Quarter to seven the following day finds me stamping the snow from my dragon-hide boots as I march across the Hogsmeade high street. As I presumed, the area is deserted. There are a number of darkened shops boarded up with wood, signs plastered to their doors and windows advertising going out of business sales long past, or bearing irate portraits of escaped Death Eaters and advising caution. A number of bulletins recommend self-imposed curfews at dusk, which the majority of shoppers have heeded. The only patrons out now are those scurrying to the safety, warmth and light of the pubs. The Three Broomsticks, I notice as I pass, is packed with customers. Music beckons from the half-open door and the smell of butter beer and roasted meat is carried on the wind.

Beyond the Three Broomsticks, hardly anyone is out. I notice a few dark shapes of witches and wizards, their forms obscured with thick, dark cloaks, drifting into the shadows and making secret deals. Their whispers carry on the wind, mostly talk of fear and war and questionable allegiances. They could be Death Eaters, I know, and my pace quickens. The lamp over the door of the Hog's Head draws me like a moth.

Shaking the light dusting of snow from my hair, I push open the door, revealing the squalid horror that is the Hog's Head pub. Unlike the Three Broomsticks, the odour of the place is not pleasant. It smells of spilt ale, stale bread and the reeking, cheap scent of whores, who have come out of the woodwork to seek clientele in this once quaint village. Desperate times, I assume, call for desperate measures; while the Ministry cannot seem to hire new Aurors fast enough, numerous other businesses are failing. Few have sufficient training to gain a position as a hunter of Dark wizards, and the training offices are flooded with eager applicants, leaving little opportunity for the lesser educated among us, particularly those without a Hogwart's education and a fair number of N.E.W.T.s.

There are no prostitutes in the Hog's Head at the moment, however. The meagre offerings of the Hog's Head are unlikely to draw wealthy patrons, I know, and I assume the working girls are more likely found at the Three Broomsticks, making merry with drunken men they will only later lead to the filthy rooms above this rickety establishment and earn their galleons, or, more likely, mere sickles.

Hardly anyone is at the Hog's Head, a fact for which I am thankful. It is obvious why no one comes; underfoot, the floor is sticky with spilt drinks and old food, and the rest of the place is coated in grime. The chipped old counter has not seen a cleansing spell in years, no doubt, and dust lays thick upon glass bottles of butter beer, rum and Odgen's Old Fire whiskey. With resources scarce, there are few wizards who would care to squander the contents of their pay packets here.

The only patrons are those like myself, ostracised from the community and seeking refuge on the outskirts of society, or those with dark dealings they do not want anyone else to get wind of. One bedraggled, grey-faced wizard nurses a pint glass of mead in one dismal corner of the room. The only other customers are two witches who sit at a battered table near the feeble fireplace. One is deathly pale save for small, bright red spots of colour high on her cheeks, which gives her the appearance of having lupus. Her eyes are very bright, almost feverish. She whispers to her companion, a brunette with shadows under her eyes and exhaustion visible in her very posture, who withdraws a packet of some mysterious powder from her robes and slides it across the table.

My observations are interrupted when the door opens, revealing Fleur, who is wearing a plain black coat and an old Hogwart's scarf in Gryffindor colours. Her hair is the cleanest thing in the pub. For a moment she glances around, apprehensive; a moment later she spies me and picks her way over to the discreet booth I have chosen.

"I'm sorry I'm late," she tells me as she sits down. Unwinding her scarf from her neck, she gives me an apologetic glance. "I intended to come directly here after leaving work, but my mother-in-law spotted me coming out of the bank when she was doing her shopping, and things being what they are..." She waves her hand airily as if erasing the face of Molly Weasley, who I have on good authority can be quite the busy-body. "Finally I told her I had left my gloves at the bank and ducked into the nearest grate. Floo powder," she adds, mirthful. Her sparkling eyes look me over. "You are looking well."

I nod formally. "And you, my dear. I've brought you something," I add, reaching into the pocket of my robes to withdraw a small box. I open the enchanted box and pull from it five large volumes, each larger that the box from whence they came. "A few things, actually, to aid your quest for knowledge," I continue as I slide the books over to her.

"Of Good and Evil: A Witch's Tale of Serving Grindelwald," reads Fleur as she looks over the first book. It is small and well-worn, bound in kelpie-hide, formerly belonging to my sister-in-law, Bellatrix. Fleur's slim index finger traces the gold engraving on the cover and she looks at me, startled but pleased. "You are loaning this to me?"

"If you are still interested in your...rare pursuit," I agree. "Go on, look at the others." My expression is disinterested, my pose casual, but inside I am bursting. I think of the long hours I spent sorting through my library, assembling my collection and debating about which books would most arouse her curiosity.

She nods, glancing over the rest with interest. Her gaze remains fixed to two in particular, Were: The Wolf, The Moon and Things That Go Bump in the Night and Darkness All Encompassing; a Advanced Guide to Spells. "You are most kind," she tells me with an undecipherable look on her face. Her eyes gleam feral in the murky light of the pub. "This one, in particular," she taps the cover of Were, "looks most promising. Thank you."

"Of course."

She studies me intently for a moment, then glances down at her hands as she pulls off her gloves. I signal for the gruff bartender to bring us wine. "I'm afraid I haven't much time, as Molly and Arthur are expecting me home before long. In truth, I am a bit surprised to see you here at all tonight," she says.

"Oh? Why is that?"

"There are...rumours. My husband, much of his family, they are members of a certain organisation." Discreetly, she glances around. No one is paying us the slightest attention. "Political activists," she explains briefly. I understand she is referring to the Order of the Phoenix, and say so, to which she nods. "Yes. Of course, I have not yet joined, although Bill has pressed me on the subject many times, as has his father. They seem to believe I would be a useful addition." She offers a false smile. "However, although I do not accompany them to meetings, I overhear much. My mother-in-law entertained this weekend; when I went into the kitchen I heard her tell someone your son had been kidnapped."

"Draco," I say. At her look of confusion, I clarify. "Draco, my son."

Fleur licks her lips nervously, regarding me with intense interest. "So it is true?"

"Perhaps," I offer, flicking my hand as though waving away a troublesome insect. "An associate of mine came to me with a story that Draco had been taken, although I must say, in this weary world it is difficult to know what to believe. Draco was a Voldemort loyalist, or proclaimed his allegiance to Voldemort, in any case."

"A Death Eater!" comes Fleur's voice, breathy with excitement.

"Indeed." Despite the excellent vintage, the wine tastes bitter in my mouth. "He aligned himself with the Dark Lord when he was fifteen, and was pressed into service at sixteen. He bears the mark," I add, just to watch her eyes widen in surprise. Her attention is rapt. "I have been informed, however, that he is a turncoat, either a spy for an opposing side, or merely a young man who has experienced a change of heart. In any case, rumours have also reached my ears. It is possible he has been captured by the Dark Lord."

"But," Fleur regards me, stunned. She runs her hands across the ancient tomes I've brought her. "Then, are you not going in search of him?"

My shrug is graceful, not disclosing the tension I feel at the topic. "I think not."

"Surely your wife must be concerned," she presses me, not understanding the intricacies and complications of the Malfoy family.

"Narcissa has abandoned the manor. I believe she has gone to look for him and plan some daring, impossible rescue." The woman has always had ideas above her station, has always believed herself to be powerful when in fact she is powerless, perpetually surrounded by those far more skilled than herself. "An associate of mine, a friend, has accompanied her, or so I presume." Calling Severus a friend is, perhaps, a bit rich, but fairly accurate, at least in the historical sense. Referring to him as my son's former lover would likely make Fleur uncomfortable, at any rate.

Fleur remains quiet for a moment, lost in thought. Several times, she opens her mouth to speak, then snaps it shut again, checking herself. Finally, she speaks. "I remember him, your son," she tells me. "Only vaguely, I never knew him well. We did not have the opportunity to speak, but I was introduced to him. He seemed a very sweet boy."

Sweet, I think, resisting the urge to laugh. "A pity you were never able to know him well. He could have enlightened you significantly on the Dark Arts." The memories make me nostalgic. "He was always a dedicated student, Draco."

"But then, surely, you must be most proud of him," says Fleur, looking me over sceptically. "Aligning himself with a powerful wizard as it serves him, yet abandoning all pretense of loyalty when he has what he wants? A man such as yourself, do you not value those traits?"

Clever girl. "My dear," I begin, changing the subject, "forgive me, but I was under the impression you wished to meet with me again to discuss the Dark Arts. While I now have unlimited time, I presume your own opportunities for leisure are short. You gave the impression that your husband's family kept you on a bit of a short leash, am I correct? Perhaps I can answer some of those questions for you now?"

If Fleur hears the rebuke in my voice, she gives no indication. On the contrary, she drains her glass of wine and offers me a knowing smile. Leaning forward, she rests her fingertips against the knuckles of my right hand. "Unforgivable curses," she pronounces. "Tell me, Lucius, when was your first experience with these curses?"

"Casting or receiving?" I ask, still a bit sullen from the talk of Draco. I cannot resist the flash of her eyes as she watches me, however, and perk up a bit in spite of myself. "Why, Fleur, surely you cannot be implying that I have ever used such curses. They are, after all, illegal and punishable by a serious term in Azkaban." My smile is teasing, insinuating.

Fleur's smile widens. "Of course not, Mr Malfoy," she replies, mock-serious. "But, hypothetically," she continues. "If a young man were to be brought up in an environment where such curses were used, even taught..." Her grip on my hand is a little harder now, as though she expects to be reined in. "When would such an education occur?"

I have come to trust her, somehow, in my sceptical way at least, and in any case, I know even if she did run straight to the nearest Auror, the crimes of my past would not captivate any attention. I served my time and left an informant. "I was instructed in casting the Cruciatus at twelve, the Imperious at fourteen, and by seventeen had mastered the Avada Kedavra." I do not tell her when I received my first lesson in the Killing Curse, though I remember it clearly; an argument between my father and grandfather, over what I do not know, and a sudden flash of light that left my grandfather open-eyed yet sightless, immobile on the bottom stair of the manor I now possess. I had been seven. My father, who had never understood the heady joy of procrastination, had determined I learn the curse then and there. That had been my first experience with the Cruciatus as well. My father had hit me with it for refusing to test my newfound murdering abilities on my cherished pet owl.

"A mere child," breathes Fleur, in shock. Fierce protectiveness is evident on her features; if she did not know me so well, she would likely jump and run to my side, eager to cradle me and soothe away the dark memories. She is indignant on my behalf, outraged. "You were taught such acts as a child? But you were just a little boy!"

"You make me sound as though I was once innocent," I smirk. "When you must have it on good authority I have never once been."

"Lucius," she tells me. Her face is slightly pale and her eyes are dilated and surprised, but she looks almost hypnotized as she stares at me. "You are one of the most fascinating men I have ever met."

Now that, I have to acknowledge, is what I like to hear.