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Barely opening his eyes, Abraxas regretted every decision he had made the previous night. As he remembered more and more details and realized the consequences, he groaned and slid off the bed… only to find that he had slept in someone else’s underpants. It wasn’t his bed, either, he noticed, taking a closer look at it.
His head ached, and his mouth felt like a desert. It made it hard to concentrate.
“Awake, Sleeping Beauty?” A rough voice, as hungover as Abraxas’s must have been, cut through his ears.
The culprit of their precarious state was happily eating a breakfast of pâté and champagne, sprawled on a sofa half turned out onto the loggia, half exposed to the morning sun.
Squinting against the bright light, Abraxas walked over to Antonin and took a fresh baguette smeared with pâté and apricot jam from his plate — the smell was amazing, and in a better mood Abraxas would have whispered praise for the kitchen elves.
But today there was only a muffled rumbling in his skull and a floating mess of yesterday’s events.
“Don’t blow your nose,” Abraxas muttered as Antonin took another swig of the half-empty bottle.
“Did you say something, Moth[1]?”
“Share with your neighbor.”
“That’s our way.”
A couple of sips of champagne temporarily helped Abraxas banish the headache. He knew it would return later, doubly so.
“I didn’t dream we poisoned the peacocks, did I?”
“Not ‘poisoned’, but ‘fixed’,” Antonin snorted and grimaced. “Your mamán almost caught us. What a hysterics she would have thrown.”
“Do you believe it worked?” Abraxas asked, trying not to think about his mother’s reaction. “What were we going to do with them anyway?”
After his father’s passing, provoked by the constant fits of Marcelline, who had become utterly unbearable during her labour, she easily lost her temper. Blaming her son and the inexperienced lord was the easiest thing for the stern, inconsolable lady to do. Abraxas was not angry with his mother, but sometimes… he missed her warmth: kisses on the forehead, advice in choosing outfits, even gentle scolding for mischief.
It had all gone with his father.
Marceline, the fifth daughter in a pureblooded French family, old, respected, and influential, had no interest in her husband, in the politics and business of the Malfoys, or in British high society. She refused to speak English, even though she knew the language perfectly. All day long, Marceline only tormented the house elves with nagging, the widow Ophelia Malfoy with scandals, and her husband with silence and locked bedroom doors.
Abraxas had long since given up hope that a newborn child would melt his wife’s icy heart, or at least lead to a reconciliation with her mother-in-law. As soon as the child is weaned, Marceline will return to France, and Abraxas will take care and upbringing. His mother believed he could do it. It seemed she couldn’t wait for her daughter-in-law to leave the manor and the country before insulting their family name with the appearance of a paramour so soon after the wedding: there would be humiliating rumors about Abraxas as a man.
“We shall know soon enough. But first, food!”
“You’re hopeless,” Abraxas sighed, forcing himself to focus on more pressing matters.
“But you’ll never get bored with your hopeless best friend,” Antonin grinned, nudging him with his shoulder and nearly dousing him with champagne. The two-day stubble hiding perky dimples on his cheeks and early wrinkles around his eyes made Antonin look older than his twenty-three years[2], but there was always a youthful glint in his eyes. “Don’t be sour, your chickens aren’t wiped out.”
When Abraxas had gone to fifth year, Antonin had transferred to second year because of the Muggle War: Britain, he said, was safer than his hometown, whatever it was called. Riddle, the new prefect and leader of Slytherin, had been strangely lenient with Antonin — and it was only years later when Abraxas realized why.
He had never brought it up with Riddle, but from then on, he tried to consider… the impact the war had made on both Riddle and Antonin.
During their schooling Abraxas had seen many transfer students, all of them had fled from somewhere, just as many as the Muggleborns and half-bloods who disappeared during the summer holidays — he had never cared for either of them, deeming them unworthy of his attention, but now that detachment left a bad taste in his mouth. Riddle and Antonin’s fear of the Muggle world had seemed absurd to Abraxas, until one day Antonin had forced him to see the destruction with his own eyes.
The Muggle War had been over for several years now, but the history written in blood had not disappeared.
Abraxas felt like a pathetic, spoilt child then! He had never even thought of helping Riddle, whom he considered his closest friend, if that notion could even be applied to their leader. Abraxas had graciously invited him to visit for a couple of days, but no more. It was only a pureblood courtesy instilled in him.
Now Abraxas understood why Riddle, who had been so adamant about proving he belonged to an ancient bloodline, actually despised purebloods.
Antonin was different.
The scrawny second-year boy that Abraxas had first seen him as, he had the habits of an auror who had learnt the taste and smell of death. Neighbours complained about his nightly screams and his harsh rebuffs when they tried to wake him, teachers about his aloofness, sloppiness, and uncontrollable accent. Riddle taught Antonin to disguise himself, to blend in with the crowd of ‘sissies’, to follow the pureblood customs when it was advantageous, instilled diligence and self-confidence.
Within a couple of months, Antonin’s loyalty was in Riddle’s pocket.
Intentionally open and amusing, Antonin had become a popular boy who hung out even with Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, knew the latest rumours, took cruel but fair revenge on those who offended him, and was favoured by the professors. His true passion was the dueling club. Gradually his feigned cheerfulness became real.
Depressed that he had missed the opportunity to reach out to Riddle and Antonin in the past, Abraxas tried to make their lives after graduation as comfortable as possible.
Riddle, swallowing his pride, silently accepted the key to Abraxas’ Bristol apartment, given to him by his father for graduation. The flat was good for nothing but inviting lovers or mistresses over, and Abraxas parted with it easily. There was a floo network, decent furniture, and a functioning kitchen — a big improvement over the rented room in Knockturn Alley.
Antonin didn’t have a tenth of their leader’s ambition, and was content with a bunk in the attic of a pub and part-time jobs here and there until Abraxas persuaded him to take up dueling professionally. After making his debut in the high league, Antonin worked his way up to the top three, fighting like an inferno. Now, five years later, his name was on the lips. Only the current world champion, the half-goblin Flitwick, had never lost to Antonin.
Building a reputation was exactly what Riddle expected of them all.
Abraxas had taken his father’s seat in the Wizengamot abruptly, and only a few members looked beyond his age. He felt like a barely fledged chick among the old men. Usually heirs had years to prepare and build relationships, but Lord Malfoy had died early, too early for a wizard. Family hardships and the harshness of the political environment were pressing down on Abraxas’ shoulders, so Antonin’s visit was an outlet.
His parents turned their noses up at the Russian upstart because of his unconfirmed blood status, but his skills and titles made them more tolerant. Since then Antonin was allowed into the hunting lodge on the edge of the property.
The only disadvantage of living there were… peacocks.
Back in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, the Malfoys had imported these useless, shrieking birds to show off their wealth[3]. Peacocks’ meat was disgusting, but Abraxas had been used to their eggs since childhood — his father had explained their serving for breakfast as a family tradition. He, unlike Abraxas, got along well with the peacocks — they never pecked him.
“Did we take notes?” Abraxas asked, when Antonin had finally finished eating the pâté.
“Look over there,” he waved his hand towards the table. “I’ll take a piss. Champagne is already flowing—”
“Spare me from the details!” Abraxas rolled his eyes and rose, staggering slightly.
The haphazard heap of blotched parchments, broken quills, opened books, unusable ingredients, and school notebooks made him sigh heavily. Somewhere in the midst of this dump could lie the final recipe for the potion they were using.
Having sorted through the manuals and written out instructions, Abraxas came to the conclusion that he and Antonin — fools rush in! — had taken quite a risk mixing the two potions. They were lucky they hadn’t blown up the entire hunting lodge and themselves along with it.
‘Beautification potion plus Volubilis potion,’ was written in Antonin’s scraggly handwriting, ‘equal pretty, not wildly shrieking beasts!’
Laughing, Abraxas began to examine the strange combination his friend had devised. He himself was rather mediocre at potions, having not even studied them since his fifth year.
A Volubilis potion, if prepared correctly, made the voice of the drinker as thin as a nightingale’s, but not as chattering as one might think. How a compound intended for humans would affect a bird, Abraxas had no idea. The Beautification potion offered a temporary but significant improvement in appearance, and was popular in brothels and at balls, where physical attractiveness was highly marketable.
Abraxas remembered the safe substitution of ginger root for gurdyroot from his school course, but he had never heard of adding porcupine quills, a highly unstable ingredient, instead of lady’s mantle, a harmless plant. If they had forgotten to put out the fire, they would both be flaunting not a pretty blush, but burns.
“How did it occur to me?” Antonin muttered, slamming Abraxas on top of him and nearly knocking them to the floor. He tapped his finger on the next paragraph.
“You did what?!”
Abraxas ran fingers through his hair, which was in a disgusting state after a night over the cauldron and had knotted while he slept.
“You Mordred’s brat!” Abraxas roared as he fumbled for the tuft on the top of his head left by the cut strand. “Who would sanely replace unicorn hair with human ones?!”
“Hair from the tail—” Antonin clarified, and Abraxas, unable to bear it, punched him in the chest.
The sod didn’t even move.
“Don’t be angry, Moth,” Antonin smiled charmingly and held the kicking Abraxas with his strong arms until he finally gave out. “Your tresses were the best we had, don’t you agree?”
Abraxas didn’t want to look at his ugly hair in the mirror, especially since he had a headache after trying to slap Antonin. He returned to the sundrenched couch and closed his eyes.
“Hey,” Antonin swept round as a dark silhouette. “Come on, I’m sorry, Abby!”
“Don’t call me that,” Abraxas said, squinting at his friend. “You will never touch my hair again.”
“Not even over the loo?” Antonin innocently stretched out and, chuckling, dodged the pillow. He was the most alcohol-resistant of the bunch, and he was always fussing over the overdrinking heirs. Abraxas, however, had not been drunk to such a state in a long time. “Don’t pout, let’s go see the feathered bastards.”
Accepting the outstretched hand, Abraxas followed his friend outside. It was so hot that he didn’t bother to put on his robe. No one on the manor grounds would be embarrassed by his nakedness, and Abraxas had not expected any other guests besides Antonin.
The peacocks were locked in a spacious enclosure that was usually left open: the birds were free to roam wherever they liked during the day, returning on cold nights, and gathering around the hunting lodge on warm ones, shrieking from the early dawn. The first time he heard them screaming, Antonin promised to strangle the birds one by one, chop them into small pieces and fertilise the garden with their remains. Riddle, who witnessed that outburst, laughed like a child. Abraxas had rarely seen him so happy.
He wished he knew what the leader would think of their experiment in ‘fixing’ peacocks.
“Well—” Antonin grumbled, poking a finger at the crestfallen male through the bars of the cage. The peacock made a long, melodious sound. “It hardly sounds like a squeaky wheel. Our brew has worked!”
Abraxas glared at Antonin.
“Why are they white?”
“At least they don’t shriek.”
“They’re white,” Abraxas repeated louder. “Don’t the effects of potions wear off after six hours?”
He wondered how long ago they had gone to bed. Maybe they should have waited a little while? Peacocks were very colourful birds as it was, how would the beautification potion affect them? Or was it all his hair…
“Platinum then,” Antonin confirmed Abraxas’ thoughts.
He reflected wistfully on the severed strand. Because of his allergy to many components, Abraxas hardly ever used cosmetic potions and it was simply not possible to grow his hair in one hour like the others.
“You could register them as a new breed. Malfoipavo?” Antonin suggested.
“I’ll patent you,” Abraxas grimaced. “When I turn your hair into an ant-onion[4]!”
“Have pity! Next time we’ll make their meat tastier.”
“What next time? How do you know what they taste like?! Stop right there!” He ran across the lawn after Antonin, who was making faces at him. “I’ll always count them before you come!”
“Just as long as you invite me!”
Quickly tired and feeling the effects of the night again, Abraxas stopped and, panting slightly, sat down on the grass wet with dew. His mother would have had a stroke if she’d seen how indecently he’d been running around in the open air in a deshabille.
Like a mudblood.
Antonin, picking up bad habits while travelling, was a poor influence on him. Fortunately, it amused Riddle — he never admonished them when it was just the three of them.
If only they could be all together forever.
Sighing, Abraxas decided not to wonder how his mother would react, to forget about the Wizengamot meeting tomorrow and just enjoy the company of his best friend, the pleasant sunny day and the absence of peacock cries.
[1] Abraxas is a genus of moths in the family Geometridae. Because of their mottled coloration, they are also known as magpie moths.
[2] It is the year 1953/1954, so Dolohov was born around 1931, and arrived at Hogwarts in 1942. Although he was younger than his classmates, the difference in the programme meant that he went straight into the second year.
[3] At that time it was really becoming the European fashion to bring in peacocks.
[4] Totally not real, but a very scary hybrid, and also a pun.