Lucius Malfoy was not a happy man.
Least of all for the fact that his plans, despite being foolproof, had quite undershot expectations.
He supposed that he had vastly misjudged the quality of fool that had begun to spread through the Wizarding World like a fungus.
Yes, that was what they were. Muggles, Mudbloods, Half-bloods, Blood-Traitors. A fungus, feasting off of the diseased corpse of the Wizarding World, hastening its decline until wizards, everywhere, choked out their final breaths.
It sickened him.
He had deployed the Diary to Hogwarts as a scheme: if he could not directly act against the filth, than by having a puppet act in his stead would serve instead.
Unfortunately, it seemed, he had chosen less than ideally regarding his puppet.
Here he stood, in the Headmaster's office, in the middle of March, when he would much rather be sitting on the beach of one of his countless properties, drinking expensive liquor and listening to the waves crash against the beach.
He had scarcely believed it when he was called in by Severus Snape. His long-time acquaintance had alerted him that there was something afoot, and had owled him a copy of the... message... scrawled on the wall.
It had taken Lucius several moments to indeed confirm that he was not a victim of a particularly thorough prank.
The diary had activated almost two months earlier than it should have, hastening the final stages by an order of magnitude. The chances of actual success for such an act would be astronomically low, not to mention the potential loss of memories, power, or even shape...
Still, it was likely that the misfired tome would take its host down with it, and was why Lucius now sat in the office, beside a pair of Blood-Traitors. It had been fool's play to convince them to worry of their daughter's safety, and despite the pre-existing hatred the Malfoys held for this particular set of blood traitors, they had quickly seen their own flawed brand of reason, and had acted as expected.
Both Blood-Traitors were currently blubbering to the headmaster, begging him to rescue their daughter. Severus stood to the side, leaning against a wall.
Fools, the both of them.
Their precious daughter, whoever she was, had no chance of survival.
He had nearly convinced the two that if their daughter was not found, a thorough search would need to be undertaken, which would prove to be the ideal time to defraud Dumbledore.
After all, a man of his magnitude would be unable to survive having his dirty laundry aired to the general public, now would he?
And that's when everything went pear-shaped.
A brief knock filled the air, before a smaller, younger redheaded traitor barged into the room, with a look of disappointment, anger, and all-around annoyance plastered against her face.
The two older traitors immediately turned to embrace the younger, showcasing their obvious lack of control.
Still, in a display of control unlike her parents, the young child only sighed, uttered something about how 'Harry' and 'Ron' refused to say anything to her, and that they'd be along shortly.
She then wandered towards the back of the room, found a chair, and sat down, with her head in her hands.
Truly a shame that she was born into such a family: that gesture was distinctly Slytherin.
Next into the fold was a larger, male redhead. His eyes were plastered open, and he continually looked behind himself. So this was the host. Lucius briefly pondered the survival of the puppet, before mentally assigning them all into the same category as cockroaches.
And then came in Potter himself. The supposed 'bane' of his master, the being solely responsible for not only his unemployment, but also...
Although he would never admit it, Malfoy owed a small debt to Potter. By offing his superior, Malfoy was free to extend his influence to his heart's content, with no person able to stand in his way. The Dark Lord had been an excellent accelerator for his plan, but had quickly outgrown being useful. Even worse, had he not fallen, his accursed brand could have spelled his downfall.
But by being defeated, Lucius was free. Entirely free.
At least until he managed to come back. He'd spent many nights laying awake, debating what course of action would lead to the most gain, should his old master return.
So yes, Lucius owed Potter a small debt. However, it was unlikely he'd ever find it called in: only a complete idiot would try and accuse him to fulfil it. After all, Potter hated him; it'd be unthinkable for him to ask for a favor.
Back to the situation at hand.
Potter was carrying a broadsword, a nobleman's one, at that. Nodding towards the blade in appreciation, his gaze wandered to the edge.
Bile rose to Lucius's throat.
He recognized what was impaled upon the sword. At the same time, he did not.
He could feel that it was his former master's diary, emboldened with dark magic.
He could also tell that it was something no sane wizard would ever own.
Sensing the silence in the room, Lucius was incited to act.
"Merlin's Breath: what is that horror?"
Dumbledore, that bastard, turned towards him.
"I believe that this diary is yours, Lucius", he spoke, in his sickening, condescending voice.
And then he handed the disgusting wreck to him.
The book was entirely covered in glitter.
Every pore in Lucius's body shuddered in revulsion as he was confronted by the antithesis of his refined, aristocratic tastes. He had to get rid of it now.
"Dobby!" He spoke. It wasn't a scream at all: noblemen do not scream, you see. Either way, his worthless elf appeared before him, immediately followed by him throwing the book at the elf.
The book soared through the air towards the elf, dripping through the air like a particularly cheap firework, leaving spatters of black ink, multicolored dust, and terrible taste in its wake. It collided with the elf with the force of a small missile composed entirely of teenage angst, painting the elf a hideous mixture of rainbow-and-black.
The elf stumbled back from the impact, before raising its hands in the air in victory.
"I IS FREE!" screamed the elf, "MASTER GIVE DOBBY HORRIBLE BOOK!"
Lucius took exactly three seconds to glance towards his ex-elf, now coated in quite possibly the worst paint job he had ever seen.
"Keep him!" he huffed, as he turned tail and left, in the quickest fashion he could muster, without directly appearing to have fled.
Three minutes, and two burning charms later, everyone, save the professors, had left the headmaster's office.
Exactly three minutes, two seconds later, the air filled with a hideous sound.
The sound of Severus Snape laughing.