was the one that made it real for him. Through her, he could see possibilities he'd never considered.
These girls were stirring a dangerous cauldron. They'd done remarkable things. Things that would not go unnoticed. And in that was the rub.
Wizards did not like change. They tied up bows and festooned it with ribbons, but every major war in their world was about change.
He'd joined a cause to keep pure bloods in control. He'd followed his father and his father before him. It was the way.
It was the wrong way.
Feminine magics were mysterious. They were the unknown. Women were imbued with the magic of creation. They were the living chalices of magic.
Most men didn't wind up in the roses when they gave themselves over to a cause. It hadn't served him well in the past, but this was different. Most men never stood beside their dream as she lived and breathed. Most men never knew the joy of having their perfect match.
Most men...
There would be jealousy and fear.
The legends existed still. In times before Merlin, when magic was wild and free, witches had wielded power with ease, the equals of any wizard. Their Lords had danced attendance to their needs. Some witches were spiteful creatures. Nimue had been a dangerous radical. She'd given power, but she'd caged wizards when they'd abused it. Circe turned men to pigs. Jenny Greenteeth had drowned people with abandon. Calypso had lured men away from their wives. Most of the stories were horrible, the witches out of control.
The Dragon Lord had lived in harmony with his lady, but he hadn't stood long without her. She'd fought. She'd lost. It was a cautionary tale.
None of the stories ended well.
He dragged a breath in through his teeth.
There had to be witches that had done good things. Why were there so few stories of their kindness and caring? Where were the tales of triumph? The dances and the deep magics were developed for a reason.
They had quit working for a reason as well.
Not that it mattered. He didn't need the answers to determine his place.
They had done no wrong, but Hermione and her coven were working magic that had been thought lost. It was amazing and inspiring. It drew attention. The press would take certain expected liberties with the truth and land them all in the mire. A revolution of feminine power was a threat to the status quo, and the status quo was a wizarding favorite.
When they came for his witches, and he knew they would come, the hoard would find only disappointment. Narcissa, Hermione, and her coven mates would stand protected. He'd spent a lifetime learning to fight, learning to win. This was a battle he could not and would not lose.0
Harry stared up at Potter Manor with wide eyes. He'd assumed it was in ruins, but it was just empty. The moonlight reflected off the windows. It looked like his family had gone to bed. He imagined sunlight flashing on the window panes as his family moved about. His mother, his father, his grandparents, and his siblings would have filled the place with laughter. His fantasy gave way to reality. The house stood empty. He swallowed down the grief that brief flash of fantasy had provided. It did no good to dwell on what might have been.
Dumbledore had talked his parents into leaving this place. Why? He could feel the power of it. The land itself called to him and infused him with a sense of safety.
How had his grandparents died? There was no evidence of a battle here.
Merlin, why didn't anything make sense?
He stepped along the smooth slate of the path to the door. He felt the secondary wards brush over him. They were faint, but he felt a sudden flush of warm affection. This was his home. This was where he belonged. The land and the building recognized him.
He opened the door and stepped inside. This is where his family would be raised. They would no the feeling of security that came from truly belonging. He placed his hand on the door and let his magic strengthen the wards.
Blaise looked around his flat. It was an ode to modern perfection. It was sleek and open. It was colorless, whites and blacks and grays blended seamlessly through the space. He'd wanted it that way.
There were no dark objects sitting about to be admired. There were no family portraits to chat up his visitors. He'd spent enough time in creepy old houses filled with things that just might devour the unwary. It was the price he paid for his mother's ambitions.
It hadn't surprised anyone when he bought his own place. A flat in the city was the furthest thing from the damp, dark manor houses of decrepit old men. The wall of windows and the constant light soothed him.
He'd designed this space. It was his.
It had been perfect a few days ago. He'd enjoyed the pure simplicity of it. Now, it felt empty. It needed color. It needed warmth. It needed a mirror and other things.
It needed her.
Susan.
He needed her.