It's eight o'clock in the morning when Mobby the House Elf wakes Lucius up. Lucius suspects that it's not really eight o'clock, that it's about half past five and the House Elf is being nasty and malicious (because Lucius complained that the lasagne last night was not up to scratch, but really margherita andparmesan are essential ingredients and one cannot be substituted for the other), but the clock confirms it, the second hand ticking away viciously to remind Lucius that he really needs to get out of bed. Now.
It's not effortless being this good looking, Lucius thinks bitterly as he shifts around under the covers, but then he wonders (not for the first time) why he just doesn't let himself go and use a glamour to hide the wrinkles. That way he could save a fortune on anti-wrinkle creams and the money could be used to buy ringside seats for him and Narcissa to see Monster Trucks in America. Not that he needs to save money or anything, he is a Malfoy after all, but it's a nice thought nonetheless. Maybe he could start a Foundation?
He really doesn't want to get up, Narcissa is not very a strong argument for leaving the bed since she's warm and it's cold outside – it's not really, (heated Versace floor tiles, darling) but he tells himself this to allow gratuitous snuggling.
"No Lucius," Narcissa mutters as she pushes him away, "no morning sex."
Lucius is sure she'll agree with a bit of persuasion. Maybe he could flash her. God knows, he wouldn't be able to resist that fine, fit and fabulous body he has under his pyjamas if he were her. "But Cissa..."
"I said no, Lucius."
The House Elf pops in again, to remind him to get up. It offers him warm slippers and Lucius swears it mutters, "whipped," before it pops out and back to the kitchens. Where it belongs.
Lucius Apparates into the Gym (because it's on the other side of the Mansion, because the exercise he does there means he shouldn't have to lift a finger for the rest of the day, and because he can so, bitch, please) and strips off his pyjamas before he starts his hour of yoga.
As he gets on his knees into the Downward Facing Dog position, he can feel the tension seeping out of his body and he's looking forward to his day.
Yoga over and he Apparates into his en-suite bathroom where he spends a wonderfully long time under the spray of his power shower.
His early morning routine is an important part of his day, so he spends the appropriate amount of time exfoliating, cleansing and moisturising. Maybe he's born with it, maybe it's an expensive mixture of Chanel, Prada and CoverGirl (have you seentheir Simply Ageless collection?).
He releases his hair from where he has it tied back and shakes it out, doing an unknowingly good impression of Cheryl Cole in the L'oreal hair-care adverts.
He combs it out carefully and hums a mash-up of, "I feel like a woman," and "Sexual healing," before he ties it back, runs a hand through it and scrutinises his reflection in the mirror.
"Mirror, mirror on my Gucci bathroom wall, who is the fairest wizard of them all?"
The face appears in the magical mirror, and Lucius pretends not to notice the bored edge to its voice: it's only jealous after all. "You would ask such a question to a humble mirror like me? The answer is all too obvious, you see."
It's own face disappears and Lucius is left looking at his own reflection.
"Damn Lucius." He mutters as he grimaces to check his teeth are clean and white, "You are looking hot today." He pauses as he purrs at his reflection, "I would do you." He winks at himself before he leaves the room. Oh yes, he definitely still has it.
Breakfast is a solitary affair, he's unsurprised to find that Narcissa has already left in order to meet up with her latest toy-boy, she's probably taking him to school, if anything, since they've been getting progressively younger as of late.
The House Elf pops in, while he's perusing the Daily Prophet, with a message and Lucius raises one eyebrow at the unexpected appearance.
He had hoped to have a relaxing pamper day (much like yesterday and the day before and the day before), "Yous be getting a message, Master. From youses Lord Voldemort. He is requestering your presence at midday."
Lucius's day has gone down the toilet.
On the other hand, the mark isn't burning so it'll probably just be him and the Dark Lord. He suppresses a shudder and tries to think positive; he might be receiving a Top Secret mission that requires him to go undercover! Maybe he might have to go abroad... Think sunglasses, short shorts. If it's hot enough, he might even have to break out the Speedos. It is his part of his civic duty to show the world that all those squats weren't in vain and his butt is in great shape.
He has two hours with which to amuse himself before he's due at The Dark Lord's.
Maybe he should get his own boy-toy.
"People aren't taking to the name Voldemort as much as I'd like," the Dark Lord complains as he sketches a dead and/ or mutilated body (Lucius really can't tell) on a spare piece of parchment with his quill. How original.
"Taking to it, my Lord?" Lucius asks for clarification, glancing at Bellatrix, as he idly wonders when the Dark Lord will stop calling 'meetings' when he just wants someone to play Noughts & Crosses with.
They've been sat there for an hour. This was supposed to be a short 'meeting'. He has things to do today. He hasn't had lunch yet.
Voldemort drops his quill, and stands up to pace around the fireplace, "Yes. It's not inspiring as much fear as I'd like."
"Fear is what gives a small thing a big shadow." Bella whispers her eyes wide.
Lucius ignores her because he really can't think of anything to say to that, "Flight of death? That sounds quite ominous to me."
Riddle waves his hand dismissively in Lucius' direction, "Yes, but you're posh. I bet there aren't any Muggles out there who speak French."
Lucius rolls his eyes at the sheer stupidity of that statement.
"And besides the name doesn't make sense," Voldemort continues, "it sounds like I'm rescuing people from death. I don't want to be rescuing them; I'm not Potter for Merlin's sake. I want them to know that they'll die unless they follow me."
"Death will come on swift wings…" whispers Bellatrix.
"Oh, do shut up Bellatrix," Lucius says, fed up of being trapped in the library with them and having to nothing to do but stare at the four and a half walls while they discussed which order would be the best to take over the world,the advantages of having one leg longer the other (which is apparently bad if you're lost in a desert because you'd end up walking in circles) and if Potter was good in bed or not.
"Maybe I should try something in Latin," the Dark Lord continues as he paces on the rug in front of the fireplace, having paid no attention at all to Bella and Lucius.
Lucius manages to stop himself from pointing out that there were even less people who spoke Latin than French in the world—Wizarding and Muggle alike.
"Something-de-mortem," Riddle mutteres, "it has a more refined ring to it, no? Vol-de-mortem..."
Lucius bites the inside of his cheek and regrets what he's about to say next, "Maybe I should send a request for Rosier, my Lord? I'm sure he could be of some assistance."
Riddle nods his acquiesce and pulls a few dictionaries off a shelf nearby for Bella to have a look through.
"Bring my husband too!" Bella calls as he heads in the direction of the door, "And tell him to bring that carrot cake he baked!"
Lucius hurries to the meeting room to firecall the Death Eaters and to cancel his two o'clock eyebrow threading appointment in Putney.
Lucius has a headache. And the loudmouth that is Evan Rosier is making it worse.
"Well I see your problem!" Rosier declares with a very flamboyant air as he flounces into the library, and catches sight of the stacks of paper and books covering the large table in the centre of the room, "There's no organisation here!"
He turns to Voldemort, "How do you expect to rule the world, if you cannot organise a table! Organisational skills are key!" He pauses, and surveys the room, his beady eyes catching sight of a small box in the corner and he turns, hands on hips to face his audience, "Have any of you taken advantage of the Suggestion Box at all?"
"Can I can kill him now, my Lord?" interrupts Bella.
Lucius would give her his favourite pair of Prada sunglasses if she just ended him then and there.
"Well, when you do," Rosier continues, oblivious of the glares and various forms of abuse directed his way, "make sure you use the right coloured parchment and –"
Bella was nothing if not persistent. Lucius was proud of his wife's sister, "How about now?"
Voldemort sneezes, which really shouldn't have been possible since he didn't really have what Lucius, or indeed, anyone, defined as a nose.
"Bloody hayfever," he mutteres, wiping what Lucius assumes was the remains of his nose with his robe sleeve. Gross. It's like the man was brought up with Muggles or something, he has manners worse than a house elf. Lucius makes a mental note to stay away from the left sleeve of the Dark Lord. "Rosier; if you can't talk about the assignment – don't talk at all, Bella; you can't kill him, Lucius; where the devil is Rodolphus and that carrot cake?"
Which is how Lucius finds himself in the kitchens of the Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road, watching Rodolphus ice a carrot cake.
"You have no idea how surreal this day has been for me, Lestrange," Lucius mutters as he watches the Death Eater squeeze black icing into the shape of the Dark Mark on top of the mini carrots on the cake, which is already covered in a cream frosting.
"That's nice." Rodolphus doesn't look up and Lucius gets the distinct impression that the other man isn't listening. Bitch.
"I'm going to kill your brother," Lucius says experimentally, "and then I'm going to kill your wife and no-one will ever find their bodies."
"Really?" Rodolphus murmurs, non-committally as he moves onto doing the next Mark.
"Oh yes," Lucius continues, "I'm going to tie them together and dump-" Rodolphus hands him the bowl of icing, now finished with it.
Half disgusted that Rodolphus would hand him, Lucius Malfoy, a bowl to lick out, Lucius toys with the idea of killing him, but discards the thought because of the never ending grief he would get from Narcissa about killing the only thing her sister's ever loved. But, really, other wizards have died for less.
Half curious, he dips a finger precariously into the paste and puts it in his mouth. And he so does totally not groan when he realises how good it tastes. Any anger that he felt towards The Dark Lord at having missed his two o'clock in Putney has completely melted away. "This icing is divine."
Rodolphus has his back turned and is digging around in the fridge for the green icing. "Isn't it?" Oh, so now the bastard's listening. Typical man.
"Did you make this yourself?" If you did I will renounce all my money, properties, possessions and my name and I will kneel at your feet forever. Lucius gulps, because he almost just said that.
"Yeah," Lestrange shrugs, "it's nothing – you should try the cream cheese icing." He hands Lucius a bowl from the side. "Here."
If Heaven was a place Lucius thought he'd ever be able to taste, this is what it would taste like. He turns to Rodolphus, who is just adding the finishing touches to his cake and wonders how far he'd be exiled if he offered to become the man's sex slave in return for an endless supply.
"Your cake, my Lord," Rodolphus says as he places a silver platter in the middle of the table and lifts the lid off of it with a flourish.
"Excellent," The sight of Voldemort rubbing his hands together in eager anticipation was not a sight Lucius would easily forget. He needs to become a crappy Death Eater, then he wouldn't have to attend these stupid meetings.
The Dark Lord takes a bite out of his piece and groans. Lucius shudders in fear that such a sound should be produced and looks around the room to see Rodolphus looking slightly green.
"This is impressive, Rodolphus," The Dark Lord says carefully, around the walnuts.
He leans forward, so close to the Death Eater, that Lestrange's hair is blown backward by his breath when he talks. Lucius hopes that the cake has sweetened the smell of his otherwise putrid breath, "Now listen very carefully, I have a question to ask you, and you would do well to answer it correctly."
Rodolphus nods, his eyes wide, as he presumably shits himself. Lucius can empathise; there have been many 'meetings' when he's found himself in the same situation. Except they were alone. And a Malfoy doesn't shit one's self.
Lucius wonders if he's the only Death Eater that has the privilege of those meetings.
"Are you a baker," Voldemort begins slowly in a hushed tone, "who moonlights as a Death Eater, or a Death Eater who moonlights as a baker?"
Bella claps her hands excitedly and Rosier has his attention focused on the whiteboard he had conjured, where he's colour-coding the different names to correspond with whatever language they were in.
Lucius rolls his eyes, because only Riddle would come up with this shit. God, he needs a drink and fast.
Why did he cancel the appointment?
"Lucius," Severus says gravely as he sweeps into the dungeons, robes billowing behind him impressively.
"You can drop the act Severus," Lucius says from behind a glass of bourbon, "I'm not a student. I'd like to think that'd you know better now."
Snape shrugs unrepentantly as he collapses into an armchair, "Apologies, friend. It's an old habit not easy to forget."
"I am well aware of that," Lucius says, "although, as of today I'd have envied your position in a classroom against that of mine in a private meeting with our Lord."
Snape laughs at him for that. "I swear it Lucius, that man is gay for you."
Lucius shudders in horror of the memory of Voldemort licking the icing off his lips suggestively. Yes, that was an afternoon he wanted to forget. He tipped his glass back further and then regaled that day to Snape. "Do you want to practise your Legilimency? Or perhaps I could place it in a memory ball and you would be subjected to that unpleasantness as well?"
Snape looks almost green at that and this fills Lucius with a warm sense of satisfaction. Who says friends aren't good for the soul?
"It's your own fault Lucius," Snape mutters as he looks around the room, presumably for his wand so he can attempt to obliviate this conversation out of his memory, but Lucius can attest to the fact that self-obliviation just does not work and there are some memories, say for example, the Dark Lord rubbing his thigh suggestively at the Death Eater Team Building Day of Summer 2008, that Lucius will have to live with. Forever.
"You shouldn't have outed yourself," Severus continues, "some of us had the sense to keep it to ourselves."
"I didn't know he'd be spying on my private activities," Lucius protests, although they've had this conversation numerous times, "I knew he'd check out the various establishments that I visit but I didn't think he'd check out the gender of my partners."
Severus shrugs, "Like I said, you brought this on yourself. I have no sympathy."
"Keep talking like that Severus," Lucius snaps, "and I'll see that the Dark Lord knows all about your little rendez-vous with Potter."
"How'd you know about that?" Severus asks, looking slightly perturbed by the fact that Lucius has dirt on him. He shouldn't really be surprised. Lucius has dirt on everyone. Even Simon Cowell.
Lucius shrugs delicately as he snaps his fingers and Butsy, the House Elf appears with more bourbon to top up his glass. "I have my ways Severus."
"I just thought you'd be more discrete." Lucius says pointedly, "If I can find out this out, who else can?"
"It's of no importance as to who I share my bed with," Severus says, trying to brush the subject off.
Oh no. Lucius is not going to let this—the meatiest (pardon the pun) story of the year slip through his fingers.
"But we haven't got to the best bit yet Severus!" protests Lucius, "What's he like in bed? Is it true that the Saviour is... you know..."
"No Lucius," Severus says, rapidly draining his glass and snapping his fingers for a refill. "I don't know what you are referring to."
The man is obviously disturbed by this conversation; gosh, Lucius has seen children with less modesty (namely Draco, once you got him started talking about penises, he would not stop. Narcissa grew him out of the habit by bribing him with toy wands).
Lucius decides to come straight out without it since it'll do neither of them any good to dance around the subject.
"How big is Potter's broomstick?"
It's not too late when Lucius gets home, but to his dismay Draco and Astoria are there.
"Father," Draco nods by way of greeting when Lucius walks—no, sweeps into the room. "I hear the Dark Lord kept you busy most of today."
Lucius decides to lie to Draco because no way will he, or any other members of the Inner Circle ever live it down if the truth about their meetings gets out. Especially as Draco had enough sense not to join Voldemort's ranks.
"Important business, Draco," Lucius says haughtily and lets his tone turn a little condescending, "you know I can't talk about that."
"I'm sure you could share it with us, father," Astoria interjects in that screeching tone of hers. Really, Lucius could never understand what Draco saw in the girl; she doesn't have an ounce of dress sense, her voice is disturbingly grating on the senses and she doesn't take the label off the bottom of her shoes after she's bought them.
Lucius prefers to believe that she shoplifts them from stores and that one day he will catch her in the act so he has a legitimate way of dissolving her marriage to Draco. He's not really above falsifying evidence if needs must.
"Well you two should be off if you want to make that reservation," Narcissa says as she enters the room with a blonde bundle bouncing behind her. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy. Lucius shudders with disdain because, really, what kind of a name is that? There is absolutely no doubt in his mind that the child will be bullied at Hogwarts. He would bully the child if he was in his class.
"We'll be going now, father," Astoria says, simpering, as she air kisses Lucius on both his cheeks. Really, where is Bellatrix to kill people when you need her?
He sincerely hopes that it was Astoria that came up with that ridiculous name, because if he ever finds out it was Draco—he really has not raised that boy right. What were they thinking? The child is a Malfoy, not a WWF fighter.
"Darling?" Narcissa taps Lucius gently on the shoulder, "I've got to get back to making plans for the party tomorrow, can you put Scorpius to bed?"
To be fair, Lucius doesn't really want much to do with the brat, but when he opens his mouth to refuse, Narcissa turns a sharp look his way, followed up with, "That was not a question, Lucius."
Mobby pops in to hand Narcissa an updates version of the guest list for tomorrow, and Lucius swears that damned creature mutters, "whipped" before it disappears out the room again.
Instead of calling the House Elf back and eviscerating it, Lucius reaches down to take the sticky hand of his snot nosed grandchild and leads it up the stairs to one of the guest rooms.
"Grandad?" Scorpius says as Lucius tucks the quilt in around the child, who really is too skinny. Lucius narrows his eyes, Astoria probably isn't feeding him enough. He really should have got Draco a pet when he was a child, then childrearing wouldn't have been such a shock, Scropius turns his big grey eyes to Lucius, "Will you tell me a story?"
Lucius glances at the clock—he only has fifteen minutes to get ready for his date. He's going to have rush conditioning his hair and creaming his feet. Damn. He thinks fast since the child will no doubt complain to Cissa in the morning if he refuses.
"Right," Lucius says as he settles down on the bed next to the child, "once upon a time there was woman named Clarice Starling and she worked for the FBI. Do you know what the FBI is Scorpius?"
The young boy shakes his head.
"In America they have this department, it's a bit like the Ministry of Magic, but they're all Muggles. Anyway, there's this man named Buffalo Bill who murders women and skins them a little bit. Do you know what a serial killer is Scorpius?"
Scorpius nods his head, but Lucius explains anyway. How many seven year olds know what a serial killer is?
"A serial killer is someone who kills lots of people. Anyway, there's this other serial killer called Hannibal Lecter who's also a cannibal. Do you know what a cannibal is Scorpius?"
"Lucius," Narcissa hisses. And dear God, she's sitting on the stairs, waiting for him to come home. Shit is going to go down here.
"Cissa, darling," Lucius says as he puts on his most charming smile and eyes every doorway that's closer to him than it is to Narcissa.
"Do not try that with me Lucius Abraxus Malfoy." She says as she stands up and takes a threatening step towards him.
Lucius sincerely hopes that she doesn't throw her glass of wine all over him again, because not only is Romanée-Conti not cheap, but it is a bitch to get out of silk.
"Erm, Cissa.." Lucius can seriously not handle this. Stress brings out spots and blemishes and damn if he's not pale. The whole point of coming home early was to look his best for the party tomorrow. An early night does wonders for the skin.
"You know exactly what you've done," Narcissa says, her mouth pressed into a thin line.
Okay, firstly, men are not mind readers. Lucius has spent the day between two different rent boys, the Spa and the Dark Lord, surely the question should be less of a what you've done and more of a who've you done? He added the maximum spending to her credit card and put the toilet seat down, really, all should be dandy.
"Yes?" Lucius offers hesitantly, and Narcissa nods expecting him to expand on what he's done. Lucius has no clue. No clue whatsoever. Why aren't 'Yes' and 'No' acceptable answers to a question?
The silence grows as Narcissa waits for an answer, her nails scratching the side of the glass, and Lucius is now acutely aware of how long and dangerous looking they are. Last time Lucius saw her this angry she chased him outside onto the front drive in the middle of the night. Albino peacocks do not like being disturbed at night. It took weeks for the scratch marks to fade.
Apparently Lucius has taken too long to answer since Narcissa tells him what it was he did to upset. "You told Scorpius the story of Hannibal Lecter, you idiot!"
Lucius cringes. Ahhh, that.
"He's seven. You told a seven year old about serial killers, and cannibals, and skinning people, and wearing their flesh." Narcissa doesn't even raise her voice, her tone is deadly and Lucius tries not to brick himself as he contemplates what she has in store for him this time, " How on earth could that have been a good idea?"
Retrospectively, when you put it like that, no, it's not a good idea.
"And what did you think would happen?" Narcissa continues coldly and harshly, and most important scarily, "He's seven, of course he's going to have nightmares."
Lucius doesn't say anything, because if going by their history, anything he says will just make the situation worse and he'll end up hiding in the secret chamber underneath the drawing room floor.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"
Lucius shakes his head, because it's like she's inviting him to make a mistake, just so she can criticise him. Are all wives this spiteful?
"I hope you'll think about what you've done," Narcissa says as she turns around, presumably to go back upstairs to comfort Scorpius, "don't even bother coming to bed tonight; you've just earned yourself a week on the settee."
Lucius watches her slowly, glad that it's over. "What's the point?" He mutters, "It's not like we even sleep with each other that often anymore."
"Don't think I didn't hear that Lucius," Narcissa warns from half way up the stairs, "I'm not above transfiguring you into a toilet brush and leaving you in the Weasley's house for a month."
Well, Lucius think to himself. Shit.
AN: Erm, where to start? Okay, I don't own anything. Not L'oreal, not CoverGirl and not The Hummingbird Bakery on Portobello Road or their over-priced but simply divine carrot cake. Buy it people; it's amazing!
I had too much writing this; crack is crack is crack. It's really hard to resist taking the piss out of Lucius. I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know your favourite parts. :)