Branda

I've always woken early on my birthdays. I guess something about it, the turning of my age, pokes a part of me soon after midnight to face a new year of my life as soon possible.

Eighteen; nineteen: I feel no different this morning. I'll work and wander and go through the usual motions as I've done here at Malfoy Manor. Wake up. Eat breakfast with Mr and Mrs. Make myself scarce by wandering the grounds or going out to find ingredients. Maybe go visit the kids in London. Eat lunch, usually at the manor, sometimes in a pub, or by a fire if I'm camping out for work. Do whatever's ordered me by the Malfoys, whether I'm at the manor or not. Report my aconiting progress to Mr Malfoy . . . blah blah blah. All in all, my current existence is steady.

Since breakfast won't be for some hours, I go outside, and head east across the grounds to the old, empty stables. This is where I'm allowed to process what I gather, freeing the house from any contact with any fluids or unpleasant smells. The stable is perfect, though. I've cleared out a number of stalls for different ingredients. Plenty of storage. The cobbled floors have drainages for unwanted liquids. And then there's the privacy: the Malfoys rarely come over here. I can just be myself—be an aconitor without having to worry about who's above me; what rules there are to abide by. I need to find a place of my own, be my own person. I can't imagine the Malfoys wanting me to stay here for too much longer. I'm still surprised they let me back after what I said to Mrs Malfoy two weeks ago. Then there's the part where Mr Malfoy ripped out my earring in a room full of his friends.

What happened between those two incidents, I try not to think about, at least not too hard. The best I can reckon is that Lupin is some sort of informant for the Aurors he was with, and that he got me out of any trouble they might've pinned me for. Maybe. Don't actually know, do I?

Why the hell were they staking out Malfoy Manor?

I can't be thinking about that if I want to sit down for breakfast, where the Malfoys will surely be. So, by the time I've finished an hour's work in the stables and gone up to shower and dress for the rest of the day, I've managed to steer my thoughts towards the food we might have this first day of my nineteenth year.

"Good morning." Mr and Mrs Malfoy are already sitting down in the breakfast room.

"Morning, sir." I pour myself a cup of bitterly fragrant coffee and add a heaping spoonful of powdered malt to it. In the middle of the table, a bowl filled with berries has been placed invitingly. I pop a blackberry into my mouth before wiping my hands on my napkin and serving myself from the dish of kedgeree.

After a minute, the clink and tinkling of the cutlery is interrupted by Mr Malfoy. "So, what are your plans for the day, Miss Burke?"

"Reckon I'll look around the park for ingredients. Spring's on its way; got to get some things early as possible."

Mr Malfoy spears a quartered egg with his fork and gives me a questioning look while he chews. "Oh. We thought you might take the day."

Take the day?

"What for?"

Now Mrs Malfoy looks at me. "Don't be silly, Miss Burke. Isn't it your birthday, today?"

I stop chewing my kedgeree and stare at the pair of them. Why would they have bothered to learn when my birthday is?

Mr Malfoy lifts an eyebrow. "Well?"

I swallow. "Erm—yes, sir—I mean, Mrs Malfoy."

"As we thought." Mrs Malfoy returns to her plate.

"Nineteen on the eighteenth." Mr Malfoy quips.

When I don't reply, but only continue staring confusedly at him, he smirks. "What, Miss Burke? Did you think no one here would know?"

"It's not a big deal, sir." I say this with almost a laugh. What is the big deal? I haven't had a fuss over my birthday in years. What's nineteen mean, anyway? Nothing, as far as I know. Why on earth would I 'take the day' for it?

Mr Malfoy frowns a bit. "Dear me, but it isn't a thing to you, is it, Miss Burke?"

"I—well—thank you for . . . erm . . . acknowledging it, Mr Malfoy, but it's just a birthday."

Mr Malfoy clucks at me. "It is not 'just a birthday,' dear girl. The one day of the year that is all about your existence—one shouldn't take it so lightly."

I shrug and insist that that's all for little children and folks whose age is of significance, like forty, or a hundred. The Malfoys, however, insist back that I shall not lift a finger today, and that I shall sit down to a decent dinner with a decent cake at pudding. They were having company over, anyway. Might as well have a party of it, they say.

What the hell am I supposed to do all day until then?

Mr Malfoy leaves to do whatever it is he does after breakfast, and Mrs Malfoy tells me to go up to her private rooms when I finish eating. I never like it when she says that. I'm still waiting for the day when she'll decide how to finally punish me for everything I said to her before—before I ran into the thicket, straight into the arms of Lupin and two Aurors.

"Try it on, then!"

She gifts me a simple but elegant robe of ivory silk with black detailing, earrings made from some iridescent shell, and a pair of gray satin heels. Everything fits me well and is very pretty, but coming from Mrs Malfoy, it feels too odd.

"Do you like them?" She asks. "You don't look very excited."

"Oh, no, I—I mean I do like them. Thank you, Mrs Malfoy."

In the mirror, Mrs Malfoy's own reflection appears beside mine, frowning at me. "What is amiss then, Miss Burke?"

"Nothing. I just—erm—"

"Out with it."

"Er—did you pick this out for me?"

In the mirror I watch Mrs Malfoy raise an eyebrow. "Of course I did. Why are you behaving so strangely?"

I turn around to look her straight on. "We don't like each other, ma'am."

Mrs Malfoy quirks her head as she considers me. Surely, she must know that I've realized how she dislikes me.

"This isn't about whether I like you or not, Miss Burke. As you are a benefactor of my husband, it is part of my duties to keep you in mind; that includes acknowledging when you deserve a little special treatment—like on your birthday."

"I'm not a little kid," I mumble. "You don't have to do that."

Mrs Malfoy leans back to examine me, crossing her arms as she does so. "When is the last time you received a gift for your birthday, Miss Burke?"

What does it matter to her?

"Erm . . . I don't know. Maybe when I was fourteen?" When I turned fifteen, there was a lot going on. Sure as hell I didn't get any "Happy Birthdays!" after we were moved into the apothecary.

Mrs Malfoy continues to study me through now slightly narrowed eyes. Finally, she says, "Sometimes, I forget how much you mast have gone unnoticed before my husband met you."

I don't know how to take that, so I don't reply. Mrs Malfoy takes a step closer to me—I lean back and cast my eyes about the room nervously, but Mrs Malfoy takes my chin in her slim fingers, forcing me to look at her. She lifts her other hand, brushes a lock of hair behind my ear, brings her fingers down to touch the polished shell earring. I flinch at the touch. Right ear, left ear—it doesn't matter. The memory of hot, searing, blackout pain as the metal wire tore through my earlobe that night has stayed with me. It does not go unnoticed by Mrs Malfoy, and she withdraws her hand from my ear. Her other hand still lightly grasps my chin.

More to herself than to me, she says, "If you were just more obedient . . . just more grateful, Miss Burke. . ."

"I am grateful, Missus."

Her fingers release my chin. "You've quite a way of showing it, Miss Burke." She sighs, backs away to take me in more fully in my new garb. "The color suits you. Do you like it?"

"I do, Mrs Malfoy. Thank you."

My problem isn't the robe, nor the shoes or earrings. It's that I don't understand why either Mr or Mrs Malfoy would be so nice to me after everything that happened. Because I haven't apologized. Not for anything I said to Mrs Malfoy. These past few days, I've been avoiding the two of them, meals being the only time we've had much contact. There's a tenseness there that I've been waiting for to explode. But that's not the only thing that's been holding me down, and a whole day without work to distract me has me thinking that other thing over and over again.

As dinner approaches and their usual crowd of guests begin arriving, Mr Malfoy is decent enough to keep the spotlight off me. Still, everyone except Mrs Malfoy is surprised when he pulls out the chair beside him and gestures for me to sit. The trouble I was in the last time they all saw me here . . . it doesn't make sense to them.

"I've a small announcement to make before we start. . ." Mr Malfoy says unconcernedly while unfolding his napkin. "Today happens to be Miss Burke's birthday."

So of course, the attention in the room falls on me even as the first course appears in everybody's place-setting. Sat next to me is Macnair, who smiles and pats my leg with a heavy palm. I catch Mr Malfoy glowering at him.

"Oh! I didn't know that!" Pherena, Mrs Crabbe, says. "We would have brought you something! Now I'm embarrassed."

"Don't worry, Pherena—I forgot too." Macnair says.

"I didn't know either; it must have slipped your mind, eh, Lucius?" Nott throws Mr Malfoy a knowing look, a smirk playing at his thin lips.

Mr Malfoy shrugs.

"Miss Burke doesn't like a fuss." Mrs Malfoy says. "You all know how she is."

Down the table, Yaxley mutters, "Learning her place at last, is she?" Is it only me, or does he look more annoyed than usual at my presence?

What fuss is made over my birthday soon dies down, and the conversation largely turns to two subjects: the new changes at Hogwarts with that Umbridge woman, and Cornelius Fudge's leadership. That is, his leadership as it has benefited this lot.

"He's swayable, that's what he is." Who knew Pherena paid any attention to politics. Well, I hardly do, so, good for her.

The rest of the table agrees with Pherena, saying he knows the hands that feed him; that Fudge has ambition enough to let 'the right ones in' and to cast aside all others. Merlin. It hits me momentarily how much closer I am to the Minister's circle—have been since coming to the manor—than even some people who work at the Ministry. Why don't I topple over at the shock of it? Am I so used to these people's presence, anymore?

Pudding is, of course, cake. And lemon tart.

"We weren't sure which you would want more. I remembered how much you liked this cake, Miss Burke." Mrs Malfoy says. "What harm in spoiling you with both?"

I swear, I can hear Yaxley mutter under his breath, "It could do a lot of harm." Arse.

The cake is of velvety dark chocolate smothered, just smothered, in chocolate ganache with berries and a sprig of mint placed decoratively on top. It's so pretty, everybody actually applauds it.

After dinner, the party retires to the drawing room where more drinks are served with the postprandial coffees, and the conversation takes the hosts and most of the guests to one side of the room, while I sit near the fire with a tiny glass of honey liqueur.

"What's on that mind of yours, Miss Burke?" Mr Nott comes to sit beside me, glass of brandy in hand. He watches me over the rim as he takes a slow sip. "You've been rather subdued this evening."

"Nothing."

"That's no answer. Certainly not a believable one." Nott doesn't look away from me, even as I try to avoid his stare.

I think that, if I'm serious about what's been on my mind, it might be better to have it going around—make it half-official by common presumption, like.

"I've been thinking . . . I reckon it's time I start looking for my own place, sir. That's all"

Nott nods his head, waits for me to say more.

"I'm making money now—enough I can live on my own."

"Why not stay on here?" Nott asks.

"Well, we're not family, for one. Mrs Malfoy doesn't really like me, for another. And I can't stay here forever; might as well start out on my own as soon as I'm able."

"Don't be so foolish, girl. You will only lose the money you make on living expenses—but wait—Lucius is still your patron, isn't he? It would be his responsibility to provide you those."

"No, I would—"

"Shush. We all know you as an earnest worker, girl. You would see your way paid by no one but yourself—probably why Lucius took such a shine to you in the first place; it's something he can respect. But you are still better off with him as your proprietor." He takes another deep sip as I'm about to protest, but he cuts me off before I've even started. "He's good to you, isn't he, lass?"

"Well, yes—"

"Then there should not be any question of you leaving his house or not."

"But it's so strange, sometimes. I do think they'd be more comfortable when I move out of the manor—"

"If they were uncomfortable with you in it, you would never have been allowed to step foot over the threshold, Miss Burke."

"I don't doubt that sir. But—I just mean—"

"Perhaps Lucius will agree to you leaving his house, Miss Burke. But even then, I doubt he will end his contract with you. Then, it would cost him more to keep you. Rent and food and what not. Gratuities, too, to make sure you're all right out there; treated well."

Again, I open my mouth to protest, but Mr Nott is right: Lucius Malfoy would be obliged to provide for me. He's under contract to do so. But then. . .

"It says in the contract that he will be my patron until he sees fit to end it."

"Yes. When he sees fit to end it. Not you."

"What are you two talking about over there?" Mr Malfoy calls out. Even from across the room, I can tell he's half soused.

Nott smiles reassuringly. "Nothing of interest to you lot. I think Miss Burke would do well to retire, now. All those birthday indulgences, eh?"

Yeah right. Mrs Malfoy isn't even as sober as I am right now. But Mr Nott stands and looks down at me expectantly, so I do the same and bid everyone a good night, thanking them for their good wishes. Nott eyes me closely as I exit the drawing room, daring me to say something later to the Malfoys about leaving their house to finally live my own way. Or most of my way, at least.

At breakfast the next morning, I tell the Malfoys that I will be visiting my siblings for the day. Neither has any objection to that, so I apparate to Knockturn Alley and head for the gloomy square where, against one wall, notices on grimy sheets of parchment have been posted. Jobs, gigs, things to sell or trade, and rooms to let are advertised here. I memorize the address of a room above a shop in one of the dodgiest sections of Knockturn Alley. The old witch letting the room runs a parlor downstairs where she practices different kinds of divination, mainly with animals and objects of a questionable nature (not that I'm going to ask about them). She lowers the rent for me. Why? Because, she says, I'm from the Alley (sure, okay), I'm clearly not a drunk, and I look like I know how to keep my mouth shut. She allows me a day to decide, meaning I've got to have convinced Mr Malfoy to let me go by morning tomorrow.

So, after lunch, and after I've gathered as much courage as I can, I ask Mrs Malfoy where her husband is.

"In his study, working. And then he'll be in London on business. Why do you ask?" Mrs Malfoy peers at me over her newspaper, suspicious.

"I've got something I need to ask him."

"I'm sure it can wait, Miss Burke." She says this with a slight huff.

Great. I've already got half of my shackles annoyed with me.

"Well, actually . . . Ma'am . . ."

Mrs Malfoy lays her paper on her lap and glares at me. "I'm sure that whatever it is you think Mr Malfoy needs to hear this moment, you can relate to me, girl."

I never even considered telling Mrs Malfoy first. But if anyone should want me gone, it is her. And Mr Malfoy is only in charge of some things in his home; the real person in charge is his wife.

I take a deep breath and explain to Mrs Malfoy that I'm ready to go—to leave their house; to relieve them of having me around all the time (That must appeal to her, surely!).

Mrs Malfoy gapes at me, pale face open with surprise. Feeling nervous, I stand before her and wait for a response. Finally, she folds her newspaper before setting it aside, stands, and tells me to follow her. She does not speak to me the whole way to her husband's study. I realize, quite suddenly, that I've never been inside of it. When we arrive outside Mr Malfoy's study, Mrs Malfoy gently knocks, then turns the handle to crack the door before receiving any answer.

"I'm still at it, Cissa."

Mrs Malfoy opens the door wider. "Lucius, Miss Burke needs to speak with you."

"Surely, not at this very moment?"

"Indeed, yes, Lucius. Here she is. . ."

Mrs Malfoy steps back and motions for me to enter. I do so with some trepidation. Mr Malfoy's study is spacious. Shelves hold books and a variety of trinkets. An upholstered sofa against a wall. A dark Turkish rug woven in an enormous ram horn pattern covers the floor beneath a polished wood desk, beautifully carved. Two armchairs set at angles before that desk, behind which Mr Malfoy stares at me impatiently.

"Miss Burke."

To one side of his desk, rolls of parchment await him in a small pile. A separate pile, a bit larger, sits at the other end.

"I'm busy, girl." He writes something down at the bottom of the parchment in front of him, quill scratching irritably. "Whatever it is, it'll have to wait."

"I'm sorry sir, but—" Mr Malfoy's head shoots up that one little word: 'but', because why the hell am I still here when he's all but told me to bugger off?

"—there's a bit of a time limit."

"A 'time limit' . . . on what, exactly?"

"Erm—I've found a place I can live—away from here, sir. The landlady wants to know by tomorrow morning, and she—" I turn my head to the closed door to indicate Mrs Malfoy, "—she said you would be gone for the rest of the day."

Just like his wife, Mr Malfoy stares at me. I can't hold his gaze and look at the floor beneath my feet—the rug's short fringe brushes the toes of my boots.

Mr Malfoy rolls up the parchment he's just signed, places his quill in a black inkwell covered in ornate silver filigree, and leans back in his chair. "Sit down, Branda."

I do as I am told. Mr Malfoy leans forward, resting his clasped hands on the surface of the desk. For a moment, he silently observes me with a still expression, twisting his mouth about as though he's unsure what to say to me.

"What do you mean you've 'found a place to live away from here?'"

Breathe in, now.

"I just—I've been thinking it's time for me to leave, sir—to keep from intruding on your family. We all know I can't live here forever, sir."

He turns his head and examines me with one eye. "You think you're ready to go it on your own, then?"

"Yes, sir. I've got enough money to make the rent for several months, actually. I can save the rest as time goes on."

Mr Malfoy with both eyes. His expression gives little away. Seconds tick by with not a word from Mr Malfoy. My stomach tightens with growing nervousness.

He removes his hands from the top of the desk, sits back in his chair again. There's a sort of finality to his movements, now.

"Nay, my girl. You're not going anywhere; not until I decide otherwise."

What? I. . . What?

"Why not?" I ask, confusion plain in my voice.

"You haven't forgotten our arrangement, have you, Branda?"

He's talking about the contract that makes him my patron.

"Yes—I mean No! No, sir. Of course not."

"Of course not. . . So, are you saying you wish to ignore our agreement, then?"

"No, sir! I promise to abide by the contract. I just—well—it's time for me to go, sir." And doesn't he see that? Why would he not at least agree that it's good I've been thinking about this?

Mr Malfoy surveys me with narrowed eyes, folding his arms over his chest as he does so.

"Are we not good to you here, Branda?"

"What? No—I mean yes, sir—you are. You've been so gracious. . ."

Mr Malfoy doesn't speak for several seconds. Then he leans towards his desk again, pulls out a drawer and—he stops. He glances up at me with a look I can't fathom, then he shuts the drawer closed without taking anything out of it.

"Branda, our contract requires me to take responsibility for your keep. If I'd thought that setting you up with separate living arrangements from the manor to be in both our best interests—"

"But you don't have to set me up, sir!" I say quickly—insistently. "I have enough—"

"Be quiet."

Mr Malfoy's look quells my argument as much as his tone. He says nothing for a moment, daring me to open my mouth again.

"If I wanted you away from me, Branda, you wouldn't be here."

I try using his wife. "Mrs Malfoy doesn't like me here, sir."

"We've been over this before, Branda. If Mrs Malfoy really wanted you out, you would be out."

Desperation creeps into my voice like a black vine. "But what about when Draco comes home? He won't like it."

Mr Malfoy shakes his head, let's his mouth fall open in a mirthless grin at my persistence. "Draco is a boy—he abides by my decisions whether he likes them or not—his mother's, too."

For fuck's sake!

"I'll be closer to my brothers and sisters, sir. I still have to take care of them."

Mr Malfoy stares silently at me; I notice him chewing the inside of his cheek. Have I got him, now?

"Branda, our contract was set up partly to get you on your way to being able to better care for them."

Fucking aye, yeah?

"And you said it is to help me become independent."

"Well, unfortunately for you, it's up to me to decide when you are ready to be independent."

Mr Malfoy picks up another scroll, pulls the inkwell closer to him.

That can't be the end of it!

"I don't know why you want me here."

Already, his quill is filled with new ink; no longer is he looking at me. "Isn't it enough that I like you?"

"It makes no sense!"

The newly signed parchment joins the finished pile with an irritable toss. "Branda! Stop looking the gift horse in the mouth!" He runs a hand impatiently through his hair. "I swear, Branda, only you would examine the existence you have now and find something to complain about."

"Sir, I'm not complaining. I just don't know why you're so . . . good to me."

Mr Malfoy strokes the bark-colored feather quill through his fingers, staring at me with an odd expression all the while. It's like he's considering telling me something I don't know. He can be hard to read, though, mask he's cultivated.

At last, his expression settles. "Just be happy, Branda." He returns to his pile of parchment rolls. "Now get out. You've put me behind already."

I don't move. My desperation and confusion have metastasized into something like anger.

Noticing I'm still in his study, Mr Malfoy glances up at me, irritated and impatient, but unsurprised.

I swear my vision has gone red. He looks me squarely in the face and stands up. . .

I all but bolt out of the study.

In the library, Mrs Malfoy joins me as I gaze out of the window, watching a few of the peacocks as they root around the cold, wet grass for early bugs. It's still winter, but spring wants to be early this year.

"What did he say, Miss Burke?"

She's genuinely curious; no malice in her tone at all. I give her the bones of her husband's response.

"Well, that's that, then," she says.

"What's what?" I don't bother to keep the irritation from my voice.

"Don't be silly, Miss Burke."

"Why don't you talk to him? I know you don't like me. Why would you let him keep me in your house?"

"It's his business whether to house you here or elsewhere. If it bothered me to have you here as much as you seem think it does, we would not be standing here talking, Miss Burke." Mrs Malfoy says in an even, reasonable tone.

Outside the skies are totally grey, threatening more cold rain. I am so tired of being dependent on others. And I just don't understand why Lucius Malfoy really treats me as he does.

"It's good that you're thinking of these things, Miss Burke. It shows you know your place. That is more important than you might think—more than many others out there. It's part of why I can tolerate you."

I let myself stare glumly out the window, saying nothing to Mrs Malfoy.

Lucius

He'd almost shown Branda his contract with Donius and the debts she now owed from it, written newly in his own ledgers. He'd stopped himself in the middle of opening their drawer. It was something to hold over the girl if she ever got too rebellious, but Branda thinking he would support her move to a different location was not reason enough to tell her that he . . . well . . . that he owned her. He wasn't that upset with her!

He was almost proud of Branda. So, she was ready to take on the world in her own space, eh? Good for her. But Lucius wanted her here, at the manor, where he and Narcissa could keep an eye on her until something was discovered about Nicander.

And that's why you're so generous towards her, said a voice in Lucius's head. You want to do right by Nicander, if even it is mostly for your sake. Because, for all Lucius knew, Nicander may have saved him from drowning when they were children.

It was during the second summer Nicander was sent to be fostered by the Malfoys. Lucius had been ten, Nicander eight. Nicander had wanted to go play at the pond beyond the park, which had been alright with Lucius so long as he wasn't expected to get in the pond. As a boy, he had a fear of deep water, a fear his time spent in the Slytherin common room—beneath the lake—had eventually driven out of him. But at ten years old, Lucius had avoided anything deeper than a bathtub.

Not so Nicander. The little bastard shoved Lucius off the particularly large boulder that sat above the pond, sending him straight into its murky depths.

Lucius did not know for exactly how long he was in the water—long enough for panic to set in; long enough that the weeds at the bottom began to feel like tendrils of Devil's Snare. Long enough for Nicander to have gotten scared enough to jump in and heft Lucius towards the grass with what strength a small boy can muster in such circumstances. Lucius recalled with ease the feeling of small hands as they pulled at his arms and wrapped desperately around his waist to bring him ashore.

They did not tell their parents.

The problem now was that, over the years, Lucius wasn't so sure he'd been in mortal danger. No longer afraid of water, Lucius had gone into that pond how many dozens of times? It was not deep. At ten years old, Lucius could have only swum properly in the very center of it. Most of it was shallow enough that even then he'd have only been chest deep in the water. The spot Nicander pushed him into was not near the center. If Lucius had only kept his wits about him, he could have simply waded out, maybe thrashed little Nicander in the grass to show who was boss—who was allowed to do the hurting between them.

But you could drown in a bathtub, and Lucius really had been scared in that pond. He didn't think he'd taken in any water, though, recalled holding his breath until he felt his head break the surface. How long was he even under? And if Nicander truly had saved his life, did it count between such young children? Was he bound to Nicander by that act? Lucius did not know.

And Branda . . . the girl hadn't a clue.

"I don't know why you want me here!" "I just don't know why you're so . . . good to me."

Lucius had wanted to tell her about her father and him—just enough for his favor to make sense to her. But he had stopped himself. Lucius had always viewed true friendship as an almost private thing; he wasn't ready for what would be a round of baffled questions from Branda.

The truth was, Lucius felt he owed Nicander a lot, not just because he might have saved him from drowning. Nicander was that one blunt person who answered your questions about yourself and wasn't afraid to make you feel foolish. In other words, he'd kept things in perspective for Lucius. Made him tougher, too.

"You don't have to look 'em in the eyes when you do it, Lucius! Just fucking aim and say it! You're the one who's always saying mudbloods' lives an't worth shit. Fucking do it or shut the fuck up!"

"I'm not going to kiss your arse and treat you like you're my lord-fucking-liege because you give me your money and get me into the good clubs, Lucius. I've got my own brain, same as you . . . prefer mine, actually."

He didn't even laugh when a newlywedded Lucius asked him for advice on how to make sex with Narcissa smoother.

"Did it hurt 'er, then? No? That's good; you're doing the job right so far. No, no, you need to actually talk about what you want to try. Leave all your dignity at the door, because it's never going to be pretty, no matter 'ow perfect you think you two are. Look, not all birds are the same; some can't even climax with a dick inside 'em. Oh, you mean she prefers it? Stop talking like a nan then, lad! Okay, well, try putting a pillow under her hips. No, don't try, just do it. It makes it easier to go deeper. Christ, lad, Eira comes when she sits in a chair wrong! You know, they make manuals for this sort of thing. . ."

That last memory made Lucius grin as he finished signing the last bloody scroll. That pillow trick had been a lifesaver.

Eira

It was the beginning of the final week of February. Eira sat in her kitchen with a glass half-filled with firewhiskey. She'd turned her chair sideways to the table. Occasionally her eye would stray sideways to stare at the cover of the quack magazine on the scrubbed wooden surface.

Macnair had seen it on the desk of a coworker when he walked into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures that morning. How could he not have noticed it? Potter's face was splashed across the front cover, but it was the title that had made him snatch the magazine up.

Harry Potter Speaks Out At Last:

The Truth About He Who Must Not Be Named

And The Night I Saw Him Return

Eira forced down another urge to run to the sink to vomit. Again.

Macnair had come over after work and delivered The Quibbler's March edition with an air of feigned indifference, as though he was not thinking that some things would likely change between them once she'd read it. He didn't stay longer than ten minutes. If Eira had to guess, he and the other Death Eaters were probably getting their load on in one of their parlors, talking over the article, wondering if it would change anything. Eira doubted it. She'd been fucking a Death Eater for several months now, seen the red skull and serpent branded onto his forearm, watched him go off after dark without telling her where he was going. And still, she'd denied it.

If the news about the escaped Death Eaters had finally jostled the pieces loose, Potter's tale about the Dark Lord's rebirth had finally shoved them into place. It was that one detail—that one little sentence about how the Death Eaters had crawled on their hands and knees towards Voldemort to kiss the hem of his robes. Eira had never been to a meeting where the Dark Lord was present, had never wished to. She'd not learned all the intricacies of being a Death Eater or how they acted with him. She didn't have to to understand that the boy had seen them do just that. It was in their culture, in their blood, to show obeisance in such ways. How would a kid raised in the Muggle world, still in his schoolboy days, free of such expectations, have come up with something that rang so true?

When Macnair returned to her later—much later—Eira met him at the door. "

"He's back, isn't he?"