Lorelei Thurkell and the Philosopher's Stone

Before the age of three, Lorelei was raised and taught the basics of magical knowledge by a governess – Mrs. Wyndham, short, plump, and unmarried woman who always wore a faded brown cloak, had large grey eyes, and never smiled. All in all, she had little reason to be happy. She came from an impoverished pure-blood family, the last link in a dying line, and no respectable suitor would ever consider her. That left her with two options: marry someone unworthy or preserve her dignity by becoming a governess to the children of still-respected pure-blood families. Her fate turned out even worse – she ended up in charge of Lorelei Thurkell, whose family name was not listed among the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and she made no effort to hide the fact that she blamed her charge for such misfortune. Now, Lorelei’s education and upbringing were entirely in the hands of Narcissa Malfoy., though burdened with manifold duties. She spent entire days by Lorelei’s side, guiding her, disciplining her, checking her progress. There was no time for idleness. Every morning, right after breakfast, they would step out onto the terrace, where the light was good, and Lorelei would paint in watercolor while Mrs. Malfoy watched – or, as had become more and more common lately, became the subject of the painting herself. Portraits of her in different outfits, with different hairstyles, in different moods – Mrs Malfoy kept them all. Sometimes, she would go through them, sifting gently through the sheets before lunch, studying the not-always-perfect watercolor strokes. And then, sitting in the second-largest hall of the house, Lorelei would play sonatas for her on the piano. The portraits weren’t magical. They didn’t move − Lorelei couldn’t do magic without a wand, and besides, magical portraits weren’t made of the living. Bad omen. According to the superstition, the painted would die at the very age in which they had been magically captured. Sometimes, before lunch, right after the music faded and the last piano note hung in the air, Mrs. Malfoy would walk down to the kitchen with Lorelei by her side. There, it was up to Lorelei to give the orders to the elves herself − what dishes to prepare for lunch and dinner, how to set the table, and where. Mrs. Malfoy would step in from time to time − Lorelei tended to forget dessert, since she felt no love for sweets or fruit. Sometimes she’d choose appetizers that were all wrong for dinner − like canapés or tiny tartlets, delicate one-bite things that had no place at an evening table. But oysters on ice, or savory jellies made from fish or meat − those were just right. They mostly dined alone, though every day Mrs. Malfoy invited Draco to join them. But young Malfoy had his own schedule, his own tutors − from once-prominent, though now fallen, families − and he often ate with them instead. Mr. Malfoy said it built strong leadership skills. During lunch, Mrs. Malfoy would watch Lorelei’s manners closely. And she never found a single fault. She called that her personal victory. Post-lunch hours were reserved for ‘rest’ − a genteel affair lasting roughly an hour. When the weather allowed, they would stroll beneath white parasols or settle beneath the shade of broad-leaved trees, fanning themselves and drinking cold tea. It was then that Narcissa often shared recollections from her school years. Naturally, she had attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and naturally, she had been a Slytherin. She spoke of professors, friends, and her sister. Most of all, she spoke of her family − proud, pure, and noble − and those were the stories Lorelei loved most. Afterwards, Lorelei would read aloud to Mrs. Malfoy − in English, in French, and, more rarely, in Latin. While she was fluent in French and in English, she could only recite memorized Latin passages, used to adapt the language for spells, curses, and rituals, most of which were performed in it. On days when her tutor, Mr. Pembroke, visited, reading lessons were replaced with the study of magical history and practical potion-making. Mr. Pembroke was strict and self-important, but he had let Lorelei use his wand a few times to light the fire under the cauldron, which made her warm slightly to his arrogance, pretending she’d learned everything from him. Before the letter from Hogwarts arrived for Draco, who had just turned eleven, his father wanted to see for himself whether the praise from his tutors had been justified. And in that moment, Lorelei − who had only held a wand perhaps seven times within Malfoy Manor − was able to show what she was capable of. Draco had three objectives before him: to perform levitation charms, transfiguration spells, and defensive enchantments. The latter were tested during the activation of a dark magical artifact − an artifact, of course, modified by Lucius Malfoy to reduce the potential harm in case his son failed to block in time or if the shield proved too weak. Narcissa Malfoy and Lorelei had originally been invited to witness his progress (or to make the failure sting more, Lorelei thought bitterly. Her face remained unchanged). Draco handled the levitation charm excellently. Then again, Wingardium Leviosa was a rather simple spell. Evanesco, on the other hand, was more difficult and required advanced magical skill, a deeper understanding of magic, and practice… Draco almost succeeded, for a second it seemed that the box on the table had disappeared, but then there was an EXPLOSION and in its place there was black ash and smoke rising from it. Lucius Malfoy did not look impressed. Mrs. Malfoy reassured her son that not everyone at his age could handle a spell of this high. Mr. Malfoy did not share her opinion: ‘The fact that he is better than the mediocre masses does not make him the Best. Draco must proudly elevate the Malfoy name even higher, not content himself with the insignificance of others.’ As for the defensive charm, the boy − having tasted both rod and reward − failed to cast it properly and recoiled as the magical box shot a burst of bitter steam at him. Mrs. Malfoy immediately seated him beside her, ordering the elves to bring a healing salve, even though there was nothing to heal. Though she said nothing aloud, it was likely she disapproved of her son being exposed to dark magic in such a direct way so soon. Lorelei watched as tenderness soothed the wounded pride of the young Malfoy. She wished to crush him so thoroughly that no kind word could ever wash the filth away – and Mr. Malfoy, left without a subject to examine, aided her in that wish. ‘Step forward, Lorelei,’ he said. Lorelei obeyed, offered a curtsy, and was given the same commision Draco had received. Both Draco and his mother, for a brief moment, tore their attention away from the minor burns to look up. Lorelei had mastered levitation charms when she was six, so completing the simple task of moving a chair from one corner of the room to another was utterly effortless. Evanesco posed no difficulty either, as Lorelei understood its key principle–you cannot simply make an object disappear unless you are destroying it. For such purposes, wizards use special storage spaces into which items are transferred. These storages may exist physically or be conjured magically at the moment the spell is cast, as is the case with Evanesco. It takes a considerable amount of magical energy to sustain such a space, especially for any length of time. Lorelei handled that test as well. What remained was the box–the dark artifact. There are universal protective spells that, even if they don’t block or deflect a blow, at least soften its effects. But for more precise protection, one must identify what exactly one is resisting. It seems a simple thought, yet wizards often rely on memorized spells instead of seeking more nuanced or advantageous solutions. Lorelei examined the artifact – she couldn’t identify the specific curse sealed within it, but she could determine its group, its classification. ‘Ardeo Nullus,’ Lorelei said confidently as soon as she came under the artifact’s influence. The fire whip − exactly what it had been before Mr. Malfoy diminished its power − brushed against her skin, but she didn’t feel even a trace of warmth. Aiming at the box, she whispered: ‘Ignis Exsilium.’ The box flew back a few inches, trembled for a second, and then went still. Lorelei took a step toward it. No further attack followed. It was Mr. Malfoy who first broke the rising silence. Glancing at his son, he said, ‘You see? Your concentration is insufficient.’ Lorelei returned Mr. Malfoy’s wand with a short bow. She heard his curt ‘Satisfactory,’ then walked back to the sofa where Narcissa and Draco were seated. While Narcissa instructed the elves to clean up after the brief examination, and Mr. Malfoy launched into his favorite topic – what a true wizard ought to be – Draco leaned slightly toward Lorelei and hissed, displeased, ‘You just got lucky.’ ‘Sure I did,’ she replied calmly. ‘I wasn’t using my full power,’ he went on. Lorelei met his gaze with an icy look. ‘Was there a need to?’ Draco didn’t go red in the face, as he often did. Instead, he replied smugly, ‘I’ll go to Hogwarts and learn everything in a year, and you’ll stay here, embroidering butterflies and reading fairy tales.’ Ah yes, in the hours between lunch and dinner, Lorelei also did embroidery. According to Narcissa Malfoy, it was meant to cultivate patience and self-restraint. More often, those qualities were shaped by the inability to curse Draco with something truly dreadful. Instead, she wrote things down in her Memoranda Book. One of the elves returned the artifact to Lucius Malfoy. He winced for a second and looked sideways at the no longer enchanted object in surprise. The morning Draco got his Hogwarts letter, he and his father joined Mrs. Malfoy in the piano room after breakfast. Lorelei was already at the keys. This time, Mrs. Malfoy had chosen the most uninspired symphonies – ones that felt like copies of copies, their textures thin and predictable – which, transcribed for piano, sounded hollow and alone. But the Malfoys seemed pleased. Even Draco held his breath, maybe just waiting for Lorelei to slip. She had no choice but to play for them, to be their entertainment. And it was just then, in that dull morning silence, that Dobby appeared out of thin air with a loud crack – another house-elf in service to the Malfoys. He looked like a Spriggan, only taller, with even bigger eyes (bright green) and ears (hanging, massive – unlike the neat ones Spriggan had), and his clothes were filthier, too. Lorelei rarely encountered Dobby; Spriggan was the one who usually tended to her and her needs. Dobby served Lucius Malfoy personally, or, when he fell out of favor, worked in the kitchen. He brought a pile of letters and correspondence for Mr. Malfoy – strangely, not to the study, but here. Lorelei took note of it. She also noticed the red welts on the elf’s ears – he had been punished recently, for some reason. Mr. Malfoy said that if an elf – whose very purpose was to serve wizards of noble blood – forgets what the cane looks like and what disobedience and disrespect lead to, he becomes the enemy of the wizard and must be destroyed.That is why, from time to time, and sometimes for reasons Lorelei thought were invented, he punished nearly all his elves. To keep them in line. He cared little for Spriggan, except when punishment was needed for Lorelei’s transgressions. Lorelei never punished her personally, believing that a loyal house-elf would serve faithfully without beatings – and that there was no point in correcting a lost one with a cane. Dobby brought a stack of letters and correspondence for Mr. Malfoy, handed them over, and immediately, with a bow, disapparated – most likely to the kitchen. All attention shifted to Mr. Malfoy, and now Lorelei was playing more to maintain the atmosphere than to entertain. She allowed herself to stray from the sheet music placed in front of her face, to play more interesting melodies, more complex ones, from memory – anything just to distract herself and not reveal the disappointment she had felt when... ‘The letter from Hogwarts!’ Draco exclaimed joyfully, jumping from his seat. His father handed him the letter with ceremony, along with a letter opener, and young Malfoy, without difficulty – though clearly filled with joyful excitement – opened the envelope. He read it silently, with a smile Lorelei caught when she carelessly let her gaze drift from the keys toward him. ‘Of course they sent it,’ Lucius Malfoy announced lazily. ‘You were granted a place in that school the very day you were born.’ He didn’t look as pleased as his son or his wife – perhaps because months ago he had discussed the idea of sending Draco not to Hogwarts, but to Durmstrang, a wizarding school located somewhere in Europe, known for favoring the Dark Arts – which, as everyone knew, were disapproved of at Hogwarts, as well as in magical Britain in general – and which admitted only pure-blood wizards. But Narcissa Malfoy had refused to send her son so far away. So, even though there had been an opportunity to disagree, Draco was going to accept the invitation to study at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Lorelei had another year to wait. One more year of hollow events, constant whispering that Theodore would no longer interrupt with his company, idle days that blurred into one another – the same thing, every day – and no practice at all. Lorelei hit a wrong note, and Narcissa Malfoy, it seemed, noticed – she called her. Lorelei, tensing her whole body, turning halfway toward her, clenched her teeth, but kept her face still and unchanged, and looked at her with a questioning gaze. Draco was already sitting beside her, his letter resting in her hands. ‘Don’t you want to congratulate Draco?’ Mrs. Malfoy asked with a smile. Lorelei had only one possible answer. She stood, walked over to them, gave a small curtsey – not a deep one – and muttered, looking into his pale, satisfied face: ‘Congratulations.’ ‘Don’t worry,’ Draco said in that repulsive voice of his. ‘They accept not-quite-purebloods at Hogwarts too. You’ll get your letter next year.’ Narcissa stroked his platinum hair while reading the letter. Lorelei turned her gaze away – directly at the stack of remaining letters, precisely at the moment when Mr. Malfoy, now leafing through them with no real interest, came across another letter from Hogwarts. Same envelope color, same sealing wax, same crest at the corner. Had they sent Draco two letters? Sometimes owls – the main way of sending and receiving mail among wizards – got stuck somewhere because of the weather or other reasons, and arrived late, after the sender, not receiving a reply, had already sent a second owl. Lucius Malfoy thought just like that. ‘Do they want Draco to attend their school so badly they sent two letters?’ he asked, a fleeting smile playing upon his lips. A moment later, it faded. For a while, Mr. Malfoy merely stared at the envelope, unmoving, silent; his brows, however, began slowly to draw together, and the fingers of the hand resting on the armrest of his chair started to tap with increasing frequency. Lorelei remained standing before Mrs. Malfoy and her son, who now, intrigued, both looked up. Draco, impatient, asked, ‘What is it, Father?’ ‘The old fool has lost his senses, has he? This is a mistake,’ Lucius Malfoy muttered with venom, his voice sharp and laced with scorn. And with a scowl to match his tone, he looked up – straight at Lorelei. And her heart, in that moment, stumbled once, froze in place – and in the frozen silence that followed, a whisper of doubt began to bloom. Alongside it – hope. Could it be... ‘What is it? What?’ Draco repeated, louder, stretching his neck forward – he did not like having the attention pulled from him so suddenly, so completely. Yet Mr. Malfoy did not turn to his son. His eyes shifted instead – toward his wife. ‘The letter is addressed to Lorelei.’ Her heart pounded louder, the blood rushed to her head. Lorelei felt like she needed to sit down. ‘But there is still time...’ Narcissa Malfoy said, her voice uncertain, her composure visibly shaken. ‘She’s only ten!’ Draco exclaimed in protest. At that, Mr. Malfoy rose sharply from his chair. ‘This is what has become of Hogwarts under Dumbledore’s direction! I knew it would come to this – utter chaos!’ he cried, before Lorelei had the chance to lean forward and reach for the letter that so clearly bore her name. Clutching the poor envelope tightly in his hand, Lucius declared with icy resolve, ‘No matter. I shall get to the bottom of this – Severus will explain everything. Either the old man has made a mistake, or he is playing some game, and I shall not allow either to continue!’ The voice betrayed not so much anger as joy at the opportunity that had opened up. Mr. Malfoy did not tolerate the headmaster of Hogwarts, and now he had "something" to bring against him. Severus Snape, Lorelei’s legal guardian, was her uncle on her mother’s side – the very lineage that descended from a muggle, and thus disqualified Lorelei from being considered a pure-blood witch. The Thurkell family, though absent from the Sacred Twenty-Eight, had preserved blood purity until Lorelei’s parents’ generation. Severus was also the Potions Master at Hogwarts. Lorelei doubted he cared about her or her enrollment at the school, he had almost completely handed over his responsibilities to the Malfoys, and had never even visited her once. Not that she wanted his company anyway. Mr. Malfoy had left the room. For a handful of seconds, all that remained was silence – eyes fixed on the door through which he had vanished – then, slowly, attention turned from the door to one another. ‘What did you do?’ Draco snarled, his face contorted in irritation. ‘Nothing,’ Lorelei answered, her tone level and calm. ‘You’ve ruined everything again!’ the boy shouted, very nearly stamping his foot. ‘This supposed to be my day! It was better when you weren’t here!’ Perhaps he thought to wound her with those words – but Lorelei, who had not so much as laid a finger on the letter, her ticket out of this house, denied him even a second’s satisfaction at the success of his remark, and broke the silence at once, blurting out: ‘I didn’t ask to be here. And if I’m a burden in this house, I can pack my things and return to...’ ‘Enough!’ said Narcissa Malfoy, raising her voice – an event so uncommon it caused both children to fall into immediate silence. ‘Go to your rooms. Both of you.’ To prevent further disputes echoing in the hallway, she took it upon herself to lead each child to their respective bedrooms – located not far from one another – and then turned away, disappearing in the direction of her husband’s study, from which he had either used the fireplace to transport himself to Hogwarts, or summoned Mr. Snape to come to him, or else had already exchanged a swift discussion via the Floo Network. One way or another, twenty minutes passed – during which Spriggan, with well-meaning persistence, kept offering tea or another volume on the Dark Arts (which, in any other moment, might have served as a distraction) – and then Dobby entered the room and informed her that Mr. Malfoy was expecting Lorelei in his study. She entered the spacious study of Mr. Malfoy – a chamber arranged with all the proper adornments of a wizard of standing: a vast library with rare and sometimes unique tomes; a cabinet of arcane, ominous objects; a polished desk of heavy wood; and a magical portrait of an ancestor. Yet when Lorelei entered, the portrait frame stood empty. Septimus Malfoy was gone – perhaps having traveled to his counterpart in the Ministry. The stony expressions upon the faces of the Malfoy couple made it clear that, whatever the result of the conversation with Severus Snape had been, it had not entirely satisfied them. Lucius Malfoy extended the envelope to her – slightly creased – under the watchful gaze of his wife. ‘You have been accepted into the school this year,’ Mr. Malfoy announced, his voice dry and clipped. The quill lodged somewhere deep inside her seemed at last to shift. Lorelei swallowed, accepted the letter, and did not forget to bow. There were no words of congratulations – but she wouldn't, couln't allow herself to forget to offer thanks. The envelope bore, in elegant script: Ms L.E.E.M.S. Thurkell Room in the East Wing of the House Malfoy Manor Wiltshire With the aid of a letter opener, Lorelei broke the seal, removed one of the parchments within, and beheld the contents – a letter penned in a precise, even hand, which read as follows:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Ms Thurkell,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely, Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress ‘It’s real,’ Lorelei whispered to herself as she slid the parchment, folded as it had been, back into the envelope. ‘It’s real,’ she kept telling herself while making her way down the wide corridors toward her room. The daylight had banished the shadows, and now, not even in her imagination, could fear find a place. ‘Is it true?’ Draco’s voice came from behind his half-closed bedroom door. Lorelei paused in the hallway, turned just enough to answer, ‘Yes.’ The boy didn’t reply, shut the door quietly from within. The first thing Lorelei did upon returning to her room was write a letter to Theodore Nott – to share the good news of her acceptance. Once sealed, she handed it to Spriggan, instructing her to send it at once by owl. She stayed in her room until evening – unless summoned, there was no need to be seen, and besides, Lorelei had no wish to be. Lying on her back, eyes drifting between the ceiling and the sky-blue walls — freshly painted on Narcissa Malfoy’s special order — she counted her fingers slowly, ran them again and again across the scar on her palm, and in her mind, all but counted the seconds until the train would carry her away. Near dinner, someone knocked. Draco slipped into her room – not to announce the meal. ‘Father has guests,’ he said in a conspiratorial tone. Lorelei tilted her head with interest, her face unchanged. He hadn’t expected more. ‘Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, Mr. Nott, Mr. Rosier...’ Lorelei needed only confirmation – or denial – of one name. ‘Mr. Greengrass?’ she asked. ‘No.’ So it wasn’t simply a gathering of pure-blood patriarchs. Mr. Malfoy had summoned the inner circle – men who, besides their shared disdain for the Ministry’s new laws and a fondness for old wine, had one more thing in common: service to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord had been a wizard of tremendous power – gifted beyond reason, masterful in the use of dark magic – who had bent to his will the pure-blooded, the respected, the ancient families of the wizarding world, gathering them around a single cause: to purge the magical world of the so-called muggle filth. He waged war on the Ministry of Magic for more than a decade and vanished when Lorelei was not even a year old – after murdering her parents, leaving the repulsive Dark Mark on her skin, and, in his attempt to kill another child, meeting his own end. Those who had served him were called Death Eaters. Those who was proud – or too foolish – to renounce his crimes and ideology were sent to Azkaban, the wizarding prison. Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Crabbe, Mr. Goyle, Mr. Nott, and the rest – they were the ones who managed to escape, slipping through the cracks of justice. And yet, something still linked them, something silent and thick as shadow. Lorelei, who bore the same Dark Mark, was quietly glad not to share in that. That something smelled like regret. ‘Are they staying for dinner?’ she asked. Draco shook his head. ‘They’re in Father’s study. I think they’re going to talk about you.’ ‘We can listen,’ Lorelei said, like it meant nothing at all. Like she hadn’t already guessed why he’d come. Then, with sudden cold in her voice, she added: ‘Unless I’m about to ruin that for you too.’ The moment he got what he’d been waiting for, Malfoy didn’t even register her words – or the tone of her voice. ‘Come on, hurry up!’ Still, such a child. Lorelei couldn’t remember the exact moment she had transfigured a piece of stone into a small figurine shaped like an ear, then enchanted it so that, when pressed against a wall, one could hear whatever was being said on the other side. But she knew it had happened after she read The Practical Guide to Dark Magic. She still kept the artifact, and it had served her and Draco more than once, whenever curiosity got the better of them and they wanted to know exactly what Mr. Malfoy was discussing – with his wife, or with the men he trusted. Standing outside the study door like some ordinary eavesdropper would have been beneath the heirs of a pure-blooded and a nearly-pure-blooded house. So they’d devised another method – and for the past few months, it had worked. The room next to Mr. Malfoy’s study hadn’t been in use for some time. It had once been Mrs. Malfoy’s private salon, but now the entire house seemed to belong to her, and the need for such a space had vanished. The wall, however, remained – and for anyone who wished to listen without being caught, it was perfectly suited. By the time they reached the hidden corner and positioned the enchanted ear, the conversation had already begun. Both Draco and Lorelei sank immediately to the floor, ears close to the artifact, catching what sounded like Mr. Malfoy mid-sentence, saying: ‘…never cared about her before, but now suddenly wants to make an exception, so that in the same year, both…’ The ear nearly fell off – the voices vanished. Lorelei, with a sharp breath of irritation, caught it aloft and fixed it more securely against the wall. They always say: if you want something done properly, do it yourself. ‘…no news about the boy,’ came what sounded like Mr. Avery’s voice. ‘And what if we were right?’ said Mr. Goyle. ‘What if he really is the new Dark Master?’ They were speaking about Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived, the child who, on the very same night Lorelei’s parents had been killed, had somehow caused the Dark Lord to disappear which happened after the murder of his own parents. Everyone knew the Dark Lord had intended to kill him too – that much was fact – but something had gone wrong. He had failed. And around the question of why, endless theories spun like fog around a lantern. How had Mr. Potter survived the Killing Curse – Avada Kedavra – with nothing but a lightning-shaped scar on his forehead? Some believed it was because he had been marked for something greater. That a new heir had been born. That when the old Dark Lord fell, a younger, stronger one rose. A child born with boundless magic, limitless from the beginning – the new Dark Master. The new keeper of ancient secrets, the new vessel for the darkest arts and all their hidden knowledge. ‘I have already spoken to Draco about it,’ replied Mr. Malfoy, the elder, in a tone both composed and dismissive. ‘If the boy is placed in Slytherin, then he will befriend him and draw him into a circle of appropriate company – the sort our children deserve to grow up alongside. But if the boy is sorted elsewhere, I suppose there is little point in expecting that he will become anything of consequence, or play any role worth speaking of. In that case, it would be senseless to waste our time on him.’ ‘You mustn’t underestimate the one because of whom we lost…’ began Mr. Nott – yes, surely Mr. Nott, Theodore’s father – but he was interrupted by the voice of Mr. Crabbe. ‘And if our Lord returns… and we are already searching, or have even found a replacement for him – will he not strike us down in fury?’ ‘Let it rest, Grenville,’ said Mr. Malfoy calmly. ‘If the boy is worthy – if he is powerful – then the Dark Lord shall not be angered, but shall see it as a mark of loyalty, that we have saved him a companion of merit. After all, our Lord valued strength above all, and the nobility of bloodlines. And the Potters, however his sorry excuse of a father may have entangled himself with a mud-blood, are a pure line. Carver will confirm it.’ Mr. Nott made no comment on the subject, but another voice arose: ‘And what of the girl? Is there anything in her the Lord might deem worthy?’ ‘Beyond an excellent upbringing and a proper attitude?’ Mr. Malfoy inquired, as if inviting correction. ‘No. There is nothing in her that might be called extraordinary.’ Lorelei swallowed. ‘Our Lord did not bestow the Dark Mark lightly,’ someone remarked, voice steeped in quiet conviction. ‘If she bears it, then it is because he had plans for her. It would be most unfortunate, Lucius, if during the years of your guardianship, you failed to instil in her the proper foundations…’ ‘I do not enjoy repeating myself,’ Mr. Malfoy replied, his tone cool but measured, ‘yet I shall do so – she has been raised with excellence. And if ever I am made to stand before our Lord with her at my side, I shall have words to speak, and reason enough to defend my choices. But were I in your place, I would be more cautious in tone. I have no intention of sharing the fruits of her progress with you.’ At that, the direction of the conversation shifted. Mr. Malfoy offered drinks, and the subject turned to the Weasleys – a family of pure-blood, yes, but impoverished and disgraced in the eyes of many due to their continual fraternising with muggles and their ilk. There was nothing new to be heard on that front. Lorelei rose quietly, brushing the folds of her black dress smooth with a single elegant gesture. Draco stood up shortly after her. ‘It’s your destiny,’ as if summing up, he said, leaving the room with her. ‘To spend the rest of your life hiding your left forearm and paying for your father’s mistakes.’ That was his favorite line. Lorelei didn’t answer. She couldn’t argue. She almost agreed – but she wasn’t sure that what Malfoy considered her father’s mistake was something she would call the same. Her father, like her mother, had fought against the Dark Lord. And Lorelei didn’t believe that was a mistake. The Dark Lord’s goals – the way he sought to reach them – had led nowhere in the end. They only became another wave of terror for the pure-blood society, a new round of ruin that broke noble families into pieces. The fools were those who followed him, drawn in by the strength and glory that dark magic gave him. But her father had made one mistake – during the war, he hadn’t protected his home, his family properly, enough to keep the Dark Lord from killing them on the night of October thirty-first. And if dark magic is limitless, then so are spells and counterspells, and in the end it all comes down to who is willing to go all the way. And if you don't practice the dark arts, you can't defeat them. That evening, Lorelei dined with the Malfoy family. Lucius Malfoy’s guests didn’t stay long. And her mood, despite all the dark thoughts, was lighter than it had been in half a year. After all, life does bring pleasant surprises – sometimes.