Harry Potter 1. A Silver Ring, A Golden Carriage

A/N: This story is an AU Book 7 fic. I started it in 2005 (it's taken me forever, I know) and I'm not going to change my plot to better fit with DH, so if you don't like that you should probably find another story. :) This fic is also posted at HPFF.

Chapter One  
A Silver Ring, A Golden Carriage

Draco's breath curled like candle smoke in the October air. The moon and cold stars shone through the bare trees. He and the other Death Eaters were still, frozen, waiting. Their rigid figures reminded Draco of the barren trees. It was All Hallows Eve and time was frozen, along with the waters and gray mornings.

Narcissa's shaking hand rested on his shoulder. With every tremble the pale stone on her wedding ring winked with a hard smirk. Draco always thought that it was laughing at him, at everything that had happened. That very ring Lucius had given her, and maybe he had smiled. Maybe he had even bent down on one knee.

_It would have ruined his robes, _thought Draco.

"You shouldn't think badly of your father," muttered Narcissa. She must have noticed his eyes; Draco often looked at her ring. Ever since.

He glanced away. "It won't hurt him now."

Narcissa grew stiff but said no more. Lucius had been dead for months. Voldemort had killed him along with Macnair and Zabini, after so-called constant failure. Many wizards had turned to the dark side, out of fear or because their families were disappearing. Voldemort had cut a few loose ties. One of them had been Draco's father.

Draco had seen the death coming for weeks. Twice Lucius left the Malfoy manor for days, hiding. Both times he was hunted down and dragged back by other Death Eaters. Narcissa chose to lose herself in her books. To forget everything. But it didn't disappear. And if it did, Lucius was swept away with it.

The air suddenly crackled with tension and the Death Eaters stirred. The telltale feeling of a hot coal pressed into Draco's forearm. With a loud crack, the air became frostier and Lord Voldemort appeared. At his side were Severus Snape and, several paces behind, a whimpering Peter Pettigrew.

They stood for minutes, hours, days; Draco wasn't sure. He felt light-headed and the pain in his arm was intensifying. Then a horrible smile split Voldemort's face.

"Come with me, Malfoy."

Narcissa gripped Draco's shoulder tightly. "Master—"

"_Silence!"_ Voldemort loomed over her and she cowered. Draco couldn't look at him. It took a moment for Narcissa to release her son. Her hand trembled; the ring flickered madly, laughing witlessly.

Her voice came shakily, "Draco…"

"I'll be fine," he said impassively.

Her grip loosened and he trailed behind Voldemort, hood drawn, without a second glance. Only Severus followed, solemn and silent. Draco didn't return his glance.

They trekked deeper into the forest until the moon vanished and all was smothered with black. Draco's tired eyes watched the eerie light from Voldemort's wand of bone. Its glow cast a greenish hue across the frozen earth, as if all it understood was the killing curse.

Voldemort suddenly turned around. "I hope for your sake, boy, that you will not follow in your father's footsteps." He watched Draco as if he were a beetle, stuck with a pin and encased in glass. "Lucius was worthless to me. Though at one time he became a prized follower…. Well, you see what becomes of those who don't complete simple tasks."

Draco struggled to keep his mind blank. He could feel Voldemort probing his thoughts, delving into his fear and nausea. Draco bowed his head in an excuse to look away from those horrible eyes. They were the colors of poisonous berries.

"Your worth has been tested once, Malfoy. But you must understand," Voldemort laughed wryly and almost cooed, "to become a member of our family, one simple task is not nearly enough. This is why I have chosen you to take leadership. Are you enthralled by this, boy? By a chance to prove your worth to _me?_ You may become as valuable as Lucius once was."

Severus stirred, and a horrible excitement overtook Voldemort. Fervor was driven through his next words, "Now is the time to attack where they are weakest, where they are not looking! We will shift our gaze to the magical world's foundation—to the only thing keeping hundreds and thousands of wizards from joining with _me."_

Severus's head snapped up with a look of alarmed realization. Draco swallowed. "D-do you mean The Ministry?"

"You are clever, boy. You are aware that our dark family is growing. People are losing faith in Rufus Scrimgeour. They see through his false arrests and hear the lies in his campaigns. If we destroy their so-called protector, there will be nowhere to turn. They will join me, or they will die." Voldemort stood so close that Draco smelled death and bones and ash. "I want Rufus Scrimgeour dead."

"My Lord—" Severus began.

"Quiet, Severus! You know better than others to speak _when spoken to."_

He lowered his eyes. Voldemort smiled and Draco's skin crawled. "Scrimgeour is disposable. Gather any information possible, and if he fails to comply, kill him. The Ministry holds no more secrets. Your father managed to turn fellow officials into my followers, to become spies for me. I doubt that Scrimgeour is any more knowledgeable than I." He might have laughed. "It seems your father was good for something, boy."

Draco didn't respond.

"Scrimgeour has a daughter. He would choose to protect her over keeping secrets from us. Threaten to kill her if he refuses to give information. Destroy any remaining family. I want them all dead."

Draco swallowed and tasted the cold, salty sweat above his lip. "Yes, master," he could barely manage.

Though Voldemort addressed Severus, his eyes stayed on Draco, flickering malevolently. "This mission will go well, Severus. Malfoy killed the great Albus Dumbledore. Rufus Scrimgeour should be a mere insect beneath his foot."

The moon slipped behind a sudden cloud.

* * *

Other than the lace that wound across her white gloves, Eloise Scrimgeour had nothing to keep her entertained. She had been waiting in the carriage for nearly an hour; the castle-like building outside had sucked her father in, beckoning for another conference. Small shops and a pub cowered beneath its colossal frame. Their windows were covered in posters of Ministry business and escaped Death Eaters.

The ground was littered with newspaper. On one front page, a photograph of her father pointed viciously and shouted his speech before a storm of camera flashes.

Eloise yawned into her hand, staring once more at the glove. As did many wealthy purebloods, the Scrimgeours followed a Victorian wizarding lifestyle. The stiff, high collar of her dress was more than annoying and she watched passing girls with gleaming envy. Knees were bared daringly and hair was colored. Their eyelids were blue, lips the colors of fruits…

The carriage door suddenly flew open and the gray sun burst through like a flock of angry birds. Eloise's pupils shrank into their yellow pools.

Her father's voice came, "Ah, there she is." Though her eyes hadn't adjusted she knew that he wasn't alone.

The guest said, "Your daughter will be attending, I presume?"

"Of course," said Eloise dumbly.

"Very well." He shifted in front of the sun and at last she saw the white-blond moustache and great belly. Eloise recognized him; her father often complained of his "loud and obnoxious manner."

"Professor Slughorn, how are you?"

He might have smiled, though the enormous mustache obstructed his mouth. "Splendidly," he replied, "now that I've been informed of this upcoming gala. I shall mark my calendar." There was a sly tone to his voice that suggested bitterness. He turned to Mr. Scrimgeour. "I'm certain that one of my students of Muggle heritage sadly went on to Muggle politics. Perhaps I could owl him, and he could take part in convincing the Crime Minister—"

"Prime," corrected Mr. Scrimgeour, but he was nearly run over with,

"—To agree to this gala. It seems that you're not having much luck."

Eloise could practically hear her father's face burning with anger. He only said tersely, "I remind you that it was always my plan to include Muggle and magical politicians in this gala."

"Yes, I'm sure it would be wonderful for your campaign," dared Slughorn. Mr. Scrimgeour opened his mouth, but Slughorn said with a malicious smile, "A gala for companionship between Muggles _and_ Magic-folk. Just what we're in need of in this war."

Eloise could hear the sarcasm sliding around his tongue. Her father would be furious. As Slughorn went on, Eloise recalled talk of the gala at a past dinner table. The only Hogwarts staff Mr. Scrimgeour intended to invite was headmistress McGonagall. But Professor Slughorn was iconic for his nosiness, and Eloise was certain he heard about the gala and invited himself. Now he was only bitter for not being invited in the first place.

After several more minutes of forced smiles and terse responses, the carriage door was shut and Mr. Scrimgeour sat heavily across from Eloise. He sighed, muttering about Slughorn as the city trailed farther behind. Moments later the horses clip-clopped down a dirt road, past fields and ponds where white ducks floated like paper sailboats.

"Did everything go well with the Prime Minister?" asked Eloise quietly.

"Considering we had to speak to him through a fireplace. I don't think he much liked the flaming head. And of course bloody Slughorn found out," he practically growled. "I'm sure we were all rather looking forward to the absence of his enormous presence."

Eloise shifted. "You look tired."

He muttered something distractedly and his yellow eyes went out the window. Calloused fingers ran through his tawny hair.

A tendril of Eloise's own tawny hair curled near her eye. She looked more like her father than her mother, judging by the photographs on Grandmother's nightstand. Eloise had Mr. Scrimgeour's long, sloping face and upturned eyes. The thin, cat-like mouth and loosely curled hair she had shared with her mother.

The tiny window behind Mr. Scrimgeour's head opened. Their cabby called as he always did, "No Muggles for miles. Abou' to Disapparate, sir."

Eloise shut her eyes when they lurched forward, into the dark, unpleasant suction of Apparition. The carriage disappeared with only a flock of befuddled sheep as witness.

They reappeared in a forest where moss wrapped around the trees. The horses' hooves pounded the deep, earthy floor. Quiet, silvery rays of the sun dusted over the carriage.

After several minutes Eloise glanced to her father. He was already asleep, head lolled to the side. He wore his typical frown on his lined face, and Eloise hoped he would sleep well tonight and awake in a better mood. He had been losing sleep ever since his election, growing more and more bitter. Eloise was about to settle down for a nap, when the carriage stopped. She frowned at the silence.

"We can't possibly be here…" She stuck her head out the window, searching for the cause of their abrupt stop. Suddenly she put a hand over her mouth and gasped. There, sprawled across the forest floor, was a dead woman.

Leaves were tangled in her white-blond hair and her lifeless eyes stared at the sky. What looked like a red scorch mark traced from her temple, across the bridge of her nose, down to her jaw.

The Scrimgeours' cabby was already down, covering her body with his cloak. But Eloise still caught a glimpse of the shredded gown. She smelled blood and the scent of a woman struggling in the dark.

The cabby jerked when he saw Eloise. "Miss! You mustn't look, 'tain't suitable for a young girl!"

If Eloise hadn't been so horrified she would have thought irritably, _I'm nearly eighteen._ But her eyes were trained on the woman. "Is she…?"

_Dead._

"What's all this?" muttered Mr. Scrimgeour crossly, waking from much needed sleep.

"Sir!" the cabby sputtered, "I jus' came across 'er like this! Jus' lyin' 'ere… tried to tell miss…" but even he was at a loss for words.

"Merlin," muttered Scrimgeour when he saw. He limped from the carriage and stared at the body, now covered up to her neck. She was just staring. Eloise heard her father muttering, and strained to hear, "…Lucius Malfoy's wife…"

Something about the name was familiar.

"Didn't Lucius Malfoy work for the Ministry at one point?" Her voice was strong, considering her hands shook.

He whirled around and furrowed his brows. "Get back in the carriage."

Eloise didn't hear him. Her eyes had fallen on the woman's hand. It protruded from beneath the cloak, as if it were how fate wanted it. Her stomach lurched. "Her ring finger is missing…"

A crow cawed; Eloise looked up and saw hundreds of them covering the highest branches overhead. A flock of crows. A murder.

Mr. Scrimgeour gathered himself. "Get back inside, Eloise. _Now."_

Because there was nothing else she could force herself to do, she sank back into the carriage. The doors were still open and the leathery seats felt cold beneath her skirts. Eloise willed herself to turn her eyes away and shuddered, her breath a frosty ghost in the air.


	2. Portrait

Chapter Two  
Portrait

An owl scratched at the frosted windows of Spinner's End. Draco jumped. He had been sitting on what was now his bed, staring at the same spot on the murky wall. He hadn't seen Narcissa in days and his stomach felt sick.

The owl scratched again. Draco crept from the rickety mattress and barely noticed how icy the floor was on his bare feet. He pulled the hood over his tangled blond head.

When he opened the window the icy air bit at his skin. The owl shrieked and dropped a crinkled envelope into his hand. Draco wondered who could possibly be owling him, when he realized that something was in the bottom of the envelope. He glanced into the owl's piercing syrup-orange stare. The envelope was stained the color of old wine.

Dried blood.

His breath quickened as slender fingers split the paper fold. There was no mark on the red seal, no address. When he looked up the owl had vanished. Draco tried to swallow but his throat was dry. At last the envelope came open: there was no letter inside. Slowly he turned it over. To his horror, a finger dropped onto the cold floor.

He didn't scream until he noticed the pale ring around the slender flesh.

By the time Severus had thrown open the door Draco could only stare. Severus followed his gaze and stopped. They grew as still as the creeping cold.

"What have they done with her?" Draco shivered with rage or fear or the chill, maybe all three. He was beginning to go into hysterics.

Severus did not reply.

"IS MY MOTHER DEAD?!"

Still he received no answer.

"We have to find her." Draco's trembling hand searched for his wand. "They've done something—"

"The Dark Lord killed her."

Draco stopped. He suddenly found that every breath was a knife in the ribs. He had seen it coming, as he had with Lucius. But it was different somehow. "Why would he do that?"

"I could list thousands of reasons why the Dark Lord would murder somebody."

"But she hasn't _done_ anything!"

"I know."

Draco shut his eyes tightly, determined not to look at that _piece of his mother _on the floor. "He's killing us off because of our failures, isn't he. My entire family."

"That is the only assumption I can make."

There was a muted realization, like a cold hand being pressed to his face. "So that's why I'm to assassinate Scrimgeour. Because he's hoping I'll be killed."

Severus might have nodded but it was so slight that Draco couldn't tell.

"Why doesn't _he_ just kill me, like he did my father? Like he did…" Draco willed himself not to look at the finger.

Severus crossed to the window and shut out the cold. He stared out through the scratched frost. It was such an ugly day. "Because he's far too sadistic for that. It's much more satisfying for him to watch you suffer."

Draco sank onto the bed. "I hate him," he said through his cold teeth. And he did. He hated Lord Voldemort with every bone and every rush of blood.

Severus looked at him for a very long time. Draco just let his tired eyes close. He was _so _tired. He heard the thud of Severus's shoes on the wooden floor, and the mutter of a spell. When Draco opened his eyes the finger had vanished and Severus was placing the silver ring atop his empty chest of drawers.

"If you would like to keep it," he muttered and swept from the room.

* * *

In the dim light of her vanity, Eloise studied her profile and wished that she wasn't so plain. Her long, regal nose and angular face were often described as statuesque, a more polite term for "dull." Her skin was too fair and her pale freckles were unflattering.

A girl at school had once said that a pair of earrings would help Eloise's long face. The girl had tried to pierce Eloise's ears, but the plan fell short when they were caught by an elder student and turned in to the headmistress. Her grandmother Evelyn had practically shunned her for weeks—Eloise wasn't allowed to wear makeup, let alone earrings.

"You don't need it, dear," Grandmother said one day over tongue-scorching tea. "What terrible publicity for your father! Imagine if you sauntered around, painted up like that."

Grandmother thought that a woman's sole purpose in life was to be married. Until recently Eloise hadn't seen a problem in that; she had grown up dreaming of marrying a charming man and her life being complete. Once, while playing as a pirate with a friend, Grandmother had scolded her for acting like such a tomboy. Shortly after the corsets and long skirts had begun.

When Grandmother's friends asked an eight-year-old Eloise if she would be a politician like her father, or a thespian like her mother, she would reply automatically, "I'm going to be married."

Several years after her mother died and before her grandmother had moved in, Eloise spent most of the days at Evelyn's old house. She used to sit in the attic, a collection of old umbrellas and fabrics and paintings. It was there that she had found the painting that had shaped her views of marriage.

It was a strange portrait. The subject was an attractive man, presumably a wizard, in black robes and with hair of the same color. His skin was bright against the background of a dusky forest. There were peacocks behind him, with long feathers like sapphire coattails.

Eloise used to put her hand to the frame and think that he might pull her inside. She would swim through the wall of acrylics and emerge in the forest, paints caught in her hair. It would be the blue and green of the peacocks and her lips the faint orange-pink of dusk.

When Eloise grew older and stopped playing games, she realized she had been lacing fairy-tales and dreaming of men that existed only in the mind of a romantic painter.

There was a soft rapping on her door, gently shaking her from reverie. Without permission Grandmother stepped inside, looking elegant. She was a tall and willowy woman. Eloise was convinced that she hadn't aged since sixty, though she most likely used potions. Her gown swept to the floor, long sleeves and high collar covering every inch of skin.

Many wealthy, pureblooded families carried on the high-classed society of the Victorian era. It showed standing and separated them apart from the impure wizards—and especially Muggles, as Grandmother said. She always told Eloise that Muggles were too involved with electronics and advances. They were too preoccupied in moving forward, Grandmother said, so that they were actually primitive. They didn't dress nicely or eat well, and never did they appreciate a good ball or two.

None of this theory had ever bothered Eloise until several years ago, when she had first been introduced to corsets.

"Darling," Grandmother swept into the room, "we will be leaving soon."

"I know," replied Eloise. When there was meaningful silence she stood obediently, bracing her hands on the wall. There was a sharp tug and Grandmother began lacing her corset.

"Have you practiced the piano today?"

The laces were jerked so tightly that Eloise sounded as if she was punched in the stomach. _"Yes,"_ she wheezed.

There was a second tap on the door, and their housekeeper Margaret entered. The small woman was only fifty, but years of labor made her appear much older. Eloise often caught Grandmother casting Margaret disdainful looks, or suggesting in a cool voice that she try to clean herself up more.

The Scrimgeours had ceased the use of House-elves when they took in Margaret, a widowed squib. She had worked with the costumes at Mrs. Scrimgeour's theatre and eventually was demanded a place to stay. Mr. Scrimgeour didn't like the idea much, but silently enjoyed the lack of groveling House-elves. When Eloise was a baby and Mrs. Scrimgeour died, Grandmother insisted that Margaret stayed. She refused to find "another of those groveling, whimpering elves," and that quickly settled the matter.

"Miss." Though the maid addressed Eloise, Grandmother answered.

"Yes, Margaret."

She ducked her head, the curls of her bun coming unpinned. "Mr. Scrimgeour wishes for you to hurry, it's nearly six o'clock."

Grandmother laughed quietly and tugged the corset strings. Eloise blanched. "Honestly, Rufus," Grandmother muttered, "don't you know that a lady of dignity is fashionably late?"

Several minutes later Grandmother whisked down the winding staircase, Eloise trailing behind in a plain cream gown. Mr. Scrimgeour stood impatiently under the chandelier, checking a gold pocket watch—a gift from one of his few Muggle friends—and frowning.

When he met eyes with Grandmother she gave a cat-like smile. "Poise, Rufus," she chimed and glided past.

Mr. Scrimgeour turned to his daughter. When he didn't return her uneasy smile she realized that he really had been lacking sleep. "Have you been practicing?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Come, now!" It was Grandmother's turn to grow impatient.


End file.

Harry Potter, Drama, Romance