He didn't know if it was anxiety or if he was genuinely losing his ability to breathe. One thing was certain; even though he was laying completely still, Lucius's heart felt like it was beating out of his chest.

He couldn't say how much time had passed. More goddamn waiting, this time unable to even move to dispel his nerves…it was torture. This was worse than the Cruciatus. His mind was running over and over just how much money he was losing at this very moment.

Lucius wasn't stupid. He knew better than to keep all his money in one place. However, of all the places he kept it, Gringotts was supposed to be the safest, so the largest sum was there. Of course. So he wouldn't be penniless, but the comfortable cushion of having more money than he could spend in a lifetime would be gone.

He wasn't as worried about losing the money as he was about what would be done with it. The Scattori brothers and their consigliere clearly had something planned and they were going to use his hard-earned (or, hard-inherited) money to fund it. He didn't want to be the financier for any nutter's campaign of terror, and it was increasingly looking like Milan would soon erupt into another bloodbath.

Malfoy money was not, and would never be, blood money. The fortune had been accrued through smart investing over the generations, the majority of which were completely legal. He wouldn't go so far as to say that it was all clean money, but he hadn't been the one to dirty it and he could care less about those who had. However, he did want to keep things as they were.

He needed a way to get the money back. Maybe he was overreacting; maybe they would realize that the marriage certificate was fake and arrest Narcissa before she could pocket a single knut. He could hope, but not very convincingly. This wasn't something she would botch. When his ex-wife made up her mind, she got things done.

Okay, he was definitely having trouble breathing. It felt like he couldn't get enough air, like he was taking in a quarter of what his lungs could handle. In combination with his racing heart, he was beginning to feel lightheaded. This wasn't good.

But what could he do? He couldn't so much as twitch. This was really the worst thing that had ever been done to him. And if it got any worse…God, what agony that would be, slowly suffocating to death.

Spurred by that thought, he made a quick decision. In six years without a wand, Lucius hadn't let himself get rusty. He exploited his sentence; he couldn't use a wand, but that didn't preclude him using small bits of wandless magic. In time, he'd even begun to practice wordless and wandless magic, and he wasn't half bad at it. If he could make it work now…

Accio phone. Come on, accio phone…

He heard a swooshing sound and internally rejoiced; it was the phone slipping across the carpeted floor. However, he also knew that that was the easy part. The summoning charm was one of the things he'd mastered first. Other magic had proved more difficult.

He debated. He could try to call someone, but since he couldn't speak, he had no idea how the answering party would react. He liked to think that they'd recognize a silent call from him for what it was – an emergency, but he didn't want to take a chance. He could try texting. But that would be even more excruciating, requiring the right pressure on many buttons, many times, and he couldn't see what he was doing. He could end up texting a bunch of jibberish and that wouldn't do him any good.

The call first. And if that didn't work, he'd attempt the text. Even if he did send random letters, the recipient would recognize it as odd and possibly consider checking on him. So much was left to chance…

He closed his eyes. Pictured the phone, its long, bright screen, the things he'd have to do to make a call. Draco, call Draco…and then speaker phone…

A wave of dizziness hit him. He couldn't fucking breathe. Still, the phone was ringing. He'd managed it through willpower. He would stay conscious through willpower, too, as long as he could manage.

Hermione nearly jumped ten feet in the air when a strong vibration tickled her rear end. Ginny gave her a strange look as she danced around for a moment before extracting Draco's phone from her back pocket. She'd completely forgotten about stashing it there when Ginny had owled to ask if she wanted to come over and help her start designing the nursery.

Hermione looked at the screen. It said 'Dad'. Lucius was calling, then. She briefly considered not answering it, since Lucius wasn't looking for her, but she hadn't spoken to him in a while and it might be nice to talk for a few minutes. Poking a hesitant finger to the screen to answer, she lifted the phone to her ear.

"Hello," she said amicably.

Silence.

"Hello? Lucius, it's Hermione. Draco lent me his phone."

Again, silence. Hermione frowned.

"Lucius?"

Ten excruciating seconds of quiet followed. Wait, not entirely quiet…if she listened hard, she could make out the sound of breathing. It was shallow and labored.

"Lucius. Lucius, are you all right? Please answer me."

Ginny glanced up, copper brows knitting slightly. Hermione's stomach was rapidly tying itself in knots as she listened to the low rasp of breathing. A moment later her fear quickly solidified into resolve.

"I'm coming, Lucius," she said, and hung up the phone.

Ringing. On the third, someone answered. Not who he expected, but still good; Hermione's pretty voice drifted to his ears. No, he was not bloody well all right! Thankfully, she got the message quickly, and her parting words reignited his hope.

"I'm coming, Lucius."

Bless that girl and the brain between her frizzy curls.

Hermione wasn't taking chances. Both Harry and Ginny were with her and all three had their wands drawn. She had no idea what they were getting into, or if Lucius was even in his flat. She hoped he was. Oh, how she hoped he was…but Harry had offered some hope, saying that muggle mobile phones had something in them called a GPS, which could be used to track a person's location. If he wasn't in the flat, they would have to use the GPS.

The door wasn't warded. That was very disturbing. It meant someone had already dismantled the magical protection. His face set in a scowl, Harry took two steps backward and then shouldered the door open with a loud, splintering crack.

Hermione and Ginny waited in strained silence. A few moments later, Harry reappeared and nodded tersely. They followed him in, wands still raised. The flat was quiet.

The kitchen was undisturbed, as was the living room. However, Lucius's study wasn't quite right. Ginny pointed mutely to a crooked drawer, then to a box on the floor. Harry picked it up and frowned before handing it to Hermione. It was an empty box of wizard checks.

Shaking her head, Hermione moved forward and carefully pushed open the door of his bedroom. It was dark, but the pale fan of his hair was impossible to miss on the floor. She gasped and ran the few steps to him, tears already starting in her eyes.

He was dead. Sweet Merlin, he was dead, still, frozen, his eyes open and staring motionlessly up at the ceiling. Ginny was next to her, her mouth open in shock. Harry stood over them, on edge, a dark look on his face.

"Oh my God. Oh…he's…"

"His neck," Ginny whispered, "look at his neck."

She did, taking in the small pinprick and the ring of purple bruising around it. "Someone poisoned him. But who could get this close? How…" she trailed off, overwhelmed and stunned.

"Ow!" Harry suddenly exclaimed. Both women started and turned to him, just in time to see something fall to the floor. He was rubbing the back of his head, perplexed. "It just smacked into me. Do you suppose someone else is here? We need to--"

"Harry, look!" Hermione interrupted, pointing frantically. Behind him, on the wall, words were being spelled out in some unidentified substance.

N-O-T-D-E-A-D

Not dead! Hermione's eyes widened.

"Ginny, take his pulse! See if he's breathing!"

The letters continued.

P-A-R-A-L-Y-Z-E-D-C-A-N-T-B-R-E-A-T-H-E

"He has a pulse! He's barely breathing, though!" Ginny reported, her face lighting up.

D-Y-I-N-G

"Okay. Okay, we're here, we're taking you to St. Mungo's right now." Hermione began to wrap her arms around his unyielding body when Harry spoke up.

"Wait, he's spelling out something else!"

G-R-I-N-G-O-T-T-S

"What about Gringotts? Lucius, what about Gringotts?" Hermione beseeched.

N-A-R-C-I

And then the letters stopped.

"Narci? Narcissa?" Harry said, confused.

"No time!" Ginny practically shouted. "He's not breathing!"

With a frustrated sigh, Harry wrapped his arms around both women, who were securely anchored to Lucius, and apparated. And, as they landed in the main entrance of St. Mungo's, he realized that this was the second time in twice as many months that he'd shown up with a Malfoy on the verge of death in tow.

"You're insane!" Rita Skeeter panted, cowering in the corner of the pantry. Narcissa advanced on her without hesitation. They had chased each other around the small space for several minutes, and she had at last managed to back the woman into the corner. She was so angry that she didn't even feel her ankle; rage gave her adrenaline and dulled the pain.

"I'm insane?" she shouted. "I don't make up lies! I don't profit from other people's mistakes, or awkward moments, or misfortunes! I don't pay prostitutes to drug men so that they'll cheat on their wives!" She still couldn't believe that; regardless of how stupid the Weasley boy was and how glad she was that he'd mucked it up with Hermione (giving Draco the in he needed), that was low even for Skeeter.

"No!" she shot back. "You sit back while your psychotic hubby murders people!"

"People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones," Narcissa snarled. "And for your information, Lucius never killed anyone. That's more than can be said for your fine example of a spouse!"

"That's what he's told you, is it?" Skeeter sniffed derisively. "What do you think went on in the service of the Dark Lord? Tea parties?"

"What do you think goes on in your little Mafia game?"

Rita's eyes narrowed. "The family is about mutual prosperity. We're not trying to rid the world of anyone we consider beneath us. People get themselves into trouble when they cross us; they aren't born with a strike already against them. We're not supporting a madman. It isn't eugenics, you thick wench!"

"Maybe it was about that once, but look around, Rita, you are supporting a madman! And I'll have you know, he's trying to implicate your family in the things he is doing!" Narcissa stomped her foot, irritated at the woman's inability to see things for what they were. "He just locked you in here! He's probably hoping I'll kill you to save him the bother! He threw you aside like you were nothing." She jabbed a long-nailed finger at Rita's face. "At least my husband came after me."

And that was probably the cruelest thing she could ever say to the blonde across from her. She felt no remorse whatsoever; she deserved it. She had shattered many marriages and friendships. Narcissa didn't feel bad returning the favor, though it was obvious that Rita and Gaetano's marriage had been on the rocks for some time – even if Rita was oblivious to that fact.

In spite of herself, she felt a small frisson of sympathy when the curly-haired woman burst into tears. She certainly wasn't going to comfort her. She could feel some small pity, though, for a woman who had been so thoroughly betrayed by her husband. After all, she had recently experienced the exact same thing with her fiancé.

Narcissa was ready to back off. She was ready to sit on the opposite end of the pantry and watch while Rita had herself a good cry. But that wasn't meant to be, because Rita's face filled with a venomous expression and she spoke,

"Your pretty husband is dead, Narcissa."

Her brain balked at the words. "What?"

Rita's furor gained speed. "I poisoned him. Right about now, he should be slowly suffocating to death as his diaphragm stops working."

"You're lying," Narcissa whispered, eyes wide. That was what this woman did. She lied. It wasn't true. She was bluffing. She had to be bluffing.

"No, I can even tell you the name of the poison. It's called pancuronium. They use it for euthanasia, you know, and lethal injections…" At that moment, Rita Skeeter was malice personified. She went on, softly and viciously, "Poor Lucius, dying all alone, thinking the woman he loves is the one who betrayed and murdered him…"

"It's not true!" Narcissa shouted, tears pooling in her eyes.

"He's dead and he deserves it. Though I personally believe the Dementor's Kiss would have been a much more satisfying way for him to go…"

Narcissa was numb. Literally, her entire body had lost feeling; it all went to her chest, where it congealed and swelled until it could no longer be contained. It felt like a bone snapping, like a ligament tearing. Now she knew it wasn't just a euphemism when they said someone died of a broken heart, because hers was in pieces.

Giacomo Cannavare sighed and ran his hands through his hair. Fucking Gaetano. It was only the Scattori family's meager numbers and Gaetano's position in maintaining the bond with the Mancinis that had kept him from recommending to Lorenzo that his brother be discretely dealt with. Hell, right now he wouldn't mind doing it himself.

He had warned Lorenzo. He had told him that he was hoping against hope that his brother's fit of ruinous ambition in the eighties was a one-time event. All they had to do was look at the history of any mob family; they were replete with backstabbings and jealous murders. He had just watched as Gaetano used his own wife (malignant as she was) to steal another man's fortune, and then cast her by the wayside. Lorenzo was next, no matter how nicely Gaetano was playing so far.

He knew his type. They always had an agenda. They would use the people around them until they no longer provided any benefit and then they would move on. People like Gaetano left a storm of destruction in their wake.

It was already happening. Gaetano had effectively destroyed Giacomo's chance at marrying Narcissa. She would never come back to him now, not when she thought he'd betrayed her. Not when he'd kept secrets from her. It wouldn't have been an issue if things had continued as they were before Gaetano's reappearance; Lorenzo rarely needed his advice and Desiderio was similarly level-headed. The two were an excellent team.

Giacomo had been waiting his whole damn life to marry a woman he loved. He'd been recruited into the mob at the age of 20 and for the first two years, he had never been entirely sure of his footing in the organization. Any little mistake with Saturnino could have been the end of him. Luckily, the Scattori patriarch had loved him like a third son, and made it well known to everyone. However, there had been no pretty cousin to match him to and women feared becoming involved with a made man; he had spent the greater part of his adult life alone, or in company that offered pleasure but little else. In Narcissa he had at last found a woman who was smart, witty, attractive, and passionate. That was about all a man could ask for in a partner.

That was why he had pursued her so diligently and even stooped to snatching her from an ambivalent husband. He did feel a bit guilty over it, but not guilty enough to form any regret or surrender her. If Lucius Malfoy was too stupid to recognize the gem he had, then it was not his fault.

Now it was shot to hell. Gaetano had forced his hand. He had to pretend to go along with him, for Lorenzo's sake. His wife Jocasta's life hung in the balance. He'd been able to negotiate an exchange, Narcissa for Jocasta, under the guise of a détente between the brothers. He had correctly guessed that Narcissa would be a more valuable prisoner. He prayed that Gaetano was only interested in her money.

He had already talked it over with Lorenzo and Desiderio. If Gaetano's goal was to rid Milan of the Mancinis, then they had no worry over losing the loyalty of the family they already had. However, the Mancinis outnumbered Gaetano and his few supporters by a great many, so he must have some kind of trump card. He had something up his sleeve, and they couldn't act until they knew what it was.

He hated to do this. He knew Narcissa was strong; she had proven to be fierce when threatened or provoked. His sore nether regions proved that. She was also very intelligent, though he often pretended not to notice so that she would think that he wasn't on par with it. She had no idea how smart he was, and he had every idea how smart she was. She would survive. She would get through whatever ill treatment befell her until Giacomo could free her. It wouldn't take long, if all went to plan. But he wasn't sure that she would be able to forgive him when all was said and done…because already, he wasn't sure if he could forgive himself.

Draco suffered a jaw-cracking yawn. He had known the doctorate would be chock full of research, but he would rather be brewing today. Needing to not kill himself with volatile ingredients would do a better job of keeping him awake.

Only Henric and Isamu were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Everyone who had gone out looked a bit like a zombie. It was completely worth it, of course, and he didn't regret it in spite of the odd run-in with Seamus Finnigan.

Telly was asleep on the book he'd been reading. Gabriel and Ernesto were managing to get something done, albeit slowly and painstakingly. Chelsea looked slightly glazed; her eyes were on her book, but they weren't moving. Ryan was taking notes and David was doing the "I'm trying not to fall asleep" head jerk across from him. For his part, Draco had managed to find a few books that might be useful, and though he wrote down the titles and page numbers, he couldn't be bothered to actually read the articles right now.

He looked at Henric and Isamu. They were sitting together, looking very studious indeed. Eight hours of sleep could do that, Draco thought wryly. However, in getting their eight hours of sleep, they had missed out on the bonding that had taken place the night before. There was no more awkward unfamiliarity among those who had gone out. It had dissolved just like that, with a little beer, a little dancing, and a little late-night conversation when they got back.

Now the two men were at a disadvantage. Once a group formed, it was hard to break in. It was now or never for them. Making up his mind, Draco closed his book and walked over to their table.

Both of them looked up at him expectantly. Henric, in particular, wore an expression that told him he'd best state his case quickly and be gone. Draco ignored the irritation it raised in him and tried to be nice. He sat down at the end of the table.

"So, what topics are you guys thinking about for your dissertations?"

To his surprise, Isamu spoke first, and with some enthusiasm.

"Oh, I'm quite interested in the research that's going on for organ-growing potions. Do you know, if they can perfect the formula, they can grow new nervous systems for people?"

"Wow," Draco said, suitably impressed. He hadn't heard that. "Is there much data?"

"A fair amount. I hope to make my own contributions," Isamu nodded.

Draco looked toward Henric. The German stared back.

At that moment, Finley Greene entered the room. Ryan threw a wad of paper at Telly, who woke with a snort. The tall Alchemist (for that was what they called someone who had a doctorate in potions) smiled slightly and said,

"As you were." He moved over toward the table where Draco sat in an interesting stalemate with Henric and relative ease with Isamu. "Draco, a letter came for you a few minutes ago. The owl was very insistent." Greene held up a bandaged finger. "It bit me when I didn't get up to bring it to you right away, so I figured it must be important."

Draco grimaced. "I'm sure it's nothing. Sorry about the bird."

Greene shrugged, supremely unconcerned. "Let me know if you need anything." He surveyed the room briefly and said, "Good work, everyone." Then he glided into the stacks, making himself scarce in the massive library.

With a sigh, Draco opened the letter. And as he read it, he knew the color was draining from his face. It was happening again.

"What is it?" Isamu asked.

"Is everything all right?" Chelsea echoed.

Draco re-folded the note and reached for some composure. "No. My father is in the hospital. He almost died."

"You have to go see him, man," Telly said. "We'll tell Greene where you went."

Draco nodded. "You're right. Okay. I…I guess I'll floo." His thoughts were scattering in a dozen different directions; he might splinch himself if he tried to apparate.

Henric broke his silence at last. "Do give Daddy Death Eater our regards," he said frostily.

The slam of Draco's notebook against the table made everyone in the room jump, and it echoed off the high ceilings of the library. He leaned into Henric's personal space, his face not three inches from the other man's.

"I am sick and tired of your silent accusation, Henric," he enunciated. "Do you think I wanted it? I was sixteen. I had no choice." Rage was steadily building inside Draco. He was done with blame, just done. "Did you ever see him? Did you ever stand before Voldemort? No. He's just some kind of legend to you," he spat. "You have never heard his voice. You have never felt his cold hand on your shoulder, or his magic burning into your very soul while he used Cruciatus on you, or worse. You never had the lives of your family held over you. You never watched your friends die. You never had to live every day of your life in constant fear that you were going to die. You have no idea of what the circumstances were or what it was like, so until you do, which will be never, I suggest you keep your mouth shut."

"And as for my father, well, he's made his share of mistakes. I can't deny that. But have you never made a mistake? Are you perfect? Have you never fallen for something that turned out to be a lie? You don't know my dad. He isn't what people think he is. I love him and I'm proud of him, end of story. So don't you breathe a word against him, Henric, not in my presence, because I will defend him and I can guarantee that that's a fight you can't win," he finished with a snarl.

"What's going on here?" Greene's voice rang out in the silence after Draco's tirade.

"Henric is being an asshole," Telly supplied bluntly.

"What's the problem, Mr. Faust?"

"I didn't know when I was accepted to this program that I would have to work alongside people like him," the man in question replied, thrusting a finger at Draco. "He should be in prison."

"I was tried like everyone else, you son of a bitch," Draco shot back. "If I should have been in prison, they would have sent me there."

"They clearly made a mistake," Henric said between his teeth.

"Think what you want." Draco turned and began to stalk away. Then, as another thought struck him, he turned back. "You're so eager to condemn. What did I ever do to you? I guess I offend you with my very existence, with my audacity to try to do the same things as you. Sounds an awful lot like Death Eater philosophy, doesn't it?"

Henric's chair clattered to the ground as he stood up abruptly. "Don't you dare--"

But he was interrupted by Greene, who barked, "Enough! Draco, go where you're going. Henric, outside with me. NOW."

Draco had already turned his back on the situation. He knew he was walking the wrong way to escape the library, but for now just removing himself from the immediate conflict was what he needed. He wound his way deep into the stacks until he had no idea where he was. Then he leaned against the musty books and breathed.

Would it never stop? He supposed not; people had long memories. But six and a half years had gone by. He had done so much to distance himself from all that he used to be. And if people in Britain could forgive him, the people that were closest to the war, who lost the most, what was wrong with the rest of the world? He supposed it was ignorance. Not having a face to put to an accusation. He was just a flat character to people like Henric, a remorseless villain who had escaped the fate he deserved through money or wiles or both.

Hell, he knew better than most how easily people could judge without knowing all the facts. He shouldn't let it get to him so much. It was his karmic return, he supposed, for voicing his less-than-educated (and often unkind) opinion so much in his youth. He wouldn't be the type who could dish it out but not take it. Draco took a deep breath, willing it all to slip away. There were more important things to deal with right now.

He stood up straight and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle out of his shirt. Then he turned, and nearly had a heart attack, because David was standing right there.

"Sorry," he said immediately. "Didn't mean to spook you."

"It's all right. I wasn't paying attention."

"I wanted to see if you, like…need moral support, or something."

Draco had to smile. Men were so dismal at this kind of thing, himself included. Still, it meant a lot that David cared enough to track him down and offer his awkward backing.

"No, I'll be fine," he breathed, willing it to be true. He would. It could be worse. He could be in prison, his father could be dead. There was always something worse.

"You sure?"

Draco turned. Gabriel and Ernesto were standing there. He nodded at them.

"Forget Henric and whatever crawled up his ass and died," Ryan muttered, shuffling up behind David. "Go see your dad."

"We can make it a class trip." That was from Telly, who appeared at the other end of the aisle. "I always wanted to go to England."

"All you'll see is the inside of a hospital," Draco murmured. Telly shrugged. Chelsea was next to him, quiet and a little pale. His eyes stayed on her; if anyone had understood the content of the exchange between him and Henric, it was Chelsea. He didn't think the others had any idea of what they had spoken of.

She offered a small smile. Somehow, that made him feel better. She knew what he was, what he'd been, what it all meant – and she was still there, silently supporting him. This wasn't going to change things. This wasn't going to ruin the friendships he'd forged, like it sometimes had in the past. Fighting a lump in his throat, Draco said,

"No, I'm fine to go alone. I appreciate it, though."

"Rain check, then," Telly said. "And tell your pops that there's no dying allowed. Dying is for pussies."

"And you say I'm bad," Ernesto snorted. Chelsea punched Telly in the arm.

"I'll be sure to pass that on to him," Draco chuckled. "Thanks, guys."

In retrospect, Ginny thought, she ought to have been a little more specific with her letter. Her parents were due over an hour after Hermione's arrival, so that her mother could help with the nursery designs. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to be home by then, she had sent a letter. It said 'Had to go to the hospital, will reschedule tomorrow.'

They had of course jumped to the worst conclusion and thought that something was wrong with the baby. So, her entire family was now crowding the waiting room. And she wasn't kidding when she said it was everyone. They were there in all their glory; her mother, her father, Charlie, Bill, Percy, Fred, George, and Ron. And most of them weren't happy.

Why would they be? They had all dropped whatever they were doing to rush here, thinking that she was in danger and would need their support, and who did they find? Lucius Malfoy. And it was safe to say that he was not their favorite person. However, something strange was happening. Hermione's obvious worry was kicking her mum's mother hen instincts into high gear.

"Honestly, he's getting into more scrapes than a Gryffindor lately," Molly was whispering to Hermione. "And I ought to know, I raised seven of them! This is what happens when men don't have a good woman around to keep them out of trouble!"

"I just can't believe this happened even when he's got his wand," Hermione whispered back, clearly beside herself.

"What is that ex-wife of his doing? He's obviously lost without her, like Arthur would be without me…"

Ginny rolled her eyes and tuned the two of them out. Their clucking would soon be overruled by utter scandal. Because, when Draco arrived and Hermione flung herself into his arms, the reality of their relationship would finally be outed to Ron – and every other Weasley, to whom she was as much a family member as Ginny was.

Draco walked through the doors of St. Mungo's and bypassed the information counter. He knew where he was going. He had, after all, spent nearly a month on the poisoning ward not so long ago. His feet guided him easily as he mentally prepared himself to see his father near death yet again.

So, he was not at all prepared for the sea of redheads that greeted him. He stopped short in the doorway of the waiting room, blinking in confusion. He was nearly ready to turn around and retrace his steps, to make sure he was in the right place, but at that moment Hermione burst out of the crowd.

"Draco! Oh, thank goodness you're here!" She launched herself into his arms, planting a kiss on his lips and then leaning her face against his chest.

He wrapped his arms around her, but was keenly aware of all the freckled faces that had just turned to him. He swallowed.

"Yeah," he said lamely, "wouldn't miss it for the world."

Not even two seconds passed before ten voices simultaneously erupted in shouting – the loudest of which belonged to one Ronald Bilius Weasley.

Arthur had discretely slipped into the hospital room, needing a moment to escape the absolute pandemonium beyond the door. Personally, he didn't really care who Hermione dated, as long as he made her happy and treated her well. His own son had botched that up, and in light of that, what right did he have to deny Draco Malfoy a chance? The boy had obviously changed.

Arthur took a long glance at Lucius. He was still in the hospital bed, his face pale, with some type of breathing apparatus in his mouth. He wondered if Lucius had changed as much as his son. People said he had, but Arthur was highly suspicious.

Lost in his contemplation, he didn't notice that the other man's eyelids had lifted. When he finally realized that Lucius was awake, his cool blue eyes looking right at him, Arthur was mildly flummoxed.

"Oh…er…I'll call for the nurse," he said, taking a step toward the door. A movement of Lucius's arm stopped him. He couldn't speak through the breathing apparatus, apparently. Cautiously, Arthur approached.

Lucius looked up at him with clear eyes and made a motion with his hand. It looked like he was drawing squiggles in the air. Ah, he wanted to write in lieu of speaking. Just to be sure, Arthur said,

"You want something to write on?"

Lucius nodded. Arthur turned and looked around for something, smirking as an errant thought entered his mind. He liked Lucius a lot better this way – mute. His mouth had always been his sharpest weapon, after all. He found some sturdy paper towels that would serve as paper and he had a muggle pen in his pocket; he liked them better than quills, as they had their own self-contained ink.

Wondering where this would go, he handed both off to the other man. To his surprise Lucius had no trouble with the pen, clicking it open and beginning to write with a hand that was only slightly clumsy. He had left it retracted just for the moment of amusement it might proffer in watching Lucius struggle with it. So it was true what they said, that he'd been mugglized.

Lucius finished and held up the paper towel.

What the hell is going on? It sounds like a riot out there.

Arthur bit back a smile. The other man wasn't far off the mark.

"Ah, well, the majority of my family has just discovered that Hermione is dating your son."

The only evidence of a reaction was the slight raise of Lucius's eyebrows. He set the paper towel back down and began writing again.

In that case, I am still unconscious.

This time Arthur did smile. "Lucky bastard." Lucius had already set down the pen and closed his eyes, doing a very convincing impersonation of unconsciousness. Arthur picked up his pen and tucked it into his pocket. "I'll let the nurses and healers know you're awake once Armageddon dies down."

No sooner had he turned than a shrill voice rang out.

"Arthur!!!"

He walked out of the room just in time to see Ron and Harry staring one another down, looking as though they might come to blows.

A curious calm had descended over Lucius. He wondered if he was drugged. But from the moment he had regained consciousness, all the panic was gone. He knew it was too late to prevent the money from being taken. He had one option and one option only: figuring out how to get it – and his wife – back. Because that woman, whoever she was…was not Narcissa. He was certain that conversing with the goblins from Gringotts would prove it. And after he did that, he was going to have a little chat with Kingsley Shacklebolt. Pieces were already sliding into place in his mind. No one struck Lucius Malfoy so many times without him striking back. And it was no bother at all that he had to go through slightly more lawful channels than usual. In fact, he sort of relished the challenge of it. Vengeance would be that much sweeter if it was mostly legal - emphasis on mostly.

Harry was nose to nose with Ron. He certainly had his issues with Draco, but Hermione could make up her own mind. She always had. And really, her judgment was usually better than anyone else Harry knew.

"Calm down, Ron," he said, trying to cool his friend down.

"Are you kidding? It's him, Harry, the ferret, and he's just using her!" Ron bellowed.

"Last I checked, Weasley, you broke her heart and divorced her, so I don't think you have any grounds to be territorial," Draco shot back, already primed for verbal combat by the spat with Henric.

"Malfoy, shut up. Let me talk to him," Harry warned.

"No. His issue is with me. You shouldn't have to stand in the middle."

Harry gave him a look like he had suddenly sprouted a few extra limbs.

"Oh, yeah, and aren't you just the greatest, swooping in when she's vulnerable and taking advantage of her!" Ron accused, having not even heard the exchange between Harry and Draco.

"Ron!" Hermione shouted. Her voice gave everyone pause. Harry took one look at her and braced himself. Stormclouds were gathering in her eyes. He knew that look. It was the look she'd had when she had first found out that Ron had cheated and thought that he had kept it from her.

"For Merlin's sake!" she said, just as loudly, stalking closer and elbowing Harry out of the way. Now she was nose to nose with Ron, whose face was going from bright red to an unhealthy shade of pale. Ron knew that he was in for it.

"You never respected me, Ronald Weasley! I am not weak, or stupid, or too dumb to understand my own emotions!"

"I never said that!" Ron protested.

"Not out loud! But what is this you're doing now? Questioning my choice, acting like I'm some poor defenseless twit being strung along by the evil Malfoy. I don't need your protection, Ronald, and frankly I don't want your concern. You can take your opinion and shove it, because I'm happy and that should be all that matters to you!"

"You think you're happy," Ron muttered darkly. "But what happens when he screws you over for some pureblood bitch? You can't honestly think he's going to choose you. You're just a muggleborn."

Everyone in the room groaned. They knew that that was the absolute wrong thing to say. Ron had, once again, not just put his foot in his mouth, but possibly his entire leg.

"OH! Is that so? I'm just a muggleborn! Not good enough for ANY of you, hmm?" she shouted. "Is that how YOU feel, Harry?"

"No!" he said emphatically.

"And you?" she whirled on the other Weasley brothers, spearing them with her gaze one by one. Thankfully, George seemed to have been gifted with all the common sense Ron lacked.

"No, Hermione. I'd say you're TOO good for every last one of us."

"Good God," Draco murmured in the silence that followed, with a hand against his forehead. "I just want to see my father."

That was the opportunity that Arthur and Molly needed. Molly bustled forward.

"This is neither the time nor the place! Draco's father has been hurt and the last thing he needs is to deal with this shenanigans! Imagine if it was your father! Honestly!" she huffed.

"We actually like our father," Ron sniped, not entirely finished with his temper.

"That's enough, Ronald," Arthur barked. "I don't want to hear another word. Hermione is right. You gave up your right to be involved with her decisions when you decided to divorce her. It's best if you accept that."

"You can't seriously be all right with this!" Ron protested.

"Hermione is a grown woman, one of the smartest I know. I trust her judgment. I am happy if Hermione is happy, and from what I can tell, the only thing making her unhappy right now is you."

And that finally, finally shut Ron up.