6 February 1998 15:30

It was a ridiculous proposition of which Lucius would definitely take no part. The portrait of Dumbledore leaned against the edge of the ivory panel, lounging indolently as only a painting could do at the end of the ancient, mirrored sallé , issuing instructions to both Lucius and Narcissa.

The Dark Lord, Bella, and the toadying Pettigrew had been abroad for the last few days, thus freeing Lucius to use the Manor almost as he saw fit. To be sure, his ancestral home contained a dark aura about it, and the three inmates held in the old wine cellar turned dungeon were not conducive to a peaceful state of mind, nonetheless Lucius felt a sense of freedom and lightness that had been absent from his life for quite some time, especially since their induction into the Order.

He flicked his wand, uttering the Latinate words with little intent to bring them to life. "Expecto Patronum!"

A pale bluish-white light emitted from the tip of the wand, falling in a murky spiral to the floor, only to dissipate almost immediately. Lucius smirked as Narcissa's wandwork failed almost as abysmally as his did, even as the Old Fool congratulated her on the less than perfect effort whilst he ignored Lucius' own labours. It had been the same way whilst they were in school also. Lucius’ work had never been acknowledged at all by Dumbledore, and it had the same effect as Lucius felt the burning of envy in his chest, even as he tried to tell himself he was above such things now.

Lucius cast again, putting more of an effort into the spell, attempting to remember one perfect moment of happiness, no matter how transitory it might be. He pictured the first time he saw his son laying in Cissy's arms, a squalling mass of red skin and translucent-silver hair, his fist waving under his nose as Narcissa jiggled him. Lucius remembered the almost crowing pride with which he bestowed the Malfoy name upon his son. He cast, but knew he would fail as the memory of his son's infant face was replaced by the many memories of how Lucius had failed Draco, the latest being the largest failure yet, as Draco took the Mark to save both Lucius and Narcissa. Lucius tried again, his frustration mounting as each blissful memory was replaced by darker, more recent ones.

There was nothing in Lucius' life that was untouched by the Dark Lord's poison, nothing in which he could find joy.

He lowered his wand, a new one acquired during a battle in a small town on the coast. It was an inferior one to his own much-missed wand, but still worked, as it should. Failure to complete the spell satisfactorily was not the wand's fault at all, it was the Lucius'.

"Lucius?" Dumbledore's insistent tinny voice sounded over the length of the well-insulated sallè . "What seems to be the problem?"

Narcissa turned to her husband, her normally unmarked expression drawn into the now ever-present lines of concern that pulled down her brows and creased the skin around her mouth. Lucius could blame himself for those lines in her face as well. He raised his wand, and tried to picture anything that would not remind him of the utter fuck up his life had become and uttered the words once again. The tip of his wand emitted a pale glow and then the light sputtered to its death, the spell remained unborn.

"Darling." He felt Narcissa's hands on his shoulders, her breath on his cheek as she drew him to her. He glanced up and saw her face alight with concern and something deeper, something he had only seen fleetingly in her eyes as they coupled, an emotion that remained politely contained behind masks of civility and culture, its existence too plebeian for rarefied pureblood homes. "Dance with me?"

Lucius tamped down his frustration at his inability to cast such a simple spell of memory and took her hand in his. She rarely asked anything of him these days, the least he could do was grant her such a small boon. He sketched a bow as he kissed the air above her fingers. "I would love to, my dear."

As was their custom in the early days of their marriage, when all interaction between them was constrained and polite, he began humming the Minuet in G, a quaint, pastoral air by Beethoven. Their form was perfect as they passed through the steps, light seemed to suffuse the room as Lucius passed Narcissa under his arm and she ended up in his arms to complete the airily intricate footwork. Unconsciously, he slowed and then stopped as he smiled down at her. He dipped his head, stealing a kiss as he had done the first time they committed this dance in public the day of their wedding. She blushed prettily, even though the only witness to his impropriety was a painting, and Lucius deepened the kiss, letting loose the need and hunger he had always felt for her. She returned his fervour, a rare enough occurrence that Lucius felt momentarily nonplussed, even as one hand snaked into her hair and another down her back, drawing Narcissa into full contact with his suddenly eager body.

Later, breathlessly laughing as they stole kisses and caresses between the donning of the clothes they had strewn across the room in their abandon Narcissa observed, "I don't believe I've ever told you I love you, Lucius. We have been married over twenty years, and it seems that you can still surprise me with just what a wonderful man you are."

She turned to modestly don her long shift over the French lace lingerie he had purchase for her as an apology for his long, enforced absence last year. Lucius paused in his own labours, suddenly feeling out of sorts and gauche. He watched as she slid her hair over her shoulder, the flaxen colour turning to spun gold in the afternoon light streaming through the high windows. He grunted softly as he slid his foot home in the leather boot he customarily wore, taking a stumbling step before he adjusted the heel.

"Lucius?" He glanced up to see his wife's once again troubled gaze on him. "I know you don't like outward shows of affection. I am sorry if I offended you. It just seemed the right moment to..."

"I love you too. I have for years even if the words were never spoken outright." Lucius blurted. "I was raised very differently than you were, Darling. You Blacks have always been more expressive and open about your... emotions... your admiration. I... do not always have the ability to express softer sentiments. You know this about me, if you know nothing else."

He turned away from her and bent to retrieve his other boot. He slid into it with a bit more force than necessary, pulling a strap at the top loose as he did. He felt his wife's arms twine around him, her cheek against his back. "I've known for years, Lucius. You never needed to tell me with words."

Lucius stood slowly, his breath coming out roughly as desire for her rose in him again. "I think our lessons are over for the day, Dearest. Perhaps I might show you just how much I admire you, starting with your delicate toes and working my way up."

Narcissa slid her hand in his, another rare occurrence, her cheeks taking on a becoming rosy hue as she answered, "I think I might like that a great deal, Lucius."

They left the room unoccupied except for the small painting in the corner. Dumbledore opened his eyes slowly, his face more careworn than it had been in life, his brow drawn down in contemplation. Death seemed to have softened his perspective, given him more understanding of the human condition than he had ever had before. For a moment, a faint stirring of dread filled his two-dimensional figure before it dissipated just as quickly. He would think on the sense of foreboding later, after he spoke with Severus. He suspected all three Malfoys would play a major role in the coming months, he simply hoped that they could be trusted to act out of more than self-interest.

He, Marcus Flint, was supposed to be dead.

Goyle Sr. was the one who was supposed to have dispatched him, but here he was, in the tunnels outside Exeter taken over by the rescued Muggleborns and their families. It was quite a shock to the injured Flint that Percy the Prat Weasley was, contrary to most people's beliefs, a key player in the Resistance. Weasley had been the one moving most of the Muggleborns and their spouses out of harm's way even as he was forced to set in Umbridge‘s kangaroo court and take notes. Flint had just never expected to find the safe house to be where it was...

The abandoned tunnels of the Mutley stop between Exeter and Plymouth.

That was the place Weasley had taken him so that he might recover from his battle wounds, might mourn the death of his family...

Flint fought the tears that rose each time he thought of his family. Pucey, another turncoat, had been the one to relay to him about what happened, what Adrian had witnessed and what had caused Pucey to join the resistance. Flint still held the letter letting Flint know in gruesome detail of the death of his entire family. Said missive was in the front pocket of the Death Eater robes he had been wearing since Weasley dropped him in the tunnels.

The robes set him apart from the other bedraggled refugees; he knew it but couldn't justify getting rid of them. His mum had charmed them to be impervious to moisture and dirt and she had added a special warming charm of her own. She had been proud that he had taken the Mark. He wondered what her last thoughts on him were, if she felt more betrayed by his actions, or by those committed by the monster she had encouraged him to serve. He would never know. The Dark Lord had taken her from Flint as he had taken so many lives. Flint had known the half-man was mad, but had not considered that the madness would touch his own life so thoroughly.

He wished he could get word to Millie, to let her know he was alive. She had been the reason he originally turned. Her and her family, that is. Her Muggle mum had been dead for years, of some Muggle ailment she said. Her dad, in his early hundreds, was in failing health, and would not last the type of privation Millie knew others that were deemed blood-traitors did. She had contacted Marcus when the Ministry fell, knowing that Flint had always had a soft spot for her when he went to school. He had certainly stood up more times for Millie than he had for any other firstie.

He hadn't counted on her growing into such a beauty, and he most certainly hadn't planned to fall in love with her. He had never intended on turning his back on his family's beliefs, but he had and all for her.

A dust up was beginning at the front of the tunnels, no doubt over food or more likely lack of it. Flint had seen the aid workers, their jackets emblazoned with the Red Cross emblem; drop off food more-or-less once a week. It was time for them to return, and there was always some greedy soul who had hoarded their food, stole from their neighbours, or were making themselves an arse. Flint turned away from the scene. He wasn't well respected here, was barely tolerated because of the Mark he bore. He could understand, but he also knew that the rag-tag remnants of the Dark Lord's purges wouldn't last without a strong leader, and so far, no one had stepped up.

Not Flint's problem at all, when he considered what he had to deal with right now.

He tended to ignore his still unhealed wounds from the fight that was supposed to kill him. His leg had been lacerated with a cutting curse. The curse had severed muscle, tendons, and flesh. It had begun to heal, but an infection had set in, sending Marcus' health on a dangerous, downward spiral. Conditions in the refugee camp didn't help his recovery any. Marcus’ self-applied healing charms didn't work well on the cut and the last Healer who had seen it was more intent on working on worthier, un-Marked subjects, and had barely looked at it. She couldn't be bothered to heal someone who was Marked, no matter that they had turned from their original allegiance. No matter who they had lost for becoming a turncoat.

He coughed weakly, sudden tears filling his eyes, as if he were still a child. He wanted Millie and his mum. He wanted the comforts of his family's snug cottage near Dartmoor. He wanted his life to be what it was before the Dark Lord returned.

A young Indian man in Healer green approached, his wand alight. He looked about as if searching for something. Flint considered calling him over to have him check out his wound, but couldn’t work up the energy to do so. The Healer frowned as he noticed the corner in which Marcus lay, the detritus of several days littering the floor around him. The Healer made another sweep with his wand and started to move toward Marcus.

Flint stirred himself, attempting to sit rather than sprawl. The Healer pushed him down with an impatient cluck as he began casting diagnostic tests. Marcus settled back, turning his face away from the man's openly concerned gaze, knowing that once he came to the Mark on his arm his concern would flag for Marcus.

A woman's terrified scream at the front of the tunnel tore Marcus from his thoughts. He had become quite the connoisseur of those types of screams and knew more was afoot than the common disaffected anger or paltry phobia. He pushed the Healer out of harm's way as he moved painfully to a crouch behind an ornate Victorian ironwork, his wand in hand. He saw a streak of red, a spell cast at some hapless refugee, and heard several more whiz around the interior, echoing and ricocheting off surfaces as they created clouds of concrete and rust dust. A child sat next to the body of a fallen woman. A figure in Healer green bent and took the child in its arms before running toward the entrance, through the melee. Both the Healer and the child fell as they reached the outside, a spray of blood littering the churned slush.

Flint gestured the Healer forward and began moving gracelessly in a half-crouch, down the tunnel, dragging his bad leg behind him. He was careful to avoid notice or exposure as spells were fired blindly from both sides. . He began whispering to the refugees he came across, telling them to follow him, even as they shrank from him.

Then the unthinkable happened and some young dolt in the ranks of the Death Eaters released Fiedfyre. Marcus was barely able to cast a shield around him, the Healer and a small child who was screaming. Marcus glanced back and was sickened to see the boy, no older than seven, pulling at the charred stumps of his mother's arms. He jerked his head towards the boy and addressed the Healer, sweat popping out on his brow as he said, "Shut 'im up, will you? Can't hold the spell with him caterwaulin'..."

The Healer pulled the boy to him and fussed with the child before adding another layer of shielding behind Marcus, unknowingly pushing Flint closer to the edge of his own protection. Flint screamed as he felt his flesh bubble under the still intense heat of the Fiendfyre that scorched even with the shield. He felt as if his brain were boiling and that his eyeballs had popped under the pressure of the shield that held him in place, unable to escape. The last thing he knew was a sensation of falling and wishing he could have told Millie just what she really meant to him.

Lucius cursed as he made his way through the twisted wreckage of a Muggle caravan park. Screams of the injured and dying, which had bothered him little before, suddenly set his teeth on edge. He scanned the park for signs of life and when he found it, he surreptitiously stunned the victim so that they would remain quiet and possibly unnoticed by Doholov, Goyle Sr, Crabbe, and the two werewolf Snatchers who had accompanied the Death Eaters. Doholov, who stood above a crouched body, waved the blocky figures of Goyle Sr and Crabbe away as he cast a spell. The crouching figure flew apart, splattering the area with black blood, and effluvia. Doholov turned to Lucius, "Come get in on the fun, Malfoy. There's a sweet little morsel inside the caravan, just waiting to learn who is her superior."

Lucius raised his wand as several pops of Apparition sounded above the roaring sound of flames and battle. Several identifiable members of the Order spanned out, taking cover and shooting spells at the Death Eater contingent. Lucius dove for cover behind a burning car as a spell whizzed past his head. Crabbe lay just behind a large boulder. He shot Malfoy a delirious smile as he raised his head above the surface of the stone. He fired off a spell blindly as another arced toward him. Crabbe fell, the insane smile still plastered below dead eyes. Lucius was spared only a second before an agonising burn spread up his own legs. He rolled to escape the effects of the unknown spell. It was then that he saw Doholov stalking a pale figure. If it had not been for the distinctive ginger and the glint of spectacles, Lucius would have assumed Doholov cast a succession of Diffindos, his favourite spell, at yet another Muggle. The Weasley boy-- Percival, Lucius thought-- fell under two of the crushing spells as Doholov stalked forward. Blood ran black down the younger man's face out of a mouth that worked soundlessly, begging for some sort of aid.

A third spell fell on him from Doholov's wand before Lucius was finally able to cast a non-directional shield spell on the boy. Doholov hissed, looking for the culprit who took away his fun, his eyes glancing over Lucius before continuing onto a more likely target, a young Auror. Lucius stood and desperately cast the Patronus spell, willing himself to be able to make any sort of creature form so that he might get a message to St. Mungo's. He brought his only untainted memory to the fore of his mind, the moment only a day before when Narcissa uttered her words of love. His heart swelled, feeling as if were bursting from his chest even as he pushed the feeling of desperate urgency to the back of his mind. All that mattered at that moment was Narcissa's love.

A thin light fell from the tip of his wand, faltering before coalescing into a tiny form. Lucius looked at it closely, from the tip of its ridiculously pointed nose to the short hands held at its breast and down to the small bush of a tail. He groaned inwardly even as he gave the form its orders.

It scampered off, its quick movements belying its ungainly body and timid nature. Of course, Lucius couldn't have a Patronus that matched his vision of himself. His animal spirit couldn't be stately and sedate, or even showy and gorgeous. He watched it disappear into the night, its long thin feet scampering atop the field of battle, a small meerkat made of light and shadow.

A spell whizzed past his face, stirring his hair. He slunk back to his hiding place, damning his luck even whilst relieved that he had saved one more Pureblood life from the Dark Lord's depredations.

Lucius returned from the battle, sodden, stinking of diesel fuel, and sick unto death of war, killing, gore, and fanaticism. He slunk past the room that had been the site of so much despair and torture in the last months, hoping to be able to get to his rooms without incident, when he heard a soft scuffle and then a loud wail, followed by Bella's mocking laughter. He knew he should investigate, for if his lovely sister-in-law were in residence then so was the Dark Lord, but his weary feet kept him on the path towards the stairway, away from the Darkness that had consumed his once proud demesne. He was sure, no matter what the outcome of the war that the Manor would never be home again.

Just as Lucius put his boot shod foot on the bottom stair leading to the family wing, the doors to the room that the Dark Lord had claimed as his throne flew open. A shaft of light blinded Lucius as he heard Bella's high-pitched squeal of pleasure. "Lucius, darling, I have great need of your opinion on a matter of import."

Lucius turned to her warily. If Bella in a bad mood was fearsome, Bella using that falsely bright tone spelt disaster. He twitched his robes into a semblance of order, before answering with the same false brightness. "Anything for you, Bella dear."

She waved him toward her, impatiently tapping her tow against the marble even as he hastened to her side. He looked past her to the scene of devastation beyond her. The form of the Lovegood girl lay at the foot of the dais that the Dark Lord had erected for his newly installed throne, procured on his last voyage to the continent. The girl moaned as Pettigrew prodded her with his foot, his expression at once avid and disgusted. Lucius followed Bella into the room, and came to stop metres from the scene, finally noting the disarray of Pettigrew's robes and the small, dark blotch of blood staining the girl's thighs. Lovegood twitched and then opened her eyes, staring blankly past him, tears spilling down her cheeks as Bella asked, "How certain are you of your son's allegiance to our cause, Lucius?"

"Very," Lucius said over the roaring of blood in his ears. "Did the blood traitor's daughter intimate something differently?"

Bella tittered. "She did not need to speak, Lucius. Her body did it for her."

Pettigrew gave a squeal of mirth as the girl slowly dragged herself up to a crouch, covering her nudity as best she could with her slender arms. She said in a strangely high and clear voice, her once unfocused eyes now resting piercingly on Lucius, "Draco has always been a gentleman to me, sir."

Bella wheeled around, slashing the girl across the face with her nails. Lovegood recoiled, throwing her arm across her face as the older woman bore down on her. "Do not speak, filth, unless told to do so."

The girl drew a foolhardy breath, opening her mouth as if to speak again. Bella flicked her wand at the girl. "I warned you.... Crucio!"

The girl writhed on the floor, her clear voice growing hoarse as Bella drew out the curse for a full minute. Lucius felt his stomach roil, wanting to empty it as the girl screamed wordlessly. He finally grabbed Bella's wand, stopping the agonising display. "I'm sure, Bella, the Dark Lord would not be pleased if you broke her. She, after all, has her use for him, else she wouldn't be here. I'm sure he desires further use of her."

Bellatrix sneered at him, her corroded beauty subsumed by the expression. "I am well aware of our Lord's desires, Lucius, since I am held in such high esteem as a widow of one of his highest lieutenants for whose death you are still disgraced."

Pettigrew snorted, but squeaked when Bella turned her gimlet eye on him. She said her voice cold. "Why do you think it is that when your son was given the order to despoil the girl, that he did not, in fact, do it? Why is it that the blood traitor's daughter remained a virgin until this very evening, Lucius? I think our Lord would be quite interested in discovering the failure of yet another Malfoy to carry out explicit orders."

Lucius let his wand slide into the palm of his hand, readying himself for battle, even if it doomed him. Bellatrix could not be allowed to carry tales, no matter how true they were, to the Dark Lord about his son. It would be the end of the Malfoy line, if the Dark Lord took exception to the boy's inaction. Perhaps if he got word to Snape before his own death, Draco could be saved or at least hidden.

"I'm the one who countermanded your order, Bella." Narcissa's voice sounded from the hallway. "I am his mother, and as such, I have the final say in whom he beds. It is our way, as you well know. If our parents had chosen as wisely neither of us would have been saddled with such... specimens as mates. No, Bella, I simply did not want my son's first experience to be with such a puling creature. It might weaken his seed."

Narcissa strode to Lucius' side, sweeping him with a look of utter disdain. Only Lucius saw the tension in the line of her neck and the slight, nervous tremor in her hand both indicative of Narcissa during duplicity. She was a terrible liar for a born and bred Slytherin. Bellatrix glared between her sister and Lucius, as if sensing duplicity even though, by design, he and Narcissa had fostered the appearance of discord in their public dealings since taking their vows with the Order. It was a matter of expedience if either of them were revealed a traitor to the Dark Lord. After tense moments of scrutiny, the older women finally turned her scathing attention to Pettigrew. "Leave us."

The man scurried from the room with a backward, gloating glance at Lucius.

Bella levitated the girl carelessly, her head lolling on her neck like a broken stalk of wheat. "You are correct that the Dark Lord has his uses for the girl, but I do find it suspect that you put so much effort, brother dear, in your defence of the blood traitor. In the future, perhaps you should temper your arguments-- that is, unless you want the ickle whore for yourself... you and my late husband were apparently more alike than not."

Lucius bristled, but before he could speak, Narcissa forestalled any precipitous utterance with a scornful laugh. "Leave us, Lucius, and take this thing with you since you so obviously want it. Merlin knows I can no longer get a reaction from you."

Bellatrix cackled and let the girl fall to the floor in a boneless heap. Lucius lifted his wand and used the same spell to raise the girl up, propelling her before him until they were out of sight of the room. He brought her to the kitchens, a place he knew no human eyes would pry and he lowered her onto a low-lying table used by the elves for food preparations. The girl moaned, her eyes fluttering, her skin almost translucent in the flickering of the witch lights that illuminated the space. An elf appeared at his side and Lucius barked, "Fetch some flannels, warm water and the girl's clothing from where ever it is."

The elf popped away from Lucius in that disquieting manner in which they had, and Lucius began taking a catalogue of her injuries. The obvious ones were bruises from Pettigrew's assault, but spell damage was causing her face to swell on one side and the prolonged Cruciatus exposure wracked her body with tremors. Lucius was lucky that Severus had been such a close ally, for he had a well-stocked potions cabinet for such emergencies.

He Accioed the nerve tonics and bruise pastes that Snape had formulated over the years. The girl's eyes opened as Lucius raised her head and put the first in a series of bottles against her lips. She smiled sweetly at him. "Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. I feared..." Her smile faltered. "I feared I might not..."

"Drink, you silly girl." He tipped the bottle and she complied. His mind raced with possible scenarios in which her presence did not cause things to go tits up for them all. Bellatrix would most definitely use Narcissa's lie against them all. The girl, if she were to disappear... perhaps Snape would help. He seemed to be less a Death Eater and more an educator when it came to the students at the school... perhaps he could be importuned to intervene... Lucius dismissed the thought as too dangerous.

He needed rest; he needed a clear mind to think... he needed... his wife, as much if not more than he needed the girl gone.

The elf reappeared and the girl swung her attention to it. "I think I can take care of myself now, Mr. Malfoy. If you will just... take me back to the dungeons."

He was struck by the trust in her tone, and the strength. That faith was why the Dark Lord would lose, that faith and the type of strength that lay in the girl's iron-willed courage.

Lucius would affect her escape. He had to, in order to safeguard his son.