Bohemian Rhapsody

moment fourteen: lie and silence (November 5, 1974)

Malfoy Manor. The ancestral home of the Malfoy family had existed on this spot for nearly nine centuries. It was almost a millennia: almost, and like all things Malfoy, it was the almost that itched. The awareness of being nearly wealthy enough to snub all others, but not quite; of being almost powerful enough to function independently of the wizarding society the family turned its nose up at. But almost and not quite are not certainties, and so the Malfoys always teetered on the edge of respectability, trying to live in two different worlds.

Right now, Lucius was seated in the formal reception room, doing his best to please one of the Manor's more unusual guests. The human servants had left for the day, and the house elves had locked themselves away in their quarters, so there was no-one to see him behave deferentially, tipping the flask of rich red wine to fill the goblet that lay in his guest's hand.

His guest tightened pale fingers around the goblet, and lifted it his thin lips, tongue lapping at it first like a snake to get a sense of taste before swallowing the wine in a gulp. Lucius wondered briefly if he still tasted things as other men did - if he tasted things at all. But he seemed to appreciate the wine, and if nothing else, that indicated some good sensibilities. He did his best not to quail under that gaze: Lucius Malfoy had always considered himself a brave man - nothing had scared him for nearly ten years, and yet...

When the Dark Lord looked at you, there was no comfort in that gaze. There wasn't even any shared humanity, as if whatever made one human had been purged from Voldemort, and the void had entered in return. Lucius had heard whispered rumours, tales of the dark powers, and other things - all too horrifying to think about. Lucius prided himself on his willingness to do what was necessary to achieve his aims: but to sell his soul, even for the best of reasons? He did not think he could do that.

As Lucius bent his head, waiting upon the Dark Lord like a vassal, he felt fingers stretch out to cup around his head, absently stroking the smooth flesh on the back of Lucius' neck. Those hands weren't unnaturally cool, or hot for that matter. The skin wasn't especially dry, or scaly, or strange in any other way. The touch of Voldemort was surprisingly normal, and all the more remarkable for it.

"Your mother died when you were younger, did she not?"

Lucius swallowed, and kept his head bowed. Discussing family history was the last thing he expected. "Yes, my Lord."

"I understand your father treated her abominably." There was caustic judgement in that cool voice, a probing of his weaknesses.

"My father was a needy tyrant," he stated, bitter anger enunciating each syllable. "He drove her into an early grave with his pathetic need for a second heir." He felt off-guard by his own fury, awkwardly attempting to rise, and nearly upsetting himself in the process. The wine bottle that stood on the silver platter swayed slightly, and he caught it with a hand, returning both to a state of equilibrium on his knee. He took the white serving cloth from his shoulder and wiped away the condensation from the bottle, acting as if his outburst had never happened.

He looked up at Voldemort, ready to refill his goblet if need be, and gasped slightly at the merry amusement he saw in those green eyes, glinting with red. "You have a good temper, Lucius," he announced, as if the proud father commenting on a favoured son. "And you have a certain righteous ardour that interests me. My father..." he paused, seemed to gather himself in, before continuing. It was the closest thing to weakness Lucius had ever seen him exhibit. "My father was less kind than yours." He rose from his seat then, Lucius nimbly getting out of the way, and Voldemort edged over to the mantelpiece, taking his time to peruse the family portraits and cameos that littered the pale surface. He picked up one: a young woman with grey eyes and full gold hair caught laughing at something out of view. She had high cheekbones and a strong jaw: she would never be beautiful, perhaps, not classically, but her obvious joy at life, and her full mouth marked her as handsome, and rarely so. "Your mother?"

Lucius nodded.

"She looked to be a rare beauty. I was told my mother was beautiful, too." He turned to Lucius then, and the red fires gleamed in his eyes. "Now, you know your father virtually sold you to me before he died?"

Lucius nodded again, trying to ignore the bile that was building up in his throat. "I am aware that certain...obligations were made to you." He could all too easily remember being dragged from his bed at wandpoint two years previously by his father, who had been raving and possibly drunk. In the middle of the night, Lucius had been marched down through the Manor to here and forced to kneel at the waiting feet of Voldemort. Voldemort had inspected him, and left, leaving his father to gloat about what this new alliance could mean for the Malfoy family. However, it seems the powers had not approved: far from being able to enjoy any prospect of elevation, Vortigern Malfoy had died soon after, in early 1973.

Voldemort chuckled, pleased. "Certain obligations. Vortigern treated you like cattle at sale, Lucius, and not especially prime beef at that. But I have no need of unwilling followers. I know enough about you to see you do not oppose my plans, but I would prefer you as an ally and supporter now than a neutral party. Soon, there will no room for neutral parties."

"Yes, my Lord. I wish to be your servant. For my own reasons."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow, and stroked his jaw, looking at Lucius intently. "And what pray, are those?"

"If a farmer finds that a plague of locusts infects his crop, he sees no compunction at wiping them out. As owner of this estate, it is my duty to make sure that my client farmers and the like are taken care of, that their crops are free of...plagues. Muggles kill one another for the most trivial of reasons, because one has a different colour skin or worships God by a different name, or lives behind a different line that just happens to be demarcated on a map. They kill, and they breed, and they fear anything that is different from themselves. Because they have no magic in their lives, they seek to tear the mystical down from around us all, and replace it with their science and their logic. They create boundaries, rules, limitations to the universe, because that way they feel in charge. And they poison the sky, the air, the ground, and destroy it for all of us, with no thought for any of the other creatures on this planet but themselves.' He tightened his hand into a fist. "I see no greater plague of locusts in our world than the Muggles. And I merely want the ability to take care of my lands. I am tired of letting all others have the power, with their talk of compromise and assimilation. Why should we assimilate, scared to show ourselves? Are we wizards not the power? Are we not the only ones with an obvious clue?"

Lucius sighed, and felt some of his anger seep from his body. "I want to be in control of my own destiny for once, to have the power to protect what is mine from this plague of Muggles, and all who would support them. I am sick of being weak."

Voldemort smiled thinly, and nodded once. "I think I can help you with that."