Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns Harry Potter. I do not. All I own is Antoinette, her family, and the plot. I am not making any profit whatsoever in writing this story. This is an amateur attempt.
A/N: Updates for this story should come quicker now, because I haven't got as many to finish anymore. I also have to thank all of my reviewers, and apologise once again for the long wait. I especially want to thank one new reviewer, who was so diligent that she reviewed every chapter, from the prologue to chapter thirteen.
Hope you enjoy.
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Chapter Fourteen: The Passing of Years (Part 1)
Antoinette Black sat stiffly before the large desk in the well-organised office, her hands embracing a role of parchment, her ears listening to the faint sound of footsteps approaching. The desk, positioned as the room's focal point, was entirely too meticulous — in other words it suited Antoinette's taste for the fastidious just fine. The room, bare of all necessities except for the usual, was clinical. Not one family photo lined the desk, and the walls were so barren that a more passionate person would be tempted to stand up and draw something with the quill placed temptingly in the inkpot: the only objects, besides a sheaf of parchment, located on the desk. The rest of the space was just as barren as the walls. If she hadn't known that this room was the office of the Head for the Department of International Magical Co-operation, Antoinette would have thought that she'd entered St Mungo's.
Her foot tapped an impossible rhythm on the polished marble floor, the only outward sign of its owner's nervous agitation.
It would not be long now, perhaps ten seconds. The footsteps were growing steadily louder, along with the beat of her heart. But, unexpectedly, they now halted, as did her unfortunate organ, before remembering its duty and starting up again, hitched-like. A murmur of voices, too faint to make out even an occasional word, came, muffled, through the door.
Drat the man! What can possibly be taking so long?
Barkwith, the Head's personal assistant, was deaf, senile, and so old that he should have died long ago, never mind actually retiring. He was the Ministry's oldest employee and small gas expulsions propelled him onwards every time he walked. Or should that be every time he attempted to walk. Barkwith could only manage, at his best, a sort of crouched shuffle that everyone did their best to stay well away from or risk their noses being exposed to the smells of sour egg, sour cabbage, and sour just-about-anything-the-old- man-could think-to-eat, quite honestly.
Which was why Antoinette had a difficult time believing the Head of Department had anything feasible to impart to old Barkwith. More likely Barkwith had called for his attention instead. The voices grew a little louder now, and she strained her ears, determined to hear something other than Barkwith's croak of a voice.
" . . . resignation is a little untidy, Barkwith: it looks to me as though you have written it over your shopping list."
"croak, croak, hadn't realised, mimble, mumble, it now, sir?"
A sigh. "Never mind. It should do." There was a crackling of parchment as the Head of Department folded and placed it inside his robe pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me — Mrs Black awaits my attention."
"croak, mumble."
"Thank you, but no. Your tooth fell in last time and I don't believe my pharynx can risk a repeat episode."
The door clicked open.
The man who entered the room, closed the door, and walked to sit behind the desk with a curt "Mrs Black, I apologise for the wait" was not what one would expect of a typical British pureblood wizard over forty-five; they, more often than not, tended to look as if they had never heard of a comb. This one had the appearance of someone who had not only heard of a comb, but also bathing, shampoo, hair gel, and shaving charms. His robes were immaculate, as was his hair: stiff, black, and proper. His toothbrush moustache could not have been any trimmer. And, Antoinette noticed as she looked towards his clasped hands, his manicured fingernails were all cut to precisely the same length.
This was not a person to be intimidated easily. Nor should Antoinette want to, considering he was just about to give her a career. And he would. She would make sure of it.
"Mr Crouch, that is perfectly all right." She smiled her sweetest smile, despite knowing it would have no affect on the man opposite. He was a person not intimidated by beauty. Not because, like a certain forgotten convict, he was beautiful himself (hardly), but because he simply did not care for such superficial things. "And may I extend my sincere regrets on behalf of your wife. Millicent always spoke of her with such affection, I feel as if I knew her intimately."
If it were possible, the man became even stiffer. "Thank you. She is greatly missed."
Antoinette was momentarily startled by the coldness in his voice and the quickness of his response. Had he not love his wife?
"I offer my own condolences in return," he said.
Composed, cool, she nodded.
"Let's get on with it, shall we?" He threw a short glance at her hair, his lip curling. In approval, she knew, because she'd told Kreacher to make her chignon extra tight this time.
Oh yes, Antoinette had done her homework.
She had asked, observed, and then purchased. She'd made sure to wear her most blandest, yet professional robes; dark navy blue with a prim collar clipped all the way about her neck. Her shoes, while still high, were now toe-squared and polished so much that they resembled Bartemius Crouch's own. Which was what she had been going for. She might now look like a strict school mistress, but sacrifices must be made for one's greater good, mustn't they?
She smiled. "Yes, sir."
Crouch cleared his throat and gestured for her to hand over her parchment. A mere formality, since he knew everything there was to know about her already, but Antoinette handed it over without hesitation.
He unrolled the parchment, black, dulled eyes scanning quickly, before they shot to hers. "You've come from the Floo regulatory department, have you? Where you have worked for the last year. Replaced Reginald Quiggly as Junior Secretary before making your way up."
"That is correct."
"And what makes you think you are qualified for the position of my personal assistant?"
The man had a rather pompous view of himself. Not that that was a surprise. Still, she'd heard he'd deflated a bit since his son was sent to Azkaban a year ago. Apparently, even with his wife's recent death, he had become yet more severe, if such a thing were possible. It was as if he wanted to make up his son's disgrace by acting the perfect, pompously rigid pureblood. So, Antoinette gave him the answer he wanted, acting even more rigid than he, making sure to emphasise her status in society and the skills she'd learned on behalf of that status. Crouch was nothing if not purist. He could spout all he wanted about hating Death Eaters, but he himself retained entirely 'pure' personnel, and that, ultimately, was what would acquire her Barkwith's position.
Her beauty would help also, of course. Crouch was shrewd enough to recognise the advantage it could bring him. As an employee in the field of international magical affairs she needed to represent her country if the occasion called for her to travel abroad. Old Barkwith epitomised the very worst of traditionalist wizarding Britain — dirty, smelly, old. They needed someone younger, prettier, more . . . ah . . . fresh. This meeting, also, was a mere formality. Crouch couldn't afford not to hire her for all previous reasons, but there was one other, more important one: Antoinette was a friend to the Minister.
Having to spend ten months in Grimmauld Place because Crouch himself wanted her in for questioning had changed her. Locked in the house, seeming, at times, as much a prison as Azkaban, irrevocably altered something inside of her that she hadn't thought could be altered: her persona. That which had made her Antoinette. She'd had a lot of time to think, to contemplate, to muse on her life and had found it wanting. The naïve girl, all too ready and willing to believe anything her hus – anyone told her, was gone. In her place was left a shell. Not cold, certainly, nor hard, just a shell with nothing in it. She'd vowed never to feel anymore. She would never let anyone walk over her again, never be so gullible again. And if she needed to sleaze and weasel and go so low as to use her blood status and looks to gain even more prestigious employment, she would.
"You certainly have impressive recommendations," said Crouch, after she had finished exemplifying her better qualities. Millicent had already spoken to him, then. "But there is also the matter of your age to consider. You are very young. Twenty. I have never hired anyone that young before."
"Bertha Jorkins is young."
"Bertha Jorkins is not my personal assistant!"
"Meaning I am?"
"Mrs Black."
There could be no mistaking the emphasis he put on her name, and Antoinette inwardly winced. That name had caused her more than a few problems over the years, and she had expected the issue to crop up in the meeting, but not so soon.
Crouch tapped the edge of his desk in an important sort of way. "The Minister's favour can only carry you so far."
"I apologise, sir, I was out of line." More like she had crossed the line, but it had to be done. She needed to show some initiative after all. She couldn't remain passive when the very position she was applying for required anything but. Crouch would appreciate her initiative, but due to his managerial responsibility and his tendency towards overly pompous rigidness for following rules, wouldn't give her the satisfaction of showing it.
He sighed now, surprising her. Quickly, he rolled up the parchment and put it in the drawer of his desk before clasping his hands. "I know it is difficult for you, Mrs Black. I cannot imagine what you went through when that husband of yours — well, you'll be pleased to know that I, personally, questioned him before the Dementors took him."
Her breath hitched imperceptibly. "Of course."
"He resisted, of course — dark magic he'd learned at his Lord's knee, no doubt." Crouch's eyes glazed over a little as he reminisced. "He resisted our attempts at Cruciatus and Imperius, and we all know Occlumency can block Veritaserum to an extent, but there are other ways, darker ways, to block it completely."
Antoinette felt her heart jump into her throat so that she almost choked on it. She had never heard this before, and until that moment she'd never realised just how much she'd wanted to. "If you please, sir, just what did he resist?"
Crouch's eyes narrowed on hers. "That is confidential Ministry information. Of course I would never think of telling you, no matter how close you are to the situation." He spoke with the air of someone trying to convince her he'd never broken a rule in his life and wasn't about to start now. "Besides, I wouldn't want to cause you more grief. Undoubtedly you suffered the most for his betrayal."
"Yes." Her face: she made sure to lower it, to lower her eyes in a show of remorse. She knew she looked lovely in her shield of sadness. Beautifully cold.
"Forgive me, Mrs Black, I seemed to have instigated a delicate subject." He didn't look sorry at all, but Antoinette played her part.
"These two years have passed almost too quickly." She made sure to add just the right amount of wobbly inflection in her tone: one that suggested she was trying to be brave about the whole thing, but underneath really wasn't.
"Please accept my apologies, Madam."
"Of course, sir. You weren't to know I still feel as I do." She paused. "Have you come to a decision?"
He smiled thinly. "We both know a decision had been reached before I even stepped into this room."
"The Minster herself vouches for me, Mr Crouch. Surely there can be no greater praise?"
"I suppose you're wondering why I'm delaying the inevitable, then?"
"One does tend to think it a little odd." She leant forward, gaze focused. It was time to outline some things. All this bandying about was getting on her nerves. "In addition to Millicent's recommendation, I am also a highly accomplished witch. I can speak three languages — nowhere near to what you can, but certainly more than anyone else in this department — and this particular position requires the employ of a multi-lingual personage. I finished Beaubatons with the equivalent of ten of your NEWTS, specialising specifically in magical politics. And lastly, I come in a very pretty package, and we both know, however shallow it may sound, that image — exclusively, the image of the British Ministry of Magic in contrast with other international Ministries — is an important factor in the evolution of this department.
"What is it, precisely, that you do not approve of, Mr Crouch?"
"But you just touched on it yourself, Mrs Black," said Crouch, obviously relishing her confusion. "British Image. You are not British."
She blinked. This was his objection? Something this small, while she had been preparing herself over and over for all those obvious criticisms. She never would have expected . . . "I am English."
"By marriage only. And I wouldn't call that very viable, either." He sneered.
"But —"
"You also have somewhat of an accent."
The bone of her knuckles stood out, white, against her skin with how hard she squeezed her fist. As luck would have it, it had remained in her lap for the entire interview. "Do you truly have a problem? I am young still. It shall thin out eventually. I can get rid of it."
"See that you do."
Crouch had agreed.
Her relief was so great that it took her a moment to realise she'd stopped breathing. She hadn't known she'd been so nervous. Drawing an imperceptible, tiny gasp, Antoinette smiled at the man opposite. Her new employer. Smoothing out her robes, she stood. "Thank you, sir, you shan't be disappointed."
"I know I won't be."
The words were ominous enough that they gave her a momentary pause. But she extended her hand nonetheless. Crouch shook it firmly and showed her out.
"I expect you at that desk in two weeks," he announced once they'd stepped through the threshold. Barkwith's desk, adjacent to Crouch's office, was currently unoccupied. Her new boss raised a supercilious brow at the sight, but didn't comment; Barkwith's absence being a common occurrence.
Antoinette took it upon herself to greet all of her new colleagues, staying well away from the dazed demeanour of one Bertha Jorkins, who had recently been transferred from some other department, before finally Apparating home.
"Kreacher!"
A faint pop signalled the arrival of her one and only house-elf. The creature stood, hunched, in the middle of her drawing room, large batwing ears trembling a little at the tips. His loincloth, recently purchased under Antoinette's insistence, was now tucked snugly about his hips. "Kreacher is here, Mistress," he intoned. "Kreacher has just been cleaning."
Antoinette looked about the room with an elegantly raised brow, her sharp eyes spotting something that contradicted the elf's statement. "Then why is my cup still on the coffee table?"
"Kreacher has been cleaning Grimmauld Place, Mistress."
Antoinette stiffened. The contrived audacity — the utter contrived audacity — of this elf wasn't to be born!
"I know you miss Walburga." Missed your daily slap, more like. Antoinette thought of the insinuations of what that might allude to, and shuddered. Delicately. "She has only been gone for two weeks, after all, so I will allow you some leniency in what you choose to say and what you choose to do, due to your obvious grief. But do not dare to insult my memory. I ordered you to stay here."
The elf bowed low. "Kreacher begs for Mistress to forgive him, but Kreacher's other mistress ordered Kreacher to stay in Grimmauld Place."
"Kreacher's other mistress is dead. Your home now is the other Black house. Her brother's house. Alphard's house. Now Siri – now my house. You will do as I order, thank you, and not listen to the contrivances of a portrait whose likeness is now buried in the family crypt."
"Kreacher doesn't understand why Mistress left Grimmauld Place just as Kreacher's other Mistress die —"
"Kreacher will bite his tongue!" she hissed.
Kreacher bit his tongue.
Then howled.
"Stop that at once!"
Kreacher stopped, large eyes quivering.
"Don't pretend as though you didn't know I spoke figuratively." She forced her tone to soften. "I am not Walburga, Kreacher. You know this. We have spent two years living together. I shall not treat you as Walburga treated you, nor should you expect me to. There are no hidden meanings in my words, and you shan't be punished for not deciphering said supposed hidden meanings."
Kreacher started murmuring under his breath, gaze positioned on a knob of wood sticking out of the floor. "Kreacher misses his old den in the kitchen cupboard, oh yes, with all of Master Regulus's things."
"Then I give you permission to retrieve Regulus's possessions. But you are to come straight back," she said.
The elf's gaze shot up and shone with reverence, twig-like fingers clasping together at his chest. "Young Mistress is too good to Kreacher."
"Young Mistress cannot live without Kreacher," she said, tone plain. It was true. She couldn't. She'd never been able to overcome her abhorrence for housework. And now that there was no husband to please she had become even more disinclined to pick up a cleaning charm or two. Let Kreacher take care of it, she had often thought, as he was so disposed.
Later at the dining table, her supper untouched, palms flat on either side of her plate, Antoinette stared straight ahead into nothing.
The silence was loud. Too loud. The only sound penetrating the stillness —
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Her stare moved to the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
Then moved back.
She picked up her spoon.
She ate her soup.
After Walburga had passed away a fortnight ago the blonde witch had wasted no time moving out of Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Two years spent in that misery, that – that prison with her mother-in-law shrieking in her ear every time something screwed with her view of the world (which was always) had been quite enough. More than enough. But she hadn't counted . . . she hadn't thought . . .
Clink.
Her spoon had fallen in the bowl. Dull silver through yellow liquid.
Here. There were so many — pieces. Broken pieces. Broken memories.
Sirius.
Antoinette closed her eyes tight. She hadn't so much as thought his name in two years, but today — ah, today — it seemed she could not get rid of his image. First with Crouch practically forcing his memory on her, and now . . . But nothing could ever force her, voluntarily, into Grimmauld Place. Even the recollection of her murderous husband's face wasn't enough to make her go back there. It was just – just . . .
She sighed.
Alphard's old house had been their home. Their only home. Sirius and Toni's.
They had shared it together for a few weeks at least, imprinting their personality on its walls, and now she was going to have to forget about Sirius all over again. Forget about them all over again. It had taken months last time. The ache in her heart was duller this time, but that there was an ache at all made her furious with herself. Who did she think she was, allowing herself to become so angry? So irritated? Allowing Sirius to win? Again? Had she not been furious enough? Had she not gone through all of this?
Suddenly she was weeping.
She dared not go into the garden.
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"Cousin Toni!"
The little bundle of blue silk robes and platinum-fine hair launched itself at Antoinette's waist, enthusiastic arms embracing her tight. A rosy-cheeked face grinned up at her, exposing a missing tooth.
"You came!" Draco gasped.
"Where else would I be on my favourite cousin's special day?" she questioned, smoothing back his locks and ignoring the grimace Narcissa tried not very hard to conceal over her son's shoulder. "Happy sixth birthday, mon petite."
"How many prethents did you buy me?" Draco demanded, lisping slightly.
When Antoinette pursed her lips, Draco seemed to shrink a little. "Just the one, as always. Wouldn't do to spoil you, now, would it?" Although, it might be too late.
She reached into her robe pocket and presented a box wrapped in dark purple paper. Draco visibly deflated. "It's ever so small," he drawled, eyeing it beadily.
"Well, if you don't want it —"
A little hand wriggled up between hers and snatched it out of her grasp before she could get to pocketing it. "Don't be silly, of course I want it!"
"What do we say, Draco?" Narcissa's waspish voice drifted over to them from the summerhouse.
Striking grey eyes beamed up at her all the while a tiny aristocratic nose rose high — an action a mere six-year-old should not have been acquainted with. "Thank you."
But Antoinette's breath had caught in her throat, as it always did when she stared too long at Draco.
The resemblance to Sirius was striking. Some features were similar: the cheekbones for instance. But the eyes . . . oh, the eyes were exactly the same. The same colour, the same shape. That same elusive grey. The grey that looked like dark smoke when he was feeling particularly high emotions, but at other times resembled polished silver. Draco seemed to grow more into that look every year.
Maybe that was why she only came to Malfoy Manor twice annually. Whether to convince herself she wasn't bothered by the reason, or because of it, she had yet to find out.
Her new family Antoinette barely tolerated, preferring to keep away from most of the maliciousness. At first, with reluctance, she'd accepted Narcissa's invitation; along with a puffed up Walburga she'd put in an appearance at Draco's second birthday party. From then on she'd come regularly twice a year: once for Christmas and once for her cousin's birthday. Little Draco grew over the years from a baby-faced toddler to a snooty rapscallion who absolutely adored Antoinette, much to his parents' tight-lipped disproval. A Malfoy was not permitted to adore anyone, let alone advertise that idolisation by acting the proverbial 'commoner': pouring Antoinette her coffee when she took brunch in the gardens with Narcissa, allowing himself to be embraced and even, when he was feeling particularly exuberant — as he'd been just now — instigating the show of affection.
To be perfectly honest, she only put in an appearance because of Draco. Narcissa and Lucius could go and jump off the nearest broom, but Draco was at that impressionable age where betrayal would mean a lifelong travesty. He would never trust anyone again. And he would view Antoinette's absence, were she not to show, as a betrayal. She was his beloved cousin who lavished him with a special treat on his special day and disappeared until Christmas. To break the routine would be crass, and would also demean about fifty non-spoken rules of propriety that they all knew instinctually.
She also did it because of Harry.
Draco (horrible though she felt to admit it) was sort of her substitute for Harry. She wasn't allowed to see her godson, speak to him, owl him, or contact him in anyway. No one was, for the boy's own safety. This had annoyed her. Highly. But she managed through it by reminding herself that Harry was with family closer to him than she, and was, by now, quite spoiled with love, if not even a little arrogant, growing up as the Boy-Who-Lived.
Antoinette liked Draco, yes, and being with him brought her a sense of fulfilment that she'd not felt since she'd been a child herself, playing about her own manor in the country, but at the same time, well . . . Draco was quite the spoilt little brat, more so than she had ever been. Sometimes he reminded Antoinette of his father, and she despised Lucius — not least because she knew he'd been a loyal Death Eater.
"How have you been, Antoinette?" Narcissa spoke a little later as she poured them both tea. The summerhouse was of old Roman design, overlooking the main part of the gardens. Trimmed hedge-groves and scented blooms of every description (charmed to last all seasons) were a sight even for less appreciative eyes. A few majestic white peacocks strutted about before them, occasionally pecking at the emerald green lawn, or else emitting a shrieking cry. "You really should come by more often. Ever since Aunt Walburga died you've seemed distant."
"Yes, my dear, you really should," Lucius announced distractedly from his position on the daybed under the bay window, long-fingered hands holding a newspaper before his face as ice-blue eyes scanned the articles within with a calculation his bored tone belied. Once a Death Eater . . .
"That was four years ago. Trust me, I'm not grieving." To distract herself from the Malfoys' obvious machinations, she turned her gaze outward towards the large birds. She watched as a peafowl slowly approached its female counterpart, his head bobbing gently and his feet as they lifted, ballet-like, making not a whisper of sound in the grass. The peahen carried on, elegantly pecking away, taking no notice of her handsome admirer.
"It is only that you seem so sad, my dear. Surely you're not still grieving over Sirius?" The woman laughed a tinkling laugh and shared a glance with her husband that could mean any number of things. Antoinette saw only the obvious reason: to discomfort her. Well, she'd do the same.
"It's a wonder you're not still grieving, Narcissa, with your sister and her husband and his brother in prison. With Sirius there, well, Azkaban is turning out to be the ideal place for a family reunion." She cocked her head and placed a finger under her chin. "Makes one really think, doesn't it?"
Narcissa's lip pursed so much she looked in danger of swallowing it.
Antoinette smiled. Grimly. "You should know by now, at your age, that you'll burn if you play with fire. You will keep that in mind, won't you? Dear?"
"Really, Antoinette, you never were so blunt."
Lucius's drawl suggested approval of her gumption, but underneath all the layers of amiability he was telling her to watch herself. The Malfoys might be murderous muggle-haters, but they did love each other. Neither would stand for a direct assault on the other.
Antoinette cared not the slightest. "As opposed to your wife, who is always blunt? I used to think it a strict Bellatrix trait."
The peacock had moved on in his courting now, standing sternly alert behind the female with his large, pearl-eyed feathers flaring.
Narcissa exhaled in a rhythm of short staccatos. "Well. Well. Thank Merlin this little interlude never happened in front of our guests," she said, smiling tightly at Antoinette. She smiled back. The two witches understood each other, at least. "Speaking of which, they should be arriving soon. Dobby!"
Pop. "Yes, Mistress?"
"The dining table is set? The cake is baked, yes?"
"Everything is being ready," Dobby answered in a squeak Kreacher could never hope to emulate.
"Good." Narcissa swallowed, grey eyes flittering briefly towards Antoinette beneath long-lashed lids. "Take Draco and make him presentable. The grey silk this time, I think. Then bring him back here so I can comb his hair."
"Yes, Mistr —"
"MAUW!"
The peacock's echoing cry drowned out the elf's answer, sounding a cross between a domestic feline and an expert soprano. The resonance was fantastically poignant and beautiful; this bird, trying desperately to win over its mate in a ritual older than purebloods and politics.
There was a sudden flash of little robes.
"MAUW! MAUW!" The peacocks were both honking now, feathers reclasped. The Malfoy heir had taken it upon himself to jump out of the hedges and pull the cock's extravagant tail, interrupting the sacred ritual. Now both birds were chasing him, his little face wide with terror as he ran full pelt into the summerhouse.
"Mummy!" he wailed, and threw himself into Narcissa's arms.
"Really, Draco!" Narcissa scolded the sobbing child. "Do not antagonise the peacocks; your father and I have told you —"
"MAUW!" The male peacock announced its presence imperiously and furiously on the threshold, its many-eyed feathers lifted and burning iridescently, crying as if to say "Bring him out or I'm not moving!"
Lucius unfolded his legs and stood gracefully. "Arjuna, go and shriek somewhere else."
He brandished his paper in a threatening way at the albino cock until it turned away, seeming reluctant. But once he did so Arjuna wasted no time strutting back to his sweetheart, perhaps to make good on some comforting.
Lucius turned on his son. "No sweets for you today, Draco."
"But it's my birthday!" Draco cried, jumping out of his mother's arms.
His sire sneered down at him.
Draco's head ducked down, cheeks blooming with colour. "Sorry, father."
Narcissa was aghast. "Perhaps one slice of cake, Lucius?" she bargained. "He will only be six once."
Draco looked up hopefully.
The stone set face of Death Eater and dark wizard, the product of centuries' worth of Malfoys and impeccable breeding, visibly crumbled in the face of his son's puppy dog eyes. "Oh, very well."
"Yes!" Draco squealed.
Oh, the Malfoy drama: it never ceases.
xxxxxx
"You'll think about it, won't you, Antoinette?"
She bit her lip.
Kingsley was a very handsome man. A strong jaw framed a set of full lips; he had shaved his black hair off entirely, commemorating the style preferred by men of his heritage. Tall, very tall (her head could only reach his neck) and broad-shouldered, the obvious muscles undulating beneath the material of his robes every time he so much as moved. Warm dark eyes, promising untold happiness, completed the picture. But she just wasn't sure . . .
"I don't know, Kingsley. I–I, well you know that I'm–I'm still married, and I never . . ." she trailed off, awkward. She couldn't remember the last time she'd so stumbled through her speech.
Antoinette hated this.
Kingsley was a wonderful man. Honest. Charming. Brave. Young. Next in line for Head Auror. His presence seemed to exude a calming confidence to those he liked, and those he disliked he made nervous. Right now he was oozing power, and this close he smelled heavenly. He looked outstanding in robes, but completely sinful in a muggle suit. His teeth were white and his chest was broad, and his little gold earring had been the first thing to capture her attention, and she had been so utterly alone all these years, stuck first with Walburga, then Kreacher, and . . .
And . . .
And she was raised in the bosom of propriety. Her disposition was such that it caused a literal ache in her heart to contemplate infidelity. Even going out for a simple dinner, where nothing was guaranteed to happen, seemed almost to be too much. And . . .
And . . . she just . . .
He compromised, smiling down at her. "Dinner with friends, then, at The Leaky Cauldron. After work?"
Oh, he's so good to me! It made her feel all the more wretched. She didn't deserve him. Was still hung up on —
"If it's with friends . . . all right."
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Antoinette entered Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occassions to the jangling of a bell. Her heels clacked against the wooden floor as she walked to the front desk, the dull sound sometimes muffled due to the strips of material littered about.
The witch at the counter wore pretentious mauve robes with an even showier hat, but they suited her squat figure. She looked up from filling out some important parchments, and smiled, all businessy. "Welcome to Madam Mal — oh, but it's my favourite customer! How can I help you today, dear?"
Antoinette looked about at the assembled bolts of cloth, her shrewd eye for fashion spotting the new arrivals instantly. "I require new robes for work, preferably in my usual style."
Madam Malkin tsked. "A beautiful woman like you hiding behind those potato sacks —"
"Fashionable potato sacks," Antoinette corrected, grinning.
"They are that," said the Madame, looking jolly. She perused Antoinette up and down, a glint in her eye. "Perhaps you'd consider a colour other than your usual navy tones? We've a new lavenderish shade come in this morning. Nothing too gauche," she added quickly. "Or too fluttery; just the right texture and shade."
Antoinette pretended to consider, knowing that Madame was practically salivating at the thought of such a high-priced sell. Well, Antoinette did tend to purchase robes made out of the most expensive material . . . "Show it to me."
"Oooh, you won't be disappointed, dear."
A quarter of an hour later Antoinette stood on a stool in the women's dressing room, attempting to persuade the seamstress to let go the idea of trying a new style. Her clipped-collared one was quite enough for her and quite enough for Crouch.
"But Antoinette, dear, your figure is simply extraordinary! It's shameful the way you hide it behind such bulbous robes. I'd love to show if off, at least a little bit. I don't get to indulge in you unless you've some important Ministry party or function to attend."
"No. I'm telling you, Crouch won't stand for it," she said firmly.
"But if you could just — drat! That was the bell. I'll be back as soon as I take care of this customer! Meanwhile, why don't you think on it?"
Antoinette opened her mouth to tell her she'd done all the thinking already, but Madame had disappeared out the dressing room with a rustling of robes.
Madam Black herself had a feeling she wouldn't win this time. Grinning, smirking, Antoinette shook her head. The things she put up . . .
A familiar voice churning with arrogance pricked her ears. ". . . starting Hogwarts. He'll need everything, including shoes if you sell them. Also, fit him up with a dress robe or two. And a cloak. Let him choose the style."
"Of course, Mrs Malfoy. Anything else?"
"Yes, actually, I'll pay you now. I still have to go to Ollivanders."
Just what Antoinette needed. The Malfoys. Although, Narcissa appeared to be going. That was good. She could speak to Draco alone if the situation required it.
"Mother, I want to go look at Quality Quidditch Supplies."
"Later, darling. Robes first. Your father will come collect you as soon as you're done."
The bell jangled once more as Narcissa left.
Madam Malkin's voice came close as she led Draco into the dressing room next door. "Up on the stool, dear. That's it. Now, if you could just wait a bit, I've another customer who was here first, and then I'll come right —"
Draco mumbled something Antoinette couldn't make out. Neither, it seemed, did the Madame. She carried on talking, jolly as always. "Now, if you'll just stand there Matilda — where is Matilda? — ah, there you are. Matilda will be measuring your robes today, Mr Malfoy. And here's the material — what's this?" The bell had jangled once more. "Oh deary me, another customer. Back in a moment!"
Her friend was sounding more frazzled by the minute. It was to be expected, Antoinette supposed, with Hogwarts looming for more than a few students.
Sure enough, as if Madam Malkin had read her mind, she said to her newest customer, "Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here — another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."
There was silence for a few seconds as Madame led the other student over to the men's dressing room.
Draco's voice pierced it. "Hullo," he said. "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," said the new boy.
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said Draco in the bored, drawling voice he adopted when wanting to impress. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."
Oh, Draco, you spoilt little thing.
"Have you got your own broom?"
"No," said the other boy.
"Play Quidditch at all?"
"No."
"I do — Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"
"No."
"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
"Mmm."
The poor boy was obviously intimated by Draco, if his monosyllabic answers were anything to go by. That, or he was muggleborn, and hadn't a clue what her little cousin-by-marriage was talking about.
"I say, look at that man!" Draco said suddenly.
"That's Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts," said the other boy at once, startling Antoinette with the information.
"Oh," said Draco in a sneering tone. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"
Antoinette listened intently, interested in what the boy had to say. If he really was muggleborn how could he possibly know? "He's the gamekeeper."
"Yes, exactly," said Draco. "I heard he's sort of savage — lives in a hut in the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic and ends up setting fire to his bed."
"I think he's brilliant," said the other boy. Coldly. She leaned further forward, almost standing on tiptoes. What a fascinating exchange.
"Do you?" said Draco, sneer evident in his voice. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"
"My parents are dead."
Antoinette fell off her stool.
"Oh, sorr —"
"What was that?"
"Is everything all right, Antoinette dear?" the Madame called, concerned.
"Antoinette?" parroted Draco.
"I'm perfectly all right, Madam Malkin," she called breathlessly, cheeks heating as she stood and began brushing off. Squaring her shoulders, fixing a few straggly strands of hair, she drew a breath and made her way out of the women's dressing room and into the mens', talking all the while. "Just fell off the stool. Too much thinking. I was telling Eric the other day . . ." her words petered off, forgotten.
There, standing beside Draco on a similar stool, was her godson.
"Is everything all right, Cousin Toni?"
The voice entered her consciousness as if from a long tunnel, and it was only then that Antoinette realised she had been staring stupidly for the better part of thirty seconds. The Madame, her assistant, and Draco were all blinking up at her. Harry wasn't. His cheeks had bloomed with colour and his hands were fidgeting due to such unabashed scrutiny. His eyes, though, were glaring up at her in confusion. Such beautiful eyes. She'd never thought . . . "Harry," she whispered, quite stupidly, and those green eyes stopped glaring and started widening.
"How do you —?" he began, but Antoinette didn't let him finish.
"Madame, if you're quite finished here, I'll take your suggestion about that new style."
Madam Malking started to grin. "Oh, wonderful —"
"You know my measurements," Antoinette interjected, feeling horribly false. But anything to get away from the suddenly stifling room. "Floo it to me when you're ready. Draco, it was good seeing you again. Tell you're parents I said hello. Good day."
She rushed out of the shop.
She didn't dare stay.
She was too ashamed.
Seeing the two boys standing together . . . A sob rose in her throat and she choked it down by sheer will power. Antoinette pushed her way through the morning crowd, not acknowledging those she bumped in to.
Those eyes!
Those green eyes had seemed to accuse her. Seemed to be asking "Why?"
Why she'd never bothered to show up over the years, why she'd abandoned her duty. Why she'd, instead, doted on the other boy: the one who had seemed so conceited. Here I am! Harry seemed to be saying. Look at who you chose instead of me. He doesn't even like Hagrid!
But she hadn't been able to contact Harry. She hadn't been allowed!
All excuses.
When Antoinette arrived home she plunked her bottom on the divan and cried. She cried for Harry and for all the missing years, she cried for Draco and for the unsolicited thoughts she'd had about him. An eleven-year-old child, still under the thumb of condescending parents, was undeserving of them. And finally, she cried for herself. What a complete and utter failure she was. She'd failed both of them. They didn't know it, of course (how could they?) but she knew it.
It was all Sirius's fault. If he hadn't . . .
A short scream left her throat. Not again. Not again. Not again.
Always him. Always.
Happy Birthday, Harry.
xxxxxx
"No, not that one! The one blue one with the hood — yes that's it! Oh, how could I have overslept. Crouch isn't going to be — where's the paper?"
"Kreacher has put it in the slot by the front door, Mistress. As always."
She was too preoccupied to scold the elf on his snide tone. "Of course, how silly of me to forget." She threw on her hooded cloak, grabbed the paper, and dashed out the door.
Antoinette Apparated almost without thinking, appearing in the atrium's specially blocked off Apparition room, and immediately making her way to the lift, pushing past a gaggle of Ministry workers who seemed to be doing nothing but standing around and procrastinating.
"Excuse me – Thanks ever so – Oh, was that your foot? – So sorry – Is that a new hat, Dolores?"
"Wait — Mrs Black!" Arthur Weasley shouted after her, but she was in too much of a hurry to say hello now. She hoped he wouldn't take offence.
When the doors of the lift shut with a clang, she finally allowed herself to relax. What topic could have been so important that most of the higher-ups were bundled together in front of a crummy old lift talking about it excitedly instead of working?
Antoinette blinked.
And unfolded her paper.
And blinked. What was a vampire doing —?
"Oh. My. God."
Her heart rolled over in her chest, twisting, aching. Her breath stuttered. And stuttered. And stuttered. Her vision hazed.
There. There. There! There on the front cover of The Daily Prophet, scowling up at her, was, was —
Sirius.
When the lift finally came to its third floor destination, it was Bertha Jorkins who found Antoinette unconscious on its dirty floor.
xxxxxx
A/N: Everyone knows that the dialogue between Harry and Madam Malkin and Harry and Draco does not belong to me, but instead comes from Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, pages 59 to 61.