No Looking Back

For my wonderful friend, Dynonugget. Rawr!!


I’ll begin to figure this mess out in the morning.
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Sitting across from Draco, I am amazed at the young man he has become. We have finished our lunch at a restaurant in Diagon Alley, and the server has just delivered our espresso.

An hour earlier, he greeted me with a hearty handshake and wide smile, and my heart swelled. Our relationship was tenuous at the best of times while he was growing up, his mother exerted too much influence. To do less would have put all our lives in jeopardy, especially in those early years following the Dark Lord's vanquishment. Having to constantly peer over my shoulder for a shadowy knife meant making sacrifices, the greatest one being raising Draco with the constant presence of malice and espionage instead of quieter times and games of chess.

No more, it seems. I now realize why my wife made no mention of our son last evening: he hasn't had contact with her in nearly three years. It seems her influence dwindled after the war. I cannot say I am disheartened by this news.

I cannot burden him with this. The thought murmurs in my ear, I cannot burden him with this development, not when I do not know how it has happened or why. I do not believe him to be in danger, but I must be on guard, nonetheless.

I see him pull my pocket watch from his vest, check the time then, with a discreet nod to our waiter, signals for our check. He has caught my look and smiles as he tucks the watch back into the hidden pocket.

"After the kidnapping attempt a year ago, I am never without it," he admits. I raise my brow, waiting for the rest of the story. He sighs, but leans forward.

"I know I said that creating the pocket watch into a Portkey was the cleverest bit of magic to come about that night," he confesses is a quiet voice, licking his bottom lip as he does when he is nervous.

"And I know I said that I would always treasure it, put it away for the son I hope to have one day." He looks around, as if to catch someone standing too close in the hopes of listening to what he is saying.

"But the thing is, Father, after someone tried to grab me last year, I reactivated the Portkey you made that night. If activated, it will take me back to the cottage." His eyes are wide with mirth, and while I do not remember the Portkey, I certainly know the small cottage to which he is referring.

"Does it still...." I begin, but stop as he snorts softly, repressing a laugh.

"It still smells. I swear Uncle Severus put a sticking charm on that foul odor! I will forever associate swamp socks with the cottage!"

I lean back, chuckling softly. One more question answered, then. I had turned my pocket watch, that detestable bit of my father I'd been forced to carry, into a Portkey that had carried my son to safety. I couldn’t save Draco and Severus the night they escaped Hogwarts; the night Severus was forced to follow through with Dumbledore’s hideous plot, so I am pleased to know I was able to accomplish my goal, after all.

Another thought rises in my mind. Someone attempted to kidnap him a year ago? Is this somehow tied to my memory loss?

"The watch never made me feel safe, it felt too much like my father." I did not mean to verbalize that bit of information; I must still be a bit off from that blasted spell.

He just nods, but a small smile is creeping onto his face. "It is for that reason I wear it to this day." My son has admitted he wears the watch because it makes him feel safe. My throat convulses, and I quickly sip my espresso to hide my reaction to his words.

There have been words that have never been spoken between us; or if they have, I am hearing them today for the first time with a new appreciation of their magnitude. I had resigned myself that, to keep my son safe, I’d have to put aside my longing for a real father/son relationship, the kind that I’d never had with my father. In its place was a cool detachment, a prescribed distance designed to create the illusion of a less than ideal bond, thereby putting him one step farther from the Dark One’s peripheral. If Draco appeared less important, he was less likely to be used as a weapon.

We linger over our espresso. I ask vague, leading questions, and in doing so, meet him for the first time as a man. I discover an honest, intelligent, cynical, dry-witted man whom I am proud to call my son.

We end our luncheon on another handshake and a dinner invitation for the following week at his flat. He has assured me the evening will include cigars, chess and Scotch. I find myself looking forward to the plans with an eagerness I haven’t felt in many a year.

I spend the rest of the weekend attempting to rebuild what appears to be the last five years of my life. I am more than a little distressed that I have no business ledgers, no correspondence; no scrollwork at all that would suggest what I have accomplished since the end of the war. I have uncovered legal documents that outline my acquittal by the Wizengamot. Very tidy piece of legal work, I smirk.

I also uncover documents relating to the confiscation and subsequent return of all Malfoy property by the Magical Law Enforcement Bureau. A very fancy piece of legal footwork, and I find another reason to congratulate myself.

Monday morning I wake early, as is customary. As I perform my morning ablutions, I assume Narcissa is still not fond of mornings and is in her private suite. I was glad to discover some things hadn’t changed in the years following the war. My wife and I chose to keep separate private quarters after Draco was born; she was not fond of the marital bed, or, at least, my bed. We developed a fondness for one another during our courtship, but had married for familial obligations. Over the years, our marriage evolved into a working relationship, and, for the most part, we treated it as such. While I may have enjoyed the pleasure of a woman’s company time and again, I have never had an affair, although the same could not be said of my wife.

On my way to my study for breakfast, an errant thought assails me. Is that still true? Have I never had an affair? My reasons for not indulging in anything but the most casual of assignations are firm. No one is to be trusted. Not anyone, at any time. Some part of me feels uncomfortable with that assessment this morning. I cannot remember the past five years: I’ve suffered a constant headache this past weekend from attempting to force my memories to the surface. The fleeting doubt remains.

Behind my desk in the study, I sip my second cup of tea while intently studying the early edition of the Daily Prophet. I am about to turn to its business section when the Floo bell sounds softly, signaling its activation. To my great amazement, none other than Hermione Granger steps from my fireplace, brushing her robes perfunctorily and greeting me with a small smile.

“Good morning, Lucius,” she offers. "I'm surprised to see you here this morning."

She nods at the paper I am holding. “Did you read the article Benjamin Hammer wrote regarding the acquisition of CelticMicro? You’ll be the envy of Britain by lunch.” Chuckling softly, she sets down the slim briefcase she is carrying, and after Transfiguring a paperweight into a cup and saucer, she helps herself to a cup of tea. My tea. What the hell is this woman doing, stealing my libation?

I can do no more than sit dumbfounded by the scene before me. How dare she walk into my study, as if she has the right; I am indignant. She is certainly acting as if she has the right, I think as she casually adds sugar and a drop of milk before stirring delicately.

I say nothing while I attempt to fit the puzzle pieces together. Her name on a scrap of parchment, where my journals should be. No correspondence or business ledgers. No interest in Narcissa’s activities. Ireland. CelticMicro. Miss Granger in my study, addressing me by my first name.

My eyes wander the room and spot her sinking softly into the overstuffed club chair. By the way she has crossed her legs, shapely legs I am startled to notice, this is her routine. I’ve no idea what she expects, but I stand and stride across the room, taking a seat on the sofa, closest to her. She smiles, saying nothing, as if waiting for me to begin the morning’s discourse. I reach a decision.

“Miss Granger,” I begin, the name sounding foreign in my mouth, “We need to talk.”

A huge thank you to my two wonderful betas, Wildcatcdc and Sc010f! You ladies rock!