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.”
How Ironic, Mr. Malfoy by Schmerg_The_Impaler
Chapter Notes: (Too bad I don't own Harry Potter. And by the way, I'm really sorry for taking so long posting this story. Complications arose, ensued, were overcome.)
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