Narcissa stepped out of the fireplace, pleased. Her stay at the Tonks residence wasn’t nearly as vexing as it could have been, Nymphadora’s venomous glares notwithstanding. Conversation came easier between Narcissa and her sister this time around, and Ted Tonks surprised her with an unexpectedly nuanced view of Muggle-Wizard relations and associated laws. Narcissa wondered if this was what first captured Andromeda’s interest all those years ago, and felt a brief twinge of guilt that she never asked Andromeda why.
“It doesn’t matter why she chose him!” her mother snarled, wand shattering the framed photos adorning the mantlepiece. “He could have the largest prick in all of Britain, and it still wouldn’t justify the shame brought upon this family!” Druella Black’s eyes fixed on Narcissa’s quivering form and stepped toward her, her rage receding like the tide. “But you’ll choose right, won’t you, Cissy dear?”
“Y-Yes, Mother…”
And she did. Lucius was by no means perfect, but he loved her genuinely, a rarity in their social circles. She reminded herself of this as her heels clicked down the hall, trying to quell her irritation that he hadn’t stayed in the drawing room to greet her and ask how the visit went. She repeated it again after reaching their bedroom and finding him in a deep slumber. Agitation played across his features despite his respite, yet he didn’t rouse, and Narcissa made no effort to wake him. Nor did she make any effort to remain quiet, however, as she removed her dress and stockings and slipped into her nightgown.
When she awoke the next morning without the usual kiss, and an empty spot in bed where her husband should be, her temper flared once more. It’s the wine, she thought bitterly, scanning through her closet to find the perfect dress to make him pay for this indignity. What else could lead him to such poor judgment?
She chose a slinky emerald piece—low-cut, but not to the point of tastelessness—and a Thunderbird-feather boa. When she entered the dining room, the sight of Lucius hunched over his tea and plate of barely-eaten breakfast foods, eyes bloodshot with bags underneath them, gave her pause.
“Lucius,” she said coldly. “You look…unwell.”
Those red eyes finally met hers. “I am unwell,” he said, voice cracking.
He was clearly nursing a bad hangover, and the part that loved him felt stirrings of compassion. But that didn’t excuse his lack of decorum. “Nonetheless, you can’t be up and about looking like this. It’s setting a horrible example for Draco.” Which reminds me… “Where are the children?”
“I don’t know,” he mumbled, looking away and taking another sip of tea.
“Did they eat breakfast?”
He shrugged.
She fought the urge to yank the cup from his hands and spill it over his head. “Dobby!” she called. The creature appeared instantly, looking paler than normal. “Are the children awake?”
“Dobby knows not, Mistress…”
“Then check on them now,” she snapped.
But for the first time, Dobby didn’t move. Before she could wreak hell, the house-elf sputtered, “T-They are not in the Manor, M-Mistress…”
She slowly turned to Lucius, who sank deeper into his chair.
“What does that mean?” she asked, voice a deadly calm.
He shrugged miserably.
Narcissa closed her eyes and counted to five before turning her harsh gaze to Dobby. “Leave us,” she commanded.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
Narcissa walked over to Lucius and traced her fingers across the top rail of the chair. “Do you remember the one thing I said I care about more than you and I?” Narcissa asked quietly.
“Yes. Draco…”
“Correct. So tell me: Where is he?”
Lucius winced. “I said I don’t know.”
“Clearly you know something,” she hissed, “and if you’re not going to be forthright with your own wife, I’ll go out and find him myself. I can hear the story first from him, or you. What will it be?”
Lucius’ white knuckles clenched inward. “I did something…unwise.”
Evidently. “Which is…?”
He hesitated again, and something in Narcissa snapped. “Lucius, just tell me.”
He bit his lip, but reluctantly began his tale about the missing dark artifact, and calling Diana into his study after Narcissa left. The rest of the story was like pulling teeth from a Nundu, but eventually she learned why Lucius looked so unkempt, and why the children were missing.
He didn’t make eye contact except at the very end, upon which he immediately looked away after seeing the venom in her eyes.
She sat down in the chair next to him, slowly. “I trust,” she began, after a long pause, “there’s no point in belaboring how abysmally foolish, ethically unsound, and inherently unnatural your decision to use the Cruciatus on your own offspring was.”
“I know,” he said quickly, guilt unmistakable. “It—It was wrong. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“A student drunkenly tipping bicorns isn’t thinking clearly. Saying ill-chosen words in haste isn’t thinking clearly. Attempting an Unforgivable on someone whom the Ministry monitors is the height of stupidity. The only, only saving grace is that you maintained a sliver of decency for it not to work.” She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “But at this point, the damage might be done. If Diana didn’t know what you attempted, Draco most certainly did.”
Narcissa couldn’t help but feel an irrational surge of bitterness towards her stepdaughter, though she knew, objectively, the fault belonged to Lucius and Lucius alone.
“You’re right. There are no excuses,” Lucius admitted, digging a fist into the bottom of his long blonde locks. “I should have secured the artifact better. I never should have had so many glasses, or lost control like that. I should have waited to confront her until I was calmer. My behavior was…unbecoming. Unbecoming and foolish. I—I’m so sorry, love.”
She wasn’t about to forgive him; not now, not when there was so much at stake. “Why was that filth in our home?”
Uncertainty flickered across his features. “You mean…Diana?”
“Of course not,” she snapped. “How can you say that about your own child?”
“I didn’t say it!” he defended feebly. “I thought you sai—”
“I’m talking about that blasted diary!”
“Well, erm, the Dark Lord entrusted it to me,” mumbled Lucius.
“You never asked me if it was alright to keep it in our home,” she said, voice rising. “And you kept it for years. Years.”
“That was an oversight, not an intentional deception. There was so much going on near the end of the war, it slipped my mind.”
“It ‘slipped your mind,’” she echoed, incredulous. “It ‘slipped your mind’ to tell your wife about the dangerous, dark artifact given to you by the most wanted man in Wizarding Britain.”
“Yes,” he replied. Narcissa did not like the defensive edge entering his tone. “You’re well aware of the numerous dark artifacts contained within the hidden chamber. I didn’t think it an immediate necessity to inform you, especially since the Manor and all that resides within it are my property, first and foremost. If the Dark Lord found it suitable to—”
“Fuck the Dark Lord!” she snarled. Lucius’s eyes bulged.
Druella always told her that foul language was for men and lowborn women, and for the most part she agreed. But sometimes nothing else gets the point across, as evidenced by Lucius’ shaken expression. “I can assure you I’m far more of a threat than he is right now.”
“I realize you’re upset, but—”
“Don’t patronize me.” She sprang out of her seat and thrusted a finger into his chest. “This is what we should have done. We should have given the book to the Ministry years ago and solidified our standing while maintaining good relations with the loyalists since, as you say, none of them knew of its existence. The Ministry never would have made the information public to begin with anyway, since it would stoke fears of there being more potentially-dangerous possessions of the Dark Lord unaccounted for. There’s no disadvantage to giving it up beyond the fantasy that he will one day return. If we gave it to the ministry as proof of our ‘loyalty,’ we wouldn’t have the usual suspects breathing down our necks constantly, and your infidelity wouldn’t have become a spectacle. I wouldn’t have become a spectacle.”
Not for the first time, she wondered what it would have been like to have been born a man, to have a destiny beyond that of a trophy wife whose primary purpose was to funnel the Black fortune to her son. To be the head of the household and guide the family to greatness or ruin, to have multiple chances to fuck things up and a spouse who was obligated to support them every step of the way.
Must be nice.
“I know I’ve made mistakes,” Lucius said, voice breaking. “My actions hurt you and this family. I’m not denying that. But Narcissa, I must remain loyal. I must. I cannot disobey his trust.”
“Are you a Slytherin or a Hufflepuff?” she challenged. “You need to do what’s best for this family, Lucius. For us. Why must you cling to the past like this?”
Lucius hesitated and looked away. Narcissa stifled a sigh, already knowing the answer to the question she posed. Her husband wouldn’t be able to verbalize it, and she suspected he didn’t even realize it himself. But being brought into the Dark Lord’s confidence gave Lucius a feeling of purpose, a feeling of importance, a feeling of power, a feeling of value he never experienced in childhood. It was sad, in a way, but she was in no mood to host a pity party, especially when he caused so much collateral damage.
“I suppose I have more faith than most that he’ll return,” Lucius finally said, “and believe it’ll be for the betterment of society when he does. We need someone with his ideology in a leadership position instead of impotent people-pleasers.”
“I never wanted to marry a man of faith. I married you because you conveyed to me that you were a man of certainty. Of strength. Of stability.” She looked him dead in the eye. “You have a choice, Lucius. The Dark Lord, or me. But I will not stand by while everything we built unravels.”
Her heart sank at his lack of immediate response. “What are you expecting me to do?” he whispered. “The diary’s gone. What I said to Diana can’t be undone.”
“I don’t expect anything from you. Not anymore.” She refused to feel guilty at crestfallen expression. “I will handle this, as always. Continue to wallow here in misery.”
She spun on her heels and stalked down the hall and up the steps, vision blurring. After locking the bedroom door, she grabbed a pillow and screamed into it like she used to do in childhood.
Stop these histrionics, she could practically hear Druella hissing in her ear, You’re a witch, not some hapless Muggle woman. Act like it.
The pillow dropped from her hands, and she lifted her gaze towards the mirror. Her mascara was smudged, and she looked weak, despairing, and broken, like how she imagined Sarah White to be.
She took an unsteady breath and sat on the bed, numb. Witches took their marriage vows seriously, unlike Muggles. She couldn’t legally break a marriage (divorce? Is that what it’s called?) but she could, theoretically, leave and start over in a different country, giving up access to the Malfoy fortune and gaining massive social shame in the process.
Tears started trickling down her cheeks. How did things go so wrong? How did it get to the point where it seemed as though the average Muggle woman had more opportunities than her? And the worst part, the part she loathed to admit, was that even if she could divorce him, she wouldn’t. She still loved the bastard, still loved the man who cheated on her, kept secrets from her, and attempted using an Unforgivable on his own child.
She felt pathetic. The court transcripts—provided they reflected an accurate recollection of accounts—indicated Sarah felt similarly, despite her mistreatment. Narcissa distinctly remembered scoffing after reading it, viewing it as a shining example of Muggles’ mental inadequacy. Sarah White was a stupid, naive girl with no sense of dignity, dumb as a cow who returned to the owner who beat it.
So what did that say about Narcissa Black, born into one of the purest wizarding bloodlines in the world?
She wiped the tears away, but they didn’t stop. The childish part of her that screamed into the pillow felt a deep yearning for her mother. Druella Black was often cold, but not always. It was only with the benefit of hindsight and becoming a mother herself that Narcissa realized a significant chunk of her mother’s ‘cruelty’ was intended as kindness.
Druella was trapped in a loveless marriage, where the evidence of her husband’s infidelity literally laid under her feet. Yet Narcissa never heard her complain, not once. And whenever Narcissa cried over a punishment, a fight with her sisters, a death, or a frivolity, Druella’s response was always the same.
“You’re allowed three minutes to cry, and that’s it. After that, I don’t want to hear another word of it.”
And so she did. Narcissa sniffled and sobbed and screamed into the pillow some more, and when those three minutes were up, she wiped her face and reapplied her mascara.
Then, she got to work.
****
“Are you sure?” Diana squeaked, glancing nervously at the hovering saucepan. “I thought students weren’t allowed to use magic outside of Hogwarts.”
Molly Weasley waved her hand dismissively. “Ehh, it’ll be fine. The Trace can’t tell who performs the spell, just its location. And besides, Ron says you need the practice. So go on—give it a go.”
“Okay, just, um, just let me get my wand.”
Diana weaved through the cozy clutter of the Burrow and into the room she’d been sharing with the only Weasley daughter. Ginny wasn’t there, but Freya was, curled up on Diana’s cot. She lifted her head as Diana rummaged into her bag for her wand.
“Professor Dumbledore said the reason my magic sucks is because of my mindset,” Diana explained to the cat, finally pulling out the dark Hawthorn. “Well, he didn’t use those words exactly, but that’s what he meant. And since I feel happier now than I have the past couple months, I’m thinking it might work. My necklace feels a lot lighter, so that’s a good sign, I think.”
Freya continued to look skeptically in her direction.
“I am going to do a spell right,” Diana said, more confident. Freya meowed in response and rested her head back on the mattress.
As she bounded out of the room, she almost collided into Percy. “Diana, just the person I wanted to see,” he exclaimed, pleased. She immediately went on the alert. “I was wondering if you could tell me about any recent events in the Muggle world?”
“Why?”
“Well,” he began, a twinge of pink appearing on his neck. “I wanted to impr-um, demonstrate my knowledge of Muggle culture to someone of a similar background. Dad knows about their technology, but I think she’d really like a chance to talk about topics she might not get to with anyone else.”
Penelope. Got it.
Justin showed her how to get The Times delivered periodically via owl, and she racked her brain trying to remember what she read recently. She told Percy about the dissolution of the Soviet Union (“The what?”), Justin Finch-Fletchley’s dad getting into the Top Ten, and the deaths of some famous celebrities. Percy repeated the information to make sure he understood, then shook her hand happily before imploring her not to tell the twins (“Or Ron, or Ginny, or my parents….”). Percy had a spring in his step as he retreated in the direction of his bedroom, and she felt the same way; it wasn’t often people asked her about the Muggle world, and she missed talking about it.
When she returned to the kitchen, Molly smiled and gestured to the saucepan. “I just put the butter in. Now, you’re going to take your wand and levitate that spoon over there, and imagine it mixing the butter in with the sugar and cream. As long as you keep that image in your head, it should continue until you’re ready to stop.”
Diana gulped; this was more complicated than she expected. “Why do I need to use magic to move the spoon? Can’t I use my hands?”
“But then your hands will get tired!” explained Molly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Now, come along, dear. This figgy pudding can’t make itself.”
“Okay,” she mumbled, mustering her courage. She concentrated with all of her might and whispered, “Wingardium Leviosa.”
At first, the spoon simply trembled back and forth. Then, it rose and clumsily entered the bowl. Diana suppressed a squeal of joy as it wobbled back and forth, mixing the cream, sugar, and butter.
But of course, it didn’t last. Instead of maintaining a steady rhythm, the spinning grew more and more rapid, and within seconds the contents of the saucepan splattered everywhere, and the wooden spoon fell limp and clattered on the counter.
“Sorry,” mumbled Diana, face flushing scarlet.
Molly chuckled and wiped some batter off her face. “Not to worry, we’ll have this cleaned up in a jiffy.”
With a flourish of her wand, she did just that, humming a merry tune as pots, pans, and washcloths levitated with ease. “It’s just as well we have to start over. When you were getting your wand, I remembered a better recipe my mum used to make years ago. Could you open that brown book on the table and see if there’s anything inside?”
“I think there’s a list of chores,” she said, leafing through the pages. “But that’s it.”
“Perfect! Bring it here, dear.”
After giving Molly the book, the Weasley matriarch double-checked the contents before taking her wand and tapping it against the cover. The notebook shriveled and transformed into the flowered cover of a cookbook.
Diana stared. “How’d you do that?”
“A simple transfiguration spell. You learn that in your first-year, yeah?”
“Yes, but usually more basic objects, like a match to a needle. A cookbook’s filled with pages and pages of recipes. How can it just appear filled out like that? Where do the words come from?” She began to blabber, finally asking the questions that always bothered her in Transfiguration class, but never asked because she was too bitter to bring it up to Professor McGonagall. “I suppose I just don’t understand transfiguration in general. I mean, when you use a spell to transform something into something else, what makes it that thing in particular. Like, if you try to turn a mouse into a snuffbox, why is Ron’s brown but Draco’s silver? Stuff like that I don’t understand.”
Molly threw back her head and laughed. “My, aren’t you inquisitive! Well, I’m no Professor, but I’ll do my best to explain. You learned about how what you transfigure needs to be roughly the same size, yeah?”
“Yeah…”
“And when you perform the spell, you must envision what you want to turn it into. There are sometimes limitations, but more often than not, the finished product reflects what’s in the wizard’s mind. If someone tries to turn a rat into a teacup, and the image of a teacup in that person’s mind is white, then that’s what will appear. You’re absolutely right that transfiguring something into a book is difficult, if not impossible. But luckily, there was only one page in Mum’s cookbook I needed, and one I happen to remember very well.”
She handed the cookbook to Diana, who flipped through it. Aside from the figgy pudding recipe and a few half-faded pages of other recipes, the rest of the book was blank. “This makes a lot more sense…”
“It helps in a pinch. Simples transfigurations could stay that way for a while since—”
A loud thud against the window caused Diana to shriek. Molly opened the window and hollered, “BOYS! I said keep your brooms away from the house! I don’t need another bludger through the window again!”
“Sorry, Mum!” the twins apologized in chorus. From the window, Diana spotted Draco and Ron on brooms and could make out snippets of their argument with the twins over a foul play.
Molly shut the window and sighed. “You don’t want to go out there with the boys, do you? Ginny always wants to, but I keep telling her it’s too dangerous. But I suppose if it’s something you want, then…”
“No way, I prefer staying on the ground,” said Diana, shivering at the thought of being that high in the air. “And besides, I like cooking. It’s something I used to do with my mum and grandma.”
For some reason, the admission didn’t make her as sad as it normally would. But Molly’s expression sobered anyway. “And it’s probably not something you do much of in your new home,” she sniffed.
“No,” agreed Diana. But she didn’t say any more than that.
Molly hesitated, and Diana knew what was coming before Molly said it outright. “Diana,” she began carefully, “dear, I know things have been tremendously difficult for you within the past few months. But don’t you think it would be nice to talk a little about…whatever happened? We can’t help you unless you tell us what’s wrong.”
Diana sighed. When she and Draco first arrived at the Burrow, they remained tight-lipped about what happened, only asking if it was possible for them to stay with the Weasleys until the winter holidays concluded. Arthur and Molly agreed without question, a testament to the family’s compassion. But as the Malfoys grew more comfortable, Arthur and Weasley started gently prodding for more information, possibly unaware that Ron and the twins already asked the same thing in blunter terms. Diana lied that she was beaten and ran away because she got scared. She knew there would be no legal repercussions for Lucius; in a world where bones could be healed easily, there were few laws against physical harm from a parent unless it resulted in death or permanent injury. There were, however, laws against certain types of magical punishments, and Diana suspected Arthur knew there was more to the story than what her and Draco let on.
But she wasn’t keen on revealing more, for various reasons. And the biggest reason happened to be flying on a broomstick outside right now.
“I don’t want to say more than I already said.”
Molly’s lips pursed, but nodded. “If you show me some of these bruises, I could—”
Molly’s lip snapped shut as the door opened and Ginny huffed in, carrying a basket of herbs. “Ginny!” Molly greeted. “Diana and I are about to make your favorite pudding. Why don’t you give us a hand?”
“I spent the last hour doing chores!” she pouted, placing the basket on the kitchen table with an excessively loud thump.
“We all need to do our part,” chided Molly, adding dried figs and water to a saucepan, “and everyone needs to eat.”
“But it’s the holidays!” whined Ginny. “I wouldn’t be doing any chores or cooking any food if we were in Romania like we were supposed to be!”
“I know it’s disappointing, but your father’s very busy with work these days. Now, why don’t you hand me the baking soda?”
Ginny folded her arms. “The boys never have to help you cook. It’s always me.”
“It’s a life skill. Diana knows this—she volunteered to help! I didn’t even ask.”
Ginny’s big brown eyes rested on her, and Diana glanced away, uncomfortable. “It’s a life skill for the boys, too!”
“Not in the same way.”
Ginny’s face almost matched her hair as her temper rose. Molly sighed. “Let’s not have this chat with Diana present. You know where I stand on the matter.”
“Clearly,” muttered Ginny. Then, her eyes drifted back towards Diana. “When you’re done, come back to our room. I need to ask you something.”
“You could ask her whatever you want now if you help us,” Molly said pointedly.
“No thanks,” Ginny grumbled. Then, she turned and stomped off in the direction of the bedroom. After they heard the slam of a door, Molly tsked.
“I don’t know what to do with that girl. She’s so focused on fairness that she ignores the reality of what’s going to be expected of her as she gets older.”
Diana bit her lip, not sure what to say (or what she wanted to say) to that. “I’ll, um, get the baking soda…”
“No, that’s alright,” sighed Molly. She gestured in Ginny’s direction. “Go to her.”
“Are you sure?” Diana asked, startled.
“Yes,” she smiled sadly. “It isn’t often Ginny gets the chance to talk to another girl.”
“Okay,” Diana said. She unfastened her apron and put it on the hook, then hesitated. Before she could talk herself out of it, she said, “I know Ginny’s really mad right now, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”
“After seven children, I know that already,” she chuckled dryly. “But thank you, dear. Your mother would be proud.”
Afraid her voice would sound wobbly, Diana just smiled.
I hope so.
****
Ginny was laying on her bed, sketching herself in a Quidditch uniform when Diana walked in. She instinctively slammed it shut, but relaxed upon seeing the visitor. “What are you doing here? I thought you ‘volunteered’ to help Mum.”
“I did, but she said I could talk to you instead.”
“So you finally got your freedom back?” She perked up and pumped a fist in the air. “Yes!”
In spite of the unintentional insensitivity of the phrasing, Diana couldn’t stop the smile from emerging on her lips. When she first arrived at the Burrow, Ginny was very quiet and did little more than stare at her like those creepy girls from The Shining. But within a couple days, it was like a dam broke and the once-silent bedroom now flooded with conversation on a daily basis. Ginny was very plucky and reminded her of a more socially-awkward version of Claire. It was nice to have another female friends again, besides Hermione.
“She’s just trying to help,” said Diana, plopping herself next to Freya on the cot. “She loves you. And I think she also wants to spend time with you, since you’ll be going away to Hogwarts next year.”
“I love her too, but that doesn’t mean I have to pretend she’s right all the time,” Ginny huffed, sprawling on her back and glaring at the ceiling. “There’s nothing stopping men from cooking! We’re in the nineties now—I should be able to play Quidditch with the boys and put my elbows on the table if I want to.” She turned her head toward Diana, a spark of mischief in her eye. “Say, is it true Muggle women had this big revolution against men and burned their brassieres and everything?”
“Kind of, I guess…”
“Blimey,” Ginny breathed, eyes shining with awe.
“It’s not what you think though,” she said quickly. “The world there, well, it’s definitely not some paradise. There’s still a lot of…expectations.”
“Oh,” Ginny said, shoulders slumping. “So it’s like here then? Damn.”
Diana wasn’t sure. When looking at wizarding history books, there definitely seemed to be more prominent women than what she remembered from her social studies class in Amberton, but the social dynamics and attitudes weren’t much different. There were even some occasions where she found the wizarding world to be more regressive in certain aspects.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked, wanting to change the topic.
Ginny pushed herself up on the bed, looking alert and slightly nervous. “Is Ron telling the truth when says he’s mates with Harry?”
“Yes.”
“Blimey,” she repeated again, eyes wide. “And he’s a Slytherin, so you know him too, right?”
Diana wasn’t sure she liked where this was going. “Yes.”
“What’s he like?” Ginny asked shyly, fiddling with the edges of her pillow.
Diana took a moment to gather her thoughts; Harry was a difficult person to describe. “He’s kind of an….intense person, but also laid back. Sometimes he can be scary, but he’s also very kind, unless you’re mean to him first. He’s got a strong sense of right and wrong, but also a lot of ambition.”
Ginny sighed dreamily. “That sounds like a hero from one of mum’s romance novels.” Diana prayed it wasn’t the wizarding equivalent of Millicent’s collection. “So aside from that, he’s a regular kid, yeah? Doesn’t act unusual or anything?”
“Yep, it’s just like the papers said. The normal ones, I mean. Not rubbish like The Quibbler.”
A few weeks ago, Harry was baffled to receive a letter from an anonymous source accusing him of being an actor hired by the Ministry. That led them down the rabbit hole of Harry Potter-related conspiracy theories, like how Harry was a tulpa born from the collective consciousness of British wizards living in fear of Voldemort, or how ‘Harry Potter’ didn’t actually exist, but was instead a story concocted by the Ministry, meant to cover up a forbidden technique used to defeat Voldemort.
“Good,” Ginny replied happily. Freya leapt from Diana’s cot to the floor, and Ginny reached down to stroke behind the cat’s ears. “I saw him once, just before he boarded the Hogwarts Express. We didn’t speak, but I’m ninety percent sure he saw me. Does he ever, um”—her face flushed—“mention me?”
No.
But she didn’t want to completely break Ginny’s heart. “Um, I think he might’ve told me Ron had a sister, but I was only half-paying attention and couldn’t hear if he said anything else.”
“He remembers!” exclaimed Ginny, beaming. Then, her grin faded. “But since he’s famous, he’s probably got a girlfriend already.”
Diana let out an unladylike snort. “No.”
“But there’s got to be a bunch of girls who like him! He saved everyone.”
She thought of Tracy batting her eyelids at him and the flirtatious giggles of other girls, along with Harry’s total obliviousness. “Yeah, but he’s a typical boy. In fact, the only girls he really talks to are me and Hermione. Ron told you about Hermione, right?”
“He did. Do you think she likes Harry?”
Diana wasn’t sure if Hermione would find any boy more appealing than her books. “As more than a friend? I doubt it.”
Ginny suddenly seemed shy again. “Do you like him? As more than a friend?”
Diana shook her head quickly; thinking of Harry in a romantic context felt weird. He was cute, she admitted, in a scrawny kind of way, with his bright green eyes and crooked grin. But Harry didn’t make her stomach flutter the way Tom did. Harry was a typical boy, talking about sports and sniggering whenever Ron pointed out inappropriate carvings on the desks. Tom wouldn’t do that. No way. He was a sophisticated gentleman who probably never laughed at a dick drawing in his life.
“But you are friends, right?” prodded Ginny.
“Yes.”
Harry was no Tom Riddle, but then again, who was?
“Okay.” Ginny was quiet for a moment, then added hesitantly, “I was just wondering because you sounded a little strange before, when I asked what he was like.”
Diana bit her lip, knowing what Ginny meant. While she considered Harry a good friend and assumed he felt the same, she couldn’t deny there was a bit of a wall between them, perhaps one that she subconsciously erected. She grew close to Draco because of their shared proximity and family, and felt comfortable with Hermione because she was a girl from a Muggle background. Ron was blunt and straightforward and reminded her a lot of Arthur, which made her feel more at ease. But Diana didn’t fully understand Harry. In the few times he talked about his blood family, he mocked their weight and appearance, but he was also the first person to rush and defend Neville if someone made a similar jibe against him. He was, fundamentally, a good person, just one battered down by the world.
Like me…
“There’s a lot I don’t understand about him,” she finally said. “But I want to.”
“Me too,” Ginny sighed dreamily. “I’ve got a whole year to prepare to be his, er, friend. I hope Mum will let me buy a new pair of shoes for next year.” She gestured to the brown pair on the ground and its torn edges. “You’re so lucky you’re rich.”
“Not lucky…” murmured Diana.
Ginny flushed, realizing the misstep. “Right, right…sorry.”
Making her feel guilty was never the goal. “My funds are kind of limited right now, but if I ever get them back, I can buy you some as a thank-you for letting me stay here.”
“We’ll make do on our own. Thanks, though.” Ron was the same way; even though the Weasleys were the first to extend a charitable hand, they never accepted charity themselves. Freya wandered back to Diana as Ginny sat crossed-legged, tilting her head to the side slightly. “You know, Diana, you’re a lot nicer than I thought you’d be. In the beginning you were so…sophisticated, like a princess. But you’re kind, too.”
Diana blinked—this was the first time she ever heard someone describe her as sophisticated. Was her quietness mistaken for aloofness, the same way she originally perceived Ginny as creepy? “Thank you.”
“Your brother’s still a jerk though,” Ginny continued. “Not evil, but a jerk.”
“Yup,” she agreed, smiling fondly.
****
“I’m in hell.”
“No you’re not, Draco,” Diana scolded, looking at the colorful (garish, Narcissa’s voice tittered) Chudley Cannons posters plastered on every wall of the cramped bedroom. “I think the posters look nice. They’re very…bright.”
“At least one of you has taste,” remarked Ron, rolling his eyes as he flipped through the pages of The Adventures of Martin Miggs, The Mad Muggle.
“You call this ‘taste’?” Draco echoed. He shook his head and plopped himself on the makeshift second bed, pointing at his sister. “Anyway, Diana thinks house-elfs are cute. Her opinion should be discarded for that alone.”
“I’m just saying you don’t have to be so rude about it, that’s all,” said Diana. “Especially since Ron’s being kind enough to let you stay in his room.”
“Actually, Mum made me,” corrected Ron. “I didn’t want to because I knew he’d whine about it for days, and I was right.”
“I’m not trying to be rude,” Draco protested. “I’m just saying my opinion, and my opinion is that this is what hell looks like. In a year or two, I’ll see Grandfather here, sitting in that bed.”
He pointed to Ron’s orange Chudley Cannons comforter. Ron emitted a noise that was a mixture of a laugh and a groan. “A year? God, I don’t know if I’ll be able to get through a week.”
Diana brought her knees closer to her chest. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, shooting Draco. Warning glare, “because we’re not going to be here a year from now.”
“You could, you know, if you absolutely needed to,” Ron muttered, shifting uncomfortably. “Mum would insist.”
Draco smirked mischievously. “Depends. Would you take me up on my offer to redecorate and inject some class into this room?”
“Not a chance,” laughed Ron.
“I mean it. One poster of the Chudley Cannons is already more than enough, let alone twenty or however many—”
Draco’s mouth snapped shut as faint footsteps echoed throughout the hallway, getting closer and closer. Within seconds, they heard a knock on the door. “Is it alright if I come in?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“Hello, Mr. Weasley,” Diana greeted as Arthur walked in, carrying two lumpy packages. He didn’t look antsy or upset, but there was something strained about his smile that put her on guard. “Is something the matter?”
He didn’t answer her question at first, instead looking at Ron. “I was hoping I could speak to Diana and Draco alone. It shouldn’t take long, just a few minutes. Could you wait downstairs for me?”
“…Okay,” Ron reluctantly agreed. He shot the siblings a worried glance before leaving the room and closing the door once more.
Arthur waited until he couldn’t hear Ron’s footsteps before placing the packages on Ron’s bed and sitting next to them, knuckles clenched white above his knee. “Well, I suppose it’s not unexpected. But Narcissa has been asking around as to your whereabouts, and was shrewd enough to contact Dumbledore.”
“…Is that a problem?” asked Diana.
“Not really a ‘problem,’ per say, but it does mean that you’re going to be seeing her sooner rather than later. He’s stalling as much as he can, but he’s obligated to report your location.”
“How does he know where we are?” Draco demanded.
“I told him,” admitted Arthur. Draco shot Diana an “I-knew-he-couldn’t-be-trusted” glare. She wasn’t naive and figured he contacted someone—likely the night of their arrival—but it still stung all the same. Upon seeing her expression, he babbled, “You have to understand. When you came here a few days ago, none of us knew what was happening, or the potential danger you two—and our family—were in. The Malfoy’s could be very…litigious, and Professor Dumbledore’s on the Wizengamot. We needed to make sure there weren’t any legal ramifications for allowing you to stay here. Though”—he puffed out his chest—“if need be, Molly and I were willing to cross that road. We were just concerned there’d be a physical threat to our family.”
“Are you going to get in trouble for hiding us?” Diana asked hesitantly.
Arthur rubbed the back of neck. “Well, it all comes down to the legalese. We’re not hiding you. You came here. We didn’t know Lucius and Narcissa didn’t want you to, legally speaking.”
“So they didn’t put it in the newspaper or contact the Ministry or wizard-police to send out search parties?”
“No,” Arthur chuckled dryly. “I doubt they’d want that kind of attention, which brings me to the next point.”
He crossed his legs and folded his hands atop his knee. “Now, I understand the reason you gave for why you came here. Even with some of the recent legislative changes, it’s within his right as a parent, unfortunately. Magical punishments, on the other hand, are more regulated than they have been in the past.” He inspected her carefully, and she tried not to flinch. “I know I asked you this before, but I need to do it again: Did he use a spell on you?”
She felt Draco’s eyes drill into her. “No.”
It can out weaker than she wanted, and she was once again grateful for the Brisingamen. “Are you sure?” pressed Arthur.
“If he did use a spell,” Draco cut in, “what would happen?”
“It all depends on the type of spell, the duration, and overall purpose. But,” he leaned forward, looking grave, “if he used one of the Unforgivables, it would be an instant trip to Azkaban.”
“Where would Diana and I go then?”
Arthur blinked slowly. “Did he?”
“No,” Diana said forcefully, glaring at her brother. “Draco was just asking hypothetically.”
“Diana…”
“If I was hypothetically under the pain curse or something, wouldn’t I be acting differently? I read that it messes up grown men for weeks, and I’m just a kid.”
“...Yes, I suppose normally happens,” Arthur admitted, doubt creeping into his eyes. “To answer your question, Draco, I assume you’d stay with your mother. For Diana, it might be a bit complicated. The court might want you placed with an adult relative by blood first, which in this case, leaves only your paternal grandparents. Abraxas may not be qualified due to his health, and the other option would be your grandmother. If you’re placed with her, you’d relocate to France and attend Beauxbatons.”
“But I don’t speak French.”
“There are spells that can assist in translation.”
Diana swallowed. She didn’t want to start over in a foreign country after finally starting to get comfortable in Hogwarts. And, more importantly, she didn’t want to get separated from Draco. She couldn’t, not now.
“Diana,” Arthur said gently. “Perhaps I’m overstepping a bit, but I believe there’s more to this beyond what you’re saying. And I can’t help you fully unless you’re honest with me.”
“You already are helping, and I’m grateful for that,” she replied. “But there’s nothing else to say, and if that’s a problem, we can leave.”
“No, of course not,” Arthur said quickly. “If there’s nothing else you want to say, then that’ll be the end of it, and I’ll go. Goodnight, and if anything changes, let me know.”
“Goodnight,” she mumbled, as he stood up and headed towards the door. “Wait, you left your packages on the bed.”
“Oh, those aren’t for me,” he said, a genuine smile flitting across his face for the first time during their conversation. “Think of them as belated Christmas presents for each of you.”
On that cryptic note, Draco reached for the one with his name scrawled in ink and shredded through it before holding up the mound of green wool. “I don’t understand. Is this supposed to be kindling?”
“I think it’s a jumper, like the ones the Weasleys wore on Christmas,” she said, unwrapping her own. She felt a stab of guilt, recalling that her own present for Draco was left in the Manor during their hasty exit.
Draco looked down at the woolen mass, horrified. “But it’s not cashmere!”
“Hold up your hands.” He did as instructed, and she pulled the jumper over his head.
Narcissa would faint if she saw. “It looks good!”
“I’m never wearing this in public,” Draco said glumly. “I might not even wear it downstairs. Hell, I’m probably not going to wear it outside this room.”
“Show some gratitude,” chided Diana, pulling her jumper over her head. It wasn’t the most aesthetically-pleasing, but it was very comfortable. “Mrs. Weasley didn’t have to make those for us, but did because she’s a kind person.”
“I’m aware of the sentimentality, which is why I haven’t torn it off already. It’s a symbol of alliance, like the bread-breaking of old.”
She rolled her eyes, but smiled. “Well, I’m not embarrassed to go downstairs in this jumper, so I’ll go and get Ron now.”
“Wait,” he commanded, growing serious. “So you’re definitely set on not telling them about Father?”
“Yes.”
“What if it happens again?”
“It won’t. He knows he fucked up. I could tell right after he did it.” Draco still didn’t look convinced, so Diana added, “Besides I have a plan to use this to my advantage.”
“What plan?”
“I’m not going to say because you’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, that’s reassuring.”
“At least I have one beyond wandering the streets of Dragon Alley in a ‘poor person’ disguise.”
“And yet, no one spotted us,” he said arrogantly.
“True,” she smiled. “Thank you. If nothing else, we’ll have quite the story to tell Hermione and Harry.”
Mention of the latter caused her grin to fade, something Draco picked up on. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you or Ron sent him any letters?” she asked, gesturing to Ron’s desk.
“No. Why?”
“I was just wondering how Harry’s doing. He must be lonely at the castle by himself.”
“He’s not ‘by himself.’ Nott’s”—Draco’s lips curled in disgust—“staying there too.”
Diana blinked, surprised. “Why?”
“How should I know?” he snapped. “In case you haven’t realized, we don’t get along.”
“You don’t get along with him. Theodore’s nice to you.”
Draco folded his arms and looked away, pouting. Despite her words, she was nervous about Theodore and Harry spending time together. “I think I’m going to write to him, see how things are going.”
“You can’t! We’re supposed to be laying low, not advertising our location.”
“You heard Mr. Weasley,” she sighed. “Your mum’s going to be coming soon, like it or not. I don’t see the harm in writing.”
“....Fine,” he muttered, kicking his legs out. “Do what you want.”
Later that night, after many drafts, she composed a letter:
Dear Harry,
Merry Christmas! I hope the castle had lots of good food over the holidays. I also hope you got the present I sent in time. I know you said you don’t like to read, but since you like Quidditch and sports a lot, I thought you might enjoy it. Maybe you can learn some tips in time for tryouts next year!
Draco and I have been traveling a bit over the holidays, and we’ll tell you more when classes are back in session. Just know that this Christmas I definitely had to reflect on things that mattered a lot to me, and you’re on that shortlist. So, congrats!
Looking forward to seeing you and the rest of the castle soon.
From,
Diana
It sounded corny and artificial, even though there was nothing in the letter that was inaccurate. After much flip-flopping over whether or not to send it, she decided his comfort was more important than her pride.
Worst case scenario, he’d think she’s a weirdo. And she was already plenty used to that.
*****
Two days later after breakfast, Diana received a response via Hedwig:
Hi Diana,
Merry Christmas to you too! I really liked the Quidditch book you sent me. I didn’t expect anyone to get me anything honestly, Christmas morning was a nice surprise. I hope the Choco-Locos I sent you taste alright. I never see expiration dates on any of the packages for wizarding food so I figured it was okay, but one of the Hufflepuffs started throwing up a couple days ago and Madame Pomfrey said it was because he ate bad food, so now I don’t know.
Even though you, Draco, Ron, and Hermione went home, things at the castle aren’t so bad. It’s quiet, but peaceful. Theo’s staying here, too. I know Draco’s got a grudge against him, but he’s not that bad if you get to know him. But Snape’s also here though, which blows.
I really like you and the rest of my friends too, and look forward to seeing you soon. Tell Draco I said hi.
-Harry
Diana’s heart warmed, the anxiety of the past two days dissipating with the knowledge that he didn’t think her letter was random and creepy. She never got the Choco-Locos though, but assumed it must have been delivered to the Manor the same way she addressed the Quidditch book to the castle. The thought of presents sitting unopened made her feel despondent, but that was quickly broken by a sharp, swift knock at the door. Molly peeked out the window and spun around. “Boys. Ginny. Upstairs, now. And don’t come down until I tell you!”
Ron began to protest. “But—”
“Now!”
Ron reluctantly stood, ending his chess game with Draco. The rest of the Weasleys trudged upstairs, and Diana and Draco glanced at each other, knowing what this meant.
Ah, well. All good things must come to an end…
Shooting Diana and Draco a worried look, Molly opened the door. Narcissa stood with a cold expression, as expected, in a traveling cloak and white gloves, holding the bottom of her dress as if afraid of getting dirt on it. Seeing her sleek figure juxtaposed against the homeliness of the Burrow felt jarring and out of place, like a Porsche parked on Ironwood Lane.
“Molly,” she said, nodding coolly.
“Narcissa,” Molly replied, folding her arms.
Diana stuffed the letter in her pocket, eyes locked onto the two women. Despite their vast differences in appearance, wealth, and social standing, Molly looked every bit Narcissa’s equal, poised to protect and defend the hatchlings taken in. The vague memory of watching a documentary on cuckoo birds flitted into her mind just then, and she felt a slight stab of guilt at the favor she asked Molly for the previous day.
“I was made aware my son and stepdaughter are residing in this…dwelling. You have my gratitude for ensuring their safety, but you needn’t concern yourself any longer. I've come to take them home.”
Despite the use of ‘them,’ Narcissa’s eyes were fixed on Draco, who folded his arms and glared at a spot on the wall, refusing eye contact.
“There’s no need for that,” replied Molly. “They’re doin’ plenty fine here and never told me otherwise. It’s no trouble keeping them for the rest of the holidays.”
“Their legal residence is Malfoy Manor. To keep them after their legal guardian expresses a desire to take them home could be interpreted unfavorably.”
Molly picked up on the veiled threat. “I’m well aware of the law. But I’m not about to throw children to the wolves.”
“As one mother to another, I can assure you they’ll remain safe. If nothing else, you must believe that.”
“It’s not the mother I’m worried about,” grumbled Molly.
“He will not be a problem either,” Narcissa said, loudly and sharply. Then, softer: “Draco. Diana. We’ll be taking our leave.”
There was a long, tense pause.
“No.”
Narcissa’s lips thinned.
Diana gently kicked Draco from under the table, but he wouldn’t budge, sullen. The tension filling the air grew thick and palpable.
“Draco, I am your mother, and I will not leave without a conversation.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Draco practically spat.
In spite of her nervousness, Diana felt another rush of affection. Though he never verbalized it to her, Diana suspected Draco was afraid of becoming his father. But that was impossible; Lucius had ice in his veins, but Draco had fire, much like his namesake. And he’d be willing to burn things down for the people he loved, and Diana loved him for it.
“Draco, please. I have no desire to escalate matters, but I will if you force my hand.”
Diana had to admit, it was impressive how Narcissa maintained cool and composed, as though she was the one pulling the strings and in a position to make demands. Molly might take Narcissa at face value, but Diana knew better.
‘Escalating matters’ implied getting the law involved, but that would only make things worse for her and direct the spotlight onto Lucius. It was, ultimately, a toothless threat. For the first time since getting her acceptance letter, Diana was now the one with the power, the one with the ability to send Lucius away with a simple admission. And while she knew it was overly prideful to assume Narcissa didn’t have any tricks up her sleeve, the thrill of liberation caused her nerves to drop.
“Let’s go outside, Draco,” she said, standing up. He nodded reluctantly but followed her lead, and Diana knew Draco’s adherence to her would not go unnoticed by Narcissa. Good.
She felt Molly’s worried eyes on her as they crossed the threshold, closed the door, and stepped further into the field.
“I will not hold pretense,” Narcissa said after a long pause. “What your father did was unacceptable, and will never happen again.”
“How do you know?” Draco demanded.
“I know,” she said quietly, but with such intensity Diana didn’t doubt the words. “And trust me, he’s well aware of the severity of his misconduct, and regrets it immensely.”
“Oh,” scoffed Draco. “Well, if he regrets it, then that makes everything okay.”
“Do you take me for a woman of sentiment?” she hissed.
“No…” mumbled Draco.
“Naturally, there are more pragmatic reasons. I will not have him ruin what we built, and will take matters into my own hands if need be. He’s well aware of this. And Diana, I assume, has already pieced together why it’s more advantageous to return to the Manor, which is why you wisely kept quiet as to the specifics behind your sudden exodus.”
Diana feigned ignorance, curious to see Narcissa’s response. “I only didn’t say anything because of Draco. Is there something else I should know about?”
“If anything were to happen to Lucius, it would cut off opportunities available to you and draw undue attention.”
Diana tried not to smile; Narcissa really was desperate. She had plenty of ‘undue attention’ already. “I guess that’s true.”
Her noncommittal answer didn’t go unnoticed. “And of course, to ensure you feel comfortable, we’d be willing to accommodate your wishes within reason.”
That was what she was waiting for. “I already have something in mind, if that’s okay.”
Narcissa nodded, mask impenetrable. Diana wondered if she expected that, or if she expected Diana to rebuff her the same way she rebuffed Lucius and his attempts to bribe her over the summer. “What do you desire?”
“I want to go to France and meet my father’s mother. Over the summer maybe, or the next one.”
Narcissa blinked. “Why?”
“I just want to know more about my family,” she said lightly.
Aurelia’s defense of Lucius didn’t fill her with confidence, but meeting the woman first was a strategic move if she decided to put Lucius under fire and be removed from his ‘care.’ Narcissa nodded, accepting the answer even if not fully believing it.
“I also want to spend the rest of the Christmas holiday here, with Draco and the Weasleys.”
Narcissa’s lips pursed. “You will have to return to the Manor sometime. You’re aware of that, yes?”
“We will, for Easter,” agreed Diana. “But I can’t go now. The trauma’s too fresh, and I wake up almost every night with nightmares. By Easter, I think I’d have enough time to calm down.”
It was complete bullshit, but Narcissa nodded slowly, knowing that Diana held all the cards. “What else?”
“Chocolate makes me feel better, so a bunch of sweets to stockpile for the next few months. Nothing that moves, though.”
“And...?”
“That’s it.” For now.
One of the benefits of keeping quiet was that she could milk her non-existent trauma for a while—possibly years, if needed. But she also wasn’t foolish enough to overplay her hand. This was going to be a slow trickle instead of a flood, but in the end, water would get everywhere all the same.
“I see those terms are adhered to.” She turned towards her son. “Draco, I know that pensive expression. State your thoughts.”
“All my life, I’ve been told how awful the Weasleys are,” he said, looking down at his shoes. “But they’ve been nothing but kind to us, even though they hate Father. And they’d never use…that spell on their children, even when they’re being extremely annoying.”
“I believe you’re correct.”
Narcissa’s noncommittal answer didn’t create the back-and-forth he wanted, and Draco’s eyebrows scrunched. He folded his arms and looked off to the side, scowling. “Since we’re not going home with you, I don’t see the point of staying out here any longer. It’s freezing.”
“Draco,” murmured Narcissa, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He slipped out of her grasp, ignoring the hurt shining in her eyes.
“Goodbye, Mother,” he muttered. Then, he looked at Diana. “Come on, let's go.”
The hurt in her eyes vanished as quickly as it appeared. “There’s a matter I must speak to Diana about privately.”
“What?” Draco asked, on the defensive.
Luckily, Diana came prepared. “It’s alright. I’ll meet you inside.”
Draco looked torn, but with another nod from Diana, he scowled again and trudged towards the Burrow.
“You certainly have my son wrapped around your finger,” Narcissa sniffed. “Admirable.”
“What did you want to speak to me about?” Diana asked, feigning ignorance once more.
“The item Lucius wanted from you,” began Narcissa, her cool and impenetrable mask returning. “It would be in everyone’s best interests for you to return it to me.”
Diana abandoned the pretense of not taking it. “Why?”
“It’s an old family heirloom,” Narcissa said easily. “One that belonged to your great-grandfather. It has extraordinary sentimental value, you see, which is why Lucius was so perturbed upon its disappearance. It also has the potential to be quite dangerous in the wrong hands.
What an impressive string of bullshit.
Diana tried to look as though she was contemplating something. Then, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a black diary. “Here it is,” she murmured. “I didn’t know it was so valuable, and when he confronted me about it, I—um—I got scared. I only took it because I wanted it for school. I didn’t even end up using it…”
Narcissa swiftly plucked the book from Diana’s hands and deposited it into her own purse, shoulders relaxing. “Thank you.”
“Will that be all?” Diana questioned. From the corner of her eye, she could make out the swaying curtain of the Burrow, Draco and the Weasleys no doubt peeking outside.
“Yes.” For a moment, it looked as though Narcissa wanted to say something more. But instead, all she said was, “I’ll see you at Easter. Make sure to focus on your studies.”
The older woman apparatus away in a pop, taking the tension away with her. Diana let out an unsteady breath, the smiled.
Victory.
****
“Two diaries, eh? Not a problem, dear, ” chuckled Molly. “I’m sure you’ve got plenty to write in ‘em.”
“Thanks,” Diana said, hoping Molly didn’t sense her nervousness. “How long do you think the copy will last for?”
“Well,” Molly sighed, flipping through the pages. Diana’s heart started beating faster. “There’s an awful lot of pages, but since there’s nothing written inside, it might be able to last five or six years. Eight, tops. Of course, that’s not counting if you decide to transfigure it back, or use a spell like Revelio. And you’re sure you don’t mind me using this?”
Molly gestured to the sketchpad, and Diana felt a tug of remorse. The sketchpad was a gift from Sarah, a way to connect to her memory. Sacrificing it to further a magical plot felt like betraying her mother somehow. But she needed an item roughly the same shape as the diary, and all her other books got far more use. “Yes.”
“Alrighty then.” Molly swished her wand above the sketchpad, and within seconds, the sketchpad shriveled and transformed into a replica of Tom’s diary. Diana picked it up and flipped through it. Upon close inspection, there were minor changes; the pages were a fraction less thick, the corners softer instead of hard. But to an average person, it didn’t look perceptibly different from the original.
“Thank you so much Mrs. Weasley,” she gushed. “It’s wonderful!”
“Happy to help,” Molly chuckled, then grew more serious. “Now, just be careful. It’s easy to manually reverse the transfiguration accidentally. Happened to myself a couple times, when I was using a spell on something else nearby.”
“I’ll be thankful. Thanks again!”
She scooted into Ginny’s room with the diaries and laid them both on the bed. Grabbing a quill, she flipped open to the middle of the replica and dabbed a tiny, barely-perceptible speck into the top corner of the page.
As expected, it didn’t soak in. Whatever spell kept Tom imprisoned wasn’t part of the diary itself, but rather a spell placed upon it. That could be problematic if Lucius wrote in the diary to check for Tom’s presence, but according to Tom, she was the only person he spoke to in years. Despite its apparent importance, Lucius kept his distance from the diary—a fact which would work in her favor.
She placed the fake diary in her satchel and the real one under her pillow, smiling.
Tom would never return to the Manor again—not if she had anything to say about it.