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Lucius did not comment on this; he sincerely disliked Bellatrix, and the dislike was mutual, but it would not do to say it right now.
"If the Carrows had presumed to offer themselves to me, I would have given them to Umbridge," Lucius continued.
Narcissa smirked at that image, but it did not last for long. "We must tell Draco somehow," she said, "and we must make sure to warn him, subtly, to be wary of Lestrange. It will be difficult, since he is engaged to Lady Adelaide."
"And that is the key to understanding Lestrange’s motive, I think."
"Yes," she agreed. "He has no sons of his own—legitimate, pureblood ones, at least. He has already had your honored father killed, Lucius—and I fear that he will target my family next." She looked down, worried. "I will write to them. But we should also consider ourselves potential targets of his—prime targets, in fact. If your grandfather is "slipping,’ and we are out of Lestrange’s way like your poor father now is, then he is the obvious regent after his daughter is married to Draco."
Castle Parselhall at Hangleton.
Merope and Severus exchanged worried glances. "That vile old man executed his own son," she said, her voice awed at the horror of it. It was the sort of thing she would have expected of her own late, unlamented family.
"And disbanded the Wizards’ Council altogether," Severus said grimly. He had not expected this. His sources had been telling him that Lord Malfoy was the one who seemed most likely to be killed at the hands of the rest of the Council. That outcome would have calmed the political situation just a bit. The ugly plot to assassinate Sir Thomas Riddle and force Merope to marry Caractacus Burke would still be lurking in the background, but Arcturus Black and Abraxas Malfoy were comparatively reasonable wizards who played by the rules that he and Lady Merope understood and could navigate. This was a setback.
"I fear for Tom," she confessed. "He is already living in a state of simmering fury about the Malfoys and the Norman occupation. He has not told me, but it is obvious every time I see him. I worry that he will do something that gets him—and poor Hermione—in serious trouble, and we will have to shelter both of them in this castle before they finish their magical education."
Severus considered telling her about the memories he had encountered in Hermione’s mind when he had taught her Occlumency, but he decided against it. If he told her that the young couple were seriously at odds, it would be outside her power to change that, and it would only worry her more.
High Master Albus Dumbledore stood aside helplessly as Scabior, a vassal of Rodolphus Lestrange, tacked up proclamation after proclamation on the walls of the school. Numerous pupils had gathered, mostly to gape in horror, but not all. Tom was standing by, in the shadows, surrounded by his friends, and his face was paling in rage. Adelaide Lestrange was admiring the wizard every time he reached up the walls to attach a parchment and turning to smirk at her horrified classmates after one went up.
AN ACT TO PROHIBIT BARBARIC SPEECH AMONG PEOPLE OF MAGIC
It is the sense of His High Lordship Armand Malfoy, Earl of Wiltshire, Lord of Witches and Wizards, that the tongue of Gaelic is unpleasant in sound, dangerous as a language of magical spells, and encourages the spirit of rebellion, drunkenness, and barbarism when spoken. It is proclaimed by His High Lordship that the speaking of this uncouth tongue is hereby prohibited in England, Scotland, Wales, and any domain henceforth under the authority of the High Lord, and shall be considered an act of petty treason.
AN ACT TO PROHIBIT HEATHEN PRACTICES AMONG PEOPLE OF MAGIC
It is the sense of His High Lordship that the observance of chief days of traditionally heathen celebration is contrary to a well-ordered magical society and encourages rebellion, drunkenness, and barbarism. It is proclaimed by His High Lordship that the observance of Samhain, Yule, Imbolc, Ostara, Beltane, Litha, Lughnasadh, or Mabon is hereby prohibited in England, Scotland, Wales, and any domain henceforth under the authority of the High Lord. Celebration of any of these days shall be considered an act of high treason.
"That’s that, then," Wilkes muttered under his breath, so that Scabior could not hear him. "We are officially outlaws."
Tom moved his hand to touch the clasp of his robe, but thought better of it. "For now. This will not endure. In the long term, it only helps our cause. This is the heritage of our people. They may have forgotten that, but they will remember now—and we will be there to lead them. I will lead them."
Somewhat removed from Tom, Hermione was reading the proclamations with shock and disappointment. This meant that the school would not hold the Beltane ritual this year. It meant that she would not have the opportunity to do it, even though Tom had.
Unless I convince the Friends of the Founders to defy Malfoy and do it ourselves, she thought wildly. But it’s such a risk, and Malfoy just executed his own son. What kind of person does that unless there is very good reason? Tom must be right about him; he probably does drink unicorn blood. They are loathsome—Malfoy, Lestrange, and all their vassals—and I want them to fall. She clenched her wand in her hand angrily. Her friends would surely make that happen, and she would be part of it.
Scabior put up another proclamation.
ACTS CONCERNING MUDBLOODS
It is the sense of His High Lordship Armand Malfoy that Mudbloods are a threat to the continued existence of a magical population. To limit the danger, the following are hereby proclaimed:
Hermione’s rage intensified. So Armand Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange imagined that she would tolerate being treated as a Muggle woman? She stole a glance at Tom, who was glaring at the parchments on the wall with loathing—all of them. Good. They might be at odds, but at least he cared about this as well as the despicable "proclamations" that affected only himself.
Holding her head high, making sure that her bushy hair bounced with every step, she stalked out of the hallway past Adelaide Lestrange’s smirking face. She heard footsteps and smiled as she saw that Luna, Harry, and Neville were approaching.
"I think we should have a meeting tonight to practice magic," Harry muttered.
"I completely agree." She glanced back, making sure that Adelaide Lestrange and her allies were not in earshot. "Should we consider making a Beltane fire of our own?"
Harry considered it. "I don’t know how... but maybe we should. We’ll have to get the books about it before they are destroyed, though."
"I don’t believe that Dumbledore would allow books to be destroyed," Hermione said confidently. "He could just hide them in the Come-and-Go Room, could he not?"
Luna, Harry, and Neville stopped momentarily and exchanged grins.
Draco Malfoy brooded alone. His loyal trio of Crabbe, Goyle, and William Rosier were nowhere in sight, which was exactly as he wanted it. At the moment, he was not sure whom he should trust, so it was safest to keep his own counsel.
His grandfather was dead. His Grandfather Malfoy was dead—and his great-grandfather had done the deed! It was horrible. Draco felt that this was just like the kinds of primitive practices that he had always been told were being stamped out by people like his family—these weregilds, blood feuds, and the like. Their family had come to this country to bring civilization to the wizards and witches, who had conducted themselves in a state barely removed from barbarism—or so he had always been taught.
Draco was beginning to question many things.
He was related either to a traitor or to a kinslayer, and he suspected it was the latter. If his grandfather had been a traitor, if he had conspired to kill the high lord, then it was logical to execute him. However, during the summer, Draco had overheard his parents talking quietly between themselves about how they were worried about Great-Grandfather Armand’s state of mind, based on what Grandfather Malfoy had written to Father. They had also muttered about Lestrange. Apparently the man made a practice of betraying his wife, Draco’s aunt by blood, for Muggle villagers. That was another thing they whispered about, and it was disgusting.
Draco hoped that his parents would eventually break faith with Lestrange and release him from his betrothal to Adelaide. He would not have minded allying with her against Riddle, his chief rival in Slytherin House and a great thorn in his side, but he did not want to marry her. For one, it was unpleasant to think of being married to his first cousin. He had known her as family too well, for too long, to want to sleep with her—ever. For another, she was horribly disagreeable to be around. She drank, and she picked fights. Draco did not care that she hated Riddle and Riddle’s Mudblood, but he really did not see the point anymore in harassing them. What did he care if a half-blood married a Mudblood? Impure should mate with impure. He was also wary enough of their magical skill that he saw no point in provoking them as often as Adelaide liked to. It never ended well for her when she did; whichever of them she was bothering always cursed her, but she never seemed to learn. Perhaps that was why Riddle, Granger, and even Draco himself had surpassed her in their studies....
But the most important factor to Draco was that he had someone else that he did want to marry, and there was no valid reason why he should not. Astoria Greengrass was a pureblood witch from a noble family. Her sister was a bitch, and seemed to be allied with Riddle—no surprise there, since she was betrothed to Flint, one of the Slytherin noble lordlings who inexplicably shadowed that half-blood—but one could not pick one’s family. Draco of all people knew that. If he could, he would have chosen his late grandfather and cast off his kinslaying great-grandfather.
The only possible explanation Draco could think of for why his family—or the Lestranges, who seemed very much inclined to try to displace his family—might consider Astoria an unsuitable match was that she was not of Norman ancestry. But what difference did that make? He himself had never known anything but England and Scotland. His mother had been a Black, an English family. Marrying into the English was good enough for Father; why was it not good enough for him? Astoria was noble, and she was pureblood, and whenever he could meet with her secretly away from Adelaide and Daphne, he would talk and flirt with her. It had never progressed beyond flirting; Draco was not going to do anything that might risk her prospects... but he really, really wanted her "prospects" to no longer be an issue for her.
Grandfather Malfoy would have supported me, he thought unhappily. If he had survived, he would have understood. My family would not have forced me to stay betrothed to a Lestrange. Lord Lestrange may think he was loyal to my great-grandfather, but he betrayed my grandfather in the vilest of ways, and I will not forget that. I promise that, Grandfather.
Shortly after the loathsome Malfoy proclamations went up, the school dismissed for... well, for Christmas break, Tom thought sourly as he prepared to Disapparate to his mother’s castle. Not Christmas and Yule anymore. Tom rather hoped that his mother would observe the holiday anyway. If she did not, then he would.
Hermione was nearby, standing with her own friends, Crookshanks meowing in a magically sealed crate. Tom knew how to Apparate now; he had learned over the fall, so there was no need for Merope to send house-elves anymore. She wished that holding hands with Tom meant more than it currently did, but since the contact was merely perfunctory now, she looked forward to learning to Apparate on her own... that was something taught in a mastery class.... Perhaps next year, then. Tom was in his fourth year now, after all.
He had barely spoken to her after Malfoy had issued his hideous orders. That hurt. The orders targeted both of them, and they should be united in solidarity against such evil. Tom should not accept his future wife having to present herself as a Muggle in public, concealing her hair, veiling her head, and carrying no magical implements. But after that slimy Lestrange vassal, Scabber or whatever his name was, had put up the documents, Tom had huddled and conspired only with his own friends, as usual. In fact, he was doing just that right now.
She caught his eye, and he scowled but broke away from his group. As he walked over to where she stood, she gave Luna a gentle smile. "See you next year," she said. "Do let me know what you learn from your father about the Friends."
"I certainly will," Luna agreed. "And remember what I said a while ago: If he ignores you, write to me or Ginny."
"Ginny?" Hermione repeated, smiling. She had not known that Ginevra Weasley went by that nickname as well as her given name. Perhaps she was more formal with someone of noble birth... but that bothered Hermione in some indescribable way. Her friends should not feel that there were barriers between them. There are too many barriers among our people already, she thought unhappily.
Tom reached Hermione and wordlessly held out his hand for her. She took a deep breath and took it. His palm was icy in the wintry air. He turned away and Disapparated in a whirl.
They reappeared in the achingly familiar courtyard of Parselhall. Tom pulled his hand away and offered Hermione his arm to escort her into the castle, wordlessly, his air as chilly as the air surrounding them. Stifling a lump in her throat, she took his arm and walked in, attempting to hold her head high.
Lady Merope greeted them somberly, with Lord Severus Snape standing nearby. "Good cheer to both of you," she said, the tone of her voice not matching her words. "The elves will see to your belongings."
"Mother," Tom said, releasing Hermione’s arm without a second look at her and striding forward to meet his mother. "I suppose you must have heard about Armand Malfoy’s disgusting proclamations."
Merope’s gaze darkened, as did Snape’s. "I have," she said in hard tones. "I have already made accommodations for the holiday."
Tom’s face lit up. "What do you mean?"
"It will be a small, private celebration," she admitted. "The villagers won’t be present. I have not told them about Malfoy’s laws in the first place, but I also considered swearing all of them to secrecy, or simply prohibiting them from writing to anyone outside the fief. I do not think there are any who have relatives on the outside in the first place... but I think it is best simply to observe the holiday privately, with only witches and wizards present."
Tom frowned. "We have magic. It should not be hard to swear Muggles to secrecy, even a full village of them. We should not cede any ground to Malfoy, whether he knows about it or not."
Merope smiled indulgently. "If you think that, Tom, then you are certainly welcome to make all of them take individual oaths not to speak of the ceremony."
Tom scowled but did not contest the point.
"And Hermione," Merope said, turning to her, "I wanted you to know that you may wear your hair as any witch does while you are behind the walls of this castle... and carry any magical object that you see fit. In this castle, we respect and honor witches."
Hermione knew that Merope meant well, and that she could not possibly know that Tom had used that exact sort of argument to defend his own inexcusable conduct to her, but it still pained her to hear it. In the interest of courtesy, she managed a smile in spite of herself, purposely avoiding looking at the smirk that she knew must grace Tom’s face.
Castle l’Etrange.
Adelaide Lestrange picked at her food. Her family was enjoying one of their many winter feasts—not Yule, definitely not, despite that it was the winter solstice; they were simply feasting, as nobles did as they saw fit—but Adelaide had little appetite right now.
Draco was not even here. He and his parents were at their own castle in Godric’s Hollow, supposedly because they wanted to have a "private dinner," but Adelaide—in common with her father—wondered if it might be more. Mother was with them, apparently invited by her sister. She seemed largely sympathetic to Aunt Narcissa, though she had never liked Uncle Lucius. Adelaide worried that Draco’s ill-treatment of her—and she had to admit that it was ill-treatment—was no longer a secret to her family, and that they were angry about it. If that were the case, Father would blame her. Mother might not, but Father would. He had blamed her when the filthy half-blood Riddle had sent that memory to Lord Berengar in Aquitaine two years ago. He always blamed her.
Father blames me because I am not a wizard, she thought sourly. He wanted a son, and he blames me because I am not one—but he apparently never tried to have another child with Mother, as if that is my fault.
And to make matters worse, Draco was disloyal to her. Adelaide was sure that he was seeing that barbarian slut Astoria Greengrass—what a ridiculous name!—but she had not been able to catch them together to prove it. It was just awful, though.
All of Adelaide’s problems had come about from the admission of that Mudblood to Hogwarts, she thought, stabbing a chunk of meat crudely with a knife. If that had not happened, it would not even have mattered that the half-blood Riddle was raised to the nobility. No one would have contracted an alliance with him. He would have gone through school as he had during their first year, the target of well-deserved taunts. But with a witch of his very own at his side, he had the opportunity to make her problems his own, and as a Mudblood, she certainly had problems. It was just unfair that such people could harm their betters. She was certain that the reason Draco disliked her was that foul lie they had spread about her and that group of wizards in the Hogsmeade tavern. Granted, she could not prove that they had ever spread that rumor specifically, but they must have.
Here, now, Father was barely even paying attention. He was ensconced with the Carrows, explaining something to them that made Amycus Carrow blanch. Good. They used to serve the Gaunt family; they deserved discomfort. And Adelaide was quite certain that Father had been drinking. What hypocrites they all were to chastise her for drinking. Mother understood, at least. It was a pity that she was not here. Defiantly Adelaide summoned the nearest bottle of wine and refilled her goblet.
"That’s a good vintage," said a male voice next to Adelaide. She turned sharply to face Scabior. A grin appeared on her face.
"Yes," she said, taking a bold sip. She set the goblet down on the tabletop. "It is."
"I always approve of a witch who appreciates good wine," drawled the wizard.
Adelaide smirked. "That is good to hear. Many don’t."
"They are... mistaken." He raised his own goblet and clinked it with hers. They exchanged sips.
Adelaide was acutely aware of the way that his gaze never left her—specifically, never left an area of her body that was definitely not her face—but at the moment, she did not much care. This was harmless. A vassal of her father certainly would know not to take risks with the lord’s daughter.
"When I put up those posters for Lord Malfoy, I noticed something," Scabior continued, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. "A pair of enemies of yours were so outraged, I thought they might magically combust on the spot."
Adelaide laughed. "Riddle and Granger! Yes, I noticed too. It was a beautiful sight. I think it’s a very good thing that Lord Malfoy ordered Granger to control that ugly hair of hers."
"Your hair is very lovely, though."
She froze in alarm. That, somehow, did not seem appropriate from this wizard, in this situation.
He noticed and quickly recovered. "You know that before our forebears came, the natives left their hair uncombed and wore crude garments of animal skins," Scabior lied. "Even the witches and wizards."
Adelaide laughed again. "I doubt that, but I’m sure they were very uncivilized."
The banter continued, and Adelaide drank until she felt that she could barely stand up. She got to her feet and wobbled at once. Scabior instantly took her arm to steady her. At the high table, Lord Lestrange glanced up blearily, his own gaze affected by heavy drink.
"My lord, with your permission, I will escort her safely," Scabior said. Lestrange nodded, then returned to his cups.
When the wizard first took Adelaide’s arm, the gesture was everything she had come to expect as a young lady from vassals. He walked through the dining hall to the great doors, opened them with a flick of his wand, and closed them behind them.
Adelaide’s bedchamber was on the next level of the castle in a wing reserved for private use of the family. He began to walk her down the corridor in the general direction of this wing, but then he turned a corner unexpectedly. The hall was deserted; a lone candle stood in a recess.
"Where are you going?" she exclaimed.
He pushed open a door to what she realized must be his own quarters in the castle. Adelaide tried to wrench free. "This is not appropriate," she protested.
He pulled her through the doors and closed them with a sound that seemed to ring through the entire castle. "From what I hear, my lady, you like the inappropriate. A lady getting drunk at the table? And I heard about why your first betrothal ended."
"That was a lie!"
"When was the last time that a wizard actually admired you?" Scabior said, leering. "It has been a while, has it not? Well, I admire you."
"No," she protested, but he did not heed her words.
Hermione clutched her book as she read in the Riddle library. She was trying to ignore the fact that across the room, Tom sat in a chair, a broad smile on his handsome face that was as disturbing to her as it was happy. Whatever he was reading, whatever he had found in the book, it had made him very pleased, but it did not look benign. She was intensely curious, but the book was flat on his lap.
The library doors were open. Hermione heard footsteps approaching, two pairs of them. Tom’s gaze darted up from his book toward the doors in time with Hermione’s. They listened intently as Severus and Merope talked in elevated voices outside.
"This is vindictive, plain and simple," Severus growled. "Malfoy and Lestrange have singled you out. It is punitive, slapped on this fief because we are their political enemies."
"I know that!" Merope exclaimed. "The question is, what can we do about it? Malfoy is going to send his "assessors’ to the grounds this summer, when everything is green and healthy, to get the best possible value estimate. This tax raise is outrageous, Severus. But what do you think we can do?"
Tom’s dark eyebrows narrowed in anger at what he had just overheard.
"The objective," Severus said thoughtfully, "seems to be to give Malfoy a pretext to seize the castle as collateral. That, or compel you to impoverish the entire village yourself to pay the bill—but that would only work for this year’s bill, of course. In fact," he thought, "I think they expect you to do just that. It’s what they would do—take every last coin from their villages—but needless to say, it would leave you vulnerable."
"They would have to return to being field servants again, all of them, even the ones who have been practicing skilled trades for two and a half years," she snarled. "I’m not going to do that—and as you rightly say, that would only generate enough money for this year. You’re right; the ultimate plan is to seize the castle for payment."
There was a lull, in which Hermione stole another glance at Tom. He was livid.
"They are in the library," Severus said in a low voice.
Merope paused. "Very well. They have already heard this much. Let’s bring them into the discussion."
Hermione and Tom rose from their seats as Merope and Severus entered the library. "I’m sorry," Hermione said at once. "I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the doors were open—"
"It isn’t your fault," Merope reassured her, closing the doors behind her and Severus. "And you and Tom should know what is going on, in any case."
Severus scowled, but it seemed more reflexive than directed. "All right. Now, as we were discussing, what can we do about this?" He turned to the young people. "I am sure you heard all of that. Armand Malfoy—or, I rather suspect, Rodolphus Lestrange, since he is the "Lord Advisor’—has slapped the lady baroness with a punitive tax, purportedly for "restitution to the High Wizarding Lord for years of... undervaluing the accounts.’" He winced, as if he knew something about that. Merope gave him a curious glance.
"Who would his "assessor’ be?" Tom asked. "Is it someone who could be easily fooled with magic?"
"It will probably be a vassal. I would not be surprised if he sent one of the Carrows, who know the fief very well. What kind of magic could you mean? They are going to examine the entire village, the fields, the grove, and the castle grounds. What vast spell do you have in mind, my lord?" His words were tinged with sarcasm.
Tom glowered. "The ancient Celts had a trove of earth and seasonal magic. There is an old ritual that they used to curse the fields and forests of their enemies—"

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