Vacillation and Volition, Chapter Four
Title: Vacillation and Volition, Chapter Four: Relatives and Revelations
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Lucas Malory (OC), Charlie Weasley, Muriel Prewett
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,525
Author's Note: To read this story from the beginning, please click here.
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Charlie Weasley was unique. Lucas had only spent half a day with him before deciding this, but he was absolutely sure. There couldn’t be another man like him, anywhere. Charlie was open, he was rough, his face was as friendly as it was freckled, and his habits were most bizarre. To Lucas, he presented something of a mystery.
After some hours of much-needed rest, he had left the deserted main building in search of Charlie and Tonks. She was nowhere to be seen, but he had soon discovered Charlie behind the barn, bent over and rummaging around in the yellow grass. Utterly puzzled by this behaviour, Lucas had cleared his throat. Looking up from whatever he was doing, a smile had appeared on Charlie’s tanned face at once.
“Lucas! I was wondering when we would be seeing you. Hang on, I’ll soon be done.”
He had watched Charlie’s progress with the mysterious task for a couple of minutes, until he couldn’t hold back his question any longer.
“I’m sorry, but… What are you doing?”
Charlie had held up something in front of him, but not expecting to see it, it had taken Lucas a moment to recognise the smooth shape for what it was: an egg.
“You’re collecting eggs? Surely, the house-elf would do that? Or you could do it by magic?”
The questions had escaped him before had a chance to stop them. He hadn’t meant to be so straightforward, it wasn’t like him, but Charlie had been acting all too oddly not to ask.
“Nah, it’s no use doing it with a wand - no one but my mum could do that without smashing them all. And Thatcher would do it, but I won’t let him. See, Lucas, I need to use my hands sometimes, or I’d go mad, being locked up here with absolutely shag all to do.”
Lucas had merely blinked, but Charlie had grinned wider yet. “Here, you take the basket. Find Thatcher and give it to him, and he can make us an omelette for brunch. I’ll go and see about the cow.”
“Who?” Lucas had asked, thinking for a moment that Charlie was referring to Tonks.
“No, no,” Charlie had laughed, clearly amused, “an actual cow. Better cross your fingers that she’ll cooperate and let us have some milk today, because she’s been in a right strop since Auntie left for St Mungo’s.”
And so the hours had passed: Charlie going about what seemed to be a daily routine of manual tasks and physical work, now with Lucas following discreetly in his wake, trying to understand. By dinnertime he still hadn’t gained much insight on the subject of Charlie Weasley, except for that one conclusion - that he was, without a doubt, unique.
Tonks had, allegedly, left the place long before either of them had gotten up, so it was only Lucas and Charlie who sat down to enjoy a steaming meatloaf. They were in the kitchen, at a simple wooden table with matching chairs. Geraniums crowded the windowsills, and through the tall glass they could see the evening sun slowly approaching the treetops. Its golden light filled the room, bouncing off of silverware and polished copper pots, and the bubbles of the dishwater where Thatcher the house-elf was busy cleaning up. Charlie, obviously ravenous after a day of hard work, attacked his food with delight and gusto, while Lucas enjoyed the meal at a more modest pace.
“It’s excellent, Thatcher,” Charlie complimented the elf’s cooking as he helped himself to a second serving.
“Young master is too kind,” the little creature bowed, still standing on the tall stool so that he could reach the kitchen sink and counter.
“No, I’m serious. I’m not even sure if my mum’s ever made a meatloaf this good. It’s top class, I promise.”
Thatcher bowed again, and Lucas watched the scene with interest. He had never been cruel to a house-elf, but he had also never thought to praise one as a fellow wizard. They were usually keen on not being noticed, and mostly preferred to keep out of their masters’ ways. And yet again, Charlie paid no heed to the norms of their magical society, but did and said whatever seemed suitable to him at the time. Lucas continued to carefully chew his food, his head full of incomprehension.
Wiping his small hands on the red apron he was wearing, the house-elf walked up to Lucas and bowed a third time.
“Begging your greatest pardon, Master Malory, but if it isn’t too much of an inconvenience for you, perhaps you wants to dictate a list of items to be fetched from your home?”
Lucas swallowed a mouthful of meatloaf. “Oh. No, that’s no inconvenience. I believe I’ll need -” He could think of a hundred things he wanted from Merridown, but somehow the list didn’t turn out quite like he had imagined. All the while he was conscious of Charlie listening to his orders, and for some reason that made him leave out garments of silk and velvet, and go for clothes and objects of a more practical nature instead. After listening extra carefully to the message Lucas wanted to send to his own house-elves, Thatcher took off with a final, extra deep bow.
“Funny creatures, those house-elves,” Charlie commented. “You about done? I’m off for a walk in the grounds before going downstairs, if you want to come?”
Lucas hesitated for a moment. While a soft armchair and a warm fire sounded much more appealing than an evening stroll, Charlie was his host and it might be rude to decline the invitation. “Sure, I’ll come.”
“Great,” Charlie smiled. “We’ll just leave our plates here. I tried to wash up once, but Thatcher was a bit distraught, so I figured I’d better let him take care of it.”
Not knowing whether to laugh or shake his head, Lucas opted on simply following Charlie out through the kitchen door. It led straight into the orchard, where well-trimmed patches of herbs still grew under some of the trees. The air of the early night was still, and saturated with the smell of ripe apples, thyme and chive. A slight chill pinched at Lucas’ cheeks, but it was refreshing. Suddenly glad that he had accepted Charlie’s offer, he hurried to keep up with the other man.
There was no path, so they walked together through the grass, brushing swelling drops of dew from the blades. Charlie reached up to pick an apple from a tree and looked at it, pensively, for a moment before taking a bite. They continued in silence for a while, past the bowing branches that were heavy with apples, pears and plums. Beyond the orchard a wheat field lay waiting for them, still temptingly yellow in the gloom. Charlie stopped at the edge of it, finished his apple and threw the core as far as he could manage over the field. It landed with a distant, invisible thud, and a lurking bird nearby took flight with a cry.
Lucas felt something brush against his leg, and looked down to find that the ginger cat had followed them. He reached down to stroke it, while waiting for Charlie to say something. The red-haired man had kept their conversation going all day, and Lucas assumed that he would soon reinitiate it again.
But he seemed to be waiting in vain. Charlie remained where he stood, gazing over the field and the forest beyond. He, who had been moving about so restlessly all day, was now a picture of peace. And Lucas, who had lived most of his life in silence, now felt a strange need to hear the deep voice of Charlie.
“Your cat is a very friendly animal, isn’t he?”
Lucas thought that his own voice sounded out of place, and instantly regretted opening his mouth. But Charlie turned his head to look at him, his features still and relaxed.
“Oh, Crookshanks isn’t my cat. He belongs to Hermione Granger. Friend of Harry Potter’s,” he added, upon seeing Lucas’ blank look.
“I see.”
“They decided this would be a good place for him, while they’re off doing… whatever they’re doing.” Charlie paused, looking over the field again for a moment, as if searching its even rows for a different subject. A small sigh, and he spoke again: “It’s nice here. With a bit of gold, the place could be turned into a dragon sanctuary.”
“Your aunt would approve of that?”
Laughter returned to Charlie’s face. “She doesn’t approve of anything or anyone but herself, and definitely not dragons. I’m fairly sure she thinks I’m a complete nutter for wanting to work with them in the first place.”
“Sounds like a charming woman,” Lucas commented.
“She’s just old, really. Muriel I can deal with, it’s being locked up here that’s driving me insane.”
Charlie kneeled on the wet ground, reaching out an inviting hand to the cat. It left Lucas’ side at once and allowed itself to be scooped up into Charlie’s arms. Its loud purring filled the cold air, and Lucas watched as strong fingers combed through the red fur, wondering if he dared to ask the question that had been prodding his mind all day. Caught in indecision, he kept on looking at Charlie. He would have asked, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have been standing here like a mute fool. No. Charlie was brave. He would dare to ask.
“Charlie?”
He was still kneeling on the ground, Crookshanks the cat on his lap.
“Yeah?”
“Why are you here? At the farm?”
Slowly, Charlie put the cat back down on the ground and got to his feet. His eyes never left Lucas’ face, as if he was trying to figure out whether he could be trusted. He must have thought so, for the next moment he spoke, his voice gaunt.
“The Ministry wants me. For murder.”
Deeply shocked, Lucas stared at him “What? You -”
“I killed someone.”
And with those words he turned around and walked back into the orchard, the solid shadow of his body melting into the darkness, as the first stars began to appear in the sky above.
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Murder.
Lucas couldn’t understand it. Of all the people that had ever passed before his eyes, Charlie Weasley seemed the one least likely to take another person’s life. Surely, it must have been an accident. Self-defence, probably. But if that was the case, then why was Charlie wanted by the Ministry? And why had he been avoiding not only the subject, but also Lucas, for an entire week?
His wristwatch told him that the morning was early still; too early to be getting up. Lucas looked through the stack of books he had retrieved from the underground library, picked one at random, and tried to focus. But it was no use. His thoughts were as flying horses, untamed and uncontrollable, beating their hooves against the inside of his head. Pulling a frustrated hand through his hair, Lucas put the book away and got to his feet. Why was he so bothered by this mystery? What did he care if Charlie Weasley had killed one man, two men, a hundred? They were locked up in the same house, that was all. They shared nothing except meals and a library. Soon this brewing war would break out and be over, and then he would go home and never waste another thought on the man who was sleeping in a room across the corridor. Yes, they had had a good start last week. Too good. Similar things had happened in his life before, and Lucas should have known it wasn’t to last this time either. They were too different, anyway.
He longed to aim a kick at something, but discarded the thought already has he browsed the windowless room for a suitable item. A sophisticated, pure-blood wizard didn’t kick inanimate objects in order to feel better. Nor did he sulk or rant or walk about with a gloomy look on his face. No, a well-bred young man like himself would always keep up the appearance of contentment and prosperity. Those words and others like them, repeated over and over again in his head by a mother and a grandfather with the best intentions, attempted to harness the rampant horses.
Without success, of course. His whole existence was based on the unwavering ability to not care; it was how he was raised, how he had learned, and how he lived. How dared Charlie Weasley, a man of absolutely no significance, step into his world and change that? Exasperated, Lucas walked over to the desk and leaned against it, his long fingers gripping the maple edge until they ached. He stared before him a long while, into nothingness, until his eyes began to water. It was then, after he had blinked the wetness away, that he saw it.
A coin lay in the very middle of the square leather pad. Instinctively, Lucas brushed a hand over his shirt pocket, deeply confident that his coin would still be there, that the one on the desk was another, since he had no memory whatsoever of placing it there. But his pocket was empty, and the Malfoy face worked into the gold was most definitely the one he had gazed upon before. Lucas didn’t even think, didn’t pause to contemplate the strangeness of a coin that moved on its own accord, but picked it up and closed his right hand around it. The same warmth seemed to be radiating from it and inexplicable relief touched Lucas’ senses - the coin was not upset with him for his recent neglect; it had not disowned him. He didn’t even frown at the ridiculousness of this reasoning, because it was precisely what he felt as he released the desk and slumped down on the edge of the bed.
He opened his hand to the smooth light of the night lamp, and gently touched the gold with his fingertips. It was so soft, hardly like metal at all. It soothed him, distracted him, and gently pushed him back until he rested on the sheets again. There his breathing became even and his limbs relaxed, and the wild creatures of his mind stopped to listen. No longer did they kick for release, but instead they turned to paths that led deeper inside of him.
Lucas found himself thinking about his father, whose face so greatly resembled that on the coin. Had he, Lucius Malfoy, expected to be free by now? Was he disappointed with Lucas’ failure, or had he never really expected him to succeed? And what about the woman he so badly wanted to rejoin? Lucas wondered what fate would befall her, now that Lucius could not aid her. Where was she, and who was she? A relation of Lucius’? If she was, then she would also be related to himself… The coin felt warmer as he thought this, as if gently egging him on. What if she really was related to him? The blood they shared, did it mean that he should be helping her as well? Again, the golden piece grew hotter, this time nearly burning his palm, as if he had brushed against some crucial discovery.
But the hour was too early and the sheets were too soft for crucial discoveries, so Lucas firmly pushed the thoughts away. The woman was probably just some mistress of Malfoy’s, anyway. The coin lay cool in his hand again, like any other Galleon in his moneybag, and with all thoughts of Charlie Weasley vanished from his mind, Lucas felt himself slip quickly into undisturbed sleep.
Some hours later, he was woken up by the gentlest of nudges on his right wrist. He opened his eyes to find Thatcher standing beside the bed, an apologetic look on his face as he nervously twisted his tiny hands.
“Thatcher is so sorry to be disturbing you, Master Malory, sir. Young Master Weasley sent me to fetch you, because my mistress will be arriving any minute now, in the hospital wagon.”
“Thank you, Thatcher,” Lucas yawned, his voice rough with sleep. “I’ll be upstairs as soon as I can.”
True to his habits, the little house-elf bowed deeply and vanished from the room without a sound. Lucas’ sat up, his head feeling a little heavy, and absent-mindedly stroked his shirt pocket, not the least surprised to find a small, hard object beneath the fabric. Getting up, he found a set of robes that weren’t too badly wrinkled, and carefully put them on. A glance at the mirror told him that he didn’t have to bother himself with his hair; it was as straight and untangled as ever. His reflection, which was usually as lifeless as a Muggle’s, now smiled slightly and nodded its encouragement.
“Yes,” Lucas said, addressing the empty room, “let’s go and have a look at Mrs Muriel Prewett, shall we?”
The late morning was bright and cool, and there wasn’t a cloud to be spotted overhead. The cat, Crookshanks, was sitting in the yard, his yellow gaze fixed on the faraway gate as if he knew of the impending arrival. Neither of them had to wait long, as the gates opened for a carriage just a minute later. Charlie appeared at the same moment, walking up to stand next to Lucas. He was wearing what Lucas suspected to be his best robes, moss green and velvet. Feeling unexpectedly daring, he opened his mouth to comment on them.
“Don’t you look dashing.”
A brief smile passed over Charlie’s face. “Oh, everything for my Auntie Muriel.”
“I fear you’re putting me to shame.”
“Don’t worry. You and your manners will charm her in no time. She’ll probably let you inherit her farm and all.”
Two chestnut Aethonons came to a halt in front of them then, and the lime green carriage, complete with the St Mungo’s emblem on its side, stopped only a few feet away. A plump coachman clumsily got down from the driver’s seat, and introduced himself as Healer Wickworth.
“Good morning, good morning,” he said and shook both of their hands. “This is the residence of…” He paused briefly to check a clipboard. “Of Muriel Amanda Petronella Prewett?”
“Yes,” Charlie nodded, “the very one.”
“Splendid, splendid. Now, Mrs Prewett is still very fragile, I’m afraid. Colds can be most serious at her age - one hundred and seven years old, by Merlin! - so she must take several potions every day, and absolutely not overexert herself. Here, have her bottles and list of medications.”
“Thatcher?” Charlie asked, and the elf hurried to take his mistress’ potions.
“Good, good. Now, if you two gentlemen would be so kind to give me a hand, we’ll have Mrs Prewett back in her own bed in no time.”
He went to open the carriage, at the very back, and when Lucas peered inside he was only mildly surprised to see how the interior was considerably larger than non-magical science and Muggle measurements would ever allow. Several beds, not unlike those found on the Knight Bus, were securely attached to the walls and floor. In one, a haggard-looking woman was sitting up, her hair in complete disarray.
“Release me! Let me off NOW!” she screamed, and if it hadn’t been for the straps of dragon leather that tied her to the bed, Lucas was sure that they would have had a crazy woman loose in the grounds. Not wanting to look at the rather dreadful sight, he turned to the first bed on the right, by which Charlie now was standing with Wickworth.
"Quite condescending, I say!” an unexpectedly firm voice muttered from beneath the sheets.
“There, there, Mrs Prewett! You’re home again, and your relatives are here to look after you! Isn’t that nice?”
“Nice? Nice! Ha, a bit of peace and quiet would have beennice. You, Healer, don’t you know that I am a hundred and seven years old? Isn’t that enough for carriage of my own? Or need I die to be granted such luxury? Speak, man!”
Healer Wickworth had shrunk considerably at Mrs Prewett’s verbal abuse, but Charlie stepped closer and bent over the bed.
“Hello, Auntie. How was your trip?” he asked, most kindly.
“Oh, Charles, it was dreadful, quite dreadful,” Muriel whined.
“Would you like to come inside? I think Thatcher has put a hot-water bottle in your bed.”
“Just get me out of this carriage, Charles, and dismiss that horrid excuse for a Healer!”
“As you wish, Aunt,” Charlie quietly agreed, but Lucas knew that he was trying to hide his amusement.
With a movement of his reddish wand, Charlie conjured a comfortable-looking chair which hovered obediently next to the bed. Healer Wickworth stepped forth and offered a helping hand to Muriel, but she slapped it out of her way with impressive force. Instead, she reached out for Charlie who took a steady hold of her bony fingers. Once she was seated, he lifted his wand to herd her up the stairs.
“Thank you, Healer Wickworth, for your time and your concern,” Charlie nodded.
“My pleasure, my pleasure,” the poor Healer said, backing quickly towards the coach. “Mrs Prewett, our best wishes for your quick recovery, and -”
“INSIDE, Charles!” Muriel commanded, and with an ill-concealed grin Charlie winked at the Healer and began to climb the stairs.
Lucas remained where he was, unsure of whether his presence was wanted inside, but Charlie turned over his shoulder and beckoned for him to follow. Thatcher closed the door behind them as the lime-green carriage took off, and their little procession continued to the second floor. Lucas hadn’t set foot upstairs before, but wasn’t surprised to see that Mrs Prewett’s taste for chintz patterns was even more pronounced here. Every windowsill and table was crammed with potted plants and moving china figurines, and he wandered how Thatcher ever got a minute over for something else if he was supposed to keep the flowers watered and the ornaments dust-free.
Hands folded behind his back, he stopped at the threshold of Mrs Prewett’s room. He watched how Charlie carefully transferred her to the enormous four-poster bed, where she sat quite straight, propped up by the many down pillows behind her back. There was a soft rustle of silk as Thatcher straightened his mistress’ covers, and then silence fell. Fell, hung, and vibrated in the room. A full minute must have passed before Charlie’s voice, now soft and confident as if he was talking to some small animal, broke through it.
“Better now, Aunt?”
Her sigh was content as she replied. “Thank you, Charles, yes.”
“We will leave you in peace then. Only - I would like to introduce our new house-guest to you.”
Muriel Prewett peered across the room then, her light gaze piercing through Lucas. To him, with his ability, she was no match to judge; self-importance, self-love, selfishness all over. But also, he found, a genuine care for this great-nephew who was standing by her side. This, if nothing else, pleased Lucas, so he bowed to her.
“This is Lucas Malory, Aunt Muriel. A refugee, just like me, we might say.”
“Malory, you said? Well, come here boy, and let me have a look at you!”
Lucas did as she asked, and crossed the fitted carpet in a few long steps. Knowing that Charlie would tease him endlessly for the gesture - assuming he’d ever properly speak to him again, of course - Lucas still bent down to scoop up the old lady’s hand and politely place a kiss upon its back.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs Prewett,” Lucas nodded and gently put her hand back on the sheets.
Speechless only for a second, Muriel soon gathered her wits and looked at him closer yet.
“Malory? You would be related to Maximilian Malory of the great Merridown estate, then?”
“He is my grandfather, ma’am,” Lucas said, having once again folded his hands behind his back.
“Funny, I never knew he had a son?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Then - didn’t he have a daughter? Died quite young, didn’t she? Not too long ago?”
“My mother,” Lucas acknowledged, his throat suddenly a little tight.
“But your father then, who was he?”
There was a gleam in her old eyes now, and Lucas could not believe she had asked such a blunt question. He had never openly discussed his paternity with anyone, much less some old gossip of a lady he had only just met. He cast a fleeting look at Charlie for guidance, but he only stood there, arms folded and right eyebrow raised, expecting an answer just as much as his great aunt, it seemed. Lucas swallowed once. Twice.
“I’m afraid I never knew my father.”
Muriel looked much like a child who had just had a bar of Honeydukes best chocolate snatched away from her greedy fingers, but once again recovered quickly.
“Very well. But you are Pureblood still, I take it?”
“Aunt!”
It was Charlie who protested, obviously aware that this was not a question one would ask in a civilised conversation.
“Come now, Charles, I’m only trying to make out who he is, this young man I’m so generously providing for. You don’t mind at all, do you Mr Malory?”
He did. He minded so much he thought his chest would burst from it, and was slightly overwhelmed by the unexpected rush of hurt. But once again the words of his upbringing echoed through his conscience, and he chose to play the part he knew so well.
“Not in the slightest, Mrs Prewett. I assure you that that my line is pure; if not as pure as yours, then not far from it.”
“See? That’s always a comfort to know. Now, boys, I must rest. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow, if I can bear company.”
“Feel better soon, Mrs Prewett,” Lucas said and bowed.
“Yes, rest well, Aunt,” Charlie spoke with a smile, and if Lucas wasn’t very much mistaken, received a small one in return.
They left the room, and Thatched closed the door as quietly as possible. Together they stood on the landing for a while, Charlie and Lucas, without talking or looking at each other. It was unbearable. Hating himself for what he did, for such a trespassing of emotional boundaries, Lucas nudged at Charlie’s feelings.
No anger to speak of. The usual frustration about his situation, and the loneliness. But also curiosity, and -
“You lied to her, didn’t you?”
Charlie’s question cut off his sordid investigation, and he looked at the man whom, at one point, he had believed could be his friend.
“About what?”
“Your father. Tonks told me who he is, and that you’re here because of that.”
“I only told your aunt that I never knew my father, which is the truth.”
“Bollocks. But I don’t blame you really, Malory. I can understand it.”
“What?”
“If my father were a Death Eater, I’d lie about it too.”
And with those words Charlie walked away, down the stairs and out through the front doors, leaving a lost Lucas to choke on an explanation he didn’t even have.
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