Chapter 47
One hour. That was all it took to brew the poison that would kill Garednon. It was late only afternoon, but clouds obscured the sun and cast a shadow over all of Hogwarts. I would deliver the potion to the elves after my talk with Lily. Which, I hoped, wouldn't take too long.
She was walking towards me, the world's most somber expression on her beautiful face. Lily. My Lily.
"What did you want to talk about?" I snapped. I'd made my voice purposely harsh and cold. She flinched. I wanted to tell her I was sorry and I never meant to hurt her, but I just couldn't. That would make everything harder.
"The truth. About everything. Don't lie to me, Lucius. It hurts when you do." Her voice never wavered.
"You want the truth? You. You are my truth." I couldn't stand being a Malfoy to her. I would be her Lucius for just a while longer. "Everything I do is to protect you. You're like something beautiful I'm afraid to touch. Because I'm afraid to ruin you. To infect you. With me."
"You don't have to protect me--"she began, but I shook my head.
"I do. When you see something so infinitely perfect and pure and nice you don't want to mar it." My voice was, by now, embarrassingly husky. I blinked quickly. I was not going to cry.
"You wouldn't infect me with you. And I'm not perfect. We're all the same, Lucius."
"NO! Lily—Lily, just—I can't be with you anymore. I can't. You know it. I've done things. Things I shouldn't have. Things I thought would make everything better. Your dreams—they tell you the truth."
"Then what is the truth, Lucius?" The world was spinning fast. Faster. And through the whirlwind of terror I saw Her. Her auburn hair. Her green eyes. So perfect. How come I hadn't noticed? It was surreal—to see myself wrench the sleeve of my cloak up my arm. So she could see it. The Mark. I heard her sharp intake of breath. She reached out to touch it but I pulled away. I didn't want any part of it touching her.
"There. That's the truth. I'm a Death Eater. A follower of Lord Voldemort. A hater of—mudbloods," I spat the word out. "Not just a hater, either. A killer. A murderer."She'd shut her eyes. In disappointment? In fear? I could kill her. It was in my power to. It was my duty to. But I wouldn't.
"Lucius—you could just go to Dumbledore--"
"Have you heard anything I've said? He has followers. Everywhere. Every pureblood. If I went to Dumbledore, could that fool protect me? Could he? Could he protect you? He couldn't protect her."
"Her? Who?" I couldn't find it in myself to look into her eyes. Lily's clear, emerald eyes, so filled with pain. Pain that should have been mine. "Who?" She repeated.
"Madeleine. She's dead. I killed her." My words were dull; muted. Somehow, my legs gave way, and I was kneeling. In front of a mudblood. No. In front of Lily. There was a difference.
"You--you killed her?" She said softly. Her hands trembled, and she was inching away from me. I found myself reaching for her, even though I knew—knew deep down that I was just supposed to let her run away. "You killed her." And she cried. Tears from the bottom of her soul. "Why Lucius? Why?" She looked up at me with her tear streaked face, and it was all I could do not to hold her.
"Because I didn't want it to be you."
"What?" Disbelief stained her voice. I'd lost her trust. The most precious thing in the world, next to her love.
"I didn't want it to be you. They—they knew. About us. It would be an—ultimate test of my loyalty, if I killed you for them. They—got the wrong person."
"So you killed her? To protect me?" I'd never seen her like this before. I couldn't read her mind—the expressions on her face came too fast and too jumbled for me to understand. She'd buried her face in her hands now, and I could see the tears that coursed through her fingers. "My friends told me. I told them about us—that we were 'just friends', when they got suspicious. Slytherins were bad, but Malfoys were the worst, they said. Especially Lucius Malfoy. 'He'll give you trouble'; 'stay away from his sort'." A short, sarcastic laugh. "Of course I didn't believe them. I thought—I thought I saw something in you, that--that nobody saw. You weren't one-dimensional. You weren't even three-dimensional. You were full of twists and turns and surprises and--" her breath caught, and she was quiet again. I knelt there. Near her—so close I wanted to touch her—but I couldn't. Not now. Then, she spoke up, her voice deep and hoarse with pain. "Who are they?" She wouldn't look at me anymore. I felt--literally felt—an iron hand clutch the innermost part of my being and wring it. Breathing was harder than usual, and the world still hadn't stopped spinning around Her.
"Lord Voldemort. And—and Garednon. Professor Garednon."
"Professor? A death eater? But—so—he thinks I'm--" She was shaking her head. She'd stood up by then, and she was and moving further and further away from me.
"Dead. And when he sees you, he'll know he made a mistake. And he'll go after you. Again. And this time, he'll get the right person. I'll take care of it."
"We have to tell the Headmaster, Lucius. We have to."
"And what? I told you, he doesn't have any power. We tell Dumbledore, he tells the minister of magic, and then what? Garednon goes to Azkaban? And Lord Voldemort will come after you. And he's not as easy to get as Garednon."
"So what do you suggest. . . we—do?" She'd hesitated over the 'we'. She wanted nothing to do with me. I understood.
"We will do nothing. There isn't anymore 'we' Lily. There can't be. Your friends were right. Find a little Gryffindor boy for yourself. We—we're not right together." My resolution was diamond-hard. I could not—would not—involve her in anything. That would be the safest way. "I will handle the Garednon business. Go. Have fun. Live."
She nodded, infinite sadness, disappointment, and pure frustration evident on her pale face. She turned away, but some instinct led me to grab her hand and hold it tightly. I felt her flinch, but she met my eyes—this one, last time.
"Just—Lily--" words were finding it difficult to form in my head—all I could think was that she was leaving me and I would never be with her again—but eventually, I managed to croak, "remember. When you're happy, and married, and—safe—just remember me. The Death Eater who loved the Mudblood. And—still does. Remember that." I held her tighter, trying to enforce the conviction of my words; strangely angry at the gloves that separated us.
An almost imperceptible nod. "I loved you too." She squeezed my hand, I let go, and she turned, walking away in the moonlight. She'd used the past tense.
Now, remember this moment. This exact moment. Because this was the last time I touched her. Alive.
