Covered in Crimson

Two Years and Five Months Ago

How had it come to this? Albus Dumbledore wondered. Why had they been stalled so long on one – admittedly pivotal – problem? They had had one major breakthrough in the last six months, and then hit another brick wall. He was becoming concerned for his tiny team of researchers as he saw their frustrations boil over from time to time, and internal bickering had sometimes impeded their progress. He remembered how ecstatic Hermione had been when their research had confirmed what a deep-cover informant had told them about the final unidentified Horcrux – that it had belonged to Hogwarts co-founder Rowena Ravenclaw. If only she could recapture that enthusiasm and energy, they might make real progress in discovering exactly what item of Rowena’s was a likely candidate.

If the external battles hadn’t become so brutal, so frequent, and so geographically widespread, he would have reassigned a couple of field fighters to aid Hermione and Neville in their research. But conditions in the field made that completely impossible. The Death Eaters had begun to target Muggles totally unconnected to the magical world in large numbers, and had carried out mass casualty attacks in Trafalgar Square, Kensington, Harrod’s, and King’s Cross. Ministry Aurors and Dumbledore’s Army were stretched frightfully thin. So the curly haired witch and her tall, now skinny year-mate labored on with only the Headmaster’s guidance and their informant’s infrequent, though helpful, clues.

Albus Dumbledore needed something to spur the girl and her partner on, and he had an idea. While he didn’t know the identity of the infiltrator for certain, he had his suspicions. What he did know was to whom the information had been funneled, and he decided that it was time for the spy to step up into the light. He placed a direct Floo to Floo call to see if negotiations could be opened to arrange a meeting.

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Bellatrix had restocked Draco’s supply of chocolate truffles dozens upon dozens of times with no incident and without interference or concern. His obvious addiction to the potions with which she and her husband had imbued the confection was evidenced by the number of times she’d had to replenish the treacherous sweets.

There had been one little wrinkle, several months ago, that had the dark witch just a bit wary. Mitsy, the house-elf that she had threatened and manipulated into doing her bidding, had dutifully reported Narcissa’s attempt to discover the truffles’ origin. The tiny creature had assured her true mistress that the threat had been effectively deflected, and there had been no further inquiries from Missus Malfoy. Bella and Rodolphus had breathed heavy sighs of relief when the next two or three deliveries had been made without interference and assumed that any impediment to their plot had been averted.

“I think we need to add a little extra ‘insurance’ to the formula, Bella,” Rodolphus had told her just days after they’d learned of Narcissa’s scrutiny.

“What did you have in mind?” Bella wondered.

“Two things. First, I’m going to increase the addictive ingredient by about twenty-five percent. That ought to ensure that Draco will do just about anything to get the truffles. Second, I’m thinking about reinforcing the compulsion spells. We haven’t done that in a while, and I can see that he’s been backing off on the levels of, uh, enthusiasm in our raids over the last few weeks. He’s been slightly less effective than usual and I want him in fighting form.”

“I agree. Do both,” she’d answered, clearing the way for another layer of control and manipulation to infect her nephew. “I will also accompany him on the next two or three raids, and we should be sure to include him prominently in the next revel.”

Bella had been true to her word, and watched firsthand the effect that her husband’s alterations to the treats had had on her sister’s eighteen year old son. He had killed two male Muggles in the first raid in which they’d participated, and she’d stood by and watched the rapture on the young blond’s face as his powerful orgasm overtook him when the men had drawn their final breaths, her own core slick and hot with arousal.

The revel in the woods two days later had been most entertaining. Bella had been amused at Draco’s stamina and recovery as he’d raped and tortured three young women – one Muggle and two Mudbloods – in less than two hours. She had asked him to leave their deaths to her, and he’d come for a fourth time that night with minimal assistance from his left hand as he eagerly watched the three females die at Bella’s wand. Bella’s own orgasm echoed in the trees minutes later as her husband took her from behind in full view of the gathered throng of Death Eaters. The Dark Lord had then allowed the assemblage their night of drunken debauchery after he’d called Bella away for a private encounter. He did so appreciate her willing mouth and flickering tongue. She’d pleasured him for long minutes, finding another release with eager fingers against her own center when the creature who’d once been Tom Riddle screamed his completion with pulses of thick semen into her throat. He’d wheezed a laugh and viciously twisted her bared nipples with long, bony fingers when she licked her own juices from her sticky fingers, prolonging the shuddering waves of pleasure that she’d felt.

No one, though, had deemed it terribly odd that Draco’s father had begged off for the evening; after all, his wife was desperately ill and his devotion to her care was well known, even among a group so generally callous.

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Lucius had been concerned and baffled when his wife had informed him about the strange second encounter she’d had with Mitsy over the truffles that she’d apparently been ordered to protect with her life. The house-elf had denied that Draco was the source of the threat, but wouldn’t – or couldn’t – offer any other information about who had enslaved her to that task. The three attempts he’d made to access the cupboard where they were stored had been met with interference from the tiny creature. In an abundance of caution, he’d obliviated the magical beasts of all three events. No use alerting someone that their treachery was suspected. He was terribly distressed that he’d not yet been able to gain access to the sealed cabinet, and was actively searching for a solution to that problem. He’d also told Narcissa to stop any of her own attempts to uncover the source of the confections until he was able to make some progress with his own research. He did encourage her to sift through her memories, with the use of his pensieve if necessary, to figure out why she was so uneasy about Draco’s apparent long history with the chocolate treats.

She’d been at it for weeks. Every day, Narcissa would draw out memories and place them in her husband’s pensieve, searching them hour upon hour for any clue, any detail that would give her insight into what had happened to her son. Working backwards, the worried mother had seen the drastic changes in her boy in their full measure. There appeared to be nothing left of the sweet child who’d called her “Mère” and cuddled with her on the chaise in her suite while she read aloud from an ancient book of wizard’s fairy tales. She reminisced over the captivated expression in his bright grey eyes and lamented how they now looked dull, listless, and cold. She wept more than once over her bitter trip backwards in time.

Eleven weeks and five days after her first foray into distressing reminiscences of her son, Narcissa had explored as far into the past as Draco’s penultimate term at Hogwarts, the spring term of his fifth year. The pallor in her skin which most attributed to her purported illness was now more genuine, caused not by any disease invading her body but by her heartsickness at seeing the evolution of her son’s appalling behavior during the past few years. The stark contrast in the fourteen year old Draco and the young man, who today shared nothing more than her genes, was shocking. It was in memories of the early weeks of that term that Narcissa found a tantalizing clue.

She recalled writing a letter in response to a request from her son for a specific treat. Her memory flooded back as she watched herself sitting at her ornately carved ladies’ desk, the delicate ostrich feather quill scratching lightly against the parchment:

“Draco, darling, I’m so glad you’re enjoying the treats I’ve sent, but I’m afraid I’m at a loss. I don’t recall packaging anything in a silver box. Maybe one of the house-elves took it upon himself to decorate your little gifts a bit. I’ll make sure that more are sent, since you’re so fond of them. Do make sure that you eat something other than chocolates, dear. Protein is very important for a growing young man. Do take care, and write back soon.

Your loving mother,” she’d written in reply to his impassioned request for more chocolate truffles.

She remembered feeling unsettled when his requests had begun to feel like demands, but since he’d typically sent a note acknowledging her packages, she’d set aside her worries and assumed that nothing was amiss. She sent him what he wanted, and he consumed his treats eagerly, apparently satisfied with the contents of the hampers from Malfoy Manor.

Now, she knew something was out of sorts. Fifth year was when Draco began to behave uncharacteristically, from her perspective. Narcissa had confirmed in household account records that she had never purchased a regular order of chocolate truffles to be included in Draco’s packages. She had never used a specially-wrapped silver box to contain any treats. Fifth year was when he’d begun to wax poetic about chocolate truffles that had, she was now certain, not come from her.

When her husband returned from his meetings later that evening, she had nearly pounced on him in her haste to tell him of her troubling discovery.

“Lucius!” she called as soon as the roar from the Floo had diminished. “I think I’ve stumbled upon something.”

“Have you, dear? That’s nice,” he teased. “Now what in blue blazes are you talking about?”

“What have I spent every waking hour researching for the last three months?” she retorted, one delicate eyebrow quirked in mild annoyance.

“Ah. I see. Draco’s truffles obsession, then,” he confirmed.

“Of course. It was during Draco’s fifth year at Hogwarts. I remembered a letter that he sent, begging for more truffles like the ones that had been packaged in a silver box. I checked my memories and saw the note that I wrote in response, in which I expressed that I wasn’t sure to which treats he’d referred. To make a long story short, I checked back through all of our household accounts from that time forward, and I’ve never ordered the truffles he requested, and I’ve never used a silver box for anything that I’ve sent to him. Someone else has been sending those treats to him for years, right under our very own noses, and we’ve completely failed to notice that their origin is wholly unknown.”

Lucius was quiet for a moment, and began to pace the room slowly and deliberately. It was clear that he was sorting through what his wife had said, trying to reconcile the level of betrayal that was undoubtedly at play with what he thought was impeccable security throughout Malfoy Manor. Somehow, that had been breached for an extended time by an unknown perpetrator. He wondered what else could have been compromised and his heart leapt into his throat at the possibilities. Fear was evident in his cool grey eyes as he finally met his wife’s gaze.

“I’ve got a couple of possibilities in mind, Narcissa, but I need evidence before I confront anyone on this. First things first, though. I need to get into that cabinet.” His own memory drifted back to a conversation he’d had with his brother-in-law three years earlier, when the man had expressed a burning desire to indoctrinate his nephew into the Death Eater ranks.

“Yes, but how? We’ve both tried countless times without success, and you’ve had to obliviate the house-elves to keep our concern between us.”

“I will deal with the house-elves with a stasis spell. They won’t even know that they’ve been unaware. As far as getting in to the cabinet, the Manor will recognize blood magic as a final authority. We’ll try that as our next step,” he stated with gruff authority.

“I’d rather not waste any more time. Shall we get started?”

“Yes. First, let’s call the house-elves and deal with them.”

Narcissa called out to the green-skinned creatures and barely had time to take a breath before they appeared. Before they could request their assignment, Lucius had cast a spell that placed all of them in a state of suspension, leaving husband and wife virtually alone in their home for the first time in years.

They proceeded to the kitchen to apply ancient and grey magic to their problem. Lucius removed a silver knife from its sheath in his dragonskin boot and thumbed the edge to test its sharpness. Satisfied that the blade did not require honing, he opened his left palm and began to recite an incantation.

“As Lord of this manor and head of the family Malfoy, I shed my blood in command to reveal all secrets.” He drew the blade across his palm, refusing the temptation to wince as it pierced his skin. As blood pooled in his hand, he squeezed to increase its flow and placed the reddened surface against the door of the cabinet. He waited ten, thirty, sixty seconds. Nothing happened. “How is this possible?” he asked his wife, stunned that the house had refused his most solemn order.

Fear flickered in her eyes, but the determined mother refused to be defeated. “I will try,” she announced, taking the blade from his grasp.

“As Lady of this manor and consort of the head of the family Malfoy, I shed my blood in command to reveal all secrets.” She repeated his command and his action, gasping once as the cool metal cut her tender flesh, the residue of her husband’s blood combining with her own. Placing her dripping wound against the cupboard, she was even more flabbergasted than her husband had been when the door sprung open at her slightest touch. “Why…?” she breathed, not understanding why it would respond to her command and not her husband’s.

He shook his head once, telling her that he had no idea what had caused the vastly different result of their identical actions. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he gritted his teeth, as another thought passed through his head. Could it be…?

With an intake of breath, she reached in with the intention of removing one of at least a dozen boxes of chocolate truffles.

“Wait!” Lucius shouted. “Don’t touch it with your bare hands. We don’t know what curses might be contained on the box itself.”

Chagrined, she blushed and nodded. “Of course, dear. How thoughtless of me.” She raised her wand to complete the task and levitated the silver box out of the cabinet and allowed it to come to rest on the white marble countertop.

“We’ll need to remove this to a potions lab, but I think it needs to be somewhere exceptionally secure,” Lucius opined.

“I agree. The best lab I know is Severus’ old research facility at Hogwarts. Do you think that Dumbledore would consent to our use of their resources?”

“I think that it could be arranged. He’s been requesting a meeting with the ‘deep-cover informant’ for weeks. It may be time that we come out from under for our mutual benefit,” Lucius concluded. In the meantime, he stowed the purloined box of treats away in a magically sealed container and hid it in his private study. He then returned to the sitting room where the house-elves stood, unmoving. He removed the stasis spells and requested refreshments. No use in raising suspicions about why they’d been summoned, he thought.

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Albus Dumbledore suspected the identity of their hidden benefactor for long months, but had not been able to convince Tonks to confirm the information. She’d finally revealed that an Unbreakable Vow had been invoked, making his request moot. If he wanted to arrange a meeting, she would pass along the request but the spy would have to release her from the Vow if he finally agreed to a face-to-face conversation. Thus, when Tonks approached the former Hogwarts Headmaster with a proposal from the spy, he was both intrigued and delighted.

“He needs something from you,” Tonks had told him, “and in exchange, he’s ready to reveal himself and tell you what he’s been doing and why.”

They had arranged for the informant to come to Hogwarts under heavy glamour and virtually impenetrable security. He would be escorted by Tonks, arriving at three o’clock in the morning, and would meet only with Albus. When the short, spongy looking man had arrived in the Headmaster’s office, it had taken a full three minutes for him to remove the spells that concealed his true identity. Albus waited patiently as the man’s true visage was revealed. He smiled broadly and knowingly once Lucius Malfoy stood proudly before him.

“Lucius, I am most pleased to see you here this morning,” Albus greeted him warmly. “It seems we have much to discuss. Won’t you make yourself comfortable?” He waved an arm, causing a selection of teas and pastries to appear on a small oak table between the two armchairs in which the wizards rested.

Lucius refused all but a cup of Darjeeling tea, and sipped the hot liquid with the casual grace of a man who knew exactly what he wanted as much as what might be expected of him. “Shall I assume that you are not especially surprised to learn my identity, Albus?”

“I am not terribly surprised, Lucius, but I am extraordinarily pleased. I had dared to hope that our informant might be you.”

“Was there anything in particular that pointed your suspicions to me?” he wondered aloud, just a little concerned that he might have done something to tip his hand.

“Nothing concrete, but the quality and accuracy of the intelligence we received led me to believe it was someone in Voldemort’s inner circle. How you have managed to maintain your position while feeding us so much data has been a mystery,” the elder man acknowledged. “I am, I must confess, terribly curious as to your motivations, if I might be so bold.”

Lucius recognized this invitation to speak as the gentle challenge it was to explain his astonishing defection. “It is only prudent and appropriate that you question my loyalties, Albus. I am prepared to provide any and all proof you deem necessary to demonstrate my sincerity,” he offered. “Veritaserum, Legilimency, an Unbreakable Vow – truly anything you require, I am prepared to give.”

“Thank you, Lucius. Should I find any of those measures required, I will not be shy about asking you to submit to them. For now, though, why don’t you tell me why you turned away from Voldemort so many months ago.”

Lucius set down the delicate china cup and looked deeply into the wizened man’s eyes, encouraging him wordlessly to use Legilimency if he so desired. He felt the tickle of gentle invasion in his brain as he shared his tale. Long minutes later, he concluded his account, “So you see, my wife and I have come to recognize that the Dark Lord’s aims are not in the best interests of the Wizarding world, and our son’s regrettable immersion and descent into unconscionable violence have led us to reject our former beliefs.”

Albus waited quietly, watching as Lucius struggled with whatever it was that he was holding back. The delay was not long.

“Narcissa and I have reason to believe that Draco has been manipulated, possibly under the influence of one or more potions, for an extended period of time. This is the crux of the reason for my request to meet with you, Albus.”

“Severus and I suspected as much while Draco was still here at Hogwarts, but we were unsuccessful in determining what might have had such an influence on him. I am more than willing to try again, if you think that if could salvage your son. What can I do to help your family, Lucius?”

“Narcissa and I would like to have access to Severus’ potions research lab to analyze some materials that we believe have been used to alter Draco’s behavior.”

“Have you established the origin of the materials you suspect?”

Lucius hesitated briefly, then decided it would not be in anyone’s best interest to keep things from Albus Dumbledore. He was, after all, requesting the man’s aid. “I am not sure, but I have my suspicions. If what I believe is true, Merlin help the perpetrator, because I will not be merciful.”

“I understand, Lucius, that your family means everything to you. Does your wife share your fears?”

“She is not aware that I have a likely suspect in mind. For now, I’d like to keep it that way. I’d prefer that she stay focused on the practical research.”

“Lucius, would it be safe to say that you have more to tell me?”

“Quite so.”

“Then let us roll up our sleeves and figure out how we can help each other.”

More than two hours later, the sun was rising through the stained glass windows that decorated the Headmaster’s office. Lucius had shared his wife’s desperate plan to fake her own death as a means of subverting Voldemort’s influence on her family and to find a way to reclaim Draco’s life before it was wholly forfeit. New ideas and possibilities were shared, agreements were secured, and the two men found a greater degree of respect for one another.

“I think we have made immense progress this morning, Lucius. I am most grateful for your honesty and trust in me.”

“And I, you, Albus.” The younger wizard rose and took his former professor’s offered hand. “I would ask one more favor, if I may be so bold.”

“I’m sure it would be my pleasure.”

“I think it would be advisable for us to make an Unbreakable Vow. We have shared, and will continue to share, dangerous secrets. We should protect each other and ourselves in this way,” he stated firmly.

“While I would not have asked it of you, Lucius, after the depth and detail of everything that you’ve shared today, I am happy to hear your willingness to enter such a pact. It confirms for me that my trust in you is not misplaced. If you’ll give me a moment, I will use the Floo to call Minerva to bind the promise for us.”

At Lucius’ nod of assent, he turned to summon his deputy. She would be stunned to find Lucius Malfoy in her friend’s office, he felt quite certain. The thought made him chuckle.

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Three months had passed, and Narcissa had, for all practical purposes, taken up residence at Hogwarts, though there were only a tiny handful of people who were privy to that fact. She and her husband, Albus, Minerva, and Poppy were the only ones aware of her presence. She’d commandeered the late Potions Master’s personal suite along with the laboratory that had been his pride and joy. To maintain secrecy whenever she had to stray from Snape’s former refuge in the dungeons, she was Disillusioned or heavily disguised.

At her husband’s urging, she had taken extreme measures to protect herself from any untoward side effects of handling either the truffles or their container. He had ordered a custom-made pair of elbow length dragonskin gloves, a set of crystal goggles for eye protection, and an impenetrable mask to cover her nose and mouth. Lucius also insisted that she create a bubble charm surrounding her head as a secondary layer of security whenever she worked with the suspect materials. He would not take any chances with his wife’s health and safety, even to benefit their son.

Narcissa had always shown exceptional talent in creating and analyzing potions, but this concoction was vexing. The weeks of testing with little progress were wearing on her nerves. She’d been able to identify and isolate two ingredients – one a stabilizer and one an addictive – but there were at least eleven more distinct elements. None of them had responded to standard testing and analysis. It was clear that whoever had blended this concoction was exceptionally skilled, and undoubtedly devious. Narcissa had begun to investigate for masking spells which were the next possibility when ingredients failed to respond.

She’d had similar frustrations with the silver packaging in which the treats had been stored. She had identified no fewer than fourteen masking spells - an utterly astonishing finding – and she was not yet done unraveling that issue. Exactly what those spells were hiding was far from being discovered. There could be no doubt that the person or group who had created this nightmare had two aims in mind. First, they wanted to ensnare Draco and keep him in their grasp, and second, they sought to evade detection and scrutiny at minute levels. He, she, or they had thus far been wildly successful; Narcissa was determined to end that triumph with one of her own.

Narcissa had taken to meeting with Albus Dumbledore once a week to share her limited conclusions and mounting frustrations. Most castle residents assumed that the willowy woman with black hair and brown eyes was an Auror or Order member from a remote district, come to Hogwarts to consult on a problem or two. No one disabused them of their incorrect inferences. The regular meetings between Narcissa and Albus were, unfortunately, more about ideas than results. He had shared with her their early testing on all of Draco’s deliveries while he was still in school, but acknowledged that they had had even less success than she. When Albus had proposed giving her an assistant to supplement her work, she had been reticent, fearing that her anonymity would be compromised. They had settled on a solution that had Poppy Pomfrey reviewing her research notes for any errors that might have been made by the worried mother as she worked to exhaustion nearly every day.

That second set of eyes had proved useful when she noticed two calculation errors that, according to the notes, had been made at half three in the morning. The corrections led to an important breakthrough in unraveling the identity of six more ingredients, but she was still just over half-way through. At this rate, it would take another three or four months to yield useful results. She needed a break, even for a few days, to clear her mind and get some real rest. Two-hour kips were not enough to keep her thinking sharp. She would return to Malfoy Manor for a long weekend to reunite with her husband and recoup her flagging spirits and energy.

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Lucius and Narcissa were fortunate that their son Draco was not terribly curious about his mother’s whereabouts, and that he only infrequently returned to Malfoy Manor between his raids and reconnaissance missions. This allowed Narcissa to maintain her alternate residence at Hogwarts while conducting her research. Should Draco ask, Lucius was well-prepared to fib, obfuscate, or outright lie about his mother’s current location. The fact that the Malfoys owned nine properties scattered across the continent made the likelihood of her absence relatively high. She often took refuge at one of their seaside villas.

When Draco came home on this particular Wednesday night after a brutal and bloody raid that claimed the lives of four Death Eaters along with their six Muggle victims, he was neither surprised nor expectant when he saw his mother curled up on a settee, a crystal goblet of Sauvignon Blanc in one hand and a well-worn book in the other. He acknowledged her with a brief nod and made his way to his en-suite for a long, hot shower. His black clothing may have concealed any obvious bloodstains, but the sticky, red fluid on his hands would require immediate cleaning. Regardless of his ruthlessness in battle, he was still reluctant to have his mother see the by-products of his behavior. With all the violence he had committed, there was still a shadow of someone’s son locked inside, it seemed.

The young man climbed the two flights of stairs taking two steps at a time, his long legs easily traversing the spans. He entered his heavily warded room and stripped off the thick wool cloak that draped around his shoulders and fell to his ankles. It weighed about half again as much as usual because of the blood that soaked its bottom half. When he released his grasp, it fell to the floor with a thud. Underneath, he had worn standard wizard’s robes of true black. The many buttons on the robe’s jacket were made slick by the blood on his fingers, and he struggled to release them for a moment, until his mind refocused and he cast a quick Scourgify to give his fingers better purchase. The button-fly trousers were released more easily, and he stepped out of the legs as they fell to his feet. Though not exactly clean, these garments were less bloodied because they had been somewhat protected by the long cloak. In accord with traditional Death Eater practice, he wore no undergarments except socks. These too joined the pile of fabric on the floor and he stepped into his large, black and green marbled bathroom, not taking notice of the tiny splashes of red liquid that dotted parts of his body.

There had been no female victims in this evening’s raid, so Draco had not joined in the rapes that typically punctuated their activities. He didn’t get off on fucking men. That hadn’t meant that he didn’t climax; he had, twice, as he watched one man tortured beyond survival and another as his throat was sliced open with a cutting curse. He couldn’t help it – it happened every time. It was so common that he’d begun to think of that as his sexual norm. He hadn’t been able to get an erection without some violence involved in… Merlin, he didn’t know how long.

He reached into the two meter square shower stall and turned on the tap, placing a hand under the stream to test the water temperature. When he was satisfied with the level of heat, he stepped in under the pulsating stream and turned his face directly into the spray, wetting his long hair in the process. It had grown a lot in the last several months, and he couldn’t be bothered to deal with it. Now that it was falling past his collar, he figured it was time to do something about it; it just got in the way, and he didn’t fancy being a carbon copy of his father anyway. Grasping the bar of sandalwood scented soap from its holder, he lathered it between his hands and began to scrub the sweat, grime, and blood from his body. As always, he paid particularly careful attention to his genitals. There was nothing sexual or arousing about his own touch at that moment; his penis got into some interesting places and he definitely didn’t like the idea of some disease infecting him, regardless of how easy it might be to cure with Wizarding medicine. It was somehow lost on him that he could avoid that risk altogether if his behavior weren’t so aberrant. After scrubbing his hair and scalp with shampoo and rinsing thoroughly, he stepped out of the shower as he reached for the luxuriously thick bath towel from the magical warming rack. He ran it over his hair briefly, then dried his arms, torso, and legs before wrapping the slate grey fabric around his waist.

A wave of his wand removed the steam from the mirror over the sink, and he looked at his reflection critically. His eyes looked tired and dark, with blue smudges just above his cheekbones. The long hair he’d noted in the shower was shorn into a fairly traditional short gentleman’s style with another flick or two of his length of hawthorn. Draco set down the wand and shaved his light growth of blond stubble, just slightly darker than the hair on his head, with the same type of straight razor that his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather before him had used. He cleaned his teeth, ridding his mouth of the taste of the low-quality firewhisky that had been passed around when they’d decamped from the raid. He returned to his bedroom and stretched out on his silk-covered bed, propping himself up against the headboard with the assistance of a half dozen pillows. He crossed his legs at his ankles and let his eyes drift shut, dozing off for about an hour.

When he awakened, Draco was hungry. He’d not had a meal in at least six or seven hours. He quickly dressed in a pair of charcoal grey trousers and a black long sleeved shirt, hand-made from the finest Egyptian cotton. Tugging on a pair of fine leather boots, he noticed that the house-elves, in their typical efficiency, had removed the stained clothes he’d left on the hardwood floor. Grabbing his wand from the bedside table where he’d left it, he opened the door that sealed his private sanctuary and made his way to the family dining room.

Since it was after ten o’clock, he’d probably need to request something be prepared for him. Family dinner service usually concluded around half eight, so any remaining food would have been discarded or consumed by the rest of the household staff. As he took a seat at the rich mahogany table, he called out for a house-elf. “Mitsy!”

“Good eves, Master Draco. What can I gets yous?”

“I’ll have a roast beef sandwich, with chips and a butterbeer.”

“Right aways, Master Draco.” The little house-elf bowed low and backed out of the room, her nose nearly scraping the floor.

When she returned less than five minutes later with his meal, Draco added to his order, “I’ll need a new box of truffles, Mitsy. Have it delivered to my room when I’ve finished here.”

The creature gulped and swallowed heavily, her eyes gone wide with fright. Missus Malfoy had issued new orders about all treats in the house; nothing was to be delivered to Master Draco’s room without her express approval. “I will checks to see,” she hedged.

“What do you mean, ‘you’ll check’?” he asked. “You’ll do as I say, or pay the consequences.” The threat was real.

“I has to checks wif Missus Malfoy. She sayses no treats unless she gives permissions.”

Rising to his feet and tossing his linen napkin to the table, Draco stalked out of the room, muttering, “We’ll see about that.”

“Mother! Mother?! Where are you?” he called as he stomped through the corridor toward the last place he saw her, in the sitting room. He tugged open the closed double doors and found the room empty. He slammed the doors shut and headed for the master suite, banging on the door when he reached the sealed chamber.

Inside the bedroom, Narcissa heard Draco’s hollering and set down the brush she’d been using to bring her long blond hair to sheen. A deep feeling of dread overtook her, and she felt her throat tighten. She pushed down her fear and rose to open the door to her son. When she saw the look in his eyes, she immediately wished that she hadn’t. She also wished that she had picked up her wand from the table where it rested.

Draco reached out and grabbed her right forearm and tugging her closer to his body, effectively immobilizing her with his great size and strength advantage. “What do you mean by denying me my truffles?” he bit out through clenched teeth.

She tried not to let her fear show as she met her son’s angry glare. “Nothing, dear. It’s just that you’ve been eating a lot of sweets lately, and I wanted to balance your diet a bit.”

It was clear from his tightening grip and twitching jaw that he either did not believe her or did not take kindly to her decision about his culinary choices. “If I am old enough to kill a man for the Dark Lord, I am old enough to decide what I will eat. You will order the house-elves to deliver my truffles to my room. Now.” His voice was low, dangerous, and barely recognizable to her.

When she hesitated for the briefest moment to comply with his demand, she knew she’d made a grave error. His eyes became glassy and unfocused, and he closed his free hand into a fist. Less than a second later, that fist had made contact with his mother’s jaw, then her stomach, then her back as she attempted to twist away from his attack. He continued to pound at her tender flesh, bruising and cutting her with his knuckles and the heavy platinum signet ring he wore on his right hand. He didn’t respond to her cries of pain and barely noticed when she slumped in his arms, struggling to maintain consciousness after two blows to her head. She cried out as much as she was able, “Mitsy.”

When the house-elf appeared, Narcissa rasped, “Truffles for Draco.” She rested her head against the side of the settee where she’d fallen, vaguely grateful that he had not used his wand; she might not have survived his anger if he’d unleashed such unstable magic against her. She prayed silently that her husband would be home soon. She would need help.

Draco glanced at her battered form on the floor and without another word, left for his room, satisfied that his demands had been fulfilled. After consuming a handful of the tainted treats that Mitsy had delivered mere seconds earlier, he fell into a deep sleep. When he awakened the next morning, he wondered why his hands were so torn up and bloody. He thought he’d taken a shower the previous evening, and he had only used his wand during the raid. How curious, he thought.