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Title: Malfoy's Worst Memory (#3370)
Author: SpaceWeavil
Chapters: 6

Archive: Harry Potter
Category: Alternate Universe
Description: When Draco's grandfather dies at the beginning of his third year, he is sent home for the funeral and for a week's compassionate holiday. Things at home, however, prove stranger than events at Hogwarts for a while, when a mysterious old muggle turns up to cause trouble, and some old family secrets are unearthed. Now complete. Written prior to the release of Deathly Hallows.
Published: 20 Mar 2007
Updated: 06 Apr 2007
Warnings: Mild language, some violence
Type: Angst
Characters: Draco; Lucius; Arthur Weasley


Chapter 1 - Part one - Chapter One

Author's Note - This story takes place in the first term of Draco's third year, so therefore towards the beginning of 'Prisoner of Azkaban', and is based on the book-version of events rather than the film (in terms of when exactly Draco takes his time off). I've placed it in Alternate Universe as the whole thing started as a 'what-if' idea, and so although there's nothing in canon to say this didn't happen, it may be stretching canon a little to believe it did. That odd sentence should make more sense as the story progresses.



Malfoy’s Worst Memory

Part One: Draco

1.

Goyle continued to stare at the overcast sky long even though no one cared any more whether that dark shape had been a wisp of cloud or a Dementor prowling around the Astronomy Tower. Draco thumped him on the arm and scowled at him when he jumped in fright.

‘Are you listening?’

‘Course,’ Goyle replied. He gave the darkening skies one last wary glance and turned around properly to look at the newspaper cutting that the rest of the little group of Slytherins were hunched over. The wind whipped around the quadrangle, sounding like a chant at a quidditch match, and brought a spatter of icy rain with it. Draco, holding his wand in his bandaged arm, pinned the cutting down with a rock so it wouldn’t join the ring of paper scraps dancing around above the grass in the middle of the quadrangle. When it continued to flap in the wind, he let out a deep and irritated sigh.

‘Hold it down, will you?’ he snapped. Both Crabbe and Goyle leaned in and pressed down the corners with their fingertips.

‘You’re not going to get us, are you?’ asked Crabbe.

‘Shut up and hold it flat.’

Draco smirked a little at the thought of bewitching Crabbe’s fingers as an encore to this performance. The end of September brought with it a slight lull in the amount of distractions at Hogwarts, so anything that might get a laugh was good. Dementors still swooped about the towers occasionally but had caused no real alarm since the incident on the Hogwarts Express, and he hadn’t had a proper opportunity to tease Potter about Sirius Black for a while. Despite his father’s efforts, Hagrid was still sitting at the staff table and all that seemed to have come of Draco’s ‘injury’ was that their Care of Magical Creatures lessons became the most boring on the timetable, not to mention the most pungent at times. It all meant that they would need to prod a few people if there was to be any fun at all.

He waved his wand over the photograph and watched as the picture changed from a gaggle of red-headed Weasleys standing by a pyramid to a gaggle of red-headed Weasleys standing beneath a flashing neon sign (which glowed green and orange even though the photograph itself was black and white) reading ‘WINNERS – WORLD’S STINKIEST WIZARD CONTEST’. He wasn’t entirely keen on the wording, but it was the best they’d come up with that morning at breakfast and it probably would get the desired effect. He sniggered at it with Crabbe and Goyle and then tried to work out how to make copies, or how to make it expand to the size of a poster so he could hang it in the Great Hall.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Honestly, the way Weasley’s been flashing this thing about, it’s pathetic. You’d think he’s the only one who’d ever gone on holiday. My father and I went to Egypt when I was six, and he said we might go back there again, but I think I’ll ask to go somewhere else. They’re obviously lowering the standards. Used to be the hotels there wouldn’t allow Wizards to stay unless they knew how to behave in that sort of place. I bet Weasley and his mob went to dinner in woolly jumpers and baggy trousers!’

The crowd laughed appreciatively.

‘Is your dad back yet?’ asked Goyle.

‘Not yet. He and mother decided to stay on for another couple of weeks. Mother wrote and asked if that would be all right. She’s still worried that something would happen to me and she wouldn’t be here, especially with Black on the loose, but Father and I convinced her to go. She’s going to get me a sword from this blacksmith in Sweden, who uses magic iron and carves runes into the blade so that nothing can ever attack you. I think the sword actually flies up and kills people for you or something. Anyway, I’d read about it somewhere and she’s promised she’ll look. I told her she had to stay an extra week if she hadn’t found it yet and that convinced her. Here, put that away just now, we’ll pass it round in Potions.’

‘Did you get any more pictures?’ Crabbe chimed in.

‘Not since the one of the lake monster,’ Draco replied. ‘I expect they’ve been too busy travelling, or else they’ve been stuck with our cousin and haven’t had the chance to send anything.’

In fact, nothing had arrived in over a week and Draco secretly wondered if his parents had forgotten or found something more interesting to do than think of him, stuck at Hogwarts while they visited one of the best Wizards in the family, but he never mentioned it. As far as everyone else was concerned, the trip was something to keep Lucius and Narcissa occupied until their little darling came home. If they didn’t write soon, though, he would send an owl just to ask if everything as all right, and would politely ask why they’d neglected him lately.

The drizzle finally swelled into a full shower of rain and the Slytherins headed inside, not that the cloisters proved any less damp and cold than outdoors and that particular section seethed with students, especially first years, sheltering from the rain. Draco looked out over the black cloaks, a sea of folded umbrellas wandering around, and then shoved his way through.

‘Were we that short?’ asked Goyle. ‘They are short this year, aren’t they? They’re like babies.’

‘Mister Malfoy?’ The voice cut across the cloister and brought the chatter down to a whisper. At the far end, Professor McGonagall loomed over the tiny first years and beckoned Draco to her. Draco sighed.

‘I’ll get you in Defence Against the Dark Arts,’ he muttered to the others, then charged off, warning the other students to get out of his way a few seconds after he’d already pushed them.

‘Just a quick word in my office,’ said McGonagall when Draco finally made it to her side. ‘I’ve told Professor Lupin not to expect you in class on time, so don’t worry.’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ Draco replied, not that he worried what Lupin expected. He only wished he had a photograph of the Professor in his tatty robes, so he could pin it next to the one of the Weasley’s under the heading ‘WORLD’S STINKIEST WIZARD – RUNNER UP.’

‘How’s the arm?’ McGonagall asked as they headed upstairs, not sounding particularly interested, but after the throng of students down by the courtyard, the corridors inside seemed deathly silent, so Draco decided she was trying to fill it.

‘A little better,’ he said. ‘But it still hurts a lot, especially when I move it.’

‘Well, hopefully it’ll get better before your next quidditch match. It would be a pity if you had to miss it.’

‘Yes, I’d hate that.’

Thankfully they reached the office and so the need for smalltalk vanished. McGonagall closed the door before she went over to her desk and sat down. ‘Now, you are not in trouble, Mr Malfoy.’ She almost seemed grudging as she said it, which irked Draco no end. As if he ever caused trouble! ‘Take a seat. I’m afraid to say I’ve had a letter from your father.’

‘Oh,’ said Draco. ‘Is it about what happened in class?’

‘No,’ the Professor replied, and added under her breath, ‘for once. No, it would seem he’s had to cut his holiday short and return to England. I’m afraid it’s your grandfather, Mr Malfoy. According to your father, he passed away the day before yesterday.'

Draco sagged a little, remembering the hunched, wrinkled old man, high crown streaked with wisps of white hair, jabbing at the floor with his stick and calling everyone a ‘Muggle bastard’ if they disagreed with him. He still laughed at the story Grandfather Abraxas told him, how during the Muggles’ war, he and his friends used to send spells towards the houses, anything noisy or that produced a good flash, then they would throw hexes as the Muggles scurried out to bury themselves in their underground shelters.

‘I’m very sorry,’ said McGonagall. ‘Your father’s asked that you be given some time off, and obviously we have no objection. We can have any homework forwarded to you by owl.’

Draco nodded. It surprised him just how strange he felt, not quite sad and not quite angry but somewhere in between. Somehow he couldn’t imagine a summer without a visit to the Cottage, waiting to see if Grandfather would make his mother cry again (which, in the last few years, seemed to have become Abraxas’ favourite sport). Then as he wandered down to the common room to pack some things, it suddenly hit him.

Surely that meant one less birthday and Christmas present?


2.

The Cottage lay about a mile from the larger Malfoy house, on the other side of the village of Avebury, and unlike the mansion, the spells keeping Muggles from noticing the place had waned over the last decade. That much was evident from the piles of leaflets, rolled up plastic bags meant for donations to Muggle charity shops and free local newspapers rotting on the front step and in the bushes that lined the garden path. The house itself was a low brick and timber building with a thick thatched roof, in which several pigeons and owls roosted, and it had once been covered in trailing ivy and briar roses, though only a few yellow, stringy vines remained, making the wall look as though someone had splattered it with spaghetti. Only the garage, off to the left of the main house, seemed in reasonably good condition, since its door had a new coat of paint and the brickwork wore a little less moss and lichen than the rest.

Draco’s father led the way through the ruins of the garden, shooed off some mangy cats gathered for a drink around the slimy ornamental pool with a quick spell that popped above their heads like a firecracker, then he lifted a gargoyle on the doorstep to fetch the key from underneath. Draco glanced about the garden, trying to remember what it looked and smelled like in the bright summer sun, when he used to race around on the lawn, riding a stick like a broom in the days before he was allowed to fly properly. He even spotted one of his old toys moulding in the earth beneath a dead rhododendron bush.

There came a loud screech from the roof above them and something flew down and flapped around Lucius’ head. Draco darted back and watched his father beat at the ragged eagle owl that was trying to claw his face, until finally the bird dropped to the path and hopped off into the bushes. Lucius glowered and shot of a trail of curses into the bush, singing most of the branches, but the owl crawled out on the other side, unscathed, or at least no more scathed than it had been already. Draco laughed then quickly bethought himself when he caught the look in his father’s eyes, but he gave the old owl a nod as they went inside all the same. Grandfather always used to laugh when Lucius wandered in, scratched and dishevelled, and would say the owl was an excellent guardian and perfect judge of character. Good thing his mother had stayed at their cousin’s in Sweden, thought Draco, and he remembered the day she had stayed by the gate and refused to take another step until something was done about the bird, which had watched her warily from the eaves. Somewhere up there, there had to be a nest full of Narcissa’s jewels and hair ornaments, snatched over the years.

Inside, the Cottage still smelled like Grandfather, a mixture of the faintly floral tobacco he often smoked and that odd scent like furniture polish that always lingered around his armchair. The entrance hall, which was long and narrow, leading off towards the back of the house with the staircase straight ahead and open doorways on either side, lay beneath a thick shroud of dust, only scuffed where the owl had hopped around. A wad of Muggle letters lay behind the door, all of which seemed to be advertising Muggle products or offering tiny samples of things, as far as Draco could see. He wondered why the owl didn’t attack the Muggle postmen but knew better than to ask his father. The owl was still near the top of the ‘banned topics of conversation’ list.

‘What are we looking for?’ he asked instead.

‘Just a few things,’ answered Lucius. ‘Wait there and don’t touch anything.’

He disappeared into the living room. Draco glanced in through the door and saw Grandfather’s old chair still by the fire, surrounded by piles of books. A pair of black velvet slippers sat on the rug in front of it as if, in some invisible form, Abraxas was still there, watching them.

The silence grew as thick as the dust on the furniture and Draco paced around the hall, wondering whether to have a quick look upstairs, since Grandfather was no longer around to tell him off if he went near the upper rooms. He knew his father lived there when he was at Hogwarts and always wanted to see the old room, but he got one foot on the stairs before his father called out from the living room and warned him off going up.

‘You know what your grandfather was like,’ Lucius shouted through, ‘it’ll take an age to remove all the curses and I’m in no mood to take you to St Mungo’s to have the extra head removed.’

Draco recoiled from the stairs at once and shivered. Abraxas had books on every sort of magic from every civilisation in the world and told endless stories about the ancient wizards and the disgusting things they found to do to one another. Much though he loved the tales, Draco didn’t fancy starring in a modern retelling. In the end he returned to the front door, which they had left ajar and a chilly draught blew through into the hall, ruffling the piles of newspaper stacked alongside the staircase. Abraxas had copies of the Daily Prophet going back decades, all yellowed and tied together with string. They caught Draco’s eye every so often when one of the photographs moved, but looked so filthy and dust-ridden that he decided not to touch them.

He wandered back outside into the garden and traced his way around the Cottage to the large bushes and trees he used to make dens inside, though most of them were threadbare now. Grandfather had let the place decay so much. As he grew older, he seemed to have another health scare every month, but refused to have a house elf in the place. Draco had never found out the specifics of that, but knew it had something to do with Dobby going to the big house with Lucius. Perhaps Grandfather decided all house elves were traitors the same way he decided that everyone with a differing opinion had to have some hidden Muggle blood in them somewhere, tainting their judgement.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Draco peered through the lead-paned windows and tried to see what his father was doing that would take so long. Much though he loved the Cottage as a child, the smell of rotting vegetation and owl droppings started to make his stomach churn. As he turned, however, he gasped in fright. Down by the gate, an elderly man stood watching the Cottage, cloudy blue eyes trained on the place as though he was trying to enchant it. He wore a grey wool coat buttoned up to his chin and his face seemed to have melted over the collar of it, deep wrinkles running like ravines down his cheeks. On his head was a green flat cap, under which a few tufts of pure white hair stuck out. Muggle clothes, though Draco.

‘This is private property,’ Draco shouted. The old man turned his head slowly and regarded him with a curious look, shifting his false teeth about in his mouth as if trying to fathom exactly what sort of creature had just addressed him.

‘Didn’t you hear me?’ Draco challenged him again, striding forward a few paces. ‘Get lost!’

‘Who would you be then?’ asked the old man. He didn’t shout, but managed to carry his voice over the wind without much effort.

‘None of your business. Clear off!’

The old man nodded towards the house. ‘That your da’ gone in there, then?’

‘What’s it to you? Get off our land or I’ll…’

‘Or you’ll what?’ laughed the old Muggle. ‘I know your sort, laddie. T’ain’t nothing you can do without your ending up behind bars. And I’m an old man, I don’t care if you bewitch me.’

‘Who are you? What do you know about ‘our sort’?’ asked Draco, narrowing his eyes.

‘Heard the old feller’d snuffed it,’ the Muggle went on, sniffing the air. ‘You and your da’ be living ‘ere now?’

‘No.’

‘Suppose not,’ said the Muggle. ‘Suppose you’ve got the big place. Still, nowt wrong with this Cottage, I reckon. Bit of paint, bit of work ‘ere and there, could be nice. Expect your sort could ‘ave it shining again in no time if you wanted to.’

‘Go away,’ Draco shouted. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, all right?’

‘What’s your name then, son? Not Lucius, after your da’?’

Draco threw him a sour look and advanced a few more paces. The idea of a Muggle knowing even the barest details of his family’s life, let alone having the audacity to speak about it made his skin crawl. ‘I’m warning you, if you don’t clear off, I’ll get my father, and he’s not afraid of the Ministry.’

The old Muggle smiled and nodded. ‘No. Reckon he ain’t. You just tell your da’ I said hello.’

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ said Draco, but he relaxed a little as the old man finally sauntered off down the road towards the village. An icy lump formed in Draco’s stomach and he looked again to the Cottage, hoping his father would emerge that instant and take him home. When Lucius finally did appear, with a black suitcase in his hand, Draco practically ran to him and shooed him down the path, but Lucius paused and took great care in locking the door, checked around for the owl and only then started off down the path.

‘What was all the noise about?’ he asked.

‘Just some old Muggle,’ said Draco. ‘Asking about things, watching the place.’

Lucius shook his head. ‘If he hadn’t been so damned stubborn, he could’ve had a house elf looking after things like that. But I suppose we’d better renew the protection spells. If one of them found out he’s dead, the others might come up scavenging. Muggles would steal anything if it isn’t chained down.’

‘This one knew your name,’ Draco told him. ‘He kept saying things as if he knew about Wizards and magic.’

Lucius frowned for a second then seemed to remember something and nodded. ‘I expect that’s the old fool from the garage in the village.’ When Draco looked blankly back at him, Lucius sighed and walked down to the garage beside the house. He opened the door with a twitch of his wand and cast a Lumos charm to light their way inside. The garage held only one object, hidden beneath a grey dustsheet. Lucius gave a nod and Draco lifted the sheet off, and the light from Lucius’ wand suddenly gleamed back at them, reflected in the paintwork of a Rolls Royce Silver Wraith in perfect condition.

‘My father,’ Lucius began, ‘that is your Grandfather, never spent a knut unless it was absolutely necessary in every aspect of his life but one. This. He believed that driving around in one of these set him above even the best Wizarding families. I mean, it originally belonged to my uncle, only I think his wife objected to it or something of that nature and he gave it to your grandfather – he would never have bought it himself, given the expense, but he spent a fortune taking care of it.’ He ran his hand along the bonnet with a delicate, almost reverent touch. ‘I was never allowed near it unless he was there with me. He used to have the seats wiped down after anyone had been in it.’

‘But it’s a Muggle car,’ said Draco.

‘Not quite. He had a few adjustments made, spells to make sure the Muggles never saw it or couldn’t steal it if he ever had to park somewhere, a few other extras. Luckily he had some friends at the Ministry who sorted out the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts department and stopped them sniffing round, though I’m sure Weasley tried to have it impounded a few times.’

Draco snorted. ‘What will you do with it?’

Lucius’ expression hardened slightly and he went back outside. ‘I have no idea. Get rid of it, unless you want it.’

Draco’s eyes widened as he gave the car one last look before following his father out. Somehow the idea of it annoying Weasley, especially given the trouble that family got into last year over their flying car, made it even more appealing.

‘I expect the old Muggle,’ Lucius told him, ‘was the one who helped service the car. Finding a Wizard with the necessary expertise was somewhat difficult, and I think they had some trouble with the obliviate charms eventually dissolving their brains or something of that sort, so your grandfather decided to take on one who could be kept under control instead. I don’t think he liked the idea, but he liked the car more.’

‘I don’t think I’d want Muggles touching it,’ said Draco. ‘Surely a house elf could learn?’

‘Oh, they probably could, but house elves are something of a prickly subject with your grandfather. Or rather they were. We’ll deal with the Muggle later. First let’s get these spells back in place to stop him coming up here again.’

They locked up the garage and Draco sat on the garden wall to watch his father re-enchant the place. He suddenly wondered if his father was sad at all and just hiding it very well or if it didn’t matter to him that Abraxas was dead. Then Draco wondered if it mattered to him. The odd feeling left on the journey home but he worried a little that he should be sad, since after all, a member of one of the greatest wizarding families had just died.

Then, as he watched Lucius fight off the owl once more, Draco happened to glance down the road that sloped off through the trees towards the village. The old Muggle was still there, only a few yards down, leaning against a silver birch and watching them, or rather watching Lucius.

When he realised Draco had seen him, he simply smiled, touched the peak of his cap, and carried on staring as if he had every right in the world. Ministry or not, Draco thought, they would need something more than a memory charm for that old creature.


Chapter 2 - Part one - Chapter Two

1.

After the funeral, Draco joined the other friends and relatives in the front room of his house and smiled whenever someone offered him condolences. A few elderly uncles (who were probably more along the lines of great great great uncles) shook his hand and told him he would be best to remember the good times with his grandfather or bemoaned the frailty of life or capriciousness of fate. Some muttered about how unexpected Abraxas’ death had been, which surprised Draco since he could barely recall a time when his grandfather hadn’t complained of being ill, and some shook their heads and warned that ‘Dragon pox is a nasty one that can come at you any time!’ Increasingly, Draco understood why his mother had decided not to come home. If he had the choice of visiting the dark, haunted places of Scandinavia or being a room where the average age was about ninety, and only because he brought it down a little, he knew what he would do.

He kept an eye on his father throughout and mimicked Lucius’ stance and reaction to the well wishers. A few people told him he was the image of his father and he smiled at that. All around him, glasses chinked, the smell of alcohol and butterbeer snaked around, growing stronger with every passing hour, and the murmur of voices lay like a thick fog over the room.

‘I never understood,’ remarked one of the cousins, who lived in the South of France for the most part, ‘why the old man never came up here to live. Has to be better than the old Cottage. I mean, this is the ancestral home!’

‘Money, old thing,’ replied a great great uncle from Shrewsbury. ‘Abraxas’ purse had tighter spells on it than Gringotts when it came to spending. Honestly, the silly old fossil preferred to live in that old hovel than pay to keep this place in order, since there was only the boy. Said it was a waste of energy and money to keep up repairs and such like when no one was actually living in the rooms. Still, the boy’s done a marvellous job on the place.’

‘Funny old fish, Abraxas, but still he took pride on the family name, and that’s what matters I suppose. Never would see the Malfoy line disgraced. Oh, I know he went a bit odd towards the end and had muggles overrunning the place but…’ The cousin lowered his voice suddenly, though Draco moved in subtly to keep on listening. ‘…That’s down to the others, really, wouldn’t you say? I mean, if it’s obvious the old boy’s losing his marbles, you’d think the son would at least’ve sent a house elf up there to take care of things, but by all accounts, they brought the family elf up here.’

Draco gritted his teeth and wanted to tell them how many times his father offered to get another elf for the cottage and how many things Abraxas threw at him for suggesting it, but he glanced over and saw his father watching him and switched on his smile again.

‘Abraxas always did say there was something wrong with the boy,’ said the great great uncle, thumbing the rim of his sherry glass. ‘Never heard the ins and outs of it, but apparently there was some trouble with him. Spot of bother with Hogwarts or something. You wouldn’t know to look at him, though, would you, way he’s lording about now? But yes, I heard old Abraxas had an awful time trying to keep the boy in line, keep him out of one scandal or another. Surprising that the Blacks let him marry one of those girls, but then again the name does carry such weight, I suppose it might not matter so much what’s physically attached to that name.’

‘Strange there’s only the one,’ muttered the cousin. ‘Didn’t Abraxas ever want more children?’

‘Well, there was the matter with the wife,’ said the uncle, raising his bushy eyebrows almost to the brim of his conical hat. ‘Ran off, by all accounts.’

‘I heard she died when the boy was young.’

‘So Abraxas said, and so the official story went,’ said the uncle. ‘But strictly between you and I, I heard she went off to Europe somewhere with a fellow from the Ministry, someone from Abraxas’ own department, so they said. ‘Course, if you believe the rumours, she was at it from the very beginning, off with anything wearing trousers beneath the robes, if you get my meaning. One thing about Abraxas though, he knew how to contain a scandal. Good sort in that respect.’ The older man suddenly grinned and turned. ‘Lucius, dear little boy, how sorry I was to hear of your loss. You must be devastated…’

Draco wandered off while his father’s attention was elsewhere. He could only bear the smell of a room full of old wizards for so long and started to hope fervently that he would never end up as ancient and musty as they were. He had thought there might be some more famous wizards present, people whose names he could drop into conversations around Hogwarts’ dining tables for the next few months, but so far they all looked the same, dressed in black robes that they seemed to be shrinking into. It struck him too how pathetic they were, all distant branches of he family jealous of the power and fortune Lucius had. He then sat on the stairs and wondered if his grandfather might have left any more money. It made sense to think so. He knew his father had taken control of the family fortune some time after he was married, but Abraxas still might have had something squirreled away. There would be no opportunity to ask Lucius about it though, so Draco sauntered up to his room and closed the door.

He was debating whether his father would object to him playing some records, when he happened to glance out the window. His room overlooked the front drive and the wending path that went down to the main road. Darkness had not yet fallen completely, leaving everything bathed in an ultramarine glow, and so Draco could see right down to the gates and the road beyond. There, between the gate posts, was a solitary figure, standing with his hands in the pockets of a long, shapeless coat. Draco recognised the shape of the hat the figure wore and hurried downstairs to find his father.

A large group of relatives made their way out of the living room as Draco came downstairs into the hall, so he stayed on the staircase and watched them file into the dining room, until at last his father appeared, herding them like a sheepdog from behind.

‘Father!’ Draco whispered. Lucius glared at him and ushered the relatives, but Draco came down to the hall and touched his father’s sleeve. ‘Father, I need to talk to you.’

‘Not now,’ said Lucius in a low growl. ‘Go in and sit down and let us hope this meal is over swiftly, shall we?’

‘But Father, that old Muggle’s back again.’

‘Nonsense. They can’t get in here.’

‘He’s not in here,’ said Draco, ‘but he’s out by the gate, just watching like he was before. I thought I’d better tell you in case any of them saw him hanging about.’

Lucius nodded and looked murderous. ‘All right.’ He snatched his robes from a stand in the hall and threw them on over his black suit. ‘Go in there and tell them I shall be along presently. See that they get more to drink in the meantime. Honestly, Draco, if you’d told me this five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have sent them in!’

‘It’s not my fault,’ Draco muttered once his father was suitably distant. He listened to the front door slam as Lucius went out, then drifted towards the dining room with no real desire to go in. The older wizards were laughing as if this was an Ancient Runes Society fundraiser rather than a funeral meal, and most were still exchanging bits of gossip about Abraxas and his late wife. Draco listened from the door for a moment and wished his father would come back and catch them at it, just to see them cower. They could gossip all they wanted. At the end of the day they were the fringes of the family. Draco strode in and took his place at the end of the table with his head held up proudly, knowing he was what really mattered to the Malfoy family.

After about thirty-five minutes (according to the antique grandfather clock in the corner of the dining room), Draco gave another acidic smile and offered to see if his father needed any help. He slipped out before anyone could object, glad to escape the barrage of questions about how he was doing at Hogwarts; ‘wasn’t he in the same year as the Potter child?’ He revelled in the attention until that subject came up, and tried telling them that Potter was nothing, all reputation and no substance, not that they listened. Again, he thought, that was because they were nothing themselves, just spectators in the seats so far from the action they barely even knew what they were looking at.

Night had fallen fully by the time he got outside and the owls sighed loudly to one another across the brisk wind. Draco wandered a little down the drive, peering into the skeletal trees for any sign of his father. An avenue of iron lamps stretched off towards the gate and left puddles of orange light on the path, but did nothing to drive away the deep shadows in the grounds, and the constant shifting of the trees and bushes in the wind made it seem as if the place was full of people darting to and fro in the dark. Draco could see the gate, but the old Muggle was no longer there and Lucius had vanished. He listened, sure he could hear a vague murmur of voices somewhere in the distance, but had no idea which direction it might be coming from. In the cold air, sounds seemed to crack across the skies like thunder.

Pulling up his collar against the cold, Draco headed down the drive and made for the gate. He would make sure that Muggle had gone while he was out, and drew his wand just in case. It was not that the snapping twigs and owl hoots in the trees around him scared him, or that the shadows seethed around him as if they had just spotted some fresh meat. He just wanted to be able to defend himself if the Muggle tried anything, or so he told himself a few times as he approached the gate. The carved serpents on each post stared out onto the country road that ran along the bottom of the grounds, each with a lantern nestled in their coils. As Draco came closer, he made out a shadow underneath the left-hand post, something heaped on the ground. Whatever it was, it didn’t move, and so he steeled himself, tightened his grip on his wand and strode out onto the road. His heart thudded. The thing on the road had arms and legs. His brain slowly registered that it was a body, and that another figure knelt beside it, head lowered. In the feeble glimmer from the gate-light, it took him another moment to recognise his father, and when Lucius finally looked up, the lantern cast deep shadows over his face, giving him a grave and mournful air. He had his hands on the body on the road, around its throat.

‘Father?’ Draco whispered. He meant to speak louder but somehow his voice dwindled away to nothing and he had to cough to clear his throat. ‘What’s happened?’

Lucius sat back a little and Draco could finally see the body clearly. The old Muggle’s tongue lolled out of his mouth and his eyes seemed black in the half-light as he stared blankly into the trees. Draco had never been so close to anything dead before. Somehow the Muggle seemed larger, more solid than he should be, like a bag of sand lying there on the road. Draco’s insides tightened and shivers crackled up and down his spine.

‘Father?’ he asked again.

Lucius only then looked directly at him, as if until that moment he had been unaware of his son’s presence and the voice had startled him out a trance. He took a deep breath and stood up, backing quickly away from the body.

‘Are they all still inside?’ he asked.

Draco nodded. ‘Father, what happened? Did he attack you?’

‘I’ll need to get rid of him,’ Lucius muttered, more to himself than to Draco, but then he looked up. ‘Go back inside. I thought I told you to keep them all amused till I got back?’

‘You don’t need any help?’

‘Why would I need help? Simple Reducto charm, the body’s gone, the Ministry won’t notice anything suspicious. Nothing to be concerned about. Now go inside and just have dinner served. Say I’ve been called away or something and I’ll be back shortly.’

Draco stared at his father for a moment, wanting to ask him why he would bother to kill the Muggle in such a, well, a Muggle-like way so badly that he felt the question shoving against his lips, but he fought it and nodded, then slowly walked back up to the house. He threw one last look over his shoulder as he heard a crack come from the gate and figured that the Muggle’s corpse no longer existed, and again the shadows danced around the path, while moths fluttered, bone-white, against the glass of the lamps. He had no idea why he was so frightened or why everything, even the path in front of him and the trees around it seemed wrong, but he knew better than to disobey his father and so returned to the dining room.

2.

Draco spent most of the night staring at the cornice around his room’s ceiling, keeping his quilt pulled up right to his chin. During his few snatches of sleep, he dreamed of the old Cottage, of great black crows pecking at the withering lawn, pulling the eyes out of old toys half-buried in the leaf mulch. He dreamed he went upstairs, wooden floorboards creaking with every step he took and of finding a hallway full of doors, all of which were locked except for one, which led him into a bedroom with dark floral wallpaper and a musty smell, like old curtains. He saw something in the bed, a shape as if there was a body lying there, and ventured over, but as soon as he came close, the thing sat up. He saw the body, grey and wrinkled, dusted with wiry white hair on its chest and chin. The old Muggle clacked his teeth and stared at him so hard he could feel the look cut right through his flesh and into his spine. It was then that he woke up each time, and looked around his room for a long while until everything seemed familiar again.

His father had finally come home that night and dropped in on the funeral meal just long enough to apologise for his absence and silence the disgruntled mutters from the other relatives. Draco had waited, tapping the banister, as Lucius ushered them all out, or waited for them to disappear into the floo network, but as soon as the last great uncle left, Lucius swept off into his study and closed the door. Draco did not see him again that evening and said his goodnights through the locked door.

He watched the dawn creep up from behind the trees, a weak blue at first, then bright white as the sun arose, and listened to the birds in the grounds calling shrilly to one another, gossiping as fervently as the old relatives had. A loud scratching sound downstairs announced the arrival of the post. Draco crawled out of bed and wandered down to the hall, feeling as though someone had stretched his eyeballs, but all that remained of the owl by then was a soft, cupped feather drifting slowly to the floor. Draco paused a moment and listened for his father, though the house seemed abnormally quiet that morning, then collected up the pile of letters and parcels. The day’s copy of the Daily Prophet lay on top, with a note wrapped around it reading ‘By Subscription’, no doubt so that the owl would not expect payment. Draco wondered for a moment how the owls kept track of everything, but was too tired to give the matter much thought. He had a thick letter from Hogwarts, sent by Professor McGonagall, which contained several notes detailing the homework given that week, and the rest of the letters were addressed to his father, including one in his mother’s handwriting. He tucked the homework letter in his dressing gown pocket and went to the study.

The door was still locked, so he knocked and listened but heard nothing stirring within. He tried calling, but no one answered, so he left the letters on the occasional table outside in the hall and went back to his room to get dressed and decide how to spend his last few days of freedom from school.

Oddly, the house was just as still by the time he had washed and dressed, even though he sloped around without ever hurrying himself. He found the letters on the table where he had left them and the study door was still closed. He checked the living room and kitchens, but found no sign of Lucius anywhere, and so decided in the end that something pressing must have taken his father into London or somewhere. Perhaps he had gone to the Ministry to see about Hagrid, find out why the oaf was still teaching.

For want of any better plan, Draco put on his outdoor coat and left the house, closing the door as quietly as possible just on the off chance that Lucius was still asleep, though he had never known his father to stay in bed excessively. In daylight, the driveway cut through the trees and shrubs like a shaved strip across a head of dark hair, and though it had lost its shadows the eerie sounds, louder than they ought to be thanks to the chill, remained. Branches cracked and whispered all around him, rodents rustled amongst the leaves and unseen crows cawed loudly as if in protest at his being there. Even his footsteps crunched with frightening clarity, and he felt strangely small and uneasy as he wandered to the gates, as if, somewhere at the back of his mind, he knew he shouldn’t be there.

One of the lamps beneath the rearing stone serpents was still lit, its flame guttering until he doused it with a flick of his wand. Usually it would know to go off as soon as the dawn broke, but perhaps the thick mist swathing the road had confused it somehow. For a while, though, Draco stared at the empty patch on the tarmac where the old Muggle had been, until he imagined he could see the outline drawn in the dirt and fallen leaves. A light frost had fallen and everything sparkled, as if to mark out this place as special somehow. Perhaps that was why the light failed to go out, Draco thought, but could not think how the death of one old Muggle would be worthy of such note.

Although he could barely see more than a yard ahead of him, Draco followed the road towards the village. He tried using his wand to light his way through the fog for a while, but found it only illuminated the white curtain surrounding him, reinforcing it rather than slicing a way through. The trees appeared as if by magic through the whiteness and the carpet of beech nuts and twigs crunched beneath his boots. The sound pounded in his ears like a heartbeat, seeming to fill the place. All the while as he the cold gripped his throat and lungs and tried to squeeze the life out of him, his breath froze like the Hogwarts ghosts.

A shape appeared through the fog all of a sudden and he gasped, rigid with fright for a second. The hunched, grey figure rose from the grass and seemed to gaze solemnly towards its feet, silent and unmoving. Draco stared at it, his pulse as loud in his ears as his footsteps had been, until he slowly realised what it was and let out a deep sigh. As he ventured closer and the mist darted out of the way like a fairy that had found something better to do, he saw that it was only one of the dozens of stones that ringed the village, ancient things whose purpose even the Wizarding world had long forgotten. A little farther on he saw the first cottages of the village, shadows painted onto the fog, and he quickened his pace, glad to get into the heart of the place and away from the solitude of the road.

Though the village had its share of Muggles, many of the houses on its outskirts belonged to wizards, and a few even lived within the boundaries of the old stone circles. There was one shop in particular, a post office and grocers that looked no different than any of the other buildings and was completely unremarkable so far as the Muggles would ever see, was run by a halfblood wizard and his squib son, and sold magical provisions from a back room behind the counter. Draco went inside and found a few of the neighbourhood wizards already in there, and immediately felt better. The shop had a Muggle device, something called an ‘electric heater’ in one corner that oozed warmth and exuded a bright orange glow to battle the air of cold everyone brought in with them, and the smell of cinnamon, coffee and old paper wafted all around. Draco made his way to the counter, ignoring the other wizards, even those obviously queuing to be served, and smiled at the shopkeeper.

‘What can I do for you today, young Malfoy?’ he asked. He always spoke as if he was half asleep, with a slur on his words and one eye closed.

‘Three chocolate frogs and whatever cakes you have fresh made,’ Draco ordered after much deliberation. The shopkeeper withdrew to his secret room and sounds of rummaging drifted out to fill his place.

‘Heard your old granddad passed away,’ he called out from behind the coloured strips of plastic covering the doorway. ‘Sad to hear that.’

‘Yes, it was sad,’ Draco answered, thinking if the old man would shut up and look for the stuff, he could serve twice as many people in the same time.

‘Saw your father last night,’ the shopkeeper went on. ‘Seemed in an awful rush.’

Draco frowned. ‘What my father does is his own business,’ he answered, but stomach suddenly felt like the water in a boiling kettle. Why would his father have gone into the village that night? If all it took to get rid of the Muggle was a simple charm to destroy the physical remains, why go all the way down to Avebury?

‘Funny time to be about, though,’ remarked the shopkeeper. He finally returned with Draco’s food in a paper bag. ‘Wondered if there was something up?’

‘No,’ Draco snapped, fully aware that he was being pumped for information.

‘Nothing to do with the bother up at the old garage then?’

‘What bother?’

The shopkeeper shrugged and stared at the wall as if he could see through it and picture the garage, even though it lay on the other side of the village, nearer the old Cottage. ‘Been a couple of lads from the Ministry up there for the past hour. Something to do with those Muggle cars being bewitched. Yon fellow Weasley was in earlier, getting breakfast for him and his pal and asking directions.’

Draco felt suddenly colder than even the autumn chill would cause. ‘Did you say you’d seen my father?’

‘No,’ replied the shopkeeper. ‘No reason I should, is there?’

‘No,’ Draco muttered. He took his things and left the shop.

He stood outside for a while, leaning on the bright red post box attached to the shop wall, and let his chocolate frog slip out of its packet and hop off into the mist. He didn’t really notice it had gone and threw the packet away as well, then set his jaw into a stern frown and headed along the road that would take him across the village to the garage.

Something was wrong and he would find out what it was.


Chapter 3 - Part one - Chapter Three

1.

The garage consisted of an L-shaped, single storey building with grey concrete walls and corrugated iron on the roof. On the shorter section of the L, on the inside where the two parts met at a right angle, a wide, rectangular archway opened out onto an uneven yard and as Draco approached along the narrow village road, he could see two cars inside, crouched like dogs in kennels. Lumps of equipment, all tubes and pipes and looking like chunks of dismembered viscera lay scattered around them and another pile of rusted metal sat heaped in one corner of the yard beside a pyramid of old tyres. The longer part of the L had square windows with stickers on the glass and faded advertisements posed at an angle on the ledge inside. The narrow door on that part of the garage lay ajar, with yet more adverts on the small window at the top, all for brands Draco had never heard of and didn’t care about.

At first he had no idea why there would be any fuss about the place. Everything looked just as it had the few times he’d been past the garage on his way to the Cottage. The dark damp stains had crept a little further up from the tufts of grass and nettles growing at the foot of the walls, and the iron roof had bowed and distorted in places, particularly over the longer part of the building, but otherwise it was still desolate and dirty, smelling of petrol and hot metal. It had such a solid, earthy, thoughtless feel about it that it could only have been a Muggle place. All machines and no magic.

Then the sound of voices drew his attention to one of the many oak trees that grew in the fields behind the garage and along the side of the road. Stuck in the junction of the trees boughs was another car, its metal body crushed until it had as many ripples as the iron on the garage roof. Its windows were a spiderweb of broken glass and its wheels had twisted inwards as if desperately needed the lavatory.

Draco then looked about and saw four others, all in the same state of ruin. One lay upturned in a field, exposing its filthy grey chassis. Another, bent in on itself in a tight V shape, was wedged between another oak tree and the dry stone wall that ran alongside the road. Bits of car, their steel entrails, littered the road and the stubbly wheat in the fields.

Arthur Weasley stood in the field looking at the car that had landed on its roof. Draco saw him stoop over to peer at something near the car’s wheel and recognised him by his receding red hair even before he turned and looked in Draco’s direction. Draco felt eye contact being made and grimaced as he did so. He thought about walking away or even ducking behind one of the trees, but then decided to hold his ground. This was his territory after all, and he had no reason to feel guilty. If someone had used magic on these things, then he knew nothing about it. Just because his father knew the owner of garage, and in fact had throttled him to death just that night, and had been seen wandering in the village afterwards, did not mean Lucius was involved. Draco frowned a little as he thought this and even his inner voice faltered towards the end and gave it up for a futile argument.

Weasley had seen him anyway and was now ambling across the field, hands in pockets and a thoughtful expression on his face. Draco set his shoulders back and gave him the haughtiest stare he could muster, refusing to budge and meet him at the wall or even on that side of the road. If Weasley wanted to talk, he could come over there.

‘Morning,’ Weasley called over. He was being civil, with only a twinge of dislike on the edge of his voice, therefore this was official, thought Draco. ‘Someone’s been having fun, by the looks of it.’

Draco said nothing. He stared blankly as Weasley clambered over the wall, knocking a few stones loose, then waded through the nettles and Queen Anne’s Lace on the other side of it.

‘You live near here,’ he went on. Again Draco said nothing. Weasley already knew they lived nearby. All he really wanted to ask was ‘Did you or your father, whom I can’t stand because he is better than I am and still welcomed into the bosom of wizard society, do this?’

‘See anything or hear anything odd last night?’

‘I was at my grandfather’s funeral yesterday,’ Draco told him.

Weasley looked suitably uneasy, obviously debating whether to fake some sympathy or not, thought Draco.

‘Oh,’ said Weasley. ‘Right, yes. Only someone decided to try levitating cars and throwing them at things last night.’

‘So why are you here?’ Draco asked him.

Weasley paused. ‘The Ministry need to look into it.’

‘I can see that but why are you here? You’re Misuse of Muggle Artefacts, aren’t you? Enchanting Muggle things to work abnormally, that sort of thing? Throwing them around can’t count, surely? Even Muggles could do that if they had the strength or some sort of machine.’

‘Using magic to throw them into a tree pretty much falls under the category of ‘misuse’,’ said Weasley. ‘Don’t think the Muggles designed them to be thrown into trees. Is your father at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Just we will have to have a word.’

‘My father has better things to do than throw cars around,’ said Draco.

‘That’s as maybe,’ Weasley replied, ‘but he’s still a wizard and he lives fairly near to all this. Perhaps it was one of your guests, had a bit too much to drink at the dinner last night.’

‘We don’t tend to invite that sort of person to our home,’ Draco told him. ‘We leave that kind of behaviour to wizards who don’t really care how they look to others.’

Weasley smiled, a sort of smile that said ‘You might well kill me but I’ll be reincarnated as a dragon and then you’d better watch the skies’. ‘Everything has to be checked,’ he said finally. ‘And if your father does know nothing about this, then he’s nothing to worry about, has he?’

Draco gave him the same smile back. ‘Of course he doesn’t need to worry. That’s one of the advantages of being well thought of. No matter how hard people try to discredit you or hurt you, there’ll always be people you can call on to help.’

Two other wizards, both in pin-striped robes, emerged from the back of the garage, shaking their heads and pointing to things around the yard as they chatted. Weasley waved to them and they veered over to meet him.

‘Right then,’ he said. ‘I think we’ll walk to your house. Lovely village this.’

Draco turned and walked away, heading out of the village entirely rather than back home so that he went in the opposite direction to the Ministry men. He made sure he kept his pace unhurried and casual until the road took him over the crest of the hill, when he raced sharply off and climbed over the wall into the wild land at the foot of the wheat fields. He knew a path that way that would take him out past the Red Lion and its rings of standing stones and out to the house without going through the village at all. It would be a longer route, but if he ran he would still make it ahead of Weasley and his cronies. No doubt they would linger on the way and look at the quaint little Muggle telephones or bus stops or something equally dull.

He found the house swathed in the same deep silence that had gripped it all morning, though it was not so much a sleepy quiet then as an apprehensive one, as if the whole mansion had its back arched and hackles up, ready to pounce. Just as he ducked through the gates, he heard Weasley’s voice drifting through the mist from the other end of the road and fathomed that he only had a few seconds to get inside and warn his father about the garage. This time as he looked around for Lucius, he braved going upstairs and trying the door of his father’s bedroom, though found everything undisturbed. The bed, in fact, did not seem to have been slept in at all. While he was there, thinking what to do next, there came a loud knock at the door and he heard Weasley calling, but could not make out what was said.

He rushed back downstairs and returned to the study. He tried the handle several times and still it refused to yield, nor did it respond to the complicated Alohomora charm he had seen Lucius use to unlock it. Perhaps he was doing it wrong, as there were a number of incantations required before the actual charm could take effect, and Draco had never needed to use them all before.

Weasley knocked again. Draco hoped he would get tired and go away, thinking that he was still out in the fields somewhere and Lucius was off on business or something of that sort. He held his breath, trying not to make the slightest sound, but at the same time growled at himself for being frightened in his own house. What could Weasley do, after all? If he caused any trouble, Lucius would deal with it before Weasley could say ‘Wizengamot’, but then Lucius was not there. Standing in the hall, clutching the study door handle, Draco realised that was what made him nervous. If Weasley and his friends were prowling around, his father should be there to deal with it. The old Muggle, the garage…everything was wrong somehow. For the first time since McGonagall told him he would be allowed some time off, Draco wished he could go back to Hogwarts. True, things there rarely ran according to any plan, but at least there were adults there employed to deal with any trouble. If necessary, in theory he could sit back and watch it all happen, safe in his dorm. In the house, in the hall, he felt like the only human being in a forest full of tigers, one of whom had caught his scent.

‘Mr Malfoy,’ shouted Weasley, sounding more insistent, as if his patience was wearing thin. ‘It’s the Ministry. We really do need to have a word, if you could just open the door.’

Draco closed his eyes and tried hard to remember the right order of words to open the study door, then tried again, keeping his voice at a low whisper. The lock mechanisms clicked indignantly and refused to budge. He stooped for a moment and tried to peer through the keyhole, but there was a key in the lock already. Draco sighed. Perhaps if magic wouldn’t work, he could resort to more earthly methods. An idea hit him and he reached over to the occasional table, where the day’s post lay unopened. He took the copy of the Prophet and unrolled it, then peeled off one sheet of paper. Sliding this beneath the door, he poked his wand through the keyhole until the key dropped out and landed on the newspaper. He pulled it out on the paper and then tried it in the lock. If one had a key, after all, perhaps the spell would automatically grant entry.

Whatever charm was on the key, whether it in itself was necessary to defeat the locking spells or whether it reacted to his being a Malfoy, Draco felt the lock give a satisfying crack as it twisted back, then he opened the study door and tiptoed in. Though Weasley hadn’t knocked again or shouted, Draco could still hear him and the Ministry talking in low murmurs outside, deciding what to do he imagined. He paused a moment before going fully into the study and watched the door, half expecting them to break it down, but he only saw their shadows flickering by where the light spilled in in a thin sliver onto the mat.

At first when he went into the study, his heart sank. He saw no one. The bright but cold sunlight poured in through tall, clear windows and bathed the place in a ghostly white glow, there was only steel-grey ash in the fireplace and a faint smell of alcohol lingering on the air. Then, however, he moved in further and could see into the far corner of the room, where a shallow alcove cut back from the main body of the study and housed rows of bookshelves and a leather sofa. He saw his father draped across the sofa, blond hair straggled over his face like a veil and one arm trailing down to the floor where a clutter of empty bottles sat. The stink of alcohol grew more acrid as Draco approached.

‘Father?’ he whispered, still wary of raising his voice. Lucius, however, did not stir and so he crouched down on his haunches, knocking over a few of the empty bottles, and shook his father by the shoulder.

As soon as he touched his father, Draco felt his body tighten from his heart down to the pit of his stomach and he frowned. The overbearing sense that things were not right returned and he shook his father harder, still calling to him in the loudest voice he could use without Weasley hearing. Lucius’ head lolled to the side and landed on Draco’s hand. His cheek felt cold. The tight feeling turned to a shower of ice spraying all over his insides.

‘Father?’ he called again, forgetting to keep quiet. A few tears welled against his eyelashes. Outside, Weasley banged on the door again. Draco realised he must have heard. He tried to wake his father once more, then, shaking as though his bones had turned to water, he hurried to the door. Even as he opened it and let Weasley and the others inside, he had no idea why he had done so, but though he struggled he could think of nothing else to do. He knew he had uttered something, but his voice didn’t belong to him any more. It was just a noise in the background. The only real sound was the rushing sound in his ear, like a waterfall crashing against rocks.

‘I think my father’s dead,’ he said, and that finally seemed to shake his brain back to the real world. Weasley tutted and made hissing sounds through his teeth as one of the others went to Lucius’ side and prodded him.

‘He’s not dead,’ the Ministry man concluded. Draco’s heart ached as if it was exhausted from beating so fast. ‘Not too healthy-looking either, though.’

‘What is it?’ asked Weasley. ‘Drink?’

‘No it is not!’ Draco shouted without thinking. It had only just begun to sink in that he had allowed this man into the house and that was bad enough, without having to listen to insults as well.

‘Best get him to St Mungo’s anyway,’ sighed Weasley. ‘Just to be on the safe side.’

The two Ministry men took on the task of moving Lucius off the sofa. Draco flinched as they touched his father, suddenly worried that Lucius might wake up and realise what he’d done. Then as they managed to raise him up, something dropped from his hand, a vial so small it had stayed hidden within his fist. Weasley picked it up before Draco had a chance to, and sniffed it. He raised an eyebrow and handed it to one of the others, who also smelled the mouth of it and looked deeply suspicious.

‘What is that?’ Draco demanded. ‘Tell me!’

‘Best get on our way,’ said Weasley. ‘No point in wasting any time. Come along, lad, you’ll want to be there when he wakes up, I imagine.’

As they went out, Draco realised Weasley had been diverting his attention. One of the other Ministry men, meanwhile, had skilfully pocketed the vial and stashed it out of sight.


2.

The hospital seemed to have its own sense of time, Draco observed as he sat on an uncomfortable chair and tried to keep his mind from shutting down through sheer lack of stimulus. He kept looking up at a clock on the wall opposite him, the only thing really to look at on that wall, and noticed that only five minutes had passed since he last looked up, yet it had felt like an age. Weasley and friends, meanwhile, stood a few yards down the corridor, just close enough for him to hear most of what they were saying but far enough to pretend they didn’t realise he could hear.

‘Well you know what it smelled like,’ said the man who had taken the vial from Weasley. (Draco heard the others call him ‘Bernard’ on the way to St Mungo’s).

‘The bastard was as drunk as a grindelow,’ whispered the other pin-striped official. ‘Probably didn’t notice what he was taking.’

‘All the same...’

They both looked towards Weasley for a comment, but he gave them a reproachful frown and shook his head.

‘That’s the thing with the rich,’ muttered Bernard. ‘Never truly happy. I think it’s the struggle to be happy that actually keeps people happy, you know? Wanting is better than having and all that.’

‘Rubbish,’ said the other man.

‘In-breeding, then,’ said Bernard, though on another ‘look’ from Weasley he quickly shut up.

None of them had spoken to Draco since they arrived. He had assumed that state of invisibility that, he observed, fell over minors whenever some disaster struck. Then he changed his mind and decided it was not a layer of invisibility but rather some sort of protective shield that kept adults at a distance, as if they were afraid he would bite them if they gave him bad news. That they would think him stupid enough not to have guessed what was going on irked him more than anything else. On arrival they had gone with the healers straight to the third floor, which was not only marked ‘Potion and Plant Poisoning’ but also had posters and pamphlets scattered about advising on the dangers of certain plants and ingredients and advising people what to do upon ‘accidental consumption’.

The healers had been gone ages, even by hospital-time standards, but Draco told himself that was good. That meant they were still working, and therefore they still had something living to work on. He still wanted to cry, though. He didn’t feel particularly sad or upset, but the urge was still there, a pressure inside his chest. The whole day seemed a blur when he tried to think about it, like those moving photographs made with faulty potions, so that they never really focussed properly and just showed dancing, incoherent shapes. Then, for the fifth time, he heard Bernard whisper the word ‘suicide’ and heard Weasley immediately shush him. Draco pretended to ignore them.

When the healer, a plump young woman with a rosy complexion and curling brown hair, finally appeared in the corridor, the group from the Ministry advanced on her before Draco could even get out of his seat. She, however, held up her hand and smiled politely, silencing the barrage of questions, and sidled past them to come over to Draco. She looked like the sort of witch that poorer wizards would think of as motherly, all cuddles and consolation. Clasping her hands, she sat daintily on one corner of the seat next to Draco and kept on smiling.

‘You must be Draco,’ she began. Her voice suited her; it was as sweet and thick as treacle and it made him nauseous. ‘Now, first of all, you mustn’t worry about your dad. He’ll be fine in no time at all.’

‘I’m not worried,’ Draco lied. He just wanted her to see he didn’t need the soft and fuzzy treatment. ‘Can I see him?’

‘Not at the moment,’ said the healer. ‘It’s best that he gets some sleep. Best you come back in the morning, perhaps.’

She got up before he could ask any more questions and turned her attention to the Ministry men, lowering her voice. It was definitely a shield, thought Draco. If he was invisible, why would they bother whispering?

‘The antidote seems to be working,’ she told them. ‘We’ll need to wait and see what the lasting damage is, if there is any, but there’s no immediate danger.’

‘Has he said anything?’ asked Weasley.

The healer shook her head and left them. Weasley then muttered something to his two henchmen and whatever it was sent them off down the corridor at a brisk pace. Weasley himself then wandered over to the seats, where he stood with his hands in his pockets, trying to smile.

‘Well now,’ he sighed. ‘Best get you home. Or do you want something from the tearoom first?’

‘No thank you,’ said Draco bitterly. ‘And I can make my own way home. I’m sure you’ve got other things to be getting on with.’

Weasley didn’t move. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully as if debating some deep philosophical question. ‘Are you sure you want to go home on your own? Only, it’s a bit of a shock you’ve had, and much though there’s differences between our lot and yours, I’d not like to see you in that big house all by yourself at a time like this…’

Draco snorted out a laugh. ‘You honestly think I’d be seen dead in that hovel of yours? I might as well cover myself in mud and start oinking!’

Weasley’s forced smile faded. ‘Well, if you’re set on it.’

Draco assured him that he was and then strode out without looking back. He spent most of the floo journey back home trying to decide whether to laugh or punch something. Just thinking about the Weasley house made him believe he could smell manure and a creepy feeling prickled all over his skin as he thought about ginger hairs in plug holes, and goodness knows where else…

When he got back home, though, he noticed a white rectangle on the mat and found a note that had been shoved under the door. Scrawled handwriting told him someone had ‘left a few things outside, just in case you should need them.’ He guessed that it was Weasley’s doing and opened the door. A casserole dish and a box of biscuits sat on the step. He swore quietly and threw a glower at the world, hoping it would somehow fly across the miles and reach the Weasleys, then he picked up the food and went inside.

He had never noticed just how many clocks there were in the house until that evening, when he sat on the living room couch sifting through his homework projects without much interest, and the constant chopping and ticking noises grated against his nerves. After only a few minutes of it, he went upstairs and brought some of his records down to play just to fill the silence. He even began to miss having a house elf about the place, even one as irritating as Dobby had been, but their replacement elf still had a few months training to do before it would be sent to them. Imagine training baby house elves, Draco thought with a dry laugh. Somehow he could imagine Granger doing something like that, standing with her hair in a bun like McGonagall while rows of baby elves blinked up at her with huge eyes and learned how to obey and how to punish themselves. Of course, Granger would probably try to get them to rebel, teach them how to stand up for themselves, convince the stupid little things that they were worth something. If she could convince herself of that and the likes of Ron Weasley, then maybe she’d succeed too.

One of McGonagall’s notes said that the deadline for Professor Binns’ History of Magic essay on influential wizards had been extended for another week, since some students wanted to search through their own family history and find examples and tracking down relatives and records would take a little time. First good news all day, Draco decided, since he had not only forgotten to start the essay but had never got around to thinking up a topic either. Somewhere in the endless volumes of Malfoy history stored throughout the house there would be someone worth writing about. Looking for inspiration would keep his mind off things, though it would mean going into the study and it took him a long while to brace himself before he managed that.

The empty bottles were still on the floor by the sofa. He stared at them for a long time before he coaxed himself to clear them away. It occurred to him that he should write to his mother and tell her what was happening but although he pulled out some writing paper and checked there was enough ink in the inkwell, he stared at the blank sheet for ages and couldn’t fathom what to say. He then tried his homework instead and looked along the line of books on the shelves in the alcove, but lost interest in that too.

He was gazing dully about, his mind as blank as the sheets of parchment he’d left strewn about the desk, when something caught his eye across the room. On the wall adjoining the one with the alcove, there was a series of carved wooden doors with scenes of great wizards. Behind them, Draco knew from previous exploration, lay a drinks cabinet, a few more bookshelves holding more controversial volumes, and some other shallow cupboards in which were kept the family photograph albums, crystal and silverware and magical paraphernalia. One of the doors lay slightly ajar and a sliver of silver light shone through the gap. The sight would normally have worried Draco, since Lucius kept those cupboards securely locked and protected by spells as complicated as the one on the study door, but he was almost used to things being out of sorts.

Just to check that nothing had broken, Draco opened the cupboard and glanced inside. In that particular section, the shelves reached slightly further back into the wall, deep enough to hold a large stone bowl carved with dark runes and symbols and filled with a liquid that swirled and gleamed like clouds across the surface of the moon. At first Draco could not bring himself to approach the pensieve. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up just thinking about it, not just because he knew his father would kill him for prying, but also because he knew it could not contain much that was pleasant, not if it had been topped up recently. The cupboard had been left open. That meant someone, and Lucius was really the only candidate, had been in there within the last short while. In fact as he finally found the courage to open the door fully and move in closer, Draco saw his father’s wand still on the shelf beside the bowl.

Draco shook his head. He didn’t want to know what happened any more. It wasn’t his place to go sneaking around. But then what if his father really was ill? Would the healers need to know what went on? Would he not be better placed to protect his father from the Ministry if he knew what had occurred? He bit his lip and frowned. If there was nothing of any use in there, his father need never find out he had looked. It was up to him to take care of things now. He had to make the decision, even if he didn’t want to go up to the pensieve and look in.

Steeling himself, Draco took a deep breath and leaned over to look down into the glowing swirls.


Chapter 4 - Part two - Chapter One

Part Two – The Pensieve

1.

It took Draco a moment to adjust to his new surroundings and determine where he was, or rather what he was seeing, since at the back of his mind he knew he was physically still in the study, staring into the bowl. A moment after he realised he was on the path leading up to the cottage, his father strode past, looking highly disgruntled, and let himself into the house.

Lucius stood for a moment in the hallway while he dabbed at the owl-scratches on his cheek with a black handkerchief. He listened to the crackling music drifting out of the living room. It was an old, sentimental tune about moonlight and teenage lovers taking broomstick rides against their parents’ wishes, that had been popular back in the forties. Ahead though, smoke billowed around the end of the corridor, coming out of the kitchen. Lucius frowned and strode down there, shaking his head. A pewter cauldron sat on the stove, belching smoke. He snapped off the flame with a click of his fingers and flicked his wand at the window to open it. A quick look inside the cauldron showed him there was nothing but black goo at the bottom now, but the worktop lay beneath a carpet of chopped herbs, overturned potion bottles and a few dismembered roots, none of which would combine to make anything other than goo.

He lifted the cauldron and carried it through to the living room, then stood in the doorway glowering at his father. Abraxas sat in his armchair and nodded in time with the music, oblivious to the rest of the world. He wore old, soiled robes over a dark grey suit and crumpled white shirt, and his white hair, once blond like his son’s, was plastered thinly across his pasty scalp. If he hadn’t moved, he might have vanished completely amongst the piles of newspapers and books heaped around the room.

‘Father?’ said Lucius. Abraxas ignored him, so he gave another flick of the wand and silenced the record player. His father then straightened and glared around the room, looking for the culprit. He spotted Lucius, glanced around in case there was anyone else there, then fixed his accusing stare on his son once more.

‘What d’you think you’re doing, you little bastard?’ he demanded. ‘Get out.’

‘What is this?’ Lucius asked, waving the cauldron at him.

Abraxas gave it a dismissive glance, pulled his robes tighter around him and wriggled back deeper into the armchair.

‘Or should I say what was this?’ Lucius went on, tossing the cauldron to one side. ‘Why are you trying to make potions? If you need something, I will make it for you or I will buy it for you, you’ve no need to be making things up yourself.’

‘Just trying to make some boil-cure potion,’ said Abraxas with a sniff. ‘If it matters that much to you, I’ve got a huge one right one my ar-’

‘I’m not interested,’ replied Lucius. ‘You’re not going to make anything particularly beneficial with Monkshood though, are you? Or old shoelaces, or any of the other things you’ve left out there.’

‘What would you know about it?’

‘I’ll buy you some and bring it over this evening. Is there anything else you need?’

Abraxas coughed and spat on the floor. ‘How did you get in here?’

‘With the key, which I have told you a dozen times not to leave outside,’ said Lucius. He took off his robes and dumped them on the back of the couch, which was about all that could be seen of the couch as the rest was buried under books and piles of used brown paper. ‘And why are the charms gone again? I renewed them for you last time I was here. Why do you keep taking them off? The place is crawling with Muggles.’

‘How am I supposed to get in if I lose my key?’ Abraxas shouted after him. Lucius carried on out of the living room and returned to the kitchen to check the cupboards. He intended to make a list of what was needed, but one look at the empty shelves made that rather redundant. He would just have to pick up anything he could think of from the shop.

‘Why would you lose your key?’ he answered when he finally returned. ‘You don’t go anywhere.’

‘I might.’

‘Such as where?’

‘The Tadfoal Club.’

Lucius frowned. ‘The Tadfoal Club shut down fifteen years ago, apart from the fact it’s in London and you disconnected the floo network in here. How would you get there?’

‘I’ve got my car.’

‘That old thing. It’s probably rusted away to nothing by now. Anyway, I still don’t know how you can stand to have it. It’s a Muggle machine.’

‘It’s enchanted,’ Abraxas protested. ‘No one else in the wizarding world has one of those.’

‘Arthur Weasley has one,’ Lucius muttered under his breath.

‘What?’

‘Nothing, father. Listen, I came because Narcissa and I are going away for a few weeks to visit her cousin in Sweden, and I thought I’d better make sure everything was all right here before I went. We don’t want a repeat of last time, do we?’

‘Not my fault,’ said Abraxas. ‘Stupid witch lets her cat in here, what am I to do? Just let it pee all over the place?’

‘Yes, well, if you could leave off starting a feud with any of the neighbours, or at least any of the magical neighbours, until I get back that would be much appreciated.’ Lucius looked around, wand at the ready, but had no idea where to begin tidying up, and could feel the old man’s steely glare following him all around the room. He braced himself before speaking next. ‘If you wanted, you could always stay at our house until Narcissa and I get back? Sleep on some clean sheets for once.’

Abraxas folded his arms and pouted. ‘Never go up to the big house. Waste of energy and money, keeping that place running. Throwing wealth around is what those halfblood bastards do, because they don’t know what to do with money. They want every bugger to see that they’ve got it. Well, I’m better than that. I only wish that little bastard up at the big house would see that.’

Lucius paused in his efforts to sort out the nearest pile of paper. ‘I am that little bastard from up at the big house, father.’

‘As for that wife of his…never did take to the Blacks. Always thought they were better than us, always thought they were it when it came to the best blood. How many squibs have they had though? And one of them married a Weasley, a bloody Weasley, and Muggles, Muggle bastards.’

‘These clothes are fairly clean,’ Lucius observed, picking through a pile of laundry he discovered under the paper on the couch. ‘Why don’t you wear these instead of the ones you have on? Or better still, get a bloody house elf, and stop hexing the ones we send you.’

‘Little bastards,’ grumbled Abraxas. He coughed again, making loud whooping sounds as though he was trying to bring up his entire digestive system. ‘Won’t have them in this house, creepy little bastards. Betray you at the drop of a hat!’

‘Well, maybe so, but one would still be an awful help around here. You need someone, father.’

‘What’s it to you? What are you even doing in here? Leave that bloody stuff alone and stop shifting things. You from the Ministry?’

‘No, father, I’m Lucius. I’m your son.’

‘My son’s an ungrateful little bastard,’ said Abraxas staring into the empty fireplace. Lucius picked his way through the mess and lit a fire for him, though Abraxas kept on staring as if nothing had changed. ‘Goyle’ll be here soon. He’ll need the floo.’

Lucius sighed deeply. ‘You disconnected the floo, remember, when Goyle died? You said he was the only one who used it and therefore there was no more need for it.’

‘I spoke to Goyle yesterday. He’s bringing me some enchanted whiskey they confiscated down the Alley. Supposed to turn you every colour of the rainbow.’

‘Goyle died eight years ago,’ said Lucius. ‘His grandson is in my son’s class. Now, I’ll have to go and get things ready at home, but I’ll come back later with some food and some boil potion if that’s what you want. Is there anything else you need?’

‘Pumpkin juice.’

‘Pumpkin juice, is that all?’

‘One of those cake things they sell.’

‘Fine,’ said Lucius. ‘I shan’t be long. Be careful you don’t sit too close to the fire.’

He spent another hour disposing of the newspaper in the hall and threw a few cleaning spells at the kitchen and bathroom, then looked into the living room once more before he headed for the door. His father was still in the chair, and the record was back on again.

‘All right. I’ll see you in a little while,’ he called in. He had his hand on the door handle when he heard his father shout.

‘Lucius!’

‘What?’ Lucius asked, hurrying back. Abraxas glanced up at him and frowned. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘What do you want?’ Abraxas muttered. The old man shook his head and went back to staring at the fire.



2.

Even in the grip of his illness, Abraxas had managed to amass another collection of junk to replace the stuff that had been thrown away. Lucius sidled past the stacks of newspaper and ancient textbooks, all the while trying not to listen to the silence around the place. He left Draco waiting in the hallway, under strict instructions not to touch anything (for the sake of Draco’s health if nothing else) and headed into the living room. The chair sat by the fire, wearing a grey stain of ground-in dirt in Abraxas’ shape. There was still a bottle of boil potion on the table beside the chair, unopened and the ingredients had separated into coloured stripes. He threw the room a weary glance, but before he could decide whether to start cleaning it again or not, he spotted movement out in the hall.

‘You know what your grandfather was like,’ he called. ‘It’ll take an age to remove all the curses and I’m in no mood to take you to St Mungo’s to have the extra head removed.’

It took nearly ten minutes for the cleaning spell to work its way through the rubbish and to make a path from the armchair to the cabinets at the back of the room. Lucius made his way through, while the spell sorted out the rest of the old furniture, old clothes, old toys and old books that had been dumped in that part of the floor. The carpet was thick with silvery slug trails and cobwebs, and several fat black spiders scuttled out of his path, but eventually he managed to get to the cabinet and to clear enough space around it to get the door open, though the stench of tobacco and polish made him nauseous as soon as he did so.

He collected the legal papers stored inside, wills and deeds for the cottage amongst them, but then noticed a hefty, leather-bound book lying on the very bottom of the shelf. He pulled it out and leafed through, smelling dust and mothballs on its pages. Inside, dozens of moving black and white photos waved at him or smiled. He watched his three-year-old self throw a ball across a beach somewhere on a holiday he didn’t remember, while a tall, willowy woman stood nearby. The same woman held him on her knee and prodded him to make him look up at the camera in the next photograph. On the next page, both she and Abraxas stood by his side. In this picture he looked a little younger, and was dressed in a ridiculous set of dungarees with a dragon sewn on the front, and had on a crooked pointy hat covered in stars. Lucius resolved never to let Draco see the photo. He stared at it a while, though, looking past his parents at the gathering of people around them.

They were outside a church. It could have been the one in the village, but all he could see was an arched doorway and some steps. A couple beside them had just been married. Lucius didn’t recognise them, but he spotted Goyle senior, his father’s old friend and companion in mischief at the back, looking sombre and wary of everything. Next to him was Cygnus Black and his wife Druella, with their skinny daughter Bellatrix between them, looking bored but very pretty in her puffy dress. She could only have been about five years old, but somehow Lucius still recognised her. Right at the very back, though, behind Goyle and Abraxas, was another man, distinguished from the rest of the group by the fact that he wore Muggle clothes. He stood by the church wall, not really part of the photograph, but lingering on the edge of it, and he stared at someone in the group with a murderous expression. Lucius prized the photo out of the album and glanced at the reverse side.

The Prewitt Wedding, 1957, it read. It did not, to his disappointment, give the names of those present.

The sound of voices outside spurred him to hurry up. The cleaning spell managed to sort most of the junk into orderly piles, awaiting his attention, and among one heap of old bags, he found a black suitcase just big enough to take the photo album, the papers, and a few other magical items and books he found. As he straightened, however, he glanced out the window, and though the glass was smeared and grimy, he made out a figure standing at the end of the garden. It could not be Draco. Draco had been wearing black, and this figure was in dowdy colours. Lucius went to the window and tried to clean a section of it to look out, but even the spell only managed to shift the dirt around into swirls. In the end he crept out into the hall and approached the open front door, listening to the conversation outside.

‘Go away,’ he heard Draco shout. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, all right?’

‘What’s your name then, son? Not Lucius, after your da’?’ The voice belonged to someone old. It crackled and strained like an out of tune violin.

‘I’m warning you, if you don’t clear off, I’ll get my father, and he’s not afraid of the Ministry.’

‘No. Reckon he ain’t. You just tell your da’ I said hello.’

‘I’ll do no such thing,’

Lucius edged to the door and looked out, though made sure to keep himself hidden as he did so. He saw the old Muggle down by the gate and the uneasy feeling in his chest thudded like a second heartbeat. Though a good many years had past, he could still recognise the man from the photograph, by the staring, malice-filled eyes if nothing else.

When the Muggle finally left, Lucius tidied up his robes in case he had brushed against the dusty furniture then strode out as if nothing was amiss. He decided not to mention the photograph when Draco told him about the Muggle, though he did not exactly know why he chose to do so.

That night he spent hours sorting through his father’s paperwork, noting down the various accounts at Gringotts where Abraxas had hidden away bags of galleons and checking through every last stipulation in the will. He then set everything to one side so that the lawyer could look at it the next day and started on his own correspondence. He wrote short replies to the dozen or so letters of condolence that had arrived that morning, but sealed each one with a slightly bitter air, since he knew well enough that those people had sent sympathy cards so they could excuse themselves from attending the funeral. Whatever Abraxas might have been, however oddly he might have behaved towards the end, he was still a Malfoy.

Right at the bottom of the pile was a letter from the house elf people, with a photograph of ‘your new baby house elf’ and some standardised rubbish about its progress. Somehow they felt this justified the expense involved in buying a new elf and having it trained to obey the family. Since people rarely had to get a new one, he supposed they could charge what they liked, then very quickly stifled the thought and put the letter away.

‘No, I am not in the slightest bit like you,’ he muttered to his father’s ghost, should it have been lingering anywhere near.

He left everything in neat piles, ready to be tackled in the morning, and went upstairs, first to check on Draco, whom he found sprawled across his bed, listening to music (or to something that supposedly constituted music, but in all honestly Lucius preferred his father’s old crooners).

‘Have you made sure your shirt is clean for tomorrow?’ Lucius asked. Draco gestured towards the chair in the corner of his room, where he had laid out his clothes for the funeral. They lay draped as if someone had dissolved the person inside.

‘And you know what is happening tomorrow?’ Lucius went on. ‘The order of things?’

‘Yes, father,’ said Draco. ‘When will Mother be coming home?’

Lucius sat on the edge of the bed and shrugged lightly. ‘When all this is dealt with, I suppose. She and your grandfather never really got along. Besides, she gets upset at this sort of occasion.’

‘I liked Grandfather,’ said Draco. ‘I didn’t like the way he let the Muggles come near, though. Like that old one who was hanging around today.’

‘Yes, well, don’t dwell on that. Tomorrow is a day to remember the better things about your Grandfather.’

He sighed as he got up, and tried to think what those were. By the time he was ready for bed, he still had not come up with anything, though he chided himself for it. If no one else of note could be bothered to attend the funeral, then it would be up to him to make sure Abraxas was remembered.

As he closed the deep green curtains in his bedroom, however, he glimpsed movement in the grounds below and stood for a moment watching the trees around the driveway, and those sombre pools of lamplight spotting the path.

Perhaps his imagination was over-tired, but he felt certain he had seen an old man in a wool coat standing there a moment earlier.


Chapter 5 - Part two - Chapter Two

1.

Lucius poured himself another glass of wine, one of the better clarets he had kept hidden from the rest of the guests. He stashed the bottle in one of the ebony cabinets lining the front room and checked his suit before he turned to face the funeral crowd again. The elderly relatives milled around like lost souls, wringing their wrinkly hands and nodding at nothing. Occasionally one would cough whilst holding his or her wand and a vase or ornament somewhere in the room would shatter. Luckily Aunt Livia hadn’t been well enough to attend, or there would be toads hopping everywhere. Only the ones too far down the road to senility to know any better had turned up, and the occasional cousin from the toothy branch of the family, looking for handouts and favours. Apparently even the Malfoy name was not enough to bring the others here, whatever Abraxas had done to them.

Lucius, however, smiled and made sure everyone had enough drink so as not to give rise to complaint but not enough to have anyone fall over in a pile of vomit. He kept the silver platters full of food that did not require too much chewing and endured the endless conversations about things he had done when he was a baby with all the grace he could muster. All the while, he kept an eye on the clock, counting down the minutes until he could herd them all into the dining room, feed them properly and then pack them off in their carriages or shoot them up the chimney in a puff of smoke.

‘Lucius, my boy, how sorry I was to hear of your loss,’ declared one of the great great uncles with a face like a deflated balloon. He stood with one of the cousins from France, one of the all teeth-no-braincells crowd. If Lucius’ memory served, he owned a vineyard and a couple of dragons. ‘You must be devastated. I hear the old boy had been ill for some time.’

‘On and off,’ said Lucius. ‘But nothing unexpected at his age, just aches and pains. The Dragon Pox just seemed to come from nowhere, and he hadn’t the fortitude to fight it off.’

‘They do say it’s a bad thing in adults,’ remarked the cousin. ‘My daughters had it in their first year at Hogwarts, wife threw my out the house for a week. I hadn’t had it as a child, see.’

‘He wasn’t well though, was he?’ the uncle repeated. ‘Not in the proper sense. Bit confused, by all accounts.’

Lucius gave an icy smile. ‘Again, quite common in someone his age.’

‘Well, we all get a bit forgetful as the years roll on, but there are degrees…’

‘He’s beyond it now, at least,’ said Lucius. ‘Let us hope, wherever he is, he is fully restored and happy.’

‘Probably counting galleons then,’ laughed the cousin.

‘Nothing wrong with being frugal,’ Lucius muttered into his wine glass as he took a sip.

‘Again,’ said the uncle, ‘there are degrees. I mean, living in that old cottage all the time, living like a ruddy Muggle, and all the time he’s got the family fortune sitting idle in Gringotts. I’m surprised you let him away with that.’

‘I had very little choice. Father could be exceedingly stubborn when he wanted to.’

‘Indeed.’ The old man nodded and sipped a sherry. ‘Still, suppose it wouldn’t exactly have suited to have him live up here with you and the family, ay? Didn’t get along, if I recall.’

‘We had our differences of opinion.’

‘Didn’t think much of you, by all accounts. Still, I suppose all parents are a little disappointed in their children.’

‘My father was not disappointed in me.’

‘Oh? Oh, of course not. Only I had heard him say something about Hogwarts, something about failed exams.’

‘That was a very long time ago,’ said Lucius, ‘and we had sorted it out.’

‘Oh, good, good. Terrible when there are rifts like that in a family. Especially where there’s a name to be upheld. Nothing like a family feud to bring about scandal. All up to you now, though, ay? Keeping the Malfoy name unsullied, protecting our traditions, our history. Big task.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Lucius. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think we ought to move through to the dining room. Everyone must be starved by now.’

He gestured towards the door and watched them all shuffle off, looking like a huddle of old coats in a long forgotten wardrobe. There would be no way anyone in the family would decay to such an extent, he thought and frowned resolvedly. The name ‘Malfoy’ was not just something to wear on a lapel pin or throw around in the dusty old clubs over a glass of butterbeer. Other old families could decline, but this one would not. It had never been so clear to him than at that moment. One way or another, he would set this family back into their rightful place in the wizarding world.

He followed the last of them out into the hall, feeling as though he should have had a sheep dog working with him in the effort, when he heard someone whispering to him from up on the stairs. Draco leaned over the banister, wide eyed and obviously bursting to tell him something. Probably that he had found something more important to do and had to leave right away – not a chance, boy. If I must endure this, he thought, then so must you.

Ignoring Draco totally, he kept on towards the dining room, but the boy leapt down and chased after him, clawing at him for attention.

‘Father, I need to talk to you.’

‘Not now. Go in and sit down and let us hope this meal is over swiftly, shall we?’

‘But Father, that old Muggle’s back again.’

‘Nonsense. They can’t get in here.’

‘He’s not in here,’ said Draco, ‘but he’s out by the gate, just watching like he was before. I thought I’d better tell you in case any of them saw him hanging about.’

Lucius froze, aware that he might have turned a few shades paler. The old photograph flashed again across his mind and the sense of unease boiled into a steadily rising wrath. ‘All right. Go in there and tell them I shall be along presently. See that they get more to drink in the meantime. Honestly, Draco, if you’d told me this five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have sent them in!’

He put on his robes and went outside, pausing on the doorstep to gather his wits and look around the grounds. He spotted a figure at the far end of the path, ducking behind the gateposts, but it still cast a shadow across the gravel where the serpent lamps caught it. Lucius gritted his teeth, drew his wand and strode down the path. When he was just over halfway to the gate, the old Muggle stepped back into view, and though Lucius expected him to run when he saw the wand, he simply stared, hands in the pockets of his smelly old coat, and chewed on some tobacco.

‘What are you doing here?’ Lucius demanded. ‘I would advise you to leave now, if you value your limbs. We don’t take kindly to your sort hanging around here.’

‘What sort would that be then?’ replied the Muggle.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You wouldn’t curse me, boy.’

‘Would you care to have a wager on that?’

‘The name’s Sugden,’ said the Muggle. ‘Brian Sugden.’

‘I don’t care what your name is. You are trespassing.’

Sugden shrugged. ‘Reckon you don’t own the path, much as you’d like to think it. How’s about you put that stick away and we can have a chat like civilised gents, then? We both know you’re not going to curse me. Would’ve done so by now if you’d’ve wanted to, so I fancy.’

Yes, thought Lucius, why on Earth haven’t you cursed the old bugger already?

‘You’ve been following me around,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Just trying to be friendly.’

‘Quite apart from the fact that my family do not cultivate friendships with Muggles,’ said Lucius, ‘following someone around is not an act of friendship. It is what’s called an invasion of privacy. I would be quite justified in defending myself and my family.’ Just curse him, get it over with, he thought. His body seemed to have been gripped in an icy cold that prevented him from moving and the more he realised it was only in his mind, not some spell he could fight against, the more frustrated he became.

‘There you go with them threats again,’ laughed Sugden. ‘All bluster, you are.’

‘Try me.’

‘You won’t hurt me, first off because you want to know what I want. You want to know how comes a Muggle knows all about you and your da’.’

‘I know how you know. You fixed that stupid car of his.’

‘More than that. Your da’ and I used to chat of a time.’

‘Rubbish. My father would not spend time with Muggles if he could avoid it.’

‘Used to chat a lot down the garage,’ Sugden went on. ‘Course, I knew he thought I was worse than the dirt beneath his feet, but he still chatted. Needed me, you see, for that fancy motor of his. Magic, so they say, that car. You gonna drive it now?’

‘Indeed I will not. I want nothing to do with you, your garage or your filthy Muggle machines.’

‘Remember you when you were a nipper,’ said Sugden. ‘Cute little thing you were, all chubby and quiet like. Your mother thought you had poor eyes, you used to fall over so much, but I told her that’s just how young ‘uns are at that age. She were a fine woman, your mother.’

‘Get off my land, now,’ growled Lucius.

‘Beautiful woman, your mother. You’ve got her eyes, I reckon. Not her nose, though, Lord knows where you got that from.’

Lucius sighed and aimed his wand at the wrinkled old face. ‘Obliv…’

‘That never works on me, lad,’ interrupted Sugden. ‘Why d’you reckon your da’ never stuck one of them spells on me all those years back?’ He let out a long, loud breath and adjusted his cap, then looked over Lucius’ shoulder towards the house. ‘You got any biscuits up there? Reckon I’m famished.’

‘No I do not have any…look is it money you want? Is that why you’ve been lingering around our family? You want money or you’ll tell people about us? That the sort of thing?’

‘If I wanted to tell people about you and your sort, reckon I’d’ve done it when I was young enough to enjoy the money!’ laughed Sugden. ‘And they’d probably lock me up if I said what I seen.’

The cold feeling not only enveloped his body, it seeped inside and turned his insides to crushed ice. ‘So what do you want then?’

Sugden spat his tobacco into the grass beneath the gatepost and rocked back and forth on his heels. ‘Not allowed just to have a look at you?’

‘No.’

‘Fine little lad you got too,’ Sugden went on. ‘You having any more?’

Lucius stared at him, unable to believe any of this. ‘Get away from this house.’

‘All right, lad, all right,’ muttered Sugden. ‘Sorry to have troubled you. Just reckoned it was about time you knew the truth, that was all, now the old feller’s not here to get into the middle of it.’ He turned and sloped off down the path into the dark. Lucius gazed for a while at his wand, then stepped out onto the road.

‘The truth about what?’ he called, regretting it instantly. The thought of a Muggle managing to manipulate him made his skin crawl, but part of him wanted to know what was going on, if nothing else other than to get his story straight for when he had to explain to the Ministry why he had killed this old bastard.

‘Oh, want to talk to me now?’

‘I’m offering you the chance to explain yourself, not something I would normally grant. Therefore I suggest you don’t push me. Whatever you have to say, say it.’

Sugden turned and shambled back along the path, giving him that same, narrow-eyed, curious stare. How a Muggle could muster something so disturbing…

‘You are a fine lad,’ he said. ‘No doubting that. Healthy-looking. The old feller must’ve looked after you.’

‘Why wouldn’t he?’

‘He ever tell you about your Ma?’

Lucius sneered. ‘If this is the story about the man from the Ministry, I’ve heard it a dozen times before with a dozen variations. You can’t shock me with that. Besides, it was only gossip meant to hurt my father. My mother died when I was young and any other story is simply malicious.’

‘You never thought they might be right and your da’ might be the one was lying?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

Sugden nodded. ‘That’s loyal. Good to see you would love your Ma that much, to want to believe her a good woman.’

‘She was a good witch.’

‘Fine-looking one too. But she was never what you’d call shy with her affections, if you get my meaning. Sorry lad, but that’s the way of it. She did run off with yon feller, the magical government one, some piece of work in pinstripes. Last I heard, they’d gone abroad. Never heard much more after that. But I know she left. Saw her go myself, see. Was down the Cottage one day when I heard them shouting, then she walked out the door, got on a broomstick and flew off, just like that. Never really believed all that magic stuff to tell the truth, till I saw that. Your da’ said I oughtn’t to say anything on account of yon government ministry thing, that they’d want to take me in and he’d get into trouble an’ all for doing magic in front of me. So I said nothing.’

‘And this is what you’ve been dying to tell me? Well you’ve said it. I have no further need for you.’ Lucius aimed his wand once more.

‘Broke my heart to see her go,’ Sugden continued, looking at the wand as if it was some new species of bird, as if at any moment he might reach out and try to pet it. ‘Silly, really. Knew all the time she wouldn’t want to stay with me. Just something to pass the time with, like your da’ with his car.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘She used to come down the garage when he was off at his clubs and little parties with his fancy pals. She used to wear this black dress, all laced up at the front like those women on the covers of Mills & Boon books! And she’d have her hair all loose and fluttering about. Like gold it was. I remember the first time she come down there, I thought, she must just be after the car, something’s wrong with it or something, but then she started talking to me. Talked about nothing, and I was thinking, what’s this woman want talking to the likes of me? Then she starts on about me, about whether I got lonely working down there on my own, and I told her so I was, what with my own da’ having passed away that summer and the rest of my lot being down Glastonbury way now, see? And she says how terrible it is, being lonely. I asked her how someone as beautiful as her should come to be lonely and she laughed. ‘Beautiful am I?’ she asks me, and I had to say aye. Never tell a lie, not willingly. Then she comes a little closer and I was thinking by then that she had an odd look in her eye. ‘My husband doesn’t think so,’ she says. I says, ‘then your husband’s a fool, if you don’t mind me saying’. She just laughs and shakes that long blond hair of hers, and starts untying one of them laces on her dress.

I knew it were wrong, but I was just a lad at the time, at that age where a flash of skin was all it took to get the old furnace going. I remember she said something about Muggles then, and something about how her husband would be sick if he found out. She asks me, ‘do Muggles do it the same way as we do?’ like she thought we were animals or something. Still think she thought that, even after. It was like something dirty for her. But I didn’t care back then. I just couldn’t believe someone like her would even speak to me, let alone let me ‘ave her. She told me not to tell anyone about it, lest the husband found out, and it killed me not to be able to show off down the pub, but I kept with it for her sake. Every time she come to me, she told me how her husband used to speak to her like she was nothing and he was the whole world. She told me he was from some fancy family, a right catch, but he never knew how to live up to his name. She said he had all this money and wouldn’t spend any of it, not on her, not on anyone, and she said he hadn’t touched her since they got married, like he wasn’t capable of it. She just wanted something to hold, she said. Something to make her feel alive. Reckon the fact that it was with something so disgusting in their eyes made it all the more exciting for her. Then all of a sudden she stops coming near me. Weeks went buy, not a word. Didn’t see her round the village at all, though I stopped out near the shop where she said they used to buy stuff, and when I went down the Cottage to see to the car, I only ever saw your da’ there. After a while, I figured maybe she’d had a row with him or made it up with him or something, but either way, she didn’t want to see me any more. Then one day, as I’m going down to the post office I sees her and your da’ standing near the village green, and they’re talking to one of your da’s pals. My heart nearly jumped right out my mouth when I saw she was with child.’

He glanced up and met Lucius’ gaze, maintaining eye contact with a sudden intensity that made Lucius step back without thinking.

‘I asked her, first chance I got, whether it was mine or not. She’d already told me the husband never touched her, see? First she said no it weren’t. Said she and your da’ made it up and he finally managed to…to do the deed, as it were. But I kept on at her and in the end she went all quiet and started to cry, looked away like she hated herself. ‘I’m going to kill it,’ she says. ‘Soon as it comes out of me, I’m going to kill it and throw the filthy little monster away’.’

‘This is all rubbish,’ Lucius hissed.

‘I begged her to let me have the child,’ Sugden went on, stepping closer. ‘I said if you think it’s monstrous, let me raise it then. Wouldn’t be a monster in my eyes. But she just ran off. Never saw her again till after you were born, and though she wouldn’t let me near and the husband sent me this letter to say he wouldn’t have me near the car again either, (and I knew that were her doing), I didn’t feel so bad when I saw her with you. I could see she loved you. Might even have convinced herself you weren’t mine by then. She convinced your da’ at first anyway, for he doted on you, proud as punch that he’d got himself an heir, another little Malfoy to show the world. I don’t know what happened to turn them different, I don’t know enough about these things, see? I don’t know whether they could see something in you as you got older, or if they just knew it like Muggle parents do, instinctive like, but the fights soon started again. I used to come up the Cottage and stay hidden, so I could get a look at you, and I’d hear them arguing. When I saw the three of you down the village next time, your da’ wasn’t looking at you. Your Ma carried you and he went on as if you weren’t there. Little while after that, she flew off. I reckon she couldn’t stand being in that place any longer, couldn’t stand whatever he was saying to her. I don’t think your da’ ever knew for sure. I don’t know if he’d’ve kept you about if he’d been sure of what you were, but I reckon he suspected at least.’

‘Suspected,’ said Lucius. ‘Maybe. That doesn’t make it true.’

‘Believe what you like. All I know is I’ve watched you grow up, and there ain’t nothing of that man in you. Blond hair, that’s all you’ve got in common. A man knows when he looks at his own, and I know you’re mine, lad.’

‘Rubbish.’

‘I didn’t know whether to tell you. Part of me wanted to, but then I thought what the old feller might do if I went in stirring it all up again.’

‘How dare you come up here telling these lies.’

‘But I reckoned with him dead, it was time the truth came out. It’s been kept quiet long enough and I’ve been shoved into the gutter for long enough.’

‘Shut up.’

‘You’re my son, lad,’ said Sugden. ‘Halfblood, whatever your lot calls it, but mine.’

Lucius dropped his wand and launched himself at Sugden with a growl. Unaware of anything but his own rage, he screamed at him to admit he had lied and bashed his head against the road, all the while gripping his throat until he felt the body go suddenly limp in his grasp. With a shudder, he withdrew his hands, repulsed by the feel of the Muggle’s loose skin and the grimy clothes he wore. The whole world consisted of that small patch of road, a few trees and the light from the serpent’s lamp. Soon he would leave that horrid little place and when he stepped back into the house, everything would return to normal.

He glanced up and saw Draco looking down on him but took a long while to register what he was looking at. He saw the look of horror on his son’s place and the cold feeling ran in streams down his back and gripped his chest tightly. He only then remembered the funeral and the others in the house.

‘Are they all still inside?’ he asked, getting up quickly. He could still feel the Muggle’s filth like a film over his skin.

‘Father, what happened? Did he attack you?’

Lucius opened his mouth to reply but could not think of a lie and the truth made him feel sick. He stared down at the body, still unable to believe any of this had actually happened. It had to be some strange dream. Only a voice at the back of his mind told him it made sense. Suddenly his father’s treatment of him made so much sense. ‘I’ll need to get rid of him. Go back inside. I thought I told you to keep them all amused till I got back?’

‘You don’t need any help?’

‘Why would I need help? Simple Reducto charm, the body’s gone, the Ministry won’t notice anything suspicious. Nothing to be concerned about. Now go inside and just have dinner served. Say I’ve been called away or something and I’ll be back shortly.’ All normal, he thought. Nothing wrong. Nothing is wrong. Tomorrow, this will all be a vaguely unpleasant memory but nothing more.

He waited until he could no longer hear Draco’s footsteps, then he looked down at the corpse again. All these people in his life, just names and faces in old photographs but meaning nothing to him, and now suddenly he felt as though they had returned to tear him limb from limb. He shook his head, picked up his wand and threw spell after spell at the body, not only destroying it, but obliterating it completely, and with every burst of energy he cast, he imagined himself kicking the old man and every damned lie he’d told.

As he finally walked up to the house, he growled inwardly at himself, furious that he’d listened. He should have killed the stupid creature the moment it came near the house. He should have been true to his name and never gone near to a Muggle. The film of grime still clung to him, and invisible layer all over his body. He went inside and spent ten minutes in the bathroom scrubbing his hands and face before he gathered his wits enough to go to the dining room and join the others. Luckily the meal was nearly over, most of the old relatives were faintly intoxicated, and so no one noticed his dishevelled appearance or the way his hands trembled as he lifted his wineglass. No one save Draco. After the meal, he saw his son on the stairs, waiting one again to speak to him and doing everything he could to attract attention without actually moving or speaking. Lucius ignored him, watched the last of the guests leave, then hurried into the study, locking the door behind him so that he could reduce the world to one room where everything was familiar and comforting.

He poured himself a drink and downed it in one, then went to the desk and lifted the photo album from the Cottage. For a while he stared at the pictures, at himself in particular, and tried to see if he could spot anything unusual. He had never looked at himself and seen anything other than his mother’s eyes, a jaw line faintly reminiscent of his grandfather and uncles, hair colour he shared with both parents. Was there something there that could have turned his father against him? Was that why Abraxas always held back a little? Was it not merely his father’s lack of personal skills, his belief that independence was the best trait a child could have, but something deeper and more sinister. Lucius stared at his photos and then at his own hands, and he could almost feel the blood flowing sluggishly through his veins, slowed down by contaminants. Was he an abomination? He took another drink and tore out each photo in turn, threw it to the floor, and burned each one with a quick blast from his wand. The old Muggle had to be lying. Just another vicious bastard trying to bring the family down.

He wandered to the window and looked out into the night. A near full moon stared accusingly back. There was no way it could be true. Even if the old Muggle had slept with his mother, nothing said Abraxas couldn’t still be his father. She had said, according to him, that this was the case. Perhaps she only admitted it was the Muggle’s child to get rid of him, or to hurt him.

Suddenly Lucius felt cold again. If there was even a chance it was true, though, then how could he ever look his peers in the eye again? What would they do if they found out? With a shudder, he realised he knew fine what they would do. What if they could see it on him like a stain, or could smell the dirty blood? He poured the last wine from the bottle and took a drink to steady his nerves. That made no sense. If they could tell, they would have spotted him by now. Unless of course, they were using him, using his wealth and influence to protect themselves, to make sure everything was right for when the Dark Lord could return. Perhaps they had always known, and stood laughing at him after every meeting. The stupid Mudblood who thinks he’s one of them! What if they laughed at him just as everyone secretly laughed at Abraxas for his miserliness?

A tremble started at the base of his spine and rattled right up to his crown. What if the Dark Lord had known too? What if he had only been spared when the Potter child thwarted Voldemort’s rise? What if he was marked for death as soon as his usefulness ended, and only the need to repair the damage Potter did now kept him alive? Then a thump upstairs thrust a thought upon him. If he was impure, then so was Draco. He drew a shaky breath and grabbed another bottle from the cabinet, then staggered to the couch and slumped down.

How could his mother have betrayed everyone like that? Not only had she ruined his father’s hopes of having a pureblood heir to carry on the line, but now, years after her death or desertion, she had torn his life to pieces and condemned his son to…he did not dare think about what could happen to Draco if anyone found out, if indeed they still had to find out. The bitch! The stupid, arrogant bitch!

Spurred on by rage, he apparated out of the house. As he reappeared with a crack outside the old garage, he realised how lucky he had been to arrive in one piece, but fancied the sheer desire to come here and tear the place apart focussed his mind enough to travel. He looked at the place, all shabby and grimy even in the moonlight, and hated every last stone. He flung spells in every direction, gritting his teeth and fighting to see as the tears welled through sheer frustration. He would not sleep, he told himself, until every filthy Muggle in this village was destroyed. He would wreck every house, every business, every last stinking trace of them. He was not one of them!

He sagged, exhausted, before he could complete his vengeance and he stood staring at the chaos he had caused around the garage. The fields and trees lay like smears of ink against the night sky, the whole landscape unreal and distorted like a dark potion swirling in a cauldron. The rage dissipated but nothing came to replace it, so he stood there, feeling empty and if he was the only living thing in the universe.

After a long walk, during which he thought nothing and felt nothing save the cramps in his stomach, he came to the house once more and paused at the foot of the stairs, still swathed in a crisp chill from the outdoors. Everything in the house remained quiet and peaceful, with only the clocks to disturb the silence. He very slowly climbed to the first floor and looked into Draco’s bedroom. His son tossed about beneath the covers and muttered softly as he slept. Lucius let his forehead rest against the door a moment and closed his eyes. If there was even a chance…how could he tell him?

When he finally returned to the study, he locked the door without thinking and went straight to the already decimated drinks cabinet. For a while he sat on the couch, staring into the bottom of his glass, pouring out more dark liquid whenever he ran out of something to stare into, but no matter how much he drank, the little whispering voice refused to shut up. It recited the conversation with the old Muggle again and again, and every time he heard the word ‘Halfblood’, Lucius felt more and more tired. Everything inside him ached and he banged his fists against his temples to try and get that voice to shut up. The more it reminded him what was said, the more it mocked him, and then it replayed old arguments, old conversations with his father. He’d always thought Abraxas didn’t know what he was saying, those last few years, but how many times had he been called a Muggle bastard?

Gradually his gaze fell upon the desk and on the collection of objects there, all taken from Abraxas’ house. Amongst them was a black wooden box, about seven inches in length and three in width. He had left it sitting out, ready to dispose of it in case the Ministry ever came to check the place. After a while, it seemed to call to him, summoning him over there. He got up and fell sideways, dropping the latest bottle he had drained, then managed to lurch across to the desk. He fumbled with the box until he got it open. Inside, nestled in a plush velvet cushion, were four glass vials, all in different shades of green. He shook his head and wiped the tears from his cheek, then prized one of the vials out and returned to the couch, where he sat contemplating it for a long while.

He felt so tired, like he would never feel anything again, like he would never need to feel anything again because it was all gone and all hopeless. Draco would have to know, he thought. If the others were laughing, if there was any danger, then Draco would have to be told. Lucius glanced again at the desk. A letter? Something to say goodbye, or was that too sentimental? Was that more than he deserved, more than a filthy abomination deserved? If he wrote a letter he would try to explain, try to make excuses, make it seem as if things were not so bad when in reality… He looked again at the vial, its contents sliding form one end to the other, black within the green glass, like a captive shadow. Perhaps that was what made him think of the solution – captive shadow and captive light. He smiled though the effort was painful, and went over to the cabinets. He opened the one containing the pensieve.



At that point, Draco inhaled sharply and found himself in the cold study once more, and the skies outside were black. The house lay about him, grey and filled with shadows that seemed to be watching him and waiting to see what he would do. He didn’t know that himself, just yet, and it took him a long time, sitting in the dark on the couch where he had last been able to touch his father, before he finally decided. He got up, sifted through the bookshelves, using his wand as a light, and picked out a few volumes, then headed into the fireplace, reading to follow the floo back to London.


Chapter 6 - Epilogue


Epilogue
1.

Draco sat for a long time in the hospital tea room, leafing through the books and marking relevant pages so he could find them again later on. At first a few other witches and wizards sat around the place, though no one spoke. It was as if the late hour placed a curfew on conversation, leaving only the occasional chink of crockery to fill the warm, spice-scented silence. After an hour or so, though, he looked up from his studies and found himself alone. He only then realised how tired he was, and how ill-prepared for the mission he’d set himself. With a deep breath he reminded himself that he was the representative of his name now, and must embody all that name stood for. Thinking like a man and deciding what to do, however, had been far easier when everything was miles away. Now he only had to go down a corridor and a few stairs, his heart thudded against his ribs and a lump filled his throat. He missed the warmth of his bed at Hogwarts and the darkness of the dorm, as well as the familiar sounds, even Goyle’s snoring and Crabbe’s occasional mews for his mother.

After a while, though, he decided to try again to get into the ward. It had to be nearly morning by now and they would have to eventually let him in. Perhaps if he tried throwing a hysterical fit… He gathered up his books and walked through the empty hallways and stairwells. The silence started to bear down on him and made his nerves jangle. They seemed to have dimmed most of the lighting in the place as well, making it full of grey places and corners full of shadow. At night, in the quiet, he could almost hear Death stalking around the place, looking for those who were too weak to carry on. He quickly shoved that thought out of his mind. Ghosts then, his imagination suggested; the sorry wraiths of those who had waned away to nothing in these wards over the years, still shuffling around, looking for something to ease their pain.

Finally he reached the third floor and saw his first living soul in ages. A healer stood by a desk further down the corridor, just outside the door to his father’s ward. From the way she stood with her head bowed, Draco reasoned there must be someone else there too, sitting at the desk but hidden from his view by the healer’s body. He took a deep breath, rehearsed his speech once more in his head, and strode towards them.

‘Excuse me,’ he began.

The healer turned and gave him a rather weary look, but forced a smile. ‘Ah, you again.’

Draco glanced away. He hadn’t counted on meeting the same one who’d been on duty when he arrived. His idea of throwing a fit would have to be re-scripted a little.

‘Well, you’re lucky, I suppose,’ the healer sighed. ‘Your dad woke up a little while ago. I did tell him you’d been by.’

‘So I can go in?’

‘If you’re quiet. And I mean quiet, my lad. There’s other patients still asleep and it’s a good hour till we bring breakfast round.’

He was poised, ready to ask how Lucius was, when the healer moved off, taking a scroll with her on some errand down the hall. Draco stood for a moment in the middle of the corridor, feeling once again like the only being in existence, before he finally turned and contemplated the ward entrance.

The place was dark. Only the glow of a few candles cast a gleam to fight off the shadows. All Draco saw at first were rows of white shrouded bodies, shuffling and twitching in the dark. The occasional cough and the rustling of fabric seemed as loud as a thunderclap against the relative quiet. His heartbeat quickened even more when he could not find his father amongst the heaps of blanket, but then he saw a brighter pool of light flickering behind a half-drawn curtain near the end of the long ward, and heard a sharp swish of turning pages. Creeping like a catburglar, Draco approached the light and the sound.

His father sat propped up against a stack of over-starched pillows, reading an old copy of the Daily Prophet in the light from a solitary candle that hung suspended above his bedside table. (Presumably a magical candle would have less chance of toppling over). Perhaps it was the greyness all around the room, but Draco shuddered a little when he saw how pale his father looked, how withdrawn he was about the face, with his blond hair lank about his shoulders and deep shadows under his eyes. It did not look like Lucius at all and his stomach churned with the ‘wrongness’ of it all. His father should not look so weak and sad, or at the very least, he should not be there to witness it. Draco thought about turning and sneaking out again before his father saw him, but then Lucius looked up and both of them stared, faces full of embarrassment, until Draco finally put his books down on the table and pulled a chair over to sit down.

‘They said it was all right to come and sit with you,’ he said, keeping his voice a low whisper. He wondered about taking his father’s hand. It was his first instinct, but then he thought it might be too personal a gesture, so he knitted his fingers and set his hands down on the mattress beside Lucius instead. ‘Are you feeling better?’

Lucius stared at him a moment longer then closed his eyes and sank back against the pillows. ‘Go home, Draco.’

Draco sagged, but forced himself not to run out the door. ‘I was going to get you a present but there’s nothing open. Is there anything you need though?’

‘To be left alone,’ sighed Lucius.

‘I haven’t sent an owl to Mother yet,’ Draco went on. ‘I didn’t know if you’d want me to fetch her just yet. I think it could be a good idea. The healers said I could stay as long as I wanted though.’ He lifted the newspaper, glanced at the front page, then slipped it into the shelf beneath the bedside table. ‘I’ll bring you today’s copy when it comes out. It might have something about the Muggle garage.’

Lucius shot him a dark look, furious at first but quickly slipping into something that might almost have been apprehensive.

‘If they say anything out of turn I’ll send an owl to the Minister,’ said Draco. ‘They’ll probably know better than to print any of Weasley’s lies, though. Don’t worry. If he tries to tell everyone we had something to do with that garage, I’ll deal with him too. I’ll take care of everything till you’re better. If it’s going to be a while, I’ll write to Dumbledore and tell him I shan’t be back when I expected.’

‘You are a child, your place is in school. Whatever must be taken care of, I will deal with it,’ Lucius replied. ‘Go back to Hogwarts. You don’t want to fall behind.’

‘I won’t. I was doing my homework while I was waiting upstairs.’ He nodded towards the books. Lucius gave them a disinterested glance at first, then frowned.

‘Why have you taken books from the study?’

‘I need them for a project. I didn’t think you’d mind.’

‘You went in there?’

Draco tried to smile but only managed a half-sneer. ‘I cleared away the mess. Don’t worry about it.’

‘That’s all you touched?’

‘That and the books,’ Draco lied. ‘I didn’t want to disturb anything personal of yours.’

He watched his father’s reaction and for a while thought Lucius could see right through him into his soul, and could see the lie there, squirming under his gaze, but then Lucius gave a little nod as if he was satisfied and leaned back again. He closed his eyes and grimaced, clutching at the sheets.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Draco. ‘Father, what’s wrong?’

Lucius shook his head and inhaled sharply. ‘Just the antidote working its way through. Some ghastly little healer said it might be rough for a while. Nothing for you to concern yourself with.’

Draco frowned and prized his father’s fingers off the sheet, then let Lucius grip his hand instead, though his bones soon ached from the pressure. He sighed, relieved, when his father’s pain finally subsided and he relaxed a little.

‘Can’t they give you something to stop it?’ Draco asked.

Lucius shook his head. ‘Merlin knows where the money I donate to this place goes, certainly not into research. You’re sure you left the study as you found it?’

‘All I did was tidy away the bottles,’ said Draco, lowering his gaze momentarily. ‘And I borrowed some of the books. I’ll put them back tonight. I only wanted to look up some family history. I’m supposed to write an essay on a witch or wizard who’s had an impact on the development of modern magic. I was thinking of doing this one, Caius Malfoy.’ He leafed through until he found the right page and then laid the book on Lucius’ lap. ‘He travelled around Europe collecting spells and charms to ward off evil, and it says here that about half of what we’ll learn in Defence Against the Dark Arts is based on his research, and on this book he wrote back in the 1500s. It says he even had to cross through Muggle areas when they were having wars, just to find the answers he wanted. There’s a picture of him here.’ He slid a few more pages over and then pointed at the grainy black and white illustration. ‘I think that’s drawn from the portrait hanging on the east wing upstairs hall, isn’t it?’

‘I think so, yes,’ sighed Lucius without really looking.

‘I found it by accident, to be honest. Just caught my eye, the fact that he looks so much like you, or you look so much like him. Though to be honest, it’s strange looking through some of these books. Our family’s always looked so alike, judging from this lot. I mean, look at this one…Livius Malfoy. He even has the same hair. I thought about doing him as well, because he invented a potion for cleaning off magical stains, even ones enchanted to come back once the victim thinks they’re gone. Apparently someone got him with some sort of ‘embarrassing trouser stain’ hex once at Hogwarts and he never forgot it. But I thought Caius Malfoy and his vampires and things would give me more to work with.’

He toyed with the book, flicking past a few carefully chosen pages but doing his utmost to make it appear accidental and casual. He saw his father frown pensively and hoped it was the pictures.

‘Unless you know someone else in your family?’ he asked. ‘Someone better?’

Lucius sat up a little and thumbed through the book. ‘No,’ he answered quietly. ‘No, that sounds a good enough choice. In fact, I seem to recall there being a copy of Caius’ book somewhere in the upstairs library. I used it in fourth year, if I remember rightly, for an essay on trolls or something.’

‘Can you show me when you get home?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I just want to see the look on that mudblood Granger’s face when mine gets marked higher than hers for a change, and it might show her that no matter how many teachers she cons into liking her know-it-all answers and papers, its families like ours that’ve made magic what it is today, and it’s in our blood. I actually thought, if it’d be all right with you, that I’d maybe put something in the essay just about the fact that this ancestor looks like you, so you can see the same blood still coming through even centuries on.’

‘All right, Draco, I think that is quite enough,’ said Lucius.

‘Father?’

‘You know exactly what I mean. And if you ever lie to my face like that again, you will be very sorry, do you understand?’

Draco skulked back in his chair. ‘Yes, Father. Sorry, Father.’

A dry, buzzing silence fell over the ward again. Draco stared at his hands then his shoes.

‘It is true though,’ he whispered, taking a chance. ‘Father, there’s no way you can believe what that old Muggle said.’

‘It is none of your concern.’

‘But it is, Father. I’m sorry but it is.’ Draco bit his lip, more taken aback by his own nerve than the foul look Lucius shot him. ‘He didn’t just insult you, Father, he tried to say I was…I don’t know why he’d say it. There’s no way Grandfather would have married someone who might betray the blood like that. So there’s no way Grandmother would have gone near that old creature. He’s just got a grudge against the family, can’t think of any other way to get at us other than lying.’

‘I know,’ Lucius breathed. ‘You don’t think I’ve thought it through myself? I’ve had enough time, stuck in here. All this fuss. I had had a little too much to drink, that’s all. Shouldn’t have left that stuff of your grandfather’s lying around where I could pick it up, not that I could’ve known your relatives would drive me to drink myself to the point where I could no longer read labels.’

‘So it was just an accident, then?’

‘Of course,’ his father snapped. ‘What else would it be? You think I’d let the word of some mangy old Muggle affect me in any way?’

‘No, of course not, Father.’

Lucius stared at the ceiling above his bed for a long time and Draco found himself watching the lines on his father’s forehead, wishing that little crease of doubt would vanish entirely. He collected up the books in silence and set them to one side.

‘Are you sure there’s nothing you need from the house?’ he asked.

‘A change of clothes perhaps. I don’t know.’ From the sigh in Lucius’ voice, Draco reasoned he didn’t care either. Lucius frowned thoughtfully for a moment then glanced over. ‘Don’t disturb your mother with this, Draco. There’s no need to worry her unduly. Let her enjoy her holiday and by the time she comes home, everything should be back in order.’

‘I just thought maybe it would be good to have someone here.’

‘I do not need anyone here,’ said Lucius. ‘I have quite enough people fussing over me as it is, without your mother knowing…’ He gathered up the sheets and clutched them over his chest, but after only an instant he bethought himself and smoothed the cotton down. Outside, the corridor seemed suddenly noisy, full of clanks and clatters as the healers prepared the wake the wards up for breakfast. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the first streaks of daylight turning the sky from black to a deep but hazy blue, as if someone had shone a light through a velvet curtain. He opened his mouth to ask the question pressing for attention in his mind, but faltered twice before he found enough courage to voice it.

‘Father, why would you even think something like that anyway?’

Lucius shook his head. ‘I’ve told you…’

‘Father, please, I just want to know. I’m old enough to know. What happened with you and Grandfather? Was it because of him? Is that why you weren’t sure about the Muggle’s story?’

‘Will you keep your voice down?’

Draco sighed. ‘There’s no one here awake enough to listen. Besides, from what I’ve seen in here, everyone’s so wrapped up in how sick they are, they don’t even know there’s anyone else there. I just…I kept thinking about it last night. If I could be…’

‘You are not,’ said Lucius. ‘Whatever you might have seen or heard in that pensieve, you are a Malfoy. If there is anything murky in the past then that is where it has to stay. It’s all just rumour and speculation. By all official records you are pureblooded, untainted wizard and nothing can change that. I shan’t have my son doubt his provenance…’

‘And you think your father would want you to?’ Draco retorted.

‘How dare you speak to me like this!’

‘I’m sorry.’ Draco lowered his gaze but he kept an eye on his father all the same, watching him slyly through his fringe.

‘My father wanted far more of me than I ever gave him,’ Lucius admitted finally. ‘He had fairly controversial views on certain issues…’

‘Like the money?’

Lucius nodded. ‘Like the money. He had a thing about waste and extravagance. I’m not certain where it came from. But despite that, he truly believed that the Malfoys had an example to set to other wizard families. He believed in the prestige of the name and thought I wasn’t exactly up to it. In hindsight, perhaps he was afraid I might turn out to be too much like him.’ Lucius paused. At first Draco worried his father might be in pain again, but when he glanced up, he saw Lucius frowning deep in thought.

‘Despite his name and despite his ideas as to good wizarding conduct,’ Lucius went on, ‘many people saw him as something of a joke. If I am to believe the reports I’ve heard, then my mother’s family and the Blacks were the guiltiest parties in that respect. They saw him as a mistake, laughed at his ideas to preserve the family fortune and ridiculed him because he never managed to rise very far through the Ministry ranks. He was a bureaucrat of some sort in the Department of International Magical Co-operation. He had all the right connections, only whenever they let him in charge of anything important, they then had to follow him around cleaning up the mess. He just hadn’t the right mindset for leadership. Not his fault. But they looked on him as some sort of joke because of it. I can understand it being true about my mother. That she left him, I mean, not the nonsense about Muggles. But from what I’ve pieced together from other relatives, she grew tired of trying to push him on and make him be the man he wanted to be. I suppose it could be true that she left him. He always told me she’d died, but then how would he look at his son and say she had gone because he was too much of a failure?’

Draco clutched one of the books to his chest and then reached over to take his father’s hand again. After another bout of antidote-induced spasms, the pair of them relaxed and Lucius breathed deeply for a while, but Draco kept a hold of him.

‘At the time,’ Lucius continued, ‘I thought my father was lashing out because he had no one else to take out his frustrations on. Imagine living like the Weasleys, not allowed any of the latest books or brooms or holidays, but unlike them, you knew you had the money just sitting in a vault at Gringotts? I hated him when I was young, and I was convinced he hated me. I could never understand it, because no matter what I did, no matter what I achieved, he never seemed to change. If I failed an exam I was shouted at to do better, if I passed I was shouted at not to rest on my laurels. I could never understand what it was about me that he despised. I was a Malfoy. I was his only son and heir to the name. Yet he treated me as if I was some cumbersome house elf that kept dropping the crockery; something he had to endure and couldn’t get rid of, but would gladly curse into the Next World if he ever had the chance.’

‘So,’ said Draco, ‘thinking that he might have suspected…’

‘It made sense at the time,’ his father replied. ‘But then how much sense can anything make after that amount of alcohol. It’s my own fault, and for once you are not to follow my example, understand? Just what the old bastard said about my father knowing what I was…I thought finally I understood why he treated me like that.’

‘Still, just because Grandfather might’ve thought that, doesn’t make it true.’

‘No. It doesn’t. The Muggle may well have told your grandfather the same lies for all we know. But I thought about it for a while this morning before you came in, just wondering if it could be true, if my mother really did leave us and what would make her do that. Perhaps your Grandfather only wanted to make sure I never resembled him, or made the mistakes he did. He must’ve known…at least in the beginning…that he couldn’t achieve what he wanted and perhaps he wanted to push me because he never wanted me to know that frustration.’

‘Well, it worked though,’ said Draco. ‘I mean, you can do whatever you want. You’re one of the greatest wizards…’

Lucius scowled at him. ‘You and I have tasks appointed us by our blood, and parts to play in the destiny of all witches and wizards on account of who we are. This world may be about to change, Draco, and it will be up to us to see to it that things change for the better. Situations like your Grandfather’s…Muggles weaselling their way into our lives as if they have some entitlement…it will be up to us to make sure they never happen again. I think you understand me.’

Draco nodded. ‘I do.’ And, he thought, no Muggle or Muggle-born will ever cause this family so much hardship again.

‘Perhaps your Grandfather knew more than they credited him with,’ Lucius went on. ‘Perhaps he knew what was to come and simply wanted to make sure we would be strong enough to face it.’

Draco smiled nervously. ‘Sounds like you did a lot of thinking this morning.’

‘Well, what am I supposed to do in here? Listen to the Symphony for Snoring Old People in A Flat minor?’

One of the other patients grunted as if to protest this insult. Draco laughed quietly to himself.

‘So long as you are all right, Father,’ he whispered. Lucius shrugged and ignored him.

‘I was thinking too,’ Draco tried again. Lucius glanced up and raised an eyebrow to warn him off speaking out of turn again, but he carried on unfazed. ‘It’s a little like what you were saying earlier about making sure the Muggles don’t get too close or think they can get too close.’

‘Oh?’

‘Just, when you get out of here,’ said Draco. ‘I had a thought about something we could do.’


2.

An owl hooted coolly across the night, but nothing else stirred. All along the road to the village, another thick blanket of mist drifted between the bushes and turned the trees into spectral shapes that leapt suddenly out of the dark. Wands held high and gleaming from Lumos charms, Draco and his father moved soundlessly through the countryside. Draco grinned with excitement and his smile widened whenever he saw his father’s expression. Over the last few days he had watched the weariness dissipate from his father’s features, to be replaced by a sort of wicked pleasure, as if the thought of their mission was also working through his veins with the last of the antidote. He had not actually said this was a good idea, but Draco knew his father was proud. He could see the satisfaction there in the way Lucius’ eyes sparkled and wondered once or twice if his Grandfather had ever looked that way. If Lucius was right, and old Abraxas only worried that his son might be an embarrassment to the name, then surely he had to have been pleased when he saw how Lucius turned out.

They passed the standing stones and entered the outskirts of Avebury, where a blustery wind whipped around the trees and whistled as it flailed around the buildings. A few of the houses had lights on, but the two wizards moved so quickly and so quietly that even if someone had looked out, they would only have seen two streaks of light dart across the green.

When they reached the old cottage, Draco nudged his father and they extinguished their lights in unison. It took a moment for Draco’s eyes to adjust to the darkness, but then he soon picked out the white plaster of the house as it reflected the moonlight, and spotted the black slab that was the garage door. Lucius went over and opened it, ducked inside, and a moment later the growl of an engine shattered the silence. Draco went to the drive and waited until his father had reversed the Silver Wraith down to the gate before he got into the passenger seat. Lucius studied the controls with a deep frown of concentration, struggling to remember what each button did, then let out a little ‘ah’ as he found the button that would keep them invisible so far as the Muggles were concerned.

‘You’re sure you don’t want this?’ Lucius asked.

Draco smiled. ‘Let’s go.’

They drove through the sleeping village to the Muggle garage. The wrecked cars were still in the field and tree, but there were no Ministry officials hanging about. Draco’s heart thudded. They parked on the road and got out, then retreated onto the verge and leaned against the wire fence. They exchanged glances and Draco sighed to steady his nerves.

‘No more Muggles,’ he whispered to himself.

They cast their charm together, laughing as soon as they had said it, and watched the Rolls Royce levitate off the road and soar up into the night air. It twirled above the garage roof, glinting in the moonlight.

‘Now let it go!’ Draco called out. They lowered their wands and let the car fall. With a deafening crash it broke through the flimsy roof and clattered down into the building. The noise continued for a long while after the dust had settled, but Draco couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed at the outcome. He frowned and looked at the grubby old place. No one would even notice the damage, most likely. There was an odd rushing sound inside though, something he couldn’t quite place, and a strange smell of burning suddenly floated across the chilly air.

‘Ah well,’ sighed Lucius. ‘That’s that then.’

‘I suppose,’ said Draco. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d expected, but this was not it.

‘The car’s gone,’ Lucius told him. ‘The last trace of Muggle influence on this family. What more do you want?’

They turned to leave, when suddenly a bang louder than anything Draco had ever heard boomed out from the garage. The blast threw them both to the ground and Draco landed on his face in the grass. He glanced over his shoulder and saw glittering flames billowing out from the blackened remains of the building, burning debris bouncing down into the fields, where they started smaller fires. The stench of chemicals and soot made Draco choke but he laughed anyway. Beside him, his father flipped his cloak back from his face and glowered out at the explosion.

‘Something like that!’ Draco laughed.

Lucius swept his hair back from his face and shook his head. Then very slowly, a smile spread over his soot-streaked features and he began to laugh darkly. Long after the sirens of some Muggle vehicle forced them to leave the fire and return to the house, Lucius kept on smiling to himself and let out the occasional chuckle.

‘So,’ Lucius sighed as they reached the gates to the house, ‘have you got everything ready for tomorrow? I sent an owl ahead to remind Dumbledore you were coming back. I sent one to McGonagall too, just to suggest she keeps an eye out for those early editions of the Prophet, and that she deals severely with anyone who mentions it.’

‘I’ll deal with it,’ said Draco. ‘Anyone tries to say anything to me, they’ll get a swift hex in the back.’

‘Good boy. Just be sure if you’re caught to make a fuss and be as upset as you possibly can be. It doesn’t pay to show weakness in front of your peers, but it can work wonders in front of teachers, especially McGonagall.’

‘Yes, Father.’

Lucius leaned against the gate post and glanced towards the house. ‘I think it best that we never mention this again. Any of it.’

‘Of course, Father.’

Lucius considered him a while as if checking for any hint of a lie, then he nodded and, pulling himself up straight, offered his hand. Draco accepted and tried not to smile too much.

‘You’ve done well,’ said Lucius, then they walked in silence back to the house.





‘It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,’ said Ron, wiping his sweaty brow with a shaking hand. ‘Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s mad. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.’
- Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter seven.
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