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“Oh for Salazar’s sake,” Lucius mutters as he watches Draco help the muggleborn out of her coat. “She's back again. I thought you uninvited her.”
Narcissa gently puts her hand on his arm. “Not now, darling,” she murmurs. “Ms Granger,” she continues in a louder voice. “What a surprise.”
Lucius watches the impertinent girl flinch, ever so slightly, and for a moment his mood lifts.
Until his son steps towards them—in front of the muggleborn—and frowns. “How can it be a surprise, mother, when you told me to bring her?”
Lucius flicks a questioning glance towards Narcissa, who thins her lips slightly as she gestures towards the dining room.
“Later,” she whispers to Lucius. “Before the tea gets cold, dear.”
Draco offers the muggleborn his arm—smiles when she slips her hand neatly into the crook of his elbow. If it weren't for the cloud of untamed hair—the run starting in her stockings—the wrinkles in her blouse—if he saw them out of the corner of his eye, perhaps, they could be a handsome couple of strangers.
But his son—the Malfoy heir—deserves someone better than that.
Lucius tightens his fingers around the cool metal of his serpent-headed cane and follows behind his wife. There must be some way to be rid of her.
“The St Mungo’s apprenticeship is highly regarded—”
Lucius slams the side of his fist against the table and the muggleborn flinches.
Narcissa’s hand tightens around his knee.
“There are more worthy pursuits than healing.” Lucius sneers. “The Ministry—”
“The Ministry isn’t hiring former Death Eaters.” Draco’s voice cuts across the dining room.
“Draco—” Narcissa and the muggleborn say at the same time, in very different tones of voice.
Draco stands up from the table—his chair scrapes along the floor. “Enough,” he says. “Hermione.” He offers his hand, and after a frantic glance towards Lucius, she takes it. “Mother.” He nods towards Narcissa and ignores Lucius as he leads the muggleborn towards the door.
Lucius gets to his feet and waits—Draco’s foot is over the threshold—the girl right behind.
“Your fiancée,” he says, and she freezes, “would be incredibly disappointed.”
“Fiancée?” she echoes, her gaze darting between Lucius and Draco. “Draco—”
He drags her from the room with a sharp, “Later.”
Lucius allows himself a smile as the girl stares at him for another second before vanishing around the corner.
Beside him, Narcissa sighs. “Really,” she mutters as she drums her fingernails against the table. “He’s our only child, Lucius.”
“Exactly.” He adjusts a cufflink and listens to the echo of the slammed front door. “He doesn’t know what’s best for him.”
“You’ll push him away again,” Narcissa says as she stands up. “And he barely came back.”
Lucius frowns at her. “He’s a Malfoy. He'll always come back to where he belongs.”
Narcissa gives him a sad look. “He came back because of her. Not you.”
She leaves the dining room while Lucius stares down at the half-eaten meals; the undrunk wine; the condensation beading on the glasses of water.
It’s only three days later when a tentative knock raps across his study door.
“Enter,” Lucius says, setting down the letter he’d been in the midst of reading.
The muggleborn steps nervously into the room—her gaze skipping over the bookshelves—the trinkets on display—Lucius himself—finally coming to rest on the corner of his chair.
He steeples his fingers on the desk and waits. She’s emanating a faint smell of lavender—perhaps she’d been in the gardens with Narcissa. Another plot he'll have to unravel.
She draws in a breath—twists her hands in front of her and then presses her palms together. “I want to know about the night you broke Draco’s wand.” Her gaze flits to his nose.
Lucius gestures to the chair in front of the desk—the one Draco had used to sit in when he was younger—the one he’d shift nervously in whilst Lucius read his Hogwarts report cards and lectured him about wasted potential.
The muggleborn sits stiffly on the edge of the seat and continues to stare at him—his ear, this time.
“Not about his fiancée?” Lucius asks mildly.
“I’m not interested in hearing your opinion on Astoria.” Her voice is flat—her fingers are trembling slightly as she clenches her fists in her lap.
“Why are you here if my son isn’t keeping secrets from you?” Lucius narrows his eyes as he watches for her reaction. “Or was Sunday your first time hearing about his betrothed?”
“I’m not here to talk about that, Mr Malfoy.” Her mouth is a thin line—her knuckles are turning white—she clenches her jaw when she’s done speaking.
“Very well.” Lucius shrugs and spreads his hands out on the desk. “My son and I had a… disagreement.”
“Is that what you call giving him a black eye?” Her tone is snappish—her spine is straight—there’s a spark in her dull brown eyes that makes her, for only a split second, almost pretty as she glares directly at him.
Lucius exhales a soft chuckle. “Is that what he told you?”
The fire in her eyes flickers. “What do you mean?”
“Perhaps you should ask him yourself.” Lucius leans back and smiles. “Unless you don’t trust him to tell you the truth?”
“I trust him,” she says a heartbeat too slowly. “More than you, at least.”
“And yet,” Lucius’ smile widens into what Narcissa calls his nasty grin, “here you are.”
“Here I am,” she echoes softly. “So will you tell me or not?”
Lucius leans forward again. “Oh, Miss Granger, I’d be delighted to.”