Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Returning to Sanity	By : AchillesTheGeek Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 31212 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter books or films, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 34
- 35
- 36
35 Lucius Returns to the Fray
Monday 8 June 1998
Lucius Malfoy was rather pleased with himself as he Flooed to the London office he had persuaded the Ministry to allow him to keep. A little over three weeks ago, he'd been on trial for his life; now he was definitely getting that life back on track. The Ministry was starting to listen to him again; more, to seek out his help. And he was careful to always give the best help he could, always to appear patient, and reasonable, and to listen, and present a humble persona. Of course, there were those who still didn't trust him; but the Minister was not one of them, and that meant a lot. With the Minister onside, a good deal of bad feeling could simply be manipulated out of his way.
And, of course, he had Harry Potter on his side, and there was absolutely no doubt that that counted for even more than the Minister's support. Especially as the Minister's was a little begrudged, while Harry was openly for the Malfoys. Well, for Draco, anyway. But he was getting the Malfoy name in the papers in a positive light, and Lucius would take that any day. Even though he had received plenty of angry letters and howlers about it; there were those who cursed him for turning Harry dark; those who claimed, despite the medical examination Harry had had, that the Malfoys had him under Imperius, or a love potion, or some other control; and those who berated him for allowing such an ungodly state of affairs in his family. He didn't actually read any of it, though; like Draco, he had simply set up a charm to reply to all the letters. He hadn't bothered to distinguish the interesting from the uninteresting; everyone he didn't know personally who sent him a complaining letter got a polite reply to the effect that Draco was of age, and what his son and his son's lover did in bed was neither his business nor the writer's.
He was dressed impeccably, as always on his infrequent forays into the Muggle world; his pin-stripe suit was elegantly understated and would not have looked out of place in any City boardroom. Many wizards had no ideas about Muggle clothing; Lucius was not one of them. There was no way that a Malfoy was going to wear anything but the best, the most fashionable, the most impressive.
He smiled as the limousine that would take him down to Surrey arrived right on time at ten thirty. The Ministry was at last getting the message that they had to make an impact on the Muggles. He could see two men in the car; the driver was wearing a smart uniform, and the man sitting in the back seat was dressed in a simple grey suit. His smile grew even wider as the man who was to be his chauffeur for the day got out and opened the door for him.
"Morning, Mr Malfoy," the man said. "I suggested that if I came as your driver today, and Mr Proudfoot as your personal assistant, we wouldn't need a separate Auror detail as well. I trust that is in order?"
"An excellent idea, if I may say so, Mr Banks," Lucius replied. "I may say I am very pleased to have the two of you with me today."
"Thank you," the Auror replied. "Please, do feel free to call me Robin – I think the first name might work better as I am your chauffeur?" he asked with a smile.
"Very well, Robin," said Lucius. He could see why Harry and Draco sang the praises of this man so loudly – he was positively devious, for an Auror. "You do both understand what I intend?"
"Oh, I think so, sir," Toby replied from inside the car. "And I may say, you have our full support."
"I'm delighted to hear that," Lucius said, as he finally entered the car and took his seat. And he meant it.
This was one luncheon engagement he was going to enjoy.

George Grunnings was not an exuberant man. His family hailed from Yorkshire, and he had inherited from his northern forebears both a rather gloomy outlook on life and the firm conviction that Yorkshire was the only place in the United Kingdom, if not the entire Universe, worth a second thought. Most people were too sensible to ask him why it was then that he had lived in Surrey for the last forty years. The starkly truthful answer was that in Yorkshire he would have been a nobody, working in the mines; the family had moved to London, where his father had started a building business and the young George had opened a small shop supplying various tools for him. That small shop had now moved to leafy Surrey and become Grunnings Drills, one of the major suppliers of drilling equipment to the building trade in the United Kingdom.
Which is how George, who had started life in a tiny one-bedroom mid-terrace house in the poorest street in Yorkshire, and grown up in the East End of London amongst that city's poorest, could now afford to live with his wife Betty in a five-bedroom detached house in one of the finer little villages in Surrey. And how he could afford to drive a very nice Jaguar motor car. And go on expensive holidays abroad twice a year. And eat his fish and chips in posh restaurants.
George had been born in nineteen thirty-four. His grandmother had been a fierce royalist, and his father, oddly for an otherwise one-eyed, strong-willed Yorkshireman, had bowed to her demands and named his first and only son after the then King, George V. Betty Bolton, later to be his wife, had been born four years later, by which time George VI was on the throne; her parents, also royalists, had named her for his wife, Queen Elizabeth, the former Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyons. When they met in nineteen fifty-five, his grandmother had been overjoyed at the happy accident of them having the same names as the now former King and Queen. George had been less happy about it; he hated the Monarchy and what he saw as the oppression of the poor that it represented. But he knew better than to say any such thing to his father or grandmother, and so smiled sweetly and went out with the young girl.
It turned out that, despite this rather inauspicious beginning, they had got on well together, and they now had a very happy marriage. George had been a good provider, and Betty had kept house very well. George liked to grumble, and Betty learnt early on to just tune him out, let him rant. All she had to do to have a peaceful life was to murmur occasionally and hand him a cup of tea every half-hour; and all was well.
His world was organised on getting up early and getting stuck into the day. Some days he would sit in the front room and read the paper; some days he'd go in to work, yell at his staff, and come home at dinnertime – which for him was twelve o'clock noon; he never referred to the meal at the middle of the day as 'lunch', that was for those posh bastards he had no time for – and, as often as not, potter in his garden, not bothering to go back to the office. Of course, he would grumble about work wasting his time and keeping him away from home; but the truth was that, despite his gruff exterior, he really loved his staff. Almost everyone at Grunnings had worked there for years; you had to stuff up royally to get fired by George Grunnings. Everyone in the building trade knew this; so being sacked from Grunnings, which didn't happen often, basically meant you had no future to speak of in the industry. And very few people resigned; they were well-paid, and looked after. Occasionally, someone would be poached; but as often as not, they would return after a brief sojourn elsewhere, and be welcomed back with open arms. This, George had learnt early on, was a rich source of information about what his competitors were up to; so he didn't stand in the way of people leaving, but encouraged their coming back.
There was just one new boy; last year, following a nasty scare that might have been a heart-attack, and might not, he had been told quite bluntly that unless he wanted Betty to be a widow within the year, he had to work less. So he had hired a new Managing Director. It went against the grain to bring in someone new at such a high level; but the obvious choice for the job had not been very reliable for the past year, so reluctantly he had brought in this Collings chap. He wasn't quite sure about the man; he seemed to be a bit of a cold fish. But he couldn't dispute that Collings had had a marked positive effect on the performance of the company, so he swallowed his slight misgivings about the man.
And in the middle of all this, in the last week something had happened to upset the even tenor of his life and give him pause. He had had an offer for the business. And not just 'an offer', he thought; this was 'An Offer'. If he accepted it, he would be set for life.
Uncharacteristically for the self-made man who kept everything close to his chest, he had discussed The Offer with Betty. At first, she was flummoxed that he would ask her anything about the business; but she had then asked some very pointed and pertinent questions, all of which largely boiled down to two: "What do you think you'll do with yourself if you don't go to work every day?" and "What will happen to the staff?"
He didn't have an answer for either of these questions. And they both had niggled at him over the weekend, so he had just about made up his mind. That posh suit was coming down from London today to talk about buying the business; George was going to let him take him (and Betty; the man had all but insisted on that) for an expensive meal and then send him away with a flea in his ear.
"Serves 'im right," he muttered to himself as he sat drinking his elevenses. "Coming down here with kiss-me-'and ways, expecting us all to kow-tow to 'im."

"PETUNIA!" the fat man roared. "WHERE ARE MY CUFF-LINKS?"
Petunia Dursley closed her eyes. It was going to be one of those days. "Third drawer down, left hand side," she called out to him. Where they've been for the last twenty years, she thought as she plated up his breakfast.
A minute later, Vernon Dursley stomped down the stairs and entered the kitchen, violently pushing the offending cuff-links through the button holes. She sighed and reached out to help him. He kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, and sat down to his bacon, eggs and fried tomato. His wife heard the mail arrive, collected it, and sat next to him at her own breakfast of tea and toast, lightly buttered. As she did so, the front door opened, and Dudley, who was home from his boarding school, Smeltings Academy, for the rather late half-term holiday, came in from his morning jog.
This new son was taking some getting used to. Before, at half-term, they would be lucky to see him before lunch-time; it seemed like all he used to do was sleep, eat, and beat up The Freak, her nephew, Harry Potter. And, as she could see with the benefit of hindsight, get fatter and fatter, and less and less attractive. But now he was exercising, insisting on healthy meals, and had trimmed down to the point where he was now getting positive comments from the neighbourhood girls.
"Morning, Mum, Dad," he called, as he went upstairs to shower.
"Morning, dear," Petunia answered happily.
"Morning, Dudley," Vernon grunted. She could tell he hated this new Dudley. She strongly suspected that this dislike was largely jealousy; and in this suspicion she was entirely correct.
"So," she said, turning to her husband, and, taking stock of the care with which he had dressed, continued, placatingly, "you're looking very smart today, dear. Something special happening?"
"There's a rumour the Old Man might come in at three. Apparently he's got something big to announce."
"Ooh! Do you think he might get rid of Collings?" Petunia responded. 'The Old Man' was George Grunnings himself, the owner of Grunnings Drills, the company of which Vernon was now the Deputy Managing Director. He had been promoted to the role three weeks ago; but he had complained to her several times since then that he should have got Managing Director. That role had gone to a man he described as the 'hot-shot new boy', a man called Michael Collings whom Petunia had never met. Vernon blamed his failure to get the job on the fact that he'd had to be away from the office for so much time when they went into hiding just before The Freak's seventeenth birthday. Vernon had missed nearly two months of work, and even then they had been told not to return to the house, and had spent months in a cramped, uncomfortable, rented house in a vastly inferior neighbourhood.
All of this, of course, had not endeared Petunia's sister Lily Potter's son to either of the older Dursleys. But Dudley, who had only missed a few weeks of school, seemed to have been quite happy about it, and also seemed to have settled back a changed boy. The reports that came back were now praising him for 'stepping up and taking responsibility', which had made Vernon snigger and ask Dudley exactly what mischief he had been responsible for. Dudley had told his father, in an icy voice, that prefects didn't get into mischief, as he proudly showed off the new badge on his blazer. This surprise announcement produced strong, and quite different, responses from his parents. Petunia had cooed about how wonderful that her Dudders had been chosen for such an honour, while Vernon had exploded with rage; he had hated the prefects when he was at Smeltings and could not understand how his son did not feel the same way about them.
The atmosphere in the house had been rather frosty since then, and Petunia was getting a bit fed up with it. Of course, she blamed it all on The Freak, which is how she always referred to Harry; she was glad they had got the injunction, she only hoped he would abide by it. But, she worried, did wizards care for the law? They would have to, surely?
Vernon thought about her remark. Get rid of Collings? He hadn't considered that possibility; he'd just assumed the worst. Meetings with Grunnings seldom went very well. Perhaps this would be the exception?
"I don't know, dear," he said, warming to the thought, "but … I guess, he hasn't been performing very well recently, it's just possible. Let's hope so, shall we?"
And he left for work in a more positive frame of mind than he had had for a week.
Such a shame it wouldn't last …

Narcissa Malfoy sat at the table in Harry's garden, drinking her tea. This was fast becoming her favourite place in the Manor to sit and think; something of the incredible strength and love that filled the young man they had given it to seemed to have rubbed off on the place, and she felt surrounded by it every time she came here. It helped that it was new; in this place, unlike most of the Manor, there were no associations of the Dark Lord; no shadows of the past to haunt her; no memories of evil to suddenly rise up and attack her.
She opened the Prophet and read carefully. Half an hour later, she closed it again, puzzled and worried. Not that there was anything particularly troubling in the paper; far from it. But that was the problem. This was The Daily Prophet. A scurrilous gossip rag. There should be something troubling. They should be raking some muck. But it was all sweetness and light, and how wonderful the Hero was, and gush gush gush.
Narcissa didn't trust them. They were sitting on something, she was sure of it. They were waiting for … what? Some misstep, perhaps? Did they have something ready, just waiting for someone to make a false move? Would some accidental remark from Harry – she loved her son's lover, but she was well aware that he was no political animal; if anyone slipped up, it would be him – spark off a huge fire?
She shook her head. Maybe she was just becoming paranoid. But a little voice in her head told her the current happy reporting was too good to be true. And the little voice that said that was usually accurate …

Robin had no difficulty finding the Dorking High Street; and as their destination was not at all inconspicuous, they arrived in plenty of time for their luncheon. Once they had parked the car, Lucius suggested they stroll around to take stock of the place, and they walked up and down the High Street.
It only took ten minutes to convince Lucius that the place was every bit as ghastly as he had expected, and they returned to the restaurant that Grunnings had chosen. Happily, there was an adjacent bar, which was open, and alcohol is alcohol no matter who serves it, so Lucius and Toby Proudfoot sat nursing glasses of scotch. Lucius was delighted to discover that, like him, Proudfoot believed that the only thing one should add to good scotch is more of the same; he was a little disappointed, however, when Robin ordered a lemonade; Lucius cast a Muffliato to cover up their conversation, and asked him about it.
"Ah," the Auror replied, his eyes twinkling. He had noticed Lucius's surprise at his order, especially as Lucius was paying. "Toby and I don't mind drinking on duty, if it's part of the façade; but I think our Muggle friends will expect that your chauffeur would refrain from alcohol. Muggles, after all, don't have the benefit of charms to remove the effects of alcohol on their bodies."
Lucius thought about this, and mentally gave the man top marks for doing his homework. "You seem well up on Muggle ways?" he asked.
"My parents feel strongly that we ignore Muggles at our peril," Robin replied. "They may be weak; but there are lots of them. I know most wizards dismiss them, assuming we can just alter their memories if necessary; but we can't Obliviate them all. And the more magic we use on them, the greater the risk of them finding out about it."
"An interesting point of view," the older man allowed, "and not one I have heard argued for recently. The Dark Lord did just dismiss Muggles as inferior vermin; but then, he dismissed Harry Potter too, and look where that got him."
The discussion ranged happily, and Lucius was so impressed with the two men that he opened up about his intentions for the meeting, which they responded to very positively. They even suggested a few tweaks; such as using a Muggle name that was close enough to his own not to cause trouble if any of them accidentally used his real one. He realised that his letter had been in a very flowing script, and signed rather illegibly, so he would easily be able to use the new name.
At quarter past one, a Muggle couple walked in, and Lucius could tell immediately that they were the two he was interested in. He walked up to the man.
"Mr Grunnings?" he asked, extending a hand in greeting, and then steering them to the dining room when he nodded. "Luke Malloy. Shall we go in?"

George Grunnings had enjoyed the lunch immensely. It helped that his host had proved to be extremely genial and rather generous with the wine; and that during the meal they had discussed many topics but steered completely away from talking about Grunnings Drills. The topic was only broached when they were seated in the bar after lunch, Lucius sipping a reasonable (by his standards) cognac and George and Betty having (by Lucius's standards, awful) port, with, in Betty's case, lemon, the thought of which had made Lucius's toes curl, though he managed (just!) to keep the disgust out of his face.
"Well, Mr Malloy," George opened, "it's very kind of you to come all this way, and there's no denying it's been a slap-up meal; but I believe you had something by way of a business proposition you wanted to put to myself?"
Lucius winced inwardly at the incorrect use of the reflexive pronoun; but then, the man wasn't that far away from a barrow-boy, really, he thought. He had also worked out that George wasn't in the mood to sell; he had used Legilimancy, but to be honest, he had hardly needed to. The man was an open book to anyone with the political acumen of a Malfoy. So, just to be on the safe side, he quietly began some small compulsion charms as the man began to speak; and found, to his surprise, that his charm met a similar one, which seemed to envelop it. He looked at the Aurors out of the corner of his eye; Proudfoot had a small smirk on his face.
"Yes indeed. Ah, Proudfoot?" he said, turning to his 'personal assistant'. The Auror placed on his lap the attaché case that Lucius had given him on the drive down, and opened it up to extract the required papers (which were, in fact, the only thing in the case); as he did so, his face was hidden by its lid, and they were able to whisper to each other unseen.
"What was that charm?" Lucius asked.
"Auror special," came the reply. "Made your charm undetectable when used on Muggles. Mind, I only let you do it because he'd had his mind changed by his wife, and your charm put things back on an even keel. There should be no more problems."
Aloud, he said, as he closed the case, "I believe these are the papers you require, sir."
"Thank you," Lucius replied, and handed them to his guest. "Now, Mr Grunnings, I believe the amount was made clear to you in previous correspondence; but what perhaps may not have been clear is that my company was rather hoping that you would stay on in an advisory capacity? We appreciate that you have a vast experience in the industry which we can't hope to match, so of course we'd be delighted for you to come in whenever it suited you to do so."
These words had exactly the effect that Lucius intended: Betty's question about what he would do with himself, which had been uppermost in his mind, now vanished away.
Grunnings puffed out his chest in pride. "I must say yours is a most handsome offer, Mr Malloy," he said, "a very handsome offer; and still being able to come and go is just the icing on the cake, so to speak. Yes," and his voice trailed off as he read the papers through. They were very simple; Lucius had guessed, correctly, that someone like Grunnings would appreciate a straightforward "cash on the barrelhead" offer, and that was what he had in front of him.
With a big grin, the man took out his very ostentatious fountain pen and signed the papers with a flourish. Excellent, Lucius thought. But he knew better than most the importance of following through. The man had to leave the meeting today without the slightest misgiving that he was doing the right thing. Since he cared about the staff, Lucius would pump him for information. And that should naturally get him the information he wanted.
"Wonderful!" he said, enthusiastically, and waved at the bar staff to bring more drinks. "Now, Mr Grunnings, you must tell me about the staff. All those little things, who likes a little ego-stroke, who's at war with whom, you know what I mean."
"I do indeed," Grunnings replied, and, whether it was the wine or the pleasant manner of the man in front of him, he wasn't sure; but he soon found himself telling all about the query heart-attack, and the hiring of Mr Collings, together with long, and for Lucius and the Aurors very tedious, explanations of the difficulty of finding him and the need to treat him carefully; and particularly about the obvious bad feeling between him and his deputy, Vernon Dursley.
Lucius's ears pricked up. At last, it gets interesting, he thought. "Mr Dursley? Has he been with the firm long?" he asked. And that was all it took – they were good for another half hour of discussion, explaining all the foibles of Vernon's over twenty years with the company.
"He must be an excellent employee to have lasted so long," Lucius suggested. And, as he hoped, this brought out the tale of the last year, when Vernon had rather blotted his copybook by disappearing for months under special police protection, apparently.
"It was all down to that no-good nephew of his," the man ranted, and Lucius had to fight to keep a lid on his temper. "I told him over the years to sling the boy out, he's a wrong 'un through-and-through; but Vernon always seemed to have a soft spot for him." It was as much as any of the three wizards could do to keep cool at this remark; and it got worse … "So I told him straight, 'you can't allow him back, Vernon. You've got to make sure the police know all about him, and get a Court Order to keep him away.' And I'm glad to say he's taken my advice, and the boy has dropped out of the picture altogether. The Dursleys, Vernon, Petunia and their son Dudley, are back in their lovely house in Little Whinging, and he hasn't put a foot wrong for the last month, so I'm hoping we're over the worst. Of course, I couldn't make him Managing Director after all the absenteeism."
"I don't suppose he took that well," Lucius suggested, as he effortlessly threaded through the man's mind with a mild Legilimens, finding the address neatly attached to the thought of Little Whinging: 4 Privet Drive, the man's mind obligingly told him, and he filed it away.
Grunnings snorted. "That's putting it mildly, Mr Malloy. No, there's no love lost between those two. Anyway, there you have the main lie of the land, so to speak. The rest of the company runs like clockwork; keep those two happy and away from each other's throats and it will all go swimmingly. Cheers!" he said, draining his glass. "Hmm," he continued, "I was going to go and talk to them this afternoon; but I think it can wait till tomorrow."
"Oh, that would be fine," said Lucius, taking the hint and standing up to bid goodbye. "I thought I might pop in later in the week to spy out the land, introduce myself around and make sure everyone knows that there won't be massive changes – you'll still be around, and the company will still be producing drills just like before."
"Yes, yes, right," Grunnings said, and he and Betty went off, very happy, and more than a little drunk in his case; Robin hoped that she was driving.

Vernon got home a little after five. There had been a meeting, all right, but not with Grunnings. No, Collings had called him in and laid into him about the sales figures for the last week. Vernon couldn't see what the problem was – they were a bit low, perhaps, but they would pick up. The man was a slave-driver, expecting constant perfection, he muttered under his breath, as he entered his house from the garage. He grunted at Petunia, raided the kitchen for snacks, and sat down in front of the television with an ale in one hand and a bowl of pork scratchings in the other.
He heard footsteps coming down the stairs; and then a voice behind him asked, "How can you eat that revolting rubbish?"
"Dudley?" he asked, flabbergasted. He turned around, not believing that his son, of all people, could say such a thing; Dudley loved pork scratchings as much as he did. Or, it seems, used to, but no longer; there he was, standing with his arms folded, clearly not impressed.
"Come on, boy, get yourself an ale and sit down," Vernon barked, waving his son to come and sit in the other armchair in the room.
Dudley looked him up and down. He had once hero-worshipped this man; but the scales had rather fallen from his eyes when Harry had left. It had become clear to Dudley, when they had left the house to seek safety from that horrible wizard they were told about, that his parents loathed his cousin; always had, always would. And it had also become clear to him that Harry had done exactly nothing to deserve that loathing; and that his own behaviour to his cousin had been despicable. He only hoped he could find the boy and make it up with him.
As a result, he now had very little respect for the walrus-sized man in front of him. He considered his father's offer, mostly so the man would not think he was being impetuous. No, he was rejecting him quite deliberately. "I don't think so," he said eventually. "I'm going to stay with Piers for a few days. See you."
And with that he picked up the duffle-bag he had brought downstairs with him, and walked out the door.
What's got up his arse now? Vernon wondered to himself.

The three wizards had sat chatting in the bar for an hour after the meeting. The Aurors had asked Lucius what he had planned; he had explained his plan, such as it was. It all hinged, he stressed, on what Harry wanted. Left to him, Vernon would be hanging from a gibbet by morning; but it wasn't his revenge that was being plotted.
Truth to tell, the Aurors were rather relieved to hear this. As long as Lucius didn't breach the Statute of Secrecy, by letting Muggles know about magic, it would be hard to stop him doing what he wanted; the Ministry was not likely to be interested in prosecuting Lucius at the moment, given how important he was to the rather sensitive negotiations with the pure-bloods.
As they prepared to leave, Robin piped up, "so, you want to spy out the land? A quick visit to Little Whinging, then?"
Lucius smirked inwardly, but his face remained impassive. The man was gold, pure gold. "Did you get the address?" he asked.
Robin looked at him as though he were mad. "What do you think?" he asked.

The three wizards had pulled up across the street from Number 4, and had sat watching for some time. So far, they had been strictly observing, not taking any action. This visit was only to reconnoitre the area, Lucius had insisted; and the Aurors agreed with him. They would not want any action taken against the Muggles without Ministry approval, and a firm plan with a very high degree of success in place.
So they had sat quietly, not drawing attention to themselves, noting the perfect lawns and gardens, the well-maintained houses, and the general air of sterility that permeated the street. This was no place for children, Lucius thought; it was clear that there was no-one here who would love them the way they needed to be loved, who would tolerate footballs kicked through windows or rough-and-tumble play messing up the immaculate strips of lawn.
And as they watched, Dudley came out of Number 4, his duffle-bag slung over his shoulder, and a general air of discontent settled on him. He had been given a nice little Toyota Corolla for Christmas, having passed his driving test, with the help of a little bribery, in November. It was parked in front of the house; his parents worried that it made the street untidy, but in fact it was not the only car parked on the street every night so even if Dudley gave it a thought it would not have worried him. He was rather over worrying about what the neighbours thought. He was nearly eighteen years old; the neighbours were not his problem and he couldn't stop them thinking whatever they wanted.
He was engrossed in what he was doing; and he would never have seen the other car, anyway, with the Notice-Me-Not charm on it. As he came closer the three watching wizards could all feel the emotions pouring off the young man; it was all too clear that he was angry, upset, and desperate to get away from the house.
"That'll be Dudley, I take it?" Robin asked.
Lucius nodded.
"Might go for a walk," the Auror said matter-of-factly, and quietly got out of the car and strolled over to the Corolla. As he got close, Dudley looked up and saw him.
"Evening," Robin said, with an engaging little smile. "Lovely night."
"Yes," Dudley agreed. He wanted to get away; but there was something about this man. Somehow, Dudley felt, he would be worth talking to. He would help. He shut the hatch of his car and leant on it, striking up conversation with this new acquaintance. It wasn't twenty seconds before they were shaking hands, having introduced themselves, and talking away happily.
Proudfoot, watching from the car, shook his head in bewilderment.
"Every time!" he said.
Lucius gave him a quizzical look, and the Auror continued, "I just don't know how he does it. He goes over to people, says three words to them, and they pour out their hearts to him.

Dudley had been speaking to Robin for perhaps three minutes when something clicked in his head and suddenly he knew for certain that this stranger's appearance wasn't luck at all.
"You're a wizard aren't you?" he asked, his face containing equal parts wonder and fear.
"Yes," Robin said, with a smile. Of course, Dudley knew about wizards; he'd grown up with Harry, after all. But Robin had also already worked out that Dudley was coming to hate his parents and could prove to be a most useful ally; so he continued, calmly and candidly, "and a friend of Harry's."
The effect was exactly what he had hoped for. Dudley looked abashed, ashamed and hopeful all at once.
"How is he?" he asked. "Is he all right?"
"He's doing very well," Robin replied. "Would you like to see him?"
Dudley's head snapped up and his eyes came alive.
"Could I?" he asked, and Robin knew at once that the poor lad had all but given up hope of any relationship with his cousin. They'd have to work on that; meanwhile, Robin wasn't going to make promises he couldn't keep.
"I'll ask him," he said. "How can I get in touch with you?"
"Can you use a telephone?" Dudley asked.
Robin smiled, quite understanding that of course Dudley knew better than to assume that his new friend knew about the Muggle world. "Oh yes," he replied.
"Good. I'm going to stay at my friend Piers' house for the rest of the week; but you can ring me on my mobile."
He pulled out a scrap of paper, scribbled the number on it, and handed it to the Auror.
"I'll be in touch," Robin promised. "Stay safe, Dudley."
"Thanks, Robin," the boy replied, with his first smile for the day.

Robin gave a full report on the way back to London.
"I agree with you," Lucius replied. "A most useful ally. We shall have to consider how best to make use of this happy turn of events."
And he sat quietly for the rest of the journey, his face impassive, lost in his thoughts, letting them wander, letting a new plan come to him.
When they arrived back in London at half past six, there was a nasty twinkle in his eye and a broad grin on his face which boded no good for Vernon Dursley …

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I have set up a thread for replies at http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/index.php/topic/56042-review-replies-for-returning-to-sanity/ . I will generally try to reply to posts before posting a new chapter.
- 34
- 35
- 36
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Returning to Sanity