Orpheus

Chapter 7

By Pigwidgeon37

Draco looked like his father, moved like his father, down to the smallest mannerisms, spoke like his father. Even their voice was the same—a smoky, silky timbre somewhere between tenor and baritone. Very often, Draco would choose a certain expression because it was echoing in his head, a memory of Lucius triggered by something he had seen or heard. The almost clone-like similarity between father and son wasn’t the result of a deliberate process, though. Draco had never consciously desired to become a living copy of Lucius Malfoy. It had happened. And now that his father was gone forever, he was quite happy to find him in himself so very often.

There were differences, however, differences of character mostly. Lucius had ruled an enormous financial imperium, had enjoyed buying and selling and speculating, moving the destinies of people and enterprises like small figures on a vast chessboard. But he had preferred to do so from his study in the Malfoys’ Wiltshire mansion. He had spent his days—fourteen-hour days, no less—in there, making Floo-calls, writing letters, planning and scheming. For all their wealth and influence, the Malfoys had made pretty few public appearances, all the more followed by newspapers, sycophants and gaping bystanders as they were well-chosen in order to attract a maximum of attention. It was a habit—so Lucius had told his son—developed in the early years of Voldemort's first reign, when Lucius had been quite young himself and still half-hidden by the shadow of an almighty father. Already a Death Eater, he had understood the importance of keeping up a perfect façade. People were suspicious then of everything out of the ordinary, the Ministry was constantly on edge, hectically trying to get their hands on somebody, anybody, whom they might present as a scapegoat to the masses. Perfectly watertight alibis were of paramount importance. Voldemort demanded absolute obedience—impossible for a Death Eater to excuse himself from a mission because he had to attend a dinner party. On the other hand, frequent last-minute excuses from social gatherings were apt to make people suspicious, more so if they coincided with Death Eater attacks. Hence, Lucius had chosen the only possible option: over the years, he had forged himself the reputation of a devoted father and husband who preferred staying home with his wife and young son to making frequent, splendid appearances in public. A few wisely-placed donations to charitable institutions had completed the picture. Not that Lucius had been acting against his own nature. Quite the contrary, actually. He had preferred to enjoy his power in private instead of displaying it to the admiring stare of the masses. He had preferred people he deemed his inferiors—a group that included pretty much everybody except for a handful of select individuals—to seek him out instead of knocking on their doors, however imperiously. And the strategy had paid off, in a most satisfactory manner.

This was one of Lucius's character traits, though, which Draco hadn't inherited. Draco had always liked the great public, the looks of admiration, the adulation he despised but secretly craved. His most fervent aspiration, when he started school at Hogwarts, had been to become a Seeker for his house team, because it was always the Seeker who got the most attention. Lucius had been a Beater and quite content with this strategically important but less glamorous position.

Even now, after having lost a part of his fortune which would have been large enough to grant a comfortable life to the population of a small village, Draco was still rich. Very rich. This fact, however, didn’t prevent him from hating everything to do with the British Ministry of Magic, which had deprived him of said considerable portion—by a means as blunt and brutal as expropriation, put into action by none other than Arthur the Red-Haired Weasel—or from trying to increase his wealth. The accumulation of riches by sheer cunning and skill was, after all, a pastime well suited to a Slytherin. Besides, Draco needed something to do. Politics were out of the question, unfortunately. The French Ministry of Magic might have granted him the much-needed asylum (in exchange for a hefty sum of money), and they might close both eyes when it came to his and his father’s past, but they, too, had to observe a modicum of decorum. Hence, political influence was not within Draco’s reach, and therefore he dedicated his not inconsiderable willpower and intelligence to the family imperium. The Malfoys had their hands in literally everything. No shop too small, no product too unimportant or outlandish, no branch of the economy too negligible. It was as the Roman emperor Tiberius had stated, two thousand years ago: non olet. Money had no smell, regardless where it came from. A galleon was a galleon, whether it had been dropped into the cleavage of a cheap whore or shoved across the counter of a bookshop. Draco certainly didn’t mind where his galleons, sickles and knuts came from—a truly democratic opinion, if the only one Draco could be accused of.

After the hurried journey to Ouessant, fifteen years ago—the Ministry had given them exactly forty-eight hours to bury Lucius, bundle up their belongings and leave England forever—they had spent months in a kind of perplexed, painful haze. Like Voldemort, Lucius had died at the hands of the four so-called heroes, and it hadn’t been a quick, painless death. Draco had witnessed it together with the other Death Eaters who had stood, transfixed with shock and horror, motionless and too afraid to do anything. Not that they could have done much, for the Four had drawn a magical circle around themselves and their adversary, which it had been impossible to break. Or rather… No, not impossible. Not if one possessed the necessary power, both magical and of will. Lucius had succeeded, after all; when Voldemort had already been dead on the ground, Lucius had broken through the barrier, displaying a power that had frightened his fellow Death Eaters. Frightened them into inaction. And so he had died, alone, painfully, ignominiously. And Draco had watched.

The following months had been the most terrible of his whole life, less because they had had to leave England—that part of the pain had hit later on—but because of the guilt, the terrible, terrible guilt. He might have come to terms with it, had it not been for his mother. Cho, too, but she didn’t really count. She was a presence, nothing more. Narcissa, though… Narcissa in her boundless grief had been a constant reminder of what he should have done but had not done. They had saved her after two attempts at suicide. She had planned the third one better, and they had discovered her too late. Because they had been fools, such fools—they had believed that the birth of her granddaughter had renewed her will to live. The Ministry had refused to let them bury her next to her husband, the bastards. So they had strewn her ashes into the wind. And finally, they had recovered, he and Cho, mostly because of and for Lucertola. Draco’s interest in the family business had slowly returned.

He could easily have found them another house, in a warmer, more friendly part of France. But he hadn’t wanted to. He felt displaced enough as things were, and didn’t want to give up this last connection with his father. So they had stayed at Ouessant.

But Draco, essential though it was for his well-being to return home every day, had soon realized that he couldn’t stay buried on the island seven days of the week. He needed people, needed to be the focus of their admiration, needed to feel he was the sun around which they had to circle. For a wizard who could Apparate, Paris wasn’t far, and so he had established his headquarters in the capital—Rue Faubourg St. Honoré, of course, nothing less for a Malfoy. He Apparated there every morning and usually returned home in the late afternoon, so as to spend some time with his daughter, who by then was finished with her lessons.

March was unusually warm this year, and Draco was looking forward to a game of Quidditch with Lucertola. All Malfoys were excellent flyers; Lucy had received her first toy broomstick before she was able to walk, and had been taught by both her parents. Draco smiled to himself as he rose from behind his desk—they would practise with the Quaffle today. If Cho wasn’t in bed with one of her more and more frequent headaches, maybe she, too, would like to play. Play Quidditch, play happy family. He waved a short good-bye to his secretary and Disapparated.

Usually, when the weather was as fine as today, Lucertola was already outside, on her broomstick, waiting for her father to shed his business robes and join her. Not so today. Draco frowned. She wasn’t ill, was she? With an impatient shake of the head, he discarded this possibility as highly unlikely. She had been in perfect health this morning, and her constitution was quite robust. Then again, he had left his office an hour early—she simply didn’t expect him at this time of day, and that was all there was to it.

Draco pushed open the heavy wooden door—he had Apparated directly in front of it— crossed the entrance hall and was already halfway up the stairs, when he finally realized that something wasn’t quite as it should be. He stopped, turned back and descended the stairs. Again in the entrance hall, he glanced around the room—nothing seemed to be amiss. Every surface spotless and without a trace of dust, the portraits lingering in their frames, a faint scent of freesias and hyacinths, Cho’s preferred flowers… He shook his head. Maybe he was just tired. But then he heard it: the sound of voices floating out through the half-open library door. One of the voices belonged to Lucy. He didn’t recognize the other one, though, or rather, he recognized it, but—it couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be.

Mesmerized and moving like an automaton, Draco advanced towards the library. That voice… Beloved, dreaded, sounding exactly like his own… His hand closed around the door handle, trembling and almost as white as the paint that made the gilt carvings shine more brilliantly. He took a hesitant step forward, almost falling, because his knees suddenly felt weak. And another step.

“Ah,” Lucius’s portrait said, smiling down at Lucertola, “It seems your father has decided to join our little conversation.”

*

The day had been unreasonably warm, considering that it was only 9 March. Had it not been spring, the term ‘sultry’ would have come to mind, but it seemed somehow inappropriate to use the adjective to describe the weather before summer had officially started. Now, at almost six p.m., the sky was laden with dark-grey clouds announcing a thunderstorm.

With an exaggerated flourish, Severus signed the last of many letters he had been writing that Saturday afternoon (the morning had been dedicated to a particularly violent Quidditch match between Ravenclaw and Slytherin, with more fouls than points scored—maybe a side effect of the crazy weather), warded the door of his office and, with a muttered incantation, opened a magical archway that connected his study to the living room of his and Hermione's quarters. Usually, he didn't leave his desk that early, but not only was he eager to see Hermione, who had been absent since Friday morning, they also had plans for tonight. Plans none of them was overly eager to put into action. But, as Sirius had so wisely observed, there was fun, and there were the necessities you just couldn't avoid. Adding that he, Sirius, usually managed to avoid them all the same. Which was true, Severus mused, giving the room a perfunctory look-over checking for cats-from-underworld-induced damage. It was something like a miracle that Sirius actually did correct the students’ homework himself, although Severus had a suspicion that Miss Wilcox helped him with the younger ones’ essays.

The cats were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Hermione. This in itself wasn't overly surprising, considering they had to leave at half past six, and Hermione was probably upstairs getting ready. An understatement, to say the least. ‘Getting ready’ was a harmless expression, a sheep’s skin concealing a wolf who howled at the wardrobe instead of the moon, who ululated his woes at the mirror and whose teeth were surprisingly sharp.

Smiling, as he caught a whiff of her scent in the air, Severus climbed the stairs and knocked at their bedroom door. “Spikes?”

The wolf growled, and Severus entered, ready to face the beast.

Hermione was standing in the middle of the room, looking very grumpy, very distressed (he found her adorable), her hair frizzing more wildly than usual. She was only in her underwear. Pluto and Hades were frolicking on the bed in something like a parody of an epic battle, which involved several pairs of stockings and a hairbrush.

Severus was a fast learner. Some months ago, he would have asked “Everything all right?” which was Not a Good Question, because it brought forth a torrent of reasons why everything was far from all right, and why he was an idiot not to see it at first glance, so that he asked stupid questions instead of doing something. What ‘something’ might possibly be usually remained unexplained.

But he had learned his lesson. He went straight to her, took her in his arms—a very fatherly, or brotherly, hug—and held her tight. She went stiff but—yes, that too, was a result of lessons learned—he held on, waiting for her to relax. Only then did the embrace become a little less brotherly. And, another lesson learned, he waited until she started talking.

“I beg your pardon?” Her words had been muffled by his robes.

She raised her head, her face a mask of reproach. “Nothing!” she repeated.

Severus tried not to look too clueless. “Nothing in the sense of you have nothing to wear tonight?”

“No!”

He should have known better than to ask silly questions. Now he’d earned himself a punch in the ribs. “Ouch!” he said dutifully. “Nothing what, my darling?”

“Nothing at Oxford—” the name of each place was accompanied by a slight bump of her forehead against his chest “—nothing at London, nothing at Urqhart, nothing at Cardiff, nothing at Glastonbury. Just plain nothing. At least I spent last night getting drunk with Mad-Eye, but that was about it.”

“Hmm…” He cautiously began to massage her scalp. “Are you very frustrated?” (Muggle trick, one Sirius had told him about. A simple but astoundingly helpful method used by Muggle psychotherapists: try to sum up the patient’s feelings, but try to misaim, just a little past the target. The patient will then explain how and why you’re wrong.)

But obviously he had aimed too well. “Of course I’m frustrated, what did you think? I knew I’m no good at this, I’m a complete failure, and now we have to go see my mother. Just the person I need when I’m fucking frustrated!”

Oh, dear. Now she was starting to cry. What a mess, what a mess! If they arrived at her mother’s house and Mrs. Granger saw that her daughter had been crying, she’d jump to conclusions, and the whole evening would be even more unpleasant than Hermione had foreseen in her most dire predictions. He was still rather desperately trying to find something to say, something comforting but not patronizing, when she continued, “And just look at my hair! And there’s a spot on my chin—I always get spots when I have too much scotch. I’m going to look a fright, and my mother is going to have a field day! I can already hear her saying—”

He did the only reasonable thing. He shut her up by kissing her, so deeply that she'd have to bite off his tongue in order to continue, swung her up into his arms, carried her to the bed and, unheeding of kittens and items of clothing, threw her onto the bedspread. Using the few seconds it took her to recover from her surprise, he quickly shed his robes and joined her. Another kiss, and he disposed of her panties.

For once, the kittens didn't interfere. They merely sat, wide-eyed, and probably wondered at the strange sounds humans were able to produce.

*

Draco closed the library door behind Lucertola and returned to the fireplace. “Father, I… I still don't know what to say—after so many years…”

Lucius leaned back in his armchair (Draco remembered it well, it had been dragged from the East Wing to the Grand Gallery by the House Elves after the artist had decided it was the ideal background for the portrait) and crossed his legs, his fingers idly playing with his wand. “Did you know that Lucertola is—” a level stare out of narrowed eyes “—investigating?”

“Investigating?” Realizing that he was still standing, Draco sat down in the chair previously occupied by his daughter. Not a wise thing to do, he noticed, because now his father was both more distant and further above him. He had to crane his neck in order to meet his eyes. And he wanted to meet his father’s eyes, he didn’t want to sit there in a posture expressing guilt or shame.

“You heard me. Investigating.”

“But there is nothing…” Draco’s voice faded when his father made an impatient movement. “You mean… about you? Us?”

The silence filling the interminable seconds between his question and Lucius’s answer almost made him believe that he was dreaming all this, that the portrait had not really spoken and would be as silent as always when he glanced up at it again. “You. Us. The past.”

Draco’s head shot up. “The past? But she can’t—”

“You have been keeping her in the dark, haven't you? You told her nothing, wanted her to remain ignorant, didn't you, Draco?” When his son didn't respond he repeated, his tone of voice low and menacing, “Didn't you?”

“I…” The pain was back; all of a sudden it had leapt out of the tomb where he had believed it was buried safely, sleeping forever, not dead but in a state of perpetual hibernation. And with the pain came the guilt and the shame. A sound, half sigh and half sob, escaped Draco as he buried his face in his hands. He could feel his father’s look boring into his skull, searching for answers. How many times had he wished that Lucius’s portrait would speak to him? Many times, every day, for fifteen years. He hadn't expected it to be like this. But what had he been expecting? Forgiveness? Absolution? For having abandoned him, his own father, to the hands of four filthy bastards? Draco slowly raised his head. “Yes. We have been keeping her in the dark, because we thought it was better for her. She is a child, father. She doesn't—”

“A child?” Lucius leaned forward, abruptly, snake-like, in a movement so quick and fluid that Draco flinched back into his chair. “Lucertola is fifteen! She is about to attend Hogwarts! And all you could think of was to invite those two pieces of filth to my house, and beg them to treat her decently? Is that your way of upholding family tradition, Draco? Grovelling at the feet of Severus Snape and Sirius Black?” His wand was now pointed at Draco, who, although he knew that his father couldn't harm him, felt his hands start to tremble. “I have been silent witness to the goings-on at this house, for fifteen years. I have seen you wallow in guilt and self-pity, unable to keep your mother from killing herself—No!” The last word, hissed and whip-crack-sharp, seemed to wrap around Draco's limbs, keeping him from jumping up and leaving the room. “You are going to hear me out. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.”

Slowly, fighting back the tears he felt lingering just behind his eyes, Draco lifted his gaze to the portrait. Why was his father treating him like this? Hadn’t he always been kind, and loving, and indulgent? I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer… Though, if his school marks don't pick up, that may indeed be all he is fit for… No. That hadn’t been… It was a show his father had put on for Borgin, nothing but a show. He had always been kind, and if he was angry now, it was his, Draco's own, fault. “I am sorry about mother, believe me, father. But you cannot imagine… you didn't see…” His shoulders slumped, and his hands came up in a gesture of defenceless despair.

“I did see. She came to me, every night, while you were sleeping or—” a sneer contorted his lips “—otherwise occupied. She told me about her plans, that she meant to kill herself, because she was a burden to you, a constant reminder of—”

“But she wasn’t a burden!” Draco shouted, “She wasn’t! I loved her, you know that, Father, don’t you? You know how much I loved her, you can’t believe—” Seeing his father’s gaze leave his face and swerve to a point behind him, Draco fell silent and turned round.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Lucius drawled. “If that isn’t Cho, my pretty, willing pet… You didn't use to have quite so many headaches back then, did you?”

“I… I thought I heard voices…” Her own voice was toneless, expressionless. The hand clutching the collar of her dressing gown in a white-knuckled grip was shaking convulsively, her eyes wide and seemingly unable to leave the portrait.

“Well,” Lucius said, leaning back and smiling pleasantly, “maybe this is for the best. Close the door, Draco. Let us have a little family gathering.”

*

“I still don’t know why I agreed to this… this family gathering,” Hermione mumbled when they had materialized in a well-hidden corner of Kew Gardens. She mechanically straightened the collar of her blouse and looked up at Severus. “How do I look?”

“Post-coital, and therefore even more lovely. As to—”

“Oh, come on!” She stamped her foot, so that her high heel bored deep into the soft earth. “Honestly—” holding on to Severus's forearm with one hand, she slipped out of the shoe and pulled it free with the other “—this is not the kind of thing you should tell me five minutes before I’m going to step over mum’s threshold.” Again on both feet, she took Severus's hand, and they started walking in the direction of Fitzwilliam Avenue. “Severus?”

“Yes, my love?”

“My father… he always used to say, ‘If you want to marry the daughter, you’d better have a close look at her mother first,’ meaning—”

“Spikes.” It was dark, and her face was illuminated by the large orange bulbs scattered all over the park. They created a fake sunset, an artificial warmth that didn't resist the chill of the night air. He put his hands on her shoulders. “I couldn't care less about your mother. You are you, and I love you for what you are. Or do you really think—” he cupped her chin and kissed her “—that my feelings might be influenced by your mother?”

Hermione harrumphed and took his hand, pulling him on towards the park gate. “We… do have certain similarities.”

“That means there is a small chance I might like your mother.”

“I don’t think you will, but at least the dislike is going to be mutual. If only…” This time she was the one who stopped, just outside the gate under the bluish-white streetlights. “You would have liked my father, I think. And he you.”

“I wish I could say the same about my parents. They would have hated and despised you, because you're Muggle-born. Where exactly are we going?”

She pointed across the busy road they were currently walking along in the uncertain shadow of still-naked branches. “We have to cross there, take that road, and then turn right. It’s at the end of a cul-de-sac, really quiet. I liked it here, because I could play in the street with my… with some other children.”

Other children. Not ‘friends’. She had told him about the times when her magic had first shown, in sudden violent bursts that terrified her peers and turned her into an outcast. There were certain similarities between the two of them, too. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, and registered the absence of friction between the wide sleeves of the robes he usually wore and the fabric of hers. “Are you feeling all right? Up to the task?”

“Yes. More or less. I would feel better if I had accomplished something, found something in one of the libraries. But I think I’ll survive.”

“But…” Severus paused to carefully choose his words. “You didn't really expect to find anything in Great Britain, did you?”

The angry little noise she made reminded him of the kittens. But she didn't scratch him; there was only the softness of her skin when she laced her fingers through his that were still resting on her shoulder. “Of course not. But it would have been such a triumph—completely nonsensical, I know. Why should I find something where so many others didn't?”

“Well, I wouldn't say it's impossible. Just very, very improbable. Where are you planning on going next?”

“Crete, I think. The library at Cnossos might contain some—here we are,” she interrupted herself. “Ready?”

*

“Ready?” Lucius echoed, his voice dripping with disbelief. “No, Draco, your daughter is not ready to face what is waiting for her at Hogwarts. In a purely academic sense, yes, she may be. But unless she knows what happened, unless she is prepared for the blows she might receive and knows who they might come from… I would not have expected anything better from your wife. But you, Draco… you have turned the last hope of this family into a retarded innocent. What use is she going to be once she has entered Hogwarts?”

Cho, who was sitting in the other chair, looking down at her knees and still clutching her dressing gown closed with both hands, had not spoken more than six words since she had entered the room, although she had flinched at every veiled or unveiled insult her former lover and father-in-law had flung at her. Not a very lively person on the best of days, she now seemed wiped-out, devoid of thought or feelings, a pretty but empty shell. Now, however, she raised her head to look at Lucius. “Use? What… what do you mean by—”

“Not the use I put you to, pretty pet,” Lucius drawled, smiling at the blush that suffused her cheeks. “Although…”

Draco hadn’t contributed much to the conversation, if it could be called thus. If anything, it had been a monologue, held by Lucius and interspersed with the occasional comment from his son. But what could he have said? Had there been the remotest possibility of defending himself, or justifying his actions, he would have done so and stood up to his father. The words were there for him to pick up, to string together into convincing phrases so they would form a speech or at least a few coherent sentences he might hold up in front of himself like a shield. But Draco didn't believe in those words. Yes, it would be possible to put together a defence. He lacked conviction, though. How could he make his father see a truth he himself had no faith in? He felt unable to stand up, stand proud and erect and pronounce clearly, “Not guilty!” Because he felt the guilt weighing him down, and picking up those words would have been like throwing small pebbles into a roaring mass of water that had broken through a dam. Better stay silent, better resign himself to his fate.

The mention of his daughter being put to some use once she was at Hogwarts, though, made him lift his head abruptly, in time to see Lucius smile down at Cho, who was blushing in embarrassment. Lucius’s smile, so similar to his own. Suddenly, he understood why Cho always pressed her lips together or stuffed her fist in her mouth when she climaxed. She was thinking of his father when they were together. Always. And she didn't want him to know. The awareness sparked some kind of friendly gratefulness at her discretion—fifteen years, that was no mean feat… fifteen years of wanting to have another man kiss her, enter her, touch her.

But this wasn't about Cho. It was about Lucertola, and Draco gasped under the wave of fierce protectiveness that rippled through him. “What do you want Lucy to do at Hogwarts?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to remain calm and composed.

“Not exactly at Hogwarts, but…” Lucius let his fingertips glide along the polished length of his wand. “Hogwarts might be the perfect place to start at. But first you must tell her, Draco. Tell her everything. Make her understand. Then, bring her to me.” A dismissive gesture of his right hand made the couple rise like tired marionettes, two battered soldiers standing to attention before their superior. “Now go.”

They moved, slowly, clumsily, occasionally bumping into each other on their way to the door. When it fell shut behind them, Lucius smiled and nodded, and leaned back in his armchair in exactly the same position he had held for more than fifteen years.