Chapter One

It was a hot, steamy night, and the air smelled like coffee, jasmine and food from the restaurants down the street. Jazz floated out of the bars. Masses of people swirled around and into the open-aired café, talking and laughing.

I sighed and wiped the sweat off my face. I’d had a long night at the Café Du Monde, carrying trays of coffee and the little French doughnuts called beignets. The work was fast paced and the customers would not stop pouring in. My back and leg muscles ached to the point of cramping, and all I wanted to do was go back to my little apartment and blast the air conditioner. It was toward the end of my shift, about 1:00 in the morning, when my manager, Dan, caught my attention.
“Hey, Miriel, see that kid on the bench? I think he stole the tips off one of your tables.”

“Great. That’s just what I need.” Honestly, customers weren’t supposed to leave the tips on the tables. I really didn’t want to deal with it, but the look on Dan’s face told me that he expected me to. Probably so he wouldn’t have to confront anyone himself. Coward.

I walked over to the figure seated on the bench. The bench was bolted onto the sidewalk, facing the street. The lamplights poured down golden light. It first struck me that the teenager was so pale, that he seemed to gather the light to himself, and it glowed on his pale, silvery hair and pointed face. He was hunched over, watching the people go by.

“Do you have a problem?” I asked. “You haven’t been stealing tips off the tables, have you?”

“I have no idea what you mean.” His accent was British and cultured.

“Are you okay?” I touched his shoulder, but he flinched and jerked away. He turned his face up to me. His cheekbone was bruised, and his lip was split.

“You look awful,” I finally said. I sat carefully on the edge of the bench with a sigh, glad for an excuse to sit down for a moment. The poor guy’s face was expressionless, but his eyes managed to look exhausted, angry, afraid and miserable all at the same time.

I’d seen that look many times before. “What happened to you? Did you get mugged or something?” I was used to seeing homeless kids and runaways at the Covenant House, a homeless shelter in New Orleans run by nuns. Sometimes I had gone there to get boxes of food when I ran short of money. I glanced over his clothes. They were expensive, black slacks and a gray, silken shirt. He didn’t exactly look like a runaway, but still, you never know.

“My father is here looking for someone,” he told me. “I got separated from him in the crowds. I was distracted looking in a shop for a moment, and when I looked up he was gone. Then these drunken idiots pushed me down and punched me. I broke my...” Between his fingers he held what looked like a broken stick with pieces of thread poking out the end of it. I could actually feel the anger rolling off of him like a wave of heat.

“Mardi Gras was only a couple of weeks ago,” I said. “People are still all worked up over it. The French Quarter can be kind of dangerous at night. Do you want me to call the police? They could help you.”

He hesitated for a moment, as if he wasn’t quite sure exactly what I meant. Finally, he shook his head. “No. That would just make him angrier. We were in this area yesterday when I lost him. I should run into him sooner or later.”

“Why would your dad get angry because you called the police? He’s probably worried sick about you.” When he didn’t answer, I tried another question. “What’s your name?”

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

“Really? That’s your real name?”

His mouth tightened in annoyance, but he didn’t say anything. His stomach rumbled.

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

He suddenly seemed to see me for the first time. After hesitating a moment, he nodded.

“Wait until my shift is over. I’m almost done. I’ll get you something.”

I put away my work apron and debated with myself what to do. He must have been a couple of years younger than me. Even though he looked like he might be at least a foot taller than me, his build was quite slender. He didn’t look dangerous.

The air seemed to tingle along my skin, like static electricity rubbing up against my arms and at the back of my neck. I had a curious feeling come over me as I stood there watching the boy on the bench. It wasn’t a feeling of familiarity or of deja vu; rather, it was an elusive feeling of connection. I felt compelled to know him. I sensed that he would somehow become important to me. The sensation was intense for a moment, and then it faded.

“Well, Draco,” I told him, “I usually don’t invite strange guys to my place, but I have something to eat at my apartment. It’s not too far from here.”

He slid off the bench and began to follow me down the street.

My car hadn’t been running for quite a while. It was absolutely impossible to drive around the narrow streets of the French Quarter this time of year without getting killed, anyway.

“Why do you care so much?” Draco asked. His voice was sullen and laced with suspicion.

I shrugged. “I know what it’s like to be hungry.”

“I’m not poor,” he bit out. “My father is quite wealthy.”

“Why did you have to steal my tips then?”

“I have a little money, but it’s foreign. The banks here can’t exchange it.”

“What does your dad do?”

“He works as a consultant for um... the government. He’s on all sorts of committees, and he serves on Gringott’s bank board of governors. He gives a lot of money to charities. He owns a lot of businesses, including a publishing house. He’s written some books, as well, about the history of different families in the United Kingdom, and the Dark Arts-” He stopped suddenly as if catching himself.

“Dark Arts? What the heck is that?” For some reason all I could picture was a darkened art gallery.

“Forget it,” he snapped. “Just get me out of this bloody heat. It’s disgusting. It’s like walking in a bloody jungle.”

I was impressed. I might have suspected him of lying about his father, if it hadn’t been for that great accent and those expensive clothes. He even walked and moved with the smooth confidence of the rich. I’d seen that kind of confidence in the wealthy families of New Orleans, the ones who shopped in the expensive art galleries and antique shops. They always had that air about them, like they already owned everything.

My apartment was over my mother’s old shop. The shop was closed and the windows were dark. It still made my breath catch sometimes to see it like this. It had been a beautiful place when my mother had owned it; full of antique glassware and mysterious mirrors. But now it was just a tourist shop, full of t-shirts, Mardi Gras beads, shot glasses, and other tacky stuff. Usually, there was no way I could ever have afforded an apartment here, but the man who took over the shop let me stay in the rooms upstairs. He didn’t need them, and I think he felt sorry for me.

It wasn’t much, but at least it felt familiar. There wasn’t much furniture, but it was clean. Mostly there were just piles of books everywhere, overflowing out of bookcases and stacked on the coffee table.

“You live here?” There was a disgusted sneer on Draco’s face. He walked into the room, as if afraid of touching anything.

“If it’s not good enough for you, you can go back to sitting on the bench.” Spoiled brat, I thought. I tried not to think about what my apartment must look like to someone who probably lived in a mansion. I slammed the door closed and clicked on the small air conditioner in the corner.

“Where are your parents?” His pale face was flushed from the heat, and he wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve.

I didn’t want to tell him that my mother had died, and that I never even knew who my father was. I just said, “I’m older than I look. I live on my own.”

“You look like a kid,” he said, collapsing on the sofa across from the cool breeze of the air conditioner.

“I’m almost nineteen.” I went to the counter of my little kitchen area and began fixing sandwiches. I gave him a glass of coke with ice, and he sipped it tentatively.

“It’s fizzy,” he announced, “and brown.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t have Coke in Britain.”

“My father doesn’t usually allow me to visit Muggle cities.” A defensive tone crept into his voice.

“Muggle?” Was that some kind of British slang? “You mean American?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned over onto the sofa cushion and closed his eyes.

“I have a lot of pizza in the fridge, if you want some of that as well,” I said. “I’m kind of a pizza addict. Sometimes I think that’s all I live on.”

He still didn’t answer me. By the time I finished the sandwiches, he was asleep.

“Hey, Draco.” I shook his shoulder. “Don’t you want to eat something?”

He mumbled something, but wouldn’t move.

I lifted his legs onto the sofa and left him there. I studied him as I devoured my sandwich. In better light I could see that under the bruises he was kind of cute in an elegant way. Full lips softened the sharp angles of his face. He didn’t have that awkward look that teenage boys usually have, when their hands are a little bit too large or their noses are too big for their faces. He slept quietly, cheek pale against the cushion, and he didn’t look innocent. He looked faintly troubled, as if sleep was something he had to concentrate on and get right. He looked... unprotected.

Chapter Two

I was startled the next morning by the sound of the television. I lay in bed for a few moments, my heart racing, before I remembered. I glanced at the clock. It was way too early in the morning. Thank God it was my day off. I unlocked my bedroom door and poked my head out.

Draco sat on my couch, his eyes glued to the TV screen. He flicked the remote control at the television, changing the channels. His clothes were rumpled from sleeping on the sofa. His silvery hair poked up in every direction.

I started into the room, and stopped as I saw the screen was filled with nude bodies.

“I can’t believe they show that on cable!” I said. “What channel is that?”

“We learned about these things in school. These tellies.” Draco gazed at the screen. “But Professor Winterwind never told us that Muggles actually have sex on them.” He looked at me suddenly, as if realizing he’d just said something foolish.

“You don’t have a television?”

He shook his head. “No, my father would never allow me to own one. He doesn’t believe in owning Muggle artifacts. He thinks it would corrupt me.”

“Maybe he has a point,” I muttered. I took the remote and changed the television to a channel where the actors actually wore clothing. “Can’t you sleep in?”

“It’s the time difference. It’s messed up my sleeping. In Britain it’s already the late afternoon. I’m still starving by the way.” He looked at me as if he expected me to conjure food out of thin air.

“There’s food in the fridge. Help yourself.” God, I needed some coffee. I was still tired and cranky, and I could feel a headache begin to throb behind my eyes. Caffeine addiction was an unfortunate consequence of working at a coffee shop.

Draco looked horrified. “Me? Cook?”

I rolled my eyes, wondering how many servants he had at home to serve him breakfast. I put the coffee on, and as I scrambled some eggs and ham, I glanced over my shoulder at Draco. He was busy touching everything in my apartment. He studied my phone, my VCR and even my ball point pens, twisting them open to look inside. What was wrong with him? I finally caught him grabbing a picture frame off the shelves, and poking the photograph with his finger!

“What are you doing?” Nervousness made my voice sharp. “Look, I know that things may be a little different here in the States, but they can’t be that different.” There was obviously something a little “off” about this guy. Maybe he needed to take his medication. I was beginning to wonder if bringing a stranger to my apartment hadn’t been such a good idea after all.

He replaced the picture frame, and continued to study my apartment. He began snooping through the stacks of books on my coffee table.

I took a deep breath to steady myself. “My name is Miriel Laveau, by the way. If you want to know.”

Draco finally looked at me sharply. “Your name sounds familiar. I think my father might be looking for someone named Laveau. I wasn’t really paying too much attention. I think she was a lady who sold mirrors or something like that.”

A cold, little chill curled in my stomach. “What’s your dad’s name?”

“Lucius Malfoy.”

“I’ve never heard of him. Laveau is a pretty common name in New Orleans.”

“My father is going to be furious when he finds me.” Draco sighed. He dropped the books onto the table and fell back onto the sofa. “Bloody hell, he’ll never take me anywhere again. It took my mother forever to get him to agree to take me on this trip.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” I told him. “Things get really crazy here around spring break. The cops are busy all the time. College students always think this place is one big party, and all they do is get drunk, fight and flash people. Maybe he won’t be as mad as you think he’s going to be.”

“He told me to keep close by him, and to pay attention. And I didn’t. I was so interested in that Muggle magic shop-“

“Muggle magic?”

He nodded. “Yeah, it had these little ugly dolls in the window that curse people.”

“Oh, a voodoo shop.”

“And he disappeared. I looked for him everywhere.”

I gave Draco a plate of ham and eggs and grits. He immediately started shoveling the food into his mouth.

“Can’t you say thank you?” I snapped. The feeling I’d had last night of being connected to him in some way must have been some form of dementia. He was really beginning to get on my nerves. I poured myself a cup of coffee, and slurped it down, waiting for the caffeine to kick in.

“You want my thanks, huh? I thought you were doing this all out of the kindness of your heart,” he said with a smirk. “Okay, okay, thank you,” he added when I moved to take the plate of food way from him. “I was just kidding. You certainly are cranky in the morning.”

After a few cups of coffee, I began to feel better. “Does your mouth hurt?” I asked when he wiped his mouth and grimaced. “I have some Neosporin.” His cheek looked scraped and bruised as well.

After he had finished eating, I smoothed the salve gently onto his cheekbone, and his bottom lip, which was still cut and swollen. I couldn’t help it; I ran my fingers through his hair, smoothing it down. Somehow it was wrong that it didn’t look perfect.

“Think you’re my mum, now?” He smirked, but I saw a flash of pleasure in his eyes, as if he secretly enjoyed the attention.

I was putting the dishes away in the cupboard, when I turned around, and saw his eyes flickering over my backside. “Are you looking at my butt?” I said with some indignation.

“I’m not used to seeing girls in those short trousers,” he told me. “Or those little shirts. We wear uniforms at school.” He gazed at my bare legs, and I suddenly felt quite naked.

“Well, I hope you’re not checking me out,” I told him. “You are kind of cute, but you’re way too young for me.”

“What do you mean? I’m old enough.” He wriggled his eyebrows, and a tiny, evil smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“You wish!”

He sat back on the sofa, studying me further. “You’re too skinny, though. And I don’t like redheads.” He said this last sentence in a disgusted tone of voice, as though he had loads of experiences with redheaded people and had disliked them all intensely.

“Thanks. My natural hair color is blonde, for your information.” I bit my lip. I don’t know why I admitted that, like I should care what he thought.

“Plus, you’re a Muggle.” He winced as if he had just remembered something that was a hundred times more distasteful than being a redhead. I got the impression that he was profoundly disappointed that I was a Muggle.

For some reason, this irritated me more than his criticism about my appearance. “What is it with you and Americans?”

“What? Americans? What do you mean?”

“Well, isn’t that what you mean by Muggles? That’s kind of a rude name.”

He seemed to find this hilarious. He laughed so hard I thought he was going to fall off the sofa.

“You are an obnoxious little Brit,” I told him.

After a moment, he grinned. It was the first time I’d seen him with an expression on his face more pleasant than a sneer or a smirk, and I was forced to admit that he looked rather adorable. Damn.

He picked a book off the stack of travel guides I had on my coffee table. It was a photo guide to New Orleans. “I wish I had some money,” he said, thumbing through the pages. “Just to have a bit of fun. This is the first time I’ve been anywhere without him breathing down my neck.”

“All you have is foreign money, huh? Can I see it?”

He reached into his pocket and dumped the contents out onto the table. There were two American dollar bills, an empty candy wrapper, his broken stick, a few silver coins, and a larger, gold one.

The large coin shimmered brightly. In the light I could see a dragon embossed onto it, and the words Unum Galleon. “This is beautiful,” I told him. “Is this real gold?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you don’t need a bank,” I said, returning the coins. “Just a jewelry store. There’s a jeweler down the street who buys gold and silver. You probably have to be eighteen, though. They usually like to see an I.D.”

“Really?” Draco considered this. “You could go with me.”

“I thought you didn’t like skinny redheaded Muggles. Anyway, don’t you think you should focus on finding your dad?”

“He’s going to be furious with me anyway when he finds me. I might as well have some fun. I’ll find him much faster walking around the Quarter than I will sitting here in this flat.”

I couldn’t argue with that. He sounded so miserable talking about his father that I admit, I felt sorry for him. His father sounded like a control freak.

Draco got $100.00 at the jewelry store for his coin. I took him on a tour on the trolley, and when it got too hot to run around, we went to the aquarium. We walked through all the horribly expensive shops at the Riverwalk market place. He was not impressed with the stories of ghosts and vampires in New Orleans, and thought that the ghost tours sounded boring. Wherever we went, however, we did not catch a glimpse of his father.

“What does your dad look like?” I asked him, peering through the crowds of people.

“You’ll know him if you see him. He was using a cooling charm, for one thing, so he’ll be the only person in this city not drenched with sweat.” Draco wiped his face and sounded as though he envied him.

“He’s using a what?”

“Look.” Draco stopped me on the side of the walkway. “Since you’ve helped me out so much, I’ll give you some advice. My father can be dangerous when he’s angry. He doesn’t like Muggles. If we run into him today, it’s best if you don’t say anything to provoke him.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it too much. He’ll be so furious with me, he probably won’t even notice you.”

“That’s comforting,” I muttered. “What exactly do you mean when you say ‘dangerous?'

Draco’s face clouded over with another closed expression that I had also seen before. It said that he didn’t want to talk about it.

We ended the day walking around Jackson Square. I had always loved the excitement of the place, with the swarms of people, the jazz musicians, and the performers who painted themselves gold and pretended to be statues. There were tarot card readers, portrait artists and voodoo priestesses.

I had to keep pulling Draco out of the voodoo shops. He loved looking at the statues of saints, the charms and the wax skulls. The uglier something was, the more he seemed to like it.

For some bizarre reason, the shop owners acted a little spooked by him. One older lady at the last shop even hid in the back of the store and refused to come out until we left.

“That lady acted very odd,” I told Draco when we left the shop. “She looked terrified of you.”

“She probably just senses things about people.”

“But what would she sense about you?”

Draco hesitated for a long time, as though he wasn’t sure what to say. “She just knows about magic,” he said in a quiet, thoughtful voice. “Especially dark magic. I didn’t think that Muggles could sense things like that.”

“There’s no such thing as magic,” I told him. He was taking all this way too seriously, and I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. “It’s all just psychology. The curses and the voodoo dolls work because their victims believe they will.”

Draco just snickered at me. He had a very bad habit of doing that, and from time to time a look of smug superiority crossed his face.

He looked tired but content as he munched on the powdered sugar doughnuts at the Café Du Monde and watched the people go by. A sunburn scorched his nose, which made his grey eyes stand out. “I don’t want to go home,” he muttered. “This is the closest thing to fun I’ll have for the rest of the year.”

“You don’t like school?” I asked.

“I hate Harry bloody Potter!” He then went on a long tirade about this boy at school that he disliked intensely. He talked a little about his school in Scotland, but mostly about this arch nemesis. It was a little amusing. For much of the time, Draco acted older than he was. I suppose that came from being so wealthy and having social responsibilities. But from time to time his real age would show through and he’d act like a teenager.

“I’ll go get us some coffee, baby,” I told him, standing up from the table.

“Did you just call me baby?” He looked highly amused. “I think my grandmother is the only person who calls me that. She calls me her baby dragon.”

“People in New Orleans call each other that all the time,” I said, blushing. “Don’t take it personally. It’s just a Southern thing.”

I turned and crashed right into someone. “Oh, no! I’m so sorry,” I gasped. “Are you ...” I trailed off as the long-haired figure turned to face me, and I vaguely heard Draco’s quick indrawn breath beside me.

The man could only be Draco’s father. The eyes that looked down at me were arctic and grey. He had clean, fine features that would have been handsome had they not been stamped with a sneer. He was quite tall and dressed much like Draco, with a black silk shirt, and he held a black and silver walking stick. Long, silver-gilt hair, perfectly in place, was tied back at the nape of his neck with a black velvet ribbon. He glanced first at my clothing, and then that haughty gaze swept upward to encompass my face. The air that swirled around his body felt cool, as if he had just stepped in from a frosty night.

“Mr. Malfoy?” I asked.

Chapter Three

“Good evening, Father,” Draco said, standing.

“Good evening, indeed!” His father bit off the words and glared at him. Mr. Malfoy pushed Draco back down into the chair, and he began snarling and biting out his words, his face rigid with fury. He was quite frightening. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I knew I just couldn’t leave Draco there without saying anything. I walked over to the waiter who carried the trays of coffee. I couldn’t hear what Draco had to say, but I could hear a few of Mr. Malfoy’s words over the chattering of the customers such as, “Disgrace to the Malfoy name,” and “Wasting my time,” and “Little Muggle whore.”

I was almost to the table with the coffee before I realized he had been talking about me. My face flushed with embarrassment and anger.

“How nice to know that Draco found someone to attend to his needs.” Draco’s father sneered at me. His tone made it clear that he was not referring to food or shelter.

I was so shocked that my mouth fell open and I gasped for breath. Draco’s eyes widened slightly. I remembered his earlier warning, but the words felt like they were being ripped from my throat. “Who the hell do you-“

“Father,” Draco said quickly, no doubt trying to placate his father’s anger. “This is Miriel Laveau. Weren’t you looking for someone named Laveau?”

His father’s manner changed instantly. “Miss Laveau, I’m terribly sorry that I’ve offended you. I’m afraid I can say distasteful thing when I’m angry. My fear for my son’s safety has upset me terribly. I’ve been sick with worry about him, and I haven’t slept. Please sit and let me thank you properly for looking after him.”

I hesitated and shifted uneasily. I could feel the heat slowly drain away from my face. “No thanks are necessary, Mr. Malfoy.”

“But you’ve been so kind as to befriend my son.” He indicated the chair next to him with an elegant wave of his hand.

I sat down nervously.

Against his chair Mr. Malfoy had propped up a black and silver walking stick. A curious thing, but one can find such items all over the little shops and markets in New Orleans. The French market, particularly, was a market filled with booths of interesting things that you probably wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else. I studied the walking stick more closely, and realized the handle was in the form of a silver viper’s head. Its mouth was open, and its fangs were bared. It was very detailed and even its eyes glittered realistically.

Mr. Malfoy gripped the staff in his hand. “I see you’ve noticed my staff. It’s excellent workmanship, isn’t it? I enjoy collecting interesting antiques and artwork. It’s partially what brought me here to your beautiful city.” He moved the staff over to the other side of him, as though he didn’t want me touching it.

“Miss Laveau, I’m looking for an old friend of mine. Perhaps you know her? Miranda Laveau. She dealt sometimes with antique mirrors. Her true name of course, is Silverthorn, but she’s evidently used this alias for years. Are you all right, my dear? You look rather pale.” He sipped his coffee, as though it was no big deal to just tell me that my last name for the last nineteen years had been a false one.

“She, um, was my mother,” I managed to choke out. “But maybe you’re confusing her with someone else. My mother’s name was Laveau. Why would she have used a different one?”

I glanced over at Draco, and he looked surprised. His leg startled, and it caught the ebony staff, knocking it over to the concrete floor.

Mr. Malfoy glanced at him with annoyance.

“Sorry, Father,” Draco muttered, picking it up and handing it to him.

Mr. Malfoy returned his attention to me. “Was?”

To my horror, my eyes filled with tears. “Excuse me,” I whispered, and bolted for the restroom. It was amazing how grief still snuck up on me at the most unfortunate times. Once inside, I splashed cold water on my face. “Get a grip,” I hissed to myself. This man was unnerving me. I just wanted to leave out the back door of the café and not come back, but I had to admit that by this time I was too curious to do so.

When I returned to the table, Mr. Malfoy’s eyes were filled with warmth and concern. “How clumsy of me to bring up something that is so obviously painful for you. I’m afraid I’ve upset you quite badly. I wouldn’t be asking about her, however, if it wasn’t important. I’ve gotten you some fresh coffee, as the other had grown cold. Please tell me, how did poor Miranda die?”

“I don’t wish to talk about it.”

“I understand. Please drink some coffee. You do look quite tired.”

“Why have you been looking for her?” I asked.

“She was an old friend of mine from school. She always had a charming habit of collecting antique mirrors. I heard she could even make them. I’m interested in such mirrors. An associate of mine found this at the French market, which I believe is very close by.” In his hand was a hand mirror, made of sterling silver. It was decorated in a style that was much like Art Nouveau, with flowing vines and flowers.

“I recognize it. But how did you know it belonged to her?”

“Would you have any more of these mirrors in your possession?” His smile was quite charming, but there was a predatory glint behind his eyes.

“I have a few of her belongings at my apartment, Mr. Malfoy, but I’m not interested in selling them. I’d like to keep them for sentimental reasons. Her lawyer had to sell most of her inventory of antiques to pay off the bills she and her, um, boyfriend left when she died.”

His smile faltered, and a pale eyebrow arched. “Her boyfriend, you say? How interesting. Please tell me more about this person.”

I squirmed uncomfortably. “I don’t really want to talk about him, Mr. Malfoy. He’s not worth talking about.” I finally picked up my cup and sipped the thick, creamy coffee. Warmth spread through me, trailing hotly to my stomach. It set me at ease, and in a short time dulled the throbbing headache behind my eyes. I suddenly noticed how quiet it was compared to the usual rush of people at the café in the evening. For the first time I looked around, noticing that we were alone in the corner of the café. People actually appeared to be avoiding our table. Even the waiters began to make their way towards our table, only to change their minds for no apparent reason and walk away. Nobody was close enough to overhear us.

Puzzled, I looked at Mr. Malfoy, and found his eyes upon me intently. “Do I make you uncomfortable, Miss Silverthorn?”

I was about to tell him not to call me that, but something stopped me. I felt the unquenchable urge to tell him my true feelings, felt that I could in fact trust him. I considered his shirt buttons, which I suddenly realized were in the shape of tiny, silver snakes.

“I...yes. Yes you do. I think you’re quite dangerous,” I said. My voice sounded unfamiliar and vacant in my ears, and as soon as the words left me, I regretted them. I looked down into my cup. I glanced over at Draco, and he watched me with a kind of stunned fascination.

Mr. Malfoy continued. “And tell me, who is Miranda Laveau to you?”

“I’ve already told you that. She was my mother.” The words slipped out.

“And how exactly did she die?”

I fought, I clenched my fingers on the coffee cup, I tightened the muscles in my neck, but once again the desire to reveal the truth overwhelmed me. “She died of a drug overdose almost a year ago. I think her boyfriend gave them to her. He was a bastard, and he used to hit her. He became her partner in the antique shop, and then he ran it into the ground.”

“How dreadful for you.” Although his words were polite, Mr. Malfoy’s eyes were as cold and gray as ice in shadow. “Miss Silverthorn, please tell me, why did your mother become a traitor?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

He bit the question out harder. “Why did she leave the service of Tom Riddle? Why did she leave my brother?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His eyes narrowed as he sat there, as though considering what next he should ask. “Do you know that you are a witch, Miss Silverthorn?”

“No. I’m not.”

“Don’t you have any special... powers? Abilities? Do strange things happen when you become angry or frightened?”

“No,” I whispered. “I have a memory, of when I was little, of making mirrors break, but I think it might just have been dreams I’ve had.” I had never told anyone that before. I even tried to avoid thinking about it. Mr. Malfoy’s face wavered in front of me for a moment, blurring and then straightening once again. I tried to stand. “You drugged me,” I whispered. I briefly thought of the date rape drug. There was nothing he could do to me in the middle of a public cafe, was there?

I stumbled, and felt a fierce grip digging into my arm. “It’s only a form of Veritaserum,” Mr. Malfoy’s voice floated across to me, as from a far distance. “A truth potion. Unfortunately, it seems to be making you quite sleepy.”

Chapter Four

“I am never drinking coffee again,” was my first waking thought. Bastard. That bastard had drugged me. I rolled over onto my side, waiting for the dizziness and nausea to subside. I ran my hands over my body. I was still fully clothed. That was a good thing. I was sprawled out on my bed, as if someone had dumped me there. My bedroom was a mess. The closet doors were open, and all the storage boxes had been flung about. The vanity next to my bed had been searched, the drawers pulled out and piles of my bright, silky underwear were dumped on the floor. Ugh. That man had touched my panties! I sat up and caught a glimpse of my face in the vanity mirror. It was pale, and my eyes were wide and confused.

Something fell in the living room, and I heard Mr. Malfoy cursing loudly. I panicked. My thoughts raced wildly. Damn. My phone had been disconnected since I couldn’t pay the bill. The bathroom window wasn’t large enough for me to crawl out of. Was there anything I could use as a weapon?

Next to my closet door, Mr. Malfoy’s black and silver staff was propped up against the wall.

I had seen sticks similar to this in the French market with sharp sword blades hidden inside them. I tugged on the silver snake’s head, but to my puzzlement, I only pulled out a black stick, not much longer than a chop stick. It was carved with tiny intricate designs. “What the-“

A hand grabbed my wrist hard from behind me. I jumped. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Mr. Malfoy snarled.

He grabbed the pieces of the staff away from me. He looked at me and his stick. “You should not have been able to touch that.” He looked at my hands. “The viper’s head should have bitten you. Its venom is lethal, and there is no antidote.”

This man was insane. “Draco touched it,” I told him, rubbing my wrist, “at the café.”

“My wand is protected by a blood charm, to prevent enemies from taking it and using it against me. Only someone with Malfoy blood could touch it and survive.” He stared at me for a moment, before something like horror or recognition dawned on his face. “How old are you?”

“I’m nineteen. Next week.”

“Older than I thought.” He stalked toward me. I retreated, but he pushed me down into the chair facing the vanity mirror. Standing behind me, he wrapped his arm across the base of my throat to keep me seated. His breath was hot against my neck. He smelled like expensive cologne, soap and coffee. His hair had shaken loose from the hair-tie and it drifted across my neck like pale silk. I started to panic, but he gripped my jaw with his other hand. He stared at my face in the mirror.

“Let me go!” I tried to sound demanding, but it came out more like a breathy squeak. “You’re hurting me.”

“You have the most gorgeous eyes,” he finally drawled against my cheek. “All witches should have green eyes. They remind me of someone. How odd that I didn’t see it before. Perhaps I was distracted-“ he gingerly pulled up my long braid and sneered at it. “By your hair.”

“This isn’t my natural hair color,” I whispered, still gazing into the mirror. “It’s a hair rinse.” Honestly, everyone was a hair critic.

He tapped my head with his stick, and muttered something. I gasped. My hair was back to its original color. It wasn’t silver-blonde, but rather a dark golden color with buttery highlights.

“Well,” he muttered, as if to himself. “This does explain a lot.”

He waved the black stick toward me, and then toward the mirror. “Revelo Imago Paternus,” he said.

The surface of the mirror rippled with silver light. Our images in the glass faded away, and instead I saw a man. He reminded me a little of Mr. Malfoy, but he had the same dark golden hair, high cheekbones and green eyes that I did. He was quite handsome, but did not look happy. There wasn’t a hint of cruelty in his face; rather, he looked trapped and desperate.

I tried to turn my head toward Mr. Malfoy, not quite believing what was happening. “How did you do that?”

“Mirror magic. I’ve always been fascinated with it. It’s quite useful.”

“Is that my father?”

“Yes, my dear,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Your mother Miranda was my half- brother’s mistress.”

I swallowed. “Where is he now?”

“My brother, Gaius Malfoy, was a Death Eater, a servant of the Dark Lord. Although the Dark Lord did not make your mother a Death Eater, he forced her into serving him. She was a Mirror-Mage, a witch who was quite skilled at creating enchanted mirrors. Gaius was responsible for her. I’m afraid that when Gaius allowed Miranda to escape, he paid for it with his life. None of us realized she was pregnant when she disappeared, of course, and if Gaius knew he told no one. It was a few years before Draco and that Potter boy were born, before Potter vanquished the Dark Lord.” Emotions flashed in his eyes, regret, thoughtfulness, and finally, his eyes narrowed as if he was rapidly calculating something in his mind. He looked at me as if I was something expensive he was considering to purchase.

“We’re leaving,” he announced.

“Leaving? Where? I can’t just go.”

“You can’t possibly want to stay here?” He stood and looked around my room with disgust. “How revolting that a pureblood witch, with pure Malfoy blood, should be living like a Muggle. Like a street urchin.”

That was going too far. “Hey, I have a job.”

“Serving like a house elf!” Now he looked like he was really going to be sick. “Yes, Draco told me all about it.” He turned toward me, and for a strange instant his silver eyes seemed to see inside of me, to my most secret thoughts. “Miss Silverthorn, What do you have to stay here for?”

My heart pounded. I had a strange, detached feeling, like everything was surreal or I was in a dream. I was filled with conflicting emotions. I felt a plunge of disappointment that I would never meet my father. I hated my life here, hated being poor and working all the time to pay the utilities, car insurance, and eat. I hated feeling alone after my mother’s death, of not knowing where I belonged anymore. I was afraid of this man, but I was also intensely curious. My mind swirled with questions. Who was this Dark Lord? What Mr. Malfoy had done with his wand was amazing. I touched my braid, looking at the color again. A chant went through my mind. “Was that magic? That can’t be magic. Magic doesn’t exist. Magic...”

I realized that Draco was standing in the doorway to my room, staring at me. “Father, is Miriel my cousin?”

“What?” Mr. Malfoy looked surprised, as though he had just realized something significant. “Yes, a half-cousin, I suppose.” He shot his son a sharp glance. “We will discuss this privately at a later time, Draco.”

Draco gave me an evaluating look, and a smile slid across his face. It was quite pleased and a little smug at the same time, as though he knew something very important that I did not. That kind of smile made me feel rather uncomfortable.

“Well?” Mr. Malfoy arched his eyebrows at his son.

“I didn’t find any other mirrors, Father.”

Mr. Malfoy held up the small silver hand mirrors he had obviously found in my closet. “Are these all the mirrors you possess, Miss Silverthorn?”

“Yes.”

His lips tightened with impatience. “But these are worthless. These are just Muggle mirrors.”

“What else would they be?”

“Have you not been listening to a word I’ve said? Magical mirrors. Mirrors of power, like the one found at the French market. Mirrors that would actually be useful.” He sighed with disappointment. “Your mother’s skill at creating magical mirrors was legendary. I expected to find something more.”

“Sorry,” I muttered sarcastically. “I still want them.” I was beginning to realize what the word “Muggle” actually meant. Coming from Mr. Malfoy, it sounded like a curse word. No wonder Draco had laughed at me when I thought the word meant “American.”

Mr. Malfoy pushed the mirrors at me. “Grab whatever else you might possibly want to take with you.” The look on his face implied that there wasn’t anything in my apartment worth taking. “I don’t have time to dawdle.”

I glanced around the room. I didn’t have a lot of belongings, but I was quite attached to my books. I grabbed a small suitcase and stuffed a few clothes into it, some toiletries and a few books as well.

“What about my mother’s chest?” I asked Mr. Malfoy. “I can’t just leave that behind!” It was a beautiful cedar chest, full of my mother’s belongings, photo albums, and a set of my favorite books she had bought me.

Mr. Malfoy pointed his wand at it and said, “Reducio.” The chest shrunk to the size of Barbie furniture. He placed it inside the bag.

I swayed and sat down on the bed. I felt dizzy, and a wave of weariness swept over me. I didn’t know if it was the shock of it all, or that drug Mr. Malfoy had put into my coffee, but I really needed to lie down. Mr. Malfoy’s voice drifted toward me as if from a distance.

“Draco, I can’t Apparate with both of you. Intercontinental Apparating is quite draining as it is.”

“I can do it myself, Father. I-“

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mr. Malfoy snapped. “You’d end up splinching yourself. Do you want your mother and me to find your body parts splashing about in the Atlantic Ocean?”

Draco grimaced. “No, Sir.”

“Take this.” Mr. Malfoy shoved my suitcase at him. “I will return for you after I’m finished with her. Do you understand me? Do not leave this flat. Do not wander off and get lost again.”

“Yes, Father.”

“What are we doing?” I asked as Mr. Malfoy pulled me to my feet.

“We’re going to my family home in Wiltshire. We can’t Apparate directly on the grounds because of the spells protecting it, but we can arrive nearby and then Floo there.”

“What...”

The next thing I knew, Mr. Malfoy was holding me tightly against him. He held his viper’s head wand in his hand, and with one word, the world began to spin around and faded to black.