A/N: This is the first time I'm attempting a HP fic, and with a character as little-known as Lucius Malfoy, so please forgive me if there's anything wrong.
And please tell me if you wish me to continue, and whether it's good enough.
Disclaimer: The Malfoys and all related characters belong to JK Rowling. No intentional copyright infringement is intended through their use. Characters you don't recognize are mine. Please ask before using them. Thanks.
"Others are merely mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects something you love or hate about yourself." –Unknown
Mirrors
One
The air was cool and only slightly moist, a shower having just came and passed. The shadows lengthened, and the light of streetlamps was beginning to wink on one by one, their yellow light mingling with the red-yellow of the sun to cast feeble light unto the shadows.
The streets were just beginning to be cleared of the day crowd of accountants, business-people and doctors, making space for the night crowd that came out only after dark, or were the sorts who lived in the dual world of the sun and moon, staying on the streets as a worker and an enjoyer: street-rats; vagabonds; workers who had finished working for the day.
Lucius Malfoy walked amongst them in the still sparsely-populated street. His platinum-blonde hair spilling in gentle waves over his shoulders was a stark contrast to the black duster he wore, and the presence of only two colours gave the thought of the distant, cold rays of moonlight shining upon a darkened land, casting an unearthly light in some places but darkening others where those could not reach.
People walked all about him: Humans. Mudblood, he named them. Filth. But wait. Or was that term one he used for the wizards and witches of human or mixed descent? He shrugged. He had long forgotten it, for to him, both were as dirtied as the other.
He continued walking after having paused for only the slightest of moments, always walking in a straight line, firm and arrogant in his steps, unlike the erratic gaits of mere humans. They, for their part, seemed to avoid him, not one of them ever brushing against him in accident as they did with others.
Lucius smirked. Others in his family or connections did not know that, but he was used to walking amongst the pathetic humans, and did so frequently, leaving his house in the world of magic to the human world, concealed in his departure by magic.
He hated them, and so walked amongst them, searching for reasons to hate and loathe them even more.
He had learnt Hate long ago, and gotten so intimate with it it was now part of him. In his youth, he had joined Voldemort, became a Death Eater, because his father had not been appointed the Head of the Ministry of Magic, and thus had no power, but being a Death Eater gave him power; his marriage to Narcissa was forced, and he hated not her, but the shallow 'bond' which they shared but bound him.
Draco Malfoy was the result of that bond, and he had become like his father in looks and temperament, loathing all but Narcissus and Lucius, and Lucius did not know if he should be glad.
Hate was all he knew now; Hate was all he loved.
Lucius smiled at the irony of the words, turning into a poorly-lit alley. It was surprisingly clean and empty of the homeless vagabonds he had expected it to have.
As he strolled down, he saw some closed doors and dark windows, and some lighted ones. And from a few of them came the soft sounds of laughter borne to him by the wind.
So alien, he thought, and for the first time in a long time, he shivered and pulled the duster more tightly about him as if to keep the lights out, keep the laughter away.
He continued down the long alleyway, and by then, even the shadows were no more, taken over by darkness. Only the few lone streetlamps that lined the alley at intervals provided him with a beacon and direction in which to move.
The breeze continued blowing, but this time, Lucius heard noises of pain, of soft crying, and of rage, and his heart leapt to hear those. As a moth drawn to a flame, he searched out the origination of those noises.
He found it.
The house stood amongst others of a more dilapidated sort, but still livable in. The door and windows were old but clean and un-spoilt, and he saw a small pot of flowers set upon the sill, out of place in the darkness.
The windows were open, and through one of them, Lucius saw three figures: a rugged, dirty man in his early forties; a young woman with black hair who looked to be in her early twenties, shielding a young boy who looked no more than thirteen.
The man held a belt that was old and cracked, and Lucius could see it even from that distance, darkened by patches of what he guessed was blood. As the man raised the belt for another strike, the woman covered the boy's body with hers again, and her face contorted in a silent cry of agony.
Lucius smirked in satisfaction, and stayed on to watch.
The boy's face turned to stare out of the window, but he did not see Lucius, so hidden was he in the shadows that even his pale hair did not show.
And he saw the boy's eyes, so piercing, so intense that Lucius felt as if they could see him. And they pleaded, those eyes pleaded with the darkness, with the God he knew Humans prayed to, with him; they begged for release, or for aid, from an angel, a messenger from God, from someone.
Then the man snarled, "What yer lookin' at, boy? Ain't nobody's gonna help yer here!"
Lucius saw the man's eyes as well—as he turned to look where the boy was staring at—and it was as if he looked into the brown depths of the reflective orbs and saw red, a red that tainted everything in it. And he found that he hated that mirror, and wanted to kill it, destroy it so that it dulled over from the lack of life.
As the man struck out again, Lucius moved, and the force of his rage gave him strength, and he broke down the door, rushing in like an avenging angel from Hell which he was named after.
With one strike from his gloved hand, the man laid on the floor unmoving, blood spilling from one cracked lip. But he was merely unconscious and not dead, and Lucius raised a boot to stamp on the man's neck.
"No!" The woman cried and leapt before him, glaring at him with the same piercing dark eyes of the boy's. "Don't kill him!"
The gaze was as a sword that disarmed him, and he nodded, leading them out.
They looked lost and frightened in the darkness, and Lucius led them to a hotel he knew he had seen. He paid for a room and led them in there, never speaking, and they followed him mutely, as if glad for a guide, even if they were wary of him.
He instructed them to shower, and ordered some food, and as they were out of his sight, left some money to last them a few days, and left.
As Lucius drove back, ready to return home, he took thought of his mind again and cursed himself. What had he been thinking of, being so nice? Those filthy humans deserved nothing but contempt.
With another curse, he sped up and flew off in his car.
