Harry Potter fic - Chapter One

Dec 20, 2005 00:55

I have now finished the revised chapter one of my HP fic and so figured I'd stick it here, in case anyone wanted a look. Any comments appreciated, especially if you know HP canon and spot anything wildly awry, as this is my first real attempt a serious fic in this fandom.


The Left Hand Path

Chapter One
Your Poor Old Granddad Had to Sweat to Buy You

I

I’m gonna let you pass and I’ll go last. Then time will tell just who fell, and who’s been left behind, when you go your way and I go mine.

The jumble of shapes, colours and jostling bodies made it almost impossible to single out any particular figure on Diagon Alley, but eventually Lucius Malfoy spotted a small, pallid little boy emerging from one of the shops. Draco barged his way past two tall witches with a stern but smug expression on his face and swaggered towards his father, who stood waiting by the doorway of Flourish and Blotts, with a parcel held out in tribute.

‘I got them,’ he announced, smiling. A flicker of cunning sparkled in his pale blue eyes. ‘Madam Malkin said the prices had to go up this year though. I had to use some of my pocket money.’

With a slight sigh, Lucius brought a handful of coins from his pocket and dropped a galleon into his son’s already outstretched hand. Draco glanced down at the coin, frowning, and then hurried up to keep apace with his father.

‘Dad,’ he began, his attention on the shop they were passing. When Lucius kept on walking, Draco reached up and gave a sharp tug on his father’s coat. ‘Dad, we haven’t looked in there.’

Lucius threw a disinterested glance across the street, but Draco darted off and shouldered a small, mousy-haired boy out of the way. He then stood by the shop window, his nose almost touching the glass. The other boy looked over his shoulder at a sullen witch in a blue cloak, who quickly took his shoulder and ushered him away.

‘That’s better than mine,’ said Draco, nodding towards a sleek broom that formed the centrepiece of the display. ‘Someone on that could be past me before I’d even heard them coming. If anyone at school has one of those, I’ll never get onto the team. And I mean, it’s only eighty galleons, but for that I’d have such a start at Hogwarts. I wouldn’t have to worry about not fitting in or not making friends. First thing people do when you go to a new place is look at what you have. That’s how they decide what to think of you. They see me turning up at school with some duff old broom, they’re going to just laugh at me, and hang around with the people who have better things…’

‘Oh for…’ Lucius, with great effort, stifled the rest of the sentence. Draco meanwhile stood by the window looking upwards, his pale face seeming incredibly long as he pouted.

‘It’s only eighty galleons, dad, and I really wanted to play quidditch at school, but I’ll never get on the team with my old broom. It’s rubbish.’

Lucius checked his pockets once again. ‘Well, since no doubt you’ll want robes and everything else to go with the broom, then we shall have to go to Gringott’s first, unless you can find your mother.’

‘Oh, she’s probably at the other end of the street,’ whined Draco. ‘And Gringott’s is only over there. And it looks quiet just now.’

Draco headed off, bashing once again into the mousy haired boy, who turned and muttered to his mother in protest. The witch looked up as Lucius strode past, and frowned.

‘Lucius? Lucius Malfoy?’

Lucius paused and turned. ‘Yes? I’m sorry, do I know you?’

For a moment, the woman stared, her expression growing subtly harder. Finally she pulled her shoulders back and let out a short breath.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘No, obviously.’

She set her hand on her son’s shoulder and strode off. With a slight sneer, Lucius shook his head and went after Draco. The witch stopped a few yards down the street and watched him disappear into the crowd.

II

When you were a child you were treated kind, but you were never brought up right. You were always spoiled with a thousand toys but still you cried all night.

The Nimbus 1000 sat on a wooden display stand, surrounded by crumpled white silk. Nothing else cluttered the window of the Quality Quidditch Supplies shop in Diagon Alley, and there was only one label, a small, hand-written note bearing the name of the broom and the words, ‘Now on Sale’.

The window was already smeared with thousands of finger and nose prints, and there had never been fewer than ten children outside all morning. Though they did not speak to one another, they exchanged a few impressed but sadly impoverished sighs and dreamt on.

Amongst them, a thirteen-year-old boy with white blond hair patted his pockets miserably and cast a ponderous look towards Gringott’s Bank. Same problem, he thought. The funds in the account there were just as out of reach as the broom. Unless he could find Foster.

Breaking away from the crowd, the boy searched around the alley, looking for the magenta suit his guardian was wearing. As predicted, it took no time to find him. Even by wizarding standards, Foster stood out like a large walking cranberry, wandering from shop to shop with his nose turned upwards and a distracted air about him. Other than his clothing, however, Magnus Foster had very little about him that was remarkable. He was tall, sturdy and clean-shaven, yet his features somehow seemed too small for his face, and his brown hair lay on top of his head as though it had just paused there for a rest. As the boy approached, Foster peered through the window of the Owl Emporium, making faces at the birds he could just make out through the darkened glass.

They boy stood by him and said nothing, waiting until he was noticed. Finally Foster turned and gave a slight sigh.

‘Ah, there you are. Finished then?’ He stooped to lift the various parcels he had set down by the wall of the Emporium. ‘Well then, back to the Cauldron. We’ve a long drive home.’

‘Mr Foster,’ began the boy. ‘There is something else I think I need. But I’ll need a little more money. I spent the last of mine on my books.’

‘Oh, what now?’

The boy walked back to the Quidditch shop. Slightly taller than the group of younger children now clamouring around the window, he was able to throw a slight nod towards the broom, then waited as Foster stroked his chin, sighed irritably and frowned towards the Leaky Cauldron as if he thought it would vanish if they didn’t reach it soon.

‘I need a new broom,’ the boy insisted. ‘The try-outs for the house team are coming up and I want to be there. And this is supposed to be the best broom there is.’

‘Well, what’s wrong with your old one?’

‘It’s slow, it doesn’t fly straight half the time…’

‘Nonsense. That’s all a question of balance and skill. You’d be better off practising a little more in the holidays.’

‘But there’s only three weeks left of the holidays,’ the boy complained, ‘and this is the first new racing model they’ve released since 1955. It doesn’t matter how much skill you’ve got. If someone else has one of those, they’ll be past you before you can even say ‘quidditch’.’

Foster looked towards the Cauldron once again and this time checked his pocket watch as well. ‘Look, we don’t have time for this. Barbason’s arriving at four o’ clock and I promised your father I’d have your business out of the way before that.’

‘But, Mr Foster…’

‘No, no, I’m sorry,’ Foster insisted, his ineffectual voice taking on a slightly harder tone. ‘Now come on. You can’t be flitting about the place on that thing when your father has guests anyway.’

Foster walked away but after a few paces he paused and looked over his shoulder. The boy had not moved.

‘Lucius,’ he called. ‘Please, we have to go.’

With great reluctance, Lucius gave the shop window one last glower, then folded his arms and followed Foster to the Leaky Cauldron, and then out onto Charing Cross Road.

Underneath the tall plane trees that lined the broad thoroughfare, a 1954 Silver Wraith sat waiting, its paintwork gleaming and reflecting the grey buildings around it. Foster brushed a few leaves off the bonnet and then walked around to the driver’s side, his back to the bustling muggle traffic and the endless stream of red routemaster buses. He carefully placed their shopping in the back seat, then wiped a mark off the leather upholstery with the edge of his sleeve.

Several muggles passed them, but despite Foster’s exuberant suit, none of them paid any attention. Certainly none of them noticed the tall, wiry boy getting into the back seat with the parcels.

‘Right then,’ said Foster, smiling as he settled into the driver’s seat. He flexed his fingers reverently around the steering wheel. ‘Homeward bound.’ He grinned over his shoulder at Lucius but the sentiment was not returned. ‘Look, you can sulk all you want, but what d’you think your father would say if I told him you’d spent all his money on sports and games? If you must spend money on something, why not try some books? Get in some extra studying over the holidays?’

‘There’s only three weeks left of the holidays,’ Lucius told him again.

‘Three weeks is long enough. Might just make that little bit of difference. You know how upset your father was this year. And last. Why not put a little effort in and try and pull your marks up?’

Lucius folded his arms and stared out the window.

They drove out into the flow of traffic, but the car, rather than taking its place in the queue waiting to reach Tottenham Court Road or Oxford Street, narrowed and slipped between the buses and black cabs.

‘I loathe this city,’ moaned Foster. ‘Why your father won’t allow anyone to use the floo network in his house, or better still just apparate…’

‘He said any wizard, even a muggle-born, can use the floo network,’ replied Lucius dully, reciting from memory. ‘He said true heritage and power had to be distinguished; it had to be different or else it was not true.’

‘Quite right too,’ muttered Foster. ‘Never thought of it like that. Imagine how many wizards use that floo network every day. The diseases…’

‘I used it once in first year when I stayed with the Goyles. It was all right.’

‘Well, you’re young. You’ll heal quicker. And some people have to make do with what they can afford. Not everyone can have a car made up to their own specifications…not many muggle companies would let someone come into their factory and bewitch a few parts before it’s built, but needs must, if the Ministry insist on this ridiculous legislation on muggle artefacts. Still, the Goyles are good people. I do wish your father would visit them as often as he used to. Mrs Goyle’s cooking…marvellous.’

Lucius leaned back, shoving the parcels aside to make a little more room. After negotiating its way out of London, the car expanded to its proper size and sped off along the empty country roads. Sallow clouds drifted over the fields, making dark shapes of the distant hills, with muggle villages dotted like cowpats across the countryside. Smoke rose in tiny streams from the chimneys and turned the edges of the clouds grey. Slowly, summer was losing its grip on the world. Lucius sighed and watched the shadows of the trees reflected on the car’s window. Only three more weeks, he thought.

After a while, Foster turned on the wizard’s wireless receiver fitted into the dashboard and filled the car with the soporific voices of elderly wizards discussing the latest quidditch fixtures and why, after four humiliating defeats in a row this season, the manager of the Appleby Arrows still had not resigned. They had not reached any satisfactory conclusion two hours later. But by then Lucius saw a series of ancient stones along the roadside, forming a broad circle around the village of Avebury. The sight of it was enough to shake off the hypnotic effects of the discussion program and Lucius sat up slightly.

The village consisted of little more than a couple of streets and a handful of houses, with great stretches of green land all around. Though none of the muggles in the village would notice the large house sitting just beyond St James’ Church, Lucius soon spotted it’s dark timbers and stark white plasterwork, and the cluster of deep green forest behind. He started to gather up his things, ready to leap out of the car the moment they arrived.

They passed through a set of gates topped with coiled stone serpents, whose faces had been worn smooth by centuries of inclement weather, then they headed along the gravel drive towards the house. Foster switched off the engine and the wireless, plunging everything into a sleepy silence for a moment.

‘Right,’ he said to himself, tapping the steering wheel and glowering at the dashboard as if he’d forgotten something. Lucius regarded him dryly and opened the door, grabbing as many of the parcels as he could carry. Foster glanced at him, then seemed to remember where he was and what he was meant to be doing. He flung open the driver’s door and came around to Lucius’ side, taking one of the bundles from him.

‘I’ll deal with that,’ he said. ‘That’s your father’s.’

Carrying his solitary package, Foster wandered towards the door, which opened a few seconds before he approached. A short, grey figure with spindly limbs and only a filthy pillowcase for an outfit appeared from inside. The house elf took the parcel as Foster walked by.

Lucius, meanwhile, stopped and looked upwards at the house, with its pewter windows and uneven lines. The family owl was back on the roof again, perched on the thatch with a murderous look in its eyes. Lucius watched it warily until he was safely inside the house, though today the owl seemed to have better things to do than peck and scratch innocent passers by.

Inside, a dark, low-ceilinged hallway wended off through the rest of the house, with doorways as oddly shaped as the Avebury stones leading into its various rooms. The candles had not yet been lit, though only a few slivers of dull grey daylight seeped in through the lead-paned windows. Somewhere further down the hall, a clock was ticking like a tired prisoner rattling for attention. Foster immediately made for a large doorway just around the first twist of the corridor, while the house elf disappeared down the steps into the cellar, still carrying the parcel.

Lucius left his own things in the hall for the elf to take upstairs later, except for one book that he wanted to look at in his room, and the paper bag of sweets he had bought while he waited for Foster to come back from Knockturn Alley. As he came to the stairs and headed up, he heard Foster talking in the other room, but though he lingered for a while, Lucius couldn’t make out much of what was said. All his father seemed to give in response was an occasional grunt, but it sounded like Foster was talking about work. So Lucius left them to it and headed to his room.

He could still feel the ringing in his ears from the last time he interrupted his father when he was discussing what he called ‘Ministry matters’.

III

The line it is drawn, the curse it is cast; the slow one now will later be fast, as the present now will later be past. The order is rapidly fadin', and the first one now will later be last, for the times they are a-changin'.

‘He’s late,’ remarked Abraxas Malfoy, checking the silver watch he kept in the inside pocket of his black, collarless suit. He let out a deep, irritable sigh and glared at the pages of the Daily Prophet, tapping the nib of his quill on his desk as he read. After only a few seconds, however, he set the paper down and dropped the quill into its holder, then sat with his fingers clasped and his gaze unfocussed. He absently stroked the white carnation he wore in his buttonhole and smoothed down his hair, which he had combed into tight waves in a side parting. He then checked his watch once again and decided to give the Prophet another try.

‘Perhaps it’s the time difference,’ suggested Foster, helping himself to a drink from the well-stocked cabinet in the far corner of Malfoy’s study. He tweaked the curtain and looked out the window at the front drive.

‘Lot of muggles up to something in the village today,’ he remarked. ‘Dancing about, singing and the like. I might have a word with Sibich and tell him to keep an eye out in case any of them stray onto the grounds. Lot of ‘em seem to be getting through enchantments lately.’

Malfoy said nothing, but got up from his desk and tossed down his newspaper. He paced around before the fireplace, watched by several portraits of pale, white haired witches and wizards.

‘Transcontinental apparation’s notoriously tricky,’ said Foster. ‘Maybe he got it wrong. Wouldn’t that be a start to a career, ay? First visitor we have, and he winds up spread across various atolls in the Atlantic.’

‘Be quiet, Foster.’

Malfoy returned to his desk and rearranged the blotter, quill holder and inkwell to straighten their angles, when a loud crack suddenly broke the stuffy air. Foster and Malfoy both turned to find a broad-shouldered wizard in crisp navy blue robes, with a crest embroidered in gold on the front pocket, standing by the fireplace, making a mental inventory of his limbs. He looked up and smiled, showing lots of teeth.

‘Mr Malfoy I presume,’ he began, striding towards Foster with his hand outstretched. Foster blushed and threw a wary glance towards his superior. Malfoy straightened.

‘I am Abraxas Malfoy,’ he said.

‘Oh, forgive me,’ replied the wizard, laughing. ‘Please, do forgive me. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Barbason, Oliver Barbason.’ He shook Malfoy’s hand warmly, practically shaking the other man off his feet. ‘It’s marvellous to be here.’

‘Yes, quite,’ said Malfoy. ‘This is my private secretary, Mr Foster. I trust you have no objections to his being here to take notes during our meetings?’

‘Absolutely not, the more the merrier.’

‘Excellent. Foster will also be available throughout your stay if you should require anything. And, if I may say, on behalf of the Ministry of Magic and the Department of International Magical Co-operation, welcome to the United Kingdom.’

‘Delighted to be here,’ said Barbason. ‘Good to see the school finally getting some recognition from the ‘old countries’ at last. The students at New Town College are all very excited to think they might have a chance of a career in England once they graduate…supposing the Ministry agrees to accept our qualifications at last.’

Malfoy gestured towards the drinks cabinet, Barbason nodded, and Foster fetched them all glasses.

‘New Town College is a fairly new establishment,’ Malfoy began, ‘but the Ministry was very impressed by the figures your owl brought.’

‘Our students are excellent, Mr Malfoy, the finest in the United States. We have exemplary records in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Comparative Magic.’

‘Quite. Well, if you can supply some details of the curriculum, the standards of examination and entry criteria…’

‘Have it right here,’ said Barbason, patting his robes.

‘Then there should be no problem,’ answered Malfoy. ‘I’ve arranged for us to go to London on Thursday. I’m afraid that’s the only time available if you want all the right people in the same place. Until then, I’d be honoured if you would treat my house as your own.’

Barbason nodded and strolled around the study for a moment, taking in every fixture and fitting. ‘Thursday. Fine by me. My vice-principal’s keeping an eye on things until I get back. Still, it feels strange to be away from the place. My ancestors founded New Town in 1782, and I don’t think any of us have really been out of the place since. In fact, I think the furthest I’ve been before this were the trips to Boston to buy my cauldrons.’

‘How terrible,’ said Malfoy studying the bottom of his glass.

‘I can’t tell you, Mr Malfoy, how much I’m looking forward to having a good old look round here,’ Barbason went on. ‘There’re a few things I’d like to see, if I have the time.’

‘Well, I’m sure if there is anything you’d like to visit in the area, Foster can arrange to drive you. Or you can apparate if you prefer.’

Barbason sipped his drink and suddenly looked thoughtful. ‘There is one place I’d be keen on seeing,’ he mused. ‘Someone I’d be very interested in meeting.’

‘Oh?’ asked Malfoy. ‘Who?’

Barbason shrugged. ‘I don’t know if you’d know him. I’ve only heard of him by reputation.’

‘Well, I might very well know him, Professor Barbason, if you would tell me his name.’

Barbason considered the two men for a while, twitching his moustache as he thought it over. ‘All right,’ he said quietly. ‘I wonder if you might know a man by the name of Novich. Abigor Novich. I believe he lives in Cambridge, England.’

Malfoy shot a glance at his secretary, who stared blankly back. ‘Yes, I have heard his name,’ he replied. ‘Used to teach at Durmstrang, I believe. But I wonder why you would be so eager to find him?’

‘Like I said, Mr Malfoy,’ Barbason told him, ‘my school has a reputation for excellence in the study of dark magic and how it might be countered. In order to maintain those academic standards, it’s necessary for our teachers to know about the applications and limitations of the art. I hear Novich’s store in Cambridge sells a remarkable variety of books on the subject, better even than your Diagon Alley.’

Malfoy stared at him, implacable yet giving the impression he was distinctly unimpressed. ‘Well then, perhaps, since we have all day tomorrow, we might drive down there. I have meant to visit Novich’s bookshop for some time now myself. Perhaps we might both have the chance to meet him.’

Barbason’s eyes twinkled as he raised his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

IV

Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes, that call me on and on across the universe, thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they tumble blindly as they make their way

Jenny Causaubon shed her cloak as she stepped up to the parapet. She let the garment fall into a crumpled heap and did not look to see where it had landed. She stared directly towards Tower Bridge as if the sight of it had transfixed her. Though unlike the many muggle tourists milling around London Bridge at that time in the afternoon to catch precisely that view, Jenny had no camera, no guidebook and no tacky souvenirs. She had a wand, but it was tucked into the belt of her dress.

No one paid much attention to her, since the bridge, HMS Belfast and, (tucked away behind the new office blocks), the Tower of London proved far more interesting. But then as she climbed up onto the balustraded stonework, one of the visitors let out a shriek and pointed.

A few rushed towards her, but were too late. Without hesitating for a second, Jenny Causaubon walked off the parapet and fell into the river. The dun-coloured water swallowed her immediately, leaving only the faintest ripple on the surface.

Across the bridge, watching as the crowd thronged around the spot where Jenny had just been, a hooded figure placed his own wand back within his robes, before he disappeared down the steps into the shadows.

'Most Likely You Go Your Way' by Bob Dylan
'19th Nervous Breakdown' by Mick Jagger & Keith Richards
'The Times They Are A' Changin'' by Bob Dylan
'Across the Universe' by John Lennon & Paul McCartney

left hand path, lucius, harry potter

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