A number of things happen in the week following my return, the first of which is that Donius, the very morning after our dinner at the Malfoys', sends me, Gwenyn, Ffionwen, and even little Afon to old Mr Nott's home.
"I need peace and quiet for the day, and Nott has graciously allowed you all to work on his estate. Off with you!"
Mr Nott lives in a manor house as the Malfoys do, though it isn't as grand as theirs. It has a much older look to it, and the gardens aren't as vast or varied, but it's still quite grand to my sisters and brother. Shouldn't it be grand to me as well? I suppose frequent visits to Malfoy Manor have done for that.
Nott has a house elf that, as he's got a bunch of children to order about today, he plans to keep with him as he brews some experimental potion.
"Can you cook, girl?"
"I can, but only simple—"
"That's fine. I'll eat at half past twelve in the dining room. You may all eat in the kitchen for an hour."
Gwenyn, as usual, tries to skive off work until Nott catches her lazing about his greenhouse and hauls her by the ear into his entry hall, shoving a broom into her hands.
"Get to work you little shirker! I've had servants younger than you!"
Probably someone's Squib or a poor kid like me when I was sent to the Jugsons.
Nott likes my stew alright, and keeps us into the evening. His house elf, which looks rather ill from his master pouring the potion down his throat, cooks supper whilst Nott sends us outside to catch some toads he keeps in the gardens.for Donius. He allows us to dine with him as he's no other guests to impress, though he makes it clear that the little ones are to be silent. He ignores their unrefined table manners and accepts my replies about the fishing work I did, of how dull and grinding and dirty it was. After dinner, he hands me a bottle of a thick, almost black liqueur in surprising thanks for my work today. We gather up the box of toads and Mr Nott sends us through the floo.
Back in the shop, Donius informs us that we will go to the Malfoys' to forage around their estate, picking autumn berries and nuts for them. I ask him if I will be paid for it at all, but he just smacks me over the head and snaps that it'll be amends for my wretchedness last month.
So, the following morning we young ones all scurry about the huge grounds of Malfoy Manor where we fill baskets with chestnuts and walnuts, rosehips and sloes, and even find wild strawberries still growing in the wood. Crabapples weigh down the boughs of their trees on the hill above the manor where I sat and brooded one night when Mrs Malfoy told me to continue working until her husband came home. Hazelnuts litter the ground where they could've been harvested earlier this month, and we also gather up any okay-looking apples dotting the orchard. We find a slow moving toad under fallen leaves by the doxy pond, and Ffionwen picks up a nearly intact snakeskin from a dirt path! We're keeping that; snakeskins are valuable in apothecaries!
We have afternoon tea with Mr and Mrs Malfoy in the solarium. Gwenyn is banished from the table after asking Mrs Malfoy if she's spent the day searching for Mr Malfoy's nuts. Afon falls asleep, slumping heavily in his chair with a jammy scone still clutched in his sticky hand. Ffionwen gets cooed over even as she shows poor manners, like standing up in her chair to reach for food. She's sat next to Mr Malfoy who only pats her her head and gently corrects her, but he also gives her the petit fours she points to before her sandwich is eaten. When she asks him to pour some milk into her cup of hot cocoa because it's too hot, he does so even though she hasn't said 'please'. Bloody princess she is here!
After tea, the Malfoys ogle the baskets we've filled with nuts and fruits. They can hardly believe we gathered so much without magic. Well, mostly without it; I pulled a few higher branches down with my wand for ease of reach. The little ones can't use a wand for anything yet, of course. I take the toad we found out of my pocket and offer it to the Malfoy's to keep for potions; Mrs Malfoy gives me some sickles and requests that I pickle it for them at the apothecary and send it on after.
The following day, which is a Saturday, I sneak off early to visit Mr Borgin. He won't open his shop for another couple of hours, but he likes to rise early and check on things before eating breakfast upstairs. I knock long enough to get him to open his upstairs window to shout at whoever's disturbing his morning routine; he's certainly surprised to see me!
"Miss Burke! You're back! I wasn't sure whether you'd return or not! Come in, girl, come in!"
I try to apologize for buggering off without a word, but he waves that all away and asks, "So, are you an Aconitor now? Have you got your license yet?"
"Er . . . No, I'm afraid not, Mr—"
"Ah, no matter. I've a little proposition for you: you collect small herbs and beasts, yes?"
"Yes, of course, sir."
"Ha! Of course!" And he offers me work that will pay me more on top of what I make sweeping his shop: "It won't be terribly much more, but I would offer you a commission to sell your ingredients just outside of my shop."
Now there's an idea—but there's a problem. . .
"I might do, Mr Borgin, but I have to give most of what I find to Donius to help pay off my debts." Because sure as Hell, he still keeps track of my past expenses, as well as those of my siblings.
"Oh, I'll speak to Donius about money, no need to worry about that!" says Borgin. "I'll give you the commission fee and require a small percentage of what you make each day. I think you will find that the gold will flow quite nicely between you two."
Mr Borgin knows all about three things: schmoozing; the Dark Arts; and gold.
"I don't really have anything I could sell out here now—"
"I'm not worried about starting immediately. You tell me when you're ready, and I'll set the table out myself."
Now I'll have a legitimate reason to leave the apothecary more, instead of spending so much time slaving away for Donius, waiting for Mr Malfoy to call me over to the manor for some task.
"Alright then, Mr Borgin. I'll take you up on it."
"Of course you will, Miss Burke!" Mr Borgin grins widely at me; then he waves his wand and tosses a conjured broom to me. Time to get back to work.
When I return to the apothecary not an hour later, Ffionwen and Gwenyn are standing at the door in their nightclothes waiting for me. Since I've come home, they've done this, Ffionwen getting up when I do and following me about. Gwenyn does much the same, though at a distance. Afon does whatever they do. Gwenyn's eyes follow me as I enter the shop.
"You're back, ya bitch. When you gonna cook us breakfast?"
"Now in a minute!" I tell her, using the Welsh way of saying I'll do something that won't be done for a while, but I'm hungry too, so I do go up and start breakfast.
I've eaten mostly at other people's houses these three days I've been back, so I skim through the cupboards and the cooler to see what we're missing, only to find the shelves fairly well stocked with all of the basics, and even a bit more.
"Mistah Malfoy brought us food" says Gwenyn.
He did not! And didn't say a thing to me!
"But don' stan' there dawdlin'! Get the pan out and fry us some bacon!"
Donius joins us for breakfast, flicking through the Prophet's pages until an old, tough-looking owl taps at the window. After reading the short message it's delivered, Donius appears—relieved, I think. . .?
"Mr Nott will have you back" he looks at me specifically, but he goes on to add "I had to convince him to take the rest of this lot as well, so make sure they stay out of his way whilst you're there."
We're going to another's house again?
"Why?" I ask.
"Because" Donius sits back down and snaps open his newspaper, "Mr Nott has been a good friend to us this year, and I intend to keep it that way."
"I'm I gonna get paid, this time? I'm not a fucking house elf."
Donius gets cheeky; "Well, as it turns out, Mr Nott's house elf has fallen ill. So, you'll be doing the work for—"
The scrape of my chair as I jump up to leave drowns out his words.
"Where're you going? Oi—I'll take it off your debt, then!"
That stops me. He'll 'take it off my debt' eh?
"How much?"
"However many hours you're there, I'll take off five sickles."
"Eight sickles," I counter.
"I'll take six, and no more! I'm not a charity!"
Beside me, Ffionwen fingers my robe, watching me with anxious, tawny eyes.
I sigh in defeat. "Fine."
Donius leans back in his chair and shakes open the news again; "Good. Be there at nine."
Nott's house elf is sick; the potion he was working on two days ago didn't work as he'd hoped, effectively putting the weird creature on bedrest.
"He weathered it yesterday, and the evening before, but now he's whinging on about being unable to lift a serving tray."
I can already hear the little freak squeaking constant apologies—"Oh, Master Nott—Sacks is so ashamed to be useless to his poor Master—Sacks is wanting to chop off his hands if it will make worthless Sacks more useful. . ." and on and on it would go. I can't stand house elves!
Old Mr Nott does not, in fact, have us here to take over for sick Sacks's household duties; instead, he'd like us to clear out his hedges of any unwanted pests.
"Damned doxies are bedding down for the winter. I want them all destroyed, I tell you—and their eggs!"
"You don't want their venom? Because I do if not."
Doxy venom takes time to extract; it's all contained in special sacs in their gums, which are small to begin with. . .
"Take the blasted things, then." Nott waves us off though I have to ask him for buckets and doxycide to take the little buggers out. He tells me to put my eyes on and go find them myself, which the kids and I do.
Nott certainly has doxies in his hedge, and in his kitchen garden, too. We knock out every one that we catch, sprinkling more of the paralyzing agent over them to keep them that way in the buckets. The fresher the doxy, the more potent their venom when it's extracted. We show Mr Nott our gallon and a half of knocked-out doxies, and he merely nods his head at our success, examining the furry little flyers with his hands clasped behind him.
"Where are their eggs?"
"There were none. It's too late in the season for them, sir."
"Hm." He looks over the buckets of doxies again, and I take a closer look at him as I haven't before, though I've seen him frequently since I've lived in Knockturn Alley. He must be older than Donius, who I think is a solid sixty. Mr Nott stands stooped shouldered, some days more than others. His hair is light gray and his thin, hangdog face sports an aquiline nose and shrewd eyes. I wouldn't want him angry at me—no.
"What are you looking at?!" snaps Nott; he's caught me staring.
"Sorry, sir. How—may I ask, how old are you?"
Mr Nott glares at me a moment, but he answers, "Sixty six." He watches closely through one sharp eye.
"Oh." I've no other response for him. He turns back to the buckets of doxies.
"Seal these up and make tea. I'll have it in the drawing room."
He trusts me in his kitchen enough that I made him lunch earlier. While we were at it, Ffionwen had a fright when she opened a narrow door to discover Sacks, the house elf, curled up in a nest of old blankets and towels, groaning with whatever Nott's poorly made potion did to him. The kids have no experience with house elves, so Ffiony was quite horrified and refused to leave my side whilst we remained in the kitchen. Afon wouldn't even go to see what was haunting the broom cupboard, but Gwenyn poked at Sacks with a broom like it was a lance and he some dangerous beast she wasn't sure had life.
I make old Nott his tea, accompanied by bread, jam, and butter, as well as some sweet biscuits from the pantry. He grunts that it will do and sends me back to the kitchen for mine and the children's own tea. Afterwards, we're sent to his potions room where we sort bad ingredients from the good ones. Later, Mr Nott tells me to send the younger ones home so I can cook him a decent dinner. I tell him I'm not a real cook, but he just grunts that he doesn't expect much. Well!
So, I make him shepherd's pie and some fresh rolls. I expect him to send me off when I bring him the food, but he tells me to join him instead. He fetches a bottle of red wine and pours me an appropriate measure. He doesn't demand much in the way of conversation until about halfway through the meal.
"Has Lucius Malfoy spoken to you about much?"
I'm taken aback by his question; the way he's phrased it is odd, I think.
"'About much'—sir?"
"Has he asked you about your ambitions?" He pauses to take a bite and a sip of wine before continuing. "Perhaps to—offer you support, as a patron?"
Eh?
"A—a patron, sir?"
"Yes; to your mutual benefit."
I'm not exactly sure what Mr Malfoy being my 'patron' would entail. Would that make me a sort of—servant, to him?
"Well, say something," says Mr Nott while he busily forks up the last bites on his plate.
"I—don't—erm—it sounds interesting, sir."
"You don't agree with me?"
"I—" I really don't know what to say about this. "I'm sorry; I don't know what that would mean, if he were my 'patron' sir."
Nott finishes his food before replying. "Well, I'll let Lucius discuss the subject with you if he so chooses to." He finishes his wine and wipes his mouth, finished with his dinner.
"Shall I clean the dishes before I leave, sir?"
"No. Leave them for the elf. It'll give him something to do when he's up again."
I thank him for dinner and disapparate home, Nott's words about 'patrons' and 'mutual benefits' echoing through my brain.
On Sunday, Donius putters around the shop with a distracted look about him. Luckily, we're visited by Mr Malfoy quite early in the day, giving Donius something to focus on. We're closed today, but of course, he jumps straight into service mode for Mr Malfoy. I've completely forgotten Nott's mention of him possibly becoming my 'patron', but Mr Malfoy doesn't look at me any different way than how he normally does, so I put the strange idea at the back of my mind.
"Good morning Donius. May I borrow Miss Burke and the children again? I do apologize for the short-notice—" (he really isn't; we all know he feels entitled to our time. Toffs, you know) "—but what with the Autumn party approaching, Narcissa is rather keen to have the grounds near the Manor presentable as possible."
Donius actually lights up. "Of course, Mr Malfoy, sir! Please, use them for as long as you need today—"
"Yes; excellent. I'll be in London for much of today, so I'll have you ask Narcissa what she wants done" he says to me, ignoring Donius. "And I might keep you for dinner afterwards, Miss Burke, though I won't guarantee it."
"Oh—thank you very much, Mr Malfoy."
"Yes, well, I must be going. My wife expects you young ones in an hour."
And with that, he pops right out of the shop and disapparates from the alley.
The kids and I don't spend a whole lot of time outside today. Mostly, Mrs Malfoy wants us to check the hedges and bowers and bushes in the Manor's gardens for pests and such. It's no longer warm enough for loads of insects, and the peacocks that wander about likely keep that problem down. Some of them follow us as we work, probably hoping for treats, which we never have for them. Some of the bigger ones have gotten feisty with the littler kids, and I run up to one and kick it when it starts pecking Afon about his bottom. Peacocks get aggressive like any other bird, and these ones aren't used to humans their own size wandering about. Ffionwen's figured out that she's got to yell and hit them with a stick if she wants them to leave her alone, and they do, but Afon wants somebody to pick him up when one gets too close. Gwenyn thinks she's got them whipped, but then one will get bold and start chasing her, and Ffionwen will follow after it with a stick held aloft like a spear. It's hilarious to see; a little train headed by Gwenyn running and shrieking, the peacock flapping and reaching its neck out to peck her, then Ffionwen running after it to stab it in its arse! Ha!
For most of the day, however, we're in the kitchen shelling nuts and sorting the other things we collected for them two days ago, but Mrs Malfoy has a narrower idea of what separates a good apple from a 'rotten' apple, so she makes us sort everything over again.
Between our chores outside and inside, Mr Malfoy comes home for lunch. I think he's cross about something, because we can hear him loudly complaining to his wife. even from down here. We eat our own lunch by the warm kitchen fire, and I figure out how all their meals are made without a house elf: by very complicated, very intricate charm-work. There's a set menu in the kitchen, and each meal is magically set to be served at a certain time. Depending on what the food is, the tools, utensils, and ingredients are all bewitched to prepare the meal, serve it, vanish it, and even to clean up after it. Probably Mrs Malfoy is in charge of setting the menu a week or so in advance; I know they can change the times at little more than a moment's notice, though I don't know how it all works. It's quite impressive, but I think the Malfoys feel some annoyance at not having the usual house elf to order about as do most wealthy wizarding families—especially pureblood families.
When Mr Malfoy comes downstairs to see us, he scolds Gwenyn terribly for lying on the table, which she's doing after having finished her meal and feeling rather full and relaxed. Then he gives me an earful, nattering on about how I let my sister on the table, how I never pay enough attention to her behavior. . . I wonder what's crawled up his arse. It's quite uncomfortable being shouted at by Lucius Malfoy, but I've gotten worse from him, nearly thinking he would hurt me that day he heard me Muttering at his wife. Right now, the worst he might do is box one of us 'round the ears. My parents did it all the time. Eventually he stomps out of the kitchen, and we finish our lunch and start shelling walnuts.
A little before teatime, Mrs Malfoy decides we've done enough for the day and tells us to leave. Before I step into the grate holding Afon, Mrs Malfoy stops me.
"You are coming for dinner, Miss Burke?"
Oh, right! Well, I after the little upbraiding he gave me at lunch. . .
"I don't think he was best pleased with me today, ma'am."
"Ugh, don't be silly, Miss Burke," she rolls her eyes in a dramatic fashion; "We'll have dinner at eight o'clock. Others will be here."
My eyes go wide at the prospect of—
"No. . . this has nothing to do with your little spat with the Travers! Now go on!"
I wouldn't say I have a 'spat' with any of the Travers, but I hop into the grate and floo home with a lot less worry in my gut.
At the shop, I begin readying myself just before seven. I know now that formal wear is expected at their dinners even when not in company. I wash my face and brush my teeth, then I pull on one of the nice dress robes Mrs Malfoy 'gave' me (more like 'cast off', I think). Plain black silk and the coral earrings will do for tonight. I plait my hair and roll it into a bun, and at half past seven I disapparate to the Malfoys'.
Mr Malfoy steps out of the room adjacent to the hall and waves me in; "In the parlor, Miss Burke!"
The Malfoys use this room to receive guests when they arrive. Its smaller than the drawing room but still fits a crowd; it's more long than wide, really. Some people call it the Dark Parlor as it's furnished with chairs and settees of mahogany with black cushioning, but the elegant decorations add plenty of color, I think. Turkish rugs, green plants, and paintings in gilded frames abound. Mrs Malfoy hurries toward me, looking rather anxious, but her expression softens as she looks me up and down—apparently I meet with her approval. Did she think I would need to be dressed by her, again?
Macnair is already here, as is Avery. The next guests to arrive are Mr Crabbe and his wife, whom I've seen on platform nine and three quarters before, but have never met. Compared to her husband, Pherena Crabbe is a knockout, with long brown hair, a pleasant face, and wide hips that make even her loose dress robes flare. She's also smart. How the Hell did Vincent come out of her? (How the Hell did his father nab her?) She likes to make jokes and thinks I'm clever for choosing to be an Aconitor "because nobody's going to pickle a duck's penis when they can buy one that's done from the apothecaries, and the apothecaries are probably shams who don't do it themselves; I'll bet they buy them already preserved from the Aconitors!"
"Duck penis—that is a very specific ingredient, Pherena. . ." Mr Malfoy looks at her with a mischievous glint in his eyes, and she shoots back with "You don't have to be embarrassed about using it, Lucius. . ."
If a wizard is having problems with his bits, many of the potions he may choose from will include duck penis as an ingredient. Bizarrely corkscrew shaped, duck dicks will fall off after each mating season and grow back for the next, and if there's lots of male competition, their spiny dipstick grows bigger. It's not an ingredient that's been used for very long, but once tried it was found to work, so . . . yeah.
Tonight I learn that when it comes down to it, the Malfoy's and their ilk are just like everyone else: loose and relaxed around people they're most comfortable with. I think a person's coldness to those around them depends on how much higher they place themselves above others, and the Malfoy's believe that they are the best, as does most old money. Speaking of old money, apparently we're waiting for Yaxley to show up, but only a minute before eight, an owl arrives with a note, and Mrs Malfoy announces that he will be late, and shall we go into the dining room?
Mr Malfoy asks Mrs Crabbe to sit next to him, pulling out the chair that will be to his right while her husband takes a chair beside Macnair who sits on Mrs Crabbe's other side. Mrs Malfoy sits three chairs down from her husband's left, with Avery beside her, leaving me unsure where to go, but again I'm surprised when Mr Malfoy tells me to sit right next to him.
Avery even asks, "Why is that one all the way up there, eh?"
"Because—well, think of me as Miss Burke's escort" replies Mr Malfoy smoothly.
"Don't you trust us?" Macnair asks with a smirk.
"Of course I do Walden, but you and Avery aren't as nice to look at as Miss Burke!"
"Tha's why e's got my wife nex' to 'im," says Crabbe nonchalantly, already pouring wine down his throat.
Laughing, Mrs Malfoy gives Mrs Crabbe a meaningful look and says, "Thank goodness! Now I can have a break!"
"Well, if that's how she feels about it. . ." mutters Mr Malfoy under his breath, catching me with a wink.
"Yaxley is meant to be seated next to Burke, then?" asks Avery. Everyone pauses to look at the empty chair between me and Mrs Malfoy.
"But of course; we can't send Yaxley to the end of the table! You know how he is" says Mr Malfoy dismissively as soup appears. Macnair, however, is not so dismissive.
"Yes, and I know he won't like that," Macnair jerks his chin at my side of the table.
"Whatever do you mean?" asks Mr Malfoy, now a little more serious, but his wife cuts in:
"Let's all eat. I'm sure everything will be fine." And with that, the conversation over the soup turns elsewhere.
We're nearly through the light fish course (cold scallops with herbs and pickled vegetables) when Yaxley arrives, and just like Macnair said, he isn't happy to be seated beside me, away from the head of the table.
"Ah, Corban! We've been wondering where you'd got to!" Mr Malfoy stands up to shake Yaxley's hand. Yaxley glances around the table before setting his haughty, narrowed eyes on me and the empty chair beside me.
"Lucius, I apologize—business took some time to wrap up. . ."
"It's nothing! Please, sit down."
From here on, I know dinner will be a tense affair for me. I avoid looking at Yaxley as he slowly passes my chair, scrapes his own out from the table, and slowly, silently sits down.
"I see you've ah . . . decided to liberalize tonight, Lucius; very charming."
I hate wine, but damn, am I gulping it down now. I avoid looking anyone, knowing Yaxley is referring to me.
"Whatever do you mean?" asks Mr Malfoy; I'm sure he knows exactly what Yaxley means.
"Oh, nothing . . . nothing . . . only that—well, I'm curious as to why little Miss Burke is with us tonight!" Here he looks around at everyone, trying to deduce who else might be offended by my presence; no one says anything to him.
"She's earned a decent dinner in my house," says Mr Malfoy, his tone mild. Both men look directly at each other.
Narcissa clears her throat, leaning towards Yaxley, who turns in her direction. "Corban, Lucius and I will be holding a party here for Autumn; he's had Miss Burke keep the grounds cleared of—debris, and any small creatures we don't want. She's done very well! This isn't the first time we've had her as a guest." Mrs Malfoy smiles at Yaxley and nods to her husband. Yaxley looks from Mr Malfoy to me, but I barely glance at him. My ears buzz with nerves.
"Of course." Yaxley turns to his place setting. "We must all endeavor to be charitable where we can."
"Speaking of charity—Lucius, have you given to anything, lately?"
And so, the topic of discussion shifts from my questionable presence to other little things, carrying us through the end of the fish course to the salad sprinkled with nuts and apple slices so thin they're translucent.
Yaxley hums with appreciation. "I'm always glad to be invited to dine at Malfoy Manor. There's never a course I don't enjoy!"
"Well, as to the salad," says Mr Malfoy, "the walnuts and the apples were gathered by Miss Burke and her siblings."
Mrs Crabbe doesn't miss her chance. "You mean you and Narcissa didn't go out into the woods and gather nuts?"
Everybody snickers into their salad or their napkin, and even Mrs Malfoy hides a giggle with her hand—everybody except for Yaxley, who wears an odd sort of smile.
"Splendid! It's good to see that the girl is truly useful." He eats a forkful of salad, chews quickly, and goes on, speaking to Mr Malfoy, "And of course, as I'm eating in yours and Narcissa's home, we may trust these fruits have been totally cleansed."
Mr Malfoy frowns. "You must explain that to me, Corban."
Yaxley, who is chewing his last bit of salad, wipes his mouth and takes a drink from his water glass before saying, "Well, if I may bring up the subject—Abraxas, your father, passed from dragon pox, yes?"
My face and neck begin to buzz.
Mr Malfoy isn't disturbed by Yaxley's question. "Indeed, he was taken by dragon pox. What of it?" he asks curiously.
"Only that I'm quite impressed you're not afraid to touch anything directly handed you by a—" Yaxley looks right at me, "—pox-monger."
The candles sputtering in brackets become the only sound in the room .
Pox-monger.
Yaxley has reminded everyone present of another reason Aconitors are looked down on: people think we spread dragon pox, and probably other diseases. Anybody who works closely with dragons can catch it, but Aconitors who do so are working with dragon products: we process their skins, blood, and organs. "It's easier for people to associate an ugly disease with what they see as ugly work" my taid once explained.
No one seems to know what to say—I certainly don't. A glance around the table shows me everyone is growing steadily uncomfortable and, suddenly, I feel completely out of place. I think that for tonight, I've outworn my welcome. As Yaxley sips more wine and acts like he hasn't said a thing, I set down my fork, pat my mouth with my napkin, and steadily rise from my chair. . .
BANG! The whole table rattles with cutlery as Mr Malfoy slams his fist onto its surface. Yaxley chokes back a curse; Pherena sloshes wine onto her plate, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Wide-eyed and alert, Mrs Malfoy reaches behind Yaxley's chair and signals for me to sit back down.
"Yaxley. . ." Mr Malfoy's nostrils flare with each breath he takes; his eyes have gone so cold, the glare he's giving Yaxley must burn. "You are sitting at my table, in my manor. I may invite whatever sort of person I wish to dine here. If you object to this girl's company, then by all means, you may leave. Though honestly, I don't see why you're so upset—it's not as if I've invited Mudbloods to dinner!"
Avery slaps the table several times in hearty agreement. On either side of me, one angry wizard stares the other one down, locking me in an invisible whirlwind so tense I feel I might break.
"Yaxley." Everyone looks at Macnair, who's turned from his usual loose, grinning self to cold and stern as he glares at Yaxley. "Lucius is right—this is his house, and the girl is pureblood. You're being unreasonable."
"I am being unreasonable for thinking that servants shouldn't eat with their masters?"
What? A—a servant? I've never thought of myself as that at all! I'm not the Malfoys' servant!
"She's not a servant, Corban" Mrs Malfoy has joined the fray. "We bring her here so she may sharpen her—Aconiting skills."
Ha! I can tell she's none too keen on that fact, but she continues; "We've tried to steer her up a more—well, a nicer path, but she's got the Burkes' stubbornness. Besides, she's quite good at the work she does."
I can't see Yaxley's expression as he's turned toward Mrs Malfoy, but his voice is cold when he speaks. "I wouldn't expect the Malfoys to hire a worker who does a poor job, Narcissa. I'm just surprised you let them sit with us."
"Enough of this" demands Mr Malfoy, his cold eyes still darted. "The subject's grown dull. I have had this one—" and he pats my head, "—over to dinner several times now. Really—I don't know what's gotten into you tonight, Corban!"
Yaxley looks about him; it's clear that no one cares for his outburst, nor do they seem to agree with him on my being here among them. His hard featured face is completely still, but the back of his neck is deeply flushed. I can feel the heat coming off him; I think I can smell his anger.
"Well then!" He takes a hefty drink from his wine glass and sits back as the next course appears.
Dinner continues much as the way it did before Yaxley came, except that Yaxley did come and I wish he would leave, but he ignores me and talks to the others about policies and families and house elves messing up orders. I'm relieved when we're brought to the drawing room, as it means the evening's nearly done. I have some fun, though—Macnair and Pherena take me into a corner, and we play around with the different liquors floating about the room, trying to mix them in ways they probably oughtn't be, seeing which ones taste totally awful and which ones are liable to make us drunk if we have more of them, but Mr Malfoy catches us and scolds us for ruining perfectly good drink. It's at that point I decide I need to go. I tell Mrs Malfoy rather than Mr Malfoy that I wish to leave as she's always eager to be rid of me. She sends me through the grate in the parlor and I arrive in the darkened shop to Donius coming out of his office-bedroom.
"Well, how was dinner?" he asks as he pulls up a chair to the dying fire.
"It was good." I don't tell him about Yaxley's upset at my being there.
"That's good, then. Need to talk to you."
Uh-oh. . .
"This Umbridge, at the school. . ."
Oh yes, now I remember: Donius had said he would tell me about her, during dinner at the Malfoy's last week.
". . . she's gaining more standing in the world, it looks like." He pauses to make sure I'm listening. "It seems the Ministry is extending its own power into the school through her, which means things will be changing in the next year or so."
Obviously. Why's Donius so worried over it, though?
"See, girl, the thing about this Umbridge is that she's known for hating half-breeds."
I shift in my chair. Half-breeds. . .
"The more power she gets, the more legislation she can pass to make herself happy. She's already passed some laws, particularly where werewolves are concerned."
Yes, Donius, you have my attention.
Donius sighs before going on; "It may be wiser—anymore—not to speak of your daddy to those older ones." I know he means Llon and Gwenyn. "The less they know, the less they'll draw attention to themselves; and the less attention the draw to themselves, the less attention they'll draw to the younger ones."
The younger ones—Ffiony and little Afon. The half-werewolves. Real half-breeds.
"If the Ministry continues like this, and that Umbridge stays in her place—or goes higher—you'll need to keep your heads down more than you do now."
Donius stands and puts his chair back behind the counter. Before going back to his room, he turns to me and, after a pause, says, "Might be best—maybe—when the children ask, to tell them Father is dead."
Lucius
In the long, wide room lit only by candles, Lucius and the other Death Eaters stood in their allotted places, waiting for the Dark Lord to speak. He sat in a black velvet chair before his crescent of servants, silently fuming. Some of the Death Eaters held their breath, nervously wondering what might happen. The Dark Lord was angry, they all understood this. No matter what had been tried, the prophecy still remained unheard in the bowels of the Ministry.
Suddenly, as if pulled by invisible strings, the Dark Lord rose and began pacing inside the semi-circle they formed.
"Why hasn't it come to me?"
The Death Eaters followed his movements with their eyes.
"Why?" he muttered, as if the others were not there; then he lifted his eyes and swept the room; "Why? Do none of you have any explanation for me, hm? Surely some of you must have a theory as to why a simple glass sphere cannot be fetched in over three months?"
Nobody offered a reply. The Dark Lord approached Lucius, whose heart leapt—in fear or in eagerness, he wasn't sure.
"Perhaps you could tell me, Lucius, why you think our efforts have been in vain?"
Lucius breathed steadily as his eyes rose to face his master's.
"Forgive me, My Lord—I cannot say . . . I only know what to—"
"You 'only know what to do with the information we have all been provided'. Yes, you've said so, Lucius!"
For a moment, Lucius feared he would be swiftly punished, but the Dark Lord swept past him and circled the room. Perhaps he was only impatient tonight, and no one would be tortured. . .
"My Lord. . ."
All eyes turned to Yaxley.
"Corban—do speak" commanded the Dark Lord.
Yaxley bowed his head and stepped forward. "My Lord, I believe it should be brought to attention that some of us—" here, he paused, as though weighing the possible consequences of what he had planned to say, "—that is, some of us who have the advantage to frequent the Ministry, may not be working as hard to retrieve the prophecy. . ."
Lucius stared at Yaxley. What was he saying, exactly. . .?
The room tensed. The Dark Lord stared into Yaxley's harsh, blunt face; then, slowly, he turned to Lucius.
"Lucius. . ." a chill ran up Lucius's spine; what was this?
"My loyal servant . . . my highest in command. Would you care to explain what Corban is talking about?" The thin white lips stretched in a humorless grin, and Lucius willed himself to look into his master's blood-red eyes.
"My Lord, I have worked diligently to secure the prophecy for you. Had I the means to retrieve it myself—were I an Unspeakable as Rookwood was—you would have heard the prophecy the moment you commanded it."
"But of course, you are no Unspeakable, are you, Lucius?"
Lucius bowed his head. "No, Master. I am not."
"So, you must work even harder to steal the prophecy from the Department of Mysteries, mustn't you, Lucius? I am certain it has become quite bothersome. . ."
"No, My Lord! Never!" Lucius protested, daring to interrupt the Dark Lord. He was not lazy—whatever the Dark Lord commanded him to do, he did it well. What in the Hell was going on, tonight?
"Never?" The Dark Lord mulled over the word. "Yes, Lucius; you usually deliver with more than I ask for—I cannot deny that. So then, why does Corban imply that you have not been doing your part, my friend?"
"My Lord—forgive me—I did not hear his accusation." But oh, Lucius knew what this was about: Yaxley had held onto his offense from the night Branda Burke sat between them, by the head of the table where a person of less importance wouldn't normally be sat. . .
"Do not play games, Lucius." The Dark Lord advanced on Lucius, who swallowed.
"My Lord, may I speak, again?" Yaxley took a step forward. The Dark Lord left Lucius and nodded for Yaxley to continue. Lucius cursed inwardly.
"My Lord, I think Lucius has let himself become—distracted." He let his words sink in before going on. "Lately, he's been most taken with another person who isn't even part of our circle. . ." Yaxley glanced at Lucius; there was a nasty glitter in his eyes. Lucius stepped forward himself now.
"My Lord, I wish to speak on this." The Dark Lord turned to him, his face showing amusement. The night's events had taken a most intriguing turn.
"Do speak then, Lucius."
"My Lord, Yaxley is implying that I am spending more time—ah—reconnecting with old acquaintances than trying to fulfill your wishes, which is not true, and shall never be. It's only that Yaxley dislikes—that is to say, he doesn't understand the value I have in certain connections."
Down the circle of Death Eaters, Yaxley was glaring at Lucius. Ha! Thought Lucius.
"I see, Lucius . . . so you've been seeking to expand our circle?" The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed.
No! Lucius steadied his breath; that was not what he was seeking!
"No, Master; I have maintained the secrecy of your return, as I will until you require otherwise."
"Of course you will, Lucius; how could I doubt you? And yet. . ."
Lucius's stomach clenched.
"And yet, I fear you are not being completely honest with me? Why is that Lucius?"
Now Lucius was fighting to keep his breathing steady. No one lied to the Dark Lord without fear of severe punishment or death itself. But he was not lying! He deserved neither outcome!
"My Lord! I beg your forgiveness! I do not intend to deceive you—only, I thought it was of no importance—" Lucius swallowed; seeing no alternative, he continued on, "A wizard I and many others here worked with before your disappearance—I happened to meet one of his family during the summer. I had quite forgotten the man, but I was reminded of his usefulness to our cause, but when I asked after him, I discovered he has been missing for some years. I've maintained relations with his family in the hopes of contacting him again." Really, that was his plan, but it wasn't the Dark Lord's plan; Lucius hadn't expected to reveal his hunt for Nicander in a long time.
"I see." The Dark Lord observed his highest ranked servant, considering what he'd said. "Did I not know this wizard?"
"I don't believe so, My Lord; he was not one of us here, but he was from one of the old families, and loyal to his kind. We attended school together and remained connected throughout your attempts to triumph over the—"
"Yes, Lucius, I think I understand—but who is the man you speak of?"
"Nicander Burke, My Lord."
"A Burke, you say?" The Dark Lord's expression was unreadable. "Yes . . . an old, pureblooded family . . ."
Yaxley shifted where he stood, clearly longing to speak.
"And you have been searching for this man—Nicander . . .?"
"Yes My Lord."
"And once you'd found him, you intended to bring him to me?"
"I—no, My Lord—I only intended to reacquaint myself with him, to see if his loyalties still lay with our side—I would not reveal your rise, Master, not unless—"
"Not unless I commanded it. Yes, Lucius, I know; but what does Corban have to say to all this?"
The eyes of the other Death Eaters flickered between Yaxley and Lucius. Yaxley wasn't a fool, but he was vindictive, and whatever he'd been hoping would happen tonight didn't seem to have occurred. His blunt face had formed itself into a craggy mass of derision that could have cracked a boulder. "My Lord, I believe Lucius is less concerned with procuring more followers for you than a younger woman for himself!"
The room erupted in low gasps and murmured denials. They knew Lucius was loyal to his wife—a Black as proud and noble as they came—though he did hear the Carrows' mad titters; he'd always disliked those two.
"You all disagree?" The murmurs died immediately as their master spoke. Macnair, surprisingly, was the one to step forward.
"Master, Yaxley was offended by a guest Lucius invited to dine with us last week. The eldest child of Nicander Burke. Crabbe and Avery were present, as well; they will repeat what I say."
Yaxley stiffened. The Dark Lord approached him and bade him step closer.
"What have you to say to that, Corban? Surely you would not obstruct one of our gatherings with such a petty squabble as your place at the Malfoys' dinner table?"
Some of the Death Eaters snickered. The Dark Lord watched Yaxley closely, mirth playing dangerously in his eyes as he fingered his wand. Yaxley swallowed, shaken; he lowered himself to one knee, his head bowed.
"My Lord—Master, I was mistaken in Malfoy's actions. I—"
"Enough." The room itself seemed to flinch as the Death Eaters cringed, expecting to witness Yaxley being punished. Instead the Dark Lord called Lucius to him. Lucius stopped before his master and bent into a half-bow.
"Why does Corban say you would procure a younger woman for yourself, Lucius?"
Lucius hadn't intended to bring his master's attention to Branda; she was too young and too ignorant, unready even if she thought to join them. Now, however, Lucius recognized he had no choice.
"The eldest child I mentioned, My Lord—the one I met perchance this past summer—is a young witch, just out of Hogwarts. She is a simple thing, but her father was a close associate of mine in the old days. I've kept her in my sights, as it were, though she cannot help me find her father."
"And why is that, Lucius?"
"I'm told he abandoned his family, My Lord; the girl has had no word of him since."
"Look at me, Lucius."
He did as commanded, willing himself not to tremble. After a moment's silence, the Dark Lord turned his attention back to Yaxley.
"Corban—rise."
Pale and nervous, Yaxley stood.
"I would not have expected such childish antics from you, Corban. You practically usurped this audience for your little revenge."
Yaxley's voice was barely above a whisper as he pleaded, "Master—I beg your forgiveness—"
"You've served me well these past few months, searching for Slughorn and spying on the Ministry . . . Perhaps I shall be lenient . . . After all, you've not failed me yet as others have. . ."
The unspoken threat hung over the room like a poisonous cloud. Lucius suppressed a shiver—that diary. . .
"Master—please—I was foolish. Never—never will I behave so again—"
"See that you do not. Now leave me; all of you: leave me for tonight—except you, Lucius."
The Death Eater nearest the door bowed and backed out, followed by his fellows in turn. Yaxley knelt and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes and did the same. When the door was again closed, Lord Voldemort turned to Lucius.
"Now, Lucius: tell me about this wizard you seek . . . this Nicander Burke."