Chapter Text
The light fixtures in the hallways were charmed with a proximity-based spell, illuminating Tom’s path as he made his way through the unfamiliar halls of Malfoy Manor. Every dozen steps or so, the candles behind him would flicker out again, and Tom shook his head. It may never cease to amaze him how much magic was imbued into even the most mundane details of the wizarding world, especially with the muggle world so fresh in his mind again.
Low light bled out from under the door as Tom neared it. Judging by the color and slight flicker, he assumed it was firelight. Who else was still awake when it seemed the household was in bed for the night, on the other hand, he couldn’t begin to guess.
He knocked. The door opened a few inches with a quiet click . Tom swallowed back his hesitation as he stepped into the room.
Reclining on a chaise near the fire, Madame Malfoy seemed remarkably alert given the mostly empty wine bottle on the floor beside her, especially considering the half-empty wine glass floating near her hip. In her lap, a pile of manilla folders rested. Some of the pages floated around her as she scanned the one nearest to her face.
The glinting of the fire drew Tom’s attention to the gemstones on the top of her house slippers — white with pale blue stones — though the firelight was overwhelming most of their color given its warmth and the dimness of the rest of the room. The slippers matched her pajama ensemble: pale blue satin pants with clear gems sewn into a delicate pattern at the hems. A white shirt, also satin, with the same blue in its stitching and buttons, and matching blue housecoat with a combination of clear crystal, azure stones, and what appeared to be sapphires stitched into the pattern along the outer edges of its sleeves and hem.
He imagined this — housecoat loosely tied with most of its length fallen over the edge of the chaise to rest on the rug below — was as close to unkempt as the lady ever came.
There was a grace embedded into her posture even as she reached for her wineglass and took a delicate sip.
“You may sit, if you like," she said.
After shaking away some of his befuddlement, he chose the small sofa across from her chaise, intentionally putting himself in her line of sight if she looked up from her papers. Any of the other seats would put him awkwardly far from her, so his choice was as much a courtesy to the lady as it was a silent acknowledgement of the gratitude he owed her, even if the stuffed chair tucked away in a shadow bathed corner of the room was much more appealing.
“How do you feel?”
"I'm well," he responded, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Her accent was thicker at the orphanage, but now he could only hear it on her vowels.
"Which potion did you take when you awoke?"
"The one for headaches."
She nodded and took another sip of wine. "Has it helped?"
"It has, thank you."
She nodded again, her eyes never leaving the papers. She reached for another page and gently waved the one in front of her away. It floated back to, Tom presumed, its original airborne location.
"I brew most of ze potions for my family," Madame Malfoy continued. "I only outsource ze more tedious recipes, though zey are rarely needed."
Her vowels and sometimes her TH's, Tom amended, were the only remnants of her mother tongue in her English at present.
"You played up your accent at Wool's," he said.
She smiled, but still did not look at him. " Bien , mon chou . And can you guess why?"
His eyes narrowed. "Intimidation?"
Her shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug. "I suppose you could call it zat. Ze Anglaise associate my accent with status and fashion. Ze stronger I speak, ze more command I have over ze energy in a room."
"Why not just use magic?" he asked. "Wouldn't that have been easier?"
Unexpectedly, her clear blue eyes met his far darker ones, but Tom managed not to flinch and give away his surprise.
" Thomas ," she said with a quiet tut . "You know as well as I do that any witch or wizard who cannot get what zey want without a wand has no right commanding respect from anybody. Especially a few miserable women who haven’t known contentment since before you were born."
Tom’s hackles rose. “I was told my full name on legal documents is listed as Thomas, but my name is just Tom. Apparently my mother insisted on it as she died. They took liberties with the adjustment on my records under the excuse of decorum or some other such frivolity.”
"And you prefer ze shorter form?" Her tone was light. Clarifying.
"Yes…" he answered, frowning. "As I said, Thomas was a formality on paper, not the name I understood to be my own."
"Pureblood society has many nonsense customs and traditions," she said, "but few of zem puzzle me as thoroughly as ze choices made by ze caretakers in zat awful excuse for a children's home."
Tom’s lips twitched into a smirk despite his efforts to keep his expression neutral. Maybe it was her open disdain for his personal hell. Maybe it was because she’d saved him from that same prison for reasons he didn’t yet understand. Maybe it was the effortless way her posture and grace demanded respect. He couldn’t say for certain, but he knew one thing:
Lucienne Malfoy was not a witch to be underestimated.
Whether or not he could trust her, on the other hand, Tom had yet to decide. Perhaps Dove would be able to offer him some insight on that matter? He vaguely recalled her mentioning the presence of some extended family of Draco’s being present at Malfoy Manor while she was away for Christmas. He couldn’t be certain of Madame Malfoy’s exact age given her Veela-heritage, but he knew it extended her lifespan a few decades beyond the limitations of the average witch.
Time would tell, he supposed.
Madame Malfoy sipped her wine again as she resumed inspecting the papers floating around her. Tom bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from inquiring. It seemed impossibly rude for him to ask given the discrepancy in their rank, never mind the situation at hand.
Poor orphan boys from miserably under-funded London orphanages did have the freedom to inquire about the late-night reading choices of the matriarch of one of the most affluent families in the sacred twenty-eight.
“Mr. Riddle,” began Madame Malfoy, “would you agree zat Abraxas is an intelligent young wizard?”
Tom blinked at the question, but quickly assured her that yes, Abraxas had always made it a challenge for him to get the highest marks in their year since their tenure at Hogwarts began.
“I found it somewhat… difficile to comply with ze behavioral demands of my husband’s station as it regards my son’s upbringing. Ze British would rather have trophies zan children, I think… but I found a way to encourage my son’s curiosity while still teaching him ze laws of ze society he would grow into. In private, he may ask me anything. If a question is out of bounds, I would explain why or otherwise guide him to ze answers he needed. Of course, in public, such 'impertinence' simply must not be, but I wanted my son to know he could ask me anything in ze world without fear of retribution… If he cannot trust his parents, how could I possibly expect him to learn to trust others?”
Her gaze met Tom’s again for a pointed moment and she raised a pale brow. “I extend ze same rules to you, Tom Riddle, as a young man under ze care of my family.”
For the first time in years, Tom performed legilimency without meaning to. The words You may ask all but jumped from her mind to his own, though he was glad that he only startled internally. Did she know he possessed the skill somehow? Abraxas and Flynn didn’t even know Tom could perform legilimency without casting the spell. Perhaps she was simply easier to read than most.
He could only hope that if she was someone with louder than average thoughts that she also tended to keep them under good regulation. Briefly, and wholly unwelcome, the image of Albert Maxwell lying still against a heating unit with his neck bent at an unnatural angle came to Tom’s mind. He blinked the image away before clearing his throat softly.
“If it isn’t rude of me to do so,” he began with care, “may I ask what you’re reading, Madame Malfoy?”
“Your file from ze orphanage,” was her simple reply, but it sent a chill down Tom’s spine.
“I wasn’t aware my file was so well kept,” Tom murmured, eyeing the thick stack of folders in her lap.
“Less so since you started at Hogwarts,” she told him. “Most of ze noteworthy incidents are, I presume, magical outbursts. Z’ough your file was much more lovingly kept when you were younger. I’m glad you had at least one caretaker worth her salt in zat wretched place.”
Tom felt himself frown. “I believe they gave you the wrong documentation. I was never close with any of the staff.”
Her eyes landed on him again, this time in astonishment. “You cannot remember her at all? Evangeline Ó Broin? She was going to adopt you, at one point, mon chou .”
What? “Madame Malfoy… I have no idea who you’re talking about,” he said. Tom could remember everyone of significance during his life at Wool’s but the name Evangeline drew a firm blank. A firm blank…and caused a fissure of discomfort that stirred tension in his stomach.
“Do you have many gaps in your memory of your life there?” Madame Malfoy asked.
Tom shrugged, shifting his gaze to the fire. “There’s much of that place I’d willingly forget if I could. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve forgotten some things without realizing it.”
He’d forgotten about Maxwell’s reign of terror until Dove started confusing him thoroughly enough to stir up the unwanted memories, after all.
“We’ll see about unblocking some of your younger memories another day,” said Madame Malfoy. “Perhaps for now it will be wiser to focus on your future.”
Tension prickled over Tom’s shoulders. “I’ll be seventeen this year,” he said carefully. “I intend to get a job after finishing school. My marks are excellent, it shouldn’t be difficult. As long as I’m able to provide for myself, I can avoid having to stay at Wool’s until I turn eighteen.”
Madame Malfoy nodded, shuffling around more papers as she continued to gloss over them. “I am not surprised zat you’ve planned your escape as carefully as you’re able to… However, I will not be allowing them to return you to zat facility even if you decide to further your education after Hogwarts instead of working immediately.”
Tom struggled to keep his confusion from showing. “Madame Malfoy–”
“Ze formalities,” she interrupted smoothly, “like pertinent silence, are not required in private, Tom. You may call me Lucienne when we’re alone or only in my son’s company. Madame will suffice in my husband’s company if his presence makes you worry about decorum, z’ough with how rarely he addresses me by anything zat is not a pet name, he has no room to speak on what I allow you to call me.”
Tom swallowed back his refusal, trying to appease her wishes. He hadn’t earned the informality yet. She outranked him. It felt wrong to speak so familiarly to someone who’d plucked him from Wool’s with vicious efficiency. He owed her, though he hated the truth of the fact. The least she could do was let him show his respect in his address.
But she called him Tom. She didn’t insist on Thomas, though he could tell by her eyes that the commonness of his given name felt as cheap to her as it had felt to him since he was eleven. There was more respect in Thomas , a touch more elegance, perhaps, but it wasn’t his name. Tom Riddle wasn’t really his name either, to be fair. It was his father’s. Nothing about his name had ever been his own.
But she’d accepted his request without contention. He owed her a thousand times more than this one uncomfortable concession.
“Miss Lucienne,” he began again. She shot him an amused glance, her eyes darting down for a second before she blinked, and when she opened them she was looking at his files again–A nonverbal acquiescence, “unless I’m fortunate enough to gain an uncommonly late sponsorship offer in the next two years, I’ll have to work while applying for apprenticeships.”
“Would you?” she inquired casually. “My husband’s name gives me more sway zan I deserve in British wizarding society, so a respectable apprenticeship would hardly be difficult to secure. But without legal guardianship over you, I have no means to prevent ze school from sending you back to ze orphanage next year. Ze muggles will not consider you an adult until you’re eighteen, you’ll be required to return.”
Tom fidgeted uncomfortably. “I wasn’t planning on following that particular order,” he said carefully.
She smiled against the rim of her wine glass. “I didn’t think you were, but if people with social standing happened to notice, zey could still meddle in your affairs…”
He instantly thought of Dumbledore and ground his teeth. Tiresome old man. But then he wondered how Lucienne knew Dumbledore was a problem.
“You know, Tom,” she began with ease, “I pride myself on raising my son in such a way zat he would never hesitate to come to me with his troubles. Abraxas knows he can ask me anyt’ing in ze world and zat I will listen. If he needs my help, I will give it. If he needs my comfort, he knows I will never turn him away to face obstacles beyond his years without my support. So I find myself rather surprised zat a troubled young man, ze brightest boy in their year, has inspired enough loyalty from my son zat he would keep secrets from me.”
Tom felt some of the blood drain from his face.
“It was oddly heartwarming, you see,” she continued, “I imagine I would have been faced with zis sort of t’ing in ze past if I had ze fortune of having more children. Siblings, of course, will often keep one another’s secrets from zeir parents. It’s a rite of sorts. And it led me to wonder…if Abraxas cares enough about you to keep some of your secrets, but divulge others out of concern for your wellbeing… and my own opinion on your living situation is already unwavering…zen all zat remains on thee subject is your input.”
“Forgive me. I don’t follow,” he said.
“I was only able to take you away yesterday because I told z’ose women I was going to adopt you and made them give me the paperwork to do so,” she said. “I cannot in good conscience continue without giving you the choice, however. You’re far too old to be belittled in such a way.”
Tom was stunned into a numb silence, but he needed to say something. Anything. “You just met me,” was all he could manage and he winced as the words left him. “I mean to say…I’m confused you would be inclined to do something so significant so soon.”
“You’re an intelligent young man of excellent magical ability and sense,” she said. "I trust my son's assessment of your character and myself to verify zat assessment over the next few days before I'm required to return the papers. I'm also grateful zat my situation in life gives me the ability to provide for another magical child, which would allow you to focus on your studies after Hogwarts. With your potential, it would be a travesty to make you juggle both out of necessity rather than by desire. I think there is much to be gained on all sides by making an alliance of this kind.”
Tom could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Even if he didn’t stand to gain so much from consenting to the idea, he couldn’t say no. Simply being legally tied to the Malfoy name was worth it, but something about the situation made him uneasy.
Luck is fickle, miracles are fake, and favors are never free.
He swallowed. “And what would accepting such a generous offer cost me?”
“Trust,” she answered with a slight frown. “And a small portion of your free time, mostly. I made a list of my requests, in case the idea made you nervous. Would you like to look it over?”
“If I may.”
One of her floating sheets of paper drifted towards him as Tom choked down his discomfort and straightened his spine. Before he could start reading, she spoke again.
“You have not eaten a proper meal today from what Abraxas told me. Are you hungry?”
A strong knee-jerk reflex to lie and hide the hollow ache in his torso almost won out. With his straining self preservation thwarted by little more than the building pressure of weakness behind his eyes, the need for sustenance won out. “I believe so, ma’am.”
“You are uncertain?” she asked.
His lips pressed together for a moment. “I’m nauseous. I know better than to eat too much when I haven’t eaten recently.”
A shadow passed over her eyes that the steadily dancing flames in the hearth were not responsible for. “How often was the orphanage low on food for you all?”
Tom shrugged, unable to muster the energy or will to open that can of worms.
Lucienne rose from her seat with the same effortless grace and elegance he assumed to be ingrained into her being. The papers flew themselves into a large envelope beside the wine bottle as she set the other folders on the floor. With a brittle smile, Madame Malfoy gestured behind him to the doors. “Let us walk to the kitchen together. I think I could use a snack to help me sleep easier.”
He followed beside her as she led them deeper into the house, determined to keep his facades from crumbling at least long enough to get a better idea of whatever terms she’d set out.
It didn’t matter what she wanted from him, loathe as he was to acknowledge the fact, he couldn’t afford to refuse.
Lucienne sent him to bed just before three in the morning with the gentle order to set aside their discussions until a more reasonable hour of the day. He was still recovering from the exertion and stress of the day prior, and the former mediwitch insisted on him prioritizing his wellbeing.
A house elf brought him back to the room he now knew to be his own. Not an assigned guest room, no, but an apartment styled and furnished with his preferences in mind, with a nearly mirrored layout to Abraxas’s rooms down the hall. A massive bedroom, a spacious en suite bathroom that he didn’t have to share with anyone, a walk-in closet he couldn’t fill since he barely owned any clothes, and an antechamber that could become whatever he liked were now all his domain. As they’d shared a cheese and meat tray, toast, and chamomile tea, she explained her decision to hold off on finishing the antechamber design because she wasn’t certain if he’d prefer to make it his own private library, a slightly less book-filled study, or some other such space to enjoy some of his free time.
He could decide on what to do with the room whenever he wished. Assuming, of course, that he ever figured out anything to do with all the space he suddenly had to himself.
After making use of his pristine bathroom to get ready for bed, Tom summoned his journal and a quill, and climbed into the unfamiliar comfort of such a luxurious bed. Dove had written while he was talking to Madame Malfoy, and he felt the need to check on her before attempting to sleep again.
It’s okay, I’m glad you’re alright! I hope whatever was going on that kept you so distracted wasn’t too tiresome. Whenever you want to talk about it is fine.
Tom settled into his pillows and rubbed at his burning eyes while he tried to figure out where to start. He knew she'd begrudgingly accept his refusal if he denied discussing the matter, but he was desperate for a few moments of normalcy. Hermione's curiosity and righteous spirit were dependable constants, and he wasn't waiting until October when they'd both be back at Hogwarts again to tell her in person.
It was very tiresome at first, Dove, but it didn't stay that way.
He told her as much as he could remember as clearly as succinctly as possible, skimming over the train ride and the walk to Wool's in a few short sentences. He was so focused on his own precision and phrasing that he forgot to check the back of the diary before he started, and he was caught off guard when blue ink began to appear under his explanation.
So you're with the Malfoys already? Good! I was hoping something would happen to let you go to them sooner. Miss Luci is very kind. She cares about you a great deal, or she will anyway.
Tom blinked in surprise. You met her at Christmas then?
She dragged you into the festivities with the rest of us for an hour or so and demanded you introduce us “at last”. She teased you a lot and was very nice to me. Said she'd heard far too much about me to not be overjoyed to finally meet me properly. You griped at her about maintaining the timeline. She stared at you and told you to go annoy your brother until you felt better. Ten minutes later, someone had pushed Brax into one of the garden fountains. You refused to admit guilt, naturally.
Tom felt a smile tug at his lips. If I said I didn't do it, I'm certain of my own innocence.
Tom Riddle, goodie two shoes. How could I forget? I'll be sure to defend you against such awful slander next time.
Thank you, Dove.
That was one question answered, he supposed.
I like her, Hermione continued. You hide it pretty well, but she seems important to you.
He made a mental note of that helpful information and thanked her again. She's caught me off guard, he said. She's offering to adopt me, to keep me out of the orphanage. Cherie was hoping the Malfoys or Averys would be interested in magically adopting me over the summer, but I expected to have my work cut out for me to ensure those alliances took place. I didn't think Madame Malfoy would just– he struggled to find the words.
Guardian angel you out of the orphanage unexpectedly? Hermione offered.
Tom snorted. She did fit the image of an angel by muggle standards didn't she? And it was an ironic coincidence that full-blooded Veela had wings, even if their magical descendants didn’t.
I don't like the idea of telling anyone else about you , he wrote instead. She knows Abraxas is keeping an important secret of mine, but I don't want to damage the timeline.
Risking his own interests in a gamble for the prestige and power of a permanent alliance with the Malfoys was one thing, but risking Dove was an entirely different story. He'd taken too much care trying to keep her off of Dumbledore's radar, never mind whatever measures he was taking in the future to keep her safe from the meddlesome old man. But anyone outside of Tom's direct control was a risk he hesitated to take.
He trusted Lucienne Malfoy in the future, but was that enough incentive to trust her with the full truth now ?
I got the sense she’ll know before we finish school, Hermione wrote, the words penned with care. I don’t know exactly when she finds out, so I can’t really confirm or deny events in that regard. Maybe you should talk to Brax? I know she’s his mum but that also means he knows her a lot better than you do. Maybe he can help you get a feel for if you should tell her yet or not?
Tom’s head bobbed absently as he read. She was probably right. I have no idea where his room is, just that we’re both in the west wing, but maybe I’ll have time to talk to him before I get called away to my first of these daily tea meetings she wants me to consent to.
Tea with Luci Malfoy is apparently a rite of passage. Or a private joke of some sorts. There were many references made at Christmas but I didn’t really understand.
She wants me to take tea with her everyday, at her discretion, though I’m allowed to ask to skip if I want to do something else with that time. She claims it's to give us a chance to get to know each other better and so I have time to discuss anything that may bother me as I adjust to the house. I don’t really see the importance of it, but she claims it’s a tradition she upheld with Abraxas until he was school-aged, and still does sometimes during the summer. Though it’s less of a daily ritual for them than it is something Abraxas will seek out if he feels the need, I suppose.
That doesn’t sound too bad. It might be nice, especially if you do explain the whole timeline mess to her. And maybe she can help.
Maybe. He wasn’t counting on her aid in that regard, but he did need to get his footholds in pureblood society established in order to maintain what he knew of the future already. And if Lucienne Malfoy was going to offer herself as an available resource in that regard, Tom wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.