|Sins of the Father
Author: Splinter Cell PM
Lucius Malfoy muses on Death Eaters, the Ministry and his family whilst on trial during the war. Very angsty nd with mature themes in it. But it's good, even i'm pleased with it and that's rare! R&R. Love VadaRated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Drama - Lucius M. - Words: 1,156 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 2 - Follows: 1 - Published: 10-13-02 - id: 1011160
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Sins of the Father
Disclaimer: only the plot idea belongs to me, goshdarn it!
Rating: R for mature themes of violence and rape.
Genre: Angst all the way my lovelies.
AN: God only knows how this little piece came about – it was originally intended as a character study for Lucius and then transformed into something I can't really define! Possibly, this can be taken as a warning: do not write under the following conditions – at 3am in the morning, with no caffeine in your blood and having been in a bad mood all day J
Archive: If you wish but let me know.
'Lucius Malfoy, you stand here accused of the following charges: thirty-two accounts of first-degree murder, treason against the elected governing body…'
He stands there; he does not sit though there is a chair. To sit would show weakness on his part. It would show that he is fearful, or that he is losing hope. In his mind, and perhaps in the mind of his judges, it would be an indication of his defeat.
Instead, he stands tall, features composed, face displaying an unsettling lack of emotion. Blond hair reflects the harsh fluorescent light of the courtroom, creating a soft halo of brilliant silvery gold.
Blue/black bruises livid against Alabaster skin. The war is going badly, the Aurors see no need for mildness when dealing with Death Eaters and the Ministry sees no harm in letting them have a little fun. Merlin knows the Death Eater scum deserve what they get.Fallen into darkness…
He did not feel the bruises. Does not remember fearing the dull glint of a knife in the cell in Azkaban. Does not remember hating the calloused hands that roughly roamed his body under the cover of darkness; that covered his mouth, ready and willing to silence the screams that invariably accompanied their 'fun'.
He remembers Narcissa. Skin as white and pure as his mottled with flecks of red. He remembers long golden hair darkening with blood. He remembers her screams as he held her close to him, feeling the wild beatings of her fractured heart and wishing that he knew a way to help her.
He has a silver tongue; when he was younger there was nothing he could not make others do for him. The power of language, of speech, of stringing letters together to make words, words to make sentences. He could manipulate speech as well as he could do magic. He could discourse on any subject – an eloquent denunciation of Mudbloods, a scathing retort to James Potter and his pathetic band of brainless minions or simply reminding a fellow Slytherin with delusions of greatness and glory of who exactly was at the top of the Slytherin hierarchy.
There was nothing he could say that would make things better, but he sat there anyway, whispering useless words in her ear. Words that couldn't help her, wouldn't change what had been done to her. Words that only seemed to make things worse, make her scream all the more loudly.
He remembers Draco, the way he looked lying in the hospital bed, his skin almost translucent and dozens of tubes supplying his body with everything it could need to heal, to overcome the injuries done to it. He remembers the painful burning sensation behind his eyes as his son worked dry and damaged vocal cords to whisper 'I'm sorry…' in a voice cracked and broken beyond recognition.
So he stands in the centre of this grimy room and calls upon the strength of the Malfoy blood that flows in his veins to stop himself from giving in to the hatred that consumes him mind, body and soul.
He calls upon the legacy of his forefathers, generations of Dark Wizards who lived and fought and died for causes now long forgotten. Who lived and fought and died for lords and masters reviled by all others because they believed in them, in what they were doing, in what they were trying to accomplish.
He believed too, a long time ago. He believed in Voldemort and his maniacal plans for world domination. Before Severus Snape, one time confidante and best friend, was revealed as a traitor and a spy, before Aurors made them a present of the tortured and mutilated body of the Parkinson girl, before Narcissa and Draco became victims of the madness and life took a turn for the worse.
He still believes in the superiority of wizards over Muggles. He still believes in the annihilation of Mudbloods and the purifying of the bloodlines. They tried to beat it out of him in Azkaban but he still believes it. It became a mantra, to him, a way of survival and a way of keeping his sanity in that most horrific of places. He put away his mind there, placed it in a secret place for safekeeping and concentrated on surviving one day after another.
He gazes around him at the faces that surround him now and wonders at their hypocrisy. They condemn Death Eaters for barbarity and applaud Aurors for acts of oft-unparalleled evil. They profess to condemn murder in all circumstances and willingly send children to Azkaban and a fate most Death Eaters would not wish upon even their most hated enemy. They live guiltless lives yet their hands are covered in the blood of many thousands of dissidents, ordinary wizards and witches whose beliefs and ideals do not coincide with their own.
He looks at them, at their faces contorted in hatred and fear of himself, cowering behind wards and spells to keep themselves safe and he cannot bring himself to hate them, these poor, pathetic excuses for human beings. They are not worthy of his hatred.
'Lucius Malfoy, how do you plead?'
He says nothing. If there ever had been anything to say in the first place, there is nothing left now unsaid. The accusations, the eyewitness accounts, the testimonies, the white lies and the lies that grew, beyond all proportion, beyond all expectation. All is said and all is done and yet the truth remains elusive.
There is, he knows now, no absolute Truth. It had ever been the ideal of Romantic poets longing to return to Nature yet understanding nothing of the poverty of rural life. No, there is no such thing as the ABSOLUTE TRUTH. No one answer to all of life's dilemmas and questions. No unalterable and inviolable fact that circumstance cannot change.
For him, there is only the memory of a beautiful, bleeding, broken wife crying in his arms. There is only his son, close to death, apologising for his father's mistakes. There is only the rage of man whose wife has been raped and his son beaten to an inch of his life.
There is only the Ministry, applauding and rewarding the men responsible for these acts.