My wife is most inquisitive upon my return to the Manor.

"How was your appointment with the cyclist?"

"Psychiatrist," I correct her. Her expression is one of utter indifference. Can you blame her? "It went well. I believe I gave the filth a good fright."

She chuckles, a most agreeable, high pitched sound, which bounces off the high walls of our sitting room.

"Oh, Lucius, why would you do such a thing? They will only make you go there more often." By 'they' she means the Wizengamot, obviously.

"That is if she tells them, which she won't."

She frowns at me.

"Surely you didn't do to her what your... colleagues did to that Muggle woman at the Quidditch World Cup four years ago?"

"Of course not!" I bark at the insult. Briefly my mind wanders to the spectacle I saw that night, the Muggle upside-down, mid-air, with her nightgown over her head, revealing her shame.

I shake the revolting image out of my head.

"You will go back this Thursday?" Narcissa inquires.

"Yes."

"Apologize."

"What?"

I can barely contain my rage. Apologize to filth! My wife has lost her senses.

"They are only words, Lucius. If it means you are absolved sooner, it will be worth it."

I open my mouth to retort, but just then the resident snotty milksop (I mean, our darling son) struts into the room to have a fit about something.

"Mother, these dress robes you gave me for my birthday are so last year! How do you expect me to show my face in public in these outdated rags?"

Now, I dread to think of what my fate may have been had I, in my youth, addressed my mother in this manner. My instinct right now is to hex the boy, but last time I tried Narcissa denied me access to my own bed for a year.

Her approach is to encourage his insolence, as she takes it as a sign that our son is a strong willed character. I only pity the poor girl he'll marry.

Poor, I say, as in unfortunate. My son will never marry a destitute woman. If she's not of wealthy heritage, how can we be sure her bloodline is pure? And worse yet, she may be Weasley spawn!

My worries are interrupted by some rather disturbing mollycoddling, courtesy of my wife.

"Oh my poor little boy, I had no idea they weren't to your taste! Let me take you to Madam Malkins, we'll get you all the new robes you want, Dickles."

Dickles!

"Madam Malkins!" Draco huffs, clearly offended by this suggestion. "The old hag who did my school uniforms! What's in your head, woman!"

She stands, and together they leave, arguing over shops along the way.

"Twilfitt and Tattings, then?"

"Are you trying to give me head lice?"

"Well... how about Sweeter Seams?"

"Really, Mother? Baby clothes?"

"Thorough Threading?"

Loud groans.

And they're gone. Much to my relief. I need a strong drink.

I pour myself the Firewhiskey I pined for earlier. Then another. And another. My, they go by quickly these days.

But wait, a voice in my head says, having drained the third glass, what are doing? You should plan for Thursday!

"Yes," I say out loud to no one. Never to early to make plans! It's what we Slytherins do, isn't it...

I pour a fourth glass of Firewhiskey, just in case. I'll bring it with me to my study on the second floor.

It takes a while to get there. Why on Earth do we have so many stairs?

Finally I reach the second floor landing. Victory! It would be helpful if the hallway would stop spinning, though.

No matter. I know my way from here. The doors may spin, but I can still tell them apart, I think. I make for the door and wrench it open. As I stride into the room, something seems wrong. The walls are different. Tiled, and brighter than the Victorian tapestry of my study. And then I notice the Elf.

He notices me too and lets out a terrified shriek. It's an ear-shattering noise. He drops something on the tiled floor. Bathroom floor, I realize, embarrassed. Blank magenta stuff splatters on the tiles. Nail polish? But how...

I put on my sternest, most authoritarian Master-voice.

"Dobby!"

"I-it's Diddles, M-Master," he stutters.

I kick him, whoever he is, sending him flying into the wall on the other side of the room. "You've been stealing from your Mistress!"

"Not stealing, Master! Never stealing!" he cries in protest, clutching his stomach.

"Then how are you in possession of that?" I spit, gesturing to the garish cosmetic product.

"It was Mistress Bellatrix', Master!" he squeals hastily. "Mistress Narcissa threw it in the bin, so Diddles took it..."

"You've been stealing from our bin!" I've half a mind to beat him senseless.

"But Diddles has been teaching himself how to do manicures and pedicures, Master!" he exclaims excitedly, showing me his long, bony fingers with magenta fingernails. "Soon Diddles will cure all of Master's manis and pedis!"

I have no time for this. I physically wave away his promises of spa treatments as though they were flies as he prattles.

"Dickles!" I bellow, then correct myself falteringly, "Dobbles, Dibby..." I pause to sputter obscenities. What does it matter what the bloody creature's called? He's only an Elf. "I command you to beat yourself senseless!"

For a moment he just stares. The resemblance to a pleading puppy is quite remarkable.

"Yes, Master," he then mumbles in defeat, and starts banging his large head into the wall.

I'd stay to watch, only the screams are a bit much for my stomach right now, and I have things to do... plans in need of plotting, stratagems to... steer.

On the second try I succeed in finding my study. It is furnished with opulence and taste, in stark contrast to the bland, anaemic psychiatrist's office I visited earlier today. That spineless Muggle should be here now, taking notes on how to furnish a room.

I sit behind my expansive desk. I'm still holding my glass of Firewhiskey, I notice. I sip, then place it neatly on the desk, enjoying the sight of the liquid swirling for a moment.

All right then. To business.

Tomorrow creeps up on me like bad memories and guilt. I awake at my desk, the pockets in my waistcoat stuffed with little paper notes.

Damn, my head hurts.

I pull out a handful of notes and read them, my mood going from hungover and miserable to suicidal in a few minutes.

These seemed like a feasible idea yesterday, did they? "Accuse of being a Squib," says one. "Threaten with blackmail. Malfoy blackmail," says another. "Demonstrate Dark curses on a Weasley." I burn them all, lest I should be caught with drunken stupidities on my person.

I head downstairs for breakfast, only to find my wife and son already present at the table. I won't deny I could have done without them, in my state. Especially my son in all his new fashionable splendour.

He's wearing a long, dark fur cape which glimmers green and purple, as well as a top hat with some kind of metallic feather things attached to the brim and blue-white linen gloves.

"Father," he greets me in a haughty, lukewarm tone. Who does he think he is, me? "How do you like my new attire?"

"Draco, you resemble a peacock who stuck his head into a bag of flour."

"Lucius!" my wife exclaims indignantly.

Breakfast is a thoroughly unpleasant affair. Later, I almost floo to the Ministry, only to remember that no politicians will accept my bribes any more. I could always go just to insult Arthur Weasley, only it's proving less enjoyable now that our world hails him as a War Hero.

I can't even maim Mudbloods these days. They're all under extra protection from former Death Eaters like myself. Did I say Mudbloods? I must work harder on that. Muggle-borns, they're called. Can't use that other word. It's forbidden. Muggle-borns, Muggle-borns, Muggle-borns.

I sigh. At least my Elf still fears me.

A/N: Aww, poor Lucius. Sorry there's not more therapy action in this chapter, I just had to find out what the Malfoy home situation is like before I dared continue with that. Anyway, hope you're enjoying the story so far! Thank you to everyone reviewing or following, you guys keep me going :)