I have one thought in my head upon my return to the Manor, and one thought only.
Drink.
Strong, hard, stiff drink. Oceans of the stuff.
To my horror, we are out of Firewhiskey.
Did I have the lot last night? I really can't remember. I almost hope it was Draco who finished it.
I briefly consider getting sloshed on plain cognac instead, like an animal. But then I decide it's out of the question. I still have my dignity, damn it all!
However, I take a couple of shots, just to steel myself for a venture to the out-of-doors.
Having left Dr. Platt's office in London and returned to Wiltshire, it would be unseemly to return to London again visit Diagon Alley today, especially for no other reason than to acquire spirits. People might... talk. They already talk, damn them, but nevertheless.
So, reluctantly, I instead travel (by floo powder this time, lest excess Apparition splinches me in half) to Hogsmeade. Hogsmeade train station, to be exact. The owner of my actual destination prefers the customers to arrive through the front door.
And yes, reluctantly. I have no wish to be seen here, so close to the scene of my Lord's downfall, though it's not the first time I've been here since then. Frankly I have few alternatives. Most barkeepers in this country won't so much as look at a former Death Eater. It's a disgrace, I agree.
Naturally I'm wearing my fur cloak. You can never count on Hogsmeade not to play host to a snowstorm, even in July. The town is covered with snow all year round. I also have a rather fetching cashmere scarf. I use it to hide my face in case photographers from the Prophet should emerge from the bushes. But they don't, thankfully. Not today. Not now.
I pass the Three Broomsticks. I think I shall die before entering that establishment willingly. As if I have a choice. The witch who runs it (the name escapes me for the moment) won't let Malfoys in after my son kept her under the Imperius curse for nearly a year.
Ha! I'd forgotten he did that. Perhaps the little ingrate isn't entirely useless, after all...
The door to Hog's Head creaks loudly in protest at my entrance, but the nameless barman here does nothing to prevent me from being present.
This is not my first visit to Hog's Head after the war. I've whiled away many a lonely evening in this place after every respectable establishment turned me away with a curt "your lot aren't welcome here".
Thankfully, apart from the aforementioned oaf, the bar is empty.
"Firewhiskey, if you would," I tell him, sitting down at the counter.
"Say please," he replies grudgingly into his beard, but fetches the bottle without waiting for a reply.
In case you haven't guessed, we don't like each other, him and I. He only tolerates me for my wealth, and because he's bought into Potter's whole 'forgive and forget' campaign, or was it 'live and let live'? - and I only tolerate him for his steady supply of spirits.
"How much for the bottle?"
"Ten galleons."
"Outrageous."
"Not a knut less."
"Very well. I'll take four."
Well stocked, and pleasantly drunk, I take my leave.
Now, I say pleasantly drunk, but I don't consider it necessarily unpleasant to kick the cups of beggars on my way back to the train station. What do they expect? If the Ministry won't allow me to mutilate muggles, what else am I meant to do for fun?
The cup shoots several yards away and the beggar swears and scrambles after it. As he bends to pick it up his backside is positioned so very perfectly for a kicking I can't help myself. My boot connects sharply with the round mass, toppling the beggar over and sending him face-first into the snow. I laugh, my first real, joyful laugh since the War.
- flash -
Oh no! Prophographers from the Photet! Three of them! They caught my misdeeds on camera!
Out of habit, I turn my wand on them.
"Hand over the film this instant and no one gets hurt!"
- flash -
For God's sake!
I hurt one of them, obviously. Nothing too severe, only a mild stinging jinx. I say mild, but you wouldn't guess that for the screams.
- flash – flash -
"I said to hand the film over! Let that be a lesson to all of you!
The beggar is on his feet again and has taken to pelting me with snow.
"Take that, you bullying ponce!"
"Desist this instant, you swine!"
At that moment the doors to the Three Broomsticks open and out pours a very unfortunate collection of people: the half-giant Hagrid, Professors Horace Slughorn and Minerva McGonagall, the old fool Fudge and... and... oh Lord.
Arthur Weasley, who is a walking offence to all the senses at the best of times, accompanied by one of his insufferable children.
"Lucius!" Slughorn booms, striding over with his arms outstretched and with that old jovial smile on his moustache-adorned mouth. "Having a good old frolic in the snow, I take it?"
"Er, yes, Horace," I say unconvincingly. "Me and my... dear childhood friend here were just... reliving our youthful days."
"Bollocks! He's a bully and a pig, and he just bleedin' assaulted me for no reason!"
"Ha ha! Ha ha! Ah yes, very amusing," I cling to the lie for dear life. "My friend and I share a rather unusual sense of humour," I explain to Slughorn, but the bewildered frown on his brow is not at all softened.
"This is what I think of your sense of humour, you slimy bastard!" the beggar shouts, before spitting, well, attempting to spit in my face, but he can't reach that high, so instead the thick, massive glob lands in my beloved cashmere scarf.
Why, I ought to -
- flash – click -
"Are those photographers, in the bushes?" McGonagall asks, frowning at the three of them.
"Yes, I... called them here to take pictures of my friend and I, you see, we are in fact rehearsing a play, in which I play both a bully and a pig, and I thought we ought to get some promotional images taken -"
- flash -
"Codswallop!" the beggar asserts. McGonagall draws closer to me, wand in hand. I hope to God she doesn't smell the Firewhiskey on my breath – the Firewhiskey!
"Oh, but I've completely forgotten! My friend, isn't your birthday any day now?" I ask the beggar, then immediately pull one of the bottles out of my cloak and shove it into his chest. "Happy birthday, old friend!" I exclaim, but have my gaze tell him, in no uncertain terms, that it's time to fuck. Off.
On a day full of failures, this one thing goes without a hitch. His mask of pure loathing switches to an amicable grin in under a second.
"Oh, er, right-o! Thanks, and er, good work today, acting-wise and such," he finishes awkwardly, before obediently fucking off, holding the Firewhiskey like it's a little child.
- click – flash -
Oh good. I turn back to the others. McGonagall has thought better of approaching me.
"As you can see, my friend there has quite captured his character, playing a poor beggar. I can't even begin to approach his talent -"
"He attacked one of us too, look!" one of the photographers yell, pointing at the one I hexed earlier.
The hexed photographer tries to chime in, but the swelling around the mouth is too great for her words to be even remotely comprehensible.
"Blh buh-hnn hrrum gll!" she argues.
"Ah, now this is a rather clever, er, mask-work, wouldn't you agree?" God, this is getting entirely out of hand. "Yes, I dabble in costume designs these days -"
"Yer lyin'!" Hagrid exclaims gruffly. "Jus' like ye were doin' after both Wars, an' like what ye were doin' back in nine'y-two when the Chamber were open'd -"
Oh no, they're not going to bring that up, are they? That was ages ago!
"My dear fellow, you must forgive me, but I simply can't comprehend a word you're saying -"
"Hnguluh fhnn!"
- flash -
"Now I don't think this is the time or place to reopen old wounds -" Slughorn begins.
"Maybe you'd forgotten about the Chamber of Secrets, Malfoy, but I certainly had not!"
Oh God, it's the Weasley spawn. The youngest. I'd hoped never to have to so much as look at her since my diary scheme went so horribly awry all those years ago, but there she is now, marching up to me for a long overdue confrontation about how I destroyed her whole life and am an evil bastard et cetera.
Truthfully, I can't blame her. I only wish she'd choose a more private setting where I could erase her memory afterwards.
"Remember? Tom Riddle's diary? The Basilisk and all those people it attacked? I was eleven! Eleven! I nearly DIED! What was in your head, you sick, sick bastard!"
"Now now, Ginevra," Slughorn begins again, "calm down -"
"Put a sock in it, Slug'orn!" Hagrid yells.
"WHY?!" the Weasley girl demands, ignoring the others. "Why give me that awful diary, why me? Answer me, damn you!"
She's... really quite slow, isn't she? Discrediting her father, getting rid of Dumbledore, defeating the Muggle Protection Act, killing some Mudbloods, watching the mayhem unfold and having a laugh – I had more reasons than I could eat. Where to begin?
That, in any event, is immaterial. I was never found guilty of this, ergo I never did it.
I blink several times. "I really can't fathom how any of this pertains to me, Miss Weasley."
- flash -
"Don't you try slithering your way out of this, Malfoy!" comes Arthur Weasley's voice.
Oh, fuck off, just fuck off!
"We all know you slipped my daughter that diary!"
"Sorry, what diary? This is all quite foreign to me, Arthur -"
- flash – click – flash -
"Now now," comes Fudge's voice, "let us be calm, this is no place for such accusations -"
"Well spoken, Cornelius! Neither the place nor time!" Slughorn chimes in.
"Very true. Come, Hagrid," says McGonagall, turning to walk towards the school.
But Hagrid lingers, glaring with hate in his pitch-black little eyes, before pointing at me with a massive forefinger warningly. "One day, Malfoy. One day, ye'll get wha's comin' to ya. Just ye wait."
Keeping my mask of affable incredulity, I reply; "I shall look forward to it."
- flash -
"Fucking hell, will you fuckers fuck the fuck off with your fucking cameras!" the Weasley girl shrieks at the photographers.
And, to my horror, they begin to do so, trotting along smugly.
"No!" I shout after them. "Don't fuck off! Give me the blasted film!"
"Leg it!" one of them yells to the other two. They eagerly obey this. I run after them.
"Oi! You're not leaving, Malfoy!" I hear the Weasley brat's voice chasing me.
"Don't let 'im get 'is 'ands on that film!" Hagrid joins in the chase, by the sound of it.
"Ginny! Be careful!" comes Arthur Weasley's voice, and I'm guessing he's joining too.
It's beginning to look hopeless, that is, until I remember that I don't have to run after them like a lowly muggle. I have a wand now.
I point it at them and make them all stumble over their own legs, one by one. The cries of pain are quite pleasant as they slam face first into the frozen ground.
I grab one of their cameras and smash it into the ground, and am just about to do it with the rest when the Weasley spawn catches up with me and wastes no time in bringing her knee up to connect sharply with my loins.
Oh, no, she did not. She did not just -
Yes. She actually did.
God – fucking Christ.
Hellish, monstrous agony. I double over, hissing and panting – Jesus – the little – the little bitch!
How fucking dare she -
God almighty. I can't think in sentences. I can't – I should murder her. I should kill her with fire.
- flash – click – click – flash -
Oh, damn it all to hell!
"Ginny, are you all right?" Weasley asks his daughter, having just arrived at the scene, as I push myself up to stand, oh, oh so slowly.
"Never better," she answers her father, grinning cruelly at me. God, how my fingers ache to snap her little neck -
Later, Malfoy. Later.
The rest of the ensemble have also gathered. All of them. McGonagall, Fudge, Hagrid, Slughorn. All staring at me with varying degrees of confusion and distrust. Even loathing. Fair enough. Let them stare.
I've decided the time is ripe to ensure none of this is ever believed. By anyone. Including the people present.
Even including myself, if I'm lucky.
"Let's go home," the absolute fucking bitch says to her father.
He nods, and they begin to walk away together, but I - I have to -
"Wait, Arthur," I say, my voice ambitiously loud as my eyes are swimming.
"What?" he asks, not even turning for so long.
"Arthur, I have been lying to myself for too long!" and I approach him, slowly, mock-nervously.
He turns around, now, a flummoxed expression on his brow.
- click – flash -
What am I doing? What am I doing?
"What are you talking about, Malfoy?" Weasley's eyes narrow at me, suspiciously.
I feign a wounded expression. "Please Arthur. Let's have no more of this hostility, this – this coldness! Hasn't it cost us both enough already?"
What am I doing?!
- flash -
"I've been a fool, Arthur, I see that now -"
"Uhm, Dad?"
"Lucius -"
"Arthur."
- flash -
WHAT AM I DOING?!
I grasp Weasley's robes and pull him towards me, locking my lips with his.
The clicks and flashes of the cameras go off like a series of fireworks. I smile into Arthur Weasley's gaping mouth. None of these cretins are going anywhere.
A/N: Yup. I don't know. I just wanted to have some fun. This development confused me a bit, but Lucius had his reasons, I assure you. You'll discover what they were in the next chapter. Anyway, as always, I love me some reviews and will respond by PM, so please leave some if you want to. And I promise to update more quickly in the future!