The change in circumstances was apparent after just a few days. Each morning Draco headed off through the floo, and Lucius dressed and did a few minor chores around the house, being careful not to overdo things. By keeping the clutter and the scraps down to a minimum, things didn't look too bad at the end of the day. Lucius could fix himself a light lunch, and Draco organised for Mrs Harris, a local squib, to come in twice a week and do the worst of the heavy housekeeping. Draco's cooking skills weren't great, but they were bearable. (There was, of course, the memorable Tuna Surprise night. Draco had forgotten to buy more tuna). After a week of tuna and pasta though, Lucius was able to bestir himself once or twice to make dinner, and while his bacon-and-eggs offerings were not spectacular, they were certainly edible (and at least a change).
After three weeks, Lucius was able to rise at the same time as Draco and keep him company over breakfast, although the conversation was somewhat stilted. Lucius was attempting not to fall asleep face-first into his porridge and Draco would bury himself in the Prophet.
By the Thursday, Lucius was awake enough to stop his offspring on the way to the fireplace and steal his copy of the Prophet. Propping the pages against the coffee pot, Lucius munched his way slowly through some toast as he perused the recent news and views as provided by the best of the Ministry's lapdogs. He sneered wholeheartedly at the latest proclamations by Minister Shacklebolt (it felt good to be sneering again) and glanced briefly at the social notices. The society pictures of certain famous witches, wizards and other highfaluting types almost sent him into an apoplectic fit. He was so energised by this that when Draco came home, he was greeted by the smell of a home-baked casserole and the sight of a gleaming clean entrance where previously the dog hair had drifted like Puffskeins in the slightest breeze. While Draco gaped, Lucius came out from the kitchen in a smart black linen apron, two glasses of wine in his hands and a pair of very hopeful dogs beside him.
"The bills are paid?" Draco enquired politely, accepting the glass gratefully – it had been a horrid day.
"Not exactly." Lucius smiled wryly. "I was inspired to do a little more tidying, and I discovered your grandfather's secret stash. Only half the bottles are drinkable, but I think we have enough there to keep us going a few more months." He drank deeply from his own glass, the dark golden liquid swirling viscously. Draco took another sip, then a very appreciative draught, then raised his eyebrow at his father who passed the bottle from the table to his son. "45 year old Zerella's. A fraction past its prime, but certainly not to be sneezed at. Dinner will be about ten minutes."
The lamb casserole was more than passable, and Draco hadn't realised how hungry he was. A few lumps in the mashed potato were neither here nor there. Once his primary hunger was satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and sipped again at the aged wine. "Where in Merlin's name did you learn to cook, and where did you find that dapper apron? More importantly, what got into you today to do all this?"
Lucius grinned, invigorated by his success in the kitchen. "The apron came with the cookery book, which I found in a pile of rubbish in the back of the pantry. For some reason, about ten years ago your mother must have accepted some sort of a Muggle mail offer – goodness knows why. But as for the rest…" (At this he waved his hand in a gesture which encompassed the entire room), "I blame your choice in reading material."
"Mine?"
Lucius waved the Prophet, folded to a page that had not been improved by colour printing. "I had no idea that the fashion sense of the Wizarding world was so … Let us just say I was so horrified by what the average wizard thinks 'well-dressed' means, I had to do something." He shuddered, and drank deeply again. "And it felt good to be active, but I'll probably pay for it tomorrow."
"Perhaps you should write into the paper and protest," Draco laughed, delighted by the animation on his father's face. "Sign yourself as "Disgruntled in Wiltshire" and lecture them all on the fashion foibles of aging alchemists." Lucius raised an eyebrow at this, and Draco went on. "Remind them of the prestige a well-cut cloak can afford, or the elegance of an exquisitely-made jacket." At that, Lucius looked down at his apron and winced.
"You may have a point there. But for now, I do think I've reached my limit for the day. Is the washing up too much to ask, or should we leave it for Mrs Harris?"
"After a meal like that, I would consider it an insult not to wash up for the cook." Draco gathered up the nearly-spotless plates, and headed for the kitchen while his father headed straight for bed.
The next morning had the two men awake and alert at breakfast, and once more Lucius appropriated the Prophet as Draco headed for the floo. Draco emerged at an elegant fireplace in a tastefully-decorated apartment, into the arms of a well-dressed woman.
"You're looking wonderful, dear," Narcissa stated, giving her son a firm hug and dusting off a small ash particle that had settled on his coat. "The coffee's made, and would you care for dinner tonight?"
"Not tonight mother, but perhaps next week? Father has discovered your recipe card stash and would be disappointed if I didn't show. I can let him know in advance, though." Draco took the proffered coffee cup, and drank gratefully – he had drunk it at first to please her but now had a taste for the Muggle brew.
"That's a shame. But I'll take myself out somewhere nice. I'm getting quite used to these Muggle restaurants now." She smiled, and picked a hair off her son's shoulder. "This isn't one of yours – a colleague?"
Draco looked at the coarse strand. "That's horse-hair, mother. It must have caught on my jacket from work."
"You deal in horses?"
"Potion ingredients. They have so many different types. And there's a stuffed horse in the corner of the main office." Draco finished off his coffee, handed back the cup and kissed his mother goodbye.
From the front door of the terrace it should have taken Draco less than ten minutes to walk to work, but he took a rather circuitous route, ducking down back alleys and stopping in a doorway. Finally, he slipped from Ebury St into Carlton Place, and into the discreet front door of a very formal and established business.
Lucius finished a second cup of tea, and tried hard not to laugh at the Daily Prophet's latest pictures of "The best dressed Wizards and Witches." Finally, need overcame weariness, and he summoned over parchment and a quill. The familiar scowl flashed over his face first, then a wicked smile slowly came across his features and he flexed his fingers in a manner that suggested that a large amount of writing was to follow.
An hour later a trembling hand laid down the quill. Lucius hadn't worked so hard since his NEWTS many long years ago, but he was far more pleased with his efforts now than he had been with those unimportant exams. There was a certain devilish air about him, and he summoned their remaining owl, attached the parchment to its leg and dispatched it to the offices of the Prophet with an imperious wave of the hand. These actions both energised and exhausted him, and his wounds ached as they had not done in some days, but he brushed off the looming exhaustion and managed to put together the ingredients of a slow-cooking stroganoff before collapsing for a short sleep. Luckily the stroganoff could cope with a long cooking time, because Lucius did not emerge from his slumber before his son returned from dinner.
Draco, looking somewhat haggard, saw his father asleep in his easy chair, and took one glorious sniff of the aroma of stroganoff. It didn't take an Auror to realise what had happened. He took a few moments after putting on the rice to have a wash and brush up, then once again woke his father with the sound of cutlery being placed on the table. Lucius woke refreshed and hungry, and smiled appreciatively at his son.
"Busy day?"
"I can't believe how tiring office work is. I spend all day sitting in a chair shuffling papers, but afterwards I'm more exhausted than if I'd been chasing the snitch for three hours. Is it always like that?"
"It must be. One hour writing, and I'm still shaking." He held up his hand which was indeed still trembling, though not so much that he couldn't then fork up some of the delightful dinner in front of him. "What did they have you doing? Writing up orders for soapwort? Quality assessments of dragon spleen?"
"Something like that" Draco responded a little cagily, although Lucius didn't notice. "Mainly chasing up old accounts. You have no idea how hard it is to get money out of people sometimes… sorry, Father." Lucius had looked up with an uncomfortable expression on his face. "Actually, we're not in such a bad state. I've learned so much about this from the firm. As long as we contact our creditors and let them know that we'll be paying our bills, and especially if we include something towards the total, they'll be fairly happy."
"My son the accountant." Draco flinched, but Lucius was looking at him proudly. "You're absolutely right. Perhaps we should go through the household papers this weekend."
"Perhaps" mumbled Draco, burying himself again in the dinner. One of the wolfhounds looked up hopefully at the pair, then resignedly settled down again, once more deprived of scraps as Lucius regained his appetite.