Greetings fair readers. Now we have some rather Sirius announcements… geddit? Ahahahahahahahahahaha
Ahem.
Getting straight to the point, by going approximately 2 sentences down as the African Swallow flies, we are almost into exam time.
"What" you cry "the hell does that have to do with us?"
Well, while we have Chapters 9 – 12 written and waiting to be slightly modified to accommodate any passing whims we may have, the conclusion needs rather a lot of work. And since we post 1 chapter a week, and have 4 chapters ready (including this one) that means that the chapters we haven't worked so much on, alright, written at all, aren't going to be done anytime soon.
We probably won't be posting the rest til June sometime, though rest assured, by then we'll have 2 ½ weeks to do sod all in and we have no TV…
We promise we will finish it. Since the Epilogue is my brother's plot bunny, there'll be trouble if we don't. To make you feel better, this one is a whopper! Blame the one who loves Coffee Revels if you think it goes on a bit…
Ok, enough of us, and on to the best bit of the update – Quote of the Week
"The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for"
Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
Chapter 8 – Sappy to see me?
Lucius Malfoy paused in front of the full length looking glass a moment longer in order to straighten his already immaculate robes. They were dark grey, of the finest cut, and discretely embroidered with green and silver at the hem and cuffs. He had commissioned them to be made when the news came that he had finally been granted a proper trial (though the new Ministry under Amos Diggory had decided to call it an appeal in order to save face). One simply could not make statements of relief and vindication to the waiting media in the tatters they called robes in Azkaban, or in black. That lesson he had learned the hard way.
If you dress and talk like a two dimensional show villain then people will think you are one, even if you are clearly the campest camp Malfoy to ever nance around the Manor. People thought that he had it in him to be a cold-blooded killer simply because he always walked around wearing black and swinging an ebony cane. Yet Lucius had been confident that he would be cleared of all charges, due to the simple fact that he hadn't done anything. Ever. That was, after all, what servants were for. Death Eater raids have dangerously high odds of breaking finger nails and that was something that Lucius was just not willing to risk. His activity was confined to the Jesus Lane events.
And, just as he predicted, he was freed. Free to return to his mansion, reclaim his wealth and status, and reacquaint himself with his beloved son. He only hoped Draco had not become reputable in his absence, and settled down with a nice young lady in a dreary suburb somewhere in the Home Counties.
You and I, dear reader, know the likelihood of that…
However, the first thing that Lucius did, after being somewhat magnanimous, condescending and superfluous with the reporters (and some passers by who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time) was to head off to the local library to dig out some pharmokinetics questions. He decided he hadn't had anywhere near enough fun in the last two years.
Then he went home.
All his furniture was gone. The house was an empty shell, albeit a rather tastefully decorated and expensive shell with lots of gilt edging. Which was a bit of a drag when all you want to do after a long day poncing about is to fall into bed and sleep; had his stamina been reduced due to the absence of his pimp stick, he wondered? Fortunately, whoever had taken the furniture was not mean enough to take the mattresses that were in the basement for the house elves. Lucius was. He slept pretty well.
The house elves weren't amused (as we hope you are) by this point.
Which was why, the following morning, no one should be surprised to find one Mr Lucius Malfoy, newly redeemed, poncing in through the door to an antiques dealer. Well, not just any antiques dealer, possibly the antiques dealer with the most misguided business sense in the western hemisphere. In short, the only chap stupid enough to think that if he bought the furniture from the Malfoy Mansion he would be able to off-load any of it at any point in the future to anyone. The fact that nearly everything was crested or had odd stains on it should really have put him off.
As you may or may not have gathered by this point, the Malfoy family taste had been a monument to grandiose bourgeois taste throughout history, and to be honest, they all behaved a little the lesser discerning member of the corvus family – that'd be magpies, to us plebs.
In short, this was the man who still had the vast majority of the Malfoy family furniture in some rather large and well hidden warehouses, and who was prepared – nay only too grateful – to sell it all back to Lucius. However, Lucius decided it was time for a bit of a revamp of the family holdings, and, having relatively little better to do with his time, decided to review each piece individually before allowing it back over his threshold. The dark, gothic pieces he kept for his dungeon, just because he felt a sense of familial duty to all the less-squeamish and more bloodthirsty Malfoys that had gone before and built up the family reputation. And because a little tradition was never a bad thing.
The East Wing, which he kept for the guests he was sure would return now that his position in society was restored, and more importantly, his bank account balances had again reached a ridiculous number of zeros, he furnished in regency period style. You know the drill – four poster beds, drapes, jacquard and enough brocade to reach to the moon and back – think very stately home. But his own wing of the house, the West Wing (of course) he furnished in a more eclectic style according to his own tastes. His bedrooms were light and airy, all properly feng shui-ed, in that he put the waste paper bin in optimum spot for throwing a crumpled up ball of paper and scoring. You may ask why he needed bedrooms for his own personal use rather than just the one bedroom, but apparently mankind's right to choose is a cornerstone of democracy.
Anyway, in all this searching, not unlike the searching you may now be doing for a point in this rambling, Lucius came across a rather enchanting rosewood desk with ornate gilt edging. Now normally the colouring alone would have put any self-respecting Slytherin off, but we all know just how much self respect this particular Malfoy has ( see Sirius Trouble and repeat together: Snape?). Anyway, dear reader, we have seen this desk before in the kitchen of a certain former Miss Clearwater. But to Lucius, it merely appeared that this desk belonged in the pile of furniture he was buying rather than the pile he was leaving behind.
This aforementioned pile was getting quite large, since Lucius was also collecting old cheap tat for a bonfire, other stuff that the misguided dealer had purchased and never hoped to sell in his wildest dreams. Anything coloured red and gold went on the pile, whether it would burn or not, just to spite the interfering do-gooders. Malfoy had heard that the Muggles celebrated Guy Fawkes Night, the only man to go into the Houses of Parliament with honest intentions (pity it was to blow them up) and thought it was a rather good idea. As bonfire night was coming up it seemed a sensible way to demonstrate his newly reformed and culturally inclusive character by celebrating a Muggle tradition at the same time as indulging his old, lurking nature that enjoyed the social climbing and networking these events afforded, and more importantly appeasing his male urges to burn and destroy things.
Hence a big pile of red and gold tat was currently being amassed.
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The party was getting under way and the guests were arriving. Lucius was pleased to see that quite a number of the old pure-blood families were represented at his gathering; even if it was the bratty sons rather than the pompous fathers he had known who came. It showed, to his point of view, that even after all the fighting was done and the revolution had arrived, there were some things that just kept on as before. And Slytherins had always weathered storms. They may have come out a bit worse for wear, but at least they emerged. It was all in chapter one of the Book of Cunning (cunningly titled Chapter 1: Weathering the Storm), so even those of them with the shortest attention spans would get the hint.
Of course, there were different faces too, the new leaders and powers and their families, which was only to be expected, as were the new hoard of hangers-on and suckers-up that inevitably came with them. These were the people he had to invite and had to speak to, rather than the ones he wanted to. But amongst all the faces, the one face that he had wanted to see had not yet appeared.
Draco. His son.
He had invited Draco to come at any time, but he had replied to say that he would come this day. Maybe he was working on the philosophy that if other people – a crowd in fact – was present then Lucius wouldn't be able to make a scene. That was why Lucius would have chosen a first meeting at a large social event – he just hoped that it wasn't his son's reason. Or that if it was, it was a case of Draco being oversensitive rather than having done something entirely foolish.
But, sadly, Lucius's hopes were soon to be dashed, right about the time that he spotted Draco walking through the door in Hamster Pants. Of course, Lucius had no idea that the curious fur and leather contraptions that Draco appeared to be using as trousers had been dubbed Hamster Pants, but he was soon to discover that they had.
Now, it was not that Lucius actually had a major problem with his son wearing a patchwork of black matt leather and brown fur, held together with what appeared to be garden twine, on his lower limbs, or even the skin-tight, sleeveless black t-shirt and cord jacket he had teemed them with them. Or even the left elbow patch being fur and the right one being leather. Or even with the fact that his shoulder length hair was tangled into dreadlocks and held back from his face by a rather fetching band. Or that he seemed to be wearing eye shadow.
No, not a problem at all, but it did plant a worrying seed of doubt in his mind as to what exactly the path Draco had chosen for himself was. He looked misguided enough to have just walked off a catwalk.
Draco was, all told, a bit of a shock to the system. He was about as far away from the refined but conventional chic of the stereotypical Malfoy as you could imagine. Not only did he look like he'd stumbled into a catwalk dressing room too drunk to notice what they were putting him in, alcohol seemed to have played a major part in the genesis and manufacture of the clothes.
When Draco announced that of course it was real fur, and the children of Paris had had to go without hamster purchasing opportunities for a fortnight within a 50 mile radius of his shop to allow their creation, Lucius thought the situation couldn't get any worse. That Draco felt compelled to point out he had only purchased the golden hamsters he could get his hands on, and had not stolen any which already had owners, once again proved how wrong he could be.
This was a Draco he barely recognised – outrageously camp and at pains to point out to everybody what a nice guy he was. And more damning by far: not ashamed of the fact that he worked for other people for payment.
Now don't get me wrong, it's not that the Malfoys have an altruistic bone in their bodies (just the traditional 206), or that they had anything against the global march of capitalism to cover all the Earth in a second darkness per se, it was just that as far as the service industry went, they were at the top of the pile. Lucius had never entertained the idea that money was something to be earned, simply accrued by dint of well invested money and bonds, and property owned since, if not the beginning of time, at least the beginning of numeracy.
The jobs Lucius had done – Governor of Hogwarts, Adviser to the Ministry, chief aesthetic and PR consultant to Voldemort (and dammit, he was proud how good that tattoo looked, if a little miffed when it burned) and such like, were for prestige and position not monetary reimbursement.
Dimly he was aware of the fact that with himself imprisoned, Narcissa long dead and all his assets confiscated then Draco would have been pretty close to destitute, although he still probably had more money than the Weasleys. But that didn't stop his skin crawling at the thought of a real job.
He only hoped that the generous amount of money he was now able to provide for Draco to live on would help the boy see sense. However, the affable way that his son was speaking to the nouveau riche and Muggleborns alike, he was starting to doubt it.
"Father. Hello."
A voice startled him out of his reverie and he turned sharply to see who had spoken to him thusly. Admittedly, the 'father' should have been a give away, since no one had heard from Percy in a while. Not that the whelp would have dared presume such familiarity.
"Draco" he affirmed in a slightly strained voice, ignoring the voice in the back of his head that was beginning to sound a bit like Snape, and thus reminding him of one of the latter Revels he had organised (blah, blah not coffee) and the encounter with Severus he had there.
"Father" Draco repeated.
//Ah, excellent. We have established the identity of both parties and that neither of us has any serious long term memory problems.//
Deciding that simply staring at one another and repeating their names really wasn't going to get them very far (apart from a reputation for being properly British with a stiff upper lip), Lucius decided to make the opening gambit (not the X-Man, or we wouldn't still be here. You have to admire a man who's macho enough to wear pink… Enough! Back to the story).
To avoid the authors diverging from the plot any more than they already had, Lucius decided to ignore the fact that he had thought the word 'gambit', chalking it up to a simple turn of phrase and carried on regardless.
"Draco, I'm glad you found the time to come. Family should be together at a time of celebration such as this."
"Of course, Father. I wouldn't have missed your Freedom-come-Bonfire Night bash for the world. I had forgotten how staid the English can be in their fashions though. I mean at least Scottish men are adventurous enough to experiment with skirts and colours."
"Ah yes - your career as a fashion designer. Our relatives on the French side, thankfully distant, have always leaned to the outlandish. How are you enjoying Paris?"
"Oh, very well. The weather is mostly better than here."
Both father and son stopped and cringed. Discussing the weather was an all time low even for them.
"Well," began Lucius, resolving that since they couldn't have a pleasant conversation, they may as well have a meaningful one "whilst I understand your need to make… alternative… financial arrangements during my unjust and unfortunate imprisonment (unnecessary perhaps, but then you could never be too sure who was listening in) I can't say I understand or approve of your continuing them now."
"By alternative arrangements I assume you mean getting a job – and incidentally, only you could say that with a straight face – I don't regret my decision, and I enjoy my work. I delight in creating commissions and I'm rather afraid, Father, though I don't wish to cause problems, you will just have to deal with it." He didn't however end this by sticking out his tongue.
This little speech was accompanied by a fair amount of swaying and wiggling of hips, and a lot of flapping of hands and flicking of fingers. It was really only an addition to what had been obvious since Draco sashayed in, a vision in leather and fur. Draco was in danger of being camper than his father, and this was him on his best behaviour.
Lucius gave Draco what he hoped would be a hard stare. Draco pouted, and from the looks he was garnering, it was quite an endearing look.
Clapping his hands together, Lucius summoned a house elf, more than in part to break the awkward moment.
"Is the bonfire ready to be lit?"
"Yes sir," Sappy the elf squeaked "I is lighting it when Master says so."
"Good. Get ready to do so soon." The elf nodded and bowed sycophantically. Lucius looked away.
When he looked back, the creature was still bobbing up and down. "Leave" he commanded ungraciously "before I have at you with the loofa."
Sappy paled as much as he was able with his rather orange complexion. Lucius looked away again, back to where Draco had been standing, only to be, well, had they been anyone other than father and son, rewarded with the sight of Draco's pert leather and fur clad ass meandering away. Since it was his son, Lucius simply registered that the conversation was over, for now. He sighed.
Lucius tried desperately to ignore the sight of his son beginning a seemingly civil conversation with the busybody bushy-haired Gryffindor who went by the name of Granger – Lucius hated the fact that he had to invite her – but those fridge-magnet things had put her well on her way to being a reasonably major player (not that he would ever use the word). He thought of her more as a rising star, and more importantly, a rising star with a bank account to match.
She was becoming, it seemed, quite eligible, even despite the teeth. And the hair. And the holier-than-thou-attitude. (Lucius was choosing to selectively remember his past, when once upon a thankfully long time ago, he'd hit on, or possibly been hit on by, a man with hair and teeth issues, and an arseholier-than-thou demeanour.)
All in all he was rather surprised that she had come, but then curiosity killed the cat, and what was a cat but a humiliated lion? (Well, it's a multicellular organism, sharp teeth, about two feet long, no stripes, and what we writers like to call "a cat"). But it seemed waiting for her to keel over and die was not the most effective of plans, in the way that all plans which involve inaction are generally flawed.
And somewhere, among all that pointless rambling, the Heralds had called the guests to order for the beginning of the fireworks as darkness fell. The great pile of red and gold tat that had been thoroughly doused in kerosene, not so much as an accelerant, since everyone present was capable of lighting a fire in the pouring rain and six inches of water, but to hide the overwhelming red and gold colouration of the bonfire, since Lucius was not only more of a wuss than Sirius Black, but had also considered partially the feelings of his not exclusively Slytherin guests. His little act of prudence, or what may have been called, in a lesser man, cowardice, meant that the bonfire was almost as explosive as the fireworks. It could hardly have been any worse if one of the desks had contained several bottles of rum. As it was, the secreted bottles of gin and vodka worked just as well. It was, if not quite on the scale of Mayan pictographs or the intended spectacle of the century, a bit of an affair all in all.
And when it was all over, the guests departed, leaving behind them nothing more than a wake of debris reminiscent of the path of a small twister. It was only when Lucius had departed for his study, Draco tailing him a little later, and the house elves gathered to assess the damage, that anyone noticed a certain luminescence was missing, and their vision lacked a certain orange hue. Sappy, it seemed, had taken his role of tending the fire a little too seriously. Who knew that house elf fur was so flammable when coated in orange dye?
But leaving such charred matters aside for a moment, we should move to more steamy matters taking place in the Master of the House's study (get your mind of the gutter, you're wearing a groove down there).
Both Draco and Lucius were seated, Lucius behind his brand new desk, fingers unconsciously caressing the smooth rosewood, and Draco before it, fingers running very consciously through the hamster fur. I mean, if you wore hamster pants, you'd damn well better be proud of them.
The silence between them was palpable, and if they hadn't been Slytherins, it would have been growing uncomfortable. Instead, it was growing productive; soon, one of them was going to have to make the first move and probably say the wrong thing.
In the end, Draco being more out of practice, spoke first.
"So, how was Azkaban?"
"Oh, lovely! Room service left a little to be desired, and the neighbours were a bit raucous, but at least there was no building work going on. You know how rare that is nowadays, with all the resorts developing as they are. I blame the expanding air travel market and budget airlines."
"You're being sarcastic."
"Yes, I'm glad you noticed."
"I admit it wasn't the best opening line I've ever come up with, but you must realise that you're a trifle intimidating, even with the cleared name, even now I'm an adult and not a child to be told what to do anymore."
"What?!" shrieked Lucius, to irked to notice his spiffy punctuation, before gaining control of himself and mastering his voice "is this your idea of the modern man – in touch with his feelings? Any other gushingly embarrassing feelings to share with me? You're a Malfoy for cripes sake."
"Father…"
"Yes, you have established that you think that is the case. That somehow it protects you from your responsibilities. Well it doesn't. You are my son and you should act like it. You shouldn't go off gallivanting to foreign countries…"
"We're Malfoys, Father, that's French, you know, 'mal foi', meaning bad faith…"
"…gallivanting off to foreign countries, working for other people…"
"Who pay me, rather than crucio me"
"…and single, when you have the family name to protect and continue…"
"So I should get myself locked in Azkaban, continue the tradition"
"You should be busy being a son. My son."
"I think, Father, that we have established that we don't see eye-to-eye on what it takes to be a gentleman, or a gentleman's son."
Lucius was flabbergasted. Draco was straight talking and seemed to have grown a backbone.
"Get out!" he yelled, in lieu of anything more productive to say, this being a pretty good if ill considered trump card for ending any argument whether you are right, left or wrong. "Get out, and never darken my door again!"
Draco shrugged, then smirked, rising from his chair he half swaggered, half sashayed out of the door and down the stairs, with nary so much as a backward look. He knew his ass looked better if he didn't try and twist. Such were the heights of his vanity that he didn't even care that only his father was there to watch.
Said father was still sitting upstairs, clinging onto his shiny red and gold desk tightly enough to make his knuckles turn white. Clinging on to it as if it were all he had left in the world.
References
Monty Python
Pirates of the Caribbean
Lord of the Rings
Sirius Trouble, several times.