Blue

Whispering fills my ears as I grasp the polished brass handle of the Gringott's door and step inside, shaking the melting snowflakes from my platinum hair. It is warm here in the bank, free of the swirls of wind-whipped snow and the chill of winter, but although I have been free from Azkaban for nearly a month, the pervasive chill has not yet left my bones. Not even the pleasure of watching the other customers gape at me with undisguised horror can erase the frigid Azkaban cold from my body, where icebergs circle in my veins. Truthfully, I am surprised they recognize me at all. I was on the front page of the Daily Prophet for nearly a week during my drawn-out trial, and a feature, "What to Do If a Released Death Eater is Discovered in Your Neighbourhood" was published for a few days following my release, complete with tips on basic self-defence and how to perform an emergency Auror summons, but it has been weeks since the newspaper found other scandals to cover and left me to my silent retreat from the world. Besides, I look nothing like the elegant, graceful photographs which appeared prior to my release. My hair, once my pride, was shorn in prison as an added humiliation, and I am dressed in far less expensive robes now, made of ordinary cotton with a plain wool cloak, nothing tailor-made or velvet, nothing even remotely regal. My cane, they told me when I was set loose upon the world, was destroyed, but I fancy it has disappeared into someone's personal collection, a relic of conquered darkness or, more dangerously, a souvenir stolen by a fan. From now on, I will not be permitted to own or carry a wand, and without one I am like a child, learning life anew.

"Next!"

Holding my chin high, I cross the room, surveying the clerk who has offered assistance. Thankfully, she is not a goblin, though a goblin may be more pleasant, as the creatures spend little time keeping up with Wizarding politics. No, she is very much not a goblin, but a witch who is beautiful, intensely so. Her hair is a shade similar to mine but highlighted with a blonde that is almost silver; she must have some Veela in her blood; just a bit though, for although several of the other male customers have not taken their eyes from her, she does not have that engulfing presence that hypnotises the viewer in a sort of a lustful coma. Her eyes are sparkly blue, like the depths of the Caribbean Sea, her nose pert and up-tilted. It takes more than beauty to captivate my interest, for I have been married to one of the most beautiful women in Britain since I was eighteen, but this girl, this young clerk at a bank in Diagon Alley, has it. A certain strength shines from her eyes, the defiant set of her mouth indicates her full potential is not being reached in this shimmering palace, where the sounds of movement and whispers and rushing wind fill the air. The scent of her, which should be vanilla, sweet and ordinary due to her age, is darker. She has seen much, and gives off the lush perfume of rainfall and heartbreak, of cinnamon and forgotten promise. Instead of the customary open glance of recent graduates of Hogwarts, the girl has a closed, protected expression, as if she has endured things of which she cannot speak.

Stepping before her, I withdraw my vault key and slide it tensely across the counter, where she snaps it up with her thin fingers and examines it. I steady my jaw, prevent my teeth from chattering as my heart takes a cold plunge; I am certain she will deny me, tell me my vault is still closed. The Ministry sealed it on the day of my capture, and requested an entirely excessive amount of paperwork to re-open it, which I have only recently managed to complete. Damn them, I think, clenching my teeth harder. My empty hand aches for my wand.

"So, 'ow can I 'elp you, Meester...?" the clerk begins, raising her eyes to me once more. Her voice flows like water, soothing to the ears after two years of hearing nothing but shouts. The words are an interesting mix of sharp British and musical French accents, and the cautious pronunciation indicates she still does not entirely trust herself to say the words correctly. Beautiful. She is not of Hogwarts, then, but likely Beauxbatons.

"Malfoy," I supply, hearing the heavyset woman behind me squeak. I offer a sardonic sort of smile. "My name is Lucius Malfoy."

"Malfoy," repeats the girl. The name badge pinned to her robes says "F. Weasley", which cannot be right. She is no Weasley stock, this long-legged girl whose uniform robes beg to be lifted, whose mouth is moist and pink. For one thing, the hair, and for another, the accent. There are no Weasleys in France. It simply boggles the mind that such uncultured people would be permitted into the nation. Her nod is benign, disinterested as she twirls the key between her thumb and forefinger, examining the angles. It is apparent that she has no idea who I am.

"I wish to enter my vault," I snap, slightly impatient. Curse the Ministry, I think darkly. If I was my rightful self, boots gleaming with high polish instead of scuffed and used, cloak immaculate with silver fastenings shining instead of this shabby thing encircling my shoulders, this clerk would look at me. There would be something in her eyes -- fear or lust or interest -- something other than a glassy sheen of boredom. "I would like to go now." Somehow, I keep my anger restrained, the way I always sheathed my fury with Cornelius, pretending never to grow tired of his constant questions, his need for reassurance, the explanations he required.

"Zee Malfoy vault 'as been sealed for some time now," F. Weasley explains, her voice civil and still disinterested. She is not even looking at me.

Shoving my hand into my pocket, I withdraw the bundle of parchment I received several days ago and practically throw it at the girl. From somewhere near the bank entrance, I hear someone snicker, and feel my ire rise. Better if they had killed me, I note passionately, than left me to this. Lucius Malfoy, once feared my millions, now the laughingstock of Britain. I desperately try to coax the pretty child before me into granting me access to my gold with a mere glance.

"There are the forms," I hiss at the girl hatefully. "They're signed by Scrimgeour. Everything is valid."

Her eyes travel down the page, growing wider and wider, and satisfaction blooms warmly in my chest. I know what the forms say. They describe, in minute detail, my crimes and sentencing, as well as the formal conditions for my release. Somewhere in there, around the third page, is the paragraph that unlocks my vault, giving me access to my gold once more. I hope, fervently, the Ministry has not skimmed too much off the top. It took a great deal of bribery, in addition to the confessions and sneaking and betrayal, to secure my freedom, and although Scrimgeour knows nothing of it, it was Cornelius Fudge who did much of the work behind the scenes, speaking to the right people in exchange for the right price.

When the girl sets down the forms, her hands are shaking. Her eyes, dilated with fear, stare at me for the barest of instants before she ducks her head, hastily fumbling through the desk drawer for a form for me to sign. She drops the quill, twice, as she hands it to me, releasing it from her grip before my fingers can grasp it, and she nearly topples the small ink bottle as she jerks her arm back to her own side of the counter. I smirk, watching her for a moment, tracing with my eyes the rise of blush that floods her cheeks prettily, and then I sign, elaborately and with a great deal of flourish.

As I slide the parchment back to her, I pause, touching the tips of her fingers and relishing the way her lips quivers. She looks at me, her eyes doe-like in their frightened state, her body frozen. Her nails are sculpted ovals, unpolished but shining, the cuticles carefully pushed back, and her skin is very, very warm. A slim gold band encircles the fourth finger of her left hand. She is married then, I realise, and let go. The way she hides her hands inside her pockets as soon as she is free of my touch amuses me, but there is little pleasure to be taken in frightening young girls. I pick up my key, offer F. Weasley a cordial nod, and follow the waiting goblin from the room.

"That was Lucius Malfoy, did you see?" an excited elderly man is explaining to his apparently deaf wife as I return, heavy bags of galleons clutched in both wandless hands. "Ack, there he is again!"

I feel their eyes watching me as I cross the marble floor, my gaze resting on the elaborate gold designs etched on the ceiling. A few other patrons skitter to avoid me as I move towards the counter, but F. Weasley is gone, either home or on break, and I leave the bank feeling oddly disappointed.