Chapter Text
Severus stood, solemn as ever, signature dark robes layered about him. Lucius watched as he reached his long fingers into the folds of his robes and pulled out a small piece of parchment. It was folded onto itself multiple times, folded down to resemble a square and absolutely tattered after nearly a year had passed since it was first retrieved from the inside of a Horcrux, that wasn’t a Horcrux at all.
Lucius, unmoved by theatrics – a true match for Severus should the circumstances have been only slightly altered. Severus, equally unyielding – held out the piece of parchment, promptly plucked out of his hand by Lucius.
‘To The Dark Lord,
I know I will be dead, long before you read this. But I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more.
R.A.B’
Lucius, ever Lucius, cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow halfway up his forehead, his eyes following the slanted script on the parchment, even as his body turned towards his wife.
“Regulus?” Lucius asked.
“Indeed,” Severus answered.
Even as the words were spoken into the darkened private Study of Lucius Malfoy, Lord of Malfoy Manor, recently broken out of Azkaban prison, courtesy of the Death Eaters now wholly in the employ of their Dark Lord, the air seemed to still around the group gathered in it. Lucius nearly scoffed, gesturing to Severus’s young lady guest –
“And pray tell, Severus, who have I the pleasure of meeting in my Study?”
“Lyra Arcturus Black.”
“Impossible,” he spoke the word in a whisper, his head whipping around to his wife.
Not a hair out of place, on his dear wife, Narcissa. She looked the picture of tranquility, of whatever Lucius dared to imagine as having resembled the feeling of joy, like tasting rain on a summer day.
---
Lucius’s mind went everywhere, his thoughts calibrating themselves anew. He found his mind combing through all the events that had led them up to this moment. He needed to demarcate the useful from the useless, the relevant from the mundane, assess and evaluate the events as they unfolded. He assessed how this could damage them and how they could navigate these circumstances. He felt his own mind moving sluggishly through the pieces of his life – pieces he’d been desperately trying to hold together like a grotesque kintsugi that refused to come together.
He knew how they had gotten here; he was suddenly unsure whether he would succeed in seeing them through it alive. This opened many new avenues, each more treacherous than the last.
A notion is an extremely powerful thing. The seed of an idea, planted ever so lightly, yet throwing roots that ran so deep – that they grew into the very core of one’s magic. Each time he let his mind parse the ramifications of his actions, unforgiveable to his own self, the nightmares unceasing – it was Narcissa, who pulled him back from an untold fate he might have surrendered himself into. Whatever borrowed time he was on, she had lent it him on her magic, when his had lain corrupted in the aftermath of his actions. There was indeed a limitation on how many Unforgiveables one could cast before the dark crept into one’s magical core.
And Severus – Severus was meant to protect Narcissa, watch Draco and Theodore Nott at Hogwarts. No schemes, no grandiose plots, no sly manoeuvers – only measures to maximise their survival, should he be taken, imprisoned or killed in battle. He would be glad to leave the delicate finesse needed of such lofty goals as good conquering evil, Light triumphing over Dark and such: to those best suited to it, Albus Dumbledore, the Order and the Boy-Who-Continued-To-Live-Despite-The-Odds.
Tom’s return had been inevitable; it had been that way for the entirety of Draco’s childhood. Each time his Mark had burned against his skin – as he sat down for dinner next to his family, as he stood on the Manor Grounds watching his wife plant tulips in the Fall, as he taught Draco Latin in the Manor Library, or in the dead of the night when his wife and son slept – he knew this day would come, his worst fears realised: his family under siege.
His own father had offered him long-winded tirades of Blood Purity, the horrors of Blood Mixing, establishing a new order of magical Might and the role that a Malfoy man was meant to play to achieve said goals. Malfoy men were born to lead and not be led. If ever there were an opportune moment to take the reins on such an endeavour – why, naturally, he must take them. As a young man, he could admit, it had been tantalizing.
The allure of wealth was not foreign to him - having grown up with ostentatious wealth. Every foyer, chamber and hallway he had ever ran down as a child had lain swathed in the most precious carpeting and tapestries, every wall covered floor to ceiling in exquisite art by the Masters: Titians, Rubens and Goyas that the world, neither Wizarding nor Muggle, had ever laid eyes on. Without counting the impressive collection of sculpture, literature and furniture that virtually littered Malfoy Manor. Granted, he could bring himself to accept that accumulating wealth of that scale required some skill on the part of his ancestors – but mostly, he had come to learn that keeping that wealth intact required some rather salacious skills more in the realm of Magical Enchantments, Protections, Blood Rites and Rituals that prevented any overzealous Malfoy from outright squander. No, being obscenely wealthy prevented the Malfoys – almost naturally – from the allure of wealth and materialism.
The allure of power, however, was terribly seductive and exceeding difficult for even magical Enchantments to screen for. Enchantments could merely construct or deconstruct a limitation. They failed entirely in the face of free will. No Magic, how poignant, not even actual Magic could prevent the horrors and devastation waged against Wizardingkind, let alone Mugglekind. Therefore, power.
Abraxus Malfoy, II was obsessed with acquiring it and wielding it. When he couldn’t, he would sic the madness upon his own son and only heir. It was under this looming shadow that Lucius Abraxus Malfoy, III came of age. Like all good sons who would do right by their fathers – he had done too – knelt before Tom, his head bowed and left arm bared as Incantations of the darkest Dark Magic were recited. Invoking Blood Magic, Tom’s wand tip flaming red-orange – Lucius was branded with the Dark Mark as his father had watched proudly. Even as the pain rippled through his flesh, bone and magic – he hadn’t faltered. His father would’ve sensed even the slightest hint of hesitation. Hesitation was an unacceptable trait.
That was where it had begun. He permitted himself to ask: Family Names and House Names, House Words and Bloodlines and Heirlooms and Legacies and the whole bastard lot of it – if he couldn’t simply stand on his own Grounds, watching his wife plant tulip bulbs in the middle of September, without feeling the sting of the Mark as he was summoned to hold court elsewhere. He asked himself which ideals were meant to be worthy of battle, which legacies were worth honouring. Ideals had done naught for his own legacy.
The scion of the Noble House of Malfoy, branded to be summoned at will, to torture when told and to do as bid. It was tawdry. It was ignoble. He hadn’t known when the disillusionment had taken hold – perhaps somewhere between the smell of wet grass in Narcissa’s hair on a Saturday morning, the taste of cold air in his mouth in the middle of winter as he walked past the Crypts on the Grounds that held every Lord and Lady of the Manor going back to the 1010s, or maybe it was when Draco’s fingers had grazed the back of his hand as they worked across from each other in his Study. He took stock of himself: his body – marred, his soul – tattered, his magic – corrupted. But his mind remained unbroken, unconquered. And Abraxus was dead.
He would build bridges through every chasm that had eroded through his mind, he would weave through them all seamlessly, mending and sewing, taking each of his darkest fears, his dearest thoughts, his most outrageous hopes, his most treasured memories, layering them under infinite layers of minutiae. Around this, he built the brick-and-mortar walls of his fortress. Slowing stacking, until the rampart rose high. Everything of consequence, remained inside. The outside he lined in mirrors – this was the structure of his occlumency.
He would become what he needed to become, he would be who they needed him to be, he would mask and unmask himself in his own mind, letting them see only what he wanted them to see, and alternatively what they wanted to see, in him. And when the inevitable would transpire and Tom would dip into his mind, he would only see, himself. Mirrors.
Many years ago, he had suspected no aspirations of himself above those ascribed to him by his father. However, when he had taken his son to the Quidditch World Cup and felt his arm burn under his cloak sleeves – the battlelines had been long drawn. When he was meant to steal a Prophecy from the Department of Mysteries – his allegiances had solidified. This task was inane to him: like reshelving a book in the Manor Library. Retrieval bore no consequence on the events foretold in it.
The profound failure of this mission being an undesireable outcome that he had prepared for: he had felt secure having left Severus in his confidence. Severus would keep an eye on the children, he would warn Narcissa, should she need warning. Bellatrix, deranged as she was, would never let her sister come to harm. Between Severus & Bellatrix – he had moved sufficient failsafes into place. He had never been more wrong. Bellatrix’s madness had overcome her – Killing Sirius Black was, decidedly not, a part of the plan. The ensuing ruckus, the Prophecy lost, Death Eaters battling it out in the Ministry, Tom battling Dumbledore in the Lobby of the Ministry of Magic – had been far from optimum. The realisation had been crushing; No amount of preparation would prove sufficient. It was now inevitable – the worst would unfold. Dumbledore was exceptional, but Tom was well and truly, back.
There were no failsafes that would ever be enough if Tom decided to unleash the full extent of his powers. Lucius had been the architect of the plots that had been plotted; Tom was, loathe as he was to admit it, scrupulous and cunning. For several years now, weak although Tom was, he had spent assimilating power. Slowly but certainly his followers flocked to him. The Sacred Twenty-Eight – including himself – all key Death Eaters, most drunk on delusions of Blood Purity, New World Order and other fanaticisms of similar pursuations were reincarnated as War Generals.
Lucius couldn’t entirely fault Tom – the war strategy had been sound, several of the ideological lilts he had supplied himself including the elevation of several key members to his army. He and Theodore Nott Senior had designed the architecture of a web woven through Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic and the Prophet – every string leading inseparably to himself. If it was power Tom hoped to sieze, this select set was undoubtedly the one to titillate or torture, depending on his mercurial moods. He was rightly poised to manipulate magical-public sentiment; be crowned King, be seated upon his Throne of Magical Might – all while remaining immortal, albeit nose-less, simply flicking the crumbs of artificial relevance to a set of unequivocally: crooked, conceited and vainglorious Nobles. Indeed, the time was nigh for all manner of schemes, grandiose plots and sly manoeuvers, of a Malfoy manner.
Lucius Abraxus Malfoy, III – was raised to be a Blood-purist. He loved his father, obeyed him and sought to seek his approval – many are guilty of this. Lucius, undoubtedly one of them. He had also committed several mortal crimes. He knew himself to be absolutely, guilty of them all. For each count of hurt and harm, originating at his wand tip – guilty, guilty, guilty. What he did in service of protecting his family – any and all loss of life and limb, every Hex and Unforgiveable levied against Muggle or Wizarding life – everything and everyone was negotiable. It and they could and would be held in forfeit; in maintainance of his own Family’s safety and longevity.
He considered his greatest failure, however, to have fallen prey: first to the ravings of his lunatic father and again to those of a noseless Wizard labouring under delusions of grandeur. Severe failings and most unbecoming of a Malfoy man, and he realised as early as he could and yet far too late: they could ultimately bring about the destruction of the Noble House of Malfoy. Generation upon generation of Malfoys had survived the test of time, death and disease, in her wake entire civilizations had formed, thrived and had decimated to dust. Having weathered it all, he would not be the Malfoy that brought about its demise.
He had spent years, playing out each scenario in his mind – adding and subtracting variables, moving various elements and players around on a virtual chessboard, assessing each outcome and weighing each option against itself and all others. He had arrived at the inevitable conclusion, if he was removed from play, an alternative play would be engaged. In the end, it all was quite simple – His goal was clear, his morality remained elastic, and his methodology clear: Follow the path of least resistance. This made strategising and negotiating, extremely facile – there were no lines he was unwilling to cross, no party he was unwilling to parlay with. Every unsavoury agent, backroom deal or underhanded play presented as viable options to him. Any costs incurred thereof – either to his vaults or his eternal soul were trivial.
So also, in the moments leading up to his capture, he had tapped his wand point against his signet ring, spoken an incantation under his breath, slipped it off and sent it away. The next part of his plan had been engaged; all his players would have to play their parts on this new stage. A forgotten memory made him smile even as his mind refocussed to the events unfolding before him. In the time he had spent incarcerated in Azkaban – Draco had been Marked, bid to carry out an irrealizable task, Theodore Nott adopted by Narcissa, lodging between Nott Estate and Malfoy Manor and mercifully, spared the Mark.
Tonight, he had to contend with: Severus in his Study, a tattered piece of parchment, a Horcrux-That-Was-Not and Regulus’s alleged daughter. He centered himself and allowed the walls of his occlumency to drop. His silver eyes stayed clear and alert as he returned his full attention to his wife, a smile lingering on his lips.
---
“How fascinating, since I am fairly positive the last Ms. Black is currently wed to me.”
Lucius said the words, his eyes never leaving Narcissa’s. She, for one, maintained her poise during the course of this exchange, serene as she looked to Lucius before her eyes turned to the young Witch in their midst. Severus showed no apparent amusement. However, his general demeanor never left much room for general merriment. When he spoke, his voice carried low and evenly –
“And yet, Lucius – I present you, a new Ms. Black.”
“Regulus’s daughter?” Lucius asked quietly.
It couldn’t be any other on account of Sirius Black being decidedly dead, Bellatrix Lestrange having birthed no children, none that would stand in his Study in the dead of the night at any rate, and the young lady stood across from him could be Nymphadora Tonks, by absolutely no accounting.
“Correct,” enunciated Severus waving his arm forward and motioning to Ms. Black.
Narcissa smiled earnestly as she stepped toward the young Witch in question, arms outstretched and eyes glistening. Lucius watched mesmerised as Narcissa brushed back a lock of dark hair into a mane of wild curls tumbling over her shoulders, a set of striking eyes with a glint of gold in them recognising her personally. Lucius stilled beside his wife.
While it was credible to imagine that some Witches even with the aristocratic upbringing typical of Pure Blood Families in English society, might find themselves caught off-guard by the announcement of the existence of a hithertofore-unknown daughter, of a long-presumed-dead-most-likely-dead Death Eater cousin – Narcissa Black Malfoy was not one such Witch.
“Welcome to Malfoy Manor, Ms. Black. It is-,” Narcissa paused, her gaze lingering on her features for a moment longer that it needed to before she collected herself. “Black Manor is no more, Grimmauld Place passed out of the Black Family Inheritance a few years ago-,” clasping her hands in her own, she finished as she had first intended, “It is good to have you here. I hope you will find yourself at home, as you did in your own.”
The youngest Ms. Black tensed for a beat before calming to the familiar pressure of Narcissa’s slim fingers wrapped around her own. For the first time in many months, she found herself standing in a room and she wasn’t by herself. Narcissa looked as she remembered her – her smooth skin glowed and a light burned behind her eyes now. A long moment passed between them and she had not spoken yet. Narcissa stood with her until she found her voice.
“Thank you, Narcissa.”
Lucius’s presence centered the room, but his every movement was attuned to his wife as though they were held by the same thread. Narcissa met her gaze, extending a short smile as she introduced them-, “My hHusband – Lucius Malfoy.”
“Lyra Arcturus Black,” she recited with practised cadence, as Lucius clasped her hand in his and bowed from the waist, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles – “I am not one to forget a face, Ms. Black. And yours is quite unforgettable-,” he said in a measured tone of voice.
He studied the shape of her face, committing the lines to memory as if to peruse them at a later moment. It should have been disconcerting. Strangely, it was not. Having performed this exercise several times herself, if anything, it was oddly comforting. For his imposing stature, his gaze was surprisingly gentle. She did not answer him, only noting to herself the pleasant silver-grey of his irises.
A storm swept behind them, but his posture didn’t betray it. Spine steeled and shoulders perfectly straight – he considered her carefully, his gaze on her steady and nearly sorrowed. When he spoke his voice was sombre, ringing clearly into the silence. As the words were spoken, she felt her fingers twitch in his grasp.
“This Study once belonged to my father, Abraxus. And to his father before that, as has this home. For several centuries now, it has been the Family Seat. As Lord, and Head of my House – May I apologise for the circumstances that bring you to us. Do find yourself at home here and be ever welcome, Ms. Black. I give to you – Malfoy Manor.”
Her eyes simmered on him as she unconsciously conducted her own study of him – a face she had never looked upon, but one that she recognised instantly. The resemblance was uncanny, down to the shade of silver in his hair and how it shone in the low light. The words echoed through her mind, weaving through unbidden recollections of still waters, dark shadows and hazy reflections in silver surfaces.
“Thank you-,” she faltered-, “Thank you for having me, Mr. Malfoy,”
Lucius considered her for a moment longer. She held his gaze unwaveringly, only looking away when a familiar voice broke the silence –
“Father, if I may-,”
Lucius didn’t move but he roused to the sound as she had. He continued lightly, “And may I introduce my son – Draco. And Theodore Nott, a friend of the family. Until recently, they attended Hogwarts-,” he broke off. Turning to his son, he seemed to also commit him to memory afresh. Looking from one to the other he finished instead with, “My son and he grew up together. Theodore also lodges at the Manor frequently.”
When Draco stepped toward her, she noted that he was taller than she remembered him to be and his features had grown sharper. He wore his hair longer, silver waves sweeping across his forehead. His stance had not changed, and she noted then that it near exactly mirrored that of Lucius. He was lithe, in contrast to Lucius’s more statuesque bearing. When she lifted her arm to him, he repeated the same gesture, bowing from the waist and placing a kiss across her knuckles.
“My deepest apologies, my most sincere thanks Ms. Black-,” he said softly. For a second time, she studied the same features – silver eyes gleaming, a flicker of the faintest shadow colouring his face. As his fingers slipped from hers, she wanted to reach back to him. But it happened too fast, it was over before she realised it. Left only with the residual heat of his touch across the back of her hand – she reminded herself that it was confirmation that he was real and so was she.
Theo had grown taller still – a head of black curls, eyes green like emeralds. As though years and not months had passed between them – she could not call to memory the last time she had seen them standing next to each other. His olive skin lit against his alabaster tone, they stood in stark contrast to each other. They made for a handsome couple. Theo was standing so close to her, she could see his lips quiver as though he intended to say something and decided against it. Suddenly she realised that if she wished to, she could simply reach out and touch him. She was so close to him, that her fingers could graze the lapel of his blazer.
As she watched, Theo smiled at her. Once again, in stark contrast to Draco – simply, and without preamble he dipped his head to her, lips grazing her cheek as he whispered softly, “The pleasure is entirely ours. Thank you for being here and welcome, Ms. Black-,”
She leaned into the breath that ghosted across her skin. As Theo often did, and as only Theo could – he chose abandon and in doing, he had taken a speck of shared time and returned to her a frenzy of memories she had missed from herself. When he stepped back, a smile touched her lips.
Behind them Lucius called softly, “The hour is late, gentlemen. Escort Ms. Black to her Chambers, please. It has been long journey, as I understand-,”
When the children exited the Study and the door clicked shut behind them, they plunged into a solemn silence. Lucius leaned back onto his desk, his eyes closing as he sifted through his thoughts. With a flick of her wrist, Narcissa dimmed the lights in the Study and seated herself in a plush armchair across from the desk. Opening his eyes, he straightened and summoned a bottle of Ogden’s and proceeded to pour.
Looking first to his wife and holding out a glass of whiskey, he noted quietly –
“There was absolutely no other method t-,”
“None as thorough as this, Lucius-,” Narcissa said evenly.
Lucius pursed his lips and nodded lightly. Holding out the second glass of whiskey, he asked carefully, “Every avenue explored, every option exhausted, Severus, I presume-,”
Severus downed his whiskey and replaced the glass on the endtable. His voice was grave when he spoke, “‘Every’ suggests a multitude of choice we did not possess. But of the limited options available to us – Yes. I exhausted each.”
Lucius downed his own whiskey. Narcissa followed.
The air in the study grew thick, choked in the weight of unasked questions and unspoken answers. Lucius reviewed the sequence of questions he intended to ask. Most he knew the answers to, the rest he could infer and all of them, he detested to hear. Mere minutes had passed, if he were to check his timepiece he would know it was only twelve minutes past eleven although the length of each minute seemed to stretch into hours. Every glass had been emptied. Severus wordlessly refilled their glasses for a third time. For a long while the only sound that permeated the air was the swish of amber whiskey pouring, the chime of the clock at the far edge of the Study and the rhythmic tap of Lucius’s signet ring clinking against the crystal of his glass.
His eyes remained closed as he simmered behind them, only the gentle sweep of Narcissa’s thumb brushing over his knuckles connected him to the space outside his occlumency.
“What-,” Lucius began softly and paused. Lifting his chin and looking across to Severus, he finished speaking his question, “What precipitated this?”
His glossy hair gleamed in the dimmed light, his eyes shone as he met his gaze –
“It is not as it seems, Lucius.”
“Do start at the beginning and stop when you arrive at the juncture where Albus decided my son was expendable,” his eyes darkened, steepling his hands he dipped his head and waited for Severus to start.
“Lucius,” he ran a hand through his hair as he set his jaw.
Drawing a breath he simply said, “Whenever you’re ready, Severus.”
His fingers curled into a fist, across from him Severus downed his third whiskey and replaced the glass. Hands clasped together, he leaned back as he prepared for a sombre retelling –
“In the Break following Fifth Year, after-,” he stopped. Restarting he began, “I was asked called to the Headmaster in his Chambers. It was before Term had started, and in the early hours of the morning. He looked gaunt, eyes sunken, his skin had taken on an ashen pallor –,” Severus shuddered lightly as he saw it in his mind as though it were unfolding before his eyes as he spoke-, “A Curse. Deadly. He knew it, as I did. The diagnosis required no expertise. No Potion, no Charm in existence-,” he trailed off.
Lucius saw his chest rising and falling sharply.
“For hours I tried, he refused to speak – refused to answer my questions. Wastefully, fruitlessly – He simply sat and watched me fail. Perhaps if he had summoned me sooner, I-,” Severus stopped again, as he veered away from himself. “He told me he was travelling through England seeking it. A golden ring with a dark, nearly black gemstone set into it. Some markings engraved on it, but the stone had cracked through the center – he had destroyed it, it sat mangled on his desk. He needed Cursebreakers, he needed Advanced Magical Healers – He refused to listen. He insisted that I examine him, that I treat him as he simply sat back in his chair and recited tales of his expeditions-,” an edge crept into his voice as he continued, the words scraping past clenched teeth.
“When he found what he had been seeking – He wore it. But a dangerous curse was set upon it. The longer he wore it -,” he shook his head-, “Blackened. His fingers had blackened as the curse seeped through. Flesh, blood and bone. It was irreversible. Incurable. It would creep through his body until he died. Even the-,” his voice faltered and he stopped speaking.
Severus swallowed thickly, his eyes trained on the edge of the window looking far into darkness outside it. He continued, “I could contain it to his right arm. It was all I could do. He would not live past the end of Term. Therefore-,”
“Impending death did not permit Albus to name my son his executioner,” Lucius remarked coldly.
Severus sighed deeply, “He was not, Lucius. I was.”
To another this might have presented as a shock, to Lucius – it did not. Albus Dumbledore was one of a kind, Wizard extraordinaire and the Wizarding World might never see his like again. For all the light he preached, Lucius knew that without the dark there could be no light. And he suspected Albus knew also.
“So why didn’t you? He was dying. He wanted to die,” Lucius challenged.
Their allegiances were one and the same. Severus had known Lucius and Narcissa for a very long time, since their own time as students at Hogwarts. They disagreed with each other on many things, Albus – primary of them. Severus had his reasons; Lucius had his own. Perhaps, they were both right, perhaps they were both wrong. At the moment, it did not matter and neither would it for a very long time.
Severus answered him in kind. His lips twitching as he spoke, “And I had offered to kill him immediately. He declined, intending to die at a precise moment of his choosing-,”
Lucius smirked viciously, “So I could wake in Azkaban and read the Prophet touting my son, ‘The Dark Lord’s Assassin’?”
“It wasn’t him-,” Narcissa said softly, her voice so low it was almost as though she were reminding herself.
“I could not speak for Albus. He did not tell me why-,” Severus averted his eyes, his knuckles grew white as he gripped his fingers tightly.
Lucius laughed. A low mirthless sound. He glared until Severus met his gaze.
“Naturally,” Lucius snarled.
Severus pursed his lips. He didn’t speak.
“Lucius,” Narcissa laid her hand on his, his fingers uncurling immediately. “It wasn’t Draco,” she repeated to him.
“What does that mean?” – He was looking at his wife, but the question was intended for Severus.
“I meant to. As did Draco,” he answered evenly. Lucius waited for him to finish. “Ms. Black killed him before either of us could.”
“Why? Why would she possibly-,”
The silver of his eyes had reduced to narrow rings. It would have been too much to hope that Albus Dumbledore could have died of his own accord, dropping dead in the center of the Great Hall. Given the likelihood of this scenario to approach impossibility – he would have preferred anyone, including an accursed Ring to have accomplished the task. Even in his damp, acrid cell in Azkaban when he had heard the whispers of Draco’s task – each day he would wake at dawn, scratching a fingernail down the grimy white-tile wall that had not been white in very many years waiting to hear the second whisper. He was uncertain what he dreaded more – to hear of Draco’s success or of his failure.
But each day, he had stared at his wrists – shackled but willing his magic through sheer force of will. Had he had his wand and his freedom, he would have walked into the Headmaster’s Chambers and killed him twice. But from inside his cell all he could produce was a fistful of fire that had set his bedding aflame and a threat of the Kiss. From that night on, he slept without bedding, falling asleep to elaborate plots of assassination. One day in late June, it was in the middle of the afternoon when a copy of the Prophet was thrown through the bars of his cell. He had laughed madly when he opened the fold – Draco was smiling and looking over his shoulder, dressed in dark velvet dressrobes. He was younger in the picture, and his hair was combed back. Draco was an assassin, but he was still alive. That night, he had fallen asleep wondering how he wore his hair now.
When Severus answered, Lucius heard the sound of words being spoken and himelf dissociating from them. For every dream he had dreamt, every notion he had entertained never had he pictured such an extraordinary entity in any assassination plot.
“I could not tell you-,” Severus was saying, shaking his head lightly.
Lucius he had expected Severus to know. He leaned back in his chair, suddenly curious to know. A strange feeling charged through him, his silver irises shone when he was removed from his reverie by Narcissa’s voice. The sound seemed to tingle pleasantly in the air between them as she spoke –
“Tom marked our son and bid him to murder. Albus permitted him to try all year long. She committed our son’s murder, Lucius. I needn’t know any more. Do you?”
His hand lifted to her, curling around her jaw as his fingers dipped into her hair. He was in Azkaban while Narcissa was here, knowing Ms. Black. Lucius knew in the way she dipped her head when she spoke to her, the ease with which she had slipped her hands into her own. Narcissa knew her, Lucius wanted to know her as she did. He didn’t need to speak his answer; he nodded to her silently. His thumb brushed across her cheek as he withdrew from her and refilled their glasses again. The air thrilled around them, Lucius blinked slowly as he lifted his glass to his lips and drank deeply.
After a moment, he said aloud – “Your sister might wonder.”
Severus studied their exchange as Narcissa sipper from her glass before answering, “You will tell Bella won’t you, Lucius? The Lestranges will be here Thursday.”
Lucius paused briefly and confirmed immediately, “Of course, Cissa.”
“Thank you, Lucius-,”
For a while the discussion ebbed and flowed between them, alternatively tense and slack. Often, they descended into comprehensive silences. Before long, they each held an empty glass.
“The Ring. It was a Horcrux was it not?” – Lucius asked.
Severus nodded, producing the Locket, “Yes. And so is this-,”
Lucius held it in the palm of his hand – A large coloured diamond in a gold setting with a clasp on side. Etched into the front of the gemstone was a serpentine initial, the Slytherin insignia. The piece of Parchment he had been given at the beginning of the evening had come from within it. He could see the words in his mind, but he read it again – eyes tracing the slants of the letters, he knew it was authentic.
It was written by Regulus.
Many years ago, Lucius was given a similar Artefact. It was only an old Diary that hadn’t been written in, seemingly innocuous. A sense of foreboding hung in the air when he asked the next question –
“Seven. Did he make seven of them, Severus?”
“Yes.” A beat passed before he continued, “Seven, including the piece of his soul that remains inside him. The Diary. The Ring. Four are yet to be discovered. He was seeking them all year, perhaps longer. Dumbledore believed that Nagini is one. He speculated that the others may be Founder’s Heirlooms. He was seeking the Locket when he had gone away on the day of-,” he stopped abruptly. Twisting his wrist, he watched as the amber liquid swirled against the crystal. When he spoke again, his voice had grown distant and weary, “As to the whereabouts-,” he cut himself off, lifting the glass to his lips and draining the rest of the whiskey.
Uncharacteristically, even Lucius looked away. He nearly laughed, but it died on his lips as his expression grew steely, his lip lifting in a threatening snarl, “We know the whereabouts of at least one.”
Severus quirked an eyebrow, Lucius answered him – “Bellatrix Lestrange.”
“Likely-,” Severus agreed slowly.
Knowing the location of a Horcrux hardly assuaged the schematics of knowing, finding and destroying it. None of which Dumbledore had confided in him. Severus looked away, his expression pensive.
“Do you have a line of communication with the Order?”
Severus blinked slowly as he shook his head.
“No.” He had initiated some methods of alternative communication, uncertain though that he would prevail. Drawing a sharp breath and unclenching his jaw, he answered shortly, “There are limited options we can pursue. I should know soon-,”
For all the merits of the former Headmaster, tending useable spies was not one of them. Severus was the only effectively cultivated spy, and even so Lucius had always suspected that his presence at the Order was deeply contentious. Preserved only by the presence of Albus Dumbledore himself, who was now dead. When he had lived, Lucius had had several discussions on the matter with him to no avail. Arguing with Severus on the matter of Albus was also moot.
His patience wore thin.
“Perhaps best we keep that one toward the end, then. I presume they know to seek the Horcruxes.”
Severus shook his head again. His eyes narrowing as he spoke, “We can presume that they do know to seek them. Albus had been meeting with Harry Potter regularly throughout the last Term. However, reports suggest that the Order have not been-,” he paused and drew a sharp breath, “Pursuing this avenue.”
Lucius glared as he provided context, “Moody is still with the Ministry. Without Albus, without senior leadership at the Order-,” he trailed off, throwing his hand into the air.
“How can that be, Severus?” – Lucius breathed, disbelieving.
Severus scoffed darkly, “We keep them extraordinarily busy, Lucius.”
Lucius cocked an eyebrow.
“Not enough it would seem.”