~ Dragon Fire ~
It is an odd sensation, to have once had everything and to have lost it all.
Lucius doesn't know which is worse: the pitying looks he receives from those he used to scorn, or those who obviously glory in his downfall. The former make him want to scream; the latter makes his fingers itch for his wand, the better to curse the bastards blind.
But his fingers itch in vain – he is no longer permitted a wand, and it will be a long time, if ever, before he is allowed to hold one again. It is just one more item on the long list of forbidden items he was presented with upon his conditional release from Club Azkaban, the hot place for former Death Eaters to see and be seen.
The primary condition, of course, is why he is standing in this place, dressed in the latest prison wear, waiting for his "new life" to start. A new life, far less than his old life, but, he is told, far better than no life at all.
Looking down at the shoes he is forced to wear, Lucius Malfoy is not so sure.
~ 0 ~
Charlie Weasley, the arbiter of this "new life," is also not so sure that this is a good idea; he agreed to take on the responsibility of 'reforming' a war criminal for the sole reason that his father asked him to. Arthur Weasley has been given the thankless task of reinserting those who supported Him into polite society, and so far, it has not gone well. He has high hopes for this particular venture though; Charlie is a good man and a good motivator, and Arthur thinks the world of him, all nepotism aside.
If anyone can get Lucius Malfoy to become a decent person, he thinks, it is his son.
The initial meeting is brief and cool; Charlie maps out his plans for Lucius and Lucius nods, choosing to say nothing, although inside he rages at the wholly degrading and worse, ordinary lifestyle he is being forced into. It is against his will, but also his only option … unless he wishes to have a very intimate moment with a Dementor.
He nods his understanding and acknowledgment of the plan, and on the appointed day, he is ready, clad in standard criminal-into-civilian prison-issue wear which is, thankfully, not striped in black and white, zebra like. Thank Merlin for small favors, which is, apparently, all he seems given to grant as of late.
When Charlie takes hold of his arm, he flinches and doesn't even try to pretend he hasn't, but the other man takes no notice; he rather expected it. And when the jerk and tug of Apparition takes him, he lurches on his feet and only that hand is there to steady him.
The Romanian compound is plain, grayish and worst of all, serviceable. 'Serviceable,' to Lucius is a more damning judgment than any other, and again, he does not hide his disdain as he looks around the living quarters he has been assigned. He will sleep in a small room, adjacent to Weasley's, and wash in a communal loo. There is neither a gilded mirror nor a marbled countertop in sight, and he knows, standing there and staring at himself in the glass, just how far he has fallen.
~ 0 ~
The days are long, and the work is degrading and hard; calluses form on his hands, and at night, he rubs his fingers against each other in wonderment. He has always associated such things with the common man, and it is hard to believe that he is now considered one of them. Is one of them.
Charlie is patient with him; he is careful to not give Lucius more than he feels he can handle, yet he doesn't hesitate to challenge him. On this night, as Lucius lies in his simple bed, he rubs his fingers along the bandage circling his arm – a gift from the spawn of the same Hungarian Horntail that nearly sent Potter hurtling to his death. The Horntail had a similar attitude as his sire – an extremely negative one.
The burn was neither serious nor deep, but Lucius finds that his mind keeps returning not to the pain, or the humiliation of being schooled by a lesser creature … but to how Charlie immediately tended to him, dropping his own tasks to wash the burnt area and smooth healing salve on it, then bandaging it, his movements swift, yet surprisingly gentle.
His impressions, his sensory thoughts of Charlie Weasley have changed in these three months, his initial repulsion slowly changing into something completely different. He finds himself watching his every move; how he makes their morning coffee, strong and black for himself, with cream for Lucius. How his hands close around the mug and seem to savor the heat of the brew and the heady scent of the beans he grinds fresh each day.
He thinks of how Charlie's face expression changes into one of pure bliss when he eats a square of dark Belgian chocolate, morphing from the visage of a serious young man into a gleeful child. In an odd way, it reminds him of his own son when he was young – before the world ceased making sense and teenage Saviors toppled the seemingly invincible.
Lucius was not a good man; he knew this. He was cruel, cold, and a coward. There was nothing admirable about him, but somehow, in these three months, Charlie had made him feel like perhaps there was something to him, something underneath that wasn't monstrous and petty, but decent.
Not admirable or even reasonable by most people's standards, but yes, decent; and suddenly, that no longer seemed like a lesser thing to be.
He hadn't meant to fall in love with Charlie Weasley. It had just happened.
And Lucius lay there in the dark, thinking of that broad, open face, the ready smile and the crinkle around the eyes when he laughed … and his hands were no longer content to merely rub against each other, but strayed downwards.
Historically, Lucius Malfoy had not been a particularly vocal man, but when he came, hands wrapped around himself, soaked in his own sweat and juices … it was Charlie's name he cried out in the dark.
~ 0 ~
"How's your arm?"
They are the first words Charlie has spoken this morning, though he had nodded in a friendly way when Lucius entered the kitchen. He had offered him coffee wordlessly, adding the cream he knew Lucius liked and setting it in front of him at the small table.
"Better, I think. It doesn't hurt as much as yesterday."
The flowery, high-flying speech pattern he used to use is gone; Lucius says little these days as it is, and when he speaks, it is generally in simple, declarative sentences. If he were to examine his old life in any detail, he would now find his former self foppish and pretentious. But he does not think on it if he can help it – the past is past, and dwelling on it will only cause him to experience emotions he'd rather not.
"Let me see."
Charlie sets down his mug, and Lucius watches his hands – they are broad and callused, freckled and sun-colored. His hands are equally capable of washing fine glassware without breaking it or wrangling a dragon to the ground with their strength alone. And in his dreams, Lucius sees them as instruments of pure pleasure, and imagines them roaming over his body, exploring his most secret spots with equal parts gentleness and need.
Charlie inspects the burned skin and summons more salve, once again cleaning the area and smoothing ointment into the creases of scored flesh. He leaves the burn open to the air today, declaring today a day of rest.
"Rest?" Lucius asks, his voice skeptical; he has come to the conclusion that Charlie rarely rests, instead simply finding other things to do that don't involve large angry creatures with scales and razor-sharp teeth.
Charlie smiles at him, his sunny open grin still an amazing thing to see unfold. "Yes, actual rest. It occurred to me that you've seen little but the pens, this building and the training rings. The countryside around here really is lovely, and I thought perhaps we could pack a lunch and go exploring."
"A picnic?"
"A picnic. " Charlie laughed. "You seem surprised."
"It is rather unexpected, is all. I had the impression that you were instructed to merely work me until the Ministry was satisfied that I was humbled, and then turn me back over to their tender mercies."
Lucius' tone has crept towards bitter, and he stops, shrugging. "As I said, unexpected."
"What the Ministry instructs," says Charlie, already searching through the icebox and cupboards for suitable picnic fare, "and what I decide to do are not necessarily the same thing. I don't believe in working people as though they were subhuman, nor do I believe in all work and no play. How do you feel about kippers?"
Lucius' expression says plainly that he equates kippers with kneazle food and Charlie snorts. "All right then."
A few minutes later, a basket is packed, shrunk and safely stowed in Charlie's jacket pocket, and they set off walking through the dense woods out back of the dragon pens.
They speak little on their walk; Charlie is keeping an eye on his surroundings and Lucius is keeping an eye on Charlie, while trying to look as though he could care less where he was, and whom he was with.
Charlie isn't fooled; he has become aware that Lucius follows him with his eyes, that he endeavors to be near him, that he actually listens when he speaks.
Lucius is nothing like he expected he would be, and it's been more than a little disconcerting … but welcome.
For Charlie too, is lonely.
As they eat their lunch sitting on a broad rock in a sunlit clearing, Charlie openly studies Lucius, noting the creases around the eyes and across his forehead that were not present before his stint in Azkaban. The eyes are still colder than most, but now and then there are moments when they soften and change. The hair is more silver now than blond, shaggy and unkempt; there is not much call for grooming in the deepest cells of Azkaban.
Yet for all that, in his eyes, Lucius is far better looking than he ever had been before, and Charlie had been a reluctant admirer for years. Cold or not, cruel or not, beauty is still compelling, and Lucius was, if nothing else, beautiful to look at.
~ 0 ~
Neither are ever sure, later, who touched whom first that day; each claims, if asked, that it was the other who first reached out and gently stroked sun-warmed skin with one roughened finger.
Charlie says it was Lucius who cupped his cheek and leaned in to gently brush his lips with his own; Lucius states that it was Charlie who nuzzled his neck and bit his ear before pouncing on him right there in the grass, with no one to witness it but God and a couple of inquisitive swallows.
What neither will deny is that what followed was an interlude that may have lasted a few minutes or a few days, but was marked by the kind of passion one dreams of but never really believes will happen to them … kisses that were alternately light and brief, wet and sloppy, or so deep that their souls feel literally licked clean.
Charlie's hands are all that Lucius has dreamed of, and they stroke and slide over his body in ways that make Lucius moan, sigh, and occasionally howl, his voice becoming hoarse over the course of hours spent loving each other. Charlie, in turn, hums in contentment as Lucius explores the texture of his skin with his mouth, his tongue and various combinations of both. The humming turns into a groan, into a scream … but Lucius is relentless. He has wanted this too much to stop, or even pause for longer than it takes to draw a breath.
Charlie tastes sweet, like raw honey; Lucius is bitter, strawberries not yet ripe.
~0 ~
The Ministry never does get Lucius back; Charlie keeps him in Romania, in his home, in his bed, until the War is nothing but a distant memory, and the Malfoy name is no longer a bad taste in one's mouth.
The clearing remains a favorite place of theirs, a place they retreat whenever the world seems too much … too big, too prejudiced, entirely too hard to live in. There are moments they hate each other, times when old family disputes arise and cause angry silences. But as the years go by, those times are less and less, until finally, there is nothing left for them but the love they both craved.
~End~