A/N don't own em, don't wanna own em. Just a nice bit of Lucius fic, inspired by a mad tangent rant that invovled claiming that Snape and Lucius were based off Morpheus and Lucifer from the Sandman comics by Neil Gaiman.
It is better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven. John Milton,Paradise Lost
He watched the flames dance in the grate, slowly engulfing the log that was turning blacker and blacker, shrinking down, cowering from the heat. It felt nice in front of the fire. He ached. The cold wind was no place for an old man. And the wind cut right through his bones. Not all the meetings, not all the summons were for vile purposes. There were those, like tonight, where all that happened was talking. Where he was forced to stand, in the cold and biting wind, and listen obediently. And it was getting to him. He was not a young man any more.
But a large snifter of brandy and a hot fire were working their magic on him as he relaxed, feeling the cold leak out of his bones, feeling the aching in his joints seep away. He rubbed his arm slightly, where the mark lay beneath his sleeve. Twenty years ago, it had seemed like a good idea. Twenty years ago, and it was perfectly all right with him to be standing in the cold, listening, hanging on every word the Dark Lord said. Now he was lucky if he heard half of it.
It had grown to be the same old rhetoric. Not that he didn't still believe it, but it was old hat now, boring. The clock on the mantle chimed the hour, and he sighed, yawning. Just a little bit longer in front of the fire before going up to bed. Narcissa and Draco were already sound asleep, he knew that, Draco was a morning person, an embodiment of early to bed, early to rise. And Narcissa made sure to get her beauty sleep every night.
He stared through the dark liquid in his glass, lost in thought. He had signed up for the death eaters out of some maligned sense of belief in the cause. He supposed he did believe in it, to a certain extent. His family went back generations upon generations, he'd be damned if he'd loose that fortune to someone who inherited their magical abilities as a sheer fluke. It was like creating a fine pedigree for a show dog. Why would you breed in a mutt to a line that has consistently won Westminster titles? No, you breed in another show quality dog.
Mudbloods were fine, so long as they did not try to insert themselves into well established bloodlines. In general, they weren't bad at all. But they could demolish years of fine breeding. Like a kennel line, each family had their traits that they were known for. The Blacks were all tall, dark, and elegant. The LeStranges were all slender and mysterious, and the Malfoys were all finely modelled blonde, pale, aristocratic looking. And the Malfoys married those that would work to continue those traits. Narcissa had the fine blonde hair, the pale skin, she was a perfect blend into the bloodline. Draco would find someone very similar, there were plenty of choices available.
He was proud of his heritage, and he had raised his son the same way. That wasn't the reason why he had joined the Death Eaters though, it was an added bonus, a nice side benefit, but the reason he had joined was because he had been promised power. And he had received it. Something he could not gain following Dumbledore. It wasn't the old fool's fault either, it was his followers. He'd never seen such a group of blind followers, it was worse on the light than on the dark. At least most of the Death Eaters had thought about their options, weighed them out before joining, the light side followed Dumbledore blindly, revered him.
They would not have allowed him to gain power, any sort of power. No one could equal Dumbledore in any of those fools' eyes. No matter who they were. He made no pretence of being an extremely intelligent, or even an extremely powerful wizard, he did not need to be a master of all disciplines, or have the ability to cast six hexes at the same time. He merely had to do what he was supposed to do, look charming and polite. If those fools would have accepted him, he could have been a greater figurehead than Dumbledore, that was all a leader needed to be. Have the real brains beneath him and be a figurehead.
The Dark Lord had figured that one out. Of course the Dark Lord had brains, but his most valuable trait was his charisma. He had people like Severus to worry about the thinking. And he had people like Malfoy to be a public figure. And Malfoy had to admit, if there was one thing he was good at, it was schmoozing, it was working the public. He had a certain refined charm, and years of etiquette training instilled on him. His mother, bless her soul, had raised him to be a proper young man, someone who would not be out of place if he waltzed in for dinner at Buckingham Palace.
And so, rather than make a vain attempt to gain power amongst Dumbledore's followers he chose the other side that would give him the power he sought. 'Twas better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven. It was his own pride that had brought him to where he was now, a step away from Azkaban, but he did not mind. It was his ambition that brought him here, and he would never deny his ambition. After all, ambition was a Slytherin trait, was it not?
And so, he found himself sitting here, finishing the snifter of brandy, feeling the cold erase itself from his bones. They say that pride is the gravest of the seven deadly sins, and he supposed that maybe there was an inkling of truth to that. After all, pride was why he found himself here in the first place. But though ambition was a vice, the end result was often virtue, and he had found himself quite well off for his ambitions.
He set the snifter down, and extinguished the fire. He slid easily beneath the sheets, careful not to wake his sleeping wife. Yes, his pride, his ambition may lead to his downfall, ultimately, as hubris is always the tragic flaw, but for now, he was quite content with what ambition had brought him.