The Left Hand Path

Disclaimer: All characters are the intellectual property of J.K.Rowling, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros Cinemas et al. No profit is made or intended to be made from this work. Song lyrics: 'Let it Be' by John Lennon & Paul McCartney, 'Father and Son' by Cat Stevens


Chapter Two
You Aint Going Nowhere


I

And in my hour of darkness, she is standing right in front of me.

Lucius concluded that he was too old for Rob of the Rangers and his fictitious quidditch team. The tiny moving figures, each made up of stark black lines and brightly coloured dots, seemed silly now as they flew across the pages of the comic, or crashed into the spectator’s towers with a large yellow star and the word ‘Powww’ in chunky letters.

Kneeling beside his bed, he pulled out the wicker basket where he stored his collection, some two hundred issues since 1959 when his grandfather had bought him something to keep him quiet. He tossed the latest issue in with the rest and then dragged the basket into the middle of the floor along with the other things to be thrown out. Then he sat and stared at the pile. His urge to tidy up drained completely at that moment, as if someone had pulled out the stopper in his well of enthusiasm.

Dobby, the family house elf, had stopped offering to help after seven attempts, when Lucius finally shoved him out of the room and closed the door, but now Lucius wondered just how far the elf had wandered and if he might be called back. Tidying, it seemed, was no cure for boredom. It simply generated a whole new kind of tedium. He moved and sat on a different part of the floor, gazing idly at the room from this new angle.

For a while he looked for faces in the flowers on the beige wallpaper, finding sinister expressions amongst the faded rose petals, but after staring it the same pattern for thirteen years, he knew where they were by heart. Propping his chin on his fist, he wondered if the house elf could be persuaded not only to redecorate, but to keep it from the rest of the household. Apparently the paper was hand printed, centuries old, and therefore was irreplaceable despite its hideous design and despite Lucius’ protests that a floral pattern, even a faded one, was hardly suitable for a boy’s room.

He glanced up at the window and watched the colours spread across the clouds. It was too late to go down into the village and visit the Goyles. Goyle might be a couple of years younger, but he had a wireless in his room. It was stolen from the old witch Goyle’s father used to send him to do chores for, so it was old but it still worked. So far they hadn’t found any hexes on it either. And Goyle’s room was untidy and full of odd smells. Lucius had been there a million times and still didn’t know what was hiding in every corner. Unlike Lucius’ room, you couldn’t see the wainscoting or under the bed. But the Goyles would be getting ready for dinner.

So, with another glance towards the pile of textbooks waiting on the bedside cabinet, Lucius stood up and slipped out into the hallway.

The corridor stretched out before him, dark wood panels reflecting the candlelight as it flickered. Lucius paused by the door and listened out for the elf, but the only sound was a steady thump of footsteps. The east wing ghost, however, had decided not to manifest himself beyond these sounds.

Lucius made his way to the end of the hall, where an aspidistra sat on a low table and the hallway snaked sharply to the left. A long passage led off ahead of him, dusty sunlight breaking around the edges of doors. Though the floors were polished and candles burned, a thick layer of dust lay along the top of the dado rail and on the frames of the various paintings watching Lucius as he crept along through the shadows. None of them spoke, but a few gave wary glances, looking down their noses as he passed. At the end of this hall, one stern painted face regarded him warily as he approached. She too said nothing, but she gave a slight nod and acknowledged him. Lucius touched the frame and felt the Dutch metal flake off beneath his fingers. He wiped off the dust with the edge of his sleeve, taking care to clean the small brass plaque that gave the lady her name.

It still felt strange to him, however, as he looked at her. He remembered her vaguely, the memory like a ghost standing at his shoulder, but with each year those images became more distant. He remembered more of the portrait’s expressions and moods than he did the subject’s.

A final thud from the ghost down the hall threw Lucius back to the present and he glanced over his shoulder, listening intently. Something had made the spectre leave. The footsteps now coming along the corridor were chillingly distinctive, a single step followed by a cold clack of wood against wood. Lucius winced at the sound and looked about for a place to hide, but already knew there was none. For a moment he envied the ghost.

Sibich appeared around the corner then stood glowering beneath his straggly fringe. He put his weight on the wooden leg that was responsible for the awful sounds earlier and let his arms hang by his sides, a large wooden cudgel in one hand. He seemed to be made entirely of brown paper, his robes cheap and mud-stained, his brown checked shirt crumpled, and his face devoid of any cheer.

‘What are you doing down here?’ he demanded.

‘Nothing,’ Lucius replied, pulling himself to his full height. ‘Speak to me like that again and I’ll let my father know about it.’

‘Let him know. I know your sort, you’re all the same.’

‘My sort?’

‘Young ‘uns. All the same.’ He cast one final sneer around him, then turned away. ‘Always up to something.’

‘What could I possibly be ‘up to’ in a corridor?’ asked Lucius, folding his arms. ‘As it happens I was looking around some of the old portraits. It might be an idea for you and your house elf to think about cleaning down here at some point. This part of the house is filthy.’

Sibich limped off down the hall, and since there was nowhere else to go, Lucius followed.

‘No one comes here,’ Sibich replied, ‘save you. Mooning over your mother.’

‘I am not mooning over anyone.’

‘She’s not coming back, you know,’ laughed the groundskeeper darkly.

Lucius frowned. ‘Obviously. She’s dead.’

Sibich let out a throaty chuckle. ‘And I’m a dragon. Ran off with the bloke from the Ministry.’

‘So you keep saying. Odd that you’re the only one who’s ever said that.’

‘Someone had to tell you.’

‘And why shouldn’t it be you?’ asked Lucius, glaring. ‘After all, you do enjoy it so.’

‘Telling a brat the truth? Cutting through the lah-dee-dah tripe that’s dished out around here?’ snorted Sibich. ‘Course I do. You’re all the same. Noses so high up in the bleeding air you can’t see what’s right in front of you. Or won’t see.’

‘My father should have sent you away years ago.’

‘Your father couldn’t find his own arse with both hands, boy.’ Sibich turned and scratched his unshaven chin, his grey eyes narrowed. ‘If it weren’t for me, this house would fall to pieces.’

‘Parts of it already are,’ Lucius reminded him with a wry smile.

‘That’s the elf, not me.’ He grumbled a few more curses and complaints as he reached the stairs and lowered his wooden leg onto the first step. ‘I’m going into the woods. Stay out of there if you know what’s good for you, for tonight at least.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I said so, that’s why. That pillock Foster reckons there’s muggles about, sneaking past the enchantments somehow. Well, if any of them do sneak past…’ He tapped the cudgel on the banister then inspected the end of it. ‘So if you don’t want clobbered by mistake, keep out of there.’

He started cautiously down the stairs, but just as Lucius was about to head back to his room, the groundskeeper paused and leered up at him through the railings. ‘Mind you, you ain’t got time to go running around outside, have you? Not if you want Dippet to keep you at Hogwarts, ay?’ He hissed and shook his head as he walked off. ‘A Malfoy failing at Hogwarts. Never heard the like.’

‘I am not failing,’ Lucius shouted after him, but Sibich merely laughed and clunked downstairs, rattling his club on the banister.

‘Bloody squib,’ Lucius muttered, and kicked a nearby plant pot as he passed.

II

From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen. Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away. I know I have to go.

Abraxas Malfoy replaced the stopper on the decanter and listened for a moment to the crackling fire. Somehow, with the glassy, dismal landscape outside, the warmth of that fire seemed to ooze decadence and wealth, and brought a faint smile to his pallid lips.

‘I don’t expect dinner to be long, Oliver,’ he told Barbason, who was settled on the sofa with his legs crossed and an arm draped along the cushions, so that his robes splayed out around him.

‘Not in any hurry,’ mused the American, swirling the remnants of his drink around in his glass. ‘Nice to sit down, in fact. Last few months have been insane.’

‘Well,’ said Malfoy, returning to his chair by the fire, ‘if you would rather not head up to Cambridge tomorrow, and perhaps take a day to rest…’

‘No,’ replied Barbason quickly. ‘No, I’m not looking on this as work or a chore, Malfoy. This is a vacation. Besides, I’ve been interested in seeing this place for a long time.’

‘It interests you then? The, shall we say, ‘less altruistic’ side of our art?’

Barbason sighed and shifted his weight slightly. ‘All aspects of magic interests me…’

‘Quite. But the darker side of things does have a certain allure for some people.’

‘Perhaps. I just have passing interest.’

‘Ah,’ said Malfoy, then drained his glass.

A few granules of soot and flue lining rattled down the chimney into the fire. Malfoy glowered at the flames, then hurriedly rose and crossed the room, narrowly missing the sudden rush of smoke and dust as a large man appeared on the hearth, dusting off his robes. He straightened and slicked back his hair, muttered a quick charm to clean himself up, then glanced apologetically at Malfoy.

‘I’ve told you before,’ Malfoy said, before the other man had a chance to speak, ‘if you must come here unannounced, for goodness’ sake apparate.’

‘Sorry,’ answered the visitor curtly. ‘Only I thought you’d want to know.’ He caught sight of Barbason at immediately shut up. For a while he simply stood, hands thrust in the pockets of his camel hair robes, a glower on his heavy brow.

‘It’s all right, Goyle,’ said Malfoy, ‘this is Oliver Barbason of the New Town College of Magic in Massachusetts. He’s here as a guest of the Ministry. Oliver, this is Calatin Goyle, an associate of mine. Somewhat affiliated with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, but don’t let that worry you.’

Goyle reluctantly shook Barbason’s hand, then helped himself to a drink from the cabinet.

‘So,’ sighed Malfoy, ‘What do you want, Cal? It’s a little late for a social call.’

‘Just thought I’d pop by,’ Goyle explained. ‘Heard it just as I was leaving. One of the aurors has been killed. Jenny Causaubon. Threw herself into the river this afternoon.’

Malfoy shrugged. ‘Some sort of nervous breakdown?’

‘Depends on whose office you listen outside. Moody’s been making noises about the Imperius curse.’

‘Well, what was she working on? I mean, these people must come across the rougher sorts all the time. One of them didn’t like being watched and did something about it?’

Goyle sighed and shook his head. ‘She was working on some ongoing project. I don’t know what exactly.’

‘Didn’t stand outside the office long enough,’ remarked Barbason quietly.

‘She was keeping an eye on someone,’ Goyle continued, ignoring the previous comment. ‘Someone called Novich.’

‘Novich?’ said Barbason. ‘Why?’

‘Still disapprove of Goyle’s methods?’ asked Malfoy wryly.

‘I don’t know why,’ Goyle told them. ‘Not him exactly. More people who went in and out of his place. You know, watching who bought what and who seemed interested in what. Well, whatever it was she was doing, they’re saying she caught onto something and started to follow it up. And whatever it was got her killed.’

‘A visit to Novich’s sounds more appealing by the minute,’ muttered Malfoy.

‘I don’t find it amusing,’ said Barbason. ‘Surely if a woman’s been killed and it’s something to do with that place…’

‘But you’re only going there from idle curiosity, Oliver. Nothing could happen to you, and the Ministry certainly would have no reason to keep tabs on any of your activities, now would they? And it might be interesting to look around. One never knows when information might come along, and when it might prove useful.’

‘Well, they’ve put another auror on the case,’ Goyle explained. ‘Bound to be watching Novich’s. Just thought I should tell you, in case you are going there…’

‘Which auror?’

‘Fellow by the name of Morgan. Idris Morgan.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘Neither do I. He’s fairly new. Fairly young.’ Goyle shook his head. ‘Just thought you’d want to know. If anything was happening, anything that maybe shouldn’t be happening…just that the Ministry are going to be watching a lot of things more closely for a while.’

‘It’s unusual, certainly,’ concluded Malfoy, ‘but hardly the severest news to hit our world this century. In a week, it’ll all be forgotten. But I do appreciate your…’information’, Cal. I might almost consider allowing you to smoke one of those revolting cigarettes in the house some day in return.’

Goyle snorted, the closest he ever came to laughing when sober, and continued to regard Barbason cagily.

‘Where’s the lad, then?’ he asked, without taking his eyes off the other wizard. ‘My boy’s never as quiet as this. If he were here, you’d hear him from the village, thumping around the place.’

‘Yes,’ mused Malfoy. ‘Fortunately Lucius was brought up to understand the virtues of silence. One would hope he might be studying, though I think that may be too much to hope.’

Goyle nodded. ‘Heard he hadn’t done too well. Still, it’s early days, isn’t it? I mean, the important stuff’s the exams.’

Malfoy toyed with his glass. ‘Oh I shall see to it that he knuckles down and finds some focus in his studies, that I guarantee. For one thing, I have had words with the head of his house regarding the sorting arrangements in his year.’

‘In Slytherin? My boy likes his class. Keeps forgetting the password though, poor thing. Nearly spent a whole night on the stairwell, if your lad hadn’t found him. Takes them a while to adjust, doesn’t it?’

‘What is the…’ He looked off to one side, as if searching for a polite word. ‘…The composition of the first year like? In Slytherin, I mean? Has your boy said anything about his classmates?’

‘If you mean what I think you mean,’ said Goyle, still scrutinising Barbason, ‘then he told me it was mainly pureblood. I think he said there was a little pocket of…’ It was Goyle’s turn to search for a more decent word. ‘…Of muggle-borns.’

‘There are three in Lucius’ year,’ stated Malfoy. ‘Not to mention those in other houses in the shared classes. An utter disgrace and it’s getting worse every year. I ask you, Cal, is it any wonder the children fail? These people have no real understanding of magic half the time. They haven’t been brought up with it. They don’t know the etiquette. Oh, it can be learned, so they say, but I have yet to hear the woolly minded liberals deny that there is a distinct advantage in being exposed to magic from birth. They have more of a feel for it. So these idiots are let into classes, they feel inadequate and overawed by everything in sight, oohing and aahing over every doorknob or candle, and disrupt the whole class. What’s more the school is forced to lower its standards of teaching in order to introduce these halfbreeds into our society. They must start from the elemental facts that to any pureblooded child would be as natural as walking. And it’s the better students that suffer.’

Barbason stared at the floor. Finally Goyle stopped glowering, but only so as he could return to the drinks cabinet for a refill.

‘The brighter students are too easily bored,’ Malfoy went on. ‘They lose their concentration and once that is gone, it is hard to recover. By the time the muggle-borns catch up, the purebloods are ruined. Not to mention the fact that most of these muggle families or partially muggle families bring up their offspring in an environment full of the trivialities of the muggle world; television, muggle music, pointless games and ridiculous ways of wasting away their ridiculous lives. Then they bring that to school with them, that same attitude of nonsense and mischief, and lead the hard-working children astray with it.’

Goyle shrugged. ‘My boy says the food is good though.’

‘Well,’ sighed Malfoy. ‘Lucius has been told. I do not expect to see that sort of report out of Hogwarts this year. The trouble is, these empty headed teachers they employ nowadays fill the students head with as much rubbish as the muggle-borns. I mean, would you believe Slughorn tried to set the blame for these marks on Lucius? Said he was ‘having difficulty keeping up with the more complex subjects’. ‘A little slow at times’, that was the other quote. Well then, is that not simply a reflection on their teaching methods? Surely if there are difficulties, it is up to them to rectify them, to offer additional classes, to remove the disruptive elements? But no. Because the school is too busy introducing ‘Muggle Studies’ classes into its curriculum. Honestly!’

Goyle shook his head and considered his drink. ‘Terrible.’

Outside the door, sitting on the steep staircase, Lucius leaned against the banisters and hugged his knees to his chest. After a moment, however, he decided that it might not be the best time to approach his father about the new broom. He stayed where he was, however, having nothing better to do.