Malfoy's Worst Memory

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.