Lucius
Mum keeps asking for you. They've resorted to using loved ones to recruit you, it seems.
The haunting silence of the manor is enough to drive one to insanity, to feel as though its aged walls are trying to swallow you up whole. Lucius wishes they would, if only to end the misery and paranoia. He feels as though he is being watched. Every step, every breath, every thought monitored. By who? The Death-Eaters, of course. The remaining few who wish to carry on the legacy of Lord Voldemort, and will do everything in their power to bring back his original followers. Lucius having been one of the three in the Dark Lord's good graces (and being the only to survive the Battle of Hogwarts), they want him to lead them. They have hope and faith in such a cause, but he wants nothing to do with it.
You can't stay there, Father. I understand it is...was our home. But they will not stop until they have you in their grasps. Who knows what other methods they'll try? They don't seem like the sort to stop shy of a little violence.
As if on cue, a loud and relentless banging echoes through the manor.
Lucius remains stone-still where he stands. He stares at a framed photograph on the mantle over the fireplace. It's Narcissa in her youth, holding a baby Draco. His darling wife, his brave boy, together now only in his memory.
I've arranged a hideout for you already. There are clothes and money waiting for you. The address is below my signature. As soon as you arrive there, you MUST destroy this letter.
More door-banging, followed by the shouts of his name and demands to be let in.
He can be with his wife again. He can rejoin the Death-Eaters just as she did, and he can be the man those fools worship. But he remembers the way it was before. He lost everything; Voldemort took his home and his son. He became a punching bag for the Dark Lord, to the point where he became a disgrace and an embarrassment in the eyes of his fellow worshipers. All this came from his loyalty to the "cause", to the wizard he thought could change history and the future. It drained him, that way of life. It broke him, and he lost everything.
"Lucius, open this door!" More loud bangs.
He looks to the door, the pure pain in his eyes never faltering, never fading. His beard is on the verge of growing past his chin. Bags from sleepless nights and long days hang under his eyes. His platinum hair, once beautiful and flowing, is tangled and knotted in a dried-out mess.
You won't like it, but you have no choice. It's in the Muggle world, in America. They wouldn't think of searching for you there. Please don't let your pride block your judgement.
You spent too long giving yourself the image of confidence and bravery that is Lucius Malfoy. Don't let yourself be killed and remembered as a coward.
He reaches for the cane strapped to his hip and wraps his fingers around the silver snake head. He thinks of the address Draco gave him and closes his eyes.
"That's it!" someone shouts from beyond the door.
Lucius hears the door burst open and slam into the wall, then everything goes black. A silence falls over him. Thankfully, it isn't the dreaded silence of the manor anymore. It's calm, soothing, with a soft tune playing in the distance. As he regains proper vision, he begins to study his surroundings.
He finds that he's standing in the middle of a kitchen--or what's supposed to be a kitchen. There's a stove, a sink, a fridge, cupboards, but no dining table. No fine dinnerware, no spice racks, nothing. The walls are dirty-white, charred in corners. The floor is checkered black and white with cracks and scuff marks. He moves along to where tile meets carpet, where there should be a wall separating the kitchen from the sitting room. But no such thing exists, and he walks right onto a bluish-green carpet.
The sitting room is small, with one couch, a coffee table, and a cabinet with a--it's a moment before he remembers the name of it--television in it.
"Why is it so tiny?" he thinks aloud. It would disgust him if he'd had any other choice. But, seeing as he doesn't, he keeps his mouth shut for the rest of the little tour. He's in no position to judge what just might be protecting him. He wanders into the bedroom, through the doorway right next to the television.
Luckily for him, the bed compensates for the lack of elegance in the place. There's a mahogany four-poster bed with cream-colored sheets and a gold comforter laid over it. His eyebrow arches, intrigued as he studies the fine designs in the woodwork. With a small closet and a desk with a quill and journals, it's, by far, his favorite room. As he continues to study the beautiful bed, he notices a folded piece of paper on one of the pillows. He rushes over and picks it up to read:
To restore some of the Malfoy pride.
-A. Greengrass
"Astoria," he says with a smirk. He drops the letter to the bed and sits down next to it. Already, drowsiness is overwhelming him. Apparating takes a toll on him now; he finds it miraculous that he survived this time. He lies back and lets himself melt into the heavenly softness of the mattress.
No magic. No letters. No owls.
I'm sorry, but this is how you must live. Only until all of this blows over...if ever.
~Draco
His eyelids grow heavier and heavier until it's too much of an effort to fight them. Sleep creeps over him, at last, and he willingly succumbs to it.
YOU ARE READING
Now Matters (ON HOLD)
Fanfiction((This story is being edited. This is supposed to occur not long after the Battle at Hogwarts. I didn't take that into account.)) It's not what you did then. It's what you're doing now. That's all I care about.
