Covered in Crimson

Two Years and Eleven Months Ago

Hermione Granger lay unconscious, as was not unexpected of someone who’d so recently suffered a very near brush with death. Her room at St. Mungo’s was under constant guard by at least one member of the Order. They’d not captured the Wizard who’d made such a vicious attempt on her life, and had few clues to his identity. The attack had been so brutal, and so personal, that they feared her assailant might return to finish the job.

It had already been four days, and hope was waning for a speedy recovery. The curse that had been hurled at her was not an ordinary spell. It defied her Healers’ efforts to identify exactly what was causing her to bleed so profusely from the mark that had been slashed into her skin. It was now apparent that the cure was not among the standard repertoire of the Healers at the Wizarding world’s best known hospital. Harry, Professor Dumbledore, Susan Bones, and Poppy Pomfrey had been and were now searching the vast records left behind by the late Severus Snape for any clue as to what dark magic a Death Eater might have employed, and how to repair the damage that was causing Hermione to bleed out nearly as fast as they could replenish her life’s essential fluid. They were racing against the clock, and it ticked on relentlessly.

Hermione rarely left the confines of Hogwarts; her role was as a researcher and strategist. She wouldn’t have even been in Hogsmeade that day if it weren’t for the incredibly promising lead they’d had on the sixth Horcrux. She’d insisted that her study had made her the logical choice to pursue the possibility. That the clue had turned out to be a total bust made her current situation that much more trying. It was on the way back from the failed mission that she’d been attacked. The Order was still trying to determine whether it had been an ambush or just an opportunistic assault. They were convinced, however, that she’d been saved from certain death by the timely patrol of two Aurors who had apparently narrowly missed capturing the mysterious would-be killer.

While she waited in the deepest sleep for a cure or counter-curse to be located, Hermione’s assailant was bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t been quick enough with his Avada before he’d been interrupted by the two morons from the Ministry. Their dumb luck had made it likely he’d pay a hefty price for failure, and that made Draco Malfoy angry. He’d need to keep a low profile for a while, never an easy thing when one’s family was so prominent in Dark circles.

The attack on the Mudblood hadn’t been planned. While she was still on his Voldemort-assigned “To Kill” list, it had been purely serendipity that had placed them on the same street at the same time. That had meant no planning, little subtlety, and less success. He’d seen her from sixty meters away, and watched for a few moments to determine where she might be headed. Her path had brought her to within just a couple of meters of the darkened alleyway that had been his reconnaissance spot for the day. Although nearly half of his time was spent in gathering intelligence, Malfoy had some flexibility in his orders. If he saw a worthy target, he was free to unleash the attack he felt was warranted. His exceptional skill in Disillusionment had meant that she’d not seen or felt his presence until he’d actually cast his first spell – a Petrificus Totalus that made her drop like a stone in the dim passage. Draco had then made the first of two mistakes. He audaciously revealed his identity to her as a deliberate taunt. He wanted her to know who had slashed the “M” for Mudblood into her abdomen, adding a particularly nasty anti-coagulation twist to a fairly standard cutting hex. Second, he hesitated just a moment too long, admiring his handiwork, and was chased away before he could cast the Killing Curse. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he’d chided himself for long minutes after Apparating away from the scene.

The reaction Draco had from his aunt Bella after his failed attempt on the Mudblood’s life had not been what he expected. Errors often earned him a Crucio or two, and meant that he’d spend a day or more nursing aching muscles and raw nerves. This time, she’d been … consoling and supportive, in her own inimitable manic and twisted way. She’d applauded him for his effort and told him there would be other opportunities. And she’d given him a prisoner on whom he could take out his frustrations and anger. The series of Crucios and Imperios emitted from his wand had been most satisfying. Draco appreciated that his aunt always seemed to give him female captives. He’d worn himself out fucking that one into the floor. After a hot shower and a handful of truffles, he’d slept like a baby that night.

Now, he was waiting to hear whether his attack had yielded a delayed success. No word had come from St. Mungo’s on the Mudblood’s condition, and a Floo call for information had only confirmed that she was listed as a patient. Some new rule had apparently been instituted that prevented medical status information to be revealed to anyone not specifically designated as authorized by the patient or their next of kin. He most certainly would not be on that list. He’d have to find another source if he wanted to know whether she might still succumb to her injuries.

It had taken two more days, but Poppy Pomfrey had finally located some notes that Severus had left for her that seemed promising. It seemed that someone in the Death Eater ranks had developed a spell called “Haemophilius” - related to a Muggle disease that meant its victims’ blood would continuously flow without clotting. She wasted no further time on getting the information to Hermione’s Healers, who administered the appropriate counter-measures in all due haste. It was still a near thing, but their efforts were rewarded when she opened her eyes one day after the first of the treatments had been applied. It would take another two weeks of consistent healing before she’d be ready to rejoin her cohorts at Hogwarts, and another ten days beyond that until she was well enough to resume her research duties. While it wasn’t among her top priorities, she’d been grateful that Poppy had shared a spell that would dramatically diminish the terrible scarring on her abdomen. There would always be a faint reminder, but it would take close inspection for anyone to see the demeaning mark that had been carved into her body by a former schoolmate.

Hermione had identified her attacker as Draco Malfoy, a known Death Eater. He was already wanted for numerous crimes, but had proved to be cagey and elusive. The ineffectual Ministry had done nothing, however, to intensify their search for the known killer and torturer. After all, he was but one of many.

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Narcissa Malfoy sat quietly in her study, reading a stack of correspondence that had arrived over the last several days. It was draining and vaguely depressing to read the numerous messages from well-wishers, offering advice and expressing dismay at her bout with “female illness.” She couldn’t read these notes every day; it was just too much. So once a week, she planned a block of two hours during which she’d review and respond only to those whom social obligations made it necessary. The rest received a pre-engraved card of acknowledgment and thanks, which reinforced the impression that she was just too sick to handle her own correspondence. She’d never considered how difficult it would be to maintain the illusion of poor health for so long. That it would take such a toll on her emotional well-being was something she hadn’t contemplated.

A light rap on the door alerted her to her husband’s imminent entry, and she set aside a particularly sad note that described a mutual acquaintance’s own difficulties and extreme measures to find a cure. It made her feel guilty when her own malaise was not real. “Lucius, dear, what brings you home in the middle of the day?”

“Can’t a husband dote on his lovely wife? I thought we might take a picnic on the grounds for lunch. It’s such a beautiful day, and dry July weather is a rare treat.”

A serene smile graced Narcissa’s lovely face, and she rose to accept her husband’s embrace. “I think that’s a wonderful idea, darling. I’ll go to the kitchens and prepare something for us.”

“Don’t be silly, love. Let the house-elves do it. We can spend the time in more enjoyable ways,” he teased, a twinkle in his eye accompanying the suggestive move of his hips against hers.

She giggled girlishly, but pushed against his chest lightly to put a little distance between them. “Later, dear. I would really like to put together something special. The house-elves will do the bulk of the work, but I’d like to make the menu.”

At his moue of disappointment, she rose on tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “You seem to forget sometimes that I’m supposed to be ill. We need to be careful about appearances.”

“And you, my love, need to remember that you are not ailing, and that the privacy of our bedroom is sacrosanct. In any case, I can always just tell anyone who asks that you just ‘took to bed’ for the afternoon and no one would think twice of it,” he retorted.

“You do have a point there, Lucius,” she agreed with a bright grin. “Let me put our picnic together. We’ll enjoy it in the orchard, and then we’ll come back in for… a little nap.”

“I think that sounds like a delightful afternoon,” he agreed. “I’ll just take a few moments to check my owl post and I’ll meet you outside in half an hour.”

“Perfect,” she stated, and shooed him away so that she could accomplish her mission in the kitchen. The depressing post could wait till later.

Narcissa’s visit to the kitchen was not rare, but nor was it an everyday occurrence. The three house-elves who had primary responsibility for meal preparation and household cleaning were always at the ready to receive her orders. “Master Lucius and I will take our lunch in the orchard today, Tuppy. Please prepare a Chicken Veronique salad, and a wedge of aged cheddar with a French baguette.”

“Yes, Missus. Tuppy gets its right away.”

“And what do we have for dessert? Is there some chocolate mousse cake left from last night?”

“No, Missus. Master sneaked another piece at midnights,” the little house-elf shared with an impish grin. “But we hases some nice truffleses in the cupboards!”

The most astonishing thing that Narcissa had ever seen happened in the next split second. Mitsy, one of their newer acquisitions who had only been with the family for about three or four years, leaped up and screeched loudly. “No, Missus! Thoses are only for Master Draco! Nobody elses can eats thoses!” She then actually barricaded the cupboard with her tiny body.

If Narcissa hadn’t been so shocked, she’d have laughed out loud, the scene was so absurd. “Is that so? Only Master Draco eats those truffles?” she asked with amusement.

“Yes, Missus. They is his mostest favorites,” she nodded vehemently.

“Well, we shouldn’t eat Master Draco most favorites, then,” she agreed with mock solemnity. “What would you recommend for our dessert then?”

If she was surprised at the house-elf’s obvious sigh of relief, she didn’t let it show. Narcissa waited for Mitsy’s reply.

“Mitsy thinkses Master and Missus should eats the lemons tarts with whippy cream. They is mostest excellent,” she enthused, her ears flapping happily as her head bobbed up and down.

“That sounds lovely. Just pack everything up in a wicker basket along with a nice bottle of Chenin Blanc, and bring it out to the small clearing at the middle of the orchard with a large quilt,” she instructed, and left to change into a lighter set of robes. It was quite warm in the noon-day sun, and though there would be substantial shade from the fragrant plantings, it would not be lady-like to perspire in clothing that was too heavy.

Fifteen minutes later, she made her way out to the vast grove of apple trees and used her wand to stretch out the quilt on the ground. Lucius arrived just a few moments later, having discarded his own formal robes in favor of a crisp white cotton shirt and grey linen trousers, his long silver-blond hair tied back in a thin black leather thong.

“Darling! Don’t you look cool and comfortable,” she observed.

“And you are just ravishing in that lovely blue dress, my dear. I tire so of seeing you in pale yellows and greens. They do nothing for your beautiful complexion, I fear.”

“You know very well why I wear those horrid colors, Lucius. But let’s just put all that aside for now and have a nice afternoon together, please?”

“Of course, love. No false flags between us today,” he agreed.

With a nod of acknowledgment, Narcissa opened the wicker hamper and removed the simple platinum-rimmed white china and sterling flatware, setting it on the quilt between them. A generous container of the chicken salad she’d requested had been placed under a cooling charm so that the green grapes would stay crisp and juicy. She pulled out the wedge of extra-sharp cheddar and the crunchy baguette, breaking off a substantial chunk for each of them. She handed Lucius a small, sharp knife that he used to portion pieces of the cheese while she doled out their servings of the chicken salad.

They shared amiable chatter while eating their midday meal and sipping on their chilled white wine. Lucius had conjured a great stack of pillows to lean on from a handful of leaves, and he reclined against them while his wife rested her head on his lap. She looked up at him and asked, “Would you like a little something sweet?”

He grinned at her and bent to take her lips with his own. “I thought you’d never ask, love.”

She let his kiss linger as his arms wrapped around her for long moments. “That was lovely, dear, but I meant to offer dessert. We have lemon tarts,” she told him.

“Well, I’d hardly call you a tart, dear, and you are far too sweet to be called a lemon,” he teased.

“Silly you,” she scolded mockingly. She sat up from her resting position and reached in to the hamper for two flaky lemon tarts, heaped with fresh sweetened whipped cream. Handing him one plate, she dipped her finger in the cream of her own treat and swiped it across his lips. “See, dessert can be very sweet indeed.”

“You minx,” he teased, as he pressed his lips to hers once more, sharing the sweet cream between them.

They ate the delectable confections, taking time to nip at each other’s lips between bites. Narcissa set her unfinished dessert aside, and peered at her husband, something clearly on her mind.

“Speak, dear. It’s written all over your face,” he urged.

“Well, it’s really silly, but eating the dessert reminded me of something very odd that happened in the kitchens earlier.”

“Odd? How so?” he asked, intrigued. How often did strange things happen in a kitchen, after all?

“When I was selecting things for our meal, I asked for some chocolate mousse cake – which, by the way, you apparently polished off as a midnight snack – and when I learned there was none left, one of the house-elves offered some chocolate truffles. So far, nothing odd there, right? Then, one of the other house-elves, Mitsy – you know, the one we got about four years ago? – goes a little crazy and insists that nobody can eat those truffles but Master Draco. That they are his favorites, and are reserved just for him.”

Lucius, looking appropriately chagrined for his late night sweet-theft, acknowledged his son’s love of chocolate, which was something of a family trait. “Well, I can understand a man wanting to keep a special treat for himself now and again.”

“I can, too, Lucius. And I don’t know why this unsettled me so. It’s probably because Mitsy was so panicked over the thought of someone taking Draco’s truffles. And the other thing that troubled me is that I don’t recall placing an order for that particular treat.”

“Maybe it’s something that Draco orders himself,” he suggested reasonably.

Narcissa shook her head slightly with doubt. “Since when has Draco ever taken the initiative to place food orders on his own? I think I’ll check out the Honeyduke’s invoices and see if they show up there.”

“I’m sure they will, love. He probably just added them somewhere along the way and they’ve become part of our standard delivery.”

“Hmm. Maybe,” she agreed reluctantly. But something was tickling at her brain, and she just couldn’t recall why the truffles seemed to mean something more. It was a topic she’d revisit later. For now, her husband had leaned into her and was lightly nipping at her long, elegant neck.

“Mmmm. Now this is what I call delicious,” he murmured against her throat.

“And it’s all about the neck, love. Nibble me there, and I’ll follow you anywhere,” she laughed throatily.

Lucius wrapped his arms tightly around his witch, and apparated them directly into their lavish bedroom. “How’s here?” he laughed, and tugged her over to join him on their massive bed.

“This will do nicely,” she agreed, and set her hands to teasingly open the buttons of his shirt, one at a time. She placed a trail of kisses on his lean and well-defined chest and abdomen as they were exposed by her action. The light dusting of blond hair that narrowed to a thin line above and below his navel tickled her nose and she stopped briefly when she reached the impediment of his belt.

Rather than allow her to continue on her current path, regardless of the engorged treat that awaited her there, Lucius lifted her to meet his gaze, and kissed her deeply while he worked his own magic on the buttons of her bodice. He was pleasantly surprised to discover she’d chosen not to wear a corset or brassiere under her robe. Her rosy nipples were so inviting that he could not help but to take one into his mouth and suckle it deeply, causing the bud to pucker in response and his wife to moan in delight.

“Merlin, Lucius,” she whispered, “I’ll never tire of you doing that. It sends shocks right to my very core every time.”

“Mmmm. I quite like it, too, coeur,” he murmured against her skin, traversing across to ensure that both breasts received equal attention. He peppered kisses along her torso, pushing the bodice of her dress from her shoulders and tracing light patterns with his fingers over her velvety skin.

Lucius’ caress made her heart soar with joy at the love that they shared, but a melancholy darkness invaded as she spared a thought for the one tangible product of their love, their son Draco. Would he ever feel this kind of connection with another person? Would the sickness that invaded his soul – whatever its source – yield to allow him to join his heart and body with a woman who could make him whole in the same way Lucius completed her? The thought that her boy would never know that kind of bliss saddened her immeasurably, and she felt a tear escape to trail down her cheek.

“What’s wrong, ma coeur?” Lucius whispered.

She shook her head slightly, as much to rid herself of the thought as to deny any problem. “Just a thought to our boy, cher. I pray that someday he will know love like ours.”

“We will help him. I don’t know how, but we will find a way,” he pledged, holding her in an enveloping embrace and willing his wife to feel his own care for the fate of their family. She responded with kisses filled with passion and need, and lifted her hips to slip her robe off, discarding it in a heap over the edge of the bed. Lucius traced his finger along the top edge of the pink silk panties that covered her center.

“Soixante-neuf, mon ange?” he asked.

“Oui, s’il vous plait, mon cher,” she agreed, a sly grin creasing her face.

Lucius rose from the bed, shrugged the shirt from his shoulders, unbuckled his belt, and removed his trousers and charcoal silk boxers, exposing his thick, erect penis to her eager gaze. He reached for her and slid her own silk undergarment from her hips. He rejoined his wife on their bed and turned so that he could kiss her mound intimately while she wrapped his length with her lips. His teeth and tongue teased her swollen bud, then moved a few centimeters to lap at her juices. “Mmmm. Sucre,” he murmured against her, and redoubled his efforts.

Narcissa had taken her husband’s full length into her throat – no small feat – and tugged and pushed his hips, encouraging him to thrust to create friction against her tongue. On each retreat, she swirled her tongue around his head. At each thrust, she allowed him deep entry. They were both feeling delicious pressure build, when Narcissa pulled away with a gasp. “Inside me, Lucius, please,” she pleaded, rolling to her back.

“Oui, mon ange.”

He positioned himself between her open knees, resting on his haunches, and tugged her hips up along his thighs to meet his glistening erection. He thrust into her slick opening and wrapped his hands around her ribs to lift her upright into an embrace. It took a great deal of strength to maintain thrusting in this position, but Lucius was a virile and skilled lover and his wife was a petite woman. He continued to stroke while encouraging his wife to seek her own pleasure. His hips pistoned slowly and deeply while he used his lips and tongue to tease the spot where Narcissa’s neck and shoulder met. Her mewls of pleasure encouraged his movement, and he sped his thrusting as he felt her lubrication increase and her breathing get more shallow. She was close, and so was he. He released the tight hold he had on her torso and lowered her back to the bed, then shifted his weight forward to lengthen and deepen his strokes while the angle of penetration ensured that his pubis made contact with her nub. Four more thrusts had Narcissa crying out in ecstasy and her vaginal walls clenching around his throbbing penis. Two more strokes had Lucius grunting his own intense release as he held his position, sheathed to the hilt, his thighs and buttocks clenching with the effort.

He fell to the bed, exhausted and panting, and rolled her over atop his body without disconnecting their intimate joining. “Je t’aime, mon coeur,” he whispered into her hair.

“Moi aussi, je t’aime.”

“I know I don’t say it terribly often, my dearest, but I really do, you know. I would do anything for you. Anything to keep you happy,” he confessed.

“And I, you, Lucius. But I do wonder…”

“What’s that, love?”

“Do you love me enough to let me die when the time comes?”

“I’ll never let you go, my love, but I will let the world think that I have, if it means that in the end, we’ll have each other forever.”

The lovers slept peacefully in each other’s arms for a couple of hours before nature’s other call necessitated Lucius rising from their nest. When he returned to the bedchamber, his wife had risen and wrapped a light silk robe around her slim frame. “I think I’m going to draw a bath, darling. Would you care to join me?” she offered.

“As much as I’d love to, I do have a meeting to attend this evening. I’ll just grab a quick shower and leave you to have a nice long soak.”

“That’s fine, my sweet. Will you be home late?” she asked as she turned on the taps in the massive marble tub, adding rose oil and essence of lily to the water.

“Probably around midnight, I’d guess. I dare say I’ll have some things for you to pass along tomorrow,” he hinted.

“That’s good to know. I’ll pop over to Andy’s tonight since you’ll be out so late.”

“Fine idea, love,” he agreed as he turned the taps on for each of the three shower heads in the marble walk-in he’d added when the master bath had been remodeled a few years earlier. Lucius did love his Muggle-style shower.

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It had taken Hermione four more weeks before she began to feel closer to her normal self. She’d not been especially shocked that Malfoy had tried to kill her. After all, he’d tried – and failed – once before. Still, it was disconcerting to be the target of a killer, especially one whom she’d known since she was only eleven years old. How he’d become such a ruthless psychopath had been the topic of conversation for many days after she’d told her friends and compatriots that he’d been her attacker.

As she thought back over the last few months, Hermione recalled how many ups and downs they’d been through. From elation to despair, it seemed that they’d experienced every emotion along the spectrum in such a short time. One highlight had been about five months earlier, when they’d had positive confirmation from a supposedly unimpeachable source that the seventh Horcrux was contained in Voldemort’s familiar, the massive snake known as Nagini. It had saved them enormous amounts of work – and funds that were always in short supply – to have that information. The only downside was that they were reasonably certain that it would only be very near a final battle before they’d be able to eliminate that particular obstacle, as the snake was always at the evil wizard’s feet. The information, however, had caused their former Headmaster to laugh with glee and relief for the first time in months – since his dear friend Severus’ murder – and that had made everyone feel just a bit more optimistic and lighthearted, at least for a short time.

Sadly, it hadn’t taken long for there to be another setback. Four separate leads that they’d had on the nature and location of the sixth Horcrux had turned out to be dead ends, and they had had no new intelligence on that subject for at least a month – the last time that Hermione had ventured out to nearly meet her demise. Hermione was getting a bit testy about the lack of progress, and that made everyone around her on edge. Hermione, when pushed to her limits, did not hide her frustrations well.

That lesson had been painfully learned by Ron Weasley. Once the ginger-haired wizard had recovered sufficiently to be released from St. Mungo’s – nearly a year after he’d been admitted – he’d rejoined his friends at Hogwarts and had been added to the team of researchers that had once been only Hermione and Neville. Most people acknowledged that this move was not so much because of his skill as a researcher, but because he hadn’t recovered sufficient motor skill to be trained as a fighter, and placing him with Hermione meant that someone could keep an eye on him and minimize the amount of trouble he might otherwise cause with his volatile temper and short attention span.

Ron’s dependence on Hermione had led to an awkward relationship of sorts. He followed her like a lost puppy everywhere she went, and Hermione’s generally good nature meant that she was reluctant to push him away. They’d “dated” for a few months – as much as a couple could when they were effectively confined to the Hogwarts grounds – and managed a few snogging sessions and stolen moments in darkened, unused classrooms, but Hermione’s discomfort with the young man who’d become so clingy and reliant on her grew with every private meeting. She’d done her best to end it without hurting the boy she’d been close to for so long, but he had been inconsolable when she’d told them they would never really be more than best friends – of the platonic sort. They hadn’t been able to have a conversation in weeks that didn’t end in one of them in tears. Dumbledore had reluctantly pulled Ron from the research team to give them both a bit of breathing room, but their close proximity in the castle had made for many silent meals and uncomfortable evenings. Hermione had, to no one’s surprise, buried herself in more research and study to avoid spending time with the young man. She hoped that, someday, they’d be able to occupy the same room without wanting to strangle each other, but that day had not yet arrived.

The next layer of difficulty had been finding something for Ron to actually do, and Dumbledore had allowed him to act as a practice dueling partner so that some of the fighters who were recovering from battle or training injuries would have a way to work themselves back into shape. That had actually worked reasonably well, and a sense of détente had returned to the erstwhile couple. They did, after all, have a mutual goal to achieve, and that was infinitely more important than their personal squabbles.

Dumbledore’s Army had clearly defined their three critical goals for the foreseeable future, and everyone would have a role to play. First, they would need to do everything in their power to protect the innocents – Muggles, Muggleborn children, and Squibs – and assist sympathetic purebloods and half-bloods by sharing information and self-defense strategies. Second, the Strike Team would attempt to increase the rate of capture or incapacitation of known Death Eaters. Finally, the efforts to identify and destroy what they had come to call “Horcrux Number Six” would be redoubled.

Hermione, knowing that the third goal’s success was laid firmly in her lap, was chomping at the bit to overcome the setbacks that had plagued their efforts for the last several weeks. It had been more than a month – just before she’d been attacked - since they’d developed any new clues about the last unknown Horcrux, and her impatience and frustration were beginning to drag on her focus. She desperately needed a break, or a breakthrough, and fast.

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Narcissa had taken a light supper of spinach soufflé with garlic toast after her husband’s departure for his meeting. She hoped that he’d not be terribly late, and instructed Tuppy to have a selection of soup and sandwiches available for him when he returned. Since she’d not planned to meet her sister until a little later in the evening, she had some time to return to the correspondence that she’d set aside when Lucius had surprised her with an afternoon visit.

One hour later, the saddening post had been completed and sent off via owl, and she turned her attention to some bookkeeping for the household accounts. Receipts for their numerous leased land holdings were recorded and bills were paid. Her memory was jogged when she issued cheques for several grocery vendors that she wanted to examine the invoices for Honeyduke’s and those mysterious truffles.

She murmured aloud as she reviewed the items that had been sent to them over the last couple of months, and she ticked off each item that she recalled either serving or sampling. “Cashew clusters, treacle fudge, caramel crèmes, dark chocolate dipped cherries, white chocolate strawberries, and almond bark. But no truffles.”

Well, she thought, that’s decidedly odd. Maybe they were ordered from another purveyor.

Narcissa checked three other invoices from various sweet shops, including the one in Paris that Lucius adored, and found nothing to indicate that truffles had been ordered by Draco or any one else in the household. She rose from her desk, intent on getting to the bottom of this mystery once and for all.

She made her way to the kitchen and, as expected, was greeted by her three house-elves before she would completely cross the threshold.

“Whats can we does for missus?” Tuppy squeaked.

“I would like to see the box for Master Draco’s truffles so that I can make sure they are reordered for him. Take them out for me,” she ordered in her best ‘efficient Lady of the Manor’ voice.

This prompted a terribly unusual, though not entirely unexpected, reaction from Mitsy, the house-elf who’d clearly been appointed at the sole protector of Master Draco’s truffles. She shrieked much as she had hours earlier, and barricaded the cabinet once again with her body.

“No, Missus! Pleases don’t. That bees Mitsy’s job to get Master Dracoses truffles. Mitsy dieses if she doesn’t takes care of Master Dracoses truffles,” the little creature sobbed.

This piece of news enraged Narcissa. “Are you telling me that Master Draco threatened to kill you if you didn’t order his truffles?”

“NO! Missus. Mitsy can’ts says. Mitsy will dies!”

Seeing that this line of questioning was getting her nowhere, Narcissa decided to try another tack. “How do you reorder Master Draco’s truffles, Mitsy?”

Sniffling and wringing her moss-green hands, Mitsy answered her mistress, “Mitsy tapses the box two timeses, and new truffles comes.”

“What about when Master Draco is away?” Narcissa wondered aloud, as her son was only home at the Manor irregularly.

“Master Draco always takeses boxes wif hims,” Mitsy confirmed.

“I would like to try just one of Master Draco’s truffles, just to be sure they are of sufficient quality. Please get one for me,” Narcissa instructed.

Mitsy’s weeping and wailing reached a fever pitch, and she began to pound her head against the cold stone floor. When ordered to stop, she complied, but moved to the stove and placed her bare hands upon the hot plates. Narcissa winced as she heard the creature’s skin sizzle. She shouted, “Stop that now!” and the tiny house-elf retreated to a corner, sobbing loudly.

“Tuppy, get a truffle for me, now,” Narcissa instructed.

Tuppy moved to the cabinet, intent on following her mistress’ orders. As she reached to open the cupboard, she was violently repelled by a shielding charm that burned her fingers and singed what little hair she had off her head.

Narcissa gasped and lifted her wand to try to remove whatever spell had guarded the cabinet. Four attempts yielded no success; if anything, it seemed that the shield had strengthened. This is just extraordinary, she thought. I think this will require some help from Lucius.

“Make sure that you get Jilly to heal any injuries that either of you has suffered,” she hissed through gritted teeth as she stalked out of the kitchen.

It was clear that there was more to this truffle issue than met the eye, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it. The fact that she still couldn’t recall why truffles niggled at the back of her memory was annoying and frustrating, but she’d have to leave it for later deliberation. In the meantime, she had an appointment to keep.

French Translations:

Coeur = Heart

Soixante-neuf, mon ange = Sixty-nine, my angel

Oui, s’il vous plait, mon cher = Yes, if you like, my dear

Sucre = sugar, sweet

Oui, mon ange = Yes, my angel

Je t’aime, mon coeur = I love you, my heart

Moi aussi, je t’aime – I love you too