With a genuine smile, Lucius was reminded of the pleasures he had gained that day. Selling the elf after wringing what little life there was out of him was an opportunity too convenient to miss. Let someone else watch the pathetic creature die pining after his family; his secrets were safe. Dead elves betrayed no one, even by accident.
An unexpected pleasure had come when he had returned home. Seeing his haughty, pampered wife attempt to get on without someone waiting on her hand and foot was an immeasurable joy. She'd been accustomed to the luxuries which came with being a Malfoy for so long the woman actually seemed to believe she was entitled to them.
He debated extending the treatment to Draco; there was far too much Black in him for his liking, especially for the role he'd been born to play. With that role now in doubt he had to be sure his heir was capable of continuing the same delicate dance until the time was more auspicious for them.
When Marsh failed to make his departure as was expected of him, Lucius graced him with an artfully arched eyebrow.
"Was there something else?" he asked, taking a sip of the elf-made wine some new vintner had sent as a gift, hopeful for an investment. Whoever this Cadogan was made a nice wine for a first time out; Lucius though tried never to drink anything younger than he was. He would have to pass. Perhaps he'd send the rest to Severus as a Christmas gift.
"There is, sir," Marsh said, shifting slightly on the expensive rug. "It's something I hesitate to bring you since the subject is a close one, but it does have rather large implications for us all - should other issues not come to the fore - so I'd be negligent if I didn't bring it up."
"Go on," Lucius said intrigued.
"Well, there was another person who loomed large in the boy's memories… It was your son."
...
Barchoke looked down at the file on his desk, not even seeing it. This was bad. It was really bad. It was so bad it was virtually catastrophic. He didn't know how he could recover from this. He got up to pace up and down his office, removing his suit jacket and tossing it over a chair before loosening his tie.
Alkrat had been the first, but he hadn't been the last. Gutripper talked to him about strike teams, interrogation squads, and future security concerns. Bankor came by with a rough outline of the speech they wanted him to give - provided the Wizengamot would allow a goblin to speak; he doubted it, but it never hurt to be prepared.
Fillast then presented him with a proposal for a flip-free fliplift and discussed ideas for a post-Stone Gringotts. Afterwards, Slaggran had come by with some cream-filled pastries. How he had managed to get those Barchoke had no idea, but he suspected it had something to do with all the muggle currency the bank was required to take in and had nothing it could do with it.
Braglast was by far the scariest, and that was including Gutripper throwing a dagger at him to get his attention. On the spur of the moment Barchoke dashed to the cabinet and flung the doors wide - nothing seemed out of place. He tapped all the panels though, just to be sure. They sounded solid, but they couldn't be. He looked up at the office ceiling, hoping to see some hairline split which could give him some kind of clue.
How in Gott's name did the little cat-skinner fall from the ceiling onto the desk, hand him his favorite power tie he'd lost two years earlier, and then disappear by climbing into his cabinet - and all without making a sound? And what was it he actually did around here anyway?
After all that, Barchoke half expected Lognot to stop by - until he remembered he was dead. The only ones who hadn't come by was Largrot and Marsh. Marsh was a human and therefore didn't matter, and Largrot… He tried to remember back to when the last time he'd seen Largrot. Had he even been in the Pit with them? Surely no one would've killed him after the preliminary meeting, there'd been no reason to. Had he fallen asleep - or had he gone into hiding?
Barchoke yanked off his tie and flailed the nearest chair with it to vent his frustration. How could his fortunes have turned so quickly? What had he done to draw their attention to him? What made them think he had all the ideas? He used to have a nice cushie job where he didn't have to do anything five days out of the week, got paid, and had weekends off - now he was working all the time and everyone was deferring to him. It was madness.
The higher you climb, the further and faster you fall. All it would take now would be one thing, one big accomplishment they could point to as evidence that he should be the one to lead and before he'd know it he'd be bumped upstairs to be Grand Overseer. What a disaster. Who would ever want the job? It meant you were responsible for everything that happened, and he never heard of a Grand Overseer retiring of old age - there'd always been someone around to knock him off when he got old so they could take his place at the top of the building.
He supposed it was too late to get the boy to change his mind about the case, even if he could somehow convince Lester - which he'd never be able to do in a million years. He'd have to watch his step from here on out and hope the case only proved middlingly successful on the bank's behalf because unless someone else distinguished themselves he looked to be the default choice. The thought made him as antsy as an under-worked house-elf. He needed something to take his mind off his possible sudden end-of-life situation.
There was a quick knock on the door and Secretary Trixie entered, closing the door behind her.
"There's a lot of talk going around about you," she said with a cheeky half grin and a glint in her eye, her voice cracking in that enticing way she had.
'That's it,' he decided. 'If I'm going to be damned with a promotion then it's high time I start doing what I want .'
With a flick of his wrist he sent his tie whipping out and wrapping around her arm. There was only an instant of shock before her grin became feral.
"C'mere!" he cried, pulling her through the air towards him as night fell.
.....
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