Malfoy & Dolohov

As Lucius spoke, a part of Archie, the part he had to bury deep down when he was around his pure-blooded peers, flared up. Of course the Goblins were horrific, but did they really deserve to have no fun? Archie didn’t know, but he would never suggest such a horrendous offense to Lucius Malfoy. No, it was better to play along; better to pretend as though what Lucius was saying was fact. He hated this game, but it was one he had gotten quite good at playing, especially with the other man. If he wanted to keep him around, after all, he couldn’t be himself. Not really. There were few people he could be entirely Archie around, and even though Lucius knew of a side that many others didn’t, he would never know Archie. “Would be quite funny if they tried to throw parties in the vaults, though,” Archie said, a dramatic sigh following. “I suppose we’ll never know if a goblin could throw a true bash.”

The man’s offer sent a tingle down Archie’s spine, even though he wished it didn’t. “I suppose I can leave the Goblins for the time being,” he said, shaking his head as if it were truly a question. It was unfortunate, how much Archibald Macmillan enjoyed Lucius Malfoy’s company. Truly, he knew he should run, but the part of him, the younger man who had first come out to Lucius, stayed. “I think I know just the place,” Archie grinned. “But you’ll have to trust me, if you don’t mind.” He held out his hand for Lucius to take, heart hammering in his chest.

Archie didn’t seem entirely comfortable, and Lucius couldn’t help pitying his friend; what must it be like, to be so afraid of gossip that one shied-away from showing one’s true self in public? (Granted, there were certain parts of Lucius’s true self that he was currently keeping hidden, but that was a different sort of thing altogether -- and once the Dark Lord had won, he’d waste no time in striding out proud and glorious in his Death Eater robes!) No, Lucius had learned early that the best way to deal with gossip was to enjoy it -- indeed, to court it. To make it a strength, maybe even a weapon -- never something to fear.

Lucius dealt with the threat of social stigma not by fearing or even ignoring it, but by grasping it by the hand and embracing scandal until he’d made it part of his brand -- made it fashionable. He would never understand why Archie balked at doing the same, even after his marriage to the indomitable and bewitching Isla Selwyn. He could only hope, for Archie’s sake, that after they at last produced the requisite heir that he would let himself loosen up -- not that there weren’t perks to helping Archie “loosen up” in the interim. More than helping goblins do the same, certainly! Lucius laughed at the thought of a goblin-bash and suggested, “I’d go to a vault party. That’s unique enough to be charming, even with the possibility of goblins on the guest list. Perhaps you should throw one someday, call it a ‘community outreach’ event, or advertising or something. If anyone can talk the stingy little buggers into it, it’s you.” He winked cheekily, although Archie’s next thought was far more enticing than hobnobbing with goblins.

The Perils of Paperwork

The bloody Goblins were taking more than their allotted time to try and figure out just how to keep a particular vault safe. At some point, Archie had suggested his father’s trolls and they’d actually laughed in his face. Laughed, as if this vault were really any different than the others they’d put trolls to guard. Archie had left the meeting, although it was surely not over, with the excuse that he had other paperwork to finish and that the goblins really, truly, didn’t need his help in this matter. Unfortunately, they would have to call him back in when all was said and needed to be signed by the Ministry employee.

Now, though, he stood outside, reading the paperwork that the goblins had drafted asking for dragons. Dragons. Bloody hell, didn’t they have enough creatures to worry about on this level? Sure, there were dragons down at the very bottoms of the vaults, for the most secretive and lucrative of families. He was certain the Malfoy’s vault did have a dragon, although since he was not there to build the vault, he wasn’t allowed to know that information. Lucius wasn’t about to spill his vault secrets, even if some other words were exchanged between the two men often. Almost as if Archie had summoned him, the voice of Lucius Malfoy echoed throughout the hall. “You’ve guessed correctly,” he grinned, unable to contain the glee he felt at seeing the other man. “Of course, I wouldn’t exactly consider it hopping. Napping, maybe. Bored to tears, absolutely. I don’t cry for many, Lucius, but whoever taught goblins how to plan clearly did not teach them the art of simplicity.”

Archie snorted, unable to stop himself. Lucius had always made him laugh, despite everything. “Their idea of fun is reading a History of Magic textbook. I doubt they have the same ideas of leisure as you and I, Malfoy.”

Lucius cackled -- oh, it was such a relief running into someone with real wit and refinement, after a long morning of blood Ministry flunkies -- and slung a fond arm around Archie’s shoulders as though they were still young men paling-around in their dungeon dormitory. “Ahh well,” Lucius observed superciliously, “the little bastards wouldn’t do us much good if they had interests beyond their obsession with treasure, would they? I suppose it’s just as well you haven’t corrupted them. Could you imagine the disaster it would be if Gringott’s suddenly shut-down because the goblins decided they wanted a day off? Or a vacation?” Lucius snorted. “Best to leave them happy in their toils so we can enjoy our leisure.”

He turned to glance at the closed door, as though he might be able to glimpse some useful tidbit through the solid wood, but while Lucius Malfoy was a shrewd observer with a knack for looking through people, that knack did not extend to oak doors. Men, on the other hand... He turned back to Archie with a rather different sort of smile on his face this time. “Speaking of enjoying one’s leisure, corruption, and all that...what do you say we skive-off from those boring responsibilities and find something a little more...entertaining with which to occupy ourselves?” He winked. “One another for instance, perhaps?”

LOCATION: Ministry of Magic DATE: Jan 28, 1982 @arcmacmillan​

The Dark Lord had been breathing down Lucius’s neck lately (not literally, thank Merlin!) about the lack of new recruits -- willing, coerced, or Imperiused, He didn’t care -- and fear of his master’s temper was the only thing that could have compelled Lucius to leave the comfort of his home on this bleak wintry day. He would have much rather been sprawled in front of the fire playing with Draco than be trudging through the crowded, cavernous halls of the Ministry of Magic -- but that wouldn’t have done much to keep the Dark Lord happy...

A familiar face (not that there were many faces in the Ministry that weren’t familiar to Lucius these days, at least in passing, but there was a difference between familiar and familiar, so to speak) caused his spirits to brighten, and the smile with which he greeted the other wizard was, for once, utterly genuine: “Archie Macmillan, you gorgeous miscreant, what are you doing here on such a wretched afternoon? No, don’t tell me -- it’s the bloody goblins, isn’t it? Keeping you hopping?” Lucius’s lip curled -- not at Archie, old housemate and chum that he was, but at the idea of any wizard, especially one he actually liked, being kept at the beck-and-call of such lowly creatures. Still, gold talked no matter in whose hands it lay...

@starbrightblack​

Draco was too little to understand what had happened, of course; was too young to know death or loss. Had Lucius had the power to ensure it, he would never learn either -- but even Malfoys have limits, and shielding their children from the base facts of the world forever was beyond even his most arrogant hopes. Still, Draco didn’t understand yet, any more than little Theodore did -- but Lucius did.

He hadn’t known Leina Nott well -- hadn’t thought much of her, either -- but she and her husband had been regular guests at any social event the Malfoys hosted or attended (or as regular guests as a crotchety old recluse like Josiah could ever be) and they had shared a certain unspeakable but undeniable social connection, for all that Leina herself had never been made aware of it (a terrible but terribly common practice in a marriage, Lucius thought, keeping secrets from one’s spouse) and the boys played together, sometimes...

So her murder hit home hard for Lucius on behalf of his son, even if it would likely be years before Draco himself understood. He had needed to do something bright and sparkling and alive with the boy -- and if he could kill two fwoopers with one spell, so much the better.

Thus he was here in Diagon Alley, settling Draco securely into one of the child-spelled seats at the enchanted heated tables along the street outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. In preparation for the planned activities, Lucius was dressed somewhat more sensibly than normal -- while cleaning spells could salvage just about anything, it was always best to be cautious when facing the combination of ice cream and child -- in silver-and-burgundy threaded brocade with a stylish hippogriff feather-fur collar while Draco wore robes of cozy ermine and emerald-dyed merino.

It wasn’t getting any easier - keeping himself even, open, like this was just another bloody workday. A slaughter. It wouldn’t be. James could handle himself. Sirius, too. Alice was an Auror. They’d be fine. And when they were all back at the Potter place, and he’d scrubbed this bastard’s company off himself, it’d be them and some stupid, sinister, soon to be useless heirloom. Like as not hideous. Maybe, once it was disenchanted, James could keep it as a doorstop. A paperweight. Sirius might joke about mailing it off to the Minister, an early Christmas present. There’d be laughing, and he’d breathe again. Soon. 

If he could just slither his way through this. Puppy. That was one thing, one sickly, sticky little thing. But the poking and prodding, the torture. For his filthy friends. Prattled on about like it was the new BBC special. Tough to swallow. Remus did it, though. Managed. “’Course, yeah. We going to do that here, are we?” He threw a disbelieving look over at Nott’s… once-glorious manor. New, and a werewolf; Castor might be able to get away with stupid, useful questions. “Suppose he doesn’t much mind the state of his carpets, does he?” A few bloodstains would only add to the ambiance, wouldn’t it? Place was only a few bats away from Bram Stoker, as it was. And to think, the Notts had a child. A baby, in there. With these people. 

His head swiveled back, slowly, as the Death Eater’s hand rose. No wand; just… Remus’ eyes ticked down to those fingers, up, to dark, not-so-drunken eyes. Still sharp, this one. Sharp and very, very near. He nodded, faintly. “You’d think.” Wouldn’t you? What else, what else was he going to say, to this - the fuck was he up to now? A - oh. Shit. That hand, swiping his. That mouth, on the back of his knuckles. Right. Now, now he could see the shape of all this, yes. No mistake. Bloody hell. Getting eyes made at him, by one of Voldemort’s own. 

That was one thing. But the name. The fucking name. Antonin. One he’d seen on the list. One he’d heard stories about. Ugly stories, with body counts. Antonin Dolohov. He cleared his throat, suddenly, awfully fever-warm. Antonin Dolohov was playing the gentleman at him, and it was like - like somebody was walking over his grave, that was the saying. Saw it in some American book. Remus couldn’t help the shiver; but he could throw all the deceit in him, every gram, into a lazy smirk, the lift of an eyebrow - cocky, some play in it. Fucking with the worst kind of fire, here. Could send the whole bloody operation up in smoke, if he mishandled things. That was Dolohov’s specialty, after all; making messes. The explosive sort. “All mine, mate,” he rasped. “Afraid I’m not up on my courtly manners. This where I’m meant to give you a curtsy?” 

The werewolf seemed uncomfortable, out of his element. Good. Keep the beast off-balance, tease him and toy with him...just like he would a Mudblood, only not really, was it? Because this was no ignorant bit of mud, no blind Muggle without an inkling of what really went on in the world -- this was a wix, a proper wizard once upon a time before the bite and the curse. Castor was tainted, ruined -- but not stupid. Wouldn’t be trusted to guard Josiah’s house if he was stupid. Wouldn’t even be trusted to set foot on the grounds if he was stupid.

The mere fact that Josiah Nott, of all people, was willing to tolerate some filthy pup on his land -- that said that while Castor might be new and skittish, he was no fool. Had Greyback recommended him? Would Josiah have paid any mind to the recommendation of a beast like that? No -- but he’d listen to the Dark Lord, wouldn’t he? Had Lord Voldemort himself sent little Castor here, sniffing around? What for? To get a fresh perspective on Josiah? But no -- the man was a fanatic, devoted to the cause without question; if there were no Dark Lord, no Death Eaters, old Josiah would be out there hunting down mudbloods for sport on his own, Antonin had no doubt. So if it wasn’t Nott’s loyalty the Dark Lord had sent Castor here to poke at...what was his purpose?

Maybe it was just to tweak the old bastard’s tail. Antonin wouldn’t put pettiness like that past the Dark Lord -- it was one of the things he liked best about him.

So, send Nott and the others off to lay a trap for their enemies, then send Castor here to watch the house and keep it safe from non-existent threats...all to make Josiah squirm at the thought of a werewolf in his garden. Laughter bubbled up on Antonin’s lips and burst out, raw and hoarse and heartfelt -- a downright guffaw of grim delight.

“I would,” he agreed cheerfully, “I very much would, yes. But I suppose it would be harder to keep all the children -- and cubs,” he added not-so-graciously “--in line without comforting lies like that, wouldn’t it? Much easier to keep them in their cradles, in their places, if you tell them the world will be fair, will follow the rules.” Antonin’s lip curled in a sneer. He took a step closer, the sneer fading into a smirk, his eyes roaming across Castor’s weary face. “Keeps them meek and mild and obedient -- tame, one might say. Doesn’t it?” They were so close now he could taste the other man’s breath; was that a hint of alcohol or was he imagining it, making assumptions from the state of the other man’s tired eyes? Perhaps it merely lingered on his robes -- or on Antonin’s own robes, from his visit that afternoon to Ganymede; did he remember someone bumping up and spilling something on him? Had he changed since then? It was so hard to keep track, these days... Well, Castor would be able to smell the sweet herbs and sour spices of Antonin’s latest brew on his either way, so what did it matter? They were all sinners together, here.

“They find out the truth soon enough though, don’t they?” Don’t we? he didn’t say -- didn’t bother saying it. There wasn’t a werewolf alive who didn’t know the world was unfair, and as for Antonin...well, all his illusions of fairness had died with Antonin. No way for Castor to know that; would he dare ask Antonin what he knew of unfairness, a wealthy pure-blood like him? If he did, would Antonin answer? Or would he hex Castor’s throat out? He didn’t know. These days, it was so hard for him to tell which way he was going to jump...so hard to see himself clearly through the fog of those potions, or the ache of the inevitable withdraw...

Castor’s eyes looked huge in the sliver of moonlight. Antonin smiled at him, slow and languid and dangerous. “You can curtsy if you like,” he said quietly. “Seems a bit prim and proper for the likes of you though, doesn’t it? Of course, maybe that’s what makes it fun -- be something you aren’t for a minute, hmm? Put on pretense, a bit of play-acting. Stirs the blood, that sort of play -- doesn’t it?” He leaned in closer, so close now that their limbs nearly touched each time one of them breathed. He lifted a hand and toyed with a lock of Castor’s hair -- fur? Did you call it hair on a werewolf, even when they were man-shaped? Such interesting questions Castor presented!

He didn’t. But an agreeable nod, a distant “oh, aye,” that would do. Didn’t mean anything. Didn’t have to. PThis was just so much shoptalk. With a Death Eater. Merlin.

He’d done it before, or something like it, anyway. Those packs Dumbledore sent him out to, most of them were half-gone to the Dark Lord as it was. Half or worse. His mission hadn’t, in fact, been anything like secreting refugees away. The headmaster had needed a fucking spy. Remus was there to listen, notice, and learn. Whoever he was pretending to be was there to find a way forward, to follow whatever path seemed surer, safer, stronger. He was reaching for them, now, those people he could be. What made it so crushing was this: how close they were. How much sense they could make.

Good thing, too. Because what came next hit like a beater’s bat, and that simple, awful sense was all that kept him in place. That, and the white-hot, feverish knowledge that he couldn’t fuck this up, for the sake of the Order, and their work, tonight. Couldn’t. 

One of Fenrir’s pups.

It rung in his ears, the way a concussion would’ve. “That’s right, yeah.” With a solid, hard nod, Remus cracked out something like a grin; like someone’s, maybe, but not his. This was bolder - made for those pack animals who wouldn’t trust a new member until they saw you riled up for the moon, eager to run wild. Until they saw you proud, ferociously one of them. Fearless. Ready to fucking hurt something. Made him sick enough to shake, those nights did. Every time. Grateful for the gloom, Remus fought the frantic urge to look back for Mary, hoping, desperately, that she wasn’t close enough to have heard. Best to stay watching that Death Eater, though. Might be a drunk, but if his spellwork was half as quick as his connections, Remus was far from sure about his chances. Far. 

With that smirk on, holding his ground was easier - he’d had to, with the wolves. To keep his throat intact, and earn what passed for trust, out there. “Suppose so,” Remus huffed. “Pity, us missin’ out on the hunting.” That’s what they wanted from their werewolves, yeah? What they expected? Some appetite. Bit of bloodthirst. Had to live up to Greyback’s example, after all. But what the fuck would Fenrir Greyback do, here? Remus stayed put, stock still, as the space between them burned off to, well… very nearly nothing. Wasn’t at all what he’d figure would follow someone, anyone, nevermind one of the Dark Lord’s own, sorting out his secrets. Couldn’t decide, really, if this reaction was worse than the one he’d expected. Mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure what this was.

“How do I like it?” What had they said, those believers? The ones that turned his stomach. The ones he’d had to sound like. Remus wrung out a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s - been a revelation, hey? You grow up, you go to school, and all the while - you do what you’re told. Think you understand what’s possible, think you know what can be done. Until the world turns. And you realize how bloody wrong you were.” How stupidly hopeful. “Then, after everything, you’ve got fuck all to show for playing by all the rules. So you take it, or… or you’ve got to find yourself some new rules, don’t you?” 

Don’t you? 

The best lies were based on truths. Saw that in a book, somewhere. Remus knew he couldn’t have managed it any other way; he didn’t have it in him to spin stories out of nothing, like some people. Too much self-doubt, for that. No, he had to start with a scrap of something real. Like anger. That had been it, more and more, as the months went on. Because he had so fucking much to spare, welling up. Seemed like if you sunk some genuine piece of yourself into the foundation, you could build some hideous, unfamiliar things, and still have a hope of them holding at least a while.

That’s what he needed, tonight. Just an ugly while. He swallowed - chalkdust dry, sour - and finished. “I like these rules. Think they suit me better.” That was the answer Castor had come to. With such certainty. Funny, when your fake selves see it all clearer than you do. Castor had found himself a horrific alternative. Remus? His fingers were slipping around hope, these days. But it was Castor who lifted his chin, met those roaming eyes, and smiled, right back. That conjured, canine smile. Quizzical, but sharp. “Now, if I might ask…” Polite, yes. Couldn’t forget who he was talking to, here, or fail to account for the lines they were likely to draw. There were Dark Wix, and Dark Creatures, after all. Lines he couldn’t threaten if he was hoping to keep this unremarkable. “Who wants to know?” 

.

The werewolf didn’t look happy to be called-out -- or maybe he just didn’t like being labelled as subservient to Fenrir Greyback. (Was there dissension in the pack? Some jockeying for power, maybe, or just general discontent? Interesting. Antonin filed the possibility away to consider later.) For now, he focused on Castor -- his grin more like a baring of teeth, which was so appropriate it almost felt overdone. Antonin replied with a matching grin of his own anyway. Maybe Castor was playing-up his part on purpose; maybe the man just had a natural flair for melodrama -- or maybe that was Antonin’s sense of drama at work, adding nuances that reality didn’t support. Did it matter? Either way, it was fun.

Antonin barked a laugh, harsh and pitiless. “Not much of a hunt, if all goes as planned -- more of a slaughter.” His grin widened, sharp and blood-hungry, and he found himself wishing that he had gone with the others tonight. He wouldn’t have minded a chance to throw some Curses at those self-righteous, anarchist hypocrites...but at least he had some entertainment of his own here, instead. “Don’t fret though, puppy,” he continued cheekily. “Orders are for survivors to be dragged along so we can poke and prod and rattle their brains around until they give us the keys to finding the rest of their filthy friends.”

That was, of course, only if all did go according to plan, and one could never be sure of such a thing when there was a battle involved...but this wasn’t a battle; it was a trap. All his fellow Death Eaters had to do was spring it, and then overwhelming numbers and skill would take care of the rest. The two or three targets they were expecting wouldn’t stand a chance; the only real kink in the plot would be if over-enthusiasm got the better of the others, and they killed them all before they could remember to take one alive.

Still, even that outcome wouldn’t be anything to cry over; there would always be another day, another fight, after this. (As long as she wasn’t there...but she didn’t seem to stick her head out very often, did she? Not that Antonin could track, anyway. Besides, she was canny enough to get herself out of danger, wasn’t she? Had been canny enough to kill Antonin, and that couldn’t have been easy; Antonin had spared with Antonin often enough to know the younger wizard’s skills...) Realizing he was letting his thoughts wander, Antonin shook himself back to the present -- bloody brain-fogging potion -- and ran a finger lightly along the shoulder of Castor’s robes, almost like he was checking for dust on the furnishings.

“A revelation, hmm?” Antonin dropped his voice a little, tone still too rough to be considered soft but quieter. More intimate. The kind of low-volume half-whisper that made a person lean-in instinctively to hear better. “I feel the same. Funny.” He did, that was the odd part -- odd, to find himself in such genuine commiseration with a beast like a werewolf...but Castor spoke true. Fuck all to show, indeed. All Antonin had was a dead friend and a life in tatters. “You’d think eventually they’d stop feeding people that bollocks, all that rules and fairness bullshit and just start telling it like it is from the start.” A shadow of grief moved behind Antonin’s eyes, leeching the smirk from his face and leaving in its place nothing but the aching emptiness that was slowly eating him from the inside-out -- but that grief was a constant now, and while it was impossible to banish it was getting easier and easier to shut it away behind the mask he wore now even when the Dark Lord’s silver one remained unconjured.

Absolutely plastered. Remus was trying to gauge just how trashed the other man was - he’d got good at that, with himself, anyway. Or, at least, he’d figured he had. The art of drinking just enough to get by, unnoticed. Was it happening more often, maybe? Did it matter, if nobody saw? Yes. And yes. But he wasn’t at it on the job. Not really. Not like this. 

Was the Death Eater in front of him too blasted to be taken at all seriously, though? Quiet as a tomb; that was good, no trouble inside. So far. As for the rest, well, sounded like their not so little diversions were doing what they were meant to do - spread the bastards thin, chasing phoenixes. Not that Remus was happy, exactly, at the thought. Not when those birds included James and Sirius, specifically. Just had to hope they’d come home with all their feathers still on. 

Couldn’t fret about that. No. They were doing their job. He had his. Here, now. Everyone had to pull through, do their bit, or everyone was fucked. As per usual, with these things.

Oh, he hadn’t missed the missions. At least when he’d been out on his own, it was just his life on the line. That was easier to bear. Much. 

Remus scraped out a chuckle of his own, low, dry. Hope springs. “Yeah, right enough…” Now, what could he say, here, to learn something, anything useful, without bollocksing up his end of the mission anymore than he already might have? “Castor.” A John or Brendan wouldn’t cut it, here. Purebloods liked their names, like every other bloody thing about them, to stand out. Hopefully the first classical handle that came to mind would be suit. “Otherwise known as your back up, mate, yeah, auxiliary. An’ you can’t place me because I’ve been nowhere. Only came on board over the weekend.” He sniffed - Merlin, whatever this bastard had been sipping was fucking rank - and cracked his neck. Running too hot, too tight. Same as when he was with the wolves, lying, lying, lying. Remus was an experienced liar, but experience didn’t mean it came naturally. It didn’t. At all. Never had. Some things didn’t change. “Nott’s nervous, is he? What for - how much, ah, how much trouble are we expecting, you think?” How much trouble could this posh, pissed bastard be, if it came to that? And it might.  

.

“Oh, you know old Josiah, he’s always been a fuss-pot,” Antonin said dismissively, although he wasn’t sure of any such thing; if this fellow was a mere auxiliary, he might well be the sort who moved in circles nowhere near the lofty stations that held men like Josian Nott -- and should have held Antonin Dolohov as well, and did, but not exclusively. Unlike prissy Josiah, Antonin had no qualms at all about slumming it...no, no qualms at all. But there were limits to how far even he would dip, and the Dark Lord drew the dregs of his forces from sources low and murky indeed, sometimes. Of what sort was this one?

Antonin narrowed his eyes, forcing the blurry world into focus, and raked his gaze up and down the other man, assessing. There wasn’t much light out here -- a fragment of moon, a thick scattering of stars, the distant glow of the houselights spilling weakly across the detritus of the garden -- so it was hard to make out his features properly, but Antonin thought the other wix looked worn. (Not that he looked much better himself on the rare occasions he bothered to let himself look in a mirror; looked much worse, in fact, prematurely aged by grief and...other things.) Worn man, worn robes, worn voice...

And the moon overhead, less than full. That cinched it: werewolf. Antonin grinned, showing his teeth. “One of Fenrir’s pups, are you?” he asked -- a deadly insult if the man wasn’t, but Antonin wasn’t worried. He wasn’t as given to boasting and bravado as, say, Lucius (who was?) but he knew his strengths, and chief among those was his skill with a wand. His skill not just at dueling, but at destroying. Antonin had a knack for the nastier brands of magic and even when he was befuddled by bad potions or worse withdraw, he’d never been so far out of his wits that he’d been incapable of carving someone else into pieces. No scruffy werewolf would stand a chance...and Antonin would, frankly, relish the excuse to skin one of the mangy bastards.

There were certain levels of filth too far even for him to fancy...maybe. He took another look at the other wizard -- Castor. No surname; perhaps he didn’t have one he was entitled to use, any longer. A wizard from a decent family, cast-out when he failed to avoid a nasty bite and its nastier Curse, cut off from the line and the name, now scraping for scraps at the Death Eaters’ table... And not bad-looking, either, for all that he had an air of something the cat dragged in about him. That kind of aching, threadbare aesthetic wasn’t necessarily a downside, in Antonin’s book. He knew it was the potions talking, in part, inspiring the most reckless and foolhardy aspects of his nature -- but still.

Perhaps this waste of a night might be fun, after all.

Antonin stretched, cracking out his stiff joints, and fixed Castor with another smile. (It had a lot of teeth, too, but if his surmise about the other man’s pedigree was accurate, he’d be used to teeth, wouldn’t he?) “You don’t need to fret, rookie,” he said in a voice that held very little reassurance. “I doubt we’ll see any trouble at all. Those blood-traitor scum are going to be far too busy trying to keep themselves alive to have any wands to spare coming after us here.” He chuckled, a low and sordid sound, and ambled closer to the other wizard. “But it was nice of Josiah to arrange for some back-up for me anyway. Thoughtful fellow, isn’t he?” He wasn’t. But that wasn’t the point of the statement.

Lucius was a wizard who was used to getting his way. He liked fine things, and he liked throwing parties, and he liked being entertained. He did not like people coming in and spoiling his little schemes by exploding lovely gold statutes he had spent a lot of money on and turning his publicity stunt of a party into an utter debacle.

He especially did not like when those debacles hurt his wife.

Under ordinary circumstances, Lucius would have allowed himself a dramatic swoon or three over his own injuries and moreso his dashed plans -- but these were not ordinary circumstances. Lucius had no time to swoon or mope while his beloved Narcissa was wounded -- never mind that it was little more than a scratch; to Lucius, a hangnail on her precious hand would have been a disaster, let alone being nearly crushed by a statue!

(His statue. At his party. That made it so much worse.)

Never a man for subtly, he reacted in characteristically grandiose fashion: covering nearly every flat surface of their manor home with a veritable jungle of flowers; leaving presents (jewelry, books, beautiful robes, framed photos of their son) all through the house like a trail of extravagantly-wrapped breadcrumbs; instructing the House Elves on pain of death to prepare nothing but her favorite dishes; stocking every room with a dozen extra pillows and cushions (selected to perfectly match the existing decor, of course!) for her to rest upon; hiring her favorite singer for an intimate concert in the gardens next weekend to lift her spirits; even silencing his beloved peacocks so their cries would not disturb her rest.

It wasn’t enough, of course, but nothing could be.

As for the rest of his time -- when he was dismissed from fussing over Cissy so she could have some peace and solitude -- Lucius spent it by writing scathing letters to The Daily Prophet and the Ministry both; visiting the Minister of Magic, the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and the Head of the Magical Maintenance Department and expressing his shock and disappointment in person; and dancing attendance on the Dark Lord. This had, after all, been an event planned at his behest, and Lucius was determined to make sure that it was not seen as a failure -- but instead as an even greater success than hoped.

After all, did it not prove just how devoted Lucius Malfoy was to the ideals of magical unity to have his donation attacked by these malcontents? Did it not prove just how dangerous these uncivilized extremists were, and how trustworthy Lucius was in comparison? Did it not give credence to the veracity of this threat to their society that good, stalwart wix like Lucius Malfoy so strongly opposed? Did it not underscore how necessary it was for the Ministry to do something about these “Phoenix” rabble?

The events of the abortive dedication of the Fountain of Magical Brethren not only gave Lucius extra clout with both the government and the public; it gave him a platform with the citizens hungry for any news relating to the attack -- and Lucius was every bit as impassioned, and nearly as persuasive, in prose as in person. His letters in the Prophet were a great success in garnering public sympathy and suport -- and even the Dark Lord had to admit that he had turned the potentially disastrous situation entirely in their favor.

(Lucius started breathing again.)