Narcissa stepped lightly down the marble steps of Prince Manor's grand atrium, her fingertips trailing along the cool banister as the hem of her pale silver robes whispered across the polished stone. Each footfall echoed softly in the vast space, where towering columns stretched toward a vaulted ceiling painted with constellations that seemed to shift and dance in the afternoon light.
Lucius Malfoy walked beside her with measured steps, his ebony cane angled just so against the marble, the serpent-headed handle catching the light as the faintest smirk played upon his thin lips. His platinum hair was pulled back in its customary style, not a strand out of place despite the long journey across the Atlantic.
Behind them, a cluster of familiar faces fanned out like shadows across the gleaming floor — Theodore Nott with his sharp, calculating eyes, the Carrow twins moving in their usual synchronized manner, Antonin Dolohov's scarred visage surveying the opulent surroundings, and Avery trailing slightly behind, his nervous energy barely contained.
They looked almost out of place in this gleaming Californian hall, where golden sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows and the air carried the sweet scent of sea salt and blooming jasmine instead of the familiar damp London fog and coal smoke they were accustomed to. Yet their posture carried the unmistakable confidence of men who thought themselves the architects of Britain's magical future, their dark robes a stark contrast against the warm, light-filled space.
They were here because she had made sure of it, each careful word and calculated suggestion leading to this moment.
Lucius had hesitated when she first broached the subject weeks ago, his brow furrowing as he looked up from the Daily Prophet spread across his mahogany desk. "Crossing the ocean for a graduation party?" he had scoffed, setting down his crystal tumbler of firewhisky with a sharp clink. "A waste of time and resources. We have far more pressing matters awaiting us in London — the Ministry connections to cultivate, the old families to court."
But Narcissa had tilted her head just so, letting her voice soften to that particular tone that had served her well in navigating the treacherous waters of pureblood politics. "It is not merely about celebration, Lucius," she had murmured, moving to perch on the arm of his leather chair, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "It is about visibility, about being seen in the right circles. The Princes and the Shafiqs are building something significant outside Britain's borders — new alliances, fresh opportunities. If we are absent from such gatherings, our absence will be noted and interpreted as weakness or disinterest. But if we are present, if we make the right impressions, it will be remembered when future opportunities arise."
She had watched his eyes narrow, calculation warring with disdain as he weighed her words. The seed had been planted carefully, deliberately. Within days, she pressed the advantage again, drawing skillfully on the pride that ran through his veins like pure blood. "Imagine the message it sends when you walk through those doors — the Malfoy name carried triumphantly across the ocean, announced in halls where it has never been spoken. The others will whisper of it for months, whether they dare admit their envy or not."
And so here they were, a carefully selected contingent of junior Death Eaters who had been instructed to observe every detail, to memorize the important names and faces, and — by Lord Voldemort's explicit order — to vanish discreetly into the night before the clock struck ten. The mission was reconnaissance, not confrontation.
Narcissa smoothed a strand of her platinum hair behind one ear with practiced elegance, her expression maintaining the serene mask of nobility as they crossed the threshold into the opulent hall. Already, she could feel curious eyes turning their way, conversations pausing mid-sentence. Yes. This had been precisely the right move.
The Zabinis' arrival had stirred its own ripple through the gathered assembly. Isadora walked a careful step behind her uncle Lorenzo and Matteo Ricci, her midnight blue robes rustling softly against the marble floor, her expression perfectly poised despite the calculating thoughts racing beneath the surface. She let her gaze travel across the hall without seeming to — a skill perfected through years of observation — taking stock of alliances and tensions in the way others might admire drapery or architectural details.
The Greengrasses clustered near the eastern wall, speaking in hushed tones with the Davies family, their body language suggesting delicate negotiations. The Finnigans laughed too loudly near the wine table, their boisterous energy marking them as either supremely confident or desperately overcompensating. The Patils stood together with quiet dignity, their elegant bearing already drawing admiring glances and whispered commentary from those nearby. Every placement was a move on an invisible chessboard, every move a carefully calculated statement of power, allegiance, or intent.
And then her eyes found him.
Severus Shafiq stood near the grand staircase, his profile illuminated by the golden light cascading from the crystal chandelier above. Dark robes cut clean, precise lines against his lean frame, his posture deliberate and controlled, his expression utterly unreadable — a mask she recognized as both protection and weapon. He was not the awkward boy she remembered glimpsing in passing during that summer in Salzburg, nor the exhausted, bloodied duelist she had watched secretly from the shadows in her grandfather's moonlit garden. He was sharper now, refined and honed like a blade fresh from the forge, as though he had chosen to let the world see only what he carefully allowed them to perceive.
She moved to step forward, but Lorenzo's hand brushed her arm with deliberate firmness, his fingers guiding her away from her intended path toward a pair of European delegates who stood waiting expectantly for introductions. Their formal attire and diplomatic bearing marked them as important contacts she couldn't afford to ignore.
"Patience," Lorenzo murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible above the ambient conversation that filled the room.
Isadora inclined her head gracefully, the motion appearing as natural acquiescence to any observer, though it perfectly concealed the sharp flicker of irritation that sparked within her chest like a struck match. She drew upon years of training, turning to face the delegates with seamless composure. Her smile bloomed with practiced ease, warm and diplomatic, as she extended her hand in greeting and allowed herself to be drawn into their circle of conversation. All the while, despite the polite exchanges and carefully modulated responses that flowed from her lips, her eyes betrayed her true focus—sliding back, again and again, toward the distant figure she had come here to see, the one who remained frustratingly out of reach.
It was Narcissa Black who intercepted her first.
The blonde witch approached with the smooth elegance of someone born to command a room, her silver-blue robes shimmering faintly under the enchanted chandeliers that cast dancing light across the ballroom. Every step was calculated, every movement deliberate. Her expression was pleasant, her smile perfectly measured — not too warm to suggest genuine friendship, not too cold to appear rude.
"Lady Zabini," Narcissa said, her voice like cool silk drawn across marble. "Your family's arrival always improves the atmosphere of a gathering."
Isadora mirrored the smile with practiced ease, her own posture straightening imperceptibly. "And the Blacks' presence always ensures people pay attention."
They regarded each other for a heartbeat — two predators recognizing their own kind. Both women stood poised, composed, perfectly civil in the way that only those raised in the highest echelons of wizarding society could manage. Yet beneath the veneer of civility ran currents sharper than the finest Toledo blades, each word chosen as carefully as a duelist selects their stance.
"You wear confidence well," Narcissa observed lightly, her pale eyes taking in every detail of Isadora's appearance with the thoroughness of an appraiser evaluating precious gems. "Though I imagine it must take considerable practice, handling so much attention at events like this."
Isadora tilted her head, dark eyes glinting with amusement that held no warmth. "Practice makes one perfect, Lady Black. Though some of us are fortunate enough to be born with the natural advantage of poise."
Their laughter was soft, melodic — the kind that turned heads and drew admiring glances from across the room. But neither woman meant a note of it, and both knew the other was perfectly aware of the fact.
Narcissa let her gaze rest on the younger witch before her, taking in the elegant line of her posture and the calculated way she held herself. She remembered Isadora from past functions — those tedious Ministry galas and pureblood gatherings where appearances mattered more than substance. Clever, yes, but young. A girl still in training under her grandfather's watchful eye, learning the intricate dance of political maneuvering that their kind had perfected over generations. At the time, she had thought her competent, but nothing exceptional. Another well-bred witch playing her expected role.
Now, in this hall, with its glittering chandeliers casting shifting shadows across the assembled crowd, she reconsidered.
Isadora's eyes were not simply observing the evening's proceedings; they were dissecting, cataloguing every gesture, every conversation, every alliance being forged or tested in hushed tones. Her attention moved with the precision of a predator, missing nothing of importance. And most telling of all — they lingered, just slightly, on Severus Shafiq.
The pause was brief, barely perceptible to anyone not trained in the subtle art of reading such tells, but Narcissa caught it. She had been watching for such moments all evening.
Narcissa felt the spark of amusement curve her lips. So. That was it.
She herself had come here with curiosity, intrigued by Severus's reputation, his sharp ascent through circles that should have remained closed to him, his unexpected defiance of every role she had predicted for him based on his family's modest standing. But if Isadora Zabini was watching him too, if those calculating dark eyes were tracking his movements with such careful interest? That made things far more interesting indeed.
"Do you know him well?" Narcissa asked, her voice casual, almost idle, as if the question had just occurred to her rather than being the very reason she had approached the younger witch.
Isadora's answering smile gave nothing away, smooth as silk and twice as revealing in its very opacity. "One does not have to know a person well to recognize… potential."
Narcissa inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the deflection for what it was — a masterful sidestep that revealed everything while saying nothing. She respected the skill, the way Isadora had turned the probe back without seeming to do so. The girl had sharper claws than she had credited her with, and perhaps a more dangerous mind than her youth would suggest.
Their conversation circled like a dance, each testing, each offering little, both aware that more was happening beneath their words than either would acknowledge aloud. The subtle art of diplomatic sparring played out in carefully measured phrases and meaningful pauses, until both women, almost simultaneously, shifted their gaze across the opulent ballroom.
Severus was moving.
He had disentangled himself from a cluster of ICW delegates near the marble pillars, their animated discussion of trade regulations apparently forgotten as he set his sights elsewhere. Now he was crossing the hall with that distinctive stride of his—purposeful and unhurried, his black dress robes flowing behind him like shadows. His expression remained perfectly cool, giving nothing away, though Isadora had learned to read the subtle tension in his shoulders that suggested focused intent.
The faintest spark of recognition passed between Isadora and Narcissa as their eyes met again, a moment of shared understanding that transcended their diplomatic facades. Each woman possessed enough experience in these social battlefields to recognize when the stakes were about to rise.
So. He was coming this way.
Each straightened fractionally, preparing in their own distinct manner. Isadora with the subtle lift of her chin that spoke of noble breeding and quiet defiance, while Narcissa adopted the faint curve of a smile that managed to be both welcoming and mysteriously knowing. The crystal chandeliers cast shifting patterns of light across their faces as other guests continued their conversations, oblivious to the undercurrents suddenly charging the air.
The space between them seemed to thicken with anticipation, unspoken but unmistakable to anyone versed in reading such moments. Whatever Severus Shafiq chose to say when he reached them would not be a simple greeting—it would be the opening move of a far more complicated game, one where allegiances, secrets, and carefully guarded interests would all come into play.
And both women intended to play to win.
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