Percy Dumbledore was on his way to meet Kendra Trelawney.
Back before his world was shattered (hers even more so, to be fair) he'd often talked to her, the much younger sister of Selene Trelawney. She didn't detect the future and hidden things like her sister ... like her sister had. That said, she was very intuitive. And Percy knew that she could be relied on to give him his cue one way or the other.
Kendra lived in the tiny family home of the Trelawneys. They were in a Muggle area, and blended in. They lit only with whale-oil lamps in their rooms and limelight - quite a luxury in contrast - in the dining room. Not every day, but there had been informal conferences there, and it was as much a meeting room as a dining room.
Where Selene had been light, Kendra was dark. Selene was gregarious and Kendra was quiet. Being around Kendra had taught Percy to pick up on body language and subtle shifts in expression.
When he used the knocker, she was already at the door. Her expression struck him as ... well, resigned. If she knew what he was about, that should have wounded his pride. Instead, it simply reinforced his feeling that few to no others besides Kendra would be able to understand his lingering, persistent sorrow. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt healthy, energetic, optimistic. Or, don't lie to yourself, man! he could remember quite well. He corralled his meandering thoughts and went inside.
It wasn't uncommon for wizards and witches to blend in with Muggles. There had been an explosion of Muggle inventions in the British Empire, and magical items just looked like crackpot gadgets. Coinciding with that, however, was an increasing separation. This Victorian era was probably the last time there would be cultural overlap between the magical and non-magical British societies. Percy's father had proclaimed that, unless he missed his guess, that meant the British magical world might never leave the Victorian era, no matter how far the Muggles progressed.
"At some point," he'd told his sons, "the Muggles' science and technology will be able to do much of what we depend on magic for, and when that happens, we'll regret our short-sighted leadership and whimsical laws. But I won't be around to see it, and with any luck, neither will you."
As long as a Dumbledore scion put the family's magic first, it would not fail them, he'd often told them. It had been cold comfort, but that was marginally better than none at all.
Percy wasn't a dab hand at sketching, but he'd been highly motivated to preserve the image of the blonde, arrogant ponce that the family magic drew from Selene's dead eyes. Eyes filled with horror and despair. He'd had a friend of Selene's copy his drawing and speculate on how the man would look from various aspects. He'd taken his original sketch and laminated it with Muggle cellulose acetate.
"It's what she predicted, and what she'd want," was what Kendra eventually told him. Percy winced. He raged against Fate, and that included Selene's predictions. Many Muggle men of science felt the universe was a clockwork, and that men, even wizards, of the ones aware of such things, were merely automatons whose brains caused them to claim they had choices. That grim outlook was one he'd fight. It had only done him dirty.
But Kendra wasn't Fate, she was Selene's little sister. And she was good, and kind, and sweet. And she shared his grief. They could, he decided, make a go of it on that basis.
That the killer of his aunt Selene had been a Malfoy was a certainty, Abe knew. He strongly suspected it was the Lucius brat, but Abraxas had the same foul habits and attitude, and he'd made the grievous error of going into an isolated Muggle area for some "baiting," which was the vile Wizarding British name for rape, torture and murder, with only two associates. Abe had tracked them, killed his two companions silently, transfiguring and vanishing their bodies as he strode forward, then stunned Abraxas and apparated with him to this quarry.
Abe, no more than anyone else, understood the laws of Time. It could well be that he couldn't prevent whichever Malfoy was going to savage Selene from carrying out his grim work. But by that same rationale, Abraxas had played his part.
His brother already represented Abe as a thug. He may as well have the game as have the name. And it was still true that Albus couldn't use their family magic, however much he'd excelled at everyone else's.
He looked again at the faded, yellowed sketch before folding it along the cracking creases and gently placing it in his shirt pocket.
Abraxas Malfoy was about to have a very long night. Fortunately for him, it was going to be the last one, though.
