Part the Sixth—
Moping melancholy and moon-struck madness.
—Milton, Paradise Lost, Book XI
Harry slammed his fist against the wall, not minding the pain, the small stone falling from his hand and onto the floor.
“Harry?” Lucrece called from the stairs.
He couldn’t bear to look up at her.
“The Burrow. There were Death Eaters and he pushed a Portkey into my hand.” He slumped against the wall and lowered his head between his knees as he tried to breathe. “He’s pregnant and he forced me to leave—and—Merlin—”
Harry couldn’t think; couldn’t breathe. Everything was wrong. He needed Octavian in his arms, but he knew he couldn’t go back. Not without risking Octavian and their unborn child. If he returned open fire would immediately start and Octavian and the baby must be safe, even if it meant he was impotent and left maddeningly waiting at their home, praying to the gods above that his beautiful Octavian would be returned safely and soon.
“That son of mine,” Lucrece said quietly and she rushed behind Harry, cradling him as he began to cry. He clutched onto her robes and shook in fear. “Hush,” Lucrece said, shifting. “He knew what he was doing.”
“He’s my husband. I’m supposed to protect him,” he sobbed.
“Yes,” Lucrece quietly agreed, beginning to run her fingers through Harry’s dark hair tentatively, almost as if the action were new to her. “And now he is protecting you.”
“How did he even get a Portkey?” Harry wondered, tears streaming down his face. “How?”
The question remained unanswered, and the two remained in the hall, holding each other closely, just staring at the front door. Harry could feel time crawling past him painfully hours after he had run out of tears.
Harry could sense the sun setting, and he found himself pacing the hall, his hands shaking as he worried the edges of his dress robe. He knew he must look wild, his messy hair messy about his strained face, his form trembling. At one point Winky entered to say that dinner was served, but neither paid attention to her, instead waiting, and she went away again.
“That’s it,” Harry whispered, his wand now in his hand. “I don’t care. I’m going over there.”
“No,” Lucrece warned, grabbing his wrist. “You must wait.”
“He’s my husband,” Harry argued desperately, looking at her handsome face. “My Octavian.”
“I know,” she agreed. “Believe me, I know what love is like—it’s been too long, but I know, Harry, and you must stay. Octavian wished you here; respect that. You say—“ she paused, shuddering, “Draco Malfoy acknowledged him. If he’s with—him—he’s safe.”
Their eyes locked desperately, and Harry could see a world of woe in her gaze.
“Don’t you love Octavian?” he finally whispered, breaking the prolonged stare.
Lucrece stepped back, startled.
“You said,” Harry continued, not looking at her but once again pacing. “You said it’s been too long since you’ve known love—don’t you love your son?”
He could hear her labored breathing, yet still Harry refused to look at her. It was too painful. She had the same black eyes as Octavian, as their beautiful daughter might have. Too much. Far too much.
Harry shut his eyes and could feel the lingering tears being squeezed out, falling over his already damp cheeks, marring his visage further. “Well?” he asked bitterly.
She didn’t answer.
“He looks too much like Lucius.” The words left Harry’s lips in realization and he nodded, not necessarily in understanding. He could never understand how a mother could not love her child, especially Octavian no matter what her feelings toward his conception or his father. He was too precious; he was Harry’s everything.
“Tell me about him—Evan Rosier. Your fiancé.”
Lucrece gasped and Harry could hear her sit heavily, possibly on the bottom step.
“He was—Evan—he was charismatic,” Lucrece began hesitantly, licking her lips.
Harry glanced momentarily at her and saw that she had folded her hands properly in her lap. Her fingers were twitching, perhaps in nervousness. Lucrece’s face was turned away from him; her long dark hair falling down her back, the line of her white neck shining through, making her look ethereal and almost beautiful in the dusk light.
“Handsome,” she continued, her voice cracking. “He was a year above me in Slytherin and, well, he was passionate about the cause. I’ve never known anyone more intelligent except for Octavian. He was Head Boy and we were the dream couple.” Her voice hitched at memories. “He told me not to go out that night, but I couldn’t help it. A group of us who were neutral in the war dressed in our robes and snuck out of Hogwarts and the older ones side Apparated us.” He could hear a sad smile in her voice. “That was the last time I saw him. He was upset and angry with me for wanting to celebrate, but it was infectious.” She turned and her dark, soulful eyes caught Harry’s gaze. “I wish to this day we had a happier last memory of each other—or that I had just stayed at Hogwarts.”
She cleared her throat.
Harry looked away again and continued his pacing. Every few turns he swept his wand across the hall and would fix small things. Straighten a portrait, perhaps, or sweep the already clean floor. Anything to keep him not thinking about where Octavian could be and what might be befalling him.
“Have you sent the marriage announcement to my fath—to Lord Prince?” she asked after awhile and Harry turned sharply.
“No, not yet. Octavian told me last night that he didn’t even know he had a grandfather and seemed pleased with the idea. He would want it.”
Lucrece didn’t respond.
Harry sighed. “Winky!” he called and a moment later the house-elf had appeared before him.
“Master is calling. Dinner is being warm for when Master Octie returns.” She bowed low and Harry nodded.
“Table,” he murmured to himself before his attention focused on the small house-elf again. “Winky, I’ll need parchment, a quill, ink, and the Black family seal. Bring it to the kitchen. I need to write a letter and, well,” he glanced at Lucrece. “Perhaps Octavian will return through the Floo.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed, following out of the foyer and down the stairs to the lower level.
The kitchen was bright with a merry fire roaring in the grate, dinner still simmering on the stove. Harry barely glanced at it as he sat down heavily, placing his wand carefully on the table so that it was right near his writing hand. He needed to have it near in case he changed his mind and decided to Floo directly back to the Burrow or somewhere else on a moment’s notice.
Octavian had to return, he reminded himself. He had to.
Harry refused to look at the clock. He didn’t want to be reminded just how many agonizing hours had passed.
The parchment and everything else he requested materialized in front of him and he took up the quill, hesitating. “A formal announcement or letter?”
“Announcement,” Lucrece breathed. “Place your title and all acknowledged parents’ names on it—all three.” Not Lucius Malfoy’s was left unspoken, though her stiff form and cold voice gave it away.
Harry nodded. Carefully he formed the words and, once he was done, he blew on the parchment and handed it to his mother-in-law for inspection.
“Good. Now sign it,” she whispered and handed it back. A few minutes later and Hedwig had flown out the window to deliver it.
Harry stared at the fireplace and shivered.
Half an hour later it flared green and Harry rushed forward, catching Octavian whose balance had begun to change and confuse him especially when he was tired.
“You’re safe,” Harry breathed in relief, and a moment later upturned lips had caught his in a gentle kiss.
“Pardonne-moi, Henri Jacques,” he whispered desperately when the kiss finally broke. “Tante Bella a dit que je devrais render a visite à mon père. Je ne pouvais pas refuser, et alors le Seigneur des Ténèbres était là.”
“Voldemort?” Harry asked amazed.
“Are you all right? Le bébé?”
“Je vais bien. Nous allons très bien.”
“Thank the gods,” Harry breathed against Octavian’s hair, clutching him tightly. “Thank the gods.”
Lucrece said nothing and instead slipped from the room, neither Harry nor Octavian really noticing.
“Have you eaten? We waited—I couldn’t eat, not knowing—“ His voice trailed off as Octavian pulled away, their gazes locking desperately on the other.
“Oui. Papa insisted,” he admitted after a moment. “Draco told ‘im when they were briefly alone, and—well—‘e is ‘appy to be a grandfather and wishes all to be well.” He gave a tremulous smile and Harry was kissing Octavian desperately again, his tongue sneaking past his sweet lips and slicing across his tongue, pulling a gasp from his young husband.
“Bed then,” Harry murmured, pulling Octavian from the kitchen. “Bring a snack up please, Winky,” he called out after him, suspecting Lucrece would slip down later to have dinner when they were ensconced in their room.
“Tell me everything,” Harry murmured into a soft, desperate kiss when they were in the master bedroom. Harry was making quick work of Octavian’s robes, not caring if they were crushed on the floor. He need to see for himself that his husband and his child were well and unharmed, and clothes only got in the way of that particular desire.
“Je t’aime,” Octavian whispered as Harry pushed him gently onto the bed, his hands running over Octavian’s bare torso and across his flat stomach.
In the back of the room, there was a quiet pop followed quickly by another. Neither looked, too focused on one another. “Octavian,” Harry whispered reverently as small hands pushed his loosened robes from his shoulders and then ran down his chest, hovering over his groin. Dark eyes glowed with love and want, and Harry was once again pulled down, skin against skin.
Octavian reached around Harry, pulling down his trousers with his fingers and his knees. “Tu m’as manqué. Je te voulais là.”
“Je sais,” Harry agreed when he was finally free of all of his clothes that had been kicked off of the bed. He bent down and captured Octavian’s mouth, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. “Je t’aime.”
Octavian gasped and they were rubbing against each other, hands stroking, lips kissing and tongues lazily playing with each other. Harry thrust forward and Octavian moaned as he was entered, heat and desire encompassing Harry’s member before they were kissing again and slowly making love, their eyes never leaving one another.
Sweat dripped down Harry’s face as his sweet husband moaned and gasped beneath him, rocking gently against him. “Plus!” Octavian begged, and Harry moved faster, his fingers splayed on Octavian’s stomach, thinking of how much he adored his husband and just glad to have him once again in his arms where he belonged.
Octavian arched upward, his legs coming up around Harry’s waist so that the angle changed just a little, and then Octavian threw his head back, his eyes shut in ecstasy, his hair falling down across his shoulders in one of the most beautiful sights Harry had ever seen. He quickly followed and they held each other close, gently kissing and nipping each other’s lips, as they basked in the happiness and pleasure.
A few minutes later a creak from the hallway brought Harry out of his thoughts. Lifting his head, he looked toward the closed door, and he grimaced. “I think we forgot to cast a silencing charm.”
His husband laughed tiredly. “Maman sait. Ce n’est pas un problème.”
“She’s your mother,” Harry argued.
“Oui,” Octavian agreed. “And I am pregnant, yes? She knows, Henri Jacques.”
Harry sighed tiredly. “True.”
They lay in silence for several more moments, just basking in each other’s presence, until Harry got hungry and summoned his meal over to him; the tray fortunately had some sort of balancing charm on it as the full plate of Irish stew and salad did not upset itself. “Tell me,” he whispered after his first spoonful, his gaze catching Octavian’s dark one. “Please.”
Octavian sighed and sat up, pulling a summer robe around his shoulders. Harry hadn’t bothered, which he knew pleased Octavian to no end if his lingering gaze were anything to judge by.
“What do you want me to say?” he whispered desperately, rubbing his face. “I—I could not say ‘non’ and it turns out zat I cannot be touched. Ze Malfoys and ze Dark Lord will not permit it. I am ‘onored. C’est très bizarre.”
Harry looked at him askance. “You are honored?”
“Oui. Je suis un Malfoy. And now Papa ‘as recognized me. Zat is why it was longer, but Papa wanted it—and You-Know-‘Oo wanted it—et il est très effrayant.. When ‘e insists, one does to object.” Octavian shivered. A scant moment later and Harry had pushed his plate away and pulled his younger husband back into his arms.
“Shh,” he soothed, kissing his forehead. “You’re safe—and you’re not going back.”
“Je sais. J’espère.”
Harry sighed sadly, knowing it was the truth.
“’E gave me a gift,” Octavian whispered, brokenly. “It was ‘orrible. I was sick, I am afraid to say. Le bébé, peut-être.”
“Non, Papa got rid of it for me. It was—Snape’s ‘ead,” he admitted quietly, shaking in Harry’s arms. “It ‘ad been severed some’ow, Henri Jacques. ‘Is eyes were open and black and staring.”
Harry could feel the tears run down his face, but he continued to hold his husband close, soothing him. Snape was gone; dead. That, at least, was over.
“It was strangely—normal, apart from zat, Henri Jacques. Civil. Friendly. I convinced ze Dark Lord zat you were the one ‘oo told everyone zat it was Snape and not Draco—zat you ‘ad watched and done nothing when Dumbledore died—zat you wished to remain neutral. I think ‘e believed me. You are safe—for now. As long as you remain in ze country—“
“I know,” Octavian whispered, kissing his lips gently in reassurance. “I am sorry. I could do nothing. ‘E does not want you to leave.”
“You may?” he whispered.
Octavian nodded. “You will be safe—if ‘e does not notice you, Henri Jacques.” Their eyes met and Harry could see the desperation in Octavian’s dark gaze. “I do not like ‘ow ‘e treats even ‘is favorites—Papa—Draco. Il m’effraye.” The last words were whispered harshly, fear lacing Octavian’s voice.
Harry paused, until he realized what his husband was asking him to do without saying the words.
“Je comprends.” And he did—he did understand—and he promised himself that by the time Romola was born, or not soon after, Voldemort would be gone.
He wouldn’t go after the horcruxes. He wouldn’t leave his husband and his child alone in the world, but he would find a way. Some way—any way. Magic was vast. If there was a ritual to sustain life even past death, there must be another to take it away again, something more powerful. He might no longer have Hermione, but he had the entire Black Library at his disposal.
His jaw clenched, as he continued to think, Octavian lying down to rest his head in Harry’s lap, his eyes closing in exhaustion. It had been a long and stressful day, and he usually had a nap in the afternoon that he probably missed. If Octavian were that frightened, he doubted he would be able to sleep very well or comfortably even if his father had insisted upon it.
He turned his mind back to the problem. He had no Hermione—no Ron. Usually he had at least one of them help, but now he had to send Octavian away, abroad, to school and safety, at least for a term before the child came. He knew under McGonagall’s rule as Headmistress, nothing would change even though Octavian was now fully legitimized and even recognized. It was unfair. England should be their home, their sanctuary, and instead Harry had been forced to unroll the two of them from Hogwarts—and he would not send Octavian back to it no matter what. He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on finding a way to destroy Voldemort if he had to worry about how McGonagalls and the other professors were treating Octavian, especially given that he was now with child.
Harry wasn’t even certain that he could do this search on his own, even knowing that Octavian would be safe and relatively content at Beauxbatons. He was still a novice, hadn’t grown up with an inherent knowledge of magic. Then his mind turned to her and a small smile formed on his face.
Daphne. He knew her father wasn’t a Death Eater and perhaps, just perhaps, she was at least neutral. It was worth a try.
Harry sat in a Muggle coffee shop dressed as a Muggle, much to Octavian’s previous horror, and he sat at a small table looking out the window. He wasn’t quite certain if Daphne was coming—in the owls they had exchanged she had been less than happy about the place of meeting, but Harry thought it would be better if wizards did not overhear them.
Day after day new horrible reforms were being put in place. Scrimgeour was dead, and now Pius Thicknesse was Minister for Magic. Under his control, Muggle-borns were being “invited” to register to better study how they “stole” magic. It was disgusting. Sinistra had been appointed Headmistress and it appeared she had been bullied into appointing the Carrow siblings as professors.
At least she wasn’t Snape. She had been kind and fair when he was at Hogwarts. Apart from Daphne, she was the most honest Slytherin Harry had ever met. He suspected that’s why she had been chosen over both Professors Flitwick and McGonagall.
The door of the small shop opened and there was a pause of footsteps. Harry looked up and was startled to see an exhausted looking Justin Finch-Fletchley. He looked at the calendar on the wall, and assured himself that it was still August.
“Justin,” he greeted, and the boy smiled back at him.
“Good,” he whispered and then sat down quickly. “I heard from Ernie that you and Octavian were somewhere in London, and I’ve been wandering about for a month hoping I’d run into you.”
Harry’s eyes widened. “For a month?”
Justin nodded, his curly hair catching the light. “Look, I know we’re not the best of friends—“
Harry raised an eyebrow at him and Justin at least looked slightly abashed.
“Sorry, I’m going about this the wrong way. I had another argument with my parents and it’s just—difficult.” His blue eyes met Harry and he could see the desperation in them.
“The Muggle-born Registration Act,” Harry whispered in understanding. Taking out his wand but being sure to hide it from the sight of the curious Muggles around him, he quickly cast Muffliato so that no one around them would overhear them.
“Yes,” Justin admitted, blushing. “I can’t go back to Hogwarts unless I can prove that at least one of my grandparents was a wizard—and, well, they weren’t.”
“I’m sorry, Justin,” he murmured, looking up at the boy.
“I was planning on going into hiding in the Muggle world at first,” he admitted. “Get some private tutors and catch up in Maths—but—Hufflepuffs stand by their own and you’ve been Hufflepuffed.”
Harry was startled. Before he could say anything, Justin continued.
“Now, I know you’re not talking to Weasley and Granger’s—gone. You wouldn’t risk Octavian, but if you need anything, well, my calendar’s freed up for the year.” He said the last bit casually, almost as if it were unimportant to him and he were doing Harry a favor.
Harry bit his lower lip. He recognized the tone. Justin, who was a good wizard and the son of an Earl, was trying to keep his pride about him.
“Excellent,” Harry murmured. “I accept. Octavian leaves for France in a fortnight and then we’ll start. I don’t want him worrying.”
“You’re not going?” Justin looked surprised. Harry realized that they had never told anyone that they were transferring. There wasn’t enough time before the Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts and several students—along with Dumbledore—died.
“No. Voldemort,” (Justin flinched at the time, but otherwise looked complacent) “has demanded I not leave the country. Octavian and I had transferred to Beauxbatons after everything near the end of the year—before,” he qualified at Justin’s perplexed look. “I have been commanded to remain neutral,” their eyes met, “so appearances are everything.”
“Where should I go?”
“I’ll send you an owl with the date and time—but here would be best. The house is under Fidelius. My mother-in-law lives with us,” he admitted as an afterthought. “As a warning.”
Justin swallowed. “My mum hates Gran—Dad’s mum,” he admitted, shivering. “Not pleasant.”
Harry laughed openly. “My Aunt Petunia hated my uncle’s sister, Marge. It was the only sense of enjoyment I could get when Aunt Marge came to visit.” He scowled slightly at the memories of being chased by bull terriers up trees. It was a wonder that he hadn’t developed a phobia against all dogs—including Sirius’s animagus form. He would be completely justified. “No, but it’s better than that. She’s a pureblood though, and rather set in her ways.”
Harry took off the charm and summoned the waitress, ordering Justin afternoon tea.
“How have you not been imprisoned yet?” Justin asked with undisguised interest.
There was a chime at the door, but neither boy looked up.
“Octavian,” Harry admitted. “He’s now Lucius Malfoy’s recognized son, and it’s clear that he’s been influencing me for the most part.”
“Yes,” a new voice agreed, and Harry looked up to see a rather harried looking Daphne Greengrass who was, surprisingly, with Marcus Flint.
Harry stared for several long moments, quite certain that his mouth was open and catching flies.
“Oh, yes,” she said, rather distractedly. She had managed to put on a sundress, but she looked decidedly uncomfortable in it. Flint, well, Flint had tried. Harry had to give him that. He was wearing pressed grey trousers, a wizard shirt and a jumper. It wasn’t in fashion at all, but anyone who looked at him might think that he had forgotten it was the end instead of the beginning of the twentieth century. “Marcus, may I reintroduce Lord Black, who you of course remember from Quidditch, and—“ she paused, looking at Justin in confusion.
“Justin Finch-Fletchley,” Justin added in. At the barely concealed look of disdain on Flint’s face at his surname, he hastily added, “I’m the second son of Lord Wintersthorpe.”
Flint looked at him long and hard and, taking in his expensive clothes, seemed to convince himself that Justin was a pureblood he had simply forgotten about. Harry had to withhold a laugh. “You’re meeting in a Muggle area,” he remarked after a long moment, during which Daphne shifted uncomfortably.
“I’m trying to avoid giving out autographs,” Harry stated, affecting a slight drawl. “Fans can get tiresome after awhile.”
Daphne’s lip curled in the hint of a smile, her eyes sparkling in amusement.
Flint nodded, accepting the answer. “Understandable.” He turned back to Daphne and wrapped an arm loosely around her waist. To Harry, she looked briefly startled before she relaxed against him. “Dinner. Saturday,” Marcus said. “The White Witch.”
Daphne’s eyes widened, showing her surprise, and she looked down briefly. “I have plans on Saturday.”
Flint’s jaw set. “With Krum,” he answered, his voice calm and yet dangerous.
She didn’t respond and instead glanced up at him, defiance in her brown eyes.
Saying nothing, Flint reached up and gently tucked a strand of strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. “It appears that I was not overt enough in my attentions. Still, I never lose when it’s important.” He nodded to himself, pulling away, and looking over Daphne’s form quietly, as if trying to reconcile the idea of the beautiful pureblood wearing Muggle clothes. “Sunday lunch, then, if you’re not busy, Miss Greengrass.” He bowed to her formally, his arms spread out wide in an antiquated pureblood courtship ritual.
Harry’s eyes widened. He had never used it with Octavian because, as Daphne informed him, it would be an insult to Octavian’s masculinity. Still, he knew what it meant—Flint had just announced to both Harry, as Lord Black, and the supposed younger son of a pureblood lord that he intended to enter into a formal courtship with and marry Daphne Greengrass.
Daphne was blushing lightly, but she hadn’t turned away from Flint.
He smirked at her. “Know that as of this moment, I consider myself in an exclusive relationship with you, and will not be seen with any other witch in public other than yourself.” Nodding respectfully to both Justin and Harry (and ignoring the staring Muggles in the coffee shop), he strode out of the door, Daphne staring after him.
When the chatter of the café became noticeable, Daphne quickly took a seat between the boys. She cleared her throat. “Well, my guess is that the Dark Lord’s followers are hoping that the ‘resistance’ won’t rally around you if they think you’re too much of a traditionalist. If they killed you, captured you, or something of the sort people would be up in arms.—Oh, a tea, thank you,” she ordered.
“Greengrass,” Justin greeted, showing how unflappable he was. Harry was still trying not to stare at Daphne.
She turned to him, open curiosity on her pretty face. “What are you doing here?”
“Searching for Harry. Finally managed to run into him after a month.—Don’t you go out at all?”
“Diagon Alley, sorry.”
Justin’s shoulders slumped.
Daphne turned her attention back to Harry. “Astoria’s been crying,” she stated, taking a sip of the tea that had just been placed before her. She took it without milk or sugar. “The Carrow twins are supposed to be horrific Death Eaters—worst of the lot, according to Draco. Astoria, whatever her views, doesn’t like seeing anyone getting hurt, especially children.”
Harry gaped at her. “Are you saying that the Carrows will hurt the younger years?”
“If they step out of line even a bit, then yes,” she admitted calmly. “Draco’s been prepping us for what to say and what not to, as has Marcus.” She paused, looking out the window in the direction Flint had left. “He came by just as I was leaving and insisted he accompany me, and then told me everything he’d been able to find on the Carrows. He’s rather thorough as a law wizard,” she remarked before turning back to Harry and Justin. “Astoria will have a little more difficulty as she’s not a Slytherin and our family’s neutral. Draco will protect her, though. Please tell me you’re going to do something about the entire—problem.”
Harry played with a piece of his scone. “Are you planning on going back to Hogwarts?”
A grin played across Daphne’s lips. “Not necessarily. I’ve been accepted to Beauxbatons and, well, Draco said he’d try and pull a few strings for me. It would be best if I kept an eye on you or Octavian, after all.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed at her. He’d never before realized just how cunning—and brilliant—Daphne was before. “Excellent. Have everything packed in two weeks—I’ll send you an owl.”
“Do you have a plan?” Justin asked.
Harry shrugged. “More of an abstract idea,” he admitted. “The Headmaster was going at the problem from one direction, but I don’t fancy ending up dead.”
“Dead?” Daphne said, startled, setting down her cup.
“Yes, dead.” He nibbled on his scone. “Apparently my life is completely expendable. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to die and refuse to leave Octavian alone in the world.”
“Bastard,” Daphne murmured. “Have you seen Skeeter’s The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore?”
“No,” Justin answered. “I’ve wanted to, of course.”
Harry shook his head to show he hadn’t read it.
“I’ll bring a copy. Skeeter’s not necessarily the most trustworthy biographer or reporter, for that matter,” her eyes skated toward Harry before locking on Justin again, “but it appears that he was close friends with Grindelwald in his youth—best friends, even.”
Justin’s cup chinked as he set it down harshly.
“There’s even a copy of a letter he wrote, advocating that Muggles need to be controlled by wizards ‘for the Greater Good.’”
Harry felt sickened.
“That bastard,” Justin murmured, and Harry couldn’t agree more.
French to English.
Pardonne-moi, Henri Jacques. Forgive me, Henri Jacques.
Tante Bella a dit que je devrais rendre visite à mon père. Je ne pouvais pas refuser, et alors le Seigneur de Ténèbres était là. Aunt Bella said that I should visit my father. I was not able to refuse, and also the Dark Lord was there
Le bébé? The baby?
Je vais bien. Nous allons très bien. I am well. We are very well.
Tu m’as manqué. Je te voulais là. I missed you. I wanted you there.
Je sais … Je t’aime. I know … I love you.
Maman sait. Ce n’est pas un problème. Mother knows. It’s not a problem.
C’est très bizarre.It’s very strange.
Oui. Je suis un Malfoy. Yes. I am a Malfoy.
Et il est très effrayant. And it is very alarming.
Je sais. J’espère. I know. I hope.
Le bébé, peut-être. The baby, perhaps.
Il m’effraye. He scares me.
Je comprends. I understand.