7

Friday 21 February 2003: PM

The chill gloom of a winter evening shrouds Malfoy Manor as Draco Apparates to just inside the sinister enspelled-iron gates, abrasive gravel crunching beneath his well-shod feet. The elongated driveway cleaves a sharp demarcation between the high-walled formal gardens; familiar conflicting sentiments of yearning and repulsion threaten to disarrange Draco's veneer of equanimity. He takes a moment to absorb the Gothic majesty of his familial home, striving to lock his Occlumency shields securely in place.

The murk of the gloaming veils the high symmetrical turrets of the Manor, diluting its foreboding character and lending it an almost fanciful air. On a logical level, Draco knows that he ascribes the building a sentient menace that is probably undeserved; but the events of his turbulent sixteenth year have forever altered his feelings about his childhood home.

Hence his established routine to Apparate to the gate line, rather than Floo: he needs the extra time to fortify his emotions and don his mask of aloof indomitability before his weekly Friday dinner with his mother. Narcissa's coping strategy of pretending normality is seemingly ingrained in her personality and behaviour, and Draco tries to avoid upsetting her fragile equilibrium.

Fair-haired head held high, Draco marches purposefully down the drive. Best to take a leaf from his mother's playbook and fake it until he makes it. Even if he simply wants to make it through dinner as inoffensively as possible.

There is no need to knock to demand entry, of course; the estate has centuries-old magic imbued within its stony walls to recognize his blood and cede his rightful presence here. Draco quietly lets himself into the grand entrance hall and starts for the relatively new formal dining room (the previous incarnation was gutted and remodelled into another library). He is halfway there when a little voice pipes from behind him.

"Good evening, Master Malfoy. Lady Malfoy sends Macdolas to tell the young master that she will join you in the dining room shortly. Lady Malfoy is gladdened by your presence - as is Macdolas, of course, sir," the little house elf chirps.

Draco turns to note that Macdolas is impeccably attired in a miniature tuxedo – Victorian-inspired, he guesses. Complete with swallowtail jacket, bow tie and vertical satin pantleg stripes. The small-statured sprite is fascinated by historic Muggle domestics' costumes, thanks to Draco gifting him an obscure reference book on the subject when Macdolas was promoted into his current cherished position some years ago.

Given the little creature's overt pride in his faultlessly tailored garb, Draco doesn't have the heart to tell Macdolas of the extreme unlikelihood that a true Victorian butler would ever have chosen – much less been allowed – to wear that alarmingly iridescent tint of absinthe green. He tucks in the corners of his mouth, lest he offend Macdolas with his encroaching smile.

"Thank you, Macdolas. And please, call me Draco," he gently reminds for the hundredth time.

"Yes, Master Malfoy. Very good," Macdolas intones without a trace of irony. Well, I tried, Draco sighs to himself. Nodding, he continues to the dining parlour.

Although still in keeping with the Gothic architecture and décor of the rest of the Manor, the room is much lighter in colour and ambience than its predecessor. Narcissa decided upon a cream and gold colour scheme with black accents of furnishings and fitments. His mother's impeccable taste has worked wonders here, Draco acknowledges as he stands behind his customary seat at one end of the lovingly buffed dark oak wood table. Ruibby (Macdolas household counterpart and long-unrequited love interest) would be terribly affronted should the slightest smear dare blemish the polished surface.

To pass the time before his mother's arrival, Draco lets his mind wander to the mild comitragedy of Macdolas and Ruibby. They were both hired after the War, along with half a dozen other freed house elves; only a few original Malfoy servants remain at the Manor, having refused to accept the generous pensions Draco had arranged. Their roles are now primarily honorary, of course – but Draco has yet to know a house elf who doesn't prefer to keep busy.

His shadow of a smile deepens as he recalls the moment Macdolas clapped his oversized eyes on Ruibby and the goofy pandemonium that had soon ensued. One look at the new housekeeper and Macdolas had fallen head-over-heels. Literally, as he'd been in such haste to declare his newfound affections that he'd missed a step in his reckless descent of the central staircase and bounced like a rubber snitch to sprawl at Ruibby's tiny feet.

Sadly, Macdolas's bumbling over-fervent proclamations of undying love and improvised odes to Ruibby's unique beauty (Draco winces at the memory of the phrase, 'ears like broken bat wings') had fallen on stony ground. Ruibby had merely sniffed and sharply prodded the prostrate elf with the pointy toe of her shoe before telling him in no uncertain terms that his sentiments were unprofessional, unwelcome and unreciprocated. She'd spun on her dainty heel and ignored him ever since. Or attempted to disregard his ardent regard, since Macdolas was indefatigable in stubborn hope and dogged pursuit.

Poor besotted bastard. Draco briefly toys with the idea of giving Macdolas some pithy advice on playing it cool… then recalls his disastrous attempt to seduce Hermione last night. Gripping the high back of the ornate dining chair before him, he scowls in self-disgust. Beyond unequivocally proving that the explosive sexual chemistry between them is off the charts – no, out of this world, he amends – Draco is sullenly cognizant that he has clumsily managed to insult and alienate Hermione in one fell swoop. Just like our old school days, he mocks bitterly. Merlin's balls, I'm a gormless berk.

"Draco darling, why are you brooding fiercely and trying to squeeze a French antique into splinters with your bare hands?" Narcissa's cultured voice is dryly blithe with an undercurrent of real concern, as she glides into the room.

Relinquishing his death grip on the defenceless wood, Draco moves to brush a light peck on her cheek.

"Hello, Mother," he murmurs. As is her custom at these strained suppers, the Malfoy matriarch is wearing deep purple formal dress robes fit for an audience with royalty. The observation grieves him: it reflects her current status as a social pariah and relative exile, for where else does she have the chance to wear her finery these days? Her infamous husband is sentenced to house arrest and stripped indefinitely of his wand; her living sister remains estranged, perhaps irrevocably; and her high society friends choose to vilify her or abandon her to a lonely existence on the edge of Wiltshire without a second thought.

"Have you been out this week, Mother?" Draco couches the query as mildly as he is able as he escorts Narcissa to her chair at the other end of the table. He has remarked before on the ridiculousness of sitting ends apart at a dining table for six but has yet been unsuccessful in swaying the traditional seating arrangements. He suspects that fussing over the trivial gives his mother a small sense of control otherwise lacking in her life.

Narcissa scrutinizes Draco keenly, ignoring his question to return to her own.

"What has you in such a brown study, Draco? You look as though you've lost a Galleon and found a Knut."

"Doesn't that proverb usually apply the other way round?" Draco cavils. For a single crackbrained instant, he considers confessing why he's feeling churlish and grouchy. I'm wildly lusting after the world's most famous and revered Muggleborn witch after she crashed into my humdrum existence like a meteor a week ago. I've managed to grievously offend and estrange her with an offer of sexual congress after I used Legilimency to inadvertently discover her concupiscence. But the week's not over yet – she's considerably likely to hunt me down to transform my testicles to acorns, and who could blame her?

Perhaps best to keep those cards close to his chest. Forever. Draco settles for a partial truth.

"I didn't sleep well last night." He'd given up on the idea of slumber entirely not long after his return from Granger's flat. Lying in his darkened bedroom with a tenacious hard-on as he'd relived every second of his stolen tryst with Hermione was not conducive to restful slumber. Her plush, hungry mouth matching him kiss for kiss… the fine velvet of her skin as he'd nipped rapaciously down her jaw and throat… the feral way he'd deliberately sucked love bites into her delicate neck like a possessive barbarian… the febrile heat of her crotch enthusiastically rubbing on his quadriceps as Hermione had borne down vigorously on his jean-clad thigh…

With a small jolt, Draco belatedly realizes that Narcissa has been repeating his name without response. Her patrician features bear the faintest hint of displeasure, her eyes narrowed calculatingly. Draco senses her signature light touch as his mother tries to sneak a look past his Occlumency barriers. He chuckles lightly, downing a sip from his water glass as he steadies himself, concentrating on purposefully wiping all haunting traces of Hermione Granger from his conscious mind.

"Come now, Mother – that's discourteous, not to mention unsubtle and intrusive," Draco rebukes without any real heat behind his admonition. "I told you – my sleep was fractious, and my disposition is paying the price."

Narcissa purses her flawlessly painted lips and twice taps her manicured nails against the fine linen of the damask tablecloth; Draco recognizes this gesture of old. It means his mother's canny mind is busily analyzing and strategizing, preparing her next chess move. He stifles a groan, knowing she will pick at him inexorably - like a Thestral foal at a fresh carcass - until her curiosity is satisfied.

"You've met someone, haven't you?" Here we go. Draco hopes his face hasn't blanched at Narcissa's perception. She is smiling gently as she gazes down the table. Ruibby and Macdolas have entered the room to begin serving the first course; they are doing a poor job of disguising their interest in the edgy familial repartee.

"A witch," Narcissa clarifies unnecessarily, precisely settling her napkin in her lap as Macdolas offers the soup tureen. The rich flavour of the consommé wafts temptingly around the room.

"I've met many witches, Mother," Draco temporizes. He nods his thanks to Macdolas as he ladles the clear broth into his bowl. He applies himself to the soup as Narcissa prods again.

"Draco – I only wish for you to be happy. To know the joy and contentment of sharing your life with one special person," Narcissa wistfully tells him.

"Like you, do you mean?" The sharply unkind comment has left his mouth before he can censor it. His mother flinches as Ruibby lets out a shocked gasp. The little elf glares reproachfully at Draco, who hastens to apologize.

"Forgive me, Mother - that was cruel. I'm sorry," Draco is thoroughly ashamed of his nasty outburst. "I know how difficult Lucius's… situation… is for you." His mouth twists as he utters the euphemism.

His thoughtless words have found their target; although Narcissa maintains her dignified posture and poise, she looks smaller, tired, defeated. Draco proffers a tiny olive branch.

"How is Fa- Lucius this week?' he quietly inquires, pushing aside his unfinished consommé.

"He's not slept well, either," Narcissa admits. "You know that he refuses almost all the Healer's potions; I believe he is still punishing himself… after what happened –"

"Yes, I realize that," Draco bluntly cuts in. The atmosphere is heavy with old hurts and bitter conflicts. "He's being stubborn and foolish."

"And you aren't?" Narcissa fires back. "Draco, if you'd only consider spending time with him again, talking with him… he misses you desperately…" her voice trails away as she looks pleadingly at her son. Her limpid blue eyes betray the sheen of unwept tears. Draco buttresses his long-held resolve to remain unmanipulated.

"Must we do this at every dinner, Mother?". He is suddenly exhausted by the unvarying drama of his weekly visit. "I've made my feelings on the subject crystal clear – and you agreed to my terms when we reconnected last year," Draco reminds Narcissa.

He is unprepared for her restrained fury.

"You gave me no choice, Draco! Given the option of never seeing my son, or seeing my son only without the presence of my husband – did you expect me to refuse altogether? You have not been fair to either of us," she adds, before slumping back into her chair to rub at her smooth white brow.

Draco scratches uncomfortably at the high collar of his black turtleneck. His neck is burning, and he fights the impulse to simply bolt from the table and never return. For she is correct: under the guise of playing the victim, he has been selfish and uncompromising. Immature. Inequitable and motivated by spite. Draco fully comprehends the chasm his absence has left in his father's life – and he takes sour satisfaction in it. He is naught but a petty charlatan.

Narcissa fills the silence with a few more soft words.

"Won't you ever forgive us for our sins, Draco? We know we have failed you as parents; it is our deepest regret. But we cannot change the past. I would… I would give anything to have a cohesive family again." A lone tear tracks slowly down Narcissa's left cheek; she lets it drop unchecked to the fine tablecloth.

Fucking stellar. I've made my mother cry. Draco rises jerkily from his chair just as Macdolas and Ruibby re-enter the room with the main course. The diminutive butler places the gleaming silver cloche on the table with a practised flourish. Ruibby settles her own smaller cloches beside it as she rolls her expressive eyes at Macdolas's exaggerated showmanship, elbowing him to pick up the serving spoon.

Draco subsides back into his seat as Macdolas begins serving the beef bourguignon with sides of creamy mashed potatoes and steamed green beans. Narcissa has resumed her role of effervescent hostess, murmuring appreciatively as the tempting meal is placed before them.

"Thank you Ruibby, Macdolas – you have outdone yourselves," she praises approvingly. The pair bow solemnly, basking in Lady Malfoy's endorsement. They retreat after Narcissa waves an elegant hand in gentle dismissal.

Taking the unspoken cue from his mother, Draco quietly starts eating the tasty stew on his plate. A minute elapses before Narcissa addresses him again.

"What's her name, Draco?" and the conversational tone of her clever voice almost lulls him into unthinkingly revealing Hermione's identity. He clamps his traitorous lips in an uncompromising line and feigns confusion.

"Whose name, Mother?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence, blinking slowly. Narcissa concedes, her musical laugh chiming in genuine amusement. Draco joins in, relief colouring his laughter.

"You can't hide her from me for long – I am a Seer, you know," Narcissa teases him.

"Partial Seer, at best," Draco smiles as he corrects her. "Besides, there's nothing to tell. Your unremitting push for grandchildren has you 'Seeing' potential mates everywhere," he scolds lightly.

Narcissa shrugs gracefully. "As I said before, Draco – I do wish you happiness. In all that you do." Her cerulean eyes settle on him with affection and sadness. Draco stares at her, wondering at his mother's reaction if he did confess to briefly being involved in a strange, lust-saturated, not-relationship with Hermione Granger. He knows that she is no longer an avowed blood purity supremacist; but her legendary reserve usually doesn't afford him much insight into her true feelings.

"Thank you, Mother," Draco finally acknowledges. "As I wish the same for you."

They make it through the rest of the supper without incident; Draco hurries through dessert, feeling a stress-induced headache building behind his temples. Ruibby shoots him a decidedly dirty look for daring to leave half his cherry clafoutis uneaten, but prudently keeps her prim mouth closed.

Narcissa sees Draco out, chattering inconsequentially about minor maintenance issues and gossip gleaned from the Daily Prophet's society pages, with Draco adding a "mmm" or "ah" at the appropriate pauses.

Giving his mother an awkward half-hug in farewell, Draco turns to pass through the front door; spontaneously, he turns back to Narcissa and diffidently announces, "Mother… perhaps Lucius could join us for dinner next week. If he's feeling up to it," he tacks on guardedly.

Narcissa grips Draco's hand, tears dotting her stunning eyes once more.

"Thank you, darling," she whispers, her throat constricted with pent-up sentiment. Draco swallows convulsively, warring emotions tightening his own gullet.

They stand like this for a few beats, before Narcissa releases his hand with a gentle pat.

"Goodbye, Draco. You're welcome to bring your witch with you next Friday," she banters with a tiny grin.

Yeah… No.

"Goodnight, Mother. See you in a week." Draco closes the imposing door behind him and begins his reverse journey down the long pebbled drive.