I, CLAUDIUS

Contrary to public expectation, Lucius Malfoy's second marriage had lasted longer than six months. The groom was the bride's senior by no less than twenty-four years, his son was two months younger than his new stepmother, the groom's divorce from his first wife had been a public disaster, the bride was going to embark on a career in law enforcement, which formed a nice contrast to the groom's impressive criminal record… All things considered, those who had bet large sums on a divorce before Christmas (the couple had married at the end of June, a week after the bride had sat her N.E.W.T.s) had every reason to expect they'd win. Not much, because the odds weren't high – it was almost like betting that Christmas would fall on a 25 December. Or so they'd thought.

But the happy couple continued to be happy.

Lucius accompanied his young wife to Ministry functions, obviously proud of the growing number of stripes accumulating on the tabs of her gala uniform and of the Order of Merlin First Class adorning her (admittedly very shapely) chest; Hermione supported her husband's efforts to regain territory in society with a loyalty and aplomb worthy of Godric Gryffindor.

When Draco Malfoy married an insanely rich Brazilian cattle heiress and formally renounced the considerable part of the Malfoy fortune entailed to him, Hermione, now in her late twenties, made Lucius the proud father of Claudius Severus Malfoy. The boy was born on their tenth wedding anniversary, and the party that celebrated both events was already legendary before it had ended.

By that time Hermione was deputy head of her department, and rumours were circulating that she was going to be head in less than a year, after her boss went into a well-deserved retirement.

Hermione didn't do things by half, neither in the professional nor in the private sphere. She had a child, and she wanted to be a mother, but she also had a job, and she wanted a career. Nannies were all well and fine, but only for giving her and Lucius some time for themselves, not as surrogate mothers. So the parents decided to share child-care duties: Lucius, who didn't have to work regular office hours, was to fulfil his fatherly duties (he did cheat, because he made a house elf change Claudius's nappies, but then Hermione didn't have to know about that) three days a week, Hermione two days.

The first time Hermione arrived at the office with Claudius strapped to her chest and a large bag containing baby paraphernalia, everybody thought it was cute and cooed over the baby. The second time there were forced smiles and waves from afar – with good reason, for Claudius could have long-distance-vomited for England – and the third time Kingsley Shacklebolt asked her to his office.

After a few goochie-goochie-goochies and 'Where is my little boy? Where is my little boy?' (which Claudius refused to answer, rightly taking them to be rhetorical questions) Kingsley came to the heart of the matter.

'This is a working environment, Hermione,' he said with a paternal smile (Hermione thought it was patronizing), 'and your field of work is a very sensitive one.'

Hermione, who of course knew what was coming, gave him a bright smile. 'Don't worry. He can't read yet, so the classified files will be absolutely safe. I also charmed them to be vomit-proof.'

Kingsley rubbed his bald pate. 'I must say – and believe me, I really hate having to say it – that I'm a bit preoccupied about the quality of your work. A child is a distraction, and rightly so, he has to be your first priority now after all, and your work might suffer.'

'I don't think it will, but the moment it does, I'm sure you're going to tell me, and I'll redouble my efforts. No problem.' Her cheeks were hurting from all the smiling, but she'd be damned if she lost control.

'Yes, yes of course, I don't ha reason to doubt your work ethics.' Kingsley was starting to sweat. 'In any case, we must think of your co-workers.'

'I don't have co-workers,' Hermione said – after ten years, the Malfoy arrogance had rubbed off on her a bit. 'I have a boss, and I have a staff. The boss is away most of the time, and the staff don't share an office with me. So I'm not quite sure what you're talking about.'

Kingsley wiped his face with a large white handkerchief. 'They feel – not that anybody has complained, mind you – but they do feel it's a little unusual.'

'If nobody has complained, how would you know? A black Minister for Magic was a bit unusual, too, since you were the first – did you ever think of resigning because people found you a trifle unusual?'

'That wasn't the kind of unusual I meant…'

'Oh, that's all right then. A different kind of unusual – would you mind explaining which one exactly?'

The handkerchief, which had lost its starched glory, was now a grubby little ball in the Minister's large hand. 'Oh, I don't know! Look, Hermione, babies just don't belong in offices, that's the gist of it!'

'Neither do idiots, but you seem to suffer them quite gladly,' she replied coolly. 'And now Kingsley, be so kind as to point out to me where exactly it is written that babies don't belong in offices.'

'It's… it's… Oh, for Merlin's sake, Hermione, don't be so damned difficult! It's customary law – there never have been babies in offices, and there never will be, and that's that.'

'I believe you might be wrong on that count. There have been at least three Hogwarts Headmistresses – one of your ancestors among them, I might mention – who had children during their tenure and kept the babies with them at the office.'

'That's different! Hogwarts is a school – children are, I mean schools are a natural environment for children!'

'The governor of Azkaban has a son, aged five, and the child spends most of his day in his father's office. So much for natural habitats.'

Kingsley threw up his arms in desperation. 'I don't know what to say anymore!'

'That much is obvious. But hardly convincing. If you want me to leave my child at home, Kingsley, you'll have to come up with something better than this. And now you must excuse me, my breasts are leaking. Claudius needs to be fed.'

'You see?' Kingsley stabbed a triumphant forefinger at her. 'You see? That's exactly what I meant. Imagine that this was an official meeting – would you just tell the assembled participants that your breasts were leaking? A fine example you'd set!'

'No,' Hermione said calmly. 'I would use this time-turner I've officially acquired, you great imbecile. And leaking breasts are, at least in my opinion, more dignified than a certain Minister's constantly full bladder. Go to St. Mungo's, Kingsley, and have your prostate examined. Or get yourself a time-turner, I don't care either way.'

She left the office while Kingsley was still gaping. Hermione just adored having the last word.

So Claudius grew up in an interesting mix of environments: An habitué of the Ministry for Magic, he knew that venerable building from dungeons to attic (his flying memo to Arthur Weasley 'HELP PLIZ MUM MEKS ME BRUHS MY TITS AGAIN' was legend). He was at home in his father's study and knew how to find his way through the library, and he spent lots of time in the Manor's ample kitchens with the house elves. When he was five, Lucius began to take his son on short business trips with him. And he'd already played endless games of wizarding chess with the son of the governor of Azkaban, beating him most of the time. Claudius was a precocious child and the apple of his parents' eye.

By means of carefully placed donations and services offered, Lucius had been able to resume relations with Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He had liked being a school governor, and when Hugo was seven, he was finally invited to rejoin that august body. This meant that Hogwarts teachers became once again regular guests at the Manor. When they'd met Claudius they usually started extolling the merits of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. To no avail, because neither Lucius nor Hermione had any intention of sending their son abroad. Having to let him go for the better part of the year was bad enough.

The Hogwarts letter arrived three days after Claudius's birthday. He went half mad with enthusiasm and incessantly begged his mum and dad for stories about their own school days. Lucius's rather large fund of anecdotes went till his third year – the rest was mostly sex orgies, studying dark magic and making plots for world domination, none of which topics he wanted to taint his son's pure mind.

Hermione thought that illustrating her own school stories with original exhibits would be fun, and so she took Claudius up to the attic, to rummage amidst boxes and furniture and paintings until they'd found her school trunk.

'What's this?' Claudius asked, holding up a battered tin.

'I had no idea I'd kept it!' Hermione exclaimed. 'It's my SPEW collection box.'

'You made people spit into it?' He gingerly put the object down on the floor and discreetly wiped his hands on his trousers.

'No, no. SPEW was an acronym – Society for the Protection of Elfish Welfare.'

Claudius cocked his head. 'I don't think I ever heard of it.'

'Well no, it wasn't what you'd call a big success.'

'Like the EU?' (Lucius had rather particular views of the European Union)

'Much less successful. Look at the membership fees they get. No, SPEW was doomed from the beginning. Oh, look! My badge is still there!' She fished the badge out of the trunk.

'Oh, cool! May I have it?'

'Erm, well, I think we'd better leave it here, don't you think?'

'But mu-um!' Claudius could make puppy eyes with the best of them. Claudius had sea-green eyes, which he could make brim with tears whenever he wanted. His father secretly envied him, because when he'd been banished to the guest wing – it didn't happen often, but the happy couple did have their rows after all – he would have liked to puppy-eye his way back into Hermione's bed and knickers. As things were, he had to apologize, which was quite un-Malfoyish and undignified. 'But mu-um,' Claudius repeated, eyes already swimming. 'It would make such a nice memento, and I could always carry it in my pocket – please, mum!'

Much too proud of her eleven-year-old, who knew how to use a word like memento, Hermione gave him a cuddle and said, 'All right, darling, keep it. But maybe you shouldn't show it to dad.'

Claudius's father was an arch-Slytherin, and his mother was the epitome of Gryffindor. Both had instilled their morals (Lucius had of course instilled the new, improved version) into their son, who had become a happy wanderer between the worlds. Phrases like "maybe you shouldn't show it to dad", however, woke the serpent in him. Most children would have asked why, but not so Claudius. Finding things out on his own was much more fun, and he knew whom to ask. Besides, he was going to subject his father to a little test, nothing overly painful of course.

Father and son were both extremely fond of Quidditch, and played almost every day, especially during the warm season. Hermione accepted it with equanimity, sure in the knowledge that Claudius was as fond of reading as he was of playing.

'Dad,' said Claudius, when they'd finished that day's practice and returned to the house and the dinner that was waiting for them, 'why don't wizards have paid servants like Muggles?'

'Because we do things differently. We play Quidditch, for example, and not football.'

'Yes, but that's because Quidditch is better! Why run, if you can fly?'

'Because, for example, you can't break your neck when you're playing football, but you can go to a rather gruesome death, if you don't know how to control your broomstick. That's why I said different, not better.' (Please note the new, improved morals)

'Uh-huh. But isn't paying people better, if they wait on you hand and foot, every day?'

'First of all, Claudius, house elves aren't people-'

'That's not true! It's like in the Merchant of Venice! If you prick us, do we not bleed?
If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? I've tickled them, so I know they laugh, and I've seen them cut their fingers, and they bleed, although it's green!'

'I do hope you haven't poisoned one, Claudius.'

'Of course I haven't!'

'How very reassuring. Now run and wash your hands, or you'll be late for dinner, and your mother and I will have eaten all the chips.'

It occurred to Claudius, while he was trudging up the stairs to his room, that his father had neatly outmanoeuvred him. It was a setback, but Claudius loved and admired his father very much (not least because Claudius's own hair was a mass of white-blond frizz and nothing like Lucius's smooth, straight mane) and so it was all right. He was aware that he had to learn whatever he could, and Lucius's skilled little manoeuvre was immediately memorized and catalogued under "Diversion tactics, inferiors, for use against".

Claudius hated it when his parents quarrelled, and since he was absolutely certain that the topic of house elves would eventually lead to dad sleeping in the guest wing, he wisely chose not to mention the subject at dinner.

It has already been mentioned that the green-eyed Malfoy scion was a very literate child (not everybody would be able to quote from the Merchant of Venice at such a tender age) and knew how to find his way through a library. Neither Lucius nor Hermione, who both had a history of nightly excursions into the Hogwarts library's restricted section, had ever seen much sense in forbidding a child to read certain books. Claudius had been allowed to read what he wanted, and since he'd always been keen on discussing everything with his parents, there had never been any banned books to lure him into deceiving his father or mother.

So he knew exactly where to look, and what he found left him quite speechless. He was only eleven, and therefore not yet acquainted with the ever-identical horrors one part of mankind commits against another; he was a child and had not yet understood that humans, whether magical or not, never learn from history, because the human mind is so very apt at finding justifications.

There had been a war between wizards and Elves. The wizards had won it by the skin of their teeth and paid for the victory with terrible losses. The Elves had been taken prisoners – one of the wizard leaders had pleaded for a summary killing of all the remaining enemies, but another leader had thought of such a drastic measure as a complete waste. Wouldn't it be much better, he had argued, to modify the Elves' magic, so that they welcomed, nay craved, servitude? Squeezing elfish magic into a straitjacket might not be without consequences for their physical appearance, but then who cared whether a slave had a nose like a pencil or a squashed tomato, fingers like a gecko and a voice like a eunuch? Elf magic was powerful, and once harnessed by human skills and human willpower, just think what they might accomplish for their masters?

Claudius sat in his father's favourite armchair in the library, in a pool of candlelight and in the dead of night, and wept. His father was a good man, and his mother was – oh, she was courageous, and fun, and soft, and she always had answers to his questions, and she always knew when he needed a cuddle or when he needed to be a Big Boy. They were his parents, the sun and moon of his world, so how was it possible…

He put the book back into its slot, went up to his room and cried himself to sleep.

The next day, when Lucius had left for an appointment at Gringotts, and Hermione, now a senior head of department, was having another cup of coffee at the breakfast table, Claudius summoned up all his courage.

'Mum, dad is a good man, isn't he?'

She'd been thinking of finding herself a new secretary, and doing a mental roll call of her department's staff, and so she was sounding a bit off-hand when she replied, 'Yes of course, darling.'

'Mum, you aren't listening. Dad is a good man, isn't he?'

Now he had her full attention, and that was quite a bit more than he'd expected. Hermione's full attention had been known to reduce hardened criminals to tears. 'What exactly,' Hermione said, 'is the meaning of this question? Has anybody been telling you stories?'

'N-no.' Claudius took a sip of his warm milk. Although slightly taken aback by his mother's reaction, he was still aware that it was rather incongruous. 'What stories do you mean?'

'Just, well, stories. You know how people are.'

'No, I don't. How are they?'

'Claudius, don't play dumb. You know very well that we are rich, and being rich always attracts the envy of people who are less rich. So they invent stories about the rich ones. That's what I meant.'

Claudius shook his curly head. 'Nobody's been telling that kind of stories. Honestly, mum. But why does he go round torturing people?' His eyes filled with tears, real ones this time.

More alarmed than she cared to let her son see, Hermione got up and made a brief Floo call to the Ministry, excusing herself for the day. Then she went back to the breakfast room, where Claudius had worked himself into a state of complete desperation. She picked him up – the fact that he let her told her more than words could have – and carried him upstairs to his room.

'All right,' she said, when they had nestled into his bed and made a tent out of the duvet. It was a bit hot in there, and very stuffy, but the tent was a ritual they'd had for years. 'All right. I think you're very sad and upset about something, Claudius, and I'd really like you to tell me.'

Too relieved that he didn't have to bear his grief alone, Claudius spent a good ten minutes soaking his mother's robes with tears and snot. 'It's about the elves,' he finally hiccupped.

Holding his head close to her shoulder, Hermione let out a sigh of relief. Not Voldemort then. She'd always known that her son was bound, sooner or later, to hear stories about his father, but she'd hoped it might happen a little later. 'The elves, my darling? Do you mean the house elves? Does it have anything to do with SPEW?' Hermione wasn't the wizarding world's supreme detective for nothing.

In bits and pieces, Claudius poured out his story and promptly fell asleep. Hermione carefully left the tent, drew the curtains closed and tiptoed out of the nursery. She went into her study and called Lucius by Floo.

'You have to come home,' she said, when Lucius's head appeared in the flames.

'Has anything happened to Claudius?'

'In a way, yes. We have to talk.'

'Is he hurt? He didn't take an overdose of Pepper-Up again!'

'No, darling, no. Physically he's quite unhurt and asleep in his bed. But you have to come home now, please.'

Five minutes later, Lucius strode into his wife's study. 'This better be good,' he grumbled. 'I've lost an important deal with Feng Shui inc., and I'm in no mood-'

'Sit down!'

The command had been issued in That Voice, and Lucius knew better than to disregard it. So he sat down and listened to the story of Claudius's distress. 'This,' he said, when Hermione had finished, 'is all your fault. Why did you have to show him that stupid badge?'

'I think,' Hermione said with all the calm she could muster, which wasn't much, 'that you're barking up the wrong tree, dearest. The point is that your son is growing up and developing a sense of responsibility and a conscience. You ought to be happy, not blame it all on me.'

'I don't quite see-'

'You don't quite see? Then try to see, Lucius! Sooner or later, Claudius will hear about your past, whether you like it or not! He'll be terrified, and he'll be angry with you, maybe even hate you! This is your chance, you, you, benighted individual, to show him that you're not a monster!'

Lucius's eyes narrowed dangerously. 'A monster? I love him, I'd do anything for him!'

'I don't doubt that, Lucius. And, just because you're reacting in a completely irrational way, let me assure you that I don't think you're a monster, either. But don't you see the problem? He thinks that house elves are people just like us, and I can't say I disagree. He's read up on the history of house elves, and he was terrified, Lucius! Terrified even to think that his father might have any part in those horrors. He's completely unable to square "father" with "torturer"! And this is your chance to prove you're not. If you don't do something now, any stories he may hear later on will fall on fertile ground. And don't give me that doubtful look, because you know I'm right. Oh, I'm sure you'd be able to talk him out of it, maybe he'll even forget. But the moment some misguided person tells him about his father having been a Death Eater, believe me, it's all going to come back to him.' She took a deep breath. 'Do as I say, Lucius. Free those damned elves and pay them wages. And believe me, if you don't, this time it's not just going to be the guest wing.'

Improved morals or not, it is doubtful whether Lucius Malfoy would have freed his elves and offered them wages through gritted teeth. That final threat, however, was also the final straw. The Malfoy house elves were freed, and Claudius was allowed to give them their clothes. His father had sworn him to secrecy, but the story was all over the Hogwarts Express in less than ten minutes.

And Lucius had the satisfaction to read the following letter two months later, with his wife sitting on his knees in front of a blazing fire:

'Dear Mum and Dad,

the Headmaster is going to write to you anyway, so I thought it was better to come clean first.'

'What a refreshing show of morals,' Lucius said.

'Indeed. Read on!'

'Lucy Stevenson of Gryffindor, who is a totally stupid cow and doesn't even know how to spell arrhythmic, said horrible things about dad the other day, and so I had no choice but to punch her nose.'

'Impeccable logic,' Hermione remarked.

'That didn't make it much better, because she said that was exactly what she'd expected of the son of a Death Eater. So I dragged her to the toilets and dunked her head in and told her that a Death Eater was certainly less disgusting than a shit eater. I know it wasn't very elegant, but I didn't have much time for plotting, so there. Dear mum, dear dad, the headmaster said I wouldn't be allowed to go home for Christmas, but I know you won't accept that. So I thought it was better to forewarn you, so you can start plotting right now and give the Headmaster the answer he deserves, the git.

Your loving son

Claudius'

'What a cunning strategist,' Hermione said and snorted.

'What astonishing candour,' Lucius said and chuckled.

'The East Wing needs a new roof, or so I heard.'

'Mmh. Four thousand galleons, merely to spend Christmas with our misbegotten son?'

'You know it's worth it,' Hermione said. 'And you get extra points for having said "our", my darling.'