Blue

Freedom from Azkaban suits me, but virtual imprisonment in my home does not. Day after day, I have little choice but to remain inside the manor, staring out the windows at my bleak, wintry surroundings, driving myself mad.

In the days immediately following my release from Azkaban, nothing delighted me more than remaining at home. I strode barefoot down the carpeted halls, reacquainting myself with the many rooms in my home. Simple pleasures overwhelmed me after so many months of solitary confinement in a place so brutal as Azkaban. I spent hours marvelling at the smoothness of the silken sheets of my bed, gazing at the portraits of Malfoy ancestry from a hundred generations back, and simply walking, gradually forcing my atrophied limbs to stretch and regain the pleasure of motion. Bathing in my claw-footed tub, submerged to the neck in blessedly hot water that smelled of sugar and pine, eating again the food I had once enjoyed instead of the tasteless gruel we received in Azkaban -- all these things seemed to reawaken me, give me such a love for life that sometimes I could have wept from the sensation of it. But then, my world seemed to shrink as the same routines played themselves out day after day. I grew bored of the narrow sphere my life had become. Now it is torture.

I have read the books in my study so many times the spines have grown limp, and dined upon my favourite meals until all food seems tasteless. I made love to my wife countless times after arriving home, delighting in each brush of her skin against mine, giddy that I still knew what to do after so long without physical touch, but now Narcissa's passionless clutch holds no interest, and I find myself avoiding her whenever I can.

Luckily, I had not lost any memories in Azkaban, the once-feared fate of all prisoners. The Dementors, after all, had left before my arrival, and none existed to feed on the recollections of men. We were guarded by wizards like ourselves, and in some ways that was worse. Dementors know nothing of jealousy or revenge. Their sole desire is to feed. Wizards, however, do, especially those who walked the halls of Azkaban itching to find a prisoner out of line. Our guards threw curses and hexes at us, flinging spells meant to scar, which rarely fell short. When they could not provoke a rise from us by inflicting the minimal amount of pain the Ministry allowed them to toy with, they would attack with an arsenal directed at our damaged pride and vulnerable emotions. Taunts flew that Narcissa had been raped and murdered, that Draco had been captured by Ministry officials and was kept chained in the dark, where he was assaulted and routinely subjected to the Cruciatus. In the beginning, I knew these were lies. Later, my resistance broke alongside my sense of reality and I because paranoid, desperate enough to do anything to get out, even the mad act that bought my freedom from Azkaban just as it sealed my fate in the Wizarding World. I turned on Voldemort, spilled my innermost secrets, betrayed the closest friends I had ever known. It was surprisingly easy.

Because of this, of course, I am free but not free, simultaneously released and imprisoned anew. Voldemort and his loyal Death Eaters hunt me with as much urgency as they do Potter, who is now hidden and pursuing Voldemort's many Horcruxes, or so I am told through the gossip Narcissa brings me when she returns from her many outings.

Diagon Alley is one of the few places I dare visit, briefly, for ever since the war began, the public areas of Wizarding Britain have been heavily guarded by Aurors. I doubt any of Scrimgeour's employees would lift a finger to assist me, but it is sure they would battle any Death Eater who came into Diagon Alley and threatened the wizarding populace. Still, there is always a fear of vigilante justice, so I never linger long. I suppose I could manage a wandless defensive spell, despite the fact that wandless magic was never my forte, but having no wand places certain limitations on a wizard, and I am loathe to chance it without good reason. My visits to Diagon Alley therefore have been few, and short.

I am, of course, barred from entering Knockturn Alley ever again. No one stops me, and the concealed trap door beneath the cellar still leads to Borgin and Burkes, but I dare not risk it. The moment I stepped into full view of the street, I would find a dozen wands trained at me, and a variety of inventive and deadly curses winging my way. Aside from that street, which once contained my life, there is little that tempts me to the outside world. Certainly, Muggle London would be safe enough, especially if Narcissa performed a good glamour on my behalf, but Muggle shops and Muggle things hold little interest. If I cannot kill them, I see no reason to walk among them.

...

"Lucius!" Narcissa crows in surprise as I walk into her bedroom. This is a new arrangement. Prior to my arrest, we shared the grandest master bedroom, but sometime after I was captured, Narcissa moved into the third best bedroom and sealed off the room which was once ours. Her way of protecting herself, she explained it to me when I returned home, though she's never clarified what she needs protection from. I sleep in the fourth best room, which I have permitted only because, with my nightmares, I often tear the place to shambles. I would not like to sleep in the same room as my wife lest I murder her in my sleep, and for me too the old bedroom is a painful reminder of lost glory.

Draco's abandoned belongings and oversized four-poster have been moved to the finest room left open in the manor, a sign of Narcissa's foolish, unflagging hope. Our only son abandoned us some time ago, choosing a life of servitude to Voldemort. The inheritance he forfeited is nothing compared to the tempting power Voldemort offers, but I wonder if Draco has yet understood the true sacrifice he has made. He, like me, has become an indentured servant; he signed his life away the moment he took the mark. The price of power is high, as my son will learn, perhaps to his regret. He too wants me dead. I wonder if he plans to be the one to kill me.

As I approach, Narcissa hastily folds a piece of parchment and slips it beneath the blotter of her desk -- not quickly enough.

"What was that?"

"A letter," Narcissa replies, sucking nervously on her lower lip as she regards me, pretending to be calm. Her face is pale as usual; the post contained nothing scandalous, but there is a secret lingering in her gaze, something she does not want me to know. My beautiful, traitorous wife, I think as I reach for her, one hand on her shoulder, the other patting her hair as if she were a dog and not a woman.

"What sort of an owl? From whom?" I inquire, reaching for her hand. I pull her to her feet, encircling her waist with my arms. She smells of dust and things left to rot, like the small animals it is rumoured she killed by hand as a child, when her malicious nature had no proper target. That is what lies beneath. She has applied liberal perfume to her skin, a delicate, musty lavender and the ancient Kyphi and Cyprinum she favoured when she was a young girl at Hogwarts. The room smells of lost spices, an odour that is as heavy as it is mysterious.

"Sale," Narcissa murmurs, her breath warm against my ear. She leans forward, pressing her full breasts against my chest, and then kisses me. "Malkin's robe shop."

"You smell like lies and deceit, my dear," I inform her. Her mouth tastes like ash, her kiss cold. Narcissa pulls away from me, trying to free herself from my grasp, but I refuse to let her go.

"Tell me," I implore her, trying to peer into her eyes and read the truth, but she jerks her head away from me, hissing like a cat. I can feel her anger radiating from within, and suddenly I know who the post is from. "Tell me," I repeat, squeezing my arms tighter, crushing my wife's wasp waist.

"All right! Draco," Narcissa's voice is hot, which is rare. She is a cool woman by nature, her touch passionless and deft, her eyes ice blue rimmed in silver, favouring the winter over the spring. "The letter was from our son."

I release her quickly and sink down to the edge of the bed, my hands clawed in my hair. "Why," I ask, my voice infused with deep anger, "did you accept an owl from him? I would have strangled the bird and had Aries deliver the dead creature back to him. And furthermore, why did you read it? He's a traitor, Narcissa, a traitor to this family!" Even as the righteous words leave my lips, I cannot help but utter a mocking laugh at myself. Who am I to speak of traitors? I think of my son the last time I saw him, as a fumbling, unfocussed boy. His skin was delicate, pale and fair from his tendency to hide from the sun. I remember the way his face twisted in a bitter scowl as he spat out the familiar complaints against Potter and company. That had been over the summer before his fifth year, of course, when it was luscious and hot, the golden air tropical and everything scented with sweat, so different from the way it is now, blue and cold. I cannot imagine my son as he must be now, at eighteen. An adult. Whenever I try to imagine him behind that mask of a Death Eater which I wore so often myself, all I can see is the way he would wave to me, proudly, from his broom each summer, swearing he would win the Quidditch cup for Slytherin. Such little things, such foolish things. I wonder if he has killed yet, and whether he wept over his first victim as my closest friend, Severus Snape, did, back when we were young. I wonder how Draco fares under Snape's watchful gaze, if his youth fled the instant he took the mark, and what is left of him now.

"He's our son," Narcissa hisses back, her voice breaking with the maternal love she has for him yet, the only human element within her. Narcissa is many things by turns -- a seductress and a killer mostly -- but with Draco she became something else, completely defying her nature. She loved him with a tearful devotion that strangled him in his youth and evoked his fire, later, when he learned she was not leaving me even after what I had done.

"He wishes me dead," I answer simply. Spinning on my heel, I stride from the room. "Leaving," I call from the doorway as I walk away, although Narcissa does not ask. "It's high time I purchased new clothes. These robes are in rags."

My wife makes no comment. She wipes her eyes and returns to the letter, clutching it to her breast as if it is Draco himself. I know she prefers him to me, and longs for the way he once regarded her with awe. She has remained with me out of a sense of obligation, and I find that as time passes we grow more distant, and I feel very much the same.

...

It is not snowing by the time I leave the last robe shop in Diagon Alley, weighted down with three heavy shopping bags and two parcels tied with string. Instead, the sun is peeking out tentatively from behind the puffy clouds, casting the world into a dazzling mix of sunshine and shadow. Striding down the cobbles, listening to my new dragon-skin boots click satisfactorily upon the stone, I smirk at the passers-by, some of whom ignore me and other who look, startle, and cross the street as though expecting to be attacked. Apparently it is not common knowledge that my wand has been destroyed, for no one makes any attempt to hex me.

Under the brightly lit sky, I feel like a new man. My trousers are black as midnight, not the greyish colour of black which has faded from storage. My new cloak, which swirls around my legs, has the scent of clean velvet, not the stale, medicinal odour of mothballs and protective charms. I am pleased with the results of the expedition, but the small number of galleons I stowed in my coin purse have run out, and I am in need of more if I am to recreate my wardrobe completely.

Gringott's is empty at this time of day, the regular customers all at work. Abandoned, the front lobby stretches out, lit here and there with ornate crystal chandeliers that pale in the glow of the sun. There are just two goblins standing near the entrance to the vaults, both of them muttering to each other, their arms crossed and surly expressions on their faces. At the counter, resting on her arms as she reads a book, is F. Weasley. Her hair is not loose today, but coiled around the base of her skull in a business-like bun. Even from a distance, her eyes are noticeably red-rimmed, as if she has been crying. I notice her wedding ring is suspiciously absent from her finger.

"Argument with your husband?" I inquire as I saunter up to the counter, eyes glittering as I survey her. She is reading not a romance novel, as I would have suspected, but History of the Cruciatus, a research text. "Dry," I announce, "but informative."

"What?" Blotting her eyes on a tissue, F. Weasley gapes at me.

"The book," I clarify, tapping the leather cover with one finger. "The going is rather tedious, but the text is extremely accurate. If you're planning to Crucio that husband of yours, that is the book to learn it from."

"Yes, eet is." For a moment she looks like she is going to cry, but then she smiles, a sort of strained expression on her pale pink lips. She closes the book and slides it beneath the desk, nodding slowly. "Can I help you?"

"Malfoy, vault 667," I say, rather annoyed that she has not remembered me. Perhaps, I decide a moment later, she does not recognize me with the new clothing. The last time I arrived at her counter, I looked rather shabby.

Satisfied with that understanding, I attempt a smile, which comes out wrong, more predatory than I would like it to be. It does not seem to frighten her, for she does not step away. Her eyes widen just a bit, a signal that she does remember me after all, from the details in the letter more than anything else. "I'd like to make a withdrawal."

"Right," agrees F. Weasley, peering at me as though intrigued. That I cannot understand; only reporters seem to want my story, and even they smell like fear. "I shall get Feckless to take you." As she raises her arm, intending to wave over one of the waiting goblins, I catch her hand.

"I'd rather you took me."

Surprisingly, she does not pull her hand out of my grip, but allows me to hold it as she studies me, from the top of my hair, which now hangs to my chin, all the way down to my gleaming boots, with their shining, newly polished Horntail scales. "Zees is against policy, Meester Malfoy," she says eventually. "I am afraid not. Zee goblins take customers, not I."

"But I want you." And I am accustomed to getting my way, I think, but do not add. "There are no customers, and my vault is not very deep. It won't take long. Surely, Gringott's wishes to allow the customer every possible satisfaction?" My gaze is lecherous, one eyebrow raised in expectation.

She laughs then, covering her mouth with one hand like a child and nodding. As I release her hand, she steps out from behind the counter and indicates I should wait. I stand patiently while she explains herself to the goblins. Then she beckons to me. "Come along, then!"

We wait for one of the carts to emerge, peering into the shadowy darkness beneath, where the click and clink of carts echoes in the distance. Out from behind her counter, F. Weasley looks even more appealing. Unlike most, who dread the swift plummet and swoop of the trip down, she licks her lips, smiling to herself as she lets down her hair. "Zee wind," she explains when she catches me looking at her. "I like za way it feels on my 'air." Her grin is naughty and irresistible.

"Being behind the counter must bore you," I observe.

She nods. "I was going to be a curse-breaker, but my 'usband's family wanted me 'ere, closer to 'ome." There is resentment beneath the thin skin of carelessness. She shrugs, as if it does not matter, but it does. The hostility is visible in her eyes. The air around her is hot with pent-up frustration, boredom and wasted time. "Then 'e was injured, so, I am 'ere for good now."

"Injured?"

"Werewolf bite," she says casually, as if it hardly matters. I feel myself recoil; even I, who have seen death and inflicted it myself, have never gotten over my fear of werewolves. They are the outcasts of society, more dangerous than Death Eaters and less respectable than Hufflepuffs. "Oh, 'e is not a werewolf," F. Weasley clarifies hastily, seeing my discomfort. "The one which bit 'im was not transformed. Fenris...?" she breaks off, confused about the name.

"Greyback?" My voice is incredulous. I remember that attack from the letters Draco sent afterwards, when Severus committed his betrayal on Dumbledore and took my son from me forever. "Your husband is Bill Weasley?"

She nods, unsurprised that I know. The attack was in all the newspapers at the time, of course, she has no way of knowing it was my son who permitted Greyback into the school in the first place, unleashed him upon all those children and her husband. Recovering from my surprise, I hold out my hand. "And you are?"

"Fleur Delacour -- er, Weasley," she adds hastily, blushing a bit as she remembers her wedded name. "It 'as not been long."

Pretending not to hear the Weasley part, I smile. "Delacour, that is lovely. It is French, no?"

"Yes." She looks away then, her hand settling on the cart, which has at last arrived. She permits me to enter the cart first, then settles herself near the door, leaving a modest gap between our bodies. Tapping the cart with her springy wand, which I envy incredibly, she slides back, hands clutching the seat beneath her. Childish pleasure fills her eyes as the cart begins to move, starting forward ever so slowly, failing to hint at the erratic swerve and free-fall that will soon follow.