Blind Faith

Blind Faith

Prologue

Into the Fire

A hollow heart and an empty head

Make the streets run red

A careless desire

Leaves a child a future of fire

Blind Faith, The Levellers

The manor's grounds were beautiful. She could find no other words to describe them - great stretches of lavish lawns, borders trembling with an abundance of sweet-smelling roses. The summerhouse glittered on the edge of her vision, throwing kaleidoscopic patterns over the shadowed trees that lay beyond. The branches appeared to reach out to her as a sigh of wind tugged at the verdant leaves.

She shivered and pulled her silk shawl closer to her, covering the pale skin of her exposed shoulders.

"...of course that's not what Trinity said - she said that..."

Attempting a look of concern, she gazed at her friend. The dazzling sunlight reflected off the woman's strawberry-blonde hair as though off gilded rose petals. Dark eyes sparkled merrily at her and a carefully manicured hand gestured animatedly, narrowly missing an irritated swipe from the overhanging ivy. The woman vaguely reminded her of someone she had once known.

A low chuckle elicited from behind her. She turned slightly to accept a polite kiss from the towering man who came to stand by her friend. "Be careful Alexia - you'll have someone's eye out."

Alexia ceased her incessant chatter and blinked placidly up at her husband. "I was just telling Narcissa here about the time when Issa-"

Her husband sighed wearily. "Really Alexia," he said. "I think we've all heard enough of your gossip. Is this really all you women talk about?" he asked exasperatedly, turning to Narcissa. "What a tedious life it must be."

Narcissa smiled thinly and covered the frigid hand that had settled on her shoulder with her own.

"I wouldn't call my wife's life tedious as such, Alvin," said Lucius silkily from behind her, squeezing her shoulder. "She has full run of the dungeons when I am absent."

Alvin wrapped his arm around his wife's shoulders and Narcissa watched as Alexia leaned naturally into the curve of his body. She felt Lucius drop his hand to his side as Alvin chuckled deeply again. "Oh yes, I can just imagine the horrors that she could inflict on the rats down there." He paused. "Unless there is more to the place than meets the eye?"

It was so tactless an attempt at interrogation that even Narcissa spotted it. And Death Eaters were supposed to be interrogation experts, Narcissa thought scornfully, although she dared not voice her thoughts.

"Zabini," said Lucius, his tone dangerously amused. "Even you know that I do not freely give away information about my manor." Although he was standing behind her, Narcissa could picture her husband's expression: mouth curled into a mirthless grin, eyes narrowed in a way that made most people run, screaming, in the opposite direction. "Anyone could get hold of it."

Alvin cut his eyes away from some point above Narcissa's head and chuckled, somewhat nervously. "Of course, Lucius, of course." He coughed, seemingly fishing for a change in topic. "Draco is doing-"

The abrupt halt in Alvin's speech and the apologetic look shot over Narcissa's head caused her to turn to her husband for the first time in the conversation. Lucius was tall and she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. His steely eyes met hers as he brushed a hand through his fine, silvery hair, shrugging nonchalantly.

"What was Draco doing, Lucius?" Narcissa inquired, letting an edge of coldness creep into her voice.

Her husband looked steadily down at her and shrugged again. "I gave Draco a few incantations to amuse himself with." Narcissa narrowed her eyes and Lucius, as if to reassure her, said, "He won't be able to master them; he had difficulty enough with the Latera Deflagratio."

Alvin looked at Lucius in surprise, the tension between them seeming to dissipate. "Draco can do that? He can perform the Latera Deflagratio?"

Lucius inclined his head slightly, gold rivulets of sunlight glancing off his pale hair. "He can."

Alexia snorted inelegantly. "You expect us to believe that? That a seven-year-old can cause such destruction in a person? Be serious now, Lucius."

"I am being perfectly serious, Alexia." A slow smile crept onto Lucius' face and Narcissa sighed. She knew what was coming next. "You wish a demonstration, perhaps?"

Alvin and Alexia exchanged identical glances. "Come now, Lucius," said Alvin in a tone that bordered on patronising. "I was fifteen before I managed it. It is a complex curse and..." He trailed off and stared after Lucius' retreating back as the other man strode along the edge of the clover-sprinkled paddock.

A frown furrowed Alvin's dark brow and he turned once more to Narcissa. "This is true?" he asked.

"Yes," said Narcissa simply.

Alvin took off immediately after Lucius, following the bleached picket-fence perimeter of the field and ducking into the stables. The grazing winged horses snorted and pawed the ground in annoyance of their meal being interrupted.

The winged horses were rare things indeed; Narcissa doubted that the Ministry knew of them. Their flight feathers - which were valuable for both potions and wand cores - had been clipped; she remembered vividly her visit to Mr Borgin's shop in Knockturn Alley to sell them. It had been Draco's first trip there and he had been immeasurably over-excited, despite his father's admonishments. Although her relationship with Draco had always been somewhat distant (he was, without doubt, his father's son), it had made her smile as he explored the bubbling apothecaries, the writhing animal emporiums, the shadowed Dark Arts traders. He had even attracted the unwanted attention of an old hag who had found his eyes fascinating. Narcissa had politely refused to let the gnarled old lady gouge them out - she remembered Draco looking fearfully at the rusty spoon in the hag's shrivelled hand.

Still, Narcissa saw no need to keep such animals on the grounds - their extraordinary intelligence made her nervous. Why not keep them at the less frequently visited manor in France? They were perfectly capable of surviving on their own and each had an absurd loyalty to Lucius, giving them no inclination to make a bid for freedom. A chestnut mare was particularly fond of her husband, she seemed to recall. But Lucius said he had his reasons, and she trusted him.

"Come, Narcissa," said Alexia with a grin. "We must see this."

Narcissa let herself be steered towards the stables. It was a small structure with flint walls; the bright sunlight reflected off the thatched roof like spun gold. Until Lucius had inherited the Malfoy fortune and Mansion at the age of eighteen, it had been the servants' quarters, suitably situated so that it was as far away from the family home as possible. Narcissa respected this decision; she could not imagine letting her own child mix with the flea-ridden servants. Much to her disapproval, Lucius had converted the pleasant cottage into a shelter for his beloved horses. But perhaps 'beloved' was not the right word - Narcissa could not think of any possessions that Lucius held as 'beloved'.

So, under her husband's instruction, the top magical architects in Europe had widened the small front door so that it could accommodate the purebred horses. Naturally, the end product was nothing less than the best. A heavy, mahogany-panelled door had been attached and the stained glass windows smashed out and melted down into the sweeping lettering that adorned the silver plaque that was now welded onto the door:

Behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.

Narcissa had never felt inclined to ask Lucius where the quote had come from, or if he had even produced it himself. It certainly suited his disposition. In place of the stained glass windows there were hinged shutters that looked suspiciously like they had been doused in blood. Narcissa wouldn't put it past Lucius - some of the most effective protection spells were blood-related. In fact, all blood-related spells were effective and immensely powerful. She wondered, without much interest, what (or who) had been sacrificed.

"You let Lucius teach these curses to your son?" murmured Alexia, as the pair followed the path their husbands had taken.

Narcissa sighed. "I tried to tell Lucius to wait until the boy's older, but he won't have any of it. You know what he's like."

Alexia glanced sideways at Narcissa. "I've heard."

"He's so stubborn!" Narcissa threw her hands up in exasperation. "I told him to wait until Draco's eleven and he gets his letter from Durmstrang. At least then he could fully control his magical powers. But no; Malfoys have to learn control from an early age, according to Lucius."

Alexia smiled. "It's an important thing to learn. Only the Gods know where we would all be without it." She slowed her steps almost to a stop and Narcissa reduced her speed to fall in step with her friend. "Blaise is going to Hogwarts. He hasn't even got his wand yet."

Narcissa struggled to conjure up a clear picture of the Zabini's son. She seemed to recall a small face dominated by a pair of enormous cobalt eyes and framed by a mass of unruly jet curls. Blaise had his father's hair and his mother's eyes, a most desirable combination.

But the little child - being seven already - did not have a wand of its own? This was something of an abnormality in pureblood wizarding families, and Narcissa made an appropriate exclamation of surprise. "Why ever not?"

"The in-laws."

"I see."

No more needed to be said. The in-laws were a pair of overbearing, meddlesome nuisances who were determined to tell their son and daughter-in-law the correct way to raise their child. Of course, they were Gryffindors. Narcissa thanked the Gods that Lucius' parents had passed away years ago.

"They at it again?" asked Narcissa sympathetically. They had unwittingly come to a halt and stood, facing each other, on the springy grass. At the despairing look on her friend's face, Narcissa gathered her up in a tight embrace.

As Narcissa released her, Alexia seemed to take the gesture as some sort of indication, and her rigid shoulders suddenly slumped, her head rolling forward dispiritedly so that her pointed chin almost brushed her chest. A curtain of strawberry hair fell over her face, hiding the expression that lay beneath. It was alarming what a difference one's posture could make. There was no sign of the usual aristocracy in her stance now, only a certain weariness.

"They're controlling the upbringing of my child," she said angrily. "Blaise is my child, not theirs and I don't see why they should constantly interfere." She looked up at Narcissa suddenly, her blue gaze shaded from the glare of the afternoon sun by sheets of pale hair. "What can I do?"

"Curse them," said Narcissa, calmly placing a hand on Alexia's shoulder. "Curse them until they scream."

Alexia's eyes widened imperceptibly, and then she laughed bitterly. "I would, oh, believe me I would, but they're Alvin's parents."

"That changes nothing, Alexia. I'd do the same thing and I'm sure Lucius would be more than happy to assist."

The other woman smiled half-heartedly and, with an obvious effort, she straightened her shoulders, raised her chin arrogantly and swatted at some invisible dust on her deep violet robes. "Oh I bet he would, Narcissa, I bet he would."

Narcissa clapped her hands together with satisfaction. "That's the spirit. Come on, now." She led Alexia across the remaining distance between themselves and the stables. They both paused outside before entering.

Inside, the stables looked little more than a glamorous hay-shed. The walls were mahogany-panelled, the floor invisible due to the thick carpet of straw. The sun that poured through the single window in the far wall washed over the stables, painting everything in a hazy light. A shelf lined the wall to Narcissa's right; it was stacked with bottles of magical chemicals that she was certain most stables did not have. Besides this hung the tack: reins, saddles, blankets. All black and silver.

Alvin stood in the far corner of the stables, next to a half-empty bucket of feed, a look of complete astonishment on his face. Alexia made as if to close the gap between herself and her husband, but she froze halfway towards him as a high-pitched squealing echoed off the stone walls and high ceiling.

Narcissa clapped her hands over her ears. The sound was like nothing on earth - almost Banshee-like in its intensity. She swung around to the source of the squealing - and saw Draco. His ebony wand was fixated on his victims on the floor - an unfortunate family of honey-furred dormice. Ignoring the writhing animals, Narcissa surveyed her son, hands pressed firmly against her ears.

Draco was sitting beneath the hay-shelf on a bundle of straw that was held firmly together by a scarlet cord. The boy had a look of great concentration on his face, tongue stuck out with effort. His ashen eyes were narrowed to slits, thin lips curled into a triumphant sort of grimace.

He looked so much like his father.

Eventually, the tortured cries were reduced to pathetic whimpers, and Narcissa was able to drop her hands to her sides. Lucius looked on impassively until he caught Alvin's eye and shot him a smug smirk. "You were saying, Alvin?" he drawled.

Alvin Zabini appeared to be shocked into silence, as though he had just witnessed the reincarnation of the Dark Lord himself. She felt pride welling within her, watching her son panting, his thin chest rising and falling swiftly with exertion.

Alexia looked up at Narcissa with wide eyes. "You should be proud of Draco - what an achievement!"

"He has a lot to learn yet," said Lucius, as she knew he would. His appraising gaze settled on his son, who was looking up at him with eyes akin to two grey orbs in a milky sky. Narcissa knew what he was waiting for - Lucius' reaction. Praise, a smile, even a nod to show he had approved of his son's efforts.

But Lucius did nothing; only slid his cool gaze away from the small boy and said, "He has yet to learn basic charms - he seems pre-occupied with my-" he paused meaningfully "-darker tomes. What were you reading the other day, Draco?"

Draco's face lit up at finally having his father's full attention. "Cacophony of Screams, Volume Five," he replied eagerly. "It has everything-"

"That's quite enough, Draco," cut in Lucius over the boy's excited chatter. "Honestly," he continued, turning to walk out of the stables, "the boy devours books almost as fast as he talks." Narcissa made to follow her husband, but halted at the stable doors.

"Are you coming?" she called over her shoulder to her friend.

"In a moment, Narcissa," said Alexia. "We just want to talk to Draco."

Narcissa cast one last dubious glance over her shoulder. Alexia and Alvin were crouched next to Draco, talking in hushed whispers. Her son's face was creased into a fierce frown, eyes smouldering beneath the pale furrowed brow. His hair stood out - an icy beacon in the shadows, ends licking around his collar like tiny flames.

Narcissa spun on her heel and quickened her steps to catch up with Lucius. He turned slightly as she approached him and she was struck by how different her son and husband were.

Lucius was the personification of control. Every move he made was deliberate, every word uttered thought out carefully. Consequences were always weighed and he would do anything to achieve his ends. A true Slytherin.

And then there was Draco. He would strive and strive towards proving himself to his father, again using any means to achieve his ends. But there was a certain desperateness to Draco. Perhaps one who did not know both Malfoys so well would not have noticed it, but Narcissa did and she could not help but compare the two. She noticed every time emotion shone through her son's eyes. Lucius would always try to smother it in any way he could, but it would always be there. It was too strong, this emotion. It was not natural for a Malfoy heir to feel these things.

Narcissa looked up at her husband, debating for a moment whether to say anything. She cleared her throat, blinking in the bright sunlight. "They're talking to Draco again."

Alexia was her friend; there was no doubt about it. Narcissa had few friends (one could never know who to trust), but she could go so far as to say that she loved Alexia more than she loved her own son. They gossiped, they went shopping down Knockturn Alley together, they held joint dinner parties, and they even had a joint wedding. They had fussed over each other as their stomachs grew and their children were born within weeks of each other. She had never had a friend like this at Hogwarts.

But within the last few months suspicion had settled over Narcissa. Their talks had subtly turned into interrogation sessions. Alvin liked to take Draco out of the Manor on excursions more often and their whispered conferences with him did not ease her worries. She did not like to think what these changes in their friendship meant and so she studiously ignored it. Lucius, being ever watchful, had most likely noticed this change long before Narcissa did, and his expression suitably darkened.

"Of course." He narrowed his eyes and called over his shoulder, "Draco won't have enough energy to perform another curse today, Alvin." He turned completely towards the stables, something inscrutable flickering across his expression. Narcissa followed suit. "I doubt he even knows how to do a simple Incendio."

Looking back, Narcissa realised that this was the moment when her son's thirst to prove himself to his father became an apparent problem.

For Draco piped up from the shadows of the stables, "I can do it, Father! I can - look!" Narcissa's stomach seemed to turn over with a sickening slowness, her blood froze in her veins, her breath caught raspingly in her parched throat.

"Incendio!"

That single word rang in the still air, echoing in Narcissa's ears as though it had been screamed.

A moment's silence followed wherein a peculiar buzzing sound reverberated throughout her brain, as though an insect had taken up residence there. Her slight feet felt as though they were filled with lead and her mouth opened in a silent scream - to warn or to scold, she would never be sure because then-

BANG!

The force of the explosion shook the ground like the warning tremors of an earthquake. The heat was immediate and furious in its intensity. Burning planks of wood and ash fell from the blackened sky like mutilated snow. The flock of winged horses were fleeing in fright, tails and manes whipping out behind them like ribbons, whites of their rolling eyes showing. Smoke billowed from the miraculously still-standing stone archway. Flames leapt wildly from the crumbling structure and a terrible scream rent the air. The fire roared with the hunger of flames feasting on dry wood so that the grey churning smoke rose high in the blue summer sky.

Narcissa stood there, oblivious to everything but the furiously burning stable. A sense of utter disbelief and a strange calm had descended upon her. The flames were mesmerising - crimson, gold, copper, lilac and azure all dancing together, devouring the almond wood.

People were running past her, shouldering her out of the way in their desperation to get to the mass of flames and burning wood. The front arch finally collapsed in an explosion of ash. The screaming stopped abruptly, shattering Narcissa's frozen state.

Alexia's in there.

She screamed and started forward, only to find a strong pair of arms fastened around her waist from behind. She scratched, bit, clawed, did everything in her power to make those arms release her. And finally, when she could do no more, her legs gave way and she collapsed against the familiar chest, caught between sobbing uncontrollably and gasping for air. Her hair had escaped from its bun and was plastered to her tear-streaked face. The smoke was filling her lungs and she felt herself being half carried, half dragged backwards.

Away from Alexia.

A fuzzy dizziness had crept into the edges of Narcissa's consciousness and she choked out, "Alexia, Lucius! Alexia's in there!"

The stable was now shrouded in smoke and black-robed men were blasting the veil with multitudes of blanketing spells. Still more wizards were flooding in, adding their shouted incantations to the inferno. The sun was hidden behind a blackened veil, clouds of smoke billowing upwards like lamp-black ink in water.

Narcissa observed all of this from her husband's arms with a dream-like stupor.

Alexia... The thoughts came to her sluggishly, travelling through the fog that had enveloped her brain. Alexia... It was too much. Just too much.

Narcissa fainted.

***

Heather Brown Apparated into the Malfoy grounds. Her boss had received an owl informing him that there was a potential headliner happening at the Malfoy's ancestral home and that, more importantly, the Apparition wards had been disabled. This had never been heard of before and Heather's curiosity had been sufficiently piqued. And so Heather, armed with her beloved camera, and Ergin Howells, quill and Parchpad in hand, had been sent to the scene immediately.

Heather always Apparated with her eyes closed; she found that she could visualise the place she was trying to get to much easier and avoid the unnecessary risk of getting splinched. She most definitely did not fancy leaving an arm or a leg behind in the Daily Prophet editor's office for everyone to poke fun at. Especially not with Ergin in the immediate vicinity.

She felt the familiar shift of air around her as she left the editor's office and landed (hopefully) at the Mansion. She did not open her eyes immediately, just stood, adjusting to the new environment. A tumult of noises assaulted her eardrums - shouted incantations, a deafening, crackling bonfire, and, above all of that, screaming that pierced the air and rose goose pimples all along the length of her arms, prickling the hairs at the back of her neck. And the smell of burning wood thick in the air, so thick, in fact, that it was smothering, suffocating...

Heather opened her eyes, knowing that the scene before her would engrave itself in her memory as though etched there with a knife. She coughed, a hacking, dry cough that scratched her throat and was caused by her sudden intake of breath.

Instantly, her eyes alighted on the flames in front of her. It would have been hard to believe that it was barely mid-afternoon on a warm, sunny day. Oh, the warmth was there, certainly, but it was not the pleasant, summer's day mildness; it was a blazing, scorching heat that dried out her skin, her throat, her lungs, and left her gasping for breath. It seared her skin, and she found herself pulling her sleeves - which had been pushed up over her elbows - down, folding her fingers underneath for protection. Glimpses of a pure, periwinkle sky flickered through the curling black smoke, but the light failed to banish the dark clouds that billowed upwards, chasing each other into the heavens. Flames leaped out of the windows, reaching out, clutching at the singed thatch of the roof, lighting the dry straw with alarming ease.

As she watched, the front archway of the building collapsed with a muffled crash in a sudden cloud of smoke, enveloping the structure for a moment before getting carried on upwards. The screaming stopped abruptly, and there was a terrible silence punctuated only by the shouts of spells and thudding footsteps. Still there were wizards sprinting down to the blaze, vaulting over the charcoal picket fence and circling the stables.

Yes, Heather decided, surprised at her ability to form a semi-coherent thought, as she eyed the few wizards attempting to calm a herd of hysterical horses. These must have been stables.

The abrupt halt in the screaming seemed to motivate Heather and she grimly remembered that she had a job to do. Knowing that Ergin had not even stopped to stare at the scene, she raised the camera, which had been a comforting weight around her neck, and snapped a couple of shots of the event unfolding before her. She then jogged down to the border of the paddock and scrambled through the fence, taking photographs left and right of the swarms of black-robed wizards. Heather frowned. And they were all wizards - there was not a feminine face in sight, apart from a slender figure not far from the safety barrier some sensible person had erected.

The air was thicker here - it was as though glass wool had filled her lungs. Heather pulled the collar of her robes up over her nose and mouth, finding it eased the pressure on her chest. She snapped a picture of the fallen figure, feeling the familiar guilt rising in her chest, and made her way over to see if she could help. Or get information, a small, insensitive part of her mind whispered. She pushed this thought firmly away, along with the guilt.

Approaching the figure, she could see that she was unconscious. Pale blonde hair was plastered to her charcoal-smudged skin and a carefully manicured hand curled into her chest, which was rising and falling in uneven gasps.

Alarmed, Heather slipped her wand out of her pocket and murmured, "Enervate."

Pale eyelashes trembled, opening slowly to reveal a pair of disorientated, deep azure eyes. The woman looked very lost and very young as she struggled to sit up, the back of her hand pressed against her mouth as a strangled noise escaped her throat. Putting a supporting arm behind the woman's back, Heather helped her to sit up. Beneath the streaks of dirt and grime, Heather could see an elegance to the figure, an effortless grace that refused to be smothered by the effects of the fire. There was a familiarity there as well that picked at the young photographer's mind, refusing to go away. Like she'd seen her before somewhere...

"Where's my husband?" the woman demanded suddenly, very clearly. A flicker of panic chased its way across her face and she clutched onto Heather's hand. "Where's Lucius?"

Heather's mouth dropped open. "Narcissa Malfoy?"

But Mrs Malfoy seemed to be pre-occupied with the fire. The blood drained from her face, making the dark streaks stand out in stark contrast. "Fire," she whispered, hoarsely. "T-The fire." Her eyes widened. "Alexia!"

Mrs Malfoy struggled to stand up, her legs protesting against their owner's desperate attempts. Camera forgotten, Heather gently pushed down on the older woman's shoulders, entirely unsure over what course of action take. She settled on mumbling comforting words, finding herself telling the distraught woman that she would find out what was happening and that everything would be fine. She honestly hoped that it wasn't a lie and that everything would be fine.

But, looking up at the plume of smoke that showed no sign of abating, she felt a peculiar sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

She turned to Mrs Malfoy. "I'll only be gone a minute. If you stay where you are I'll be able to bring back news of your Alexia." Mrs Malfoy nodded distractedly, eyes fixed on the flames dancing over the heads of the crowd.

Sincerely hoping that the woman would heed her words, Heather stood up and took her bearings. In front of her was a dense, swarming sea of black cloaks. Flashes of neon could be picked out, telling the rank and department of the fire-fighting wizard. West Sussex. North Yorkshire. London. Wessex. They appeared to be from all over England, so there was no clue as to where the Manor was situated. That one mystery had kept the magical community baffled for centuries. Heather doubted that even the Manor's occupants knew exactly where they lived. From her extensive research into the Malfoy family, she had learned that when travelling from Malfoy Manor one either Apparates, Floos or Portkeys directly from the Master's study. The impressive front gates had little use but for ornamentation, as did the front driveway.

Heather threaded her way through the crowd and stopped as she felt a mild shock run its way up her outstretched wand-hand. Retracting her arm, she squinted into the fire's glare and noticed a translucent, mirage-like shimmer barring her from getting any closer to the flames. Close up, she could see the building was burning as furiously as ever, but the heat seemed to have completely vanished. Not having noticed it before in her distracted state, Heather savoured the cool that radiated from the barrier.

The smoke was dissipating, too. Although there was a huge tower of it stretching up into the sky, Heather could see that it was no longer spreading, constricted to staying behind the barrier. There was a hushed silence from the crowd and the tides of spells being shot at the building notably subsided. A palpable tension seemed to coil itself around those assembled.

Heather turned to the wizard next to her. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with muscles that rivalled any sportsman she had encountered. The top of her head just brushed his solid upper arm.

She prodded his arm with her wand. "Excuse me," she said, her voice sounding small, even to her own ears. She cleared her throat and attempted to project her voice a little. "Excuse me."

The man turned his shaved head in her direction and peered down at her. "Sorry. Didn't see you down there."

Heather craned her neck back. "What's happening?"

The man turned back to the fire, a worried frown creasing his weathered features. "Our boss has gone in there," he said gruffly. "The back of the building is more stable, so he's gone that way." He mumbled something else that Heather didn't quite catch.

"Has anyone been found?" she asked, hoping that she didn't sound like she was prying. Even though she was.

"One body. A Mr Zabini."

For the second time that day, Heather felt her jaw swinging open as though it was on a hinge. "Alvin Zabini?"

The man grunted. "You knew him?" he asked, after shooting a blanketing spell at the fire.

Everyone knew the Zabinis. They were close to the Malfoys, and Heather, with her extensive knowledge on the subject, knew that the Malfoys and the Zabinis were as close as two pureblooded families got. Dangerously close. She knew that Lucius Malfoy had changed the Zabini family. They used to be a respectable, Gryffindor family, but when Mr Zabini had been Sorted into Slytherin there had been quite the uproar, according to Heather's editor. The family had demanded a re-Sorting, something that was rarely heard of, but Albus Dumbledore quite rightly refused - the Sorting Hat was never wrong. Quite the good little Slytherin he had turned out to be - after You-Know-Who's reign of terror he and Mr Malfoy had been under the serious allegation of supporting the Death Eater movement. But both men's trials came and went, both verdicts the same - not guilty. Some suspected blackmail, others wanted a re-trial with Veritaserum, but one thing was for sure - both families were Dark. There was just no substantial evidence to support it.

Instead of relaying this information she simply said, "I've done a report on him."

The man's eyes narrowed, but he still did not turn to face her. When he spoke, Heather heard with some surprise that his voice was tight with anger. "Ah. You're a reporter. Well I suggest that you take yourself out of the vicinity, Miss. We have lives to save here."

Before Heather could find something to reply with, a cheer rumbled throughout the assembled fire fighters, punctuated with scattered clapping. Heather stared at the burning building and saw what was causing the commotion - a fire fighter, skin black with soot, was staggering towards the crowd, directly in front of her. In his arms he was cradling a bundle of material - no - a child. As he came closer the smoke cleared and she could just make out a figure swathed in dark robes.

When the fire fighter was no more than a metre away from Heather he shifted the weight of the child to one arm and reached out the freed hand towards her. For a moment she thought he was going to grab on to her for support, but as soon as his charred fingers made contact with the pearlescent barrier, it wavered, before letting him stumble through.

Heather stared. The man fell heavily to his knees, coughing hackingly, waving away the medi-wizard that had descended upon him.

"No!" he choked out. "Help the boy."

"But sir-"

"Help the boy."

Sensibly, the wizard decided against arguing with the fire fighter and instead joined his work mates in attending to the child. Her eyes were fixated on the trembling figure of the rescuer, unable to scrape up the courage to look at the smouldering boy. The running commentary was almost too much to bear.

"...superficial burns to the face and neck..." The voice raised several notches in volume. "He's not breathing."

Heather spun around on her heel, unable to stand it anymore. The three dark-robed men were crouched around the fallen boy, and Heather found her heart in her throat. The boy's hair was black; Heather felt a wave of guilty relief wash over her. Seeing the pathetic form of Mrs Malfoy had struck a chord deep within her and she did not want the woman to suffer another blow this afternoon.

This must be the Zabini's son. Blaise?

His face was red and peeling, as though struck with a severe case of sunburn. There was soot brushed around his nose and mouth, and one cheek appeared to be charred. Heather winced. Even in blessed unconsciousness - or death - the tiny child's face was screwed up, as though in intense pain.

Blaise's face was blocked from view as a kneeling wizard leant over and carefully prised his jaw open, ducking his head slightly. "Airways are clear. Begin resuscitation."

Another medi-wizard whipped out his wand and laid it against Blaise's blackened chest. "Initium Corum."

Nothing happened. Two of the men exchanged glances.

"Initium Corum Totalus!"

Heather's breath hitched in her throat as the boy's thin chest jerked and his eyes flew open, revealing bloodshot grey-

And he screamed.

Tortured screams that were a thousand times worse than the deadly silence. The three wizards flinched back, eyes wide with horror as the figure twisted and squirmed, each movement seeming to increase his pain tenfold.

"Hold him still!"

One man attempted to grab the flailing arms, but it dragged such agonised wails from the child that he immediately let go.

"What's your name, son?"

Incoherent words tumbled over each other, fighting with the sobs that wracked the small body. His face was once again screwed up and tears were flooding down his face, steaming as they touched the red-hot skin. Heather, the picture of the tortured steel eyes branded into her brain, croaked, "Draco Malfoy."

Attempts to relieve the boy of his pain magically increased, whether out of fear of Lucius Malfoy or out of genuine concern, Heather was not sure. Painkillers were shot at Draco, and, in a final desperate attempt, one man shouted, "Torpidus!"

The screaming stopped. The boy whimpered.

"Can't you Stupefy him?" asked Heather, somewhat desperately, knowing perfectly well that her medical knowledge was horrendous.

One of the men - 'Alan' as his name-badge proclaimed him - turned and looked at her with faint surprise, as if he hadn't realised he had an audience. He shook his sandy head. "He's in shock - it's too dangerous. He might not wake up from it."

Draco whimpered again. Heather looked down at him as his wide, terrified cobalt eyes locked with hers. She crouched down in a space between two of the wizards and took the boy's charred hand in her own, pushing down the nausea at its rough, cracked texture. She found that words came unbidden to her mind.

"Hush, don't worry...everything will be fine..."

Something shot between the two - not a visible something - but a feeling. Like a charge. A connection that released the tension in the boy and relaxed his features, reducing the sobs and unclenching his fists.

Alan, who had spoken to her before, murmured, "Don't apply pressure to the wounds on his hands."

Heather dropped the hand immediately. The moment was broken; the connection gone. She looked away, the weight of the camera around her neck now seeming like an injustice, a burden.

"Will he be alright?" she muttered, avoiding the leaden eyes that followed her movements as she straightened up. She felt suddenly, inexplicably awkward, as though she didn't belong here. As though it wasn't her place to comfort this boy, to hold his hand.

This time another wizard spoke, upturned face revealing coffee-coloured skin and dark eyes. "Depends. We can't keep the numbing spell on him forever - it could cause more harm than good. If the Portkey to the Burns Unit at St Mungo's is here quick enough we should be able to incubate him and see the extent of his burns. They have stronger analgesics than we can provide right now."

"Is he in pain?"

"Not at the moment. The spell's frozen his nerve-endings, but it's not healthy to keep it on for too long." He stood up and steered Heather by the elbow, away from Draco, further into the milling crowd.

A hand came to rest on her shoulder and she frowned, staring into the man's chocolate eyes. "We can't remove the burnt clothing, ma'am. I don't like to be the bearer of bad news, but...he's in worse shape than he looks."

"Worse than he looks?" Heather's voice came out on a half-gasp. "How can he be any worse than he looks right now?"

The medi-wizard squeezed her shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sorry. His breathing is erratic and the soot around his mouth tells us that there is a strong possibility that he is suffering damage from smoke inhalation. His clothes are stuck to him, which also tells us..." He swallowed, most probably at the slack-jawed expression Heather could feel was plastered on her face, and cast his eyes away. "It tells us that the majority of his abdomen is covered in third-degree burns." His eyes settled seriously on her again. "The nurses at St Mungo's will be able to fill you in with more detailed information, but..." He trailed off, as though something had struck him, and squinted at her, dark brow furrowed. "You are Mrs Malfoy, aren't you?"

In any other circumstance Heather would have been flattered - Narcissa Malfoy was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen. But now, with the wizard in front of her relaying stomach-turning information to her as though she were the boy's mother, she merely felt ill.

Heather turned on her heel and ran, ignoring the voice calling after her, ignoring the wizards that were forced to leap out of her way, ignoring the pictures that flickered through her mind like a fluttering photograph album.

Except she couldn't ignore them.

The fire, looming up. The look of terror on Narcissa Malfoy's face. The identical look on her son's face. The spark that she had felt shoot between them. The sympathy in the medi-wizard's eyes that wasn't meant for her.

Spotting the woman it was meant for, Heather skidded to her side, falling to her knees, not much caring about the grass stains that streaked her robes. The pale face of Mrs Malfoy turned to her and a dazzling smile that Heather had seen many a time adorning the Prophet's pages lit up her features.

"You found her? You found Alexia?"

Heather cursed inwardly. She had completely forgotten about Narcissa Malfoy's friend. So, with the feeling of intense...wrongness almost overwhelming her, Heather said, "She's been taken to St Mungo's."

Which part of St Mungo's? whispered that truthfully cruel part of her conscience as Mrs Malfoy's smile brightened further. The wards or the morgue?

"And your son," she added, realising that perhaps Mrs Malfoy had not realised that her boy had been caught in the fire. "He got some serious burns but he's going to be fine." I hope. "He's should be at St Mungo's, too."

The older woman's eyes narrowed and her rapid change in expression darkened her delicate features, hardening them. "Him," she spat, eyes returning to the smoke enclosed behind the re-erected magical barrier. "I don't care about him. He could have burned to death, for all I care. He started all of this."

Shock froze Heather in her crouched position, muscles stiffened. The hand that had been ready to comfort the woman shook. "What do you mean, you don't care?" Her voice broke halfway through. "You're his mother!"

A gaze like knives was directed at her, and she almost flinched away. "He's the one who started the fire. He's the one who almost killed my best friend and her husband. I am not his mother."

Heather stared.

"Now, now, Narcissa," said a silky voice from far above Heather's head, "perhaps you should not be quite so harsh."

Stunned by Lady Malfoy's hateful comments, Heather stumbled to her feet, feeling as though her muscles had all seized up. She twisted around to find herself staring at someone's thick, expensive robes. Following the torso up, her eyes took in the cold eyes, mouth curled in distaste, the pale skin of an unmistakable person.

Lucius Malfoy.

Frightened out of her stupor, Heather stumbled backwards, hardly noticing the pained yelp from Narcissa Malfoy.

And she had every reason to be frightened. The stories she had heard about him chilled her to the bone. He had an aura about him that emanated dark waves of power. Power over things that should not be tampered with. Power over life. Power over death. A power that attracted people to him like moths to a flame. A power that got half of these people killed or thrown in Azkaban. A power that eluded Ministry officials time and time again. A power that in turn terrified her witless and fascinated her.

Right now it terrified her witless.

"You have spoken to my wife, Miss Brown?" His voice was deceivingly soft, eyes searching her face.

"How do you know my name?" she asked, thankful that her voice had not completely escaped her.

He shrugged, shoulders rising gracefully beneath the heavy, dark robes. "That is not important. What is important is that you tell me what my wife told you."

Seemingly having lost the ability to lie under his hard gaze, she repeated what Mrs Malfoy had said, unable to summon up the anger she had felt only moments ago. When she had finished she looked up at the tall man with a great sense of foreboding.

Lucius removed his wand from his pocket and tapped it thoughtfully against his chin. Noticing her wary gaze, his thin lips curled into a smile that did not reach his wintry eyes. "What shall we do with you, Miss Brown?"

"I could leave," she squeaked, already knowing what the answer would be.

"And have the information you managed to pry out of my wife plastered all over tomorrow's Daily Prophet?" He snorted derisively. "I think not." He clamped a frozen hand around Heather's upper arm, almost strong enough to bruise, and escorted her out of the crowd.

The forceful hand was unnecessary - Heather could not have run away if she tried. The crowd parted for Lucius Malfoy automatically. People showed no sign that they had noticed him, but still they seemed to make a pathway for the man, and, from the unmoved expression on Mr Malfoy's face, he was used to it. As though it was expected.

He was taking her away from the crowd, she noticed with a stab of cold panic. "Where are we going? Ergin will notice if I'm gone. There'll be people searching. He'll-"

"Be quiet," Mr Malfoy snapped. Malicious eyes turned on her, making her feel as though she had been doused in icy water. "Why would I waste my energy killing you? Why would I destroy my hard-earned reputation on such a tedious little girl?"

A peculiar pang shot through her chest at this and she jerked her shoulder out of his grip. "Well if I'm such a tedious little girl," she hissed, incensed, "how come your family's reputation lies on my shoulders? How come-"

An exasperated sigh cut through Heather's speech and she pulled herself short, fuming at the man standing in front of her, terror replaced by a smouldering anger. He looked unforgivably amused as he glanced around the deserted gravel path they were standing on.

There was a strange light in his eyes when he stared down at her. It was a light that made the hairs on her arms stand up, prickling. "You cannot expect to beat me in a war of words, Miss Brown. You cannot expect to beat me in anything." He raised his wand and once again a cold, stark terror raced through her veins, screaming at her to run.

But she couldn't.

She watched in muted horror as Lucius Malfoy raised his wand and touched it to her forehead. The last words she heard before sinking into blackness echoed through her mind, tugging at her consciousness for years to come, but never quite surfacing.

"I always win, Miss Brown, you'd do well to remember that." A smirk. "Alas, that is no longer going to be possible. Goodbye, Miss Brown."

"Obliviate."

***

The Daily Prophet - 18^th August, 1987

Inferno at Malfoy Mansion

There have been reports of a fire in the grounds of Malfoy Mansion. Two lives were taken in the blaze - Alvin and Alexia Zabini, famous for their generous donations to orphanages around England. Another was seriously burned - the Malfoys' seven-year-old heir, Draco, whose burns covered three quarters of his body, both third- and first-degree.

The cause of the fire has been identified as accidental. No details have been released to the press, although there is a rumour of flammable chemicals being involved.

The fire fighters were called in yesterday, mid-afternoon and were still putting out the fire at dusk. Narcissa Malfoy has been kept over night at St Mungo's due to shock.

The fire has left a young boy orphaned, another boy seriously scarred and the nation shocked. There will be full coverage in the evening edition of The Daily Prophet.

Article - Ergin Howells

Photograph - Heather Brown

***

Narcissa stared at the Daily Prophet, not really seeing the article at all.

Yes, she thought, staring past the flickering photograph. Yes. This is what such devotion to a person allows. This is - what is it? A dangerous, fiery loyalty that meddles with coherent thoughts and makes people take action without considering the consequences. She narrowed her eyes. Other people have to suffer the consequences.

Narcissa Malfoy folded the Prophet carefully, setting it down on her crisp, sterile bed sheets.

It is madness.

It is blind faith.