Kings of the Wheel

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Don't push too far,
Your dreams are china in your hand
Don't wish too hard,
Because they may come true and you can't help them
You don't know what you might
Have set upon yourself...
(T'Pau, China in Your Hand)
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It was on the twenty-third night of the siege of Hogwarts that Lucius Malfoy, commander of Lord Voldemort's Dark Army, received his unexpected visitor. He was sitting in the largest salon of the Three Broomsticks, which he had commandeered for his quarters. Not that there had been resistance. Nearly all the inhabitants of Hogsmeade had fled from the approaching Death Eaters and their allies, apart from a handful who had conveniently timed the occasion with their own conversion to the Dark Side. Madam Rosmerta, the proprietess of the pub, had been among those who had sought refuge at Hogwarts castle. Which, Lucius thought, was a pity. She was quite an attractive woman, and he was bored.

He sat in a comfortable armchair beside the fireplace, reading a fourteenth century copy of HOGWARTS, A HISTORY, hoping to find a hint as how to breach the castle's defences - some long-forgotten ancient pathway, perhaps. Unlikely, but so far none of the traditional means of attack had met with much success. Dumbledore and his champion sat behind Hogwarts' walls like spiders dangling in their web, and although the constant onslaught decimated the defenders day by day, his own forces lost even more.

"Bring me Potter," the Dark Lord had told him four months ago, and here he was, encamped in mid-winter before the strongest fortress of the wizarding world, and not a step closer to laying his hands on the hero of the Light Side than he'd been then.

"Damn you to hell, Potter," he muttered under his breath while flipping carelessly through the withered pages.

He looked up when one of the pub elves slid in, carrying a tray with the goblet of heated wine he had ordered. An instant later, Lucius felt his emergency wards go off, blazing their blinding white magical light throughout the room. The elf screeched in fright, dropped his burden and sped behind the couch. Lucius' wand was out before the falling goblet had half reached the ground, pointed at the centre of the magical flare. He could see nothing, yet house elves did not set off the wards, and he was still extremely cautious after that disgusting pair of animals, Black and Lupin, had almost fried him with a Burning Curse Trap a month ago.

"Expelliamus!" he snapped into the direction of the flares.

A dry chuckle answered, slightly to the side from where he'd been aiming. Then a head appeared out of nowhere, and Lucius gaped. A highly inappropriate expression for a Malfoy, but he gaped anyway. It was too... uncanny.

Harry Potter's head. Floating in mid-air in front of the door. Smirking darkly at him.

"Potter," Lucius acknowledged with forced calm, aiming his wand directly between the intruder's eyes. Of course. Potter's famous Invisibility Cloak.

"Malfoy."

"Is this a surprise visit, or merely a very bad excuse for an assassination attempt?"

"Neither." Potter's smirk gradually vanished. "I'm here to ask you a question."

"Is that so?" Lucius murmured without lowering his wand a fraction. "Take off that cloak and have a seat, then."

To his intense surprise, Potter obliged. He gracefully shrugged out of the Invisibility Cloak and threw it over the back of one of the armchairs. He remained standing, though, pointedly ignoring the wand aimed at him. His demeanour called out to something in Lucius - it evoked both his desire to curse the black-haired bastard to the ground and admire his bearing. An arrogance to rival Draco's, for all their mutual hatred. Lucius decided to let it go, for the moment.

"Your question, Professor Potter?"

Potter took a deep breath.

"When your... hordes first appeared in front of Hogwarts, you sent a message to Dumbledore - that Voldemort only wanted me and you'd call off the siege if he surrendered me. Does that offer still stand?"

What? Lucius mind rang with the incredibility of that question. Has he gone mad under the strain? Is this an elaborate trick?

"Potter," he replied with forced calm, "are you trying to tell me it somehow escaped your notice that you are winning? That our forces are no closer to taking Hogwarts than we were three weeks ago? That we're losing about three times as many people as your side?"

Potter's green eyes iced over to a cold jade.

"I am aware that you're unconcerned about the deaths of some henchmen, Malfoy. But I' m losing friends - students, children."

Lucius' brows furrowed. "So you're willing to chose death to escape the burdens of responsibility, Potter?"

The younger man clenched his teeth at the mocking undertone.

"Perhaps."

"And - just as an academic question - why would I keep to this deal after I've packed you off to meet your just punishment at my lord's hands?"

Lucius would never quite figure out just how fast Potter's infamous wand had appeared in his hand, or from where on his person.

"You will have to convince me, Malfoy. Otherwise you'll die."

Amusement and exhilaration flooded through Lucius at that. A worthy adversary, indeed.

"Perhaps they appointed you Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at eighteen for a reason after all." He put his own wand back into his robes. "Let's not mince words, Mr. Potter. This is the most futile mission I have ever been sent on. You turn yourself over and we'll be off that miserable piece of Scottish rock so fast it'll boggle your mind."

Potter nodded slowly, obviously surprised by Lucius' unexpected outburst.

"I believe you. What now?"

Lucius held out his hand. "Your wand please, Professor." Using Potter's pretentious title gave him quite a juvenile thrill.

He watched Potter's fingers curl around the slender piece of wood protectively for a second. Jaw set in determination, although his body language practically screamed his reluctance, he handed it over. Lucius paused for a moment, looking down at the instrument that had caused the Dark Lord so much trouble. Then he flung it into the fireplace without another word. Potter flinched and took a frantic step as if to retrieve it despite the flames. He caught himself and stilled, laboriously recomposing his features into some kind of calm.

How he must despise himself for betraying so much of a reaction, Lucius thought. He still had his first wand and couldn't fully fathom how it would feel to lose it. Like having a hand cut off, very likely. The fire incinerated the dry wood quickly, and emitted a shower of glittering sparks amidst a sound that almost resembled a mournful bird's cry when the core burned to ashes. Potter stared into the flames, shivering despite the warmth.

Yes, Lucius admitted mentally, it suddenly was a lot colder than before, but still not enough to account for the tremors that began to run through his prisoner. Then he understood. Draco's singularly detailed reports on his arch-enemy - detailed enough to more than warrant the term 'obsessive' - had described Potter's particular vulnerability.

"Please excuse me for a minute," he ordered with stinging politeness as he left the salon.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Outside the door, his trio of dementor guards waited patiently, robes hanging around their skeletal figures like funeral shrouds on corpses. Lucius shuddered and imperceptibly shook his head, throwing off the images that such encounters inevitably brought in their wake: stumbling across his father's dead body; receiving the message telling him of Narcissa's miscarriage of their firstborn; writhing under the Cruciatus at Voldemort's feet.

"Your services won't be needed," he told the creatures plainly. "You may retreat." He paused momentarily to savour the words before speaking them. "Arrange for an owl to be sent to the Dark Lord. We have Potter. He will be arriving at Azkaban tomorrow morning as soon as the Portal can be opened." He looked out of the corridor window. Flurry after flurry of snow flakes rushed through the night outside. Lucius permitted himself a triumphant smile before adding lazily, "Choose a hardy bird to weather the storm."

It required daylight to throw open the Portal into Azkaban, but he wanted Voldemort to know what was coming as soon as possible. The hooded trio bowed and retreated soundlessly down the stairs.

Now, Lucius thought, let's see what entertainment our prisoner will provide.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

When he stepped back into the salon, Potter had moved closer to the fireplace, warming his hands over the flames. His shivers seemed to have subsided, but his back was turned to Lucius as if he were carving out a space of privacy for himself in hostile surroundings. The fireshine threw reddish highlights over his black robes and hair.

Lucius took care to close the door very softly, and yet the dark head came up, an almost imperceptible move hovering between attentiveness and defiance.

"Well, Malfoy, what's it going to be?" he asked the flames in front of him.

"I beg your pardon, Potter?"

Potter shrugged, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, what do you have planned? Dark curses? Torture? Cruciatus? "

Lucius' mouth curved into a mocking smile.

"Why, Mr. Potter, I believe you'll see enough of that in the Dark Lord's care at Azkaban," he drawled. "And I'd hate to forestall him. But if that's what you want, well, it is a sign of extremely bad manners to refuse a guest."

That made Potter look up finally, and reveal a face marked by fatigue and, underneath it, some darker emotion.

"Look, Malfoy," he said brusquely, "I really understand your need to gloat after we've frustrated your designs for months. But I'd appreciate it if we could just skip the witty verbal sparring."

"It seems you disapprove of my company, Potter. Would you have preferred to surrender to my son?"

That provoked a surprised stare, followed by a snort.

"Definitely not!" He gave Lucius a calculating look. "I mean, you certainly have ample reason to dislike me, Dobby and all, but me and Mal... and Draco - that's personal, in a really bad way."

Lucius nodded, impressed by Potter's perceptiveness. 'Personal' was one way of putting it. Sometimes he thought Draco had chosen the Dark Side with the sole objective of sticking it to Harry Potter. His son was even more single-minded in this respect than the Dark Lord himself.

"Just... just get it over with, all right?" Potter's lips set into a thin line before he turned away to face the fire again. "You don't have to remind me of what Voldemort will do. I know."

He's scared to death behind that nonchalant facade, Lucius realised. And he's letting you see it. There was something extremely courageous in the readiness to admit to fear instead of hiding it. The Lord of Gryffindor, head of his house in far more than name.

He stepped up until he stood behind the young man, and watched his neck muscles tense at the invasion of his personal space.

"As you wish, Mr. Potter. Now, of course I could call the dementors back and have them chain you up in the cellar to spend a highly unpleasant night in their company. Or I could just Petrify you and throw you into a corner to ponder your fate. Or..." An expressive pause. Potter's head turned a fraction, not enough to face Lucius, but in an unspoken question. Lucius smiled secretively and laid both hands on his shoulders, thumbs brushing lightly over the tendrils of black hair on his neck. "... or I could find another way of taking your mind off tomorrow."

Finally, Potter turned to face him, eyes wide, shrugging off his hands angrily.

"You... did I hear what I think I heard? Did you really just try to blackmail me into your bed, Malfoy?" Lucius couldn't help it - he smirked.

"What if?"

A cold, disdainful look out of green eyes.

"Why? You want to gloat about having got to fuck the Boy Who Lived?"

There was something endearing about Potter's outrage, although Lucius had to admit he wasn't completely off the mark. He hadn't planned to steer the conversation into that particular direction, but Malfoy impulsivity had raised its head again. Corrupting Potter was a delightful concept in its own right, as was the thought of being the last person who'd ever touch the Dark Lord's special enemy. Voldemort himself wasn't given to such subtle methods of torture, and his possessiveness would not permit another to lay a hand on Potter - which was a pity, because Draco, for one, would certainly have thought of it given the chance. And beneath those obvious considerations, Lucius had to admit that stealing away a slice of victory from Voldemort without the Dark Lord knowing was extremely tempting. And of course the young man was not painful to look at - not exactly attractive either, but interesting. And he had been bored tonight.

"You mean I want to gloat about fucking the Man Who'll Die, Potter. And why not?" Throw the truth at him and let him struggle with it. "What do you have to lose?"

Potter gave him a supremely incredulous look.

"How about my self-respect, Malfoy? Or my sanity?"

Lucius grinned, a mixture of cruelty and amusement.

"Both are overrated, Potter, not to mention that the Dark Lord will rob you of them anyway. Where's that famed Gryffindor bravery of yours, Professor? You can't possibly be scared of me, can you?"

"I'm not afraid of you, Malfoy!" The younger man bristled like an irate feline. "And why the hell are you asking, anyway? You burned my wand, you miserable bastard! You could probably just force me."

"Of course I could, Potter," Lucius replied serenely. "And don't think I won't if I have to. It could be entertaining - for me, that is. But I wonder, is that really the battle you want to pick?"

Potter looked away, dragging a hand through his hair wearily.

"You really hate me that much, don't you?"

Oh, yes, Lucius thought. Revenge. That's what I had forgotten. He shrugged.

"You owe me for a couple of humiliating incidents, Potter. But if I hated you, I'd come up with something much worse." Lucius reached out and ran a finger along the curve of Potter's face, with a gentleness that even surprised him. "Your answer, Harry?"

Potter turned his head back to the fire and shut his eyes tightly, looking terribly lonely, and tired. Too inexperienced perhaps for this game, and far too vulnerable. For a second, Lucius almost felt pity for the Gryffindor. Almost.

But when the young man looked up again, his expression was strangely calm, almost serious, though with an underlying touch of insecurity. He let out the breath he'd been holding.

"All right, Lucius. Take my mind off tomorrow."

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Lucius Malfoy lay on the bed he'd transfigured from an armchair, watching the early morning gloom slowly replacing the night shadows, and musing that he'd learned quite a bit about the young man next to him in the past few hours. He also had the faint inkling - one he wasn't eager to examine yet - that he'd learned something about himself as well. At times, he'd been more gentle with the boy than with any other lover in a long time, only to then strike out with spectactular cruelty as if to punish him for his own moments of weakness. Potter had taken both in stride, the latter without surprise, the former with astonishment and breathless laughter. He had learned that pain would not induce Potter to beg - which was a bad thing if you were trying to get an easier death out of the Dark Lord - but, Lucius smirked to himself, other things certainly did.

Potter... the young man lay on his side, head on one arm, facing away from him. Lucius lightly ran his hand up and down his side. What still awed him was the sheer intensity of Potter's response - a response which went far beyond the knowledge that there would be no time to agonise over his actions. Even beyond a last reaffirmation of life. It wasn't so much what he did, more what he was. An embodiment of life, and the pure joy of it. Perhaps something that was too rare to be destroyed... Lucius squashed the thought immediately, but could not fully escape the implications. Yes, the world would be a darker place without Harry Potter.

He wondered whether Potter was asleep. He doubted it. You didn't sleep on your last night on earth.

Running his fingers along one of the deep scratches marring Potter's back, he murmured, "You lied to me, earlier."

Potter winced slightly, but his relaxed posture didn't falter.

"Did I?"

"You're not here because you're driven by guilt complexes. You don't want to die, Potter."

A vague shrug.

"I just didn't correct your misconceptions."

"So - care to clue me in?"

A light snort about the Muggle-ish turn of phrase. Potter leaned back into his touch like a warmth-starved cat and deliberated for a moment. Finally, he muttered, "Oh well, it won't change anything anyway. How much do you know about protective magic?"

"You mean like the Fidelis Charm?"

He shook his head lightly.

"No. Like the protection my mother worked for me."

"It's an ancient form of magic. Powerful. Unpredictable. Purists might classify it among the Dark Arts, since it demands for the death of the practitioner..."

Potter shrugged. "We've come too far in this war to worry about purity."

Lucius chuckled.

"So what about the protection?"

Potter hesitated for another second.

"Dumbledore told me once that if somebody loves you enough to die for you, it'll leave a protection that is almost unbreakable. Even for the Killing Curse, as Voldemort found out. I've done a lot of research on the matter - the sources are old and unspecific, but there's nothing to suggest it won't work on a larger scale..."

"What?" Lucius grabbed his shoulder and yanked the younger man around roughly to look at his face. "You really believe that if you let Voldemort kill you, it'll provide a protective charm for your friends?" Potter refused to meet his eyes directly. A little flush had spread across his features.

"Well, as much as I hate it, but the wizarding world has always looked at me as if I was their saviour. And even the Muggles once believed that in situations of great distress the sacrifice of a symbolic ruler would protect them from evil."

To his great embarrassment, Lucius found himself gaping, open-mouthed, for the second time this night.

"You?" He ground out incredulously. "Meek, humble Potter, who hates fame and attention? You want to play saviour of the wizarding world? And they call the Malfoys arrogant! You think you can twist the arm of Fate until she does your bidding, Potter? That's the worst case of hubris I've ever heard of - including everything Voldemort has pulled so far."

The green eyes turned dark with emotion.

"Stop mocking, Malfoy!" Potter pulled on a damp strand of hair in unconscious frustration. "It's the last thing I can think of, all right? We can't defeat Voldemort. The Ministry is burying its collective heads in the sand, hoping he'd leave them some shred of existence once he's won. Even before he took over Azkaban and the dementors, it was hopeless." He buried his face in the crook of his arm. "You're right, I don't want to die. But I don't want to watch my friends killed either. I can't see any other way any more." A long pause, in which Lucius listened to Potter's agitated breaths. "You think I'm crazy, right?"

"I think it's the worst plan since Uric the Oddball decided to convince the Wizards' Council of his sanity in the nude with a dead badger on his head, Potter. But since I'll profit handsomely from your delusions of grandeur, who am I to complain?"

He felt Potter's slight shudder under his hand and leaned forward to brush his lips against the young man's shoulder. It provoked another shudder, but of a different nature.

"I'm afraid I'm not making good of my promise," Lucius whispered huskily and let his hands wander southward to remedy that oversight.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The sun had just risen above the turrets of Hogwarts castle when Lucius Malfoy performed the incantation that would open the Dark Portal to Azkaban in the courtyard in front of the Three Broomsticks. The Death Eaters had taken the Fortress in the dead of night, and Voldemort had made sure nobody else would ever travel that path. Azkaban was cut off from the world, protected by the strongest dark enchantments imaginable. Only his most trusted Death Eaters knew the ritual to open the Portals, and even then only in daylight.

He watched his prisoner, calm and composed despite being surrounded by Lucius' dementor guard that would escort him to Azkaban. He wondered if he had provided Potter with strength during the night. If he had, it would have been a truly two-edged gift to give. The Dark Lord would not suffer any display of strength, and would make sure to deprive his young arch nemesis of every shred of it before he would be allowed to die.

The young man did not spare him a single glance, and had not done so since the dementors ripped him out of the bed that Lucius had left long before, and dragged him outside. But Lucius could feel his mind's eyes upon him. They seemed to observe him with a detached curiosity, calm, and almost peaceful. He shook his head to shoo away the strange image.

Lucius handed his message for Voldemort to the head dementor. It contained the details of Potter's capture; it also outlined Lucius' plan for the retreat of his troops from Hogwarts. It did not, however, make any mention of Potter's pitiful plea with Fate.

It was the first sign of trouble.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Lucius Malfoy did not travel to Azkaban himself to witness Potter's execution. He accepted the Dark Lord's lavish praise for his achievement through the fireplace, knowing that his status among the chief Death Eaters had soared exponentially. He received, however, a detailed and gleeful owl from his son about the proceedings.

Knowing Draco, Lucius was very much aware that the younger Malfoy had probably not taken his eyes off Potter throughout, and instead hovered closely to drink in each scream or sigh from is nemesis. That was his nature, and Lucius did not begrudge him the satisfaction. After all, he had done the same, even if under slightly altered circumstances.

Sifting through the sheaf of parchments covered with Draco's spidery writing, Lucius judged that it probably hadn't been as bad as it could have been. Of course the Dark Lord had tortured Potter, but only until he had his arch enemy begging for mercy at his feet. He had been allowed to die after that.

Lucius bit his knuckles and threw the pages back onto his desk. It could have been far, far worse, and probably would have been if Voldemort had not been worried about Potter pulling off another hair's breadth escape.

He had not wanted the young man to suffer more than was necessary, and it should have been satisfying to hear that he hadn't. So why did he feel the almost irresistible urge to hit something?

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Despite the fact that Voldemort lost no time in making his victory over his arch nemesis as public as possible, it did not have the desired effect on the wizarding world. Oh, the handful of souls on the brink to the Dark Side used it to quietly convert. But the Ministry clung to its line. Cornelius Fudge - in denial with the best of them - pointed out that the Boy Who Lived had obviously got himself killed on one of his ludicrous exploits. He even went so far as to insinuate the whole event had been stagecrafted by Dumbledore to sway public opinion in his favour.

Lucius himself felt strangely light-headed over the following months, as if a veil had been withdrawn from his eyes, only to be replaced with another. He went through the appropriate motions, of course - planning raids against Mudbloods and Muggle communities, recruiting future Death Eaters, serving as the Dark Lord's chief advisor. He found it impossible, however, to throw himself into his tasks with the same reckless abandon that distinguished Draco. It wasn't that he'd suddenly started to dislike the thrill of killing or battle - but he looked at it without the passion of youth, and was more than prepared to leave notoriety to his son.

He did not envy Draco's boundless energy, but somehow, he envied his sense of purpose. It was as if Draco Malfoy had a very heavy burden lifted from his mind, to enjoy a freedom formerly unknown. The same burden which seemed to have descended on Lucius in turn. A burden he could have put a name to, if he had chosen to do so.

Voldemort himself was another problem. The Dark Lord had practically entombed himself in Azkaban, gloating over his victory and pursuing the Arcane Arts and the path to immortality with a handful of devoted disciples - Wormtail, the Lestranges. In his obsession, their original plan of taking over the Wizarding World and installing himself - and not to mention his followers - in positions of power was pushed to the sidelines. It was nothing short of frustrating. The Malfoys bore the brunt of leading the war, against Dumbledore and Potter's closest allies - Black, Lupin, Weasley and Granger had become veritable menaces in the aftermath of their friend's death - while Voldemort studied.

Most disconcerting, however, was that Lucius found himself assaulted by flashbacks of Potter. Not just of that one winter night - he also saw the cocky twelve-year-old putting himself between Lucius' wrath and a shabby house-elf, and sometimes the teenager in the Riddle Graveyard, crying under the Cruciatus Curse or fighting back against impossible odds, despair and determination written all over his face.

It was very hard to imagine that this lively spirit should be dead. Potter had been a constant in his life - as in so many others' - and Lucius only realised how much after he was gone. It was not, he reminded himself angrily, possible to fall in love with a person in just one night, no matter how enjoyable. Especially not for a Death Eater. Especially not with a mortal enemy. But perhaps, an annoying little voice kept whispering in a remote corner of his mind, that was all it took to fall in love with life. A part of him did mourn the waste of Potter's life, the sheer futility of his death. Lucius hated the feeling, but it kept gnawing on him.

And the strange conversation they had shared was clawing at the back of his conscious memory as well. He had made a deliberate decision not to research the issue further, but subconsciously he almost waited for... he was not sure what for exactly, but a restless sense of unease sneaked up on him whenever his mind was not buried in work. Potter had been the last hope of the wizarding world - it was just unthinkable for him to have gone out without even a whimper. There should have been repercussions. Merlin, there ought to be repercussions. How uncharacteristic of Fate to surrender her chosen champion to death without calling for vengeance.

And he, Lucius, had never told the Dark Lord about Potter's strange designs. Oh, there had been so many opportunities. Early on as a warning in earnest, or later as a side remark or jest - making fun of the young Gryffindor's arrogant heroics. But he had told no one at all, keeping the memory clutched to his bosom like an anxious mother, like a protective lover. Potter had told him. Why in Merlin's name had he told him. What had he expected him to do?

He could not solve the puzzle, and yet it did not let him rest. So he kept brooding and remembering, while disaffection and frustration - and the memory of green eyes under a shock of black hair - were festering in his mind.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Summer was already giving way to the dry, chill breezes of autumn when Lucius Malfoy found himself back in a place he'd once sworn he'd never again set foot into, except as a conqueror. And yet here he was, brazenly walking the hallways of Hogwarts under a familiar Invisibility Cloak. Taking a leaf out of Potter's book seemed somehow appropriate, even if he still felt like he was sleepwalking. Coming here had been less than a conscious decision. Rather, it had been the end point of too many roads of thought, until all the facets of possible decisions seemed to culminate here.

Hogwarts.

Dumbledore.

For the love of Merlin, Potter, what have you *done* to me?

He stopped in front of the entrance to the ancient wizard's tower, invisible eyes trained on the gargoyle guardian, wand at the ready to blast it to bits. He had come too far to be delayed by a statue. Instead, however, it stepped out of the way gracefully as the door opened to beckon him onto the moving staircase. He accepted the unspoken invitation and allowed it to carry him up.

He had not seen the interior of Dumbledore's office since the aftermath of the Chamber of Secrets disaster, and when his eyes swept the cluttered study it seemed, for a split second, as if a younger Potter was standing beside the large desk, sharp green eyes behind heavy glasses trained on him. The mirage smiled and vanished. Lucius shook his head slightly. There was only the tall shape of the old headmaster behind the desk, unsmiling and with a steely glint in his usually friendly eyes. He looked directly at Lucius, despite the Cloak. Before him on the desk lay a ratty piece of parchment.

"Lucius," the old wizard greeted. "Would you please reveal yourself and let me know what brings you to Hogwarts?" Coldly polite, and no wand in sight. Lucius sneered before taking off the Cloak.

"Albus," he replied, as coldly. "I'd like to make you an offer."

The headmaster inclined his head expectantly. "Please, do."

"I'm willing to open a Portal into Azkaban for you, if you should still be interested in taking the battle to the Dark Lord."

If Lucius had expected surprise - and indeed he had - he was disappointed. Dumbledore merely put the tips of his index fingers together and observed him thoughtfully.

"Now, Lucius, I have to admit that this comes very much out of the blue. You'll certainly understand that the idea that this could be a trap has crossed my mind..."

"Believe me, headmaster," Lucius drawled, "if I wanted to lure you into a trap, I'd make it a lot less obvious."

Dumbledore inclined his head again.

"And yet," he mused, "you will understand that I'll require... additional proof of your sincerity."

Lucius upper lip curled in disgust. 'Convince me or die' - Potter had phrased it a lot more succinctly.

"As you wish," he shrugged. A distasteful task, but one that had to be performed. "The Dark Lord has a spy at Hogwarts. Your Potions master, Severus Snape."

Dumbledore leaned back in his armchair, eyebrows raised slightly. "How interesting." He turned his head and called out towards the back door, hidden behind a thick purple curtain. "Would you please join us, Severus?"

The garish curtain was drawn back, and Severus Snape stood in the doorway, wand pointed directly at Lucius. His face was impassive, but the beetle-black eyes were narrowed.

"He might be genuine after all," Snape said matter-of-factly, without taking his eyes off Lucius. "Rumours state that he's been withdrawn to the point of isolation lately. And of course--" the thin lips twisted in an anything-but-friendly manner, "--he does seem willing to betray a fellow Death Eater."

Dumbledore nodded and clicked his tongue. "And yet... Lucius, I have to admit I am curious about what prompted this sudden change of heart."

Lucius clenched his teeth and expelled the breath he had been holding.

"I'm offering you the chance to strike at Voldemort," he snarled, wondering just why this not entirely unexpected question offended him so. "Take it or leave it. I will not explain myself to you!"

Dumbledore's piercing glance wandered over his face once more, before the old man nodded mindfully.

"Your motives, Lucius, are your own of course."

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Lucius spent the day which Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix needed to rally its members confined to a guest quarter. It was Snape who finally unlocked the door and escorted him through the corridors. They did not exchange a word, or a look, until they entered the Great Hall where the 'Forces of Light' had gathered.

It was an extremely motley crew, Lucius noted. The Hogwarts staff, minus Fidelius Flitwick, whom Macnair had finished with a Bleeding Hex during the Siege of Hogwarts. A handful of nervous seventh year students, and some slightly older young men and women, obviously alumni. Lucius could make out Granger and at least three Weasleys among them. A small crowd of mostly eccentric-looking older wizards and witches - Dumbledore's own crowd, probably - intermingled with a handful of scattered Ministry wizards, and even some magical beings. He recognised at least one giant, several goblins, and two bundled-up creatures next to the entrance whose cloaks smelled faintly of liver - hags.

Lucius felt the stares on him as he followed Snape through the crowd. A mixture of surprise and hatred. Obviously, they had been told what his role was going to be, but disbelief still dominated the atmosphere. Dumbledore waved them over to the dais he was standing on with a small group of wizards.

"Ah, Severus, Lucius," he greeted. "We have put up wards in the main courtyard. I take it you'll be able to open the Portal for us there, Lucius?"

Lucius nodded, lips twitching slightly in amusement. The old wizard was obviously not going to run the risk of permitting Death Eaters into an unprotected Hogwarts. He moved to follow Dumbledore to the door when a hand grabbed his shoulder and roughly pulled him around. He stared into a pair of hateful dark eyes under a mane of black hair. Black.

"I want you to know, Malfoy, that no matter what happens today, you're going to pay for what you did to Harry," the Animagus hissed. Behind him, the slender shape of the werewolf, Lupin, was trailing with apprehensive eyes.

"Am I, indeed?" Lucius drawled. "Even though I merely complied with your late godson's wishes?"

"You gave him to Voldemort!"

"That I did." Lucius felt his heart speed up with excitement. He had missed this sort of confrontation. "Would you like me to provide details on what else I did to Mr. Potter?"

Lupin grabbed Black's arm and pulled him back before he could swing at him. The wolf whispered in his ear intently and Black allowed himself to be drawn off, still glaring hatefully. Lucius gave the pair a condescending smirk and purposefully strode out of the hall.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

The main yard was sun-flooded and seemed like a distinctly inappropriate place for a link to Azkaban. Too... peaceful. Dumbledore's wards threw iridescent lines into the warm air. The old wizard nodded at him, and Lucius raised his wand to perform the familiar incantation. Black light emanated from the tip of his wand and solidified into a dark fog that spread out until it had outlined a shape the size of a large, oval mirror. The inside of the Portal was of a diffuse, light grey, while the outer circle was almost black - it looked misty and fragile, but would remain until the spell was broken.

Dumbledore eyed the Portal pensively.

"How long will you be able to keep it open," he asked.

"Indefinitely," Lucius replied. "As long as I am alive to focus." Black sneered at that.

"Professor McGonagall and Mr. Weasley here," Dumbledore pointed at one of the redheads, "will make sure you won't be disturbed."

They'll make sure you won't close the Portal behind us and trap us in Azkaban with the dementors, Lucius translated. He nodded carelessly. He had expected no less.

Lucius watched in silence as Dumbledore, wand drawn, was the first of the Order to step through the Portal. One after the other, like a steady trickle of water, his people followed, swallowed up by the dark fog. He had the sudden, strong feeling that someone was missing, someone who should have been there. With an impatient shrug he quelled the feeling.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

It took less than an hour until the first handful began to trickle back. Most of the wizards were simply exhausted, burned out from the constant drain of the Patronus charm. A handful came with nasty curse injuries, but Lucius knew that it was dementors rather than Death Eaters that would pose the worst threat. The Dark Lord guarded his stronghold jealously and permitted access only to a select few of his most loyal. From what he picked up from the remarks of those who brought back the wounded or dead, Dumbledore's people put that fact to good use.

Suspicion turned to conviction when a horrible stabbing pain in his left forearm made him cringe. Black dots coursed in front of his eyes, and the Portal flickered as he almost lost control of the spell while fighting back unconsciousness. His arm felt as if somebody had rammed a spear right through his Dark Mark, a pain almost as bad as when he had first received it. He felt McGonagall's fingertips gingerly touch his shoulder, but couldn't understand her words. Then the burning receded to a prickling sensation, and finally stopped altogether. Lucius quickly pulled his sleeve back with the little finger of his wand hand. For the first time since his eighteenth year, the skin was unblemished. He let out a deep breath. The Dark Lord was dead.

He turned his head to announce it, when another group of survivors stumbled through the Portal. Granger's arms were flung around the still body of Potter's Weasley friend, who was dragged between her and another one of the same brood. Granger was sobbing and shaking like under the aftershock of Cruciatus. Weasley's lips were blue, his skin unnaturally white except for a violent red bruise around his neck. A Constrictus Spell, Lucius noted absent-mindedly. Lestrange's favourite. He watched the mousy school nurse speed over to them, shoving Granger and the girl Weasley out of the way in the process. Granger gave her averted back a pathetic glance before dragging her hand through the flyaway hair - which did her looks no favour at all, Lucius thought spitefully - and stepped up to McGonagall.

"What happened," the stern witch asked.

"The Death Eaters trapped us in You- in Voldemort's throne room. The Lestranges, and... Wormtail. Sirius and Remus - they, they killed Wormtail, but then Mrs. Lestrange hit me with the Cruicatus, and when Ron tried to help, Lestrange put a Strangulation Hex on him. Prof. Dumbledore cursed him, but we couldn't get Ron to breathe, and the Headmaster told us to take him back to Madam Pomfrey..." She wiped her face and Lucius noticed McGonagall putting a calming hand on her shoulder.

"We ran, but then he suddenly was there, Voldemort, I mean. Sirius, Remus and the Headmaster attacked him, but then there was green light everywhere, and... oh, Professor, I'm not sure, but I think Remus didn't make it. And Voldemort - I think Voldemort is dead."

"He is," Lucius said without turning his head. He felt their stares on his back. Gradually, he began to feel the energy drain of upholding the Portal. They were practically waiting for Dumbledore and his pair of animals, and Lucius started to wonder whether any of them would return at all.

But they did. It was a downcast Dumbledore who stepped out of the grey fog, looking back over his shoulder. Behind him, Black appeared, wand still in hand, carrying the lifeless body of the werewolf in his arms with as much care as if a careless grip could still hurt him. The headmaster glanced around the courtyard, looking more tired than Lucius had ever seen him. When their eyes met, Dumbledore nodded slightly and Lucius stopped the spell and let the Portal dissolve into greyish smoke. That done, he took a step forward until he was face to face with Black, and smiled.

"So, it seems as if you are no better at protecting your friends than you are at protecting your family, Black."

The Animagus still clutched his wand, and not even a muscle twitched in his face as a warning - he spoke the spell, and Lucius was thrown back, forced to the ground by the horrible, burning pain in his stomach. He tasted the bitter, slick fluid of gastric acid and blood in his throat and lost consciousness.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

He awoke with a deep-seated sense of surprise at being alive. He had not expected it, considering how many of the Order had been grievously injured. Then again, he should have realised that Dumbledore would stretch his resources to the breaking point for friend and foe alike. It was his nature.

There was still pain, but muted. He grinned inwardly. Filling an enemy's intestines with glass shards - a nasty Dark Curse that he hadn't really thought the dog capable of. Then again, Black had had the makings of a killer even back at school.

A familiar prickling sensation in his neck alerted him to the fact that he might not be alone. He opened his eyes a slit and sighed inwardly. Black, again. Standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at him with carefully guarded eyes. He wore heavy dark travelling robes, and carried a miniaturised backpack and a broomstick.

"You're leaving?" Lucius drawled. Speaking was agony. Tendrils of pain twirled from the pit of his stomach right up into the roots of his teeth. He forced them away. "Why? Did Dumbledore disagree with your casual approach to the Dark Arts?"

Black didn't answer, but the way in which the corner of his mouth twitched told Lucius he had hit home well enough.

"So what brings you here? What would you like to know, Black?" Lucius lowered his voice to a silky purr. "That I fucked your godson into the mattress until he screamed and begged, and that afterwards he asked me to do it again?" He watched Black's eyes turn to brittle steel and revelled in the tensing jaw, the clenching fists. "Would you like to know that he lay in my arms and poured out his deepest secrets to me, and I sent him to hell anyway?"

That was the beauty of it, Lucius thought - that he could destroy the other without once resorting to a lie, merely by spinning his own twist on the truth.

Black stared back at him with a flat, deadened expression, and shook his head slowly.

"No Malfoy," he said, "I wanted to tell you something, before I leave."

"Oh, please do."

"I want you to know that your son has been taken prisoner, Malfoy. He walked right into Azkaban, and into the hands of a group of Ministry Aurors. The only one of Voldemort's inner circle that they could lay their hands on. He will be given the Dementor's Kiss shortly, Malfoy. No trial necessary. I find that... ironic, and appropriate."

Lucius knew his adamant self-control would not give Black the satisfaction of seeing a reaction, but inwardly, he cringed. Malfoys were supposed to fend for themselves, and Draco wasn't a child any longer. Lucius had chosen to move at a point when he knew his son was not at Azkaban, but he had not given him any additional thought, or warning. He had known this could happen. And yet, he suddenly felt very cold.

A small sigh from the door drew their attention. Lucius had not noticed Dumbledore before - he must have come in during their... exchange.

The headmaster gave Black a sad look, but Black just stared back coldly. He picked up his broom and strode out of the Hospital Wing without a word.

Dumbledore sighed and closed tired eyes behind the famous half-moon spectacles for a moment.

"I regret that you had to hear it like this," the headmaster said.

But you didn't stop him from telling me anyway, Lucius thought. His lips curled with contempt. "How doesn't matter," he stated flatly.

"We pressed with the Minister of Magic to give young Mr. Malfoy a trial at least, but to no avail," Dumbledore said. "The Lestranges, Walden Macnair and Peter Pettigrew perished during the battle - Draco Malfoy is the only high-ranking Death Eater who was captured alive. The Ministry feels the need to make an example to reassure the magical community that the reign of the Dark Lord is indeed over."

And that's what you chose to die for, Potter, Lucius thought contemptuously. A bunch of cowards who only manage to work up a shred of courage after others have won the war for them, and then against enemies already rendered helpless.

"It has not been easy to secure an... amnesty even for you, Lucius," Dumbledore continued. "Only when we pointed out repeatedly that without your aid we could never have hoped to succeed, they relented. There are," he hesitated, "conditions, however..."

Lucius waved him to continue, apprehension pooling in his lacerated stomach.

"You will not be allowed to leave Hogwarts," the headmaster said. "And your right to carry a wand has been revoked."

This time, Lucius was not entirely sure whether he had managed to keep his shock from registering on his face. They want to reduce me to living like a Muggle? Rage flooded him.

"I'm sorry, Lucius," Dumbledore added. "While I still don't understand what prompted your decision to join us, I believe your contribution to the cause would have warranted some more generous response. I won't deceive you, though: even in the Order many believe that the Ministry has made a wise decision. But perhaps, in time, they will relent."

Like Black? Lucius thought sarcastically before shoving that train of thought away to focus on more immediate concerns.

"I want to see Draco," he ground out, curtly. He did not add You owe me. It wasn't necessary.

Dumbledore rubbed the back of his long, crooked nose.

"Are you well enough to accompany me tomorrow afternoon?"

"Certainly."

Lucius let his head fall back onto the pillow and closed his eyes for a second. Then he got up.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

Lucius made no further attempt to speak to Dumbledore. Instead, he paid a visit to the Slytherin dungeons, to see Severus Snape. He was fully prepared for the Potions master to laugh in his face instead of granting his request, or focus all his acerbic wit on the man who had been willing to throw him to the wolves just to prove a minor point. But Snape listened, and nodded, and came up to his tower prison minutes before Lucius was scheduled to meet Dumbledore. He handed Lucius a tiny flacon containing a few drops of a colourless fluid.

"Uisce Marbh," he stated coldly, turned, and left. Those were the last words he ever spoke to Lucius. Water of Death, he translated mentally. One of the deadliest poisons in existence. And, Lucius noted with a sarcastic twist of his lip, one minimum dose. He did not for a second believe that Snape had measured so carefully because he was afraid the elder Malfoy would use a larger dose to kill himself as well. No, Snape was a Slytherin, and Slytherins were well-versed in matters of revenge. He wanted him to live without an easy way out.

Lucius concealed the flask in the generous folds of his robe sleeve and went down to the yard to meet Dumbledore.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

They Apparated - under Dumbledore's power - directly into the holding area of Magical Law Enforcement.

The cell that held his son was warded so heavily that the air practically crackled with restless energy. Two Aurors kept watch outside, eyeing Lucius with an amount of hostility that convinced him they would have attacked him on the spot had Dumbledore not been there. They exchanged a few words with Hogwarts' headmaster, before charming open the door and beckoning Dumbledore and Lucius inside. One of the Aurors stepped in behind them and positioned himself in front of the door.

Draco looked very much his normal, composed self. His hair was tousled and his robes slightly wrinkled, with the occasional tear here and there, but he carried it off with the typical Malfoy arrogance which made the battered clothing look like his best set of dress robes.

A flicker of surprise ghosted over Draco's face as he recognised his father, but it was gone again in a blink. They eyed each other expressionlessly.

"I was told that there is no hope for you," Lucius said.

"There isn't," Draco agreed coolly.

Lucius clandestinely let Snape's little vial slip out of his sleeve into his palm, before offering his hand to his son. Dumbledore and the Auror would only see his back, although he suspected Snape had told his master of Lucius' request. Snape was such a devoted little puppy, he wouldn't leave his beloved bumblebee in the dark about a thing like that.

For a second Lucius wondered whether his son would fling the potion back into his face, or perhaps hand it over to the guard to implicate him.

But Draco took his hand, and with it the flacon, and, turning away from his visitors and the oblivious guard, brought the tiny glass container to his lips and downed the contents in a heartbeat. When he looked back at Lucius, his face was utterly calm, almost amused. He held out his own hand, and Lucius received back the vial. He let go and slipped it into his pocket.

His son gave him a curt, final nod that resembled nothing so much as royalty concluding an audience with a rather repugnant subject.

"Good-bye, Father. I hope you'll burn in hell."

Lucius returned the nod, showing not the slightest hint of emotion.

He left without looking back.

~ ~ ~ * * * ~ ~ ~

He left it to Dumbledore to deal with the Ministry's reaction to Draco's unexpected death before he could be given the Kiss. So much, in fact, that he never even asked whether there had been repercussions. Not that he expected much. The ordinary wizard in the street wasn't likely to care about how Voldemort's henchmen met their demise, as long as they ended up dead.

In fact, he did not ask about anything at all. He kept to his tower quarters, and the small private library Dumbledore had given him access to. He read a lot, though he avoided texts about protective charms - he did not want to know the answers the books might provide on that matter. An answer to the question of whether he had been used. Or how he had been used.

He never ventured down beyond the towers - the heights allowed him the illusion of floating above the real world. The Hogwarts' staff had not been so discourteous as to ask him outright not to come down to the Great Hall - his presence might upset the students - but the request had been implied nonetheless. He walked the battlements often, idly wondering whether anyone would notice the pale figure staring at nothing above. The only times he consciously kept indoors was during the Quidditch matches. He did not want to watch those.

It was, he mused, very much like being one of the resident ghosts. There, but not there. He did not speak to anyone but Dumbledore, who insisted on turning up in his quarters once a week to engage him in casual conversation. Mostly, they spoke about books. Lucius couldn't dredge up the energy to tell the headmaster outright to stay away, so he sighed inwardly and put up with the visitations. While they were nothing to him but an annoyance, Dumbledore took them seriously, that much was clear. Perhaps the old man regarded him as a form of penance - to reach out to the man who had condemned his beloved protégé to death. A stepping stone on the way to sainthood.

Left to himself, Lucius walked the towers, face turned to the winds, lost in thought. Thoughts about the Dark Lord, with a hint of regret. Thoughts about Draco, which stabbed through him like tiny engraved silver daggers. Thoughts about Potter, more and more often.

He saw the eleven-year-old, standing up to him next to the house elf in Hogwarts' corridors, and watched himself cutting him down with the Killing Curse, watching the green of the curse drowning out the green in young Harry's eyes as he slumped onto the stairs, the treacherous elf wailing in despair at his side.

Watched himself aiming a careful curse in the Riddle graveyard that threw the youngster to the ground to the delight of the assorted Death Eaters, and saw the Dark Lord cloaking the prone body in a mantle of green light that chased the life out of it.

Watched a dozen skirmishes and semi-encounters after that, in which he reacted a little bit faster, aimed a tiny bit more precisely, and brought Potter down himself.

Most often, however, he was back to that winter night in Hogsmeade, throwing a shivering Potter to the dementors, or - and those were the most satisfying dreams of all - torturing him until not a shred of rational thought remained in that treacherous, seductive, deadly mind and body. Oh yes, he would have given his soul, and more, for a Time-Turner.

So he stood on the battlements, hand pressed against the cool stone, lost in blood-soaked, dream-infested fantasies, and somewhere in the wind, he could hear Fate laughing.

~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
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