17

Chapter Seventeen

Friday 28 February 2003: PM

Draco claws at his tightly knotted onyx tie as he walks swiftly toward the old library of Malfoy Manor, succeeding in loosening it by a scant half-inch. He quickens his long strides in the hope of escaping to his long-time bolt hole before any other members of the household notice his early arrival to the traditional Friday dinner.

He has almost reached the familiar sanctuary when the faint sound of multiple raised voices solidifies to a raucous hubbub. A mobile raucous hubbub that spills around the corner of the long corridor and directly into Draco's line of sight.

Narcissa is holding an angry house elf in either hand; Ruibby on her left, and Macdolas on her right. Both are equally busy trying to yank free of his mother's careful but firm hold and are shouting over the top of her (and each other), their squalls overlapping. The sheer volume they are each projecting is frankly impressive, given their small stature. Not to mention discordant and headache-inducing.

I need this melodrama like I need the bubonic plague. Draco scrambles to turn the polished handle of the library door before the trio realize his presence, but he has missed his chance; Narcissa calls loudly to him, relief and perturbation colouring her voice.

"Draco! Darling, thank Salazar you're here! We need your help quite desperately."

His deep sigh could inflate a hot air balloon. Draco aims a last longing glance at the closed door before trudging closer to the domestic circus.

"What's the problem, Mother?". At least the strident bickering has eased with his approach. The little house elves have turned their backs to each other in a seemingly choreographed display of wrathful disdain, even tapping their tiny feet in unison.

Draco represses a smile. The comedy of the situation is overridden by their obvious distress: Ruibby's face is wet with indignant tears, while Macdolas is as red as a Kashmiri chilli and is sniffing back his own irate waterworks.

Narcissa puffs a breath of pure frustration. "I'm yet to discover the whole truth of it; but as it stands, Ruibby is threatening to resign immediately if we don't sack Macdolas, and Macdolas is insisting on tendering his resignation because he apparently 'can no longer stomach working with a stone-faced scold who treats his tender heart like haggis stuffing'."

"Just another Friday evening, then," Draco dryly observes. "Although the angst has risen to alarming levels."

He bends to clap a hand on Macdolas's bantam shoulder. "Come on, mate. Let's have a chat in the library and sort out this kerfuffle, hmm?". Macdolas's lower lip quavers, but he allows himself to be gently guided down the hallway.

"Thank you, Draco. Ruibby and I will have a little talk in the parlour," Narcissa leads the diminutive housekeeper in the opposite direction as Ruibby blots her moist face with her white apron skirt.

After assisting Macdolas into one of the cosy brown leather armchairs in the expansive reading nook on the library's lower level, Draco takes a seat in the adjacent easy chair and looks over the upset manservant.

Macdolas is currently clothed in an eye-wateringly bright magenta and black facsimile of a mid-Victorian footman's livery. The over-sized snowy bow tie is askew and Macdolas has uncharacteristically missed closing a brass button on the waistcoat; he nervously tinkers with it now, evading Draco's eyes.

"Would you care for some water, Macdolas?". The elf shakes his head, but Draco pours them both a glass from the carafe on the low table beside them.

"Alright – what's happened? What's all this nonsense about resigning? It's not like you to holler at your beloved in the middle of the Manor," Draco prompts.

"Begging your pardon, Master Malfoy – but Mistress Ruibby has rejected Macdolas's love for the last time! Macdolas cannot call her his beloved! Mistress Ruibby tells Macdolas his love is a… a… millstone round her neck, she does!". The distraught major-domo's agitated fingers threaten to entirely twist off the middle waistcoat button.

Ouch. No wonder the poor little bugger is beside himself.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Macdolas. That's harsh," Draco sympathizes. "Did Ruibby say why she feels that way?" he probes.

Macdolas stiffens as he recounts, "Macdolas tells Mistress Ruibby every day that she be his soulmate, and Macdolas will wait for her forever. And today Macdolas gives her the ruby ring his mother gives him – what's given to Macdolas's mother by her most venerable mistress, Lady Lilias Mac Fhionnlaigh – and Mistress Ruibby tosses Macdolas's mother's ruby ring into the raspberry pudding mix and tells Macdolas to leave her be or Mistress Ruibby ups and leaves!".

Gesticulating wildly, Macdolas knocks his water glass flying; before Draco can consider grabbing for it, Macdolas snaps his knobby fingers and the glass reverses its headlong journey to the floor, the water droplets streaming back into it in a perfect reverse of the spill.

Draco opens his mouth to compliment the little sprite on the gifted piece of telekinesis, but Macdolas charges on.

"Macdolas never wants Mistress Ruibby to leave her job! Macdolas vows to leave instead! Anyways, Macdolas has his pride and won't be bothering Mistress Ruibby – no, he takes his broken heart with him when he leaves, Master Malfoy." The elf heaves a sobbing breath and downs the glass of water in one gulp.

Draco casts about for an appropriate response. 'Did somebody fish out the ruby ring from the pudding mix?' probably isn't it.

He takes a moment to consider the problem as Macdolas slumps miserably into the armchair, his spindly legs sticking straight out in front of him; he mopes at his glum reflection in his mirror-shined black shoes.

"Look, Macdolas – we really don't wish for you to leave. You are a valuable member of the household and we are extremely pleased with your work," Draco begins.

Macdolas brightens a little, his large nubbly ears twitching.

"But nor do we want you – or Ruibby – to be unhappy here. I know that you love Ruibby very much –"

"Macdolas does, he does, he really does, Master Malfoy!"

" – and you would be forlorn… heartbroken, without her. Perhaps we could try something different? I'm afraid your established courtship tactics haven't been effective, Macdolas: and you do need to respect Ruibby's choices. And refrain from calling her 'a stone-faced scold', by the way."

Crestfallen, Macdolas hunches over and is swallowed by the chair once more.

"Macdolas returns to Scotland in the morning," he dolefully proclaims.

"No, I was thinking that perhaps it's time you had a change of scenery, Macdolas. How would you like to work for me for the next few weeks?" Draco is flying by the seat of his pants at this point.

"Here's the thing, as I see it – you've never given Ruibby a chance to miss having you in her life; you've declared your undying love for her literally from the moment you first met. And maybe she wasn't ready to hear it at the time. Maybe Ruibby needs some time to process her feelings about you without daily reminders of your eternal devotion, Macdolas."

The elven steward's eyes absurdly enlarge as he mulls over Malfoy's advice.

Draco forges on with his hastily conceived scheme. "I require some help with housework, and meals, for a fortnight or so; and I'll double your pay for the inconvenience. Maybe you could use the extra Galleons to gift Ruibby a ring she doesn't consign to the dessert batter," he jokes.

No. Too soon. Backtrack before he starts sniffling again.

"Or you could add to your brilliant uniform collection – the one you're wearing today is rather spiffy, isn't it?". Crisis averted – Macdolas is proudly puffing his chest and straightening his dicky bow.

Observably heartened, Macdolas accepts Draco's outstretched hand and shakes enthusiastically. "Master Malfoy is a genius and Macdolas is proud to serve the Townhouse of Malfoy!" he loudly avouches. "Macdolas takes leave to pack for his most honourable posting!" and he Disapparates with a sharp crack.

Bloody hell. Draco thunks the back of his head into the well-padded tan leather and regards himself as lucky to have not been left cross-eyed and bamboozled by the quirky circumstance of doling out relationship counselling to his house elf.

I suppose I can count the discussion a qualified success, he reflects. Except: now I must invent enough household tasks to keep Macdolas happily occupied for the next fourteen days. Terrific.

Closing his eyes, Draco's thoughts return to the other peculiar conversation he has experienced today… staying behind in the interrogation room with Harry Potter, to discuss the danger facing Hermione Granger.

You couldn't dream up this shite if you tried, Draco grumbles.

They'd faced each other warily after Hermione left the room; Draco had preferred to prop himself flush against the closed door than be seated again. Potter had perched on the edge of the metal table and gazed at him curiously.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?".

Draco had been surprised at the lack of overt animosity in Harry's voice.

"Be more specific, Potter," Draco had crooked an eyebrow at the vague question.

Harry had rolled his eyes briefly before elaborating. "Why are you helping Hermione with all this? What's your angle?"

Potter had leaned forward at the waist, his bright jade eyes glittering behind the round spectacles. "Before you try to sell me a load of tosh, let's examine the evidence, shall we?".

"One: I witnessed some intense flirtation between the two of you when I came looking for Hermione; and she looked as though she'd been caught by a Prefect, snogging in a disused Hogwarts classroom.'

"Two: Hermione immediately leapt to your defence and hotly informed me that you 'have done naught but protect and support' her through her ordeal.'

"Three: You got her a drink of water – unasked; held her hand and kept hold of it, repeatedly; gave her a hug and verbally reassured her; donated your fancy hankie without a moment's hesitation; and whispered something intimate in her ear as she departed.'

"Four: You've spent a considerable amount of your own time – and Galleons – digging around in this muck, including: taking Hermione into your home that terrible night and caring for her; the guided Legilimency session; private potion analysis; and personally sketching the exceptional mug shot drawings.'

"Five: In an odd coincidence, Hermione's skin has been marked with mysterious love bites since you became involved in her life; she's recently received an unattributed bunch of flowers and has been frequently blushing and sporting dreamy smiles when she thinks she's not being observed."

Potter hadn't blinked as he'd waited to trap Draco into a hurried, thoughtless response.

I can out-Legilimens you until the end of time, Draco had sneered beneath his perfect mask of unruffled loftiness.

"Tell the truth, Malfoy: what are your intentions toward Hermione? Is this some sick game to you?" Potter had stood up with his final provoking query, shoulders tensed and mouth grim.

"'My intentions'? Doing it much too brown, Potter," Draco had jeered. "Listen up - because this is the only answer I intend to give you. I am helping Granger because I want to. I didn't ask to be involved, but now that I am, I mean to see it through. Call it a pathetic stab at redemption; curiosity; boredom – whatever you like. I don't give a flying fuck.'

"Ask yourself this: if you're so concerned for the welfare of your best friend – the incredible woman who saved your sorry arse from certain suffering and death on multiple occasions – how is it that you didn't have a clue what was happening in her life until today? You dare to quiz me as to 'my intentions' when you didn't notice that she was in danger, worried, traumatized? You've got a hell of a fucking nerve, Potter."

Draco had ceased his frigid tirade, unnerved by the expression of amazed comprehension spreading across Potter's face. The bastard had proceeded to laugh outright. Had chortled like a ruddy lunatic, in fact. Bursting into fresh guffaws every time he'd looked back at an affronted Draco.

"Is the Ministry aware you're as mad as a hatter? Should I call in a Healer?" Draco had snipped as Harry had unleashed another series of hearty belly laughs.

The jocular fool had finally settled down long enough to waggle an index finger at Draco.

"You are so screwed, Malfoy. This all makes perfect sense, now. And the best bit of all? You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? Smart as a whip yet blind as a bat," Potter had shaken his head in disbelief and amusement.

"But I'm warning you, Malfoy – if you hurt Hermione in any way, shape, or form – you'll answer to me. I won't hesitate to tear strips from your sorry hide and feed them to a hungry dragon while you watch. Got it?" Potter had switched from jovial to menacing in a millisecond.

Draco had deigned to give the pestiferous man the barest of nods.

"Are you finished with the inquisition and mutilation threats, Potter? Because I can think of a million places I'd rather be."

Harry had smiled cryptically. "Be on your way, Malfoy. The Ministry thanks you for your help. I won't hesitate to contact you if we require any further assistance."

As he'd reached for the door, Potter had slipped in one last non sequitur.

"Hermione loves luxury Belgian truffles. I usually give them to her for her birthday. Do with that what you will, Malfoy."

Draco had exited swiftly, Potter's renewed chuckles muted as the door had clicked shut.

Fucking Potter, Draco thinks bitterly as his consciousness returns to the library environs. Laughing uproariously at me one moment, only to threaten me the next. He must be cracking under the pressure of being an Auror, Draco concludes.

His indignant musings halt as the library door bursts open to admit a familiar, unwelcome face.

"Malfoy! Tell me what happened with Potter this morning, mate – the inter-office grapevine claims you met with him for a job interview, but I know that's twaddle. Figured I'd get my information from the horse's mouth, so to speak." Blaise Zabini sanguinely flops into the chair Macdolas recently vacated, grinning like a loon.

"You've a hide thicker than an Erumpent's, Zabini! Barrelling through the door without bothering to knock – were you born in a barn?" Draco scathingly accuses.

"And I emphatically told you to un-invite yourself to dinner tonight. Isn't our staid family dinner a tame comedown from your usual debauched lifestyle?".

"Even the Great Zabini needs a night off every now and then, Draco. Besides, when have you ever known me to decline a free dinner?" Blaise rejoins. Draco's acrimony is having nil effect on his perpetual aura of mischievous merriment.

I don't know why I bother to berate this jester – it all slides off him like water from a duck's back. Draco glares darkly as Blaise crosses his ankles on the coffee table.

"That's an Edwardian antique, you yokel!" Draco knocks down Blaise's encroaching feet immediately.

"Chill out, Draco – the table didn't suffer. Damn, you're uptight! Is it because you and Potter had strong words about your mystery witch?" Zabini provokes.

Draco champs his teeth and rolls his eyes so strenuously that one orb tics.

"Zabini – do you ever let up? I've had a bastard of a day. The meeting with Potter – that you engineered, thank you very much – went much as I'd expected. He was suspicious of my involvement and quite prepared to accuse me of the crimes until H –"

Draco quickly covers his slip of the tongue with a manufactured cough – "until he was informed otherwise by the witch in question."

Blaise arches one groomed jet eyebrow.

"Don't be coy, Draco – you know I'll find out soon enough," he wheedles. "Look at it this way: if you refuse to divulge the truth, I'll have to begin embellishing my own rumours and conjecture, yeah?".

I've had just about enough of this claptrap. Draco launches himself upright and makes for the door. Unfortunately, Zabini is close behind and still chattering like a magpie.

"We'll discuss it at dinner then – good idea. I'd enjoy hearing your parents' take on the matter," Zabini baits.

Draco whirls. "You shut your mouth at dinner, Zabini, or I'll bloody well close it for you, do you understand?" he growls.

Blaise reacts with a delighted grin and hooks his left elbow around Draco's neck in an affectionate headlock.

"Whatever happened to 'my father will hear about this!'? Such a sourpuss," Zabini laughs as Draco elbows him away. Draco fussily smooths out imaginary wrinkles from his attire, lips thinned crabbily.

Despite the ambivalence that has been churning in Draco's mind all week as he'd anticipated tonight's problematic reconciliation with his father, Draco is relieved to finally enter the Manor's dining room. Zabini's relentless badgering is twanging his last nerve.

Narcissa has gone all-out with the dinner setting; the antique table is set for five, silverware and fine china gleaming in the brightly-lit space. A centrepiece of blue irises and white lilies complement the flickering cream beeswax tapers. Draco spares the scene an appreciative glance before his eyes scan the room for its other occupants.

Lucius Malfoy stands stock-still in the far corner; at their entrance, he steps forward falteringly, knuckles white on his ornate heirloom walking stick.

The sight of the sinister serpent-headed cane in his father's hands is not half as unsettling as the changes that time and suffering have wrought in Lucius's appearance since Draco last saw him; Draco chokes down an appalled exclamation as he scrutinizes his sire.

Whilst Lucius is scrupulously clean and well-dressed, he is now thin to the point of emaciation; his once perfectly-tailored black suit hangs off his fragile bones and his shoulder-length ashen hair is thinning and dull. Judging by the way his attenuated hand clutches the silver snake's head, Draco believes that his father is now using the walking stick for actual physical support rather than dramatic effect. Certainly, there is no wand hidden in its stem.

"Good evening, Draco, " Lucius's voice is a scarcely above a cracked whisper. "Mr Zabini. Kind of you to join us."

"Thank you, Lord Malfoy. It's a pleasure to be here," Blaise formally acknowledges, accepting and shaking Lucius's proffered hand.

Draco forms his greeting with stiff lips. "Good evening, Lucius."

The anthracite eyes so similar to Draco's own tighten minutely at Draco's avoidance of calling him 'Father', despondency briefly darkening their depths.

Lucius smiles brittlely. "Shall we be seated, gentlemen? Narcissa and Theo will be along shortly."

Draco nods dumbly. The shock of seeing Lucius withered and diminished has banished his residual feelings of resentment and conflicted hostility toward his father, for the time being; reluctant pity has taken their place. Lucius even hesitates before seating himself at the head of the table, looking hesitantly at Draco as though his son is the rightful possessor of the premier spot. Draco ignores the glance and quickly sits opposite Blaise. A humble Lucius is proving difficult to reconcile.

For once, Draco is grateful for Zabini's cheerful garrulousness; Blaise fills in the manifest tension and awkwardness with a steady stream of inconsequential patter. Draco develops a keen interest in the subtle patterning of the gold-edged crockery.

The door glides open as Macdolas trots in snappily, announcing, "Lady Malfoy and Master Nott!"; the little steward looks markedly cheerier since their parley, Draco notes with relief.

The men stand as Theo escorts Narcissa to her chair at the foot of the oak wood table, seating her with careful solicitousness. Theo sits down between his hostess and Draco and murmurs a general 'Good evening' to the rest of the party.

Macdolas supervises as three underling house elves unobtrusively commence pouring water and bringing in the starter course of moules à la marinière. The ramekins of steamed mussels and onions in a white wine sauce are accompanied by crusty dinner rolls and fresh butter.

Narcissa beams, her refined beauty glowing as she contemplates the company at table. "Good evening, gentlemen. How are you, Blaise dear? It's delightful to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine, Lady Malfoy. You are a vision tonight – wouldn't you agree, Theo?". Blaise smiles winsomely as Lucius's brows wrinkle together. Theo warily nods as Narcissa deflects Blaise's fulsomeness with a little laugh.

"Nonsense, dear; and do call me Narcissa. We needn't stand on ceremony." She turns to Draco, sapphire eyes sparkling.

"It's a shame your new lady friend couldn't join us tonight, Draco. I'm dying to be introduced… and she would have nicely rounded out our dinner party," Narcissa waves at the empty seat beside Blaise.

And so it begins. Draco braces himself for the Malfoy version of thumbscrews and salt.

Predictably, Blaise adds fuel to the flames.

"Oh, so Draco's confessed the identity of his paramour, Narcissa? He's being dreadfully reticent with Theo and me. Although… just today I heard a captivating tale about an incident in the Wizengamot Administration Office –"

Loose-lipped son of a bludger! Draco aims a desperate savage kick at Zabini beneath the table, unfortunately missing him altogether and colliding with his father's limb instead.

"Hell's bloody bells!" Lucius winces in pain as his lacquered cane clatters to the floor; he rubs at his right knee cap as Narcissa half-rises in worry.

Draco hastens to apologize.

"My apologies, Lucius – I – I had a cramp," Draco dissembles. Mouth set in a hard line, he blazes a malevolent glare at Blaise.

"It has been known to happen," Lucius stiffly concedes as Draco bends to retrieve the dropped walking stick, handing it back to his father. Lucius tips his silver head in wordless thanks.

Racking his rattled brain for suitable topics of conversation to engage and distract his mother from Blaise's puckish revelations, Draco is infinitely relieved when Theo steps in.

"The mussels are delicious, Lady Malfoy – is this a pinot grigio white wine sauce?" Theo politely enquires.

"Why yes it is, Theodore. You must have a superior palate, to identify the varietal from the sauce alone," Narcissa comments admiringly. "And remember – it's 'Narcissa', please," she chides.

"Have you chosen to refrain from pairing the superior menu with matching wines tonight so as not to detract from the complexity of the food, Narcissa?" Blaise asks, tapping at the water in his crystal goblet.

Narcissa's smile disappears. She hesitates before quietly replying, "I must confess that we've become quite… abstemious during our… reclusion, Blaise." She frets at her linen napkin as Theo turns his curly head, looking searchingly at the man gone rigid beside him. Draco concentrates on capturing the last spoonful of creamy broth, head down bent.

"I could ask Macdolas to fetch you a glass of an appropriate vintage if you'd like? Theodore, would you care for any?" Narcissa offers apologetically.

"Blaise is being unconscionably rude, Mother – pay him no heed," Draco states colourlessly. "Please do not trouble yourself with having any wine fetched. Water is fine." His left fist is itching to thump Blaise's strong nose; he clamps it to his leg and scowls across the table. Theo directs his own green glare at Zabini.

For once, Blaise looks abashed. "My apologies, Narcissa – I never intended to be rude or make you feel uncomfortable. The meal is lovely, and I am honoured to be here."

Narcissa smiles as the tension eases. "Goodness, we are all terribly contrite tonight! Let us talk of something lighter, hmm? Tell me, Theodore – do you still enjoy spending half your year in Germany? Is your grandmother in good health?".

Theo's pellucid skin flushes slightly beneath Narcissa's gracious attention. He begins to talk quietly of recently touring Greater Saxony, and his grandmother's improved eyesight since he convinced her to undergo cataract treatments.

Draco tunes out as the entrees are replaced by the main course: roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, mixed vegetables, and gravy. He recognizes it as another of his father's favourite dishes; Narcissa is determined to celebrate the night any way she can.

Gazing at Lucius in his peripheral vision, Draco is struck anew by the drastic shift in his appearance. His father hasn't joined in the conversation, but is silently taking in every word. His colour has improved from 'cadaverous' to merely 'peaky'; but Draco is rocked by how… whittled down he looks.

To now describe Lucius as villainous is simply laughable. The loss of his wand, freedom, and pride - perhaps even the loss of his son – has stripped him down to a mere mortal. There are new lines of pain etched into his high forehead and pale cheeks. Draco swallows uncomfortably at the unarguable evidence of his father's anguish.

I cannot excuse what he's done, he thinks agitatedly. But I can't continue to despise this broken man, either.

Lost in pensive contemplation, Draco startles as a dessert bowl is placed in front of him. Raspberry bread-and-butter pudding: another of Lucius's favoured dishes.

And unfortunately, the recent receptacle for Macdolas's bejewelled (and rejected) token of affection. Draco prods circumspectly at the glossy, berry-spiked sweet. Surely someone returned it to Macdolas?

With any luck, Zabini will choke on it. The malicious wish briefly curls up the corners of his mouth.

Narcissa is waxing lyrical about Theo and Draco's childhood escapades about the Manor, Blaise egging her on to tell one embarrassing anecdote after another. She exclaims, "Oh! I know I have a photograph of the time they dressed up as crones for Hallowe'en! It's in my chamber – I'll just run and fetch it," and she excuses herself, feigning deafness to Draco's vigorous objection.

The moment Narcissa leaves the room, Lucius icily addresses Theo.

"Master Nott – I may no longer be in possession of a wand; but if you do not cease casting sheep's eyes at my wife, I will box you about the ears with my cane, regardless of the consequences."

Theo's face mottles in mortification as he hotly denies the charge.

"I assure you I have only the greatest respect and admiration for Lady Malfoy. It is true that I consider her kindness, spirit, and beauty as the yardstick for desirable attributes in a witch; but I have never acted inappropriately towards her," he angrily asserts. "Nor will I."

Lucius is unappeased.

"I'm well aware that you have long harboured a mawkish, adolescent crush on my spouse, Nott – but rest assured it will never be reciprocated. My wife's fidelity is unequivocal. Find your own witch," he snarls, with a ghost of his old arrogant command.

"That's enough, Lucius." Draco's headache is rapidly worsening. Will this wretched day never end?

"Theo has always seen Narcissa as a surrogate mother figure – you are letting your paranoid jealousy run amok. Can't you see how she is stifled and starved for human company? Are you that petty, to begrudge her the smallest of social interactions? She's kept you company in your exiled cage for long enough. If you are as secure in her love as you claim to be, you'd welcome the chance to make her happier," Draco sternly informs his father.

He crosses his arms and leans closer, determined to salvage something useful from the heinous day. This morning's meeting with Potter had served to heighten his sense of growing unease at the true depths of the danger Hermione is in. There are a multitude of worrying questions about this sordid plot – and Draco is increasingly desperate for answers.

I cannot allow any harm to befall her. Draco fights to dampen his panic at the thought.

"Now that I have your attention, Lucius – you're going to join me, Blaise, and Theo in the study after dinner… and you're going to tell me everything you know about your old Death Eater pals' penchants for illegal lust potions, abduction, rape, and forced breeding…'

Draco pauses as Lucius's sulky, snotty expression shifts to bewilderment, then apprehension.

"… because we're not leaving here until you do."