Chapter 5 - Mirror, Part 2

January 10th, 2004

Malfoy Manor, 10:47 am

Ejected from his library, Lucius endured a walk of several minutes, through several connected corridors, to put distance between the room — specifically, the Ministry officials now occupying it — and himself. When he was far enough away to be reasonably confident of avoiding detection or interference, he stopped and gave in, sank down where he stood, and sat on the floor, leaning against he wall behind him, and tried to contain the turmoil that gripped his body and mind.

He was still struggling to breathe. Still, he was sweating. For several minutes he sat, motionless, staring blankly, his vision blurred, at the wall on the opposite side of the passageway.

Gradually, his breathing improved, the sweating abated, and his eyes focused.

He noticed that the wall was covered with blue and white brocade wallpaper. Had it changed? Narcissa, perhaps, had redecorated while he was in prison? He had no idea. He was unaccustomed to noticing the properties of walls. For most of his life, he had better things to do with his time and, perhaps more importantly, the wits with which to do them. He could remember the whole of Malfoy Manor, including the walls in this area of the house, being oppressively murky during Voldemort's takeover, as though it had been shrouded in a viscous film of dark magic. He could remember Narcissa's remarking, when they first married, that she disliked the walls' décor, either wood panelling or green and silver fleur de lis. Lucius had said it was Malfoy tradition, and the subject was closed, but —

Had he really just spent minutes debating with himself the decoration of the bloody walls? Should he consider it a new low? Or a good sign, that he had noticed the colours at all?

He sighed. With the help of the wall behind him (also, yes, blue and white brocade, damn it!), he slowly stood and continued his journey away from the library.

As he had no wand, he could not apparate, so he must walk. His chambers were on the other side of the manor. The study was closer. It was not a large room; it had a solid door and thick curtains at the window; it met his frustrating, sensitised requirements. However, until now, he had steadfastly avoided it.

The room had once been his father's study.

And Lucius had always thought of it as such, even though he himself had made use of it during his politically active years. It housed an extensive collection of documents about Wizarding politics, dating back for centuries, proceedings of the Wizengamot, and incriminating information (mostly out of date now) on every witch and wizard in Britain who might have proved useful.

The last person to use the study had been Voldemort. He had taken it over with a sinister nostalgia for Abraxas and their friendship that seemed designed chiefly to serve as a means to humiliate Lucius.

"Dear Abraxas. Such a valued friend, and a loyal supporter." The Dark Lord toyed with his wand thoughtfully, then added, "He had such high hopes for his heir . . . as did we all . . . once." He smiled at Lucius — if you could call a distorted expression that was the quintessence of malice a smile. "Do you think . . . Lucius," he said, "he would feel his hopes had been fulfilled by you?"

From behind his shoulder, Lucius heard Bellatrix cackle softly. His back was towards the door, he hadn't noticed her come in. He flinched slightly, a reflexive anticipation of pain, and immediately tried to stifle the involuntary movement. Bellatrix's avid enthusiasm for torture, and any overt betrayal of fear by Lucius were both catalysts for the Dark Lord to cast the Cruciatus Curse.

"Only if he hoped he'd find his heir at the bottom of a bottle," Bellatrix said, sauntering around Lucius to stand closer to Voldemort, and clearly amused by her own wit. She lowered her eyes coquettishly and added in a voice that somehow managed to mingle lust and reverence, "My Lord."

A mangled laugh, unsavory and wheezing, escaped Voldemort's lips. "Ah, Bella," he said. "How diverting you are! What a solace! How fortunate for you, Lucius, that your charming sister-in-law puts me in a benevolent mood." He paused, then gestured towards Lucius as though flicking away dirt. "Go away, now."

Voldemort had only been partially correct when he presumed Lucius to be a disappointment to his father. For years, before and after Abraxas' death, Lucius had succeeded in being the perfect pure-blood heir. Abraxas had trained him to his satisfaction, and Lucius had done everything expected of him. When Abraxas had died in 1979, his deep regret was that he would not live to celebrate the Dark Lord's final triumph; his happiness, however, was that his son not only would, but would be instrumental in its achievement.

Father struggled to lift his head from the pillow. His face was covered with the lurid scars of advanced Dragon Pox. He sneezed, clearly painfully, spraying mucus and sickly green sparks. Lucius, slightly disgusted, tried to keep out of the line of fire, while still appearing to be solicitous. He had just come from a meeting at the Ministry of Magic, and was wearing some of his favourite black and silver robes.

Still with the powerful grip of a violent man, despite the illness, Abraxas clutched Lucius' hand. "Puritas . . . semper . . . vincit," he rasped.

"Of course, Father," Lucius replied, fighting the strong urge to pull his hand away and wipe it on something. "Puritas semper vincit."

Two days later, Abraxas had died. Lucius, at twenty-five years of age, married for only two years, had become the new Malfoy patriarch.

Puritas semper vincit. Lucius sighed. Purity Always Wins. Clearly not: witness the tragicomic disaster that was the biography of Lucius Malfoy II, scion of of the purest of the pure! With a combination of willpower and self-disgust, Lucius banished the reminiscence from his thoughts.

Abraxas' disillusionment with Lucius had come only years after his death, via his portrait.

Towards the end of the war, Narcissa, unable to bear their relentless opinions, had collected all the major family portraits, including Abraxas' likeness, and exiled them to a corridor she never used.

The corridor that ran at right angles to the one where the study was located.

Crammed close to each other on the wall, the portraits gossiped; Abraxas learned from them of Lucius' failure and disgrace.

Continuing to walk, now only half the length of the preceding corridor away from the portraits — ten more feet and a left turn would bring them within their sight — he wondered whether he could get past Great Great Great Aunt Asmelda without assault. Her scathing eloquence was limited, but extremely loud, and this tended to arouse the others.

Reaching the portrait passageway, he did his best to stride confidently past the paintings, looking fixedly straight ahead, so as not to excite their interest.

It was quite useless.

"Spineless blood traitor!" Great Aunt Asmelda boomed.

Lucius continued walking, but could not resist unwisely retorting under his breath, "Perhaps, madam, you would be so good as to share your opinion of me with the Ministry people. Then they might leave me alone."

"Worthless whelp!" came a second, deep, male voice, lined with the effects of a very long sleep he had evidently just woken up from.

Lucius stopped and took a deep breath. His stomach clenched. And yet —

"Father," he addressed the portrait, and inclined his head in a sardonic bow. "Keeping well, are we?"

Abraxas made a disgruntled harrumph sound in his throat. "It is to my eternal shame that you are my sole heir," he said.

"Yes, I know, Father," Lucius said. "You made your feelings very clear last time we spoke."

Abraxas sniffed irritably and shook his head. "Poor Tom," he said. "My best friend. My Lord! He would have saved us all." He aimed a withering stare at Lucius. "But for you and your blood-traitor wife! And you continue to disgrace me!"

It was largely the same speech as last time — right before the end of the war. Now it had been updated to encompass Voldemort's defeat. On the last occasion, it had been painful. Perhaps it still was, he couldn't really tell now that literally everything in his life was a source of pain and regret. He could barely distinguish one sorrow from another and, at least in the moment, about this one, he could not summon the energy to care.

Again, he started to walk along the corridor. No more insults came.

Then —

"Chéri . . ."

Lucius stopped dead. She never spoke. She would move around the painting, brushing her long, silvery hair, sometimes softly singing to herself, but she had never once spoken to him.

Celeste Malfoy, 1936 - 1964, read the small plaque mounted on the gold frame.

"Maman?" Lucius said softly, he could barely find his voice.

"Ça va, Lucius?" She smiled. She was so very young. Younger even than he remembered her. Six years younger than Draco was now. The portrait had been painted when she was nineteen.

"Ça va," he said. Nothing was going well; but nothing about this situation required him to tell her the truth.

"Bien," she said. 'Au revoir, mon chou." She gave a small, elegantly casual wave, and started to turn away.

"I —" Lucius began. He did not want her to go. He had opened her recipe book only this morning, fatigued by the futile attempt to comprehend Narcissa's tropical flower manual (her Plumeria plants were slowly dying), just to see her handwriting and feel her magic. "I was reading your book today," he said. "Je lisais votre livre aujourd'hui," he translated for her: she had spoken English, but never very well. His father had imported her 'from the old country,' for her blood and to benefit from her father's connections; conversation had not been a high priority for him. "Quel coïncidence, n'est pas?"

"Quoi?" she said. "Mon livre?"

Lucius nodded. She leaned closer to the foreground of the picture.

"Quel livre?" she asked.

Which book? There were a few, of course; she had collected Muggle books, as well as magical. But she didn't wait for an answer.

"Tu as trouvé le livre?" she asked, and her face lit up with pleasure and excitement.

"No," he said. "Not found. I kept them —"

"Tu comprends pas," she broke in. She looked furtively to her left and right, then whispered urgently, "Cherches!" Then she placed a finger in front of lips. "Sssh," she said, then turned her back, picked up her hairbrush, and began to brush her hair, exactly as she always had.

She was right, he did not understand. What did she want him to look for? Now that she had returned to normal, he wondered if had hallucinated her, the entire conversation; fallen into a delusion, the product of the sadness of a broken man, the heartbreak of a ten-year-old boy. For decades, he had forgotten — almost — how very much he had missed her.

Reaching the study, he pushed open the door, revealing the room. It was the same as he remembered, although, like the rest of the house, thoroughly cleaned; and the clock was silent, no one had wound it.

The walls, naturally, were panelled with dark wood; the equally dark floorboards, covered with soft Persian rugs; the windows hung with heavy, embroidered curtains. A large, solid, dark oak desk stood in front of the window, facing the door; an imposing, high-backed wooden armchair behind it. There was no second chair before the desk; visitors to the study were required to stand. Voldemort had not changed this, nor had Lucius in his time of influence. It nicely served its purpose of instant intimidation.

In his imagination, Lucius could see the candles alight, the fire blazing, a cold late-afternoon in December 1964.

Lucius knocked on the solid wooden door.

"Come," Abraxas said abruptly, distracted.

When Lucius entered, his father paid no attention to him; instead, he continued to read the papers that were spread all over his desk.

Lucius stood, uncomfortably, resentfully, by the door. It would not be acceptable to speak before being spoken to, nor to leave, so there was nothing else to do.

The room maintained a palpable cloud of muffled quiet, interrupted only by the crackle of the fire, the occasional cry of a peacock from the lawns or a fox from the woods beyond. The grandfather clock, brought from France by some ancestor or other, ticked ominously.

Eventually, Abraxas looked up. "Well, come in," he said irritably. "Don't just stand there."

One simply couldn't win, Lucius thought.

Abraxas reached across the desk for the decanter of brandy, and poured a small measure into the goblet next to him. He sipped at the drink, put the goblet down again, and regarded Lucius though narrowed his eyes.

In the few moments that passed, the sound of the clock seemed, to Lucius, to take over the room and everything in it, even his own heartbeat.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Finally, his father spoke again. "I received an owl. Your mother took a turn for the worse."

Lucius' mother had been ill for some time. But a month ago well-known Healer had been sent for. Since then, she had regained some of her vitality; gone for walks in the grounds; even cast a few spells to amuse him, enjoying the fact that when he was eleven, soon, he would get his own wand. A week ago, however, she and the Healer had apparated, at short notice, to St. Mungo's — some routine enchantments, she had said; nothing serious; she would be back in no time.

À bientôt, Chéri!

"But she was getting better," Lucius said softly, mostly to himself; the words had slipped out.

Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Abraxas still scrutinized him. Lucius could not decide if he wanted his father to just get on with it; or would prefer to wait indefinitely for news that he knew was almost certainly bad, but wanted to pretend was not.

"She will not be coming home," Abraxas said. Lucius held his breath: his father did not usually mince words, perhaps he had misunderstood, and a small flame of hope ignited. Until Abraxas added, "Your mother is dead."

A lump formed in Lucius' throat; his eyes prickled; he must not cry. Malfoys did not show weakness!

Abraxas picked up the goblet and took another small sip of brandy. "You must learn to do without her," he said gruffly.

The clock continued its relentless rhythm, as Lucius stood on the Persian rug, quite alone, and felt his chest constrict and his heart falter with the loss of any love he had known.

"That will be all," Abraxas dismissed him, then added, "Dinner will be at seven o'clock," and returned to reading his papers.

Lucius found that his face was wet with tears.

Heavily, he sat down behind the desk, swallowed and blinked a few times, wiped his face, and tried to orientate himself, again, to his circumstances. He wondered whether there was still a bottle of brandy in the desk's bottom right hand drawer, but did not look yet, lacking the stamina for the disappointment if there was not; lacking even the motivation to drink. The study hummed with magic, power and corruption. Accumulated over generations, no amount of cleaning could eradicate this. It both disturbed and stimulated him. The room, unused, was freezing cold: as he had neither the magic nor the materials to light the fire, and did not want to summon the elf, he must endure it.

The Ministry of Magic's intrusion and demands had exposed further sources of grief. Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Malfoy, Hermione Granger had said. An inaccurate, euphemistic choice of words; co-operation required willingness; what she had done was coerce him. Civilly, more or less; but civilised coercion was still coercion — he of all people knew this. That she should resort to behaviours she would no doubt deplore in others, for a second, entertained him; and, with it, for second, a mental picture formed — Miss Granger's eyes; deep brown, he thought, and the image distracted him and created, quite unexpectedly, a moment of relief.