Kinship

Kinship

Chapter One

Lucius Malfoy apparated onto platform nine-and-three-quarters and glanced at his pocket watch. The Dover train would arrive in a minute, bringing with it this new addition to his household.

It was three weeks since he had learned of the death, in France, of Gustavus Lestrange, and the effectual orphaning of his wife's little niece. Some devilish impulse had led him to offer the child a place in his home, citing his duties as guardian in justification. It had caused an almighty row. Narcissa still wasn't speaking to him. He smiled thinly. Most decidedly, the affair had its advantages.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the approaching steam engine. He snapped his fingers; the house elf sprang forward, ready to deal with the luggage. A moment later and the train came whistling and steaming into the station.

There were few travellers on this damp summer's evening, and it was easy to identify his party. An elderly matron, cross and complaining, clambered awkwardly from the carriage, to be followed by a slender, dark-haired child who stood gazing about the platform with eyes as cold and grey as his own.

He strode forward, and the woman bustled up to him. "Ah, Mr Malfoy. It's very kind of you to meet us here, I'm sure. Miss Lestrange - Miss Lestrange! Come over here and speak nicely to your uncle - oh, it's no use," she turned again to Lucius, "she doesn't speak a word of English. A pretty time I've had of it, I can tell you, sir!"

All this had been uttered very nearly in one breath. Lucius murmured the usual platitudes, then turned to the child, who regarded him impassively. "Enchanté de vous voir, ma chère. J'espère que vous serez très heureuse avec nous."

The child replied promptly in excellent English. "Thank you, Monsieur Malfoy. It is most kind of you to offer me your protection... after so many years." Lucius didn't miss the malicious glance she cast in the direction of her chaperone, who was staring at her in open-mouthed indignation; but nor did he miss the slight inflection at the end of her sentence. His smile never slipped, but he wondered. How much did she know?

He held out a hand. The child took it, and he raised it to his lips, bowing over her to make up for the difference in height. She accepted this with equanimity; she had evidently been educated in the traditional courtesies. He then turned to the chaperone. "Thank you for your service, Mrs Venables. I think we need detain you no longer. I understand you have a further journey to make tomorrow, and I am sure you will wish to rest this evening. I will have your luggage sent directly to your room at the Leaky Cauldron. You may forward your bill to me at the Manor."

Having disembarrassed himself of the voluble Mrs Venables, Lucius slipped a hand into his waistcoat and drew out an old-fashioned guinea coin. He touched his wand to it. "Do you know what a Portkey is, Miss Lestrange?"

She nodded. "Oui, monsieur. But I have never travelled that way before," she added.

"Don't be frightened. You'll be at the Manor in an instant. And," he smiled down at her grave little face, "might I suggest that we adopt a less formal mode of address? We are family, after all. Will you not call me uncle - and permit me to call you Marie-Laurence? It is a charming name, my dear."

She bowed her head gracefully. "As you wish, mon oncle." At ten, she had the poise and assurance of a woman of thirty. He marvelled at her self-possession; he was, benevolently, amused by it; yet at the same time, he realised to his surprise that he was faintly disconcerted to find himself matched in dignity by this chit. As he extended his hand, with the Portkey, towards her, and watched her touch her finger carefully to the coin, he reflected that he would have been proud to see such bearing in his son.

Chapter Two

Dinner had drawn to a close at the Manor.

It had not been the most convivial of meals. Narcissa had been icy; the child, positively glacial. True, there had been one or two moments when Lucius thought he saw an expression of pain flicker over her sensitive lips, but for the most part, she had met his wife's scarcely veiled insults with frozen indifference. He enjoyed watching her. She was forged in the tradition of her ancestors: proud, magnificent. Perhaps time and familiarity would blunt her appeal, but for now, her presence added a keen, cool edge to the stultifying atmosphere of hearth and home.

When the house elves had cleared away the coffee cups, he invited his little niece to adjourn with him to his study. A private chat, he'd said, relishing the daggers in his wife's eyes.

He settled her in an armchair by the fire. "Brandy?" He indicated a decanter.

"Oui, merci." Just as if she had been drinking brandy from her cradle, he thought. And for all he knew, maybe she had. He watched her reflection in the mirror as he poured the drinks. For the first time, he noticed how tired she looked. The gloom of the study lent her face an almost ghostly pallor; her eyes were dark with exhaustion, and seemed unnaturally large. Unaware of his gaze, she huddled in the armchair, allowing her head to droop upon her hand. But when he turned towards her again, she had drawn herself up like a queen upon her throne.

He sat down opposite her on the other side of the fireplace. For a moment or two he watched the shifting patterns made by log and flame. He was aware that she was studying him. Finally he spoke. "My condolences on your recent loss. Were you close to your grandfather, Marie-Laurence?"

To his surprise the child stiffened. Slowly she shook her head. "I was not close to him, no. I saw him - how does one say it? - infrequently. He kept to his rooms. And I to mine." Her eyes flashed. "I do not grieve for him."

He refrained from pursuing the subject. Instead, "Then who brought you up, if not your grandfather?" he inquired. Then, seeing her puzzled expression, he recast his sentence: "Tu étais élevé par qui?"

Her brow cleared, though her eyes were still guarded. "That was Mimì. The oldest of the house elves. She was always good to me, mon oncle. But she remains in France. She is tied to the château, not to me. And she is old." The small girl sighed. "I do not think I will ever see her again."

"I see." Personally, he did not approve of children being brought up by house elves. Too often the elves spoiled them, seeing them as fellows in bondage and lavishing them with all the over-abundant adoration in their ridiculous nature. Such children failed to become acquainted with their own position, their dues and obligations. Some had a tendency to stoop to their inferiors; others never learned to respect their superiors. Some, lacking scope for emulation and competition, grew up lazy and self-satisfied and failed to fulfil their potential.

He leaned back in his chair. "You are no doubt aware that the death of your grandfather makes me your legal guardian. This means that I am responsible for all aspects of your wellbeing until you are of age - with the exception of your financial interests, which are in the hands of Nathaniel Proctor of Proctor and Quibble Solicitors. You will make your home with me. Your health, your education, and your social development lie with me.

"Now, while you live in my house there are rules I shall expect you to keep. I shall do my utmost to treat you with dignity and respect at all times; and in return, I expect you to treat both myself and my wife with the courtesy due to one's elders. However, I must also request you to remember your position with regard to the servants. Believe me, my dear, I am sorry you have had to part with your old nurse; but in our family, you will find that the house elves fulfil a purely menial role. You will only lower yourself by associating with them." His voice hardened. "Remember that you come of a long line of distinguished wizards. Do not disgrace yourself and your blood.

"There are a few more rules - not many - and I think it will be best if I explain them to you over the coming few days. For example, several rooms in the Manor are out of bounds - for good reason. You see, Marie-Laurence, I have amassed quite a collection of Dark Arts materials over the years. Many are dangerous, and none are suitable objects for childish curiosity. You must not touch them, or meddle with them in any way, without my express permission. In a few days my son, Draco, will be coming home. I hope you will be good for him - and him for you. He is rather more than two years older than you, but you will find that exactly the same rules apply to him. Should your conduct lapse in any way, I will administer such punishment as I see fit."

He paused, allowing the vagueness of the threat time to reverberate. This technique had always made an impression on Draco; Lucius himself had been impressed, for that matter, when his own father had used it on him, many years ago. It was, however, with a feeling somewhere between irritation and curiosity that he realised it had little visible effect on this strange, self-sufficient little person. Throughout the earlier part of his lecture she had eyed him impassively. But when he had spoken of the Dark Arts, he fancied he saw a subtle change come over her face. He wondered. Was it merely a trick of the dancing firelight? Or had there been something akin to mockery in those dark grey eyes?

Still she regarded him steadily. He realised, with unwilling admiration, that she was waiting for him to speak. Forcing him to make the next move. Unless, of course - unless she hadn't understood what he was saying? It was possible. English was not her native tongue. Had he spoken over her head? He raised his voice. "Do you understand me, Marie-Laurence?"

"Oui, monsieur." Nothing more.

He tried again, impatience edging his tones. "And is there anything you would like to say to me?"

Her response was immediate. "Yes. If you please, I should like you to tell me about my mother."

For a moment Lucius was silent. He was conscious of a vague feeling of disappointment. He had hoped she would be free of this type of sentimentality. But on the other hand, perhaps it was only natural. He traced a contemplative finger along the line of his jaw. The girl came of a noble line of wizards: powerful wizards, passionate wizards, wizards who understood - understood too well - the dreadful strength of family bonds. Her mother had loved and hated to the point of madness. Small blame, then, to her daughter, if, deprived thus far of an object worthy of her love, she projected it onto this mother she had never known. And never would.

He took a mouthful of brandy and savoured it, enjoying the passage of the bitter richness in his throat. Finally: "What do you wish to know?" he asked.

The child twisted her hands in her lap. For the first time, her self-control wavered. "Have you - seen her?" she demanded. "Does she remember me?" Then, with an effort: "Will they - will they ever - let me see her?"

Lucius sighed. "What do you know of your mother, Marie-Laurence? What do you know of your past?"

She shrugged - a would-be casual gesture, but her eyes were eager. "Little - but very little. My mother was Bellatrix Lestrange. Before she was married, she was Bellatrix Black. Your wife is her sister. My mother was a devoted follower of the Dark Lord. When he fell, she was imprisoned - in Azkaban." Her voice darkened. "I was born in Azkaban. I do not remember it."

He glanced at her thoughtfully. "And your father?"

But the mask had fallen once more across her face. "As to my father, monsieur, I know nothing."

And as he looked into the grey eyes so like his own, Lucius knew that she lied.