The snore of a dog woke Lucius from what was supposed to be a short afternoon sleep. Outside, it was definitely dusk. The sleepy-headed wizard leapt from the bed and startled both the hounds, who were sprawled across the bed enjoying the warmth of the room and the chance to sneak onto forbidden territory. The clock in the main room struck six, and he realised he had about an hour to get dressed and arrive at the function, which was to be the launch of a new talent in the Wizarding Art World. Lucius used more completely inappropriate terms, and was dressed, charmed and through to the Leaky Cauldron floo before he remembered the Portkey.
"No great worry," he mused. "I used to know my way around, and it shouldn't take too long." With great confidence he strode out into the London street.
Ten minutes later he was re-thinking his strategy. As far as he could remember, the gallery was close to South Kensington station, and it wasn't far to walk from the Leaky Cauldron to Leicester Square. It was the noise and the steepness of the escalator, and then remembering how to use the system that were so baffling. Luckily, his disguise meant that a passer-by took pity on him.
"New to London, luv?"
Lucius paused, and his young female helper took this as the confusion of an elderly gentleman overwhelmed by the technology.
"Here you are – just choose your ticket. Got some cash?" She pointed to the coin slot on the ticket machine, and he pulled out his money-purse. "Where are you going?"
"South Kensington, I believe."
She pressed the appropriate buttons, he fed in the coins, and next thing she had taken his arm and was helping him to the barriers. The train came in as they arrived on the platform, and she elbowed her way through the commuters, pulling Lucius behind her. The carriage was warm and full, but his unasked-for assistant was in her element, and strode up to a torn-denim-clad youth who was humming to himself as he listened to his CD player. With excellent aim, she kicked the lad's shin just where the leather on his Doc Martin boots was the thickest, and stood over him as he spluttered with indignation.
"Whaddaya want, you bitch?"
"None of that talk, you long-haired git. Get yourself up and give your seat to this old gentleman. He needs it more than you."
Lucius would have demurred, but she wasn't having any rubbish. The lad was ejected from the seat, and she helped Lucius into it with the care one associates with things precious and fragile.
"You'll be right now, love. I'm getting off at Hyde Park Corner, but you'll want two stops after that." She turned to the rest of the occupants. "Anyone here getting off at South Kensington can help this gentleman?"
A black man in a smart suit squeezed through the crowd. "I'm getting off there – I'll look after you." He smiled at Lucius, who was feeling quite exhausted by the day's activity and the unexpected exertions. Dammit, he thought. I must get my strength back. His first rescuer waved cheerily as she headed out at her station, and his subsequent assistant smiled and waved back. He then turned back to Lucius.
"Hi – I'm Eric. You're not used to the Tube?"
"I don't come to London very often" Lucius felt every year of the age he looked. "But it's a special function."
"Night out? I'm off to a do in Pelham place. Where are you going?"
"It's a gallery on Fulham Road. Near Sydney Close."
"Oh, very swish! I used to work near there – I'm in advertising." Eric smiled, and thought for a moment. "Shouldn't take you more than ten minutes to walk that, even if you do take it slowly. And here's our stop!"
Lucius submitted to be assisted out of the train and to the escalators. At the Pelham Street exit, his helper walked him across the road, and then looked at him with concern.
"Do you know your way from here?"
Lucius performed a silent "whichway" charm and noted the flash of light down Onslow Square. "I'll be fine, thank you. And you go and enjoy your party."
"And you yours." With a smile and a wave, Eric headed off, still slightly worried about leaving the nice old man to make his own way.
Lucius took it slowly, and also took the time to observe the people passing. It was a mild summer's evening, and the streetlights were quite bright. Passers-by took little notice of the elderly gentleman making his way down the road, and he found great amusement in seeing the occasional specimen as badly dressed as the subjects of his tirades. Torn trousers seemed to be in vogue, as were swirly shirts, high clomping boots and split skirts. The one thing he did enjoy, though, was the re-emergence of corsets on the occasional black-clad female, usually teamed with black hair and unusual piercings.
"No wonder young Nymphadora attracted no attention" he muttered to himself as he turned into the address. A crowd of well-dressed people were milling around on the balconies, and as he entered the doorway he was not surprised to be asked his name.
"Bernard Grey. Pewseyvale. I'm writing for the Prophet," he informed the smartly-dressed young lady with the clipboard. She looked down at the list, then up at him and smiled broadly.
"You're especially welcome, Mr Grey. I'm Miranda Russell. Our artist is looking forward to your opinions. I have special instructions to take you to Theodore Murray, the sponsor of the evening, if you will allow me?" She handed her clipboard to a companion, took Lucius's arm and guided him inside.
Miranda gently led Lucius up the wide marble stairs and into a large reception room, filled with people beautifully dressed and circulating while holding champagne flutes. Lucius recognised quite a few faces from the wizarding world, and wasn't surprised when a door at the side opened and he caught the telltale blue swirl of a Portkey's glow as another person arrived.
"Some of our guests are making use of the other entrance at the back. Although I'm surprised how many of them find it more convenient." Miranda gestured towards the door. From the curiosity on the faces of the latest arrivals (and the lack of distaste) he gathered his disguise was working, and he suppressed the urge to smirk. She led him up to the centre of the room, where a portly Muggle in a Saville Row suit stood with a tall young man with shoulder-length dark hair and dressed in a Bohemian style.
"Mr Grey, may I introduce to you Mr Theodore Murray, the sponsor of this evening's function and of the artist, and Heathcote Barbary whose art we are showing? Mr Murray, Mr Barbary, this is Bernard Grey from the Daily Prophet." Her training gave her the ability to accept all the strange people who had turned up at the Gallery who were from places and publications she had never heard of, but truth to tell, she'd had worse. At least it wasn't as outlandish as the launch of "Spice World."
Theodore Murray, who looked as if he would be far more at home in a horsehair wig, looked over the critic of whom he had been warned. While he wasn't familiar with the Daily Prophet, he realised that there were other publications outside the Daily Telegraph and "Waterlog – The World's Finest Angling magazine". He did know however that keeping the critics happy was a major part of being a sponsor. The head of a prestigious Chambers, he had decided some years before to extend his financial dealings into entrepreneurial excursions in the art world. He'd had some success with Antonia Firebrace, a portrait painter who rendered people as vegetables, and had gladly accepted the recommendation of a friend in Westminster to try Barbary. He had also taken seriously his friend's warning that Barbary was "not our usual artistic type – from quite a different sort of people", and assumed this meant either a member of the Mafia or a Gypsy of some sort. This meant that he was pleasantly surprised when the "other sort" that turned up were well-dressed, well-behaved and seemed to have quite a lot of money. Probably Mafia. He could live with that.
"Mr Grey – it's an honour." Murray shook Lucius's hand. "Barbary, Mr Grey is quite influential, I believe." Miranda quietly withdrew.
"Oh, I know." Barbary shook Lucius's hand without a flicker of recognition. "I've read your column, and consider myself lucky that I haven't been a target of yours."
"Then you will have to show me your work. I am capable of saying complimentary things, but only when the subject deserves it."
"And you had better be able to prove it too, Mr Grey, or my staff will be acting on Barbary's behalf for any libel suits." Murray held his lapels as if he was giving evidence in court, and the three laughed politely.
"Then do tell me what you think." Barbary waved his hand towards his work, and Lucius noted the brooding renditions of Hogwarts, the dark paintings of mountains, and a rather well executed pen-and-ink drawing of Kings Cross Station.
They were talking quietly about the changes that had been mooted in the Kings Cross layout with the privatisation of the Muggle railways, when a rustle of silk beside them made Lucius start.
"And who is this?" said a sweet voice he hadn't heard in months.
"Dearest, let me introduce you to Bernard Grey from the Daily Prophet." Barbary put his arm around the beautiful and elegantly-dressed woman beside him, and brought her around to face Lucius. He struggled to keep his face straight as he looked into the eyes of his ex-wife, who searched the face in front of her.
"I feel as if we've met before. You seem so … I should know you."
Lucius coughed, realising that she would recognise his voice immediately. Mr Murray started, and turned immediately to the crowd.
"A drink! Quickly! Mr Grey needs a drink! Where is that worthless clerk of mine?" He pushed through a knot of people who had loitered near to hear what the famous critic had to say, and grabbed the dark-clad sleeve of a young man bearing a tray of glasses.
The tray and the bearer were quickly brought in front to Lucius, who took a glass and drank deeply. Then, as he lowered the glass, his eyes met those of the tray-bearer – as familiar to him as his own. His own start, though, passed unnoticed with the exclamation that came from beside him.
"Draco!"
"Mother!" Draco held the tray so tightly that it rattled, the glasses in dire danger of tipping over.
"But... what?"
"Malone? What is the meaning of this?" thundered Murray. "This woman is your mother? I thought you said your parents were dead!"
Draco looked at his employer in terror. Narcissa looked at Draco with shock, the facts starting to fall into place.
"A lawyer? You're working for a Muggle lawyer?"
Draco looked from his employer to his mother, then in desperation to the man he had brought a drink to. He was about to make some sort of appeal, anything, when he recognised the cane the critic was leaning on.
"Father?"
"LUCIUS?" Narcissa looked at the suit, the cane, the face and the hair.
Many Muggle comedies have had moments like these as their denouement, but the drawing room comedy needed only one further addition to render it into a farce. As Lucius stood there, the facts of Muggle money in his son's room and his son's sudden knowledge of accounting matters coming together, he became aware of a disturbance in a room to the side.
A large disturbance.
A noisy, fluffy pair of four-footed disturbances.
Approximately thirty seconds before, just as Lucius had taken his glass, his earlier purchase of bacon had been discovered. Unfortunately, the bag that held the bacon had also held the Portkey to the event. The wolfhounds, always hungry, disdaining the Bawings Dry Food that had been left for them, had reached the bacon and were fighting over it. Both touched the Portkey at once.
They now found themselves in an unfamiliar small room, with strange smells and NO BACON! So they'd started heading for the whiff of familiar smell they could detect outside the room.
Within seconds, they had barged through the door and into the large room. Tongues slobbering, they bounded past the other guests, throwing themselves at Draco and Lucius. After all, the older Master still smelled the same, even if he did look different. One hound knocked the tray from Draco's hands, and its contents splashed over Theodore Murray, Heathcote Barbary and a number of the other guests. The other, remembering the Mistress (although forgetting her strict disciplinary methods) reared up and placed its large (and slightly muddy) paws on her dress, licking her face in thrilled remembrance.
The room was in uproar. Wait staff were trying to clean Murray's coat, and sweep up the glass before anyone could step in it. Taking fast advantage of the chaos and praying there weren't any other reporters from the Prophet present, Lucius grabbed his son, his dogs and his wife, and dragged them back into the side room. He slammed the door, checked that the exit to the side alley was also closed, then Apparated the group as quickly as he could.
The moment the dogs hit the rug beside the fireplace, they wrenched themselves from Lucius's grasp and barged off to the kitchen and the neglected bacon. Lucius himself staggered over to his chair, and slipped the charms off his face and hair. Draco grabbed the mantelpiece for support, and Narcissa collapsed onto the rug. There was a pause, then Draco started laughing, and Narcissa followed. Once the foolishness of the situation hit him, Lucius joined in, and it took several minutes before they could speak again.
"I suppose you've been going to work for that Muggle all these weeks?" Narcissa asked. "Drinking my coffee and letting me think you were working for a Potions company?"
"I'm not sorry, mother." Draco brushed a little dog hair off his jacket, and then turned to her with a resolute face. "We needed some money, and there are far worse jobs to be had. And at least I wasn't writing for the Prophet!" He turned to face his father, who had the stubborn Lucius look fixed on his face.
"And what is so wrong with that? You seemed to like it when you read it out to me." He set the end of his cane on the floor in front of him, and rested his hands on top of it. "And it's not like I've been amusing myself with a man young enough to be my son."
"I was furthering his career," blushed Narcissa. "And I do believe I'm the one person in this who at least has been honest enough to be who I am, and not some aging roué or earnest young Muggle." She pushed herself to her feet, and tried to clean the pawprints off her bodice. "I really should be going. But I have two things to say."
The two men looked at her, each bracing for the worst, although neither of them sure what the worst could be.
"Lucius, I think your writing is brilliant. I don't know why you didn't start it long ago, and I shan't be giving away your identity. I shall even have a quiet word to Barbary. As long as you are fair in your assessment of his work, he'll not unmask you. I'm not asking for glowing falsehoods, but acknowledge that the man has some talent."
Lucius searched for something to say, but Narcissa went on.
"Draco, I am very proud of you. You've knuckled down and taken on a job that I don't think you're enjoying, and you've managed so well. I can forgive you for working for a Muggle, although I'll have to think very hard whether a lawyer is at all respectable. But you've grown up, and I can tell you're my son. Will I see you for dinner on Monday?"
Draco nodded, and Lucius rose to his feet and bowed to his ex-wife.
"Narcissa, my dear, I don't think I've ever seen you looking lovelier or more self-assured than you were just then. And thank you for your words – I know you were being candid. I shall do as you ask." He held out his hand, she placed hers in his, and he kissed her fingers. "You always were magnificent. Perhaps we could renew the acquaintance?"
"Perhaps," she countered. He escorted her to the fireplace, where she kissed Draco and then Lucius on the cheek. "Perhaps you could both come to breakfast on Monday. I'll expect you at eight."
She took a handful of Floo powder and headed off in a flare of green flames. The dogs came through from the kitchen at the sound, and looked hopefully at the two wizards.
"Draco?"
"Go to bed, Father. I will walk these ungrateful creatures, and we should talk in the morning."
"Perhaps."
Lucius looked at his son, hesitated, then patted his shoulder. The pat became a hug. The two men stood there before the fire, holding each other, until a soggy cold nose insinuated itself between them.
"In the morning then, Draco."
And Lucius turned towards his room, and Draco headed out into a cool and damp evening, dragged behind two full and frisky wolfhounds.