|Never an Angel Be
Author: Unspoken Tragedy PM
To imagine the wizarding world... free of muggle influence and his to the taking... Would be a dream come true. Whilst imprisoned, Lucius remembers his initiation to the Death Eaters.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst/Drama - Lucius M. & Voldemort - Words: 1,247 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 5 - Published: 02-01-05 - Status: Complete - id: 2245416
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: Never An Angel Be
Author: Unspoken Tragedy
Rating: PG-13 just in case...
Spoilers: All five books, probably.
Disclaimer: The only thing I own here is the poem at the end. Hey! I own something...
Summery:To imagine the wizarding world... free of muggle influence and his to the taking... Would be a dream come true.Lucius's initiation to the Death Eaters.
Series: On the Other Side
Other stories (can be found on my author's page):
What Are Friends For?
Bought in Blood
A/N: Just a little thing I did for a contest I was in... Hope you all like. Don't worry. I hope to have updated at least one of my other stories by this weekend...
Never An Angel Be
Cold. So cold. It was always so cold here...
It encompassed him like a thick blanket of snow, suffocating him and draining his life away. Yet he knew he would not be dying today, as he had not yesterday or the day before. It was strange to know that he had once slept in silken sheets, when the only bedding he was offered now was a too small cot and a thin moth eaten blanket.
He could not say how long he'd been in here. It could have been a day. It could have been twenty years. Time flowed about him and the other inhabitants of this prison in a strange rhythm. It passed with the speed of sound, yet forever remained the same.
He supposed he must have lost his mind. This man had certainly lost all the memories he'd treasured so dear. The dementors could do that to a person.
His long hair fell across his face in dirty tangles, the hair that had once shined it its silver glory. His pale face was smudged with dirt and blood- his own blood. He wore a wool shirt and ripped slacks, both splotched with deep red stains. His bare feet were bruised and scabby. Bruises and abrasions covered his once powerful body, now weak and thin in its malnutrition. This was a mess of a man, not the powerful wizard that had controlled the ministry with an iron fist.
How had he gotten here? He was worth so much more than this... than a small cell, having only the company of his companion's screams and the dementors that lived to make his life miserable. He was a pureblood, a master of the dark arts. Yet, he now knew the folly in his once powerful beliefs. Blood meant nothing, not to a world that would stand up for a muggle in trouble but leave a Slytherin out to bleed.
A deep agony filled the consciousness of his mind and he knew that the dementors had returned. But he didn't want to remember! "Please... not today..." he murmured to whatever god may be listening.
His pleas were ignored.
September the first, nineteen seventy-seven. He was a boy of nineteen, the heir to the Malfoy fortune and power. Of course, this would not be his until his marriage night, which would be in the following April. He was drunken with the power that would so soon be his. So drunk that he was about to make the worst mistake of his life.
When he'd first met Lord Voldemort, he'd been amazed. The man held the charisma of any good politician, and the dreams of any good missionary.
He dreamt of the restoration of clean blood, as did any pureblood wizard that had known what was best for them- or at any rate had thought they'd known. The initial plan had not been to kill the Mudbloods and Halfbloods, merely to remove them from muggle influence. Each wizard born to a muggle would be taken from their care and placed into that of a pureblooded family. The witch or wizard would then grow up as what they were meant to be, not as a pitiful muggle child.
The ones who helped Voldemort bring his plans to life would be rewarded, and greatly so. Power, influence... It all would be theirs.
Perhaps it never truly been the real plan, maybe Voldemort had been planning on genocide from the beginning. But the young boy did not have the convenience of foresight, and hindsight only comes after one live through the present.
To imagine the wizarding world... free of muggle influence and his to the taking... Would be a dream come true. He'd stand at Voldemort's side like a prince. They'd take the ministry together... As Voldemort placed his wand to his right forearm, the other recruits standing behind him in anticipation, the thought wove its way in and out of his mind. It all begins now. With a spoken incantation, a fiery pain shot through his entire body, worse than a thousand Crucio's.
It hurt. It bloody hurt and he didn't really understand why it should. This was supposed to be quite different. Voldemort would mark him, hand him is mask and robes... And there would be a celebration. It wasn't supposed to hurt...
And he doubted. The first shreds of doubt surfaced in his mind. Why would he put his followers in such pain if he intended to not do the same to the Mudbloods. He forced that from his awareness. It was surely only necessary. It wasn't as if the Dark Lord had wanted to hurt them! He would not do such a thing... Would he?
He had not cried out that day. He had not let the pain show through, his face as calm and emotionless as always.
Nor had he cried out any of the thousands of curses that Voldemort rewarded him with in the years that followed. And the doubt solidified... Until he knew...
It had all be a lie. Like a muggle child's belief in the Eater Bunny, it was only dream. Goodness could never come from the prejudices that they held. They had been fools.
As the dementors left, the wizard knew that he had a thousand more incriminating memories that the dementors could have inflicted him with. That one, though, was the most painful. It was the one that had sealed his fate here.
It was his first step on the road to Hell. And this was his last.
Lucius Malfoy would not be dying today, nor tomorrow, nor a thousand years from this day. For he had already died. He'd died on October the eighteenth nineteen-ninety nine, the last battle between the darkness and light. The dementors had been on his side then, though they never would be here.
For this was Hell. And there was no escaping it now.
I never was like the angels,
I never got it right.
Please Lord, Please Lord,
Forgive me here tonight.
I was always much the villain,
But I'll make the change for you...
Please Lord, save me...
From the Hell I've sentenced myself to.
Lo es terminado.
A/N: Alright, after thinking about it for a bit (and rping as Lucius) I realized that I have never written a story solely on him. Strange seeing as how I really enjoy exploring his character. He is one of my favorite characters after all.
Don't forget to review. It's the only payment writers like me get after all (not that all of us really mind that much). .