Clouds, a harry potter fanfic

The smoke is a cloud, almost, almost like you're flying, and you could be if you wanted. In fact, you're quite sure that most of the clientele have taken advantage of the accommodating hostess and her cache of drugs. You walk - no, you saunter; you would never do something quite so mundane and common as walk - to your reserved table. The club's prostitutes are all breathtakingly gorgeous, but you don't want any of them. None of them have the edge that you require in a lover, and you know that if you did bed one you would come out of it just as unsatisfied as you are now.

You sip your brandy and watch the high class make fools of themselves. Even if you are not going to find a suitable fuck, the entertainment value almost makes up for it. Almost. You sink deeper into your chair and sigh mentally. You managed (artfully, if you do say so yourself) to come out of the second Voldemort debacle smelling like roses, all money and property intact. You did not marry Narcissa for love, and the two of you had an understanding long before she died. Your son is engaged to that loose-legged chit of a girl, Pattison or something. You would've preferred that he wooed the Granger girl; it would have been better for image, but Potter's mudblood didn't make it through the war, and your stubborn, moronic progeny wouldn't have heard of it anyway. He has no sense of subtlety, your son, no true cunning. Narcissa coddled the boy.

You throw back the rest of your drink at the thought. If you were a lesser man, you would throw your empty decanter at a wall, but you don't because you are not. Draco is a pathetic excuse for a wizard – completely incompetent, immature, and spoiled. You should just remarry, because it isn't like you can count on him for the future prestige of the Malfoy clan.

This line of thought is...irksome. Irritating. Anger-inspiring, even. You look around for your attendant; you want more brandy. Your cold gaze cuts through the dancing crowd and alights upon a man who puts the whores to shame. As worldly as you are, your breathing hitches. His black hair sweeps chin-length and disheveled, framing high cheekbones and fine mouth that is curled into a line of cynical amusement. But it is his eyes that stun you for that half-heartbeat. They are green, but not just green – they catch light and seem to glow, and they never let the light go. They devour it, black holes, and they are sucking you in as well. The effect can't even be described properly; you are sure that this man is probably as jaded as you are. Now - now he tilts his head a little, away from whatever worthless creature has been holding his attention, and those eyes flick straight to your staring ones. You recognize this magnificent man, though he has grown quite a bit since you last saw him.

Potter.

He recognizes you as well. He raises his glass along with an eyebrow, and it is such a Slytherin gesture that you are even more intrigued. A half-thought flits through your mind: He has edge, hmm?

And you want to bang your head on the table in frustration - because this is Potter, for Merlin's sake, and you don't think that the fact that you turned spy at the end of the war makes things all right enough between the two of you for you to drill him into the mattress.

Ah, well.

You always liked a challenge.

So you copy the overture, noticing absent-mindedly that that inattentive prostitute finally refilled your glass. Potter turns away, but you know you'll speak with him before the night is through.

And you're right.

Potter walks through the haze of cigarette smoke an hour later, looking like the devil in casual slacks. His black button-down is half-undone and haphazardly fastened. You want him.

"Hello, Lucius," he says. Two words and you're not sure if you've ever wanted anything more. Edge, indeed.

You incline your head in acknowledgment. "Mr. Potter. Do you often frequent this...fine establishment?" you drawl, a smirk playing around your mouth.

The Wizarding World's Savior takes a seat.

"Well, if it's good enough for you, Lucius, then I don't see why I shouldn't, hmm?" A subtle barb.

"Ah, but I'm an established older widow. It's expected for me to seek consolation when confronted with an empty bed. The grieving process, you know. I'm simply bereaved."

Potter laughs – it is a low sound that curls around your gut.

"Right. You're absolutely inconsolable," he deadpans.

You feel your left eyebrow rise of its own accord.

"Doth mine ears deceive me? Did you, Harry Potter, just employ the lowest form of humor, the form dearest to a Slytherin's heart? My, my, my." You cluck your tongue and realize distantly that you are enjoying yourself. Potter is staring at you with open amusement. If you were Draco - unable to control your reactions - you would flush.

"Did the cultured, aristocratic Lucius Malfoy, the one mothers tell horror stories to their children about, just cluck?" he asks incredulously, his eyes dancing with mirth. The black hole sensation is gone, you note.

"Of course I didn't," you reply, dismissively waving a hand. "You've obviously been partaking in some sort of hallucinogen. Perhaps you should lay off the mind-altering substances for a while."

He snorts. "I'll keep that in mind, Lucius. And call me Harry."

When the two of you part at the end of the night, you hate that Harry has enough edge to not sleep with you. When he invites you to lunch a few days later, you are relieved. When lunches turn into dinners and the two of you are spending entire afternoons together, you think (hope) that Harry might be in for something more. When you are drilling him into the mattress a month after that first night, you absolutely delight in the edge Harry most definitely has – in spades.

When the two of you announce your engagement to a flabbergasted Draco, you relish in your son's lack of discipline and think contentedly that you will treasure his expression until your deathbed. You sit through gasps and stuttered questions and smile because of a simple reason: Harry is grasping your hand.

Neither of you are interested in the details of the wedding, but in an attempt to personalize it a bit, Harry picks the flowers that decorate the Manor. You don't tell him that gladiolas, carnations, and daisies are a traditional flower arrangement for funerals. You don't tell him that marigolds symbolize caution.

They are the ones he likes, after all, and you don't wish to be trapped in another wedding pow-wow.

You have never been so happy in your life, never even known you were capable of it.

You fight over the years, of course. You both are who you are: independent, powerful wizards who dislike being told what to do.

The make-up sex is fantastic and completely worth it, in your opinion.

When Harry jests, "You know, Lucius, I can't help but think that sometimes you pick a fight with me simply for the great sex we always have after," you say nothing. Harry stares at you in consternation and bursts into laughter, and that makes your entire life completely worth it, in your opinion.

(And if once he almost blinds you when he makes your scotch glass explode with his undirected fury, it is okay. No one can see the faint scars unless they know they are there. The I'm-so-fucking-sorry-are-you-alright-don't-leave-me-please sex is fantastic and completely worth it, in your opinion.)

The constant domination and humiliation of Draco by his new step-father always makes you smile privately. Draco is just such an easy target for Harry's sharp wit and sharper glares.

And this should anger you (having such a weak, pathetic son), but you find yourself amused instead. You think periodically of ridding the Malfoy bloodline of the brat, but the entertainment value of his attempts at besting Harry keeps him alive.

So you are in love, and life is strangely good, most days. You have power and money and health and Harry, but most importantly of all, you have Harry. You are listening to him verbally tear apart the new Minister a few days before your fourth anniversary when you have a very delayed, scrambled epiphany.

(i couldlose anything - statuswealthmanor - as long as it's notharry. heisme and iamhim and it isalways.)

You have a strange feeling in your stomach that anyone else could tell you is fear, but youareyou and you don't recognize it.

When the two of you are talking over your fifth anniversary dinner at an upscale restaurant and Harry tells you that he is a month pregnant, you are dancing on clouds, only to fall through the atmosphere into a volcano when

hit

the

back

with a glowing green that matches his eyes. Your lover – husband, recipient and producer of snark and witticisms –

slumps

over

with a self-satisfied grin still on his face, and you vaguely comprehend that

the

child

dead

as well. This comprehension comes after you fire a Slashing Hex into the throat of the upstart "Dark Lord" who has just killed Harry, and you want to cry for once in your life, only you can't.

The restaurant is empty – everyone screamed and ran when that fool intoned "Avada Kedavra."

You kneel shakily beside Harry, clinging desperately to the hope that Harry survived the impossible again – but you are no Gryffindor, and you know your (late) husband's limits. You know that there is nothing to hope for, nothing to put your faith in.

You never felt guilty over the lives you stole while in the Dark Lord's service. You never woke at nights screaming your Silencing Charm down. You never drank yourself into a stupor in your study, and you don't plan to.

You and Harry have (had) heard rumors of a Dark wizard who was gathering a following, but both of you had wanted to stay out of it. Start a family. Harry is (was) the most powerful wizard in the world, and you are by no means anything to laugh at. In fact, you are probably the strongest now, as Dumbledore and Voldemort (and Harry, something whispers) are dead.

Yours and Harry's child would have been magnificently beautiful and awesomely powerful.

But you'll never know now, will you?

A raging tide of grief and regret and loss and resentment rises behind the walls you have erected around your emotions and slams through them, but you do not sob. You straighten carefully, slowly, like an old man, smoothing your robes as you rise. Your wand is still in your hand.

A head peeks around the doorway.

"Is it safe?" a middle-aged wizard asks tremulously, and all your griefregretlossresentment turns into anger, anger at the world. Harry saved them all – twice – and they screamed and ran at the first sign of trouble. They (had) made his lover's life hell, molded their Savior into one big ball of issues, then abandoned him to some paltry kid who thought he was a hot-shot because he could cast the Killing Curse.

They created Voldemort in their self-centered never-care, and they created Harry to fix their problems.

(So the Wizarding World wants a real Dark Lord?)

When you raise your wand to the fat, trembling idiot, his eyes widen until they look like they are about to pop. You glance down at your (dead) husband, who is (was) carrying your (dead) child. When the sniveling man looks into your eyes, his knees give out, hitting the marble floor with a crack.

"P-Please," he stutters.

"Avada Kedavra."

You fly and you fall, but sometimes you fall and don't get back up again, and sometimes you don't even want to. The clouds mock you, and you were once sucked into a black hole....

(They've got a real Dark Lord.)

A/N: Whatcha think?

Edited 9/23/07 You lot's feedback has been lovely! Right, I got a few reviewers who told me they wished I had gone a bit slower, so I decided to add in some history while I fixed the formatting. Whaddya think?

Attention, if you please. I am writing a second chapter. I really didn't think I would, but I would say I'm about half-way finished. grins I completely love destroying the Wizarding World in detail. I recommend everyone trying it at least once.