Malfoy Estate, Wiltshire.
A worried father — Lucius Malfoy — stood before the gilded mirror in the mistress of the manor's bedroom, mournfully plucking a single strand of platinum-blonde hair from his robes.
"Cissy, if I go bald, will you still love me the same?" he asked, his expression so forlorn it would have shocked every other creature in Malfoy Manor — for it was a side of him they had never been permitted to see.
"Don't be ridiculous. How could you possibly go bald? Just drink a hair-growth potion," Narcissa retorted, perfunctorily smoothing his already-smooth hair. "Instead of fretting over such absurd things, you ought to be thinking about your son..."
Lucius watched his wife drift back into her own thoughts with a pitiful expression, privately concluding she was the most heartless person in the world.
The moment her son entered the equation, Cissy forgot he existed entirely. How could he not harbour deep resentment?
And "educating their son" was, without question, the root cause of Lucius's impending baldness.
After his first decisive defeat at the breakfast table, Draco had assumed his father would retreat to lick his wounds for a few days.
Instead, buoyed by Narcissa's encouragement, Lucius had refused to concede. If anything, his determination to restore his beloved son to his senses had only hardened.
He was spending far more time at the estate these days. The political manoeuvring and salon intrigues of the outside world no longer seemed to hold any interest for him; he had even, quite remarkably, declined invitations to Cornelius Fudge's gatherings.
His new quarry was his own obstinate son.
It was a daunting undertaking. Draco was as unyielding as a young tree with its roots sunk deep into Malfoy Manor — immovable, and utterly disinclined to budge.
Lucius could hardly hit him or berate him too harshly, or Cissy would turn on him; nor could he simply cast an Obliviate and wipe the boy's stubborn convictions away like clearing frost from a windowpane. Draco was his own son, after all. He could not quite bring himself to do it.
Draco, for his part, had noticed his father's peculiar new campaign almost immediately.
He had won the opening skirmish, certainly. But he soon understood something important: his pride in Hermione's academic supremacy had not impressed his father in the slightest. On the contrary, it had only ignited Lucius's fighting spirit — a fresh and thoroughly inconvenient source of fuel.
Lately, Lucius had taken to raising seemingly unrelated topics in a calm, measured tone, then steering the conversation, with the subtlety of a herd of Hippogriffs, toward Hermione Granger — angling, always, to demonstrate how hopelessly unsuitable a Muggle-born Gryffindor was for his son.
One morning, for instance, Lucius joined Draco on the estate's Quidditch pitch to knock the Quaffle around for a while. He was soundly defeated by his son's back-pass, and they walked home through the dense woodland path in companionable silence — Lucius's silence being distinctly less companionable than Draco's.
At last, Lucius opened his mouth, like a man reluctantly admitting to something unpleasant: "I was on the Slytherin team in my day, you know. I brought the House no small amount of glory... It's only that in recent years, family affairs have kept me from the pitch..."
"Of course. I've seen your name on one of the trophies in the trophy room," Draco replied evenly, outwardly quite respectful. "Slytherin's record is remarkable — the House has nearly the most trophies of any—"
"Nearly?" Lucius seized on the word instantly, drawing it out with dangerous precision.
"Slytherin and Gryffindor have roughly the same number," Draco explained, with perfect calm.
"Gryffindor!" Lucius wrinkled his nose as though he'd caught a particularly foul smell. "That House is a rabble — werewolves, half-giants, half-bloods, Muggle-borns, blood traitors, paupers. No standards whatsoever."
He cast a sideways look at his son. "Frankly, I expected better taste from you."
Lucius felt a flicker of awkwardness. He had carefully avoided the word "Mudblood," choosing his language with unusual precision — not, he told himself fiercely, out of any fear of provoking another row with his son. Entirely to preserve the dignity befitting a Malfoy. Entirely.
"But you asked me to maintain a friendly relationship with Harry Potter," Draco pointed out. "And he's a Gryffindor."
"Potter is an exception. Talent is worth cultivating." Lucius waved a dismissive hand.
He paused, then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Though be careful there, as well. The Daily Prophet has not been kind to Potter lately, and with so many eyes on our family, we can't afford to appear to be working against Fudge. Keep your distance, for now."
"On the contrary," Draco said, "I think maintaining a close friendship with Potter at a moment like this would only deepen the bond — which is rather the point, isn't it?"
"Deepen the bond." Lucius said it back flatly, as though tasting something sour. "I told you to befriend Harry Potter — him specifically — not to become a champion of every Muggle-born in Gryffindor, and certainly not to grow close to that family of impoverished blood traitors."
"Father, have you forgotten the state of the Gaunt family? Direct descendants of Slytherin himself, devoted to pure-blood ideals, and utterly destitute. And are there truly no Slytherin graduates among the petty criminals at the bottom of the wizarding world?"
Like his father, Draco walked briskly beneath the thick canopy of trees. Anyone watching them would have had no doubt at all that they were father and son.
"There are a few bad examples in every House. You can't judge Slytherin by its outliers," Lucius said impatiently, his expression bearing the same aristocratic hauteur one so often saw on Draco's face. "Look at how many senior Ministry officials are Slytherins—"
"A small fraction, actually," Draco said, stopping on the path and turning to face his father squarely. "Your own network at the Ministry includes significant figures from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff — the MacLagan family, the Eckmor family, the Smiths... You know this perfectly well."
Lucius's face went rigid.
"You're just being contrary!" he snapped — and strode ahead, leaving his insufferably well-informed son standing beneath a neatly trimmed elm.
"That little brat remembers everything," Lucius thought darkly as he walked. He had mentioned those connections only once, in passing, at the dinner table — and Draco had catalogued every name.
That was not something just any child could do. Even Lucius himself had only begun to truly study such relationships after leaving Hogwarts.
A boy this age, with a mind like that — such interest in alliances and influence, such a flawless memory. If he kept it up, he would go far. Lucius felt a swell of pride, followed immediately by a swell of irritation.
This almost-perfect child had one solitary flaw: he had gone and fallen for a Muggle-born. Lucius renewed his private vow to correct it.
That evening at dinner, restored to his usual vigour, Lucius cut into his grain-fed Black Angus steak with practised ease and launched into an enthusiastic address to his wife and son on the subject of "the necessity for wizards to preserve the purity of their bloodline."
"...There is considerable evidence that magical purity has a direct bearing on spell efficacy," he intoned, wearing the expression of a man magnanimously sharing difficult truths. "Muggle-born wizards, regrettably, simply cannot match the raw potency of a pure-blood — their spellwork always falls marginally short—"
"Father," Draco said pleasantly, "did you know that the Dark Lord himself is a half-blood?"
A pause.
"His father was a Muggle."
"That's absurd! Who put such nonsense in your head?" Lucius straightened, his chin lifting — here, at last, was solid ground on which to discipline the boy. "The Dark Lord is a descendant of Slytherin. He reveres pure-blood principles. He could not possibly be—"
"His father was a Muggle named Tom Riddle," Draco said, slowly and clearly. "The Dark Lord is half Muggle. He inherited both his surname and his given name from that side. Only his middle name — Marvolo — comes from his mother's family. The Gaunts. The very sort of destitute, inbred extremists you were describing earlier."
Lucius stared at his son.
The boy smiled back at him — a bright, entirely unrepentant smile. "I rather assumed you already knew."
The composure left Lucius's face. His expression shifted — something flickered there, something between shock and a fear he would not name.
He looked at his son the way one might look at a Venomous Tentacula that had quietly extended a tendril around one's wrist.
His face had gone pale. "Who told you that?" he asked, his voice sharp.
"Dumbledore is aware of it as well," Draco said carefully, which was not quite an answer.
The colour did not return to Lucius's face. Across the table, Narcissa had gone very still.
Whatever one might say about Dumbledore, when the old man confirmed something, the credibility of that confirmation was not easily dismissed.
Husband and wife looked at one another, and each saw the same thing in the other's eyes: something very close to panic.
They finished dinner in near-silence, so distracted that neither noticed the house-elf Mia had poured entirely the wrong wine.
So they didn't know. Draco settled back in his chair, quietly satisfied.
What Barty Crouch Jr. had known was something his parents had apparently never been told.
It seemed the Dark Lord had always maintained certain... reservations... about the Malfoy family. He had never truly trusted them.
After dinner, Draco watched his parents from beneath lowered lashes. Lucius was fidgeting with his left wrist. Narcissa had fixed her gaze on the family crest painted on her teacup, her face unreadable.
They were still working through it, he supposed — the revelation that their revered Dark Lord had been half-blood.
Very good. Draco felt a profound sense of satisfaction.
He had been carrying that particular piece of knowledge alone for some time now. It was gratifying to have company.
Not entirely alone — Hermione had always been with him.
Draco plucked a green apple from the fruit bowl, tossed it once, and strolled away from the table with an unhurried air.
"Cissy," Lucius said at last, when their son's footsteps had faded entirely. His voice was strained. "Is it possible? The Dark Lord — a half-blood?"
"I don't know." A shadow crossed Narcissa's flawless face. Her eyes moved restlessly, then settled on her husband with an expression of reluctant uncertainty. "How could it be..."
"Your sister was close to him," Lucius said carefully. "Did Bella never mention anything?"
"Bella never told me any of this," Narcissa murmured. Something shifted in her eyes — slow, dawning. "If it's true... I think I understand now why she agreed to marry Lestrange, even though she never loved him. Even when there were other options..."
Lucius asked quietly, "Do you think Lestrange knew? Nott? Avery?"
"Even if it's true — what does it matter now?" Narcissa's voice turned brisk, almost sharp. "That's all in the past. It changes nothing." She pressed her fingertips against the table. "Don't you see what Draco was doing? He's trying to muddy the waters, to make it impossible for us to reason with him. He is far too clever."
She frowned. "The Dark Lord is a closed chapter. We are safe, and we are prosperous. Lucius — what matters right now is getting through to our son."
"Yes—" Lucius said. His gaze drifted, and without thinking, he closed his left hand.
Beneath his sleeve — fine silk, silver-shot — the Dark Mark lay against his skin. Hidden. Patient.
It had seemed to flicker on Christmas Eve last year. Briefly. Almost imperceptibly. A secret Lucius had not yet found a way to share with his wife.
Fourteen years.
The Dark Lord, that vanished shadow, should be gone by now. Surely.
He could not bring himself to voice his unease to Cissy, whose brow was still furrowed with worry enough. Their son's rebellion and those unsettling ideas — those were already more than enough to weigh on her. Unfounded anxieties could wait.
"I understand, Cissy," Lucius said, after a moment. "I won't stop trying. I'll find another approach."
He raised his right hand, and the trembling house-elf hovering near the door hurried forward to pour two glasses of Howling Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon.
"Have a drink," he said gently, sliding the glass toward his wife. "And I'll give you a proper shoulder rub after. What do you say?"
Narcissa raised her eyes slowly and regarded him.
"I'm not entirely convinced," she said, with a faint lift of her chin. "The last time you offered me a massage, you abandoned the exercise halfway through, and my back ached for a week."
---
The next morning, Draco came down to find his father looking, against all reasonable expectation, entirely refreshed.
Lucius appeared to have processed the revelation of the Dark Lord's parentage with remarkable speed. He snapped open the still-warm Daily Prophet with the enthusiasm of a man decades younger, and addressed his son over the breakfast table with renewed gusto.
"The fundamental problem," he announced, "is that a Muggle-born witch and a pure-blood wizard simply have nothing in common. Different upbringings. Different worlds. You couldn't even share a joke. What on earth would you talk about, besides homework?"
He fixed Draco with a goading look.
Draco considered this.
What did they talk about at this dinner table? Resisting the Dark Lord?
Obviously not.
"She's the only girl at Hogwarts who can recite all twelve uses of dragon's blood — in order, without hesitation," Draco said, selecting a comparatively harmless example. "Father, didn't our family once have interests in the dragon's blood trade? Do you remember what all twelve uses are?"
"I'll grant she may have a certain cleverness—" Lucius said, with elaborate carelessness.
He gave his son a cool look, having no intention of conceding anything at the breakfast table. Instead, he moved smoothly to his next line of attack. "But when considering whether a girl is truly suitable, talent alone is not sufficient. Family connections matter enormously. A girl from a pure-blood family brings an entire network with her — alliances, influence, relationships woven into the Malfoy name. What can a Muggle-born offer in that regard?"
"Connections?" Draco's expression cooled. "You mean Aunt Bella? Azkaban connections?"
Narcissa's face tightened almost imperceptibly.
Lucius caught it at once. He had his own feelings about Bellatrix, which were not warm, but she was Cissy's family — and Cissy's feelings required protecting.
Before Narcissa could respond, Lucius cut across, turning sharply on his son. "Draco Malfoy, that is enough. You will not speak to your parents that way." His voice dropped to something quiet and precise. "And do not forget — that girl is quite defenceless, on her own, in the Muggle world. It would be a simple matter for the right sort of gift to find its way to her."
He gave his son a thin smile.
"I'm sure I could arrange something rather... pretty."
"By all means," Draco said, holding his father's gaze without blinking. "And I'm quite sure I could arrange to send Arthur Weasley a comprehensive account of every dark artefact currently concealed in our house's secret rooms."
A terrible silence fell over the breakfast table.
Lucius's expression turned to thunder.
This insufferable boy. His collection — his irreplaceable, priceless, meticulously curated collection—
"How dare you." The words came out in a low, barely controlled rasp. "How dare you threaten your own father. You ungrateful—"
"That is enough from both of you."
Narcissa set her knife and fork down against her plate with a sharp, deliberate crack that cut through the room like a Severing Charm.
Every house-elf in the vicinity stopped breathing.
The mistress of Malfoy Manor was angry. This was not a common occurrence.
Both Lucius and Draco went still. In Draco's memory, his mother had always played the part of careful moderator in these confrontations — graceful, composed, gently steering the household back from the brink. He had never seen her step fully into the fire before.
The change in the atmosphere was marked.
Narcissa turned to the watching house-elves, her voice like ice. "Out. All of you."
They filed out in a small, terrified procession — quick, mincing footsteps, heads bowed, barely daring to breathe. The last elf cast one wide, trembling glance back at the three Malfoys before pulling the door shut.
"Lucius." Narcissa's gaze settled on her husband with a dangerous, narrowed quality. "I was not aware we had a collection of dark artefacts secreted about the house."
"Cissy." Lucius put on his most anguished expression. "They're limited editions. Masterpieces, every one — do you have any idea how much they've appreciated on the black market? You simply cannot throw away something priceless and irreplaceable—"
"We will discuss that later. Separately." Narcissa silenced him with a look that pinned his bluster in place like a Sticking Charm, leaving him with nowhere to put it. "Quietly."
She turned to her son.
"Draco." Her voice changed — still firm, but different now. Quieter. "Your father has made every effort to talk to you this summer, and you won't hear reason." She paused. "I think you have become too infatuated with this girl to think clearly."
Draco forked a slice of green apple with exaggerated ease, his expression suggesting these observations were nothing he hadn't anticipated.
Narcissa studied him for a moment.
"We have made a decision," she said at last. "For the rest of the summer, your owl post is suspended. We are asking you to step back, clear your head, and reflect."
"That's not fair," Draco said. He hadn't been surprised — but that didn't mean he had to accept it without objection.
"Between a parent and a child, fairness is not absolute — not until you can meet us as an equal," Narcissa said plainly. "You live in this house. You have everything provided for you, and you have our devoted support. In return, you are bound by our rules."
"Stopping the owls won't change anything," Draco said, a trace of impatience breaking through.
"Think of it as a test — for both of you." Narcissa's tone was measured, almost clinical. "If two months apart, with no communication, leaves your feelings unchanged, then I will be willing to believe this is something genuine, and not a passing infatuation."
Draco held his mother's gaze. She looked back at him, her blue eyes steady — sad, he thought, underneath all that resolve.
"Draco," she said. "Will you prove it to me?"
Narcissa had not acted without preparation. She had intended to wait longer before pressing the issue — at least until Rita Skeeter had delivered her report on Hermione Granger. Know your enemy before you engage; it was a principle she had lived by.
But the Prophet journalist had apparently vanished into thin air. When her letter finally arrived that morning, it was a limp, unconvincing document — an "accident," Rita claimed. She would be "stepping back for a while." She could not help with anything relating to Hermione Granger.
Narcissa had not believed a word of it.
If a shameless, profit-hungry gossip journalist was frightened of this Muggle-born girl, it said something. The girl had more about her than Narcissa had initially credited.
And now here was Draco, taking aim at his own aunt across the breakfast table for that girl's sake. The battle had come to their own hearth. That was the last straw.
She had to act now — before the girl's influence deepened any further, before Draco's attachment became so entrenched that no argument could reach him at all.
Draco tapped a finger against the table. His expression was careful and unreadable.
"I'll agree," he said at last. "On one condition. I need to know she's safe. If I cut off contact, and Father uses that window to send her something — unexpected—"
"Your father will not act," Narcissa said, fixing Lucius with a look that left no room for interpretation. Lucius gave a stiff, reluctant nod.
She turned back to her son. "As for myself — I have no interest in troubling a girl I consider beneath my notice. Engaging with her as though she were a genuine threat would be beneath me entirely."
Draco nodded slowly. He believed her. His mother had never wasted her contempt on people she considered unworthy of it; she simply turned them to ice with her indifference.
One day, he thought, she would realise that Hermione Granger was someone worth watching. But until then, that arrogance would keep Hermione safe.
"Very well," Draco said. He watched his parents' faces — his father's, still averted in residual fury; his mother's, open and sad and utterly resolved.
He tapped the table one last time.
"I can manage a summer without owls."
"And without your house-elf," Narcissa added, quietly but firmly.
There had apparently been an incident. One of the estate's house-elves had arrived at Narcissa's morning room in a state of considerable agitation — head wrapped in bandages, intermittently knocking itself against the wainscoting — to report that Draco's small, ill-mannered elf had stripped an entire corner of the garden almost bare.
Draco exhaled.
His mother had clearly thought this through with great care.
"And without my house-elf," he said. "In exchange, you give me your word — both of you — that nothing will be done to harm her this summer."
He looked at his mother the way he might regard a particularly formidable opponent at a negotiating table.
Narcissa held his gaze for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and entirely sincere.
"I promise."