coyotegoth | Harry Potter fic- Lucius vignette

I've reached the point in the Harry Potter story where the next four chapters are interlocking, commenting upon and expanding on each other in various aspects of character. It's a lot of fun to write- and to read, one hopes- but the complications of the structure make it unlikely that I'll have a proper chapter to post before year's end. Accordingly, this teaser, in which we get a brief look at what Lucius has been up to (full chapter to come); I hope you enjoy. (As always, potential Half-Blood Prince spoilers; please note that this series is not Deathly Hallows compliant in the least.)

I remember the fog, and the weight of the shackles around my wrists, as I stood and waited for the boat that would convey me to Azkaban. The guards laughing, as they distributed the contents of my pockets amongst themselves; one of them grinning at me, saying “If you don’t mind...” as he tucked my wand into his belt. I remember him taking me aside at Hogwarts, asking me quietly if I’d heard any rumors of this wizard Voldemort, and if it were true he was accepting a few lucky ones as his followers... “I’m afraid not,” I said blandly, smiling to myself at the look of disappointment, mixed with sudden anxiety- would I turn him in? Dolt. Now, he sneered at me, in his Auror's robes; how tempting to greet him as a fellow acolyte, if I could only remember the fool’s name... No; do not give them the satisfaction. Look straight ahead, and imagine them dying by inches. The boat approaches; I step aboard firmly. England vanishes in the mist.

*

The dreadful howl of the island’s siren through the mist; scraping ashore. The manacles are removed; it is not a release. Keep your mind away from what is happening; Father taught you that. Endless questions; rough prison clothing; walk down a dark corridor as voices babble in a thousand tongues. The iron door, heavy and solid. They push me inside roughly, and the door slams closed with a sound like thunder. A single shaft of light shines in through a small hole in the door. Rough-hewn stone walls; as my eyes adjust, I can see that the walls are covered in graffiti and other carvings. A mattress, stuffed with moldering straw. A hole in the corner; the stench rising from it makes its purpose clear. Cold. Dank. This is my cell. This is my world.

I am standing against the far wall, hands clenched behind my back, when I hear voices. Not the steady babble from the other cells; these are drawing nearer. My jailers. I turn to face the door, and assume a pleasant expression- which melts away as the door opens. My breath is misting faintly now. I have heard of these, but hoped- prayed- never to meet them for myself. Dementor. My jailers laugh in the doorway, as it floats towards me like a drowned corpse. I order myself not to flinch away, and feel rough stone at my back. I take slow, deep breaths to calm myself; my chest hurts from panting as it stretches out one- hand?- toward me. Fish-white, mottled with... I make an involuntary sound, and they laugh further. I clench my fists, and silence myself, and lift my face toward the unavoidable. I am a Malfoy. My breath pants faster as it bends its unseen face to mine- and then I feel its Kiss.

Memories I thought gone forever assault me, again and again. Draining the goblet’s green potion as my first service to my Lord, and knowing that I am killing some small part of myself. Watching Father’s hand spasm as the poison takes hold. The portrait of old Catarac Malfoy in my bedroom as a youth, its eyes always tracking me... Perhaps I scream; perhaps I try to run. I feel as though my soul has been broken on a rack of ice. When I know myself again, I am curled up on the floor, shuddering helplessly. My jailers laugh, and one offers a mocking toast with his firewhiskey bottle, as they pull the door closed: I have provided good sport for them. I do not try to rise; I lie on the cold stone floor, and try to force my body to my will, to stop it shivering. I make myself think of the bowl by my bedside at my family home, and having it kept filled with fresh oranges. I try to recall their scent, but it is gone, as I tremble on the floor. This is my first night in Azkaban.

*

I do not know when I come across the ring. I am tracing a fissure in the cell with my fingertips- and there it is. Sudden flame of curiosity, as I hold it in the light. It lies on the palm on my hand, unmarked glass. Experimentally, I put it on; nothing. I see no engravings; I sense no magical dwoemer. Out of- frustration? disappointment?- I throw it against the wall, and it breaks. I don’t know why, but I collect the fragments, and work them into the mattress, out of sight. A tiny, useless secret, but it is mine.

*

I can hear the jailers talking in the corridor, as I collect the stale bread and greasy soup which are my meal. It seems the dementors have left Azkaban- to His service, no doubt. I smile, and offer my condolences as I slide back the bowl. He spits at me, and curses; I smile again as I wipe my face. His footsteps recede; I lean back against the wall. I am leaning back in my chair in the main dining room of Malfoy Manor, and I am looking at my future bride. It seems her marks have been unsatisfactory; her father is upset, and threatening to withdraw her from school. This would be awkward, and irritating for me; I am frowning at her, when a solution presents itself- a tutor. I know just the person to hire.