The Fearsome Name of Riddle

Birthday Gala

After Obsidian Lestrange's death, magical high society kept a healthy distance from the Dark Lady. Her favour no longer held the same weight. Getting close to Victoria Malfoy risked the jealous rage of Lord Voldemort and none of them wanted to die. It made social events rather boring if Tom wasn't with her. They bowed their heads and greeted her kindly and publicly and then avoided her like a plague victim. It did however mean that Victoria was not expected to make polite smalltalk with every hopeful Death Eater that wanted a good word given to their Dark Lord. 

At Walburga Black's forty-first birthday party, Victoria Malfoy spent the majority of the evening at the edge of the Black Manor ballroom. Grand black tapestries hung from the ceiling, embossed with the family's three grey ravens. Ornate and old. The smell of crushed onix candles filled the vast space, mingled with the plethora of perfumes wafting around the many guests with a stuffy warmth. 

“You look miserable, my Lady,” Druella Black retreated to the edge of the room beside Victoria as she dodged a politician’s wife looking for idle conversation. “We're not boring you, are we?”

“Not at all, Druella,” Victoria sighed, finding more entertainment in her golden goblet of wine than anything else. “The party is exquisite, as expected.”

“So polite.” Druella looked like she might yawn but she let out a breath and turned from the party. “I came over here because I thought you wouldn't lie to me.”

A smile tugged at Victoria's lips. Druella's dry bluntness had always been appreciated. Her golden Rosier hair hung in curls around her face, slight creases beginning to form at the edge of her eyes. They were getting older. Sometimes Victoria wondered if she should have joined Tom and made a horcrux to live forever but staying young was not guaranteed and living forever with him felt like an inescapable prison now. 

“Are you bored?” Victoria asked, pulling at the high collar of her dress. Despite the summer heat Victoria still wore her black dress like a Victorian woman in mourning. 

“The first hour is always boring,” Druella said, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. “Ivan calls it arse kissing hour, everyone flocking to gain favour and then running before they embarrass themselves.”

Victoria chuckled. It couldn't have been more true. Even as they watched the room, people were starting to gravitate towards the door. Too many Death Eaters for their comfort. Everyone wanted favour if they won but wanted nothing to do with them if they lost. 

“They'll be gone soon,” Druella said, letting out a sigh as she drained her sherry glass. “I feel like dancing without the pictures ending up in the Daily Prophet. That damned reporter better be next out the door.”

“I could go make him uncomfortable for you,” Victoria offered, finding the photographer in the thinning crowd as he bothered Walburga with flashing lights. 

“No, I wouldn't want you hounded, my Lady.” Druella took the goblet from Victoria's hand and thrust it with her own at the head of a passing house elf who got splashed with wine and conjured them new drinks. “They're getting remarkably bold these reporters.”

“You're kind to protect me,” Victoria said, glancing over to the little boy in the corner with a neat mop of curly black hair. 

“Well, at least you're here,” Druella said bitterly. “We give your husband all our loyalty, sign away our lives and our children for the honour of a new world, and he doesn't even bother to show up for us. Where is he that's so important?”

“Merlin knows.” Victoria rolled her eyes. Tom wasn't as patient as he liked to believe. He grew frustrated and hate-filled when Victoria failed to surrender to his charm and run back to him like the loyal dog he wanted. “Tom goes where he pleases. He'll turn up or he won't.”