"He will not be able to find Malfoy Manor no matter what," Lucius said arrogantly. In early July, he and Narcissa had already returned from Peru, weary from their journey.
At this moment, they were sitting at the long table in the Malfoy family's dining room, drinking some after-dinner tea.
Lucius had been quietly observing his son for several days. After not seeing him for a whilst, he looked rosy-cheeked and even a few centimetres taller—Bath was a very healthy place; no wonder the old man always loved to spend his summers there.
His son was safe and sound. Far from showing any panic, he remained remarkably calm. For instance, at this moment, when Peter Pettigrew was mentioned, Draco remained composed, displaying the demeanour befitting a true Malfoy.
So Lucius, satisfied, fiddled with his snake-headed cane and led the two Scottish deerhounds for a walk around the manor, and also to check on the hedges that had been enchanted with reinforcement and protection spells to see if they were still secure.
"Draco, tell me, who does he hate the most? You or Harry Potter?" Narcissa looked at her son, a hint of worry in her eyes.
"I do not know," Draco said. "He spent two years in Harry Potter's dormitory and did not hurt him. I do not see any hatred in him."
Draco understood his mother's meaning. If not for a deep-seated hatred, what could have driven Peter Pettigrew to do everything in his power to escape Azkaban and head towards Hogwarts, the place where he had once been captured?
The problem was, Draco did not know what Peter Pettigrew was resentful about. Usually, the rat's emotions were less about hatred and more about deep fear. The Peter Pettigrew he remembered seemed to live in constant fear, rather than busy harbouring resentment towards anyone.
Even if, as Narcissa said, he harboured deep hatred for someone, there was still a question: how did he escape from Azkaban?
So many powerful Dark wizards were imprisoned in Azkaban, and not one of them escaped.
Did they stay in Azkaban willingly? No, it was because they had nowhere to escape. It was a terrible, bitterly cold place, a desolate island in the sea far from any human habitation, a completely isolated existence.
However, Peter Pettigrew, a wizard of mediocre talent, managed to do it.
This was a joke. Draco could not even imagine who else in the world could escape Azkaban so quietly as Peter Pettigrew.
Suddenly, a brilliant idea flashed into his mind.
There was a man, Sirius Black—who had successfully escaped in a past life! Perhaps he knew the way out of Azkaban. This was a potential breakthrough.
His eyes darted to his mother, Narcissa. She seemed no longer concerned with Peter Pettigrew's problem and was calmly and elegantly arranging flowers. She was trying to make the vase of flowers neat and orderly, turning it into a beautiful, flawless oil painting.
Arranging flowers by hand was one way she relieved her anxiety, just as Draco enjoyed brewing tea by hand.
Narcissa keenly sensed her son's gaze, looked up, and asked, "What is wrong, Draco?"
"Mum, I want to go to the old Black house."
Narcissa's expression froze for a moment.
This request was unexpected. She looked up at her son, her tone unusually stern, "These days, this is not a place you can just go anywhere. Give me a reason."
"I would like to visit Sirius Black. He might have some leads on Azkaban that could help us capture Peter Pettigrew," Draco said without hesitation.
Narcissa gave a disapproving smirk. Draco probably understood the unspoken message: Peter Pettigrew was still on the run, and leaving Malfoy Manor at such a sensitive time would be unwise.
"Harry Potter is there too. He has invited me several times already. Besides, the Ministry of Magic has a lot of people around his house, how could Peter Pettigrew dare to go there and try his luck?" Draco tried to persuade his mother.
Narcissa did not look at him again. She picked up a bunch of chamomile and put them in the vase, putting on a nonchalant expression. "A wizard that even Dementors could not stop, what makes you think those incompetent people in the Ministry of Magic could? If they were really useful, how did Peter Pettigrew escape?"
"That is exactly what I am trying to figure out—how did he escape? I think Sirius Black, who has been in Azkaban for so long, must know some secrets," Draco reminded her, choosing his words carefully.
"That makes some sense. I heard that he was still fairly clear-headed when he was released from prison." Narcissa's expression softened slightly.
"Not everyone who goes into Azkaban comes back, are not necessarily insane," Draco continued, adding fuel to the fire.
"That is true." Narcissa seemed intrigued. Even the Dementors' relentless attacks on him for over a decade in a place like Azkaban had not destroyed him; he must have some unique secret.
"Have you not been wanting to go back to the Black family mansion for a whilst now?" Draco chimed in, using his innocent smile and naive expression to deceive his mother. "The last time you went was seven or eight years ago, was it not?"
"That is right, that was before your great-aunt Walburga passed away." Narcissa chuckled, picking up a thornless yellow rose with her well-maintained hand and sniffing it. "She was not an easy person to get along with. If she knew that her most hated son had inherited the Black family mansion, she would probably jump out of her portrait and start cursing."
Draco shrugged.
"It seems that burning the tapestry did not work."
"Being expelled from the family is just a formality; it does not deprive him of his inheritance rights," Narcissa said, frowning.
Draco understood his mother's complex feelings.
The Black family's inheritance rules did not treat female offspring equally. They had always passed the inheritance to male heirs before female heirs, unless all male heirs had died, in which case the inheritance could begin with the eldest daughter.
After the death of Arcturus Black, Narcissa's paternal grandfather, Cygnus Black, Narcissa's father, briefly served as the heir to the Black family's property (including the vault and real estate).
However, Narcissa's father passed away just a year later. Narcissa only inherited a portion of her father Cygnus's private property and had absolutely no connection to the vast Black family business.
Although it was still a large sum of Galleons, it was still far less than the wealth of the Black family.
In short, the Black family's wealth ended up in the hands of the only male member of the Black family—Sirius Black.
Her mother occasionally grumbled about it. If the wealth could be passed down to a daughter, it would fall to Bellatrix, but given her position in Azkaban—the actual control of the wealth would likely fall to Narcissa, just as she had been keeping the keys to the Lestrange vault for Bellatrix.
"I wonder if he is settling in well at the old Black house... Does the portrait of Great-Aunt Walburga curse him every day..." Draco wisely changed the subject, determined not to let Narcissa think about the wealth that was not going to fall into her lap.
A slight ripple appeared between Narcissa's brows.
"All right, I will take you there." She finally made up her mind.
After her son left, Narcissa picked up a pair of floral shears and ruthlessly trimmed the wildly growing flowers and leaves, no matter how lush they were.
She focused intently on her floral arrangements, scrutinising them with a critical eye, not allowing anything that might detract from the overall aesthetic to emerge even slightly.
Her works must be perfect and full of order, just like her life.
As for those things that grew imperfectly, those rebels who broke away from order, they were destined to be abandoned by their families.
For example, the pure-blood traitor Sirius—she had not seen him get a severe scolding from his mother in years.
She would not mind taking another look.
"Oh, I am indeed very curious about the recent situation of dear Sirius." Narcissa left happily, carrying the exquisite vase of flowers. Without any mercy, she stepped over the innocent flowers and supplies she had abandoned on the ground, a mysterious and dignified smile appearing on her lips.
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