In the past Salazar was reserved as a male name, but eighteen years ago when the Malfoy’s had decided to conceive again, in secret, they decided such limitations weren’t really important. So Salazar Malfoy was born, with sparkling black eyes and pale lips. She hadn’t cried when she was born, or giggle, or do any of the other baby things that most did. Instead she just stared around the room, coolly, and then drifted off to sleep. Draco had been six when she was bored, and a little sibling was the best thing in the world to him. As they each grew older he taught her all the things he knew, all the curses and tricks and ways to make people cry. He loved her more then he’d ever loved anyone, including Harry, and when shed died it had been the final nail in the coffin. He’d had no more ties to Voldemort or Voldemort’s army besides his parents, and his parents had, well, disappeared in a flash of green light.
If Marcus was bothered at all by the physical abuse he didn’t show it, or maybe he was just too dumb for it too register. He went on in a boasting voice as if he’d somehow resurrected the girl himself. “She figured out that things were going bad before even you did. So she pulled a Pettigrew, faked her own dead, and disappeared into London. But almost right away she started gathering us, the survivors, and began getting us ready.”
Draco turned from him. He was lying, and it was simple as that. Salazar was dead. She had to be dead. Because if she wasn’t dead than Draco’s life had just got more complicated than it ever had been before. Harry, her, Voldemort... love and power, lust and greed, would all have to spar off in his mind until one emotion, one person came up there winner, and Draco wasn’t sure if that was a war he could survive. So he left, leaving Marcus in a swoosh of his cloak and making for the magically sealed entrance to the bar. Flint called after him, mocking laughter in his voice. “If you do join, we’ll leave your little boyfriend alone.” He said. “We learned our lesson last time. As long as he stays out of our way.”
Ice suddenly filled Draco’s veins, and he paused, not long, but just long enough to confirm any doubt in Flint’s mind if he’d been bluffing or guessing about his knowledge of their relationship. The pot had just been stirred more, and not in the Ministry’s favor. Draco tapped his wand on his wrist for a moment, and a glowing number appeared momentarily on the back of his hand. The time. Draco frowned. He had to get to Ollivander’s, to make the story he’d told Harry at least half true. He hated lying to him.