A Dish Best Served Cold

Hermione brought her vehicle to a stop outside the old house. It looked different now than it had when she last saw it a year and a half before. It had been repainted, shorn up so that it stood more stable, and the yard was now graced with a garden of freshly turned earth. In a few weeks, there would be sprouts. She approached the door with trepidation, it was not the same Burrow, she wondered if Molly was still here. She knocked on the door.

A few seconds later, a man in his late twenties with reddish brown hair opened the door. "Yes miss, can I help you?"

"Bill?" she asked in a stupefied voice. "Bill Weasley?" The man´s face fell.

"Did you know Bill?" She nodded. "Why don´t you come inside." She followed him in and sat down on the old familiar couch. She accepted a cup of tea from him, and watched him carefully as he sat down. He was wearing black robes, rather formal ones at that. "I´m Robert McKennit, a cousin of Bill´s on his mother´s side. How well did you know the Weasley family, Miss-?"

Hermione had to stop and think for a moment, who was she now? "Beatrice."

"When was the last time you saw any of them?"

"I," she quickly counted backwards, "I guess it´s been almost a year now, ten months at least." He heaved a sigh.

"A lot has happened since then." His voice was heavy and thick. A young blonde woman, maybe a year or two older than Hermione entered the room and joined Robert on the divan. "My wife, Candice." Hermione shook the other woman´s hand. Hermione was disquieted by her appearance; she too was dressed in a black robe with gloves and a hat with a black half-veil. "Bill has been dead for some months now, October if memory serves me right." Hermione choked. That meant that all the brothers were dead then. There was just Ginny, Molly, and Arthur now.

"Molly?" she asked. "How did she take it?" Robert and Candice both looked very pained.

"Aunt Molly passed away three days ago," Candice replied. "She´s been sick for a while now. She pretty much just gave up after Uncle Arthur died last September. Between losing him and all her sons, she just... couldn't take it." Hermione buried her face in her hands, trying to will the tears to stop. The whole family was gone now, except for Ginny. She felt a comforting hand on her back.

"We´re going to the funeral, it´s this afternoon. Would you like to join us?" Hermione could only nod. She sat on the couch and wept for a long while. Mostly her tears were for the loss of a family that had always been good to her, but also for Ron, who probably didn´t even know. Candice was able to loan her an appropriate robe. A little why later, Hermione stepped through the first floo portal she had used in a very long time, and remembered immediately why she disliked them so much.

To Hermione, it looked more like a family reunion than a funeral. She saw no one that she knew, then the crowd parted, and she saw Ginny. Her friend was standing beside the coffin. Beside her stood another figure, a man with short, pale blonde hair. Hermione stared, it couldn´t be, how dare he? Ginny turned and looked at her. Hermione reached up and touched her hair. She breathed a sigh of relief, it was short, shaggy, and dark colored. It wouldn´t give her away.

Ginny approached her, she glanced back and forth, looking for a convenient escape, but found none. "Do I," Ginny paused, "know you?" Ginny´s tone sounded like she thought she might.

"I don´t believe so," Hermione replied, thankful for the hint of accent she had picked up in Switzerland. "You are Virginia?" Hermione struggled to maintain a neutral expression, though it was very difficult to lie to a girl she had once considered among her best friends.

"Yes," Ginny replied with some hesitation. "You are?"

"Beatrice, I was acquainted with your brother Ron through his friend Hermione." Ginny seemed to accept this, and extended her hand in greeting. Hermione took it in her own, and a thousand memories flooded her. The lie was plausible; Hermione had maintained correspondence with witches and wizards at Durmtsrang and Beauxbaton´s. "It was terrible what happened to them. I am more saddened for your loss than I can tell you." She sighed; it was the first entirely true thing she had said since arriving at The Burrow.

"Thank you," Ginny said in a quiet voice. The tall blonde man stepped up next to her and placed an arm about her waist.

"Everything okay, love?" Hermione suppressed the urge to scream. How dare Draco Malfoy call Ginny `love´? Her eyes narrowed involuntarily. She forced her features back into a neutral expression.

"A friend of Hermione´s," Ginny replied to him. She accepted a kiss on the cheek from him. "Draco here was also a friend of Hermione´s, they went to school together." Hermione resisted the gag reflex that was choking her. Draco had never really been her friend, only a pretender, she knew that only too late. He had been her first kiss; the memory turned to bile in her mouth.

"If you will excuse me for a moment," Hermione asked in the most neutral voice she could muster, "I´m feeling a bit... ill." Her eyes flickered to Draco as she said it, but he didn´t seem to notice, or at least didn´t respond. She patted Ginny´s hand and escaped the room. On the steps outside, she took several long, deep breaths. Ginny was seeing Draco, rather seriously based on the ring that was occupying her left hand. Hermione almost retched at the thought and gave very serious consideration to going back in and telling Ginny the whole truth.

She stopped though, realizing that it would accomplish nothing. At least not yet. She had vowed that she would take everything from Draco; Ginny was just one more thing he could lose. She sat and wondered when would be the best time. Then, another thought occurred to her. She rose and went back in. Ginny and Draco were talking to Candice and Robert. All greeted her and she listened as they talked about Molly. Draco was growing weary of the conversation, she could tell. She had seen that bored expression on his face many a time. She tapped him, and turned aside.

"Yes, Bea. Mind if I call you Bea?" He smiled and extended his hand. She steeled herself, and took his hand.

"That would be fine, mind if I call you Draco? That was how Hermione always referred to you." It felt very odd to talk about herself in third person, but she would do what she must. He said it would be fine. "I´m curious Draco, have you given any thought to writing about group you knew?" He seemed startled by her question. "I ask because I am a writer, and I was thinking that it would be interesting, not to mention profitable, to write a book from the inside. Kind of a, `this is the Harry Potter I knew´ story." She could see the galleons in his eyes, not to mention that he would no doubt use it to solidify his reputation as the rock of the group. She decided to lay it on a little thicker.

"I´ve got my letters from Hermione I could get access to, and if we combine that with your recollections and stories, along with those of Ginny and some others, we could write a book that would let people get to know the heroes behind the names." She couldn´t believe she was whoring herself out like this, and to Draco least of all; but if she could get into his confidence she could get everything she would need to utterly destroy him- and that was still the ultimate goal. Afterwards, Ginny leaving him would just be the icing on the cake, and Ginny would leave him of her own accord if it was done properly.

He reached into his cloak and pulled a business card from his wallet. "Bea, this is my card, why don´t you contact me at the office on Monday and we´ll talk about it. That sounds like a really good idea." Inside, she cringed as she accepted his card. Outside though, she was all smiles. She thought it rather ironic that he would believe her lies so easily, since he was the one that taught her how.

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She read over the letter again, hoping to convince herself of its validity before she sent it. Yes, she was living in the manor, but her source had dried up. Draco was barely speaking to her, it was only because of his father´s benevolence that she was still there. Hermione tucked the letter into an envelope and sealed it. Carefully, she tucked the pad she had written it on into her satchel and left her room.

She walked past Draco´s room, the one where he had made a pass at her almost two years ago and again two weeks ago. Since she had rebuffed him, Draco had been most unwilling to work with her. With her source dried up, she was reduced to spending hours and hours in the Malfoy family library or outside writing her own story. She wished she could just have done with this and return to her cabin in the mountains. She stopped then, and reminded herself that this was the only way she would get her revenge. She couldn't do again what they had done in France, she simply didn't have the stomach for murder. She wondered idly what Ron was doing to advance his plot, or if he had just given up on it like he had given up on her. She shook her head to clear the thought, and strode down the hall.

"Miss Austen." Hermione stopped dead in her tracks.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy?"

He waved her into his study. "Please, come in, sit down."

She entered the doorway and glanced around. The room seemed to almost pulse with its own power. This was where the fate of the wizarding world was decided. It looked like it too. The room was done in rich woods and dark colors. One wall was taken over by a floor to ceiling, wall to wall bookshelf filled with ancient tomes and odd magical gadgets. The other walls were half-paneled and done in fabric. Several pieces of art hung on the walls. "I would like to, but I have an errand to run."

"Have one of my elves run it for you." He snapped his fingers and a bedraggled looking elf in a tea towel with an apron over it appeared.

She blanched. "I´d rather see to this myself. Thank you for offering though."

"You´re not one of those `equal rights for all magical creatures people´ are you?"

"No," she lied. "More of a Social Darwinist, survival of the fittest and all that." This conversation was killing her. Living in Malfoy manor had brought home the importance of the work she had done when she was younger. She promised herself every day that when she was done with this, she would return to that work. He dismissed the elf with a casual wave of his hand.

Lucius smiled and again motioned for her to sit. He leaned back in his chair and affected a casual, inviting air. She came in and sat down in one of the fine leather chairs that faced his desk. "So," he said in a friendly tone. "Draco tells me your interested in the family history, thinking about maybe expanding your scope and doing a historical study of the Malfoy family, maybe tracing our roots back beyond the current records. I can help you with that. I did an extensive study of the family in my youth." He walked around his desk and leaned against it.

His smile was disarming; like a wolf in sheep's clothing, she reminded herself. He was fiddling with a ring on his right hand. His left hand was naked, though she could see the line from where he had recently removed his wedding ring. "Our family is very old," he said in a quiet voice, forcing her to lean forward to hear him. "Well established, wealthy... powerful." She looked up to see his eyes were fixed on her. "A young woman such as yourself could find many...advantages... in a relationship with such a family." He came over and sat down in the chair next to hers and leaned forward. He was just barely invading her space, but only just.

She jumped up out of her chair and walked to the other side of his desk. She took a deep breath in a vain attempt to clear her head. She had played this game with Draco before, but she knew Draco at his best and at his worst. She was immune to his charms. Playing in Lucius's court was a whole different game though. Draco was a pale imitation of his father. Lucius had an air about him that unsettled her, made her distrust herself.

She looked around the room trying to find something that would distract the conversation, change the subject. Her eyes settled on a portrait that hung behind the desk. It was a wedding portrait, done in a French baroque style with nearly obscene amounts of golds and white tones. She moved closer to the picture and read the brass plate set in the bottom of the frame. Chute de la Chambre de Medici.

"Mr. Malfoy?"

"Please, call me Lucius," he said from just behind her. She jumped and turned to face him. Her hand rested on her chest as she took several rapid breaths.

"You startled me."

"I sometimes have that affect on people," he answered with a smile. She tore her eyes away from his and turned around to face the painting. She had to get hold of herself; she couldn't come apart, not now, not in front of Lucius. If she did, she would be dead, not just pretending.

"Why call a wedding portrait "Fall of the House of Medici?"

"That," he replied with a smile she could hear but not see, "is an excellent question. The woman," he reached over her shoulder and pointed at the bride, a young woman with light brown skin and black hair. His hand rested lightly on her hip, and his breath stirred her hair. She stood rock still, fearing what would happen if she responded. She also feared what would happen if she did not.

"Is Michaela deMarielle deMedici; the last heiress of the Medici name and titles. On her eighteenth birthday she was to become the Contessa deGrenoble, Baroness of the lands of Grenoble. Lands that had once belonged to my family, but were lost when we were accused of Witchcraft in early 1600's. At that time, the Catholic Church was powerful, and the pope was a Medici. The charges were brought before the Pope in Paris, and several members of my family were burned at the stake. They took our lands and divided them between the king and the pope. The remainder of the family scattered and changed our name."

Something about the story tugged at her mind, though she could not place it at the moment. She listened as he continued to speak, his voice smooth and hypnotic. "When Michaela was born in 1715, our family was on the rise again. We were merchants, wealthy merchants at that. We bought back many of the treasures that had been stolen from us. We bought them from the Medicis, who were in need of money and did not remember us. By 1731 we were in a position to reclaim what was ours. The Medici's owed us a great deal of money, several thousand francs that they could not pay. Our patriarch hatched a plan that would return our lands to us, give us back almost all of what had been lost to us, and most importantly, return us to the destiny to which we were born, to rule. " She could hear it in his voice. He believed he was born to be Minister, and that he above all people deserved it.

"On the eve of her birthday, Michaela was wed to Jean-Pierre Michel Malfoy. The Medici had finally come to their end. Their days of power and glory were gone, nothing but a faded memory to be seen only in museums. The family deMalfoisse orchestrated it, and we celebrated it. What better way to remember the defeat of your enemy, than in a painting of exquisite perfection and artistry that forever captures the moment when your victory was complete." Hermione smiled to herself; that was advice she would have to remember.

"Speaking of victories," he said softly, his breath stirring her hair and brushing her ear. His hand still rested on her hip, now his other reached down and brushed over her own. "The Victory Day Ball is coming up soon, I should very much like to escort you."

"I," she spun to face him. "Minister," she tried to think quickly, find a way out. "Minister surely there are other women. I'm sure they are prettier or more graceful than I." She was finding it hard to breathe, she felt hot and not a little faint. His steel gray eyes glinted at her, then hardened as he frowned.

"And each with a desire for the things that I could give them, or what they could gain from me. I tire of playing their games, I should like to go to this ball and enjoy myself; after all, my son is to be the guest of honor." He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. She was about to yank her hand away and say no. "And I should highly doubt that any of them would be more radiant or more beautiful than you. Your mother was wise to name you Helen."

She cursed herself, because she knew she was blushing as she cast her eyes down at the floor. She justified her acceptance of his invitation by reminding herself how sweet her revenge on Draco would be when he learned that his own father had given her everything she needed to destroy him.

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Ron stood and watched the large black vehicle, waiting for its owner to emerge from the nearly vacant office building. He sat in the shadows, knowing they would be along soon. He was pleased when he saw a woman exit the building and approach the vehicle. Silently, he stood and followed her. He smiled to himself as he saw that she was looking around. She was nervous, perhaps even a little frightened, as well she should be. She shifted her purse in her hand, so that she was carrying it like a weapon. He thought that perhaps he should scare her just a bit, to really get her heart pounding. She pressed a button in her hand and the loud beeping of the car alarm disengaging echoed through the hollow confines of the parking garage.

When she was three feet from the door of the vehicle, he made his move. When he grabbed her shoulder she spun and swung her purse at him. He smiled as he easily ducked it. His hand shot forward and struck her cheek in a move designed to enrage her, get her adrenaline pumping. "You should be tasty," he said with a smile.

"You'll never find out," she answered. Her foot shot out at him, but her reflexes were nowhere near as fast as his. He slapped her foot away before it ever got close to his crotch. He smiled, she was feisty, just like he liked them. "Help!" she screamed. His hand shot out again, this time though it slammed into her head. She impacted with the side of the vehicle and bounced away. Ron grabbed the back of her head before she fell to the ground. The vein in her throat pulsed, her heart pounded in his ears, the smell of her fear and adrenaline infused her with an intoxicating scent. He smiled and bent her head back.

He knew he should just throw her in the vehicle and be gone. The large, black suburban was his goal, not this slip of a woman. However, supplying food for his master also fell under his duties. "Fuck him," Ron growled. He knew he would never be so defiant in his master's presence, but of late, he had been feeling his strength and was tiring of his master's domination. His thirst for vengeance was growing ever greater, and with every letter that Hermione, or Elizabeta as she presented herself to his master, he wanted it that much more. The thought of her living in Malfoy Manor, living with the enemy so to speak, filled him with rage. He knew why she was doing it, and she had learned much, but it didn´t mean he had to like it.

She never spoke of him though. Granted, she didn't know that Ron was the apprentice of her benefactor, but it amazed him that she never questioned how Cosimo knew so much about her. Perhaps she wasn't catching all the clues, they were quite subtle. Ron knew he would never have been able to do it that way. Then again, his master had been studying human behaviors for almost three hundred years and understood intricacies about manipulation that would make Malfoy look like an amateur. Still, he wished just once she would ask. Just to know that she occasionally thought of him. It was for her that he endured this. It was for the sake of her soul that he had left. She wasn't supposed to be involved in this. He hated his master for giving her the idea that she should be part of this pact of vengeance.

With this hatred dominating his thoughts, he opened his mouth and bit into the woman's neck. She moaned slightly, probably at the pain of having her skin pierced by his fangs. The taste of her was exquisite. He loved it when they fought back just before falling to him, especially if they got hurt just a bit. The adrenaline gave the blood a spicy, acrid flavor, the endorphins gave it a sweet after-taste that made him slightly giddy. When he had drunk his fill, he drank just a bit more out of spite for his master. There was enough left that she wouldn't die before he returned to the museum, but hardly enough to slake his master's thirst. He tossed the woman's limp form into the cavernous back area of the Suburban. It never ceased to amaze him why people who lived in the city thought they needed such huge, lumbering vehicles. However, in this case he was thankful for it, because it would give him and his master the means to travel to Paris.

Back at the museum, Ron parked the vehicle and dropped the woman's body down the access tunnel that he had been forced to dig with his bare hands. He could sense his master's presence as he traversed the tunnel. He sublimated his thoughts and put himself in a proper frame of mind for approaching his master. One thing that he had learned in nine months of living with Cosimo is that the creature was not all knowing, though he often appeared to be so. He had very little clue as to how to deal with wizards in a way that was not meant to be their death. So Ron played the charade, and let his master think he was submissive.

"Master," he said, kneeling as he entered the chamber that served as their living quarters. "I picked up some take-out while I was out." Ron grinned to himself, his master had no sense of humor at all.

"Did you get what I sent you for?"

"Yes." Ron dropped the woman at his master's feet. The older vampire reached down and felt the woman's neck.

"You traitorous whelp. You drank your fill and leave me your scraps?" Ron knelt submisively before his irate master.

"It is of no moment. I killed the curator while you were gone." Ron couldn't have cared less, the balding, portly man had been of poor constitution and bad taste. A rare thing for Florentines, Ron reflected. It did piss him off that he needn´t have brought the girl back though. She had a heady flavor that he had liked very much; he would have liked to finish her off. "It is necessary that we tie up our loose ends before we leave."

"Of course, Master." Inwardly, he sighed. He wasn´t looking forward to this. It had been nine months since he had seen Hermione in the flesh, four since the dream incident. He wanted to believe that she still loved him like he loved her, but was unsure. Now, he would have to see her, face her, hope that she would understand what had happened to him. He had lost most of the vestiges of his humanity; she was the only thing keeping him from becoming a complete monster.

"Do not dwell on her so much, Ron." His master´s voice pulled him from his reverie, he had forgotten to shield his thoughts. "If you hold on to hope, you will never complete your task. She will abandon you, as she must. In the end, vengeance is a road a man must walk alone. No one understands why you must do what you must. Because they do not understand, they will abandon you."

His words stung, because Ron knew them to be true. He had lost everything along the way to claiming his vengeance. Hermione had rejected him, and he could not go home; not now, not ever. "She won´t. She understands, she feels like I do. When this is over, she will come back to me."

"Don´t be so sure Ron." His master chuckled and handed him a piece of parchment, a copy of The Daily Prophet. Ron unrolled it, there on the front page was a picture of the Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy. On his arm was a pretty young woman, probably less than half his age. She had short, dark hair. She dressed conservatively, but well. A sense of dread began to grow in him. He read the caption.

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