TRIGGER WARNINGS: Emotional abuse, killing of an animal in a flashback. A mutilated body, mentions of murder.

Chapter 8: Master Lucius

"Master should have called Kreacher!" Kreacher said to Draco, who was sipping idly at his morning tea and watching Harry make bacon and eggs for the three of them. "A guest working in the kitchen! Unheard of! My poor mistress, what will she say—"

Harry shoved a plate into Kreacher's hands and put the other two on the table. After a round of bickering with Draco, Kreacher finally sat, grumbling something about the youth of today under his nose. But when the conversation turned back to the mysterious Malfoy artefact, Kreacher stopped grumbling and listened.

"If Kreacher may suggest something..." he said finally with a sly smile.

"Please do!" said Draco.

"Masters might want to ask Foggy, the oldest house-elf of the Malfoy Manor."

"Foggy?! You are confused, Kreacher. Foggy's been dead a while."

Kreacher was unperturbed by Draco's reply. Apparently, he had started getting used to how well his master was informed about the matters of the Malfoy household.

"That's what the Malfoy elves will tell you, my dear Masters. However, Foggy was not dead yesterday morning, when Kreacher visited his distant relative elf Tweezer. Foggy's health is, admittedly, in a rather bad condition. Cannot hold a tray any longer. But instead of facing his due fate with courage and dignity," the disdain in Kreacher's voice grew to downright malice, "he's hiding in the attic and has his grandchildren take out his potty!"

So it wasn't just the Blacks who would execute the elves no longer able to hold a tray. Harry didn't expect this approach to retired personnel to be widespread, but was not surprised that the Malfoys engaged in the same practice.

"That's very useful information." Harry allowed Kreacher a good gloat. "Thank you!"

It was clear what they had to do next. Harry packed his Invisibility Cloak and hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should take both wands with him or only Draco's. He packed both, and ignoring Draco's whiny misgivings about his apparition skills, took him side along to Wiltshire. They plopped out on the driveway, at the very same spot he had been brought to by the Snatchers half a year ago. Still holding on to each other, they passed unhindered through the iron gate without opening it, but broke apart before they reached the front door.

Draco's incessant stream of instructions on how to behave, what to say and what not to say to the house-elves, where and where not to go, and where to put him for the night, stopped when they entered the drawing room. Draco fell silent, and Harry took a moment to take in the sight of the place where so much had happened.

The room hadn't changed since the time he'd been here. It was mostly empty. There was still a pile of furniture against the wall opposite the windows. There was the fireplace with the ridiculously overbearing mirror above it. And yet, something had changed. Something was missing. The portraits! The room had been full of portraits, but now it was full of empty frames, or rather, landscapes and interiors that represented nothing but the backdrop to the missing Malfoys.

One of the few canvases which was not deserted hung on the left hand side of the mantelpiece and showed a figure of a bearded knight, his left hand resting on his sword, his right clenched in a tight fist. The name on the frame underneath the painting was Sir Herman Malfoy. Herman looked above their heads, blinked and sighed every now and again. He sometimes seemed to play with the muscles of his right hand, as if trying to clench his fist even tighter. He would have left, too, if he could, it seemed, but something prevented him from doing so.

Suddenly, Harry perceived movement from the corner of his eye. He turned and saw a gentleman in rich dress, somewhat in the fashion of Nearly Headless Nick but by far more lavish. The gentleman had just returned to the painting on the right hand side of the mantelpiece. As long as he was standing and arranging his regal garments, one could only see the lower part of his face and his long blond hair falling to his shoulders. There was a cushioned armchair, which looked like nothing less than a throne, next to a table covered with a gleaming emerald green tablecloth, a book, a quill, and a crystal ball on top. When the gentleman finally sat down, Harry saw his well-groomed handsome face, and a pair of interested dark eyes looking back at him.

"This is Lucius the first," Draco whispered, and they walked up to the portrait. "He's the only one who still talks to me."

"O, hast thou brought a friend to-day?" asked Lucius the first by way of a greeting. "Or else, is it to business that we owe the visit?"

"Er, a bit of both, Sir," said Harry.

"Harry Potter, Sir," Draco introduced himself, and a smirk returned to his face.

"That name hath a familiar sound to me," said Lucius and bent forward, as if trying to see Draco better. "Is Harry Potter one of wizardkind?"

"Er, yes," replied Harry, still feeling rather overwhelmed by his new role as Draco.

"Now, introduce me properly, will you?" Draco whispered.

"A famous wizard, in fact," Harry said to Lucius. "Defeated Vo— R— the Dark Lord, if you-know-who I mean."

Lucius's eyes narrowed to sharp slits.

"A bad joke of a 'Lord' that savage was. Who hath no manners is no lord to me. I had met lords, and princes, kings and queens. Believe me, I can tell the difference. A powerful savage though he was indeed," he pondered a little, and then looked at Draco with recognition. "His powerful match, thus, I am glad to meet."

"Ah, not that powerful," Draco countered modestly. "Just lucky really."

This conversation promised to be fun. Harry pulled out Draco's wand, separated two armchairs from the furniture pile and levitated them through the room to where they stood. They made themselves comfortable in front of the portrait.

"And yet I wonder if we met before?" Lucius furrowed his eyebrows.

"I, er, Harry was here once before, in fact," he sounded like a house-elf, Harry thought, speaking of himself in third person. He looked back at Lucius the first and wondered if he had even been present during the events.

"Caused a lot of trouble during my last visit, I'm afraid," said Draco almost apologetically.

"If we had offered you a warmer welcome, most of the trouble could have been avoided, I'm sure," admitted Harry.

"We were at war. None of that could have been avoided," replied Draco, his smirk gone in an instant.

There followed a long awkward silence, which was finally broken by Lucius the first.

"Many a Malfoy became rich by war, yet this last war brought nothing but distress. I am in pain to see my house so sad, so empty and in discord," Lucius ran his eye across his fellow portraits, "while its gold melteth away and property is sold."

"Did you have to sell property?" Harry whispered to Draco.

"Some," Draco whispered back. "Had to pay reparations really quickly."

But Lucius continued his lecture:

"And yet, despair not, Draco. If the war bear'th not the fruit on which our gold is bid, land will bear fruit when warriors come home to tend to their own orchard. And the fruit will turn to gold, and gold will bring repute. For peace, my boys, is where true gold lies hid."

Suddenly, they heard a rumble. A small table worked its way out of the furniture pile, flew through the room and positioned itself before their feet. A bowl of fruit appeared on top.

"Ah," Draco whispered. "The elves have noticed that we're here."

"And peace is made by marriage!" continued Lucius.

Marriage?! Harry glanced at Draco, but Draco was completely immersed in peeling an orange.

"Isn't it too early to think about that, Sir?" Harry replied to Lucius.

"Forsooth, my boy, it will take time before the wizardkind forgeteth this odd war. Yet if no English witch will, find a bride abroad, or better, on the muggle side. I told thy father countless times, no shame in marrying a noble muggle dame. A queen or princess, powerful, rich and clever..."

"Lucius is obsessed with Muggle royalty," Draco whispered. "There was no Statute of Secrecy in his days. That was the golden age of our family."

Harry wondered what that 'golden age' might have been like, if what he saw around him today, all the gold included, was a distinct trough. In the meantime, Lucius carried on.

"The day will come when wizards' trade and wealth will trail behind the muggle artistry. Thine offspring's weight in both societies will then secure us all a proper dealth." Lucius went on about wizarding and Muggle economy for some time, but then inevitably came back to royal houses and marriage. Soon enough Harry found himself in what felt like a defensive position.

"There are only princes on offer at the moment I'm afraid," he replied when Lucius started to place more direct inquiries about his private life.

"Then look abroad! A week ago we spoke of that Norwegian princess."

"I've checked her out," Draco interrupted. "She is only second in line to the throne and already engaged."

"Let alone she's almost thirty," he added in a whisper to Harry.

"See, even Harry Potter checketh out the princesses. Beware, beware, my boy, or thou wilt have a rival."

Draco hurried to usher Harry out of the room. He promised Lucius to personally make sure that Draco stayed focused on his efforts to secure a link by marriage to a royal house and solemnly swore that his own enquiries into the matter were only on his dearest friend's behalf. "Sitting around won't get us anywhere closer to a Muggle princess."

Before Harry knew, they were climbing one of the two marble staircases that faced each other symmetrically across the entrance hall.

"I'd better show you around before you get lost and the house-elves start wondering."

They passed Narcissa's personal drawing chamber and bed chamber, a couple of bathrooms, another chamber whose purpose Draco didn't take much effort to explain. All the rooms in this house were chambers. Finally, they reached Draco's room, sorry, chamber, at the very end of the south wing.

It was huge both in the horizontal and the vertical dimensions. Two high windows faced a spacious park of old thick oaks. An elegant four-poster bed was immaculately made, and it would look like a suite in an expensive hotel if it were not for a life-size picture of Victor Krum surrounded by a bunch of lesser Quidditch posters hanging on the wall opposite the bed.

"You will sleep here." Draco said "Not because I'm so hospitable, but because otherwise the house-elves will think I've gone insane and will lock you up until my mother gets back from Azkaban."

Another door next to Draco's bedroom opened to Draco's personal potions brewery, although 'opened' was an overstatement. The door was very thoroughly locked. Draco stopped in front of it and stretched out his arm, which sank through the closed door. Draco stepped forward and disappeared behind it completely, to emerge a few seconds later in the same manner. When Harry tried to do the same, his foot hit a hard wooden surface.

"Good to know it," Draco said. "At least, this room is not deceived by appearances."

From here, a small staircase led one floor up. They rushed through a sunny gallery that stretched along the full length of the building, and an array of guest chambers, of which Draco picked one.

"Tell the house-elves to prepare it for me."

They took the north staircase back to the first floor and were in Lucius's part of the Manor. It housed his private quarters, his study and the library. A small door in the middle of the north corridor opened to a balcony that overhung the Great Chamber—a grand hall, almost twice the size of the downstairs drawing room, which stretched over two floors.

Draco was not in a hurry to show him the downstairs part of the north wing.

"I try to avoid it. If you avoid it too, no one will be surprised."

Soon they were back in the entrance hall and stood in front of a still life with two dead pheasants laid out at the foot of a huge fruit basket.

"This is the entrance to the house-elves' part of the Manor."

Still being denied his wand, Draco had a hard time explaining to Harry the charm that would convince the painting to open. Just as Harry was about to finally get it, they heard two plops behind their back, followed by cheerful laughter. Two house-elves had just apparated into the hallway.

One of them was a young male elf wearing a piece of rope tied around his hips and a crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet attached to it to cover the bare minimum. He stopped transfixed, staring at Draco. Harry was transfixed too. The elf looked disconcertingly like Dobby.

The other elf was a girl with hairy arms and a skirt of sorts, which was also made of wizarding periodicals, but unlike her friend's minimalistic outfit, presented an elaborate creation of artfully interlaced pieces of origami. She continued laughing and chatting away until her friend pulled quietly at her hand.

"Oh. Masters! Oops," she said and disapparated. Her friend gave Harry and Draco a reserved bow and followed her.

"Who was that?" Harry asked, still staring at the place where Dobby's double had just stood. "I almost thought it was Dobby."

"His younger brother," replied Draco. "Thorny. A clever chap. Replaced him in most of his functions, when Dobby made off with you."

"And the other one?"

"God, what was her name again? Sweety? Spinny? Something with 'S'."

Judging by what she wore, she must have been quite talented too. Harry forced himself to concentrate on the door, and finally managed to open it. They entered into a maze of rooms none of which was a chamber. Buttery, scullery, even pastry, and finally, the kitchen. This was the realm of the house-elves, and Draco was obviously not a frequent visitor to this part of the Manor.

"So, what do the Malfoys do to the house-elves that are too old to work?" Harry asked, trying to trace their steps back to the beginning of the maze.

"That's never happened in my life."

"But you know what happens to them, don't you?"

"From what I was told, it's just plain Avada Kedavra. No special rituals." Draco stopped in front of a cupboard stocked full of salts and spices. "You're not telling me you're going to do it... to Foggy?" he said hesitantly.

"Of course not! Just wanted to know what it is he's hiding from." Harry said, but the mention of Avada Kedavra suddenly reminded him of the questions Draco still owed him answers to. He stopped and faced him. "Would you do it?"

Would he do it? Draco wanted to say 'No', but something stopped him. Two years ago, if the elves had not come up with the brilliant idea to hide their senior relative, he would probably have had to do it. His father would have seen this as an opportunity to take his mastery of the killing curse to the next level, they would have practised, and eventually he would have killed Foggy under his father's supervision.

They had started practising in the summer after his fourth year. Potter had just been back with Cedric's corpse on his arm, shouting around about His return, and everyone was laughing at him, louder and louder by the day. But they knew what Potter knew, and it was good news, too. The air was laden with anticipation.

At first, they did it to insects and other invertebrates. Then fish. Killing fish was fun, you could bake them afterwards. When He stayed at the Manor, he would sometimes watch them from a distance, when his father was teaching him to curse the slugs. Draco could not wait to move on to higher animals.

The same year, at Yule, his father brought home a beautiful great grey owl. She was big, and calm, and majestic.

"She is yours," Father said. "What do you want to call her?"

Draco peered into her yellow eyes. She looked like she knew exactly what she was worth.

"How about Glynnis?" Draco stretched out his arm but did not quite dare touch her. "Glynnis!"

There were probably more of them at Durmstrang, but no one at Hogwarts had a great grey owl. Let alone two owls in total! Now, who could beat that?

"But you don't need two owls, do you?" Father said.

"Oh, I will find a use for two owls," Draco said, but quickly realised that it was not what his father wanted to hear. "But no, I don't really need two. Why? You want to have Roderick?" he faltered.

Roderick was Draco's eagle-owl, who brought him letters and sweets from home ever since his first year at Hogwarts. Roderick had lost half his foot in a fight with Granger's feline monster, but this was hardly a concern. You just had to be sure to attach mail to his other foot.

"No, I just thought it's time for the next step," Father said. "I want you to practise the curse tomorrow."

A chill ran down Draco's spine.

"On Roderick? But why? He is still a perfectly functional owl."

"He's okay, but you have a better one now."

"But why Roderick? Why not some random crow out there?"

"The nameless are easy to kill. Those who have names are harder. If you want to keep Roderick, we could also take Glynnis instead. But you have to choose one of the two."

The next morning his father was waiting for him in his study. In the middle of the room stood a spacious cage with Roderick inside. Roderick was grooming his feathers perfectly unaware of his masters' plans.

"Why don't you just try it, and then we'll see?" suggested Lucius.

Draco raised his wand and aimed at Roderick, who continued his leisurely morning routine. Wasn't this a nice way to die? At home, surrounded by family, no pain. Draco felt pain building up in his own chest. The curse might be painless for the victim, but obviously not so for the perpetrator. He tried to focus on Roderick. For him it would be painless. Over with it!

"Avada Kedavra!"

There was a flash of light, a shock of pain, and what felt like a violent wave of compressed air that threw Draco backwards against the wall of books. The curse failed, he noted with guilty relief, when he heard Roderick's furious cracks and cackles. As he stumbled back to his feet, his father was looking at him with a condescending smirk.

"A common mistake wizards make is trying to trick themselves into thinking that what they are doing is somehow beneficial for the target. This is dark magic, Draco. Don't try to think it's not."

Okay. Dark magic. Was that helpful? Draco was more worried about his own pain right now, but did not dare ask questions.

"Try again," Father said.

That was easier said than done, because now Roderick was fluttering frantically in his cage, bouncing against the bars, making a hell of a racket, his eyes bulging with panic. His fear took Draco over. It felt like Roderick would tear him to pieces if he got a chance. Their trust was broken forever, and there was no point in keeping the rest.

"Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!" Draco shouted, pointing his wand into the balance point of Roderick's chaotic trajectory and hoping for a lucky hit. The pain of the strikes sank under his own sweeping panic, but the fourth lightning bolt brought Draco within an inch of a heart failure and he collapsed on the floor again.

As he was coming back to his senses, he could hear Roderick charge against the walls of his cage with catastrophic fury. He was alive. Opening his eyes, Draco could see the cage shudder and shift right and left.

"Another common mistake," his father's voice sounded above him, "is to go with the emotions. It's true that rage, hate, and even fear often help us in performing dark magic. Your shots were not so bad, in fact. You could have killed him if you hadn't missed. But you can see what it does to you."

Oh, yes! He could see! He could feel it with every muscle of his body, which now seemed caught in one single everlasting spasm. He could not move for a while. Was his father telling him to breathe deeply or was he imagining it? He took a few deep breaths and his muscles started to relax. He moved his fingers, then his toes, rolled over and propped himself up on one arm.

"Save your rage for the Cruciatus. What you need now is something different."

"What?" asked Draco, getting back slowly to a next to vertical position and hoping to get through this ordeal as soon as possibly possible.

"Why do you think you are so much better at killing slugs?"

Draco couldn't properly think. Why couldn't his father just say it and get over with it? But Father was obviously not in a hurry. He was waiting for Draco's answer.

"I don't know! Because they don't scream?" Draco coughed out, finally getting properly to his feet.

"Sure, that's part of it. What else?"

"Because they're nameless?" Draco was just guessing.

"What difference does that make?"

Draco gave it up and just stared dumbly back at his father.

"What does a name mean?" Lucius insisted.

"Names don't mean much, do they?"

"Not by themselves, no, but there are many things you associate with a name. All your experience with its bearer, all your thoughts about him, maybe even feelings. All that is part of you. When you curse the bearer, you destroy all that baggage. And that hurts. Because it's part of you."

Father paused and looked at him with an unreadable expression.

"The trick here is to distance yourself from all that. Look at Roderick. Think of all you've had with him, of every letter and every package he brought you, wrap it up, push it away, put a wall between yourself and him with all that clutter. Then, aim at the wall."

Roderick had stopped raging around and was taking a breath as long as they were talking, but now that they turned their attention back to him, he shot up like mad again and made the cage jump around in the skewed reflection of the window on the polished wooden floor.

"I can't aim as long as he's darting around like that," Draco said.

"He'll ruin the floor, too." Father sighed and fixed the cage in position with some non-verbal spell. "This has nothing to do with the killing curse specifically, but here's another trick. Give your victim a false sense of purpose. When they're panicking, their movements are erratic. When they think they know what they're doing, you know it too, and you can predict their next move."

With these words Father opened the window. A stream of cold wet air pulled into the room, and for a moment it seemed like the simple natural order of things would seep in slowly with the fresh air and stop the madness inside. But this was not why his father opened the window.

"Impedimenta," he pronounced, pointing his wand at Roderick, and opened the door of the cage. Roderick dropped to the floor and made for the opening to escape, but could hardly do more than crawl. He managed to get out of the cage, and even fluttered up, but he was so slow.

The sturdy owl was relentlessly pulling towards the open window. Just a little more, and he'd be free. Father refreshed the slowing jinx.

"Wrap, push away, wall up, aim."

Draco did as he was told.

"Avada Kedavra!" A flash of green light hit the bird, and it fell lifeless on the windowsill.

"Excellent!"

Draco had perceived a faint jolt of pain somewhere far away, behind the inner wall he'd just erected, and he felt his soul crumble on the other side. But the rest of it, the part on this side of the wall, was triumphant.

Would he have done it again? To hear that one word from his father, oh yes, he would have done it again, and again, and again. And Foggy would have been next, no doubt. Would he do it now?

Harry snapped his fingers in front of Draco's face. "Are you ill?" Draco was holding on to the cupboard and looked like he was about to faint again.

"Master Potter needs some rest," said a female house-elf who Harry hadn't noticed appear. As was appropriate for a house-elf, she did not wear any clothes. As was less common, she did not wear anything at all. No rags, no ropes, no newspaper clippings. From shoulder to foot, her body was covered with thick brown fur, which gave her an air of dignity unusual for her species. "Should Cherritry take Master Potter to the Pearl bed chamber and prepare the bed there?"

Draco shuddered and shook his head like he was offered to have a staring contest with a Basilisk.

"No, thank you," Harry said. For a second, it seemed like she almost smiled. "I'd rather you took us to Foggy, who, I am pleased to hear, still lives."

Cherritry froze, her almost smile gone in an instant. Harry did not know what to expect. Would she lie, try to deny it? Would she beg for mercy? But she only blinked her big dark eyes silently and gestured for them to follow.

"Where is Pearl bed chamber? Can't remember seeing it." Harry whispered to Draco, falling a bit behind.

"It's in the part of the north wing I didn't show you."

"And what's wrong with it?"

"It's where we put guests that we don't trust," whispered Draco. "Has a direct one-way connection to the dungeons."

"Hm. Your house-elves are really glad to see me."

A small door next to a gargoyle in the kitchen led to a spiral staircase so narrow that Harry and Draco could barely walk straight. Clearly, this architectural piece was not designed for fully grown male humans, and they were probably the first of their kind to set foot in it. They climbed the stairs, brushing the dust from the walls with their shoulders, and after what felt like an eternity and at least three floors, arrived at a dark landing.

"Lumos!" Harry's wand threw a circle of yellowish light upon the wooden floor of a low but enormously broad attic. There were heaps of rags and hay here and there. They passed a few overturned chests with candles and books lying on top, until they arrived at a door of a wardrobe taken off its hinges inlaid with an oval mirror, which was so old and worn one could barely guess a reflection in it. Cherritry shoved the mirror to the side and revealed what looked like a nest made of assorted offcuts. A wrinkled face of an old elf stuck out from under a blanket. He covered his eyes with his hand, blinded by the light.

"Master Draco wants to see you, father," said Cherritry.

The elf slowly took his hand off his face.

"Ah, Young Master! Foggy expected Young Master would come for him sooner or later." He shook off his blanket. Harry was not prepared to see what he saw: One of Foggy's feet and one whole arm were missing. The messy stubs left behind made one suspect anything but a clean cut.

"What happened to you?" Harry asked, taking in the sight of his mutilated body.

"All Foggy's own fault. Got splinched apparating across the Channel. Tried to go back to collect the lost part, missed the spot and splinched again. Foggy should have known better. Foggy was too old for long distance travel." He sounded sad but calm. "But Foggy is prepared to face his fate. It's about time, isn't it?" He looked at Cherritry and two sparkles glinted in his eyes for a split second. Cherritry sniffed.

Harry sensed movement behind and around him. Shadows seemed to pull together from the dark depths of the attic, an outline of another house-elf emerged somewhere at the edge of the sphere of light created by Harry's wand. Then another. Three, four, five... How many were they? They were silent, they were hidden in the darkness, but they were many.

"No elf will be executed as long as I have anything to say in this house," announced Harry to the whole crowd.

Foggy crept out of his bed and came closer to Harry. The way he looked at him had little resemblance to a house-elf looking at his master. More like an old trusted nurse looking at a naughty junior.

"Master would be pleased to see Young Master carry on the family tradition," Foggy insisted.

"Not that tradition." Harry peered into Draco's eyes. Draco looked back without protest and was the first to break off eye contact. The new order was established.

Foggy didn't argue, but his gaze now wandered to Draco.

"Please meet Harry Potter," said Harry. Foggy bowed his head slightly and gave Draco a long suspicious look. A wave of whisper ran through the attic.

"We need your help, Foggy," Harry said and saw Draco shift nervously on the spot.

"What kind of help can Foggy offer to Young Master?" his eyes back on Harry again.

Harry glanced left and right at the elves standing around. Draco gave a small shake with his head.

"We'd rather talk about it in private."

In an instant, the house-elves, the whole lot of them, disapparated, leaving behind a gap of vacuum that sucked in swirls of dust and made Harry want to hold on to something, before he was swept along into the emptiness. When the wind stilled, Harry produced the locket and held it in the light of his wand.

"Have you seen this ever before?"

Foggy squinted and peered at it for some time.

"Yes."

"Please tell me everything about it."

Foggy gave Draco a distrustful look again.

"That's okay, Foggy. You may talk. When did you see it?"

"Around fifty years ago, must be."

"Under what kind of circumstances?" asked Harry.

"Foggy was told to hide it. Foggy buried it under the fountain."

Draco made a sour grimace.

"Who told you to bury it?" continued Harry.

"Master Cassius, sir."

Harry glanced at Draco again, but this time Draco looked interested. Obviously, the name rang a bell.

"Why did he ask you to hide it?"

"That Foggy doesn't know. Foggy's task is to obey his Master and not to ask questions."

Harry did not know what else to ask.

"Did you see Cassius wear the locket?"

"Yes, sir."

Harry and Draco exchanged glances again.

"Under what circumstances? What was he doing when he was wearing it?"

"Nothing. He was sitting in his bed."

"And what else?"

"Nothing, sir! That was the only time Foggy saw Master wearing it."

This didn't sound like they were getting anywhere.

"And was he— like— normal, when he was wearing it? Or did he perhaps behave in some strange way before or after you saw him with the locket?"

"Master Cassius had always behaved as is appropriate for a member of this noble house! Had always kept company that befitted his standing and observed family traditions," Foggy gave Draco another disdainful look and Harry a reproachful one.

Harry sighed.

"And was it the only time you saw this locket worn? Have you seen any other Malfoy wear it? Or carry it around, or do anything else with it?"

"No, sir."

Harry looked at Draco again and was wondering if the mine was exhausted, and they should move on with what they had, but Draco continued the interrogation:

"Have you seen it on anyone who was related to the Malfoys but not worthy of bearing the name?"

"Foggy only answers to his Master!" Foggy snapped, but Harry repeated the question.

Foggy began to tremble like a lid on a cooking kettle.

"The blood traitor's name was Flavia!" he snarled back.

Judging by the blank expression on Draco's face, the name did not mean anything to him, which, of course, was not surprising if Flavia had been disowned.

"And when was that?"

"In eighteen seventeen."

"Tell me everything about it, Foggy! Please do!"

But Foggy suddenly dropped to all fours, if one could call it that way given that he missed one and a half limbs, and started banging his head furiously on the floor, groaning self-addressed insults.

"Stop it, Foggy! You don't need to punish yourself." Harry said, but Foggy continued his self-castigation with increased vigour.

"You've punished yourself enough!" Harry tried to give a little more authority to his voice. Foggy stopped.

"Something different. Could you at least tell us who of the Malfoys or former Malfoys has ever been imprisoned in Azkaban?" asked Draco.

"Master Lucius!" Foggy said, with an air of stating the obvious.

"And before him?"

"Foggy will answer no more questions. Foggy will only answer to his Master!" and before Harry could say anything... "And my master is Master Lucius!"

They apparated downstairs and Draco took Harry to the Great Chamber. From below, the room seemed even larger and more intimidating. On the wall between the second and third windows hung a tapestry not unlike the one at number twelve Grimmauld Place. It represented the Malfoy genealogy with palm-size portraits of the living and deceased family members and occasional holes for the disowned.

The tree had a remarkably boring vertical shape. If the Black family looked more like an unwieldy bush of brambles, the Malfoy tree resembled a lonely saguaro cactus turned upside down. By the looks of it, the Malfoys have rather faithfully maintained a one child policy, and the rare side branches all seemed to run dry after a couple of generations.

At the bottom of the tree was Draco's face, with Lucius the second and Narcissa hanging above him. Harry had to trace quite a few layers up and throw his head all the way back to see Lucius the first far above. Sir Herman must have been sitting at the top, but Harry could only guess it by a vague outline of a beard.

"Why did you ask him about Malfoys in Azkaban?"

"Why? Didn't Shacklebolt let you in on all my plans?" Draco sneered.

"The locket has been used before to get a Malfoy out?"

"Good thinking! See! You can do it without Granger!" Draco turned back to the tapestry. "I wonder who else could have used it. Cassius could not have been the one. He was my great grandfather," he pointed at a picture three floors above his own, "lived his whole long life happily in this Manor and died in his comfortable four-poster bed when I was eight."

"Flavia then?"

"Maybe, whoever that was," Draco continued searching the tapestry until he found a promising spot. Jason Malfoy had three children: His son Hyperion 1794–1876 was the proud ancestor of Draco, Lucius the second, Abraxas, Cassius and all the generations of Malfoys in between. Next to him were two charcoaled holes. One of them must have been the blood traitor in question.

"Reparo!" It was worth a try, Harry thought.

"Forget it! They would have made sure to make it irreparable."

They stood there for a while staring at the tapestry. A couple of dates and a couple of names was all they had. It wasn't much.

"It's the same trick Barty Crouch used, isn't it? Whoever used that locket to get a Malfoy out of Azkaban must have taken their place," Harry said. "I hope the person was worth it."

Draco did not reply.

"Was it your idea to get your father out?"

"No."

"Your father's?"

"Stop it, Potter."

"And who did he mean to go in there for him? You?"

"Shut up, will you?"

"Would you do it for him?"

Draco was at the verge of explosion. "I hate to say this, but you will love it. So I'll say it, and you will shut up and leave my father alone!"

Harry nodded.

"My father had no clue! He only knew that a Malfoy escaped from Azkaban with the help of the thing. He had no idea what it cost!"

"Are you sure?"

"He's a bloody idiot!" Draco's voice reverberated in the emptiness of the Great Chamber.

Harry had his doubts but decided not to argue. He would have preferred to believe that his father was a bloody idiot, rather than a psychopath who wished him a slow painful death.

They stayed silent for some time. The only sound was that of Draco's heavy breathing. Harry's eyes slid back up the tapestry.

"Was your father named after Lucius the first?" he tried to change the subject.

"I suppose," Draco breathed out.

"They don't have much in common."

"No." Draco regained his voice. "So what? Names don't mean much, do they?"