The bird shrieked and exploded.

Lucius Malfoy looked down at the mess on the grass, on his boots, on his trousers and shirt . . . on up to his elbow and then back down to his dripping wand.

Peacocks really were full of it.

At least this one had been before it had so unwisely decided to announce its presence. Lucius cursed quietly. The elves were bound to report the creature's untidy demise to Narcissa, his elegant, exquisite, lovely wife, who was also rather more ruthless, by several orders of magnitude, than a starved kneazle and wouldn't be at all happy.

Dammit but I need some decent sleep, he thought, wondering, somewhat blearily, how best to deal with this act of unintended butchery. There wasn't enough left of the thing for soup. 'I am a Malfoy: said the voice in his head, 'incriminate.'

That might work, he thought, beginning to vanish the larger, meatier bits making the destruction appear more like the work of predatory wildlife. Right now, he decided, a change of clothing would be in order, before he, yet again, went through the family's increasingly straightened finances in a search for some small and previously unappreciated modicum of slack.

He really did not want to have to tell Narcissa.

The Malfoy name dated back many centuries, and there were still vineyards in France as well as a small, fortified farmhouse but the real money had been more recent and always rather less that was generally supposed. He'd been made uncomfortably aware that her family considered that she could do better and only the disgrace of her older sister's defection had eventually permitted their marriage. That, of course, and Bella making it publicly known that, because she couldn't bear to disappoint either Rudolphus or Rabastan, she was going to marry them both.

She had been such a sweet girl. Once.

If he told his wife she would, of course, be charming and understanding. And then she would do something entirely insane in an effort to be helpful, before leaving him to sort it out. There had to be some loose change in Hogwarts but he was, despite the ongoing series of petrifactions and his own best efforts, as yet no closer to the purse strings than he had been at the beginning of the year. Lucius sat down, opened a ledger and allowed his mind to wander.

Briefly, he smiled. Brooms for the entire Quiddich team had been an excellent wheeze: his various creditors, witnessing this largess had been convinced once again of the security of their money, not guessing how little Lucius had actually paid.

Given the ridiculous size of the mark-up on the 'Two Thousand and One' and the fact that, once Slytherin had them, the three other teams were bound to follow suit, and that Lucius had been kind enough to point out this opportunity to the proprietor of Quality Quiddich Supplies, a substantial discounting of his own purchase was only to be expected. Blackmail had been entirely superfluous. He'd felt slightly ashamed of allowing habit to get the better of him.

Unfortunately, that had been months ago. While the humans were becoming more twitchy, the smiles on the Goblins only got wider. In retrospect, he had been stupid. His investments had turned out poorly and, while Arthur Weasley's incursions had been an excellent excuse for disposing of darker artefacts, he had precious few of those left and very little time left to come up with anything else. Leaning back, Lucius closed his eyes, not noticing as his breathing slowed and he drifted into sleep.

Below, in the moonlight, a single remaining, blackened chimney stood above the snow like an accusing finger but the loss of the manor was an old, old pain. What was causing his heart to break within his chest was the soft breathing of the child within his arms whom he been unable to wake; who now would never awaken again. From a patch of shadow a single, black snowflake drifted slowly upwards followed by others, getting closer, quickly becoming humanoid."Eighty two percent," he said. A number on a screen.

'It will have to do.' The woman's voice was soft but clear over a low humming the cause of which wasn't evident. 'We do not want to take them with us. Ready?'

'Ready.'

'Engage.

Lucius' eyes shot open: his ledgers; his study; his heart racing and breathing heavy. A sensation of utter horror enveloped him and he found himself shivering. He lurched to his feet and began striding back and forth. Over the last few weeks the nightmares, though unremembered, had become steadily worse. Now, for the first time, he had something coherent: Dementors, obviously, but the craft he'd been riding in was strange: unfamiliar and with a strong suggestion of muggle. He stopped and took a deep breath to steady himself.

Alegria, he thought. The child's name had been Alegria, and she had been the last of his line. It had been just a dream but still it had possessed the power to create a scouring ache within him. He'd talk to Severus, except that Severus, of course, reported to Dumbledore.

What? he found himself asking himself. Where did that come from? Why would Severus tell that saggy old encumbrance anything? He forced himself to look out at the sunlit lawns beyond the terrace and the rose garden: the real and the ordinary that suddenly felt like anything but.

There had to be a reason for such outlandish nightmares. If he really insisted, Severus would help him find it. Remembering the last time he had spoken with the Potions Master, Lucius winced. 'Most people when they're feeling under the weather, do not automatically assume that they have been cursed,' he'd been told in the most obnoxiously reasonable tone the younger wizard could contrive. 'Have you tried "Pepper-up"?'

A murmur and a crystal glass and a flask of brandy appeared at his elbow. As he poured, he noticed that his hand was shaking. He forced himself to sit down and re-address the problem of his finances.

'Hello darling,' said Narcissa.

As the witch bent over him and placed a soft kiss on his brow, Lucius breathed in her fragrance He caught her hand. 'I do love you,' he said.

She gazed at him.

He let go. 'I'm sorry. Bad dreams.' Lucius picked up his glass. Again, she looked but said nothing. 'How was your meeting?'

'Useful.'

Narcissa removed the golden combs from her hair, shaking it free over her perfect shoulders. 'Lucius, my love, they were all very polite, but it was my turn to host in April. If we'd a town house, I could invite them there. But as we don't . . ..' She, of course, thought he was just being needlessly stubborn. He really, really didn't want to tell her that the current 'refurbishing' had only continued as long as it had because he could not afford to get their furniture out of hock. She sighed. 'Well. Are you feeling any better?'

That he didn't reply was answer enough. She summoned a chair and sat down facing him. 'Tell me, exactly, what's wrong.'

'I have nightmares. They terrify me. But when I wake up I can't remember anything.'

'Oh,' said Narcissa, her grey eyes gazing into his, 'That sounds awful.'

'That's not all of it,' said Lucius, 'You know the voice in your head? The one that says"Shut up," or "Now would be a good time to leave"?' She nodded. 'Or even "You look a right pillock in that"?'

Narcissa's eyes widened. 'It says that?'

'It says that.' Obviously it didn't say things like that to her. 'It's getting quite vocal. Chatty even. There are all these thoughts in my head and they're not mine.' He swallowed. 'I don't think they're mine.'

'Who do you think they belong to?'

'I don't know but he's a sarcastic bastard.'

'Could it be some sort of haunting?' Narcissa paled. 'Possession?'

'Not according to the diagnostic spells I've tried.' He emptied the brandy with one swallow. 'And, darling, there's something else.'

She turned her gaze upon him: waited while Lucius courage took the fast train South.

It's not important,' he tried to smile, 'but I think we might have a fox.' He wasn't lying. Really, it would be most surprising if they hadn't.

'Really?'

'I found what was left of one of our peacocks.' After. No word of a lie. 'I could have traps set.'

Narcissa got up got up and took his glass toward the decanter on his desk. Lucius sighed inaudibly as she refilled it. 'This and no more,' she said as she handed it to him before leaning in conspiratorially. 'Actually, I rather like foxes.'

Lucius smiled and waved the glass in a silent a toast to her. He took a long swallow and then choked.

'If it's any sort of possession, that should flush it out, said Narcissa.

Not just brandy in the glass.

'Old family recipe, she continued. 'You don't want to finish that? No, perhaps not. I'll have the elves put you in the pale green guest room. That will be most convenient.' Lucius found that he couldn't draw breath. 'Don't worry, the vomiting is over very quickly.' Narcissa murmured something and Lucius found himself, abruptly, facing porcelain. Leaning over, he was violently sick.

By the time the spasms had finally subsided and he could vanish the bowl that he's been using, perforce, having had a different use for the toilet, he'd discovered what was so convenient about the pale green guest room: the bed was only a few (short) steps away from his current location. It was, he'd very soon realised, going to be a long night.

Long after dawn had incited its avian, dark-thoughts-inspiring frenzy in the shrubberies outside, Lucius dreamed.

He dreamed of Greyback making little, playful snaps at Narcissa's throat, while Bellatrix's hems left wet, red streaks on marble stairs; of Draco's frightened, grey eyes, his only child grown almost to a man, still trusting his father to do something. Endless, endless screaming from the cellars. Peter Pettigrew - Wormtail, sniggering at him from a corner whilst devouring an entire bird, like the rat that he was, with bare, greasy, mismatched hands.

He dreamed of the Dark Lord's reptilian derision when, after everything else had been stolen, he took Lucius' wand and all that was left of his pride. Rage exploded. 'You can stop him,' urged the voice in his head that sounded so familiar. 'You can stop all of that.' Spinning towards it, he woke to a faceful of orange fur.

Lucius shrieked and leaped off the toilet. Something orange, furry and squashed looking was jammed against the sink still holding his imprint where he had been sleeping against it. With a sort of rustling, rushing sound, part of it slumped to the ground. Lucius took a deep breath and began tidying himself up.

'Dobby.' The elf appeared. 'What is that?'

'Dobby doesn't know, master. Shall Dobby punish himself?'

'No.' He stared at the creature, distinctly remembering it declaring that Dobby was 'a free elf', just before getting knifed by Bellatrix and the terrible loss of that most unusual of sensations: hope.

Because Potter had been supposed to destroy the Dark Lord.

And then Dobby had taken Potter and his friends away, before He could arrive - straight out through all the wards – which actually could explain how his wife had banished Lucius to the bathroom the previous evening: if that too had not been the the hallucinatory remains of a nightmare. It seemed to Lucius that there was something not quite right about the peacock and the potion. Even now, reality seemed a bit off. Considering the orange anomaly, he was tempted to pinch himself or, better, tell Dobby to pinch himself.

'No,' said the voice in his head.

That wouldn't work? thought Lucius.

'No it wouldn't.' The voice sounded irritated.

The elf had stopped wringing his hands and now merely stood there looking confused. If he'd been entirely convinced that he was dreaming, Lucius would cheerfully have 'AK'ed the little beast.

Early in their marriage Narcissa had suggested that one of the elves be specifically assigned to Lucius and he, not yet knowing his new bride very well, had agreed without question. He was soon to discover not only did that mean that all the other elves answered to her but also that, strangely enough, his servant - Dobby - was the one that was a past master of obfuscation and fully paid up member of the awkward squad.

Ok, idiot. Try again. 'Do you know where it came from?'

'No. Master.' Large head shaking so fast that Lucius thought the elf might hurt himself with his own ears.

'Do you know how it got here?'

No. Master.'

'Do you have any ideas?'

The elf stopped shaking his head, open-mouthed at being asked such a question. Meanwhile, enough of the amorphous, orange monstrosity had fallen into its lower region, the bit in the sink flipped over and the whole thing slumped forward. Dobby shrieked and leaped backwards; Lucius hit the furry intruder with a cutting curse. Immediately innumerable little white beads resembling hailstones began pouring out, spreading over the bathroom floor Ok. Bad idea, thought Lucius.'Well,' he said, 'Get rid of it.'

The elf clicked his fingers and the orange fur disappeared with an explosion of tiny, white balls which were now sticking all over everything.

Including Lucius.

Dobby head butted the sink.

'Stop that.' He found himself restraining the little creature. 'Stop punishing yourself.' They both considered the snow-like layer. Lucius removed the beads adhering to his nose and chin. 'Just get rid of them. Right? But first run me a bath, not here – in my own bathroom and fetch me a pot of tea and . . .' But Dobby had already vanished.

It wasn't a problem. There would be various remedies in the cabinet behind the mirror, including one for hangovers.

Squinting vaguely at the ranks of little bottles, he found one the right colour, opened it, swallowed the contents and then waited while his headache continued unabated and his stomach churned in what he decided was a peculiarly mocking fashion.

Two things occurred to Lucius at this point: that there was definitely something something amiss with regard to his mental state and that,whatever it was that he'd taken, it hadn't been hangover remedy. Lucius opened one eye and attempted to decipher the label. "Felix Felices." Lovely. The trouble being that luck borrowed had to be repaid, usually with interest and, in accordance with Finagle's corollary to the Sod-Murphy Law, at the worst possible time.

'Not if you pass it on.' And here was something new: a female voice talking in his head and sounding very like the woman from his nightmare.

Excuse me,'he told it, I don't believe we've met. My name is Lucius Abraxus Malfoy. In the silence that followed Lucius undressed and fled the white invasion to his own rooms by means of apparition.

The tea he found waiting was exactly to his taste and the temperature of the bath just right.

Perhaps, he consoled himself while soaking along with his tea and only four small, white beads, he'd confused Dobby by being reasonable and the elf was just doing things right for a change.

He couldn't help wondering what would happen if he did try to pass on his good fortune. As he was currently under the influence of 'Felix Felices' his thought that staying at home and doing nothing would not prevent the accrual of the luck debt, merely waste an opportunity was probably right. He'd go and see Severus, he decided. His old friend could do with some good luck.

And then he'd to wonder when he'd last considered anyone, outside of family, as more than 'potentially useful'.

Narcissa glanced up from the dining table.

'Hello darling,' she said, brightly. 'I'd not expected to see you so early. Feeling better?' Lucius grunted and lowered his abused posterior onto a chair. 'If you can remember any of your dreams from last night, they might give us a clue as to who or what was responsible.

'The Dark Arse,' said Lucius.

Narcissa's eyes widened. 'The Dark Lord is gone,' she said carefully. 'How could he . . ..'

'Horcuxes,' interjected Lucius. 'Lots of Horcruxes. Oh and Peter Pettigrew, who is actually an animagus and is currently residing with the Weasleys as their pet rat Scabbers.'

Narcissa gave a thoroughly unladylike snort. 'Oh I wish. I do get so very tired of Mr. Weasley's little visits. What sort of employment is that for a Pureblood.'

'Would it be better if he wasn't?'

Narcissa looked thoughtful but any answer she might have made was interrupted by an elf announcing that Minister Fudge wanted to speak with Lucius Malfoy "whenever convenient" which, of course, meant right away. Reassured by the 'Felix Felices,' Lucius ordered kippers and poached eggs and toast.

He still had to wait ten minutes to be admitted to Fudge's office, only to discover the Minister of Magic pointing his wand up his own nose. Lucius coughed. While he knew spells for trimming nasal hairs he didn't use them in public.

'Ah, Lucius. No problem I hope?'

'I was dining. I assumed that you would have said were it urgent?

'No, no. Not at all. Do sit down. Tea?'

'Thank you, no.' Lucius sat, lifted an ankle over his knee, and waited.

Fudge opened his mouth and shut it and opened it again. 'I'm on the fund raising committee for Saint Mungo's again.' He smiled, picked up a quill and dipped it into the inkwell. 'As we're hoping to do quite a bit better this year, shall we say a thousand?'

'No,' said Lucius.

Fudge appeared surprised. 'Two?' he suggested.

'No.'

'I beg your pardon?'

Now Fudge was astonished. For that matter, so was Lucius. He let the 'Felix Felices' talk. 'On various occasions, every year, you take it upon yourself to promise financial assistance on my behalf and each and every time I ask you not to.'

'Yes, you do say that. Every time.' Fudge beamed. 'But you always pay up in the end.'

'Which clearly doesn't act as any sort of disincentive to your volunteering other people's money.' Lucius said, brushing invisible dust off his robes. 'It's not such a terribly large amount, Cornelius. I'm sure you'll have no difficulty funding it yourself.'

The idiot started rearranging papers. 'Mrs. Fudge is not low maintenance witch,'

Except that the problem was not the Minister of Magic's wife.

'You have met Narcissa?' inquired Lucius. 'You should know that I have never, for a moment, regretted marrying her, or once thought of another witch, so I understand entirely but, alas, I cannot help you.

Fudge stared. The expression 'bulldog chewing a wasp' drifted through Lucius's mind. 'I would hate to have to tell them that someone had let me down.'

And there it was: something that sounded almost like a threat: one that suggested that Fudge was quite aware of the precarious state of his finances. And still he kept digging.

'Might I ask: have you been offered a seat on the Board of Saint Mungo's yet?' enquired Lucius.

'Well, no. Not yet.' Make that several wasps.

'No. And it's been what? Ten years? Well, for myself, I intend trying something different this year and I strongly suggest that you do the same. And now, if there's nothing else?' Fudge looked constipated. Lucius saw himself out.

He found Narcissa on the terrace of Malfoy Manor holding a letter. 'This has just arrived for you,' she said. 'I've checked it. It's clean.'

Surreptitiously, Lucius tried two more spells - just a letter. He opened it.

Dear mr Malfoy.

I hav ritin to profeser Mcgonagal but seeing as she is doing the hedmarsters job on top of hers and wot is hapening at hogwarts I dont espect she has time to reed it so I am riting to you as chairman of the bored of Governors.

Most people dont no this but that Peter Petigroo hoo got a order of Merlin for geting kiled by Sirius Black was a rat animag. Wot is importint is I was heering that Ron Wesley hes in Grifindoor has got a rat with a finger mising and as you mite remember all that was fownd of Petigroo was his finger and I wish you wood look into it.

Yors sinseerly

A frend.

Narcissa took the letter from his hand and considered it as though she had not, in fact, dictated and had it posted herself. 'Mr Weasley is always so very concerned about what we might have in the house,' she said, handing it back. 'Maybe you should look into it. At least check up at the school.'

'Why not?' said the 'Felix Felices. Lucius brushed a kiss across his wife's cheek.

He'd wanted to see Severus anyway.

I am still having problems with Adventures with Aurors in that every time I try to write the next chapter my computer dies. This is a problem,

I thought I'd see if all my attempts at fic were so cursed. Here goes.