Later on that afternoon, Lucius Malfoy stood in his study, crackles of snapping logs blazing away in the fire punctuating the otherwise silent ambience. As he stood there in his black trousers, the material of which rendered his body as one dipped into dark and gleaming oil, an older man, his grey hair coifed in a flourish on top of his head, wound a drape of shimmering charcoal cloth about Malfoy's bare upper body. With this in place as snugly fitted as his trousers, the tailor lifted with feeble fingers a heavy looking mantle of a deeper grey, which sparkled as if it were encrusted with stars.
Above the huge fireplace hung a mirror, and with a swish of his hands Malfoy raised it, turning it on its burnished bronze axes until it hovered before the fire on its side, able to show his entire body.
"Very nice, Rampez," he said with a perfect French accent, letting the smallest of smiles creep onto his face.
"It is always a pleasure to work with such fine material, sir," he said bowing low, then rising slightly to touch the sleeve of Malfoy's mantle, his hand lingering a little to long for his employer's liking,
"All right, that'll do..." He spun around from the mirror, his hair flashing silver in the light of the fire. "I assume my secretary has paid you in full?" he said, walking past the man who, bowing even lower, appeared almost dog-like.
"Of course, sir," he replied from under a mass of grey hair.
"Then I presume you do not need any help in vacating my house."
"No, sir. Of course not, sir," the man replied, slinking backwards as he did so, then, he was gone. Malfoy walked over to the fireplace, replacing the mirror to the horizontal position it occupied with a charm as he did so. He poured himself some fire whiskey and looked into the reflection. Whatever this acquaintance has to say cannot be good, he thought, running a mental list of possible associates who might have run into trouble, but moreover who might bring him into it.
Unfortunately this list was not a short one. Lord Voldemort, the leader of a faction of Wizards who preferred the Darker Arts, was climbing in power by the day. To the ministry he was the apotheosis of anarchy and so dangerous to them, that many people were under suspicion. Malfoy was not yet part of Voldemort's inner circle, or Death Eaters as they were commonly known, yet the Dark Lord's machiavellian crusade attracted him like nothing else. His place at the ministry was, however, more important. He felt his stomach begin to knot as he thought of the possibility that something had slipped, that his 'extracurricular activities' with the Death Eaters had compromised his life at the ministry.
The ball sizzled with animation and enchantment as Malfoy walked through the doors. He stood alone and paused for a moment. Though he could engage with any number of guests around him, he wanted first to check out the lie of the land, remembering his father's advice: If you are not on your own territory, my son, it is difficult to succeed. He had thought this an odd statement and slightly limiting towards anyone wishing to succeed beyond the boundaries of their own homes.
What should I do, father?
He could hear his father speak now as he cast his eyes about the room, You must make it your own territory, of course. Inhabit the space in the room, know every person. Be able to look into each of their eyes without fear and you will command them all.
From across the room another pair of eyes were alert, a girl with hair the colour of primroses looked on as Malfoy surveyed what was rapidly becoming his domain.
Malfoy had now fixed his eyes in one particular corner, he had found his mark and began to stride towards him. The tall and spindly man in the corner almost seemed to sense his presence, as he turned to greet Malfoy almost immediately. His eyes were green, but such a colour which at times took on a yellowish tinge, giving him an unequivocally reptilian air.
"I fear that you will not like what I have to tell you Lucius," he said, looking past Malfoy's shoulder, affecting an air of disinterest so as not to attract too much attention.
"Say what it is, and we will decide whether I like it later," Malfoy replied through a clenched smile.
"Here is not the place... meet me in the foyer just before midnight. No one will leave the ballroom at that time."
"Julius, I came to this ball for one reason and..."
"Lucius... it would be prudent to heed me on this."
Julius slunk away, linking his arm with that of a painfully thin woman with rather large bulging eyes and red hair.
Looking across the crowd, a group of people stood in the other corner, many of them important people at the ministry. Malfoy stalked his way over toward them, and an older man with a silvery beard turned to greet him.
"Ah, Lucius, we were just discussing young Leo's proposal of marriage to the Hemming girl... damn shame if you ask me..."
The man named Leo shuffled on his feet, "I hope she may change her mind... but I fear that there is someone else."
"Her father never said anything," replied the old man, "Ah! There she is now... Nanaea... come and meet some of your father's colleagues."
The girl walked over to the men, flushing crimson as she saw that Malfoy was one of the company.
"Now, my girl, what reason have you to deny this fine fellow, hmm?" the older man said in a pleasantly jocular, though condescending tone.
Nanaea looked to the floor, fearful of meeting her new lover's eyes. Her hands rested uneasily on her gown which glistened in the candlelight, a pale blue satin corset leading down to full floor-length skirts which rustled around her, making every nervous move she made seem to amplify and echo. Without doubt she was beautiful, and tonight her red hair gleamed in ringlets like coils of fire. However, in the face of these rather distinguished men, she was reluctant to speak, should she reveal the rather gauche or artless naiveté which seemed to be characteristic of young witch debutantes.
"I... I could not give my consent to one, when my heart is with another," she replied eventually, her honesty giving her courage as she fixed the older man with a firm stare. The man looked nonplussed.
"I don't suppose you will disclose the identity of this paramour eh?" he said with a wink. Nanaea shook her head, catching a glimpse of Malfoy as she did so.
He did not look at all worried, not like a man nervous of their secret being uncovered. Maybe he wants people to know, she thought, feeling her heart flutter at the prospect, maybe he will announce our engagement tonight! She smiled inwardly and continued to look at the floor.
"Well," continued the old man authoritatively, "What do you think of all this, Lucius? You are uncommonly quiet."
"Rather that than commonly verbose," he said with a smile. The people around him tittered. The old man, it seemed, had not detected any insult. Lucius did not move, only raised his head slightly. "I think it is just as well that they are not to be married..." Nanaea felt her heart beat faster, yet still she could not look at him, not until he had announced their intended union. Lucius continued, "It is a highly inappropriate match..."
"Steady on, Lucius," interposed Leo, "We aren't all snobs like you!"
"Leo, my 'snobbery', whether justified or not, is of no matter... It is about principle and duty. Honour to ones heritage."
Nanaea could feel her eyes begin to burn... He can't be saying this... It must be a joke of some kind... He isn't like that...
"Heritage has nothing to do with it," barked Leo, "Times change, Lucius, and I love someone, regardless of the fact that her mother is a muggle." As he spoke the words stuck in his mouth as the bitter realisation dawned that he was defending someone who loved another man. Nevertheless, Leo was a man of principle and firmly challenged Malfoy's antiquated idea of pure blood lines. Hardly anyone was wholly pure blood these days, for even those who were pure blood could not always guarantee their lineage.
Nanaea felt the ballroom floor she had been staring at so fixedly begin to spin around her. The old man at this point jumped in, "Now, Leo, I'm sure that Lucius meant no offence, he was merely reminding us of a tradition, archaic though it may be." He turned to Malfoy, "Are you saying then, that should you fall madly in love with a girl... you would leave her if she were not pure blood?"
Malfoy stood tall. "It would be a disgrace to my family name. I mean no disrespect, of course, but bloodlines have to be protected. It is nothing personal, merely a fact." He was resolute. The men around him seemed largely unaffected by his opinions save Leo, who, with his jaw set, had excused himself. The conversation moved on to the more pressing social matter at hand: the threat of Lord Voldemort and his death eaters. No one really noticed Nanaea slip away from the crowd and outside into the night.
"If you ask me, this whole ball debacle is just a scam, it's for show, so we don't think that the ministry isn't bloody terrified of Voldemort launching a coup!" said one man, clearly loving the sound of his own voice.
As the men began throwing about their own opinions Malfoy again remained mute. He had not wanted to dispose of Nanaea so publicly but he had no option. Admittedly he had thought of her as sport, she was a challenge, to be overcome... quite literally, he thought with a wry smile, but he had not imagined her to begin talk of marriage. At that point it became clear that he would have to end things immediately. He was brought out of his reverie by another question, which was fired at him aggressively.
"I mean, you see what goes on with Fudge... a great more than some of us do, I'm sure. What plan does he have to counter attack Voldemort?"
"Counter attack?" snapped another, "Pre-emptive strike if you ask me... infiltration.. yes..."
Malfoy pondered a moment, "I don't think there is anything to worry about as of yet. Is it not democratic that we have an opposing party to our own?" As he said this he felt a twinge of excitement sear through his body.
"But such a party, well, that is as far from democracy as you can get. It's dictatorship," the man continued.
"But perhaps such dictatorial methods are necessary..." Malfoy stopped, aware that all eyes now were upon him, "That is to say, perhaps this is the only way an alternate cause can be heard," he paused, "Over the din of administration that seems to be clouding the ministry at present."
He ploughed on, "Fudge has said it himself, repeatedly, there needs to be a shake up at the ministry. Though I have complete faith that he will do what is necessary, when the time arrives." Lucius Malfoy raised his eyebrow in a cursory glance at the men around him. Satisfied, he congratulated himself on the fact that though he had just delivered a diatribe of utter rubbish, circuitous and cryptic nonsense in an attempt to back-pedal what might have made him appear a sympathiser to Voldemort, the men around him were mostly too drunk to notice.
With the topic of conversation now back on the state of internal ministry affairs, Malfoy mused on his new situation. He had been visited by the Dark Lord himself, who, sensing his keen ambition, had not found it difficult to persuade Malfoy to join his campaign. Malfoy's father had always shown a strong allegiance to the wizards who practised the Dark Arts, and as a boy Lucius had been enchanted, in the way that little boys are by such things.
Given his position at the ministry he had feared joining the death eaters- for him, power in the ministry was more important and he couldn't jeopardise it. However, after Voldemort had explained that to join him would ensure a great deal more power when he took over the ministry... well, he had found it a great deal easier to accept. Now, precariously balanced between the two factions, he did not feel scared of being discovered, he felt invigorated. He slipped away from the group and calmly walked over to Fudge.
"Lucius!" called Fudge as he saw the statuesque blond approach.
Fudge himself was relatively new to the position of Minister, a position which was perhaps a little too hastily acquired by the nepotism of the council.
"I didn't think you were coming?" he said, with a grin that belied his less than sober state. Without waiting for a reply he continued, "I must introduce to you my Goddaughter. I believe you may have known her a little perhaps, back at Hogwarts?" Fudge motioned to a girl who was at present engaged in conversation with a bespectacled man. She threw her head back laughing, sending her icy blonde hair, which hung in loose wavy ringlets, tumbling down the nape of her neck.
"Narcissa, my dear," called Fudge to the girl.
As she turned Malfoy was struck instantly by the figure before him. She stood in a rose coloured gown tied with a thick velvet ribbon beneath her bust. The rest of the dress floated in chiffon layers about her body as if she were made of only air herself. In her hair and winding round her neck was a garland of roses of the same colour, set into the deepest green leaves. "My dear, this is Lucius, you remember him from school do you?"
"I do indeed," she replied, giving her hand to Malfoy, "I was in the same house as you but I expect you do not remember me. I don't remember you having any time for people in the lower years." She fixed Malfoy with a stare which somehow managed to be charming, yet simultaneously accusatory. Her eyes were a mixture of blue and green and seemed to Malfoy strangely familiar.
He was, for a moment, stymied. Then, recovering himself, "I apologise, Miss, I confess I do not remember you... it is true I did not spend much time with the students who were several years below me."
"I am only two years below you, Mr Malfoy, I am twenty one."
Malfoy frowned, "Surely not?" As he looked into her eyes he saw a girl who appeared to be no more than seventeen, eighteen at a push.
"It's true," quipped Fudge, "Though she still looks as fresh as a daisy... Now then, forgive me. I must just catch Dumbledore... Excuse me." He scuttled off across the dance floor. At this, Narcissa looked slightly uneasy, her confident demeanour waning slightly in the face of her protector's departure.
Sensing this, Malfoy saw his advantage. After an initial moment of weakness, he now commanded this territory. He could stretch out the welcome hand of small talk, initiate a conversation and make the girl feel at ease. Or, he could play his usual hand. He did not speak, merely looked at her with a half smile on his face. As he had anticipated, she broke the eye contact rapidly and, searched her mind for something to say.
"I love the colour of your cloak, it's... really beautiful." She tailed off lamely, hating herself for saying something so flimsy. I could have said anything- political, poetic… I'm educated, why did I have to talk about clothes! As soon as she had seen him enter the room he had bewitched her, his confidence cut through the crowds and was almost tangible, and his eyes… She suddenly felt the full weight of her own lack of confidence in the presence of such a man.
Malfoy, of course, had planned this and was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Narcissa's eyes darted around the ballroom before resting just behind Malfoy's shoulder. Someone was coming up behind him.
Oh, thank goodness, she thought.
"Mr Malfoy, perhaps you know my sister?"