Written for the School of Prompts, for the prompt: mint green.
Written for the Ultimate Chocolate Frogs Card Challenge, for the card Crispin Cronk, with the prompt: Write about trading in the black market/Knockturn Alley, or about someone buying questionable items.
Written for the Weird Prompt Strikes Back! for the prompt: lightning bolt
Written for the Huge TV Shows Quotes Bucket Challenge, for the prompt: "People with nothing to hide usually don't feel the need to say so." - Michonne, The Walking Dead
Warnings for: alluded incest, homicide and domestic abuse.
Words: 1757
The bright flash as the lightning bolt cursed through the sky helped him remember. The rain soaked through his cloak, dampening his shoulders. He pushed his limp, soggy hair back from his forehead and looked up. Knockturn Alley. It had been somewhere down here, he knew, but as electricity coursed through the sky, he remembered how the thunderstorm had been strong that night, many years ago.
A young boy half-ran beside his father through the storm, struggling to keep up. It was late, and the young boy stifled a yawn. It was past his bedtime, which only made it more exciting.
They were walking towards Knockturn Alley, and as the boy with black hair looked up to his father, his father had his eyes set on his goal.
"Keep up," he grumbled.
They made their way down the winding street past the street sellers and shops, and into a dark tunnel between two tall buildings.
It was dark, pitch black in fact, and the little boy cowered into his father's side in fear. He'd been told there were bad things in the dark, monsters and vagabonds, and he did not want to meet them.
A man was sat on the floor, haggard and weary. His rags hung from his lank frame, dirty and grey. He looked up as Pollux and his father approached. Pollux was more than surprised when they stopped right in front of the man, and couldn't help but stare.
"Do you have it?" his father asked.
Pollux realised this man was younger than he first appeared, with a thick, full beard and a pale head of hair. His eyes were a vicious shade of blue. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, as he looked at the boy's father.
"Walk with me," Cygnus Black, Pollux's father, asked.
The man made to stand with surprising agility, and the unlikely trio made off deeper in to the passageway. Lightning flashed above, adding a sense of danger to the scene. The rolling thunder almost obscured his father's next words.
"Interesting guise," Cygnus sneered.
"Why's the boy with you?" the stranger asked, in a calm and controlled voice. His accent betrayed a heritage unbefitting of his attire. Pollux grew more and more curious about this man.
"To put my wife off my trail," Cygnus responded. The six year old didn't understand. The stranger reached into his great, grimy overcoat and pulled out a package, wrapped neatly in brown paper.
Cygnus took it too quickly, betraying his greed.
"What's it for?" the stranger questioned.
"That's none of your concern," Cygnus growled. He grabbed Pollux by the shoulder and pulled him away as he stowed the package.
Pollux had many questions, but he knew his father wouldn't answer most of them. He felt as though he'd just witnessed something he shouldn't have witnessed. He ought to keep his mouth shut.
"Who's that man?" Pollux asked.
"No one. Forget him. Nothing happened." His words were final.
Pollux thought of his own son and felt guilt. His Cygnus, his heir and legacy, named after his own father. His father had been a coward.
It had taken him many years to understand this, and what had happened at that time, but he saw it now. Things were beginning to add up. The package, the necklace, his mother's funeral, his aunt's visits. It was a sordid matter, he knew.
He also knew the kind eyes of his mother, the sweet smile. He remembered her stories at bedtime, her gentle touch. He remembered his father's hand; his mother's tears.
Above it all, he remembered a pair of bright blue eyes.
He knew if he found this man, he could prove everything. The sickness hadn't been a sickness, but the hospital had already ruled the death accidental. Tragic.
He headed down into Knockturn Alley, into the dark and winding tunnel he had not been down in forty years. Knockturn Alley attracted all sorts of folk in the cover of darkness, and Pollux found himself staring into each and every face, waiting for the spark of recognition to ignite.
"Pollux?"
He turned round to face who had called his name, and looked at Abraxas, his old friend from his Hogwarts' days.
"Abraxas, how are you? A strange place to meet," Pollux commented, meeting his friend's eye. He noticed, almost immediately, how electrifyingly blue Abraxas's eyes were. He said nothing, face stoic. A lightning bolt lit up the blond man's face, adding a hint of menace to the shadows around his eyes.
"I'm fine. What are you doing in a place like this?" Abraxas questioned, his eyebrows pulling together.
"Nothing much. Taking in the scenery. I have nothing to hide, if that's what you're asking."
"People with nothing to hide usually don't feel the need to say so," Abraxas commented, wry and shrewd.
"Perhaps," Pollux replied. "How's your father these days?"
"Dying. And yours?"
"Unfortunately not yet," Pollux replied. Abraxas gave a slight smile, knowing the ways of their kind. After a few decades had packed, first born sons were often impatient to see their fathers' demises. It was to be expected.
The moment of camaraderie over, Pollux looked to the blackening sky.
"I ought to be going," he commented.
The pair separated, each full of questions.
The next morning, Pollux found himself drinking tea, sat in a mint green armchair, making smalltalk with a bedridden Brutus Malfoy. It was unexpected, but Pollux would get the information he wanted, one way or another. He had to bring his father down this time.
"Enough of the idle chatter Pollux, why are you here? And don't tell me it's to discuss sixteenth century art," Brutus announced, sounding weak and tired. The pair had been discussing the symbolism hidden in the portrait of his ancestor and namesake, Brutus the First.
"It's not, no." Pollux sighed, knowing now was the time to bite the proverbial bullet. "I think I remember seeing you, as a child, and I need to know the truth."
"You did see me as a child, Pollux, many times. I was a friend of your father's. A friendship that doesn't seem to have extended too far into the next generation. Which specific time are you referring to?" Brutus questioned.
"Abraxas and I are cordial. We do not trust one another," Pollux replied, dealing with the family hurdle first. "It was nineteen-eighteen. I was a child, six years old, and it was late, in Knockturn Alley. I think you gave my father a package."
Brutus's eyes darkened as his face hardened.
"If I tell you the truth, Pollux, you can't unknow it. It'll be with you, forever," Brutus noted.
"I need to know. I think I know already, but I need to be certain. I need more information, something solid. Something more than a childhood memory," Pollux admitted.
"I gave your father a necklace. It was silver, an antique. Three rubies and a large diamond hung in a floral cast. It was a rare and terrible beauty."
Pollux's face whitened as he put the pieces together. He remembered that necklace. He himself had given it to his mother, as a birthday present. His father had bought it for him one day, and brought it home for the boy. At least, that had been what Cygnus had said.
"Why… why terrible?" Pollux asked, his lips suddenly dry.
"I think you know."
Pollux asked more questions. He found out where the necklace had come from, how he'd come to procure it; how it worked and why it had never been found. Brutus's knowledge scared him.
He left feeling drained and guilty. He had thought that learning the truth would make him feel justified, proud, better. It didn't.
But this had to be done, and it had to be done now. He thought back to what he had learned, just a week ago, as he made his way out of Malfoy Manor to a spot to Apparate. He longed to be home with his wife, beloved Irma, but he needed to think first.
Pollux had gone to visit his father at Grimmauld Place, his childhood home. He let himself in and was greeted by the house elf. He handed his coat over and shooed her away, heading up the stairs to his father's study. As he drew nearer, he overheard voices.
"Cassiopeia's gone mad," a voice exclamed. His brother, Phineas.
"She always was mad, son. It made her interesting," Pollux heard his father's voice return.
"I've heard all about your interest in my dear aunt."
Pollux stood against the wall, listening, a silent witness.
"It's no secret in the family. But she's making scenes now. Causing noise. I know. We can't tolerate it."
"Have you spoken to her?"
"She won't listen." There was a pause. "It's a shame Brutus is incapacitated, he could have proven useful again."
"Would Abraxas be any help?"
"No. The fool would see me rot."
As Pollux worked to place two and two together, add up the missing segments, a silence descended again.
"Pollux is fond of her."
"Pollux hasn't worked out what happened to your mother yet. He's not a problem."
The derision in his father's tone caught in Pollux's throat. He headed back down the stairs, as quietly as he could, and let himself out.
The penny had dropped; the jigsaw made. His father had to be stopped.
It took him two weeks to gather the evidence. When he marched into the office of the Minister for Magic, he was certain he'd done it.
He sat and explained everything, with as much detail as he could muster. It took him ten minutes. He sat, when he had finished, a little breathless and agitated, and waiting for the Minister's reaction.
"We know."
"What? What do you mean, you know? What are you going to do about it?" Pollux asked, shock racing through his veins.
"There's nothing we can do, Pollux. Your father's a clever man. He's untouchable," the Minister sighed.
"What in Merlin's name..? And that's it? That's your excuse of an explanation?" Pollux paused for half a moment, and turned on the Minister. "What does he have on you?"
"Politics is none of your concern. You're a businessman, Pollux. Go home and stick to what you're good at."
He held himself back from the punch he wanted to throw, settling for violently straightening his waistcoat. He let himself out from the Ministry, his veins boiling.
There was only one thing for it.
If Cygnus could take things into his own hands, then so could he.
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