Disclaimer: Mr. Malfoy is not mine Who does not know Mrs. Rowling, his creator? I have just fun with a character and hope you will, too. No money, no cash. No fame.
To Maelen and Eve
The very first frost on the Malfoy's estates... Short.
THE ROWAN
Branches covered with white rime broke with every little touch the frost introduced its own rules in physics. The forest was full of cracking and creaking in such weather.
A man stalked through his estate without hurry. It had been so long since he was there last that he hardly remembered the paths, surprised that they did not got lost in bushes; more -they even seemed to be still in use!
He reached the old altar where his mad grandmother on the sword side had been making offerings of animals to get at least the minor magical gift from Great Isida. Of course, all the tampering with stinking bowels had been absolutely useless, she had never managed to Transfigure a corn of poppy into a sand grain. Poor woman had suffered dread humiliation from her husband and his family, what brought her in her late age to insanity. He burnt herself happily during the attempt of soul-integration with Ra even with her death itself confirming how far and deep her ignorance had been.
The man stood in the circle of stones covered with Runes and gave himself to nostalgia. The autumn too soon, his son departure and this irritating unpleasant incident... Who might have supposed this old crook with his megalomania, haughtiness and last for power would have wanted to rise back from the dead! He pushed the unpleasant thought away, admitting his own fault. Everything had seemed so much easier once and now... perhaps he became to idle or perhaps he missed... what could a man miss, a man who possess money no the fortune, connections, control, position, a job for pure satisfaction, the son giving some hopes to become a respectable heir of the family; the man who had managed to get rid of his wife a perfection so unbearable in everyday association with this crystal excellence that he had started to hate her with all of his black heart!
Obviously, they kept up the profile still living together, sharing the manor (he gave her the left, west division) and appearing together during official ceremonies as a model couple. The declaration of cancellation their matrimony agreement was lying now deep in the drawer of his desk in his office as a model next to a model matrimony agreement signed... how long ago was it?... His son celebrating.
The cracking branch just a couple steps away woke him up of the reverie. He managed to jump away and hid behind the tree.
No impostor should stray here.
He was listening.
The step was light and firm accompanied by a strange rich rustling. Uninvited guest strolled here and there murmuring a melody with a pleasing feminine voice sounding so mysteriously and familiar.
He waited with his curiosity growing.
The intruder made more noise, rapping and cursing unmercifully.
The man saw a red apple with the coarse peel rolling through the carpet of draw, frozen leaves. The woman must have stumbled and scattered her harvest. HIS harvest.
He watched easily a hand pink of cold reaching the fruit and then the whole figure snug in grey cloak on her fours collecting something from the litter.
He squatted and caught the thief by her wrist; she screamed not trying to free herself though. The hood glided covering her face entirely.
With a clumsy almost childish gesture she pushed the cover away. Now he might see her face closer... he might have if it was not for the veil of untidy hair of deep ripe plum colour.
This is a private possession. She started as if there became even colder and not without the reason he was a master of manipulation, was he not?
It s just rowan! she protested boldly.
He glanced instinctively down. A single little creased fruit of rowan was resting there on the ground.
He rose up but at his surprise the woman reached for a poor bead.
The rowan is private, too. And leaves, branches, soil, everything but you haven t got any use of it! None! She looked scared now, more conscious of her situation when he stood over her pulling her hand at gazing at her cool and sever from his height. He felt his face twisting in disdain, as usual when he talked to inferiors.
And what is the use of rowan for you? I can make marmalade, jelly, juice ... Of rowan??? The one by the road is not enough for her, she needs to plunge into... By the road? With lead??? Are you nuts? And this one is... she bit her tongue.
Yes? he rose his eyebrows mockingly What is it like? Better. Why would it be? Just... better. Tasty. And... all stuff... He felt her shivering. The thief in front of him on her knees. He should whip her through with his cane at least. Or get rid of her.
Perhaps you could... let me? It hurts a bit... he tried with a dwindling smile.
I will let you go when you sing for me the song you were murmuring. No. I sing only for me myself. Rapidly he found himself close to her again pressing her to the tree with his inseparable cane at her throat. She was pale breathing hardly.
So, sing for yourself if you want to live. Loud and clear. She tied her face as if she wanted to split into his face but she did not. And she should have. She did not even winked.
It was enough to push the cane just a little harder. He moved it away instead.
You know what tithe is, don t you? She nodded.
He waited for her to understand. Oh, she understood what was clearly visible on her face, in her eyes but no action followed that.
What your ransom will be, then? She was silent.
The rowan juice? She still said nothing but in her eyes uneasy flames glittered and faded. He regretted his decision too late.
The woman rose up to her feet and kept her basket huge and filled up to the edges with gifts of forests and orchards. His orchards.
The juice is slightly too little... he said studying the basket.
You kno what? Have it all. she thrust the basket with such a force that several apples jumped out of it. They rolled straight between rune stones and stopped there. A man stared around him astonished but did not reach for them. He followed the woman marching angrily into the forest. Her forest.
He followed the rustle of her cloak, the scent of herbs and... incense?
They reached a small hut with a small door locked with a small hasp as in fairy-tales for children. The woman did not mind him. She almost had bumped his forehead with the fairy door. He came in not invited and bumped into a roof beam. He groaned.
She ignored it.
He bent and shoved away bunches of herbs hang on the beam. His head was turning of scents. In the middle of the chamber there stood a big table, wooden, also rough stools standing by it. He placed the basket carefully on the table and looked around the gloom interior, walls covered with strange objects, shelves with their infinity of pots and jars. The woman added some billets to the stove in the corner, sparks were rising up around her and dancing in a crazy rhythm.
The man observed her for a while and approached the door.
You wanted the juice. The water is being heated. she grumbled.
He hesitated but came back finally.
Sit down. He obediently sat at the table, not letting his eyes of her.
She took of her cloak. Stunned he stared at her deep black trousers and black blouse with a red sun on front. He followed her with his velvet cape and hang it on a wooden peg next to the door. Silver pins flared wickedly when the landlady lit the candles on.
What is this? he stopped at the strange wheel with cords draped around it, the caricature of his crystal chandeliers.
This is how one make candles. I ll show you some other time. He became dumb. His breath stuck at his chest. Her arrogance, her self-assurance after he almost had killed her, scot-free and easily, and now she was addressing him as if... as.
It will be ready in a moment. Sit down. She put a plate with a triangle piece of a pie smelling with cinnamon and she got back to the stove. He was more guessing than seeing what she was doing there, turned to him with her back.
What are you adding? Herbs, spices. Are you afraid of poisons? Are you a witch? Do I look so bed? An insolent shrew. She faced him showing her face in red light of the stove and the golden one of candles.
No. But you could be... combed She smiled.
Sharp hissing came from the stove and the chamber filled up with white fog of caramel smell. The woman cursed and jumped to rescue the juice.
He suppressed the laugh with an effort, watching her moves greedily, now dexterous and unmistakable, so different than in the stone circle. She moved the stool easily, bowed to bunches of herbs and put the steaming jug in the middle of the table.
What is there inside? 'Herbs, I told you. Leaves, roots, powdered seeds. And the rowan. And the rowan. Why aren t you eatin ? Are you afraid? She rose a folk with a piece of the pie to her mouth There is no poison in it. She swallowed and slipped another piece under his nose. He took it of the folk with his teeth cautiously.
The pie had a strange taste but with no doubts he could confirm that if he had been poisoned it would have been with an apple-pie. If the poison had not been added to the juice.
Good boy. she murmured Time for reward... He should have got killed this boastful lunatic. He could do that now but he was too curious.
The woman set two pottery mugs and between them a bowl with gloomy impenetrable center.
The air is full of magic. Don t tell me you don t feel it or cannot see it. He confirmed he felt the heavy smell of musk mixed with something strange, dangerous and intriguing; sparks were drawing magical signs in the air and candle lights were pulsating hypnotically. He could also feel magic piercing into his blood and penetrating veins, bewitching his mind and ensnaring the senses, though letting him with non-understandable mercy thinking clearly. That was what he hoped at least.
Here are the beads of rowan I was collecting next to those big stones. I donno why but they have magical power. If you put them into the jug, the magical bond will join us, which... she was explaining something long, intricately and unnecessarily for he had already read in her eyes what the bond might be. What it would be.
He reached for a bowl but the woman kept his wrist the same as he had done with her earlier.
Not like this. Scoop with your hand. He slipped his fingers into the darkness. Warm, soft and dense as... blood? He found the rowan and caught as many as he managed; throw a handful into something prepared by this little perverse thief called juice. She laughed; and he expected a triumphant mocking giggling but her voice was quiet and sincere. Full of Life. Passion. Promises.
Everything he missed.
Instead of carrying the jug to pour the magical liquid into mugs the woman stretched her palm out and he spotted a small creased bead of rowan. He understood that she lied to him, letting to make the choice but she was the one to decide all of the time. Only her. He reached for the magical bead not knowing any more where magic begun and where it ended or if it existed at all. He threw it into the jug, seized it and drunk with big draughts, not caring whether he should leave anything for her. And when she stopped him, took the jug away and touched it with her lips in the same place, while he was watching her gentle neck moving, thin streams running from the corners of her mouth, he had already known, he was sure and happy of this consciousness that magic existed and that he had just yielded to it.