Chapter 79

Friday 27 March 2003: PM

"Lucius! I know you're hiding in there – Kevyn told me you snuck through the side door an hour ago! Come out at once, please; the Grangers will be here any moment." Lucius winces as his wife's (I shan't describe it as shrill, that isn't entirely accurate) emphatic voice carries clearly through the closed door of his den.

"One moment, my Cissa," Lucius replies, regretfully laying down the slim cigar he'd been on the brink of trimming and lighting. He closes the small wooden box, rising from his blood-red Westbury leather armchair to place the cigars back inside the top drawer of his desk. Kevyn, you tattling elfish twerp… you almost evoke me to regret the departure of that little lunatic Macdolas.

The study door noiselessly swings open. Narcissa Black Malfoy poses dramatically in the doorway, one precisely shaped eyebrow upraised as she assesses Lucius's appearance.

We've been wed for twenty-six years, four months, two weeks, and four days – nine thousand, six hundred and thirty days exactly… and the sight of this woman never fails to enrapture me. Lucius studies his wife just as intently as she is inspecting him, delighting in her resulting heightened colour.

The honey-blonde witch is dressed in the finest evening gown Galleons can buy. A one-sleeved, full-length, midnight blue evening gown with a high leg slit and filmy chiffon overlay; the body of the dress and the transparent sleeve are covered in diamante starburst patterns, winking and glittering under the ambient lighting of the den. High silver heels and diamond earrings complete the ensemble. I do believe I'll be testing the upper limits of that thigh split, later on this evening… oh yes, yes indeed…

A soft "ahem" spurs Lucius to speech. "You are a vision, my love. A goddess, descended from the heavens, yet bearing the scattered stars that could not bear to part from their queen." Lucius is by her side in three quick strides, delicately lifting her pale left hand to lace kisses from her slim wrist to bared elbow.

Narcissa's responsive shiver makes him grin against her soft skin, his caresses becoming more intense, until she wrenches her limb from his light grasp and wags her finger in rebuke. "Don't over-egg the pudding, mon mari. Enough distractions, we soon will have guests to welcome." Narcissa fusses at his impeccably tied pearl silk cravat.

"Cissa – must I be present? I detest the thought of disappointing you, but Healer Kuznetsova did speak at length about the potentiality of my agoraphobia worsening under too much social strain," Lucius shamelessly attempts to shirk his co-hosting responsibilities.

"I beg to differ; Healer Freya mentioned that a small family gathering would be the perfect way for you to re-integrate into social situations, as you well know. Please, Lucius – I need your support tonight, and your oath that you will treat the Grangers with kindness and respect." Narcissa's limpid blue eyes moisten as she rapidly blinks. "Do you truly wish to not attend?".

Salazar's saturnine schlong... I should have known better than to try my luck. Lucius pastes a closed-lipped smile on his face as he hastens to assure his spouse, "No, no, my dear; I'd like nothing more than to meet Jane and… Bernie, is it?".

"It's Barney – but don't call him that, unless he invites you to, please. Bernard will be perfectly appropriate, for now. Do you promise to be courteous and congenial?" Narcissa presses. "Our children will soon marry, and I want the merging of our families to be as seamless as possible."

"Cissa, our son has not even proposed to the witch yet – now, darling, I merely advise against hitching the carriage ahead of the Thestral." Lucius wishes his words unspoken as Narcissa's expression darkens to a thunderous frown. "I've no objection to the union, if – or when – it does take place. Was that the Floo?" he adroitly manoeuvres them into the hallway and toward the main parlour.

Keeping a brilliant smile upon her face, Narcissa somehow manages to hiss, "Do not embarrass me, or our son, Lucius; or I swear, you will regret it. Jane, Bernard – how lovely to see you again!". She gracefully gathers Jane Granger into a quick hug, bussing kisses on both the brunette's cheeks, before affectionately squeezing the arm of the tall, rangy, bearded man beside her.

"Please allow me to introduce my husband, Lucius; Lucius, this is Jane, and Bernard," she prompts.

"How do you do? It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Jane and Bernard." Lucius turns Jane's proffered hand to lightly kiss the back of her fingers, smirking inwardly at the affronted look on Mr Granger's face.

Holding out his hand for Bernard to shake, Lucius freezes in gobsmacked shock when the clown copies his smooth gesture and kisses Lucius's own knuckles, leaving a rather damp smear on his tightened, pallid skin.

"What's good for the goose is good for the gander, eh, Lucy?" Bernard Granger booms, dropping Lucius's hand and energetically slapping him on the shoulder. "Wait – am I the goose, or the gander? I never can remember."

"You're the gander," Lucius mutters, when his powers of speech have been restored. "Though I would hazard a guess you're more used to playing the goose," he snipes. The gibe is unfortunately pitched a shade too loudly to not be overheard; Narcissa glares daggers at him.

"Damned right! You'll have to do better than that to get under my skin, Lucy – you'll find it takes quite a lot to get me riled. Hide of a Horned Strumpet, that's me," Bernard proudly announces.

"I think you mean an 'Erumpent', darling," Jane gently corrects. "Lucius didn't grant you permission to use that naughty nickname Hermione devised, either."

"Lucy here called me a goose, Jane – I think we've well and truly moved past titles and onto nicknames, sugarpuss," Bernard Granger genially argues. "He's welcome to call me Barney, since we've already kissed. Strumpet, Erumpent, you knew what I meant. Actually, I have a question for you, Lucy: do Erumpents have teeth, or grinding plates? Hermione tells me they're herbivores with small teeth, but she's never seen one up close."

Lucius quashes his instinct to bolt from the room when the gregarious Barney claps a meaty paw onto his back as he awaits an answer. This ridiculous… creature is living proof that bears are not yet extinct in the United Kingdom, he muses, glowering as he notices Narcissa's flagrant grin. He should be placed in a Muggle zoo, for the love of Artio… definitely kept behind bars of some sort. Cissa warned me he was 'eccentric' – strike that, he's an utter kook.

"Erumpents have teeth," Lucius finally grits out. "I highly recommend you never approach one to find out for yourself, unless you have a raging death wish… Barney." The sarcasm sails over the other man's head like an untethered kite.

"Ruddy shame, that; I'm a bit of an esoteric dentition aficionado, Lucy. Hermione's already warned me off approaching your elves for a bit of a look-see, sadly," Bernard wistfully shrugs. He cheers immediately as he asks, "Have Draco and Hermione arrived yet, Narcissa? It was our girl's last day at Ministry, she's bound to be a bit emotional about it all."

"Not yet, but we're expecting them soon," Narcissa answers. "Would you care to join us for some mocktails? Mizrabel and Kevyn have whipped up some delicious concoctions tonight," she ushers everyone toward the formal dining room.

Mocktails… I'll never regret becoming teetotallers after Draco's battles with alcoholism, but if ever an evening called for some mind-deadening Firewhiskey or superlative French wine, this is it. Putain de bordel! Lucius pretends an air of conviviality he certainly doesn't feel when he notices Narcissa's azure eyes boring into him.

"Mocktails sound just the thing, ma très chère femme," Lucius tries to subtly escape the Barney-bear's orbit to gravitate closer to Narcissa as the quartet make their way out of the parlour, though the nutty dentist doesn't allow him much more personal space.

"Ah, I see you two tourtereaux carry on like Hermione and Draco, eh? Your boy's forever whispering French smut in my daughter's ear," Barney observes. "Did I say that right? I looked up some Gallic endearments on the computer the other day – my sugarpuss likes it when I mix things up a bit." He nudges Lucius in the ribs hard enough to make him cough.

"Your pronunciation is decidedly coarse, but acceptable, I suppose," Lucius disagreeably rasps, surreptitiously bracketing his arms at right angles in an effort to block any future blows. "It's not smut; I simply called Narcissa 'my dearest wife', if you must know."

"Don't get tetchy, Luce. Jane spent the better part of an hour lecturing me on how you and I are expected to behave as 'civilized, mature patriarchs' – I imagine you got a similar bollocking from your bride, am I right?". Barney actually has the effrontery to secure Lucius in a 'genial' headlock as he mutters the last sentence for Lucius's ears alone. "Smile and nod, there's a good chap. We'll settle our differences when our women aren't around to censure us. What do you say to that, Luce?".

Barely able to nod his assent (given how tightly this boisterous fool is holding me) Lucius smiles for their wives' benefit as he softly snarls, "You've finally said something worth hearing… Barn. Let go of me, you overgrown grizzly bear."

One final squeeze/choke of his neck before Bernard complies. "Looking forward to it, you pale prick. You might be a notoriously shady Dark wizard, blah blah blah… but I extract human teeth for a living. With my bare hands," he emphasizes, briefly cramping them into boulder-like fists before grinning wolfishly.

Barney's demeanour mercurially shifts from menacing to mild as he amends, "I shouldn't have said 'bare hands', I always wear latex gloves – and I use British Dental Association-approved tools, of course – but it sounded more powerful than saying 'gloved hands', didn't it? Anyway, my threat stands."

I retract my early assessment – Bernard Granger isn't a kook, he's positively deranged. Who the devil are these people?! Lucius strides to the far end of the dining room, where Kevyn is enthusiastically shaking up Merlin-knows-what in a silver cocktail shaker.

This is going to be a long fucking night, isn't it?


Barney gazes adoringly at Jane as she chitters and chatters with Narcissa Malfoy. How did I ever get lucky enough to marry an angel? I still can't believe it. He pinches his cheek, gladdened anew that he is not living in a dream. Nope. Still real. Heh. Look at us, swanning about in an honest-to-goodness wizardly mansion, wearing pearls and monkey suits. I hope Luce appreciates I donned my third-best outfit for this dinner party. Bloody ponce – his fancy get-up has more tiny buttons than a second-grader has warts.

Lucius must feel the weight of his stare; the prat lifts his mocktail glass in a silent, ironic toast.

Yeah, cheers, dickhead. Barney tips his chin infinitesimally as he aggressively slurps at his Apple Pie Mocktail Mule. Not a bad beverage, actually. Christ, what I wouldn't give to employ a house elf. Surely there must be a few willing to work for Muggles? Maybe I could ask that young Zucchini – doesn't he work in the Ministry's import/export division? He could help set me up – and what better way to foster harmonious relations between wizards and Muggles, than to share resources? Yeah, I'll definitely have a word with the bloke at Mac's party.

Enlivened by the prospect of hiring a house elf, Barney sucks down the remainder of his drink. He signals Kevyn for a refill just as Hermione and Draco enter the room, accompanied by Macdolas and Ruibby.

"Darlings!" Narcissa and Jane descend upon the two couples like benevolent Harpies.

"Oh, it's so good to see you! Don't you all look wonderful?! Here, come join us in a few pre-dinner mocktails," Narcissa entreats.

"How was your last day, sweetie? Please accept our sincerest congratulations on your new roles, Draco, Mac, and Ruibby. We're so proud of you all," Jane beams. "And you too, of course, Hermione."

"Thanks, Mum. Marilda gave the nicest speech, she made me cry," Hermione admits. "Everyone chipped in to give me a new leather organizer, it's going to come in really handy for my lesson planning."

"And for your interminable lists, ma petite," Draco slides his arm around her waist, softly kissing her blushing cheek. "The Ministry's loss is Hogwarts's gain, of course."

"MacRu thank Her Grace Lady Jane Granger most kindly for her approbation, and wish to announce they have been granted the most especial privilege of conjoined quarters at the Best and Most Honourable Wizarding Scholastic Institution and Sorcerous Boarding School, the Irrefutably Superior, Traditional yet Progressive Academy for Young Witches and Wizards, the Unique and Irreplaceable Hogwarts Castle – and MacRu shall gratefully accept any furnishings and fribbles that their generous and charitable former employers may deem appropriate to bequeath the blessed couple," Macdolas gulps in a huge breath at the end of his rambling monologue.

"Shameless little grifter," Draco chides, at the same time that Lucius quietly grumbles, "You may strip the silk sheets from our very bed if you would only agree to stay silent, you wordy wee windbag."

'Silk sheets' – I ruddy well knew it. Talk about 'Lifestyles of the Rich and Shameless'… I bet this bastard doesn't even know the cost of bread and milk.

"How much is a loaf of bread these days, Luce? Go on, humour me," Barney swaggers nearer. Draco quickly joins them, leaving Hermione to the fussing and cooing over Macdolas's audacious appeal for free swag.

"We don't buy bread, Barn; our elves make it fresh, every day," Lucius scorns. "I suppose a mass-produced loaf must retail for… what, a handful of Muggle pennies?". He irritably flips his blond queue over his shoulder.

"Hello Bernard, Father," Draco warily stands between them. "You're discussing… bakery goods? Catch me up on the conversation, please; I'm somewhat bemused."

"Ah, Draco – thank Salazar you're here," Lucius sounds almost affectionate as he pats his son's arm. "My new mate Barney thinks I've lost touch with the common people, I believe. I have been under strict house arrest for five years… which does tend to preclude one from wandering into Muggle supermarkets for a few staples."

Imagine this cocky git perusing the dairy shelves at Tesco, digging deep to find the later-dated moo juice. Barney bursts into raucous laughter at the thought, which intensifies as Lucius recoils in reaction to his lusty guffaws.

"He's not sane, Draco– far from it," the older wizard urgently declares. "He's already struck and threatened me, under the guise of 'friendly banter'. I need you to tell your mother I'm unwell, and must be excused."

"Father, he's harmless – aren't you, Bernard? He has an… unusual sense of humour, that's all," Draco diplomatically claims. "Mother and Jane are determined to make this dinner party a success, so I expect you both to behave appropriately, or risk their combined fury. Hermione won't be at all happy if this all implodes, either," he adds as an afterthought.

"You watch your roaming hands when it comes to my daughter, Blondie – I saw your sneaky grab for her bum when you walked in," Barney leans closer.

"Tell Hermione to keep her fingers off my son – she's forever plopping into his lap and accosting him," Lucius bristles.

"Stop it! My and Hermione's behaviour is not the issue here – yours is," Draco snaps. "I wash my hands of you. Kevyn, may I have a mocktail? Whatever's the fastest to prepare, please."

"I don't recommend the 'I Can't Believe it's Not Butterbeer'; it distinctly tastes like acorns and arseholes," Lucius quips, morosely glaring down into his half-drunk glass.

"You would know, Luce. Kudos for admitting your past brown-nosing, though," Barney is unable to resist the sally. "Is that why you prefer to wear black? The shit stains don't show up?"

"You're a walking shit stain, you tooth-pulling twat."

"You're nothing more than affluent effluent."

"You're as mad as a bag of ferrets, with markedly fewer brains."

"You're a shiver searching for a spine to crawl up."

"You're a bespawling bobolyne."

"Patrician plonker."

"Plebian pillock."

"Fopdoodle!"

"Dalcop!"

Draco grabs his 'Sober Sailor' (aka a rose lemon spritzer) as soon as Kevyn pours it. "You've devolved to Olde British insults, that's wonderful," he lambastes. "Grow up and get over yourselves, or you'll be comprehensively banned from our wedding... and your future grandchildren's lives."

Barney and Lucius are left wearing identically agape expressions as Draco stalks back to join the rest of the party.

"That was harsh," Barney grouses. "I wasn't being wholly serious."

"Yes, well… perhaps I went too far with the 'ferrets' insult," Lucius allows. "You lack their… concentrated ferocity."

"I shouldn't have called you a shiver – if anything, you're a mild shudder," Barney concedes. Jane is going to have my head if she realizes I've been blatantly bickering with Lord Lofty. He tries for a friendly grin. "Eh, what do you say we call a truce, Luce?"

"Very well. I refuse to shake your hand – or kiss it," Lucius backs away a step, his scowl easing. "Don't smile, it's incredibly alarming."

"The overweening wanker says what?" Barney retorts.

"What?!" Lucius spits, before realizing he's been played for a fool. "Predictably immature, Barn."

"Alright, I apologize. See? I can admit when I go too far."

"I can't. Inculcated pride is a dreadful burden, Bernard," Lucius sighs. "My father was a proud, autocratic, abusive arsehole – naturally, I've become just like him, I'm afraid."

"My father was a fun-loving, irresponsible, shiftless, abusive drunk," Barney confides. "But he died when I was twelve… wrapped his car around a telegraph pole. He and my mother were killed instantly." He shrugs, hunching into himself as old hurts flood his mind.

"I swore to use his example as my anti-guide to life. Not the 'fun-loving' bit, that's all me. But the rest… ah, never mind. Sorry – Apple Pie Mocktail Mules always bring out my maudlin side," he wryly mocks.

"Must be the ginger beer," Lucius offers, after a short pause. "Narcissa and the Healer have me on a bizarre diet, full of herbal supplements and odd 'antioxidant' combinations. Apple cider vinegar, goji berries, chia seeds and turmeric and more beans than I can shake my cane at. They're mad for all things ginger, too. It's a huge relief to sit down to some classic fine dining tonight, let me apprise you."

"Tell me about it – Jane's personal mission in life lately is to stuff me full of kale and beets, apparently. And the remonstrations about my salt intake! 'The Salt Police, they are coming for me," he sings the adapted lyrics to the Cheap Trick classic. "Dream Police? No? Forget it – but yeah, some of the health food kicks she's been on have been absolutely dire," Barney groans. "I've resorted to stashing a 'feed bag' full of yummy snacks out in the garage – keep that on the downlow though, Lucy."

"I've thought of bribing one of the elves to arrange something similar, but they're hopelessly loyal to Narcissa," Lucius sighs. "She's banned chocolate éclairs for the foreseeable future, and my shrivelled soul withers further with every choux pastry-less day." His mouth twists at the corners. "That was a joke, Bernard."

"Hard to tell, you Death Eaters have a singular sense of humour," Barney parries, chuckling at Lucius's unimpressed sneer. "Lighten up, Luce, I get it."

"I must insist you address me as Lucius, Bernard. This… penchant you and your daughter have for creating shortened, inappropriate nicknames is untenable – and intolerable," Lucius stiffly requests. "It simply won't do."

"I beg to differ, my good fellow," Barney threads the fingers of his left hand between the buttons of his navy waistcoat and adopts his most pompous air. "'Lucy' suits you to a tee, so Lucy you shall be. I'm loath to involve our shrewd spouses in this petty dispute, but I will if absolutely necessary." He jerks his spare thumb in the direction of their thick-as-thieves womenfolk.

Obviously fuming, Lucius mutters, "Common as muck," as he hoicks his hoity-toity nose in the air and struts back to the dining table. Sniggering merrily to himself, Barney lopes along behind him.

Barney, 1: Lucy, 0.

Let the games begin.


What fresh hell is this? Draco pushes Macdolas to precede him into the billiards room; the elf's pea-green eyes boggle as he too spies the odd display Bernard and Lucius are currently arranging atop the cloth-covered full-sized billiard table.

"Macdolas asks why the ex-Lord Malfoy and the Father Dentist Granger have poured Tabasco sauce into several shot glasses, Master Malfoy? Is this a Muggle custom Macdolas knows of not?" the curious sprite asks.

Tabasco – of course. The mild ache that has been lurking on the edges of Draco's anxious brain threatens to bloom into a fully-fledged cephalalgia at the realization that Bernard and Lucius are engaged in some sort of idiotic Hot Sauce Challenge. If they're trying to decide who is the bigger imbecile, it's already a tie.

"Because they are more alike than they care to admit, Macdolas. Two grandstanding blowhards butting heads like old rams," Draco sighs as he answers Macdolas's question. "I suppose we'd best referee this moronic match, lest one or both end up destroying their stomach lining."

"Macdolas watches with great interest, Master Malfoy." He shinnies onto a nearby stool and perches like a Wimbledon umpire.

"Draco, Macdolas: you're just in time," Barney crows, rubbing together his large hands in mischievous glee. "Whomever can down five shots of Tabasco – and keep it all down for at least two minutes – will be crowned the Champion. You can be your father's support crew, I'll take the Big Mac for back-up."

"I want no part in this insanity – as Macdolas is my witness, I lodge my full objections to your silly 'contest', and strongly advise you both to rethink your plan," Draco crosses his arms and dourly glares at the two men. "If we hadn't been told (in no uncertain terms) to not interrupt our females for the next hour, I'd march in there now and sing like a canary."

Lucius and Barney ignore his severe caution.

"You keep your Venus fly trap shut, Draco. No need to alert the gals, this is a macho rite of passage," Barney proclaims, squinting as he aligns the final shot glass beside its fellows. "Lucy reckons he can out-do me in any capacity… well, we'll soon see, eh?".

"Father – your diet–"

"Cease your quibbling, Draco – my diet can withstand a few mouthfuls of this smelly Muggle condiment, never fear," Lucius arrogantly waves him off. "Besides, Healer Kuznetsova encourages the regular intake of capascins to increase metabolic function, or some such blather."

"Lowers the blood pressure too, Luce," Barney helpfully chips in. "Also puts more pepper in your pecker, if you ask me." His wink has Draco recoiling and Mac grinning.

"No– stop– enough– and where did you even find the Tabasco sauce?" Draco randomly queries. Surely Bernard doesn't regularly travel with it? I wouldn't rule out anything though, not at this point. He irritably rubs his palm over his face.

"Macdolas introduces a bottle into the Manor's pantry after sampling the spicy product at Her Grace Lady Granger's apartment, Master Malfoy. A new jar," he stresses. "Macdolas is no thief."

"Great. Just peachy. Listen, can you hold off for a minute while I fetch some chilled milk, for the inevitable heartburn?" Draco asks, jaw clenching.

"Stay put, Master Malfoy: Macdolas is happy to oblige!" He Disapparates in a blink.

Draco glowers at Lucius and Barney in turn, while the two sires eye each other like prize fighters. As if dinner weren't bad enough, what with them swapping outlandish tales of my and Hermione's 'achievements' since our births, in an absurd attempt to outdo one another… Lucius claiming I could walk at six months, and speak fluent French at a year old; Bernard reckoning Hermione was reading Shakespeare at eighteen months of age, and solving advanced trigonometry equations before starting kindergarten.

A snicker involuntarily escapes Draco's lips as he recalls Narcissa and Jane's response to the braggartly one-upmanship; they'd merely cut the men out of their dinner chat entirely and increased the volume of their speech, effectively drowning out the outrageous fibbing. Hermione and Draco had made a few endeavours to moderate the inane boasting taking place, but had soon chosen to follow their mothers' example of leaving the pair of dolts to their own devices.

"The milk, Master Malfoy." Macdolas reappears, holding out a glass jug of cold milk. His other hand grips two pristine metal cleaning buckets. "For the vomitus, Master," the clever elf explains.

Eewww. "Good thinking, Macdolas. Thank you." Draco places a bucket beside each line of shot glasses. "What are the stakes here, gentlemen? Besides being crowned Fatuous Father of the Year?" he razzes.

"Glad you asked, lad. I'm about to win a box of Lucy's finest Cubans, as well as his unqualified respect and admiration," Barney replies.

"How quaint – you truly believe yourself to possess a chance," Lucius dryly rejoins. "When I (ineluctably) triumph, my prize is Bernard's promise to never, ever, ever again call me 'Luce', 'Lucy', 'Lucinda', or any other derivative along those lines. And he will defer his unconditional admiration and respect to me, naturally," he sniffs.

"Oooh, I'm going to enjoy this!" Barney hoots. "I can already imagine the joy of holing up in my man cave, kicking back on my car seat couch, feet up, puffing away contentedly on a primo stogie after a hard day at the surgery… ah, good luck, Lucy. Draco, you can be our official timekeeper – remember, the two minute no-spew period begins as soon as the fifth shot glass has been emptied. Got it?".

"Fine. Begin on three. Ready? Three… two… one… go!".

Mac's outsized ears rapidly flick at the spectacle of witnessing Bernard and Lucius chugging down copious amounts of the hot chilli sauce. Barney's approach is best described as 'go hard or go home', as he bolts down each shot as quickly as possible; whereas Lucius slowly drains the glasses, employing his customary graceful finesse.

"Does Master wish to wager on the outcome?" Macdolas whispers, after the first two slugs of Tabasco have been ingested. "Macdolas bets a Galleon on The Father Dentist Granger reigning supreme?".

"No – and you're too late, you cannot speculate on the outcome of any competition after it has already begun, Macdolas; it's considered quite unsporting," Draco quietly lectures. "I wouldn't bet against Barney, anyway – he's a renowned chilli nut."

After the third shot, both men are patently suffering. Bernard's face is the colour of cooked beetroot, beads of sweat running from his hairline to his collar. Lucius has turned a shade of bruised yellow-green, his grey eyes bulging as his breath shallows.

"Come on, please stop – you both look terrible," Draco reaches out to confiscate the remaining four shots.

"No! We will finish this, Draco." Lucius gulps down his fourth and fifth glasses in quick succession, Barney just ahead of him. "Begin the timer!".

Holding his wrist aloft, Draco studies the gasping men with growing concern, as Mac cheerily counts down aloud. Nothing like a pedantic elf in a crisis. Merlin's bedraggled beard – neither appear to be coping well. Should I summon a Healer? Call in Hermione? Flee the country before they expire at my feet?

"Twenty seconds," Mac intones.

A convulsive movement from Lucius; his trembling hands grasp the bucket, his pale head dipping below the rim. To Draco's astonishment, Barney is also bent over his own steel receptacle.

"Ten seconds!" Macdolas shrieks. "Gentlemen, hold your sauce! Five, four, three–"

Synchronized puking discontinues the count. Draco and Mac prudently step back, clapping their hands over their mouths and noses to avoid emulating the regurgitators.

"Save yourself, Macdolas. I did try to warn them," Draco sighs, once the heaving has died down to spasmodic tremors and groans. "And I forbid you to clean up their mess – you don't work here anymore, and they should learn more than one lesson from this debacle."

"I won, Lucy… I held it in longer…" Barney weakly asserts, bringing up his sweating head; Draco has to avert his horrified eyes. He pulls out his wand.

"You've chunks of spew in your beard, Bernard! Hold still, I'll 'Scourgify' you," he swiftly completes the cleansing spell.

Lucius raises his head to tremulously mock, "Rather disgusting of you, Barney – and you most certainly did not win, you vomited before I."

"I'm afraid you've dipped the ends of your hair into the contents of your bucket, Father," Draco tamps down his squeamishness as he performs the same service for Lucius. "And it was a tied disqualification: neither of you made it to the two minute mark, therefore you both forfeit. No – no squalling, that is our final decision. There will be no further stupid battles of any sort, or I will expose you both to your wives' extreme displeasure at your crazy antics, is that understood?".

He taps his foot until he finally receives a reluctant nod from each fool. "Good. Go sit down… I suppose I'll have to deal with your revoltingness. You owe me, both of you." Snatching up the handles of the soiled buckets, Draco flounces from the room.

Returning ten minutes later, he is flabbergasted at the scene that greets him. Macdolas is sitting in a child-sized armchair (my old armchair, if I'm not mistaken), coughing fit to kill, a lit cigar in one hand. Lucius and Barney are puffing away on their own cheroots, taking turns at blowing smoke rings and desultorily whacking Macdolas on the back.

"Take it easy, Big Mac; small puffs, don't try to inhale yet. You'll be right," Bernard soothes.

"Give that to me! For the love of serpents, don't start him smoking!" Draco rages, pinching the dangling half-cigar from Macdolas's fingers and stubbing it out in a nearby ashtray. "What's going on here? You were at each other's throats all night… and now you're best buds?".

"Don't be so dramatic, Draco; shouldn't you be pleased that we've set aside our piddling squabbles in favour of family harmony?" Lucius fashions a large smoke ring, drifting it straight into Draco's irked face. "Barney was just divulging some fascinating tips on how to deter peacocks from one's roof, actually. Water pistols, you say? How intriguing…"

"Plastic water rifles are better, Lucy – you want the full pump-action models, peacocks hate water. It won't hurt them, but they'll think twice about roosting up there," Bernard wisely nods. "Or I could set you up with a motion-activated sensor, that'll stop the proud buggers in their tracks, any time of the day or night."

"Excellent – King Blizzard's reign of terror will soon come to a close. Thank you, Barn."

"You're most welcome, Luce."

I can't deal with this capricious lunacy… I just can't. Draco points a forbidding finger at Macdolas. "You stay right there, please – and no more cigars, or cordial, or anything else these two decide to try to corrupt you with, got it? I'm going back to the library, to sip tea with sane females. I'm done here."

Masculine laughter follows him from the room; Draco slams it closed behind him, rubbing at his throbbing temples. Is this chaotic good merging with chaotic evil? Or is it just chaos theory at work? Either way, I can't make head nor tail of it.

And I suppose I prefer Lucius and Barney being friendly, as opposed to hostile; but their sudden companionable alliance is frightfully uncanny. Wait until Hermione hears about this… I've little doubt she'll be equally as perturbed as I. Mayhap she'll be able to puzzle out their weirdness; she did read Macbeth when she was a toddler, according to her proud papa.

Striding down the hallway, he grins as he imagines Hermione and Ruibby's reactions to finding out Macdolas was smoking (well, choking on) a cigar. Little duffer.

His smile fades as he considers how Macdolas's upcoming party presents many diabolical opportunities for Barney and Lucy-based devilry.

Oh, dragon shite… what have we done?!


French translations:

Putain de bordel – for fuck's sake.

mon mari – my husband.

ma très chère femme – my dearest wife.

tourtereaux – lovebirds.

Olde English insults:

Bespawling bobolyne – dribbling (drooling) fool

Fopdoodle – insignificant, idiotic man

Dalcop – dull head (literally).