Posted: 11/23/15

Beta: the artful scribbler

It

4th June, 1998
9:53 pm

Lucius was feeling undone. The events of the day had shaken the foundations of his world in ways he would never have imagined possible.

He was nursing another stiff drink and Narcissa was supervising the mudblood while It ate some dinner. He knew he should go to his wife. She deserved this less than he did but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He simply couldn't face up to the picture of that dirty interloper sitting in his family's manor, putting Its saliva on his cutlery, washing Its filth down his drains. He couldn't reconcile himself to the fact that a mudblood would sleep wrapped comfortably up in his linens, polluting the air with Its breath – and doing it all in a room unbearably close to his own. Twisted, that was how he viewed this situation. Perverse.

When he first saw Scabior come into the parlour with that child, bound and draped over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, he had simply been bewildered. It was odd - but not that odd. The Dark Lord was a very clever man, as was widely known, but his intelligence made him a bit eccentric. Who could understand how his mind worked? Certainly not Lucius. He could readily admit that, while he himself possessed an abundant amount of intelligence, he was no where near as gifted as a wizard like the Dark Lord. So even if he could not begin to fathom what the Dark Lord might want with It, he knew It must have some significance.

As it began to unfold, as it was revealed that It had some power that allowed It to spy, but even worse, as he had watched It prove to be immune to magic, he thought he was going to be sick. How could something this obscene be allowed to exist? He kept waiting for the Dark Lord to order Bellatrix or Macnair to take It into the woods behind the manor and slit Its throat. That's what he would have done. To his utmost horror he realized that his master was so intrigued by the abominable creature that he not only was planning on making It into a pet, but that he also expected Lucius and his family to take care of It for him. He wanted them to give It a bed and a bath. 'Keep her close', he had instructed.

Why? Why, in the name of all that was pure and magical, was this happening to him? He had always been a good person. He had dedicated himself, completely, fully, unrestrainedly to preserving the Pure-blood ideologies upheld for generations of noble Malfoys. He worshipped his ancestry, he obeyed his parents, he could not have made a more respectable marriage, and he did everything in his power to preserve the traditions of his inheritance. Why was it not enough? While it was true that England was at last heading in the proper direction, especially since the Dark Lord had finally come into full control, his personal life was going to pieces. This should have been a time for happiness, a place in history for celebration. Instead everything was going to Hades and he was powerless to prevent it.

"Lucius, I need to go to the attic and see if I can find some clothes for It," Narcissa told him, startling him out of his dark thoughts so that he slopped his drink.

Narcissa had pinned her long blonde hair into a neat bun and Lucius watched as she wrapped a sheer, red scarf around her head to stave off dust.

"The attic?" he asked.

"Yes, the attic. We keep those old clothes up there, remember?"

"Old clothes. You mean my sister's?" he asked in disbelief.

Narcissa was taking this all so calmly. It was laudable how deftly she seemed to glide through every catastrophe. No matter what fresh horrors she was faced with, Cissa just grew more serene.

"No, I'm going to look through those trunks with your Aunt Zipporah's old garments. We'll need a gown for It to sleep in and something for It to wear when the Dark Lord comes to get It," she explained.

"Comes to get It," he repeated. "You think he'll take It someplace else?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course," she replied confidently. "He can't expect a Muggle to stay here indefinitely. He just couldn't move It anywhere else tonight, as it's so late."

Narcissa was probably right. It made sense, actually. Since It apparently couldn't be apparated, It would have to go by car or train to wherever the Dark Lord would want It to be moved.

"Do you want me to go with you to the attic, to help?"

"No, I want you to help Draco mind It while I find the clothes."

"Where's Bella?"

Cissa finished tying the scarf in place, appraised him for a prolonged moment with her cool blue eyes and finally responded, "Somewhere. I don't know."

Lucius sighed. Of course. She, and all of her possessions, were probably in another wing of the house by now, rather than stick it out and help them take care of the Dark Lord's new freak. Well, he could never say it was an exchange he preferred, however his wife's sister was an acromantula in his pillow these days, so...

Before she had sparked the hope that It would be gone by this time tomorrow, Lucius didn't think he could have mustered the strength for such a task. Armed with the idea that the repugnant little pustule soon would be out of their lives, for good with any luck, he drained his glass of firewhisky and headed to the guest bedroom where It was going to sleep.

He opened the door and saw his son sitting on the farthest side of the room from It, and took a seat beside him.

The room, like everything in their house, was a thing of lavish beauty. Its abundant proportions were filled with sumptuous pieces of oak furniture; it was engirded with panels of wainscoting and trimmed with an accompanying frieze; the floors were laid with more planks of oak; and all the rich dark wood had been polished to a high-gloss sheen. Bergeres, plump and silk-clad, lent comfort and elegance to the corners, while round, spindle-legged tables supported three-branched candelabrum that were chased with baroque images of serpents. Heavy picture frames, carved with intricately scalloped edges, were interspersed with solid silver sconces. Every item in the spare bedroom, whether utilitarian or superfluous, was irrefutably exquisite. The frizzy-haired, bespectacled mudblood was the only thing marring the resplendence of the room.

It was sitting at the breakfast table in the corner of the room, wrapped tightly in a blanket, and It was one of the homeliest things Lucius had ever seen. The side of Its face where Macnair had punched It was swollen and turning a dark shade of blue. What were all those shiny things sticking to Its teeth? Was it silver? Perhaps it was some trendy new way Muggles displayed their wealth. Something that ludicrous sounded just about right. Idiots. That would be a painful way to get robbed. Then again, this little waif probably didn't have any wealth, so what purpose could something this unattractive possibly serve? He was flummoxed, and since he doubted he would ever need to know he put it from his mind.

Lucius noticed It seemed to be having some trouble cutting Its food into bite-sized portions. It was clutching at the blanket, desperate to make sure the inadequate covering didn't fall down and expose... What? Lucius wondered. He hadn't seen anything worth seeing when he'd peeled off Its reeking clothes. He was a bit surprised that It seemed so preoccupied with modesty. From an early age he had been taught that Muggles were like animals in this regard. In fact, it was commonly known that many of them bred in front of their children. It, however, didn't seem to want to relinquish a centimeter of wrapping, not even to accommodate a hastier consumption of Its supper. It was clearly ravenous. As soon as It managed to spear a piece small enough for Its metal-filled mouth It devoured the food within seconds, making little groans of pleasure with each morsel, all the while desperately hacking off another bite.

Beside him, Draco gave a heavy sigh and slumped down in his chair and crossed his arms. Draco seemed tired these days. They were all tired in truth, but the change in his son went deeper than a good night's rest. Lucius knew that much. Ever since he had returned from Azkaban his relationship with Draco had been strained. Was Draco disappointed in him? Had he felt abandoned when Lucius went to prison? Embarrassed? And to make everything worse, Draco had taken the Dark Mark. Barely sixteen, and he had had to take on the responsibilities of a man.

He hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore; Lucius wasn't sure what to think about that. He didn't mind; not really. It would have made certain things easier, simpler, if Draco could have done it, but Lucius's approval of him did not hang on the ability to extinguish life. He himself had never killed anybody, not even a Muggle, although he didn't really think that Muggles counted. He probably would at some point; he just had never been in a situation where it was absolutely necessary. He'd tried to convey to his son that he didn't care about Dumbledore. But speaking so openly about things as arbitrary and schmoozy as feelings was not in a Malfoy's nature. All he could do to convey his approval, tacitly, was respect his privacy and try to treat his son like a man.

Draco had certainly tested his father's resolve.

One evening, about a week after the Potter fiasco, Lucius and Narcissa had taken some refreshments to the wrought-iron table in the Nook to enjoy some mild weather. The flowerbeds had been speckled with a few early blooms, the bright colors and gentle perfumes spicing the senses like subtle promises of summer. Lucius used the last rays of the evening sun to read the political commentaries in the Daily Prophet and Narcissa had a brought a bag of giorun seeds, a common ingredient in many of her healing potions, to remove from their hard pods.

Lucius looked up from his paper when he heard the clatter of Draco's boots as he walked across the flagstones to join them. His face was yellowed and blue, a few scrapes on his arms were still slightly oozing, and he was carrying a tumbler full of clear liquid.

"Is that water?" Narcissa had asked.

"Scotch," Draco answered, taking a small sip. "Can I borrow your wand, Mother?"

She handed it to him and, to their astonishment, Draco pulled a pack of Mingo Flubber's Finest Tasting Tobacco out of his pocket and used his mother's wand to light a cigarette.

"Thanks," he said as he gave it back to her, acrid smoke pouring out of his mouth and nose as he spoke. Then he had pulled up a section of the Daily Prophet and proceeded to smoke his cigarette and drink his scotch while he read it.

Lucius had looked at his wife to see what she made of this development. Cissa raised her blonde eyebrows and shifted her slim shoulders upwards, as though to say, "What can we do?"

What could they do? Nothing. Draco was almost eighteen and, sitting next to them battered, bruised, and bleeding, Lucius knew that he was grown now.

Two things about it had really bothered him, though.

First was the fact that Draco was smoking a cigarette. Lucius didn't have a problem with tobacco in and of itself. His own father, may he rest in peace, had often gone to his library to enjoy cigars, but Lucius wasn't fond of the overwhelming stench they emitted. He preferred the sweeter scents of his pipe; not everyday, just on the occasional evening, after a satisfying meal. But cigarettes, lacking the bulk of cigars and the solidity of a pipe, just seemed, in their slender frailty, rather feminine to him. Worse than even that was their ubiquity; everywhere you looked someone had one dangling out of their mouths, which made them common. He had said on many occasions to his wife and son that cigarettes, without dignity or distinction, were the worst medium for smoking tobacco. Draco apparently didn't care.

The other thing about it that bothered him was the proficient manner with which he was smoking it. He didn't cough or choke, gripped it deftly between his long, thin fingers, giving the butt a casual tap with his thumb to break off the ashes. Occasionally he released errant wisps of smoke, allowing them to curl upwards where he captured them through his nostrils. Draco noticed his father watching and, as though determined to give him a show, he formed an O with his lips and puffed out some rings. Lucius kept his eyes on the circles until they grew nebulous and then evaporated. It was obvious from the easy, nonchalant way that Draco handled it and his skilled consumption that he was in no way a novice. How long had Draco been smoking? For a while it seemed.

Draco interrupted his musings when he got up and went to the bathroom.

Lucius followed him to the doorway and saw that he was pouring a bath for It, adjusting the hot and cold taps until a suitable temperature was achieved. His mother must have asked him to do it.

"Interesting day," Lucius said, trying to make conversation.

"To say the least," Draco answered, his deep voice echoing off the porcelain and marble surfaces.

"Did you finish The Hurricane Spell?" Lucius asked, referring to a novel he had recommended Draco read.

"Almost."

Lucius waited to see if his son would start talking about the book with him. He didn't. He never sought Lucius out anymore, not for anything that wasn't absolutely necessary. He sighed a little. His son had used to pester him with endless questions. He asked him questions about everything: magic, school, current events and even peppered Lucius with questions about his childhood. Draco loved to gossip with him. He'd talk about anything he thought might get Lucius's attention. Now Draco would only speak, with brevity, when he answered questions that Lucius asked him. He was the same way with his mother. It wasn't that he was disrespectful to them, just detached, and Lucius could see how much it hurt Narcissa.

"Why don't you add some scented oil and a dash of the Japanese lotus-scented salts," Lucius suggested. "That will help cover Its stench, since I doubt It knows how to wash properly."

With the hint of a smile round the corner of his thin mouth, Draco pulled the expensive bottles of oil and the jar of bath salts from a niche built into the tiles around the bathtub and poured liberal amounts of each into the water until a strong aroma filled the lavatory and the water gyred with spume.

Draco looked at his dad, still smirking, and asked, "That good?"

Laughing a little, he nodded. Then Draco chuckled as well. It sounded nice to Lucius. He hadn't heard his son laughing in ages.

"What's funny?" Cissa asked, walking into the room with a small stack of folded clothes. She had removed the scarf and released her sleek hair again.

She really is a beauty, Lucius thought to himself, admiring her trim figure encased in a crimson gown. She always took meticulous care with her appearance.

"We were just adding a bit of mudblood de-stencher to Its bathwater, love," Lucius replied.

"Excellent idea," she responded with an amused smile.

The source of their amusement set Its fork down and shuffled toward them uncertainly. Lucius noticed that It did not seem to want to look at any of them, but instead kept looking around the room.

"Did you have enough to eat?" Cissa asked It.

It pulled a blank look and shrugged Its shoulders.

"That was a 'yes' or 'no' question. Would you like some more food?" Cissa tried again.

It shook Its head this time.

Draco came out of the bathroom and took some long strides away from the door, giving It a wide berth. Lucius decided he should do so as well and stepped back a few paces until he was by Draco's side.

Cissa set the pile of clothes on a chair and pulled a long white nightgown from the top. She held it away from herself, letting it unfold so she could get a better estimate of its length.

"Put this on when you are finished washing. It should fit you well enough," she instructed.

It gazed at the nightgown for a few moments, reaching up to scratch Its head in the interim.

"Fanks," It finally replied, and, taking the lacy gown from Cissa, limped into the lavatory.

Once the door closed, Lucius looked at Narcissa and asked her how she thought they should guard It for the night.

"Should one of us stay in here with It, or do you think locking the door will be enough?"

"I don't know Lucius," she told him wearily. "You decide."

"Well, the Dark Lord said we needed to protect It as well as guard It," Lucius reasoned. "If it comes to protecting It, you're the only one with a wand."

He waited for her to reply. When she didn't, he continued, "Do you think he's worried some other Death Eater will try to come back here to hurt It?"

"Maybe," she said uncertainly, clasping her long slender hands in front of her. "It has caused a lot of damage to us, if It was telling Dumbledore the Dark Lord's plans."

"Well, perhaps we should just put some protective charms around the bedroom door and then we can check on It a few times during the night," he suggested.

"That's fine," she agreed. None of them wanted to spend their night in the same room with It. "You should cast the spells though, Lucius."

He accepted that without a second thought. Malfoy men were the ones who were responsible for the spells of guardianship around the manor, so all three of them knew he was the most capable in this area.

"Do you want me to take a turn checking It tonight?" Draco asked. "I can set my alarm for a certain time."

"That would be good. We can each take a turn," Lucius decided. "Draco, you check It around two, I'll come back around four, and Narcissa, you can perform the last one when you wake, around six. Agreed?" he asked, looking back and forth at them. They both nodded their consent to his plan. "Good. That's decided then."

With the plan formed, Lucius headed back to the sitting room for another drink, Draco went to his room, and Narcissa stayed to see It put to bed.

Once Lucius was settled in his chair beside the cold fireplace, sipping a last drink before bedtime, he thought about Draco laughing with him and volunteering to help. He realized that he missed his son. Maybe he should start making more effort with him. Perhaps, he thought, I'm the one who's withdrawn, not him. He knew that he was slipping into depression, receding from his family. He was letting them down. But without a wand, what was he? His magic had always been the most distinguishing factor of his existence. Magic superseded his wealth, his bloodline, his nationality, every defining thing that made him Lucius Malfoy. He felt as though he'd lost a limb...more than that, his purpose for living.

Oh, how he'd loved that wand. That wand had been in his family for generations - passed on to each male heir from deathbeds for the last three centuries. It was the greatest gift each Malfoy could bestow on his son. And now, he would never be able to give it to Draco. The thought of this loss made a steely lump form in his throat and his eyes burned. He tried not to think about that wand when he could help it.

These gloomy thoughts occupied his mind until Narcissa came to tell him that It was in bed and he needed to cast the enchantments around the door.