8
Father, My Father—Chapter 21
9 July 1948
The lift at the Ministry of Magic stopped at level 3 as it announced, "Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."
Abraxas looked around the otherwise empty lift, butterflies flitting in his stomach, and he grimaced at his weakness. Malfoys shouldn't be nervous; besides, what had he to be nervous about? He was a well-trained, proficient wizard who'd not only studied with Professor Lazarov—one of the best in Bulgaria—but he had in hand his Degree in Healing signed by Doctor Dorshea Hodgins herself, one of the most respected witches in the field. And he was a Malfoy—that alone would open many avenues whether he were qualified or not, though he'd much prefer to draw on his skills than his name.
He paused a bit too long, and the gate began to clang shut. He rammed his foot into the space between the metal guard and the wall, and upon feeling itself blocked it opened once more, again announcing the destination. Disembarking, he brushed down his immaculate robes, threw his head back, and strode to the nearest office. The sign above the door read Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee. That wasn't what he wanted so he continued on, reading the titles above each door till he came to the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door to enter.
A shabbily dressed, redheaded man roughly twelve years older than Abraxas looked up from his desk, then at the clock behind him on the wall. "You're early."
"I like to be prompt," Abraxas answered, stepping forward to shake hands. "Mr. Weasley."
"Mr. Malfoy," returned Septimus Weasley, suppressing a smile. It seemed odd to call this barely-of- age boy "Mr." when he'd practically watched him grow up—not up close, of course, for their parents couldn't be considered friends in any respect, but at large gatherings of purebloods they were bound to cross paths. "Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you." Abraxas seated himself stiffly.
Of all the people in this department who might have interviewed him, why did it have to be the blood traitor who'd married Cedrella Black, marring the proud Black family name? Orion and Cygnus were Abraxas' friends, he'd listened to them moan about Cedrella's mistake on more than one occasion. For as long as he could remember, he'd heard his parents and nearly everyone at Durmstrang disparage blood traitors almost as badly as the muggles they championed. Not that Abraxas hated muggles, per se—he'd been in intimate proximity, curing them for the past year, after all. What stuck in his craw was the idea espoused by these muggle-lovers that wizards and witches were no better than the muggles, despite their obvious superiority via magic. What were the traitors hoping for, that the muggles would cease their mistrust and hatred of wizarding kind and embrace their betters, and they'd all live happily ever after? As far as Abraxas was concerned, keeping mudbloods out of wizarding society was the best thing they could do for wizards and witches to protect them from the muggle relatives who'd undoubtedly learn of the wizarding world.
"Abraxas, I asked you a question."
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," he answered sheepishly. It wasn't like him to be caught out this way. A light flush crept into his cheeks, embarrassing him further. "I was thinking…about this job." Better for all involved if Weasley didn't find out what he'd really been pondering!
"I asked about your qualifications. I see here you listed Professor Lazarov and Doctor Hodgins as references."
"Yes, sir. I worked for two years with Professor Lazarov and some veela friends of his in Bulgaria, studying herbs and magical plants, potion making, and so forth." He carefully concealed his pleasure at the way Weasley perked up when he mentioned veelas. Most men had so little control where those lovely beings were concerned. "As I'm sure you know, veelas are renowned for their skill in healing and potions."
"Yes, I'm aware," said Septimus, though he leaned forward as if hoping to hear more about the pretty creatures. He caught himself and returned to his proper position. "It says here you did a year-long tour with Dr. Hodgins…have you any verification of this?"
Abraxas pulled the certificate from his pocket and presented it to the man. Weasley unrolled it, studied it, then handed it back, scribbling a note on his parchment.
"Excellent. You're certainly qualified medically," said Septimus. "May I ask why you'd like to work here rather than in the medical field itself?"
"Well, I never thought of myself as just being a healer—not that it's a bad thing! Without them the entire world would suffer," Abraxas said, feeling like a babbling idiot as he blushed again. The fact that he'd lost his composure not once, but twice in front of Weasley of all people made him want to kick his own arse. "I mean, this department embodies healing when potions or spells go wrong, splinching accidents and so on. I like the idea of being out in the field, not cooped in an office all the time. It's like a surgeon and emergency room doctor combined in one, only we take our craft to the patient, not the other way around."
Weasley smiled, then chuckled. "I couldn't have put it better myself. I joined for much the same reason, the thrill of the job in addition to the rewards of putting someone back together, basically. So you're not interested in being an Obliviator?"
"I understand that's a separate job in this task force," Abraxas responded guardedly.
"It is, although we encourage all our squad members to become proficient in the event that an Obliviator isn't available to modify muggle memories." He leaned forward again, this time in a conspiratorial manner. "As long as you're trained and capable, we don't require a license for it."
"But you encourage us to obtain one," Abraxas finished for him.
"Yes." Septimus sat back again, observing Malfoy. "We have an opening on one of our teams. However, I can only offer you a probationary position. You understand, we must make the final decision based on your performance. More than one strong man has turned to jelly when he sees a child lying in the street sliced in half."
"Understood," said Abraxas, nodding.
"Have you any questions for me?"
"No—well, yes," Abraxas said. "Would you be my boss?"
"Not technically," replied Weasley, motioning with his hand to a room further to his left. "While my tenure here gives me some influence, we're all under the authority of Mr. Edward Clydesdale, and you wouldn't even be in my squad." Did he detect a breath of relief?
Abraxas started to get up, then hesitated. "I am correct in assuming you're giving me the opportunity to prove myself?"
"You are correct," said Septimus. He held out his hand, which Abraxas shook. "Be back here Monday, eight o'clock. Your squad leader will be Honoria Ritzcomb. She'll brief you."
"Thank you, We—Mr. Weasley." Elated, Abraxas hurried from the room before the other man could change his mind. He'd never had a job…most Malfoys in the past few centuries had never had a job outside the work they did in the master study, buying and selling property for profit, but he liked the idea of starting a new trend. And Thalia would be so proud of him!
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"And he said to be back there Monday to begin work!" Abraxas concluded, beaming at his beloved.
Thalia smiled back, embracing him tightly. "I never doubted you for a moment. I hope you enjoy it."
"Why wouldn't I?"
"Well, they are the first line of defense when terrible accidents occur, to see the awful fallout," Thalia explained with a shrug. "I think I prefer the more cleaned up version of patients as they arrive after the Magical Reversal Squad has done the emergency work on them." She paused, peering at Abraxas, who studied her intently. "I just mean that it's a lot of pressure to be the first responder, when some of the patients will be dead already, others hurt beyond repair…" She trailed off.
A long silence followed, then Abraxas said, "I think that's why I want to do this. Someone competent has to help those people before they die, if possible. They need all the good witches and wizards they can get for it. I'm not squeamish, you know."
"No, of course you aren't…I am, though, which is why I got a job as a mediwitch in the obstetrician wing at St. Mungo's instead of pursuing a position like yours." She gazed up at him, evidently anticipating some kind of reaction; the one she got likely wasn't the expected reaction.
"You got a job?" he echoed in confusion, as if the words suddenly ceased to hold any meaning.
"Yes. Isn't it wonderful?"
"But…but I thought we agreed that you wouldn't," he sputtered, gobsmacked into befuddlement.
"Really?" asked Thalia, voice tightening. "When exactly did we agree on that?"
"You don't need one," he pressed, ignoring her question since he had no answer for it. "You've got your vault money if you require anything, and I will happily pay your rent and bills. It's my responsibility as your husband. Malfoy women don't work outside the home."
"Except you're forgetting we aren't married yet," Thalia shot back, pulling out of his arms. Her voice rose in pitch as she stated bluntly, "And we never will be if you think you can dictate how I live my life, what I can do or what I can't. I am not now, nor will I ever be, your slave or chattel! If you want a submissive little woman, you can marry Eileen!"
Abraxas merely stood there staring at her, mouth open in a tiny 'o'. She never brought up Eileen, it was…well, it seemed to be a taboo subject between them. He swallowed a lump rising in his throat, and cold sweat broke out over his body. Was she breaking up with him? Every thought in his mind began swirling as his heart raced and his lungs refused to accept the air he tried pumping into them. "Darling, I'm not—you aren't my slave or property, I'd never think of you that way. I simply assumed—you didn't say—please don't leave me!"
Thalia cocked her head, narrowing her eyes. "Why would I leave you? I love you, Brax. I just don't want you thinking you can rule me."
"I don't!" Not now anyway. Pureblood society gave men rule over their wives; he'd never questioned it before, mainly because being the male, it extended to him the position of power. But if there existed even a chance of Thalia refusing to wed him for invoking that archaic privilege, he'd happily toss it aside. "I wasn't thinking at all. If you want to work, I won't say a word about it. You can do whatever you want, my darling, as long as you marry me and love me."
A smile quirking the corners of her mouth, she stepped forward into his open arms once more. "How can a girl say no to that?" She glanced up at him, lips pursed. "You still don't like the idea, though, do you?"
"I'll get used to it." He kissed her on the forehead and pulled her so close she squeaked.
"Are you proud of me?" she pressed.
"Always," he answered earnestly. Then, grinning, he added, "Congratulations on acquiring your job as mediwitch. I am sincere in that."
"Thank you, honey, your approval means a lot to me." She nestled deeper in his arms.
"Will lack of approval stop you from doing as you please?" he asked, almost hopefully.
"No. But nice try."
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11 July 1948
Dinner was almost ready, and Abraxas was glad. He was hungry, but more than that he hoped to get to bed early, being as his first day of work commenced in the morning. Pacing the dining room, he checked the time on his pocket watch yet again. "I wish they'd hurry it up," he grumbled to no one in particular.
As Thalia was the only other person in the room, it fell upon her to respond. "It'll be done when it's done, I guess." She lazily picked at her fingertip with the end of a fork as she sat watching him stalk up and down the room. "That won't make it go any faster, you know."
She was glad her soon-to-be in-laws hadn't yet come to the dining room. Making small talk with Nicolette was fine, they got on well, but Horatio passed himself off as…charming. Yes, charming, and it nettled her because she was aware of what he was really like, the horrible things he'd done to Brax and Nicolette. It insulted her intelligence when he acted sweet and kind, when she knew he was neither. And to top it off, she could see in his eyes that he realized he was insulting her, and he enjoyed it. Yet for her to respond rudely to him seemed inappropriate, and she certainly didn't wish to cause strife—
An inhuman scream from the kitchen startled her out of her ruminations. In an instant Abraxas was running, with Thalia on his heels. The wizard skidded to a stop, wand in hand; Thalia slammed into him, knocking him forward, then holding him by the waist she peered around him.
On the kitchen floor lay Dobby, curled into a fetal position. Standing over him was Fancy, head-wreath askew, a wooden rolling pin in one hand, Dobby's long, pointed ear in the other. She alternately tugged on the ear and whacked him in the back with the pin, screeching at him the entire time as he moaned, thrashed, and yelped. After several whacks, Abraxas finally cleared his throat.
"Fancy, please stop that."
Immediately the elf dropped the rolling pin and ran to Abraxas, after giving Dobby a swift kick in the side with her bare foot. "Master Abraxas, Fancy is so sorry! Bad Dobby burns Master's bread! Supper is ruined!" She burst into sobs, concave chest heaving as she wailed, "Master's—supper be's late. Fancy—must—to cook—more bread! It—takeses—hours!"
"It's alright, Fancy," he soothed, stroking her bald pate. He rearranged her ring of flowers for her. "We can live without fresh bread tonight. Perhaps you can whip us up some savoury scones."
The elf stopped whimpering, and her face lifted. Tears creased down her cheeks, but she'd stopped sobbing. "Yes. Fancy can do that. They don't takes so long."
"Good. It's settled then." He smiled at her, and the elf smiled back before throwing herself at him, hugging his leg fiercely.
"Fancy loves Master Abraxas so much!"
He had to pry her off his leg, with Thalia watching and snickering behind her hand. Dobby, meanwhile, had slinked off somewhere out of sight, so Abraxas took his beloved's hand and went back into the dining room to wait. "Thought that was funny, did you?"
"Didn't you?" she asked, giggling again. "That Fancy is so adorable! She loves you like a mother…you're so lucky."
"Yes, I am," he said softly.
"I hope Dobby is alright. She was hitting him pretty hard."
"I'm sure he's fine," said Abraxas, settling into the chair beside her. "He's so strange for an elf, always punishing himself without being told to, slinking around and watching people. And Fancy told me he wants to be free! Can you imagine that?"
"I've never had an elf, but from what I hear that's a very unusual position for one to take," admitted Thalia. "I thought it was shameful for them not to have a family to care for."
"It is, that's why it's so odd. I try to be decent to him, but Father…well, I think you get the picture there. Anyway, let's not speak of that. He's coming." Abraxas automatically sat up straight, nodding toward the hallway where footsteps could be heard. Time to get through another meal without an argument…that took a concentrated effort on everyone's part. And best not to mention the fight in the kitchen, lest Father summon Dobby and beat him bloody for his infraction. Just thinking of it made Abraxas lose his appetite.
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26 July 1948
Temperatures in Wales tended to be brisk, if one wanted to be polite. Cold might be more accurate. Even in July, the weather at this Malfoy summer home was chilly, albeit dry for the time being; it seemed no wonder that the family never actually spent any time there. Horatio apparated to the property on the far west coast, just north of Aberystwyth, and took a deep breath of the fresh, clean ocean air. Yes, this would be the perfect place.
After watching the ocean's crashing waves for a short while, he turned to face the house—more of a bungalow when compared to Malfoy Manor, or even to many of their other holdings. It had only four bedrooms and two baths, a true rustic cabin as far as he was concerned. Unimportant: it had a cellar, which was the thing he needed. Striding up to the door, he unlocked it and went inside. He made a mental note to take down the anti-apparition wards on the house itself and to establish different wards around the property to keep out muggles.
Ignoring the rest of the two-story home, he headed straight for the cellar door, clomped down, and stood there surveying the area. He didn't recall ever having been down here before, as he'd not been the one to purchase the property. It looked dim, bleak, the floor of dirt. Yes, definitely he had not been the one to purchase this quaint little house. Even so, it served his purpose; the far wall was long, windowless, stone foundation. Along the adjacent wall were a series of shelves, all empty. He'd remedy that right now. Taking an earthenware flask stopped with a cork from his robes, he set it on the middle shelf. Beside it he set a tiny wooden box containing a clutch of twisted blond hairs.
Smiling evilly to himself, he took his wand from the hilt of his cane and aimed at the wall. He had some redecorating to do.