k’ that other Death Eaters see is aplex spell that Lucius casts upon his arm to give the appearance that he is Marked. It fades after a few months or so.”

“But it will not sit well with my soul, Severus, if I hand a Death Eater a pass out of Azkaban.”

“Give him an ultimatum then.” Snape suggested. “I think you’ll find that, given the choice, Lucius would choose his son over the Dark Lord.”

“How can you be sure Severus?”

“You didn’t see Lucius after Draco was born. Lucius had followed the Dark Lord because Lucius, like all his kind, needed an auctor. It wasn’t a perfect situation, as Lord Voldemort is not a Veriae, but Lucius resigned himself to it. Then when Draco was born—”

“Lucius became the auctor.”

“Exactly. His blood will not allow him to leave his son without an auctor.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Have Draco write to him then, and I will see what I can do about having another hearing for him.”

Snape nodded, the “bastard” mask firmly back in place, and the Potions master left Dumbledore’s office, black robes flaring behind him.

Fawkes seemed to look at Dumbledore questioningly. The Headmaster sighed. “Yes, Fawkes, I know I would have worked to free Lucius even if he would have stayed a Death Eater.” He looked at the bird. “You can sense auras, can’t you feel it? I am almost certain who Draco’s mate will be.”

Fawkes let out a keening sound, the same collection of notes that he used whenever Dumbledore talked to the bird about the “Gryffindor Golden Boy”, and Dumbledore nodded.

“Yes, Fawkes. Harry Potter.”

Nestled safely in the Gryffindor dormitory, Harry Potter tossed and turned in his bed, clenched in the jaws of a nightmare.

Blood. There was blood everywhere. Blood that he had helped to spill. Yes, all of it must have been his fault. Sirius, his mother, his father, countless others that had been killed during the summer raids that the Death Eaters had launched while he was tucked away in Privet Drive. He had only found out about these when he arrived back at school, and now, three weeks later, it still haunted him.

Darkness seemed to surround him, but this was a different darkness. Not the darkness of hatred that was filled with blood…this was almost aforting darkness, a darkness that felt like…feathers? Silken feathers. Wings.

Two arms encircled him as the black wings seemed to cradle his body. “Do not despair Harry,” a voice whispered, “Do not despair.”

And Harry slept peacefully.

“Yo, Malfoy!”

Disdainful eyes shifted from where they had been contemplating the wall of the cell to the wizard that stood at the barred door to this, this cage.

“You got a letter.” Then the guard muttered under his breath, “Though why anyone would be sending a letter at this hour is beyond me.”

The guard was shaken out of his reverie as the letter was snatched out of his hand and the cell’s inhabitant retreated back into the cell. Muttering inaudibly about manners of prisoners and idiots who sent letters at five in the morning, the guard went on his way back to his post where he had been shaken from his stupor by an eagle only a few minutes before.

Lucius looked at the letter briefly before ripping it open. Draco had written it. His eyes seemed to race down the letter, an emotion that was never seen by the world apparent in his eyes. As he read it Lucius smiled. Draco knew. His pride, his son, was now just beginning to grasp the truth of the road that he himself had walked. Lucius felt a small pang of regret that he would not be able to help his son be ustomed to this life…until he read the last paragraph. The elder Malfoy smiled in the shadows, and for once he allowed his emotions through. Beautiful, wings that glistened in the moon-light streaming into the cell from the barred window, erupted from his back and fluttered as if they were happy that their owner was happy. The soft rustle of feathers filled the cell as the wings stretched, their wingtips touching the ceiling. Lucius looked at his wings thoughtfully. Someday his Draco’s wings would be this size, twice the length of a grown man and powerful enough to support his son in flight, and in battle if necessary. Out of curiosity Lucius rolled up the sleeve of his robe and looked at the pale flesh of his upper arm. No blemish, not even a smudge of the Dark Mark to be seen.

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