A/N – I have decided that the Dementors have wholly abandoned Azkaban, and now it is only a maximum security wizarding prison. This fic is set 10 years after Harry's seventh year, so Lucius has been in prison for 12 years. Again, I would issue some tongue-in-cheek warnings, and emphasise the effect of too much Jack Higgins.
Disclaimer – I don't own anything. Don't sue.
Chapter 2 – Recruitment.
Even without the Dementors, Azkaban was one of the least pleasant places Lucius had ever seen. In the arrogance of his youth he had been confident that he could become a Death Eater and escape capture, that he would never face the consequences of his choice... And he had been right, the first time he had put that certainty to the test. But, he supposed, having escaped Azkaban the first time around, it was a little too much to expect getting off twice –
At least, that was what he had felt when he had first been tossed in here, but that attitude had lasted all of a month. It was a truly wretched place, with dark, dank stone walls, interminably dripping water, and hysterical screaming from the other inmates who had been unlucky enough to be here before the Dementors had deserted, and by the end of three months he had wanted out.
He had actually waited patiently, believing that the Dark Lord would provide for his – relatively – faithful second in command's liberation, but when a year had passed and nothing had happened, it had been fairly clear that he had been abandoned.
And after all that he'd done for the Cause.
Well.
A few years later, when there had been the opportunity of a prison break – held out as a bonus afterthought to freeing a truly important, valued Death Eater – he'd done his discreet best to ensure that it failed. The governor had been properly grateful, grateful enough that he'd been moved to more comfortable accommodations, and he'd eventually resigned himself to spending the rest of his life in Azkaban.
As long as he was in prison, none of them could get him – not the Aurors, who had not been satisfied with sending him to Azkaban and had campaigned long and hard for the Kiss, not the Death Eaters who were less than pleased with his betrayal of their prison plot, and not anyone else who might come calling, seeking revenge for anything that he might have done in his reckless, wild youth.
It was not such a bad life.
It was safe. His new quarters were quite comfortable – monetary inducement could buy rich furnishings and special treatment from the guards who were stuck here, on a barren island in the middle of nowhere, with only one weekend off a month. He had a flourishing little sideline in black market dealings, and managed, using his superior manipulative skills to stay on the good sides of both prisoners and guards. That was, the prisoners treated him with respect or he enforced his dominance forcefully, and he made sure that they made no trouble for the guards, who in turn gave him no trouble.
It had not been so easy, at first – a malicious guard named Watkins had done his best to make his life miserable, and the prisoners had not been so willing to cooperate with him – but he was nothing if not patient. It had taken him another two years, but the prisoners who gave him the most trouble somehow fell ill, or met with accidents, or decided it was in their best interests to cooperate, and as for Mr. Watkins, well…
The least said about that incident, the better.
And so here he was, twelve years in Azkaban, and while he could delude himself that he was content with being a shark in such a small, miserable pond, the truth was…
The truth was, he'd do absolutely anything to get out. Oh, he could escape, but then he'd always be looking back over his shoulder, waiting for the inevitable footsteps… He wanted to get out legitimately and not have to worry about, at the least, one of the groups after his head. He wanted to walk in the outside world again, to go somewhere just because he could and not just because the indulgent authorities had allowed him.
He wanted… He wanted to see his son, even if his son had no interest in seeing him. Just once.
He wanted to walk on Malfoy land again, which had somehow assumed a rich, nostalgic glow that was no doubt an illusion created by a long absence, but was nonetheless no less powerful.
He wanted…he wanted to feel alive again.
Moody had always hated Azkaban. It was such a miserable place with such a dark, dreary atmosphere that he tried to avoid visiting it unless it was absolutely necessary – unfortunately, in this particular case there was no way he could avoid the trip. If he was to catch this assassin, he needed to speak to Malfoy. And to speak to Malfoy…
At least he was not alone in his misery – since it was her suggestion in the first place, he had ordered Tonks to come with him. It was hard to believe, sometimes, that Lucius Malfoy was her uncle by marriage – although neither side acknowledged the relationship. Malfoy and his (ex-wife, now) were not willing to admit to a mudblood connection and Andromeda and Frank Tonks had cordially loathed their Malfoy connections – it had not made for good family relations. But Tonks and young Malfoy got on well enough, he had to admit. And there were times when Tonks displayed an almost Slytherin deviousness –
Such as this little ploy. Set the most influential and dangerous Death Eater of the first Rising to catch one of the most dangerous Death Eater assassins they'd come across in a very long time – viewed objectively, it was a very good idea. Get Lucius Malfoy's cunning and intelligence to work for them, rather than against them, and possibly even make an agent out of him…
Yes, a very good idea.
As to how they would secure that cooperation, or how they would keep it, once outside Azkaban's walls…
Tonks had been alarmingly blasé about it all. Oh, don't worry, he'll cooperate – he's been out of the game for so long, he'll be itching for any chance to get back…
It's not about ideology or pure blood with him – he simply doesn't believe in those things. It's always been the thrill, the intrigue, the game – offer him a chance to feel alive again, and he'll do cooperate.
Thrill seeker.
Amoral adventurer.
Why had Lucius Malfoy joined the Death Eaters in the first place?
For a chance at something more. Something beyond conventional societal bounds…
The governor showed them into the visiting room, and as they sat two guards led a tall, familiar figure into the room. Even handcuffed and dressed in prison overalls, even unshaven with shoulder-length, shaggy hair tied back with a piece of leather, Lucius Malfoy was unmistakable – and just as unmistakable was his crooked smile as he saw who his impromptu visitors were.
"Hello, Moody," he said casually, sinking into a chair before the guards could force him into it. The guards, looking a little nonplussed, took up stations on either side of the door and assumed their most uninterested expressions, but Moody was willing to wager anything that they were listening avidly. He cleared his throat meaningfully, looking from the guards to the door, and with a disappointed air they filed out, not willing to cross such a powerful official.
When they were gone, he turned to the prisoner. "Malfoy." Indicating Tonks, he said, "This is my colleague, Tonks –"
"Yes," Malfoy said dryly, "I remember Nymphadora…" He ignored her involuntary wince. "What brings you here, of all places, Moody?"
"An offer," Moody said.
Malfoy raised a brow. "Oh?"
"First things first." Moody took out a cigarette and lit it with a muttered incantation. "How long have you been in here, Malfoy? Ten years? Twelve?"
"You know how long I've been in here," Malfoy said dryly. "You put me here. I bet you've been keeping the anniversary."
Moody allowed himself a mellow chuckle, enjoying the memory as he blew out a thin cloud of smoke in Malfoy's direction. "So I did," he said in rich satisfaction. "So I did, and it was a great, great day. However, all things on this earth must end – and circumstances have changed."
Malfoy leaned back insolently in his chair, settling his cuffed hands more comfortably in front of him. "Circumstances have changed?" he repeated ironically. "What do you want?"
"The question is, Malfoy – what do you want? Do you want to rot away in here for the rest of your very long pureblooded life? Or do you want to get out into the real world once more?"
"And what would I have to do to earn my re-entry into the real world?"
"Ah," Moody said, his eyes narrowed, and blew out more smoke. "Now that is the interesting bit…"
And he explained the situation to Malfoy, with occasional interjections from Tonks. When he was finished, Malfoy watched them through narrowed, intelligent eyes. "And, just for the sake of accuracy, let's say that I don't agree to do this…" The congenial irony was still strong in his tone; he had not yet become truly angry.
"We'll go away and leave you in peace," Moody said amiably. "No one will ever bother you again, and you can live out the rest of your life here in Azkaban. Unless, that is, the Aurors again appeal your sentence and it is decided to give you over to what Dementors we still have left…"
Malfoy smiled, just a little tightly. "Well then…" he shrugged casually. "Since you put it that way, I'll be happy to help you find your assassin. And once it's over?" He raised his eyebrow again, questioning.
"We'll see," Moody said pleasantly.
But it was the best that Malfoy was going to get, and he knew it. So he smiled, deriving what amusement he could from the situation – at least, he thought, the future held the promise of further interest.
He was getting out. He would walk under the blue sky again. The Aurors would be staved off – for a time, at least – and he had an intriguing puzzle to sink his long-unused teeth into, even if he did have to cooperate with Moody.
What more could he possibly want?
"Very well, Moody," he finally said. "I'll hunt down this assassin for you. And then," he grinned, this time, showing his teeth, "and then we'll see."
Yes, he thought, as the guards released his handcuffs and gave him back his old civilian robes, life was indeed looking up. And as he walked out of the entrance to Azkaban – with a pleasant greeting for the governor and for each of the guards – and into the sunlight, he tipped his head back unashamedly and chuckled with pure delight.
He was back.
He was alive.
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