Moonflower and Old Man
Heavy cloaks formed blinders on the Malfoys. Narcissa looked directly ahead as they traversed the bustling cobbles of Diagon Alley. When there was even a hint of eye contact, her eyes cast downward, clocking the progress of her clicking heels. Her son kept pace beside her, hands occasionally holding to the edges of his hood.
They past busier witches and wizards in relative safety. Anonymous and hidden beneath their yards of wool and satin. At one point an overlarge wizard carrying several overlarge parcels bumped Narcissa quite violently, nearly toppling her onto rain-wet stone. Draco was quick to balance her, catching her by the elbow and sweeping her protectively into his own billow. And though his face showed his frustration, he dared not lash out at the oblivious stranger.
These Malfoys - once haughty - were cowed. Afraid to show their faces and ashamed to carry their burdensome name. And they were afraid of something more now: Fate. The inhuman and inhumane omnipotence that guaranteed them no security now. No safety. No certainty.
Narcissa had not mentioned to Draco the true possible depth of their approaching debt. Even she was unsure but knew in her coldened, hardened heart that news today would not be good. She'd spent days signing documents demanding moneys with barely a glance. Fingers numb around elegant quills.
She'd lain awake in lapsed linen luxuries worried that she would be selling the bed she slept in to fund their next breakfast. Worried her son would be sent ditch digging in desperation. She worried that the very roof over her head would be too costly to keep. That the home she loved passionately would be lost. She clutched her pillow and cried with quiet violence.
Now, dashing through the streets she feared she should accustom herself to these elements. When Draco took hold of her hand to lead her past a precarious posse of chattering Hufflepuffs, her heart fell into her stomach. He hardly deserved further punishment. Hell…neither did she.
Even inside Gringott's hallowed hall, they remained ensconced in their attire. Narcissa would forever cringe in the faces of goblins. She could feel their resentment for the woman who watched their slaughter in her home. And she didn't blame them. Fortunately today the rows of pinched faced folk worked on as she passed them with complete disregard for passing clientele.
At the security desk she was on high alert. Even Draco was tense; at the sound of a dropped galleon, he jolted. She placed a soothing hand on his thigh. It quivered like a thoroughbred's.
They handed over their wands without a word exchanged. The goblin who checked the instruments was thin and sharp, his skeletal face threatening to break skin. When he recognised the magical signatures, he gleaming black eyes hardened. "Appointment," he sneered. Reluctantly, he passed the wands back to them and snapped a frightful finger. "Through there."
Behind him, two impossibly tall doors shimmered into being and swung open with a bang. Curt nods and the Malfoys stepped through.
Only in the relative safety of their solicitor's office did the Malfoys remotely relax. Draco took his mother's cloak and hung it alongside his own on the accomodating coat rack. It clicked back to its place by the doors. Narcissa briskly cast a drying charm on her fine felt heels and stockinged calves. Draco turned, letting her cast the same charm on him. Her magic was a quick familiarity.
They straightened when another door opened, this one smaller and behind an elaborate desk. Their solicitor had entered.
He was not a goblin. Not all employed at Gringott's were goblins, after all. In fact, Solicitor Sansborough (which may have indeed been his given name) was a seemingly ancient wizard with something of an absent-minded air about him. Always.
Narcissa remembered being surprised how the old fellow functioned the first times she'd encountered him, but had been rightfully shown up. He was sharp, smart, quick and unforgiving. A Slytherin through and through.
Now, he cleared his throat and adjusted spectacles on the end of a pointed nose. "Malfoy." He opened a leather folder, unfazed when several sheets of its contents fluttered to the floor. "Ah, yes." He produced a willow wand and with a few flicks, summoned chairs for his clients and gathered his dropped parchment. "Sit."
They sat. Draco took in the solicitor with a bemused brow. Narcissa imagined he was thinking the same things she'd once thought of the antiqued wizard.
"Tea?" Without waiting for a response, another willow flick summoned a steaming silver service on a skittering spidery tray. It settled between them followed by a sailing procession of dainty cups and saucers. "Good. Good." He e sat in his own high-backed chair, unaware that there was a bit of a shoving war playing out betwixt the sugar bowl and creamer. "Much to review," he muttered. His fly-away white hair seemed to shift with its own life and finally he noticed the tumult on the tea tray.
"Here, here, here!" Sansborough blustered. He tapped his wand on his desk for attention. "Enough of that, creamy thing! You ornery bully…" The service settled again and Narcissa calmly prepared a cuppa, handed it to her son who was smirking at the disobedient dinnerware. "Lovely to see you again, Narcissa."
She smiled at him. "You, too, sir."
"Wish the circumstances were better." He peered over tiny wire frames at Draco. "I suppose this is the boy, then. All grown up. Man now. Mph. Good to meet you, Mr. Malfoy. May I call you Draco? Good. Good."
Draco was settling into the old wizard's obvious eccentricities. He liked his brusque manner and the warm, woody smell of his comfortable office. The dread he'd felt all morning began to melt away with the tea he drank. And once he saw his mother's ankles cross primly - a gesture guaranteeing her quietude - he knew all would be well.
"Much activity here from the Wizengamot and various...victims. Families of victims." Sansborough scanned documents. "Reparations. Defense fees. Fines. Reclamations. Settlements…" He huffed. "Quite a bit of debt, I'm afraid."
Narcissa licked her lips. Her skirt, slick sateen, sussed when she shifted. "Yes, I know."
"Shall I enumerate?"
"No, please." She shook her head. "Just...tell me what we shall do. What we have lost."
"Hm. Of course." He flipped pages. "Let's see. Yes. Rather a few properties were garnished. Greece." She frowned. "Paris." She winced. "The chateau in Luxembourg." Here, she visibly paled. Draco patted her hand curling over the wingback's arm. "The London townhouse."
"London townhouse?" She interrupted.
"Ah...yes." A look passed between solicitor and widow. Widow nostrils flared. Draco looked from one to the other, confused.
"I see." Her hand curled more tightly beneath his. She sniffed. "Do go on."
Sympathy flitted over wizened wizard features, but also understanding. He spared the witch further humiliation. "There is also the matter of several different Gringott's accounts garnished. Entire vaults, I'm afraid. Shall I name the benefiting parties?"
"No!" She snapped, then regained composure. "No, that shan't be necessary."
Draco could sense his mother's mounting unhappiness. Uncertainly, but respectfully, he spoke. "Sir. Is there any way you could just tell us…" He fussed for words. "Well, I suppose you could just tell us if we have anything left?"
Narcissa looked to her lap, quietly grateful for Draco's more direct approach. And Sansborough seemed to appreciate it, as well. "I can, I can, young man. Much easier in fact. Good thinking." He flipped pages. Cleared his throat. "Yes, yes. Let's see. The Wiltshire manor, estate and all therein remains in your possession, sir, per stipulation of inheritance." The Malfoys sighed in unified relief. "A combined account containing Black Family monies and possessions." He read a bit further, murmuring quietly to himself. "And yes here there's some odd instruction...let's see… Ah. Apparently there is another vault to be emptied post haste. Possessions therein shall be yours as well."
Blinks. "Is that it?" Draco asked.
Sansborough closed the portfolio. "I'm afraid so."
There was silence. The solicitor let his clients absorb their fates. "I can tell you the amount left will sustain you both for some time."
"Some time?" Narcissa asked. Ever pragmatic.
"For a year, quite comfortably." He removed his spectacles. They hovered before him as a charmed kerchief polished the lenses. "For two years, less comfortably. And even years beyond that -" The spectacles settled again on his nose "- given your level of frugality."
"Frugality," Draco repeated.
"Your advice?" Narcissa asked.
The solicitor smiled kindly. "I recommend you find some method of generating income."
"I see." Narcissa chewed at her lip. "Of course." She sighed, standing. "Is there anything else, solicitor?" At his head shake, she tried a smile. "Well, then. We shall see to emptying this mysterious vault forthwith. And...I may contact you again regarding… income generation."
Sansborough passed Narcissa a roll of parchment tied with formal black ribbon. "I am at your disposal ever, Narcissa." His dark, hooded eyes were unsettlingly sincere. "I do wish you well, my dear. You were always a most patient and...fine witch." His attentions shifted to Draco. He offered a stiff hand. Draco shook it. "Mr. Malfoy. I wish you luck, as well. Better luck than your father had." He glanced between mother and son. "I imagine the two of you will manage quite well, however, without him."
The goblin who saw them to the vault in question was as impatient as Narcissa had anticipated. But the vault was far from her expectations. Unlike the elegantly decorated Malfoy and Black vaults she was accustomed to, this one was simple. A slab of metal for a door slid noisily upward at the goblin's gnarly gesture. "A storage unit," he muttered. "Needs clearing out."
The Malfoys peered into blackness. Draco was first to draw his wand. The new rowan wood glowed brightly with his Lumos, and he was the first to bravely step inside. "Bloody hell," he whispered.
"What?" Cissa pressed to his back, peered around his slender form. She half dreaded what she might see. But… "Oh." Not disappointed, more nonplussed.
Piles of magically balanced flasks. Various sizes. Glimmering glass. Cauldrons. Some shimmery silver, others muted cast iron, porcelain or a rusted metals. Coils of copper sprouting like mad hair from the rubble. Stacks of books in various states. Boxes upon boxes of who knew what and most curiously the vials.
The vials were sized as slapdashedly as all else. Labeled carefully in different hands. Stoppered with cork, wax or screwed on lids. Shelving units full of vials, vials, vials. Agape, Narcissa drew her own wand, scanned a few shelves as her son did the same.
"Potions equipment?" Draco asked. "What the devil will we do with this mess?"
Lily. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Vetiver. Nutmeg. Vervain. Myrrh. Tuberose. Bergamot. Cypres. Cedar. Fir. Dill. Fennel. Orange blossom. Lemon. White tea. Narcissa plucked a vial labeled Moonflower and worked free the cork. She'd not moved it to her nose at all but froze just the same as some essence enveloped her. Her eyes closed as if the dark was too bright and she saw vermillion tendrils balleting against a starry backdrop. Tightly fisted spring buds popped open and a shocking silver white blossom engulfed her…
"...suppose we could donate it to Hogwarts," Draco was saying.
"No." The word was unbidden. As if she hadn't expected it to emerge. But it was firm on her lips and in her mind. Suddenly sensate, she replugged the vial.
Draco approached her and his light enveloped. Her spell had died, it seemed. "What?" He was confused.
Narcissa was not. She turned on her heel to the goblin pacing just outside. "I shall send the elf to collect it." She looked at Draco, his face screwed up by wonder. "The cellars," she told him. "I'd like it stored there for now." She tucked the vial she held into a deep pocket.
He didn't question her wishes. "Yes, mother." She was already leaving the claustrophobic confines, cloak swishing like water in his still strong Lumos. He gave the mess one more disparaging glance, then followed her.
AN: Sansborough is an homage to two of my favorite figures: Disney's delightful Merlin in The Sword in the Stone, and English actor Peter O'Toole. Rest in peace, Mr. O'Toole - though you're never dead to me.