Chapter 21
Blaise internally groaned, the dreaded invitation from his relatives had finally come. The last time Blaise had seen any of them had been before his mother's current financial troubles, and he didn't look forward to relaying how Tazia Cascioferra had started so high and had fallen so far. He didn't even fully understand the situation himself.
Blaise cast a quick ironing charm to straighten out the remaining wrinkles on his demiguise-pelt coat. Though the weaving wasn't done in the way an invisibility cloak would warrant, the added benefit of a demiguise hair coat was the almost imperceptible effect quite similar to a notice-me-not charm. Blaise felt that he could use any invisibility-inducing advantage to help him through his dinner.
Eventually, Blaise could no longer dawdle, and he straightened his posture as he entered the floo, calling out the ancestral home of his aunt, the heir to the Cascioferra fortune. The floo deposited him into a magnificent. foyer, resplendent in the most colorful marble placed in a vibrant mosaic that composed the Cascioferra coat of arms. Stone animation was a difficult
and ancient Egyptian magical art, yet the stealthy stalking of the Italian lynx had been perfectly captured as it circled the border and paced its way back into the center of the family crest.
"Maestro Zabini," an elf called, "La Signora Cerelia attende la tua presenza nella sala da pranzo."
"Grazie," Blaise answered, following the elf past the large staircase, past the throne room (not that the Cascioferras had ever been royalty, they just fancied themselves deserving of such
a room) and towards the main dining hall. As Blaise's last memory of the estate had been when he was no more than seven years old, he couldn't help but feel that the estate seemed smaller, less bright, and lacked the former luster that had impressed his childhood recollection.
He passed by an ornate bookcase that looked distinctly familiar-and then, with a shock, he suddenly recalled the secret passageway that hid behind it. Blaise's instincts kicked in: he had forgotten, for some reason, that this house and all of its occupants held deep secrets.
"Blaise!" Zia Cerelia exclaimed upon his entrance into the dining room. "Look how big you've grown! Ah, tsk, yet how skinny you are-is my dear sister starving you so you'll fit in with all of those pasty Brits?"
As she opened her arms to embrace him, Blaise saw a flash of metal in the corner of his eye: he reacted instantly, yanking her outstretched hand away from him and pinning her arm behind her back, flipping her around harshly. She grunted in the uncomfortable position. "Is that any way to treat your Zia?"
"Ignorance doesn't suit you, Zia," Blaise said. Zia Cerelia jerked away from his grip.
"Good to see you haven't lost your training," Cerelia chuckled.
"What was it, a basilisk-venom dipped needle?" Blaise asked.
"Tsk, why would I waste such a rare poison on you?" Cerelia scoffed. "Barely a baby acromantula you're worth."
"Why couldn't I be born into a normal famiglia?" Blaise groaned. "Assassins for aunts; can't even visit for dinner without at least five dishes poisoned and seven physical attempts before the second course."
"You underestimate me so much? Just twelve? I'm old Blaise, not ancient," Cerelia laughed. "Brits, too soft."
"Anyways," Blaise continued. "How are you?"
"I should ask how your mother is," Cerelia raised an eyebrow. "I've heard things."
"Other than the last four husbands' untimely demises?" Blaise asked.
"Just four of a total of what, seven?" Cerelia shook her head. "I expected more. Britain has dulled you both."
Blaise shrugged. "But no, not the targets. The debt. She did so well for herself without the inheritance. What happened?" Cerelia asked.
"Mother didn't receive any inheritance? She refused it?" Blaise asked.
"No no, I received all of it. None was allocated to any other children."
"Wait, children?" Blaise asked. "I thought it was just you and mother."
"Legally speaking, yes," Cerelia said. "Technically, we also had a brother. I don't know if your mother remembers him. She was very young when our parents disowned Giuliano."
"What did he do?" Blaise asked, flabbergasted. "Why did only you get the inheritance?"
"Giuliano was a squib. I was the closest to the assassin wizard child they wanted: your mother was too feminine for them." At Blaise's confused expression in re-evaluating his grandparents' reputation, Cerelia sighed. "Antonio and Francesca Cascioferra were not good people. In many ways, they deserved the end they got."
After a pause, Blaise's eyes met hers. "Which was?" Blaise asked.
"Assassinated by their now magical son." Cerelia said simply. "Poetic irony."
"Suddenly magical... the Medicis, I take it?"
"Who else?" Cerelia snorted. "The last I heard, Giuliano sold his soul to that fucker, Martino de Medici. They also gave him some sort of magical facial reconstruction: not just a glamor charm. I probably wouldn't recognize him if he slapped me across the face."
"Have you heard about Hermione Granger?" Blaise asked.
"Who hasn't?" Cerelia rolled her eyes. "Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that. He brought about the demise of the next Grindelwald. The brightest witch of her age-sure," Cerelia said with derision. "He couldn't have possibly been as threatening as Grindelwald since he never got past Britain."
"He would have," Blaise said. "Maybe not when he was resurrected; he was too mad and unstable to have launched a successful international campaign. But from my understanding of when father was peripherally involved, it would have happened. At least that's what Mother says."
"All right," Cerelia conceded. "So they saved the wizarding world as we know it. Why do you ask?"
"Someone attacked her flatmate while we've been here negotiating. The aurors determined that it was a muggle mafia group turned magical, but they had your last name. Did they just happen to have the same name? Or do you think this might have been... my uncle? Or just the Medicis' way of sowing a worse reputation?"
"That does sound an awful lot like Giuliano..." Cerelia mused.
"It wasn't you, though?" Blaise asked.
"Hardly. What an extraordinarily stupid and conspicuous move. You know my style, Blaise."
"I thought so. It made no sense what you had to gain by doing so: the Medicis, on the other hand, have much more motive. Thank you for telling me about my uncle... I think that links the Medicis even closer to the attacks than I thought. I thought they were just using the name because of Mother."
"Whoever ordered the attack was likely exceptionally stupid. Everyone knows my signature. Those false wizards were so new to magic that there would have been no way for them to imitate my spell."
"Always has been too bloody for my taste, but you've always had an artistic knack for splatter, " Blaise acknowledged. "But if it was Martino that Giuliano had contact with..."
"They went to university together," Cerelia affirmed.
"Then it wouldn't surprise me if Martino ordered it. The lack of follow through seems in tune with his personality."
"Actually, that makes less sense. Martino holds grudges he follows through after ruminating on something for a long time." Cerelia shook her head. "No, this isn't his style."
"Perhaps Clemencio? He seems a better fit. Less sharp, more hot-tempered, and thus more likely to make dumb mistakes."
"Yes, I believe it," Cerelia said. "Anyways, that mystery's solved. What's happened with Tazia?"
"She's in lots of debt..." Blaise answered. "I don't know to whom."
"Interesting. I suppose a visit to London is in order. That's out of character for her."
"I thought so as well-unless she's hidden her less angelic spending habits over the course of my childhood, this seems exactly the opposite of what I would have expected."
"Was it just a singularly bad investment?" Cerelia asked.
"Mother has always diversified. There didn't seem to be anything out of order in my trust, and a large portion of my assets are managed by her. She hasn't pulled anything from my accounts, so I can't see what's happening," Blaise answered.
"Odd. Any interesting timing coincidences?"
"None I'm aware of."
"Even more strange. Well, Blaise, I wanted to talk to you about your inheritance, which only becomes more pressing given your mother's situation. I want you to be the heir of the Cascioferra's fortune once I pass on." Blaise looked at his aunt in shock. He hardly remembered her from the limited childhood visits she paid, and he couldn't imagine being her first choice heir.
"Really? Why me? And why are you thinking about this now?" Blaise asked.
"Well, I have no children and don't plan to start now," Cerelia chuckled. "It's either you or Allegra's brats. They're my first cousins rather than my nephew. In inheritance hierarchy, personality, and assassination skill, you take priority," Cerelia said.
"I'm very grateful, just... why now?" Blaise asked.
"A major job came in. It's a long ways away, as this mark is particularly high profile. The complexity of this plan may take not just months, but years to plan. Confronted with the sheer difficulty ahead, I thought it was time to get my affairs in order. It's also my way of righting a wrong committed by your grandparents. Had it not been for the magical binding of the contract, I would have split the inheritance with your mother, but I was explicitly bound to the will's exact wording. The least I can do is now give it to you. The estate transference tax is incredibly high, but it's better then nothing."
"You also don't have to take such a risky job," Blaise suggested.
"This one isn't just a job, Blaise. This one has a larger purpose."
"Bigger than the French dark wizard upstart who somehow disemboweled himself in the most elegant way last January?" Blaise asked skeptically.
"Why Blaise," Cerelia feigned surprise. "I'm sure I don't know to whom you're referring."
Blaise raised an eyebrow. "A shame. I meant to congratulate the party responsible for a job well done. That, and an excellent social impact."
"Well, I'm sure the responsible party would appreciate your high praise," Cerelia smirked.
"This upcoming accident," Blaise said, "will it affect anything I'm involved in? Hypothetically, of course."
"Yes," Cerelia said simply. "Likely very much so."
"All right. You said years?" Blaise asked.
"Yes," Cerelia answered. "That's all I can tell you. You'll recognize my handiwork I'm sure."
"I've always appreciated your artistic style and signature. I'm sure I'll know it when I see it."
"Indeed," Cerelia nodded. "Now, you have to try this new dessert the elves made!"
"Please let me enjoy this, cyanide-free preferably," Blaise sighed.
Hermione groggily lifted her head from her pillow at the sound of exactly three harsh knocks to her bedroom door. "Who is it?" Hermione asked.
Suddenly, the door to Hemione's bedroom swung open. Antha barged in, wand alight with the most blinding Lumos Hermione had ever had the misfortune to see. "Antha, what in Merlin's name are you doing?" Hemione protested.
"This is all very unusual," Antha said calmly, hopping onto Hemione's bed uninvited. She dumped a hefty folder of papers, the pages rustling as Antha shuffled through them to shove the results in Hermione's sleepy face. "Have you looked at this data yourself? I haven't seen this many holes since I investigated whether I have trypophobia. Are you positive this is all of their experiments? None of the total sample sizes for their final statistical tests are remotely close to what they've given us. Either they're leaving out hundreds of trials or they're completely fabricating the significance of their findings."
"Antha, couldn't this wait till morning?" Hermione begged.
"It is morning," Antha stated, looking confused.
"I meant a more reasonable time, like eight, not-" Hermione paused to cast a Tempus spell, "-four am."
"What makes eight a more reasonable time than four?" Antha asked, cocking her head.
"I-just-nevermind. I'm wide awake now. Walk me through it," Hermione groaned, scrubbing at her eyes.
"Your intuition was right," Antha began. "I was able to reject the null hypothesis that the timing of the treatments have no relationship to the payments, and upon sampling the probability density functions-"
"Hold on," Hermione groaned. "Please speak English."
"I am," Antha said.
"What I meant was could you please explain this to me in lay-person language? I'm not very statistically fluent," Hermione said.
"Oh, you could have been more precise from the beginning," Antha said. "Essentially, there is some relationship between the timing of the treatments and the timing of the donations you identified. You and Malfoy were right; it's not random chance."
"Which treatments were these again? We've spent the last few meetings on the Scrofungulus and Cerebrumous Spattergroit generic potions, but I thought those formulations were unsuspicious."
"No, no, I'm not referring to their generic potions. Those formulations are publicly accessible, and none of their usages or experiments were anything out of the ordinary."
"Okay, first," Hermione shuffled out of bed, "we're going to wake up the boys. If I'm awake for this information, I'm not repeating it later."
"Of course," Antha said, as if it had been obvious this whole time to have a business meeting at four in the morning. "It would be most expedient."
Hermione grabbed a robe to cover her arms and shuffled out of the room, Antha quickly following with her papers. "I'll inform Blaise-you'll get Draco," Antha directed. Hermione yawned, nodding in agreement.
Hermione plodded down the hallway to Draco's room and knocked on the door. She waited for a response, and knocked again. This time, there was some muffled noise, but she couldn't hear it through the door.
"Draco?" she asked. The name felt foreign on her lips, but she suddenly realized that something had shifted. When had she stopped thinking of him as just 'Malfoy'? "Can I come in?" Hermione asked. There was another noise, but it was indistinguishable. Hermione gently cracked open the door.
A tormented sob slammed her ears suddenly, whatever muffling charm to outsiders had been broken. "NO!" Draco sobbed. "Don't hurt her!"
Hermione rushed towards the bed, horrified by the sight of Draco's tall frame curled into itself and wracked with pain. There was a full bottle of Dreamless Sleep on the nightstand, and Hermione immediately understood. He must have been worried about its addictive properties and took at least tonight off. Her heart ached as he shivered.
"Draco, Draco it's me. Wake up," Hermione shook him.
His eyes flew open, and he grasped her tightly. "She's coming! RUN, GRANGER!" he gasped, his eyes still clouded by the nightmare.
"Draco, it's a nightmare! It's okay! I'm okay! I'm safe-you're safe," Hermione said.
As the physical sensations of awareness grounded him and the dreams receded, Draco released her. His eyes cleared, refocusing on Hermione.
"Granger?" Draco asked, confused. He wandlessly cast a tempus charm, frowning at the time. "Did my muffling charm fall? Did my nightmare wake you up?"
"No, Antha woke me up. Are you okay?" Hermione asked.
Draco squeezed his eyes shut, furrowing his brow. "They often leave quite a headache, but I'll be fine." He looked at her, now taking in Hermione's glorious bedhead, light pink muggle tank top emblazoned with "So Sue Me, I'm a Lawyer", plaid pajama pants, and most hilariously, white bunny slippers. Draco cleared his throat. "What are you doing in my room?"
"Well, Antha barged into my room a few minutes ago to discuss the results of her analysis, and I decided that if I had to suffer, so should you," Hermione said.
"This couldn't wait?" Draco asked, annoyed.
"Take it up with Antha, not me," Hermione huffed.
"So is she waking up Blaise?"
"Yes."
"Right now."
"Yes."
"And we are likely to have a meeting. Right now."
"Yes."
Draco groaned, throwing the blankets off. Hermione was completely unprepared for the sight of Draco's bare torso.
"Godric," Hermione whispered. Draco looked at her questioningly for a second before the realization hit him. He quickly stood up to find the silk pajama shirt that complemented his pants, but as he was about to tug it over his head, Hermione stopped him with one question.
"Harry did this?"
Draco turned to her. He wished he could make a snide remark about her ogling his biceps, but that wasn't the temperature of her gaze. No, Hermione's eyes were sliding over the raised, textured scars that slashed across his chest and back. A permanent memorial to the violence of their teenage years.
"It wasn't only Potter's Sectumsempra," he said. "There were others. Bellatrix. Greyback. Dolohov. The Dark Lord."
Hermione approached him slowly, reaching out and asking him silently for his permission. At his nod, she traced a thicker, almost purple slash across his ribs. "You and I have matching souvenirs from Dolohov," she said, pulling her shirt up just enough to see the beginning of her own. "Yours is more intense."
"Loved that much more," Draco said wryly, and she gave a sad smile.
Hermione then pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry for what you've been through," she said. Draco inhaled deeply, her wild curls tickling his nose with the scent of cinnamon and apples. "Likewise," he said. "And for my own part in it." She gripped him tighter.
AN: Hi friends! ~ducks behind a couch as various pillows, rotten tomatoes, and other items are rightly thrown at me~ I know! I'm SUPER SLOW; I've become one of the authors that I hate. *peeks out from behind the couch* But hopefully you're still with me, and you enjoyed this next chapter? Thoughts on Cerelia Zabini/the family history here? What do you think is going on? What are your thoughts on the Medici donations/treatments? How do you like Antha as a character? How does Draco/Hermione's bonding feel? Too fast, too slow? Let me know!
Send me your updates on how you're doing in these crazy times, your feedback, anything at all. Would love to hear from all of you! Hope you're staying safe and healthy, and I promise, this fic is not abandoned. Life stuff is pretty busy, but I'm going to keep coming back to it. The plot has all been finalized, the chapters have been largely outlined, but it's the writing, of course, which is slow. Sending you lots of love!