Note: Minor changes to the chapter have been made due to the release of Half-Blood Prince. Spoilers.

Chapter Two

8:47 AM. MALFOY MANOR. FIRST FLOOR. DINING ROOM. WASHED. CLOTHED. BREAKFASTING.

Despite the lovely song I created about my body, I hummed "I Want You, Witch" as I finished my peanut butter toast . Then, I stabbed my hand with the butter knife when I realised I was letting that dastardly song take over my mind- NEVER!"Be careful, dear," Narcissa Alexandria Black Malfoy warned. She is my mother, a gorgeous woman of forty-one, who, despite the title, is as un-motherly as one could ever imagine. Don't get me wrong, she never fails to supply me with Galleons, but the years living with her have become somewhat unsatisfying.

As I enjoy some bacon, allow me to explain: Though beautiful, Mother is not very exciting, nor kind. When Father ever makes trouble, she just smiles her brightly- whitey, flashy, seductive smile and thinks of all the money she'll be missing if she divorces him. That seems to pull her through the hard stuff.

On the contrary: When Father was taken to Azkaban Prison, I thought she would jump for joy, but for once, she surprised me. Our days were filled with grief, woe, and depressed shopping sprees. Mother used to sigh sadly every time she saw me, because she said I was beginning to look just like Father. She took most meals in her bedroom- oops- THEIR bedroom. I began to figure out what it was exactly Mother was missing about Lucius Malfoy, or should I say what PART it was exactly?

Yes, she was sex- deprived. Her pillow was wet every night, but the sheets were sadly dry and un-rumpled. I slept better than I had in all my days.

But this isn't about me, is it?

My mother was depressed. That made me angry!

I couldn't even understand the reasons why he had to go to jail. I mean, so what if he supported Voldemort? So what if he threatened kids my age and younger? So what if he creeped the living daylights out of Harry Potter? For being such a hero, that kid was sure easy to freak out!

I was left to cope in my room for most of that summer before sixth year. I was sixteen years old: lost, abandoned, horny, and fatherless. We visited Father twice every month. He was not doing so well. Azkaban was not catering to his needs. I can't imagine why.

He needs are extremely simple:

1. He has to have a wake up call at approximately six o'clock , or else he will sleep until noon.

2. He must be near a sink at all times so he can continuously rid his hands of any germs that may have gathered.

3. He needs to have a shower every morning. His water will be boiling hot with a spritz of cold at the end.

4. He needs to have breakfast at eight thirty, lunch at noon, afternoon tea with scones (blackberry jam only, please), and dinner at six thirty.

5. If the cut of steak, roast, kidney, or what ever kind of meat you serve is not positively leaking out blood when a fork is pressed into its flesh, he won't touch it.

6. He has to have extended bathroom preparation time, This may be the most important need. It takes him an hour to do his hair, a half an hour for a shower or bath, and thirty minutes to apply various moisturizers, face creams, nail softeners.. etc. etc. (Yes, a bit suspicious to me, but I didn't want to question my father at such a stressful time.)

There are many more needs, but I really must stop. To make a long story short, Father was being treated like any other high security criminal- and he didn't like it.You see, my father was the youngest child in his family, which consisted of a father, mother, and an older brother named Hagawthe.

Father was very spoiled, outspoken, and thought he was better than everyone else at Hogwarts because he was of a pure background. (So glad I didn't have know him- he sounds like he was just awful!)

Anyway, he used to do 'bad things', and get away with them all of the time because he is a liar. A well- trained liar feeding on stupid, forgiving adults and choice veal cutlets. Naturally, he grew up to think it was right to lie to protect one's self, and get good things one wanted, and pretend one was someone one was really not.

He could have been cured long ago if his parents had recognized the signs. Sure, they caught him doing 'bad things' sometimes, but then, he would make himself sick and they would feel bad. The degree of badness they felt depended on the suspected crime, and the stain on the carpet.

He is a troubled, troubled man.

Just because he was a Death Eater does not mean he is evil.

He makes bad decisions. My father was fourteen years old when he first heard about Lord Voldemort's ideas. The ideas weren't so bad then. Father bought into Tom Riddle's plan. It was never his fault. He is troubled. Do you understand?

I am telling you this before hand so that you will not make cruel judgments based on what I am about to reveal.

During his fifth month in Azkaban, the guards began to witness peculiar behaviors from my father. He was having strange nightmares in which he would wake up shouting and screaming. They ignored him, which is unfair to me, because months before that, the 'beautiful dreamer' called Harry was worshipped because he thought he was becoming a snake and biting people's faces off. Real cute.

Then, Father began have odd fits in which he would slam his cell mate against the bars.. Furthermore, he was getting sick. It was all very strange. The dementors could not ignore this. They wanted to suck the soul out of my father right in the beginning, but Fudge (what a grand man!) declared that Father was delusional and needed to be tested.

I remember clearly a visiting day that took place about a week after Father began having these nightmares and fits. Mother and I dressed up and looked very nice, rich, and posh as usual, and went to the prison. We were never allowed in Father's cell, which was fine by me, and we conversed with Lucius through a misty haze of magic spells that disallowed him to break through, unless he wished to be dead in ten seconds.

"Darling," I can recall Mother saying. "Darling, how are you feeling? Mr. Fudge says there are certain problems!"

Lucius, in a terrible prison uniform, sniffed, and said," To say there are problems is factual yet a terrible understatement. I am so unhappy, Narry, and I've been having convulsions and visions."

Mother gasped. "What are the visions?"

Father lowered his voice so that everyone around would want to hear." He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is going to kill, and if I am not released, I fear that a large number of people are going to die."

"Lucy, don't strain yourself," Mother squealed. "If you continue to think about the welfare of others, your fits will become worse! I'm certain that you will be let out when the time is right, even if 'he must bake the cookies without the sugar'."

Ah, yes. My parents' way of communicating with code words that were worked out before Father was hauled of to jail. 'He must bake the cookies without the sugar' was a phrase meaning 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named must fight the unpure without the help of Death Eaters'.

My father nodded sadly, and turned to me. "How are you doing, son? I hope having an estranged father in jail isn't ruining your social life."

"I'm fine," replied the fifteen- year old me in what he hoped was a pathetic, sad, Dad- guiltying voice. "Can I borrow one hundred Galleons?"

He seemed kind of taken aback. "Well, certainly, I suppose." Done with me, he turned to my mother. "Narcissa, tell me the truth: do I look hideous?"

"Of course not, my dear. The dark circles underneath your eyes only make it appear as though you have applied tons of very- erm- black makeup. But you are still as handsome as before," she gushed. I swear! When she wants something, she can really play up to it!

"And you, as dazzling," he remarked, in what I found to be a woeful kind of voice. But she didn't seem to think so.

"Oh, Lucy, I want you!" she declared loudly.

I stared at my shoes in embarrassment, hoping no one from school was being held prisoner here.

Needless to say, shortly after, we were informed that visiting time was up.

Father's hysterical fits grew worse, he began to get sick more frequently, and his cell mate was suffering from broken ribs. Saint Mungo's began taking him out and performing medical tests on him. What they found out was very peculiar:

He was not ill at all. In fact, his outbreak of vomiting was proved to be caused by force, not sickness.

The doctors put a spell on him during the nights called 'reverieus' so that they could see these hideous dreams he was going crazy about. The dreams that were recorded included:

a. Harry Potter dying, my father laughing, and Voldemort taking over the world.

b. A very graphic orgy between the Death Eaters and choice students from Hogwarts.

c. My father as a child copying his brother's report about Salazaar Slytherin for History of Magic, and getting away with it.

The doctors were worried, especially when they realized that father awoke before he started screaming and carrying on. He had been faking. But the doctors found the dreams, especially exhibit C, quite unnerving. They decided that Lucius Malfoy required special help, counseling, and closed quarters.

So, by acting crazy, my father hoped he would get out of prison. The plan back fired, because the doctors discovered he actually WAS crazy. They diagnosed him as 'dangerous', a 'liar', and someone who 'had no idea he was doing anything wrong'.

These happenings caused me to dropped quite a few places down the social ladder. People, such as Ronald Weasley, began to make fun of me for having an insane father. It hurt my feelings. Cut me deep. Real deep.

Even my cousins began referring to Father as "Cra-aaazy Uncle Lucius", and "Mudblood-Maming-Madman". So much for family!

This is when I shorten the story, because none of the later events really have anything important to do with anyone, except where I was involved:

Voldemort, forced to bake cookies with no sugar, tried to come back to full power once more. I was pressured to help him, as were the children of all the Death Eaters. I decided against it, though, because really, who needs a disgusting old bugger ruling the world? (Of course, I told my parents that I would help Voldemort at all costs, and they were ever so proud.)

Then, somehow, everyone was really mean. They gave me a tattoo, which was wicked cool, but then they gave me all these orders and they made me do some evil stuff, and I was appointed to kill Dumbledore… Except something happened and I wasn't able to, so Professor Snape did, and we ran like convicts and slept in ditches and made dinner by firelight and played "I Spy" and talked about really weird things and bored the hell out of each other. I found that Snape wasn't evil. It disappointed me, I mean he seemed so evil. And he went back and joined the good side and had some whackos protect me. And then, Harry Potter, the sweet, little hero boy, managed to kill him, finally, with the help of the Ministry of Magic and Snape (except people never really believed Snape and Harry yelled at him quite a lot). But low and behold, Potter was a hero. And Dumbledore was really alive. And all of these other really useless, sappy details.

The world rejoiced.

I was once again forgotten.