With Good Intentions

“Shite!”

The letter, which Lucius disillusioned to give her two days of peace, couldn’t have been worse if it contained a killing curse that triggered on opening.

“Nolan Tutela’s dead. Neville found him on the floor in his room. He and Hannah own the Leaky now. Dammit!”

“Hermione, calm yourself. You’ve noted Tutela’s advanced age many times.”

“Don’t be stupid, Lucius! Tutela was murdered — I’m sure of it! I keep in touch with the Longbottoms; I’ll get the details from them. And what was Tutela doing at the Leaky in the first place? I thought he lived in Wiltshire?”

“He’d become… concerned… with the increasing violence surrounding Molly’s rallies. He was a widower; never had children.”

“Why didn’t he stay here!? What an idiot! This is a problem Lucius. You have a hearing in two weeks and no attorney of record.”

“What about Platagenet Parkinson?”

“What about Voldemort!? He’d be more competent dead than Pansy’s father. I’m going to file an amicus curiae petition so I can speak at the hearing.”

“With the purpose of?…”

“Delaying any true hearing for another two months while I complete my licensing exams. I can legally represent you then.”

“You are too brilliant and devious to have been sorted into that red and gold sanitarium for mental defectives. You must have asked the hat for Gryffindor.”

Hermione and Narcissa laughed easily at Lucius’ declaration.

“I’m muggle-born. Other than Ron’s timely lecture on the disproportionate number of dark wizards from Slytherin house I had no idea what being ‘sorted’ actually meant.”

From her seat in the upholstered wingback chair, Hermione missed the silent messages flitting back and forth between Lucius and his closest confidant (who hung on the wall).

“Hermione… I’m appreciative of your assistance and… company —”

“You mean sex, Lucius?”

“If you must be vulgar, then — yes. The pleasure of your body has lengthened my life by years.”

“Glad to be of service.” she shot back, barely able to contain her mirth.

“I hope you’re enjoying yourself at my expense.”

“We BOTH are,” came from the portrait.

“IN ANY EVENT… Think through this carefully. That filing will tie you to me publicly. Be very careful; you are unused to being vilified in public.”

“I’m a ‘mudblood', Lucius. Or have you forgotten?…”

“If you seek an apology for my summary judgment of you as a witch —”

“I don’t. I’m reminding you that I’ve been a target before. I’ll deal with it.”

“Even from former friends?…”

“Especially from former ‘family’.”

Two weeks later the Wizengamot heard a masterful argument on the benefit of delay until another qualified advocate could be found to ensure a fair and balanced trial. In the gallery, where members of Molly’s group — “Mothers Against Death Eaters [M.A.D.E.]” — demanded to be allowed to view the proceedings, cat calls and threats flew at the translucent magical screen displaying the courtroom actions.

In the end, Hermione’s arguments — that any miscarriage of justice would rend the quieting wizarding community of Britain in two — persuaded judges interested in preserving their own reputations to back her recommendation.

It wasn’t like Lucius Malfoy was going anywhere or had any real power.

Or so they concluded…