As Pure As Snow

3

In a corner of my eye I see the last signs of migration in the air. Soon the sky will be as barren as the land.

Given inextricably to the formal bearing that has so long been a part of me, I would never pause, even in solitude, but push myself on a vigorous pace, and look only to the path which moves elusively ahead.

I could never look down, at this age, to examine something as insignificant as the encroaching signs of winter on the ground. I would not know how. But this does not mean I cannot feel, or that my awareness of all that is beneath me is any less.

Sometimes, it is all that I am aware of.

4

A Death Eater's career could get surprisingly mundane and involve an inordinate amount of paper shuffling, thus, the spectral of one Lucius Malfoy, patriarch, principle, and leader of wizarding kind, twirling a badly chewed quill between his calloused fingers as he peered half-sighted though bookish glasses at the hundred humdrum letters requiring 'urgent' attention.

Meanwhile, Harry Potter, Draco-sitter and errand boy extraordinaire, tsked in sympathy from a horizontal position on the dark chocolate chesterfield which he had been, for the better part of two years, waging a war upon. He had discovered early that the couch was built with one sole occupation in mind, which was to bully its occupant into some semblance of an upright and rigid posture. This was not only something that Harry was constitutionally incapable of, but in principle against. Thus, it was not uncommon to see much wriggling, muttering, and an occasional kick landed on one of its raised arms.

At some point Lucius glanced up in abstract disapproval at the distraction.

"Have you nothing better to do besides cluttering my office?"

"I'm teaching your chair some manners."

"It is you who needs a lesson in manners," Lucius replied, glancing distastefully at the negligent pose and crumpled black shirt with its buttons left carelessly undone. "God forbid you ever look presentable for once."

"Don't you like my look?" Harry pretended to be hurt. "I spent hours teasing these ravishing dark locks into an artful tousle."

"Make certain to leave your artful tousle at home when you meet Kakaroff's representative tomorrow." Lucius scowled. 'You will represent the Malfoy banner, and you had better believe that I won't tolerate your usual unkempt state outside these four walls."

Harry looked down at his shirt with some surprise, mulishly observing, as if for the first time the creases and odd stain. "Well, the business of murder has not required a fashion sense so far. It's frivolous, don't you think, to doll up like a dandy for the sole purpose of sticking several sharp pieces of metal into someone? One's victim might get the wrong impression."

"You're not in any one particular business, boy, you simply do as I tell you to," Lucius replied with the forced patience of one speaking to a child. "Tomorrow you will receive Kakaroff's agent and take him to dinner. That is all you will do. My personal tailor will dress you."

Harry leaned forward, a speculative expression on his face. "You're sending your tailor to me?"

"I said so," was the brusque reply.

He resisted the temptation to whistle. "That's quite a departure, Minister."

"You've already killed everybody, Harry. If I have to continue to pay you a stipend every month, I might as well get some other use off of you." Lucius sighed and threw his quill down. "God, I'm tired. What has Draco been doing?"

"Officially? Or behind your back?"

Lucius smiled wryly, resting chin on fingers. "Getting his strength back, is he?"

"Very much so. He's even thinking of replacing you, so that's as fair a sign as we can hope for."

"That fast?" Lucius chuckled. "He must be feeling far better than he looks."

"Empty fancies," Harry shrugged. "Something to whittle the hours away with. He's still too weak to be running about hiring his own assassin, so he's been attempting to subvert the only one conveniently lying around within his reach."

"Oh, my. And are we tempted?"

Harry swung his legs over the armrest and got to his feet, picking up a decanter and pair of brandy glasses on the way over to Lucius' desk. "That depends on what your tailor is going to do for me tomorrow, Minister."

*

There are portals, and then there are portals. This particular one had been reserved for the sole purpose of receiving foreign dignitaries, and by default came lavishly sheathed in marble, ivory, and all sorts of gilded baubles calculated to awe, inspire, or intimidate. For Harry, his surroundings were of frivolous consequence; the language of diplomacy having always been one of mercurial, political one-upmanship from which nobody emerged winner for long. Not too long ago during Voldemort's diminutive reign, dementors had stood at every pillar of this hall. Today, somebody's interpretation of Britain's Who's Who flanked the walls in somber poses; Harry felt certain that Lucius would never have counted Helga Hufflepuff amongst them. He still fond Dumbledore's stony presence conspicuous, despite its obscure location in a remote corner of the hall.

A voice bellowed down from the wrong portal, because he's stood in front of Russia's avatar enough times to know that it shouldn't be behind him.

"Oi! It's Harry Potter!"

That flawless, unaccented pronunciation could only mean that Karkaroff had sent his only son: the one he'd hid abroad away from view and world for over twenty years until the worst of the war was over. The dark-haired and flamboyant Armand stepped, no, sprung over the portal and heartily enveloped his friend in a hug, then shoved him away as only true friends do to each other.

"The devil! Look at you, you look ludicrous!" the swarthy Russian bellowed.

"Speak for yourself, you medieval Eastern pansy. Did nobody ever tell you that it's unbecoming to jingle with obscene amounts of jewelry?"

"Charms, you hideously overdressed pillock. They're charms. And I see you've taken up kleptomania for moonlighting- did old Lucius Malfoy realize that you waltzed off wearing half of his wardrobe this evening?"

"There's nothing much else to do in Britain nowadays." Harry grinned.

"And now, barring the disgrace of being seen with you..."

"You can put up and shut up, or put off and shove off, since I'm going to be your date for the rest of the evening. Lucius wants you wined and dined."

"Your primitive British cooking leaves much to be desired. Broiled and boiled remains exactly that, no matter what names you give it or how many liters of lumpy sauce you pour over it..."

"The fuck it is!" Harry laughed.

"...British cooking is like her weather: soggy, unimaginative, and miserable," Armand continued, undaunted.

"Then starve, and may the joys of fine-grained Russian semolina forever resound in your stomach. What the hell were you doing in...?" Harry broke off to squint at the still-smoking portal, "...bloody Hyderabad, of all places?"

"Sampling the local charms, of course! In more ways than one, naturally," Armand began to dig about his robes. "Before you poison me with your English delights, let me show you some of the genius tricks those Asian wizards have been coming up with."

"You can play with your little pagan toys later. Dinner. Now."

"Huh, an attitude to match the fancy cloth now that you're moving up in the world? I can't say it doesn't suit you, dismally old-fashioned as it is. And good grief, Harry, nobody wears two cloaks."

"One of them is a mantle." Harry said defensively. 'And that confounded tailor of Lucius' is practically some kind of human lichen. My skin is still crawling from where he touched me; breakfast practically jumped out of my throat."

"What a wicked way to start the morning- making it out with mummies. Truly, Potter, three years living with the richest family in England and you still have no class."

"God forbid I ever become partial to yours," Harry prayed fervently as they made their way out of the portal hallway.

*