That damn ring.
The signet ring, with the Malfoy crest and that damned inscription.
It had fit for years, but on his index finger—what self-respecting wizard would wear their family signet on their index and not on their pinky?
So he had only just started wearing it.
And, of course, she had to ask about it.
That inscription.
It’s so worn that it’s barely legible, but she read it just fine, turning the ring over in her hands so that the one beam of sunlight that had managed to pierce through the lake into the common room hit the inscription just right. Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. And he could argue the technicalities all he wanted, but sanctimonia doesn’t mean sanctity or virtue—it means purity.
And he’s trying to be more honest, anyway.
Not that he needed to translate it for her, even if Latin was one of the only subjects where his skills outnumbered hers. She was still plenty capable of reading his family motto.
Oh, how he wished she’d looked at him when she asked. That she’d turned her face toward him, looked him in the eyes. He loved feeling her shift on his chest, each movement, each turn of her head, pulling at his heart just beneath her. He was half sure she could feel it—that way she smiles when she turns to look at him, his heart picking up and chasing her through his ribcage.
But she hadn't.
—If I’m quite honest, I don't want to ask, since I don't want to know.
She presses the crest into her thumb, studying the faint imprint it leaves on her skin.
—Hmmm.
He wants to play with her hair, twist her curls around in spirals, but he hesitates. You can’t see the shape of her head, you never can, her mane a big obscuring mass. But he can feel it, the soft curve of her neck sloping into her scull, where that impressive mind resides.
That's how they ended up here. She had answered one of Professor Sinistra’s questions from such a completely different perspective than he would have, that it sort of reset his brain. She’d called it astrophysics, though it had really just been an add-on—something about collapsing into a supernova—and he remembers getting this rush hearing her talk. He couldn’t focus for the rest of the class. When he cornered her in the library, she patiently explained what a computer simulation was, what atoms and protons and electrons and neutrinos were. She talked about how Muggles had all these theories and experiments to explain how the stars shine, and he remembers wanting to ask her questions forever. Every time he looked at her after that, he got that rush again—this eagerness filling him up. He wanted to hear every thought she had. And he still gets that feeling sometimes, when she says something particularly smart or challenging; he wants to crack her skull open and unravel her brain until it is in a straight line and he can shift through it all. Metaphorically of course. He just wants to know her inside out.
—What are you thinking?
She waits a moment, choosing her words.
—I can't imagine not wanting to know. She says. She doesn’t sound disheartened, but there’s a distance there. It means she’s trying not to start a fight, but she finds him falling short at the moment.Why is he avoiding the confrontation? How can he lie? She doesn’t understand how he doesn’t care. At some point, she’ll break and call him a coward. This seemed likely the moment.
—I mean, it’s not like who he voted for. This might be unforgivables.
—Yeah I get that.
In some way, he does already know. Or well, no he doesn't know. But he knows his father. And he knows that if he asked, and it really wasn’t true, his father would lie to his face and never concede. So what's the point?
She finally drops the ring and turns to look at him. His heart leaps after her. No smile. There is a frown line between her brows, he smoothes it down with his thumb.
—I could ask. She looks at him suspiciously. He gives a small laugh, —I could, but I mean there are four scenarios, right? I ask him and he says yes, and he’s telling the truth. Okay, then we go on for the rest of our lives, both knowing that I didn’t believe him, to the point of asking.
He doubts his father would be particularly hurt by the question, but something in his gut tells him that it doesn’t matter—that wasn’t going to happen.
—And I think that’s the best-case scenario.
But she had to ask. He gets that. Do you think it is true that your father was under the Imperius Curse during the war?
—Maybe bringing home a witch like you would soften the blow, or maybe it won't.
She looks away from him.
—I must admit I haven't seen much of my father's angry side, which is a privilege in some way, he can feel her shoulders tense up against his stomach.
—I'm sure it’s there. He is proud to the point of arrogance.
Draco picks up the ring, holding it like a prop.
—You know, when he gave me this, he told me the story of how my grandfather used to wear it—what a formidable man he was—and how he made the Malfoy name strong. But at the same time, he also didn’t speak to him when he died. Didn’t speak to him for, I think, fifteen years. Which, considering they lived in the same house, is quite an achievement.
—Next scenario, he says yes, and he’s lying, but I don’t find out.
She scoffs, and he must admit he likes when she expects things from him.
—I guess the fallout would be pretty similar to the first case, except here my father would be lying to me for the rest of my life. Still, this is the better alternative; If he says yes and he’s lying, and I find out. What do I do then?
She tries to imagine what it would be like if her parents lied to her, he can see it on her face, the way her upper lip tightens. Her fingers are cold when she takes the ring again. He wants to wrap both her hands in his and warm her up. But she is thinking, and she prefers when she can move her fingers when she thinks.
—Do I assume then that every word from him is a lie? Do I turn him in, my own blood? I think we must remember, I love him. Besides I'm not the moral one of us.
Please tell me what you are thinking.
She slides the ring onto his left pinky. Intertwines their fingers. She is still not looking at him when she asks.
—What would you do if he told you the truth?
—You’re assuming the worst of my dear old man there, missy.
—Sure, would you prefer if he lied to you and said yes, if the answer is really no?
—That would be the decent thing of him to do. In any case, I think that his answer would depend more on his regard of me, than the opposite.
He feels her nod slowly. What is she thinking? He is dying to know. He is always dying to know. You are not supposed to be this consumed at sixteen. It is supposed to be all hormones. And sure those are there too, but he can't stop this desire to take her head apart. To swim in her daydreams and feel her every impression.
It has been too long. His last statement hanging between them. He waits. It means that she is figuring out how to confess to something.
—In some way, I want to say that I cannot believe not knowing who my parents are deep down. I don't think I would be able to keep it in me.
Her elbow presses against his liver as she gets up. She turns around so she is sitting between his legs. He bends his leg, wrapping his calf around her. She is looking down.
—I think in some ways I don’t know my parents at all. You know we are apart for so long. We see each other twice a year, right? I don't think I even know how to explain you to them.
She looks up at the last sentence. It makes him smile. He doesn't know how to explain her to his parents either. He will have to find out.
—But also I know they have never killed anybody. They simply can’t have.
He runs his thumb over the underside of his ring. There is a part of him dying to play the devil's advocate. To tell her she is wrong, to argue for the fun of it. Instead, he tells her:
—My mother would kill for me. There is a tiny pull in her eye. He hopes this answers her question.
—My father would do worse.