Cowboys and Angels

Doubt was for the weak, and Lucius shrugged it aside. There would be other chances, possibilities. No promise could he not break, no tie that would remain bound. There seemed to be so much time; and then finally, respite had come, with all its glory, and it seemed that Lucius would be allowed to keep his son. The irony being that in Draco's apparent salvation, he had been shackled. The route of his ascendancy, as with Lucius, had been blocked: the price being, perhaps, their lives. But there were always other ways and means, and Lucius would survive, and teach his son bloody lessons, and his son would prosper as he had not. His son would have to, if he were to survive. These were not good times for the Malfoys, Lucius was sure.

There was an expectant hum in the air, and Lucius could see the portly figure of the court clerk rising, full of his own importance.

"Lucius Malfoy, you are charged by the authority of this court that you have, on numerous occasions since the fifth of November, 1974, consorted with the terrorist group known as 'the Death Eaters' and borne their mark. Furthermore, under the instruction of their leader, Voldemort, you aided and abetted many grievous acts, such as the slaughter of magical and non-magical citizens, the destruction of property in order to incite fear into the general population, and the control of other wizards against their will. How do you plead?"

Lucius stood, firm and strong and tall. He would not bend for this group of Muggle- lovers and weeping hearts, fools and charlatans all. What did they know of power? His hands gripped the railing, felt the ward that surrounded him, kept him bound. "I plead not guilty," he responded, an appropriately contrite look on his face. "By reason of diminished responsibility, your honour. I was under Imperius."

"Let the plea be entered into the record," the judge intoned, and Lucius sat back down, ignoring the gossip and the gasps from the gallery.

He would get through this. He would see his son. He would undo the ties that bound Draco to paying the price that Lucius owed, or he would see his son die and laugh, content in the knowledge th kept to his word, even if the world fell down around him.

moment nine: "this dead butcher and his fiendlike queen" (April 1983.)

Following his acquittal, and subsequent release from prison, Lucius Malfoy expected all sorts of reprisals. There were many amongst former Death Eaters, and their families, who viewed his lack of punishment as a symbol of his disloyalty to the cause, and he had not been greatly loved even while Voldemort had been in power.

He kept his wits and wand about him at all times, not even breathing a sigh of relief upon arriving home, for who knew what traps could have been set in Malfoy stone? Narcissa greeted him warmly, and ushered him like a triumphant hero to visit his son, whom he hadn't seen for nearly a year. Draco seemed cool, and collected, and he was largely the same as Lucius remembered him: watching, judging, contemplating.

Later, there was a veritable banquet to welcome him back: Narcissa, Lucius and Draco gathered in the main dining hall, a nurse feeding Draco his dinner. Then, and only then, did he begin to relax a bit.

Afterward, he retired to the drawing room, and stayed up late going over reports on his desk; the Malfoy business holdings had not only survived his absence, they had prospered. Narcissa deserved great praise for that; her financial acumen bettered what his expectations of her had been.

Then he had heard a gentle whistle, and hurled himself to one side, hearing a knife thud into the wall directly opposite where he had been sitting. He stood immediately, wand at the ready, to find Narcissa pale, and shivering. Lucius pulled the slender knife - it looked like a letter opener - from the wall, and he hefted it in his hand.

"My father used to try something similar when I was young," he told her. "A way of quickening my reflexes. I had incentive to become very agile, very fast."

Narcissa didn't respond. He approached her, blanching slightly at the strong smell of alcohol that emanated from her mouth. Drink may have explained the stupidity of the attempt, but it didn't explain the reasons.

"Why?"

Narcissa refused to answer, and turned her face from him. He put down the knife on a nearby stool, rising to take her upper right arm in one hand, drawing her closer to him. "Why?" he breathed, his voice low and intense.

"Because I saw the painting!" she burst out, and tried to kick him. Lucius could admire her for that - for being angry and still fighting, when many would have broken down in tears. "Because whatever promises you let me believe were as hollow as your heart."

"I did tell you that part of the house was forbidden to you," he said softly, taking no pleasure from her fear.

"I have every right"- she began, but he cut her off.

"You have no right! You have whatever rights I choose to give you. I married you because I was told to, and in your favour, you have performed some good service to me. A fine son, a household, the business well kept." He continued, inexorably, as she began to sag in his arm, her defiance turning to tears. "But make no mistake, Narcissa, you are merely another bauble on display here. Learn to be content with the boundaries I set, and do not check me."

Sobbing now, she nodded, the tears staining her face, and she was nothing more than a faded blubbery mess that disgusted Lucius. Dragging her to the door, he threw her out into the corridor. "Go back to your drink," he sneered, and she left him.