lomonaaeren

“I don’t understand why I haven’t heard from Draco.”

“Don’t you? I do.”

Lucius stood staring at his wife for a moment. Narcissa was sitting in the large chair that was her favorite, closest to the fireplace in the yellow sitting room, her hair rippling with the sheen of a slow Drying Charm. She wore a white robe and a soft smile and looked lovely.

But not accommodating. Lucius had to ask after a silence that he felt lasted far longer than it should have. “What do you mean?”

“He needs time to come to terms with the results of Bernice Greengrass’s research. He’s written to me a few times, but he’ll probably want to think about it for another week or so before he contacts you.” Narcissa turned a page in the book she was reading and laughed, that low delicious laugh, at whatever was on it.

"Narcissa."

"What?"

"You didn’t tell me this?”

“I assumed you knew.” Narcissa smiled at him, that perfect fake confusion that she had used so often to puzzle Mudbloods in Diagon Alley, and which Lucius abruptly realized had been directed at him more than a few times in the past fortnight. “After all, the results of Bernice’s research are far more complex than you assumed.”

“They are not.”

“Did she have to reduce them to simpler, clearer explanations for a schoolboy’s comprehension, or did she not?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t talked to the woman,” Lucius snapped.

“Perhaps you should have,” Narcissa said, and looked down. She seemed to skim that page, then turned to the next one, and chuckled again.

“What are you reading?”

“The sort of book you would have no interest in, dear.”

Lucius opened his mouth, realized that he was standing in front of his wife like a petulant child, and turned away. He did add over his shoulder, “I want to see the results of the research that Bernice shared with you.”

“Of course, dear. I’ll have Dobby put it on the desk in your study.”

Narcissa returned to her book. Lucius didn’t stomp like a petulant child on his way out of the sitting room, either.

But he wanted to.

*

An hour later, Lucius laid the report down on his desk and stared at it as if it were a statement from Gringotts showing that one of his vaults was empty. No, in truth, he would have preferred that.

Greengrass’s research was so flawed that he didn’t know how he’d got the impression it would be a good thing to show Draco.

She was using such flawed methods of collecting information that Lucius had stumbled to a halt when he read about them. She was speaking to Mudbloods and halfbloods about their supposed pureblood ancestors, when of course they came from nowhere and nothing and wouldn’t know anything further back than a pureblood parent, if they had one, or maybe a Squib grandparent. Proper families didn’t share that kind of information with people who might be related to them on the muddy side of the bed.

And second, she had said that there was no universal method of defining magical strength. She had talked about strength in spells, strength in wandless fields of magic like Potions and Herbology, and outbursts of accidental magic in youngsters. She had concluded that all of it was too different to isolate the idea of magical strength, and basing bloodlines or marriage proposals on it was incoherent.

That made Lucius incoherent with his own rage. Magical power was magical power. Of course one could define it. It was the aura that hovered around the Dark Lord, the way that some people could cast more powerful spells than others. It was ridiculous for Greengrass to reject the evidence of her own eyes.

Lucius flung the parchment away and turned to his own stack of it. He would write two letters, and the comforting one to Draco was more important. He would have to explain that sometimes, people lied for political ends, and even purebloods who were supposed to be above that might do so. He also had to send a Howler to Greengrass.

He hoped it shook her house down.

*

“Are you all right, Draco?”

Harry had of course noticed Mr. Malfoy’s owl bringing a letter to Draco that morning, and the eager way that Draco had reached for it. But he’d only read a few lines before he went pale and quiet and tucked it in his pocket. He’d sat there for the rest of breakfast not eating and just listening to the discussion Harry and Daphne and Blaise were having about Quidditch instead of contributing to it.

This was the first time they’d had a chance to talk, just a minute before Transfiguration began. Draco nodded shakily.

“I need—Father said some things I need to come to terms with.”

“Hopefully nothing that turns you back into a prat,” Harry said without thinking, and then winced.

Draco gave a choking laugh and started to say something else, but Professor McGonagall swept in then and gave them a stern look. Draco shut up.

“Now, if you’ll pay attention to the wand movement, you should be able to complete this Transfiguration by the end of class…”

Harry refrained from shaking his head, but he did wonder what caliber of student Professor McGonagall usually dealt with. Did she really think that all first-years ought to be able to do the spell in their first class? Was she thinking of seventh-year students? Did she just want to set them a challenge to inspire them?

Then they actually started working on their spells, and Harry let the wondering go.

But he did remember later that it was the sort of thing he felt free to think about now, without anxiously wondering if he needed to be focused on what the Malfoys thought.

*

“Lucius. What an unexpected surprise.”

Severus kept his voice calm as he regarded his “friend’s” head floating in his fireplace. He had just finished a large stack of essays and had allowed himself to have half an hour of reading before he began the next group. Of course Lucius would somehow sense that and ruin Severus’s mood and leisure time without trying.

Lucius often showed sensitivity to Severus’s words, but this time he asked simply, “What was Draco’s reaction to my letter this morning?”

“He didn’t come to me with it.”

Severus spoke in the flat, neutral tone that was usual with him around Lucius, but he was trying to even remember the letter Draco had received that morning. Yes, he had seen Lucius’s owl stoop down, but that was hardly an unusual occurrence. The only unusual thing might have been that it had arrived less often in the last fortnight.

“But what was his face like?”

“He read the letter,” Severus said, sure that he remembered at least that. “But, I think, not for very long. He put it away to consider later.”

Lucius hissed under his breath. Severus raised his eyebrows and forbore to ask if Lucius was trying to learn Parseltongue from his ward.

“Tell him that I wish him to write to me at once.”

“Would you wish him to do that before he has absorbed the contents of your letter, and trouble you with childish demands for clarity? Surely better to allow him to think about it.”

Lucius paused. Severus sat there as if everything in his life were a slight irritation right now. It was the best way he could protect a Slytherin from the unreasonable demands of their parents, he had learned long ago.

Lucius finally sighed and shook his head. “Very well. But if he comes to you to discuss it, I want to know.”

“Of course you would,” Severus said, using his skill at words that had fooled a Legilimens before to waltz neatly past Lucius’s attention.

Lucius nodded and withdrew from the fire without even a farewell. Severus snorted and waved his wand to recalibrate the timing charm he’d set, to add in the extra minutes he had missed due to Lucius’s distraction.

It did make him wonder what was in the letter. But that could wait until one of the Malfoys confessed to him of their own free will.

*

“Potter was speaking with a Mudblood in the library.”

Adonis Carrow’s hand grew tight around his book.

Theo smiled. He’d chosen the time for this conversation carefully, when none of the other seventh-years were in the common room. Carrow spent little time studying for NEWTS compared to them. He’d said often that the careers he wanted didn’t depend on the number of Outstandings he took home.

Theo suspected he knew what that career was. And he also knew that Carrow, who would have grown up with his parents if not for Harry Potter, loathed the boy so much that he hadn’t even interacted with him. Someone would have seen the evidence of murderous hatred and run to tell Professor Snape.

What Professor Snape doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“You’re sure of this?” Carrow asked, keeping his eyes on the book. Theo had already tried to look at the cover, but the letters on the front swam in his sight, meaning there was a profound Obscuring Charm on them. “You aren’t just passing on a rumor that’s meant to get someone in trouble?”

“I saw it with my own eyes.”

“And you didn’t say anything to him?”

“Potter’s proven…resistant to correction so far.”

“And his status with the Malfoys doesn’t help, either.”

Theo nodded without moving his head much. The more conclusions Carrow could come to on his own, the less Theo would have to be involved. Theo knew how smart he was, and what his own ambitions were, but no one else needed to right now.

“Thanks for the information, Nott.”

To all appearances, Carrow glanced back at his book and completely dismissed Theo from his presence. Theo just stood and walked across the common room to his own seat by the fire.

He looked up when Potter and Greengrass came through the door, laughing about something. They both saw him, but Potter just looked away without even a nod and led Greengrass over to a couch in the corner. They both sat down and continued their discussion with heads almost touching.

Theo shook his head. He didn’t know why Parkinson seemed to envy Potter the connections he was making. He wasn’t doing anything with them. What was the point of knowing a lot of people and being on at least cordial terms with them if all you did was laugh together?

He picked up his own book and went back to reading. He had some interesting material on the Potter family that he wanted to pursue.

*

Lucius sighed as he watched Eris soar towards him. He’d been somewhat surprised by Draco’s name for his owl, but maybe it signaled that his son wanted to make people look at him, cause disruption where he went.

That was fine. A Malfoy should cause waves when moving through the world. Lucius knew his son would never turn against the family, and whoever else he made an enemy of wouldn’t count.

The letter was only a single sheet of parchment, Lucius saw when he removed it from the envelope. He raised an eyebrow. Well, perhaps he should have expected that. What argument could Draco put up in the face of his father’s implacable correctness?

Then he held the letter up, turning so the firelight fell across the page, and saw that it was only one sentence, as well.

I don’t believe you, Father.

Draco hadn’t signed his name. He hadn’t greeted Lucius. What he had done—

Lucius sat staring at the sentence for long enough that his legs hurt when he shifted. Then he snapped, “Dobby!”

The elf appeared, cringing and tugging on his ears as usual. Lucius leaned over and vented his anger with a smack of his cane against the creature’s back. Dobby whimpered and cowered some more.

The way that Draco was declaring he would no longer cower.

Then Lucius took a deep breath and shook his head. No. That was ridiculous. Of course he would never want his son to cower before him. He wanted respect and polite disagreement, because he deserved that, but cringing was for members of lesser families.

“Leave me,” he snarled at Dobby, who squeaked and vanished with a pop that seemed to rattle the stack of parchment on Lucius’s desk.

Lucius turned around and sat down again. There was another possibility beyond the fact that Greengrass’s research was obviously too complex and had confused Draco. Potter might be influencing him.

I should have outlined the terms of their friendship more strictly. Draco wouldn’t have paid attention to me, but Potter wouldn’t have had a choice.

He reached for parchment to write back, but the door of his study opened before he could find a quill. Narcissa swept in and clucked her tongue a little as she studied him. “Really, dear, was that necessary?”

“What are you talking about?” Lucius moderated his tone when he saw the way that Narcissa’s mouth had compressed into a slash. The last thing he wanted was his lovely wife getting angry at him.

“I had Dobby cooking a particularly delicate pastry. Summoning him in the middle of it might have ruined it. And when he came back, he was moaning about how it was all his fault and trying to bang his head into the side of the cupboard.”

“Draco sent me the rudest letter he’s ever sent me.”

“Really?”

Narcissa held out her hand, and Lucius had no hesitation in placing the letter into it. Narcissa would have to see how ridiculously coddling the boy had worked out. She would have to admit that he was right about the dangers of Greengrass’s research.

Narcissa looked at the line for a still moment, as though it were taking her as long to read as a regular letter. Then she sighed and folded it. “Well.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“What else would I say?”

“I thought you would be scolding me for my foolishness in taking a halfblood child into our home.”

“Don’t be crass, Lucius. I would never scold you. But I am curious as to why you think this is Harry’s fault.”

“Who else could Draco have got this nonsense from? Greengrass’s research is hard to understand, but it’s also just wrong. He probably got confused about the conclusions she drew, and mentioned it to Potter, and Potter’s the one who told him that of course Mudbloods and halfbloods can be as strong as we can."

"What if Draco came to these conclusions by himself?"

"You think Draco, uninfluenced, would write me that letter?”

“I think he might, if he believed Bernice’s research.”

“It’s wrong!” Lucius slammed his palms onto his desk, and then bit down his rage at the slow, incredulous gaze Narcissa turned on him. He sat back and closed his eyes, touching the head of his cane to make himself feel the silver under his fingers. “You know that it’s wrong, as well as I do.”

“What’s wrong about it?”

“What’s wrong about it?”

“I will not tolerate your childish screaming at me, Lucius. Find some other way to object that sounds like an adult would do it.”

Lucius closed his eyes, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, and finally said, “You know that purebloods are superior to everyone else, Narcissa.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on—well, our family histories, of course. Our lineage. The achievements of our ancestors.”

“Everyone alive today has a family line as long as ours, or longer. I had hoped that you would have something other than your blood to claim superiority with.”

Lucius stared at Narcissa. He couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d peeled off her skin and revealed a Mudblood woman underneath. The amusement glinting in her eyes was something he’d never seen before.

“Why would you…”

“Because our son is going to leave the sheltered space of our family and go into a world that doesn’t agree with him, Lucius. Not even all purebloods agree with him, as you can see from Bernice’s research. It’s best for him to be prepared. I won’t have him hurt and confused because we misled him.”

“We didn’t mislead him.”

“Tell me what else we did, Lucius.”

Lucius opened his mouth, then closed it. In truth, it was hard to choose words of the right delicacy, but he knew it wasn’t misleading.

“We raised him the proper way,” he said finally. “And we always knew that not everyone would agree with him. That’s why we taught him the justifications for purebloods staying separate from Muggles."

"Even you call them justifications, not logical arguments." Narcissa sighed a little. “I don’t want Draco unable to defend himself. He can speak one set of words and keep another inside his mind if he wishes, but he can’t simply open his mouth and let your words fall out if he wants to avoid consequences.”

“Of course I wouldn’t want him to only speak my words!”

“Then which ones?”

“The truth.”

“This is a model of dealing with conflicting kinds of truth, something he’ll have to do often. And if you push him into trying to please you instead of dealing with the conflict, then you’ll squander our influence over Harry.”

“What do you mean?”

“What child would not be driven away from a friend who constantly tells him that he’s inferior? That was one of the themes in Draco’s letters to me. He wants a friend, Lucius, and Harry is drifting towards other children because Draco so relentlessly repeats the justifications for pureblood superiority.”

“I didn’t mean for him to—do it in front of Potter.”

“Why not? You do it, and Draco adores you. Of course he would emulate his father.”

Lucius lowered his head a little. Yes, perhaps that was true. And he would rather have Draco adore him than not.

“I’ll think about the letter I want to write to Draco,” he said.

Narcissa stepped up to brush the ghost of a kiss across his cheek. “You do that,” she said, and walked out of the study.

Lucius sat back and stared at Draco’s letter, which Narcissa had left on the edge of the desk, again.

I don’t believe you, Father.

When a wise man saw that a course of action wasn’t working, a wise man swallowed his pride and altered it.

And so Lucius considered, and wrote two letters, one to Draco.

And one to the boy he would learn to call Harry.