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At that moment, a hundred miles away, the same mists that had hovered over London drifted over a vast, barren moor, where the Malfoy Manor rose up like a giant black fortress. The land around it was drab and featureless, but up close was a ring of green -- mazes of tall hedges, smooth stone walkways, and large gardens.
Inside, the beautiful house was empty and quiet. It had been cleared of Dark objects after Lucius's arrest, but now the darkness seemed to have infected the very air, permeating the furniture and the polished stones of the walls. For days, the Ministry workers had searched its hundred rooms, hauling out chests and artifacts, casting preventative enchantments around vacant areas. They had worked placidly, reciting to the inhabitants their warrants and decrees, and it had made Draco Malfoy smirk. He found it incredibly funny how the Ministry still bothered raiding houses when their entire organization was about to go under. With the Dark Lord returned, the beginning of a new world was fast approaching, and he would get to see it happen firsthand.
The only mar to his family's otherwise secure position was his father's imprisonment. Voldemort had been highly displeased when Lucius had failed to retrieve the prophecy, and so he had left him and nearly all the other Death Eaters involved in the mission to be captured. They were now in Azkaban, biding their time until they were broken out. Initially this had filled Draco with despair, but as he later found out, the Dark Lord's punishments carried an opportunity for redemption. Just days after coming home from Hogwarts, Draco had been visited by Travers, who had brought him news of his initiation as a Death Eater. In addition, Draco had been given a special mission which he would carry out during his sixth year at school, a mission that would mark the turn towards Voldemort's victory. For the first time, Draco felt like he had been given a purpose. After a lifetime of waiting for the world he had been promised, he finally had the chance to bring it about with his own hands.
That morning of July 11th, Draco entered the dining hall for breakfast with the latest Daily Prophet in hand. The room was tall and vast, with a long feast table that stretched nearly from one wall to the other. The walls were colored a deep emerald, and painted with the white, wispy branches of their family tree, which featured the still-life miniatures of their relatives and ancestors. Against this backdrop, the figure of his mother sat alone, a little off-center, reading a book with a cup of tea beside her. There were some platters of food in front of her, and a clean plate for Draco.
Draco sat down across from her, giving a smile. "Good morning, Mother."
Narcissa looked up at him. "Good morning, Draco. I've already finished; you may take what you want."
Draco spooned some food onto his plate. He ate a little, then opened his issue of the Daily Prophet, hoping to start a conversation. "Getting creative, aren't they, Mother? Bridges and storms… But I think there's no point in hiding. I think it would be much more interesting if the Muggles knew what they were dealing with. Most of them lived their entire lives not knowing there were wizards, so if we're about to take them over anyway, we might as well tell them, don't you think?"
Narcissa kept reading. Draco ate in silence, then after a while, he spoke up again. "You know, Mother, I think the Ministry is losing its grip on things. If some of, you know, our people were to infiltrate, I imagine they wouldn't even notice. I bet that's why they're causing all this chaos in the city. To distract them."
"And I think," said Narcissa, not taking her eyes from the page, "that if the Ministry were an organization that a sixteen-year-old could figure out in the space of a few seconds, they would not be able to put up the fight they are doing now."
Draco paused, then settled back into an irritated silence. Narcissa didn't like to talk about the Death Eaters or his mission. Instead, she acted as if it was just a regular summer before the start of school. And despite Draco's high spirits, he couldn't pretend that it didn't irk him. His mother was always on-edge whenever there was some sort of trying period in his life, tensing like a lioness waiting to snatch her cub from harm's way. In his second year, when word had spread that the monster of the Chamber of Secrets was attacking students, Narcissa had been ready to take Draco home - and when she found out that it was Lucius's careless move that had started the whole affair, she had exploded at him. In Draco's third year, when Buckbeak the hippogriff had injured his arm, Narcissa told him that she hadn't slept for two days for worry that he had been permanently damaged. And at the end of his fifth year, when he had emerged from the Hogwarts Express shaking off the aftereffects of the hexes that the D.A. members had shot at him, her skin had turned as white as the steam that billowed out from the locomotive's smokestack.
In all those times, Draco had found her reactions more funny than bothersome. They were just a mother's doting concerns for her only child. But now, Narcissa seemed to have surpassed her own capacity for grief. Over the weeks that he had been home, she had grown pale and weary, and moved about the house like a ghost. And for once, it made Draco scowl. He looked back on their relationship, and suddenly, all of her coos seemed like doses of sedative charms, all her hugs like enveloping wings ready to whisk him off to some dark, lonely alcove of the world where he would be safe. Perhaps a bored and friendless hermit, but safe.
Draco finished eating, then rose from his chair and stomped out of the dining hall. He went into the drawing room, a vast space with dark leather furniture and large carpet. The centerpiece was a large crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling, glistening with light from the long windows. Draco settled into his favorite armchair and propped open a book he had left there, losing himself in the text for a few minutes. Then, he heard some footsteps, and looked up to see Narcissa enter the room.
"Your aunt Bellatrix will be coming for you today," she said. "She wishes to relate some things to you."
Draco gave a nod, then lowered his gaze back to the page.
"And afterwards, you will see to it that all the guest rooms on this floor are cleaned-"
Draco looked up in horror.
"-and that the clutter has been removed from all of the others. You will also check to see that the first floor is clean and dust all the paintings on the second."
Draco narrowed his eyes. "Shouldn't the house-elves be doing that?"
"You will not make faces at me, Draco, when I am talking to you. And you will remember that we don't have unlimited staffing."
Draco grumbled. Indeed, they didn't. The Ministry workers had confiscated most of their house-elves before they left, on suspicion of 'dangerous habits'. Really, it was likely because they thought the elves had had access to the family's store of Dark objects and could potentially be capable of using them against people. (Draco knew this wasn't entirely false, but it wasn't as if it applied to all of them.) At any rate, most of the elves that had worked the main floors were gone, and the only ones left now were the strange ones, the ones who worked in the basements and had hardly seen daylight.
Rather than responding to his mother, Draco kept quiet, waiting till Narcissa had left the room to roll his eyes in exasperation. Finally, he closed the book and got up to leave. He wound his way through the hallways, peeking into the guest rooms that he passed by. There were seven of them, and they were all spacious and sumptuously decorated. But so few people had stayed overnight with them that when Draco was young, he had taken to playing around in the rooms and pretending they were his. He had even carved designations into each of the doors: Draco's Monday Room, Draco's Tuesday Room. But the inscriptions would always be removed days later, much to his disappointment.
Draco gave each guestroom a brief once-over, glimpsing elves scrubbing floors or wiping dust from furniture. At the end of the corridor he reached another staircase. The steps on the right led up to the first floor and the ones on the left led down. After a moment of deliberation, Draco went left and descended to the basements.
The manor technically didn't have a unified basement level, only a number of underground rooms that were connected to different parts of the house. The rooms were relics from decades past, ones that the owners had replaced but were too fond of to destroy, or rooms that had hastily been moved during renovations and forgotten about. Over time, the enchantments acting on them had started to corrupt, making the rooms morph and connect with each other in random ways. These rooms were also cleaned, though less thoroughly, and had their own small group of house-elves stationed there.
The first room Draco entered was an old tea room, familiar to him from his many excursions as a child. It had a five-hundred-year-old tapestry and a fireplace that no longer facilitated travelers. The Ministry workers had swept through it diligently, so there were definitely no elves here. Draco passed through the doorway and entered the next room, a bedroom, glancing around and listening in for any signs of movement. Apart from a large, lavish bed and some commodes, the room was filled with lots of other furniture that didn't belong there, like stacked-up chairs and writing desks. Draco began to walk through it, looking around.
"Hello?" he called.
His voice echoed through silence. Draco began to search, looking in the small gaps beneath the furniture and pushing aside curtains. "If you can hear me, I order you to come out!"
But there was no response. Draco spent a few more minutes scouring the room, before finally affirming himself that there was no one inside. Still unwilling to give up, he moved on to the other rooms, ignoring steep stairs and corridors that had narrowed almost to shoulder width. Finally, he reached an empty wine cellar, and noticed a doorway near the far right corner that hadn't been there before. He eagerly went through it, ascending some steps, and came into a very dark, very musty drawing room. It appeared to be close to ground level, for it had a row of windows near the ceiling, but the glass was so dirty that the daylight that came through it was orange.
At first, all Draco could make out from the shadows around him were some unidentifiable lumps, but when he took some more steps inside, he realized that nearly everything in the room was covered in curtains. From the couches and armchairs to wardrobes, every surface had sheets of fabric lying over it, as if the whole room were some unfinished art project.
Draco cast the Lumos spell, making a ball of light appear at the tip of his wand, and began to look through the room. He pushed aside curtains to glimpse blank walls and lifted them to expose the dusty seats of armchairs. Some of the cloths were made of silk, others velvet, and they had various kinds of trims and coloring. Soon, beneath his own movements, Draco began to hear a faint rustling. He immediately tuned into it, shining the wandlight into dark corners. Finally, he looked behind an armchair in the corner and saw a small, plump figure sitting on the carpet. It was a house-elf all right, sitting with his legs crossed and dusting a dinner platter.
Draco smiled in relief. "Hey, you. Get up."
The elf did not respond. He was staring at the platter with an expression of utter spite, lifting a rag every so often and rubbing it. The silver surface was polished to such an extent that Draco could have used it as a mirror, but somehow the elf kept finding something wrong with it. He would wipe it for a few seconds and set it down, then pick it back up moments later with a grimace and continue to rub. "Devil's plate, cursed wind drifts…"
Draco snapped his fingers. "I said, get up! Now!"
The elf's ears flicked. He looked over his shoulder to see Draco, and a moment later, the magic that bound him to servitude compelled him to stand. But this came to the elf's such clear surprise that Draco was taken aback.
Still holding the platter against his chest, the elf bowed. "Master?"
"Tell me your name," Draco said.
"Grimby."
"Come upstairs with me. I need you to dust the paintings in the first floor."
The elf shuddered and shook his head furiously. "No, no, no, Master ordered me to clean the platter first! Master said to get the platter perfectly clean and it isn't clean!"
Draco frowned. "Which master? My father?"
"My master, Abraxas Malfoy."
Draco's eyes flew open. "Bloody hell. That's my grandfather!"
The elf began to speak more rapidly. "Master Abraxas ordered me to get the platter perfectly clean before Cygnus and Druella Black arrived for dinner. But the platter is not clean, Grimby will never get the platter clean because even if Grimby tries, the little flakes from the air will keep falling onto it!"
"But that's just an expression!" Draco said. "He didn't mean dust-free, he just meant that there shouldn't be anything on it!"
The house elf clenched his fist around the rag. "But the dust is on it, the dust always gets on it! And each time it does, Grimby has to wipe it again!"
Draco's incredulous frown-lines deepened. "Ever heard of magic, then?"
The elf shook his head again. "Master gave me this cloth to use! Master said to polish with this cloth! Master said nothing about magic!"
"So you've been sitting here the whole time wiping every little flake of dust that fell onto that thing?" The thought made Draco cringe, but he didn't need the elf to confirm it. He looked back at the doorway. "Well, maybe it's good that you were. The Ministry workers probably weren't able to get in this deep... But didn't Abraxas or anyone go looking for you? Ask where you were?"
Grimby shook his head. "I do not remember. I was busy fulfilling Master's orders."
"So busy that you never answered his summons?"
The house-elf's hands clenched tighter around the rims of the plate. "Grimby was following orders! Household law states that orders must be fulfilled exactly as stated by the Master, and the Master stated them in sequential order, so Grimby was obliged to fulfill them in sequential order, but what Grimby did not anticipate was that the cleaning of Master's plate would take an extended length of time, so Grimby was obliged to see to it that the platter was clean before attending to his Master's summons!"
"But that's not how commands work!" Draco said. "It's the newer commands that take priority over the old ones!"
"But in the case of a time-dependent statement, the chronology of the events must be taken into account! Cleaning the platter then setting the table is not equivalent to setting the table then cleaning the platter!"
Draco was about to retort, but then he processed the question and found himself sinking into thought. He remembered Dobby, who would often be in the middle of ironing something for Narcissa, then suddenly Disapparate to fulfill an urgent command from Lucius. That elf had never bothered about the order in which tasks were given. Rather, he had seemed to operate on a system of priorities. And if Lucius commanded something, everything else would have to be put on hold until that order was completed. Then again, Dobby's original purpose had been to be Lucius's personal assistant, so perhaps in the elf's mind, doing something for Lucius took priority over doing something for someone else. Draco had never thought about this before, and now it seemed like a truly complicated issue. Draco looked down at this new elf, (or, more accurately, old elf), who had gone back to absently polishing the plate, and suddenly a new thought occurred to him. "Wait a minute… if you were dusting that thing for a dinner with Cygnus and Druella, then it must have been close to my parents' wedding day. And after the wedding, my grandparents left… so when you never showed up for my father, he probably assumed that Abraxas took you with him. So he never called on you again. That makes sense." Draco crossed his arms. "Still, you never even thought to bring that thing up and ask anyone if it looked all right?"
"Master told Grimby to bring the platter back when it was clean," Grimby said. "But the platter was not clean. The platter never got clean, because when Grimby started polishing it, the dust would keep getting back onto it, and --"
Draco slapped his forehead. "Yeah, yeah, I got it!" Grimby quieted down, and Draco shook his head in exasperation. "God. Can't imagine what it was like having you around... But why did you come in here to polish that thing in the first place? The dining room's ages away."
Grimby didn't seem to process the question. He set his heavy brows over his eyes again and looked down at his reflection in the platter. A moment later, Draco had a flash of intuition. "I know what happened! The room must have shifted while you were in it! It was probably connected to the same corridor as the dining room before." He looked around, finally recognizing elements of their upper floor in the woodwork of the cabinets and designs on the ceiling. "But where did all the curtains come from?"
He looked at Grimby, but the elf was ignoring him and absently rubbing the platter. Draco crossed his arms. "Guess there's no point in asking you. You don't even know if anyone's been in here or not."
Grimby cast a sour glance at the door. "Cygnus and Druella will be here soon..." he muttered. "Any minute, and Grimby is not ready…"
"Cygnus and Druella are dead," Draco said flatly. "They're not coming for dinner!"
The elf blinked in confusion. "But... Master Abraxas was expecting them! He said to get the platter perfectly clean for them, and the rest of the dishes when I finished, but I still haven't finished and now I'll never be finished--"
"Abraxas died too!" Draco shouted. "Almost fourteen years ago! He's not going to care if your stupid platter is clean anymore!"
The house elf looked at Draco in disbelief. His gaze drifted down to the platter again, but Draco snapped his fingers. "Enough! I order you to stop cleaning that thing. Give it to me and I'll show you your new job."
He held out his hands to the elf. Glaring down at the platter, Grimby slowly approached Draco, who beckoned with his fingers in expectation. Grimby held the platter out, fought with himself for a moment, then finally managed to place it into Draco's hands and let go of it.
Draco tucked the platter under his arm. "Great, then. Follow me." He gestured with his finger and turned for the exit. Moments later, he heard the elf fall into step behind him.
They wound their way back to the tea room where Draco had entered and ascended the stairs. Once they reached the ground floor, Draco went to the dining room where Narcissa was still sitting and poked his head inside.
"Mother, I've found an elf to dust the paintings. His name is Grimby."
Narcissa looked up from her reading and approached them. Grimby was standing behind Draco, currently with his hands slammed over his eyes and muttering to himself.
"Grimby, look at me," Narcissa said.
Slowly, Grimby took his hands away from his face and looked up at Narcissa. But his large gray eyes were squinted, as if her blond hair was too bright for him. He closed his eyes again and bowed. "Yes, Mistress Polymnia."
Narcissa sighed. "He'll do. Show him what to do, Draco, and hurry up. Bellatrix will be here soon."
Draco nodded. He snapped his fingers for the elf. "Come on, let's go."
He led Grimby up two more flights of stairs to the second floor portrait hall. It was a wide stone corridor that stretched for twenty windows down, with large gold-framed portraits lining the right wall. They depicted the most recent heirs and relatives of the Malfoy family, who had occupied the house one hundred years back or later. Draco looked down at the elf and pointed up. "See those pictures? I want you to dust the frames. And don't spend an eternity on each one; if it shines, it's good. Got it?"
Grimby bowed. "Yes, Master Malfoy."
"Good. You can get started, then." With a final snap of his fingers, Draco left the room. He hurried back to the drawing room, where his book was waiting for him as before, and sat down on the couch to wait for Bellatrix.
That same moment, a burst of green flames appeared in the fireplace of the Burrow, and Hermione stepped out, her school trunk in tow. The sitting room she had entered was a large, cozy space, with oversized furniture and a myriad of photographs and decorations along the walls. Moments later there came the sound of rushed footsteps, and Molly Weasley entered the room.
"Hermione, dear, hurry in! We've just gotten breakfast ready." Mrs. Weasley took Hermione's trunk from her hands, and with a wave of her wand, sent it floating upstairs to Ginny's bedroom.
Hermione followed Mrs. Weasley to the kitchen, where the dining table was set with a colorful assortment of food. There were currently four people there -- Mr. Weasley, Ron, Ginny, and to Hermione's surprise, Fleur Delacour. Mr. Weasley, who was hurriedly chewing with a slice of bread in one hand and a fork in the other, nodded up at her. "Hello, Hermione!"
"Good morning!" Hermione said. She took her seat beside Ginny, across from Ron.
One chair away from him, Fleur flashed a bright smile. "'Ermione, it is so wonderful to see you again. You've changed zo much!"
Hermione could only smile in return. "Really? Thank you, Fleur! It's great to see you, too."
Fleur flipped back a strand of her long blonde hair. "I am spending a few days 'ere to get to know everyone better. After all, ve are going to be family soon!"
Hermione lifted her eyebrows. "You mean… you and Bill are getting married?"
Fleur nodded. Mrs. Weasley smiled, though it seemed strained.
Before anything else could be said on the subject, Ginny quickly spoke up. "So, Hermione, how are your parents? We heard what happened to the bridge. It wasn't too far from where you live, was it?"
Hermione nodded. "It's caused a bit of commotion, but the Muggle Ministry's handling it. And I've told my parents what to watch out for, so I suppose they should be safe for the year."
It surprised her how certain her voice sounded. Hardly an hour ago, she had been pacing around her house in guilt, wondering if she should add anything on top of the Caterwauling Charm lest it prove too little. But now, in the company of her old friends, she felt herself sink into a familiar state of peace. For some reason, the Burrow always made her feel at home, in a distinct, different way than her parents' house did.
Hermione looked around the table, studying everyone's faces in more detail. Arthur looked more tired than she remembered him, but was upbeat and energetic. Ginny was calm and collected, and Fleur was the same as well, smiley and radiant. But Ron... Had his hair always skimmed his eyes that way? It was definitely longer than she had seen it in a while; it puffed up a little at the top and curled slightly at the middle of his neck. He was wearing a dark maroon shirt, his best color, despite his constant complaining at Christmastime when he opened his mother's latest hand-knit gift. Though Ron would hate to admit it, Mrs. Weasley knew how to dress her son. Hermione wondered if his choice today had been unconscious, or if he had finally gotten around to admitting the fact. Hermione thought about jokingly asking him after the meal, but immediately dropped the idea. Since when did she talk to them about clothes? No, the idea was definitely silly. Despite that, she began to feel an unconscious heat rise to her face.
At this point, Ron caught her staring and amiably nodded up at her. Hermione smiled. "Hi, Ron."
"'Ey, 'Ermione." Some crumbs fell from his mouth and he hastily wiped them.
Hermione laughed. Fleur was daintily eating her soup, and Hermione didn't miss how Ron's gaze lingered on her for a second before he took a slightly smaller bite of his bread. The heat vanished, replaced by a cold prickle in her chest. Though Fleur was now engaged, the memories of fourth year still weren't lost on her. But on the bright side, Fleur was but a guest. Soon she would go off to live her own life, and whatever Ron might be feeling about her now, it would eventually have to be replaced by familial friendliness.
"So, what have you been up to these past few weeks, Hermione?" Ginny asked, bringing Hermione out of her thoughts.
"Oh, nothing special," Hermione said, grateful for the distraction. "Earlier this month I did some spring cleaning. Well, summer cleaning, technically. I found an old book I used to like and spent the last week rereading it."
Ron gave a laugh. "Figures."
"Which book?" Ginny asked.
"Sherlock Holmes." "What's a Sherlock Holmes?" asked Ron.
"He's a person, Ron" said Hermione. "He's a detective."
Ron snorted again. "Figures."
"Oh, stop it." Hermione gave him a playful sneer. "If you would just read the stories, you'd see they're brilliantly written. Each one is centered around a crime of some sort, which Holmes uses logic to solve."
"Just logic?"
"Well yes, just logic. It's really interesting, of course, because the idea is that the answers are all there, and if you're attentive enough, you can solve the most profound problem. I've been able to follow his thinking on quite a few of them myself, and…" Hermione began to hurriedly explain the plotline of several stories, including the key clues that helped Holmes solve the mystery. Ginny, Fleur, and Mr. Weasley listened in interest, and at the end, Ron gave a laugh.
"Well, that's the only thing Muggles can do for that sort of stuff, isn't it? I mean, they don't know what magic is, so they can't use it to explain things."
"But that's the point," Hermione insisted. "Sometimes making preposterous speculations isn't the answer. The whole message of the stories is that there's always a logical explanation for everything -- even what might seem impossibly complex. You know, a big part of why wizards have been able to remain secret this whole time is because Muggles are good at explaining the unknown. So, in a way, this could really be good for wizards to read, too."
Ron, who at this point had given up in debating her, was now taking her comments only half-seriously. "But maybe that dog that appeared on the moor really was a Dark wizard in disguise. And maybe that Moriarty bloke just Apparated away from the crime scene and framed Douglas. You never know!"
Hermione began to laugh again.
At the head of the table, Arthur briskly dabbed his face with his napkin and stood up. "Well, I'm off! Lots of inspections today, reports to look over. I'll be back as early as I can!"
Everyone said their goodbyes, and Arthur left the room. Moments later, they heard a loud pop as he Disapparated for the Ministry's Atrium.
"Dad's been promoted," Ginny said to Hermione. "He's the head of the new Office for Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It's a new department that Scrimgeour set up."
"It's because people are taking advantage of all the fear," Ron added. They're selling all these protective objects and spell handbooks that supposedly protect you against Dark magic, but most of them are fakes, and in the worst cases, they can be just as dangerous as Dark items themselves."
Hermione's eyes flickered over to Ron and she smiled. "It must be wonderful for your dad, then! Congratulations!"
Ron smiled back. It was a warm smile, and for some reason it made Hermione's own feel girlish and silly. She dropped her gaze.
They ate in silence for a few more minutes. Once the meal was over, Mrs. Weasley began to clear the table, and Fleur hopped up and left the room. At first, it seemed like she was about to help with the dishes, but moments later, she came back with several stacks of photographs in her hands.
"I would like to show you all some of zese," she said. She sat down beside Ron and placed the photographs down in front of them. She untied the first one and spread out some moving pictures.
"These are ze ones we took while we worked," she said. "Here is Bill with ze goblins. And here is ze pair of us in front of ze Gringott's building..."
For the next couple hours, Hermione watched as Fleur flipped photographs and recounted stories. At first, she listened in interest, but soon it became clear that Fleur liked to go off on tangents, which often led to more stories that were completely unrelated to the picture and stretched on for entire minutes. Mrs. Weasley seemed glad to be busy doing the dishes and scurried away as soon as she was done. By the time the hour had passed, Hermione had seen so many photos of Bill and Fleur that it was starting to seem like they had photographed every second of their engagement. There was Bill going home from work... there they were the day after he proposed...
"And ze way he proposed was zo sweet!" Fleur said. "He left for work early zat day, and later I went into my office and found it was filled with roses..."
By the time she finished the last stack of photographs, it was almost midday. Ginny hurried immediately to her room, and Hermione went to the front door to take a walk outside. She glanced back at Ron, who sheepishly thanked Fleur for the stories and received a warm, dimpled smile in return. Hermione tapped her foot, and Ron went over to join her.
Outside, the Weasley home was surrounded by green meadows and forest. It stood near the village of Ottery St. Catchpole, and had its own coops and barn house. The large property was enclosed by a simple fence, but was entirely invisible and inaccessible to Muggles. Hermione took a breath of air, enjoying the familiar smell of soil and grass. Ron fell into step beside her, and for the first time, she felt an odd mix of relaxation and anxiousness at his proximity.
She walked a few paces away from the house, searching for a topic of conversation. "So, when are they getting married?" she asked. "From the way Fleur talks, it seems like it's happening tomorrow."
"They're not sure yet," Ron answered. "They want to make it soon, though. Probably next summer."
"Where will the ceremony be?"
"Here. We'll clear up some space in the orchard. Don't Muggles get married in their houses, too?"
Hermione shrugged. "They usually go to a church, or rent out some other public place. Weddings usually need lots of decorations and technology, so it's good to have a place that can automatically provide some of it."
Ron considered this and frowned. "It seems like they miss out, though. They can't make curtains move without wind and wine glasses refill themselves when you're done with your drink."
Hermione smiled. "Well, that's why they have butlers."
"Yeah, but magic makes it easier! " Ron said. "And you don't have to bother with plugs and eclectity."
Hermione began to laugh.
"Eleckerty?"
"Electricity!" she said.
Ron nodded. "Okay. Got it."
Hermione shook her head in comical exasperation. He'd forget in a day.
They walked some more and passed by a group of trees. She glanced at Ron again. "Your mother doesn't seem too happy about Fleur, though. Or is she just having a bad day?"
"She thinks they rushed into it," Ron said. "Bill and Fleur've only known each other for a year, and she doesn't think that's enough time to see if someone's right for you. She doesn't think Fleur really fits into our picture."
Hermione lifted her eyebrow. "And you?"
Ron gazed up at the sky, putting on a contemplative frown. "Well, I think it depends on the kind of contact you have. One year can be enough if you really see the person for who they are, not just have small-talk all the time. And if you can find common ground with them."
"No, I mean about Fleur," Hermione said. "Do you think she fits into the picture?"
Ron gave a ready nod. "Yeah. I like her." But when he looked at Hermione and saw her narrowed eyes, he shrugged defensively. "What? She's interesting!"
Hermione scoffed. "Oh, I'm sure! Especially when she catches you alone and smiles at you in that sisterly way."
Ron's face went pink. "Well, I have to be nice to her, don't I?"
Hermione shook her head and looked away. Scanning some faraway hills, she gave a wry smile. "You know, now that I think about it, I'm glad she's getting married. That way you'll finally stop gawking at her!"
Ron began to laugh. Hermione kept smiling, but moments later, it faded. Had she said too much?
She looked back at Ron, but he didn't seem to have hung on to her words. They walked some more in silence, and Hermione began to entertain the idea of a wedding. She had never been to a wedding before, and right then it didn't even matter to her who was marrying whom. After all, Bill and Fleur wouldn't be the only ones dressed up and dancing. She'd be there too. And so would Ron. An maybe, if things went the right way, he might finally get the guts to ask her to dance.
Back at the Malfoy Manor, a few minutes later, the large fireplace erupted in a burst of green flames. A tall woman with long, wavy black hair stepped out. "Draco!"
Draco looked up, and when he saw Bellatrix, he grinned.
Bellatrix smirked and gestured to him. "Up you get. We have a long day ahead of us!"
"You're going to teach me something?" Draco said. "Curses, or dueling?"
"That and much more," Bellatrix said.
Draco put down the book and eagerly approached the fireplace. Moments later, in response to the sounds, Narcissa entered the room. She approached Bella with the same placid expression on her face. "Bella."
"Cissy." Bellatrix placed her hand on Draco's shoulder. "We'll be going, I suppose. You can expect him back by dinner."
Draco knew that this would leave him with no time to do the rest of his mother's chores. Narcissa did not react, however, and simply nodded. "Very well. Off you go." She turned and left the room.
Draco looked up at his aunt to see her gazing at the spot where Narcissa had been, scowling slightly.
"Is everything all right?" Draco asked.
"She's just being difficult," Bellatrix answered. "She's not particularly fond of this, ah… arrangement."
Draco nodded slowly. "It's like she doesn't even want me to do it. But she doesn't understand. Once I do it, the Dark Lord will be happy. And everything will be better for us."
Bellatrix looked down at him and smiled. "Spoken like a true Death Eater. Now let's go." She placed a hand on his shoulder and held him firmly, and moments later, Draco felt himself Disapparate.
The drawing room disappeared in a spinning blur, which slowed moments later to reveal the interior of a small shack. It had no furniture, just broken windows and a dusty wooden floor. Bella led him out of the door, and Draco followed her outside into a narrow, deserted lane. Draco surmised that this was a far-flung street trickling out from Knockturn Alley, for it had the same black stone walls closing it in on either end. Every building they passed was empty, some with their signs removed and others with their doors standing open, revealing vacant interiors. Despite the dingy surroundings, Draco felt his back straighten and his head lift up in satisfaction. Occasionally, he took glimpses of Bellatrix and saw that she was walking calmly, gazing around lazily, yet brimming with force. At her side, Draco felt like a conqueror.
They walked together for a few minutes, before Bellatrix finally stopped beside a nondescript store and led Draco in. There were several other people there --Yaxley, Travers, and Rowle, who looked up at them in unison as the door closed behind them. Bellatrix raised her wand and cast dark shadows over the windows, leaving only the dim firelight from the candles.
"Now then," she said to Draco. "I think we'll start with the Unforgivable Curses. The basics." Bellatrix made a gesture, and upon her command, Rowle brought out a cage of wild cats. He let one out, and Bellatrix lifted her wand at it. "Imperio!"
The cat walked up to them and sat down.
"Go on and practice," she said to Draco. "Make it walk around the room, or whatever else you want."
Draco nodded and took out his wand. He found that the spell was easy for him to learn; within a few minutes, he could make the cat do his bidding, and even make Rowle and Yaxley budge from their places and move their arms about. Finally, he made the cat come back and sit down in front of him, and Bellatrix gave him an appraising smile.
"You've taken to your father, I see," she said. "Lucius was gifted at the Imperius Curse, too. He could cast it on anyone; probably even on some of us. He helped the Dark Lord quite a lot in the early years."
Draco smiled. He felt on top of the world. He regretted that he had never gotten to know Bellatrix better before; she was the one who really understood him, the one who really brought out his full potential, not like his mother. He stepped back and squared his shoulders. "I'm ready for the next one."
Bellatrix nodded. "The Cruciatus Curse, then. I believe you know how to do it. Go on, raise you wand."
Draco pointed the wand at the cat. "Crucio!"
But nothing happened.
He repeated the incantation, but to no avail. The cat absently flicked its tail, and Draco looked at Bellatrix in confusion. Bellatrix smiled. "Ah, he's still a baby…" The other Death Eaters snickered. Rowle gave him a yellow-toothed smile.
Draco swallowed. "I… I don't know what went wrong. I'm sure I'm in the right mindset. I'm doing the arm motion right, aren't I?"
Bellatrix shook her head. "It takes more than form, dear. You have to mean it." She stepped around him. "Allow me to demonstrate."
Her smile faded and she lifted her wand, but not at the cat. Instead, Draco looked down to see her wand directed at him, and stepped back in confusion. "What? But…"
"In order to cast the Cruciatus Curse, you have to mean it," Bellatrix said. "And you can't mean it if you don't know what it feels like. You think the Dark Lord didn't do the same for me, when he taught me the Dark Arts? No… All of us have felt pain before, Draco. It is nothing new. What you must learn is to master and harness it. Only then can you yourself unleash it. The Dark Arts are not like a tool for you to use. In order to make them do your bidding, you have to truly feel them. Become them." She fixed her dark eyes on his. "I will do it for ten seconds. Tell me when you are ready, and I will cast the curse."
Draco stood still, trying to calm his shakes. He took a breath and gave a shaky nod. "Do it."
Bellatrix lifted her wand. "Crucio!"
It wasn't a wave of pain that hit him. Nor was it a jolt or stab from outside. Rather, it felt as if his entire body had flared up in flames, every bone, every joint, and every muscle suddenly waking up and fighting to tear itself free of its neighbors. The sensations were so overwhelming that Draco hardly felt himself fall down. His vision was blocked out by stars, and for a while he writhed around blindly, unable to tell his own screams from the screams of his mind as it kept registering new angles of the pain -- stabbing, searing, throbbing. Ten seconds later, the storm stopped, and numbness returned to him in a heavy, languid wave. Draco realized his eyes were slammed shut, and that he was lying curled up on the floor.
Slowly he sat up, his vision swimming. Through the colorful cloud, he saw Bellatrix, looking down at him with cold, dark eyes. She waited for him to get up, then with an abrupt hand she turned him around.
"Now do it to the cat."
Draco lifted his wand with a shaky arm. He repeated the incantation roughly a dozen times, but the memory of Crucio had broken his resolve. The cat sat still, unharmed as ever, and eventually, Bellatrix pulled him away.
"Fine. There's no point. You're obviously still not ready."
Draco pocketed his wand. His former enthusiasm had been sucked away to leave a feeling of shakenness and disappointment. Bellatrix put the cat back into the cage, then moved on to other lessons. Draco practiced Occlumency and some other advanced spells, until finally it was sunset and Bellatrix took him home.
They Apparated this time, appearing before the fireplace of the Malfoy drawing room, where Narcissa sat reading. Bella gave Draco a nudge forward and put her hands on her hips.
"I'll be back in a few days," she said. "We have a lot more to work on." With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared.
Draco walked towards the hallway in a huff. Eyeing him curiously, Narcissa rose from the couch and followed him for a few paces.
"What did she teach you?" she asked.
"Nothing in particular," Draco replied, and proceeded to the stairs.
Beneath his angrily churning thoughts, he noticed that the first floor of the house looked better than before. The floors were clean and the glass of every window was sparkling. As he passed a room with its door open, Draco saw a shiny silver platter resting on a decorative table. Grimby the House-Elf was scrubbing the floor, a new, clean rag in his hands and humming gruffly. Draco watched for a moment, then moved on, feeling a sigh escape him. At least he had made one success that day.