The Best Mistake

Chapter Eleven | Raids, Runes, and Unraveling a Nott

Draco's dragon-hide boots clipped against the black marble floor as he jogged around the corner of the Manor's foyer. He was having an abominably bad day for a Saturday, and he'd nearly lost track of time while wallowing in self loathing in his study over his stupid, aching heart.

Theo was refusing to see him, claiming in his maddeningly brief letters that he wasn't a specialist in cardiac healing—which was strange, considering that Theo had basically acted as Draco's personal healer since they were still at Hogwarts.

Since last Friday when Theo'd healed whatever the fuck had been wrong with Granger, he'd made some excuse any time Draco had tried to make plans with him, and he'd even skipped Narcissa's long-standing Tuesday evening dinner. It was starting to irritate Draco.

As Draco quickened his pace, the portrait of his Great-Great Uncle Septimus sneered down at him from his spot of honor on the wall and chastised Draco for moving with such reckless abandon, sullying the hallowed halls of Malfoy Manor like an uncivilized commoner. Malfoys do not run.

Distracted by his annoying long-dead ancestor, Draco nearly toppled over his mother in his haste. He hadn't even seen her turn the corner.

"Mother," Draco greeted over his ancestor's shouts of reproach. "You look resplendent as ever this morning." He gave her cheek a peck.

"Silence, Septimus. That's quite enough," Narcissa ordered, dismissing the portrait whose mouth snapped shut, making his pointed blonde beard flip up as he huffed and left the frame.

Narcissa raised a hand to Draco's cheek while her eyes ran over him with discernment, narrowing as they took in his open black Auror robes and holstered wand. "Where are you off to, darling? It's Saturday—I thought we could have luncheon in the orangery. Timpy tells me the Valencias are blossoming, and it's quite fragrant."

He sighed, wiping his hand down his face, having little time to play Lord of the Manor these days but almost feeling guilty at the clear disappointment in her voice.

"I can't today, Mother. Duty calls and all that," Draco muttered with a forced smile. He moved to push past her, but she threw her arms up, baby blue robes billowing around her. It was then he took in the pieces of hair falling from her chignon and the slight wrinkle in her robes—perhaps not a look of dishevelment for the average person, but for Narcissa Malfoy, it was highly out of character.

She gave him a tight smile, breathing heavily through her nose. "Really, darling, this Auror nonsense is growing rather tiresome, don't you think? You've more than restored your reputation, and it's time to start considering your future."

Draco closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What?"

Narcissa put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "You're the last son of the House of Malfoy, Draco, and you need to start acting like it—I can't run the estate forever. It's time to settle down."

"Where is this coming from? Actually—no, don't tell me. I really can't have this conversation today. I'm going to be late."

With a scoff, he did push past her now and flung open the heavy double doors to the floo parlor.  Granger would flay him alive if he wasn't on time for the raid that they'd meticulously planned out over the past several months—but only if Potter didn't get to him first.

Wandlessly, Draco summoned fire to the candelabras, illuminating the room. The Manor's floo parlor was grandiose in the extreme—even for the Malfoys. Shining black marble fireplaces lined the circular room with white veins shooting through the stone like wild bolts of lightning. In the center, a priceless fifth-century grecian urn held a mountain of green floo powder. It shone in the warm light of the candles on its gilded pedestal, welcoming guests to help themselves.