Narcissa Malfoy's nerves were frayed.
She had not been this on edge since the Dark Lord had attempted to recruit Draco into the ranks of his Death Eaters. Fortunately, Severus Snape had anticipated Voldemort's strategy and was able to not only prevent Draco from becoming a murderer, but also convince him to join the Order of the Phoenix. After the war ended and her son had emerged relatively unscathed,
Narcissa's major concerns had been on developing new bridge strategies and thwarting Draco's attempts to shag his new girlfriend in every room
in the Manor.
That had all changed five days ago, when Draco had splinched himself and come to the Manor to
recuperate. At least that is what Narcissa had initially suspected. A boy always wants his mother, even one as squeamish and generally unsympathetic as Narcissa, when he is recovering from a nasty injury. She had revised her original impression, however, when once fully recovered Draco had not Apparated away, but instead stalked the Manor's halls with a brooding glare on his face.
The first several times Narcissa had
rounded a corner and run into her gloomy son, she had actually let out a startled little scream thinking that Lucius had somehow escaped from Azkaban. Even as she grew used to Draco's presence, however, it was unsettling to have an angry,
muttering, young man always lurking around one's home. As a woman, Narcissa was extremely curious about what had put Draco into such a snit and why he was haunting the Manor rather than spending his time with the Granger girl, but as the wife of a Death Eater she had learned very early that it was dangerous to know too much or ask too many questions.
It was better for one's health and
sanity, not to mention plausible deniability, just to be observant and let others offer to tell you information if and when they were ready.
Unfortunately, Draco had not opened up to his mother prior to her Friday afternoon bridge gathering.
Therefore, Narcissa had absolutely no answers to her bridge partners' inquiries into Draco's foul mood.
"Darling, you must have some idea,"
Olivia Nott declared after opening the bidding with one club.
"I swear to you that I am completely clueless."
"Isn't that the same line you used
before the Wizengamot to avoid Azkaban?" Sophie Parkinson asked snidely before bidding one diamond.
"Oh really, Sophie. Just because your husband avoided being sent off to keep company with the Dementors doesn't make your hands any cleaner than the rest of us," Imogene
Bulstrode informed her caustically.
"I never said it did, dearest," Sophie replied with a phony smile.
"Well, if the boy is upset, you know it has to be about one of five things,"
Olivia stated confidently.
"What makes you so sure?" Narcissa
inquired.
"He's a man," Sophie interrupted,
"and men are so uncomplicated."
Olivia and Imogen nodded in agreement.
"When did I ever give you the
impression that I did not understand men?" Narcissa asked smugly.
"Never, darling. But we are talking about your child. It is so difficult for mothers to envision their sons as men," Olivia Nott said thoughtfully. "I always picture Theodore as a happy, little, eight year old, torturing frogs and pulling wings off of Pixies." She
then laid down a card, "I'm leading with the 10 of spades."
"It is hard for mothers to see her girls as women too," Imogen Bulstrode appended.
"I suppose that is especially true with a daughter like Millicent," Sophie remarked cuttingly. "Queen of spades, I win the trick!"
"You know I still have use of my wand, right?" Imogen inquired through a tight fake smile.
"Girls, girls!" Olivia interrupted. "We are supposed to be helping Narcissa, not vying for the 'Vicious Witch of the
Year Award.'"
"Especially, since the same person wins year after year," Imogen commented. "Where do you find room for all the trophies, Sophie?"
"Imogene! Please behave," Olivia told her exasperatedly.
Holding up her hands and giving a 'who me' innocent look to the rest of the women at the table, Imogene Bulstrode made a great show of locking her lips shut.
"Well, the five things that upset men are politics, work, money, pride, and women," Olivia informed the rest of
the table. "Which do you think is bothering, Draco?"
"It's difficult to say," Narcissa commented, as she laid down a trump card and took the trick. "He doesn't seem to be interested in
politics, work and money shouldn't be a problem, he appears fully capable of defending his honor, and he's dating that muggle-born friend of Harry Potter. So he should be
extremely happy and satisfied with his life, but he is not. The boy is in a very a difficult mood."
"Leave it to us, dearest," Sophie responded, leading with a 5 of
hearts. "If there is anything that the wives of Slytherins know, is that it's more fulfilling to pursue and attain knowledge..."
"-than it is a man!" the rest of the women at the table finished before dissolving into giggles, as if they were teenagers back at Hogwarts.
Twenty minutes later, Draco's pacing brought him into the hall outside of the card room. Sophie Parkinson called him over to the bridge table.
"Draco dearest, it has been ages since I've seen you," she gushed, holding out her hand to him and forcing him to enter the room to
greet her.
Draco gave her hand a slight squeeze and responded politely, "Mrs.
Parkinson, so good to see you again."
He brushed his lips across his mother's cheek briefly, and then turned to the other women at the table. "Mrs. Nott, Mrs. Bulstrode, I do hope you are both doing well."
"Better every day, dear boy,"
Imogene Bulstrode replied. "Soon the political situation will be completely stabilized and it will be like the second war never even occurred."
Draco gave a small shrug, thinking to himself that Mrs. Bulstrode seemed
remarkably blasé about a state of affairs that would probably leave her husband in Azkaban for the rest of his life. "To tell the truth, I find politics these days completely uninteresting. It doesn't seem to matter who is minister or what is on the agenda. The bureaucracy just keeps advancing along the same inept path."
The women at the table exchanged a quick look. Apparently it wasn't
politics that had Draco upset.
"You must have to deal with the bureaucracy a lot," Olivia Nott
commented. "Isn't Malfoy Industries
heading up a number of the rebuilding efforts?"
Draco nodded. "The company has a role in a little under three-fourths of the ministry directed rebuilding projects."
"All that work must be a tremendous burden," Sophie speculated.
Raising an eyebrow at the
suggestion, Draco shook his head slowly. "No, not really. Ever since the company changed its hiring policies,"
everyone a the table realized this was code for Malfoy Industries no longer employing only purebloods in management positions, "I've been
surrounded by a array of talented people, who make it very easy to be CEO. In fact, the company is on track to make record profits this year."
"That is just wonderful, darling,"
Narcissa cooed, as if she didn't read the company's financial accounts weekly. Draco gave her a piercing look, while the other witches
exchanged glances. Work and money they silently concluded could be ruled out as irritants.
"Given how well you are doing,"
Olivia conjectured, "you must be irritated with the amount of space devoted to Potter and the Weasleys
in the papers. One would think from picking up the Daily Prophet that no one else had played a role in
defeating the Dark Lord or was working to help the wizarding world recover."
Draco cast a suspicious eye at all of the ladies at the bridge table. What in the hell were they up to? "The Prophet is only interested in selling papers. They'll write about me when it fancies them or they think they can earn a few more Knuts for their
efforts. I don't, however, judge my worth to society based on the
number of columns written about me each week."
"I'm so glad to hear that, dear boy,"
Sophie chimed in. Draco's problem clearly wasn't his pride.
"Nevertheless, you are sure to be featured in the paper this weekend, what with the ball at Hogwarts celebrating the Second Anniversary of the defeat of the Dark Lord."
Draco began to glower. The ladies all raised their eyebrows; apparently Sophie had struck a nerve. "I have yet to decide on whether or not to attend."
"But surely darling, you'll have to escort Hermione?" Narcissa
questioned him. "I am positive I read
about her being one of the honored guests at the event."
Draco ground his teeth together before replying in clipped tones, "I will not be escorting Hermione to the ball."
No one spoke for several moments, then Sophie Parkinson broke the silence with an abrupt, "Well, it is about time."
"Sophie!" Imogen gasped.
"It's true. Maybe the war changed some things, but it didn't change what really matters - blood. And while it is all well and good for Draco
to indulge in youthful excess and rebuild the family name and by dating a mudblood, you can't really expect him to be satisfied slumming forever. It is about time that the boy grew up and settled down with a nice pureblooded girl."
Draco drew himself up to his full height and stared down his
aristocratic nose at Mrs. Parkinson.
His eyes flashed with rage and
Narcissa was once again reminded of Lucius. "If anyone was slumming in my and Hermione's relationship, it was her. And if you ever use the term 'mudblood' in my hearing again, I will ensure your family is not welcome in
any parlor throughout wizarding London for the next decade."
With a slight bow to the rest of the ladies at the table, Draco turned on his heel and stalked out of the card room, slamming the door behind him.
"I can not believe how rude that was!" Sophie exclaimed.
"Neither can I," Narcissa concluded.
"I am going to have to ask you to leave, Sophie. Your prejudices are not appreciated in Malfoy Manor.
Until you can learn to respect the feelings of my family members you will not be welcome back into this house."
Sophie stood proudly, "Trust me Narcissa, this is no great loss." And with those final words, Sophie Parkinson Apparated away.
The two remaining witches at the table shared a sympathetic look with their hostess. Olivia began to speak, but was startled by the sound of glass breaking from behind the card room door.
Narcissa gave a wan smile that did not reach her eyes. "I only have Limoges and Wedgwood out there.
Nothing of any consequence," she assured them.
After her guests left, Narcissa went
out in the hallway and found Draco sitting on a bench hunched over, his head resting in his hands. She sat down besides him, causing him to turn his head and look into her eyes.
"Mother, in my clumsiness earlier, I overset a vase on the entry table. I'll send a replacement."
"The Meissen vase," Narcissa said thoughtfully. "I'd forgotten that one."
"Just so," Draco agreed.
Running her hand through his hair and down his back, Narcissa asked him if he would like to talk.
He was silent for several moments,
but finally shook his head, stood, and walked up the stairs toward the
bedrooms.
Narcissa gave a deep sigh. If only Lucius had been less of a tyrant and a better father, then perhaps Draco would have had a man he could turn to when troubled. Coming to a quick decision, the stately witch went into the parlor to floo the only person who might be able to get Draco to open up.
0-0-0
Forty-five minutes later, Severus Snape Apparated into Malfoy Manor.
After exchanging brief pleasantries
with Narcissa, he made his way up to Draco's bedchamber and knocked on the door.
At Draco's mumbled reply, Snape entered the room and observed the boy glowering into the fire, while nursing what appeared to be a glass of brandy.
"Afternoon, Draco," Snape
murmured. "Your mother tells me you need a man with whom to talk."
Not bothering to turn toward his former mentor and potion's teacher, Draco snarked back, "And you are the best she could up with?"
Snape chuckled a bit at the sarcasm.
Although he would never be a
conventionally happy or content man, he had become far more human in the years since Voldemort's defeat.
"What is it the muggles say about beggars can't be choosers?"
"Malfoys don't beg," Draco responded.
"As you wish," Snape replied,
conjuring up a chair next to Draco's.
"As I've made the trip here, however, you could at least offer me a glass of what looks to be some of your
father's most exquisite brandy."
With that Draco finally turned toward
him. He gave Snape a piercing stare, but eventually rose, crossed the room, and filled a second glass from a crystal decanter that contained Lucius' 'Old Havana' brandy.
After both men were ensconced by the fire, sipping away and dulling their senses, Draco finally told Snape, "Granger left me."
"Bollocks," Snape replied, allowing the rich burgundy liquor to slide down his throat easily.
"She did!" Draco protested.
"Hermione Granger, Gryffindor alumna, brains of the Golden Trio,
heroine of the Second Wizarding War, left you?"
"Yes!"
"I don't believe it," Snape repeated.
He then added, "What did you do?"
"Nothing," Draco snapped. "Well," he amended, "I didn't jump at the
opportunity to get married."
"Bah, marriage," Snape shuddered, making a sound a reminded Draco of a cat getting sick. "Then you are well shod of her. Bachelorhood is the only life to pursue - freedom to do what you want, no one to answer to, never having to worry about changing dirty
nappies or cleaning spit-up, evenings spent all alone, no one to share your bed, dying unhappy and unloved. You have definitely made the right
decision, my boy."
"Sod off, you wanker," Draco growled.
"Seriously, Draco," Snape told him.
"If you don't love the chit, it makes no sense to marry her."
"But I do love her," Draco admitted.
It was the first time he'd ever told anyone besides Hermione about his feelings toward her. Surprisingly, it wasn't that painful and didn't leave him feeling any more self-conscious
or exposed than usual. However, he did not particularly enjoy the look of conceit on Snape's face.
"So what is the problem?" Snape asked. "Is the sex not good? I always suspected that Granger would be frigid in the bedroom."
Draco's eyes narrowed. What in Merlin's name was Snape doing imaging Hermione's sexual habits?
"The sex is fine," Draco told him distrustfully.
"Of course it is," Snape responded, sounding amused. "Because 'fine' is such a ringing endorsement."
"It's better than fine. It's great, it's hot. In fact, she does this thing with her tongue that-"
"Enough!" Snape interrupted. "I do not need that image burned any further into my brain." Giving himself a slight shake, Snape continued. "If you love the witch and the sex is good, why aren't you interested in marrying her?"
"Well," Draco replied hesitantly,
"getting married wasn't my idea."
"Oh, why didn't you say that in the beginning? Obviously that is a deal breaker. After all, there have only been several hundred-thousand good
ideas throughout the world's history that did not originate with Draco Malfoy. We definitely wouldn't want one more upsetting the delicate balance."
Draco glared at the greasy-hair git and decided that he liked Snape a lot more when he was harassing Potter and Weasley.
Finishing off his brandy, not at all concerned with Draco's growing anger, Snape asked, "Why don't you tell me what the real problem is, boy?"
The young wizard did not respond immediately. When he did reply, he
asked his former head of house,
"What do I owe my Malfoy ancestors?"
"Owe them?"
"What does being a Malfoy mean? Is it the money? Is about having an estate and an important business role in the wizarding community? Is it about social status? Is it about being one of the few families never to have intermarried with a muggle or
muggle off-spring?"
"This is about blood?"
"No!" Draco growled. "Well, maybe a little bit. I don't believe in the theory
of pure and superior magic that Lucius spoon-fed me growing up. I see Hermione as my equal in all things - except perhaps hair care.
Yet, at the same time, I am the descendent of hundreds of years of social manipulation. My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and his great-grandfather all married pureblood witches in order to ensure that the Malfoy family would retain that distinction. Do I have the right to throw generations of
attentiveness, supervision, and sacrifice away just so I can be happy? Do I have the right to
sentence all Malfoy descendents from now on to lives as half-bloods?"
Snape glowered at the blond. Draco's anxiety reminded the former Potions Master of the uneasiness about his own bloodline he had experienced while growing up. The way that being around men like Lucius, Sirius, and James Potter made him feel inferior for nothing more than having some muggle blood running through his veins. It was past time that such things cease to matter. "You know that I am a half-blood?" Snape asked the young man.
"Yes, and looked at how fucked up you are," Draco replied half-seriously.
"Who am I to sentence my children's children's children to that fate?"
Instead of telling Draco that he was being prejudiced, patronizing, and idiotic, Snape approached the
situation from a different perspective.
"So what lucky witch is going to bear your pureblooded children? Pansy Parkinson? Daphne Greengrass?
Perhaps you can charm the Weasley girl away from Potter."
Draco groaned. "I don't want to be with any of them. The thought of touching Parkinson's or Weasley's girly bits actually turns my stomach. I only want Granger."
"Well, my dear boy," Snape said quietly, "that is what it means to be
a Malfoy."
At Draco's look of confusion, Snape elaborated. "A Malfoy pursues what he wants. He takes what he desires and bugger the world if doesn't approve. Do you think your father ever worried about what people might say about his choices? Does your mother ever not attend some event because she is scared of what someone might think? Of course not.
They do as they please and as they want because that is what it means to be a Malfoy. All you owe your
They do as they please and as they want because that is what it means to be a Malfoy. All you owe your