The Illustrated Death of Lucius Malfoy

FOURÂ Â Â Â Â Â Â

There is something wrong with that boy, Lucius Malfoy thought as he opened the wardrobe at the back of his bedroom. Let us see if he might be honest on his own terms. He picked up his own 2003 Maelstrom - made entirely of ebony wood and gold, with dragon scale print upon its face. He set it aside, then dragged out a large leather bag. Unfastening it, Lucius removed a set of black and white Quidditch robes, which he put on, fastening up the front with silver snaps. Next came a matching set of shin and elbow guards, which were attached with leather straps to their perspective limbs. After that, Lucius grabbed a brush and ribbon, quickly fastening his hair away from his face in a sleek ponytail. Finally, from the bag, came a pair of padded Quidditch gloves. Putting them on, he seized the Maelstrom and strode out of his room, taking care to pocket his wand and lock the door behind him as he did so.

Walking with such speed and purpose caused students of even his own house to move aside. His gait did not slow until he swept onto the Quidditch field.

"What the Hell was that, Craven?" Lucius looked up, following his son's voice. Sure enough, the Slytherin Quidditch team was already in the air, zooming about. "Get that fucking quaffle before I shove it up your arse!"

Lucius dropped his broom, shooting his hand over it. "Up!" He shouted, and it leapt into his hand with incredible force. Wrapping a leg around it and tilting it at a forty-five degree, he shot into the air. "Good afternoon, Slytherin!" He shouted. "Are you deserving from such abuse as what which Mr. Malfoy delivers to you?"

"Yes, sir." A girl with two black pigtails said. "Especially Craven."

"Dad?" Twenty feet above the ground, Draco pulled his broom to a hover, then shifted around, sitting with both legs dangling off of one side. "Here to join our workout?" He cocked his head.

"Of course. Shall I guard the goals? Your team can attempt to get a quaffle past me." Lucius sat upright, crooking a leg around his broom in order to keep his balance.

"That's an amazing broom, Mr. Malfoy!" The pigtailed girl piped up. "Is it custom-made?"

Lucius smirked, running a hand over his broom. "Of course it is custom-made. Maelstroms are only made to order, as they are not made in a standard size but to the rider's height."

"All right, listen up." Draco swung his legs as he spoke. "Dad - ah, Mr. Malfoy will guard the goals. Try to get one past him, though I doubt you will. He used to play on the Ministry team back in the day, and was a beater for Slytherin when he was a student here. Take your positions!"

Ah, the boy admires me. Lucius leaned forward, chest to broom, and sped toward the far goals. Within him, a sixteen year old Slytherin beater cried out for joy. I miss this a great deal. I should take the broom out more often...

He reached the goals, turned, and once again sat upright, waiting, watching the green forms taking their positions on the other side of the field. Let us see what the Slytherin house is made of, he added silently with a smirk upon his pale visage.

One of the green-robed forms shot at him. Lucius Malfoy stifled a yawn, lazily watching the child as they flew in his direction, corkscrewing, darting up and down. Tricks. That won't get you on a professional team, child, he thought. At the last moment, the boy raised his broom toward an upper hoop and launched his Quaffle. Lucius rose a few feet, catching the ball, and tossed it back toward the passing Slytherin.

"What the hell was that? That sucked!" Draco's voice echoed from the back of the field.

Drive your men. Make them adore you. Make them wish to die for you, Voldemort had once told Lucius. I must speak to the boy. Insults do not a leader make, but they do help on occasion.

Lucius lost track of time. Soon, he led the drills, sending the students to do laps on their brooms, then more precise maneuvers. He ended the practice with a challenge.

"I'm going to take a pass from Mr. Malfoy," Lucius said, pulling his broom to a halt next to the rest of the Quidditch players. "Your job is to get the quaffle from me, by any method. If you must use a foul, do it well. If you manage to knock me off of my broom, well, I'll buy you High Tea at the Crown Hotel in London." He turned his broom to face the other direction. "Chasers ready!"

Draco tossed the quaffle to Lucius, and the wizard darted down the field. Leaning forward, black and white cleats braced against the stirrups on the broom, he realized that no student came anywhere close to him, so he raised his lower body to cause himself to be less aerodynamic. Sure enough, he immediately felt drag on his broom. He turned his head, and saw that the pigtailed girl held with both hand onto the twigs of his broom. Â Swerving, he tried to shake her off, but found that her grip was surprisingly firm.

He dove, and suddenly found himself in tandem with two other students. "Go!" He heard one shout, and then the other rammed into him, throwing Lucius off course. Two hands closed around the quaffle tucked under his arm.

"No," Lucius said in a low voice, and thrust the quaffle forward. It bounced off of one hoop, and he reached out, deflecting it downward with a gloved fist. The quaffle sailed through a lower hoop perfectly.  Â

"Good practice, Slytherin," he shouted, rounding the hoops. "I give you back to your team captain." Lucius dove for the ground, landed, and dismounted his broom. Ignoring the team chattering behind him as they hung still in the air, he walked into the boys' locker room, took a heated towel from the towel bin, and dabbed his face.     Â

Perhaps I was wrong, he thought. You can never tell with the likes of teenagers.

He put his face fully in the towel and sighed, breathing in the warmth of the soft fabric. Regaining himself, he tossed the towel aside, took up one of the many water bottles that sat in a chilled box, and walked back outside.

Draco stood on the field, watching the team as they walked off toward the castle. He turned to look at Lucius.

Oh, no, I was quite wrong. I can read that scowl from thirty yards, Lucius admitted silently. He strode over to the young man. "Care to hit a few bludgers?"

"What the hell was that?" Draco snapped.

Lucius paused for a moment, silently took back his previous thoughts, then responded. "My, aren't we feisty this morning? You complained once that I did not take enough interest in your activities."

"I'm really in no mood for this now. I'm going to have a shower." Draco started to walk away.

Suddenly and without thinking, Lucius darted toward him, grabbing his son's shoulder. The young man struggled for a moment. "You will tell me what is wrong with you."

"I will not. Sod off, Dad," he growled.

Lucius dropped his broomstick in semi-surprise, but in the same moment pulled out his wand. "You will not speak to me in that fashion, for any reason."

Jerking backwards, Draco pushed Lucius with one hand. The older wizard stumbled for a moment, recovered, then realized that Draco, also, had wand in hand. "And you will learn when to leave me alone."

"Oh, no." Lucius felt his blood run cold. Some little boy has grown too big, he thought. "You are not allowed to tell me that. Push me further and you will regret it."

"Expelliarmus!" Draco shouted.

Lucius felt his wand jerk, but it did not leave his hand. Falling backward, he planted a gloved hand upon the ground, and with the explosion heard a loud popping noise. Pain shot up his right arm, and, with the limb no longer holding his weight, he tumbled completely onto his back.

Sitting up, Lucius ignored his injured limb. He merely raised his wand at the young man who stood before him. "Now, would I?"

"Would you what?" Draco said in a firm voice.

"Cr - no, I wouldn't." Blue eyes narrowed, and between clenched teeth, Lucius muttered,"Ivascarate viscara."

Screaming, Draco crumpled to the ground. He curled up into a fetal position, tears pouring out of his tightly-closed eyes, smoke pouring out of his nose, ears, and mouth.

Leaning on his left hand, Lucius got to his feet slowly. Ignoring Draco's cries, he flexed his right arm, grunting as the pain returned, sending knives from his dead wrist to his shoulder. Attempting to wiggle his fingers, he found them quite out of his control. His ring finger spasmed uncontrollably.

"Sir, please -" Draco sobbed, rocking back and forth. "Please, please, make it stop -"

Lucius removed his right glove slowly, and, as he slid it from his injured wrist, blood flowed onto his fingertips. "Well done, Draco. I seem to have a compound fracture."Â

The young wizard upon the ground let out a wordless series of cries and yells - all inhuman, tortured, twisted.

Running his fingers over exposed bone, Lucius's right hand became slick with the blood that stained the white fabric of his long sleeves. "I don't have time for this." Wand into his bloody hand once again, he cast, "Finite incantanteum."

Draco slowly sat up, but then fell back down on the ground. His howls vanished as quickly as they had  come. The smoke rising from his nose and ears became a wisp, then disappeared.

Carrying his wand weakly in one hand, Lucius snatched up his broom, as well. "I'm going to the infirmary. You'll be well in a moment." Let us see if you ever show disrespect again, boy, he added silently. Every  once in awhile, I have to remind you of your place. Let us hope that it does not happen again.

"I know," Draco said softly.

Lucius headed off for the castle, flinching with every heartbeat, which bought flashes of pain darting up his arm and new blood upon his Quidditch robes. Â

Staring at the ceiling, Draco tried to focus on one crack between two stones, and found that it did little to alleviate his dizziness. Never before did Dad hold a curse that long...I should make sure that he's alright...No,  you will do no such thing...This is a man that will await your apology...which is exactly what you should deny him. Â

"It's almost ready," Hermione said. "Stay still. Try to stay as limp as possible."

"Remind me why I'm doing this?" Draco inquired weakly, shifting on the strange rope-cot in which he lay. His stomach lurched, and he swallowed his own vomit hard, flinching. "And what this thing that I'm in?"

"It's called a hammock. You have dark energy coursing through your blood right now, and even if you think that's what you want - well, ask yourself if you want to look like You-Know-Who. If that's not your bit, and you'd rather keep your handsome face, stay calm until the detoxifying potion is complete." Draco heard wood dragging against stone, and then saw Hermione's face above his.

"I never saw Dad take anything like this, and You-Know-Who's cast the muscle-burning curse upon him more times than - well, anything -" Draco flinched as Hermione placed a warm cloth upon his forehead.

Hermione sighed, then touched his hair gently. This time, he did not jump. "Lucius is also a powerful wizard. He probably placed charms on his own body years ago."

Blue eyes met brown, and Draco said nothing. He only watched Hermione as she caressed his hair.

"Your parents never hugged or kissed you, did they?" She said finally, softly. Draco started to protest, but she cut him off. "I see it. You flinch at my touch."

"I'll have you know that my mother was affectionate with me," Draco replied.

"But did she kiss your hurts? Hold you when you cried?" Hermione sat back, gazing down at him.

"Stuff it. I'm not talking about this," the young man snarled.

"I'm so sorry, Draco. That was thoughtless of me." Hermione laid a hand alongside her cheek.

The Slytherin Prefect shivered. "You think me to be cold. You're right. You Muggleborns have love all wrong. Love is providing for your family everything that the world can offer. Love is forming alliances with people that will help you at all costs. Love has nothing to do with petty gestures."

"How sad," answered the Gryffindor Prefect. "And your saying that enforces what I think of you."

"Think what you will." Draco's voice lacked vengeance. "I don't care."

"You should care," Hermione said firmly. "Your voice sounded like Lucius's, just then, quoting his words."

"Why are you doing this for me?" Draco said. "I don't understand you at all."

"Why did you come directly to me when Lucius cursed you?" Hermione's brown eyes widened.

"We had an appointment," Draco pointed out.

She shook her head. "Yes. Five hours from now."

Draco heard a metallic noise. Hermione vanished from his field of vision. "Look, Granger. This is - very strange and all." And I am not going to rush into your arms tomorrow and call you sister, he added silently. Nor will I likely ever think of you as a Malfoy. "I think, though, that the alliance business would be rather...fitting." Wait a moment - "But there is something I have to know. What are we allies against?"

"That choice is up to you." Hermione's voice raised slightly as the hiss of steam filled the air. "Draco, heir of Malfoy - always the Slytherin. You will always find the path that suits you best. Will you betray your Master to the Ministry and see your father in Azkaban for the rest of his life? Will you betray your father to your Master and see him put to a bloody death?" She appeared in his field of vision once again, carrying a goblet. "How is your nausea?"

"Master? I have no Master but my father." Draco stared back at her in disbelief. "You have this all figured out, do you?"

Hermione exhaled noisily. "If you're going to vomit again, then it would be best to wait for this until you do so. I'm not brewing this again."Â

"I'm not going to vomit. Give me the damn potion." Draco tried to sit up in the hammock, and it began to swing violently. His stomach heaved and, gasping, he realized that Hermione had just thrust a metal cauldron beneath his head. He leaned over it, emptying his stomach in one single, long heave. "I hate my father," he moaned as he finished.

Why did I say that out loud? Draco wondered as Hermione took the cauldron away and helped him lie back on the hammock.

"The potion will have to wait until your stomach settles," she said softly. He heard her cast a spell, and the smell of his own reformed lunch dissipated. "Try not to move too much, though I think you've got up all of what was in you." She removed the towel from his forehead. "How do you feel?"Â Â

"A bit better," he admitted, placing his hand beneath his head. "That potion actually smells pretty good. Potions usually taste like what I just sicked up."Â Â

Hermione chuckled lightly. "I added some peppermint to it. Oddly enough, it doesn't change the composition of the potion at all. Mediwizards do the same thing, because, as you know now, people subjected to the muscle-burning curses lasting longer than a minute usually have bouts of nausea and vomiting for a few hours afterwards. Overloading the nerves tends to make a body go haywire." She sat, again, next to his cot, and reached up to push a lock of hair from his face. "You've grown your hair out."

"Yeah. I wanted a bit of a change." Draco watched her face carefully. What does she really want? What is going on here? He tried to not allow his face to betray his thoughts.Â

She cocked her head. "I'm not sure I like it, Draco. It's as if you're trying to -"

"Look. I'd rather not talk about this, all right? You may be my half-sister, but that doesn't mean that you get to tell me how to wear my hair." He shifted somewhat, and found the movements of the hammock rather soothing. "You never answered my question. Actually, let me ask you another. What's in it for you?"

"For me?" Her lips turned up somewhat. "I have lost my mother. With her secret known, I'm sure that Christmas will be quite lovely. My father has left us. I have no one but the man whose violence created me and my half-brother." Her hand rested on his shoulder. "You are all of the family that I have in the world." She laughed lightly. "Look. At first I hated the idea, but it's not so bad, really."

"Not so bad? You cannot go to Dad with arms open wide. He will kill you." As Draco's words died away into air, he felt his heart begin to race. But he knows already. Or does he?

Hermione's face darkened. "I would not go to a rapist and call him father. But I will stand with you, Draco, because you are my brother. Siblings do not choose one another, and none of us choose the circumstances of our birth."

With her mood swing, Draco followed. "And you think that I was wanted, adored, tried for? Think again. My father never wanted me. I know it all - he told me himself. In one of his rare moods, he told me that my mother tricked him into getting her with me."

"At least you had one parent that wanted you to be born," Hermione stated slowly. "I do not pity you at all."

"I never said that you should. Your circumstances are far worse. I just wanted you to know." Draco folded his fingers over his chest. "Daddy Dearest loves me, using Lucius Malfoy's own special definition of love."

"He only loves himself, using the world's definition," Hermione replied.

"That's not true." Draco stared at the ceiling. "He loved my mother a great deal. In the...classical way. My childhood was filled with their love. I remember being sent to bed without supper for breaking the dumbest rules, and I'd hear them, in their room, fucking like rabbits. I caught them all of the time with one another - each time receiving a smart beating. A smashing time, it was. Dad would care for Mum if she were sick - he'd leave work, fill their room with bloody lilies - he'd come to all of her damn society socials and balls. When I was eleven, he realized that I liked Quidditch. After I had collected Quidditch cards since I was five and my nurse took me to games every week. And he had played on the Ministry team for six years. Fancy that! Father and son have something in common and Daddy's too busy boffing Mummy to notice."

Reaching behind her, Hermione produced the potion, which she handed to Draco. "How did she die?"

He raised the goblet to his lips, sniffing the potion. "She was A-Ked. Everyone knows that." Draco took a sip, and didn't find it completely unpleasant.

"I assumed that is what everyone said," Hermione replied. "But usually that is never the whole story."

"You asked me how she died. You never asked for details." Draco finished the potion and gave the goblet back to Hermione.

"Do you want to talk about this either?"Â

"No." Draco sat up in the hammock, then turned his head to gaze at Hermione. "Well, you know it all, now. I loathe my father, I hate my life, and when I become head of the household I am  going to sell the manor, take the money, and move as far from Britain as I can. Malfoy leaves England. The society columns will be in a tizzy for a generation.

"And where would you go?" Brown eyes turned up at him.      Â

"To the one place where no one in my family lives. America. To Boston or New Orleans or one of the older cities. I'm taking my wife and children and we'll live our lives and everyone else can bugger off," Draco said. "I don't want society, and I have all of the money I will ever need. I just want everyone to leave me the Hell alone."Â Â

"And the Death Eaters?" Hermione leaned forward as she spoke. "What of them?"Â Â Â

"Well..." Draco hesitated for a moment. "That's different."Â Â

"Is it?" She inquired. Placing both of her hands on the hammock, she spoke slowly. "Have you ever considered that our father's way of playing the game might not be the only way?" She paused for a moment, waiting, as if she thought Draco would protest, but as he did not, she continued, "What if there is a path to a goal that even Lucius would not have thought of?"

"What do you mean, a goal?" Draco said softly. A sick feeling encompassed him again. Has she done what I feared? Betrayed me already? So early in the game? "Hermione, what have you done?"

The Gryffindor prefect laughed lightly. "I have done nothing to betray you, Draco. I have only done a great deal to help you."

"Explain," Draco said firmly.

"Have you asked yourself for a moment why our father, who has tried repeatedly to discredit Professor Dumbledore, has now been hired by him to look after Slytherin House?" Hermione stood up, staring down at Draco.

"Yes. I'm not a complete dolt. I assumed that Dad had manipulated the situation somehow -"

"Then obviously you don't know Lucius as well as you think you do." Hermione paced the room slowly. "What would your father have to gain by taking head of Slytherin House?"

"Nothing, save for boosting his own ego," Draco replied slowly. He slid out of the hammock, wavered for a bit, feeling his lack of energy, and held onto the rope supports that tied the strange bed to the ceiling,

She turned to look at him. "If you believed that your enemy was about to make a very dangerous move, would you want him exactly where you could observe him?"

Draco opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. He said nothing.

"Our father has walked into a cage of his own creation," Hermione said softly, "and he is completely oblivious to it."

"But how does the Ministry -" Draco began. Then, he gasped. "Snape."

"Snape is a turncoat. I have known it for years. You know it." Hermione leaned against one wall, shoulder touching stone. "You saw him as Dumbledore, and that's who he's answering to."

The Slytherin Prefect put a hand to his forehead. "I told him -"

"You told our father what you saw. I knew it. Likely, You-Know-Who issued an order on his life. And Snape found out about it." Hermione shook her head. "What's done is done. Did you tell him of how you saw me under the nonovarus potion?" Draco nodded wordlessly, avoiding her eyes. "I feared you might. What did he do?"

"He assumed that you were plotting with Harry Potter to see him in Azkaban for life."

"Ah." Hermione crossed her arms. "Amusing, is it not, that it is his own son with whom I am plotting?"Â

Draco frowned. "What parts do Potter and Weasley have to play in this?"

"Harry has a feeling, through his connection with You-Know-Who, that he's about to strike against the Muggles. Perhaps a strike that will make our world no longer a secret, and one so violent that thousands of Muggles will die. Ron - leave Ron out of this." Brown eyes darkened somewhat.

"I don't want Weasley involved with - you and me," Draco said.

"He's involved with me because he's my boyfriend." Hermione rubbed her elbows with opposite hands. "But he's no leader. As for the Boy Who Lived, he wasn't always strong, but now he's a formidable foe. I've given him some of the books that he's been reading. He's been exploiting the powers he received from You-Know-Who."

Draco walked over to a chair, placing both hands firmly on its back. "Whose side are you on?"

"I'm on your side. I'll tell you that only so many times."

"You're a turncoat, too, you know. I could take the information you just told me straight to You-Know-Who." Despite his physical weakness, Draco stood his ground.Â

To which Hermione replied, "And I could go to the Ministry and tell them that you've just admitted to me that you have an inroad to You-Know-Who. Which would mean that you are either a Death Eater already or are to become one."

Draco raised the right sleeve of his shirt, revealing a bare arm. "Any other observations?"Â Â Â Â Â Â Â

"Will that arm be without a Mark much longer?" Hermione inquired.

"You know that I can't answer that question." He lowered his sleeve.

The sound of students chattering filled the halls just beyond the door. They listened for several moments to the sounds of shuffling feet before Hermione spoke. "I don't know whether to be happy for you or to cry."Â Â

"Look - I don't think they - we - the Death Eaters -" Draco stumbled over his words. "I would have heard something from Crabbe or Goyle if the attacks on female Muggles still went on. The rapes, I mean. I think that You-Know-Who would feel as I do - that it accomplishes less than it -"Â Â Â Â

"Accomplishes?" Hermione's face paled. "Accomplishes? What in Merlin's name could attacking any woman possibly accomplish?"

Draco blinked twice. She's right. Muggle or no, a woman is a woman. I would never force myself onto a witch...why would I...

Hermione walked over to the door, opening it. "Have a happy Christmas," she said, her head high yet her eyes not meeting his. "I will see you when you return."

"Hermione -" Draco began. "I'm -"

"Just go." Her voice lowered slightly.

Draco started toward the door. "I -"

"I really don't want to hear it right now," she replied. "See you after Christmas."

He walked through the door, and heard it slam behind him. Damn you, Malfoy, he rebuked himself. That was Lucius talking in there.

The young man did not move, however, from the doorway, as his head remained in conflict. I am not Lucius. I am Draco, and I follow my own way. I follow my own rules. I am to be a Death Eater, but that is not who I am. Whatever I am, I will redefine what I am expected to be.

I have never before been so greatly confused.