Chapter Text
August 2003
Lucius
Bulbs flashed—bright and blinding—searing his corneas. Daylight had never felt so foreign as when Lucius exited the Ministry. His sentence in Azkaban served; he was free to go home—though now the word had little meaning.
It had been five years. Five years of contemplation in a silent void, empty of love and filled only with the ache of hollow platitudes; of a chilling cold that seeped into his bones, and felt deep in the marrow.
The echo of sounds pulled him in all directions as the Aurors guided him through the maddening crowd. Slurs were spat at him, curses were cast. He knew he deserved them—far worse, in fact—and had told himself much of the same over his years in isolation. Now, they weren’t hurtful—truth, once accepted, seldom is.
The sea of press pushed and pulled, trying to get the best of him before he was escorted away. Everyone wanted a piece of the ‘Death Eater filth.’
“Let’s get you home, Lucius.” Harry appeared at his side, helping him into the car. Lucius exhaled sharply at the thought. Before Azkaban, he would have rather died than set foot in anything Muggle-related. Oh, how far he’d come.
All he could manage was a grateful nod toward his former enemy, who’d somehow, over the years, come to resemble the definition of a friend—not in the way that Harry was with Ron Weasley or Hermione Granger, but in the way a friendship forms through the aftermath of war, loss, and similar experiences even while on opposing sides.
***
The drive to Wiltshire was long and winding. The sun was bright, more than he remembered it to be, or maybe that was a byproduct of the lack of light in the damp tomb he was imprisoned in. The air was different here; fresh and earthy. Undeserved.
Morning dew glistened on the ground, unfurling a mist that rolled through the hills like a memory surging forth. He felt out of place here now. What was once a vibrant life had faded into shackles and remnants of pride, all because of his need for power.
Lucius took a breath as he watched the landscape buzz by. He hoped, somehow, to make amends and help the world better understand his son—who he truly was, and what he really fought for. Not the Death Eater scum so many had labeled him as. The least he could do was try. Tomorrow his plan to do so would be set in motion.
When they arrived, the manor’s gates opened with a loud creak, like bones gone stiff from lack of use. Since he was imprisoned, no one had ventured in. The house now stood as a ghost of its former self, shrouded in gray, lifeless stone.
The last time Lucius saw Draco, it reared its ugly head. He tried to shake away the burn of regret, but the universe wouldn’t let him off so easily:
“You’re throwing your life away, Draco! And for what? A Mudblood bitch who warms your bed?” Lucius yelled. Everything he worked for, that they’d worked for, was vanishing before his eyes.
“Don’t you dare call her that!”
Lucius pointed at Draco, narrowing his gaze in the pain of betrayal. He no longer knew the son before him. “Your life is worth far more than she can offer you. If you do this, it is a death sentence!”
Draco struck his chest with his fist, voice trembling. “She chose me! She loves me! Something you obviously know nothing about!”
Lucius knew love, a great deal in fact. He would die for Narcissa, even Draco. He understood his son’s love; what he didn’t understand was who it was with.
“Mom cries, you know. She curses your name. Do you not hear it, or do you hear it but just don’t care? I gave up on you a long time ago because I knew I could never please you. For some bloody reason, mother won’t.”
“Draco—” It came out softer than a whisper. He was losing him; the truth was written plainly on Draco's face.
“No! You don’t get to do that, not now. You are no father of mine!” Draco stepped close, his expression wild. “I’d rather die having been happy for one fucking day with her than to live this miserable existence here with you. Look around!” His arms spread wide to the vast room. “There is nothing left but death and destruction. Is this the world you dreamed of?”
Lucius couldn’t believe the pain in his son’s tone. It wasn’t enough to change his mind. The Dark Lord would never let him live if he knew about Draco and the Mudblood. He needed leverage.
“Your mother and I—”
“Don’t! You have been so blinded by prejudice you have no care for what you’ve put us through—what I’ve been through! I’m so broken that when Granger first showed me compassion, I flinched, thinking I would be hit, because that’s all I’ve ever known.” Draco dropped his head, fighting back a sob, rubbing his palms into his eyes.
Lucius stood frozen—the words landed heavier than any curse.
“You tore me apart to further our name and for what—social standing, power? You’ve lost me, and Mom is halfway out the door, if not now, soon. Granger took the broken pieces of me, regardless of how fragmented and jagged they were, and made me feel whole again. Not perfect by any means—the cracks remain, but her love, and mine for her, hold me together.”
“We are your family!”
“Not anymore.” Draco’s voice was strained. “She is my family, and she is who I’m going to fight for and protect.” And with that, Draco turned his back and left the Manor. The green flames of the floo carried him away, one final time, from his ancestral home.
***
“Welcome home, Lucius.” Harry helped him out of the car, taking his arm in support. Lucius’s gait was unsteady, a lingering consequence of the guards’ revenge for their lost comrades and friends. His cane was no longer a fixture of power, but simply a tool for walking.
“Hello, Master.” The greeting was meek, almost dredged from the depths. The older elf, Poppy, stood at the open door, bowing before stepping aside to allow him passage. Truthfully, the manor was more her home than his.
"Nice to see you again, Poppy. Please, call me Mr. Malfoy from now on." Instead of greeting her with his characteristic sneer, he smiled down at the trembling elf. She had no clue how to respond to his kindness.
Before and during the war, he hadn’t been kind to elves. They were as low as Muggle-borns in his eyes. But now, elves were free: provided clothing, a stable home, and a wage—even if their 'masters' (no, bosses) still struggled with the new order. It would take some getting used to, but he was trying. Lucius looked at Harry, patted him on the hand, and let him guide him inside.
Poppy was gobsmacked but quickly gestured toward the drawing room. “I will bring tea for Master and Mr. Harry Potter.”
“I think we may need something a bit stronger, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, Master.” With a pop, she was gone. Lucius offered a quiet snort. Guess he wasn’t the only one still adjusting to the change.
The house hadn’t changed. Like the exterior, it was devoid of life. But instead of the dreary gray that made up the outer walls, the interior was dressed in shades of dark green, burgundy, and muted blues, along with dark wood accents and furnishings.
Dust had never seemed to settle; the elves made sure of that. Yet as they entered the drawing room, the faint stain at its center remained—and rightly so. Lucius felt he deserved the reminder of his sins and was haunted by them all the same.
For a moment, he saw her there—the ghost of regret—Hermione screaming on the floor as Bellatrix carved her arm. Then she was gone.
“Here, let me.” Harry blinked away the stain, having noticed it himself and helped Lucius settle into the wingback Victorian chair near the hearth. The crackle of which calmed his nerves slightly. “Let’s get you comfortable before the vultures descend.”
A decanter of firewhiskey and two crystal tumblers appeared on the small table between them as Harry took his seat in the other chair.
“Harry Potter, are you worried about me?” Lucius smirked, flicking his wrist for a wandless pour of amber liquor into both glasses. “You really needn’t fuss. I’m not worth the trouble.”
Lucius handed him the glass—a rare gesture of gratitude.
“Snakes can shed their skin, Lucius. You’re not the man you once were,” Harry said, taking a long sip, the burn of which was evident on his face.
“And lions never change their spots. Potter, some might think you care about me.” Lucius smiled into his glass.
“I believe the correct saying is ‘leopards never change their spots.' As for caring about you—well, it’s part of the job.” Harry jested, studying the man across from him. How different Lucius had been just a few years ago. “You sound much like Draco—or rather, he was like you. Always tried to use a Muggle phrase, but he never failed to muck it up.” Harry laughed at the memory.
“He didn’t get it from me. He was much more like his mother. Kind—too kind.” Lucius stared into the fire, his words laced with sorrow. “I just ruined him and sent him to an early grave. All I’ve done is taint his memory.”
He rubbed his temple, willing the intrusive thoughts away. Memories plagued him more being here, pressing in from every corner of the manor.
Scorch marks were still present; torn tapestries still hung along the walls, waiting to be mended. Everywhere around him, there was a reminder of his wrongdoings.
“Why are you doing this, Lucius—the interview?” Harry gazed down, watching the liquid swirl in his glass.
“It feels like the only way I can make amends. I may not have given my son a peaceful life, but maybe I can give him some measure of peace in death.” A small smile, barely perceptible, graced his face. He really was doing it for Draco now, not for his own redemption or forgiveness, despite what the masses thought.
Harry remained pensive, watching the fire dance in shifting shades of yellow and orange.
“Can’t argue with that.” Harry held up his glass in a silent toast, downing the rest in one gulp, setting the empty tumbler on the table with a clank. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Lucius waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure the Ministry has better things for you to do than babysit me, Potter.”
Harry placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m coming as your friend, old man. Not as an Auror.” Lucius nodded up at him. “And take a shower and shave, will you? You look—and smell—like shit.”
They both laughed. Lucius patted Harry’s hand—a gentleness he never would have fathomed passing between them.
“Tomorrow then.”