As Pure As Snow

1

The autumn is giving way at last. Comatose already, she finally releases her fingers from the hardening earth. In these foggy morning walks, I see the earth on my estates gradually sucking out the colour from the once vibrant leaves; in this solitude, it is especially easy to believe in Hades, reaching out bleak fingers from the bowels below. Now only rotting leaves carpet the acres of my land, curled into tawny scrolls that crunch into compost beneath my boots. It is like walking on fields of feathery eggshells, like a subtle sort of destruction, harmless but surprisingly satisfying.

2

"Minister, if I may..."

"Indeed you may not," Lucius told him from the rim of his teacup.

"But father..."

Steel eyes flickered upwards, and the younger man flinched, then shifted edgily from one foot to the other. Silence reigned between the two men in the drawing room for several minutes, unbroken by the soundless return of cup to saucer.

"I know you think I'm not ready for the position," Draco begun.

"You are not worthy of the position," Lucius corrected him, severing the rest of his son's words.

The light was rapidly fading from the young man's eyes, and his façade of confidence cracked like a sheet of ice, revealing all the fallacies of an over-indulgent youth.

"How..." A swallow to follow the faltering word. "How does my own father choose his worst enemy over his son?"

"The fact that you still refer to Potter with such childish labels displays frivolous histrionics and a failure to act with subtlety. He has proven himself, you have not. That is the end of the matter. Be grateful that I am too tired tonight to hinge on the time and resources you have wasted in expensive academies and excursions abroad, and leave."

Despite the heavy carpet, the footsteps that departed echoed like canons of discontent, and the heavy oak doors groaned shut, trapping in the residual vapours of the bitterness of conversation between father and son. Then the heavy curtains stirred as a slim, sable-haired man stepped out of their rich velvet pools and walked out to Lucius' armchair.

"You were harsh," he said softly.

"I have not yet begun to tighten the leash," his employer replied brusquely. "Pour me a port, and wipe that irony off your brow, Potter. If anybody is entitled to wear such a mantle, it is me."

"I'm afraid you'll have to fight me for it, Minister," Harry replied wryly from the bar as Lucius raised a mocking eyebrow. "Since there is precious little use of my past as 'boy who lived', outside of cultivating a growing appreciation of how remarkably twisted one's position can become, given time and opportunity. The mother of ironies has been spooning it on with a spade."

"I'd have thought your title fits firmer than ever, surviving, nay, thriving, in our little Death Eater playground," Lucius mocked.

"So it has," Harry agreed humorously. "The title is silly, but it seems to do its job and keep me alive."

"Imagine my surprise," Lucius said sardonically.

"Why, Minster," Harry mocked. "Tis your very benevolence that allows my lungs to partake in this salubrious air. And thus I am reminded, every breath I take is no surprise to you indeed."

"Arrogance suits you like a second skin," Lucius murmured. "Have you taken care of that little problem for me?"

"Oh Higgs? It didn't take a moment. He's a dismal host, however. At least, he was."

"Is that so?"

"He got all rude and belligerent just because I walked through his bedroom in the middle of the night. Screamed quite a bit too. Didn't even offer to make me a cup of tea. Being Saint Potter, I took upon myself to see that he received a lesson in manners."

Lucius sighed and took a long sip of tea. "Very neighbourly of you."

"It's what friends do for each other." Harry shrugged.

"I see you had your fun."

"But only after I finished my assignment, Mr Malfoy, Sir," Harry replied in a coquettish voice. His vocal chords were surprisingly versatile. Lucius chuckled, but the unconscious tension only left his shoulders after Harry fished out a small red vial from his pocket and held it out for his perusal. "I took the liberty of owling Severus some samples. He should be able to reverse engineer the process and produce it from how on. Seems that he's rather more interested in your son's welfare than he admits."

For long moments they both looked at the priceless potion, glinting in its fragile, narrow cylinder. "It's still not a cure," Lucius finally said; the silence in the drawing room had already said everything else that he could not. "Give it to Draco."

Harry inclined his head at the instructions and implicit appreciation.

"Keep an eye on him and drive him hard. Merlin knows that you are the only motivation he responds to."

"Hatred is the only motivation he responds to," Harry replied from the bar as he uncorked a decanter.

"It amounts to the same thing. Do whatever works. His desire to die on me won't materialise as long as he's kept busy competing with you. It's the Malfoy way."

Harry nodded again, and Lucius' fingers toyed wearily with the port in his hands. "You are the son that I should have had."

*

The door slams, Draco has always been fond of doing that.

From his horizontal vista between pillow and settee Harry watched a pair of knee-high riding boots stalk over, before the pillow was snatched away from his face to reveal too much afternoon light and his demented, high-strung young charge.

"You think you're really clever, don't you?"

"Good morning to you too," he replied, wincing at the sound and light overload. He hated the winter and the way the ice served as sheets of reflective glass to create light, light, and more light.

"Don't think that I owe you any favours for this," Draco told him as he paced restlessly in front of the settee. "It was none of your fucking business in the first place."

"None whatsoever," Harry agreed, raising both palms in supplication. Draco harrumphed and tossed his head and stamped on the floor; Harry almost expected him to neigh. Instead the blond man clattered over to the armchair directly opposite and sank into the leather.

Boots thudded and chaffed negligently on the enamelled table top. Colourful imprecations were offered up to the domed ceiling. Harry would've liked nothing more than to scratch his crotch; instead he enquired politely if Draco felt any different after taking the potion.

The young master, as Harry sometimes called his charge to immediate and furious response, looked at him and snarled that it was no consequence to him if Draco lived or died, and if he thought that this wretched existence was all it took to divest nanny Potter of his job, it would be a small enough price to pay.

"Oh, but we've had so much breakthrough over the years," Harry sighed in mock seriousness. He was only half kidding; at some point they had gotten tired of circling each other and come to some sort of guarded truce.

"I'm sure you can find a new invalid to babysit. My father, perhaps."

"What an absolutely appalling thing to say about your darling father," Harry murmured absently, scrutinizing a bowl of pears.

"Oh come on. Does the term over the hill mean anything to you? Mental regression? Second childhood?"

"Appalling, Draco, absolutely appalling. Accio pear. That sickness of yours must have crept up into your brains."

The boots dragged themselves off the scratched enamel, and Draco leaned over and plucked the pear away from Harry's impending first bite. "You've proven to be very good at picking out the winning side, Harry dear," he whispered. "Let's see if you retained your talent for deduction the worth of something bigger than a breakfast fruit."

Harry watched the boots leave. The door slammed, but not before a wet crunch was audible.

Then the door opened again, and Draco stuck his head in again.

"Good fruit," he said.

*