There are some lessons so forcefully impressed in one's bones that there's no separation between them and instinct.
Daphne's skin rises into gooseflesh, and her eyes go flat at the sight of her mother. Adorabella's chignon carries streaks of sun-bleached hair tight enough to pull the skin around her forehead and cheeks taut. The rest of her attire is weather-appropriate—well-paired beige and navy hues—but it's nothing unique. The sole sign of wealth are the hammered silver earrings in the shape of koi fish. They give the effect of swimming around her mother's head when she moves. Daphne could have been her favorite, she supposes, if she were smarter, less inconveniencing.
She doesn't fear her; she has long been conditioned to succumb to it and find where it leads her, than to tread against its wave.
Adorabella sniffs again.
"Was someone here, or did you forget to bathe?"
Daphne keeps very still. She is a ruined copy of her mother, a composition of ill-fitting limbs. A thin blonde girl and her sickly, brunette duplicate are not enough for her ambitions.
"I had a guest, mother. She just left."
"Who?"
"Tracey Davis."
"Buy her a new perfume." Adorabella laughs. Of all the people in Daphne's life, Adorabella laughs the most.
But to call it a laugh is crude. In the shape of her mouth and the stuttered sounds that ring out, yes, a laugh. But they're like poisoned darts, low-pitched and rounding out when they meet their target.
Her mother sweeps past the table and chair set, opting to sit on the loveseat. Her bags are left standing near the fireplace.
"Violetta Goyle says you haven't visited in some time."
"It is difficult to leave father. I have kept up via letter and opened the home to visitors."
Her mother beckons her closer. She puts on an air of exhaustion as she grasps Daphne's cheeks and turns her head this way and that way the one one would examine a foal.
"Millicent is decent enough, but a half-blood. I prefer Tracey. And, if you can…do clean yourself up and hold your tongue." She encircles her in a loose hug. "I love you, dear."
"Yes, mother."
"You'll be here for me, yes?"
"Yes, mother."
"Good girl. My lovely girl." Adorabella strokes her head once. The pressure is firm and musses her hair "Now go. Send Knobby to leave dinner in my chambers. You haven't eaten yet, have you? You're feeling rather fleshy."
"No."
She releases her hold. Daphne's torso comes away with a frostbite, numbing and pinching her stomach.
"See to it that you don't."
Book splayed across his lap, Potter lounges on one of the reading chairs. The sole fireplace in their behemoth of a library crackles behind him, the newfound heat explaining his lack of cloak and rolled up sleeves. The strappy Auror vest leaves little about the contours of his chest to imagination.
His legs are rather long. Not gangly limbs, like the Weasley clan tended to produce in endless variations, but it reminds her of Draco's aristocratic drape over a couch, only less lanky.
Then he looks up from his choice of book, elbow hitting the armrest. Draco would never allow his elbow to do that.
"Potter."
"Hm? Threat averted?" asks the twice-survivor of a killing curse.
She permits herself a small smile. "Quite."
"I'm ten minutes late to meeting with an important client." He sits up, tugging the book under his arm.
"Convey my apologies."
"I will. He will send an incoherent list of demands in return." His casual words belie a thorough assessment of her appearance. Unfortunately for him, from her mother she doesn't receive any wounds that are visible.
"My seven year-old godson," he clarifies.
Cute. Blaise has promised to name her godmother in the unlikely event he finds someone to reproduce with. And she has a suspicion Millicent is pregnant since she hadn't touched a drink at Nott's party.
But generally, small children are not a part of her foreseeable future. For justifiable reasons—they all have, what Pansy would term, a shitload of trauma.
"June," she calls.
A small house-elf, a gift from her grandmother, appears.
"Pack two chocolate tarts for Potter."
June nods and sets off.
"Oh, er, you don't need to—"
"Not for you. Your godson."
She spots his cloak hanging around the chair of a writing desk. Her fingers reach for it. The fabric is standard ministry fare, battered but well-kept.
Potter peers at the cover of the book he's holding before setting it down. Reading the title—a rare book on vampire physiology—she realizes it must be related to his work. The publisher had closed down long ago, and extant prints were notoriously difficult to find.
"You can keep it. It'll be of more use chasing your miscreant than sitting here, and I imagine Ministry embezzlers can't spare funds for books."
Potter considers. Does he think he'll owe her, if he accepts? (he'd be correct, but technically he's already fulfilled multiple favors for her unknowingly).
"Thanks." He peers at her over his glasses. "Why do you have this book?"
Daphne suppresses the urge to scratch her neck and look away.
"My work."
"Your file didn't mention that you have a job."
"Off the record and unpaid. I'm helping Professor Flitwick research origins of blood curses and blood charms. Vampires make for valuable population studies."
"You should talk to Hermione."
A wrangled noise vocalizes itself despite her best efforts. Potter's mouth twitches. His gaze sharpens, daring her to insult his golden girl.
"Hermione is one of my best friends and one of the smartest people I know."
Yes, yes, the wizarding world is subject to the Golden Girl headlining the Daily Prophet at least twice a month.
"I…" Daphne searches her vast vocabulary and recalls childhood elocution lessons. "I respect her tenacity in intellectual pursuits."
Potter chortles at her. No matter. June's returned with his tarts, and he should be on his merry way. As he peers into the bag to confirm that there are indeed two tarts, not speckled horklumps or the like, she briefly gnaws at her lip.
"Potter, my research is not common knowledge. Only Astoria, Draco, and Tracey are aware. I would appreciate it if you kept it to yourself."
His look suggests there are a many great things he keeps to himself, thank you, and doesn't need her to tell him. Adequately sated with the state of the tarts, he looks at her.
Her mouth, rather.
It's brief. Her habit to chew quills when thinking forces her to use her bottom lip when she doesn't have any. She imagines it's swollen and turning red.
His thumb goes to scratch his own mouth as his gaze flicks upwards. "Your parents don't know?"
Potter is a man known for his intense desire for privacy yet having anything but. He trusts her enough to hand her glimpses of his life and sit in her library knowing she means him no harm. She doesn't think it's special treatment as much as it's an example of how he acts with those he doesn't seem a threat.
Or worse, those he decrees a possible friendship with.
Is he making conversation again?
Seeing her hesitation, curiosity and concern rise from the nonchalance in his eyes. "That scary?"
It's the unrestricted concern, she will tell herself afterwards, and how rare it is to be the object of it that makes her speak.
"Potter, my mother doesn't need the ground she walks on to be worshiped. She works from the shadows, and coils around you so quietly that you don't know she's there until she's about to suffocate you." Daphne holds out his cloak, trying not to scrutinize the stubble suddenly visible when he angles his face. "She's beautiful and smart, and when no one was willing to marry into a no-name impoverished pureblood family in rural Wales, she polyjuiced herself into a man, seduced my grandmother, blackmailed the family into financial ruin, and then warmed my father's bed in the aftermath."
Thomas never knew. To this day, he thinks his wife's wits saved the Greengrasses from downfall caused by some posey Italian.
"So no, she is not scary. She has no ambitions for costumed grandeur. But if she catches whiff of you inconveniencing her, she is inevitable." She knows, because she has been an inconvenience since the day Adorabella realized Daphne had minor moral reservations against abandoning her sister, then a toddler, at a muggle orphanage, her frailty interfering with early magical development at the time and convinced by Thomas to be a squib. "Her networks and contacts extend so far Lucius Malfoy salivates after it. You know how to fight with a wand, Potter, but you're new to fighting those who prefer to fight without one."
In his vast career, Potter has probably seen more blood and corpses than she has. Misfortune is his constant companion. And he still has it in him to look terribly sorry for her.
She wants to see more of that. To know how to have been birthed and grown in tragedy but never made tragic—she didn't think it was possible.
"And you're telling me this because..."
"I personally am no longer in the business of ruining lives other than mine. That would include yours."
He chuckles to himself. "Appreciated, Greengrass," he says dryly. "Is that your thanks?"
Daphne now scratches her neck and looks away. Stupid, uncontrollable nervous tick.
When she resumes looking at him, some of his fingers are outstretched.
He immediately drops his hand. "Your hair is a bit..." he gestures to his own head.
Frowning, she swivels until she spots her reflection in an art frame. Indeed, the braid is messy by her own standards, but by no means should it have been noticeable to a man. Hilarious, to have it pointed out by a man who's default state is disheveled. "How did he notice," she begins to mumble, and then presses her mouth shut. She grasps at the shredded remains of self-control.
But having already heard, he explains, "You always look like a statue," which is the most non-explanation ever, if there ever was one.
"A statue."
"Sort of all intact."
The most stifling of interludes follows.
"Right," he says finally, collecting the violent book afloat in a protective charm and the bag of chocolate tarts.
"I see why there was an yearly attempt on your life," is her last, feeble attempt at wit.
Potter snorts. It's blistering.
She checks that the passageway to the boudoir is empty. His wand hand keeps the violent book afloat in a protective charm, and the other carries the bag of tarts.
Her stomach growls with hunger. As he says nothing nor looks at her, she assumes, blessedly, that it was too quiet for him to hear.
Wordlessly he steps into the floo. "Shell Cottage," he announces.
"Thank you," she says before he disappears in an boutade of green flames.
Blaise may be a git, but he is the son of a rich woman and owns a vineyard in Piedmont. Draco's wrangled the man into allowing a visit, and unwilling to part with his wife for a night (at what point can they no longer be excused as newlyweds, damnit), brings Astoria along, and Astoria doesn't like to go far without Daphne.
Hence, the current predicament of making a sour face at her brother-in-law's back as he and Blaise fly away for a quick game of Shuntbumps, otherwise known as broomstick-jousting. The game of choice when there aren't enough players nor equipment for Quidditch.
Astoria thinks it's amusing and laughs.
"He insists on bringing you here and then abandons you?" asks Daphne.
Blaise's latest situation, a voluptuous veela by the name of Camille, tuts. Her sharp jawline fractures the yellowing sun rays onto her neck, and Daphne finds it difficult to look away. "You are unattached, non? That is how they are; they want us accessible, but not in the way."
Astoria snorts into her sangiovese. "The only thing I have to compete for Draco's attention with is a broomstick."
It's a nice reprieve, Daphne admits. Rows of lush grapevines stretch into the horizon. The sweet symphony of ripening grapes and Camille's cloying perfume adds a level of hazy atmosphere to the arcing hills and quaint villas.
Blaise lowers his broom to try a wronksi-feint, but in knocking him aside Draco saves him from obliterating a quarter of the vineyard.
The only problem is when Camille excuses herself to the ladies room, leaving Astoria and Daphne alone to the treat of watching Draco dangle upside down. That's when Astoria raises the question Daphne was dreading.
"I hear mother's returned—oh dear, he's going to hit a tree—how is she?"
Daphne swirls her glass and watches the resultant tornado create small bubbles. Blaise dosed the drinks with a splash of pepper-up potion. In a sick person, pepper-up restores normal health. In a healthy person, microdosing pepper-up has the effect of setting every nerve aflame.
Which explains Blaise's next triumph in jumping off his broom, arcing over a villa, and landing on it on the other side.
"I was under the impression Blaise wanted children one day," Daphne comments.
Astoria makes a sound that starts as a snort and ends as a thready laugh. "It's nice to see you, like this."
Daphne places her palm over Astoria's. Never one to be easily distracted, Astoria responds with a smile.
"Mother?"
"She returned last night, but she's been busy with father. I imagine you'll hear from her soon."
Astoria smiles in relief. "Do tell her to visit. The Manor has many solariums she would enjoy."
Draco's broom launching him into an olive tree pulls Astoria's attention away.
Feigning letters in Adorabella's name and likeness has always been easy. Conforming it to Astoria's expectations of a mother's love that she craves is the hard part.
Camille returns in time to witness Blaise and Draco soar land in a tottering heap behind them on the rooftop deck. The grunts and accusations flung over who won disguises the telltale Ministry owl hoots until it's overhead.
A tired owl drops into her lap. The brown and black thing hangs her head; Daphne summons a biscuit from the copious spread of food inside and feeds it to her.
Unfurling the letter, she scans over the standard case updates. On the bottom, what no normal person would call handwriting spells out two notes from Potter.
Tell Davis to submit a request for a psychiatric evaluation.
You might have introduced Teddy to the concept of an addiction.
"You alright, Daphne?"
She looks up at Blaise's inquiry. Camille slurps her wine indelicately.
"Father's case," she lies. "Standard Ministry business. Is there somewhere I can write a reply?"
While Astoria pretends to fret over Draco's equally pretend head injury, Blaise leads her to a small writing desk angled below a transom window.
"What do you think of Camille?"
"Do you? Think of her, that is, aside from her décolletage?"
He sniffs imperiously. "In my expert assessment, she's qualified in that area."
"That and everywhere else." She yanks out a fresh page of parchment.
"We don't all have time to dawdle. Mistress Zabini awaits her throne."
Daphne rolls her eyes. The Zabinis are not part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and depending on which wizard his mother was married to (or not, really) when conceiving, Blaise was either a pure-blood or a half-blood.
"What throne?" She dips her quill into the ink pot.
Blaise clambers around the desk and motions to the window. "This vineyard."
"That is tempting."
"And a wizard who doesn't need to use engorgio."
In another world, Daphne would garrotte him with his shoelaces. Alas, Astoria is rather fond of him, so she is too, generally.
"I shall warn Camille and send her off."
She hears Blaise sigh. "I am trying to be a better man."
"You were feeling up her thigh when we arrived."
"Discretion doesn't run in the family, if you remember."
The story is that Blaise used to be quite the taciturn fellow until Draco won his respect by helping him start an art brokerage. Daphne imagines the man's reserved personality during their school days could be attributed to having upfront views to his mother's, er, plots.
Daphne's met the woman. She's an affable lady in most ways.
"Do you have some of those Perugina chocolate bars you brought to Pansy's birthday party?"
"If it's bribery you're after, I suggest the giuseppe." He pulls out a blood-red bottle.
She tries to imagine Potter facing looking out to an Italian vineyard, holding a glass in hand like a viscount. Or chugging down firewhiskey in Hog's Head. Neither make sense. Something else; cider?
"Not bribery. Make one coffee-flavored. I'll let you into my grandfather's wine cellar in return."
Blaise looks at her, brow twitching in inquiry, but he summons three chocolate bars. She tucks it into large envelope with a short note:
Informed Tracey.
What have you been feeding the poor boy so far? Bars of Italian chocolate, enclosed.
"It's—a gift," she explains.
Blaise's other eyebrow joins in a barely concealed curious dance.
"I am trying to be a better woman," she adds, only half mocking. "Are we above gifts?"
Blaise shakes his head. "Not for those who've won our trust."
"For those we're simply thanking?"
Blaise places the guiseppe back and pulls out a brighter bottle.
"After that—regrettable war," he pauses, and Daphne thinks regrettable is a lovely way to put it; there is so much to regret that she hopes it crushes all their parents for the rest of their lives, "I learned the cost of relying on others unconditionally is too high."
What if you could, she wanted to ask. What if there existed a person you could rely on?
But he would reply, who? and she doesn't want to lie about an honest man.
The owl grunts at the weight and peers at her imploringly. Daphne feeds her another biscuit and a mollifying stroke. It bites Daphne's thumb before flying off.
"Tart," she says.
A low sob comes peters into the room. Breaking glass, a shrill shriek.
Blaise and Daphne rush outside.
On the ground lies Astoria, a trickle of red—blood or wine?—slipping past grey lips, her body shaking. Draco scoops her into his arms.
"The floo!" he roars.
She's a small thing.
What shall we do with her?
Where all squibs go.
She's not a squib, father. She's sick.
A disgrace to the name.
I will take care of her, mother.
See to it that you do.
I want to be good.
Naive girl. Every good person possesses a point of moral erosion waiting to crumble under the weight of circumstance. It's best not to pretend.
But isn't this is all—pretension?
The truth doesn't matter. Some lessons will be impressed onto you until they're instinct. Come here, Daphne.
"We're transferring her to Georges-Pompidou," barks Draco.
If her name tag is to be trusted, Healer Rana shakes her head woefully. "She's in no condition for travel tonight. There will be a healer at her side at all times. We need to monitor her until she—"
"If it's money you want, you'll have it." Sneering, Draco fishes through his robes. Healer Rana goes aghast at both the interruption and the sum of money Draco tries to thrust at her.
Since Astoria's birth, their family has always gone to a specialized hospital in France for her healthcare. That hospital is well-funded, bolstered by Greengrass support, and boasts some of the best healers in the world.
Being a private hospital, Blaise's floo didn't have a direct connection there. That's why they're crammed into St. Mungo's rickety third floor corridor outside Astoria's room.
"Mister Malfoy. I understand—"
"Does she?" Blaise mutters under his breath. Camille steps on his foot, and in doing so establishes herself a degree better than a vapid crumpet.
"—it's a delicate situation, but we all agree your wife's health is of utmost importance?"
Draco nods woodenly.
"Then she must stay. I've called for Healer Justin Finch-Fletchley and obtained records from Georges-Pompidou. He's an expert in hereditary conditions and in addition to being one of the youngest to complete our work experience programme, has a medical degree from Cambridge." Healer Rana taps her clipboard to make a copy of the consent forms and floats them over to Draco.
"Like a muggle doctor? The cutty kind?" asks Camille.
Impossibly, Draco's knuckles turn white. Blaise places both his hands on Camille's shoulders and steers her towards the reception area.
Draco and Daphne enter Astoria's room. Even draped across a sterile white bed she could be mistaken for a lady simply lounging after a long day. Brown eyes remain fierce despite the tremors seizing her arms and legs every few moments.
"We're leaving," he orders.
The healer, this one's name tag hidden under green robes, looks up from his wandwork. Vital assessment spells glow blue over Astoria's head. "She's not able to travel in this condition, Mister Malfoy."
Astoria coughs. "And I'd rather not."
The door opens. Gloved hands full of a mishmash of objects, Healer Flinch-Fletchley saunters in. He's easy to recognize, only taller and less rotund than their school days.
He smiles genially. "Good to see you, Malfoy!" He shifts the objects from one hand to the other.
A thin stretch of metal catches her eye. She refrains from balking. Does the man intend to—impale her sister?
The other healer smiles thankfully and flees. The door closes with a resounding finality behind him at the same time Draco's attention catches on the offending item too. His face turns pink first, and then plateau's into a splotchy red.
"Flinch-Fletchley." His tone takes on an edge of ice. "Whatever you plan to do, be assured, you will not."
Oblivious to the mental curses being flung his way, Flinch-Fletchley sets the foreign objects down and plops onto a stool. "I'll be quick. Lots of vampire bites to attend to these days." He squints at the lingering numbers floating over Astoria's head. "I read through Missus Malfoy's medical records. Blood malediction resurfacing after many generations, diagnosed at age seven, attempted treatments include curse-breaking, potions...oh yes. I'll need a blood sample to send to the Royal Brompton Hospital." Seeing confusion abound, he clears his throat. "They have a genetics laboratory."
"Genetics?" she questions.
Finch-Fletchley makes a note in a scratchpad. A wave of his wand dispels the numbers. He finally turns to Draco and Daphne, where both marinate, scandalized.
"Right." He scratches his chin, seeming to come to an understanding. "A blood malediction is a misnomer. From what I can tell, it's not in the blood at all."
"What do you mean, it's not in the blood? Her blood is cursed, you—" Whatever Draco is about to call him is interrupted by Finch-Fletchley setting a cylinder-shaped object with a tapered end on the counter and stripping open the packaging around the silver needle.
"If it was transferred by blood, then a lot more people would have it. I suspect blood curses are carried through what muggles call genes." Finch-Fletchley taps his chin, deep in thought. "They're like chapters of a book that every part of your body carries a copy of. Each chapter tells the body something about how to look or function. One of the chapters Missus Malfoy carries has a defect." He attaches the needle to the cylinder-shape. "Genetic testing could help identify which one, and there might be possible experimental gene therapy treatments. Muggle technology is fascinating, really. It's never been done among wizards since blood curses are so rare, but with the intersection of magic—"
"My sister doesn't have a defect," Daphne says coldly. "We're not disposable bodies for your baseless experiments."
"So this 'jean' affects my blood—" Astoria starts.
"He wants to stab you," Draco growls. "The Board will be hearing about this—"
Finch-Fletchley, countenance as bright as ever, inserts into the cacophony of voices, "I need to obtain a blood sample the muggle way so it isn't contaminated with a spell's magical signature."
Astoria coughs. Loudly.
"Could we have a moment alone?" Voice thin with impatience, Astoria turns to Finch-Fletchley.
Daphne crosses her arms, tapping a single foot. Draco's entire face resembles Blaise's giuseppe.
Sighing, Finch-Fletchey leaps to his feet. His stride is tired, reminiscent of a man who's had this conversation multiple times before.
After he leaves, Astoria stares at the ceiling.
"He said there's some experimental treatments."
"Experimental and muggle!" Draco shouts.
Daphne and Astoria stare.
He takes a stilling breath and resorts to letting his energy out through frantic pacing.
"Draco's right." Daphne's legs are tiring, but the only seat available is the healer's stool. She perches onto it as elegantly as possible, crossing her legs and setting her handbag atop her thigh. "How would he know when everyone at both Georges-Pompidou and Hôpital Saint-Louis couldn't identify the cause?"
"Because he's a doc-tor," snarls Draco.
"He's a qualified healer," Astoria counters.
Daphne's jaw clenches. "Draco, I can send a message to Georges-Pompidou."
"Daphne," Astoria says warningly.
Draco nods once. "Please do. Were you able to make sense of the utter trite he was saying?"
"Draco," her sister tries.
"No." Daphne shakes her head. "There's a fringe theory on the source of magic originating in something other than blood, but it's largely dismissed for being ideological."
"Gods, I haven't been here in ages but unacceptable, the sort of practices they deem fit—"
"Look at me!"
Daphne's jolt upends her bag from her lap. It hits the floor and a stream consisting of her wand, various sour candies, and toiletries drift around her feet. Draco looks stricken, freezing mid-pace.
Astoria heaves, her chest squeezing hacking coughs out of her mouth.
Her sister is not a beautiful damsel. Her hair is brittle. Tired and burnt out.
Daphne can recall with startling clarity every moment Astoria has screamed. The first time was on Platform 9 ¾, when Daphne was about to board Hogwarts' express and her sister, upset she was leaving, shrieked at her to never return. Then when Daphne caught her trying to sneak away to Hogsmeade during second year with a third year hufflepuff. Reaching for each other's hands during evacuation. Standing her ground when she declared, during a family Christmas gathering, that she wanted to marry Draco.
It occurs to Daphne that she worries so much about Astoria she has seldom stopped to ask Astoria what she thinks of her own self.
"I have been sick my entire life." Astoria brings her hands to her chest and clasps them together. "Credit to Daphne for trying her best to protect me, but I'm not a fool. Do you think I don't know what people think of me?"
"It's not your fault," says Draco.
"Of course it isn't. That's the point." A wet cough echoes in Astoria's chest. "Merlin, Draco, I love you. I want to have children with you." She turns over in her bed, facing the alabaster wall. "Preferably those who are not raised to believe that those with defects are scum."
"My love," Draco says quietly.
"Out, both of you. I need a break from your faces."
Look at me.
And—
You will take care of her, won't you, Daphne?
Weak. Useless.
My lovely girl.
Bruises. A mother looking away.
Daphne hastily shuffles the fallen items into her purse, and then debates touching her sister's shoulder on the way out. She thinks better of it.
Draco and Daphne stand wordlessly in the corridor. For once, he has nothing to say.
Neither does she. She counts the bits of grime wedged between each ceiling tile.
Finch-Fletchley returns some odd minutes later, holding a new set of pointy items, but the genial smile is wiped from his face. Daphne is certain the rooms, decrepit as they are, are at least charmed against eavesdropping. It's from the context, she assumes, that he knows the nature of their fight.
Draco lets out a long, whistle-like sigh. Reshuffling his features into aristocratan neutrality, he inclines his head in a half-nod to Finch-Fletchley before departing. Signed consent forms shower over them.
Daphne feels the spiral-like sensation of regret and the urge to apologize again. It's best not to let it ache for a week, this time.
She says sorry.
Finch-Fletchley lumbers after the falling pieces of parchment. "Thanks. Feel free to investigate my research and my work. Some blood healers in India and Turkey have put stock in my theory, including the Shafiqs, but, er, that's not enough for some."
"I will be." At his wince, she clarifies, "I'm interested in researching magical ailments related to blood."
"Oh!" He brightens. "Fascinating. My mother's an immunologist, you know—well, a type of healer—and I think we wizards decide a lot of diseases are uncurable when we just have an outdated understanding of etiology." Before she can balk at both his confidence and bedside manner, he grabs the doorknob. "Good day, Greengrass. We'll do everything we can for your sister."
Daphne does, of course, pen many letters. One to the Georges-Pompidou healers to ask for their input, another letter to Professor Flitwick, and a third to Blaise thanking him for his troubles paired with a sample of her grandfather's many aging beverages.
She downs a glass herself in preparation for dinner.
Thomas and Adorabella sit at one end of the hideous dining table carved from porlock bone. The chandelier remains a staunch, unmoving observer above them.
"Astoria is sick and in hospital."
Adorabella hums, like Daphne has informed her of a flobberworm infestation in the southeast parlor. "Again?"
"She hasn't had a flare-up since her seventh year."
"Poor thing. You'll take care of it."
It's an order, not a question.
Daphne looks down at her soup. Meager spoonfuls with a dollop of cream greet her.
Her father scoffs. "Of course she will. What else can she do? Whore herself out to the Ministry?"
"So, that's what Knobby was referring to." Adorabella raps her fingers on the table in slow succession. Pinky, ring finger, middle finger, forefinger, and again, pinky, ring finger, middle finger…
Daphne lets silence to stretch on for as long as possible. She'd forgotten about the house-elves. The creatures were always underestimated; a lesson one would think would be taken more seriously after Lucius lost control of his house-elf.
Adorabella smiles. Daphne stiffens.
"Tell me, Daphne: are you a whore?"
"No, mother. I did not think it wise to oppose DMLE orders with father's house arrest."
"And that is for you to decide?"
Yes, actually. Because her mother wasn't there.
Adorabella's voice smooths into a silky one. "You don't know what's out there, my love. I make sacrifices to protect this household. That is the cost for all of this." Her mouth quirks. "All I ask is you behave. Your father went and nearly got us killed. I won't have you doing the same."
Daphne remembers a striking passage that pointless ghost of a professor for History of Magic had them read on the witch trials in America and torture methods used. It wasn't the burning them alive or hangings that curdled her belly; but the submission tactics. The cycle of wounding interspersed with relieving balms, the cruelty followed by mercy followed by cruelty, so the witch could no longer distinguish the foe from friend.
Her mother is inevitable, because she is a never ending cycle, Daphne thinks.
Draco's money did go somewhere because he was allowed to stay the night. Daphne walks in the next morning to find him tucked away on a transfigured bed, feet falling of the edge, and Astoria snoring away on hers.
The scene is so mundane, so utterly domestic that Daphne takes a moment to memorize the worry marring Draco's face even in sleep and Astoria's indecipherable mumbling.
She takes respite in the fifth floor tearoom. There are many visitors starting to filter in and out, and she observes them with a quiet study as she drinks Turkish Daphne tea.
"Miss Greengrass? This arrived in the owlry for you." A hospital errand boy hands her a letter.
Her heart's stutter is short-lived. The seal is not the light brown of the DMLE, but an orange signifying the Department of Magical Artifacts. It requests the Greengrass family's attendance the next early afternoon for a meeting regarding Imperio and Its Alternatives for the Dirty Bloods. No handwriting disfigures the thin off-white parchment.
She tugs it into her bag. As she orders a second tea, she spots Longbottom and Abbott's faces flashing in the elevator, likely visiting the infamous fourth-floor Janus Thickey ward, and wonders what sort of parents Longbottom must have had for their child to be so devoted to them.