Mala Fide: In Bad Faith

Mala Fide: In Bad Faith - Chapter 7

Pettigrew gave the Apparition coordinates; Lucius, most anxious to speak with their master, was there within seconds. He was eager to update him on his progress and to see if the Dark Lord had any advice for him. Following behind Wormtail, he glided noiselessly toward the chamber that Voldemort normally held audience in.

As the two wizards moved along the dark corridor, they could hear the sound of anguished cries echoing through the building. The noises made Pettigrew shiver and Malfoy smirk as he snickered silently to himself. Just follow the screaming.

When they pushed open the door, they saw a man and woman floating about ten feet overhead, struggling to fight the magical stasis that held them. Both of them were surrounded by a faint, whitish-blue haze, and, judging by the shocked looks on their faces, not only were they muggles, they were absolutely horrified.

The man whom Lucius Malfoy had called 'Master' for most of his adult life was seated in his throne on the dais. He appeared to be enjoying himself immensely. His red eyes were dancing and glowing with delight, his mouth drawn into a playful smile, almost like a child to whom Father Christmas had been especially good this year. When he finally spared them a glance, the blond thought that some of the joy had gone out of his eyes, though he wasn't sure why.

Voldemort quickly ordered, "Leave us, Wormtail." Only too happy to oblige, the sniveling creature retreated swiftly, practically running for the door.

"Wormtail!" his master snapped, calling him back as if he had forgotten something.

"Y-yes, sir?" Pettigrew asked hesitantly.

Disgusted, he scoffed, "Well? Take that with you," he said, indicating the two muggles and adding coldly, "Dispose of them in the usual fashion." The man was dumbstruck with terror, and the woman fainted.

Not wishing to feel his master's wrath, Peter Pettigrew promptly complied with his wishes. He scampered out of the room, this time bringing the muggles with him, who were still hovering in the air. When the large doors had closed behind them, and the Dark Lord spoke again.

"Crucio!!"

Completely unprepared for the attack, Lucius felt intense pain like he had not felt in a very long time, not since before he had left Azkaban. The shock of it literally knocked him over. A burning ripped through his body, and his eyes started to stream tears. The agony seemed like it would never end - but eventually, as it always did, it stopped.

Crawling on his hands and knees, he gasped for breath. When he found voice, he croaked, "Forgive me, Master, but what was that for? Have I done something to . . . displease you?" Malfoy found it difficult to keep the bitter taste from rising up in his throat.

Voldemort glared at him, his face filled with contempt. "I should just kill you and get it over with," he hissed. Lucius made no attempt to reply, knowing better than to rile the powerful wizard any further. Instead, his mind was racing, wondering in what way he had failed.

The Dark Lord steepled his fingers pensively in front of him and closed his eyes in concentration. "Malfoy," he drawled, "when you were released from prison, you promised - you promised - to do some things for me to prove your loyalty. That was quite some time ago, and yet you have not completed them. Tell me, are you still worthy of being called a Death Eater?"

Still dealing with the remnants of the painful curse, yet perturbed by the accusation, Lucius sought to block his mind as he struggled to quell his increasing annoyance. Was he loyal? Was he worthy? He felt he had made great strides in achieving his master's goals - all of them. He had only come here tonight to crow a little, and to seek some aid; perhaps a new charm or spell that would help him in his taking of Ginevra. After all, how often does one of the Dark Lord's followers get accepted into the family of such a high Ministry official as Arthur Weasley? Marrying his daughter, and then corrupting her thoroughly, held such promise - not to mention, pleasure.

With his head bowed reverently, Lucius chose his next words very carefully. "Master, I have done what I could. Harry Potter is dead, and not a drop of his blood on my hands, or any of your followers'. It was ruled a 'tragic accident', just as you requested. My disobedient son is also dead, and I have another one to offer you in his place, also in compliance with your orders. I don't know what else you expect of me so soon."

His lord said nothing; his eyes remained cool and impassive.

"And as Lucas's father, I will see to it personally that he will not disobey. And he won't be my only one. I assure you, there will be more, all of them glad to serve only you. With Narcissa now out of the way--"

"Yes, I did hear of Narcissa's death," Voldemort interrupted. "Very resourceful, Malfoy. Can it be traced to you?"

"No, my Lord."

"Good. Now on to the bigger problem . . the Weasleys. There are still far too many of the blood-traitors; only one of the sons is dead?"

Lucius swallowed nervously. "Yes, sir."

"And you call that progress? Why aren't you out there, getting rid of them? I told you, Lucius," he ranted, his voice rising, "I want you to destroy Arthur Weasley, once and for all! He and his surviving children are the bane of my existence."

"Forgive me, Master - I mean no disrespect - but the son who died was Percy. He was Arthur's favorite son. Once at the office, I heard him telling Kingsley Shacklebolt, when he thought no one else was there, that of all his children, the two he would be most devastated to lose were Percy and Ginny."

He glared at him with disdain. "She lives with you, doesn't she? Then why are you here?"

Lucius's his eyes were alight with a flame; still on his knees, he said earnestly, "Yes, my Lord. That is exactly why I'm here. To report to you that Ginevra is just weeks away from succumbing to my advances . . and to humbly request your help."

Taken slightly aback at the man's audacious request, he blinked. "And you're sure she suspects nothing?"

"No. And she is weakening; I can feel it." He added in a whisper, "It won't be long."

Voldemort gave him the faintest smile. It was the first time he'd shown anything other than disgust since Lucius first arrived. "She pleases you, then?"

"Very much."

At last, the man in the chair passed his judgment. "Yes, I know first-hand that Ginevra can be . . persuaded. She would make a fine Pureblood wife. And with her faith in the late Harry Potter shattered - by the way, Lucius, good job on that - it will be that much less work." He chuckled to himself then went on. "So phase one is finished, and phase two nearly so . . . And you're sure she will agree to this?"

"Quite; the red-headed vixen will be mine. You can depend on another Malfoy-Weasley wedding."

When Lucius noticed a flicker of a grin cross his master's face, he breathed a bit easier. He smirked and said to him, "Rest assured, my Lord: When she becomes my bride and gives birth to my sons, it will be the final nail in her father's coffin."

Voldemort gave him another twisted smile. "What about Lucas? Does she know he is your son?"

"No, sir. She believes him to be Draco's. She's not sure if the baby was slightly premature, or if she was actually pregnant when her husband left for his two-week business trip and she just didn't know it. It depends on her mood when you ask her," he added wryly.

"Good," the Dark Lord said with a nod. "Still, I have heard . . . but it's probably nothing."

Lucius's face showed genuine concern. "Heard what, my Lord?"

"I heard a rumor of a process - a medical process that muggles use to determine who a child's father actually is." He scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Like I said, probably nothing, considering the source."

"And who was that?" the blond asked, trying to muster a confident smile.

"Marcus Flint, our resident 'knower of all things muggle'," he mocked. "I'm beginning to question where that boy's loyalties lie. Soon he will be as bad as Arthur Weasley himself."

In what he hoped was a respectful tone, Lucius said, "As long as he never makes friends with any of them - at least, for Millicent and the boys' sake."

His master eyed him warily; after carefully considering him for several moments, he spoke. "Be that as it may - I have decided to give you one more tool to assist you in the accomplishment of your goal . . . "

The visit, however painful, turned out to be profitable indeed.

*****

Meanwhile, back at Malfoy Manor, Ginny practically raced up the stairs, her heart pounding madly. She had to calm down; she had to think. She paced the hallway outside her room a few times then placed a hand on her chest. When she could feel her heart slowing down a little, she exhaled with finality.

Deciding to forego her bath for the moment, she stopped in the nursery to say good night to Lucas. Her beautiful little boy was curled up in a ball, his thumb in his mouth, his blanket was tossed to one side. Ginny bent down and draped it over his pale shoulders. He was getting so big; she could have sworn he had grown since she left on Tuesday.

Summoning the bag of goodies she had picked up at the hotel gift shop, she withdrew a toy, a green stuffed dragon. She nudged it under his little arm, which reflexively tightened around it. He cuddled it, stirring slightly, but never waking. She couldn't resist smiling at the sight. Or touching his innocent little face and running a finger down his cute little nose, which would inevitably take on the shape that identified him as a Malfoy, just as his sister's was starting to do.

"Good night, my angel," she whispered.

She popped in to visit Rhiannon, but she was already asleep. It was no wonder - the poor girl had barely rested in the strange room at the seaside hotel. She never slept very well when they were away from home. When Ginny mentioned this to the muggle therapist she had seen, he theorized that this was probably because the girl's father had died in a hotel room.

She looked down at the darling girl and sighed. Then she left and headed down the hallway toward her own room.

Time for a soak in the tub.

While she drew the bath water, she examined herself in the massive wall mirror with a critical eye. Although she had borne two children, her body didn't look that different than it had the day of her wedding. She turned around and eyed her bum; passing judgment on it, she decided it wasn't half-bad. Walking, horseback riding, and the occasional Quidditch match with friends helped keep her in fairly good shape.

I must be somewhat attractive . . at least Brian Gilpin seems interested, and he's okay.

Glancing down at the marble countertop, she noticed that her wedding photo was setting next to her sink. She frowned slightly. It was supposed to be on her bedside table; what was it doing in here?

I must speak to the house-elves tomorrow. Photos of Draco and me, especially wedding photos, are not to be moved.

She picked up the elegantly-framed photograph and gazed at it. Seeing herself, the happy bride, and the way her groom's face simply glowed . . They were both so elated and filled with joy. That day, the world was theirs.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of her face in the bathroom mirror. She was taken aback by the striking difference between the two. Just then, a pang of regret and longing started to cloud her mind, but she caught herself just in time.

This is absurd. I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself. I should be happy for what we had, how much we loved each other - and grateful that we have two glorious children, she thought as she turned off the water. It's time to pick myself up and move on.

But it was difficult. She had lost so much . . Draco, Narcissa, Percy, and for all intents and purposes, the rest of her family, and Hermione. Sometimes she felt entirely alone. Her children gave her solace, but they could not fill the ache in her heart. She knew she was lucky to have met up with Luna and Neville again just in time for their wedding. And Millie and Pansy had both actually turned out to be very good friends to her.

Looking at her opulent surroundings - a far cry from the Burrow, indeed - she laughed in spite of herself. She had an amazing life, an incredible life.

So why didn't she feel like it?

She smirked at the stranger in the mirror then rolled her eyes and scoffed, "Ginny Weasley. Poor little rich girl." Placing the photo back on the counter, she turned around and sank into the tub.

The warmth enveloped her. She relaxed as random thoughts drifted through her mind. She thought about the book that Dr. Winterbourne had loaned her - the one she was supposed to have read on holiday. It said that a person musn't die along with the loved one, and that after a sufficient period of mourning, moving on was healthy for the surviving partner. The book must have said anything else, but she didn't remember it. She was starting to feel a bit guilty about her half-hearted attempt to actually learn from it, but she shoved the feeling aside.

Submerging her sponge into the water, she contemplated where one might go to meet a nice man. After all, eligible bachelors weren't just hanging about Malfoy Manor, bridal shops, and caterers' offices. It seemed that everyone she knew met their spouse at school or work, neither of which was really an option for her. Sighing heavily, she lathered up her bar of vanilla-scented soap. And other than Brian, who else did she know? Sadly, few prospects came to mind. It seemed that all of her and Ron's former classmates were either married, involved with someone else, or hopelessly gay.

Rinsing her shoulders and the nape of her neck, she decided that she would have to go out more often. Mingle; be more social. But not by herself, and definitely not to any nightclubs. According to Hermione, those were only for girls who were on the pull, looking for a quick, no-regrets shag. She wondered vaguely if Luna knew anyone, but she shot that idea down rather quickly. Knowing how quirky she was, Ginny could only imagine what kind of oddballs she would meet through her.

What about . . ? Dare I--

"No. Absolutely not," she retorted as she scrubbed her arms liberally.

She would not owl Hermione. They had nothing to say to one another. It was bad enough they would have to see - and actually speak - to each other at the wedding this fall. But the rift between them was simply too deep. Ginny didn't know how Hermione felt, but for her, the friendship was beyond repair.

She closed her eyes to concentrate, thinking about men she already knew. Her thoughts unguarded, she saw a flash of grey eyes, laughing, sparkling, burning with intensity . . .

"Not now, Draco, go away," she whispered to her memories. "I'm trying to move on. Not to replace you - I could never do that - but to live once more, to feel . . "

She gasped.

Those weren't Draco's eyes. Snatching up her sponge again, she hurriedly washed the rest of her body. "I refuse to think that," she hissed defiantly to the steamy room. She pulled the stopper and quickly rose to her feet, wringing the sponge as if she were squeezing the life out of it. Banishing such ludicrous thoughts from her mind, she dried off and readied herself for bed.

Ginny approached the vanity in her room, picked up her favorite brush, and began the required 100 strokes. During the mundane task, she thought once more about what had happened over dessert, and afterward, when Lucius had held her. It did feel . . strangely nice. But her logical side insisted that it just had to be wrong.

She continued her brushing, this time, counting aloud to distract herself. "Thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four . . . "

Yet she couldn't get the images out of her mind. Her head felt light. It was as though her logical side was still on holiday at the beach.

It was very nice, and it seemed to surprise him as well, but he did appear to like it . . .

When she had finished her brushing, she looked across the top of the vanity, where something unusual caught her eye.

Wasn't my brush just . . over there, instead of in its usual place? Shrugging, she set it down where it belonged and rearranged the things around it: her silver hand-held mirror, several perfume bottles, the crystal atomizer her Grandmother Prewett had owned and wanted her to have.

Thoroughly exhausted and warmed by the prospect of sleeping in her own bed tonight, Ginny leapt into it. She smiled to herself and closed her eyes. As she started to drift off to sleep, a daring thought crept into her mind . . Perhaps Lucius's feelings for her were not strictly parental in nature. It was a thought she dismissed with one of Hagrid's favorite sayings:

Codswollop.

*****

The following weekend, Ginny went to visit Dr. Winterbourne for Sunday afternoon tea. She liked the muggle physician's small flat; it was so different from Malfoy Manor. Although she enjoyed the glamour of the mansion, this was closer to what she'd grown up with, except that there were no knitting needles suspended in mid-air with no one guiding them, nor several boisterous, shouting boys of all ages, clambering for attention.

Very quaint in its own way, the place was charming and uniquely decorated - mostly because the frugal doctor loved getting a bargain. The sofa, with its crocheted afghan tossed over the back, looked like something she might have gotten it at a jumble sale. There were oodles of mismatched, fluffy throw pillows stuffed in the window seat. But what Ginny loved most was that it always smelled like home. There was usually a cake or a loaf of bread in the oven and tea on the stove. Sometimes, the witch would forget that she was sitting right in the middle of London.

But you can't go home again, can you? she reminded herself.

Having been told to let herself in the front door, the visitor entered the kitchen. "Hello," she greeted her guest with a warm smile, which Ginny returned. "You're just in time. Can you get out the pumpkin bread for me? The oven mitts are just over there."

Donning the mitts, she reached into the oven and lifted the fresh bread nearer to her nose. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply of the spices - the cinnamon, the nutmeg, the scent of the Burrow in autumn. She smiled sadly to herself, set the pan down where her friend had indicated, and started to pull her bag off her shoulder.

"Oh, wait . . I've brought your book back, Dr. Winterbourne," she said as she set it on the counter. At least she had the forethought to cast a charm on the book to make it appear slightly worn and not fresh off the shelf.

With her hands on her hips and a smirk on her face, the doctor asked, "Ginny, how long have we known each other?"

"I - I guess since that time when my dad and I came to out to your place in the country to pick up your cousin and Percy. We walked up out of nowhere; no car, no taxi, not even a bus as far as you could see . . you must have thought we were nuts."

"Frankly, I did. But I knew that Brian was a wizard, and anyone who went to school with him was bound to be, well, different." She carefully maneuvered her way around the tiny kitchen until she reached the cupboard; she took out two cups, obviously from different sets, and asked, "And I was, what - thirteen?"

"I don't know; if I was ten, then Percy was fourteen--"

"Well, I think we've known each other long enough for you to call me 'Stella' when we're not in my office - this is a social visit! Anyway, it makes me feel so old when you say 'Dr. Winterbourne'," she said, purposely overemphasizing the title and looking down her nose as if she actually were a snob. When she put it that way, Ginny did feel a bit silly.

As the two women sat down, Stella poured the tea and sighed. "Ahh, lovely Percy. A bookworm's dreamboat, I must say. I had such a crush on him," she said with a reflective smile. Offering her friend a cup, she said curiously, "So what's he up to these days?"

Ginny looked into her cup pensively as she slowly stirred her tea. "He was killed a couple of years ago. He had a thing for this girl who was a law enforcement officer for the Ministry of Magic. He went along on one of her missions, and by the time it was all over . . . she was injured, and he was dead." She looked away, a pained expression on her face.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," Stella whispered. "I-I didn't know . . I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's all right. How could you have known?"

"Well, I guess I could have asked Brian. But he and Percy seemed to grow apart as the years went by." She paused, sipping her tea. Longing to fill the awkward silence, she clapped her hands once and declared, "Well, no more talking about things that make us sad, right?" She sliced the pumpkin bread and offered a piece to Ginny, who gladly accepted the scrumptious treat.

While they were both nibbling on their desserts, the doctor casually mentioned her cousin once more. "Getting back to Brian, though, I was just . . wondering whether you had gotten a letter from him recently?" she asked, barely getting the words out before quickly stuffing a rather large bite of pumpkin bread into her mouth.

"A letter from Brian? Well, there was one after Rhiannon and I returned home from holiday."

Her friend's hazel eyes drew wide as she looked over the rim of her cup. "What did it say?" she prompted eagerly.

"I don't recall, exactly. I only remember it being . . well, odd, really."

Stella shook her head and squinted her eyes. "Asking a girl out to a play is odd?" she said with a laugh. "Which part is odd? The fact that it stars muggles or that it's from America?"

Now it was Ginny's turn to laugh. "What? A play? Is that what he told you?"

"Told me? He showed me the bloody letter!"

"Well, it must have been a different one, because this was addressed to Lucius, too." She took a moment to think; what had that letter said, anyway? It was so uncharacteristically cold for Brian . . something to do with--

Suddenly, she remembered. "Of course. It was about my mother-in-law. He said that no foul play was involved and that she died of natural causes."

The doctor was flabbergasted. "That little shit," she blurted out. "So he didn't ask you out, like he told me he was going to?"

"So . . he wants to take me out? Well, that's - sweet," Ginny pronounced. She drained her cup then poured another for both of them.

Stella groaned and muttered to herself, "I can't believe he did that." Looking at her friend, she said, "I'm sorry, Ginny. I've spoken out of turn again, but I thought you knew. He showed me the letter to see if I thought it sounded all right - if it might tempt you to say yes." Embarrassed, she gave her a weak smile and shrugged slightly.

Feeling dejected, Ginny frowned and stared into her tea. She swirled the milk around and drizzled in the honey, watching it melt. "Well, I always thought he liked me. Do you think he's changed his mind?"

"Nonsense! Why would he change his mind? You're practically all he talks about. He's just - socially challenged, that's all." Reaching across the small round table, she patted Ginny's hand and added, "God, it seems like I only open my mouth to switch feet! I'm so sorry I spilled the beans."

"S'all right." The witch picked at the remaining crumbs of bread that were left on her plate.

A few moments later, Stella drained the last of her tea then said excitedly, "Ooh, read my tea leaves, please? I've always wanted to have that done by someone who's not a fake!"

Ginny looked up at her with empty eyes and said blandly, "They're all fakes, Stella."

*****

Close to an hour later, she left the London flat to find an Apparition point from which to go home. After her friend had gone, Stella set about picking up the tea things and straightening her kitchen. She paused to take a moment to examine the remaining dregs in her cup; wondering if they could really mean anything, she thought, They're in the shape of sort of a wonky cross . . . I wonder if Brian would know what that means?

Thinking of her cousin, she blew out a frustrated breath as she walked over to the sink, dishes in hand. Soon she was fuming at him, angrily tossing cups and plates into the sink. She was going to give that wizard cousin of hers a piece of her mind - how dare he put her on the spot like that! Why hadn't he just gone through with what they had originally planned? All he had to do was write to Ginny and ask her out; if she didn't respond, Stella would have tea with her Sunday next and get her reaction. And the rest would work, just like magic.

"Ha! Magic," she muttered to herself, as she dried her hands on a soft, cotton towel. She grabbed her purse, fumbled through it for her mobile phone, which she nearly dropped, then firmly pressed his speed dial number. As it started to ring, she inhaled and exhaled, her anger subsiding slightly. It rang once more, twice--

"Hey, Stella," Brian answered casually.

"Don't you 'Hey Stella' me, you cowardly, lily-livered . . wizard!"

"Huh?"

"What do you mean, leaving me hanging on a wire without a net?!"

"What are you on about?"

Amazed, she gasped, "That letter you sent to Ginny!"

"Oh, that's right." He gulped, suddenly realizing that it was Sunday evening, not Saturday. He had been so wrapped up in brewing potions for work - so often, the ones at Saint Mungo's weren't exactly right, and he didn't trust them - that he'd completely forgotten that today was the day Stella was going to see Ginny. He shuddered nervously, and his heart beat a bit faster. "How'd it go?"

"Dreadfully! What the hell were you thinking, sending her some other letter? What was wrong with what we'd planned? It was perfect!"

"What other letter?"

Stella sighed. Exasperated, she shook her head in frustration and motioned with her hands, as if he could actually see her. "Hello? That stupid one about her mother-in-law's death! After that sort of cold display, she'll never go out with you!"

But Brian was utterly lost. This conversation was going nowhere. Sitting down in his favorite chair, he pointed his wand at the pain management potion that was just starting to boil and paused its progress. He decided to take a different approach with his cousin; after all, she did tend to be a bit high-strung at times.

He asked her calmly, "What did this letter say?"

"You're joking, right?" She snapped, "What kind of potions have you been inhaling all afternoon?" When he didn't respond, she groaned, "It said that there was no evidence of foul play in Narcissa's death. Why did you feel it was necessary to mention that?"

Surprised, he wondered what had happened to the letter he originally wrote? Had it been intercepted or lost? Did the owl - but no. He remembered that he hadn't sent it by owl. He had handed it directly to--

"Mr. Malfoy," he said, completely out of the blue.

"Ginny's father-in-law? What about him?"

"W-well, I didn't send the letter by owl. I gave it to him and asked him to give it to her."

Growing even more impatient, Stella growled, "Urgh - wizards! And this means, what, exactly?"

"Well, it's not completely unheard of - although highly suspect, and slightly illegal . . still, it's very simple to do . . "

"What is? Hello, I'm a muggle here; please clue me in to what the hell you're talking about!"

Brian explained, "To magically modify a letter. Or perhaps he just wrote a new one, or had a servant do it. Rich bastard like him must have a million of 'em."

"But why on earth would he do that?"

"I can't imagine. Maybe," he began then paused. "Maybe he doesn't want her getting over the death of his only son."

The line went quiet for several moments. "Stella?" Brian finally said.

Her whispered reply baffled him even more.

"Or is he?"