That fucking half-blood Potter brat had ruined everything again.
Lucius strode up and down his library, his cane tapping a furious tattoo on the floor.
Such success, in the palm of his hand! Dumbledore, dethroned. That disgusting half-breed oaf Hagrid, sent to Azkaban where his ilk deserved to rot. And Arthur Weasley, sure to be discredited, along with his pitiful Muggle Protection Act. Not to mention the cleansing of Hogwarts, a step toward frightening away the mudbloods and maybe even the half-bloods.
The governors had been like putty to him, and between them and his influence over the Minister, pathetic man that he was, Lucius would have been able to select the next headmaster of Hogwarts, one that would be more suitable for guiding the next generation of wizards and witches.
Once the crisis and attacks had passed to Lucius' satisfaction, of course.
Build up fear, and then step in as the saviour. What a simple plan, it had been.
Up until that half-blood rat had ruined everything, stealing away Lucius' house-elf in the process.
No more governorship for Lucius. No more influence at Hogwarts. His influence at the Ministry had been diminished as well, after Dumbledore, no doubt, had made a few comments to certain people.
Oh, if he lay low for a while and continued with his donations, perhaps adding a few more, he would regain Fudge's favour in a year or two. Fudge was certainly oblivious enough.
But it rankled. Oh, how it rankled. Fury such as he hadn't felt since those wonderful, halcyon years fighting by the Dark Lord's side.
And oh, how the Dark Lord would punish him for losing the diary, if ever he returned.
Worse than the loss of his stature, worse than the loss of his servant, worse, even, than the ruination of his plans: this had all played out in Weasley's favour.
Far from being discredited and ruined, since his daughter was known to have been a victim, he had been treated with greater kindness, and his Muggle Protection Act was a certainty.
AND HE HAD FUCKING WON THE MINISTRY SWEEPSTAKES!
Just the thought of it was enough to turn his gut, for him to nearly vent his spleen on his entire useless library: to simply snap and burn it all.
Instead, he dropped into a chair, hands tightening around the arms.
True, seven hundred galleons was less than Lucius donated to St Mungo's when he wanted bills passed, but it was the principal of the matter.
Arthur Weasley did not deserve to win anything. Arthur Weasley deserved to suffer, to drown in his own agony and bile and mediocrity and die after seeing all he had created in ruins. He deserved to bury his disgusting wife and children and live out his days as a blind, deaf, incapable invalid in constant torment.
But the winds of fortune had changed, and were now blowing away from Lucius and toward that misbegotten wretch.
All of this could be laid at the impure feet of that despicable half-blood who had somehow defeated the Dark Lord, and in doing so, destroyed Lucius' hopes for a perfect world.
And there was absolutely nothing Lucius could do about it.
He could not act against Potter politically. It would destroy his reputation beyond salvation.
His instinct, to attack Potter at Hogwarts, had been utterly foolish, but at least there he would have been capable of harming the brat, even if Dumbledore would have caught him moments later. At his Muggle relatives' home, he was too well protected, far too well protected.
Lucius had taken a trip there himself, into the stench and pollution of the Muggle world.
There, the magic that protected Potter's family shone like a diamond in a midden. Built upon his mother's love and blood, it was impenetrable. He could not so much as raise his wand toward the home, could not even attack the enormous, disgusting Muggle who had left it.
He'd spent weeks researching since then, going through every book in his expansive library, taking a trip to his wife's family home and searching through their far darker tomes.
There was nothing. No way to circumvent the protections that Dumbledore, obviously, had put in place.
So Lucius resigned himself to waiting, waiting for the day when he would somehow be able to exact his revenge.
That day would come far sooner than he thought.
It was only a few days later that he was handed the tools to his victory. A rumour, one which he quickly confirmed as fact.
The Weasleys had adopted Harry Potter. They were even receiving a small stipend from the ministry for doing so.
The Weasleys had adopted Harry Potter. As if those mongrels didn't have enough brats of their own, they had to take in another. A stray.
But now...now, Lucius felt almost like dancing.
The protection around Potter's Muggle family's house had been based on blood. On their shared blood. The Weasleys did not have that.
By God, how had Dumbledore allowed Potter to leave the sanctuary he had created?
It did not matter. All that mattered was that Lucius could finally end that troublesome child, and Arthur Weasley and his Muggle loving brood as well.
He was back in his library now, nursing a brandy and contemplating his plan.
Yes, it would work. It would certainly, certainly work.
"Narcissa," he called, "could you come here, please?"
His lovely wife joined him a few minutes later, eyes tight. His sour mood of late had been bothering her greatly, as if a chasm had opened between them. He had been too frustrated and enraged to even attempt to broach it. Soon, oh so soon, however, they would be happy once more.
"We shall be hosting a party tomorrow evening," he said, "I'm truly sorry for the short notice."
It had to be the next evening. A contact in the travel department had informed of how the Weasleys, Potter in tow, would be travelling to Egypt in a few days.
That contact would come in highly useful, with a liberal dose of the Imperius and some Obliviation.
Her eyebrows rose, a frown appearing. He could see the sharp retort forming, and hurried on.
"I'm going to fix everything," he promised. "But I need to be seen here."
It took her a moment, but his quick-witted, fierce, brilliant wife broke into a smile.
"Excellent," she purred. "You'll use a Muggle?"
"Certainly. Easier to dispose of. We have enough polyjuice, correct?"
"Of course. I'll have everything seen to. We really must get another elf, Lucius. I'm assuming the Minister will be there?"
"Oh, yes. Not too large a party, I think. Let's say…twenty people?"
"It will be done," she assured him. Then, viper-quick, leaned over, nipped him on the earlobe and hissed: "Bring them to ruin."
He stood on the small hill overlooking the Weasleys' excuse for a home, relishing the next few minutes.
In his own manor, a Muggle had been polyjuiced into his own appearance, distasteful though it was. Said Muggle was now, under the Imperius' influence, having a charming conversation with Fudge.
It was all too easy.
He himself had taken polyjuice, taking on the Muggle's appearance. It was utterly disgusting, but at least the short, broad, dark-haired and eyed man looked nothing like him.
To be sure, he had disillusioned himself as well.
Invisible and unidentifiable, he had crept up to the Weasleys house, and with the aid of a Supersensory Charm, confirmed they were present. Not the eldest two boys, unfortunately, but Arthur, his cow of a wife, the rest of their children, and Potter.
There certainly had been some magical protections added to their home. Not enough to stop his plan. Not nearly enough for that.
He smiled, looking down at them from the hill. Just on the edge of hearing, he could hear laughter from within the house.
Soon he would hear screams.
They didn't know that their floo had been temporarily disconnected from the network. They hadn't noticed the Anti-Apparition Charm he'd set, trapping them in place.
They were happy, unaware of their approaching doom.
He relished the moment, the sun setting in the background, its warm rays hitting the back of his neck.
Then he raised his wand, and with a chuckled incantation, unleashed Fiendfyre.
The enormous, cursed flames exploded from his wand–Manticores, enormous serpents, a dragon-they erupted forward, shooting out like rockets.
Down they flew, growing in size as they descended upon Arthur Weasley's home.
It was beautiful to behold, majestic in its horror. They tore and shredded and above all burned, transforming the home into a ruin.
As Lucius had expected, screams replaced laughter. Screams, wails, what sounded like attempts to cast spells.
Fools. They were dead the moment they had crossed him.
The fiery dragon burned through the wall. Lucius watched, cackling, as it burned through Molly and seized Arthur, his body boiling at its very touch. One of the sons launched himself to save his father and fell to the floor, his body as black as soot.
The manticore took Potter, tearing his head off while burning him to ash. Two more of Arthur's sons died in an attempt to save their previous Boy Who Lived.
The remaining son and, of course, pathetic daughter who didn't have the good grace to be caught as the culprit of the attacks on Hogwarts, were killed by the flaming serpent in a moment of delicious irony.
It was all done. They were dead, Weasley and his brood, and the Potter brat who destroyed all he touched. Finally, they were dead.
Lucius let the fire continue its work, although the beasts were less interested now that they had no more prey. Then, once the Burrow and all its contents was little more than ash, reluctantly he released his spell.
Whistling, he removed his Anti-Apparition Charm and set off to get himself cleaned up and to head home.
All was well.