The drawing room of Malfoy Manor felt too large for the number of people standing within it. Narcissa sat on the edge of the sofa, her spine straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. Bellatrix moved through the room with a jagged energy, her heavy silk robes sweeping across the floor as she circled the perimeter of the seating area. Draconia stood near the mantle, her fingers tracing the edge of a silver tray. She kept her gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the hearth, trying to ignore the way her pulse hammered against her collarbone.
"You have been quiet lately, Draconia," Bellatrix said, stopping abruptly in front of her.
The woman’s eyes were bright and searching, stripped of the composure her mother always maintained. Draconia forced a small, polite smile onto her face, a mask she had perfected over the last several months. She could feel the weight of the ring on her finger, the metal cool and unyielding against her skin. No one in this room spoke of the ring, yet it felt as though it occupied more space than the furniture.
"I have simply been reading, Aunt Bellatrix," Draconia replied, her voice steady and even.
Narcissa watched her daughter with a gaze that was far too perceptive to be accidental. The elder woman did not interrupt, but Draconia felt the scrutiny of her mother like a physical pressure against her skin. Bellatrix let out a sharp, sudden laugh that had no warmth in it. She reached out to touch a porcelain vase on the sideboard, her long fingers twitching with a restless sort of hunger.
"Reading is a solitary pursuit, is it not?" Bellatrix asked, turning back to the center of the room. "A girl of your standing should be more engaged with the world. The world is changing, and the shadows are growing longer."
Draconia saw the way her father stood by the window, his profile sharp against the dark glass. Lucius did not move, but he was listening to every syllable. He was always listening, a silent predator in his own home. Draconia knew the game they were playing, a game of wayward glances and unspoken expectations. She knew that Bellatrix was looking for a crack in her armour, a sign of the softness she had felt in the tower.
"The world is exactly as it has always been," Draconia said, choosing her words with the precision of a duelist.
Bellatrix moved closer, her presence overwhelming the small space between them. The scent of dried herbs and expensive perfume clung to her. She leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she searched Draconia’s face for a flicker of hesitation.
"Is it?" Bellatrix pressed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "Or is there something you are hiding? A secret, perhaps? A thought you dare not speak?"
Drac，onia felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she kept her expression blank. She thought of the tower, of the way she had whispered her truth into Harry’s shoulder while the world burned below them. She thought of the way his skin had felt against hers, a fleeting moment of absolute clarity in a life of beautiful lies. She knew she had to say the wrong thing now to protect the right thing.
"If there were a secret, Aunt Bellatrix, surely you would have sensed it by now," Draconia said, her tone light and teasing.
She watched as Bellatrix’s expression shifted from suspicion to a sort of amused condescension. The tension in the room seemed to loosen, just a fraction. Narcissa finally spoke, her voice a calm anchor in the shifting air.
"She is a Malfoy, Bellatrix," Narcissa said, her eyes never leaving her daughter. "She knows the value of discretion."
"Discretion is a virtue, but total silence can be a mask," Bellatrix countered, her eyes flashing. "Tell me, Draconia, what is the talk in the corridors? They say you have been seen looking... distracted. Distant."
Draconia felt the eyes of the entire room settle on her. She could feel her father’s stillness, a heavy weight that seemed to pull at the very air. She knew that any slip, any hint of the devotion she felt for the boy who was currently a ghost in her life, would be a catastrophe. She had to lie with the strength of a woman, not the fragility of a girl.
"I am not distracted," Draconia said, her voice gaining a sudden, sharp clarity. "I am merely focused. My thoughts are entirely on the requirements of our name and the duties that await me."
Bellatrix tilted her head, a lock of dark hair falling across her brow. She looked as though she wanted to reach out and pull the truth from Draconia’s throat. The silence stretched, long and uncomfortable, as the fire in the hearth cracked loudly. Draconia did not flinch. She kept her hands still, her fingers curled slightly so the ring would not catch the light.
"Such a perfect answer," Bellatrix said, her voice dripping with a mock sweetness that made Draconia’s skin crawl. "You sound exactly like a statue. Perhaps too much like one."
"I only wish to be an asset to the family," Draconia said, stepping toward the centre of the room to bridge the gap. "I want nothing more than to do what is expected of me, without question or hesitation."
She watched her mother’s face. Narcissa did not smile, but her eyes softened with a flicker of something that might have been pity, or perhaps recognition. The lie was perfect; it was the most conventional, most uninspired thing a daughter could say. It was a lie that served the status quo, a lie that demanded nothing and promised everything.
"You are a credit to your mother," Bellatrix said, though her eyes remained hungry. She turned her gaze toward Lucius, who finally moved from his position by the window.
"She is a Malfoy," Lucius said, his voice low and resonant. "She knows her place."
Draconia felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest. She wanted to scream the truth, to tell them that she was no longer the girl who followed the rules, that she had made a choice in the dark that would change everything. But instead, she bowed her head slightly, a gesture of impeccable, practiced obedience. She felt the eyes of her father moving over her, weighing the sincerity of her words against the stillness of her posture.
"I have no secrets to keep, Father," Draconia said, her voice ringing clear through the drawing room. "My heart is as transparent as the glass in this room."
She held his gaze, her eyes wide and bright, projecting a crystalline purity that was entirely manufactured. She watched the way his eyes narrowed, a brief moment of scrutiny that felt like an eternity. He looked at her as if he were reading a book with a missing final chapter, searching for the subtext she had worked so hard to bury.
The room fell into a heavy, expectant stillness as she finished her sentence. She saw the moment the truth of her lie landed, the moment the lie became a weapon. There was a profound, heavy stillness in her father's face when she said it, and the fact that he knows she is lying and lets her.