Archive of Our Own

Azkaban brings back memories you thought you destroyed. Sitting on this bed, the vapors of the Dementors swarm around you and steal from you thoughts of your house, your wife, your son, your wealth, your power. It leaves only flashes of red hair and a pretty face-- a face you would have scarred beyond recognition if given the opportunity-- and you want to gag, scream, hex, kill.

Still the flashes come and you find yourself wishing to remember something else, anything else, even the punishments of Master. But any thoughts about Master lead to the happy realization that you will soon be free of this abysmal place and so those are taken from you too. And once more it is just her that you can think about.

You hated her before you even met her.

You had everything then: recent inheritance, new wife, powerful connections, and a position within the ranks of the Death Eaters. You were going to make a difference in the world, cleanse it of those foul Mudbloods who threatened to weaken the blood. She should have posed no threat to you. She should never have caught your eye.

But then the rumors started.

At first they were small-- something about a few gifted children who were especially close with Dumbledore-- but that was not where the rumors stopped.

You started hearing about a girl-- a child really-- just out of Hogwarts breaking the carefully designed Protection Charms on Death Eaters' homes. Then other rumors about Concealments Charms disappearing in the middle of a raid, or a child marked for death by the Dark Lord vanishing at crucial moments. The agony of the memories makes you fall to the ground. She crippled your work; you were the Charms specialist, you were the concealment builder, it was your job, your gift to Master. She was your silent, secret adversary. No one spoke her true name, and so you only came to know her by her code name: Cleopatra. 

The Dark Lord learned of your trouble, the Dementors let you remember that. They let you remember the pain of your failure. And they let you remember the day the Dark Lord gave you her real name, for that leaves no welcome memories in its wake.

She left school not three years earlier and she was a Mudblood, he announced with cold certainty. That information made you shake with fury-- now and then-- because you are Lucius Malfoy. You are never supposed to be thwarted by, react to, or do anything but kill Mudbloods.

You stepped forward and told the Dark Lord that the war would soon be over and she would be nothing more than a pile of ash, easily forgotten.

And so you worked against her.

You did not threaten her personally; that would have been beneath you. Instead you let your underlings do the job. You taught them the words; it was your victory. You liked being behind the scenes rather than in the front line of the battle. Those fools died. Those fools made sworn enemies of resistance members, and sworn enemies die faster than prominent, respected men.

Running into her had been a miscalculation, one that let you come to a dangerous realization: even your careful plans did not keep you from making an enemy of her. You saw her briefly and by accident as you toured the Ministry with  Deputy Minister Fudge. She stood to the side of the corridor, talking with Bartemus Crouch. His hatred was expected, you smirked at him. You controlled his son. But her-- she was not what you expected. You knew from the photos what she looked like, but you had not expected her open hostility or her ability to make you completely unable to hide your own hatred.

Almost five years your minor, brilliant in your area of expertise, defiant as no Mudblood ought to be, and too beautiful for her own good, she was completely set on bringing about your destruction. You resented her youth. You hated her skill. You detested her beauty. But above and beyond all of that growing anger, irritation, resentment, and pure hatred, you abhorred her spirit.

She bent for no one.

Not even the Dark Lord who'd proven himself more powerful than any other living man. Even now it makes you grit your teeth in anger. You wanted to break her. You convinced yourself that you would and in that you found solace because it did not matter how many minor attacks she managed to stop, she never stopped the big ones. It did not matter how many of your comrades she captured, you still managed to flee. And it did not matter how long she lived, for you would one day kill her.

She was destined to die while you, you were on the powerful side, the winning side. But once more the Dementors come and take that thought from you, leaving you with only the knowledge that you never defeated her.

In fact, you remember as you pound your head against the bed in an attempt to beat away the memories, she almost made you disloyal. She put doubt in your mind. For if the Dark Lord was all-powerful, if he was immortal, if he was to give you the strength that you desired... how did a mere Mudblood bring him so close to death? He came back, of course, but he came back weaker. All the Death Eaters saw it-- the weakness clinging to his thin white arms. He is man once more and she did that to him. 

She got away from Master three times. Three times. She had been hit by two Unforgivables and still managed to crawl away. When she was hit by the third, she ensured that at least her son would crawl away. She beat those curses back with nothing more than her willpower. She was strong and you hated that you admired her for that. You blew up half your kitchen when you read about her audaciously happy wedding. And when she bore a son-- taking her out of the field and supposedly out of your way-- you hated her baby. You wanted to kill it in front of her because you wanted her to cry at your feet as you proved once and for all that no one had more power than you.

You went with Master to Godric's Hollow, the Dementors make you recall. You stood just outside the house as he asked you to, keeping Pettigrew from running; Pettigrew who heard and told Master about the prophecy that made her Master's problem instead of just yours; Pettigrew who betrayed his closest friends and betrayed her. You hated him for that, hated him for taking your victory from you by making her Master's problem. You wanted to tear his eyes out of his sockets. 

Everything went wrong.

Green light exploded out of the windows, shattering the glass. The walls of the house shook and the ground shifted under you. You looked around, frantic, and saw Pettigrew stare numbly at his left forearm. When he looked up his eyes were large and disbelieving. You glanced at your arm and watched your Mark of Power fade to nothing.

You screamed and lunged at Pettigrew. What had he done? Something went wrong. Master was gone. But Pettigrew transformed and was gone before you could stop him. And then the house collapsed and your quick mind and logic would not let you linger. You Apparated home, told Narcissa what happened, and to contact the Parkinsons-- whose daughter was already destined to marry your son-- and tell them about the night's events. In the meantime, you went to the Ministry.

They believed your half-baked story of the Imperious curse because they could not understand why else Lucius Malfoy would willingly turn himself in. They did not yet know what you did, that something in the Potter home broke your Master.

As the news slowly leaked out-- your name and that of the Parkinsons already cleared-- Harry Potter was named savior, hailed the hero, and known for having failed to die. But you knew the truth then and you know it now: while it was Harry Potter with the glory, it was Lily Potter who broke your master. Harry Potter deserves your son's hatred, but you could not care less about the boy. Lily Potter-- Cleopatra-- deserves your hatred.

So you will lash out at her in the only way left. You would spite her memory as her son grew up a Muggle. Your son Draco would thrive and her son would suffer at your hands through Riddle's diary, but the end of that story lingers on at the will of the Dementors. Like his mother, he thwarted your plan in the end. All of the anger that you kept so neatly packed and folded away at the bottom of your empty heart snapped up and lashed out at the boy when he set your House-elf free. Just picturing his face makes you want to scream.

He looks just like his mother-- the same resistant and defiant stance, the same hatred in his eyes, and the same lack of respect. You told him that if he continued to meddle in things that were not his business that he would end up like his parents, but what you meant to say was that he would end up like his mother-- his mother who did not break, who did not bow, who did not kneel, but in the end still died.