A/N: I know, I'm the worst. I could give you a list of very valid excuses (COVID, Work, family, take your pick it's been a rough few months), but I'll just let you read the new chapter instead. I felt bad so it's the length of TWO chapters to make up for me being absolutely terrible with updating. I just wanted to assure you I do plan on finishing this novel length series (in a few chapters or so) so don't fret.
Hope you enjoy!
Undisclosed Location [December 1st]
"If you keep glaring at that paper, it's going to burst into flames at any moment now," Parvati Patil sighed as she slid into a seat across from Alexander Potter. A frigid gust of wind blew through the tent, and despite the several warming charms they had cast, she shivered.
They had been in hiding for months now, avoiding most of the wizarding public so Alexander could focus on his training. There was a hefty bounty pinned to each of their heads, and they couldn't risk being seen by the hit wizards that patrolled the streets under the new Minister's orders. She had seen their faces plastered across several wanted posters across town, and she had a sinking feeling they would be returning to a world that was drastically different from the one they had left behind.
Undesirable #3, they called her.
Parvati wasn't sure how they had fallen out of favor so quickly, especially when everything they were sacrificing was for the greater good of the wizarding world. Alexander had been relentless with his training since the day they had disappeared, forcing his magic to bend to his will for hours upon hours while he worked on increasing his dueling stamina. Each one of them had fallen into a routine of sorts–she would research new spells for Alexander to practice, while Ron would occasionally step in as a dueling partner. Every few weeks they would travel to a new remote location to avoid being tracked, and then they would work together in quiet harmony to set up camp again.
In all honesty, it had been a truly torturous few months, and she could tell the isolation was getting to all of them. Ron had already threatened to leave several times, though Parvati didn't particularly care whenever he stormed out of the tent. He always came back a few hours later, repentant.
After all, it's not like any of them had anywhere else to go.
Alexander had already left his father and childhood home behind after uncovering years of lies and manipulation. He was determined to fight his battle on his own terms–the Order be damned. Parvati was proud of his decision, even though it placed an even greater burden on his shoulders. She could see the tension in his hard features every second he trained, and her chest tightened involuntarily at the wild look she noticed in his eyes.
Those were the eyes of a desperate wizard–the kind that had nothing else to lose.
That look terrified her. Contrary to popular belief, Parvati was not a reckless witch. Sure, she had made her share of stupid decisions here and there, but she did not consider herself to fall into the category of rash Gryffindors that dominated her house. She and Padma had been raised by a strict father and an even stricter governess that forced them to think logically about their actions. It was a simple fact–people that let their emotions cloud their judgement would never make the right decision.
It was that certainty that forced her to speak her mind as she curled her fingers around the edge of the table. "Alexander," She began in a quiet voice, "We don't know anything about what's been going on the past few months. We've been isolated from society for too long."
Her friend said nothing, continuing to stare at the newspaper that was folded out in front of them with a tense expression on his sharp features.
"It doesn't make any sense," She insisted a few seconds later when he showed no signs of responding. "It has to be a trap."
"Because you know so much about those," Ron scoffed at her from across the table. "You didn't even notice when your own snake of a sister was trying to hunt us down."
Parvati bristled at the cruel reminder. "It was an honest mistake," She snapped, "How was I supposed to know Padma put a tracking charm on her letter?" She swallowed hard. "I thought she would always be on our side. On my side."
The redhead rolled his eyes. "See, I knew we should've convinced Padma to join us instead. She's obviously the smarter sister. Ravenclaws are clever like that."
"You want to talk about sisters?" Parvati arched a brow in challenge. "Let's talk about how yours is just another one of Riddle's Slytherin groupies. Do you even talk to her anymore?"
"Ginny is no sister of mine," Ron retorted. "I renounced her practically the day she was sorted into Slytherin. It hardly matters, anyways. I have five other siblings that aren't snakes–"
"Percy," She reminded him.
"Fine, I have four other siblings that I know would never betray me," Ron huffed.
Parvati snorted. "We both know Fred and George have always been friendly with Destiny Lestrange–I wouldn't put it past them to switch sides if it suited them better–"
"They're not like that!"
"Can we please stop talking about siblings," Alexander gritted out, interrupting them mid-argument.
"Sorry, Alexander," Parvati patted his hand sympathetically. "I didn't think."
Alexander Potter pulled away from her as he stood up from the table in one smooth motion. He ran a hand through his hair and his jaw clenched into a hard line as he stared at the bold headline of the newspaper still laid out on the table.
Lily Potter Alive? Former Lady Potter spotted dining at La Soleil with member of Wizengamot, Lady Narcissa Malfoy.
"There's no way we can confirm this is even real," Parvati warned him, easily catching the contemplative gleam in his eyes. "The Malfoys are clever–they could've brought in any old witch and disguised her as your mother to lure you out of hiding."
Ron cleared his throat. "I hate to agree with Patil here, but maybe she's right about this one, mate? The timing just seems a little too convenient," His brows knit into a slight frown, and he added, "We all know your mother is dead. We were at her funeral, for Merlin's sake."
Alexander snapped his head up to glare at them with slightly reddened eyes. "That's not true," He swallowed hard. "We buried an empty casket."
His best friend grimaced. "Look, I don't want to be the bearer of bad news here, but we buried an empty casket because there simply wasn't enough of her body they could recover or even identify. That Azkaban attack destroyed half the prison, and everyone trapped inside of it."
"They didn't find her body," Alexander pointed out, shaking his head. "She could still be out there."
"They couldn't find her body, you mean," Ron winced. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Besides, don't you think if she were alive, she would've found a way to contact you by now?"
"How is she going to find me if even the Aurors and the Death Eaters can't find me?" Alexander scowled. "She must be in hiding too–everyone knows she was imprisoned in Azkaban before she disappeared."
"Before she died," The redhead corrected.
"She's not dead!" Alexander shouted, kicking the side of his chair. He watched emotionlessly as the entire table nearly fell apart as a result. "She's not dead," He repeated quietly after a beat of silence. He gestured to the blurry picture of the witch in the newspaper, "I'd recognize my mother anywhere. No glamor can be that spot on."
"Alexander," Parvati began hesitantly, "Even if your mother were alive–why would she be with Narcissa Malfoy of all people? Surely, she would find someone else to turn to for help. Draco Malfoy's mother cannot be at the top of her list."
"I don't know," He murmured. He bit the inside of his cheek as he stared at the picture in the newspaper. Suddenly, his eyes widened. "What if they're hurting her? What if they're holding her there, against her will?" His voice rose an octave as he cried out, "She could be imprisoned there for all we know! Malfoy always used to boast about his ancestral home having its own dungeons, didn't he?"
"Merlin," Ron muttered under his breath. He let out a loud sigh and stood up to clap his friend on the back, "Smarten up, Potter. We're in a bloody fucking war here." He shook his head and sneered, "You cannot seriously be falling for the dead mummy trap. You need to focus on what's important here: getting rid of that creepy horcrux crown and figuring out a way to take down You-Know-Who once and for all."
"Don't talk about my mum like that," Alexander growled, shoving him aside. "She's alive and I'm going to save her from whatever hell she's been put through."
"Think clearly about this." Padma pursed her lips. "It's obviously a trap, one that's been expertly laid out by none other than the Malfoys. Chasing after the illusion of your mother is exactly what they're expecting a foolish Gryffindor to do, Alexander. Why can't you understand that?"
"Why can't you understand me?" He shot back. "I don't care if it's a trap. Call it foolish, call it stupidity, call it whatever you want–I've made up my mind. I'm going after my mother, whether you two like it or not." He dropped his gaze back to the newspaper and whispered, "Don't you get it? She's the only one who actually cared about me. Everything she's ever done has been to protect me. I was always the Chosen One, but she chose me. So," He took a deep, shuddering breath before steeling his shoulders back. "If there's even the slightest chance thatshe's alive–I can't leave her behind."
"But–" Padma started to protest, only to be cut off by Ron's loud groan.
"There's no way to even know if that's really your mother," He tried to reason, nearly pulling out his hair in frustration. "You're being delusional."
"Actually, there is a way we can find out," Alexander leaned back against the worn-out sofa and smirked. "What are your feelings on gatecrashing?"
Slytherin Common Room [December 7th]
Ginevra Weasley always took pride in being the perfect example of a Slytherin witch. She knew she was beautiful, but she didn't survive on looks alone. She was intelligent, but she would rarely be caught with her nose in a book.
Most importantly, she was observant. Few things ever escaped her notice, and those around her constantly drove themselves into bouts of frustration trying to keep up with her sharp perception. She had a keen habit of sniffing out someone's true intentions from a mile away. She was always able to see straight through the smoke and mirrors most people used to conceal the real, raw versions of themselves.
Ginevra hated all things fake.
Since the very first night she had been sorted into Slytherin, she had been forced to play a part. Her entire existence had turned into a stage, and she gave the performance of a lifetime every single day. Over the past few years, that thin line between what was real and what was fantasy became rather blurred, but it was a sacrifice she was more than willing to make for the doors that opened for her in return.
She worked hard to keep her power within a tight grasp. Most people bought into her act.
They were surprisingly easy to fool, since people rarely stopped to question things past what they could see these days. It benefited them to be ignorant–they couldn't care less about her.
Ginevra didn't mind, so long as the careful craftmanship of her reputation earned her a rightful place at the top of the hierarchy.
When someone didn't fall in line…When someone could see through her as though she were as transparent as glass…that was when she felt unsettled.
Blaise Zabini had always been able to see her for what she truly was…
Carved from marble.
Cold to touch.
Made simply for the purpose of display.
Nothing more than a statue.
As if the universe could sense her thoughts, a loud, raucous laugh echoed through the common room as the portrait hole slid open and the bane of her existence stepped into the room.
Ginevra watched him carefully–under the pretense of reading her book near the fireplace, of course. His very presence seemed to bring a smile to people's faces, and as if his charming looks weren't welcoming enough, he simply seemed to exude a certain warmth that drew others in.
"Hi Blaise!"
"Zabini!"
"Hello, Blaise!"
Her usually cold and aloof housemates seemed to light up around him, falling over themselves to gain just a second of his attention. Though his other friends were equally as popular, they could only be admired from afar. Blaise Zabini was the darling of the Slytherin house–he could talk to anyone, and they would be infatuated by his approachable demeanor and flirtatious banter within seconds.
And for some forsaken reason, that irked her.
Ginevra had worked tirelessly to secure her position of power in the Slytherin house. She had meticulously planned every detail from selecting her circle of friends to pressing her uniform every morning to consistently placing at the top of her class over the years. She had all but detached herself from the Weasley name and created a new reputation for herself from the tattered remains. She had earned it all.
And yet, Blaise Zabini of all people had been able to see through her act. He had practically waltzed his way through life, having everything handed to him in a bizarrely lush upbringing Ginevra could only dream of. He shouldn't be able to understand her.
So how had he known?
She narrowed her eyes discreetly at the Italian as he made his rounds socializing through the common room. Daphne Greengrass had suggested she pay closer attention if she wanted to understand him, and so Ginevra had done just that. She had spent almost a whole week just observing Blaise Zabini, watching his interactions, his happy-go-lucky attitude, and his never-ending flirtations.
It was rather strange. Most people regarded strangers with a certain polite indifference and saved their genuine emotions for friends and family. Blaise Zabini had no such reservations, always bestowing the same too-wide smile to his closest friends and strangers alike. It was as though he was simply happy to be surrounded by people–regardless of who they were.
Ginevra paused at that.
Daphne had pointed out something similar about the dark-haired wizard a few weeks ago. As her mind raced to recall the many details she had picked up from studying Zabini from afar, the one thing that stood out was strikingly obvious: Blaise Zabini was never alone.
She pursed her lips, abandoning the charade of reading completely to focus her full attention on him. Even now, he wore the same charismatic smile and his eyes sparkled with mischief as he teased one of the first years in their house. He was in his element, perfectly content to chat with anyone that crossed his path.
How could someone that…cheerful…be so attuned to her most private thoughts and insecurities? How could someone like him even possibly begin to understand the mask she wore every single day? It was almost like he–
She blinked, and suddenly the answer was rather simple.
Like recognizes like.
Ginevra stood up from her seat abruptly, tossing her book aside on the sofa. She took a second to adjust her skirt before striding over to the dark-haired wizard chasing around one of the younger students by the giant windows at the end of the hall.
She came to a stop in front of him in a matter of seconds, and she cleared her throat expectantly. "I need to speak with you."
"Can it wait? I'm quite busy at the moment." Blaise barely glanced up from his truly arduous task of floating around a first-year boy–who was laughing with delight each time Blaise pretended to almost drop him.
Ginevra tapped her foot impatiently against the stone floor. "No," She gritted out. "It cannot."
"Miss. Weasley, unless you're here to confess your undying devotion, I find I'm not interested in what you have to say."
"You will hear me out," She insisted with a huff. "It's rather important."
"Hm," Blaise slowly let the first-year back onto his feet and tucked his wand back into his pocket. He plastered a pensive expression on his features, "I suppose I could make some time in my busy schedule for you this evening. But–" He paused then, and an absolutely wicked smile tugged at his full lips. "You're going to have to say please."
Ginevra forced a smile, despite wanting to strangle the handsome wizard in front of her. "Please go off yourself you absolute pillock–"
He turned around on the spot and Ginevra sighed heavily before lunging forward to grab his arm. He quirked an amused brow at her and she pressed her lips into a thin line, reluctantly whispering, "I'd like to speak with you now. Please."
"Wow, Blaise, you simply must teach me how to get witches without even saying a word like that–"
"Yeah, alright, go away Gregory," Blaise discreetly shoved away the small boy that was staring between them in awe. He ruffled the boy's hair and muttered under his breath, "I'll teach you everything after the winter hols–but get lost now."
Ginevra watched in half amusement, half irritation as the younger student mock saluted him and scrambled away to join the circle of his peers gathered around a chess match. She turned back to face Blaise, swallowing hard as he offered her his arm and gestured to the staircase that led down to their dormitories.
Ginevra tried not to flinch as he escorted her down the steps, focused on holding her head high despite the questioning stares they received from the few housemates they passed along the way. Thankfully it was a rather short walk to Blaise's room, and they only had to climb down one flight of stairs before they arrived at the seventh-year wing.
Blaise dropped her hand to push open the door. "Sorry about the mess," He picked up one robe off the floor and shoved it into his wardrobe. "I haven't been spending much time in here since Granger and Riddle have their own private dormitory–those lucky bastards." He frowned, "Well, until Riddle changed the password last week. He said he didn't like everyone barging into his personal space–but I'll just wheedle Granger until she slips me the new one. Or Destiny–in fact, she probably already knows, that sneaky little Seer–"
"Blaise," She cut in sharply, "You're rambling."
"Am I?" He settled into his desk chair and clasped his hands over his lap quite like he was attending a business meeting. "Right, what is this about then, Miss. Weasley?"
"Stop calling me 'Miss Weasley'," She bristled. "I think we're long past formalities."
"I beg to differ. Perhaps some distance might benefit us."
Ginevra raised her sharp eyes to meet his upon hearing his callous tone. She tilted her head slightly, pretending to think, "Now, were you thinking about this so called 'distance' before or after you had your head buried between my–"
"So, you do remember, then," Blaise smirked, leaning back in his chair. "I was beginning to think you'd sooner obliviate yourself than admit to enjoying our time together."
"I never said I didn't enjoy that part," She murmured slowly, sitting back on the edge of his bed as delicately as she could.
"What's the problem then, sweetheart?" He tapped his fingers against his knee, frowning slightly at her words. "If you recall, I tried to court you without using my masculine wiles against you–"
"Masculine wiles?" She choked out in disbelief.
"And you don't particularly seem pleased by my cold shoulder or ultimatums," He continued as if he hadn't heard her. He pursed his lips, seeming truly puzzled a witch wasn't falling at his feet after his manipulative tactics. "Tell me, what will it take to win you over, Ginevra?"
She studied her perfectly manicured nails for a second before replying airily, "Do you know what they say about you, Blaise?"
He licked his lips. "Oh, I'm well aware. I do have to say, I've certainly earned all those titles, if you're here to question my integrity."
"Not a thought behind those eyes," Ginevra purred, watching carefully as his playful expression didn't so much as falter. "A charming wizard, but more interested in chasing skirts and reaching all levels of debauchery than taking life seriously."
Blaise shrugged. "People will say whatever they'd like. It's not my responsibility to care."
"But see, that's the thing, Zabini," Ginevera stood up from the bed and crossed the room slowly. "I don't believe any of those things are true."
He grinned up at her and shot her a cheeky wink, "Think that highly of me, do you?"
"Not really, no," She stepped closer until her skirt almost brushed against his legs. "I have a theory, Blaise. Care to humor me for a moment?"
He yawned, "This is not quite the talk I thought you had in mind."
She brushed aside a piece of hair that had fallen out of his expertly tousled hairstyle. "Do you want to know what I think?"
"Not really, no," He parroted back.
"I think you had a hand in circulating those rumors yourself," She whispered, gently letting her thumb glide over his sharp jawline. "I think you created this whole cheerful jester persona on purpose."
Blaise squinted at her in confusion. "Wait a second, you think I want people to see me as a joke?" He scoffed, "Why would I want that?"
Ginevra bit her cheek in contemplation, waving away his bewilderment with a dismissive hand. "I will admit it took me a while to figure it out," Her eyes widened slightly, "But it was certainly rewarding when I realized I might be the only person who's finally figured you out completely, Blaise Zabini."
"That is quite a bold claim," Blaise snorted. He spread his legs out in his seat and leaned back further, as though he were planning on settling in for the long term. "How in Merlin's name can you assume you've figured me out completely? We've barely spoken four words to each other this term."
"How did you figure me out?" She countered. "You've seen through every façade and cruel remark I've tossed your way."
Something akin to recognition flickered in his dark eyes and Ginevera resisted the urge to smirk in triumph at the small but telling reaction. "You saw me," She swallowed hard. "Because like recognizes like. You saw me, because you saw yourself in me."
"I don't understand, is this some kind of a sexual euphemism?"
"No, you–" Ginevra cut herself off mid-sentence. She pointed at him accusingly, "You're doing it again!"
"Right," He drawled. "Doing what, exactly? I'm finding it difficult to follow this conversation."
"All the ill-timed jokes, the inappropriate display of wit to distract, the forced obliviousness," Ginevera shook her head. "You don't want anyone to take you seriously, Blaise. You want them to write you off. You want them to overlook you."
"But why would I want that?" He ground out.
She blinked. "I keep people away with the act I put on," She began slowly. "But you…you trap people in, Blaise. You keep them close to you, without ever taking on any of their burdens. You may keep yourself constantly surrounded by people, but you never get close to any of them. You may care about your friends, but you don't want to be too involved in their lives. You keep your distance, but in your own way." She took a step back and clapped mockingly, "It's a brilliant plan, I'll give you that. But I can't even imagine a wizard could be so selfish."
Blaise stared at her with a blank expression for a long moment, but then suddenly tugged on her arm, pulling her onto his lap and ignoring the surprised yelp that escaped her.
"What are you doing?" She hissed, swatting at his hands, although it was of no use. He wrapped a firm hand around her thighs, making it impossible for her to move even an inch despite her many efforts. "Let go of me, Blaise."
"No," He said quite plainly, like he wasn't holding her hostage. "Now you'll listen to me, Weasley."
"You have some nerve," She fumed. "I'm not one of your adoring fans. I'm not going to confess my love to someone who's proven to be selfish about his own intentions at every turn. You see, at least the mask I wear is to survive in this den of snakes. You glide on sunshine and rainbows when you've had the cruelest motivations all along. How dare you demand love from me when you're too cold-hearted to even be capable of such a thing! I don't owe you anything, Zabini. You–You sicken me."
"I sat and listened to you, so you owe me the same courtesy, at the very least," He countered. "It's the polite thing to do."
"I don't care about being polite, I'm not listening to a word you say."
He brushed his lips against her ear and chuckled, "I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You're going to listen to me, Ginevra Weasley. And maybe–just maybe–what I have to say may change your stubborn little mind."
She sniffed haughtily. "I believe that is what the muggles call 'Stockholm Syndrome'."
"I don't know what that is," He rolled his eyes. "Nor do I care." He picked up a lock of her hair and twirled it absentmindedly, "It's true what I said earlier. I don't care what people think of me."
"How nice it must be to have such a privilege," She spat. "Now let me go."
"I cannot, however, let you run around the castle, spouting this theory of yours to anyone that will listen." He sighed, "Especially when it's not quite correct."
Ginevra stopped struggling to slip out of his lap for a second. "What do you mean it's not correct? You can't lie to me now, Blaise. I know everything."
He tightened his grip on her thigh. "Not everything," He muttered darkly. "If you knew everything, you'd be trying much harder to escape this room."
She elbowed his chest, as he had clamped his other hand around her wrists to avoid her vicious punches and scratches. "Stop saying things like that. You would never hurt me." The words escaped her before she had even realized what she was saying, and her cheeks flushed almost immediately. "I-I mean, you're not going to kill me in your dormitory. It's too hasty."
He hid a smile and loosened his grip on her wrists slightly. "You managed to uncover quite a bit of the story, but you're a bit off on the ending."
"You mean, you aren't a selfish bastard?" She batted her eyes, "Tell me more, Mr. Zabini."
"Now, I didn't say that exactly," His lips quirked up slightly before disappearing at the thoughtful gleam in his eyes. "But to understand the ending of this particular story, you'll need to hear the beginning."
"Now I don't follow," She sighed.
"You claim that you put up your walls and don this hideous unfeeling mask to survive," His voice was tense, even as he absentmindedly traced light patterns into the creamy skin of her exposed thigh. "What if I told my armor was forged for survival as well?"
Ginevra let out a sharp laugh. "Are you quite serious?" Upon seeing his deadpan expression, she realized he was. "Blaise, darling, you grew up with manors and servants and galas and waltzes. I didn't even know there existed more than one dinner fork before I joined the Slytherin house. You cannot possibly think we come from the same background."
He tsked. "I never said anything about wealth, Ginevra." He averted his gaze, choosing to stare at a distant quidditch poster on the wall, although his hand did not stray from her skin. "Those manors you speak of? They were all empty. My mother would rarely come home from her adventures to see her only son, and so it was often just me wandering those halls alone. It was so gloomy, someone probably peeked through the curtains one day and thought me to be a ghoul rather than a child." He leaned his head back against the leather chair to stare up at the ceiling. "Those servants you mentioned? Cold, stiff, and uncaring to the very bone. As long as I had three meals a day and didn't throw myself off a cliff, they wouldn't bat an eye." He closed his eyes. "I actually liked the galas. Call me superficial if you'd like. But they were the only time I'd see my friends, and my mother would often come home to make an appearance. She would only stay a few hours, but those parties would be the best night I'd have for months to come." He opened his eyes to find her staring at him with a wide-eyed expression. "And I believe you already know the story behind my first waltz," He remarked dryly.
He continued to trace circles on her thigh with a renewed focus. "So, there you have it," He declared, not meeting her eyes. "Almost correct, but still a little off the mark. I would never deny my own selfishness, but you should know I am just as much a byproduct of survival as you are. I surround myself with people but keep them at arm's length because I can't let them get too close. I keep my head down and stay out of drama because I can't ease anyone else's burden if I can barely handle my own. Call me selfish if you must." He bit his lip and stopped his ministrations abruptly. "You might've lacked wealth and the proper etiquette training, Ginevra, but you had a family who loved you. Despite your family's lower income, I have a feeling you never went hungry. Somebody cared for you enough to never let that happen. Do you know how rare that is in this world?"
He stared at her curiously. "It confused me when I first saw you, I'll admit. Here was a witch who had a life I could only dream of, but yet she obsessed over her own power and sought validation from people that simply didn't matter." He shook his head, "It didn't make sense."
"Love isn't all that matters, Blaise," Ginevra managed to whisper. Her voice caught in her throat as she said, "Sometimes that love is conditional, you know. Once it's gone, you get caught up in … other things…to make up for it. You start to listen to voices that don't matter. Start to believe in the wrong sort of notions."
"There's nothing quite like the unconditional, is there?" Blaise mused aloud.
"There is no such thing as unconditional," She mumbled.
He held her gaze for a long, aching moment. "But there could be."
Ginevra paused at that. "Perhaps you might be right." Her hand slowly found his and she lightly squeezed his fingertips. "There could be."
"Not exactly the three words I was expecting to hear from this conversation, but it's a good start, I suppose," Blaise grinned. "I don't mind–I can learn to take things slow for once."
Hadrian Riddle scowled at the owl that perched against his plate at the breakfast table, just daring the creature to drop the letter from its beak onto his full plate.
Thankfully Destiny's insipid little owl seemed to have a sense of self-preservation and it shrunk away from his glare and deposited the letter beside his water goblet instead.
Hadrian took his time polishing off the rest of his breakfast before reaching forward to pick up the heavy cardstock envelope that Destiny's owl had dropped off. He tuned out the conversation around him as he wordlessly sliced open the letter and began to read the short note penned on the official Malfoy stationary.
Hadrian,
I hope this letter finds you well. How are your classes this term? It's very important you keep a focus on your studies, as N.E.W.T level classes can prove to be rather difficult. Though, I do hope that Professor Slughorn has been teaching you some interesting things in Potions this year, at the very least. I recall learning about regenerative potions back in my seventh-year potions class–quite the fascinating concept. Did you know some potions can regenerate an entire wizard just from ashes alone? Provided their soul–or even a fraction of it–was still roaming this earth.
Which is impossible, of course. But interesting, nonetheless.
Anyways, I do not wish to bore you with such academic talk. I've recently discovered Draco's Aunt has an interest in these…unconventional potions. Perhaps the three of us can discuss once you are back for the winter holidays.
Take care.
Oh, and do tell Draco to pick up a book once in a while. We may be in troubling times, but Narcissa and I still expect outstanding marks from you both.
Sincerely,
Lucius Malfoy
An icy feeling settled into his stomach as he re-read the letter almost a dozen times before taking in a deep breath and folding the parchment in half. In an effort to take his mind off Lord Malfoy's troubling words, Hadrian dropped the letter back into his bag and felt satisfied once it was out of sight.
He nudged Draco with his elbow, "Your father has just written to me. He said your appalling marks this term are shaming the entire family and you must smarten up immediately, else they shall abandon you and name me as the sole benefactor in their will."
His best mate narrowed his eyes at him. "Let me see that letter."
Hadrian shoved his bag far away from Draco's reach and plastered an innocent expression onto his face. "I'm afraid that is private. I cannot share it with you."
"Piss off, wanker," Draco muttered under his breath. "Wait till Mother hears about this. She'll have your head for treating me so poorly."
Daphne shot them both an unimpressed look. "Would you two like to join the rest of the first years at the other end of the table?" She shook her head and hissed, "Stop behaving like squabbling children."
Draco opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but no words escaped him as his eyes locked on something else across the room. His jaw dropped a brief moment later. "What the–," He cursed under his breath. "What the bloody hell is she wearing?"
Daphne snapped her head up to follow his gaze and she resisted the urge to smile. "Oh, Hermione?" Her tone was almost too innocent as she shrugged. "Isn't her new skirt quite stylish? It's from the Francesca Kingston early-release holiday collection. I thought it would be nice for her to wear on the train today."
"It's rather short," Draco pursed his lips, his knuckles turning white over the deadly grip he had over his fork. "I reckon she can't even bend over in that…oversized belt."
Daphne gasped. "Don't be crass," She tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. "Besides, you're exaggerating a bit much, don't you think? It's only two inches shorter than the regulation uniform skirt. Why, Parkinson prances around in a skirt almost five inches above her knees and nobody says a word."
"It's simply too improper," The blond muttered. "For Merlin's sake–people–others–are staring at her."
"Only you are ogling her knees like a depraved brute, Draco," Hadrian rolled his eyes. "Avert your gaze–people will think to file a restraining order on her behalf if you keep staring at her like that."
"I need to put a stop to this–" Draco moved to stand up, but then was immediately forced to sit back down from an overwhelming wave of magic that slammed into him. He turned his furious stare to his best mate, who looked not in the least bit apologetic.
"You're going to make a fool of yourself if you storm over there and demand her to cover up what is a perfectly acceptable wardrobe choice," Hadrian warned him. "In fact, Daphne tells me she chose it herself." His voice took on a slightly dangerous edge, "Are you questioning my fiancé's taste?"
"You know, just because you two are betrothed and have been playing house since the fifth year, doesn't mean you can lord over the rest of us," Draco scoffed. "Stop interfering and lift this sticking charm at once."
"Will you promise not to go over there and cause a scene in front of the entire castle?" Daphne interjected with a stern glare.
Draco made a face at her and then took a greedy sip of his pumpkin juice to swallow his sarcastic comment. "Fine," He agreed rather reluctantly after a moment had passed in tense silence.
He smirked to himself. He'd wait till they got on the train.
"Merlin, give it a rest, please," Blaise begged when they all finally arrived at Malfoy Manor later that afternoon. He pushed his way through the doors that connected the floo to the grand foyer, desperate to get away from his two friends that had been bickering since they had stepped foot onto the train.
"I can't help it if your friend is an egotistical prat!" Granger huffed, struggling to drag her enormous trunk out of the room. Usually, her trunk would have been heavy due to the large number of books she shoved inside, but this time Daphne had managed to somehow swap out her beloved tomes for a handful of heavy, glittery evening dresses and ballgowns instead. She still wasn't quite sure how the witch had managed to get past her wards or why she needed so many dresses, but she also knew better than to ask.
"I cannot imagine how a trunk containing only scraps of clothing can be heavy," Draco sniped, perfectly content to watch her grunt over the massive trunk she had stubbornly insisted on carrying herself.
"Shove off," Hermione tossed over her shoulder.
"Right," Hadrian Riddle drawled, staring between his two friends with something akin to disdain flickering over his handsome features. "If you'll excuse me, I have some business to discuss with Lord Malfoy."
"And I should go work on my needlework," Daphne smiled tightly, clearly just as annoyed by their banter as everyone else. She quickly disappeared after Hadrian before anyone pointed out she had never shown an interest in such a dull hobby.
Destiny nodded quickly, "I'm off to visit my mother. Neville, would you like to join me?"
"Even the constant death glares from your mother would be more pleasant than being in this room," Neville muttered under his breath, all too eager to escort them to Lestrange Manor.
Hermione ignored the hasty escape of her friends in favor of focusing again on her trunk. She tugged on the handle and let out a soft groan when the stubborn thing barely moved an inch.
"Just leave it. I can bring it up to my room, or have the elves take it up," Draco finally snapped after watching her break a sweat over trying to move the trunk for another few minutes. He knew she could just as easily levitate the damn thing, but no, she wished to display how independent of a witch she was.
"Have you lost the plot?" Hermione glanced up at him sharply. She stopped struggling with her trunk for a second so she could cross her arms over her chest and give him a haughty glare. "I am not sharing a room with you."
"Where else would you prefer to sleep? In the stables with the rest of the wild animals?" He asked sarcastically.
"I was thinking one of the guest rooms would suffice," She sniffed. "Besides, it would be quite improper to stay in your quarters in your ancestral home. I doubt your mother would approve, seeing as we aren't even engaged."
"And whose fault is that?" Draco muttered under his breath. "It's not like you practically fainted at the mere discussion of marriage."
"How am I to discuss anything with you if you keep avoiding me?" She arched a brow, finally dropping her efforts with her trunk to fix him with another icy look. She marched out of the room without another word, which only prompted Draco to follow her with a sour expression that seemed permanently etched into his sharp features.
"My apologies, I should have never left your side after you practically threw me out of your room that night," He sneered, trailing after her as she made a beeline towards the doors that led out to the gardens. "Where are you going, you frustrating witch? It's freezing out there."
"I know your mother has warming charms set up over the property," Hermione flipped her curls over her shoulder as she practically ran down the stone steps outside. "Leave me alone, Draco. You've gotten quite good at that these past few months, haven't you?"
"Merlin, Granger, you were the one who dismissed me! What was I supposed to do? Trail after you like a lovesick fool? I had to hold on to some shred of dignity after you had torn it apart," He sighed, continuing to follow behind her despite her warning glares.
"I needed time to think," She seethed, stopping abruptly underneath a tree by the lake so she could whirl around and give him her patented Malfoy-Go-Die™ look. "But instead of giving me some space, you ignored me the rest of the term out of sheer spite! I started to believe that whatever this was–" She gestured between the two of them rather vehemently, "Was over."
"Over?" He sputtered. His silvery gaze darkened as he took a step towards her, "Why would you think that? Is–Is there someone else?"
"What?" She shot him an odd look. "No! How did you come to that conclusion?"
"You've been dressing differently," He pointed out, though he seemed more placated by the sincerity of her bewildered response. "I've never seen you put so much thought into styling your hair and clothes before. And you talked to Goldstein the other week."
"Because he's a prefect in my house," She deadpanned. "I talk to Padma Patil all the time too." Her eyebrows knit into a slight frown as she added, "And I was just experimenting with some different styles this term. I've finally managed to control my irritable hair–isn't that what you've been teasing me about for years now?"
"I like your old hair better," He shrugged indifferently.
Her face dropped. "Are you quite serious?"
"What?" He asked, clearly oblivious to her rising anger. "Daphne has turned you into her own personal little doll and it's like you don't care in the slightest!"
"I like this new look!" She gasped. "For the first time, I actually feel like I might belong in your little society! Like I could be a part of your polished world."
"I don't see why that matters," He ground out. "I happen to like your ink-stained fingers over these manicured ones. It means you prefer the company of books and your research to other frivolous pursuits," He licked his lips and took a step closer. "And I like your unmanageable hair. I enjoy running my fingers through those frizzy curls, even when they get stuck. It's like a part of you doesn't want to let me go, even if you try your best to push me away all the time."
"Don't be foolish," Hermione breathed. "You're reading too much into this."
"Am I?" He wondered aloud, coming even closer until his chest almost brushed against hers. "I suppose I am a fool then. Because I even like your frumpy jumpers and regulation-length skirts. I don't need anyone's eyes roving over what's mine."
"How sickeningly possessive," She rolled her eyes. "A witch can dress however she pleases–it's not always for the eyes of a wizard."
"How could I forget about that sharp tongue?" He continued in a flippant tone. "Vicious, but quite talented, if I am to judge."
Hermione flushed and her mouth dropped at his brazenness. "Draco!" She chided.
He raised a hand to cup her cheek, closing the minimal gap between them. "I like that you leave your face bare. It allows me to savor every single blush I can draw from you, far more than you can imagine."
A flicker of surprise flashed through her deep, brown eyes. She shifted her weight onto her other foot and hesitated before asking, "You–You truly mean that?" Her bottom lip jutted out slightly as she hurried to add, "You like me as I am?'
He brushed his thumb over her lips, smearing the light hint of pink lip-gloss she wore. "Of course, Granger. You're beautiful." He paused to correct himself, "Annoying, but still beautiful, nonetheless." He tucked an errant curl behind her hair. "You were beautiful, even back when you had buckteeth. You're beautiful now, even though I absolutely hate this bloody short skirt Daphne's forced you into–"
"She didn't force me–"
"I'm going to set it on fire," He decided, mainly speaking to himself. "But it hardly matters. You'd be beautiful no matter what you wore…" His lips quirked up into a cheeky grin, "Or didn't wear."
"But," Hermione bit her lips nervously. "I'm not a socialite or some gently bred pureblood lady who spends all her time organizing galas. Not, that there's anything wrong with that," She hurried to add. "It's simply not me."
"Merlin, did you not just listen to a word I said, you daft witch?" Draco pretended to sigh heavily. "I do not want that future either. I want you, Granger. Just as you are. That's all I need." His hand found hers and he raised it to his lips to place a chaste kiss to her skin, "I hope to hear that I can be enough for you as well."
Hermione felt her throat tighten up at his words. "I–" She swallowed hard. "I want to be the Headmistress of Hogwarts someday."
Draco blinked, confused by the sudden change of subject. "Okay," He spoke slowly. "I have always wanted to try the strict professor and naughty student scenario–"
"Draco, I'm serious," She frowned. "I want to make society better for muggleborns and even underrepresented creatures like houselves…and giants...and werewolves!"
"And you'll find a way," Draco spoke firmly. "You're one of the most brilliant witches I know."
"I want to develop potions and break the most challenging curses and explore magical archeology–" She continued to ramble, only to be cut off as Draco yanked her closer at the waist.
"Granger, darling, you can–and will–achieve everything you want to in this lifetime. You can rule Hogwarts with an iron fist, you can give all the houselves in the world fucking bank accounts at Gringotts, you can develop the cure to every sickness in the books–but I will never ask you to change who you are," He leaned closer, until she could feel his warm breath ghost over her lips. "The only thing I ask from you, is to allow me to be at your side through it all."
Hermione stared up at him and her dark eyes widened in wonder. "Draco," She whispered.
"Hm?"
"Will you marry me?"
Draco inhaled sharply. "What?"
Hermione blushed, "I said, would you like to get married? I know I wasn't ready to discuss it before, but I think I am ready now. You're more than enough for me, Draco." She shyly averted her gaze, "And I would be happy to have you at my side."
"You're asking me to marry you?" Draco repeated, stepping back abruptly. He looked like a fish out of the water as he shook his head, "No!"
Hermione snapped her head up to stare at him, "What do you mean 'no'?" A dull headache began to start throbbing at the back of her skull and she hissed, "What was this whole speech about then? You were the one who started this fight about getting married in the first place! I cannot believe you." She yanked herself away from him and started to stomp away.
"No, Granger," He finally snapped out of his shock and quickly ran after her, thankful that her short–albeit furious–strides didn't take her very far. He grabbed her wrist, "Granger, wait."
"No!" She all but shrieked at him. "I just can't believe you managed to humiliate me again, Draco Malfoy. I never seem to learn around you, do I?" She chuckled humorlessly.
"Granger, please," He pulled her closer until her back was pressed to his chest. "I didn't mean what I said."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Is there another definition to the word 'no' in the English dictionary I am not aware about?" She hissed.
"Hermione," He pressed his lips to her ear and spoke slowly. "I do want to marry you. But," He paused for an unbearably long moment before blurting out, "I wanted to be the one to propose."
"What?" Hermione blinked, incredulous. Her curls were nearly crackling with angry magic as she turned to face him. "You said no because…you wanted to propose yourself?"
"Well–"
"Are you a child?" She all but growled at him. "Why would you crush my spirits like that?"
"You don't understand, Granger!" He complained. "I had a whole twenty-three step plan. You can't propose–that's skipping at least a dozen steps. And I had a truly romantic proposal planned that would've brought tears to your eyes."
"Well, you certainly achieved that," She glared at him, smacking at his chest.
"I'm sorry," He apologized quickly, "I didn't mean to turn you down so cruelly–I just panicked and couldn't think straight. You caught me off guard."
Hermione sighed. "You're absolutely ridiculous. I cannot believe I'm even entertaining this right now." She stepped away from him and placed an impatient hand at her hip, staring him down with an expectant look. "Well?" She cocked her head to the side. "Get on with it then."
Draco frowned. "What?" His eyes nearly bugged out of his head as it dawned on him. "You want me to propose?" He glanced around, "Here?" His voice rose an octave, "Now?"
"You said you wanted to be the one to propose," She pointed out. She gestured to the ground, "Hurry up, then. You're lucky I'm even agreeing to this childish and frankly sexist notion."
"But I have a twenty-three step plan–"
"Draco," She smiled at him sweetly, "If you plan on ever proposing, do it now or I'm going to strangle you before you get the chance to even think about your stupid twenty-three step plan again."
"I'll have you know, I have it memorized," He shot back. "Besides, this could be seen as some heavy coercion on your part."
She shrugged, "Alright. I'll go see if Goldstein can be coerced into holy matrimony, then."
Draco immediately dropped to one knee. "That was low," He gritted out. "But fine, if a rushed proposal is what you desire, a rushed proposal is what you will get." He took a deep breath and reached for the ring he had been carrying around for weeks now in the inner pocket of his blazer. He propped open the velvet box and was rewarded with the slight gasp the curly-haired witch let out at the sight of the sparkling diamond ring.
He had known she wouldn't appreciate a massive gem of any sort, and so he had scoured his family's vaults until he had found his great-great-great grandmother's engagement ring. It was a rather simple platinum band with a gorgeous, but modest diamond. Though the ring was beautiful, it was the runes that had been carved into the ring that had driven him to pick it out. He knew Granger would enjoy tracing back the history and translating the ancient runes herself, far more than she would enjoy any gaudy ring he had picked up in a shop.
"Granger," He began slowly. "Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife and–"
"You're going to call me Granger while proposing to me?" She scoffed.
"Don't interrupt," He rolled his eyes. "Now I have to start over." He closed his eyes and tried again, "Hermione Granger–the most infuriating witch to walk this earth and the bane of my existence–"
"Charming," She snorted. "I'm absolutely dying to say yes now."
"Hush," He scolded her. "As I was saying," He let out a long sigh. "Hermione Granger, would you allow me the privilege of hearing your nagging till I'm on my deathbed and subjecting me to a lifetime of choking on your hair in my sleep?"
"Not quite sure what you're asking, there, Malfoy."
"Merlin, witch, you're infuriating," He gritted out. "Can you just agree to marry me?"
"Hm," She pretended to think. "I don't think so, no."
"What?" Draco stood up abruptly from the ground, almost dropping the ring in his haste. "What do you mean 'no'?" He panicked.
"Doesn't feel nice to be rejected like that, now does it?" She arched a brow at him, choking down a laugh. "But now that we're even, I suppose I can agree to your proposal."
"Bloody crazy witch," Draco grumbled to himself. He picked up her hand and slid the ring onto her finger despite her self-satisfied cackling. He admired the way the ring fit perfectly with a smug smirk, "There. No escaping now. You're all mine."
"You know, some would argue that this could be seen as heavy coercion," Hermione remarked dryly. "Not to mention, it is certainly not the gentlemanly thing to do."
"Good thing we've already established I'm not a gentleman," Draco leaned down to kiss her lightly. He smirked against her lips, "Because I'd like to prove to you just how ungentlemanly I can be."
Riddle Manor [December 20th]
Hadrian rolled his sleeves up to his elbows as he leaned back against the rickety metal table in the unfinished cellar of Riddle Manor.
Or as some unfortunate souls referred to it–the dungeons.
He felt a slight tingling as his wards were disturbed before he heard the unmistakable pop of apparition that echoed through the otherwise empty cellar. He had spent quite a bit of time around these cells, had seen horrific things no child should probably be subjected to. He had also spent a fair amount of time behind some of these bars, whenever his father was in a particularly intolerant or cruel mood.
He stiffened as he heard the footsteps coming closer and closer, and he had a feel his sudden uneasiness had nothing to do with the memories of the dungeons that haunted his mind.
After all, it wasn't as though he had stopped using the dungeons altogether after his father's untimely demise. They had been quite useful for interrogating prisoners of war, or even unruly Death Eaters.
No, Hadrian was sure the sudden twisting of his stomach had something to do with the familiar cackling laughter that rang through the corridor. He could hear the pair of voices through the wall that separated them, and Hadrian held his breath as Lucius Malfoy pushed open the door.
"My Lord," Lucius inclined his head slightly, "We received your summons and came as quickly as we could."
"Oh, my darling, Hadrian," The curly-haired witch with the maniacal gleam in her eyes bounded over to him and reached up to ruffle his hair despite being several heads shorter than him, even in her stiletto boots. "Have you grown even taller since this past summer?"
Hadrian discreetly leaned away from her touch and shook his head with a wry smile, "I don't think so, Bellatrix."
"And you've been keeping up with your dueling practice, yes?" She crossed her arms over her chest and suggested, "See if you can rope that Longbottom fellow into a few duels."
"I presume this has nothing to do with the fact that he proposed to Destiny without asking for your permission?" Hadrian arched a brow.
"Of course not," Bellatrix replied far too sweetly. "I simply think a few scrapes and bruises in a dueling arena would do him some good. Maybe some small internal injuries. Nothing too major. He has some potential, I think."
Hadrian snorted. "I know he does, but I thought you'd rather die than admit to that."
"Well, alright," Bellatrix sighed in defeat. "I do find it a bit rude he thought not to ask permission for her hand from Rodolphus or myself," She sniffed haughtily. Her lips pursed into a thin line, "Did he ask you?"
"Not until he mustered up the courage to approach me almost three days later," Hadrian laughed. He shared a secret smirk with Bellatrix, "Although I cannot exactly blame him. You would have cursed Neville the very second he tried to ask for her hand."
"Nonsense," Bellatrix waved her hand dismissively. Her lips peeled back into a smile that revealed her sharp white teeth. "I would've given him a head start, at least."
"I do not think this is the best time to reminisce, my Lord," Lucius gritted out from where he had been standing in front of the door. "We have some urgent matters to discuss, do we not?"
Hadrian swallowed hard and the nauseating feeling slammed into his stomach once more. "Yes," He spoke in a clipped tone, "It seems we do."
"Oh Lucy, always so serious," Bellatrix clucked her tongue. She piled her messy curls atop her head and secured it with a sticking charm, all the while avoiding the scathing glare the Malfoy patriarch shot in her direction. Her dark gaze turned to Hadrian, and she raised an eyebrow, "What's this about, then?"
Hadrian closed his eyes for a second, not sure why he felt his palms begin to sweat at the mere question. He had done this before. Probably thousands of times, actually. He had been quite skilled at wrenching even the darkest secrets out of someone, but for some reason, he couldn't help but feel rather reluctant to do the same now.
"Hadrian?"
He opened his eyes once more at the sound of Lucius calling his name. He nodded curtly at the other man and pushed down whatever turmoil he was feeling under the cold mask he had been taught to wear his entire life.
"Bellatrix, I heard something interesting a few weeks ago," He began slowly, tapping his fingers on the table behind him.
"Oh?" Bellatrix cocked her head to the side, pensively. Her eyes brightened a second later and she clapped her hands in delight. "Could this be about the new variation to the blood-poisoning curse?" A particularly bloodthirsty glint came into her eyes as she breathed, "Shall we try it out? I'm sure there's a village of stupid muggles nearby. Just for old time's sake?"
"Bella, we don't hunt muggles anymore," Hadrian reminded her.
"Right, I keep forgetting we're boring now," She sighed. "Shame."
Hadrian felt his jaw tighten. "Have you been bored lately, Bellatrix?" He pressed on before she could answer him, "Has your life become so incredibly dull that you've decided to gamble with our future now?"
"I…don't follow?" Bellatrix frowned. "I will admit, I have been bored recently. But the new recruits are quite stupid on most days and it's so difficult to avoid cursing the life out of those little shites. You should be thankful I haven't committed mass murder yet."
"Not an accomplishment," Lucius muttered under his breath. "Just basic human self-control."
"Bella," Hadrian chided slowly. He ignored the lump in his throat as her face paled at his dark tone. "You've been keeping secrets from me."
She stared at him for a second before bursting out into laughter that was unmistakably tinged with an edge of uneasiness. "Secrets?" She repeated, "Why would I keep anything from you, H–my lord?"
Good. Hadrian thought to himself as she took a hesitant step back. She wasn't stupid.
Unfortunately, her hesitant behavior didn't offer him any solace, as it only confirmed his suspicions.
He sat down on the table behind him, and amusingly, he was still taller than his quasi-maternal figure. He used his superior height to stare down at her with an expression cold enough to freeze the entirety of the grounds above. "Are you lying to me again, Bellatrix?" He asked plainly.
"I would never lie to you," She insisted. "I–I don't know what this is all about, but I haven't done anything to betray you, Hadrian."
"Is that so?" He ran his tongue over his teeth, as if deeply contemplating something. He reached into the pocket of his robes and resisted the urge to shudder as his fingers curled around the cold metal.
He pulled the cup that had once belonged to Helga Hufflepuff out of his robes and set it onto the table beside him without a word.
Bellatrix darted her eyes over to the golden cup, and if possible, she turned even paler. "Where did you get that?" She demanded to know. She looked over at Lucius with a scowl, "Were you rummaging around my vault?"
"Your husband let me look around the Lestrange vaults to find something pretty I could present to Narcissa for our anniversary," Lucius informed her curtly. "In my search, I happened to come across that peculiar object."
"Happened to come across it, my arse," Bellatrix muttered under her breath.
"Why do you have that…object, Bellatrix?" Lucius inquired. "And that too, without letting anyone know it was in your possession."
"I wasn't aware I had to send a formal newsletter with the entire contents of my vault listed out every month," Bellatrix retorted.
"Enough." Hadrian raised a hand to prevent another peeved remark from Lucius. "Answer the question, Bellatrix. Why do you have one of my father's horcruxes?"
"It's not like I stole it," She defended herself, shifting her weight nervously to her other foot. "The Dark Lord–I mean your late father–he entrusted me with it himself. I've kept it safe all these years."
"Is that all you meant to do with it?" Hadrian narrowed his eyes. "Keep it safe?"
Bellatrix stiffened. "Where is this coming from, Hadrian?" She asked, matching his harsh expression with a scowl of her own. "Are you accusing me of something?"
Hadrian tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "I just wanted to know your intentions for keeping one of his horcruxes a secret from me."
The older witch fidgeted under his heavy stare. "If you had asked me about it specifically, I would've told you," She hedged. "There was no need to break into my vault and steal it."
"It's not yours to keep," Hadrian said sharply. "My father may have given it to you, but the second he was gone, all his possessions became rightfully mine. That includes any object that housed a fragment of his soul." His lips curved into a cold smile, "I am his heir, after all."
"Well, perhaps if you hadn't prematurely killed the Dark Lord, he would've told you all about the Hufflepuff Cup," Bella sneered at him.
"You still have not answered my question, Bellatrix," Hadrian stood up from the table and walked over to the thin witch until he was staring down at her with a cruel glint in his eyes. "What did you plan on doing with this Cup?"
"I-I don't know," Bellatrix muttered. "I didn't plan to do anything with it."
"Lying to me again," Hadrian shook his head in mock disappointment. He looked over her shoulder to stare meaningfully at Lucius. "I'll give you one chance to tell me the entire truth, Bella," He leaned down to whisper to the shorter witch. "You know very well what happens if you don't cooperate."
"You can't mean to turn your wand on me," Bellatrix glanced up at him sharply. Her eyes widened and she turned to look at her brother-in-law. "What lies have you been telling him, Lucius?" She hissed. "You know I would never betray our side."
"Not intentionally, no," Lucius noted dispassionately. He moved past her to set something onto the table in the center of the room. It was only when he moved back to his original position by the door did Bellatrix see the glass jar that sat on the table.
As soon as she saw the burnt bits of grass and charred flecks, she inhaled sharply and immediately turned to look at Hadrian. "I can explain," She began quickly, "That's not–Well, it is, but–it's not what it looks like."
Hadrian smiled, but there was nothing kind about it. "Why don't you explain what I'm looking at then, Bellatrix?" A slow, dull rage began to burn into his words as he continued, "Because from my perspective, I see a cup that contains a fragment of my father's soul and a glass jar containing what I assume to be whatever burnt fragments remained of him the night he disappeared."
"You mean, when you murdered him," Bellatrix pointed out bitterly.
"I'd advise you to choose your words very carefully, Bella," Hadrian warned her. "I'd like to hear the truth from you. What did you plan to do with these two items?"
Bellatrix's gaze darted around briefly, "I did not plan on doing anything with them, my lord."
He sighed. He hated it when people lied to him.
Before she could even blink, Hadrian marched up to her and gripped her face, digging his fingers into the side of her skull. His green eyes bore into hers as he hissed, "Legilimens."
He could hear Bellatrix let out a soft shriek as he tore into her mind, not caring to be the least bit gentle. To his chagrin, her mind was organized quite like a battlefield of sorts. Memories floated by like a heavy fog in no particular order or pattern. They were clashing with each other and loud enough that the sounds would ring in his ears even after they had floated past. He quickly discovered that one wrong step would find him in a psychological landmine of sorts, and then he would be forced to relive the memories that focused in on some specific horrible event Bellatrix had experienced in her life.
After he had accidentally stumbled upon a memory of a much younger Bellatrix sobbing in a closet while another voice–Narcissa, perhaps–pounded on the door, he learned to watch his step. The wave of crushing sadness and desperation that had slammed into him from that occurrence was simply too much to experience again.
Other than that mishap, Hadrian made quick work of her mind, slicing through the hazy fog until he caught a brief glimpse of a memory that contained the Cup. He chased after it easily, until he was able to find the few other memories that centered around the Cup.
He stared at the memory that stood before him, forcing himself to watch it several times.
He found he grew angrier and angrier with each time he watched it, especially when he could feel the sickening hopefulness that was associated with the memory.
He wrenched himself out of her mind abruptly, deciding he had seen everything he needed to see. Once he had adjusted to his settings, he took a step back and clenched his hands into a fist at his side in an effort to control his warring emotions.
"I thought I asked you for the truth, Bellatrix," He whispered, watching her carefully as she struggled to push herself into an upright position from when she had dropped to the floor in the midst of his assault on her mind.
"I-I told you the truth," She stuttered. She ungracefully wiped away the blood that trickled out of her nose with the back of her hand. "I told you everything that you needed to know," She hissed.
"We both saw the memories, Bellatrix," He spoke in a harsh voice, "I felt how overjoyed you were when my father asked you to keep his horcrux safe in your vaults. I saw how you returned to Little Hangleton after that night and painstakingly collected every burnt piece of grass, dust, and ash that was left behind after my father burst into flames. I know exactly what you intended to do with that."
"Hadrian–"
He leaned down until he was at eye level with her, "You thought you'd–what? Find a way to bring him back to life? After all, you were aware it was certainly possible, but you just didn't know how."
"I-" Bellatrix paused before forcing out, "Yes, I wanted to bring him back –but only at first." She let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Once I saw you take over after your father was gone, I didn't mind abandoning my plans. I believed in you, Hadrian."
"Did you, now?" Hadrian raised a brow at her skeptically. "Now, why don't I believe you, Bella?" He narrowed his eyes. "You adored my father. You enjoyed all his terrible misdeeds and you fed into his bloodthirsty desires. Once he was gone, you were never shy in making it clear just how much you despised the change in leadership." He adjusted his sleeves and asked, "Tell me, why should I listen to a word you say, Bellatrix?"
"I did admire your father," Bellatrix admitted after a tense silence. "But I trust you Hadrian. I-I might have been against it initially, but it was only because you had killed the wizard that I had been loyal to for a decade. It was difficult for me to move on, but I eventually did come around to your reign as the Dark Lord. I haven't doubted you since that first meeting we had with the rest of the inner circle."
"You might trust me," Hadrian shook his head. "But you were –and you will always be–loyal to him." He ran a hand through his hair and stepped away from her with a quiet sigh. "Which means I can't trust you, Bellatrix."
Bellatrix glared at him. "I've been loyal to you for years, Hadrian. I've never given you a reason to doubt me."
"Until now," Hadrian pointed out darkly. "You changed your mind once before. What if you change it again, Bella?" He let out a bitter laugh. "Don't you understand? You're a liability."
He pulled out his wand and stared at it for a moment before raising it in her direction with an unwavering hand. "Tell me the truth, and I might show you some leniency, Bellatrix," His eyes were cold and unforgiving as he asked, "Why did you keep my father's remains and his horcrux all these years? You claimed to have abandoned your plans to bring him back, but then why hold onto this? Why keep it a secret from everyone?"
"I told you," The curly haired witch hissed through gritted teeth. "I was terribly angry the night you murdered your father. I wanted to find a way to bring him back–but I changed my mind once I saw how our side flourished under your reign. I abandoned my plans and haven't looked back since." She licked her lips and hesitated slightly before admitting, "I don't know why I kept his ashes and his horcrux."
"Perhaps as a backup plan?" Hadrian raised a brow.
"No, I–" Bellatrix closed her eyes. "I can't explain it."
Hadrian leveled his wand at her, "Try."
She peeked up at him through her lashes and whispered, "I don't owe you an explanation. I don't owe you anything."
"Oh Bellatrix," Hadrian rolled his eyes, "Must you always be the wild card?" He tilted his head to the side till he heard a satisfying crack. "You know I'll just get my answers from you another way if you insist on being difficult."
"Do your worst," Bellatrix quipped. "I've suffered through years in Azkaban–do you really think you can break me?" Her lips thinned into a ghost of a smile. "I have nothing left to say to you, but I can already see your own delusional paranoia will not accept that as an answer."
"You'll regret your words soon enough," He warned her. He noticed Lucius stiffen out of the corner of his eye as he raised his wand at the other witch. "Crucio."
Hadrian watched with a detached gaze as Bellatrix let out another scream and thrashed against the cold stone floor. Something in his chest twisted at the sight of the agony on her face, but it only hardened his resolve after a moment, and he increased the power behind his spell.
"Are you ready to tell me why you kept my father's remains?" He paused a spell after a few minutes and directed his question at the witch shuddering on the ground.
"S-Stop it," Bellatrix choked out. "I already told you I would never betray you."
"I suppose that's a no," Hadrian muttered. He raised his wand and resumed the curse once more, quickly growing tired at hearing her harsh screams. Something about her stubbornness was grating on his nerves, and he knew she would rather die than to give into him at this point.
Not that it would stop him.
"Bellatrix," He chided a few minutes later. He brushed away a curly lock of hair from the thin sheen of sweat that covered her face. "Why are you making this so difficult?"
"Y-You are looking for something that doesn't exist, my lord." Bellatrix struggled to spit out, almost biting her own tongue in the process. "I've given you the truth, but you've chosen not to accept it." She smiled, and her teeth were stained with blood. "I see the family resemblance now."
"Crucio," Hadrian hissed, suddenly unamused by her games. He refused to hold back the power behind his spell, and not even the sobs that echoed through the empty cellar could tear him away from his determined mission. He held the witch under the spell for what felt like hours, but in reality, could've only been a handful of extremely long minutes.
"My Lord," Lucius cut in after a particularly loud wail from Bellatrix. "I don't think she will be able to withstand the curse any longer–"
"You don't understand, Lucius," Hadrian kept his wand on the witch, not bothering to look at the other wizard. "She's hiding something from me, and I refuse to let myself be betrayed by yet another person I used to trust."
"Hadrian," Lucius cleared his throat. "Have you considered that she might be telling the truth? Perhaps she simply kept the horcrux for sentimental reasons, as hard as that might be to believe."
"Or maybe she was biding her time until she found a way to bring him back," Hadrian retorted. He pursed his lips, until the bright red spell turned an even more intense hue and sparks began to emit out of his wand.
"Hadrian, stop this madness at once!" The elder Malfoy stepped in, harshly curling a hand around his shoulder and pulling him away from the witch crying out on the floor. "Look at her eyes," He gestured to her vehemently, "She's telling the truth."
Hadrian stumbled back, nearly dropping his wand at the force behind Lucius's hand. "How can you say that for sure?" He demanded to know, turning to look at the other wizard. "Don't you realize–"
"Bellatrix," Lucius interrupted him to kneel down beside the other witch. "Stay alert, now." He lifted her up slightly until she was coughing violently in a more upright position. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
The curly-haired witch blinked at him with bleary eyes. She seemed suddenly unbothered by the blood that dribbled freely from the corner of her lips or the odd angle at which her knee was bent. She reached out a shaking hand and tugged on the end of Lucius's platinum colored hair with a dreamy smile. "My sister–she has hair like yours, you know."
Lucius swatted her hands away, "Yes, you've mentioned it several times over the years." He supported her back until she was sitting up on her own. "Focus, Bellatrix. How many fingers am I holding up?" He held his hand up in front of her face.
"One," Bellatrix pointed to his hand with a blank look in her eyes. "I have one hand."
Lucius straightened up abruptly. "What did you just say?"
Bellatrix winced, "You're upset with me." Her dark eyes searched the room until they locked with Hadrian's. "You–" She stared at him closely, "I don't know you."
Lucius stepped away from the witch as if she'd slapped him. He glanced back at Hadrian with a carefully blank expression. "Well, congratulations, my lord."
"Excuse me?" Hadrian arched a brow, glaring at the other wizard. "What's wrong with her–why is she acting so strange?"
"You've finally managed do to what no other wizard has done before you," Lucius hissed. "You've broken Bellatrix Lestrange."