Lucius Malfoy strode down the spotless corridors of Malfoy Manor, gazing upon his possessions with smug admiration. A priceless vase, a Malfoy family heirloom, immaculately clean and decorated with carvings of writhing serpents-- perfect. The six million galleon chandelier, gleaming with cold and austere beauty-- perfect. The massive marble columns that held up the manor’s proud roof, as ornate as any sculpture-- perfect. Lucius’s own reflection, visible in the untarnished antique mirror on the wall--well, naturally, perfect.



Everything perfect. Everything pure. The entire manor was exactly how Lucius liked it. It was also empty-- Narcissa was off visiting the Lestranges, Draco was at school, and the several dozen house-elves… well, they were home, but never showed their faces outside the kitchen when the Malfoys were still awake. And as Lucius had never once entered the kitchen, the elves might as well have been nonexistent.



Lucius examined his reflection more closely. His eyes rested on the smooth cascade of silver-blond hair, tied back with a silken ribbon; the cool and proud grey eyes that gleamed on either side of a strong Roman nose; the pale complexion and pointed chin that contrasted with his square jaw and prominent cheekbones; the fitted green velvet doublet that he wore over his robes. He was at the peak of prosperity, his good looks not at all faded by the years, his power increasing every day, and his fortune behaving likewise.



He would have been completely happy had a large barn owl not landed on his head at that precise moment. His first thought was that he would have to re-comb his hair; his second thought was the slightly obvious realization that owls did not normally land on people’s heads unless they had mail to deliver.



He snatched the envelope from the owl’s leg and forcefully sent it out the window without feeding it-- that should teach the miserable beast from landing on the heads of wealthy purebloods. The owl needed training.



Lucius settled down in his favourite chair, which was suspiciously similar to a throne that had once belonged to the King of France in 1727. Not that this was the French throne, of course, Lucius had told the Minister of Magic on one of his recent visits. The idea was preposterous. But if, hypothetically speaking, the throne had belonged to the King of France, than it would have been stolen under the cover of midnight by a courtier named D’Artagnan Malfoy (who, hypothetically, would have been wearing an invisibility cloak), ground into powder, snuck out of the country into England when the Malfoy family moved and became British citizens, reassembled by magic, and passed down through several generations until Lucius had inherited it. Again, this was all hypothetical, of course.



He turned over the envelope, noting from the address that it was from his mother, Aethonia. The old bat was probably writing to demand something of Lucius’s. Lucius’s father Abraxas had died the previous week and had thusly caused some minor discord by leaving several rather spectacular dark artifacts to Lucius that Aethonia had wanted. “Do not even consider trying to get your bony talons on my Peverell crest flatware, Mother,” Lucius thought to himself as he slit open his envelope.



A remarkably long parchment greeted him. This was something of a surprise-- he had expected something along the lines of, “Dearest Lucius: Give me your flatware. NOW. Love, Mummy.” He and his mother rarely saw each other, and even more rarely did they communicate. If his mother was writing him these long epistles, Lucius reasoned, then something had to be amiss. He read the letter, his eyes growing wider with each sentence.



Dear Lucius,



Your father’s death has prompted me to write this letter, which for years I knew I would one day be forced to do. There is something I must tell you, and though it is unpleasant, it is the truth, and it can be hidden from you no longer.



You are not my son.



“Fantastic,” muttered Lucius. “The bat’s threatening to disown me unless I give her the Peverell crest flatware.” He resumed reading the missive:



My son, Lucius Aelius Malfoy, was fourteen months old when Abraxas left home for a year-long mission for the Dark Lord (may his soul forever rest in pieces) when he was just beginning to gather followers and was known to very few. Before leaving, Abraxas instructed me to care for his heir. Naturally, as I was Lucius’s mother, I had every intention of complying with his wishes. But only a few months after Abraxas’s departure, Lucius crawled out of his crib and ingested deadly hellebore and belladonna used for potion-making. There was nothing that could be done, and he expired shortly after. I knew that I would be punished if Abraxas returned home to discover that his heir had died in his absence, and so I did the only thing I could do.



I went to the wizarding orphanage in Hogsmeade to look for a baby of a similar age and appearance to Lucius. We found one fourteen-month-old baby with the same blond hair and grey eyes, Alexander James MacHamish and called ‘Sawney’ for short. He looked so much like Lucius that I knew that Abraxas would never suspect a thing if I adopted him and raised him in Lucius’s place.



The attendant at the orphanage told me that Alexander MacHamish was the son of a Muggle couple in Scotland. One day, to the ignorant couple’s horror, a pair of large and highly poisonous snakes crawled into his crib. But Alexander did not cry-- in fact, he cuddled the snakes like teddy bears, and the snakes behaved as benignly as pussy cats. When Alexander’s father tried to lift his son out of the crib, the snakes attacked and killed him.



Mrs. MacHamish saw her husband’s death as a freak accident. However, over the next several weeks, poisonous snakes seemed almost magnetically drawn to her son, including snakes that were not native to Scotland like asps, adders, and tiger snakes. Snakes followed the baby’s pram when they went for a walk, crawled into his crib nightly, approached him when he was playing on the lawn, even slithered up the legs of his high chair. Frightened for her safety as well as Alexander’s, the woman put the baby up for adoption. The only orphanage that would take him after hearing his story was the wizarding orphanage in Hogsmeade-- they had heard of snakes following baby wizards before, most notably Salazar Slytherin, and recognized Alexander to be exhibiting early signs of great magical powers.



I would normally have never cared for a Muggleborn child, but I was desperate, and Alexander seemed, from his story, to be a promising Slytherin. I raised him as my own son, and indeed, snakes were attracted to him just as much as he was attracted to them. He showed other signs of precocious magical skill, such as causing a house elf to be magically hurled across a room when she tried to take away his bottle before he was finished.



When Abraxas returned, he was very pleased with his “heir.” Alexander-- now called Lucius-- grew into a strong young man who exhibited all of the traits of a pureblood, a Slytherin, and a Malfoy, and Abraxas and I were very proud of him. It was easy to almost forget that he was not my true son but a Muggleborn boy.



But the truth is that you are not and never have been Lucius Aelius Malfoy. You are Alexander James MacHamish.



I'm sorry.



Aethonia Malfoy.





Lucius sputtered incoherently, his mouth dangling open like that of a deranged catfish. It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. He was Lucius Malfoy. He had been Lucius Malfoy his whole life… hadn’t he? Everyone had always told him that he was the spitting image of Abraxas. There was no way he could be this… this Alexander MacHamish.



Mudbloods were scum. Mudbloods had dirty blood and far less magical power than purebloods. Mudbloods were stupid, worthless, to be looked down upon.



He, Lucius-- he refused to think of himself as anything else-- prided himself on being a powerful magician from one of the most ancient wizarding families. He couldn’t possibly be Muggleborn himself.



Could he?

Lucius nervously adjusted the collar on his Muggle jacket. He was wearing a grey pinstriped suit over a crisp white shirt, an expensive gold watch, and black shoes so shiny that he could see his reflection in them. Although he looked quite snazzy indeed and several young women who he had passed on the streets had been eyeing him favorably (causing his hand to twitch briefly toward his wand), he felt unaccustomed, uncomfortable, and unlike himself. Which made sense, seeing as he’d just discovered at the age of forty-one that he wasn’t really who he’d thought he was.

He stopped short at a small, grey-blue house, double-checked the address on the scrap of parchment in his hand, took a deep breath and proceeded up the driveway toward the door. Lucius reached toward the door with one gloved hand, prepared to knock. But a spasm of indecision wracked his body. He couldn’t do this-- to knock on this door would be to acknowledge that he was Alexander MacHamish, the lowly son of Muggles, not Lucius Malfoy, heir to the great fortune of a long line of pureblooded wizards But he was so curious… he simply had to know who this Mrs. MacHamish was, even if only to prove Aethonia wrong.

Frustrated, anxious, and as indecisive as a game show contestant who had just been asked whether he had just given his ‘final answer,’ he leaned against the door frame to think.

DING-DONG!

He jumped about two feet in the air in manner very closely resembling a chicken with its tail feathers aflame.

“Oh, Salazar!” he swore under his breath, pulling himself together. Stupid, blasted Muggle contraptions, doorbells.

He was still a tad jittery from the shock of leaning against the doorbell when the door swung open. Standing there was an elderly woman, short and dumpy with a cloud of grey hair, oversized glasses, and a truly hideous flowered muumuu. Although she could have easily been any old biddy, her eyes were a clear, sharp grey, and her strong nose was identical to that of the man now staring at her in disbelief.

“Erm… glemph…” Lucius said eloquently.

“Sorry, didn’t catch that?” frowned Mrs. MacHamish. She had a pleasant voice marked by a distinctive Scottish accent.

“I… I…” Lucius drew a deep breath. “Madame, I believe I am your son.”

Mrs. MacHamish’s expression froze. “Alexander?” she squeaked. “Sawney?” She looked the tall, blond man up and down, and her eyes welled up with tears as she flung her arms around Lucius. It was a very strange sensation-- Lucius could not remember Aethonia ever hugging or indeed touching him. “It… it really is you, after all this time! A mother knows her son anywhere. Do you..?” She suddenly stepped back from Lucius.

He raised his hands, smiling rather tautly and nervously. “No snakes,” he reassured the woman… his mother, that was. He who had been able to convince the Ministry of Magic that he’d never truly been a Death Eater and that Harry Potter was disturbed was unable to convince himself that this woman was not his mother.

“Come in,” breathed Mrs. MacHamish. “I’ve, er, regretted putting you up for adoption every day for the last forty-one years. I never expected to actually see you again.” Her voice was strangled with emotion, and fat tears were running down her cheeks.

Lucius, feeling very peculiarly indeed, followed her inside the house. The furnishings were modest, mismatched, worn, and obviously not worth much But the photograph-lined walls and countless knick-knacks gave the humble dwelling a warmth and familiarity that Malfoy Manor would never have.

“I was just starting tea,” beamed Mrs. MacHamish, her eyes positively dancing. “Would you like anything, Sawney?”

“Erm, no thank you,” replied Lucius uneasily. He took a seat, his back rigid. “By the way… my name is not Sawney. That is, when I was adopted, it was changed to Lucius. Lucius Malfoy.”

“Strange name,” said Mrs. MacHamish, shaking her head. “But each to his own. I used to have an uncle named Elizabeth.”

Although Lucius had declined refreshment, Mrs. MacHamish passed him a piping hot mug of tea and a thick slab of fruitcake drizzled with white icing. “Do you have a family of your own?” she asked eagerly.

“Yes,” said Lucius, poking cautiously at the fruitcake with his fork much like a manlooking for a dropped contact lens in a heap of nuclear waste. “I’m married and I have a son who’s fifteen yeas old.”

Mrs. MacHamish clapped her hands together. “Oh, Sawn… I mean, Lucius-- a grandson! That’s wonderful!” She shivered. “I’m so excited-- I really, really can’t say how excited I am to meet you and to hear about your family. I thought I’d lost all of my relatives… I never thought I’d see you… so tall and handsome…” She began to sob, but they were not the selfish tears that Narcissa shed when Lucius didn’t want to take her to yet another tiresome party. They were tears of joy that only a mother could produce..

Lucius shifted in his seat, perspiration blooming across his forehead as Mrs. MacHamish detailed how ecstatic she was to see him. He couldn’t recall anyone else ever saying that they were happy to see him. True, he had a great many friends and acquaintances, but these were usually financial friends who were very emotionally close with his money or Death Eater drinking-and-Muggle-torturing companions with whom he had no real common ground. He didn’t even know Mrs. MacHamish, but she was invited him into her home with open arms, loved him as soon as she laid eyes upon him. He couldn’t imagine ever feeling that way about anyone, and he certainly never would have expected anyone to feel that way about him..

He and Mrs. MacHamish talked for some time, and Lucius, as hard as he tried not to, found himself shifting out of his usual mode of cold and overly formal indifference. He was opening up, relating funny anecdotes about the latest pathetic mishaps that Draco had incurred upon himself, listening with interest to stories about the MacHamishes, complimenting Mrs. MacHamish on her cooking, and even-- believe it or not-- used a Muggle device called a toaster! But s the hours slipped by, he realized something that made his blood curdle.

Mrs. MacHamish, this sweet pleasant woman was a Muggle. She was no different from the countless masses of non-magic people that Lucius had looked down upon his whole life. He had called Muggles stupid, inept, unworthy of breathing the same air that he did. He’d used curses to torture them, purchased dark artifacts, served a master whose business was to pick off the Muggle race, even (when influenced by heavy peer-pressure and large quantities of wine) killed them. And he’d had an even lower opinion of Mudbloods, people who called themselves magical and were treated to all of the benefits of wizards and witches although they came from a background of scum.

But he was one of them.

His stomach lurched as he tried to grasp this fact. He was wealthy and powerful and had friends in very high places, but had not a single drop of magical blood in his veins. True, he’d always been proud of his placement in Slytherin and his skills in persuasion, but these were nothing compared to the way he’d always flaunted his 99.44% pure heritage. And now that gone. In terms of status and family, he was nothing. Nothing… except for a son whose mother loved him no matter what. He wasn’t sure if the same could be said for his wife.

“Lucius?” Mrs. MacHamish looked anxious. “Are you all right? You’re very quiet.”

“What? Oh… yes…” Lucius sat up and rubbed his temples. “I think I’m getting a migraine.”

“Is your work stressful?” asked Mrs. MacHamish, her brow wrinkling with concern.

“No. No, not at all.“ Lucius almost laughed. His “work” consisted solely of sitting back as he inherited vast amounts of money and possessions, as giving gifts of money and opinions to the highly malleable Cornelius Fudge. It was hardly back-breaking labour. (As for his Death Eater membership, that was more of a volunteer position.)

“What do you do for a living, anyway? I don’t think you’ve mentioned your job once!”

Realizing as he looked around the modest room that it would not be especially tactful to mention that he did not have to work, Lucius simply blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Er… I’m a, uh, magician.” It did not take long after uttering these words to realize that they were stupid in the extreme. “That is, I perform in London-- sleight of hand and illusions and such. I’ve actually gotten quite a lot of acclaim.”

Mrs. MacHamish looked amused. “What a coincidence!” she exclaimed. Lucius squinted.
“Oh, well I told you about your sister, Fiona, who passed away twenty-three years ago? She married a magician. Maybe you‘ve heard of him in your work-- does the name ‘Vladislaw Malinkovski’ ring any bells?”

It certainly did. It was as though his head was being slammed against the largest bell in the world. Vladislaw and Fiona Malinkovsky… died twenty-three years before… a cold lump rose in Lucius’s throat. Vladislaw had been a Muggle-born Healer who had gone to school with Lucius. He had been a quiet boy, but the reason why Lucius remembered him so strongly was because Vladislaw had been the first person Lucius had ever killed. He, Macnair, and Goyle had tortured the couple before using the Killing Curse on them, and it was a day Lucius would never forget.

And now the horrible night that he had first murdered-- he was more of a man of verbal threats and sneaky tricks than actual combat-- was a thousand times more ghastly. He had killed his own sister, laughed as he watched her writhe in pain.

He stared down at his hands, white and clenched in his lap. He didn’t deserve Mrs. MacHamish’s love and hospitality. He deserved to be sent to Azkaban for life. Before, his motto had always been, “It isn’t illegal if you don’t get caught.” But now he realized for the first time that Muggles and Muggle-borns were human, that they had feelings and families. It was like he had lived in a dark cave his whole life and was only now seeing the light and the life of the world outside.

And it scared him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“NOOOOOO!” Lucius sat straight up in bed, eyes wild, hair in disarray, and mind going a thousand miles a minute.

“Shut up, honey,” Narcissa muttered sleepily and rolled over, hogging the sheets.

Lucius looked around him and began to laugh, slightly hysterically. It had all been a dream, an extremely realistic and frightening dream, but just a dream nonetheless. He was a pureblood, his name really was Lucius Malfoy, he hadn’t killed his own sister… he sighed with relief and flopped back onto his pillow.

It was at that time that his butler, a portly and balding fellow, entered the room. Although the Malfoys owned a multitude of house elves, it was handy to have a few human servants around for when one tired of looking at the disgusting bits of squeaky-voiced filth that house elves were. For that reason, they employed a cook and a butler; rather confusingly, the cook was named Mr. Butler, and the butler was named Mr. Cook.

Mr. Cook the butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Malfoy, two letters have arrived for you.”

“It’s a bit early to be discussing business, don‘t you think?” snapped Lucius, using the little-known definition of ‘business’ that made it synonymous with ‘exortion.’ “Perhaps later?” He paused suspiciously. “Unless… who sent the letters, Cook?”

“Well, sir, the first was from your mother, Madame Aethonia,” replied Mr. Cook.

Lucius’s throat tensed. It couldn’t be…

“Something about the Peverell crest flatware…?”

Lucius laughed his hysterical laugh yet again. He had never been one to believe in dreams before, and it was ridiculous to start now. Of course Aethonia only wanted the Peverell crest flatware. “And the second?” he prompted.

Mr. Cook hesitated. “It arrived via Muggle post,” he said. “Obviously sent to the wrong address. It was addressed to someone named ‘Sawney,’ I believe… from a Mrs. Doris MacHamish of Edinburgh.”

Lucius blanched like a dead fish.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Lucius paused after recounting his story. He was sure he had made a mistake, that he had come to the wrong place, and that he would regret what he was now doing.

The old man’s blue eyes were uncomfortably bright as they looked directly into Lucius’s. Both men were silent for a moment.

“Thank you very much for coming,” spoke the old man at last. “If you seek protection for your family--”

“I don’t just want protection,” blurted Lucius. “I… I want to help.” And it was the truth, although he realized it only after speaking. Being honest had unexpectedly become quite a habit of his lately.

Albus Dumbledore surveyed him over his half-moon glasses. “Welcome,” he said, “to the Order of the Phoenix, Mr. Malfoy.”