In the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, the fire in the fireplace had been burning for a long time.
Lucius Malfoy stood before the fireplace, one hand resting on the edge of the marble mantel, his fingers lightly tapping the stone without conscious thought. Firelight cast his shadow onto the wall behind him, stretching and shrinking with the flickering flames like a faceless figure hesitating over whether to step out of a painting.
He wore a deep emerald velvet robe, its collar pinned with the Malfoy Family's silver serpent crest. His platinum-blond hair was impeccably groomed, but a stray lock had fallen at his temple, and he had not smoothed it back. That was unlike him.
Old Nott sat in an armchair beside the fireplace, his body sunk into the soft cushions. His hands were folded over his knees, and his posture appeared utterly relaxed. Yet his gray eyes remained fixed on the flames, their flickering reflection dancing in his pupils without lending them any warmth. Instead, they resembled two pieces of quartz that had been scorched too many times to yield any heat.
His robe was dark gray, without a family crest or unnecessary ornamentation. Even its buttons were the plainest sort of round black buttons. Throughout the entire pure-blood circle, no one had ever seen the head of the Nott family wear clothing bearing his house crest on a formal occasion.
Some said he disdained it. Some said he had no need for it. Others said—his family crest was carved into his bones; there was no need to embroider it on his clothes for others to see.
Greengrass stood by the window with his back to the fireplace, facing the neatly trimmed garden beyond, washed in moonlight. His hands were clasped behind his back. He appeared more composed