Chapter 9
Those few days in what was left of Hogwarts passed slowly. Draco disappeared for large periods of time, telling us that he was going to help brew potions to treat the injured. Normally I would not condone such plebeian activity, but at that point, we needed all the good publicity we could get.
The Aurors allowed parents who had not fought in the battle to claim their children, and I'd hoped to slip my family from the castle during that time. Alas, the Light was better organised than I'd given them credit for. I have to hand it to Minerva McGonagall - the old bat was damned good at running the school. It's a pity Dumbledead didn't retire earlier and let her take over.
We tried summoning one of our remaining house elves, but the creature was unable to get through the new warding. It was not as bad as being housed in Azkaban, but it was still primitive accommodations. On day three, I had to resort to using off-brand hair care products stolen from the 7th year girls' dormitory. Totally unacceptable.
Unable to sleep that night, I got up to check on my son and found him missing. Concerned about his well-being, I wandered from the dorms in search of Draco. I doubted he'd gone far, but Narcissa had been rather clingy since we'd found him, and I figured I should track him down. After all, when your wife successfully lies to the greatest legilimens of a generation, it induces a certain level of fear in a man. Fear and arousal, if I'm being honest, but Narcissa was in no mood to indulge me that night, unfortunately, or I would have remained in bed with her.
After wandering for some time, I did eventually find Draco, although I wish I had not, for what I witnessed will forever be burned into my memory, haunting me to the end of my days.
My son was not alone in that deserted classroom.
He was with that scar-faced Potter brat.
And his mudblood.
And they were not wearing clothes.
Years earlier I'd pondered what would be worse: my son being gay for Potter or my son cavorting with a mudblood. I can now say with all sincerity that it never once crossed my mind that he might actually manage to involve himself with both of them. At the same time.
I did not know how it happened, or why it happened, but there it was, in front of me. Burning my eyes. Scarring my soul for life.
My son. My heir, the heir to a thousand years of sacred, pureblood history, entwined with a half-blood wizard and a mudblood witch.
I wanted to scream to the universe, "WHY? WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN ME?"
Seriously, had I not suffered enough?
So many thoughts went through my head in those horrific moments. You have heard, I am certain, that time seems to stand still or move slowly in the midst of some sort of horrible accident? That was my experience.
My first instinct was to interfere, to grab my ancestor's wand and curse that filth away from my son. Had it been anyone other than Potter, I surely would have done just that. But when you watch a 17-year-old defeat the darkest wizard since Grindelwald with just an expelliarmus, one tends to think twice before raising a wand against him. Again, Slytherins are all about self-preservation, and I would have been at a deficit already, working with a wand that was a relatively poor fit for me.
Later, after I had time to really consider all of the paths I could have taken that night, I recognised that it was also for the best that I did not attack my son's ahem, paramours. After all, the mudblood was still using Bellatrix's wand, stolen from her during their escape from Malfoy Manor. If the wand chooses the wizard, I'm not sure what it says about Hermione Granger that she successfully used Bellatrix Lestrange's wand in battle.
Anyway, I found myself in the exceptionally uncomfortable position of either skulking away and trusting that my son could safely return to the Slytherin dorms on his own or standing there and waiting for them to finish. To this day, I could not explain why, but in that moment, I chose to stay put. I mean, let's be fair: a naked teenage witch is a naked teenage witch, mudblood or not.
Eventually the mudblood saw me out of the corner of her eye and screamed and made a big production of trying to cover her tits, which if I'm being totally honest were much smaller than I generally prefer. Her hysteria was truly out of proportion for the situation. Listen witch, you're fucking around with two wizards at the same time. You're clearly fine with being watched. Don't act all modest all the sudden just because I'm standing here. If anything, she really should have been honoured that I found her worth watching.
Draco was naturally livid with me, because of course he was. He had done nothing but bitch and complain since that disastrous break-in at the Ministry of Magic that sent me to Azkaban two years prior. Just add this to my list of unforgivable crimes, son, for catching you in the act in a semi-public location. Maybe next time lock the damn door and throw up some silencing charms, hmm?
What followed was one of the most awkward, uncomfortable, and strange conversations of my entire life, and one that I have shared only with my darling mostly-sane wife. Until now.
Once I got past my initial desire to curse both the Potter brat and the mudblood, my next instinct was to forbid my son to have anything to do with either of them. Never let it be said though that I am anything other than a consummate Slytherin, and one with exceptionally fantastic hair at that.
You see, Potter was victorious in battle, and in the short time that had passed since the battle ended, it seemed clear that the wizarding world was about to bow at his feet and offer him the world, and I had to use this to my advantage.
I let him know that I was perfectly aware of the role my wife had played in his subterfuge in the Forbidden Forest. If it weren't for Narcissa, Bellatrix would have gleefully sliced his head off and burned his body to a crisp. He owed the Malfoy family a life debt, and I intended to claim it.
Draco most thoroughly objected to my presence and my attempt to broker a deal with his lovers, but I have a good 25 years of plotting and scheming on him. I will give credit - grudgingly - where it is due: the mudblood drives a hard bargain. Regrettably I had nothing to hold over the head of that bushy-haired know-it-all mudblood, but it was clear she loved Potter, and she obviously had some level of affection for my son. I knew I would have to prey on her bleeding heart nature.
When it was all said and done, Potter and the mudblood, who I am supposed to be referring to by her name and not 'mudblood' as it is apparently "offensive" or "derogatory" or something along those lines, agreed to testify to any and all that the Malfoy family were not willing supporters of the Dark Lord. They would speak publicly about how my family had assisted them in their efforts to defeat the noseless wanker once known as Lord Voldemort and ensure to the best of their abilities that Narcissa, Draco, and I did not see the inside of a prison cell for our role in the war.
Once our freedom was secured, I agreed that Narcissa and I would voice our public support for Draco's 'relationship' with the two of them (even though it would certainly cause an uproar in polite society), and I would not be permitted to cut Draco off from his inheritance or use my role as the head of the most ancient and noble House of Malfoy to force him into an arranged pureblood marriage. I was not particularly thrilled about that, but needs must. As long as the Granger chit stayed in the picture, I could at least get an heir out of Draco, even if it was a half-blood. I figured if my options were no heir or a half-blood heir, I could tolerate a half-blood. Besides, I was not forbidden from using my role as the head of the House of Malfoy from brokering an arranged marriage for Draco's future offspring. I figured I could always wed my future grandson to a proper pureblood witch and eventually breed the muggle blood out of the family. It was better than going back to Azkaban.
Plus by accepting his 'relationship' there was the chance that Draco would tire of the two of them and go do his duty with a pureblood witch at some point. There's an element of reverse psychology at play here. Parents everywhere know how this works: your child wants to do something you hate. If you tell them you hate it, it only strengthens their resolve to do it. If you shrug your shoulders and say, "Have at it," they may still go ahead and do it, but with decidedly less enthusiasm than they would before because you've removed their burning desire to prove you wrong.
The mudblood also added an absurd additional condition that I was not to harm a house elf ever again, as she and Potter were both apparently still stuck on that former elf of mine I might have kicked down the stairs a few times. I had vague recollections then of Draco writing me from Hogwarts to complain about her crusade to save the house elves. What was it called again? BARF? PUKE? It was something that had to do with vomit. I decided then I would need Narcissa to speak to the girl as her public relations skills were truly atrocious. Almost as bad as her hair. Perhaps Narcissa could do something about that was well though.
It was clear over the course of these negotiations that this triumvirate had been together for some time. I have no idea how long whatever was going on between the three of them had been going on, nor did I particularly want to know. I suppose given how much firewhiskey I consumed during Draco's 7th year, it's possible I may have been too drunk to pick up on any clues. It was not my finest year, okay?
And thus our unholy alliance was forged.
Now, at the time I assumed that even with testimony from Potter and the mudblood, ahem, Miss Granger, I would still need to grease a few palms, if you know what I mean. Bribery is a long-standing, grand tradition in the wizarding world, after all. I also assumed I would need to hide a few proverbial bodies. And some literal ones as well.
I could have done without Shacklebolt taking over as Minister for Magic, but I suppose there are worse candidates out there. It was glorious to watch him sputter in outrage as the Boy-Who-Lived and his female sidekick testified on my family's behalf. It was almost as enjoyable as watching all of the Weasleys lose their collective minds when we were set free.
Having to smile for the cameras and pretend to be okay with my son and heir's public romance with Potter and Granger was less than enjoyable, but I've been through worse in my life. When you measure that unpleasant task against others in my life, well, it did make the Top 10 list, but I admit it could have been worse. It wasn't as awful as watching Nagini eat a witch alive on my dining room table or spending time in Azkaban with no hope of freedom. It was certainly better than that time I accidentally walked in on Bellatrix getting it on with the Dark Lord after his nose-less resurrection.
After expert testimony from Potter and Granger, and a truly shocking amount of Galleons changing hands, I was indeed spared the indignity of Azkaban.
I was ordered to serve time under house arrest whilst working with a team of Aurors to cleanse Malfoy Manor of residual dark magic incurred during its unfortunate term as a Death Eater Dorm. I was not happy about the house arrest, but the rest of it… I'm sure Kingsley Shacklebolt thinks he one upped me by making me strip my home of dark magic, but really, it was the magical equivalent of the government paying to redecorate my home. Narcissa had grown tired of some of the existing decor, and we certainly were not going to eat off a table on which the Dark Lord had had sex, so I freely admit to using the my ancestor's wand - still hidden from the Aurors as I was not technically supposed to have a wand as a condition of my house arrest - to add dark magic to a few things to make sure the Ministry would have to haul them off and deal with it themselves.
You see, that's how it works. If they take your cursed object, they have to return it sans curse or replace it, and thanks to Potter's intervention and the Ministry's knowledge that the Dark Lord himself had resided in my home, I could pass the buck on any responsibility for any dark objects found in my possession. I cannot say for certain, but it is highly possible that with the deaths of so many dark wizards and witches in the war, yours truly became Britain's foremost expert in the use of dark magic. Let's just say there were a lot of curses the Ministry was unable to remove, and a lot of items they then had to destroy and replace.
Yes, I must say that I rather appreciate that new dining table, and Narcissa is most pleased with the new drapes and chandeliers in the drawing room.
Shacklebolt promised a new Ministry, a better Ministry after the fall of the Dark Lord. I can't say that I blame him there, for the Ministry was deficient in many ways even before my brethren took it over. He does seem nominally better at running a government than some of his predecessors, so I can't complain too much. Although I must admit I could have done without all his whole stupid "Death Eater Therapy" program.
Let's take all the Death Eaters who did not die or get sent to prison and make them go to therapy with a squib therapist to talk about their problems and their feelings and make sure they're all nice and reformed and ready to be released into society.
What a dumb fucking idea.
~oOo~
I paused then, realising that perhaps "dumb fucking idea" was perhaps not the best turn of phrase to use in front of said squib therapist. After all, I did need him to sign off on the Ministry's required paperwork to fully free me from the shackles of house arrest and probation. I looked over at him and twisted my lips in what I hoped looked like a bit of a smile.
The rather drab and timid man sitting across from me might have been petrified for all that he moved, staring at me with a look of horror on his face.
"I realise that it seems a bit… uncouth… to refer to this therapy program as a 'dumb fucking idea,' but I am supposed to be honest here, am I not?" I questioned. This whole therapy thing was all pretty new to me, after all.
He continued to stare at me, as if shocked by everything I'd just explained about my life. It is not like I would have chosen therapy, and certainly not with a squib, although I suppose a squib is at least one step up from a muggle. At least a squib has some knowledge of our world. I can only imagine how insane I would have sounded to a filthy muggle.
I raised an eyebrow as I waited for a response. Seeing none, I heaved a painful sigh, for it really was a waste of my time to have to participate in a mandated therapy session, pouring out my soul and my life experiences to a complete stranger, only to have him end up in a shocked, non-responsive stupor.
I waved a hand in front of the man's face, which finally seemed to snap him out of whatever pathetic magic-less state he'd fallen into.
"Well, that is that," I said firmly. "I have told you all there is to tell about my life and my experiences in the war. I cannot say that this has been anything approaching enjoyable, but it is better than a foray in Azkaban, that is for certain."
I leaned forward in my chair then and motioned toward him. "I believe we are done here. Just sign the Ministry's parchment, and I shall be on my way."
He fumbled with the starkly white parchments in front of him at his desk.
"Um, yes, well, Mr. Malfoy, sir," he said, seemingly afraid to look me in the eye.
"Yes?"
"Um, I think perhaps… perhaps there has been a misunderstanding," he said in a most apologetic tone.
"How so?"
I raised my eyebrow again and waited for him to continue. I was painfully obvious to even the most uneducated that this pathetic squib found me frightening and oh what a delicious feeling that was! It was nice to know that the words "Death Eater" and the name Malfoy still carried with them a certain level of intimidation, despite the Dark Lord's utter failure.
"Well, you see, the point is not just for you to tell me about your, ah, experiences in the war. Therapy is… it's a process, really. You talk, I listen. I ask questions. We work together to discuss your problems, and I as your therapist, um…" his voice trailed off as he finally looked at me in fear.
"Continue," I said icily. I did not know where he was going with this, but I had the general feeling I would not like it.
"I believe, that is, my understanding of what the Ministry of Magic expects with this, ah, program… is for wizards such as yourself to um...express remorse for your wrong-doings, to demonstrate that you have been rehabilitated," he explained.
I frowned as I considered the pathetic man before me. Had I not expressed my remorse over the Dark Lord's failures? Had I not expressed my frustration over his flawed attempts to take over magical Britain? Had I not confessed to numerous crimes that far exceeded anything with which the Wizengamot had charged me? Had I not been brutally honest? For Merlin's sake, what more did this man want from me?
"I'm afraid that I can't possibly just sign off on your rehabilitation at this point because you…" he started to say before I rolled my eyes in irritation.
No longer listening to whatever drivel poured from his mouth, I instead reached for my ancestor's wand. I swished it with a graceful flair and smiled tightly at the man before whispering, "imperius."
The wand was still not the most receptive, but it obeyed my command, and my entire being swelled with satisfaction as I watched his mousy brown eyes glaze over. Oh now this, this was lovely. It had been so long since I'd last cast an unforgivable curse, and damn, did it feel good! It would feel even better to cast like this with my new wand, but first things first.
With a subtle twist of my wand, I directed him to the magical parchment from the Ministry and made him sign it using that infernal muggle writing instrument. His signature complete, the document disappeared with a pop, to be filed at the Ministry.
Still holding my control over him - muggles and squibs alike were so very easy to control with the imperius - I withdrew my new wand from an inner pocket in my cloak. Like the previous wand so cruelly taken by the Dark Lord, this wand was elm with a dragon heartstring core. Once my house arrest ended and my probationary period began, I had been granted official permission to have a new wand, but a trace was placed on it until the terms of my probation were met.
I only had to wait a few minutes before the signed parchment was apparently received and filed at the Ministry. My new wand shimmered, and the trace mercifully disappeared.
I was a free wizard.
After two wars, a stay in prison, months spent hosting the Dark Lord in my home, house arrest, and probation, I was free.
I tilted my head at the squib and debated offing him. But no, to be fair this whole notion of Death Eater Therapy wasn't his idea. No sense in taking my irritation out on him or in committing a crime that could get me sent back to prison just as I was finally free of the Ministry's shackles.
Frankly, I think my willingness to NOT kill the man ought to be more than sufficient proof of my redemption. See how generous I can be?
Instead I cast a quick legilimens and planted a false memory of him agreeing that I had completed this requirement in my probation. One more simple obliviate to remove any pesky disagreement over what I'd said, and I was done.
The birds were chipping, and the sun was shining when I left his filthy muggle office and apparated home. It felt as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my aristocratic and if I must say, rather beautifully sculpted shoulders. I felt so much lighter. Perhaps, as they say, confessions really IS good for the soul.
Hmmm… I should consider that more fully. Perhaps a regular confessional of some sort might be warranted.
I put that notion aside for the time being and made my way to my study, where I settled in, placing my new wand atop my desk. Regrettably it did not fit my snake-head cane of old, which was unfortunate as the cane provided that certain je ne sais quois. Aesthetic, and all that, you know. Well, that and it was useful for whacking elves and anyone else in my way. Perhaps I would have to have a new cane made for my new wand.
I snapped my fingers for an elf and demanded a firewhiskey. In the aftermath of the battle, I was most concerned that the mudblood, er, um, that muggleborn witch my son is fucking would utterly ruin house elves for me what with her absurd demands, but oddly enough they still find me terrifying and rush to bow and scrape and do my bidding. I find it strange that the less I yell and order punishment, the more efficient and helpful they become. It's almost as if they respond well to good treatment, but surely that can't be right.
I had hoped that perhaps Draco would quickly grow tired of Potter and the mud- er, muggleborn once he was free to be more openly involved with them, but alas, they were still very much involved. Mercifully I did not have to see them often, as apparently the mud- er muggleborn had some issue with spending time at Malfoy Manor. Bitch, please. Like you're the only person to ever be tortured here?
Instead they're living in a rather posh London townhome my family owns because Draco says it's "free from 'tainted memories'" or something along those lines. I haven't told him that his great-grandfather murdered his mistress there many years ago. I think I'll save that story for Christmas morning.
Drink in hand, I unlocked a drawer in my desk and pulled out a thick file. I might have been on house arrest without official use of a wand, but I'd had months to follow the news of the Ministry's rebuilding, and now that I was a free wizard, I had a rather lengthy to-do list waiting for me. There were politicians to bribe, laws to amend, and a whole wizarding world to shape in my image.
Plus I really had to do something about my son's wholly inappropriate relationship. Oh sure, I was bound by a magical vow to keep Draco as my heir and to not force him into a pureblood marriage, but Narcissa was not. She's not especially thrilled about their relationship either. Toujours Pur and all that. The Blacks may be insane, but I can appreciate their desire for purity. It appeared that I had a scheme to concoct with my dear wife.
I took a long sip of my firewhiskey and exhaled as I leaned back in my chair. Yes, I suppose it's true what they say: there really is no rest for the wicked.
Maybe, just maybe, I thought, it's not so bad to be Lucius Malfoy after all.
~Fin~
I am sad to say that we've come to the end of this crazy journey, and now you know how Lucius Malfoy survived the war and avoided a lengthy stay in Azkaban. I'm certain Lucius would say that he paid one JK Rowling a lot of Galleons to not include that tawdry bit about Draco and that scar-faced brat and the mudblood, er, muggleborn in the epilogue of her book, but it absolutely happened. Really. It did.
I would like to thank Tassana Burrfoot, Ariel Riddle, and Lovergurrl411 for their encouragement as I wrote this story. Also, thank you to Lovergurrl411 for putting the idea into my head that this whole time Lucius has been telling his story to a therapist. I've had a request to take on The Cursed Child next, also from Lucius's POV. I've added it to my list of stories to be written, but it's on the backburner at the moment whilst I try to think through the plot.
Thank you to everyone who has followed along on this journey and commented or PM'd me about this story. Drama Queen Lucius might be my favorite character ever, and I'm so glad that others have enjoyed him as much as I have.
Cheers,
Elle
