This Beastly Salvation
Chapter Twenty: Underwater
Author's Notes: I'm back! Ah! I'm going to start publishing bi-weekly for the time being, and if I get far enough ahead I'll bump it to weekly. Just don't want to over promise by accident like I have in the past lololol. Anyway, I love you all and I hope your 2023 is amazing so far and I can't wait to finish this book with you!
October 14, 1996
Waxing Crescent
Lucius clenched his jaw as he leafed through the documents on his makeshift tabletop once last time. The papers, though informational, had hardly been enthralling, particularly with as little sleep as he'd had in the last two days. There hadn't been any astonishing revelations in the documents, no directions to the base of their operations or clear descriptions of their future plans, but there would be enough to work with. Enough that Lucius occasionally found himself surprised that Lupin had ever cracked and given Lucius the means of reading the letters in the first place. The werewolf could've easily lied, taken the risk of Lucius or one of the other Death Eaters looking inside of his mind—but he hadn't.
The papers and letters were primarily concerned with fighters on both sides of the war; codenames of those in the Order that should be expected at certain meetings, or members who had infiltrated varied organisations or offices, and often conversations about Death Eaters that the Order had identified through their own machinations. Lucius knew the Dark Lord would be pleased with all of it—particularly to know which magical houses he should be watching more closely and which of his operatives were the greatest liability. There were several families that were obvious, of course, including the Malfoys, but a part of Lucius was almost impressed by a few of the more clandestine discoveries that Dumbledore's followers had made.
Still, those weren't the letters that continued to rise to the top of Lucius's mind whenever he considered his project. That particular place of honour was reserved for the last of the old intercepted letters, ones that had been in the Death Eaters' possession long before the werewolf's arrival. Several of them were written in amber ink, in a hand that looked softer and slower than the rest—the same handwriting that had made the werewolf freeze when he'd seen it for the first time out on their last walk. Two of them were in a black scratchier and more chaotic hand, and several of them were written in measured blue ink with oval letters that were just a bit too narrow.
Lucius had finished decoding one of the amber-ink letters on the night of the eclipse. He'd been unable to sleep after his latest foolish encounter with the werewolf, the one where he'd told him to have a little dignity, whatever that meant. There had been nothing dignified about Lucius's own actions that night—a desperate man with bloodshot eyes and a five o'clock shadow doing his best to mimic a spell he'd learned hours before. When he'd finally gotten to it, he'd cracked Lupin's hesitation immediately. The letter was from Nymphadora Tonks, as were the others written in the same amber ink. Once decoded, it was clear that the blue ink had been written in the werewolf's own hand, and the hurried letters in black ink had been written by Sirius before his death.
Somehow, for reasons Lucius suspected he'd never understand, the owl that the Death Eaters had been consistently intercepting had been the one carrying the mutt's letters to and from his lovers. The messages all came from a relatively short period of time, several months in which Lupin had clearly been keeping up active correspondence with the both of them. The letters told a story in snapshots, incomplete thoughts and scenes conveyed in reference and written whisper.
The earliest was from Tonks. It was coquettish and naïve, almost nauseatingly so. Lucius couldn't tell if the young witch knew how obvious her intentions were or not.
I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon, even though things have been exciting here. The girls were telling me about that chocolate habit of yours—maybe you'll share some with me when I'm back, in exchange for some tea? I think I've actually memorised your order this time—two sugars, right? And you'd always prefer something black over green or white. You have my full permission to mock me for the rest of our lives if I'm wrong again.
'The rest of our lives.'
The next was a letter from Sirius. Short and to the point, although the tone was clearly warm. A request to meet on the balcony after Remus was due to arrive at his location several days later. There was a response from the werewolf to this one—an affable acceptance and request for patience if he got caught up with the women downstairs. They were staying in a multi-level house—not much help in London, but it was something…
There were several more exchanges between Nymphadora and Lupin, and then a slightly longer letter from Black. Dancing around a subject. Seeming to feign happiness and approval.
I know it's selfish of me, Moony, but I keep thinking about the idea of that dinner in Paris we always talked about. Why didn't we go? Could we still, if we survive all of this? Or would that be breaking our pact? I don't even know if there are many Death Eaters in France these days. Probably. Seems a very French thing to be. Will I have to be the third wheel on your dates with Tonks, now? I can't decide if I'll be disgusted or charmed.
There wasn't a response from Lupin to that one. Lucius wondered if the werewolf had ever written one.
The correspondences were far from the most insightful of the documents that Lucius had gathered, but they were the ones that he couldn't stop thinking about. He'd looked through them often enough in the last forty-eight hours that he'd had to make up an excuse for himself: he was simply trying to find knowledge about the werewolf that could be used against him. This final look-through was no different, simply a last cross-check that he'd gathered everything he could—and for once, something new did jump out at Lucius.
It was a name, tucked into the pages of one of Nymphadora's letters: Lacie Abbott. A Muggle-born wife of a Pureblood wizard. He knew that she would be on the Ministry's register already, a target they'd get to eventually, but to know that she was close enough to the Order that they'd name her in communications…
Lucius was in the midst of folding up the letters for the last time when a knock came at his door. It was fast and sharp, as if made by a small hand, and the rhythm told him immediately that it was Wormtail. When had he arrived? Not that Lucius would've noticed, preoccupied as he had been with his task over the last several days… Lucius clenched his teeth and looked over his shoulder.
"Yes?"
"The Dark L-Lord wishes to s-speak with you, Master Malfoy," Wormtail fumbled over his words from the other side of the door.
"I know," Lucius sighed. Better that he was summoned now than a few hours ago; he was well-and-truly done now, and he'd had time to eat a proper meal and clean himself up in the last twenty-four hours. "I'll be out in a moment."
Lucius thought about his prisoner as he readied himself. Lucius knew he'd have to go see Lupin after his meeting with the Dark Lord. The Death Eater had intentionally kept his distance while he'd worked, not trusting himself to keep the contents of the letters quiet and not particularly interested in spending time with the moping werewolf anyway. Lupin's sudden distress over the passage of time had taken away the twinkle of entertainment that Lucius had felt on their last walk, so that their banter and the way Lupin's face had shone in the sunlight felt like it had happened years ago. The way his face had shone in the sunlight—Lucius felt the threat of a gag at the back of his throat when he realised what he'd thought.
Wormtail cowered once Lucius opened the bedroom door and strode past him, but the blonde Death Eater barely noticed him. Instead, he walked with his cane in one hand and the papers in the other, overcoat tapping against his calves as he strolled.
"Where am I headed?" Lucius asked as he approached the grand staircase.
"The library," Wormtail squeaked from several steps behind, scrambling to keep up with Lucius's long strides.
"Fine."
Lucius ran over what he knew in his mind. New names. Confirmation of who to target and who to protect. Lacie Abbott. It was more than enough, if he could just remember it all.
He was still reciting the details when he approached the library door, already ajar, and headed inside.
"Look what the cat—or should I say dog—dragged in," Bellatrix sneered from a chair she'd pulled out into the middle of the floor. She was slumped down in the seat, kicking her heels against the carpet.
Lucius was annoyed to see her, but it didn't set him on edge as it might've a few days ago. There would be no more hesitation about his usefulness after today. Severus would not have to scramble to defend Lucius at any future meetings.
Narcissa's presence was slightly more off-putting. He hadn't spent more than a few passing moments with her since they'd last sat in the library and he'd realised that he didn't have to feel so guilty about his… interest in the werewolf. She looked far more tense, now; whatever moment of humorous reprieve they'd had back then had clearly become clouded by her anxiety.
The Dark Lord had been looking out one of the front windows, but he turned to approach Lucius. There was a stillness to him, an intense focus that was the first thing to shake Lucius's resolve.
The blonde wizard was right to feel ill-at-ease. Voldemort was already reaching out the tendrils of his magic to peek inside of Lucius's mind. This first question was a simple one: is it done? Flashes of Lucius decoding the letters snapped across his mind's eye without Lucius meaning for them to, and the Dark Lord's lips twitched.
"You were almost late to meet with us, Lucius," the Dark Lord mused, tilting his head unnaturally.
"I'm sorry, my Lord. I made a breakthrough with the papers and lost track of time. Overly focused."
Voldemort stared at Lucius, and Lucius felt his heart begin to pound in his chest. He already knew he wasn't going to be able to mask his mind if the Dark Lord chose to look—there was simply no way, not with as little sleep as he'd been having and not with how powerful the thoughts of the werewolf had been over the last week alone.
"Ah," Voldemort broke the silence with a cold smile. "Overly focused. I see. And does that mean you finally have something to present to us? The fruits of your labour?"
"I do, my Lord," Lucius replied, clenching his jaw. He heard Narcissa shift where she was standing and he glanced at her out of habit. Her face was stoney and severe, a mask that indicated barely contained anxiety.
"Good," the Dark Lord widened his smile. "Then why don't you just relax for a moment while I have a look around?"
Lucius tried his best not to let his eyes visibly widen.
"I don't mind telling you, my Lord, the papers are just here—" he lifted them in vain.
"You've wasted enough of my time already, Malfoy," the Dark Lord replied, and his expression was suddenly much darker, red eyes narrowed to slits. Lucius swallowed hard. He knew he had no choice but to let the Dark Lord in, to do his very best to shape the story and show only the images he wanted shown. He could say that he was trying to save the Dark Lord's time.
"Of course, my Lord," Lucius replied, bowing his head. The Dark Lord had been peering into others' minds for long enough that he didn't need eye contact anymore—in fact, he preferred to conduct his searches without any eye contact at all, so that his victims could keep their heads bowed, submissive and ready for his intrusion. Lucius had learned that without needing to be told.
For a split second before Voldemort entered his thoughts, Lucius wished that he could hold his wife's hand. He wished that she was close enough to him that all he'd have to do would be to reach out and touch it.
And then it was happening.
Most of the time, Lucius could barely feel more than a tingle when the Dark Lord reached out into him. The Dark Lord generally only used his Legilimency to ascertain surface level information, like he had when Lucius had first walked in—a lie, a name, an indication of true loyalty. It was rare for him to dig deep. But Lucius could immediately feel that his master had decided to make an exception this time around.
The pain of the spell came with a sharp, piercing suddenness, not unlike how Lucius imagined a snake bite might feel. The library blurred and melted around him, and then it was just Lucius and a flashing reel of his memories, moments of lust and anger and self-satisfaction replaying in perfect detail as Lucius watched in paralyzed horror. How he'd ever tricked himself into thinking he could control what the Dark Lord was seeing, he didn't know—Narcissa was the only truly talented Occulumens in the family. Instead, Lucius felt like he was drowning, held underwater by the teeth of Voldemort's spell, blood burning in his veins as he fought for oxygen.
The Dark Lord was focusing on the werewolf, as expected—lingering on the same visions that had been playing in Lucius's mind when he'd last sat in the library with Narcissa days prior. Lupin's body pressed against the wall, shoved into the mud, shivering after his shower. Moments that didn't have a rational explanation. Lucius had been torturing the werewolf, undoubtedly, but he had been enjoying it, too.
Eventually the Dark Lord found the letters. At least here he knew that the Dark Lord would see that there was some method to Lucius's madness, some justification for his behaviour. The names, locations, evidence of exactly what the Order knew, or at least had known at the time of the letter writing. Lacie Abbott's name, in particular.
Voldemort finally pulled away when the interesting letters ended and Lucius's memories were dancing over the letters between Lupin and his lovers. The flickering images disappeared. The study was visible once more.
Lucius fought the urge to drop to the floor and to cough away the feeling of drowning, to reassure his body that he had never been underwater in the first place. He felt emptied out, stripped bare, and dry, as if he'd been scrubbed with a painful soap that had taken all of his skin's moisture with it. There was just him and his itching clothes and pounding head and aching throat.
"May I get him some water, my Lord?" Narcissa asked, and her voice sounded like it was coming from a distance, chiming over a cold lake to reach Lucius's ears.
"I don't think so," Voldemort hissed, and there was something threatening and gleeful in his voice.
Lucius looked up, keenly aware of the way his hair was clinging to his sopping wet skin and the way his stomach felt twisted and hot.
The Dark Lord looked jubilant. He was wearing his skeleton grin, sweeping his arms up in the air, joyful. Bellatrix was smiling behind him too, but Lucius knew her well enough to know that she was suspicious, only mirroring the Dark Lord's emotions until she had some indication that she could trust whatever happiness he was exhibiting.
Lucius didn't have the heart to look at Narcissa, not after she'd asked that question, tried to help him despite the circumstances.
"Your husband is to be celebrated, Narcissa," Voldemort hissed before spinning around to look back at Bellatrix. "He's done well."
"What have you found, my Lord?" Bellatrix hummed.
"Enough," Voldemort half-wailed in pleasure, turning back around and grinning at Lucius. "More than enough. I'll share the news with everyone tonight. And for now…"
Voldemort looked back to Narcissa, and Lucius forced himself to straighten his spine, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird's wings in his throat. Surely the Dark Lord wouldn't go that far. Certainly he wouldn't say that much.
"Your husband is a talented dog trainer," Voldemort continued in a thick, muddy voice, "and an even better sadist. I should've known, I suppose. I'm sure he's put it to good use over the years."
Lucius felt as though all of the air in the room had been sucked out. Bellatrix was trying to catch his eye, snarling behind her master, but Lucius refused to give her the pleasure. Instead he clenched his jaw and his fists, not bothering to hide his grimace as he turned to look at Narcissa.
She stood stock-still, facing the Dark Lord, her regal features utterly expressionless—until a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "I'm pleased to hear that he's fulfilling your expectations, my Lord."
"For once," Voldemort leaned in, "someone in your family is. A welcome change."
Narcissa remained expressionless. Lucius felt his legs beginning to go numb.
"You'll need to reward the dog for his good behaviour," Voldemort turned back to Lucius, his voice cheery. "Something nice to encourage him to keep going. And I believe I've thought of a nice treat for us, as well."
"My Lord?" Lucius asked, his voice breathier and more strained than he'd hoped it would be.
"I think we could have a little bit more fun before we let the wolf go, don't you? Something to… boost morale. Reward our loyal brethren's efforts."
"What do you have in mind, my Lord?"
"He's just so much more spirited than I would've expected," Voldemort continued to grin.
"That's certainly one word for it, my Lord," Lucius replied, trying his best to maintain his composure.
"We'll be keeping him for another month. I want to watch his transformation on this coming full moon, rather than setting him loose right away. Bellatrix, see to the arrangements."
"Of course, my Lord," Bellatrix hissed from behind her master.
"What about the rescue he thinks is coming, my Lord?" Lucius managed to spit out before the Dark Lord could make any other commandments. "Shouldn't we move him, if we're going to keep him?"
"Now why would we do that, Lucius?" Voldemort asked. "Are you afraid of a few visitors?"
"We aren't afraid, my Lord," Narcissa cut in when Lucius reached up to wipe his mouth. "One can only hope they'll try."
"That's the spirit," Voldemort sneered.
The Black sisters and Lucius all stayed quiet for a moment, each holding their breath for very different reasons.
"It's all quite thrilling, isn't it? Why don't we have a celebratory meal. A taste of what's to come for all of our kin. Do you think you're capable of arranging that, Narcissa? I'm sure Wormtail could assist you."
Lucius glanced to Narcissa in time to see her mouth twitch with displeasure for a split second before her mask was secured back into place. "It would be my pleasure, my Lord."
The Dark Lord then closed the last few steps between himself and Lucius, only pausing once he was close enough to lift a hand up and rest it on Lucius's shoulder. He leaned closer, bringing his mouth near Lucius's ear. "And you'll see to it that your pet gets a reward, won't you?"
"Yes, my Lord," Lucius replied, frozen in place.
Then the Dark Lord was gone, and Bellatrix was shoving past Lucius, and Narcissa was still stuck to the floor in front of him, nostrils flared.
"Cissy, I—"
"Well done," she snapped, cheeks turning pink.
"He's not being—"
"I don't need to hear anything else from you," she spat. "Leave."
It surprised Lucius that she didn't just storm past him, but he didn't question her. He had no right to. He could've stayed and fought and tried to explain himself, but it felt pointless, and more than anything, he needed a moment to process everything that had just happened. He needed a moment to figure out what on earth he could offer the werewolf that would do anything to soften the blow of the Dark Lord's new decision.
He tucked the letters back under his arm and walked out without looking at his wife again.
Remus was doing pushups when Lucius entered the cellar this time, and for once he didn't bother to hide it. He finished his rep, stood up, and shook out his arms. Lucius wasn't paying much attention. He was carrying a cumbersome, awkward object—it took Remus a few moments to realise what it was.
"You don't let me out for two days and now you bring me a dog bed? I'm not sure how to feel, sir," Remus said, a little too fast and too eager, so that he felt himself physically recoiling from his own tone.
Lucius glanced up to look at Remus for the first time, furrowing his brows. There was more clarity in his eyes than there had been in several days, but he looked exhausted, small curled hairs clinging to the damp skin around his forehead.
"You should feel grateful," the dark wizard muttered as he approached, lifting the bed up and sideways and beginning to push it through the bars. "Grab the other side."
Remus did as he was told, striding forward and grabbing at the lumpy, round fabric bed. The two of them made quick work of it, so that Remus was already starting to drag it farther back into his cell by the time Lucius had started his daily sweep of spell work.
"I am grateful, sir," Remus acknowledged. "Just not sure what I did to earn it."
"The Dark Lord is pleased with you," Lucius sighed, slipping his wand back into his cane and holding it at his side.
"You finally showed him the letters?"
"In a manner of speaking," Lucius replied, and Remus wanted to ask what that meant, but the steely look he saw on the other wizard's face suggested otherwise.
"Well," Remus hesitated as he set the bed down, turning to look back at his captor, "thank you, sir. Genuinely."
They both seemed to remember it at the same moment—the last time Remus had thanked Lucius, and the disastrous outcome it had had. Remus's face in the dirt, Lucius's finger on his prisoner's lips. Remus felt his stomach twist, and he immediately tried to distract himself, mentally scrambling away from the consequent memories of Lucius watching him in the shower and the dream that Remus had had after.
"You're going to have more time on your hands than you anticipated; you should at least be well rested."
That was distraction enough. Remus walked toward his captor, crossing his arms. "What does that mean?"
When Lucius made eye contact this time, the steeliness was gone. There was something genuine there, a true fatigue and something eerily close to guilt.
"The Dark Lord has changed his mind about when your time with us will be ending. He'd like to watch your next transformation, rather than setting you loose right away."
"No."
The word erupted from Remus's mouth, somewhere between a shout and a growl, before he could stop it. He kept walking, all the way up to the bars, and grabbed them.
"Lucius, no, you have to know how bad of an idea that is—"
"Don't forget yourself, mutt," Lucius cut him off, but there was no threat in his voice.
"This is more important than our arran—whatever this is, Lucius. I could kill someone."
"It happens every day."
"And if I try to kill you? Him? You'll kill me on the spot. This'll all be for nothing."
Lucius paused, blinking several times, his mouth pressed into a serious line. Remus hesitated, trying to figure out if he'd said something particularly egregious.
"Are you saying that you don't want to kill me, mutt?" Lucius asked with a cocked eyebrow. Remus wrinkled up his nose in a surprised snarl.
"I'm being serious," he pushed, tightening his grip on the bars of his cell.
"As am I," Lucius sighed, reaching a hand up to brush a stray hair off of his face. "Neither of us get a say in this, dog. It's going to happen. You should be taking comfort in the fact that you'll only be at risk of killing a few Death Eaters and not dozens of Muggles this time around."
Remus furrowed his brows, swallowed hard. Why was Lucius thinking about his prisoner's comfort? Even if it was meant to sound patronising, the remark caught Remus off-guard.
"Of course," Remus muttered, leaning his forehead against the cool bars and closing his eyes. "Very comforting."
"Good," Lucius muttered. "You can express your gratitude when we share dinner with the Dark Lord in a few days."
Remus's eyes snapped open. "What did you say?"
"We'll be dining with the Dark Lord and any Death Eaters he chooses to invite. You'll have to be on your best behaviour."
For the first time since Remus had become Lucius's captive, he felt utterly speechless. It was too much—the prospect of being stuck here, of risking his chance at rescue, and now the idea of being paraded in front of the Death Eaters?
"Do you understand?" Lucius snapped.
"Yes."
"Good. In the meantime, enjoy your bed. I'll be back tomorrow to take you for a proper walk."
"Alright," Remus muttered, wiggling his fingers around the bars in an attempt to bring him back to his own body.
"I've been lenient with you tonight, fleabag, but I expect you to regain your manners by the time we see each other next."
Remus raised his eyes, managing to look straight at Lucius and gave him a small, curt nod. "As you wish, sir."
"Good night, dog," Lucius scoffed, turning to leave.
Remus shut his eyes again until Lucius had closed and locked the cellar door behind him.
