Draco had not been surprised that evening to be treated to a wonderful dinner at his mother's apartment, nor had the suggestion of a walk to a local coffee shop been unexpected either. What was a shock, though, was the man who met them there and ushered them to a cosy booth in the corner.
"Draco, I assume? Heathcote Barbary." Draco was fairly sure he had seen the Wizard who was shaking his hand in some other setting, and wondered why, if they were all wizards, they weren't meeting in Diagon Alley or somewhere else in the magic side of town. He turned to his mother to ask, but was silenced by the look of animation on her face, a look he hadn't seen for many years.
"We met at an art gallery, darling. A Muggle gallery, where Heathcote had some pieces for sale. I was trying to work out why the scene in one picture seemed familiar when I realised it was Hogwarts, so I knew he must have been there too."
"You were at Hogwarts?" Draco couldn't place him, until the other man pushed his slightly overlong hair back. "Of course! You're one of the Weird Sisters! You played there in my fourth year."
"Guilty as charged. Of course, the band's my main calling, but I've found a certain other talent that keeps me occupied while we wait for the next album to come out. And it's always nice to have one's talents recognised." Heathcote smiled and raised his coffee cup to Narcissa, who smiled back in a way that made Draco's hackles rise.
"Mother, if you'll excuse me, I do need to get home. Father hasn't been well, and besides, someone has to take the dogs for their night-time walk." He pushed his chair back from the table, and took out his wallet. "But please, let me pay for my share. There are some shreds of pride left in the Malfoy family." Draco's ten pound note whispered down, but it might have been slammed for the start Narcissa gave and the flush in her cheeks.
He stalked out and headed not for her flat, but towards Charing Cross Road and the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn't more than fifteen minutes before he was walking up to the bar, scowling and being given a wide berth by the other patrons.
"A large firewhiskey and a shot of Floo Powder," he snapped at Tom, who looked up at the young man with surprise. The look on Draco's face precluded any comments, though, and he merely placed an empty glass in front of the wizard and proceeded to fill it. Beside it he placed a twist of paper filled with powder. Draco hesitated and pulled out his wallet.
"Short of wizarding money?" Tom queried, sliding the powder back towards himself.
"Hang on a moment" Draco muttered, then reached down the bottom of one pocket and pulled out a stray Galleon. "Forgot to have any exchanged this week."
"I can exchange if you're really caught."
"Yeah, at a 'special' rate. I'm not that desperate yet, Tom." Draco tossed off the drink then took the package. "Don't worry about the change."
He disappeared into the fireplace opposite, and Tom muttered to himself – Draco's generosity had been for a total of one Sickle.
Arriving at home, Draco was mobbed by the dogs whose appetites had not yet been dealt with; he had just finished avoiding their slobber as he fed them (Bawings Dry Food for Dogs. Guaranteed to give them that magic shine) when an owl sped through the window, dropped a letter in front of him and then took off as if the banshees were after it. Draco looked at the letter in surprise, then groaned as he realised it was from his mother.
I do apologise for not warning you about Heathcote in advance. Your behaviour, though, was extremely disappointing and verged on utterly rude. I assume you arrived home safely, but next time I expect at the least civility. I will see you tomorrow for coffee. Mother.
The least I could expect, he thought to himself. At least it wasn't a Howler. And, harnessing up the beasts, he headed out into the cool evening and endured being dragged around the boundaries of the property.
The years following the War had been one of gaiety and celebration, and it was painfully obvious that a large number of the survivors had taken this to be a licence to party, and party hard. And it was also very obvious that many of them had little or no concept of the idea of "style." Their outfits might be said to rival those worn by wizards attempting to blend in with the Muggles, and would have been considered outlandish even on the most avant-garde fashion model.
This, of course, was Lucius' bread and butter. Or at least it would be, once his first payment came through. The one condition he hadn't been able to negotiate was that all payments would be made at the end of the month, and he'd just missed the cut-off for the first one. As he wrote, visions of a few small luxuries floated in his mind and kept him inspired with invective. The first two columns went off with some trepidation, but were published in their entirety, and by the third he had attracted something of a fan base. Letters to the editor mentioned "Bernard Grey of Pewseyvale" as being "a refreshing change" and "the voice of reason." This inspired Lucius to greater heights, and his scathing review of the outfit worn by Ms Lavender Brown resulted in tears from the young lady and a series of Howlers from her admirers. Lucius found this rather tiresome, and when the third one had exploded and startled the sleeping dogs, he arranged for an owl redirection service to intercept all the mail sent to "Bernard Grey" and weed out the unwanted deliveries. His literary appetite was whetted by this interaction, though, and he raised the cynicism levels from "Uncomfortable" to "Blistering."
The mental activity had the added bonus of driving Lucius to more physical pursuits, and he started taking gentle strolls around the grounds, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. The colour had returned to his cheeks, and although he still limped a little, his grace and posture were close to their pre-war levels. His strength however still needed some work, as he discovered the first time he took the wolfhounds out for a walk around the perimeter of the estate. Within minutes the beasts had torn the leash from his hands, and had bounded in glee towards the ill-kept pond at the end of the property. It was probably a blessing that there were no visitors to the Malfoy estate these days, else half an hour later they would have seen the author of "Bernard's Wizarding Wardrobe" covered in a thick layer of noisome mud staggering towards the house, dragging behind him two very eager-looking sludge-covered dogs who were still trying to get back to the pond. Draco arrived home quite late that night to find the trail of muddy footprints along the hall, an incredibly grotty bathtub, two very soggy but clean dogs huddled miserably in front of the fire, and his father asleep face-first on the floor of the master bedroom clad only in a bathrobe.
The next morning, a Saturday, saw a very sore and sorry Master of the Manor at breakfast admiring a colourful bruise across his forearm that disfigured the faded Dark Mark into something unrecognisable. Draco winced at the deep scratch across the middle of the muscle.
"Whatever happened to you?"
"Draco, one of these days we really must drain the pond. And clear the blackberries. And bring back the old dog-walking device we used to have. I'm really not up to this yet."
A large and furry chin placed itself on Draco's knee. Draco absent-mindedly scritchled the dog's ears as he looked over his father's wounds.
"Dog-walking device?"
"Oh, your great-uncle invented one. We'd tried having the house-elves walk the dogs, but they weren't nearly strong enough to keep the beasts under control. So the device conjured the illusion of a sausage just in front of the dogs, and they would chase that instead. It would direct them around the property, and then bring them to the back door when they were tired. You don't remember it?"
Draco patted the dog at his side and looked thoughtful. "Was that a red leather harness? I think I tried to use it on Nymphadora once when she was showing off transforming."
Lucius laughed at this, and shook his head in deprecation at his offspring's activities. "That would be it. A shame, because your aunt Andromeda then destroyed it."
"But didn't you still have Dobby walking the dogs? I have a vague memory of him being dragged behind the Great Danes we had when I was young."
"Well, yes." Lucius smiled at the memory of the house-elf being dragged uncontrollably through several brambles and deep puddles as the dogs ran pell-mell after the illusionary sausage.
"But if you had the walking harness, why did you still need Dobby to hold them?"
Lucius looked puzzled, as if he didn't understand the question, and applied himself to his tea and toast. The other wolfhound sat obediently beside him, hoping for a dropped crust, and the hot breath on Lucius's thigh started to annoy him.
"Draco?"
"Hmmm?" Draco was holding a bacon rind and had glanced at the dog near him.
"Please don't feed the dogs at the table. Their discipline has slipped shockingly since your mother left, and I don't want to encourage them."
"Oh very well." Draco reached for the copy of the Prophet sitting nearby, but almost lost a finger as the snake-headed cane whacked down to claim it first. "This reminds me, mother has asked if I'll join her for lunch today. And I think I'll have a look around the West End too. I'll see you tonight for dinner."
Once more Lucius waved his son farewell from behind the pages of the Prophet. When the multi-coloured flames of the Floo had died down though, he looked a little furtively around and then tossed his remaining bacon to the dogs, who managed not to look too smug as they devoured it in a flash. Lucius wiped his fingers on his napkin and turned immediately to his Saturday column, where he had this week made extremely scathing comments about the pixie-cut now being worn by one of the better-known younger witches in the Ministry.
"Foolish girl," he muttered as he perused the rest of the photographs. "Next you'll be wearing chequered raincoats and pretending you're a model." He took note of the upcoming social functions, then settled back with undisguised pleasure to read the angry responses to his columns.