What Narcissa's unconsciousness prevented her from seeing was that her impulsive behavior had, in fact, spared the man she was equally in love and in hate with. Giacomo could never be accused of being indecisive. Though every part of him screamed to stay, to fight for his woman and Lorenzo's, he knew what end that would have. He would be dead. His battle for Narcissa couldn't be won by blind attack, not when Gaetano held so many cards and when neither the boss nor the advisor knew exactly what was going on in their city.

So he lunged for his wand, which sat innocuously a few feet away from him on the marble floor. In doing so he evaded a stunner; if he had stayed upright, he would be as unconscious as his fiancée right now. The sliver of wood in hand, he dove for Lorenzo, who had curled his arm about his youngest daughter and pulled his wand fiercely. The look in his eyes said he had every intention of fighting.

Giacomo understood the incoherent cry of rage that came from the man when he crashed into him, sandwiching Daniela between them, and apparated. This was a battle that couldn't be won, but one in which Lorenzo's losses at retreat had been greater. He had been tricked, scorned by his own brother, and lost his wife and daughter to different, yet equally grievous forms of betrayal. Giacomo had only the guilt of allowing Narcissa to become involved to plague him. That was powerful, yet nowhere near what was surely going through the head of Lorenzo Scattori.

He took them to Perugia, to the house of his paternal grandmother that he had inherited but had been forced to leave unused upon his initiation into Milan's underbelly. No one knew of the place. They would be safe here until they figured out their next move.

Lorenzo sank to the dusty wooden floor, Daniela clenched in his arms. The little girl was crying. She was terrified and disheartened by the way her sister had so callously betrayed all of them. She was young, but the language of duplicity was easily understood. Still, it was plain to see that the girl had idolized her older sister, so this was quite a shock to her system.

Giacomo blew out a sigh. He was worried about Daniela, who was in fact his goddaughter. From the moment of her birth he had known there was something different about her. She was too compassionate, too sensitive and trusting, for the family she was born into. He knew that there were things that could change that, but he'd hoped she would never have to encounter them.

Now she had. Only time would tell how the nine-year-old, nearly ten, would react. He had only Renata to judge by; there were no other Scattori children. If they made it through this he was going to tell Lorenzo to ban the name. It bore no luck the first time around and even less the second. There was no use in cursing another girl with the suffering or the sins of the first two Renatas.

He could hope against hope that the current Renata would regain her senses. Things would never be the same, it was true, but she was young and rash and perhaps she would see the tinge of her uncle's insanity before it was too late. He wasn't overly optimistic, though. Very few people could deliver their own mother into the hands of the enemy at wandpoint without so much as a flinch.

Lorenzo was hugging his daughter to his chest and breathing deeply and rhythmically, attempting to control his rage. It wouldn't do to lose it with the traumatized girl around. Giacomo was glad he didn't have to remind him of that.

It wasn't that Giacomo wasn't angry. He was, angrier than he had been in a long time, and he'd come closer to hexing someone's face off than he'd like to admit. The rage was there, simmering beneath the surface, but he had always been a little too good at suppressing it in favor of a cool head. Eventually it would get the better of him. Heaven help his enemy then.

"Somnolenta," he heard Lorenzo say. Promptly, Daniela's sniffling calmed. Giacomo looked over to see her drooping against her father's chest, knocked out by the illegal sleeping charm. It was illegal because its most common use had devolved into a way to take advantage of women; it was the wizarding equivalent of GHB. However, given the circumstances and the benign application, Giacomo felt no scandal in its use.

"There is a bed," Giacomo said as gently as he could. "Second door on the right."

Lorenzo nodded and lifted his daughter. A few minutes later he returned. He looked hollow; only fury kept his spine straight and his legs strong. Giacomo knew what he needed – what they both needed.

If there was one thing his grandmother had been known for, it was her ability to drink – and do everything else – like a sailor. The woman had been around and everyone knew it; she made it impossible not to. Somehow it just made everyone love her more. No matter that she'd been tarting around well into her hundreds; the general consensus, at least in the village he'd grown up in, was that if you still had it at that age, there was no reason not to enjoy it. The old men certainly did.

Not surprisingly, her liberal consumption of homemade grappa had caught up to her and she had died of cirrhosis at 114. She was remorseless and in complete denial, of course, and they had all been sure to keep her thoroughly drunk during her last days. A smile twitched at his lips in memory. He had been seventeen at the time, her favorite (and only) grandson. It seemed like another life.

He'd bet his left testicle that some of her grappa was still here. And, as she'd believed that no good booze should ever go to waste, it was preserved with the best of charms. He only had to find it.

Lorenzo hadn't even the energy to look at him like he was mad when he searched for the loose floorboard. He sat, somehow managing to be tense and boneless at the same time, in one of the dusty, outdated chairs. Giacomo's search was rewarded quickly. Bless the old strumpet.

"Is drinking wise right now?" was all Lorenzo said, and weakly.

"When you taste this, it will seem very wise."

Giacomo knew it wasn't so much tasting as grimacing and feeling several of your vital organs failing, but that was just what they needed. In situations like this, very strong alcohol often had a mind-clearing affect – in a paradoxical, brain-scrambling sort of way. He thought about searching out glasses but there was no point. He uncapped the bottle and with only a cursory sniff (Nonna's preservative charms were truly miraculous) he took a much larger swig than was prudent.

He couldn't control the shudder and cough. Sweet Circe, that wasn't much better than rubbing alcohol. It had the impact of smelling salts – so odious that it jarred him into complete alertness and chased the shadows out of his brain.

"That's encouraging," Lorenzo said, observing him. Giacomo looked his companion over. Then he held out the bottle.

"Just drink it."

Lorenzo did. He almost spit it out, but managed to force it down. He coughed and looked for a moment like he was being tortured.

"Hell and damnation," he rasped, "are you trying to poison me?"

"Would I have drunk first if I was?"

"Point taken." Lorenzo handed the bottle back. Giacomo capped it and returned it to its hiding spot beneath the floorboards. After fixing the trick board back in place so they wouldn't accidentally break their legs, he took the seat across from Lorenzo.

All was quiet for a moment. Giacomo could see that the grappa had the desired effect. Lorenzo was calm, his eyes gone from forlornly furious to calculating.

"We have to warn the Mancinis."

Giacomo stifled his sigh of relief. "Yes. The question is, how? And how do we know that they aren't already compromised?"

"I'll take the risk." Enzo's mouth twisted slightly. "Desi will not betray us. I will not…I cannot let their families be put in danger like ours."

"We are severely outnumbered."

"Mm-hm."

"We could walk into a trap."

"Yes."

"But we're going to do it anyway."

"Exactly."

And neither man could pretend for even a second that they didn't know why.

Lucius was very comfortable negotiating. In fact, it was where he was most in his element. He had negotiated with many Ministers of Magic before Kingsley Shacklebolt. Kingsley was more and less reasonable in equal portions.

If there was one thing Lucius liked about him, it was his aplomb. The man could walk into a hurricane and be the only thing that came out on the other side unscathed. He didn't bat an eye when Lucius told him about the mob, Skeeter's connections to it, and the current precarious situation. He did, however, make a dubious face when it became clear that Lucius wanted to take on the entire city of Milan on his own.

"Even with the freedom being dead would afford you, it's incredibly dangerous, Mr. Malfoy."

"Please, I think we're past that. It's Lucius."

"Lucius, then – and it's Kingsley. I hate being called Minister. It makes me feel old and religious."

"Both dreadful, of course."

Kingsley couldn't control the uptick of his lips. He had expressed a desire never to see Lucius again, but somehow the man in question thought Shacklebolt was more entertained by Slytherin scheming than he let on. What house had he been in at Hogwarts? Had the imposing man even gone to Hogwarts? Lucius frowned. Those were questions for another day, when he wasn't burning through with a mission.

He needed no one's permission, but cooperation would be useful. That was why he was even bothering to run things by Shacklebolt. So far he couldn't say if the ex-auror was receptive or merely a good listener.

"Lucius, I understand your worry for your ex-wife. However, you don't need to be a vigilante; the auror department will be more than happy to rescue her. That is their job. They can contact the Italian authorities - "

"The Italian authorities were most likely bought off decades ago, and if not, they have definitely been bought off now. They will be no help."

Kingsley sighed. "It is true that you have more experience in the mindset of these people than me." His dark eyes flashed up briefly. "I mean no disrespect…or at least, not very much."

"None taken. Your comments are warranted." Lucius bit his lip. "Now, brace yourself, because I'm going to be completely honest with you – and if you breathe a word of it to anyone…"

Kingsley quirked a brow. "What happened to 'don't threaten the Minister'?"

"That was for Potter's benefit, not mine."

"Okay. Proceed with your honesty." Kingsley Shacklebolt was smiling.

Lucius was not. He hated wearing his heart on his sleeve, but it was necessary. "I will let no one stand between Narcissa and I, not this time. I will go to Milan and burn the city to the ground if it means saving her. I don't truly need your approval or your assistance, but I would like to have it. I am trying to be a better man but this fight is not one that cares for scruples; I will overlook some of mine if I have to." He sat back, crossing one knee over the other, aware that he still looked ludicrous in the hospital dressing gown. "If Gaetano Scattori is successful with his coup in Milan, it will be another fifteen years of mafia warfare there. And since we do not truly know the scope of the plot, it could, ostensibly, be much worse. I don't think anyone in the European wizarding community can take the thought of another needless war at present."

"What are you asking me, Lucius?"

Good. Shacklebolt wasn't going to play obtuse.

"I am asking you to grant me temporary auror status and rights. Aurors do what is necessary in situations like this and meet with no punishment for it, as long as it is within certain parameters."

"I won't license murder."

"I'm not asking you to." Lucius lifted his chin. "You have my word that I won't kill anyone. Regardless of whatever rumors you may have heard, I am not a murderer."

"I'd like to believe you, Lucius, but this is personal. Our passions tend to get the better of us. You've told me you would burn a city to the ground to save your ex-wife and I don't doubt it."

"Figure of speech."

"Is it?"

Lucius stared at him, stone-faced. Shacklebolt considered.

"I will have your word and more, Lucius. A blood oath, if you're healthy enough for that."

He nodded. "The terms?"

"I expect you to behave as a real auror would. You kill no one, unless it is in pure self defense and that is the last and only option. No dark magic. No torture, mutilation, or disfigurement."

Lucius considered. "I agree to all except the torture." When Shacklebolt raised an eyebrow, he went on. "Have you forgotten that I was subject to several long, arduous, and dare I say it, torturous interrogations at the hands of your aurors?" It was the truth. That neck brace he'd borne in his Azkaban mug shot had not been a result of the battle in the Department of Mysteries. They'd done a wondrous job glamouring all his cuts and bruises. Still, they had nothing on the Dark Lord.

"I don't condone physical torture, Lucius. I wasn't the head auror on your case." He tilted his bald head to the side. "You told them nothing, anyway, so it was useless."

Lucius wanted to point out that that didn't make it any less painful or humiliating. It was definitely the case that a few angry aurors were vastly less imaginative and vindictive than the Dark Lord, but if he had the choice of being beaten senseless or not, he'd choose not.

"No physical torture," he allowed. "But grant me psychological. These people aren't just going to tell me what I want to know and right now I have no money to bribe with."

Kingsley sighed. "Fine. Psychological…tactics are allowed. Nothing more."

"Done," Lucius said immediately.

Kingsley pulled his wand from the pocket of his robes. "If you break the oath, Lucius, you will go back to Azkaban."

He held out his hand, fearless. If Shacklebolt was looking for a reaction, a balk at the mention of the prison, he wasn't going to get one. As easily as he'd burn Milan down, he'd walk straight into Azkaban if that was what it took to save Cissa. He hoped it wouldn't come to that but if it did he wouldn't hesitate.

Shacklebolt made the cut with his wand and Lucius watched the blood well. Such a strange thing, blood was; just plasma and cells, but so vital, so important, and sometimes people made it too important. He'd been guilty of that once.

The incantations were spoken, the conditions elaborated, and then it was done. Lucius didn't feel any different. Ah, but everything was different now.

"All right," Kingsley said, after healing his hand. "As of this moment, you're dead. I'll have the healer issue a death certificate and…" here he winced, "glamour a body to look like you. Everyone who has seen you alive will be contacted and placed under oaths to remain quiet. If you can wait ten more minutes, I will go to the Ministry and complete the documents to grant you temporary auror status and get you a license…which will of course have to be done rather discreetly since you're dead…"

Lucius was impressed. If Shacklebolt hadn't been a Slytherin, he'd at least been a Ravenclaw. And if he hadn't gone to Hogwarts, he wondered what institution had produced him. Perhaps he ought to have sent Draco there, though Draco was doing just fine nowadays.

"I can wait ten minutes."

"Good." Shacklebolt stood, smoothing his robes. "Oh, and Lucius, once you find Narcissa, be sure to contact me before you return. She'll be a fugitive and I don't want any misunderstandings before I can clear the air."

Lucius nodded, fully aware of what he was saying. A familiar thrum of energy shot through him. The game was on, the stakes were high, and he didn't intend to lose.

Draco sighed. This wasn't going to be as hard as he thought. The stress of thinking about the madness his father was getting up to was forcing some very convincing expressions of angst upon him. He felt like he couldn't sit still.

It wasn't that he doubted his father. He knew what the man was capable of. If anyone could save his mother, it was him. But this was twice they'd nearly killed him and his adversary wasn't stupid. Faking his death would give Lucius a much-needed shroud for whatever he got up to; yet, all it took was one incident of serendipity and his cover could be blown. It all left too much to chance for Draco to be comfortable.

He'd agreed, though, and his father was already setting things in motion. Words couldn't express how strange it was to be brought down to the morgue and shown a body glamoured to look like his father, with his father, so they could approve it. It would appear as though Draco had gone through the same procedure any relative would when a loved one died and they got that awful letter.

That was the story. Ginny, Harry, and Hermione found his father's body when they brought the dogs over to visit. They had borrowed Oberon for the last few weeks so that the puppies could have the benefit of both parents, so it wasn't unreasonable. As his father's flat was in muggle London, no one could really say that there had been no dogs present when the three of them stormed his father's flat. And if anyone wanted to, memory charms worked wonders.

So yes, they'd dropped by with the dogs and gotten an unfortunate surprise. Draco, too, had gotten an unfortunate surprise, sitting in class in Philadelphia when the letter arrived. Now all he had to do to seal the story was write to Finley Greene and relate that his father had died, after all.

He was having difficulty doing it. He hated to lie to them. It had been so long since he had a real friend, let alone a half dozen of them, and he knew the fastest way to lose a friend was to lie (and be found out). And this was one of those karmic lies, the kind you should never tell lest they come true. Still, lying was much easier than explaining the whole blasted situation. He sighed and sat back discontentedly.

"Having a problem, Mr. Malfoy?" Minerva McGonagall's voice cut through his glum attempts at correspondence.

"You could say that," he replied. She didn't know, either. It was easier to lie to her, though, as he'd never considered her a friend. She wasn't an enemy, either. It was only natural that she'd be curious as to why he was here, sitting morosely in the Restricted Section of the library so students wouldn't bother him. Hermione had let him in.

"May I be of assistance?" the headmistress asked.

Draco took a deep breath and resolved to practice the lie before he put it on paper.

"Not unless you can bring back the dead."

She frowned, her face showing signs that it was something she did far too often. "That's not something within the scope of my abilities. Hopefully, it is not in the scope of anyone's; we have all seen the results of tampering with the natural order of things."

Indeed they had, and his name was Voldemort. "I know."

"Who is it that you wish to bring back?"

She didn't beat around the bush, did she? For once he appreciated it. "My father," he whispered, letting it leach out of him like a confession.

"Your father…? He's…passed on?"

"Yes." This misery was far too easy. Draco had the sinking feeling that he wasn't really doing very much acting and had no idea why. "Earlier. It'll be in the papers in the morning."

To her credit, she didn't push for details. However like a spinster she appeared, McGonagall was far from lacking when it came to motherly instinct. "I'm sorry, Draco."

"You and three other people."

Her lips pinched together briefly. "Draco, your father…made his mistakes. There are those who will decry him, but the people who knew him, truly knew him, will mourn him. Perhaps not outright - there is too much paranoia and secrecy in your house to permit that – but you aren't alone in your loss."

He looked up at the woman. He was beginning to see why Hermione loved her so dearly. Draco decided to ask something he had wondered about for a long, long time, because this might be the only opportunity to do so.

"What was he like? When he was here, in school?"

She leaned her forearms on the table and her face relaxed slightly as she let herself travel back in time. "Well, your father came in like anyone else: young, eager, and impressionable. By his seventh year…if there is a male equivalent of the queen bee, he was it." McGonagall surveyed him. "He was a contradiction in many ways. He had Slytherin house easily in hand, yet he was never demonstrative or confrontational in spite of his beliefs. He was a good prefect and an excellent Head Boy. By all reports he was fair to everyone, even halfbloods and muggleborns. We weren't so foolish as to think that he wasn't terribly clever and that he didn't believe himself above much of the student body, but he kept it to himself and his group of friends. Many of us were…quite confused when he aggressively pursued the pureblood agenda after graduation. We knew what he believed but he had never been so blatant about it."

Draco listened to her, processing her words; they were simple on the surface, but held a wealth of meaning underneath. Though he had spoken with his father more candidly after the war, his youth was still a gaping hole full of question marks; he simply didn't talk about it. Somewhere in there he'd gone from passably tolerant (or certain of his own superiority, that could masquerade as the same thing) to a complete hate-monger. What brought him to that? He might never know.

"I have no answers for you as to why," McGonagall said, seemingly reading his mind. "I'm not certain that anyone does; anyone who is alive, anyhow. Perhaps you should speak to the portraits of your grandparents."

Draco controlled a grimace. He'd spoken to his grandmother a few times; she was pleasant enough. His grandfather struck him as an imperious bastard. If his father's placement of his portrait in a distant and rarely used study was any indication, Lucius felt the same way. His grandfather had almost certainly had something to do with it. A mild feeling of nausea coiled in Draco's stomach. Too many unanswered questions and too many possibilities always made him feel that way.

"How can you do it?" he blurted. "How can you watch the next generation come in ready to make the same mistakes as their fathers, over and over?"

McGonagall looked completely stunned. "Mr. Malfoy…what a child learns at his parents' knee is very difficult to contend with. You can tell someone again and again that it is all utter tosh, that everyone is equal and happiness and daisies, but what teenager ever listens, especially when he is surrounded by others who were brought up the same way? The change of heart must occur in the person in question. He must find his own opinion amidst the sea of opinions people force upon him. Some are capable of this and some aren't." She speared him with a thoughtful, if sympathetic gaze. "Both you and your father proved capable of that change, though in different timeframes and with different experiences. Now it is up to you, Draco, to ensure that your children do not repeat your mistakes, or your father's, or his father's, and I'll continue to do my best to preach equality to every bullheaded and entitled teenager that comes through my door."

Draco had to crack a smile at the tone in her voice. She was right, of course. Bullheaded and entitled were certainly a few of the kinder adjectives that would describe him in his teen years. "I didn't mean it in a blaming way," he said, wanting to be clear on that. "I meant it…existentially. Psychologically."

"Oh," she said, instantly less prickly. "Well, it is certainly frustrating and heartbreaking at times, but things are changing."

Draco thought of Hermione. He thought of her face, her brown eyes, serious and cheerful in equal parts, her pink lips, and the fountain of curls that were as untamable as she was. He wondered if his father thought of his mother with the same fondness. He must; quite suddenly Draco knew that he would go to the same lengths as his father if Hermione was ever in danger.

He sighed. Things were most definitely changing. There could be no more doubt about that.

The letter was written and posted. In a few hours his classmates and professor would know that his father had been murdered and that he needed at least two weeks to deal with everything. It had come out haltingly after the conversation with McGonagall. He knew they would all be supportive – except Henric, of course, if he was even still there. He hoped obliquely that the German didn't leave the program. An opportunity to work with Finley Greene was too good to give up because of a silly grudge. Draco didn't think himself so intolerable that Henric couldn't just deal quietly and resentfully with his presence. However, he wasn't in the man's head and didn't care to be.

Hermione had returned from Harry and Ginny's. All the Weasleys and The Boy Who Continued to Live had agreed to play their parts. It wasn't particularly difficult for them to do because they weren't known for liking his father or his family very much. They only needed to be as bewildered as everyone else.

He was lying next to Hermione now. He knew they were both awake, kept so by worry. Draco was worried about what he would have to face in the next few days. People would be cruel. People would say terrible things. There were going to be a hundred Henrics to deal with. He was going to have to bear it with some kind of composure to make what they said meaningless. That was always easier said than done.

Hermione was worried about his father. He was, too, but not as much as Hermione. In spite of everything that had happened in their lives, his confidence in his father was still nigh unshakable. Hermione, however, couldn't and didn't share that viewpoint. He appeared far too mortal to her lately. She was worried sick.

They were both scared to death for his mother.

"They'll be all right," Draco said, for what was probably the twentieth time.

"I know," she replied. Her small hand covered his where it rested on her stomach. "Will you?"

He smiled into her curls. "I think so." As long as I have you. He wished he could say it out loud, but the time wasn't right, not just yet. Draco shifted, stretching out on top of her and pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

They lay like that for a long time, Hermione's body cradling his.

"I want to make love to you," he said, toying with one of her curls. "But I'm too nervous."

"Me too," she admitted. She took the opportunity to run her hands through his hair, so pale and fine and soft. "We'll save it for tomorrow when we're angry and strung out. It'll be better that way."

He wrapped his arms around her and smiled faintly. "At least I have something to look forward to."

Kingsley was tired. It had been a long night. At first he had overseen the cover-up of Lucius's very much alive state. Then he had contacted the Daily Prophet and spent hours coordinating with all the necessary entities – Gringotts, the Auror Department, and others – to ensure that when the news broke, it would be with a minimum of vitriol. There were many people who didn't hold a high opinion of Lucius Malfoy and they were entitled to that, but he wanted this to be as easy as possible on the man's son. Whatever was said wouldn't stick to Lucius, but it would get beneath Draco's skin.

Dennis Creevey, one of the Prophet's star reporters, had proven to be very professional and ethical in the handling of the article. Hermione had suggested him, so it wasn't much of a surprise. Kingsley hoped the tone of the article would stave off much of the ugliness that could erupt.

In the two hours of night that were left after he finished his meetings, he had sat at his desk, staring into space and wondering if he'd done the right thing. Lucius had sworn in no uncertain terms that he would act honorably in his quest, but a Slytherin interpretation of conditions was always different. He would bend the rules. People would be left miserable and terrorized if they got in his way. However, Kingsley had to admit that he'd left some people miserable and terrorized during his prime as an auror, so he wasn't one to talk.

It surprised him how worried he was that Lucius would actually die. Aurors were team players. It was disconcerting for him to know that Lucius was on his own. He toyed briefly with the idea of assigning him a partner, someone who would watch out for him from a distance, but he could think of no one that was qualified or clever enough. Besides, the Italian Ministry would not take kindly to him sending one undercover auror in, let alone two.

That wasn't his problem. They were clearly looking the other way when it came to the Mafia's dealings. He would be justified in his actions because an English citizen was involved and because two of the members of the organization were wanted in England for attempted murder. It was the Italians that would look bad, because of the corruption inherent in ignoring what was happening in Milan.

It could sour relations with them, but somehow Kingsley thought they'd rather be rid of the Mafia war, too. Only time would tell. He rubbed his eyes and called a house elf for a pot of coffee. Just after the elf set the pot and a large mug on his desk, someone knocked on the door.

"Come in," he sighed.

The young woman, all glasses and teeth, stepped in. She was the morning secretary, who worked from 5 am to noon. Her name was Eleanor and in spite of her gawkishness, he liked her. She was a perfect sweetheart and always took down his messages with obsessive attention to detail, which was more than could be said for the other two secretaries. Not to mention that she'd come in two hours early to help manage the monumental task of organizing everyone who needed to be involved in this protracted death announcement and its accompanying scandal.

"It's here, sir," she said, holding out the morning's copy of the Prophet. "Thought you might want to see it."

Kingsley took the paper with some trepidation. It was somewhat ironic that this, the most shocking thing that had happened in the wizarding community in a while, was completely false. But Eleanor didn't know that and neither did anyone else who would gape at the Prophet in a few hours.

"Thank you, Eleanor," he smiled. "Go take a nice long coffee break."

She nodded and let herself out. Kingsley unfolded the paper and braced himself.

MURDER MOST BLACK

Oh, Merlin, they hadn't really used that as a headline, had they? But there it was, glaring out at him in huge letters. The article took up the entire front page and was framed with pictures. The pictures caught his attention more than anything else; they were chronological and varied, starting on the bottom left with a couple he didn't recognize. He concluded that the child, pink-cheeked and impossibly blond, had to be Lucius. The woman holding him and smiling serenely was his mother, and the man who stood stiffly behind them must have been Abraxas Malfoy. Above that was a picture of three girls, all opposites. There was one raven-haired, heavy-eyed girl on the left, a whip-thin, anemic looking blonde girl in the middle, and a vivacious brunette on the right. The Black sisters, Bellatrix, Narcissa, and Andromeda, at ages 7, 6, and 8, the caption said. Then it went on to Hogwarts portraits, Lucius typically devastating in his 17-year-old smugness and Narcissa no longer anemic, but radiant and unquestionably beautiful.

Then there was a picture from Lucius and Narcissa's wedding. It had been quite a society event, naturally. Both looked impeccable, if not deliriously happy; they managed an approximation of contentment which was about all that one could expect of an arranged marriage. The delirious happiness came in the next picture, in which they held a newborn Draco between them. The pose was almost identical to the one Lucius's parents had struck, though there was nothing stiff about the way Lucius stood and there was a genuine smile on his face.

There were a few of them with Draco at varying ages. Kingsley had to smile at the one in the top left corner. It was a shot that someone had taken of Lucius and Narcissa standing proudly with Draco at Platform 9 ¾, no doubt before his first journey to Hogwarts. They had their arms around each other and were smiling placidly. Draco, on the other hand, looked positively bratty and annoyed.

From there the pictures were less positive. One of Lucius during the Chamber of Secrets scandal, during which he'd been integral in getting Dumbledore temporarily dismissed as headmaster of Hogwarts. Sitting in the Minister's box at the Quidditch World Cup, where he'd later taken part in the attack on the campsites, or so it was speculated – he'd never confessed to it. Then his Azkaban mug shot. His guilt hadn't been solidified until then.

Then there was a picture of the small family huddled together in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, post battle, shell-shocked yet refreshingly human. Lucius handing his wand over to the Wizengamot. Separate shots of both Lucius and Narcissa during their divorce proceedings; both of them looked tired, drawn, and miserable. Narcissa standing in front of the Leaning Tower of Pisa with her paramour, Giacomo Cannavare. Lucius in muggle clothing, walking two grey dogs unassumingly, and another shot of him coming out of Tesco with a few bags – how long had the paparazzi been after him? Then the infamous shot of Hermione in his arms outside that restaurant, where he looked simultaneously surprised and defiant. Toward the end, there was one of the pictures of him playing muggle football, attractively sweaty and athletic with a smear of dirt on his leg.

The last two pictures were of Draco. In one, he sat in the waiting room of St. Mungo's, his head in his hands. In the last he was embracing Hermione, his distress clear in his posture even though his face was mostly turned away. Kingsley sighed heavily. The pictures were well-played; they showed Lucius as the flawed human he was, neither excusing nor berating the course his life had taken. It was the same for Narcissa, but she would unquestionably come out as the villain in this – though there were probably some who would congratulate her on a job well done.

Taking a large sip of his coffee before it went cold, Kingsley settled in to read what Creevey had written. No matter what was printed, it was going to be a very long day.

Narcissa woke fuzzily and instantly wished she hadn't. Her head was throbbing, an excruciating pound that made her gasp. She moaned and brought a hand up to cover her eyes. Then the pain in her ankle made itself known once again, adding to her rude awakening.

"Thank Merlin, you are awake," a soft, accented voice drifted over her.

Against her better judgment, she parted her fingers and looked for who it was. There was an olive-skinned brunette leaning over her, with mottled hazel eyes and pillowy lips marred by chapping and cracks. Jocasta, the woman she was supposed to be traded for.

"My head," was all Narcissa could force out, on the verge of tears.

"Yes, he hit you very hard. I cleaned your wound so it won't become infected. There isn't much I can do for the concussion, though."

"How long?"

"About ten hours." The other woman sat back on her heels and shook her head. "I was beginning to worry that you would not wake up."

Details began to trickle back to her, detached flashes of everything that had happened. She remembered the green light of death, the way it had been averted, but Giacomo and Lorenzo were outnumbered and had a little girl to protect…

"Are they dead?" she whispered.

"No," Jocasta said. "They escaped with Daniela. You probably gave them the distraction they needed." She looked away for a moment, and when her eyes returned they were glassy with tears. "Thank you. Thank you for caring for my daughters and thank you for being brave enough to fight."

Narcissa said nothing. What could she say to a woman who was the reason she was here, yet she pitied so intensely because of her daughter's betrayal? There weren't any words for it. She closed her eyes, trying to weather the pain.

"Don't fall asleep," Jocasta said a few minutes later. "It is dangerous."

Narcissa made a sound of acknowledgment. The pain began to settle into a dull, steady pulse as she acclimated to it. As long as she breathed and willed herself to be calm, to be blank, she could bear it.

Jocasta settled herself against the wall next to her. The woman's presence was comforting, even if Narcissa's feelings about her were in a raging conflict. She supposed she might as well get used to her; they would be seeing a lot of one another, being that they were imprisoned together. And really, none of this was her fault. Men did strange things for love, to be sure; however, that left Narcissa to wonder whether Giacomo's behavior meant that he loved Lorenzo and the Scattoris more than her.

Time passed in that measureless way it did in captivity. Narcissa tried to stay awake and wished she could just drift off into the dizzy ether that settled behind her eyes. A foot away, Jocasta sat stewing, wondering if her husband and his advisor would be able to get their act together and save them or if she would just have to do it her goddamn self.