Chapter 9 – Purpose
I must find my purpose.
The search begins with the familiar.
Have you ground your own moonstone, gentle reader? If so, you'll recall that it's fucking exhausting. But if you don't do it correctly, your potion is a waste. It must be a fine, light, pure-white powder. Not the dull sandy grit that someone like Potter would try to pass off as acceptable. The task isn't made any easier by my mangled hand. The weakness of my grip allows the pestle to slip through my fingers as I pound away at the stone, making the task take twice as long as it should.
"Happy, the flames, if you please. They need to be just a bit lower." I dust my hands off on my jeans. The jeans that she seems to think I'd like to wear. I will be grateful when the clothing Happy has ordered for me arrives.
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy."
I will say this for the elf – he can take instruction. Provided you ask nicely. It's a bit of an indignity, having to scrape and simper. But I've already had two cauldrons melt because the flames were too high, and I forgot to say 'please'.
But my unlikely understudy has proven remarkably capable. The flames recede, and the potion settles to a light, shimmering shade of turquoise. Silver tendrils of steam slowly spin from the cauldron as I give it a few final stirs.
I set the silver stirring rod aside. "It will need to simmer while I am out. Happy, please ensure that it is not allowed to come to a boil. A boil will cause the hellebore to evaporate and the entire thing will be ruined."
"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. A simmer only. Happy is understanding."
I nod and pick up my jacket, checking my wristwatch. Happy arches his eyebrow and gives me a small frown.
"Thank you, Happy," I sigh.
"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. Happy will see to it."
The chime of the flat door rings. I quickly exit my study. No need to have her coming to look for me.
"Hello," she says as I open the door.
"Hello." I stand aside, allowing her to enter. She's changed out of the robes she no doubt wore to work in favor of a simple muggle blouse and jacket. "Would you like to sit down? May I offer you a cup of tea?" Having a servant is a pleasure for many reasons, the ability to offer the usual niceties of civil interaction being one of them.
"No thank you, I can't spare a lot of time," she replies, though she looks pleased to be asked. "Are you ready to go?"
"Nearly." I quickly fetch a wad of muggle bank notes and stuff them in my pocket, along with the galleons that Happy has acquired from my vault. And I slip the hawthorn wand into my jacket.
She watches my movements carefully. Her mouth opens but quickly closes again, her mouth folding like a sealed envelope, the words within remaining unshared.
I pick up my cane. "I'm ready."
"Good, let's – wait." She cocks her head to the side, sniffing the air, her brow pinching thoughtfully. "What's that I smell?"
"Nothing," I say quickly.
"It doesn't smell like nothing. It smells like something's burning. You didn't try to cook, did you?"
"I could cook if I wanted to," I say, frowning. I may be above such domestic trifles, but I will not have her thinking that I am an utter incompetent.
Before I can make any further protest, she goes in search of the source of the offending odor. I rush behind her as she heads toward my study and stares through the open door.
"Potions!" she exclaims, approaching my cauldron cautiously. "Draco, have you been brewing?"
"Obviously," I say, my cheeks coloring.
"We weren't sure if you'd be… that you'd be interested. But I'm glad that you are," she says. Her smile, wide and warm, feels welcomingly genuine.
"I needed something to do," I say stiffly. "And now that I have Happy, he can see to the more tedious parts of the process."
As she takes in the numerous transfigurations that my study has been subjected to in order to make it suitable for brewing, her eyes darken with the slightest shade of sadness. It makes my blush deepen. "The Draught of Peace," she says, taking a step closer and inspecting the cauldron. "It looks perfect." The words are delivered in a tone of pleasant surprise.
"I don't recall asking for your opinion," I say irritably. I don't want her thoughts on the magical alterations to my study, and I have no need of her assessment of my work. I am well past worrying about marks and house points, or anyone else's approval. "Of course it's perfect."
"I told you I wasn't going to tolerate your attitude," she says. The flecks of color in her eyes change from glints of golden thread to sparks spat from a fire. "If this is going to be how you are all afternoon, you can have lunch by yourself."
"You did tell me to watch my manners, and I have." Though I wonder whether it is wise to express it, my resentment refuses to stay suppressed. It bubbles into my words like dark vapor from the depth of a cauldron. "You might well take that advice yourself. You're not better than me at everything. You needn't act surprised that I have brewed a potion at the simple OWL level without exploding my cauldron."
"Not better than you at everything?" Her eyes narrow. "Really? I seem to remember outscoring you often enough."
"In charms, transfiguration, and runes, perhaps. But not in potions." I fold my arms and dare her to challenge me. "You were top of the year in every subject you took except two. Defense, because of His Royal Scarship, and Potions. Don't tell me you thought Potter was the top of the year there as well?"
She opens her mouth, but again no words escape. She turns away, taking her turn to blush. "You're right." The words are released from between pursed lips, not so much spoken as expelled past her teeth at wandpoint. "I… I'm sorry."
I blink. I wasn't expecting it from her, ungracious or otherwise. "Accepted," I mutter, eager to allow the entire subject to drop. "Shall we go?"
"Yes," she says, sounding grateful for a new topic. "Let's." She reaches out and grabs my forearm. With a spin and a snap, we vanish.
"Where are we?" I ask, blinking in the sunlight as we rematerialize near a busy road. The scenery is unfamiliar. I am quite sure I've never been here before.
"Tottenham Court Road," she replies, letting go of my arm quickly. "It has a safe apparition point, and I know the area."
"I don't." Taking a few uncertain steps with my cane, I look around warily. "This looks like muggle London," I say, frowning. There is noise everywhere. The cars, the crowds, the construction occurring just down the street… they all conspire together to make an ungodly, unfiltered cacophony of sound. And the smells… just as bad as I had feared. The brisk breeze carries a vague hint of the world of wind and wildflowers that I know, but those wistful notes are washed out by the smell of the muggle machines, which are everywhere.
"That's because it is," she says, an unspoken challenge in her words.
But a Malfoy is not so easily intimidated. "Very well. Shall we get our lunch, then? How about this place?" I point to a nearby sign for 'The Luchino Caffe'. "It looks perfectly – "
"No," she says, grabbing my arm again. Without releasing it, she begins to march in the opposite direction, causing me to stumble along behind her. If not for my cane, I would surely have fallen to the filthy muggle street.
We land in a place called 'The Flying Horse'. As she pulls me inside, the wind catches the door, causing it to fly open with a crash. I turn to close it, but a surprised looking muggle has already handled the task for me.
"Two?" asks a bored looking waiter. He doesn't bother to hide his indifference as he checks his watch.
She's looking back outside, chewing her lower lip, paying the muggle no mind.
"Yes," I answer.
We're led to a table near the back of the pub. While the sheer number of muggles is somewhat unsettling, the basics of the muggle pub seem familiar enough.
"Drink, sir?" I am asked as I take my menu. She continues to stare at the door.
"Mead for me. And not the cheap shite, either. Something decent."
"Mead? I'm sorry sir, we don't serve mead," says the muggle, his mouth shifting into a small frown.
"Elf wine, then," I sigh.
The waiter's frown is deepening. "I think I must have heard you wrong. Did you say – "
"Let's see…" she says, her attention snapping back to the table. "He'll have the best wine on your menu… the French Merlot, I – "
"French wine is never the best," I interrupt. "The French only want you to think so. But since the blight, everyone knows the best grapes come from the Americas or Australia." I skim the menu. The choices are uninspiring. "I'll have the Australian Cabernet."
"Alright, a glass of the – "
"A bottle," I correct, unfolding my napkin as she rolls her eyes.
"Right. Madam, are you drinking as well?"
"Yes," she says flatly.
The waiter shoots her a sympathetic smile over his shoulder as he departs for the kitchen.
"You seem to know an awful lot about muggle wine," she asks suspiciously.
"I know a lot about a lot of things. But there is no 'muggle wine'. There is only wine. Muggles hardly invented it. Though I suppose it makes sense that they haven't heard of elf wine. Pity, it's my favorite."
The waiter brings our bottle and pours us each a glass. She takes a long sip, grimacing.
"Is it not any good?" I ask, swirling my glass and frowning.
"Between the war and Hogwarts and everything else, I haven't had many chances to go on wine tastings," she replies, eyeing the contents of her glass with suspicion. "This is a bit… bitter for me, I think."
"Then why are you drinking it?" I ask, watching her take another sip in confusion.
"It's here, we ordered it," she replies, wincing. "Plus, I thought I could use the fortification."
The pub is loud. A noise-canceling charm would go a long way to improve the atmosphere, I think, as I listen to the obnoxious snorts of laughter from the next table.
"Drinking something you don't like is ridiculous. I'll just order you something else." I wave the waiter over.
"Something wrong, sir?" he asks.
"Her Ladyship thinks the Cabernet is a bit bitter. I think – "
"Ah, yes. Maybe something light and sweet? A Riesling? Many women like – "
"Sugary white rubbish? Definitely not." I pour over the menu, this time thinking carefully about what would suit her. Something full-bodied. Sweet, but with unmistakable notes of sharpness. And practical… so practical… yet at the same time with an unexpected hint of sophistication… "We'll have a bottle of the Argentinian Malbec."
The waiter's eyes linger on the bottle of Cabernet that is hardly empty, but a stern look sends him scampering away.
"So what have you been doing aside from brewing? Have you been out much?" she asks. "I thought perhaps you'd been to Diagon Alley."
"No. Why would I want to go to Diagon Alley?" I ask. My voice is full of haughty indifference, even as a small voice in my mind asks whether I am capable of opening the stone archway at the back of the Leaky Cauldron.
"I thought that perhaps you need supplies, ingredients…"
"No, I have Happy to take care of that for me. As long as I give him clear instructions, he's been surprisingly competent." The waiter returns with our second bottle of wine and a fresh pair of glasses. "Excellent, thank you," I say absently as he places mine in front of me.
Her eyebrows raise, but she doesn't say anything. She takes a tentative sip of the Malbec as I look on with interest. "It's not bad," she says, sounding pleasantly surprised. The wine has stained her lips, changing a pleasant but plain pink to a rich, robust red. "Nice, actually."
"Yes, I thought it would suit you," I say, pleased to be proven correct.
She smiles, drinking deeply this time. "It's good to see you're keeping busy."
"With brewing? Yes. I've always enjoyed potion-making, and it keeps me busy. It's methodical, and it's subtle." I take my own drink of the Malbec. It's more pleasing than I expected. "I am working on a volume of potion ingredients, focusing on the subtle variations in brewing caused by the particular features of specific elements. For instance, I've found that the potency of the Draught of Peace is substantially affected by the harvest time of the hellebore. Using syrup made from flowers harvested at noon produces a potion with an unusual note of heat."
"Interesting," she says. Unlike most witches, the word seems like a genuine statement rather than a dismissal when she utters it. "What if you substituted the unicorn horn for something else? Do you think it could still work? The potion could be so useful to St. Mungo's, yet it's rare because of the availability of the unicorn horn."
"That is a question I am currently investigating." I take another drink. "What does St. Mungo's need with the Draught of Peace?"
"Casualties from the war take many forms," she says carefully, looking down into her glass. "St. Mungo's never seems to have enough these days."
"I see."
Our food arrives. Neither of us says anything for a few long minutes. I wonder uneasily what she must think of my choice in potion brewing.
"How is the Ministry?" I ask, eager for a new subject. "Have you made progress with your muggleborn rights legislation?"
"Unfortunately, not much," she says. Relief at this new topic battles within her voice against her frustration at her lack of progress.
"Did you take my advice?"
"The bit about giving the purebloods something in exchange for their support?" She frowns and swirls her wine. "I've thought about it a lot. I'm just not sure the Ministry can give them any of the things they'd want. I won't sell my soul, or the Ministry's, no matter how attractive the payment might appear."
I roll my eyes. "A soul? The Ministry has no soul. And if it did, Corvus Flint and Salman Shafiq wouldn't be interested in buying. They're not like Nott or Avery. They won't care about your agenda unless it affects them personally. Offer them something compelling and they're yours."
"But they'll want something I won't want to give, won't they?"
"If you want something badly enough, you learn to pay the price." The pub's offerings pale in comparison to the dinner Happy made last night. I push the food around the plate listlessly. "But I would suggest you start with squibs."
"Squibs?" Her interest is definitely piqued.
"The dirty little secret of every pureblood family. We all have an uncle or a second cousin who has…" I feel a sudden need for wine. I take a long drink from my glass and pretend I don't see the look on her face. "Every family has someone who was born a squib. If you make clear that your legislation will protect them, too, you may find just enough votes to push you over the line."
"But I always thought that this law would protect squibs! I'll just make sure that I make clear – "
"No." I interrupt. I take another drink. "That's the wrong way to go about this. You can't tell them they're getting what they want for free. You must let them know that what they want is available, but only if they're willing to negotiate. Make clear that your law won't protect squibs. Then hint that you might be open to discussing the point in exchange for their support."
"How very… Slytherin," she mumbles, contemplating her own glass.
"Thank you."
She laughs. It's the good laugh, rich and musical, though something tells me I'm not in on the joke. "It wasn't a compliment." But she's stopped eating and is instead chewing her lower lip, the golden sparks in her whiskey brown eyes glinting thoughtfully.
Our waiter appears to check on our progress. She barely notices until his arm passes in front of her face, refilling her water glass. "Thank you," she murmurs, snapping back to herself.
With a nod, the waiter turns back to the kitchen. The oaf manages to trip on an empty chair, sloshing his water jug across the floor.
"How is your food?" I ask. "Mine is – "
"Excuse me," she interrupts. "I just need the loo."
She gets up abruptly, her back quickly disappearing across the room. I am left to contemplate her empty chair with only my wine for company. I take another long sip of the Malbec. Such sweetness is not something I would have ever chosen if left to my own devices. But I find myself abandoning my customary Cabernet in favor of it without hesitation.
"Oww! Hermione!"
I look up and my eyes widen.
Her face is a mask of meticulously managed rage as she marches across the pub. And, trailing along beside her, yelping in protest as she drags him by the ear is –
"Harry Potter I am so angry with you right now!" she seethes. She snags a chair from a nearby table and slams him into it.
He rubs his ear, wincing. "Hermione, I – "
"You're following me? Spying on me? Why?"
"I'm not spying on you!" Potter protests, raising his hands in supplication. "I would never – "
"Then why in the name of God are you here? You can't possibly tell me that you've just so happened to decide to spend your lunch break in the same pub where I am eating… under your invisibility cloak, no less!"
"But Kingsley – "
"Don't you dare blame Kingsley! This is you and Ron! I've discussed things with him multiple times, but I thought you were better than this! We're not kids anymore, Harry. I have my own life. My own – "
"Do we need to do this here?" Potter asks, eyeing me uncomfortably. I give him a wink and sip my wine.
But she doesn't see. She doesn't see because she doesn't turn. She doesn't look. The golden sparks of her eyes have burst into incandescent, full-fledged flames, and they burn for only one thing. The pub, the public, everyone and everything else present, they have all ceased to exist, myself included.
"What do you want me to do, Harry?" They are simple words, but she delivers them with lancinating precision. The fire in her eyes continues unabated. "Leave? Abandon what I'm doing because you've decided to appear?"
"No." The withering heat would shrivel and shrink a lesser wizard, but Potter's back is unbent. "I may not understand some of your choices. But as I've told you before, I respect your right to make them." His eyes flick to me again. "All of them."
"You could have fooled me!" she hisses.
"I'm here on Kingsley's orders. You know that. And as an auror, I have to follow them, even the ones I don't like."
"Why on earth would Kingsley order you to follow me? What possible – "
"You know! You know about the threats!" The muscles of his face are firm in their disapproval, his jaw taut and tight. But his cold countenance ends at his eyes, which are warm and soft in their worry. "Can you imagine what people would say if something happened to you? Kingsley can't afford to take the chance. Especially with you choosing to have lunch with… you know, him," he says, looking at me uncomfortably.
"So that's why you're here?" Her face looks calm, but her hands have a slight shake. The fire in her eyes continues to burn. "This is a mission? One more duty you're obligated to perform?"
"I think you know why I'm here."
The words are spoken so softly that they're difficult to hear over the noise of the pub, but I have no doubt she's absorbed every word.
"Go, Harry," she says. The fire is quickly receding, with fatigue rushing in to fill the void. Her shoulders slump, and she turns away from him. "Just go."
"I'll watch from outside, if you prefer. But no, I won't go."
"Please yourself." Suddenly, I exist again. She turns away from Saint Scarhead and the sadness stamped across his face, picks up her wine glass, and takes a long drink.
"Hermione – "
"She said go." I have lost patience for Potter and his petty dramas.
Potter's eyes narrow. "Don't interrupt – "
"Draco – "
"Do not lecture me on manners, Potter." I stand, and Potter quickly follows suit. But he's always been a bit of a runt, and so he's forced to look up at me. "Not when you are interrupting my meal, and you've been asked to leave."
He turns to her, the question questing across the table without words needed to carry it.
"Go, Harry," she says quietly. "Just… just go."
With one final filthy look for me, he retreats in the direction of the door.
I sit back down. She stares into her glass, spinning its stem in her fingers, lost the blood-red depths. "I'm sorry about that," she says. She doesn't look up.
"Typical Potter," I mutter, taking a drink. "Can't possibly consider that the sun doesn't rise and set on his schedule."
"Don't talk about Harry." The fire in her eyes has died down to embers, but they flare dangerously with her words.
I open my mouth. But I have not forgotten the sudden snap of her disappearance from my sitting room, and I close it again, sitting down without a word spoken. "So, what were we saying?" I ask, settling back into my seat.
She looks at her watch. "I will need to be going. I have a meeting I need to prepare for."
With Potter? I wonder, bitterness boiling into the back of my throat. But the words remain sealed and warded behind my lips. Instead, I say, "Of course. I have enjoyed our lunch. Thank you."
A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "You're welcome. And I'm sorry for our… unexpected guest."
I allow that to pass without comment. The bile threatening my mouth fades when I see her faint smile. "Will I see you again?"
She takes a final sip of wine. "Yes, if you like. Maybe Friday?"
"I am busy Friday," I reply. "But Tuesday suits me well. Perhaps we could have a standing date?"
"A standing date," she says, raising her glass with a small laugh. The good laugh. The musical one, this time slightly supplemented with the warmth of the wine. "Alright."
Our glasses clink together, and we drink on it.
We walk together to the apparition point, and with a snap, we are back in my sitting room.
"Next Tuesday, then," she says, turning to leave.
"Just a minute," I say, making her pause as I take quick steps to my study.
Happy has been most attentive. The cauldron has simmered to perfection in my absence, and the potion has set to the correct shade of turquoise tranquility. I quickly decant it into bottles, slipping them into a box as each one is filled.
"Draco, I'm running late, what are you – "
She freezes with her mouth still hanging open as I hold out the box, packed tightly with little vials of silvery turquoise. "For St. Mungo's," I mutter.
She blinks her surprise, as though she's never seen a correctly brewed potion before. My anger threatens to make another appearance, but I push it aside. "I'll make sure they're delivered," she says, casting a quick shatter-proof charm on the bottles and stowing them carefully inside that beaded bag of hers. "Thank you."
I nod, not meeting her eyes. "You're welcome, Hermione."
She snaps away, and I am left in solitude once again.
"Is Mr. Malfoy enjoying his lunch?" asks Happy. He sets about clearing away the remains of my morning brewing session.
"Yes," I reply absently as I throw my jacket over the back of my desk chair.
"Happy is collecting Mr. Malfoy's post. It is waiting for Mr. Malfoy's attention on his desk."
My head snaps back. Sure enough, there is an envelope sitting on the dark leather blotter. It is blank, and its parchment is thin.
I sit down, the legs of my desk chair slipping against the wood floor in my haste. My eyes widen as I open the message. It is brief.
I was informed by the Ministry of Magic that my son, my precious blood, was released from prison nearly six months ago. But what emerged wasn't the boy I remember, or even a man I recognize. The Ministry informs me that it has somehow extracted his magic as part of the terrible price it has decided our family must pay.
My life is now devoted to the consideration of the means to ensure the Ministry understands the losses it has inflicted upon me and so many others. They will know what they have done.
My son, the wizard I raised, is dead. Please do not disturb my mourning again.
Narcissa Black Malfoy
I snatch my wand from my pocket and point it at the small parchment page. I stare past its tip at the words, which waver in my watery vision. My chest heaves with shock, anger, hate… a roiling storm of power I focus on the hawthorn shaft, channeling its fury out the wooden point.
Nothing happens.
I stare at the wand, and I know it isn't looking back. The hawthorn has only haughty disdain for me, heartless in its indifference to my heartbreak. I drop it onto the desk with a clatter, abandoning it beside my mother's letter. I pick up my cane instead.
"Where is Mr. Malfoy going?" croaks Happy.
The elf's eyes are wide as I stride across the flat, my cane tapping the floor in time with my steps.
"Out."
"Where it being, this 'out'?" If I'm not mistaken, the short little shit sounds alarmed.
"Just… just out." I grab the handle of the front door, throw it open, and march through. I arrive on the pavement to a scene that is now somewhat familiar.
Muggle London. Its smells. Its sounds. Its strangeness. It is enough to give a wizard pause.
I begin to walk. My destination is unimportant. What matters is that I move.
My strides become surer with each step that I take.
I am Malfoy
Whatever that means.