Lucius Malfoy

Draco had been eleven years old when Narcissa Malfoy died.

Of course, she had not truly been herself for a long time before then. A blood-borne curse—some unfortunate inheritance from the Black family—had slowly stripped away her mind until only a shell of the woman he had once loved remained.

By the end, she scarcely spoke and barely ate, and although Lucius had already grieved the loss of his wife long before her heart finally stopped beating, Draco had not been afforded that same mercy.

It was his son who suffered the most.

The boy had become quiet and withdrawn, and Lucius himself had never been a man particularly suited to softness. He had not known how to comfort a grieving child when he himself had never been taught such things, and so, as he had done with every other hardship in his life, he buried himself in his work.

His position at the Ministry became increasingly demanding, and late nights soon stretched into the early hours of the morning, until more than once he found himself staring blankly at endless stacks of paperwork, struck by the uncomfortable knowledge that Draco was wandering the halls of Malfoy Manor entirely alone.

Lucius Malfoy had never been a man of faith.

Yet when you entered his life at that particular moment, it almost seemed as though providence itself had taken pity on him.

Fresh out of Hogwarts, you had only recently been appointed as an assistant within his department, one of countless young employees who ordinarily would have meant absolutely nothing to the likes of Lucius Malfoy.

And yet, one evening, you had found him sitting alone in his office long after everyone else had gone home and, without so much as a second thought, conjured him a cup of tea and a sandwich before quietly setting about sorting through the mountain of papers scattered across his desk.

You had not questioned him, nor had you offered pity.

Most remarkably of all, you had not treated him any differently.

He should have reprimanded you for such familiarity. He should have reminded you of your place, perhaps even arranged for your dismissal altogether.

Instead, for reasons he could not explain even to himself, he had done no such thing.

No one else had dared to behave differently around him. Everyone knew that the life of the great Lucius Malfoy had been disrupted in ways he could neither prevent nor control, but whether out of respect or fear, they all maintained the polite silence expected of them.

Everyone except you.

Eventually, you began spending time with Draco whenever work kept Lucius at the Ministry late into the evening.

He had expected his son to resent the arrangement, to balk at the notion of being babysat, but after your first visit, not a single complaint had reached his ears.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, Lucius watched pieces of his son begin to return.

When Draco came home for Christmas after his first term at Hogwarts, he had rolled his eyes at the mention of Harry Potter and spent the better part of an evening boasting that his racing broom surpassed those of every other second-year.

Such things ought to have been insignificant.

And yet, hearing his son complain and brag with all the arrogance befitting a Malfoy had filled Lucius with a quiet relief he would never have admitted aloud.

Years passed, and although Draco no longer required watching, somehow you remained.

Not merely in his employ, but close.

A constant presence neither of you ever cared to define.

And then he returned.

The Dark Lord.

You had never stood beside his followers during the first war, nor had you ever placed much faith in the doctrine of blood purity. As for Lucius, he had known exactly what was expected of him the moment the old Mark upon his arm burned once more.

He had devoted himself to the cause with all the fervour he could muster, determined to reclaim the favour and glory he had once enjoyed.

And he had failed.

His disastrous attempt to retrieve the prophecy had earned him nothing but disgrace and a cell in Azkaban.

By the time he was broken out nearly a year later, everything had changed.

It had been Severus Snape who informed him of what had transpired in his absence.

Of the task that had been laid upon Draco.

Of the Dark Mark that now stained his son’s arm.

Of Dumbledore’s death.

“He would not listen to me,” Severus had explained quietly. “Nor would he accept my help. Not until her. She was the only one capable of reaching him.”

You.

Lucius had scarcely known what to make of the revelation.

He would have expected you to disappear. To side with the resistance and the Order, to flee before the gathering storm consumed everything in its path.

And yet, against all reason and expectation, you had remained.

For Draco.

For his family.

By then, Malfoy Manor had become colder than he ever remembered it being. Bellatrix roamed its halls like some unhinged spectre, and before long even the Dark Lord himself had taken up residence within its walls, while Death Eaters came and went at all hours whenever their master summoned them. Draco kept to himself.

Lucius, meanwhile, had become little more than a prisoner within his own home.

Whenever nothing was required of him, he retreated to his study, where he spent countless hours in isolation, exhausted and terrified, reduced to a shadow of the man he had once been.

He obeyed because he had no choice.

Because what hope remained for either himself or Draco if he failed to regain the Dark Lord’s trust, or at the very least recover some small measure of the respect he had once possessed?

It was late.

The fire had burned low, and the glass of firewhisky resting beside him had long since been emptied and refilled more times than he cared to count when, without warning, the flames in the hearth roared to life, bathing the room in an eerie green glow.

For one dreadful moment, his heart lurched.

Breathless, Lucius rose abruptly from his chair, his fingers tightening around the armrests as he turned toward the fireplace.

And there you were.

Standing before him—alive.