Blind Faith

R rating for future blood, gore, battle scenes, etc. Keywords change with every chapter. Thank you to Ociwen (read her H/D The Subtle Knife) and Thalia for their wonderful betaing skills. I treasure you both so, so much. Credits go to the wonderful Fawlty Towers and National Lampoon's Bored of the Rings.

Blind Faith

Chapter 1

Treading the Royal Road

To dance with a man is to concentrate a twelvemonth's regulation fire upon him in the fragment of an hour. To pass to courtship without acquaintance, to pass to marriage without courtship, is a skipping of terms reserved for those alone who tread this royal road.
--Thomas Hardy

Draco would not have been the first person to call his mother a trophy wife. She was a deceptively pretty, stick-thin blonde whose one purpose seemed to be to hang off her husband's arm at social occasions, in turn dazzling people with her brilliant smile and her supreme arrogance. He himself had thought she had little use other than to produce an heir to the Malfoy family fortune. She couldn't cook, embroider, play Quidditch or do anything remotely intelligent.

But the logic behind his opinion of her had taken a slight denting recently. He had never considered that it wasn't that she couldn't do these things, but more that she wouldn't.

So when Narcissa single-handedly broke his father out of Azkaban he had been more than a little surprised.

First there were the interviews - overly exaggerated Daily Prophet articles that described the grieving of a widow who knew her innocent husband was as good as dead. Pictures of a broken Narcissa clinging to her scowling son.

Then there were the donations. Twenty thousand Galleons to St Mungo's. Ten thousand Galleons to the Ministry's Auror department. Fifteen thousand towards repairing the damage to the Department of Mysteries caused by those dreadful Death Eaters. The magical government needed all the money it could get muster for the upcoming war. The Minister of Magic himself received each generous donation. There was one particular photograph, Draco remembered, of Fudge comforting his distraught mother, but seemingly a little distracted by her heaving chest.

Fudge was a disgustingly oblivious fool and, despite Dumbledore's new-founded influence, he was easily corrupted by a pretty face. He issued a retrial for Lucius Malfoy.

The blackmail was probably the biggest contributor. Narcissa used Lucius' own methods of threatening, cajoling, cursing, bribing, using everything in her power to sway the jury's verdict.

And, to Draco's everlasting amazement, it worked. Not guilty due to susceptibility to the Imperius curse. They had found traces of the Unforgivable on his father (he wondered how she managed to persuade the guard to do that one) and, although it was a very close call, the majority of the jury voted not guilty.

Front pages full of the Malfoy family's reunion. Narcissa and Lucius looking superior while Draco stood to the side, blinking.

Dumbledore sent out an appeal for another retrial, which was promptly ignored. Although the wizard had gained a more positive public opinion, Fudge was still determined not to let the Headmaster undermine his so-called authority. And the Ministry had far more important things to worry about now that Voldemort's presence had been made clear to the public.

Besides, an article was quoted saying, what damage could one extra Death Eater do, anyway?

***

Lucius Malfoy gazed at the man in front of him irritably. Since his inevitable return from Azkaban, various Death Eaters had inundated him with summons, meetings, requests, anything that they could not cope with by themselves.

This meeting, though, was of a slightly different nature. The other man was short and stocky with a balding head that reflected the sunlight that poured in through the window. And he was currently wearing thin the Persian rug that Lucius was rather fond of.

"Do stop pacing, Richard. I did not invite you here to wear holes in my rug."

The man stopped in his tracks and spun around on his booted heel, shooting a glare across the room. "No - you brought me here to rip out my daughter's heart in the cruellest way possible."

Lucius smirked. "Now, now Richard. If I had wanted to rip out her heart I would have found a far more painful way to do it. As it is, she is merely an obstacle."

The summer sun ducked beneath a cloud and the room darkened, as did Richard Parkinson's expression. The wind picked up again and whipped past the window, rattling the glass. It sounded like restless bones.

"My daughter is not merely an obstacle," he spat. "She is a teenage girl who has - amazingly - fallen in love with your son."

"Love," he murmured, and picked up a silver letter opener from his desk, idly running the pad of his thumb up the freshly sharpened edge. "Then she can fall out of love with him. She is sixteen - a broken heart will not kill her. Perhaps it will do her some good."

"Good?" hissed Parkinson. His chest had puffed out, making him look even more inflated than usual. "What good can it do?"

Lucius frowned, watching Parkinson's distorted reflection in the smooth plane of the blade. "Your daughter has always been far too sensitive for her own good. You and your wife have fawned over her all her life, spoiling her, fondling her..."

Parkinson let his breath whistle through his teeth, an action that made Lucius' dislike for the man rise several notches. "I can't believe you, Lucius." He gave a short, humourless laugh. "You're saying our child is spoiled? What about Draco? You get him everything he asks for. Brooms, tutoring, books... You can't stand there and tell me that your boy is not spoiled."

"He is not spoiled. Not where it matters."

Richard snorted disbelievingly. "So you accuse me of being a parent..."

"I am not accusing you of anything," Lucius said impatiently.

He had felt irritable before Richard Parkinson had come storming into his study, and his visit was doing nothing to improve his mood. He twirled the letter opener around his fingers, smirking as Parkinson's eyes finally fell on it. Lucius was getting tired of this sentimental drivel.

"However," he continued, enjoying the sudden discomfiture Parkinson seemed to be in, "I did not sever the engagement between your daughter and my son to break her heart, despite what you may believe. My wife and I simply found a more suitable candidate for Draco."

Parkinson's mud-coloured eyes bulged. "She has been replaced," he choked. "Already?"

Lucius smiled in mock-sympathy. He knew how much the family needed this marriage. Knew how much they had relied on it since the well-timed birth of their daughter.

"She has," he confirmed, suddenly enjoying this very much. "The Delacours are very pleased with my decision."

The spluttering stopped. "Delacours..." Dark eyes narrowed. "The Delacours of Normandy?"

"The very same."

Lucius remembered the Delacours clearly. They were certainly not the forgettable family the Parkinsons were. They were held high in Northern France's social hierarchy, which heightened their suitability as candidates immensely. Their daughter was a pretty thing, her wizarding blood only marred by one thing - Veela ancestry. But Lucius did not consider this unfortunate. In fact, it was one of the many advantages of selecting the girl.

First, and most importantly, was the renewed alliance of the Malfoy family and the Veelas. This could prove useful in the days that were swiftly approaching. Such powerful creatures were always to the Dark Lord's liking.

Secondly, the Malfoys would be in favour in France. Their name would spread into Europe, an important leap that could open new connections for the family. And, if things did not bode well for the Dark Side, Lucius would need a place to escape the British Ministry. It was always wise, he found, to keep all paths open.

Thirdly, Lucius thought about the children. He could not begin to imagine what the offspring of a Parkinson would look like. He had met this Pansy girl once, before her enrolment at Hogwarts, but could not seem to conjure up an image of her. He had suffered much of Draco's vexations about her and presumed that Draco would not have been complaining nearly so much if the girl had been beautiful.

Fourthly, the Malfoy's would have nothing less than the best. The Parkinsons were most certainly not the best. Malfoys were platinum; Delacours gold; Parkinsons a cheap-plated metal that looked expensive but rusted with time.

Lastly, but certainly not least, the Malfoy image needed a slight boost. His trip to Azkaban, aside from being exceedingly inconvenient, had made a negative impact on the family as a whole. He publicly announced his withdrawal from the Ministry due to his "fury" and "absolute disgust" at being convicted in the first place when they knew he had been particularly vulnerable to a certain Unforgivable since the first war. Fools.

Parkinson interrupted his musings with his nerve-grating whine. "But Lucius..." He swallowed, throat jumping. "Why?"

Lucius sighed. "Fame, wealth, reputation, Richard. What else?" He jabbed the letter opener towards the startled man. "None of which you have."

Parkinson gulped again, his thick neck spasming grotesquely. His posture was fluctuating between defiant and pathetic.

"Lucius," Parkinson said weakly. He seemed to have quickly swallowed what little pride he had been clinging on to. "Lucius, we need this marriage. We..." He twisted his hands together, a nervous gesture that Lucius despised. Outward signs of discomfort were always despicable, in his eyes. "We..." Apparently unable to find anything remotely worthwhile to say, Parkinson stood in front of Lucius with pleading eyes, looking every bit out of place in the richly furnished room.

The study was one of the only rooms in the Manor Lucius liked. He could remember how his own father used to sit behind an enormous pine desk, overly decorated with its swirling, curling carvings.

Lucius had always thought it a gaudy, meretricious thing.

So the moment his father had died he had re-decorated the study in mahogany, ebony and imported redwood. The most expensive money could buy.

The blood reds, burnt bronzes and ink-blacks had darkened the room considerably. The desk was still enormous, but was instead carved out of an exquisite mahogany wood that assimilated the high-backed gilded chair that gleamed dully in the grey light that flickered through the window. The carpet was a ruddy colour that hid certain spills rather well.

But there was one thing that Lucius treasured above all others. Above the Dark Arts books lining the walls, above the breathtaking views over the rolling grounds of the Manor, even above the Persian rug that Richard Parkinson was fidgeting on.

The fireplace.

Scooped out of onyx, Lucius had had it set in the wall between the two windows. It seemed to absorb the little light that reached it, on first glance, creating a gaping black hole in the panelled wall. But on second glance, one could detect a carving etched into the arch, twisting around the left-hand corner and sweeping over the top of the crescent. The figure was charmed to change, depending on who entered the room.

When Lucius was alone it was always a falcon. A beautifully fierce, spread-winged falcon, its deadly talons flexing, its glittering, jewel-like eyes watching. Always watching. For Narcissa, a Mediterranean mermaid replaced the impressive bird. Its scaled tail rippled and in its hand there was always a mirror. The mermaid never showed her face, only held the looking glass, never seeing past it. Perhaps predictably, the carving melted into a dragon whenever Lucius summoned Draco into his study. Like Lucius' falcon, it was ever watchful. Intermittently, it released a ball of black flame that ricocheted off the arcs of the mantelpiece until it faded into nothing.

Currently, the carving was a sea serpent. It had a wide-eyed horse-like head and a long, sinuous, snake-like body that rose and fell in humps below the mantel line. Alarming in appearance, but perfectly harmless.

How appropriate.

Lucius flicked his eyes from the back to the man in front of him. "Go away, Richard," he said, waving the twinkling letter-opener in a dismissive gesture. A click of his fingers lowered the room's complex wards. "You are serving no purpose by shuffling around on my rug."

Parkinson made a visible effort to keep still. Lucius always found that people tended to do what one said when one was holding a sharp implement.

"I have nothing more to say on the matter, Richard," Lucius said, when Parkinson showed no sign of Disapparating.

Parkinson sighed and ran a grubby hand over his eyes. "You are sure there is nothing I can do to persuade you? Money?"

"You have no money," said Lucius, growing increasingly tired of the man.

"We have a lovely chateau in Rouen."

Lucius took a moment to ponder, not for the first time, what had ever made him even consider letting the Parkinsons marry into the Malfoy family. "An industrialised Muggle town? Why ever would I want to go there? The very thought."

"A Thestral?"

Lucius made an impatient gesture towards the window. "I already have one, as you very well know. There is not one thing you could offer me that I could possibly want." He smirked. "Except possibly the Potter boy brought to me hung, drawn and quartered, but even then I would never dream of asking such a thing of you." He stabbed the letter-opener into the desktop beside him with perhaps more force than was absolutely necessary. "Can't let you have all the fun, now can we?"

Lucius wrenched the knife out of the hardwood desk and took a step towards Parkinson. He noted, with no small amount of satisfaction, that the man was watching the path of the letter-opener with wide, alarmed eyes.

"If there is nothing I can do, then I shall have to leave and break the news to my daughter." Parkinson dragged his eyes up to meet Lucius'. "I can't begin to tell you how much I despise you, Lucius Malfoy."

Lucius smiled lazily. "No, I doubt there would be a piece of parchment long enough." He waved a pale hand. "Trot along, then. I do not wish to waste all of my afternoon on you and your grievances."

But Richard Parkinson had Disapparated before Lucius had even finished his sentence. He restored the room's numerous wards with a lethargic wave of his hand.

Some people were so sensitive.

***

Draco Malfoy was flying.

The manor grounds were laid out before him. If he had been another person he would have marvelled at its grandness. Gravelled paths threaded through the florid flowerbeds like ivory rivers. The forest was an inky smudge on the horizon, like that of a mistake. The summerhouse sparked ahead of him; a sudden blaze of sunlight flared off the sheets of glass. The manor stood behind him, a cluster of mismatched turrets and towers, balconies and battlements, windows glittering like malicious eyes.

But Draco was not someone else and his concentration was focussed on one thing.

The Snitch.

But it seemed it did not want to be found. Draco glanced down at his coach, Ryan McDonald, who was gesturing wildly, twenty feet below him, arms windmilling, most probably trying to communicate some obscure manoeuvre to his pupil.

Draco sneered and looked away. If the idiot didn't realise that there was no chance of being heard over the roaring winds then he obviously wasn't worth listening to. A particularly vicious blast of biting air whipped past him and his broom banked violently sideways; he had to throw his whole weight to the right to get it back on course.

Squinting, Draco peered out desperately over the grounds. The sun ducked behind a cloud and shadows raced across the overcast lawns. Not one glint of gold anywhere.

Draco was frozen. He could see that his fingers clutching the broom were red and raw. He wrestled with his broom as another gust almost sent him backwards, almost into one of the manor's windows.

When he had finally gained control over his Firebolt, Draco shot down towards the ground and landed, hard, on the tarmac of the Quidditch pitch. The landing sent jolts of pain up his frozen legs and he was mildly surprised that they didn't shatter on impact.

He shook his windswept hair out of his eyes and glared at the figure jogging towards him. The sun appeared from behind a veil of lead and the wind dropped suddenly, so that he could clearly hear the man's shouts as he approached.

"...bloody useless! You expect to win a match playing like that?"

He came to a stop in front of Draco and continued with his ranting. He was a middle-aged, treacle-haired man of average height and a virulent disposition. Draco's father had hired him to improve his son's "horrendous skills" and "even worse attitude".

"...you wouldn't be able to spot a Snitch if it was underneath your nose!" The broom in his hand thumped against the hard ground, emphasising each word. Draco looked on sullenly. "Call yourself a Seeker, do you?"

"No," Draco said dully. "I call myself a Chaser, but you and my father seem to have this infatuation with making me Seek." Bloody Harry Potter. Everything always revolves around him.

McDonald's small eyes narrowed and he took a step forward that Draco supposed was meant to be threatening. The wind had abated, but it was still frigid and painful against his cheeks. The coach's dark hair whipped across his face and he raised a gloved hand to push it back impatiently.

"You will be a Seeker, Mr Malfoy," he growled, "whether you like it or not. Your father has deemed me satisfactory to coach you for the past five years and I have no inclination to quit." He leaned closer still, but Draco stood his ground and glared silently at the older man. "You are the problem, Mr Malfoy, not your father or myself. You have an attitude problem the size of Gringotts and would do well to remember who your peers are." He stepped back, and tipped his head to one side, seemingly in thought.

Finally, after a few moments' silence, he announced, "I will go to your father."

Draco felt a sudden tightening in his throat and his dislike of the coach increased considerably. He curved his lips into a cool smile, ignoring the mild panic he could feel building up in his chest. "Ah, yes. The much-acclaimed gesture of passing the buck." His lip curled. "How impressive."

"What is more impressive," the coach said, coldly, "is your attitude. It is a wonder that anyone would want you on their team, let alone allow you to play one of the most coveted positions."

Draco was unmoved. The not-so-thinly-veiled insult was nothing new; McDonald had been throwing similar comments around for years. "My father-" he started, a phrase that sent most sane people into stumbling apologies.

"Your father," interrupted McDonald, "instructed me to use any means necessary to get you to beat Harry Potter." He prodded Draco in the shoulder with the end of his broomstick. Draco glared back icily. "Now get your arse back up there before I do something you'll regret." He flashed a smile. Smarmy bastard. "And your father will be hearing about this, regardless."

"No," said Draco, stubbornly. "I am not going up again today; I'll get bloody blown to pieces. I've had two hours' training already." He watched with amusement as the older man's face turned puce, a vein in his neck started to throb-

Thwack!

The blow came out of nowhere and Draco stumbled backwards, clapping a hand to his cheek. A sharp pain shot through his face, only to be immediately replaced by a stinging, red-hot throbbing sensation. He could feel the rising welts under his fingers where the broomstick twigs had clawed his face, like talon marks. But more than that, the shock of the blow coming out of nowhere stunned Draco into silence as he took his hand away from his face, wiping the dashing of scarlet blood on his dark robes.

Draco raised his head slowly, shaking the fine silvery hair out of his eyes. Ryan McDonald stood in front of him, thick arms crossed over an even thicker chest. This was unusual for a Seeker, but Draco felt no need to contemplate this further. The look of smug satisfaction painted on the bastard's face brought about the familiar rise of anger in his chest, and he snatched his wand out of his pocket.

McDonald grinned at him; Draco's wand hand trembled. "Going to curse me, Malfoy?" he said, mockingly. "Daddy won't be pleased."

"On the contrary," snarled Draco, "He's been looking for an excuse to fire you for years."

"Is that so?" He smirked. "I bet you're as incompetent as Harry Potter at duelling. I heard you were too scared to turn up to the duel you challenged him to a few years ago."

Draco's reaction was instinctive and immediate.

"Fuck you, McDonald."

He realigned his shaking wand. "Corpus Icario Seperatum!"

Ryan McDonald screamed.

***

Lucius was angry. Very angry.

Narcissa could tell from his posture - she had learned to read it well over the years, had grown accustomed to how little it revealed to others and how much it showed her.

Presently, he was scrutinising the gale-force winds that were tearing past the glass, the rattling reminding Narcissa of ice in a champagne glass. But she knew him well enough to know that Lucius was not appreciative of excellent views, or violent weather displays.

Nor was he appreciative of his son.

And quite rightly, too, Narcissa thought. The boy had once again proven his incapability to live up to the Malfoy name.

Certainly, the curse he had thrown at Ryan McDonald had been a particularly nasty one; the coach had ended up in extreme agony, missing various limbs and facial features. A house elf had been sent to find the missing parts of his anatomy and Draco had been ordered straight to his room to be dealt with later. Lucius was not angry about the curse the boy had used (he had been trying to teach it to Draco for an age), it was the way in which he had used it. So unsubtly. So un-Malfoy-like.

'Later' had soon approached. The skies had grown darker and the shadows had lengthened. And Lucius was still furious. He hid it well, clamped under bars of diamond, almost unbreakable. Almost.

There was a sharp knock at the door. Lucius' shoulders tensed; the diamond bars creaked. She still could not see his features - they were turned away from her.

"Come in."

His voice was soft, dangerously so, but the person on the other side of the door seemed to hear it. The heavy, mahogany door opened, emitting Draco. His eyes immediately darted to the flames before him, and then he closed the door and leant against it, hand resting on the bronze handle as if he suspected that he might need a quick escape.

The mantelpiece across the room caught her eye as the mermaid swam across the arch and settled next to the proud falcon, which blinked and turned its head to one side curiously. A dragon slid into view and opened its mouth; a large ball of jet-coloured fire rippled across the stone surface and bounced off the edges of the mantel, before dissipating into nothing.

Turning her attention back to the scene at hand, Narcissa noticed that the boy was tense, too. His eyes flitted around the room, settling on Narcissa. He sent her an imploring look, which she countered with a wicked smile. Shadowed eyes darkened and dropped to the wine-coloured carpet.

Lucius turned from the benighted landscape he had been studying to face his son. He took a step forward, and another, until he was but a few feet in front of him. His hand shot out and seized the boy's chin firmly, forcing him to look his father in the eyes.

The firelight distorted everything - splashed their silvery hair with champagne, tainted their skin with warmth, melted the cold, grey eyes to pools of molten fire. Edged Draco's glance with uneasiness. They were almost the same height and, in the hesitant light of the fire, they looked so similar - gold-washed hair, impassive, burnished features, eyes the colour of burnt brandy-butter. The rest of the room was barely visible, swathed in flickering shadows thrown by the dancing flames. It had got darker earlier today and there was none of the usual pearl light shimmering through the window.

But Narcissa always noticed their subtle differences: Lucius' narrowed eyes to Draco's apprehensive and vaguely defensive look, Lucius' broader shoulders and solid structure to Draco's adolescent slenderness.

Narcissa's observations were cut short when her husband's clear voice sliced through the room, fracturing the quiet.

"Explain yourself, Draco Malfoy."

Lucius' long fingers were tinged a buttercup-yellow, clamped around Draco's pointed chin in what must have been a painful manner. The boy said nothing, only thinned his mouth into a grim line and glared over his father's shoulder, not quite meeting his eyes. Narcissa felt her smile widen. He was anxious, that was clear.

"Explain yourself!"

Narcissa jumped and so did Draco - the violence of his reaction wrenching his chin out of Lucius' grip. Her husband rarely shouted - he usually conveyed his anger through icy eyes and a poisonous tongue.

Draco looked up at Lucius with large, alarmed eyes, probably unaware that he was edging backwards, as if putting as much distance as he could between himself and his father's rage. Lucius' hand landed heavily on his son's shoulder and Draco looked down at it. Narcissa noticed with some interest what looked to be scratches gouged into his previously turned away cheek. They glittered in the wavering light like four clean strokes of chrome ink, running from temple to jawbone.

Knowing it was probably unwise, Narcissa said, "Lucius, heal those cuts before they scar." They were imperfections and she could never stand things that were so obviously marred.

"Yes," said Lucius, a sudden thoughtfulness fringing his voice. "I am going to have to tell that fool of a coach not to aim so near the eyes next time." He waved a hand and muttered something underneath his breath, and the scratches closed up, skin weaving together, leaving clean, unmarked skin in its wake. "As tempting as it is, I cannot have my only heir blinded, can I?"

"No, Lucius, but perhaps-"

"Father!" Draco's sharp protest splintered Narcissa's train of thought, but her venomous glare did not stop his interruption. "Father, I did the curse! I-"

"Quiet!" barked Lucius. "You will not treat your mother with such disrespect. She has done more for this family recently than you have ever managed." Narcissa felt a peculiar swell of pride in her breast. "Apologise."

Draco's open mouth twisted into a rancorous scowl, but he knew better than to disobey his father. "Sorry Mother," he muttered, not dropping his malevolent gaze.

Narcissa's pride soon dissipated and she shot him a narrowed scowl of pure, unadulterated malice. How dare he! That obnoxious, wretched, despicable little-

"Draco!" Lucius' hand shot out again, this time clenching a fist around his son's collar. The boy's grey eyes widened as his father forced him a stumbling step backwards, further, until he was trapped between the door and Lucius, looking suddenly very small and very young.

Lucius looked down at Draco in disgust. "You, boy, are a disgrace to the Malfoy name. You will never, ever speak to your mother in that tone again. Your temperament has severely deteriorated over the past year. Perhaps that Mudblood-ridden school of yours has influenced you." Lucius' voice lowered to a hiss. "Whatever it is, I expect you to correct your faults over the summer before your mouth gets you into a tremendous amount of trouble. " The hand that was clenching Draco's collar spasmed. "Not the least with me."

He let go and spun around suddenly; Narcissa could finally see his face. It was enraged. Draco was hidden by Lucius' towering figure.

Her husband's eyes closed suddenly, almost wearily. "Why, Draco?" His voice betrayed nothing of his expression - it was frosty and swept through the room like a gust of bitterly cold air.

Silence reigned for a moment, ruptured only by the rattling planes of glass and the crackling fire. Then Draco spoke, surprisingly clearly. "He hit me."

"And that excuses your actions?" More silence. "You do realise how much you jeopardised with this ridiculous stunt?" Lucius turned back to his son and, from the sound of his voice, he was sneering. "Do you comprehend what could have transpired had you mispronounced the spell? If you had made the slightest error? Would could still happen if we cannot find all of Ryan McDonald's anatomy?"

It seemed that Draco could find little to say. She could only glimpse his figure - a dark-robed shoulder, a flash of honeyed hair.

"Molly!"

It took Narcissa a moment to realise that Lucius was not, in fact, directing this at Draco, but that he was summoning one of their house-elves. Within seconds, the bumbling elf appeared in the dark room, cowering by Lucius' tropical hardwood desk. In one long-fingered hand the creature held a fawn sack full of - Narcissa squinted through the darkness - was that a foot?

Lucius stepped away from Draco and turned to the trembling house-elf. There was a strange light in his dusky eyes - the nearest description Narcissa could find for it was vindictively cruel, but it had an edge to it. Dislike? Disgust? Satisfaction? She couldn't be sure.

"M-m-master?"

Narcissa scowled down at the...thing. It really was disgusting. They had no human servants now - Lucius had sacked them all the moment the Manor had been passed down into his possession. It was too hazardous. Humans had their own will and could not be broken as easily as these simpering elf creatures. The individuals who could be broken only showed Lucius that their will was weak and that they could be just as easily swayed by a Ministry official. Humans could never be trusted. A cook could always be blackmailed or bribed. One leaf of nightshade in a dish and it could wipe out the whole British Malfoy family line. It just was not worth the risk.

Narcissa knew this and agreed entirely, but... She sneered. They were irritating, simpering and so ugly. Molly's Quaffle-sized Flobberworm-coloured eyes took up most of its creased face, skin the colour of mire, a sooty tweed sack as its crude clothing. Truly disgusting. Narcissa barely understood why Lucius had hired this particular elf - it was useless. But Lucius said that it represented all things Weasley. What that despicable family had to do with anything Narcissa was unsure, but he did seem to take particular delight in taking out his anger on this one elf.

"Well?"

Lucius' tone was sharp and the elf stiffened as though struck. Its trembling increased to an impossible rate; a quivering arm pointed to the sack that had been deposited by the foot of his desk.

"Molly is looking everywhere, Master. It is d-dark and cold and-"

"Yes, yes," snapped Lucius, waving a Galleon-coloured hand impatiently. "Have you collected all of McDonald's body parts?"

"No Master-"

And then, to the great surprise of everyone (and everything) in the room, Lucius' mouth curled into a smile. It was a smile that radiated wickedness, but was nevertheless a smile. Narcissa felt her breath catch slightly as she was reminded, once again, how lucky she was to be married to this man. And it was all down to her that he was back.

"What is missing?"

The servant seemed confused; it shuffled its leathery feet and twisted its grubby hands together nervously. "M-m-missing, Master?"

Lucius' pernicious expression left his face as suddenly as it had appeared. His lip curled back, revealing a row of perfectly straight, sharp teeth. "Yes, you half-witted creature. Missing; as in lost, absent. What body parts are missing?"

More trembling ensued. It was beginning to hurt Narcissa's eyes. "Molly found l-lots, Master!" the elf squealed, watching Lucius' booted foot with terrified eyes. "M-molly found a leg, head, two feet-" Lucius' foot twitched. "-b-b-but there were fingers missing, Master! Molly could not find three fingers!"

"That's enough!" snapped Lucius. "You may leave."

The house-elf disappeared without a moment's hesitation, a resounding whip-crack announcing its departure. Lucius, as warped as his features were in the wavering firelight, looked deeply satisfied with himself. Had Narcissa been in her husband's position, she would have sent the elf off to the kitchens to shut its ears in the larder door. It was quite unlike Lucius to miss out on an opportunity to impress his authority on a servant.

"Draco, come here."

Narcissa craned her neck so that she could peer around Lucius' body. Draco's hand drifted off the door handle reluctantly and he took a few, cautious steps towards his father. His eyes rested on Narcissa for a moment and then flicked upwards as Lucius turned to face him. Draco's chin was raised, mouth set in a thin, hard line, as though preparing himself for his father's onslaught.

But none came forth.

He only said, "You understand the implications of your actions, Draco?" His voice was soft.

Draco's expression did not change. "Yes, Father."

"And that you could very well have destroyed the Malfoy family's hard-earned reputation?"

"Yes, Father."

"Then you will accept your punishment without complaint, because you know that you have brought it on yourself."

"Yes, Father."

Narcissa dearly wished that she had planted herself on the window-seat. It may have been cold, but she would have got a better view of her husband and the boy.

Lucius sighed. "You will go out onto the grounds and find McDonald's missing three fingers. This must be done immediately and without the use of a wand."

Narcissa found herself unable to keep quiet. "Lucius!" she exclaimed. "This is servant-work! You cannot have the Malfoy heir doing such things."

"We cannot have the Malfoy heir cursing his elders as he pleases," said Lucius coldly, "but he seems to regard this as little as I regard your opinion."

Narcissa was unperturbed. "Can we not punish him some other way? Block his meals for a couple of days?" She began pulling various punishments out of her mind rather randomly. "Remove his Quidditch privileges?"

"Absolutely not, Narcissa." The finality in his tone halted her arguments instantly and she leaned back into the cushions of the leather armchair, grumbling under her breath.

Bloody Quidditch...don't see what harm a few weeks without that mindless sport would do... A Malfoy. Doing servant chores. Who would have thought it?

Lucius' attention turned back to his son. "You will take the sack and you will remain outside until all three fingers have been located. Give me your wand."

Draco, who looked as though he wanted to say a great many things but didn't dare to, slipped a hand into his cloak pocket and handed over his dark wand. This object had been the cause of many an argument between father and son over the past five years. Every Malfoy, according to Lucius, for generations back had been chosen by the same two types of wands - yew wood and dragon's heartstring or yew and the feather from a thoroughbred winged horse.

Draco had been selected as unicorn hair.

As precious as unicorns were, Lucius took this as a sign of inner weakness. It was just so...feminine. Her husband had tried to force other wands onto the boy, but none had ever worked quite as well as his unicorn-cored one. Once, Lucius had even taken Draco to the Eastern European wand-maker Gregorovich to test out the wands he produced, but the result was always the same.

Yew wood and a single unicorn hair, nine-and-a-half inches, quite whippy, exceptional for protection and rune-based spells.

Now, Lucius took the wand and walked around his desk before sitting in the ornate chair. He opened the heavy desk drawer with his right hand and dropped Draco's wand into its depths. Then, after much rustling, a thick wad of parchments emerged and the drawer was pushed shut.

Now that Lucius was sitting down, head bent over the parchments, Narcissa could see Draco over her husband's frame. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, staring at his father.

"Go on then, boy," said Lucius, without looking up from his work.

Draco continued to stare a little disbelievingly at his father for a second before snatching up the brimming sack and stalking out of the room, slamming the door in his wake.

Lucius leant back in his chair and flicked through the documents. "The Ministry do not know whom they're dealing with," he murmured. "Illegal substances, indeed..."

Narcissa thought for a moment. "Lucius," she said slowly. "You do realise that you could use a simple Summoning spell?"

He glanced behind him and shot her a brief smile. "Naturally," he said, "but what would be the fun in that?"

***

Draco scowled.

Bloody McDonald. Bloody Father. Bloody Mother. Bloody house-elf.

Crunch.

Bloody hell.

He shifted his foot and squinted down at the small, oblong dark patch that swallowed up the silvery sheen of the gravel path. Gingerly, he reached out a hand and poked the thing. It was fleshy.

Draco's hand retracted as fast as was humanely possible and he stared at the finger, deeply wishing he was in his bedroom, sleeping. Or getting a certain house-elf in trouble. He bet the famous Harry Potter didn't have to do menial tasks like this. He was probably resting from a tiring day of signing autographs, or something.

And it was so cold. The gale-force winds from earlier that day had completely dropped, leaving the night to smother the little warmth the sun had lent to the air. Darkness touched everything - it veiled the florid flowers, clung to the rose bushes like inky cobwebs, painted the clouds overhead a rolling black.

Draco's eyes had quickly adjusted to the pitch-black. Not that it mattered - he could find his way about the Manor and its grounds with his eyes shut. He was not entirely sure how he would have coped with the situation had he not had the knowledge that the Manor's wards were impossible to breach. He knew what creatures lived within the boundaries and, furthermore, knew with a certainty that they would never harm him unless instructed to by his father. And his father would never deliberately mortally wound his only heir.

Therefore, he was safe.

But the finger still lay before him, waiting.

Oh, how he hated McDonald.

***

Draco was exhausted. He had found the third finger and had immediately summoned a house-elf to take the bulging sack back to his father's study, and then, finally, he was able to collapse back on to the clipped grass, feeling entirely unable to make it back to the Manor.

The lazy warmth of the sun combined with a whole sleepless night was making him feel decidedly drowsy. The white-hot light blazed against his closed eyelids.

Of course, the feeling of peace did not last. It never did.

"Draco!"

The familiar screech hung in the still air. Maybe, if he pretended he was asleep...

"Draco! Draco, get in here right now!"

Draco's eyes snapped open and he scowled. The sleep he had been welcoming disappeared as his eyes focussed on the clear cerulean sky across which whipped clouds were lethargically moving. His tired limbs groaned as he levered himself off the ground as gracefully as possible. Narcissa never could abide inelegance.

The gravel crunched like crushed ice underneath his feet as he followed the arcing path back towards the towering Manor. Once Draco ducked into the cooling shade of the kitchens, Narcissa descended on him like an overgrown vulture.

"What were you doing?"

Draco scowled. "What do you care?"

Narcissa trembled with anger. Draco was just about to turn away when her clothing belatedly caught his attention. She was wearing a floor-length cloak of a deep, deep violet hue that drifted lightly on the air currents that floated through the open door. Underneath the cloak was a black dress that clung to her curves and dipped into a disturbingly low neckline. Draco averted his eyes to her hair and felt the beginnings of dread seep through his veins as he noted the numerous braids and ribbons twisted into her long, salt-white ringlets.

Full Malfoy regalia. Bugger.

"Family portrait, darling," said Narcissa silkily. "I do hope you hadn't forgotten," she added with an annoyingly large amount of satisfaction.

"Shut up," said Draco, succinctly.

How long had his father been talking about the pre-marriage photograph? Draco had had the date drilled into his brain every day since he had been back from Hogwarts. August 20^th, nine o' clock. August 20^th, nine o' clock. August 20^th, nine o' clock. He had thought it impossible to forget.

But apparently he had managed to forget it, regardless.

Draco watched as Narcissa's lip curled and he ducked the anticipated blow to his head.

"Lucius will hear about this."

"Oh yes. Thank you, Mother. I've always been a great admirer of loyalty."

Narcissa shrugged elegantly. "I like to leave that to the pathetic Hufflepuff-types."

He frowned. "I was only out in the sun for a minute. And I had my sleeves pulled down."

"I was talking about your tardiness, you stupid boy." She laughed dryly. "Although I have accepted that I'm the only member of this family who seems to care about keeping the traditional Malfoy traits."

Draco fought the urge to roll his eyes. Narcissa had harped on about 'traditional Malfoy traits' for as long as he could remember. Apparently, a Malfoy must never show any more skin than was absolutely necessary. Tanned skin and silver hair? Certainly not. A Malfoy's skin had to be of the palest pale. Not sallow, but pure white. His father seemed to care little about how much time Draco spent out in the sun, but Narcissa insisted that he wear long, full-length black robes all year round. It wasn't that Draco particularly minded wearing long-sleeved robes in the blazing sun - the Gods only knew what people would say if they caught sight of his blemished skin underneath. One could only keep a concealing charm going for so long.

"He won't be happy," Narcissa said, "what with your most recent blunder."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I hate you, you know."

Narcissa smiled beatifically. "Hate you too, darling. Do run along, now." She peered over his shoulder at the oak grandfather clock he knew stood just to the left of him. "I believe you have precisely twenty minutes before the Delacours arrive."

She swept out of the room, cloak billowing behind her in a dramatic manner. Draco wondered briefly if the exit was supposed to make some kind of impression on him, but it merely reminded him of a female Professor Snape.

But there was no time to waste on wondering - he had to make himself beautiful. On his sprint up to his room he narrowly avoided bumping into his father by darting into the servant's stairwell and up several flights of narrow, dusty stairs that had last been used by human servants a whole generation before.

Draco's room was big. He had never thought it particularly large until the day he had visited the Zabinis' house. Blaise's room had been little more than a cupboard. In comparison, he supposed he should be appreciative. He wasn't, of course. He wanted a room in the attic, further away from his parents with a proper balcony and a larger wardrobe and a bigger bed and more windows and...

He pulled himself short. No use thinking about the unfairness that was his life now - he had to find his Malfoy family robes before the Delacours-

Draco's hand hovered thoughtfully above his clothes rack. Delacours? The name hadn't registered through the panic and irritation that had previously filled his head, but now... Wasn't the point of a pre-marital portrait supposed to be that the bride-and-groom-to-be were pride of place? His fingers brushed the soft material of a cloak absently. Perhaps...perhaps the Parkinsons had backed out of the marriage.

But he knew well enough not to try to predict what his father was planning for him - it caused far too many arguments. His faith in Lucius was a blind one and if he was to marry in to the Delacours then so be it. He would follow his father's instruction unquestioningly. Besides, it wasn't as though he had a choice.

He shook his head and pulled out the heavy cloak.