In the twenty years of his life, Lucius Malfoy had never known a single night of insomnia. He hardly even knew the meaning of the word. But it was nearly 3 in the morning, and he had been pacing his father's study – his study, soon, if what the healers at St. Mungo's told him was true – for what felt like hours. Outside, it was freezing, but the fire in the study raged on with no hint of dying down. Lucius stared into its depths darkly.

He'd only returned from Italy a week before. They had planned to tour Russia next, but his father had been struck down with a terrible fever that could not be explained. They had rushed back to London, and his father had been hospitalized. They had been told that there was nothing they could do, that it wouldn't be long now. Lucius had not been surprised. His father was old; everyone died eventually. He had always known that one day he would inherit the mansion, title, and lands his father had been grooming him for. So what if that day came a few years earlier than anticipated?

Lucius pounded the mantle with one fist.

And then Severus Snape had shown up in his fireplace, the very fireplace he was standing in front of now.

He had known Snape since he'd been fourteen and Snape was eleven. Snape was a first-year student, too young to be an official member of Lucius' inner circle. And although he was in Slytherin, it was commonly known that his father was a Muggle, and he had been shunned by everyone in Slytherin. He was extremely unpopular – well, it was known to happen once in a while, to some unfortunate child, and Lucius had thought little of it. But rather than embrace his half-blood heritage, like many of their fellow students, Snape preferred to hang around Lucius and his friends, watching them hopefully, waiting for someone to accept him into the group. It had been a vain wish, for the most part; nobody was inclined to do so, until Lucius had wandered into what he'd thought was an abandoned corridor and saw Snape jinxing a Gryffindor first-year for picking on him – using a very advanced curse that even Lucius did not know.

From that day on, Lucius had allowed Snape in to his inner circle, giving him his protection against students that often had picked on him before. Lucius was the undisputed leader of the group – if anyone questioned him about his odd choice of friends, he would only reply that Snape was a useful companion – and seldom if ever did people question his judgment.

When Lucius had graduated, he'd forgotten about Snape almost entirely. He threw him aside as carelessly as he had picked him up in the first place. It was only when all of his other friends had left school, and he realized that there was nobody to keep an eye on his long-time fiancé, Narcissa Black, that he paid a visit to the house of Tobias Snape, father of Severus. Surprisingly, his presence still instilled a sense of gratitude in the younger Snape, who agreed to tail the pretty youngest Black daughter during his own last year of school.

Lucius hadn't intended for it to be anything other than a relaxing job for Snape; in her six years at Hogwarts, Narcissa had given him next to nothing to worry about. Having spent ten years with nobody to speak with except for members of the Malfoy family, and having almost no friends at school, there was little room for her to err. So the first half of the school year had gone by without incident – until Snape came blazing out of his fireplace the other night.

Lucius turned and walked away from the roaring fire, towards his father's mahogany desk. On its surface were two prized framed photographs. The first was of his mother, Maria, in the days when she was still young and beautiful, but cold and distant as ever, her snow-blonde hair piled elegantly on top of her head. Lucius passed to the second frame and picked it up.

It had been taken last summer, at the wedding of Rodolphus Lestrange and Narcissa's sister, Bellatrix, and it was of Lucius and Narcissa, sitting by the water fountain on the Lestranges' spacious grounds. The Lucius in the photograph was not looking into the camera; he was looking at someone outside the frame and laughing at something that couldn't be seen. His arm was slung carelessly around Narcissa's slender shoulders.

Lucius looked at the Narcissa in the photograph. She was perched on the edge of the fountain, hands folded delicately in her lap, and she had worn an almost-ethereal apple green organdy dress that day; it floated with the breeze. Her long blonde hair was up in an elegant bun, not a strand out of place, and she was looking directly into the camera with a small smile on her face – a demure smile, Lucius had once thought with pride. Now it only seemed fake.

"How could you do this?" he muttered through clenched teeth at the photograph, "How could you do this to me?"

At twenty-one years old, Lucius was not used to feeling anything for people. While he cared for his parents with odd detachment that he supposed came from living with certain individuals for most of one's life, he had never had a schoolboy crush, had never felt anything very strongly for anyone. He didn't expect to.

But while he'd been in Europe, he had carried a copy of this particular photograph in his pocket. More than once, late at night, he'd caught himself taking it out and looking at it, before he went to sleep –

Lucius closed his eyes and clenched his teeth hard.

"It's unendurable!" he shouted to nobody. There was nobody to hear.

He thought about what Snape had told him, all of Narcissa's layered and multiple sins. Making friends with a Mudblood Muggle-born named Lily Evans. Reuniting with her cousin, that slimy blood-traitor Sirius Black. And running around with a half-breed werewolf named Remus Lupin! His eyes flew open.

"That whore!" he shouted again, throwing the framed photograph on the floor. The glass shattered into several large pieces. He paid no attention.

He hadn't wanted to believe it was true. How could it be? Narcissa had never done anything that she hadn't been told to do, had never strayed even a toe out of line in all the years he had known her. How could she betray him now, only two years from their anticipated wedding date?

No, he hadn't wanted to believe it. For several days, it clawed at his mind, until he could stand it no longer. He had walked into his mother's room, empty, since his mother was holding vigil at St. Mungo's. His mother had, in her possession, a glittering mirror, something that Lucius had often scorned as being somewhat fairy-tale-ish, that would let her see whatever a certain subject was doing at any given time. He had gone to the glass and announced "Narcissa Black!" in a voice not his own.

And there, standing outside the castle in the dark of night, he had seen his fiancé in the arms of an unfamiliar face, a tall teenager with sandy brown hair and blue eyes. And he had seen him kiss her.

The rage. The absolute anger and betrayal that Lucius felt was without limits. He had not slept that night, and he had not slept all day. This was his second sleepless night. He didn't know how he could stand it.

His first inclination was to kill them both where they stood – to go to the castle that instant and annihilate them for daring to cuckold him. But he knew, in his heart of hearts, that if he raised his wand against Narcissa, he could never kill her. After so many years of believing that someday she would be his, Lucius could not accept the fact that her heart belonged to another. But he also knew that he could not bring himself to kill her.

Killing the werewolf was something different, entirely. Lucius knew he could do it. Every time he thought of Narcissa in that – that creature's arms – Lucius shook his head against the image. Oh, killing Remus Lupin would be easy, very easy indeed.

But it wouldn't work. Lucius sighed, resigned to the fact. If he killed Lupin, Narcissa would never be his. She was – much as he hated to admit it – in love with the half-breed. And anybody could go storming in, wand-raised, and kill their adversary. Lucius frowned. Death was too good for this man. He would find another way.

Of course, there was any number of ways to ruin Lupin's life. Simply revealing his secret would be bad enough. He would be expelled from Hogwarts, forced to live on the fringes, hunted down wherever he went. But no, that wouldn't work either. Lucius' brow knit in thought. Narcissa would only follow the werewolf – and Narcissa herself might be hurt.

Or –

The door to the study opened. Lucius turned.

It was only Dobby, the Malfoy family's house elf. He cowered in the doorway, bowing in obsequiousness.

"What do you want?" Lucius snarled at him, "I told you not to disturb me here!"

"Dobby apologizes," the little house elf trembled, "but he has news from the mistress."

Lucius strode over to the door, "Well? Get on with it? Is it about my father?"

Dobby shuddered, swallowed, and bowed his head, "Mistress told Dobby that his master died, not one hour ago. Mistress says that you are Dobby's master now."

Lucius turned and looked around the room. All of this – everything – was his now. His father was dead. He was lord of the manor now.

He looked down at the cringing house elf and felt nothing but revulsion, "Now get out of here," he said, "And I have ALWAYS been your master."

With a crack, Dobby vanished, and Lucius was alone again. He slammed the door of the study shut and leaned against the door.

His father was dead. He was lord of the manor, and should the story of Narcissa and the werewolf get out, he would be the laughingstock of everyone he knew. Lucius would not be the one to bring the family low.

I can't let this happen, he thought to himself. There must – there must be a way –

Lucius' lips curved into a knowing smile.

All he had to do was make a threat. Tell Narcissa that he would have Lupin killed if she didn't marry him. That was it! He would make his threat, and Narcissa would break up with Remus – and then he would make sure she left school. The wedding would be moved up to this summer, instead of the next. He would have his way. Narcissa would be his bride –

He stopped.

"No," he said, "That can't be all. Because he won't give her up."

He laughed.

"Unless, when she's finished leaving him – I make good on that threat."

He walked towards the fireplace and felt something crunch under his feet. Of course. A piece of broken glass. He reached down and picked up the photograph from the little pile of shattered fragments on the floor. He did not look at it this time.

"So this is how it has to be," he said softly, "Narcissa – it's me – or the werewolf dies."

He hurled the picture into the flames. Dispassionately, he watched Narcissa's pretty face darken and shrivel and crumple, until nothing but ashes remained.