Chapter 1
The Invitation
It had started out as a joke, a bit of cruel amusement for Lucius Malfoy and his cronies at Arthur Weasley's expense: Ginny Weasley at the Daughter's of Hecate Debutante Ball.
It should have ended in a laugh at her father's mortification, a story to tell and chortle over at dinner parties in the weeks to come. Somehow though, things had gone terribly wrong. Against all expectation Arthur had vowed that his daughter would come, and the joke had changed from how humiliating it was that he couldn't give his daughter a proper debut, to how pathetic it was that he would even try.
Narcissa wasn't quite sure when it had stopped being funny. Sure, Arthur Weasley was a Pureblood descended from a long line of Muggle-loving trash, but Molly was a Rookwood, and Molly's mother, a Black- and that counted for something in Mrs. Malfoy's mind. Perhaps that was the reason that she had only been able to turn her lips up politely as her husband recounted his tale. Perhaps it was because she remembered her own coming-out so fondly, and wouldn't want the memory ruined for any girl, no matter how low.
Perhaps it was the look in Draco's eyes.
Narcissa had suspected something for a while. She didn't have much to go on- simply a mother's intuition, but Draco seemed less and less inclined to join in his father's belittlement and insults to the Weasleys, and more and more likely to look at his hands as he spoke of the red-headed clan, folding and unfolding his long fingers nervously and, playing with his rings.
She noticed that he had one too few.
Narcissa couldn't say precisely what she made of her suspicions. She only knew that when her son came into the sitting room one Saturday afternoon, she somehow hadn't been surprised.
"You have to help her." Draco said, mumbling, in spite of his father's constant reminders to, "Speak up, damn it all, and enunciate properly!".
"Her?" Narcissa's set down her embroidery, regarded her son with suspicion.
"Weasley." He said quietly, refusing to meet her eyes. "Ginny. Please mother. Do it for me."
“Why?” The question was on the tip of Narcissa's tongue, but she knew he wouldn't answer. Draco was like his father in that way, wrapped up in secrets, unknown and unknowable even to himself. It would be futile to probe for information that he wasn't ready to divulge, and possibly harmful, for she had the sense that he had already extended his confidence beyond its normal bounds. She would watch. She could read more in his face than she ever did in his words.
“I suppose it wouldn't hurt to meet the girl.” Narcissa said carefully.
“Send for my owl.”
Draco hurried away, returning a few minutes later with a sleek black bird just as his mother was finishing her note. Her fingers moved slowly, permitting him to read:
Miss Ginevra Weasley,
The pleasure of your company is requested for luncheon on Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of June at the gardens of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. I am very anxious to meet you to discuss your participation in the Daughters of Hecate Debutante Ball.
R.S.V.P. regrets only,
Mrs. Narcissa A.B. Malfoy
The Invitation
It had started out as a joke, a bit of cruel amusement for Lucius Malfoy and his cronies at Arthur Weasley's expense: Ginny Weasley at the Daughter's of Hecate Debutante Ball.
It should have ended in a laugh at her father's mortification, a story to tell and chortle over at dinner parties in the weeks to come. Somehow though, things had gone terribly wrong. Against all expectation Arthur had vowed that his daughter would come, and the joke had changed from how humiliating it was that he couldn't give his daughter a proper debut, to how pathetic it was that he would even try.
Narcissa wasn't quite sure when it had stopped being funny. Sure, Arthur Weasley was a Pureblood descended from a long line of Muggle-loving trash, but Molly was a Rookwood, and Molly's mother, a Black- and that counted for something in Mrs. Malfoy's mind. Perhaps that was the reason that she had only been able to turn her lips up politely as her husband recounted his tale. Perhaps it was because she remembered her own coming-out so fondly, and wouldn't want the memory ruined for any girl, no matter how low.
Perhaps it was the look in Draco's eyes.
Narcissa had suspected something for a while. She didn't have much to go on- simply a mother's intuition, but Draco seemed less and less inclined to join in his father's belittlement and insults to the Weasleys, and more and more likely to look at his hands as he spoke of the red-headed clan, folding and unfolding his long fingers nervously and, playing with his rings.
She noticed that he had one too few.
Narcissa couldn't say precisely what she made of her suspicions. She only knew that when her son came into the sitting room one Saturday afternoon, she somehow hadn't been surprised.
"You have to help her." Draco said, mumbling, in spite of his father's constant reminders to, "Speak up, damn it all, and enunciate properly!".
"Her?" Narcissa's set down her embroidery, regarded her son with suspicion.
"Weasley." He said quietly, refusing to meet her eyes. "Ginny. Please mother. Do it for me."
“Why?” The question was on the tip of Narcissa's tongue, but she knew he wouldn't answer. Draco was like his father in that way, wrapped up in secrets, unknown and unknowable even to himself. It would be futile to probe for information that he wasn't ready to divulge, and possibly harmful, for she had the sense that he had already extended his confidence beyond its normal bounds. She would watch. She could read more in his face than she ever did in his words.
“I suppose it wouldn't hurt to meet the girl.” Narcissa said carefully.
“Send for my owl.”
Draco hurried away, returning a few minutes later with a sleek black bird just as his mother was finishing her note. Her fingers moved slowly, permitting him to read:
Miss Ginevra Weasley,
The pleasure of your company is requested for luncheon on Tuesday, the twenty-fourth of June at the gardens of Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire. I am very anxious to meet you to discuss your participation in the Daughters of Hecate Debutante Ball.
R.S.V.P. regrets only,
Mrs. Narcissa A.B. Malfoy
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