Chapter 15 - Essence, Part 3

January 26th 2004

Malfoy Manor, The Grounds

The shock of apparating directly to the grounds had been significant — and exactly what Lucius needed.

White. Silver. Pristine. Freezing air that burned his lungs as he took deep breaths.

The landscape was unsullied in the snow. Pure. The very definition of the word. He wondered, now, after the vileness of the dream, if his family, if he, had ever really understood its meaning.

The great Malfoy lineage. Dear God! The exhibits for the defence did not really stand up well. An eleventh century oaf with a broadsword; a power-crazed man with a slavish devotion to a creature that had once been his school-friend; and Lucius himself, who had thought himself so brilliant, and had ended up here, in the snow outside his family seat, with literally nothing to show for his plans for personal glory except a broken mind, a broken life and a trail of crimes.

Of course, there was Draco. Draco who wouldn't come near him. The son whom Lucius, even after his own experience of Voldemort, had groomed for the same fate.

His chest hurt. He felt as though the air he had taken in was trapped in his lungs, and he exhaled forcefully, hoping to expel with the breath the memories he had undergone in the library.

He started to walk. Pacing furiously up and down, eyes glued to the ground.

He couldn't see the Plumeria flowers from here, but he could almost feel them. Odd, because Narcissa had always insisted flowers could be perceived with all five senses, but until now Lucius had never had this facility. Now he could feel, hear, touch the colours, enough to see them in his mind, bright as though in their tropical home, despite the glacial winter afternoon. He had visited the plants every day, leaving the library when the urge took him, and performing small experiments. He noticed that if he visited in the morning, they almost hummed with energy as he approached; their leaves and blooms grew stronger, more limpid and luscious as he touched them with his hand. In the afternoon, the response was muted; a leaf would move here and there, a bud unfurl a bit, but nothing like in the morning. Perhaps in the afternoon he was more tired; perhaps more burdened with thoughts. He did not yet understand.

Hermione Granger cleared her throat.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Lucius had almost forgotten he had brought her out here with him; and perhaps he should not have. Certainly, he would not confide in her a second time; he had demeaned himself enough, and unfairly elicited compassion from her with his confession about Diagon Alley and the treatment he received there. But somehow, he had wanted, even needed her company.

She was sitting on a low wall, wrapped in a puffy Muggle jacket thing she had snatched up before she disapparated them both from the library, and flicking her wand from time to time to perform a warming spell.

"Are you all right, Mr Malfoy?" she asked.

Her nose looked slightly red; despite the jacket and the magic, she shivered noticeably; when she spoke, she even sounded cold.

Quite probably, they should go in again. But he did not want to. The small spaces in his house that had held so much appeal, the promise of retreat, at this moment, repelled him. Now he only wanted to be outside, here where he could breathe, away from family poison brewed over centuries. And, strangely, he was not really cold; he could feel it, but it did not permeate him. He had been cold, literally, for years; could not get warm; yet in the past week, the sensation had left him, replaced by warmth. Even now.

He moved closer to her, and sat down at a polite distance on the wall, brushing snow away.

"I am . . ." he began, but could not complete the statement. He was not all right, and yet he was, as long as he remained out here, with her. There was no clear answer. Instead, he said, "Thank you for coming out here. For bringing me." Her willingness to apparate with him had been generous and necessary. He had not trusted himself to walk past the portraits without breaking down, or trying to tear his father's image out of the frame.

He had been taught, he had believed, that magic and wizardry were a privilege only to be afforded to those who were fit to bear them; whose bloodlines prepared them for the burden of power and responsibility. That the ends justified the means. That the pure-blood cause had been almost sacred. Over and over again, Muggles proved themselves to be as pernicious as dangerous animals — the annals in the library testified to this. Even in ruins, he had not wavered in these principles; but now uncertainty was creeping in.

Because what had his bloodline prepared him for? To be a kiling machine and, once seniority allowed him to delegate, the pursuit of personal gain under the guise of politics? And how credulous, how self-deluded did you have to be to buy into the aristocrat's self-serving propaganda that power was a burden? It was fucking glorious! At least, he had thought so for the greater part of his life.

With his mind haunted by the past, by Abraxas, Draco, and wanting to make some kind of conversation with Hermione Granger, curiosity led him to ask, "Your family . . . " No, he wanted a more specific answer. "Your father . . ."

She looked him with wide, alarmed eyes. Of course, she would be confused at such an overture. She shivered again. He felt in his robes; he thought he might have left a hip flask there, and found he had. He pulled it out, handed it to her; she accepted, unscrewed the lid, drank and handed it back. Lucius did not drink; just put the flask away again.

"Do you have a cordial relationship with him?" he continued.

She became very still, looked down, and breathed in through her nose as though bracing herself. "I . . ." she said, and looked at him again. "I adored my father."

"Really?" Lucius mused; it was a foreign concept. He had not in any way adored Abaraxas; certainly, he had given Draco no real reason to adore him — although, perhaps, in retrospect, Draco had done so, until he no longer could bring himself to. Seeking to understand her and her feelings, he asked, "What did he do to make you adore him?"

At first, she gave him a very sharp look. She seemed poised to speak some insult. But her shoulders relaxed and when she spoke it was soft, although pointed. "You've seen my father, actually," she said.

Lucius could not remember the encounter. "I have?"

"Yes," she went on. "In Flourish and Blotts, when I was twelve. You saw my father and my mother, and you said," she swallowed, "'Muggles, aren't they?'" She paused and gave a weak smile. "And then you had a completely ridiculous fight with Mr Weasley."

"Ah . . ." Arther Weasley in Flourish and Blotts, years ago. When Lucius was supremely powerful, but increasingly suspecting that this would not necessarily last. "Not my finest hour, perhaps," he said. Although since then, he had had many very much more shameful. He almost followed up with a customary, Forgive me. But the formality was too little, too perfunctory and too late. An incohate feeling arose within him, more sensation than words or formed thought, that if he asked this woman's forgiveness every hour, on the hour for the rest of his life, it would still be insufficient.

Especially because she had now joined him in the ridiculous mess that was the remains of his life; sitting on a wall in the snow to keep him company. He had not met many pure-bloods who would be half so kind and noble.

"Why did I adore my father?" she continued, deliberating as she spoke. "Because he loved me, I suppose. He just . . . loved me, and because of that, he did all kinds of things that showed his love. I mean . . . he pushed me to be my best, he believed in me, but he was never demanding, just encouraging. In a way that made me know for myself that I could do it."

"And, as an adult, you still have this relationship?" Lucius asked, fascinated and uncomprehending.

There was an intense pause, uncomfortable, too long, broken finaly when she said, thickly, "No," as though torn between anger and sorrow.

What could possibly have gone wrong? "Do you mind if I ask why not?"

She stared straight ahead, motionless, trying, Lucius thought, not to cry. Then she turned her head to look sideways at him and gave a slight, rather defeated shrug. "Well, you know . . . the war . . . and after that, we couldn't really connect anymore."

Hermione wondered whether Kingsley would give her, right now, the highest possible accolade for her diplomatic skills. Her feet were well and truly wet — no, make that soaked! Thank God Lucius Malfoy had primed her with alcohol before he asked the question. Because, Why aren't you still close with your father? Well, Mr Malfoy, because I had to obliviate him along with my mother and send them to live a completely new life in Australia, as completely different people who have no memory of me. And I did so you wouldn't kill them, or kidnap them, or torture them to get at me!

Because that was the truth. Plain and simple. Instead, she had waffled on about the war. Why? To protect his feelings! What the hell was wrong with her?

Really? What did he do to make you adore him?

So inappropriate, so obtuse. And so absolutely understandable. Because only twenty minutes ago, she had seen Lucius' father basically sacrifice him to Voldemort. What could Lucius possibly know about loving his father, except in the most twisted and self-defeating way?

And then, something else, discovered for the first time in the crucible of having to describe it all to Lucius Malfoy, nagged at her mind. She had adored her father, she had adored her mother, and they had both loved her as well as any parents could. But ever since she learned she was a witch, things had gradually changed between them. The knowledge that she could deal with reality in different and — shit, the word insisted on coming into her mind; and with Lucius bloody Malfoy sitting next to her — superior ways, and it gradually drove a rift between them, although they had all tried to pretend it wasn't there.

However, now was not the time. It was too painful, and she had a more immediate issue to deal with. She was sure that she had just seen Lucius Malfoy's memories. She was also almost certain that he had simultaneously experienced the same dream. But he didn't seem to have any idea that she had been there with him, and she didn't know how to broach the subject.

They kept getting thrown together by circumstances into supercharged intimacy based on absolutely nothing. If it were her dreams and he had entered them, even unintentionally, she knew she would feel violated. Since the memories themselves were of a kind of violation, she did not want to heap any more upon it, make him feel more cornered than he probably already did. His hurry to leave the library, as though he felt trapped; his inability to look at her; the apparent afterthought to have her company; his pacing up and down in the snow until just now when she caught his attention, all spoke volumes without words. He hadn't even brought warm clothes with him. Just normal robes. He couldn't even perform a warming charm.

"Mr Malfoy," she said, trying to make a connection again. After her last remark about the war, he had fallen silent. "Aren't you cold?"

"Hmm?" He looked at her, distracted, then down at himself. "No," he said. "Not really. I was — " He broke off, capturing a memory. "Narcissa held her father in high esteem," he said. "One might even say she loved him, and perhaps he her. He certainly indulged her. With a personal elf. And with —"

He had been about to say with me. It sounded preposterous now, but Narcissa had angled for their betrothal, had wanted Lucius passionately, and her father had been instrumental in arranging it. Ironic, in the end then, that all she had wanted was divorce. Perhaps Cygnus should have exercised more discretion in choosing a hubsand for her.

Actually, now that Miss Granger asked, he realised was a little cold. He looked at her trousers, boots, the puffy jacket, remembered the soft sweater that it now covered, and remembered that she had proposed a shopping trip.

A considerate but quite ridiculous suggestion. But —

It would be an incomparable way to escape, for a few hours, from memories, from reality. Even better than sitting outside in the grounds.

"My robes are intended for indoors," he said. "Your clothes . . ." He hoped she would guess his meaning; he did not want to make a direct request.

She raised an eyebrow. "You want to go Muggle shopping?" she said. She looked as though she was trying not to laugh, and not to disapprove at the same time. "Well, I made the offer, didn't I? Why don't we go tomorrow?"

"No!" Lucius said, his voice unnecessarily loud even to himself; Miss Granger actually jumped. "Now!'

He just wanted to get away.

She withdrew a hand from where it lay submerged in material and consulted the watch on her wrist. "It's after three o'clock. It'll be dark soon," she said. "We're going to Muggle London, not Knockturn Alley."

Now he had fixed on the idea, Lucius would not be put off. Anyway, whatever did she anticipate would take so long? Even he knew that Muggle shops stayed open late into the evening. Naturally, they wanted to maximise their chance of making money. Narcissa had often enjoyed evening shopping trips. "Were you intending to go by train? Apparition will be quicker than the branch line from Bradford-on-Avon, I assure you."

He experimented with a tentative smirk; she was unamused.

"It's really not a good idea to apparate into the middle of the rush hour," she said. "I mean, it's possible, but shopping isn't really a good reason to take the risk." Her voice had taken on a scolding tone; grating but at the same time rather alluring. "And then there's the fact that, since I have to keep apparating both of us, and it's a long distance, I can't really be sure of how subtle my magic is going to be. We might be very conspicuous, and that's —"

"The Savoy," Lucius broke in quietly, suddenly conscious that expedience must force him to expose a detail of his life he would prefer she didn't know.

"The Savoy?"

"There's a concealment charm behind the hotel. One can apparate there very discreetly, and walk through the vestibule like a Muggle. From there, we can take a car to Harrods."

As he predicted, her mouth fell open. "The . . . a . . . Harrods?!" she said.

"Narcissa," he muttered, hoping to get through this with a minimum of explanation, "enjoyed Muggle shopping. You have seen the wreckage of one of her purchases draped over the elf." He paused to gauge her reaction, before adding, "She preferred Harrods."

He willed her not to ask anything else. Not about shopping, or Muggle investments, bank accounts, political connections. He just wanted to get out; he was becoming desperate now; and he was not ready to justify what he had once called sensible pragmatism, but knew she would see as outrageous hypocrisy.

Thankfully, although her expession easily revealed the furious working of her brain, she did not ask questions. Instead, after digesting his words, she said, "Well, you can't go like that, though," and pointed to his robes. "Don't you have anything more . . . Muggle-ish?"

"I do not," he said sternly. In fact, he did; several Muggle-like suits fashioned by his tailor, for different purposes, business and formal wear. They were in his dressing room; he did not want to visit his chambers; and he did not want to admit the existence of the suits to her. "Isn't that why we're embarking on this outing in the first place?"

She opened her mouth again, to begin some new objection, but the logic defeated her. "Well," she conceded. "I suppose we can say you're an actor. You just rushed out of rehearsals to get clothes and didn't have time to change out of your costume." She shrugged. "If anyone asks." Then her brow furrowed. "What about money? Do you even have Muggle —"

"I have adequate funds," he said. "Apparate me to the library, please."

She looked rather confused and put-out, but did as she was was asked. Lucius went to a small writing desk, opened a drawer, and then reached inside for the concealed compartment. Magic had not been necessary for this, just discretion. He took out the rich purple-colored Coutts World Card that belonged to him, but had been used mainly by Narcissa — fortunately, as this meant it was up to date.

His mother's cookery book lay on an adjacent table. He had brought it with him that morning by some instinct for closeness. Now he let his hand stray towards it and touched the cover, lingering. He felt warmth first in his fingers and then spreading through his hand, his arm. Magic — but how? Or sentiment? Perhaps he had adored his mother?

With reluctance, he removed his hand from the book cover, consciously covering any reaction. Pretend to be an actor, Hermione Granger had suggested. Quite apposite. One way or another, he had been dissembling most of his life — he was doing it now. And yet again, the day had turned into a drama, from tragedy to the absurd and frivolous — another act in the tragicomedy. Perhaps she did not appreciate all the layers of the irony, but she really was most inventive.

"Shall we?" he said, putting the charge card away inside his robes, and Hermione Granger grasped his upper arm, and prepared herself for the long-distance disapparition.