The White Peacock
By Bambu
Summary: For some, a paradigm shift takes a fraction of a second. For Lucius Malfoy, that fraction of a second is three decades in the making.
Disclaimer and Author's Note: The underlying source material belongs in its entirety to JK Rowling (save where she has sold her rights to various entities). Other than my readers' enjoyment, I make no monetary profit from exercising my imagination and honing my skills as a writer.
This story was written for Live Journal's Lucius Big Bang festival in 2010. Please be advised this story is epilogue compliant, and in one scene I have quoted dialogue directly from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Those quotes will be found in boldface.
My ever-patient beta-team, TalesofSnape, Bambumom, and Mundungus42, has my everlasting gratitude. I've dumped odd bits and pieces in their laps, and then, finally, the whole thing in a rush. Thank you, ladies, as always.
~o0o~
The first time he saw her after the war, she was in the witness chair. His was among the last of the Post-Voldemort Death Eater trials, and a parade of witnesses had already taken the stand. By that point in the proceedings, Lucius had donned the mask of polite disinterest he'd perfected over the years, but his ears heard each word of damning testimony. It littered his mental landscape like the incendiary hexes hurling past him at Hogwarts that last day.
His already perfect posture stiffened when he heard the bailiff announce her name. The rolling wave of accolades which preceded her entrance into courtroom ten crashed against the storm-tossed shore of his defenses, and he refused to look at her.
A young page with carefully combed hair and starched formal robes scurried down the aisle to hand Lucius' barrister, Henry Cromwell, a scroll of parchment. Cromwell, youngest partner in Carstairs, Avery & Lovegood, the Malfoy family representatives for seven generations, dismissed the lad with a quiet word of praise. Cromwell, the first half-blood in the firm's history and its rising star, unrolled the note, scanned its contents swiftly, and only his table-mate heard him grunt. Satisfaction or dismay, Lucius wondered.
As if it mattered.
While the questioning of the witness commenced, Lucius stared across the room, at the ancient timbers lining its walls, and let his brain idle. Added to the weight of previous testimony, her condemnation could only end in one result: he would lose. Fighting the urge to shrug his shoulders, Lucius thought, what more can be taken from me? He had already lost the goodwill of his wife and the respect of his son. He had backed the wrong political party and Voldemort had been irrevocably defeated. Despite his own youthful fantasies of power and prestige, Lucius' life had not been better with the Death Eaters in control.
The sound of the special prosecutor's questions and the witness' answers droned on.
"Are you saying the defendant wasn't under the effects of the Imperius curse?"
"No, sir. I'm saying I don't know the defendant well enough to tell. I've met Mr. Malfoy a handful of times. I met Mr. Crouch an equal number of times during the Triwizard Tournament, and I never knew he was Imperiused at the time."
It was entirely likely the Malfoy family fortune and estates would devolve to some third cousin twice removed, and Lucius gritted his teeth at the thought. Before his imagination conjured an image of Arthur Weasley drinking cognac in the manor's library, Lucius' attention was arrested by the prosecutor's next question.
"Is it true you testified on Draco Malfoy's behalf?"
Momentarily his façade shattered and Lucius snapped his head in the witness' direction. He stared at the young woman incredulously. His first, irrelevant thought was that she was so young. His second was that she cleaned up quite nicely, despite the depredations of the past year. She was too thin, her small but regular features standing out in her pale face, and her wild hair was neatly confined in an elegant twist at the back of her head.
"If by telling the truth," Hermione Granger replied, "you consider it testifying on his behalf, then the answer is yes."
"And what was the nature of your relationship with the Malfoy heir, Miss Granger?"
The underlying insinuation wasn't lost on anyone in the vast courtroom, and at Lucius' side Cromwell ceased writing, his quill poised mid-word, but the witness seemed unfazed.
Hermione angled her head as if to toss a mane of unruly hair out of her face and tilted her chin.
Lucius almost admired her spunk.
"Adversarial," was her reply.
"I beg your pardon?" asked the special prosecutor. Harold Butcher had waited years for his opportunity to shine before the Wizengamot. His robes were new – bought before his first, successful Death Eater trial – and he adjusted his crimson and gold striped tie. He never said he was a Gryffindor, but he never corrected others' assumptions either. During Voldemort's short-lived control of the wizarding government, Butcher had worn green and silver ties, kept his head down, his mouth shut, and had survived the post-war purge.
In the witness chair, Hermione demurely crossed her legs at the ankle, exactly like a pureblood witch, and answered readily enough. "We weren't friends."
"Weren't? And are you friends with him now?"
She sniffed in disdain. "Mr. Butcher, I can assure you that at no point since our acquaintance began have Draco Malfoy and I been friends. At best, we were academic rivals, at worst, he was –" she faltered for the first time.
Flashes of memory exploded behind Lucius' eyelids: her writhing in agony on the carpet of his drawing room, screaming; a thin red scar bisecting her chest; horror etched upon her face as Greyback licked her skin; that same expression mirrored on Draco's face as he watched.
Lucius gripped the wooden arm of his chair, the courtroom was silent, and there was triumph in Butcher's voice as he prompted the witness. "Yes?"
Hermione swallowed hard before answering. "At worst, Draco Malfoy was a terrified young man operating under coercion no adult could withstand. He might have used insults he learnt as a child—" serious brown eyes swept the serried rows of the wizarding world's judiciary, resting at last on the immaculately groomed figure of Narcissa Malfoy seated two rows behind her husband, "—and he might bear the Dark Mark on his arm, but when given the opportunity, he did not betray Harry or Ron or me to our captors or Bellatrix Lestrange."
Butcher frowned, but rallied. "And yet, according to Mr. Potter, Draco Malfoy was involved in the Fiendfyre episode where he attempted to kill you during the Battle for Hogwarts."
"I think you're misstating what Harry said." The prosecutor's lips thinned in displeasure, and Hermione continued, undaunted. "Greg Goyle and Vince Crabbe were trying to kill Harry; Malfoy attempted to keep them from doing so."
"I find that hard to believe."
Cromwell rose from his seat, dark eyes flashing. "Your Honor," he addressed the head mugwump, one hand turned elegantly toward the prosecutor, "my esteemed colleague, Mr. Butcher, is harassing his own witness."
"I concur, Mr. Cromwell." The head mugwump looked down his slender nose and nodded. "Mr. Butcher, stop badgering the witness. Miss Granger is not on trial."
"Yes, sir." Butcher swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing in his scrawny throat, and he shuffled the parchment on the barrister's table while visibly reining in his irritation. "My apologies, Miss Granger. Allow me to restate. I understand you were present when Harry Potter saved Draco Malfoy's life from Fiendfyre conjured by the late Vincent Crabbe."
Hermione's lips twisted in an odd smile. "Yes. If Malfoy owes anyone a life debt, it's Harry. I think Malfoy was just trying to stay alive. In fact, I think he's very much like his father."
Flurries of whispered comments broke out in the courtroom, Cromwell underlined a note on his parchment, and Lucius considered the truth of Hermione's statement.
Then, regaining his attention, she said with clipped deliberation, "Let me say this more plainly, Mr. Butcher. Regardless of his politics or out-dated bigotry, Lucius Malfoy did NOT curse, hex, or otherwise attack me whilst I was a prisoner in his home. The late and unlamented Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback were responsible. Mr. Malfoy was only a witness to my treatment at their hands."
When she left the room, Lucius noted the way her tasteful robes swirled about her neatly shod feet, and he realized the color of the fabric matched the crimson of her blood; the blood he had last seen marring the alabaster perfection of her throat.
It was the same color as his.
Excerpts from a letter written to Bertram Avery, senior partner in Carstairs, Avery & Lovegood, no. 12 Upper Diagon Alley, London, England by Henry Cromwell, partner in Carstairs, Avery & Lovegood, Ministry Archives, Ministry of Magic, London, England
Dear Bert,
The Granger girl was perfect; honorable, self-sacrificing, and as intelligent as we were led to believe. The next time Minerva waxes poetic about one of her protégés, I trust you'll listen with equally sharp attention.
.
.
.
I'm quite thankful for the Malfoy hauteur, otherwise, his fatalism could be fatal (if you'll excuse the pun) for our case. Indeed, Lucius is quite certain the verdict will be equivalent to a dementor's kiss despite any argument I might put forth. And yet, after Potter took the stand, and now with Granger's testimony, I believe the outcome we desire is within our reach.
Shacklebolt also took the stand today. His testimony ….
.
.
.
If Minerva is as perceptive about all her cubs as she has been about Potter and Granger, I have my work cut out for me with young Weasley tomorrow. If he is as susceptible to flattery as we suspect, I will do my utmost to truncate Weasley's time on the stand. For all his faults, Butcher can be as focused as a merman hunting grindylows, and...
.
.
.
Until we next meet, I trust my owl finds you in good health. If you continue to court the esteemed Madam McGonagall, I shall be the first to offer you joy.
Yrs, etc. etc.
Hal
~o0o~
The next time he saw her, Lucius was languishing in Azkaban prison. He had served five of his ten years, and Cromwell had assured Lucius he would be released before he served a sixth. Good behavior, it seemed, had its own rewards.
While he could attest to the differences between Azkaban then and Azkaban now - lack of dementors being the most notable – a proper cup of tea seemed beyond the abilities of the prison-elves. Lucius drank the weak, lukewarm beverage on his breakfast tray whilst reading Draco's latest letter. Mail was only one advantage to the reformed prison system, and Lucius had taken full advantage of it to manage what was left of his fortune and estate, and to keep abreast of wizarding current events.
Over the years, attrition had narrowed Lucius' approved list of correspondents from five to three. The first name excised from the list occurred before he had stepped into the closet-sized cell that was to be his domicile for a decade.
For a moment, Draco's neatly scripted words blurred as painful memory blossomed in Lucius' mind.
He had been lucky at his trial. Cromwell had argued and won his case. As Lucius hadn't committed a single crime during his year of emasculated house arrest, he was simply returned to Azkaban to serve the remainder of his original sentence for the disastrous break-in at the Hall of Prophecy. He had retained his life and most of his fortune – that which Voldemort had not spent, or the steep legal fees required for three separate Malfoy family trials.
While awaiting conveyance from the Ministry of Magic, Lucius had an unexpected visitor.
"You can't correspond with Severus Snape," the Minister pro tem said, his voice oddly strangled, a rumpled piece of parchment gripped in his hand.
"I see." Out of long-standing habit, Lucius threaded a thick strand of his pearl-white hair through his fingers. "Perhaps his and my library hours will coincide at Azkaban."
Shacklebolt goggled at Lucius, crossed the scuffed floor of the Magical Law Enforcement holding cell and sat in the rickety wooden chair facing the prisoner. "Did no one tell you?
"Given your dismay, the answer is obvious. No. I haven't been told." When Shacklebolt shifted uncomfortably, Lucius' patience snapped. "What haven't I been told?"
"Snape's dead."
It took several seconds before Lucius could speak. "Severus is dead?"
A grimace of utter revulsion crossed Shacklebolt's handsome face. "Voldemort loosed his snake on him."
Lucius blinked. "His perfidy was uncovered?"
"Perfidy?"
"Don't pretend to misunderstand me, Shacklebolt."
The minister smiled fleetingly, white teeth a startling contrast to his complexion. "I sometimes forget we were at school together."
"Indeed, you were adequate competition."
For a brief moment, they could have been seventeen again and vying for Aurora Sinistra's attention in Advanced Arithmancy, yet the gravitas of thirty years quickly settled upon their shoulders.
"No," Shacklebolt said, "Voldemort never discovered Snape's true motivations. He kept things close to the vest, that one. I doubt anyone knew before Harry declared Snape's devotion to –"
Lucius snorted derisively.
"You knew?" Shacklebolt asked.
"Severus was my friend."
"Merlin's short and curlies, Lucius! How could you continue— Why did you never—" Shacklebolt shook his head. "It doesn't matter any longer. The point is Voldemort never knew. He killed Snape to acquire his wand."
"His wand? Why would the Dark – Voldemort want Severus' wand? He had already taken mine." Bitter resentment colored Lucius' words.
"The great irony is it didn't work for Voldemort at all; the wand's allegiance had already been won by Draco."
Lucius jerked as if he'd been hit with a Stinging Hex. "Draco?"
A small chime rang and Shacklebolt pulled an ornate timepiece from a pocket of his robes. He glanced at it, grimaced, and shook his head. "I must go."
"What about Draco?"
Shacklebolt deliberately side-stepped the real question. "I've already taken steps to see he has gainful employment during the term of his probation." He pocketed the timepiece. "We won't be meeting again, Lucius – at least not in the immediately foreseeable future. The climate is too unsettled, and there are other considerations to take into account."
Before Lucius could give voice to any of his dozen questions, Shacklebolt left the room. It was only later Lucius discovered the minister had made a place for Draco within his own staff.
In the course of the following five years, Draco faithfully corresponded with his father. Their first few missives were stilted and filled with unwritten recriminations. Lucius was nevertheless thankful he and his son had managed the difficult bits.
He blinked, recalling himself to his location, and re-read the last paragraph of Draco's letter.
Cromwell's partner assures me you'll be home for the holidays. I won't choose the Yule tree until you're here and we can do it together. Remember how much fun it used to be?"
Lucius did remember.
It was an annual father-son tradition. Depending on Draco's age and the protective charms on his broom, father and son would race their broomsticks through the New Forest adjoining Malfoy land, eat the picnic packed by the house-elves, and as the sun began its descent, they would choose the perfect tree. When they returned to the manor, Narcissa would be waiting with refreshments: fresh cocoa for Draco, Calvados for Lucius, and warm gingerbread for the family.
Of course, this year, Narcissa wouldn't be part of that tradition. She was the other correspondent who had been dropped from Lucius' list. This year, as for the past four, she would be enjoying her new life in Monaco's wizarding enclave. Narcissa had stood by Lucius until his sentence was read, and then had used her first, and only, conjugal visit to serve him with divorce papers.
At the time, it had been a brutal repudiation, but five years of semi-isolation had granted Lucius new perspective on a number of things, including his marriage.
Lost in the past, he didn't hear his cell door open.
"You have a visitor, Malfoy. Get up and come with me."
"Good morning to you, Mr. Folsom," Lucius replied, folding his letter and slipping it under the scratchy wool blanket he used as a pillow. "I trust Mrs. Folsom is well and all the little Folsoms are healthy."
Folsom nodded, but didn't comment. Reconstructionist guards at Azkaban weren't allowed to harm the prisoners unless given a reason; Lucius never gave them a reason.
He followed his guard along draughty corridors, refusing to hurry or hunch his shoulders against the biting cold of the incessant North Wind buffeting Azkaban. They descended into the depths of the rocky island, and toward the prison's warmest rooms: the library and visiting room, where fires burned day and night warding off the predations of sea salt.
Lucius halted abruptly in the visiting room's doorway. "I suspect there's been a mistake," he said.
Hermione Granger turned from staring at the fire, her eyes widening when she caught sight of Lucius, but her composure didn't otherwise falter.
The differences in her might be as notable as the changes in him. Lucius barely registered her clothing beyond the fact her unremarkable robes were of excellent quality and the color suited her; he was too busy staring at her wealth of hair. Whereas his had been shorn before he had reached his cell, and kept short subsequently, Hermione's hair had been allowed to grow until it reached the small of her back, its weight pulling some of the rampant bushiness from its mass. It shone in the firelight, and if one were to take the time to look, myriad hues from golden brown to chestnut could be seen amongst the curls.
"There's been no mistake, Mr. Malfoy," she said quietly, her formerly girlish tone modulated by maturity. "You're under no obligation to agree, but I would like to speak with you."
Lucius' curiosity overrode any disinclination he might have, and he bowed his head in acquiescence.
Hermione started forward, but checked her movement when Folsom waved his wand. A magical halo shimmered into existence a handspan above Lucius, and then it dropped like a net to engulf its recipient. "I'm sure that isn't necessary," she said. "I have my wand."
"Azkaban policy, Miss Granger." Folsom nodded abruptly and departed.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room came from the snap and crackle of the fire.
"Won't you sit, Mr. Malfoy?"
The security bubble inhibited the fire's heat so Lucius chose the chair nearest the hearth, barely refraining from rubbing his hands together.
Once he was seated, Hermione sat in the facing chair, placing a curiously beaded bag on the occasional table at her side.
Lucius waited. Five years of relative isolation had taught him patience – at least the semblance of patience.
"I'm sure you don't need to ask why I'm here."
"Indeed, Miss Granger, I haven't the faintest notion."
She practically gaped at him, but recovered quickly. "Doesn't Draco write to you every week?"
He arched an eyebrow, but his only remark was, "My son's letters are censored."
"They censor his letters?"
For some reason her naïveté amused him. "I am a prisoner, and Draco's status is probationary. Surely you didn't think we enjoyed an unexpurgated correspondence?" Her cheeks blossomed in a rosy flush and her eyes narrowed. Forestalling any outburst of temper, Lucius said, "Draco fills me in on the details of his life, Miss Granger, and my solicitor covers the wizarding world. Thus, it's safe to say I know as much as the average wizard."
"I see. I had counted on your having some— I'm not certain where to start." She brushed nonexistent lint from the skirt of her robes. "Have you heard about Reconciliation Act 21?"
"Not as such, no."
"Then if you don't mind, I'll give you a little background information."
"I am here at your convenience."
Hermione frowned at his tone before slipping her wand from the sleeve of her robes in a smooth, well-practiced motion. She whipped the vine wood in a series of arcs and loops.
Without realizing it Lucius had leaned forward at the second stroke of the familiar incantation. "Where did you learn that spell?" he asked sharply.
"Harry taught me."
"Potter?"
"He found it in a book that once belonged to Severus Snape. Horace Slughorn gave it to Harry our sixth year at Hogwarts."
Lucius' attention was arrested for a moment by the profound sorrow which shadowed her expression, but then disparate facts slotted neatly into historic gaps, drawing an accurate picture of an altercation which had occurred in a girl's lavatory.
Yet, before he said anything disparaging about the Boy Triumphant, Hermione spoke. "I was only given a short amount of time to meet with you, Mr. Malfoy, and if you don't mind, I'd like to get to the point."
He arched an eyebrow. "Do go on, Miss Granger."
"The recent unpleasantness, as so many are terming it these days, has had profound effects on the magical population. Over the past four years, there have been several attempts to boost the birth rate."
"Tax incentives? The Daily Prophet running articles on the bucolic joys of family life?" Idly, he traced the upholstered seam in the arm of his chair, and he noticed her eyes following the movement of his fingers.
"Exactly," she said, changing the slant of her focus to his face. "Yet, according to several factions, these efforts haven't been enough. Last year, a new proposal was bandied about. I heard rumors mostly, and was sure the idiocy of the proposal would die of natural causes."
"I take it you were wrong."
She muffled a bitter laugh. "Regrettably. I don't know where it originated, but Reconciliation Act 21 is a marriage law."
"The Ministry is offering benefits to those who marry? I fail to see its offense." Lucius' voice took on a sardonic twist. "Surely you are not against the noble institution of marriage."
She shook her head, her curls undulating like ever-widening ripples on a pond. "You don't understand. I can't believe Draco didn't tell you. Mr. Malfoy, the proposed law would, in effect, force people like Draco to marry people like … well … me. Pureblood to Muggle-born."
"Ridiculous!" His already wounded dogma shrieked in mortal extremis.
Hermione went rigid. "I see." She rose to her feet. "This was a mistake."
If she left, he would lose whatever inside information she might reveal, and he couldn't protect Draco without that knowledge. Lucius ignored his rather poor track record; every time he attempted to protect his family, his efforts landed him in front of the Wizengamot or in Azkaban. "You mistake me."
"Do I?" she asked skeptically.
"Indeed." She didn't move although she was poised to depart, and Lucius realized Cromwell's assessment of her character was entirely on point. Honorable. Intelligent. Self-sacrificing. In other circumstances he would have smiled and added tenacious to the list. "I beg your pardon, Miss Granger," he said smoothly. "I was not referring to you, or even to any hypothetical marriage between you and Draco. There are simply too many pureblood families to let this law pass. Surely Shacklebolt—" Her expression stilled his tongue.
"How ironic that I wish it were true, Mr. Malfoy," she said, her words precise. "In fact, Muggle-borns and purebloods are allies in this fight, but the Ministry has found a new argument which just might persuade the Wizengamot to pass this atrocious referendum."
"A new argument?" His tone was encouraging, but not overtly so. "One which forces diametrically opposed factions to marry and procreate?"
"As startling as it may seem." There was an edge to her tone, but Hermione perched on the chair, engaged in spite of her obvious reservations. "The pro-marriage-law faction is relying heavily upon studies from St. Mungo's which chart the rise of Squib births in pureblood families, and the decrease of those births in half-bloods."
Lucius stared. "Is there such a report?"
"Oh, yes. I … er … acquired a copy." As she spoke, she retrieved a sheaf of parchment from her seemingly too-small bag.
Despite their own adversarial history, Lucius nearly chuckled at her choice of words, and what she so carefully did not say. Instead, he remarked, "Interesting bag."
"You have no idea." She smiled, holding out her arm to offer him the report. Hermione's smile dropped from her lips when he leaned away from her. "I wasn't going to touch you," she said, her voice tight and sharp.
"The security bubble," he replied. She would have to grow a thicker skin, he thought, watching her too-expressive face. He saw comprehension replace hurt and he took advantage of her vulnerability. "The results would be entirely unpleasant for me, I assure you."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Sorry. Is it just me? Can you touch the report at all? What if I put it on the table?"
"That would be sufficient; as long as you and I are not touching the item simultaneously."
She crossed to the nearest table, laying the report on its scarred surface. "Paranoid about Portkeys are they?"
"Amongst other things." Lucius rose from his seat, perversely satisfied when she seemed to retreat from his advance. He raised an eyebrow in silent query.
"I don't want you to be hurt on my account."
"Generous of you, Miss Granger." He glanced at the cover sheet before taking the report back to his chair. "In the interests of time, what does it say?"
"That's the remarkable thing. The Arithmancy is accurate as far as I can tell, but when I looked at the raw data and results I found something no one seems to have taken into account."
Balancing the report on the arm of his chair, Lucius said, "You'll understand if I ask why you've brought it to me."
She tilted her chin exactly as he had seen her do in the courtroom six years before, and then she resumed her seat, not at all hesitant about reaching her hands toward the fire for its warmth. "No one will listen to me. I'm not a Healer, and I don't have the training. I was told to leave it alone. To accept the terms of the Act because it means that when Ron and I marry we'll receive enough tax breaks to afford a house sooner than we might otherwise. As if that's the only reason I'd marry Ron." She bit her lip. "I beg your pardon. That's a bit too much information."
He controlled his desire to chuckle. "Your frustration is understandable, your goal even – dare I say – noble. But again, I ask you why you've come to me."
"Because none of the other pureblooded prisoners will speak with me. Because no one will take me seriously." Emotion drove her answer, and her cheeks flushed with frustration. "Because I've been told my questions step beyond the bounds of familial privacy and personal grief. Because I was told I'm a nosy know-it-all and I'm being intrusive!"
"I see." Lucius angled his head and looked at her.
Hermione Granger was a rising star if her ability to arrange an audience with him was anything to measure. She was marrying into a well-respected pureblood family. She was easy on the eyes; her body had ripened into womanhood. Her fragrance was floral, but not cloying.
Lucius inhaled, letting her fresh scent override the staleness of their surroundings. Yet, it was not these outer trappings of nascent adulthood which made Lucius seriously consider her request.
It was her potential.
Hermione bore his scrutiny patiently, her hands crossed in her lap, her brown eyes meeting his curiosity with an opaque wall which showed her to be an avid student of Occlumency.
He nodded and she smirked.
Then he stared at the report balancing on the arm of his chair. After several moments, the fire crackled in the grate, sparks popping as heat ignited the natural oils in the wood.
Finally, Lucius raised his head and asked, "What do you wish to know?"
Hermione heaved a sigh of relief and smiled widely, and he was reminded that Draco had once found her exceedingly pretty.
"First," she said, "let me explain what I noticed in St. Mungo's research. It included data on the rise of stillbirths and Squibs, and in an overwhelming majority of Squib births the mothers were over the age of forty-five."
Lucius had stiffened during her comment, and he said coldly, "If this is the crux of your case, you've wasted my time. Wizarding longevity is—"
"Please hear me out!" she implored.
He barely heard her.
She had unknowingly opened a long-unhealed wound by mentioning stillbirths. Even now, after so many years, Lucius could see the pale face of his firstborn in his mind's eye. A son. A perfect, miniature imitation of his father. But young Abraxas had been stillborn.
Nothing in his pampered life had prepared Lucius for the pain of such a loss. That the devastation coincided with the birth of young Percival Ignatius Weasley had solidified Lucius' dislike of his cousin, Arthur. Arthur and Lucius had competed since they were children – Quidditch, school marks, wives – but in this one thing, the most important of all, Arthur had succeeded where Lucius had not.
Abraxas Malfoy, senior, had never let an occasion pass when he could praise his nephew, Arthur, for his intelligence, compassion, and even his tolerance of Muggles and their culture. Abraxas had waxed lyrical over his perceived evidence of Arthur's noblesse oblige.
By the time Draco had been born, after three additional stillbirths taxed Narcissa's constitution to the breaking point, Lucius had loathed Arthur and all that he stood for.
Hermione Granger's regurgitation of information rolled over him, a soothing blanket of facts, figures and information he would remember and consider later.
"Muggle-borns and half-bloods tend to have children at an earlier age than purebloods, possibly a result of cultural conditioning from their Muggle families whose lifespans are so much shorter." She rummaged in her beaded bag and retrieved a scroll. "What you may or may not know, Mr. Malfoy, is that there's a chromosomal disorder occurring in all human populations which causes cognitive and physical impairment. I think it exists in the magical community, only we call those children Squibs."
Lucius refocused his mind at her last statement, a terrible truth forming in his mind as she spoke.
"The syndrome is passed from generation to generation, and its cause is directly linked to the age of the mother."
She paused, and Lucius was astute enough to realize this was the reason she had come. "And the question you would ask, Miss Granger?"
Her fingers twisted together. "How old was your mother when she gave birth to your brother."
Despite being prepared, flags of temper flew high on Lucius' cheekbones, and he noticed Hermione's hand tighten on her wand. When he spoke his tone was as frigid as the corridors of his prison home. "It seems my son has forgotten how to hold his tongue."
"Draco would like to have freedom in his choice of wives," she replied hotly.
"You said you weren't interested in becoming Draco's wife."
She held her hand to forestall any further outburst on his part, but then said bitingly, "Let me reassure you that I have no interest in marrying your son. I am already engaged to another man."
Lucius was quite pleased she didn't say the unspoken 'a better man', because then he would have been forced to walk out, and that would have been counter-productive. If the law passed, Draco would still be subject to its terms.
"Look, Mr. Malfoy, Draco was the one who suggested I speak with you in the first place."
Lucius deliberately relaxed his shoulders and unclenched his jaw. "Why didn't you say so at the outset?"
"I had hoped to acquire your help based on the merits of my argument alone."
He snorted. "While I might admire your sentiment, it would have been less foolhardy had you told me Draco sent you."
She sniffed in irritation. "Evidently."
"I fail to see why you should come to me when Draco could have asked my mother."
"Apparently her portrait refuses to speak to him."
"I see." He paused for a moment, a smile tugging at his lips in fond remembrance.
"You do?"
While contemplating his answer, three logs rose from the stack on the hearth and settled onto the dying fire. A flare of sparks rose up the chimney, and Lucius watched the fresh wood ignite. Then he spoke. "My mother was quite sensitive about her age, and a devotee of the Cult of Beauty. She would deem Draco's question a great impertinence. But to answer your question, Miss Granger, my mother was in her fifties when Marcus was born."
She retrieved quill and ink from her bag. "I'm very sorry to ask, but could you be more precise? I'd like to have as accurate information as possible."
"She was fifty-six when Marcus was born. And she was sixty-five when he died."
Lucius ran his fingers through the velvety nap of his too-short hair, and remembered his brother. An odd-looking child, Marcus had been relegated to a suite of rooms in the manor's guest wing where he was attended by house-elves for the majority of his short life. Neither Abraxas nor Catherine had spent time with their younger son, but Lucius had adored the quirky little boy.
Although forbidden, when Lucius was home from school he would sneak into Marcus' rooms to read him bedtime stories. Marcus had died shortly after his ninth birthday, within weeks of the family Healer confirming the second Malfoy son was a Squib.
Abruptly, Lucius leafed through the St. Mungo's report – conveniently flagged with a magical color-coded charm (neatly annotated on the front sheet) to open at specific pages. He scanned the data and three relevant graphs. "This is the sample on which you intend to base your argument?" When Hermione didn't respond immediately, he said, "It's premature of you to draw a correlation between a Muggle dysfunction and a magical one with such scant information. Utterly irresponsible."
Huffing in annoyance, Hermione corked her bottle of ink before rising to place an additional scroll on the table. "Look at this, Mr. Malfoy. The correlation is not erroneous, nor is it premature. St. Mungo's research clearly supports my theory. What I'm trying – what I want to do is bury the Wizengamot with irrefutable data and an inescapable conclusion!" Hermione leaned forward, too intelligent eyes boring into his. "If I could only get people to talk to me! I don't want to air their dirty laundry in public. I want to ensure that each of us has the freedom to choose who and when to marry, and when and if to have children. Governments shouldn't be allowed to dictate the private lives of its citizenry."
"Why, Miss Granger—" Lucius retrieved the scroll, then leaned back in his chair to peruse its contents, "—what a revolutionary concept."
Reflected firelight glimmered in her dark eyes. "I'm so used to—"
"Being at odds with your closest friends and allies? Bouncing off the shielding spells of bureaucracy? Crusading against oppressors who would turn you into a brood mare?"
Her eyes flicked to the sleeve of his left arm, and she said only, "In a word, yes."
He clenched his teeth, but managed to say civilly enough, "If your hypothesis is true, and I'll grant that it appears likely, then its impact on the magical community will be profound. Although, I fail to see how it will derail the Reconciliation Act. "
"The only reason the Act has survived is the overriding fear of Squib births. If I can show they aren't inherent in purebloods, but that Squib births exist across magical society, regardless of economic or blood status, then I believe the Act will lose the support it's gained."
He pursed his lips, and after a moment, he said, "A not unreasonable supposition."
"The St. Mungo's sample was confined to purebloods, and even then, only select families were represented. On my own, I traced the Squib sister of Sirius and Regulus Black. Mrs. Black was sixty when she gave birth to Aurelia. I don't know how she died, but her name was blasted off the family tapestry, and Kreacher, Harry's house-elf, takes flowers to her grave every month." She indicated the scroll he held. "You'll notice that my data represents almost all pureblood families."
Lucius read her work more closely, grudgingly impressed. His fingers traced the careful Arithmantic formulae, the neatly graphed data and results. "You've been quite thorough with the available information."
"Thank you." She paused, and then asked, "May I include the information you've given me?"
Re-rolling the scroll, Lucius rose to his feet and returned it and the copy of the St. Mungo's report to the nearby table for her to collect. Then he stepped next to the hearth, soaking in the warmth from the fire. At this range, the security bubble's interference was negligible. "You may," he replied, turning his head to look at her. "I doubt my former colleagues will provide you with the information you need, however, you may use my name."
Her eyes shone, and he didn't need Legilimency to know she was pleased.
"Thank you very much, Mr. Malfoy."
He heard a distinctive heavy gait outside the room heralding Folsom's return, but Hermione was busy putting her things into her little bag.
Lucius said, "If I may suggest—" she turned her head in his direction, and he continued, "—tell them up front that you've had my cooperation. They'll expect that sort of approach from you."
Affronted, she straightened. "Because I'm Muggle-born and have no tact?"
He waited until the door swung open and Folsom gestured for him to follow before he said, "Because you're a Gryffindor."
~o0o~
Excerpts from a Letter written to Lucius Malfoy, inmate A294365789, Azkaban Prison, Azkaban Island, North Sea by Hermione Granger, Undersecretary to Augustus Prewett, Sixth Floor, Department of Justice, Ministry of Magic, London, England
Dear Mr. Malfoy,
I hope you will forgive my presumption at adding myself to your list of approved correspondents. That may be rectified easily. However, I was informed I would not be granted leave to visit in the future – it wouldn't look right considering my new position – and I saw no other recourse to keeping you informed of my progress on that little matter we discussed.
.
.
.
Once Draco arranged for me to meet with Mr. Cromwell, my task was significantly easier, and I took your final advice to heart. I was direct, but tactful, in my letters to the others, and with a single exception, was able to gather the necessary genealogical information. I doubt that you – or anyone – will have a chance to see my results in print. I hope that in time I'll be able to present them to St. Mungo's where …
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.
It only occurred to me later that the proposal could have had more immediate consequences than I initially represented to you. I hadn't taken into account your own matrimonial state.
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.
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I'm sure he'll have already told you, but Draco and Astoria's wedding was brilliant. I wouldn't normally be on the guest list, but Astoria and I are members of the Hogwarts Rebuilding Committee …
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If we don't speak in the future - neither Ron nor Harry know I'm writing to you - please allow me to thank you once again for your assistance and advice, and accept my good wishes for your future.
Sincerely,
Hermione Granger
~o0o~
The first time she saw him after his release from Azkaban was in the halls of the Ministry of Magic. Hermione had been about to turn left into the long corridor leading to the Law Enforcement Division when she heard the unmistakable plummy tones of Lucius Malfoy's voice. Most of what he said was indistinct, but when he sneered the words 'pedigree' and 'inferior birth' her forward motion halted.
A vaguely familiar voice asked, "What are you saying, Malfoy?"
"Offspring will always carry the taint of an inferior mother."
Hermione winced and smoothed her hand over the gentle swell of tummy, her wedding ring gleaming in the torchlight of the hallway sconces. While she had never harbored any real belief that Malfoy's prejudice was mutable, she had, nonetheless, hoped their brief collaboration instigated something resembling tolerance.
It appeared she was wrong. Again.
Ron often chided her about her wide-eyed idealism, saying she should stop giving people the benefit of the doubt when they didn't deserve one. He was generally less articulate, and such a discussion ended in sharp words, wounded feelings, and Ron slamming the door as he went to the pub.
Still, Lucius' denigrating comment about tainted pedigrees stung, and in a bout of un-Gryffindorish cowardice, Hermione debated whether to turn back toward the elevators.
Around the corner, Malfoy's companion spoke. "One doesn't embrace new concepts easily."
"Understandable, Carstairs," Malfoy replied.
Pontius Carstairs. Senior member of Malfoy's legal firm. Hermione knew him by sight, reputation, and professional encounter. His bloodlines were as pure as the Malfoys and considerably less tainted by a Dark reputation.
Carstairs said, "My family has always taken the pedigree of the female line into account."
Inexplicably dejected, Hermione spun on the balls of her feet. Perhaps an early lunch was in order, or a trip to Flourish and Blotts to pick up a copy of You and Your Magical Baby: the First Years.
"I haven't asked you to abandon your long-held ideals about bloodlines," Lucius commented. "I merely suggest you consider the concept of hybridization and its breeding advantages."
Hermione paused in her flight, her head and upper body turning back toward the overheard conversation. Hybridization? What does Malfoy know about hybridization?
Carstairs asked, "You've decided to continue Abraxas' breeding program then?"
"With suitable modifications."
"I had always thought your interest feigned."
Lucius' tone grew less friendly, and Hermione would later wonder that she knew him well enough to distinguish the difference. "I had other duties," was his chilly reply. "I have recently had an abundance of leisure time."
Carstairs cleared his throat. "Of course.
Suddenly the two men reached the corridor intersection, their voices morphing into physical embodiment. They turned to where Hermione stood in the unflattering and all-too revealing attitude of an about-face. Lucius' eyes flicked to the wedding ring on her hand, and the burgeoning life misshaping her russet robes. "Madam Granger," he said.
The elderly solicitor gave his companion a pointed glance before he spoke. "Madam Weasley, what a pleasure to see you."
"Mr. Malfoy," she replied, nodding to both wizards, "Mr. Carstairs."
Lucius leaned on a cane, the picture of aristocratic aplomb, and Hermione considered how remarkably well he suited his surroundings, regardless of venue. His envy-worthy hair had grown out from its prison burr. Unlike hers, which was charmed into a thick chignon at the base of her neck, his hair hung loosely around his shoulders, a draping of palest silk. His robes were tailored to his lean silhouette and he wore the latest in wizarding neckware – a blue cravat which enhanced the color of his eyes.
Assessing him was the work of an instant. Later, Hermione wouldn't be able to recall a single thing about Carstairs' appearance, but she rationalized her lack of attention on the number of years it had been since she'd seen Lucius Malfoy.
Before the situation could become awkward, Carstairs said, "I must be off; I have an appointment on the hour. I look forward to discussing this further, Lucius. Perhaps I'll introduce one of your hybrid peahens next season." He smiled at Hermione, his face wrinkling into familiar, oft-used lines. "As I said, it was a pleasure, Madam Weasley. Good day."
With a brief, final nod, Carstairs strode down the corridor, his robes billowing in a manner reminiscent of Hogwarts' dungeons and their most infamous Potions master.
Lucius' eyes followed the rapid retreat of his solicitor, and then shifted to Hermione. "It seems congratulations are in order, Madam Granger," Lucius said.
"It's Weasley."
"Indeed."
Ignoring his slur, Hermione smiled. "Congratulations to you as well, Mr. Malfoy."
"Pardon?"
"Astoria and I are due the same week and we both see Healer Bones. I imagine you'll be as doting a grandfather as Arthur." When she noticed Lucius' grip on his cane tighten, his knuckles standing out in whitened relief, Hermione took a wary step back. She might not be afraid, exactly, but he had been her enemy not so many years before.
Lucius noticed her reflexive action. He flinched, but recovered his composure, his expression a mask of polite indifference. "I beg your pardon."
"It's not necessary. I don't know what I said to offend you …"
"It's no matter, Miss … Madam." He nodded curtly and angled to the side, as if only just then aware he blocked her path, but Hermione was no longer interested in a rapid departure.
"No, really," she said, earnestly. "I am very sorry to have offended you."
"Not at all."
"Then did I commit some faux pas by referring to Astoria's pregnancy?"
"Again, not at all. I'm quite pleased for Draco and my daughter-in-law."
"I know they're very happy. As happy as Ron and I are."
"It seems the Weasleys – father and sons - have great felicity when it comes to family." Lucius straightened, lifting his cane as if ready to move on.
He inclined his head, and Hermione noticed the tightness of his smile. It was then she remembered an altercation from her childhood, when two seemingly rational, albeit antagonistic, adult men had thrown themselves at one another in Flourish and Blotts.
Knowledge of that moment, and her recollection, flashed in his pale eyes, and Lucius said, "I'm keeping you from your duties."
Incongruously, Hermione didn't want their encounter to end on so discordant a note. Flailing for a topic, she blurted, "Were you talking about peacocks just now?"
He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken by surprise, and unaccountably fell in step with her as she turned toward her office. "Have you an interest in peafowl?"
"Not really. It's just that I couldn't help but notice—" she broke off and looked away, "—that is, I overheard–"
A smirk lifted the corner of his mouth. "Eavesdropping, Madam?"
"No!" But her pink cheeks gave her away, and the rigidness of Lucius' smile softened into something more approachable, even if his amusement was at her expense. She rushed on. "Well - not intentionally. You mentioned hybridization."
"A relatively new venture."
"It's … er … encouraging."
"Encouraging?" he asked, raising a brow.
Wishing she could wipe the amused expression from his face, Hermione instead succumbed to a flux in her mood; pregnancy hormones struck at inconvenient times. She glanced at the open doorway to her office just beyond the intersecting hallways, and blinked rapidly, holding the sudden onset of tears at bay. "Look, I must go," she said, and even she could hear the quaver in her voice.
Lucius' smirk dropped like Viktor Krum after being hit by a rogue bludger in a World Cup match. "Are you feeling quite well?" he asked. His hand was at her elbow, strong and sure, as he escorted her to the nearest doorway, which was, thankfully, her own office.
"I'm fine." She didn't meet his eyes, but allowed him to guide her to the guest chair, whose mound of files was whisked to a hastily transfigured side-table by Lucius' quick wand-work. In some part of her mind she wondered if he had just set a precedent. "Thank you for your trouble, Mr. Malfoy."
"It was no trouble, I assure you. Undoubtedly a cup of tea would help."
His solicitousness was a surprise. "It should wait until after I see the head mugwump," she said. "It's where I was going when –"
"You overheard my understandably fascinating discussion about revolutionizing peafowl husbandry."
Her overset emotions seemed to careen from one extreme to another, but she managed a genuine, if shaky, smile. "Yes. And your willingness to embrace hybridization—"
"I'm always interested in the betterment of my bloodlines," he said.
And then Hermione was treated to a remarkable sight.
Lucius Malfoy blushed.
Graciously, she said nothing about the conversational precipice upon which they were perched. Instead, she offered to postpone her meeting and invited him to join her for that cup of tea.
"Thank you, no," he replied. "I shan't take more of your time, Madam. As long as you're well?" His eyes raked her from head to toe, and his expression softened.
"I assure you I'm quite all right. I appreciate your concern."
He looked disconcerted. "I will say good day to you then."
Hermione stared at the empty doorway for a long moment after he disappeared. Her thoughts revisited the overheard discussion and their own, brief conversation. She had been unwilling to mention the correlation between fowl and humans, although in a man as intelligent as Lucius, there was no doubt he had either drawn the conclusion himself, or would soon enough.
She was right after all.
Lucius Malfoy had learned something.
There was no way Hermione would ever tell Ron. Two topics were guaranteed to get a negative reaction from him. Viktor Krum was the first. Any Malfoy was the other. In the interests of family harmony, Hermione would keep the pleasure of discovering Lucius Malfoy's broadening perspectives to herself.
Her smile was smug as she summoned her tea pot from the sideboard.
~o0o~
Excerpts from a Letter written to Draco Malfoy, the Breakfast Room overlooking the drive, the Grange, Medstead, Hampshire, England, by Lucius Malfoy, the Drawing Room, Carlton House, Johannesburg, South Africa
I appreciate your willingness to be my ambassador in this, Draco, and once again, I do not wish to be acknowledged. My satisfaction will come from knowing the gift has been received.
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Expect the delivery Saturday. If the crate does not contain one hybrid peahen and one white peacock - do NOT name them Rose and Scorpius, as you so amusingly suggested - let me know immediately. Not only will I remedy the oversight, but I will know why my steward has become derelict in his duty to the Estate.
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I quite agree. Scorpius is the most winsome baby I've ever seen … saving yourself, of course. He reminds me of you with that tuft of white hair, and I do hope his eyes remain blue.
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My business here shall be concluded within the week, and I expect to return to England Wednesday next. In the meantime, give my warmest regards to your wife and my doting admiration to your son.
I remain, as ever, affectionately your father,
Lucius
~o0o~