Lucius Malfoy (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
byrightsinhell) wrote2010-05-14 12:30 am
byrightsinhell) wrote2010-05-14 12:30 am
Backstory: If in some smothering dreams you too could pace...
November, 1981
Lucius apparated sloppily into his study. He'd been fleeing, and he tore the mask from his face almost before he'd fully materialized. He found it hard to breathe. With a gesture and a muttered word, he locked the door; he didn't want any bloody house elves wandering in and asking him if he required anything.
Everything had come crashing down. 48 hours ago, if somene had told him Voldemort would have lost the war, decisively, he would have been incapable of believing it. And yet.
He fumbled a little for the decanter of wine, pouring a glass and downing it all at once. He should be thinking. He needed to protect his family, to cover his tracks. He'd been careful; even before now, they'd been too much in the public eye for him to afford sloppiness. But, he had to wonder bitterly, had he been careful enough? He'd spent the better part of the past decade doing all manner of things in the Dark Lord's service, if masked and cloaked as he did so. There were suspicions and rumors, he'd little doubt, especially given his in-laws.
Bellatrix would be captured, he had no doubt. If she was taken alive, she could betray him, but he suspected her love for Narcissa, such as it was, might buy them a reprieve. He couldn't be certain, though. There was no certainty, tonight.
He sank into his reading chair, staring into the fire. For the past several years he had told himself, steadily, that whatever was required, it was done for the larger good. He wasn't squeamish, and it was wartime. Aurors knew what they were in for; muggles, mudbloods and blood-traitors deserved what they'd gotten. And if he hadn't personally agreed with every one of the Dark Lord's views, well, that was only to be expected. He was still the only option; Voldemort would win, he should win. Should have won, Lucius mentally corrected. It had been a long and blood-soaked struggle, and yet it all led here.
With a detached emotion not unlike amusement, he noticed his hands were shaking.
He'd known both Longbottoms at school, at least slightly. He'd had potions with Frank in his seventh year. Alice was younger, a round faced little Ravenclaw girl. They'd both been from pure, old families, though the Longbottoms had always entertained hopelessly naive and progressive views on blood heritage that placed them in a slightly different sphere of wizarding society from the Malfoys. And he'd known they were aurors, of course; unlike Death Eaters, aurors didn't wear masks. But there was a great deal he didn't know. For one, he didn't know if Rodolphus had reason to believe they might know what had become of the Dark Lord, of if they'd simply been unlucky enough to be caught at the moment the Lestranges needed a scapegoat.
Merlin knew that, for Bellatrix at least, it had very quickly ceased to be an exercise in gaining information.
Lucius would have killed the Longbottoms himself, without a moment's hesitation, had it been necessary. But any fool could see they'd no more idea of what had become of Voldemort than the Death Eaters had. Whatever had happened in the Potter house, the couple hadn't been privy to it. He thought they'd have to kill the pair, so they wouldn't testify against those who'd unmasked. But that, it turned out, had been eventually rendered moot.
In the quiet of his study, he could hear the faint echo of the screams of a pair of strong, pureblood wizards who'd taken ages to break. Taking care to master his hands, Lucius poured another glass of wine.
It was over now. He was sure he'd escaped without being seen, when the aurors had come to rescue the Longbottoms. And he knew, without a doubt, that whether Voldemort was alive in some form or, as he deemed more likely, dead entirely, the war had ended. No one had the combination of commitment and charisma to keep the Dark Lord's followers united. Many of them didn't even know one another. Zealots like the Lestranges would go to Azkaban or die resisting capture. Moderates like himself, Nott, Snape - they would have to have a combination of wits and luck, but they could, in theory, fade back into their more public personnas. As if none of it had ever been.
Lucius wasn't entirely sure he knew who he was, without the war.
He covered his face with his hands. He had to think. But nothing came, and for a long time, he simply sat there. The fire reflected off the porcelain mask, forgotten on the floor.
Lucius apparated sloppily into his study. He'd been fleeing, and he tore the mask from his face almost before he'd fully materialized. He found it hard to breathe. With a gesture and a muttered word, he locked the door; he didn't want any bloody house elves wandering in and asking him if he required anything.
Everything had come crashing down. 48 hours ago, if somene had told him Voldemort would have lost the war, decisively, he would have been incapable of believing it. And yet.
He fumbled a little for the decanter of wine, pouring a glass and downing it all at once. He should be thinking. He needed to protect his family, to cover his tracks. He'd been careful; even before now, they'd been too much in the public eye for him to afford sloppiness. But, he had to wonder bitterly, had he been careful enough? He'd spent the better part of the past decade doing all manner of things in the Dark Lord's service, if masked and cloaked as he did so. There were suspicions and rumors, he'd little doubt, especially given his in-laws.
Bellatrix would be captured, he had no doubt. If she was taken alive, she could betray him, but he suspected her love for Narcissa, such as it was, might buy them a reprieve. He couldn't be certain, though. There was no certainty, tonight.
He sank into his reading chair, staring into the fire. For the past several years he had told himself, steadily, that whatever was required, it was done for the larger good. He wasn't squeamish, and it was wartime. Aurors knew what they were in for; muggles, mudbloods and blood-traitors deserved what they'd gotten. And if he hadn't personally agreed with every one of the Dark Lord's views, well, that was only to be expected. He was still the only option; Voldemort would win, he should win. Should have won, Lucius mentally corrected. It had been a long and blood-soaked struggle, and yet it all led here.
With a detached emotion not unlike amusement, he noticed his hands were shaking.
He'd known both Longbottoms at school, at least slightly. He'd had potions with Frank in his seventh year. Alice was younger, a round faced little Ravenclaw girl. They'd both been from pure, old families, though the Longbottoms had always entertained hopelessly naive and progressive views on blood heritage that placed them in a slightly different sphere of wizarding society from the Malfoys. And he'd known they were aurors, of course; unlike Death Eaters, aurors didn't wear masks. But there was a great deal he didn't know. For one, he didn't know if Rodolphus had reason to believe they might know what had become of the Dark Lord, of if they'd simply been unlucky enough to be caught at the moment the Lestranges needed a scapegoat.
Merlin knew that, for Bellatrix at least, it had very quickly ceased to be an exercise in gaining information.
Lucius would have killed the Longbottoms himself, without a moment's hesitation, had it been necessary. But any fool could see they'd no more idea of what had become of Voldemort than the Death Eaters had. Whatever had happened in the Potter house, the couple hadn't been privy to it. He thought they'd have to kill the pair, so they wouldn't testify against those who'd unmasked. But that, it turned out, had been eventually rendered moot.
In the quiet of his study, he could hear the faint echo of the screams of a pair of strong, pureblood wizards who'd taken ages to break. Taking care to master his hands, Lucius poured another glass of wine.
It was over now. He was sure he'd escaped without being seen, when the aurors had come to rescue the Longbottoms. And he knew, without a doubt, that whether Voldemort was alive in some form or, as he deemed more likely, dead entirely, the war had ended. No one had the combination of commitment and charisma to keep the Dark Lord's followers united. Many of them didn't even know one another. Zealots like the Lestranges would go to Azkaban or die resisting capture. Moderates like himself, Nott, Snape - they would have to have a combination of wits and luck, but they could, in theory, fade back into their more public personnas. As if none of it had ever been.
Lucius wasn't entirely sure he knew who he was, without the war.
He covered his face with his hands. He had to think. But nothing came, and for a long time, he simply sat there. The fire reflected off the porcelain mask, forgotten on the floor.
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He is going to be sore as hell in the morning, though, and he knows it.
Lucius also knows he should probably bring up Bellatrix eventually, but he can't face doing so just yet; instead, he sits and lets her attend to his arm.
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"Don't put it in the water for a bit," she instructs, when she's done. It's one thing to worry about him and another to use that worry as a means of not focusing on anything else going on - but there it is.
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The bruise on his left hip is much worse than the one on his shoulder; it's a deep purple, almost brownish, with yellow edge. It looks like someone threw him into a wall, when taken with the other injury to his left side.
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"I think I need a drink," she murmurs, after a period of silence.
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Narcissa is as offensively regal when utterly naked and sopping wet as she is walking fully dressed in heels, as a note.
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Though Lucius Malfoy's opinion of himself is nearly boundless, he's exhausted and cracked open enough to entertain the brief, fleeting thought that he doesn't deserve her. But he doesn't hold on to it. He has her, and he will do everything in his power to keep in that way.
(Not to mention that Azkaban is the stuff of a young wizard's nightmares. If he were single, he'd almost rather die resisting capture, but he isn't, and he wouldn't do that to Narcissa.)
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She waits until her fingers stop trembling to pick up the glasses and the wine bottle and return.
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He thinks of all the celebrations the other side must be having right now. All the muggles with no inkling how profoundly their lives had just changed. And their side, frantically trying to decide what to do next, no longer a force but a handful of individuals.
It was a night no wizard on either side would soon forget, that much was certain.
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He remembers the night she first knew he was a Death Eater. If you die, Lucius Malfoy... How much have they done since they sat together in that garden? They'd get through, like they always had.
He keeps telling himself this in the hope that he will shortly start to believe it with more conviction.
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"I know- I know that it will be so hard now," she says, looking up at the ceiling above them, "but my darling, a part of me is so grateful that it's ending."
The war.
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"I almost don't remember what it's like, life without it."
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Now that he's past the very first shock, his more relaxed if in a bit more pain, physical and otherwise. After a bit, he says, "I don't know if you'll be able to speak with your sister, before they catch up to her." His voice is quiet, but even.
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(His own influence on her worry and grief is something that he is aware of, but doesn't think about much; he tries to minimize what he can, but he is who he is.)