For all my sensible exterior, I was also coping badly with my brother’s death. The news that he had been murdered had shaken me to my very core - and had also instilled in me a passionate hatred so potent that it worried me. I spent many sleepless nights glowering at the ceiling, all of my tears long since cried, plotting the discovery and avengement of Evander’s killer.
Of course, in the soothing light of day, I told myself that it was silly to believe that I, a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, could single-handedly bring down the person that had taken Evander from me. Surely, I insisted, if they were capable of slaying one person, another would be almost nothing. But I now feared that I would never be free of this terrible abhorrence if I just sat back and let my father have his way.
On the fourth day before my departure to Hogwarts, Father sprung some news upon the family.
“We will be attending a small gathering at Malfoy Manor tonight,” he announced flatly, undoubtedly missing the brandy from which he had only just torn himself. “I want you two” - he pointed two fingers at Mother and me with a slight frown - “to buck up your ideas. I can’t have you moping around when you’re meant to be socialising… upholding the family reputation. Alright?”
I nodded slowly, and saw my mother do the same in my peripheral vision. Father’s comment had riled me; I had been making a conscious effort to be no less than the perfect daughter since I had heard my parents arguing. And, I reminded myself, it wasn’t as though he had been all that lively over the past few days himself.
“Oh, I’ll make sure that they do.” Silvanus addressed Father with a slight smirk. I glared at him; contrarily, he had been irritatingly joyful since the funeral. I could only assume that he was too elated to having been passed heirship to our minimal fortune to care about the loss of Evander. It was an almighty effort to restrain from snapping at Silvanus, jogging his memory of the enormous debts that he and Father had to pay off.
Father simply grunted in reply and retired to the drawing room once again. I felt a small, soft hand find mine, and realised that Irma was tugging me gently back up to my bedroom to prepare for the ‘small gathering’. I snorted quietly to myself. No doubt this gathering would, in fact, be a huge party held especially for social climbers like my father, filled to the brim with arrogant purebloods. Of course they weren’t all bad; many were engaging and most were at least civil, but there were always the self-absorbed elitists that leered unpleasantly at me over the rims of their goblets. And - I groaned internally - Hyperion would be there.
By now, Irma had dragged me to my dressing table and had begun to brush my hair. I was too lost in my dismal thoughts to really notice. Hyperion Malfoy was a vindictive fellow Slytherin, also sixteen, who had ‘taken to me’ in our first year. Yes, I liked him well enough - he was smart, he was handsome, he could be entertaining - but I was in no mood to fend off his misguided advances tonight. Impatiently brushing away the small but insistent hands now teasing my hair into some intricate and totally unnecessary style, I stood up abruptly.
“I’m old enough to do that on my own, Irma,” I snapped, shooing her away. She gave a gracious curtsey, hiding her face, but I didn’t miss her hurt expression. “Sorry,” I added in a softer tone, and she scuttled out of the room looking marginally happier. As soon as she had left, however, I turned back to my reflection and glared at it, pulling the various accessories from my hair and letting it cascade freely down my back. I much preferred it like this, framing my face. Next I pulled off my dull blue jumper and buttoned-up blouse, closely followed by my skirt, and slipped into an emerald green dress that didn’t bear glancing at. We
weren’t leaving for at least another half-hour, but I dabbed some makeup on anyway, lightly dusting a sparkling eye shadow over my lids. Then I settled down to stare aimlessly at a book, trying to ignore my churning emotions.
We reached Malfoy Manor uncomfortably, by side-along apparition. Father and Silvanus were in spotless black suits, Mother in a pretty cream dress and Druella in one that matched mine almost exactly. As I had suspected, Hyperion met us at the door; he, too, was wearing a suit and I grudgingly admitted to myself that he looked rather handsome. In turn, his grey eyes raked me up and down almost hungrily, and I retaliated with a light slap to his shoulder. He only laughed and took me by the hand, wrenching me into the ballroom.
The Malfoys had outdone themselves. I had been here before, but the room had been completely transformed: magically enlarged, I assumed, and glittering with thousands of live fairies arranged in a delicate web that encased the grand dance floor. It was as though I had entered another world - my eyes couldn’t seem to take everything in at once. Colours whirled past me as people danced, and I found myself snorting, once again, at my father christening this huge event a ‘small gathering’.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” Hyperion was gazing down at me, a smile playing about his mouth. I nodded speechlessly, and he laughed again. “Want to dance?”
I considered his outstretched hand for a moment. If I accepted, would he interpret it wrongly and think that we were involved in some way? No, I decided after a second of deliberation. One dance couldn’t plant such an idea in his head.
With a smile, I nodded, and he led me to the floor. As a so-called wizarding aristocrat, I had learned to dance early, tottering around the house with a stack of books on my head to improve my balance and posture. Now it felt natural, even with Hyperion.
As we twirled around, every inch the elegant couple, I imagined the thoughts that might spring to Father’s mind if he saw us. He had always liked Hyperion, whom he considered would be a worthy son-in-law, and I knew that my father not-so-secretly hoped to marry me off to him. I was resisting well so far. I had made it my mission to drop casual criticisms about Hyperion as much as I could around Father, hoping that he would take the hint. However, a nagging sensation at the back of my mind told me that he probably wouldn’t take my opinion into consideration anyway.
Hyperion was frowning at me as we revolved on the spot.
“Are you alright? You seem a little… subdued.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “Well, my brother died a month ago, but other than that…”
“Sorry. That’s not what I meant.” Hyperion looked abashed. I allowed him a vague half-smile before pulling away from him.
“I’m just going to get a drink,” I explained when his face fell. Unfortunately, instead of giving me the relief I wanted, he insisted on fetching it himself. Sighing, I sat down on one of the many elegantly crafted chairs that framed the giant hall.
I had barely been alone for a minute before I sensed someone standing over me. Startled, I looked up.
“Ysabelle,” Silvanus hissed, his face thunderous, “why aren’t you socialising like Father told you to? You look like a misery over here on your own… where’s Hyperion?”
I sighed again
.
“He’s gone to get me a drink. And besides, what’s it to you?”
Silvanus raised one eyebrow. “You think I haven’t noticed? He’s fond of you, Ysabelle - I wouldn’t be surprised if you two ended up married in a few years’ time.”
My brother’s insinuation incensed me; I was suddenly on my feet. This didn’t make much odds, he was still over a head taller than me.
“I’ll thank you to mind your own business, Silvanus,” I spat, trying to put as much energy as possible into my scowl. Silvanus exhaled sharply, his eyes flashing. He grabbed my forearm in a vice-like grip and dragged me into the more secluded entrance hall, where, I supposed, less people would be able to witness what would follow.
However, as soon as we had entered the room, Silvanus stopped short. Without a word, he pulled me into a shadowed corner and clamped his hand over my mouth, apparently listening intently. I struggled for a while against his grip - which, if anything, only tightened - before falling limp as I heard something that sparked my interest.
“Lyra wishes to enlist the help of the Aurors-”
“Preposterous!”
“Oh, I quite agree, Marcus, I quite agree…”
Marcus - Hyperion’s father. It didn’t take me long to realise what Father and his friend were talking about, huddled discreetly in another corner - Evander’s murder, no doubt - but it struck me as odd that the former would risk letting such a sordid family secret out; one that he wouldn’t even share with his children.
“Well, the boy wasn’t exactly a blessing - Gryffindor, indeed - bad blood, that’s what it is, Altair.” Marcus Malfoy’s silky voice, so like his son’s, had a politely patronising air about it. I could tell by my father’s barely audible intake of breath that at that moment he wanted to hex Marcus as much as I did. For the first time in my conscious memory, I could sympathise with Father.
“I understand that, Marcus,” Father now sounded cold rather than conspiratorial, “but Lyra is growing… restless. I fear that she might do something - that is to say - stupid.”
I glanced up at Silvanus, whose hand was still tightly covering my mouth. His face was deathly pale even beneath the shroud of the shadows. He was staring, seemingly horrified, in the direction of Father and Malfoy, his lips soundlessly tracing the word ‘Aurors’.
“Ah. Now, that is a problem. Does she want to alert the authorities without your permission, or…?”
“I meant more of a personal nature, Marcus.”
Comprehension hit me with considerable force, leaving me strangely hollow. Mother was… suicidal? The thought seemed odd; it didn’t gel with my mental image of my mother - although she had been, as Father had said, restless of late. I unwillingly imagined my life devoid of Mother, and panic started choking me. With a Herculean effort, I fought it back, still straining my ears for further information.
“Oh.” Malfoy now sounded slightly embarrassed. “So I suppose you want me to…”
“No, no… I can deal with Lyra. It just seems that perhaps it might… ease her mind… to know who the murderer is.”
Confusion was now added to the fear. Father was talking as if he knew who had killed Evander - but he couldn’t possibly…
“No! Altair, we can’t afford any more people knowing!”
“But surely…”
“What could be more important than the upkeep of family secrets? Lyra would surely blow the whole thing out of proportion; if she’s on the brink of breakdown as it is…” Malfoy trailed off, presumably at the expression that I envisaged upon Father’s face.
“I would advise you to stop insulting my wife, Marcus,” Father said in a soft but somehow lethal-sounding voice. He paused, apparently composing himself, before continuing. “But fine. I shan’t tell her. You do, after all, know what’s best for me and my family.”
I heard the quiet swish of Father’s cloak, closely followed by brisk footsteps. A moment later, Malfoy departed from the entrance hall in the opposite direction, muttering mutinously under his breath. The minutes slid by, and eventually Silvanus unpeeled his hand from my mouth, allowing me to speak.
“Did you hear that?” Although I was whispering, my voice conveyed the utmost fury. “Did you hear - Father - he knows who the murderer is!”
Silvanus was still chalk white, but he managed a half-hearted sneer.
“I doubt very much that our father and Mr Malfoy have any inkling of who the murderer is,” he said, disdain thick in his tone. Before I could fully process his words, however, a fleeting expression of uncertainty crossed his pallid face, closely followed by one of accusation. Silvanus fixed his fathomless black eyes on me, and I met them, jutting out my chin in defiance.
“How do you know that Evander was murdered?” he asked, still reproving.
“I could ask you the same question.” I narrowed my eyes, boring my gaze into my brothers. In his expression I saw anger, disapproval and… fear?
We stayed like that for a moment, before a horribly false smirk appeared on Silvanus’ face.
“Touché, little sister,” he murmured. Only pausing for a second to be amazed at my brother’s subdued reaction, I launched into my churning thoughts, muttering furiously and only vaguely aware of Silvanus’ presence.
“So they know who the murderer is - probably - but why won’t they go to the authorities? And Mr Malfoy, he was very suspicious… not to mention Father, with all that keeping secrets within the family, but not telling Mother… But then why would he tell Malfoy about it? Oh, it’s all so confusing…”
Silvanus was watching me with a mildly amused expression. I glared up at him, indicating that he should share his undoubtedly superior views on the matter.
“Well, firstly, it seems extremely unlikely that Father and Malfoy know who the murderer is. Also, being fairly influential wizards, I can’t really fathom why they wouldn’t alert the Aurors if they did. So,” he paused, a knowing smile spreading across his face, before delivering his conclusion, “I would guess that they’re being blackmailed.”
I considered this possibility. It indeed made sense, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that Silvanus knew more than he was letting on. I had enough sense not to press the matter, but made a mental note to try and squeeze further ideas from my brother in future.
Nevertheless, as I made my way back to the ballroom to greet a disgruntled and impatient Hyperion, I felt a triumphant smile spread across my face. I was convinced that I could get to the bottom of Evander’s murder - a pinprick of light was suddenly visible at the end of the tunnel.