Chapter 13
Draco Malfoy had been working in his private laboratory since dawn. The room was spacious, with tall windows letting in natural light, essential for analyzing potions. Along the walls stretched shelves bending under the weight of books, vials, jars of rare ingredients, and ancient instruments for mixture analysis. In the center stood five cauldrons of different sizes, each made of a different material—silver, gold, copper, moonstone, and a rare meteorite from the Gobi Desert.
Before him, on a countertop made of ebony wood, stood a small, crystal vial with a potion. Claritas—just a few drops of liquid the color of molten gold, shimmering delicately as if someone had captured stolen rays of sunshine inside.
Claritas. Clarity. Transparency. The name was perfectly chosen—even someone as experienced as he had to admit that the aesthetics of the potion alone were tempting. Perfect density, ideal clarity, subtle shine. Whoever created it knew their craft.
He leaned over the vial, carefully pouring a few drops of the mixture into a small, silver bowl. He waved his wand over the surface of the liquid, whispering the analyzing spell "Revelatio Essentiae." The potion immediately began to separate into layers of different colors, floating one above the other like a spectrum of blurred rainbows.
"Dragon's blood," he muttered to himself, making notes in elegant, sharp handwriting. "But not ordinary. Exposed to the full moon... probably for three cycles."
He moved his wand over the bowl, and the next layers of the potion separated even more, revealing deeper magical interactions.
"And here's the problem," he continued his monologue. "Unicorn horn powder mixed with... what? This doesn't look like a standard reaction."
He moved away from the bowl, rubbing his eyes. He had spent four hours on this sample already, isolating ingredients, analyzing their interactions, trying to understand why a potion that was supposed to increase concentration and mental efficiency was causing comas in some users.
He ran his fingers over the pages of his notebook, where he had meticulously recorded all the discovered information. A small piece of parchment slipped out from between the pages. Draco froze, recognizing it immediately. The draft of the letter he had written to Hermione yesterday, but not perfect enough to send.
His thoughts, until now orderly and methodical, suddenly scattered.
The black rose. A symbol of their toxic relationship. Now a tool for ending it.
He hadn't planned this. He hadn't planned to send her a letter in that form. It was an impulse—something that rarely happened to him. After a full day of work at the Ministry, he had returned to the residence and locked himself in his study. His hands had reached for a rose from a small bush growing in a shaded corner of the winter garden.
He had been growing them for months. Initially, they were meant to be just a communication tool—a safe, discreet way to arrange meetings. But over time, they had become something more. A ritual. An admission of weakness that he so carefully hid from the world.
He remembered exactly the moment when this madness began. A Ministry party, a bathroom, Granger with trembling hands and an empty gaze, reaching for another vial of calming potion. Her embarrassment when she noticed him watching. His mocking comment. Her angry response. And then...
Draco shook his head, banishing the memory of their first intimacy. This wasn't the time. He needed to focus on researching the potion, not on dwelling on the past.
He looked again at the layered analysis in the silver bowl. Unicorn blood. That had to be it. Unicorn blood was not only an illegal ingredient—it was cursed. It gave extraordinary power, but at a terrible price. "Kill a unicorn, and from that moment you will lead only a half-life, a cursed life"—he remembered Firenzo's words, which Harry Potter had once repeated in Care of Magical Creatures class.
Was that why some users of Claritas fell into comas? Was the cursed blood reacting in an unpredictable way with their magic?
Draco reached for his quill to write down his thoughts, but his hand stopped halfway. His thoughts drifted again toward Hermione Granger. Toward the black rose he had sent her last night.
Why had he done it? Was it really just about maintaining professionalism now that they were working together? Or was there something more—something he didn't want to admit even to himself?
Their relationship had always been toxic. Based on mutual hatred, contempt, and physical desire so intense that it sometimes frightened him. He saw how Granger was sinking into self-destruction—ever-increasing doses of potions, trembling hands, bloodshot eyes. He recognized these symptoms all too well. After all, he was a master at hiding his own demons.
Granger was falling apart. She was on the edge. And he, contrary to what he had told her, didn't want to be the one who would finally push her into the abyss.
So he sent the rose. And the letter. Clear, precise. "Time to move forward." End of games. End of meetings in seedy hotels. End of this madness that was slowly destroying them both.
But why, by Merlin, was it so hard for him to focus after all this?
"Focus," he growled to himself, returning to the analysis of the potion. "It's just Granger. It didn't mean anything."
But as he leaned over the silver bowl again, where the layers of Claritas pulsed, he couldn't shake the impression that something within himself had similarly separated—into layers of truth and lies that even he himself had difficulty distinguishing.
The delicate tap of a heel on the marble floor interrupted his thoughts. He would recognize that sound anywhere—the rhythmic, steady click of shoes that Celestine had specially imported from Paris. He didn't even need to turn around to know that his wife was standing in the doorway of the laboratory, probably with that cold, calculated smile of hers.
"Mon chéri," her voice, soft and melodious, with that characteristic French accent, spread throughout the room. "You've been working non-stop since dawn. It's unhealthy."
Draco straightened up and turned around. Celestine, as always, looked perfect—a straight, cream-colored dress emphasizing her slender figure, hair styled in an elegant bun, delicate makeup.
"I have a theory," he replied, pointing to the silver bowl. "The problem might be unicorn blood."
Celestine laughed melodiously, shaking her head with amusement.
"You know I have absolutely no understanding of potions," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "I could pretend to be interested, but we both know it's pointless. To me, it all looks like colored water."
She came closer, her perfume—expensive, subtle, but intense—filling the space around him.
"You have a visitor," she announced, changing the subject. "Your mother has come."
Draco frowned, surprised. Narcissa rarely visited their residence, especially without notice.
"What is she doing here?"
"I don't know," Celestine shrugged with an elegance that only she could give to this simple gesture. "She's waiting in the green drawing room."
Draco put down his quill, wondering what could have brought his mother. Since Lucius was sent to Azkaban, Narcissa had lived rather solitary at Malfoy Manor, rarely contacting her son in person. She preferred letters—old-fashioned, elegant, always smelling of her favorite jasmine scent.
"Tell her I'll be there shortly," he said, casting one last glance at the silver bowl.
Celestine moved closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. Her touch was light, but Draco felt it like a weight.
"By the way, I don't like this new... collaboration of yours," she said quietly. "Granger and Potter. I don't trust them. Especially her."
"It's just work, Celestine," he replied, subtly moving away. "You yourself pushed me into Kingsley's hands when you asked your father to finance the investigation."
"I know, but... your reputation?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What will people think, seeing you alongside Potter and that... that Mudblood?"
"They'll think I'm a responsible citizen helping during a crisis," he retorted, increasingly irritated by this conversation. "Besides, what choice do I have? Refuse the Minister?"
Celestine studied him for a moment, as if looking for something in his face.
"You're working too hard, mon amour," she said finally, changing the subject. "This investigation... this case... it's consuming you completely. You didn't come to bed yesterday. You spent most of the night in your study. And you promised."
It was true. He had promised. Their marriage, though primarily a business arrangement, had its... schedules. Celestine, as his wife, had her requirements. Usually their meetings were perfectly planned—cold, efficient, and devoid of any emotions.
"I'm sorry," he said automatically. "I was busy."
"Just like for the past six months?" she asked, and in her voice appeared a note he hadn't heard before. Something like... jealousy?
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied coldly. "And I really need to get back to work. Tell Mother I'll be right there."
Celestine smiled—that cold, controlled smile he knew so well.
"Of course," she said, turning to leave.
When she was at the door, she turned back for a moment.
"Draco," she began, her voice suddenly different. "Whatever is happening... remember that we are family. And I always protect my family. No matter what."
It sounded like a promise. And like a threat.
When she left, he exhaled the breath he had been unconsciously holding. Why were conversations with his own wife sometimes more stressful than business negotiations with goblins?
He gave himself a moment to calm down. He smoothed his hair, adjusted his shirt collar, and straightened up, summoning to his face that perfectly controlled mask his father had taught him to wear.
When he entered the green drawing room, he immediately spotted his mother sitting in an elegant armchair with mahogany accents. Narcissa Malfoy, despite the passing years, was still a beautiful woman—her light hair, now with subtle silver strands, was perfectly styled, and her robes of blue silk emphasized the aristocratic paleness of her complexion.
"Mother," he greeted her respectfully, inclining his head slightly. "What brings you here? Is everything all right?"
Narcissa raised an eyebrow in a gesture so similar to his own that he almost smiled.
"Does a mother need a special reason to visit her own son?" she asked with a note of reproach in her voice. "We haven't seen each other since your trial, Draco. That's reason enough for me to feel neglected."
"Of course not," he replied, sitting on the couch opposite her. "It's just that... I've been busy lately."
"Yes, I've heard," she replied, examining him carefully. "Celestine mentioned that you hardly leave the laboratory."
At that moment, Mimsy appeared with a soft crack, carrying a silver tray with tea and biscuits.
"Tea for the masters," the elf squeaked, placing the tray on the table. "Mimsy made Mistress Narcissa's favorite tea, jasmine with a touch of honey."
"Thank you, Mimsy," Narcissa replied with that particular courtesy she always showed to house-elves. Not out of respect for their species, as Granger would do, but from the conviction that elegance requires politeness toward all servants.
Celestine joined them, sitting beside her husband with a graceful smile.
"I was just telling Narcissa about your new... project," she said, her voice soft, but Draco perfectly sensed the tension beneath that layer of courtesy.
"I've heard fascinating news," added Narcissa, taking a sip of tea. "You're collaborating with the Ministry on the matter of this new potion, Claritas."
"That's right," he confirmed, taking his cup. "The Minister personally asked me."
"It's an honor," Narcissa noted, a flash of pride appearing in her eyes. "And a strategic move. The Malfoys have always known how to use difficult situations to strengthen their position."
Celestine nodded approvingly.
"That's exactly what I said," she interjected. "It's an excellent opportunity to improve the standing of our name. Though I would prefer if Draco didn't have to collaborate with... certain people."
Narcissa looked questioningly at her daughter-in-law, then at her son.
"Potter and Granger," he explained, trying to make his voice sound neutral. "We're in a three-person team appointed by the Minister."
"Ah," Narcissa set down her cup with a delicate clink. "Sometimes life arranges surprising combinations."
For a moment she looked as if she were considering something, then added:
"After my recent meeting with Miss Granger, I must admit she's truly a remarkable young woman. Intelligent, eloquent, and, what surprised me most, extremely understanding, considering... our past."
"Really, belle-mère?" Celestine asked, not hiding her surprise. "I thought she was rather... an average person. Ambitious, yes, but without that natural grace that should accompany a woman in her position."
"Some confuse lack of artifice with lack of grace, my dear," Narcissa replied with a polite smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's a common mistake among those who devote too much attention to appearances."
Celestine tensed slightly, clearly touched by this remark.
"Perhaps," she replied coldly. "But some also mistake stubbornness for character, and desperation for passion."
The tension between the women was almost palpable. Draco felt uncomfortable. Fortunately, a soft tapping on the window interrupted this unpleasant exchange. An elegant owl with dark feathers sat on the windowsill, with a letter tied to its leg.
"Oh, mail," Celestine rose gracefully and approached the window. She opened it, and the owl flew inside, landing on the table.
Celestine quickly took the letter and glanced at the handwriting.
"From Astoria," she said, and her face stiffened for a moment. However, she quickly summoned her polite smile. "Excuse me for a moment. This is a rather... urgent business matter that I must attend to immediately."
Before Draco could react, Celestine tucked away the letter and bowed slightly toward Narcissa.
"Narcissa, Mimsy has prepared a room for you, should you wish to rest before dinner," she added, heading for the exit.
"Thank you, Celestine," she replied with a courteous nod.
As soon as Celestine left, closing the door behind her, Narcissa sighed softly and looked at Draco with an expression she rarely showed in public—a mixture of concern and determination.
"For Merlin's beard, Draco," she said, shaking her head with distaste. "Was there really no other witch in all of Europe? You had to choose a French woman with an ego bigger than their entire Eiffel Tower?"
Draco frowned, surprised by his mother's direct attack on his wife.
"I thought you liked Celestine," he said cautiously.
"I tolerate her," Narcissa clarified, taking a sip of tea. "Which is an impressive achievement, considering her insufferable manner of acting superior to everyone around her. 'Belle-mère' here, 'belle-mère' there, and behind our backs, she schemes like a true Slytherin, only without the talent and finesse."
"That's unfair," he protested, though without conviction. "Celestine is..."
"She's Rosier's daughter, has connections and money, I know," his mother interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. "But if you were only looking for that, you might as well have married a goblin vault. At least it wouldn't comment on everything with that irritating accent."
Draco couldn't suppress the slight smile that appeared on his lips. His mother was rarely so directly malicious.
"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked, looking at her carefully. "After so many years of marriage?"
Narcissa gave him a meaningful look.
"Because, my dear son, I see that your marriage is not what it should be," she answered, her voice becoming more serious. "And it's not just because of that woman. Something has changed. In you."
Draco felt his throat tighten slightly. His mother could always see through him.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, forcing indifference.
"I think it's quite the opposite. You know exactly what I'm talking about."