Bohemian Rhapsody

moment four: the hounds of winter (1965).

Lucius had his head down, quill furiously scribbling some notes from the board, his attention focussed on the task in front of him. Professor Flitwick might indeed be some kind of hyperactive dwarf, as his father called him, but he had some kind of knowledge to impart, and Lucius was determined to master it. Even if he was only in first year.

He didn´t notice a lanky fifth year enter, face solemn with the import of the duty they were carrying out, and make his way up to the platform, passing a note to the Professor before leaving. The Professor opened said note, and finally attracted Lucius´ attention with one of his patented little dances; the gleeful hop he made every time he had something to announce. Placing down his quill somewhat sourly, Lucius looked up, one hand automatically smoothing down his hair, and rather disconcertingly, found that the bright eyes of Professor Flitwick were focussed solely upon him.

Lucius looked around, certain that it couldn´t be so. He hadn´t misbehaved, or anything. Flitwick had to be looking at someone else...didn´t he? Uncomfortably, Lucius settled back in his seat, all too aware of that gaze. It seemed his classmates were aware of it too, focussing their attention on Lucius´ desk. The young Slytherin wished the ground could just open up and swallow him right now; or that he had the family´s invisibility cloak, or something.

Smiling hopelessly to the class, without realising any of the social implications of what he was doing, Professor Flitwick read the note aloud. "Ah, I´ve just been asked to make sure that Lucius Malfoy," he turned his smiling gaze to the student in the front row, and emphasised the name: Lucius cringed, and his teacher continued, "reports to the head of Slytherin House after this lesson." Lucius slunk further into his hard seat, as if he could somehow curl up in a ball and become one with the wood.

Fortunately, Flitwick seemed completely unaware of the class gaze that was now focussed upon the young Malfoy, and sent them scurrying back to notes and quill by demonstrating a new wand movement. Lucius sat in dreary silence, all thoughts of charms having vanished from his head, airily gazing out the window. When class was dismissed, he picked up his books and rather than making his way with the rest of the first year Slytherins to Transfiguration with McGonagall, he left them at a corridor junction and silently padded his way deeper inside Hogwarts, heading towards the Slytherin quarters.

After some time, he reached the office of the head of Slytherin House, and knocked.

"Come in," a low female voice greeted him, rather coolly. He scuttled forward, placing his books behind one of the chairs that rested in front of the plain oak desk, and waited for permission to sit. His head of House took the time to look up from her writing, and her lips softened noticeably. "Ah, Malfoy, this won´t take long." She took a few more minutes to scribble away on parchment, allowing them both a respite.

Psyche Aurelius was dressed as she normally would be: a severe and unadorned long black dress, the sleeves slashed with Slytherin green. Her long hair, daringly crimson, was set as it normally was, bound tightly and piled on top. Blotting the page with a quick incantation, she set it aside and took a small square envelope from her desk, carefully fishing it out from amongst papers and confiscated objects d´magic. Handing the envelope to Lucius, who took it, bemusedly, she sat back in her seat, eyeing him with concern. "I´m sorry, Lucius," was all she could say.

Lucius, for his part, was more than a little worried. His head of House actually knew his name. Dear Morgaine, and she was sorry? Sorry for what? He glanced down at the envelope, noting the familiar neat writing of his father, his own name being the one it was addressed to. Professor Aurelius was sitting back in her seat, hands steepled in front of her, trying not to notice him whilst at the same time seemingly incapable of doing anything else.

Like many, she had heard the rumours of the Malfoy family, long and old and fallen from grace centuries ago, torn by ambition and driven by pride. For the past four generations, despite every incantation the midwives knew, the Malfoy family only ever produced one male heir, finally resulting in the boy before her, pale and handsome, in a faintly absent way. Lucius gave the constant impression of emptiness, as if there was nothing behind the perfect skin and blond hair, although this impression was just that: a definite impression, which made its artifice all the more obvious to someone such as herself.

Psyche had heard the reports of the Slytherin prefects, how this seemingly fragile boy drove himself night after to night to study until he fell into a rigid slumber, body curled upon covers topped with sheets of parchment; notes and study guides from the library. He certainly had the ambition, and the cold drive of a Slytherin, so desperate to prove himself to his brute of a father. Psyche had met Vortigern Malfoy for herself, and it was a singular experience she´d prefer not to repeat. She´d been introduced to his mother as well, that delightful blossom of a woman, who´d been brought in as a brood mare in an attempt to rid the Malfoy´s of their curse.

It was why she was so sorry, after all.

Lucius gasped once, and looked up at her, his eyes suddenly wet with moisture. He stammered something about needing to go, and half-ran out the door before she even assented, his books hugged protectively to his chest. Psyche smiled sadly after him, and picked up the parchment from where he´d dropped it, uncaring in his flight.

Lucius.

It pains me to have to inform you of your mother´s recent departure. As you know, she had been extensively weakened by your brother´s birth several months previously, and then when her son had failed to survive, she was, like myself, most disheartened. The subsequent depression is believed to have sapped her strength, as the doctors tell me, and she simply lost the will to continue, finally passing away early this morning. The funeral will be held in the grounds of your ancestral home in one week, and I trust you will not need to take more than a day from your studies to fulfil your duty.

I look forward to hearing of your progress at Hogwarts.

Your father,

Vortigern Malfoy.

Psyche curled the parchment up in her fist, and tossed it into her fire. Vortigern was a typical Slytherin brute: no finesse, no tact, no heart. He had no awareness of just how valuable weapons such as trust, emotion or compassion could be.

Lucius made his way shakily into his small room, glad that the Slytherins had private dormitories. He absently dumped his books on his desk and crawled onto the soft comfort of the bed, clutching the pillow in his eyes as if was a real person, his tears staining the white sheets. He made no sound as his body was wracked with sobs, his mouth open in a silent horrible keen.

After what seemed like hours, Lucius blinked, aware of a small noise coming over from the corner of his room. It was his tawny owl, Chronos, fluttering around his cage, the cage itself placed next to the neat stack of Lucius´ mostly-disused art supplies. He didn´t get much time to draw, or paint, not between all his studies.

Lucius had brought Chronos down here for some company, and because he wanted to keep his eye on him, feed him himself. He didn´t trust the school´s house elves to take proper care of him in the Owlery, and Chronos had been a special gift from his mother upon his acceptance...

His mother. His mother was gone, and he needed space, and all the owl could do was flutter?

His face set in cold resolution, he grabbed his wand from his desk, kneeling next to the cage. "Chronos," he began, cold but not unkindly, "please be quiet."

The owl hooted and flapped its wings.

"Chronos," Lucius repeated, a warning tone in his voice.

It did it again.

Lucius´ father had been very thorough with his education. For most of his life, his father had given him extra coaching beyond the basic magical theory that all young children had. Grey eyes cooling blazing, Lucius pointed his wand at the tawny owl and ground out the word "crucio."

The owl started squealing then, beating its wings frenetically as it tried to escape the constant torment. Lucius, impassively, concentrated his will and his rage on the helpless creature until finally it stopped.

Wiping his hands on his robes, Lucius shoved the brief feeling of being somehow dirtied from his mind, his eyes examining the bird lying dead on the floor of the cage, its mind having been unable to take the stress. His father would get him a new owl, he knew. Besides, he thought he needed a new one.

"Don´t blame me," he told the corpse, his voice cool and flat. "Nothing lasts forever."