A/N: Welcome to my first Harry Potter Fic.
Let me invoke an anti-litigation charm. I own nothing. All characters you recognise belong to JK Rowling and her associated affiliates. I make no money from this story, just friends (hopefully).
I will be updating sporadically, it can't be helped. That being said, the whole story is outlined and I have quite a few already written chapters up my sleeve.
Feedback is welcome and encouraged. Enough of my blathering! Onto the show!
Bolt upright in his sumptuous bed, he cries out in rage.
His wand is in his hands. His long blonde hair is crackling with frantic magic.
But his foe—his foes—are long dead, as is his family. He fervently wishes there were some to main, to kill, to rend. Anything but face his loss.
The nights where he wakes before killing Greyback are the worst. The impotence mingled with grief is an especially excruciating combination.
"You wife was a rare treat… but your son… He was fucking delicious," that is what the monster had said, the feral half-man half beast. Lucius had roared at him but he had only laughed, "What are you going to do about it Lucy Poo?"
It was the point where he had awoken this evening, shouting his fury through the empty room, disturbing no-one but himself; the elves had long ago adopted the practice of warding his wing before turning in.
There was no point in attempting sleep this night. Pacing or drinking, that is what he did on nights such as this.
When he was able to relive the feeling of blowing Greyback against the wall with a rare burst of elemental magic he was better.
When he could remember the smell of the werewolf's flesh burning when wall behind him turned from cool stone to burning hot lava—again courtesy of Malfoy wandless magic—he was even better.
The slick feel of blood when he dug a magically strengthened hand into his neck and viciously ripped out his throat, the way Greyback gulped like a fish, trying to say something but instead of words just brought forth vilifying splashes of red... It was an insufficient counterpoint to his heartache, but some balance.
If he could re-experience the rest of his rampage, he even had a chance of sleeping again. The widening of Yaxley's eyes when he realised that the lamb had regrown teeth, the gurgle of the vile man's last breath when he'd spelled his lungs full of mortar. The heady sensation of his magic overpowering Dolohov's and then breaking every bone in the wizard's body. The symphony of sights, sounds and smells when he landed a vicious entailing expelling on that bitch Bellatrix.
Yes, when he could relive the demise of Bellatrix Lestrange at his hands he could achieve some rest.
Her incompetence had cost him everything that mattered, his legacy, his family. He'd been ordered by that half-blood despot to crucio his beloved wife and even more beloved son, as punishment for allowing the Golden Trio to escape the Manor. If he pleased his master with his enthusiasm the Dark Lord said that he would let them live.
So he had. Inflicting pain on them had been like inflicting the curse upon himself. But if there was a chance, the tiniest chance, he had been compelled to try.
Bellatrix had tortured her own husband into insanity and then beyond the veil, absolving her of further repercussions—though anyone with a modicum of sense could see the man had been no great loss to the callous witch.
Snakeface had eyed Draco and Narcissa in that emotionless manner of his. When a smile had lifted a corner of his mouth Lucius had known it had all been for naught.
He had tossed Narcissa and Draco to Greyback, like juicey bones to a hungry dog. Lucius had railed, trying to get to his son and wife but he'd been restrained by Yaxley and eventually stupefied by Dolohov.
Before he'd even had time to fully assimilate his loss, the last battle had been upon them. His jailor, Dolohov, had released him into the fray, disorientated and wandless, like a lamb to the slaughter.
Thoros Nott had eyed them both warily and asked if he had been summoned.
"You won't find me babysitting when there is battle to be joined. And I have my eye on that tasty Mudblood of Potter's for a pet, I can't win rights to her from headquarters can I?" Dolohov, had replied in his husky tones that gave the reply a lewdness not conveyed by the words alone.
The first spark had been lit then, but had died quickly.
Lucius had wondered what was the point, no matter which side won he could be nothing but a loser under both camps. His Narcissa, his Draco, gone. What was the purpose of fighting even if he could?
Until he encountered that purpose in the a corridor not far from the main hall.
Greyback. Taunting him with the demise of his loved ones. Well he had showed him, he'd shown all of them.
Yes, on nights he could remember the tribute of violence he had perpetrated to avenge his loss, he could crack a satisfied—if vicious—smile and return to sleep.
But in the morning the grief would return, the milestone around his neck.
The worst nights of all were when he slept peacefully, dreamt peacefully.
They were becoming too frequent. He was losing that connection. It was agony, it was pain, remembering. But if he didn't remember them, who would?
The thought gives him comfort, as he pulls a robe over his black silk pyjamas, waves his wand toward the grate and then settles down in front of the fire with a bottle of fire-whisky.
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