a deep & dazzling darkness;;

[luciusmalfoy]

Home.

Lucius never thought he would dread being in this house, in the place where he grew from boy to man. He had been quiet and solemn during the train ride back to King’s Cross, something he was sure annoyed Cissy, especially since he had yet to tell her the reason behind his sullen mood of late. He had rather hoped the situation would be on its way to resolving itself by the time he came home for the holidays; however, he had not heard from his mother since the last letter three days ago, and things had been bad then. No news was not always good news. In the case of Abraxas, Lucius was certain it was utter shite. He settled, then, for pretending that his sourness was the fact that he was bitter about the crowning of the Yule Court (which, in fairness, he was; Andromeda may not have been perfect, but she was of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and thus should have been crowned Queen, and he ought to have been King instead of that bastard Mudblood; as for Princess, Lucius could have cared less that his ex-“pen friend” was Duchess, but Princess should have rightfully been Cissy’s). The Herald was running behind as well; Lucius had not been entirely pulling his weight as Editor, ensuring all assignments were handed in on time, which was fortunate as he hadn’t even written his own contribution yet. He almost wished he’d left the bloody thing to the Sauveterre girl so she would have to deal with this mess, not he. However, he had managed to keep his grades high and his reputation blazing. Not that any of it would truly matter if things did turn for the worst, but there was comfort – yes, comfort – in knowing that he still had control over some aspects of his life. And he would tell Cissy the truth about everything, once a definite outcome had been reached. … For better, or for worse.

Like many purebloods, Lucius had been homeschooled as a child until he came of age to attend Hogwarts. His mother had not been his tutor, of course; she and Abraxas had hired the best magical tutor money could find. Lucius had only known this woman as ‘Madame’, though he was certain she had informed him of her name on more than one occasion. Madame was a French witch; she had attended Beaxbatons in her youth, and worked with the Ministry in France in International Relations for nearly two decades before being offered a position with the British Ministry. She and her husband had relocated their entire lives to London, where they worked for the Ministry and raised a family until she retired in her seventies. Her husband had died a short time later, and Madame had been lonely without her children and grandchildren. She had homeschooled all of them while still working for the Ministry, and as she didn’t want to spend her days sitting in a flat too big for one person while scarves knitted themselves and the “ghastly music these days” playing on the WWN, she decided to return to work as a certified tutor for magical children. She had started out teaching them in small classes of up to ten students, but when she started pushing ninety, Madame had been forced to settle for one-on-one lessons. As far as Lucius knew, he had been one of her last students; her mind gave out two years after he started Hogwarts, and the last he heard, she was in the seniors’ ward at St. Mungo’s. It was an odd thing, really, how he could remember all of that, but he couldn’t remember her name. He remembered nearly everything she ever taught him, but she was always just Madame. One of his clearest memories of her lessons was when she was telling him about Ancient Greece, and she had been describing some of the important gods and goddesses and all of their myths. When she described Zeus, Lucius did not picture a mighty giant with a beard made of lightning bolts. In his mind’s eye, Zeus most clearly resembled his father.

But gods were not supposed to die.

Gods were not supposed to be lying in bed, shivering despite fires crackling nearby and being covered with layers of blankets. Gods were not supposed to be so pale that their skin was almost translucent; they were not supposed to have lost so much weight and muscle so quickly that loose flaps and folds of flesh hung all over the body and face. Zeus was supposed to be the king of the gods; he was not supposed to get sick and die. Abraxas was supposed to be invincible. He was supposed to be better than this disease, than bloody dragon pox.

His mother was a mess. She, too, was pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her cheekbones were more prominent than usual. Her face looked sunken and hollow, and her eyes looked as lifeless as the man lying in bed. Her hands were cold when Lucius clasped them in his own. He couldn’t bear to look into his mother’s face for too long; there was too much suffering, too much confusion, too much sorrow. She didn’t say a word to Lucius, barely acknowledging his return, but he wasn’t insulted. His mother was fragile, he knew. She loved his father; he had always known that, despite the fact that they weren’t very public with their affection for each other. But he could see it clearly now, in the way she gripped Abraxas’s hand. He could see it in the way she gently applied cloth after cloth to his forehead. He heard it in the way she gently said his name whenever he moved. On Christmas morning, they sat on either side of Abraxas to trade gifts, and she had hand-sewn him a quilt with the Malfoy family crest on it. Surrounding the crest were small, roughly-stitched names off the family tree. There was space in the bottom corner ‘For Lucius, for our son, for when he marries and has his own family’. And she had tucked the blanket around him and squeezed his hand. He didn’t squeeze back.

Perhaps it was seeing Porrima’s pain that made Lucius start to swallow his own fears. His mother would not be able to handle Abraxas’s death, which was becoming more and more inevitable. His skin was turning a deeper shade of green and his breathing was shallower and choppier than before. Dragon pox was no longer contagious at this stage, so they didn’t have to wear gloves or masks to visit him anymore. Porrima now slept by his side, clutching his hand all night. Lucius would stay awake for a while before ordering a house elf to wake him if anything changed. He would never admit it to a soul, not even Cissy, but he often fell asleep clutching his father’s other hand.

It was on such a night, just after New Year’s, that it finally happened. Lucius woke, feeling his father gripping his hand tightly for the first time in days, and his eyes were open and wild and rolling and his mouth was foaming and his body was jerking, and Lucius stood so quickly he knocked his chair to the floor and he put his free hand on his father’s forehead and held his breath and tried to think of something to do, of anything to do, and then… it stopped. Abraxas froze mid-fit, and then exhaled slowly and relaxed against his sheets, and his grip on Lucius’s hand went slack and his eyes… Lucius couldn’t explain it, but his eyes seemed to go dark, and he knew that it was over. Abraxas Malfoy was dead. Without thinking, he reached up and closed his father’s eyes, then released him and made his way down to the kitchen for breakfast. Perhaps when Porrima woke, she’d hope for a moment that her husband was still asleep. Hopefully she wouldn’t realise that he was dead.

Her scream told him otherwise.

She had been crying ever since that morning. It had been almost twelve hours. Lucius had managed to owl a local morgue and threatened the mortician into keeping his mouth shut as he took his father’s body away. No one needed to know Abraxas was dead yet. He had today and tomorrow to plan a funeral, but it had to happen before he—

No.

He wasn’t returning to Hogwarts.

Lucius had made up his mind about this weeks ago, though he had to admit that he hoped it wouldn’t have to come to pass. But now it was a reality, and he had a responsibility. He had to uphold the family name and ensure that it didn’t go to hell. He loved his mother, but she was in no state to keep the Malfoy name afloat. Lucius was the man of the house now, and he had to act it. He had to be it. He had to do something to establish himself, though. He had to prove he was man enough, that he was Malfoy enough, to make his father proud.

The answer came to him without much rhyme or reason.

He had made sure that Porrima was upstairs in her bedroom, and sound-proofed the room so his visitor would not hear her heartbroken wails. The house elves had been kicked into cleaning the place to perfection at high speed – Porrima was always soft with the creatures, and had completely neglected to give them orders in wake of Abraxas’s illness. But now Lucius was their master, and he was not nearly so weak. Once the drawing room had been completely cleaned, he ordered them out before seating himself on the sofa, staring tensely into the fire. He finally stood when his visitor arrived; Lucius waved his wand at a bottle of the finest merlot he could find, and it tipped and poured small amounts into two separate glasses. With another wave of his wand, he sent one of them over to his guest before sitting back down and motioning for him to do the same. “You came,” he said quietly, as though he was surprised – and to be honest, he almost was. Lucius had expected Regulus to write back and tell him to ‘shove it up his arse’ or something just as eloquent, especially since all Lucius had said was that he didn’t care about Regulus’s plans, but he expected him to Floo into the Malfoy Manor at ten p.m. sharp. “Good. We have business to discuss.” He took a sip of his merlot before meeting Regulus’s gaze over the rim of the glass.

“Tell me, what sort of allegiances are you planning to make to the Dark Lord?”

``regulus

[Regulus Black]

knife is on the table and noose attached
bottle is open but the misery remains
there are things they couldn’t know
friends all gathered he is still alone

Regulus didn’t do well with comforting.

Or, well, anything of much emotional content. Even for his best mate of all these years, the wooden-pole-up-his-ass Lucius Malfoy, Regulus couldn’t be bothered to pay his respects in a timely and/or affectionate manner. Now Abraxas Malfoy was dead, and Lucius was the head of the house. There was a silent understanding between Lucius and Regulus about the mutual weight on their shoulders to become the head of their respective families. The responsibility was giant, in both their cases––House Malfoy and House Black were names ages old, and it was up to Regulus and Lucius to ensure they maintained their reputations. Of course, Regulus had thought Lucius would have more time, but it seemed fate would have other plans for him. Regulus tried to imagine what Lucius must be going through. The pressure, the grief, all wrapped into one. He shuddered to think about what he would do if it happened to him. Hell, he had just been informed he was going to be married and he couldn’t even handle that. But Lucius was nothing if not exceptionally practical, and Regulus hoped for his sake that he was managing alright. He wondered why he had been called to the Malfoy Manor, indeed, but some small part of him knew that it wasn’t because Lucius was in any emotional crisis––well, he was, but he would never call upon Regulus to help him with it. Regulus knew Lucius and he knew him well, and even in times of sorrow, Lucius was constantly practical. He would think of things to distract himself, busy himself with other tasks, things of that nature. Avoidant though he may be, Regulus never argued with Lucius’s process of grieving. As his friend, he was only required to be there, and support him through it, however annoyingly practical he may be.

Luckily for Lucius, Regulus didn’t have much planned for tonight. Even though he hadn’t been summoned very politely, Regulus liked to believe that he and Lucius were at a level in their friendship that surpassed all cordiality. He hadn’t been offended, especially when he had learned of Abraxas’s passing. Lucius was his best mate. And his best mate needed him. He may have been an arse about it, but Regulus wasn’t about to say no. He felt like a ghost in his own house, as it was, after what had happened the last time he had been here over the summer, with Andromeda. Truth was, any time he had an opportunity to escape the house, he took it. His mother, too, was getting to be almost intolerable, what with her wedding plans for some years in the all-too-near future, and her doting on him in impossibly childish ways, asking him what he thought of these flowers, or these, or what about some lilies, would they match Victoria’s skin. Regulus had fucked Victoria once and he had not once noticed her skin. How should he know what would look best? Why couldn’t his mother get together with her mother and they could get off talking about flowers and whatnot. He simply wanted to be left out of it. He had more important things to deal with, like Lucius’s father dying, and the Dark Lord sending him on errands on what seemed to be like a daily basis. Plans were being unveiled to him in ways that he was not confident he could handle, but he could not betray even a hint of his discomfort, or he would have a lot more to deal with than his mother being a senseless ninny.

The thing was, Regulus was starting to have his doubts about the whole Death Eating business. Sure, he believed in the principals. Sure, he worshipped the Dark Lord like an idol. But there was something pervading the back of his head, this sense of wrongness that he couldn’t shake... and frankly, it was slowly eating away at him. Especially with the new plans the Dark Lord had for the holidays, and the help he required from Regulus for these plans. It didn’t give him the normal thrill that it once did, and Regulus couldn’t help but feel slightly nervous about that. Torture still excited him, and killing did too. But it was different, now, than it had been when he was younger. Perhaps he was growing up, and starting to grow a mind for himself.

Either way, he was burying these thoughts deep within him, refusing to let them surface. The thing was, he was the Dark Lord’s favorite. Not Bellatrix, not Alecto, not Rodolphus––him, he was. And that was what thrilled him. The power, the prestige, the padding to his ego. That was what kept him clinging on. That, and fear. But he’d never admit to it. Regulus felt like an exceptional wizard when he was with the Dark Lord. He felt as if he had a purpose beyond the awful domestic life his mother had carved out for him. Though it was electrifyingly immoral, and though it was beginning to frighten and intimidate and overwhelm him, it gave him purpose. Regulus could not pretend that he wasn’t vain, and the fact that he was the protege of the darkest and greatest wizard of all time certainly appealed to this vanity. He’d been obsessed with the Dark Lord for years, had followed his tracks through the world with clippings immortalized in the Prophet, blurbs in magazines here and there, anything and everything he could collect that linked, in some way, back to Him. Regulus had been obsessed and that obsession did not fade away so easily. He may have been experiencing a weakening in resolve as of late but this he blamed solely on his mother’s marital machinations having caused a crisis within him, nothing more. His thoughts contradicted themselves but his actions spoke to only one cause, and that was the way it had to be. He couldn’t afford to back out now, and certainly not because he may only be experiencing a temporary mental unraveling. It’d work itself out, he decided. It’d take care of itself.

As per Lucius’s instructions, Regulus Floo’d himself to the fireplace inside a study of the Malfoy Manor at ten p.m. sharp, only to find Lucius standing there with a bottle of fine merlot and a look on his face that Regulus wasn’t sure how to interpret. He received the glass of merlot gratefully and took a seat opposite his friend. “Well, I didn’t have anything better to do,” he replied, glibly, sipping at his wine. He wasn’t totally surprised to hear Lucius bring up the Dark Lord, but at the same time, he wasn’t entirely expecting it, either. He wondered what Lucius might be getting at. “Allegiances?” he repeated, leaning against the back of the chair and crossing his legs. “He is the Dark Lord, Lucius. I give him my unequivocal support, as should you.” This was his reflexive response, and he wondered how Lucius would take it. However he did would certainly reveal some of his motives behind asking the question to begin with. Regulus watched, and waited.

[luciusmalfoy]

Abraxas had not been a sworn follower of the Dark Lord. Of that, Lucius was certain. He did not have the habit of disappearing to places unknown to Porrima or Lucius at odd hours; he was never present for any published attacks. Not to Lucius’s knowledge, at any rate, though he doubted Porrima would have allowed Abraxas to become involved in the violence. They agreed with the Dark Lord’s stance, of course. Abraxas had always said it was about time someone decided to clean up the filth, and Porrima said it would make Lucius’s job of finding a pureblood wife much easier.

Neither of them knew what Lucius had done last June.

Neither of them new that he had been a member of the ‘Frog Lovers’, and that he had been a part of the vicious attack on Hogsmeade village at the end of the school term.

Neither of them knew that he had donned a hood and a mask and set fire to carriages and buildings before fleeing with the others.

Neither of them knew that he had looked a girl in the face and killed her in cold blood.

He supposed it didn’t matter anymore. The nightmares were ceasing again, and despite Moran having a striking resemblance to Greengrass, he would no longer have to worry about seeing her. Besides, if he was serious about this – which he was, because Lucius was not the type of man to joke – there would probably be more death in his future, caused by his hand. He was no fool. He knew perfectly well that the Dark Lord wasn’t the only one committing murders of Mudbloods and Muggles. Lucius knew that many of the murders were the work of his followers, the Death Eaters. He knew that, should he take this step, killing and torture would be a requirement. Briefly, he wondered what Narcissa would think of his plans for the future, but tossed the thought aside. She was of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. She would understand, even if she did not participate.

He rotated his wrist in miniscule circles, eyeing his merlot as it swirled in the glass. He had to consider his words carefully. Being a Malfoy could only protect him for so long. His father, given that he was aging, was able to scrape by without pledging himself to the Dark Lord. Besides, Abraxas worked far too closely with the Minister; he was constantly under suspicion from a handful of bloody Aurors, especially Alastor Moody. But because he had never joined the Dark Lord’s cause, only voiced his support for it amongst trusted family and peers, he had never been found guilty. Thus, neither had Lucius. If he was to join the Death Eaters, he would have to take extra care to cover his tracks and throw off Moody wherever possible. Being a Malfoy meant that he had certain responsibilities, as did Regulus, being a Black. Being members of two of the eldest, most influential, and powerful pureblood families – the male heirs – meant that they had a responsibility to the pureblood society. They had to set the path, so to speak. Yes, many other purebloods followed the Dark Lord, obviously. The Mulcibers had been it with him for quite some time now. He was certain that the Lestranges had pledged their loyalty; Bellatrix Black had been ruthless and bloodthirsty back in summer, and Lucius could only imagine her skipping away from Hogwarts to find the Dark Lord himself and give herself to him entirely. Although he had no proof, Lucius was almost certain that his mother’s brothers – of the Yaxley family – had joined him as well. It was… strange, almost, that there was yet to be a Malfoy behind a mask. Lucius blamed age; he had been too young, and his father too old. But all of that was changing now.

It was time for Lucius to step up and take the responsibilities his blood set for him.

It was time for Lucius to not only be a man, but be a Malfoy.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was almost quavering, though he didn’t know or care if it was nerves or excitement or both.

“It would be in one’s best interests to do so, yes. He’s certainly a powerful man. Resisting him is rather foolish.” He sipped his wine. “And how do you suppose one would go about… offering to him said unequivocal support?” His eyes flickered to the doorway, where a young house elf gave a tiny gasp and dove back out of sight. He gritted his teeth; he would deal with it later. Turning back to Regulus, Lucius waved his wand idly and refilled his and Regulus’s glasses. “There are not many people I can trust, Regulus. You know how that is.” Being a Malfoy, while an honour and a privilege, did not come without its share of burdens. There were constant attempts to dishonour the name and reputation, whether it be through forging false documents of family history or ludicrous stories to squeeze money out of their accounts. It wasn’t uncommon for less pure, less wealthy, less powerful families to attempt such crimes, though none had ever worked in their favour. Malfoys triumphed – always. “So I trust you understand that everything shared tonight is in complete confidentiality, and consequences of breaking this would be severe – for both of us.” There were a number of enchantments Lucius could have performed prior to Regulus’s arrival that could have ensured that everything said would be kept secret. He could even have charmed the wine glass so that the spell activated when it touched Regulus’s lips; he had not, however, and he figured Regulus knew it too. Despite their… disagreements, he did consider Regulus to be a friend, and such measures should not have been necessary. But it wasn’t jinxes that Lucius was most concerned about; after all, how would it look if the two discussed plans to join the Dark Lord in wake of Abraxas Malfoy’s sudden death?

But he’d avoided the topic enough, and now it was time to truly get down to business. He set down his glass and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his fingertips touching. “Given the state of things outside your cozy little Slytherin dormitory, I think it’s come time to make certain choices.” He glanced at Regulus’s forearm, wondering if he had that supposed ‘Dark Mark’ under his sleeve. The papers reported that each caught Death Eater bore a tattoo on his forearm in the same shape as the Dark Mark that appeared in the sky above the homes of victims. Regulus had been part of the attack on Hogsmeade, and Lucius had a feeling he had taken it more seriously than he did at the time. With all the dark events that transpired over summer, Lucius had to wonder if Regulus had gone ahead and taken the next step and surpassed the simplicity of the ‘Frog Lovers’. But Lucius had never asked, and Regulus had never told, so he kept his suspicions to himself. But now… well, now he would see, because if his suspicions were correct – and they often were – then perhaps Regulus could be his very ticket into the Dark Lord’s inner circle.

“I believe it’s time for me to join the cause.”