Chapter 12. Sins of Fathers and Mothers
Lucius left his study once he'd finished his work and descended for dinner. He flicked his cane, lighting up the wall sconces, illuminating the dim corridor.
As he strolled, numbers from the ledger brought a pleasant smile to his face. It had been only three years since he partnered with Midas Trickett, and already the man was proving true to his name, turning everything he touched to gold. The Malfoy fortune had doubled in that short span, making them far richer than they'd ever been. He felt vindicated in the audacious decision he'd made to support Midas. Though it was part curiosity and part charm. The suave Frenchman had invited many lords to hear his grand plans, but only a few showed up. Lucius and Proserpina Greengrass were among those few. And now they reaped the benefits of betting on an untested visionary.
Amusingly, House Black—once a pinnacle of the old families—had fallen far behind in recent times because of this very decision. Arcturus Black had nothing but contempt for the Frenchman, who not only proposed business in the magical world but also the muggle one. And the old coot had simply flounced away when the elaborate plans to meddle in that world were put forward, adamant in not mingling with the ungifted and the cursed.
Lucius often imagined the old man's wrinkled face contorted in regret as Malfoy and Greengrass climbed past the so-called uncrowned Blacks.
The times were changing, and old prejudices must be curbed if one wished to stay ahead of the curve. Lucius was anything but unadaptable. If he could learn to live with a vengeful demon constantly seeking ways to kill him, he could survive anything. That didn't mean it wasn't bone-tiring—always having to look over his shoulder—but it was the price of his sins, forever hounding him.
"Lucius." Narcissa greeted him with a small smile as he stepped into the bright dining room.
She was seated at the table garbed in her usual dark green robes, her platinum-blonde hair coiffed to perfection. He noticed she'd shifted from an intricate braid to a high ponytail. He didn't dislike it. Then again, he doubted he could dislike any cosmetic change when it came to her.
There were plenty to complain about in his life, most notably the vengeful redheaded banshee shadowing him, but the good still outweighed the bad. Narcissa and Draco alone tipped the scales. If not for them, he'd have long given up and let Lily Potter kill him.
What she, and everyone else, didn't know was that he regretted his part in the war. All the deaths, direct and indirect, the accumulated evil… all of it had taken its toll on him. Even now, he sometimes woke in the dead of the night, unable to do anything but flee from accusing eyes and wretched screams.
He wouldn't lie to himself though. He had relished the power in his youth, to be able to stand over others and decide their fate, to take pleasure whenever he wanted and kill whoever he despised. Life had been simple back then, carved in black and white, in powerful and powerless, in pureblood and mudblood. Why should he care for animals' screams? He killed them as easily as he'd dispatch gnomes from his garden.
But as the war stretched on, as he did unthinkable evils, as their screams stuck in his head, he was forced to see, to realise that mudbloods weren't so different after all, that his father's teaching had been biased and full of holes.
He could blame it all on his father, on his family, on the environment that raised him. But no, that would be running away from accountability. He had loved the power, the freedom to take and kill, until his head was full of screams, until the joy abruptly became a burden.
Lucius Malfoy had tortured, killed, and raped without second thoughts. And then… he married a kind woman, then… he had a son with her. And suddenly he understood how wrong the world was, how he didn't want them to suffer what he was afflicting on others. But it was too late to change ways. He had, along with Severus, already killed James Potter, and had earned the undying hatred of the War Devil.
When the first time she had attempted to kill him, he had frozen and wondered if he should let her. He did deserve death, after all. But then his wife and son's faces flashed before his eyes, and in his desperation, he somehow managed to save himself. When he'd stumbled home, bloodied and frantic, he'd found Narcissa in bed, nursing Draco. And he was overwhelmed by emotions. He did the unmanly thing and broke down before her.
He had destroyed uncountable families. And now that he had one, he realised what great evil he'd committed.
Narcissa had led him to bed and cradled his head against her chest, whispering forgiveness and reassurances he didn't deserve. And then she'd said something profound, something that stuck with him ever since, that provided him a goal to strive for.
"What is better, my love: to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort?"
He would never earn forgiveness from the others; he understood that. Lily Potter wouldn't get her husband back because he turned a new leaf. All those dead mothers and children wouldn't care that he now felt remorse. All those men who could never return to their families wouldn't come alive just because regret consumed him. He could not undo his evil, but he could do more good, do so much of it that it outweighed his sins, and earn his own forgiveness. Because that alone was in his own hands.
Since then, he'd secretly donated to charities, constructed orphanages and hospitals, and done numerous other 'good' deeds. And all of it was done anonymously. It was not a publicity stunt. He did not want others to see he'd changed. No, as he'd said, it wouldn't matter to them. Their forgiveness was beyond unreachable, nigh impossible. The only forgiveness he could get was his own. And so he did what he could.
"What are you thinking, my love?" Narcissa raised her eyebrow, her tone sweet and teasing as he realised he'd been staring at her for a whole minute.
He smiled and sat down in the chair at her side, kissing her cheek. "Nothing. I was stunned by your beauty. I like the new style."
Her eyes twinkled, and he was rewarded with a chaste kiss. "Thank you."
His blood thrummed as desire churned in his gut. But now was not the time.
Shaking his head, banishing the image of tangled bodies and silken heat, he focused and addressed the oddity. "Where's Draco?"
"He's having a sleepover with his friends."
He frowned. The Malfoys had good reason not to linger outside the Manor, and Narcissa knew that as well as he did. And… the way she'd said it was wrong. Too light. Too rehearsed. He watched her avert her eyes.
She was hiding something.
"Cissa." He fixed her with an intent look, his heart beginning to pound against his ribcage, a sense of doom closing around him like a fated noose. "This is serious. No lies, tell me where he is."
She sighed and hung her head. "He's at the World Cup. He begged me to let him go with his friends. And he knew you'd not allow him no matter what. He is a man now, Lucius. We can't just cage him forever. He feels stifled. Let him live."
For a moment, he couldn't comprehend her words, and then he pushed away from the table and ran to the floo.
'Please, let him be alright,' even as he prayed, he knew it was too late.
~xXxXx~
The spell had opened Rose's left cheek to the bone, tracing the curve along the line of her smile.
The only good news was that it wouldn't scar. A few doses of the right potion, and she'd look as though nothing had happened. It was a simple cutter, not one of those dark spells that lingered and resisted healing.
He was grateful for small mercies.
Even the Cruciatus Curse wouldn't leave permanent marks. At least not on her body.
He sat at her bedside, holding her soft hand between his, marvelling at how small it was. At one point, their hands had been mirrors of each other, that if they pressed their palms flat together, they would fit perfectly.
He hoped she wouldn't actually hate him for taking her away from the battlefield. She would've done the same in his place.
She'd been rigid and apoplectic at first as he and her friends wrestled her into bed, begging her to calm down. Only after Alice and Lily floo'd home a few minutes later did the fight drain out of her, and she collapsed back onto the pillows. A healer was called immediately, who examined her, and assigned a regimen of potions.
Now, Rose lay deep asleep, having taken a sleeping potion. She couldn't do without it, her body still spasming occasionally, upsetting her, ripping him apart. It should go away in a few days, or so the healer had said. He hoped she was correct.
Daphne and Hermione had gone home half an hour ago. They'd been hesitant, and would no doubt have stayed if he'd asked. Instead, he told them to go and come back tomorrow. They needed rest just as much as Rose. Maybe more.
He'd been surprised when both of them hugged him. Daphne even apologised and said she finally understood why he'd done it, why he'd killed those men without hesitation. He doubted she truly understood, but he was glad nonetheless that they could remain friends.
In the end, though, these good moments were few and far between. Guilt and rage bubbled together in his head, drowning everything else.
He leaned over and kissed Rose on the head. "Sweet dreams."
Then he left her room, deciding to be done with this.
The rage and guilt needed release.
He found Lily and Alice standing near the fireplace in the living room. It looked like Alice was preparing to leave. He couldn't let her do that before saying sorry.
They heard his footsteps and turned towards him. Both smiled, but only one smile reached their eyes. Even after all he'd done, even after he'd abandoned her, Alice looked at him the same way, with warmth and kindness, with love.
"Harry." She walked over and held him by the shoulders. "I need to get back home. Nev is worried sick. You'll be alright, won't you? No beating yourself up about what happened, okay?"
They'd already had a brief talk, where she ordered him not to feel guilty, that he had done the right thing. That abandoning her was the correct decision. Maybe it was correct, but it was not right. It didn't feel right.
"There you go again." She shook her head, squeezing his shoulders, tipping his chin up. "You're too hard on yourself, son. It was my duty to protect you. You didn't abandon me, you heeded my advice and saved your friends. My death would've been a waste if you had died too. As an adult, as your godmother, it was my duty to protect, not yours."
He nodded, even if he didn't buy her reasoning. The next time something like this happened, he'd be stronger. He'd never run again.
"Good." She kissed his one cheek and patted the other, still smiling. "Now shoo, go to bed. I have another noble boy to tend to. He's also going to blame himself for everything. You noble boys are pain in the arse, always so stubborn, you know."
He managed a weak smile and bid her goodbye, surprising her with a tight hug. Her smile widened, and she waved at him before ducking into the fireplace.
And now there were only two people in the room.
The guilt subsided, rage took command.
Lily was still dressed in that slutty blood-red dress, her stocking-clad leg visible as she leaned against the fireplace, staring at him with an empty smile. Even her hair was pristine. There was no sign that she'd fought Death Eaters, that she'd saved Alice. It was as if she hadn't even broken a sweat. And that for some reason angered him more, these clean and unruffled features.
"Alice shared an interesting observation. Apparently, Velora Trickett's magical signature was the same as Voldemort's," she said, all sharp and biting, as she sauntered over to him, replacing Alice's hands on his shoulders, her grip tighter, more possessive. Her voice was furious, bleeding fire and brimstone. "We will avenge Rose, Harry. We'll get to the bottom of this together. The Death Eater who attacked you must be Victor Trickett, somehow possessing the same magical signature as the Dark Lord. He was conveniently absent in the aftermath. I promise you; we'll bury this Trickett family."
A part of him absently filed the information away for another day. Because the rage refused to be diverted. He didn't care who was the man behind the mask, the man who'd cut his sister. At least not right now.
"Where were you?" he whispered, shrugging her hands off his shoulders and taking a step back, so he could look her in the eye.
"What do you mean?" She looked confused.
But he knew his mother. She knew what he meant by it. The way she averted her gaze told him everything.
"Where the fuck were you when the Death Eaters attacked!?" he yelled, clenching his hands at his sides, his voice slamming against the walls. "Where the fuck were you when Rose was getting tortured? Where the fuck were you when Victor Trickett ambushed us? I ask, mother, where the fuck were you? What were you doing?"
She turned away, sighing audibly, pulling her loose hair in a ponytail, not meeting his eyes. "You know where I was and what I was doing. I was handing out justice. I was killing Death Eaters. Someone had to. Everyone else was running away."
He laughed; there was no mirth in his voice, just vitriol. "Justice, you? No, you were busy feeding your sadistic urges. You went on a killing spree, and it was not for justice or protection; it was for your own sick pleasure. You put your pleasure above us, mum."
His yell had quietened to a pained mumble. "Rose could've died. The cutter could've struck her neck. The only reason she's alive is luck. It shouldn't be luck. It should be you, mum. You should have protected us, be there for us at the minimum since they targeted us because of you. But you were away, busy with your pleasure. You put it above me and Rose. You're… awful, mum."
She whirled around, her eyes ablaze. Her mouth opened, no doubt ready to spill cruel words, to match his anger. But, surprisingly, she shut it close with a click and whispered back, her voice hoarse, "I'm awful? Don't be mean, Harry. I feel terrible already. I know it was my fault. I know I should've hurried. I tried, okay? And I came, didn't I?"
His belly was full of poison, his mind impervious to her trembling voice, his throat full of words, and he let it all out. "Yes, you are awful! You're an awful person, you're an awful… mother. No, you don't even deserve to be addressed as such," his mumble turned into a fierce yell, gratified when she flinched and staggered back. "You're a selfish bitch who cares for nothing but herself. Do you ever feel guilt, Lily? Do you ever wonder if you're nothing but a stain on our memories?
"We've been trying to love you since our earliest memories, to see past your faults, but it's just… so hard. Loving you is complicated; it's a mixed bag; it's onesided. If you can't reject your impulses when we are in bloody danger, how can we expect you to die for us like we would for you!? It was Alice who ran across the camp to find us. It was her who stood before us and certain death! It was her who protected us! Where the fuck were you, Lily?
"I wish… Alice was my mother. I wish loving a parent was simple and uncomplicated. I wish I wasn't born to you. I wish you didn't exist."
…
…
Lily stood ramrod straight, holding herself up, her eyes wide and shocked, tears dripping down her cheeks. "Is that… so? I'm sorry for being such an awful mother, then. Maybe I'll go kill myself and everyone can be happy afterwards," she spat and fled.
He stared at her back, feeling light… feeling empty and soulless.
His own eyes were damp; he found no joy in making her cry. There was no rush of exhilaration.
He just felt numb.
~xXxXx~
Lucius scoured the campsite from end to end, moving through the tangle of collapsed tents and bodies—both innocent and masked—yet Draco remained missing. Perhaps it was pessimistic to already think his son dead, but he felt the metaphorical noose tightened around his neck.
He'd run out of luck, and his son had surely paid the price for his sins.
He should've been a better father. He should've taught Draco to be better than he himself was in his childhood. Maybe then his son wouldn't have made the mistake of joining up with the Death Eaters. And he had gotten roped in with them, of that Lucius was certain. His son wouldn't be here otherwise.
There were other people too, shuffling through the bodies, attempting to retrieve their loved ones. But their eyes held both hope and apprehension. They wanted and did not want to succeed in finding familiar corpses. Perhaps those loved ones had been able to run away. Perhaps they were safe.
Lucius did not hold on to such delusions. The battlefield had made it clear, the hardened swamp made it obvious who had awoken again. He wouldn't want false hope, wouldn't want his heart shattered again.
If only he'd informed the Ministry of the attack, maybe then Draco would've been arrested rather than killed. But he'd hoped the Death Eaters would've been able to butcher Lily at last, that he could finally be free of her suffocating shadow.
Evil had lingered in his chest, and it took his son as punishment.
If only he was a better person. If only he was a better man.
It was all his fault.
His throat closed up, imagining how it must've felt, how much Draco would've suffered before she killed him.
By the morning, as he failed to unearth Draco, he concluded Lily Potter had given his son a special treatment, that she'd taken him away to be tortured and tormented.
Instead of despair, an ember of hope rose inside his frigid soul. Perhaps there was still a way to save Draco.
He would give himself up and beg Potter to set Draco free. She had always wanted him. Maybe she was keeping Draco alive for barter. He hoped she was.
Abandoning his task, ignoring the pitiful glances thrown at him, he went home with muddied clothes and hopeful eyes.
The moment he entered the manor, he knew something was wrong.
There was blood in the air, ruin in the walls. Even before he entered the living room, the ember of hope had died.
But as he came across his dead wife, as he glanced at the cardboard box containing the decapitated head of Draco, his soul perished as well.
He did not cry. He felt nothing.
He gently closed Narcissa's eyes, ignoring her suicide letter, the gash in her wrists. But he caught the words on the bottom anyway.
'It's all my fault. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry…'
It was not her fault. But what use were reassurances now?
He breathed a deep sigh of relief. The sixteen year old chase had run its course. There was no more reason to hide.
He felt free. He was unshackled.
He wrote two letters that day, one that could bring apocalypse, and one that could establish peace. Even at his lowest, he gave the world two options, and tried to be better.
To,
Amelia Bones,
Phineas Nott was the one who organised the Death Eater raid. Do with this information what you will.
…
…
To,
Phineas Nott,
Go to Albania. You will find him there. Our Lord awaits his return.
…
…
Then he sent both letters at once, uncaring which reached first, or what happened next, indifferent if the world were destroyed or saved.
~xXxXx~
Lucius stood before the gates of the Potter Manor.
Within a minute, Lily Potter came out and loomed before him, the iron gate separating them.
"Lucius." She nodded, her hair a mess, her eyes bloodshot.
"Potter. I've come to make a deal."
"Oh?"
"Give back the body of my son, and I shall hand myself over to you." Lucius dropped to his knees, his voice blank, his eyes empty. "He deserves the final rites. Do not take this from me."
Her hand rose to pinch her brow. "His body should be at the camp."
"He was not there."
A genuine look of bafflement flickered over her face. Then she pursed her lips and stared at him. "I think I know where he is. Wait here."
Lucius remained on his knees for the next ten minutes.
She returned carrying the headless body of his son in her arms.
The gate creaked open, and she laid it before him on the grass. "Sirius… did this, not me."
The body was mutilated beyond recognition.
Lucius didn't care, picking it up gently, turning around and walking away. "I'll return by the evening. You can have me then."
He felt the weight of her stare on his back. Then he heard her soft, uncharacteristic words. "It would be a lie if I said I wouldn't have killed him. But I would've made it quicker and painless. I'm not sorry, but I sympathise. I wish… it hadn't come to this. I wish the war never happened. I wish we weren't so pathetic. I wish we hadn't failed our children."
Without a word, Lucius apparated away.
~xXxXx~
Lucius built three pyres. One for his wife, one for his son, and one for himself.
He instructed Dobby to scatter their ashes in any river. It was clear that he couldn't trust the world with corpses. Who knows what else Sirius Black might do to their bodies.
He set down Draco first, then Narcissa, and finally he laid down in his own burning pyre. He ignored Dobby's sobs and shrieked as the fire ate him. It was the least he could do for being the reason for his family's suffering. He had to undergo this immolation. Draco must've suffered more. So much more.
The fire ate his screams first before it consumed him. And the prosperous house of Malfoy died.