Saturday, 13th September, 1997

A twin pair of fluffy paws lunged forward. The grass smooshed beneath the kitten's miniscule weight, a wiry tail flicking excitedly back and forth in anticipation for seeing his kill. But just like the past dozen times, the grasshopper effortlessly hopped off a blade of grass a solid meter away from the pint-size predator, all cheeky and pompous as it dashed away.

Draco watched the grasshopper make its escape as he pressed himself back up to a sitting position on his back haunches. Yet again, his prey got away. Yet again, he failed at honing in on the legendary feline hunting skills.

Attempting to hunt on the edge of the castle's property, just before the Forbidden Forest treeline, wasn't an ideal way to spend an early Saturday morning. No, he should've been in the potions laboratory, laboring over a cauldron steeping Marianan kelp to make sure it achieved the proper foaming consistency. He'd botched his own supply earlier in the week - much to his partner's, Hermione, chagrin - and needed to replenish his stores to be prepared for the next week's curriculum. He'd promised an angry-faced Hermione that he would go through the painstaking process to make sure they were set up for the next week - and he meant it. Both perfectionists in their academics, neither was willing to settle for anything other than the best.

The Malfoy heir woke up that morning with every intention of spending hours in the lab making a stockpile of ingredients. It was early - so early that breakfast wasn't even served yet in the Great Hall for the professors and staff. And when Draco had emerged from his private room, swarms of faintly glowing light flooded the Common Room from the still dormant lake, the shimmers from the depths dreary and dark and mysterious. Not even the squid made his rounds to greet the young Slytherin that morning, still asleep in whatever den he inhabited in the watery abyss. But the solitude was short lived—by the time Draco silently crept through the barren dungeon corridors and made it to the lab, a familiar voice made him freeze right outside the classroom.

Harper and another sixth year Slytherin had already been in the lab and were just beginning to set up their cauldrons to continue a six-day brewing procedure. If they missed one day or made a mistake in the regimen, they'd have to start the whole process over, and undoubtedly receive a failing mark for the lesson.

Draco had lingered outside the lab with a scowl long enough to weigh the pros and cons of entering and attempting to share the space. For every advantage he came up with, he only had to remind himself that it was Jeremy fucking Harper to suddenly negate any advantage found from going into the lab. No, the only advantage he could extrapolate that morning was getting as far from Harper as physically possible, for both of their sakes. Of course the prat unknowingly thwarted any hope Draco had of throwing himself into his work, completing it before noon, and spending the rest of his day in the library with Hermione debating whether the Mispar Hechrechi or Mispar Bone'eh encoding variation for Gematria Arithmancy was more accurate.

Not that he needed to debate it. Regardless of what the Gryffindor witch thought, the Revu'a equation formation found in Mispar Bone'eh was far superior. Honestly.

After abandoning the lab and any hope he had of getting ahead on brewing, Draco had angrily stalked his way out of the castle, too unsettled to return to bed and not quite in the mood for any company, even Hermione's, and stomped outside into the brisk morning air. The coolness splashed a cold dose of rationality in the face of his burgeoning discord, and reminded him the teachings of his father to always maintain poise and control no matter how the status quo or ante changed.

And so that brought him to his current plight. Wanting to still find use of his early morning, the young Slytherin transformed into his animagus form, slinked through the tall grasses until he found a small clearing a safe distance from the castle and any chance of a passing student spotting him, and set his sights on perfecting his hunting skills.

A dozen prey. And a dozen failures. If he wanted to win a rematch with Rita Skeeter's beetle form, he'd need to train and somehow figure out how to coordinate his lanky legs and strange senses. The morning brought on a rush of overwhelming aromas, so potent and rich from the early dew that he almost threw in the towel prematurely to escape back to the castle. How could he possibly begin to hone skills that he didn't fully understand the breadth of? He still wasn't sure why the night sky had explosions of magnificent light, similar to the Weasleys' fireworks but static and less fatal. Though areas would radiate and pulse halos of brilliance, it never fizzled out. Was it a neverending cosmic firework spectacle that only cats could be audience to? Or was it something completely unrelated—was he going insane from the animagus ritual, a side effect he would've been taught had he followed a normal path and received tutelage in the magic?

"You need to be patient or not. Pick one."

The gruff voice made Draco tense and look all around him in search of it - not that it did much help, the early morning sunlight was blaringly bright to his still unfamiliar eyesight, casting his world in layers of headache inducing sensitivity. And to make matters worse, he was horribly farsighted, making anything immediately in front of him fuzzy beyond recognition.

"I am being patient," the Slytherin heatedly retorted back to the grumpy-sounding male voice. Bothered that he couldn't see his counterpart, his ears flattened against his head. "Keep your commentary to yourself or bugger off. Last thing I need is some pathetic bird or insect critiquing me."

Faint jostling from a branch in the tree above the kitten came just before a large, solid mass of orange fur dropped nimbly to the grassy ground, elegantly if Draco had to describe it, on all four, massive paws. A familiar scent - one that wasn't remotely capable of pinpointing down like humans - immediately flooded Draco's senses, and he recognized who the crusty, low brogue voice belonged to before his sight caught up with his nose.

"The blue jay that flew off when you were after it wasn't pathetic. The grasshopper that jumped out of your way wasn't pathetic. But your hunting skills… now that is pathetic, kit."

Draco stood up on all fours when the other cat casually sauntered towards him. "Crookshanks," he tried to sneer but he wasn't sure a kitten was even capable of it. "Dishing a bit of payback after I kicked you off the bed the other night? Suppose you're due it."

The other cat didn't stop at an appreciable, socially appropriate distance from Draco. No, he kept going, leaving the Slytherin temporarily aghast as he impeded his personal space and the two cats were nearly nose to nose. The white kitten instinctively took a step back, trying to maintain distance between them.

Crookshanks paused a moment and gave him a narrowed look. "If you were a real cat, you'd know how to hunt. And you wouldn't be backing away right now."

As a human, it was hard to read the ginger cat's emotive state - not that Draco was invested in appeasing or getting along with his girlfriend's pet - but as a cat, he somehow knew Crookshanks was curious, tired, and not aggressive. The emotions drifted in the air between them, small yet distinct traces carrying like dust, and instinctively he lifted his pink nose to the air and sniffed.

Yes, it was definitely a smell that told him those things. But how could he know it through a smell? And it wasn't even a smell with definitive attributes—it simply just was.

Crookshanks continued to regard him with a blank, almost flat stare. "I thought Hermione would've selected a smarter mate."

He let the insult slide. "Why do I smell what you're… you're…" Draco stammered for the word. "Feeling? Your mood? Merlin, I don't know how to describe it!"

His new counterpart slowly sat down, dual front paws separated slightly while his strong legs pillared up to his sturdy body, making Crookshanks seem infinitely more intimidating than he ever looked when Draco was shoving him off his robes or shooing him away when him and Hermione were on the eve of intimacy.

"How else would you know those things?" Crookshanks asked, continuing to eye his smaller counterpart with a lazy, almost bored gaze. Before Draco could answer - or maybe Crookshanks wasn't really patient or expecting an answer - the larger cat tilted his head down in a gesture that the Slytherin somehow interpreted as beckoning. "Come here."

After the last week Draco had - humiliated with Blaise after losing a duel against two witches, dealing with his first Auror check in visit, pulling all the stops to continue avoiding any and all run ins with Harry - he really had no interest in pandering to a cat posturing at him. Crookshanks. His girlfriend's cat was demanding that he - an actual bonafide, one meter eighty-two tall wizard - take orders from a pet? Like he was some kind of inferior being?

He knew animals had pecking orders, notably cats. Establishing dominant roles was essential to their species survival. But he'd be damned if he was seen as the inferior one in this haphazardly, disastrous duo the two cats somehow got themselves in.

Crookshanks registered Draco's hesitation with a heavy sigh, lazily stood up, and, with lightning speed he didn't think the large cat possessed, swatted him right across his face.

The physical pain was nothing compared to the bruised ego Draco was left with, stumbling a little to the side and fighting to regain traction under his paws. He prepared to launch himself into a full-on cat fight with the other male - luckily forgetting that he could simply transform back to a human and punt the ginger cat - but when he looked at Crookshanks, he didn't see any kind of aggression on his counterpart. No, the other cat was sitting there nonchalantly, like he didn't just hit him, with a rather flat expression.

The entire exchange confused the Slytherin, making him second guess everything he thought about the half-kneazle.

"Good. You're catching on. Maybe Hermione does have a better mate selection than I gave her credit for," Crookshanks said in a mundane brogue to Draco's silence. "You want to know how to be a cat? Then start acting like one. I'll show you but the moment you begin acting out, I'm walking away and the lesson's over."

Draco gave his best attempt at a sneer. "Why would you teach me anything?" His eyes narrowed. "What's in it for you? I'd hardly call us on friendly terms. You hissed at me a couple nights ago."

If cat's could shrug, Crookshanks certainly did so. Or maybe it was the strange pheromones that Draco could somehow smell and interpret the other male's emotions, meanings, and many other things that would've been beyond beneficial to a human. If he could harness that same ability while around his girlfriend, it'd make interpreting her moments of "I'm fine" and eliminate the guesswork.

"A favor," Crookshanks eventually answered back with a slow yawn. "Not sure what it is yet but it'll come to me."

The Slytherin felt his ears flatten against his small head. "Expect me to sign away on a blank cheque, do you? I'm not that stupid, cat."

Crookshanks shoved himself to his feet in that same annoyingly apathetic manner he favored, like he couldn't be bothered to actually show any sense of urgency or care, like the entire conversation with Draco was a big inconvenience or as casual as chatting about the moving clouds. "Suit yourself, kit. Hey, good luck with the hunting." His lumbering form turned around and gave a slothful stretch, slow and snoozy, before gingerly walking away. "Might want to try some of the water crickets. You might get lucky and drown one with your splashing before it could fly away…"

Draco wanted to snare and yell - hiss, in his current case - and curse the fecking cat into oblivion. But he watched the ginger beast slowly create more distance between them, and he felt his only life line in learning how to be a cat slipping between his fingers.

"Wait! Crookshanks!"

He hopped to catch up with the larger male and nearly ran into him when the orange cat abruptly stopped, completely anticipating the Slytherin's waffling on his terms. That part hurt more than his wounded pride. "You're learning already, kit. We have a deal then?"

"I have a name," Draco sneered. "I'd appreciate you using it."

"You don't need one. Cats don't have names. Not like that, we don't." Crookshanks stood and nodded towards the tree he'd jumped out of only moments ago. "You have a lot to learn, kit. Your hunting skills come second to everything else for now, but we'll get to that eventually."

"Today?"

"I said eventually."

And so Draco began the first lesson of many that would comprise his education in learning how to be the animal his mind most closely aligned. The first segment of their lesson was dedicated to learning the approach, how to greet another cat and learn a quick spread of each other's emotions and aggression level all through scent. While Draco refused to sniff another cat's behind, Crookshanks eagerly informed him - with glee in his voice - that Draco was indisputably seen as the submissive one, and therefore wasn't entitled to initiate the sniffing introduction ritual in the first place. The dominant cat - Crookshanks, in their case - would take the first sniff, learn about Draco, and then decide how much he wanted Draco to learn about him. Either he'd be receptive to allowing the smaller cat to return the sniffing or he'd give a prompt swat and hiss, and their meeting would be at a close. For teaching sake, the larger male allowed the kitten to get close enough to get a heavy dose of the pheromones, while Crookshanks tried to encourage and teach him how to identify what they meant.

By the end of the hour, Draco learned - all through smells - that Crookshanks most enjoyed pollock freshly pulled from the Black Lake, was tired from hunting all night, and that he was a male with no interest in mating. The last part bothered him; those were details he didn't need to know about his girlfriend's cat.

The morning was starting to creep into a normal hour when Crookshanks finally led his new protege towards a grassy embankment a close distance from a tree housing a small choir of singing birds. "Here's the thing with hunting, kit. You've got two options. You can either be patient and wait it out, let the prey forget you're there and then strike, or you move quickly immediately. There's no middle."

Draco glanced at Crookshanks lowering himself to the ground, his entire body somehow contained in a small footprint with taut legs ready to spring forward on a moment's notice. "Which way is better?"

Crookshanks considered him for a second, but his yellow eyes didn't leave his prey: a cheerful bird that Draco couldn't tell the actual color of with his compromised, feline vision. "Whichever one gets you the hunt. Pay attention. Don't do anything - just watch."

Being a passive audience wasn't on Draco's agenda that morning. He didn't have the luxury of time like a cat; his schedule was already jam packed with classes, appointments with his mind doctor, trying to get into a muggle university, and manage a new family business venture afar. Unlike Crookshanks, the Slytherin couldn't just lounge around all day, waiting for the next convenient lesson to sprout up. No, he needed to learn right away if he wanted to use his animagus form around Hogwarts, especially in the realm of learning about others, scouting, and keeping his ear to the pavement. The House of Snakes was in a frenzied state of anarchy, some allegiances weakened and while new ones were formed in the shadows. His throne was cracked but not shattered, and he still had a chance at bolstering the wealth of power he used to wear like a crown.

He was a smidge behind Crookshanks, eyes locked on the birds, when Draco decided he'd give the advice from his 'mentor' a solid shot. He wasn't going to sit there and watch; for years he'd watched cats hunt and pouce and go through their little hunting routine. Now was the time to learn experientially.

It was undoubtedly comical seeing a white cotton-ball kitten explode out from the grassy brush, little legs stretched forward, claws out in preparation for a kill. As much as the kitten longed to fulfill some predatory dream, it didn't come across that way. Not when Draco barely reached even the tree and instead smacked down on the ground in a fantastic heap of failure.

Adding the bird to his growing list of escaped prey was one thing. But having an audience - Potter and Snape - was another beast entirely.

Out of practically nowhere, Snape and Harry emerged from behind them, having witnessed Draco's embarrassing leap and disappointment at being a cat. But Harry didn't know that. He had no idea that the kitten he was now inches from was his once arch nemesis, roommate in their dire hour, and now counterpart they both avoided. What was their relationship now?

"Hey there, Crookshanks, I haven't seen you much lately," the Gryffindor wizard greeted them, namely the orange beast of a cat that happily greeted him back with a lazy trot over and nudged his face against the wizard's knee. The traitor."Who's this you have here? A friend?"

To make matters worse, Harry thought petting Draco would be a sound move.

The other wizard's hand reached for him, making Draco lurch back. "Don't touch me!" He yelled, though he was sure only a pathetic hiss was what actually came out. And considering the neutral to amused expression on Potter's face, his hiss didn't create the fear-inducing threat he was gunning for.

"Kit…" Crookshanks shot the Slytherin a warning glance from his nestling against Harry.

No, Draco wasn't having any of it. The last thing he wanted was to be pet by Harry. It was already demeaning enough that his reputation was murdered beyond recognition largely because of Harry, forcing him to transform into a kitten to safely navigate the castle if he wanted to avoid attention all the while gathering information. Was it solely for safety precautions? Probably not. His life would be harder if he walked as a wizard among his peers, but he doubted any of them had the gall to throw harmful hexes his way. A stinging hex here and there was one thing, and nothing more than an annoyance after being turned on the knife of a well-aimed Cruciatus more times than he cared to remember.

"You two better go back inside before something tries to get your new friend," Harry said while continuing to give Crookshanks affection and scritches, the half-kneazle stretching this way and that to get the best angle from the wizard.

Being outside with Potter, nearly alone if not for their chaperones, rained down memories that Draco could've done without. The gardens at his ancestral home, the place that had become his prison, the manor where he was born and expected to die. He and Harry had shared walks together in the gardens, the fresh wind fanning their despair and giving them a deceiving dose of freedom. Those walks were nice, conversations filled with whimsical visions for a future neither boy believed they'd live to see. Maybe that was why the conversations were freeing; they were unburdened by expectations, for the only expectations anyone had for them then was their deaths.

Maybe they were meant to die in that manor. Maybe that was why they finally found peace. They'd moved past anticipating their deaths; they'd accepted it, knowing that all they had was a thrown together friendship between the two so as not to be alone in their waning hours. An act that didn't occur left anyone reeling with trudged anticipation, good or bad. They spun out from it, unsure how to make ends with what they created in the desperate times, and having no prior solid relationship to return to.

Maybe the world would've been better - easier, happier - had they both perished there. Then Draco wouldn't be hidden as a kitten to the world while Harry was enveloped in a newfound family, walking the grounds with his 'adopted' father, finding serenity while his body fought against him.

So caught up in that depressing notion, Draco gave a solid swat with his paw when Harry walked by. It wasn't intimidating, not in the least. The Gryffindor said something but Draco wasn't paying much attention to him. His focus was on Snape - on his inquisitive, dark expression and the black eyes that followed him uncannily. It wasn't a look a professor ought to give a kitten. It was a look of trying to figure out a problem, trying to make sense of something that didn't quite add up.

"Well, I'd say that was a good ending for the lesson, kit." Crookshanks stretched again, this time more genuinely tired than his simple lazy self. His yellow eyes bore into the feisty kitten. "Meet me again earlier than today and we'll go over smells or something in the forest."

Draco stared in the direction Snape and Harry departed from, together. "Next saturday then?"

"Your labels don't mean anything to me. Another day. Early. That should translate enough for you to figure out."

After his impromptu lesson with the ginger cat, Draco made his way back into the castle, still bothered by the interaction with Harry. Part of him didn't want to be, though. If they were still friends, he would've laughed at the strangeness of their meeting, and probably even confide in the other wizard about the white kitten he came across being him. Maybe if they were more full, unbroken, unjaded by cynicism, they could be honest with one another and ignore the valley of hurt that separated them.

That canyon wasn't new. It was dug at the very first meeting the Malfoy heir had with the Boy-Who-Lived, when he desperately wanted to be friends - had secretly daydreamed of being best mates with the famous Potter boy - and was turned away because he didn't know how to socialize properly with him. If only the pieces all fell into place and they became friends, how would life have changed? Would Harry's disease have been caught sooner? Would he have been ushered into Pureblood society and poisoned with the same ideals Draco was for years? Would Voldemort's return have been brought on with applauding fanfare instead of in shadows?

Draco made his way back towards the potions lab, hoping enough time had passed that Jeremy Harper completed whatever brewing he was doing and vacated the area. As he lingered outside of the lab, he thought about revenge and retribution, about how it wouldn't give back what had been stolen from him. About how he wasn't sure if he cared about it anymore. But embrace something long enough - a thought, a feeling, a fantasy - and it shapes you like a forge. The hunger for it lay in Draco, too strong to be set aside.

It only took a few minutes for Draco to transform back to his kitten form, slink into the potions lab and find Harper and his mates sitting in the back of the classroom, half-heartedly watching their brewing cauldrons but more invested in their conversation about Quidditch and witches. It took less than a minute for an unassuming kitten, innately curious as all cats are, to innocently hop up on the bench and forcefully rub its body against the cauldron at the perfect angle to upset it from its hook and make it tumble over the edge, splashing the ruined contents on the floor.

Amid a crowd of cursing students, yelling at their lost work and blaming the 'bloody cat' that dashed out of the lab and no longer existed, Draco casually strode down the dungeon corridors, a smile on his face.

Wednesday, 17th September, 1997

Lucius turned the quill over in his hand, ink staining his ring and index finger, as he considered the Vice-Chancellor's written words. Alec Broers was on the cusp of knighthood, had been fighting for it for years, and Lucius was more than willing to tip the scales in the man's favor if only he followed through on the bargain. If all went as planned, by next fall, both Draco and Alec Broers would have new titles; a student at University of Cambridge and newly minted Baron among the Knight Bachelors.

It paid off to still hold considerable sway among the high courts and House of Lords, even through subterfuge and underhanded currents. To the wizarding world, the Malfoys severed all ties to the royal family and orders of chivalry, but to the parties who mattered, their influence was as emboldened as ever.

Lucius looked out his study window, watching the fae dragons cheerfully fly in and out of the thriving gardens behind Malfoy Manor. The fae dragons were the latest addition to the gardens, a rare breed of small, palm-sized creatures that swarmed bright flowers and collected fallen petals for their broods. They left a sprinkle of shimmering dust in their wake, which when collected was a strong ingredient for an emerging healing potion in development at their lab. The dragons were fickle beasts, needing a perfect garden with beyond ideal growing conditions, plenty of sunlight, and enough space for them to go about their blithesome lifestyles. In the wilds, they were found in open glades with rich soil and verdant foliage.

Narcissa thought adding them to the garden would make the once dreary estate happier. Like the dragons could erase the memories. Lucius didn't stop her; he liked the dragons enough.

Looking down at the paper again, Lucius's eyes traced the university letterhead's exotic curve, the coat of arms an interesting one. It had four lions on it, yellow on top of a red background, and not a single etch of green or silver. But soon enough, the University of Cambridge would see its first Slytherin. Assuming Draco was agreeable to interview with the Vice-Chancellor and didn't mind the bargaining terms attached. It wouldn't be any different than his second year, when Lucius secured the boy's position as seeker at Hogwarts. This one carried more terms, though. The admission Lucius could guarantee, but to stay enrolled was Draco's responsibility. He'd have to maintain sterling grades in the prestigious medical school, all the while also continuing his healer training in the wizarding world, managing business affairs, and cementing wedlock to ensure their family line was secure.

While Hogwarts was ending, Draco was only just about to start the rest of his life.

Picking up the quill again, Lucius hastily wrote back to the Vice-Chancellor, confirming an interview in December for Draco. People were predictable. It was the biggest of flaws and the grandest of virtues.

With that dealt with, Lucius turned his attention to the reports from Hogsmeade, knowing that there was a solicitor - by title only - waiting outside his study to meet with him. Wilson Pike. Being head of the Malfoy estate meant more than just managing finances, businesses, and whistling in tune with aristocrats. The pains of managing an army without the luxury of a junior officer to help out - his heir being away at school - left all of the work to fall on Lucius. Not that he was one to complain; being a major player in the game was what he was destined for.

Summoning a house elf, he told it to bring Wilson Pike in. Lucius didn't stand to do it. Not yet.

Seconds later, Pike entered the grand study, features schooled behind a cultivated mask of indifference. The posh and regency around him was ignored, immune to the likes of the Malfoys and their flaunting of wealth. And knowing exactly what was expected of him, Pike moved to sit in the high backed walnut chair directly in front of his employer, situated in the epicenter of an oriental rug.

Neither said anything for a few tense seconds after he sat in the chair, both wizards staring expectantly at one another in muted anticipation for something to happen. Under the chair, under the rug, was a warded trap devised of intricate, ancient runes designed to dispel any glamors and notify Lucius of any charms on Pike's identity. And having visited his employer since landing on his payroll years ago, Pike knew the routine. He didn't even blink when Lucius finally stood and walked around him, towards the expensive cabinet near the far window.

"How's your wife?" Lucius asked. Pike had no wife.

Pike didn't hesitate to answer. "My old lady grows older and more bitter by the day."

Lucius nodded to himself as he poured two glasses of Remy Martin, satisfied with their code. He required three authentications to confirm his spies identities: the warded trap, the verbal code, and the blood. Reaching further into his cognac cabinet, his fingers brushed against the hidden vials tucked against the cabinet's inner leg, quickly picking the right one and splashing a teeny bit of crimson in with the expensive cognac.

Once seated back behind his desk, Lucius offered the glass to his counterpart, taking a tepid sip of his own in the process. Warm and caramelly with a rich texture, the drink caressed his tastes and tried to sooth the bitterness in the back of his throat. But no amount of alcohol, rare cask or not, could ever sooth that.

Pike drank from his own crystal glass with the same air of apathy, almost bored even, that he had when he first walked in, completely knowing that he was drinking a small trace of his own blood. "Damn me, that's good," he smacked his lips together, savoring the taste, whether the blood or the cognac, Lucius wasn't sure.

Fully satisfied that the man seated in front of him was, in fact, Wilson Pike, Lucius nodded more impatiently and tapped a knuckle on the reports rivered between them. Had it not been Pike, the potion in his drink would've killed him. "What happened to the man following my wife last week?"

The spy blinked once, undisturbed by the questions forwardedness and lack of pleasantries. "Taken care of."

"Questioned?"

That made Pike pause. "Not when he was alive. He had an unfortunate misstep and the ground broke his fall. Muggle London." The wizard shrugged like that explained everything. And it did-they wouldn't have been able to safely use hexes and spells and charms in the nakedness of London without drawing attention, but a clumsy, unfortunate accident was boring enough not to raise questions from muggles or wizards. "We inspected his body afterwards and found nothing besides his wand."

Reaching into his robes, Pike pulled free a thin wooden box - plain oak with copper filigree - and slid it across the desk to his employer. Delicately picking it up, Lucius never took his eyes off the spy; no, he'd learned that long ago. While the man was under his payroll and bound by an Unbreakable Vow to remain loyal to him, he didn't doubt there were loopholes to exploit. A man of power, influence, and wealth, he also didn't doubt that there weren't troves of people out there, enemies and friends alike, striving to find those loopholes and strike at the Malfoy family.

Turning the box over in his hands, Lucius considered Wilson Pike. The man was an interesting fellow, one of his more veteran spies who joined his network years ago before Draco even began Hogwarts. His features were remarkably unremarkable; the type of face that could get easily lost in a crowd, undistinguished and average. He had an ageless quality about him, where he could pass as a man of Lucius's years if he didn't shave for a week but then look fresh-faced and a few years older than Draco if he did. And those timeless, malleable features were what made him the ideal spy.

Spies were a needed evil. When Lucius first assumed control over the Malfoy family shortly after Draco's birth - an heir apparent was the necessary element to assume the position - and his own father relocated himself to their Latvia estate, Lucius bolstered his spy network. Familiarizing himself with their skills was essential to know where to place them and who was best for which job, but it also ensured he understood who was closest to their family. Who was privy to their secrets and what their weaknesses were. They were all men, at the end of the day, with the weaknesses of flesh. Greed and power. He didn't doubt their loyalty went as far as their payroll and the magic that bound them to be loyal to the Malfoys, but if another with better wealth and power and influence strolled along in hopes to drive a battering ram against their family, a turned agent could be their unraveling. Lucius did everything in his power to make sure his spies wouldn't have the capacity to turn against them, even using some of the darker rituals from restricted books.

For a decade, his spies worked in a humming harmony like a hive of bees. They all knew what to do, what to expect, and moved about with a sense of agency and autonomy. Lucius oversaw them but wasn't required to really get involved in their day to day operations. Wilson Pike proved himself more than capable of handling that. Once Draco began Hogwarts, however, and the Dark Lord emerged from his banished limbo, things took a dark turn.

But that made sense. It made sense that Lucius had to hire more hands to watch over his family and assets during those dark times. What didn't make sense was the sudden increase of attacks on their family since Voldemort's demise a few months ago. The Dark Lord was dead. Death Eaters were either arrested or left in a splintered state. The wizarding world either looked at their family in acrimony or fear but no more than they did before the war.

And yet, in the past few months, Narcissa had a stalker trailing her in muggle London, someone mangled the wards on the west property at the Malfoy Manor in a measly break-in attempt, and some shipping documents from the lab had been 'misplaced'. In parts, Lucius wouldn't have batted an eye at the string of episodes; attempts on their lives and wealth wasn't a new thing. No, even Draco had attempts on his life - either through kidnapping for ransom or just murder - ever since he was born. But those attempts were sprinkled between each other and had a kind of cohesion about them. These events were one directly after the other, intensity and frequency grabbing the attention of his spymaster and making him react.

Lucius placed the box on the desk and looked at Pike. "And Hogsmeade?"

"Quiet. The boy hasn't come at all," Pike answered flatly. A fracture broke his apathetic features, making him look troubled. "He shouldn't be there. My recommendation is that all three of you go to Latvia until we're able to get more details."

Lucius chuckled humorlessly. "The loveliest thing about a recommendation is the ability to ignore it without consequence. I'll not be driven from my home by an uninspiring shade." That part was true; Lucius had no intention on leaving the manor. But he had considered sending Draco to Beauxbaton for his education or, if in dire straits, their Latvia estate, despite how much Draco feared it for all its dark magic. "And inside the school?"

"Also quiet. The auror inspection went fine - shook the boy up but his wand was clean. We're working on getting a copy of the report from DMLE." There was a well placed mole in the ministry mailroom; a small enough position not to draw attention but enough to gain them access to records. "The Old Man is keeping an eye on things. Says Draco's befriended Hala Khatib, of all people."

That was interesting, enough to make a chill race down Lucius's spine. The girl who survived a jinn attack thanks to her own demons caged inside her. It was a disputed circumstance, whether the young witch was the sole survivor from seeing the vicious assault in a premonition, or from housing a sinister evil so dark it scared the jinn off when it reached for her. Knowing what he knew about a jinn's nature, and considering the girl was clearly there during her family's bloody demise, Lucius felt confident it was the latter. Even if little Hala knew about the impending murders, there was no feasible way she would be able to escape the fast-moving creature's clutches, not when it had ample time to rip apart her family members limb by limb and then leave her without a single scratch.

And she was now friends with his son. Interesting indeed.

More than interesting, it was ironic. The type of irony that was both humorous and satisfying. Six years ago, Draco had attempted to befriend another child who was a sole survivor of their family's murders, having walked away from a curse meant to kill. At the time, no one knew it was from a goodhearted sacrifice, and conspiracy theories began to emerge and fester with the years. The potential coming of the next Dark Lord was one of the leading thoughts, though was quickly debunked after their first year at Hogwarts. Still, Lucius knew how much his son wanted that friendship with Potter to work before he even met him, how excited he was that they were the same age - exactly eight weeks apart, to the very day - and thought that uniqueness would aid in his quest. But Potter wasn't anything like Draco expected him to be, and Draco wasn't half the boy he became in the past year.

And though Draco clearly grew up and matured into a young man in the past year, he was still his father's son and a Malfoy to his core. The coldness was inherited from Lucius, from the snow in his hair to the frost guarding his heart, and his penchant for dark arts and artefacts ran as deep. No matter who he courted and - if Lucius was being honest with himself - eventually married, Draco wouldn't be able to ignore the pull of dark arts. It was part of him, enmeshed into his being. All Malfoys were seduced by the mystery and power of dark arts, either under the guise of scholars to learn their secrets or as wealthy collectors simply looking to hoard their riches. But dark arts, from an inanimate object to a seer able to witness death premonitions, would always appeal to a Malfoy.

"Tell the Old Man to keep watch and report to me immediately should something… odd come from Draco's friendship with Khatib," Lucius replied. The Old Man was a portrait of a crusty sea cabin - more of a shanty, really - hugging a shallow cliffside beside a white-crested ocean. The portrait was drawn from a distance, making the cabin and her features more difficult to discern from a quick passerby. But if one stopped and looked really hard, they would see an old man sitting in the cabin's shadow, a fishing pole in one hand and a green bottle in the other, watching. Always watching.

There was a duplicate in the Hogsmeade safehouse. Years ago, when still part of the Board of Governors, Lucius had slyly 'donated' dozens of portraits to the school, all of them save one innocuous and innocent. Though heavily checked for wards and curses, they all came back clear and were eagerly accepted to the school. He'd nearly forgotten the spying portrait he placed in the school until a month ago. The Old Man had made the exorbitant donation more than worth it.

Pike nodded. "Of course, sir."

Lucius looked down at the box in front of him. The wand box. It might as well have held the perpetrator's ashes. He should've felt better having it in his possession, but he didn't. All he felt was numbness, like he was trailing something that shouldn't have been there. Like he was missing something. "Are the portkeys still ready?"

"They are. Unregistered, of course. Old spellwork but still functional."

The portkeys led to their various properties in Greater Europe and elsewhere. Some went to small safehouses, like the Hogsmeade location, and others took them directly to their estates. That feeling like he was missing the greater picture prickled at Lucius's mind, and he knew he'd get no rest. Even as he ordered Pike to give a full briefing on matters - Draco's safety at school, the issues at the lab, and Narcissa's security detail - he couldn't shake the feeling. His mind kept doing summersaults, fighting to get to the bottom of what inch of landscape he was missing to graze, what aspect of his family's existence did he forget to bolster and secure. And unfortunately, by the time he'd figure it out, it'd be too late.