July 7th, 1996

Azkaban brings back memories you thought you destroyed. Sitting on this bed, the vapours of the Dementors swarm around you, stripping from your mind thoughts of your house, your wife, your son, your wealth, your power. It leaves only flashes of red hair and a pretty face- prettier even than your wife if you cared to admit it. But thoughts of your wife do not linger and soon you once more find yourself left with thoughts and flashes of her. You want to gag, scream, hex something, kill someone.

Still the flashes keep coming and you find yourself wishing to remember something else, anything else, even the punishments of Master. But those memories lead to the happy thought that you will soon be free of this abysmal place and so those are taken from you too.

You hated her before you even met her.

You had everything then: recent inheritance, new wife, powerful connections, and a lofty position within the ranks of the Deatheaters. You were going to make a difference in the world, cleanse it of those fowl Mudbloods who threatened to weaken the blood. She should have posed no threat to you. She should never have caught your eye, but then the rumours started. At first they were small- something about a few gifted children who were especially close with Dumbledore- but that was not where the rumours stopped.

You started hearing about a girl- a child really- just out of Hogwarts breaking the carefully designed protection charms on Deatheaters' homes. Then other rumours about concealments disappearing in the middle of a raid, or a child marked for death by the Dark Lord disappearing at crucial moments. The agony of the memories makes you fall to the ground disgracefully. She had crippled your work- you were the charms specialist, you were the concealment builder, it was your job, your gift to Master- and you had no idea who she was. That was the worst part. She was your silent, secret adversary and you had no idea who she was. No one spoke her true name and so you only came to know her by her code name: Cleopatra.

The Dark Lord learned of your trouble, the Dementors let you remember that. They let you remember the pain of your failure. And they let you remember the day the Dark Lord gave you her real name, because that leaves no welcome memories in its wake.

After he gave you the name, a young new recruit stepped forward and offered information about her. She left school not three years earlier and she was a Mudblood, he announced with a sneer. That information made you flinch- now and then- because you are Lucius Malfoy. You are never supposed to be broken by, react to, or do anything but kill Mudbloods. You vowed that day to destroy her, break her. She was nothing, nobody.

Soon the war would be over and she would not even be remembered, you announced to the Dark Lord.

You did not threaten her personally; that would have been beneath you. Instead you let your underlings do the job for you. You taught them the words and they attacked her, but it was your victory. You liked being behind the scenes rather than in the front line of the battle. Those fools died. Those fools made sworn enemies of resistance members and that was dangerous. Sworn enemies die faster than prominent, respected men.

Running into her had been a miscalculation, one that let you realise a dangerous and deadly fact: even your tendency to keep out of the front line of battles did not keep you from making a sworn enemy of her. You saw her briefly and by accident as you toured the Ministry with the newly appointed Deputy Minister Fudge. She stood to the side of the corridor, talking with Bartemus Crouch. His hatred was expected, you smirked at him, knowing what he did not: that you controlled his son. But her- she was not what you expected. You knew from the photos what she looked like, but you had not expected the open hostility or her ability to make you completely unable to hide your own hatred.

Almost five years your minor, brilliant in your area of expertise, defiant as no Mudblood ought to be, and too beautiful for her own good, she was dangerous and completely set on bringing about your destruction. You resented her youth because she did what you could not at her age. You hated her power and skill with charms because she was a Mudblood and you were the purest of the pure, and still she could do what you cannot even at your current age! You detested her beauty, for she was more stunning than even your trophy wife. But above and beyond all of that growing anger, irritation, resentment, and pure hatred, you abhorred her spirit.

She bent for no one. While you were forced to kneel before Master, she kneeled before no one, most especially not you. And even now it makes you grit your teeth in anger. You wanted to break her- her spirit, her mind, her beauty. You convinced yourself that you would and in that you found solace.

It did not matter how many minor attacks she managed to stop, she never stopped the big ones. It did not matter how many of your comrades she captured, you still managed to always get away. And it did not matter how long she lived, for you would one day kill her.

You knew she was destined to die while you, you were on the powerful side, the winning side. But once more the Dementors come and take that thought from you, leaving you with only the knowledge that she never lost her power, that she never broke.

In fact, you remember as you pound your head against the bed in an attempt to beat away the memories, she almost broke you. She put doubt in your mind. For if the Dark Lord was all-powerful, if he was immortal, if he was to give you the strength that you desired... how did a mere Mudblood bring him so close to death? He came back, of course, but he came back weaker. All the Deatheaters saw it- the weakness clinging to his every move. He was man once more and she did that to him. She stole his powers and gave it to her son. The powers that were supposed to be gifted to you and your son, the mudblood took for herself and that magical bastard.

She got away from Master three times. Three times. She had been hit by two Unforgivables and still managed to crawl away. When she was hit by the third, she ensured that at least her son would crawl away. She beat those curses back with nothing more than her willpower. She was strong and you hated that you admired her for that. You blew up half your kitchen when you read about her audaciously happy wedding in the paper. And when she bore a son- taking her out of the field and supposedly out of your way- you hated her baby. You wanted to kill it in front of her because you wanted her cry at your feet as you proved once and for all that no one had more power than you.

You went with Master to Godric's Hollow, the Dementors make you recall. You stood just outside the house, as he asked you to, keeping Pettigrew from running; Pettigrew who heard and told Master about the prophecy that made her Master's problem instead of just yours; Peter who betrayed his closest friends, betrayed her. You hated him for that, hated him for taking your victory from you. You wanted to tear his eyes out of his sockets. But at least she would die.

Of course, only too soon everything went wrong. Green light exploded out of the windows, shattering the glass. The walls of the house shook and the ground shifted under you. You looked around, frantic, and saw Pettigrew stare numbly at his left forearm. When he looked up his eyes were large and disbelieving. You glanced at your own arm and watched your Mark of Power fade to nothing.

You screamed and lunged at Pettigrew. What had he done? Something went wrong. Master was gone. But Pettigrew transformed and was gone before you could stop him. And then the house collapsed and your quick mind and logic would not let you linger. You apparated to your home, told Narcissa what happened, and to contact the Parkinsons- whose daughter was already destined to marry your son- and tell them about the night's events. In the meantime, you went to the ministry.

They believed your half-baked story of the Imperious curse because they could not understand why else Lucius Malfoy would willingly turn himself in. They did not yet know what you did, that something in the Potter home broke your Master.

As the news slowly leaked out- your name and that of the Parkinsons already cleared of any blame- Harry Potter was named saviour, hailed the hero, and known for having failed to die. But you knew the truth then and you know it now: while it was Harry Potter with the glory, it was Lily Potter who broke your master. Harry Potter deserves your son's hatred, but you could not care less about the boy. Lily Potter- Cleopatra- deserves your hatred.

So you will lash out at her in the only way left. Yes, her love saved her son, but she still could not care for him, could give him nothing except a wretched, orphaned existence. You decided to provide for your son the things she could never provide for her own: the best clothes, the best brooms, the best home, and the most power. You would spite her memory as her son grew up a muggle. Your Draco would thrive and Harry would suffer, and suffer he did. He suffered at your hands through Riddle's diary, but the end of that story lingers on at the will of the Dementors. You made him suffer, but like his mother he thwarted your plan in the end. All of the anger that you kept so neatly packed and folded away at the bottom of your empty heart for the last fifteen years, snapped up and lashed out at the boy when he set your house elf free. Just picturing his face makes you want to scream.

He looks just like his mother- the same resistant and defiant stance, the same hatred in his eyes, and the same lack of respect. You told him that if he continued to meddle in things that were not his business that he would end up like his parents, but what you meant to say was that he would end up like his mother- his mother who did not break, who did not bow, who did not kneel, but in the end still died.