playing the game, living the lie

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chapter 4: playing with the dark
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Narcissa crept up the narrow circular staircase, her wand cautiously held in her left hand, creating the small globe of light that shot through the darkness around her. She didn't enter this part of the Manor often; it was largely abandoned, not for safety reasons, but her husband wished it deserted. And she knew better than to oppose her husband.

She held a handkerchief to her mouth, trying to avoid the dust that hung in the air: fetid, like a shroud. She supposed that she could have clean the air with a simple filtering spell, but Lucius had made it very clear she was not to use magic unauthorised within the house. When she had quizzed him once as to why he kept the decay, he told her that it was neither "your business nor your concern"; a reply she had heard many times in the last twenty years.

So still she crept up, silent little steps, afraid of her discovery and yet terrified of the consequences if she did not continue. She wasn't allowed here, and yet Lucius had to be told. For a brief moment she wished that her son was home; at least then she could have some company, a refuge, but he was away at Hogwarts, and term would not be over for weeks. She had nothing else to do, nothing to occupy her or excuse either her entrance or her lack of forethought.

After what seemed like an eternity of following the steps, tracing her hand along the wrought iron balustrade, the action was too familiar now to draw any wonder from the intricate patterns woven there; she arrived. The runes shadowed in the iron were mixed with sigils and signs of power, old power, and above all, the dragons, the ancient familiar of Malfoy House. This was apparently the oldest part of the Manor, the first to be built. Dark things slept here.

Dimming the light as she stepped out into the dark expanse, eyes subconsciously wandering over the dusky carpets, the covered paintings. When she had first seen the wing, she had known that it had been beautiful, and had been disappointed that she would not get a chance at least, to restore it. She was unable to find out exactly why it had been left to the shades, either. Searching through the copious family histories had found no mention of its abandonment, save that it must have happened in the past fifty years. Lucius was silent on the subject, but honestly, when did he ever tell her anything?

Moving more quickly now, the indignities she had suffered suffusing her with a kind of indignation: her flesh heated, and cheeks reddened. She could hear talking in the distance, the muted rumbling of her husband's voice, and it drove her further still. Without knocking she strode into the little room, extinguishing the spell as she did so.

Lucius was standing, one hand ruffled in his hair absently, the other by his side, in one pocket. His back was towards her, and he clearly hadn't noticed her entry, in mid-sentence. "...he's a little more than mad and a little less than human, of course," he admitted ruefully, and Narcissa stared, amazed at both the level of emotion in his voice and the fact he was talking so honestly about You Know Who.

"Luce?" she called hesitantly.

He whirled immediately, the whirlwind of emotions on his face quickly replaced by the mask she knew far too well; she'd seen it on her own face sometimes, and on her son's. The mistress of the house (in title only) immediately knew she'd stepped out of line, by coming here, by using that name. His nostrils flared, and she stepped back, before composing herself. Lucius hated weakness, above all things. Hit out at it wherever he saw it.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," she said smoothly, "but your car has arrived."

Her message discharged, she calmed slightly; wryly commenting to herself that it was like the calm a prisoner must feel before her execution.

He merely nodded his assent, and swept of the room, enabling her to see...nothing. The room was empty. The room was full of musty boxes, the concerted heap of baggage from an older, more innocent time. A hat stand lay half wrapped in a sheet in a corner; where Lucius had directed his attention, a painting lay covered with a blanket. Narcissa closed her eyes and bit her lip to swallow the emotion. She knew who it was, and didn't need the reminder. The fire blazed in her again, and she swept out of the room, catching up to Lucius and eventually surpassing him in one of the halls in the main section of the Manor, squaring off in front of him. Wise servants who knew what was going to happen got out of the way. Within seconds, the hall was cleared.

"You promised me!", she screeched, knowing she was being hysterical, and beyond caring. "You promised. You weren't going to...do that anymore."

His eyes, dead, looked back at her, offering perhaps a moment of sympathy, of regret. "I know."

Narcissa felt like sinking to the ground. There was nothing left to say; there never was with them. And it was just too futile, to keep trying, to keep fighting.

"I'm getting a drink," she stated, wrapping her robes around her as her husband walked from the room, leaving her behind.

Her parents had opposed the match with Lucius, despite the obvious monetary benefits, and a pedigree most wizarding families would kill for. Her mother had put it bluntly, a talent that Narcissa had inherited. "The Malfoys are dead, girl" was how Evelyn Morgan had put it. She'd told herself it was foolish, but after many years, she'd come to see it as truth.

And worse still, she'd become one of them. In a similar way, she'd always tried to protest against the expectations Lucius had instilled into Draco, the familial code of behaviour. A Malfoy must not cry and all that. But now Narcissa realised that if the Malfoys ever started crying, they would not be able to stop.





* * *



Lucius checked quickly his image in the mirror that hung in the air of the entrance hall, allowing all those who entered and left his home a chance for reflection and self-evaluation. For a man prone to suppression rather than admission, it was an irony; his little joke if you will. His cravat was slightly askew; frowning slightly, he fixed it, and ran a hand through his hair. Satisfied that he at least had the façade of a respectable upper middle-class Briton in place, the man bounded down the stairs to the awaiting limousine, all too aware of the relieved looks of servants and the like when they realised he was leaving.

He quickly settled in the back seat, tapping the leather armrest with his fingers. The driver moved slowly from the Estate's entrance and through the landscaped grounds along dusty back roads, past deserted farms and houses, even Fountains Abbey, through Leeds and finally on the M1 towards London. They drove in silence; the car was originally Muggle in design, an old Rolls Royce - Lucius refused to buy anything but British - although it had been augmented by many years of spells and incantations, the engine itself removed and replaced with a lodestone.

Previously, it had been a testament to the Muggles furious desire to tame things, to change things, make them different, assuming that different equalled better. Lucius didn't like Muggles, if for no other reason than most of them would have concreted the lolling hills of his native Yorkshire. They were petty, and rather stupid really. So busy trying to view the 'big picture' they couldn't even see in front of their own damn noses. They'd kill the world with their changes: poison the waters and burn the sky.

He supposed it was a rather narrow minded point of view - they'd given the world many, many things but honestly, he couldn't be bothered with recriminations right now. Even with Narcissa there seemed to be nothing left to say; just the same damn patterns, the same empty promises and broken words, the hollow phrases that meant nothing yet allowed one at least to pretend. She seemed so angry with him, so expectant that this time he would be faithful, although it was hardly a betrayal of vows he hadn't meant. He didn't blame her seeking solace in alcohol; if nothing else, the Muggles did know how to make whiskey, and he admitted (chuckling slightly) that if he was married to himself, he'd have started drinking a long time ago.

He winced inwardly at his own...callousness? Making a joke out of his own wife's alcoholism was perhaps even beyond his standards. It was his fault, after all, that this whole situation arose. Narcissa was a strong woman, and he had broken her, although not in quite the way one would expect. She had cried the day that Draco had left for Hogwarts, cried even more than when she had finally realised that she could not win, that Lucius would raise the boy the way he saw fit. That he would be a Malfoy; no more, no less.

In other circumstances, then perhaps Lucius might have enjoyed being a father. But no. He disliked being around Draco. Not that he disliked being around the boy, not at all. It was just difficult, to look at this child, this life that he himself had created. And know what it had been created for. Narcissa suspected, and knew some of it; but not the all. She might even kill him when she found out. A blessed release.

Not that he didn't deserve it.

Yet at the same time, he felt slightly irate about the judgement, the dissatisfaction she felt with his raising of their son. The world didn't exist by nice easy-to-follow rules. One simply couldn't sit there and expect success to fall into one's lap. It had to be bred, nurtured, taken if need be. The code of behaviour, strict as it may be, would ensure Draco was ready to take power when it was offered to him.

Although Lucius knew that would never happen. No, there was another reason behind the obvious one, and even Lucius wasn't sure if that wasn't just another lie. During one particularly vicious fight with Narcissa, the woman had screeched that he was dead, and seemingly intent on making their son the same. It was true in a sense; the Malfoys had cut out their hearts a long time ago. But that made his work more important, even. Their family was not blessed with happiness, if any family ever could say to be blessed so. One needed to be tough to be a Malfoy, harsh like the desolate Yorkshire plains that surrounded the Manor. They had no happiness, no fortune, no luck. This was Hell, and you either accepted your torment, or burned in the flames for nothing. It was the only way you could survive after all, and he needed Draco to survive.

Besides, if he taught him to be cold, to be something inhuman, to wrap himself with the loneliness and never let go...then it gave him a reason to think of Draco as a mere object. Just a tool, and thus what conscience he still possessed would refuse to prick him, when the time came to use that tool for the purpose it was created. But those thoughts were for another time, not now - and hopefully not soon! - and all there was was the car and the countryside.

The ride was smooth; there was no other word for it. The car made a swift pace, far beyond that of any conventional vehicle, and the spells made muggle eyes just drift past it; not invisible, but simply not needed to be noticed or remarked at. Which is just what he needed right now: to fade away.

Despite the sheer opulence of the vehicle, chiefly of its space, Lucius felt oddly entrapped. The atmosphere was almost oppressive, and he fought the need to say something, make idle chatter with the driver. It wasn't in character, and the chauffeur had been given the address this morning anyway. There was no need, and Lucius hated waste. The only sound to be heard was the soft tap of his fingers against the soft leather. In the windows now, there was nothing by the green expanse of flat land; anywhere between Leeds and Sheffield, or Sheffield and Derby, or...one of many places.

The car drove ever on.





If you'd asked Him, Lucius observed, He would have stated that He was far above mere brooding. That all petty human emotion had been scoured away, in the first, minor death of the soul, and the second, of the flesh. Lucius had no idea exactly what Voldemort was, not after his return. The memory of a shade, perhaps? Maybe it was a hate so powerful that it outlasted even the grave. He had heard of such things, of course, things whispered about in black texts. Things that even the dark was afraid of, creatures beyond spells or charms, only able to captured by the primal ecstasies of death and blood.

If you had asked Him, He would have said such things were immaterial. He died, He rose, He would live again. It was a simple mantra of survival, taking one step after another to reach the desired goal of His rebirth. Then He would be invincible, understanding even those whispers that are uttered in death, the terrible majicks of Making and Unmaking. He told Lucius once that Death spoke to him, beckoned him on like a lover; and so he was ever trying to please her with greater feats.

Why doesn't the man just buy roses and chocolates like the rest of us?, Lucius had through irritably at the time. It was times like those that made Lucius privately well, not doubt - Lucius didn't allow himself the luxury of doubt. It was for moralising fools, people unable to appreciate the value of power, of triumph: Gryffindors and muggle-lovers all. Not doubt then. But become briefly unsure of exactly what manner of thing he had shackled his soul to. Hence the comment he'd made earlier today, back at the Manor. A little less than human, he echoed to himself. Surveying the individual in front of him, there was no doubt about that.

Skin, grey and tight, like some kind of horrible muggle plastic surgery accident stretched over bones that were just too sharp. Lank hair, black, hung in tresses in patches across the burnt scalp. His eyes burnt red from the depths of green. He moved sinuous yet lurching, as if something didn't quite work with his legs.

The Dark Lord was mad, depraved, and could turn on Lucius in a second, but he was also power; not just in that he had it, he personified it. Power ran through his veins, and pooled underneath his skin. This was someone who had seen that 'undiscovered country' and dragged themselves from the grave, someone who was clinging to life due to sheer bloody-mindedness, and little else. Oh, there was the magics, certainly; from the unicorn's blood onward - and Lucius himself had been responsible for some of those, but at the centre was need. No substance known could have kept Voldemort alive these fifteen years if he hadn't had the will to endure the torment that his half-life brought. Lucius could admire that, understand it even: he knew all about obsession.

But obsession itself was a product of emotion, and Lucius allowed himself an inward chuckle at his Master. Not that he gave a toss about the individual. The opportunity he represented? Or the price of failure if he did not succeed? Oh yes. But Voldemort might as well have been Arthur Weasley. It was all about the power.

And Lucius just had to chuckle (deep inside, where no-one could see it, perhaps even himself) because Voldemort was very obviously brooding.

Pacing even, the red eyes sweeping across the dusty floor as he held his cloak tightly round him, as if to protect it from the decay that crept through the cracked paint covering the walls. It was almost ironic; that out of all the places in the world he could have sought refuge, his followers had decided to install him here - the one place no-one would ever think of looking. And in the end, Voldemort himself had to accede to their advice. He knew full well he wasn't at full strength, despite the rituals of last year, and the sheer fact irked him.

Everything about this damnable hole irked him, and what irked him even more was that he was irked by it! Feeling the need to vent, he turned upon the man who'd just entered, and paused, looking him over. Lucius Malfoy resembled an older version of his son - or perhaps Draco a younger of his father; it didn't matter really. Silver-blonde hair, slicked back to give a faint impression of vanity. Skin, pale and smooth; eyebrows plucked to ensure a definite and fine edge. He was almost pretty; but it was the beauty of a predator, perhaps even of death itself. Oh, Lucius could be deadly alright, but the man could make himself the most attractive person in the world, and still not be able to change what he was, inside. It was so sweet to break him, Voldemort recalled, to see him beg at my feet for just a mite of my power, and damn himself for it. He lost everything he cared about, and sold everything he had...delicious, the fear mixed with longing. He could almost smell it now, wafting from the tall, lean frame like ambrosia.

"So, Lucius?" he demanded, noting pleasantly that the fear rose sharply when he spoke. "Do my accommodations...meet with your approval? Do they make you wish to chortle at me, who had so much and is now, is now reduced to this! Finding refuge in some burnt out Muggle council flat in Watford?!" He scowled, his voice an incandescent fury. It was all for show of course, but it got Lucius jumping, and Voldemort had precious few amusements these days. Seeing the younger man grovel, however smoothly, was one of the small comforts he allowed himself.

"It was all we could procure under such short notice, my Lord," oozed Lucius, prostrating himself, willing to genuflect if need be. "Our last holdings became...vulnerable, as you well know."

"Yes, yes," Voldemort waved the apologies away and stared at the wall. "So...what is going on in the world, Lucius? Tell me of Hogwarts," he asked in an abstracted tone, one Lucius was far too familiar with. Of course, he already knew what was going on in the world - his other Death Eaters, some of them at least, had certainly paid their respects by now, and he had reports coming direct from the younger Crabbe and Goyle, via their fathers. It was merely a test, to see what information one was trying to conceal; each successive report proving a testament to the veracity of all others. Lucius knew full well that information equalled power, and in his present emaciated state, it was the currency in which Voldemort took chief interest.

Lucius tried not to break into a sweat, and rapidly thought through all Draco and Severus had reported of the last few months. "Hogwarts, my Lord? But what of the Ministry? Unofficially they have come to accept your return, and soon our spies indicate that they shall publicly confirm it, and openly declare War."

"War was declared the moment that Potter brat failed to die, you fool. No," his mouth twisted cruelly, chanting a curse under his breath, and Lucius soon found himself consumed by wracking pain. Crucio. "Tell me of Hogwarts."

And suddenly the pain was gone and Lucius was gasping, twisted on the floor; heaving great breaths of sweet air into his lungs as if they were his very first breaths. "There is nothing much to tell, my Lord!" he stammered, trying to put some feeling back into his limbs. "Classes continue as normal. Severus still works for us, as is right. My son had a small...altercation with Ronald Weasley the previous week-"

"By all accounts the muggle-lover kicked the shit out of him" was the arch response.

Lucius started, and then continued, relaxing his face back into the familiar lines of obedience. "But generally speaking, there is an...anxiety at the rumours of your return, which those at Hogwarts know better than most to be truth. They have become like children, jumping at shadows," he finished and then immediately cursed his choice of metaphor.

"Am I a shadow then?," Voldemort echoed. "Something to be chased away with a light?" He paused for a moment, standing stock still to let Lucius stew in his own juices for a bit. "I think not. But come, you are not telling me all. I have heard much...about your son." His gaze was even, and all the more disturbing for it.

Lucius wanted to scream them, to hurl and break things, to lash out despite the fact it would mean his certain death. Damn you damn you damn you damn you, he raged inwardly. You've broken and bought me, why can't you leave my son alone?

Because I offered him up on a plate, he thought dully, trying not to be sick. And I'd do it again if I had to. Lucius disgusted himself. He wouldn't even attempt to kill Voldemort; as long as he had a chance of winning, with the power he commanded, than Lucius could use that power. Use him. Playing people like pieces on a chess board, Lucius, he chuckled to himself, bitterly. Remember the last time someone accused you of that?

"I'm sorry Lord Voldemort...I don't know what you mean." For once the deference and confusion was not an act. He had no idea what the old coot was rambling about.

"It has been brought to my attention that Draco is the subject of some widespread gossip surrounding him and the Potter boy." Red eyes glittered with a dark emotion. "They even say your son has feelings for the boy, Lucius...I am surprised you had not seen it sooner; you of all people would be able to appreciate the appeal of a Potter, hmmm?" Laughter that sounded like corpses being hauled over gravel echoed through the dingy room, as Lucius' eyes opened in shock.

"But, my Lord - I am sure these are just lies! Yes, lies designed to turn you from your most committed servant." He was sweating now, and took out one of his designer handkerchiefs, moping his brow. Draco...and Harry? Harry Potter? Could it be true? If I were anyone else, I would have laughed, but oh yes, I am all too aware of the charms of the Potter clan, forcing back the image that sprung in front of his eyes.

"It is no matter. Indeed, these...feelings make the game so much more interesting, don't you think Lucius?" and proceeded to answer his own question, sweeping about the room. "Yes, this will be most...fun. Bring him to me, at his closest convenience. Do not drag him out of school summarily - we do not want anyone suspecting, do we?"

"No my Lord," Lucius assented, head bowed, whilst another part of him cried Leave me my son! He stifled it. He could not show weakness, not now, not here. Rising swiftly to his knees, he pursed his lips, considering. "The nearest main holidays would be Christmas...but that is not for a few months yet."

"That will do," said the Dark Lord, sinking contentedly into his chair. Bizarrely, Lucius only just noticed the squat box sitting next to the wall, and wondered briefly what it was. "Christmas is a most opportune time for new beginnings." Voldemort took a small black thing from where it rested on his armchair and he pressed a button, causing the squat box to burst alive with colour and sound. Lucius recoiled in horror.

"It's a Muggle device, Lucius," Voldemort stated quietly, "no major spells can be used in this area for fear of detection, so I am forced to use...technology," he spat, making the word sound like a curse. "Although in some ways it's a pity we have to kill them. The weapons they make can devastate a city in seconds, do you know? Now that's real magic." He pressed some more buttons and the pictured shifted through different views, almost all with riots or battles of some kind being fought; blood spattered on the street. Voldemort sat in his chair like some kind of nameless thing and drank it all in. "Look at it all. The hatred. The viciousness, and all for the most delectably pointless reasons! Their capacity for violence and brutality almost rivals my own," he finished, with an almost dreamy smile. "They want it. They need it, and they've gotten so used to it they don't care anymore. As I said, it'll be a shame when they're all dead." He pressed another button and the box went black. "But all good things must come to an end." The Dark Lord sighed, and only seemed to recognise that Lucius was still there. "You may go," he said curtly, and then his attention was elsewhere.

The elder Malfoy hurried out, not wanting to prolong the discussion, and avoided the ragtag rabble that lived on the estate: the welfare mothers, the junkies, the blacks, the fascist punks with their myriad piercings; all too old, too dumb, too poor or too proud to escape. There was a seething anger beyond the apathy, and Voldemort's presence was whipping it into a frenzy, Lucius could feel it. One black youth even chucked a hefty hunk of concrete down at him from the third level; and Lucius had to dart out the way, mumbling curses. He didn't dare actually do anything; because it would leave a trace and bring the Ministry all too close to his Lord, but all these people deserved no less, in Lucius' not so humble opinion. Miserable wretches, and yet they were probably more happy than Lucius was.

Stumbling across the broken asphalt to his car, he climbed in, and the driver took off with one look in the rear view mirror - at the smouldering rage in Lucius' eyes.

By the time they made it past Nottinghamshire, Lucius had swallowed his anger yet again. It was so futile really, so pointless to let himself feel anything any more. He was doing to himself what he had done to his son; stripping himself of what little humanity he possessed because even that remainder pricked. He was walking in dark places, and nothing was ever certain. Especially not if these rumours are true, he mused to himself. Potter and Malfoy aligned at last?, the thought sending a chill up his bones. Lucius knew he was already damned thrice over: by his wife, by his son, and a past he couldn't leave behind; and although he couldn't wriggle his way out of this one, he could perhaps manage to save Draco from the mess Lucius himself had created. And if he could not...

Well, then I will bury one more regret. By that stage, I do not believe I shall be able to feel anything, not at all. I have played with the dark, and given it my soul, and it has filled me with shadows in return.

When Lucius arrived home, he found that Narcissa had collapsed on the settee in the main study, bottle of vodka lying on the carpet where it had fallen from her hand. He picked her slender frame in his arms, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead as he carried his wife to her rooms, undressing and settling her down between silky sheets. With a last look at her sleeping form, he extinguished the Lumos spell that softly lit the room, and then made the way to his own chambers. I am sorry that I did not love you the way you deserved, he thought.

But the time for regrets was over, and as he crawled into bed, Lucius dismissed it. What he could fix, he would; what he couldn't, he would be judged upon. He knew that if the Muggles were right, with their crucified man-God and towering churches, then he would be going to Hell. It made little difference really; he had died and gone to Hell many years ago. What did more torment mean to those who had learned to endure it?