A/N – One thing has to be made clear: although this piece of writing is to do with Eden – a side-order, if you will – it is in no way a real part of the story. I wrote this a long time ago – while I was writing chapter 14, in fact. It was an exercise for me, so that I could get Lucius' motives and viewpoint clear in my head, as at that point they were very unclear, even to me.

Consequently, this piece of writing is short, random, and often completely nonsensical – mainly because it was only really intended as a sort of brainstorm for me. Nonetheless, I rediscovered it the other day while clearing out my files, and I thought I might as well post it up here, and then take it down again after about a fortnight.

This is a random musing from Lucius' point of view. It takes place around about chapters 11 – 14.

Chapter 46 of Eden should take me about a month. I'm also writing up an Ootp parody, and I'm beginning a new chaptered fic, which I might start posting when I've finished Eden.

'ESTRAGON: It'd be better if we parted.

VLADIMIR: You always say that, and you always come crawling back.

ESTRAGON: The best thing would be to kill me, like the other.

VLADIMIR: What other? (Pause.) What other?

ESTRAGON: Like billions of others.' – Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

Of all the things that gall me about that infuriating Mudblood, it's her eyes that never cease to make me almost choke on my own rage.

Why does she stare at me so? Why does she inflict those damned eyes of hers upon me so wilfully?

She knows what she's doing, the devious creature. She knows that I can't bear that… and yet she does continue to stare, even after a beating. As if she knows that her eyes appal me even more when they're wet than when they're dry.

Ha! As if she has any knowledge of me whatsoever. She claims to – it's the one thing that's kept her sane, I think; the bizarre notion that she knows me. The real me.

The real me. What a joke. The whole situation has all the makings of a farce.

I must be rid of her. If only He would listen… but I must not question His judgement. This is a test, and one that I must endure, if I am to fully regain his favour.

After all, it's not as if she is the worst punishment I've ever been afflicted with. After Azkaban, a forced union with a Mudblood should barely register with me.

She is cunning, I will give her that much. She must know the effect her pleas have. If she were to fight me with brazen, hard-faced defiance, or conversely if she were to cower and weep with submission, then things would be simpler. But she knows the exact combination of attributes to strive for in order to draw my unwavering attention… abhorred defiance, pitiable weakness, and delicious fear come together within her gaze. It is a strange fusion, and yet it is a precious one. It is not something I've had much time to decipher with any previous prisoners of mine – a fallible spirit fighting to retain its grip on itself while the body and mind are mercilessly crushed to death.

By God, I hate her.

Another thing about her I cannot endure – her scent. By all rights, she should smell like dirt. She should be rank; offensive to the senses, like the filth that she is.

But she does not. She smells… clean. Like fresh linen, or something similar, I do not know. I have not considered it so very much.

Sometimes I allow my thoughts to drift towards her, I will admit it. As I relax in my room in the evening, I lift a drink to my lips and the warmth of the liquid will put me in mind of her… oh, not in that way. Of course not. Her blood alone makes her unworthy of such a notion. Besides, there's nothing special about her. Not when you compare her to my wife, to my sister in law, to the countless beautiful pure-bloods I've encountered over the years… how can she compare to them? With her hair, and her face-

But the eyes! That's where the problem resides. What is it about them? They are dark, and not especially beautiful. I cannot name what it is that lingers there that catches at me like a hook.

I do not think about the rest of her. Or if I do, I let the thoughts drift away like dust. They are too dangerous to linger on.

I have seen her unclothed. Twice, now. Once of my own violation, though I had no intention of touching her… but how she did squirm as I held her beneath me! I only wished to show her how inappropriate wizarding robes are for filth like her. But she did writhe so, with such palpable fear in those infernal eyes…

Fear. I terrify her. Does that give me satisfaction? Once I thought that it did. But the victory has proved to be strangely akin to flat Champagne.

She detests me as I do her. Why does that thought linger at the back of my mind, like an itch I cannot scratch? If I detest her, then why do I balk that she returns the favour?

It is insolence on her part. What right does she have to detest me, her superior in every way? How dare she?

But I cannot forget the look of horror in her eyes when I foolishly decided to play that game with her. That was rash of me, I admit it… but I could not endure her suggestion that I might have considered dirtying my hands on her. I wished only to teach her a lesson. I would never have taken it further than I did. Never.

All the same, her horror was palpable. Why does that astonish me? After all, it's not as if she would have been willing

That thought prickles me more than I care to admit.

Bella is right, I should dispose of her. She never fails to whisper suggestions to me, pouring her poison into my ear even in bed – 'The Dark Lord need never know. You could slash her wrists, and claim that she did it herself. How useful can she possibly be, really, Lucius? And you've said countless times how you long to be rid of her.'

Infuriating woman. She has no idea of the Mudblood's significance. All she takes into consideration is her exhausting jealously of a girl less than half her age.

Unlike the Mudblood. Her selflessness could be the one infallible thing about her. The amount of time she wastes in fear for others rather than herself… it's a waste, in a way. I often wonder what she could have become, with a brain and a spirit like hers, if it were not for the fundamental weakness of altruism.

And her blood, of course. Her filthy muggle blood.

Nonetheless, she's dangerous. And I have an awful suspicion she's becoming slowly aware of the threat she could pose as, if she were to put her mind to it… that's assuming I were weak enough to fall for the bait. Which, thank God, I am not. I do have my pride. Unlike Antonin, who follows her around like a dog on heat, the idiot. He knows full well what the Dark Lord will do if he finds out that one of his servants has tainted themselves with a Muggle.

Not that Antonin ever will get his hands on her, that is. I will not allow it. Not that it's jealousy I feel. But I don't like other people laying claim to my possessions.

It's a matter of pride. Nothing more.

No. No, I won't allow her to claim victory over me. I have not worked tirelessly my whole life for my cause only for her to unravel everything now.

Besides, she's just a child. My son's schoolfellow, for God's sake.

The mind of a fully-educated witch in the body of a seventeen year old Muggle. Quite a perverse combination, when you think about it. But that is beside the point. She is young. Weak, silly, naïve. She has nothing to offer me – surely no more than countless pure-bloods of noble bearing and exquisite beauty could offer.

And I'm sure that if I wished for her, which I most certainly do not, then I could have what I wanted with a mere snap of my fingers.

After all, it's not as if her consent would be an issue for me.

I have always had what I wanted, regardless of the consequences. I take what I wish for, even if it is not for me to take.

I just do not wish for her. That is all that stands in my way. It is my lack of interest, not hers, that is my only obstacle.

But then, that's somewhat of I lie. That's not really all that stands in my way. If it was I would just have her and be done with it. I would claim my ultimate conquest of her mind, body, and soul.

It would be all too easy, if it were not for her blood.

And the fact that, as a Malfoy, I am not used to being refused. Not by anybody. Especially not by uppity Mudbloods.

It's an insult to my honour… my honour? What has a Mudblood made of that?

It is inconceivable.

Is it possible?

No. Surely not.

I must endure this. I must, and await the day when He finally grants me favour by disposing of her. In the meanwhile, I must suffer her presence, and do my best to ignore her.

But if she turns those infernal eyes of hers on me one more time, I'll tear them out of her head with my bare hands.