Lucius Malfoy woke up to the sound of dripping. He slowly sat up in bed, carefully making sure not to wake the sleeping form next to him. He disentangled himself from the silver silk bed sheets and reached over to the mahogany ornately carved chair beside him where his silk black robe lay. He draped it loosely over his shoulders and followed the sound of dripping.

His towering figure blocked out the moonlight peeking in from the cracks in the curtains as he crept across the richly carpeted floor and slowly eased open the bathroom door. Inside he passed the two deep, silver sinks and the inviting Jacuzzi tub. He would have to soak in it later, he thought to himself. He was feeling sore.

At last he came to the shower stall. His hand reached up to grasp the black curtain. A small window spilled silver moonlight on the silver serpent ring. He pulled back the curtain.

And found nothing.

He sighed and bent down to twist the taps completely off. The dripping stopped. Gods, he was getting paranoid. He headed back to his rooms, tying the bathrobe closed as he went. He decided not to go back to bed, and headed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him.

He padded through his manor, his hair glinting as he flicked at back from his face. The sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones stood out starkly against the narrowed, dark shape of his eyes. On a sudden whim, he turned a sharp left into his study.

The tall man strode elegantly across the room and opened one of the drawers in his desk. Inside he poked around the contents until he found a small matchbox. He swiftly lit the match and set alight one of the nearby candles. Lifting the candleholder, he proceeded to look through the many thick volumes containing various forms of dark magic. His eye strayed on one particular book titled "Necromancy: Death is only the Beginning". One pale slender finger reached up to stroke the worn, black spine of the book. He picked it up and dusted it off.

Lucius walked back over to the desk and set down the book, brushing off the dust carefully so as not to rip the fragile pages. He slowly opened it, the candlelight spilling eerie shadows onto the old texts. Skimming through it, he found what he needed and tucked the book under the folds of his robe.

He strode purposefully back through the hallways of his manor. He passed various objects that were hand-carved sculptures, original paintings and crystal rooms. All reminders of his wealth and power.

Ah, power. He greedily fed on it, letting it seep into his blood and nourish him. It was what got him through his day better than any stimulating drink, and the night better than the most talented of whores. And Voldemort had brought power.

For years he had drunk from the pools of power the Dark Lord gave him. He believed himself invincible. But after Voldemort crumbled, all was gone. He had been the tallest, most imposing, grandest of towers, and then one day it had all come crashing to the ground. Voldemort was dead. All the other Death Eaters were dead. Narcissa was dead. His beloved wife. He had once fed on power. Now he nourished himself with revenge.

The tower may have fallen, but the blocks were still there. And he rebuilt it. Had but every scrap back into place. Except for the capstone. His darling Narcissa.

She had been the perfect wife. Gorgeous and sophisticated, born and raised in a world of aristocracy and power. She acted stupid when required, and looked up to no one but him. Not even Voldemort could take that away from him. Until he killed her.

Funny how when something bad happens, we tend to turn away from reality and our brains warp themselves around the facts until your trying to see through a grey mist and the person who gets blamed had nothing to do with what happened. And so it was with Lucius. Yes, Voldemort had performed the spell which allowed her last breath to slip from her lips. But it wasn't his idea. No, someone else had sliced the last thread. And that someone was Ginevra Weasley.

The youngest Weasley was she who had fed the Dark Lord with lies of the Malfoy family. Who had said the Mrs. Malfoy was a spy and planning to kill them all. She was the one who had planted the seed in Voldemort's mind and watched while it grew, then cackled with glee as it blossomed.

Now, why would the young red-head want his wife dead. Why, to get back at Draco, of course. The Malfoy heir did not choose his women well. After fucking the young girl senseless, he left her heartbroken. Emotional Gryffindors. But did she even consider that killing Narcissa would ruin HIS life too? NO! She must die.

But Lucius wanted to do this carefully. He eventually reached the tall glass doors that led to the gardens and stepped outside onto the stone-paved pathways in the warm July night air. He walked slowly, pausing to admire several flowers. He finally reached his wife's tombstone. On it was engraved:

Narcissa Malfoy

Loved Mother and Wife

Creeping up a leaf

Fluttering delicate wings

Colourful flashes mixed

Among nature's bindings

Beauty is a butterfly

Standing in the dew

Mindful of the blood

That stealthily seeps through

If you could capture a corner

Of the world's beauty

A quivering butterfly

Represents what that could be.

He knelt in front of the stone, entwined in rose thorns and blossoms, a white angel standing above it looking at the moon. His eyes were set hard as he slowly looked back down and opened the book before him.

"I will avenge you, my beautiful butterfly," he whispered.