Archive of Our Own

29th of June 2020

 

Lucius stepped into the foyer a vindicated man, cleared of all charges, to a sea of cheering, jeering and camera flashes. He knew exactly how to carry himself, nose held high, a sharp flick to settle his hair and a handsome pearly white smile.

 

Before he could reach the Floo, however, a red-faced woman burst from the crowd to accost him. He noticed only too late, as ministry guards scrambled to apprehend her, that she was bearing her wand.

 

“Avada Kedavra!”

 

With that phrase uttered, Lucius Malfoy was dead. He would never reach the Floo, never see his manor house again, he would never see his grandson become a man, he would never do or say anything ever again. He would not read the next morning’s paper, with its dramatic headline “LUCIUS MALFOY MURDERED! SUSAN BONES ON THE RUN!” and he would not bear witness to the anguish and grief soon to overwhelm his family.

 

*

 

James had seen his mum cry before, but it had never affected him as badly as this, she felt so small and weak in his arms and a chill was soon spreading from his stomach to his heart. He was on the verge of tears himself when the doorbell mercifully pulled her back to her senses. He answered the call and found his uncle Ron standing there.

 

“Hey mate … is your mum in?”

 

“Um, yeah, she’s just …”

 

“I’m here, Ron. Come in.” James made himself scarce, not wanting to be drawn into what was sure to be an awkward conversation. He caught the beginning, however, as he marched up the stairs.

 

“Do you know where Harry is, Gin?”

 

His mother was silent.

 

“It’s only that, um, well, we think he might be hiding Susan. Hey, woah, hey.”

 

James didn’t need to listen for the sobs to know that that his mum had returned to crying.

 

*

 

“What are we gonna’ do?”

 

Harry regarded the blonde woman pacing about 12 Grimmauld Place. “I don’t know” he said blankly.

 

“Will you let them take me away?”

 

He didn’t want to answer that question, so he gave her only a silent reassurance. He stopped her in her tracks and held her. He felt the spark as soon as their foreheads met, the naked passion that drew the pair together. She pulled his hand to her stomach and peppered his face with kisses.

 

The knocking he’d been anticipating came all too soon, however, and he was forced to break his silent promise as the Aurors filed in to arrest her. Mercifully, she did not plead or sputter, and he was spared the indignity of professing his undying love to her. Ron was among the men carting her off but neither friend made eye contact with other.

 

He lingered for a moment to consider what he should do. He could not burn evidence, for the evidence was eye witness testimony and a dozen photographs scattered amongst the myriad press rooms of magical Britain. His “boy who lived” celebrity still counted for something but not enough to clear someone of murder. However briefly, he considered going home to his wife and letting the whole ordeal pass him by.

 

Instead, he made his way to the ministry headquarters by Floo and rushed to Hermione’s office. She would know what to do.

 

“Come in.” She sounded tired, looked worse and barely seemed to recognise him until he spoke up. She was even worse than he was for over-work, though paradoxically better at making time for her family.

 

“I need help.”

 

Her head shot up and her mind seemed to run wild behind her eyes. “I … is this about Susan Bones?”

 

Harry avoided eye contact as he spoke. “Yes, it’s … she … I want to keep her out of prison.”

 

Hermione’s brow furrowed at that. “Harry, I don’t see how I can help and … I don’t think I’d want to. She’s a murderer, Harry.”

 

He needed to keep himself from getting angry. “So was Lucius Malfoy!”

 

“You were the one who wanted clemency for the Malfoys, Harry.”

 

“Yeah? Well now I want clemency for Susan.  Aren’t we entitled to that? So many of them got away with what they did. Surely we should get the benefit of the doubt from time to time.”

 

“Benefit of the doubt? She killed someone in broad daylight. There were witnesses! I was one of them.”

 

“You’ve got power, Hermione. We are in power. We can get her off the hook, somehow. A bribe here, a bit of blackmail there.” He was hurt by how scandalised she seemed. “Hey, don’t you still have Skeeter under your thumb?”

 

“Well, yes but I hardly see what that has to do with anything.”

 

“Hermione, please!”

 

“Why does this mean so much to you?”

 

“It’s … she’s … Hermione … she’s pregnant.”

 

*

The thought made Albus guilty but it persisted nevertheless. Lucius Malfoy’s death had only served to strengthen the Malfoys’ haunting, sad, lonely beauty. Narcissa stood, glamorous even in grief, next to her only son – himself a widower – and her grandson, the most handsome boy Albus had ever known. The picture of them now, which he imagined would stay with him for as long as he lived, was the only good thing about being on this side of the funeral.

 

He’d wanted to be next to Scorpius, his best friend in all the world, but Drusus Mulciber – a frightening man, Lucius Malfoy’s solicitor – had convinced Narcissa that it would be better to keep Albus with the “friends” and not the “family”. Never mind that many of those on the family side were far more distant cousins than Albus, the sight of Harry Potter’s son with the Malfoys had been good at the trial but it would not do for them to be seen to be weaponizing their own grief.

 

That was what was said, at least. Albus couldn’t shake the feeling that it had more to do with the look Mulciber had given him when he saw the two boys holding hands. With the rest of the so-called friends, was Mulciber’s niece Liv – the wrong sort of Slytherin, as Scorpius would say – and a menagerie of other pureblood families, at least half of them having avoided time in Azkaban.

 

The family side was much the same, with the exception of the Greengrass family – the picture of elegance, some in scandalously lighter colours than black – and Teddy Lupin – wearing a hat for, presumably, the first time ever.

 

Apart from Liv receiving a well-earned smack upside the head from her uncle, the funeral was an appropriately dull affair and it didn’t last as long as he remembered Arabella Figg’s lasting. He soon learned, however, that he would stay on his feet for most of the day as Susan Bones’ trial was scheduled for later that day or, rather, Lucius Malfoy’s funeral had been scheduled by his solicitor for the exact same day as the trial of his killer.

 

This calculation proved a moot point, however, as a more significant event had captured the public’s attention. During their brief respite at Malfoy Manor, whereas Narcissa and Drusus engaged themselves in some thunderous argument, Scorpius revealed that the Daily Prophet had performed an about-face on the issue of Susan Bones. He handed Albus’ that morning’s copy.

 

It was headlined by a plea for Bones to be spared prison time. In a sensational article, Rita Skeeter declared that Azkaban was no fit place for an expectant mother. “A what?!”

 

“Keep reading.”

 

And there it was in black and white. Susan Bones was carrying Harry Potter’s child. Albus’ little half-brother or half-sister. It was … It was …

 

*

 

James normally hated the creeping prospect of a return to school, the return of tests and lectures and endless rolls of homework. This year, however, he was desperate to escape Godric’s Hollow and get back to his friends. His mum, when she wasn’t locked in her room or away with Dean, was full of venom. She would not let him go a day without knowing how many lives their father had ruined or how every new hiring or firing at the Ministry was his fault.

 

It was tiring beyond belief. Hermione losing her job was dad’s fault, she said. Shacklebolt resigning was his fault, she said. It was his fault, she said, that Percy was the new Minister. And she would brook no argument. Why was it even a bad thing that uncle Percy was Minister for Magic? She wouldn’t say.

 

Worst of all, however – as he could begrudgingly admit that everything was his father’s fault – was her continued slavish devotion to Albus. He didn’t have to put up with any of her ravings, yet his name was practically hallowed. He’d always been just as absent from her life as dad, but you put that fact to her at your peril. By now, he hated Albus and had become increasingly worried that he wouldn’t be able to contain himself around his mother. He was not so envious of Lily, as although she seemed less loyal to their father and less affected by their mother’s rants, she still swelled his protective instinct whenever she became upset – which was now quite often.

 

In her only act of defiance, she came with him to speak to their father, now that he had collected all of his things. She stayed close to James and didn’t say a word.

 

“Dad, are you … when will … will we see you at the Weasleys?” Christmas dinner at the Weasleys had become an unbreakable tradition for as long as he could remember, only Albus had ever missed it.

 

“I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m invited this year.”

 

“Well, um … well, what about here? Will you be here for Christmas? Or … or, sooner?”

 

“Sorry.” His father looked upset and stood around pathetically for a good long while. “Well, I’ll be off then. You know, you can come visit us, both of you … and Albus, you know … if he wants to.”

 

“Visit you and Susan, ya’ mean?”

 

“Yeah, she, uh, she really wants to get to know you. I’ll write to you, when you’re back at school. And you can come around. In the summer.”

 

James wanted to run away, but he didn’t know which way to go. It seemed that Lily had the same idea and bolted. She ran into her dad’s arms and James felt his heart ache when he scooped her up and squeezed her tightly. They locked eyes and Harry beckoned for his favourite son. James couldn’t resist and buried himself in the pair’s embrace.

 

*

 

Rose was still cursing herself for her days’ old stupidity. Silently, of course. She knew all too well that no more drama was needed at Molly Weasley’s poor old dining table. But, god, she was bloody stupid. She had pushed her mother at exactly the wrong time, arousing anger but, more dangerously, suspicion. Hermione Weasley was infamous for her curiosity and it was now set against her own daughter’s worst secret.

 

She’d asked if Liv could join the Weasleys for Christmas. She had expertly set up the fact that they were working on a project – it was, damnably, a fake project as Hermione would now very easily be able to discover – and Molly Weasley had never disallowed guests. Indeed, Rose had argued that she could simply have turned up with Liv and got her own way.

 

That, she now realised, was just presumptuous enough to have got her mum’s back up.

 

When her mother had explained that Liv would be unwelcome, she should’ve been smart enough to understand that that had simply meant guests – in general - were unwelcome this year, on account of all the drama. Instead, she had assumed that it stemmed from prejudice – a blonde haired, blue eyed, pureblood could occasionally be subject to that.

 

The rest of their exchange had devolved into a screaming contest and, most unfortunately, ended with Rose playing the dad card. Telling her mother that she would plead with her more gullible and amenable other half had resulted in a look that Rose could only describe as nightmarish – no screaming, no hitting, no harsh words or deeds of any kind, just a silent and piercing gaze.

 

Operation Be-As-Compliant-As-Humanly-Possible was in effect from thereon. She had not, in fact, ended up saying anything to her dad and would be quiet and polite throughout dinner. She would not ask where her presents were – they were not with Hugo’s under the tree that morning – and if it was, indeed, her punishment not to have any, she would be glad of it.

 

Briefly surfacing from her memories, she ate another slice of chicken and realised that many of the other Weasleys looked as miserable as she felt.

 

There was Percy, awkward and uncomfortable. Molly, more stressed than usual. Dad, tired and timid. Mum, as icy as the night they’d had their bust up. Bill, hiding anger from some obvious grievance. Fleur, wounded and disinterested in food. Ginny, too loud and smiley to be truly happy. Dean, even more uncomfortable than Percy. James, brooding and silent. Lily, teary-eyed but perhaps from happiness.

 

There were happier faces among the other children, her uncle George was as devilish as ever, and Charlie was not unhappy. Still, an observer might guess that there had been a death in the family … they would not have guessed that death had instead conquered one of that family’s most hated foes.