Lucius's hands tightened. Then he said, "Rather than give him even a moment alone with our son, I would burn down the building that contains the Horcrux with Fiendfyre, and let him die within it."
Narcissa let herself be steadied and warmed by the unshakable confidence in his voice. Those words were the kinds of things that had made it difficult for Lucius to claim to be under the Imperius Curse. But they were exactly what Narcissa loved and valued about her husband.
No one else would stand up for them. No one else would protect them. By the time the war had ended and Lucius had faced the chance of going to Azkaban, his parents were both dead. So was Narcissa's father, and most of her family dead or estranged. Bellatrix had been arrested. The other Death Eaters were distancing themselves from Lucius to save their own hides. Henry had already been stolen.
No one would protect their family except Lucius and Narcissa themselves. And someday their sons, but they were still so young that they should not have to defend themselves for a good many years yet.
They would do what was necessary.
"I may be able to enter on some pretext," Narcissa murmured. "To pretend to bargain. I may be able to steal the Horcrux."
"Do you think he would believe that?"
"Perhaps not, but we should try it."
Lucius bent down until his lips brushed against her ear. "How tired I am of giving in to them," he whispered. "How I wish we could destroy them, and bathe in their blood."
"Henry might not forgive you that."
Those were the only words that could have brought him back in his current mood, and well Narcissa knew it. Lucius tensed against her for a moment, and then sighed, stepping away. When Narcissa turned around to look at him, he wore the false moral mask on his face again.
"I wish he would."
Narcissa reached out and held his hand. She, too, would have liked to strip the skin and the bone from Sirius's body the day he had tried to snatch Henry in Diagon Alley the summer before her boys' third year, to roast him from the inside out so that he might know a tenth as much agony as he had inflicted on her family by stealing her younger son.
Someday, Henry might accept that. But the time was not now, and Narcissa valued her relationship with her son more than she did the chance for vengeance.
"Someday," Narcissa murmured, "perhaps."
"Harry!"
Henry flinched hard enough that he nearly banged into the wall. Draco immediately turned and moved between his brother and the new threat.
It turned out to be the new Defense professor, Professor Adley or whatever his name was. Draco did remember that his first name was Arcturus, and suspected that he was some bastard son of an exiled Squib. It didn't matter, though. What mattered was the strange, hungry, hopeful way that his eyes rested on Henry.
Draco prepared himself to draw his wand, fast.
"My name's Henry, sir," Henry said. "Henry Malfoy."
Part of Draco cheered that Henry had finally said that to someone, but he was mostly occupied in making sure that he was in between Henry and the strange professor. Henry had mentioned the professor's request, delivered through Granger, that Henry come and talk to him. Draco had thought it was strange then, and he thought it was stranger now, with the professor looking at Henry like he knew him. Even people who were Harry Potter fans didn't tend to call Henry by his first name the first time they really met him.
Adley waved a hand as though brushing the words away. "I've been hoping that you would come and talk to me."
"I don't want to. Sir."
"Does that mean you are prejudiced against half-bloods?"
Adley sounded aghast. Draco grimaced. He and Henry had left their defense lesson with Uncle Ted and had been heading to the Great Hall for dinner, which meant there were plenty of people around. People who could turn, and stare, and, of course, whisper.
People who would carry the tale that Henry Malfoy was a blood purist away from them if they weren't careful.
"Of course not!" Henry snapped, firing up the way he so often did. When he looked like this, Draco could remember how his temper had shone when his eyes were green. "But I don't have to talk to creepy old men if I don't want to."
Draco swallowed a laugh. Adley looked a little stunned. He shook his head, seemed to search for words to say and not find them, and came a step closer, reaching out one hand for Henry's arm.
Draco stepped forwards and shoved his wand into Adley's gut.
The world seemed to stop for a long moment. Draco had once overheard Father describing to Mother the way that the world did that for him in battle, when he had an enemy balanced at the edge of his wand and was on a precipice, himself. The way he felt as though he could see every possible movement, like a chess strategist, and was prepared for anything.
Distantly, Draco was pleased to learn he had inherited that from their father. In the moment, he was focused on Adley's rising and falling chest.
"Mr. Malfoy," Adley said. "Get your wand away from me."
His voice had descended to a guttural snarl that made it sound like he had seen battle himself. Draco didn't care that much, though. What he knew was that he wanted to hurt the professor, and he was a few seconds away from doing that.
"You tried to grab my brother," he said, his voice as hard as the cold light that seemed to surround this moment. "You don't get to do that."
"I was merely trying to make sure he wasn't—"
"You don't get to manhandle him."
"Draco."
....
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