Under The Cool Shade Of Virtue

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"It's time you learned the difference between life and dreams […]" Lucius Malfoy, The Order of the Phoenix


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Hope and Misery

What am I doing here? Couldn't I just pass this foolishness? What need is there for all this when I know what they think?

No, that was wrong, what they think doesn't exactly matter, does it? It's more along the lines of what they want. Their desire is the most important now, stands on their forehead with a capital D. I wonder if they have any idea how similar they are to their former enemy?

I would laugh right now, double over and laugh like a madman, if it wasn't for that wolf of a man watching me from the corner of the room.

I have been looking at him just as avidly as he has and I'm starting to wonder if he ever blinks, or even if he is still alive. He made no move ever since I have been brought here. Maybe he isn't even real, maybe he is a giant puppet stuffed with straw like those…what do you call them? Those human sized dummies that the elves used to plant around my vineyard to keep the starlings away from the grapes. Ah, yes, scarecrows! Maybe they put these false guards because the real ones are somewhere getting pissed, smoking and grinding glass to slip in our food. Maybe they think they did such a great job at turning us into moronic, shivering wastes that they don't even bother in guarding us properly. I have to strangle these thoughts now or they will strangle me. I get paranoid in here, especially when they make me wait like this.

I despise waiting, it makes me uncertain, uncomfortable - not that I'm basking in some indulgent cosines around here – our toilets clean themselves once a week and we sleep directly on rickety iron beds with just a thin, gnawed "mattress" to protect us from being stabbed by the iron bars coming out from the old cots – it's just that being the survivor that I am I somehow managed to find moments of solace even in this dump, but today things changed, this day had me sweating and pacing about in my cell. And now I can't even pace with these ropes strangling my ankles and with that gaunt scarecrow eyeballing me from the corner of the room.

I take my eyes away from the eerie character and look at the "charming surroundings". The room is a perfect square and has only one minuscule window, but it can pride itself with an enormous iron door. It stands dark and ominous in front of me; it has no porthole like the one in my cell does - just some barbaric looking hinges and a heavy door knob with some odd decorative kinks.

I look to my left; I see a tall cabinet accompanied by a bucket and a mop sitting beside it. The cabinet is stuffed with files that I assume belong to prisoners.

The oddest thing in the room is not the large door, or the mop with its bucket, neither is the file cabinet - you can't even call the scarecrow or myself odd next to the object that is placed by the wall at my left. Looking as harmless as it can be, there is an actual baby stroller just there beneath the tiny excuse for a window. I have seen the thing the moment they sat me on this chair and I have been striving to figure out what was it doing in a place like this. As warped as the head guard's mind is he can't be taking his children out for strolls in Azkaban "to see those scary looking but nice gentlemen that like to live in cages at you workplace, daddy!" I'm sure it is a perfectly rational explanation for that stroller being there, it's always like this, the oddest things are sometimes the most logical and the simplest of things always hide something twisted. Simplicity makes me suspicious.

My hands are tied at my back; I can't even twiddle my fingers properly. My feet are tied to the chair and I'm wondering where and – most importantly - how do they think I could run. I have no wand – I haven't had one for over a year now, my master took care of that, making the job easier for the three meaty guards that formed my welcoming committee when I first arrived in this charming place.

I digress now and I should keep my mind focused on that blasted door; that's where the silly little man that is my so called solicitor will appear from. From what the grape vine says this is a new profession that has been introduced in the Wizengamot by Shaklebolt in order to – and I quote, "offer an absolute opened access to justice" - justice is now not only blind-folded and chained but is also accessible. The famed Masoch and his girlfriend were innocent school girls when compared to the new Minister, I'm sure they never fantasized about domination games involving Justice. Kingsley Shaklebolt turned Justice into a cheap trollop that jumps in bed with all the convicts, seduces them with promises of freedom and then throws them back in prison; and all this for Potter's entertainment.

I am a man that believes in law, I am a man that can't imagine a social system without a structure, lacking the least bit of back bone. I am a traditionalist, some say I'm old fashioned, a dinosaur, a relic of a time long gone, but I can't understand a society that lacks hierarchy, a society that levels everyone down, impeding evolution. I am called an enemy of magick and people, an oppressor of magical development, a killer, and torturer. Everything is backwards since the war ended, not that it was right before mind - but now it's just simply wayward. I am glad that I developed such perfect resignation that I don't even care what they say anymore. This bliss of acceptance that I'm swimming in has taken all the fight out of me and I'm afraid they are messing with my mind more easily now in the state I'm in. How I despise instinct, it numbs you when things get to difficult. The mind protects itself by detaching - blanking its reactions just like the body, when deeply wounded shuts down all the pain receptors.

I need to get myself back on track, I need to regain my focus and control, and I need to find something rational to think about, something distracting. There are so many things I'm missing, I'm sure of it; reasons, motivations, interests that they are led by, things that I'm kept away from. Nothing is as it seems and I'm sure that they aren't practicing what they preach, no one really does - the temptation is immense when you hold such power.

Power, power, power…the scarecrow holds power over me even if he is inferior to me socially, mentally and even genetically. The warden, a 2 metre tall brute, has power over the scarecrow and the prisoners, the head guard holds power over the scarecrows, the prisoners and the wardens - not because he is in any way superior to the wardens but simply because he is a more refined sort of brute. Advancing on the pecking order we find Kingsley, the minister of magic; I might have a little respect for him, for being around my age, a pureblood and a good adversary in battle but all that respect is reduced to nothing because he is led by a teenager. That said teenager is at the top of this twisted "food chain" that the wizarding world willingly developed for itself. So I was wrong, there is a hierarchy – of course there is, no system can function without it - this hierarchy though is all backwards, the ones that should be at the top are dead or completely ignored while a mere boy that didn't even finish Hogwarts rules the world. He holds everyone in the palm of his hand and not because of something he did, but because he followed the advices of an old, experienced and admittedly powerful wizard. No one has to know that I respect that old man, but I do, if he would have continued what he started by Grindelwald's side I'm sure that together they would have put the Dark Lord to shame – or just put him in their job...

I have to much time to think here, to much time with myself and my memories. I just sit, think and remember, I remember everything, things I could have done better, things I shouldn't have done, things I foolishly avoided doing and things that I'd rather forget. The perfect example of memory that nothing can erase is that last day, when the Dark Lord died. I have only witnessed a Priori Incanatatem twice all my life, first in the cemetery when the Dark Lord returned and second, then, at the peak of the final battle, but that last time the power of the spell was tangible, the whole hall was vibrating and after the immense light that blinded everyone I was sure that both of them died. I remember trying to keep my eyes open to see all the details of the spell, I willed myself to do it but it was impossible, it was like the sun itself fell from the sky directly in the middle of the hall. The light exploded from their wands and it was vast, white and impossible to look at. I covered my eyes and so did my son that was by my side. The first thing I saw when I opened them was my son again, this time looking wide eyed to the centre of the hall. I followed his stare and there they were, two dark bundles sprawled on the floor, apparently unconscious.

I was sure that they were both dead and I think so was everyone else. I was relieved because that was the outcome I was hoping for; I wanted everything to be erased down to basics, to start everything from scratch, without war heroes, or dictators – that was the only way for me and my family to avoid jail or, in the case the Dark Lord won – the Killing Curse. Of course that in those moments of confusion and fear I forgot that hoping for the best only brings the worst and so fate, God, or whatever other entity had the bad inspiration to invent us, felt comical and proved my foolishness by making Potter move.

Everyone gasped and Slughorn and McGonagall flew to his side. Slughorn took him by the arms and brought him up to a sitting position while McGonagall kept calling his name. Another one from the crowd ran by his side, it was that boastful little friend of his, Hermione Granger, the mudblood – the one that my son used to grumble about like a grudging old man. I remember that ironically she was covered in mud and had an immense wound on her leg, a wound that apparently sliced through the muscle and through those ghastly blue muggle trousers she was wearing. She sat in front of him and started yelling his name while shaking him furiously. In contrast with her wild behaviour Weasley's daughter was crying and stroking his cheek while whispering inaudible words. Another Weasley came; this one was Arthur's youngest son, the one that just a few months before was brought by the snatchers to my house along with the mudblood and Potter.

Potter couldn't hold his head straight and he seemed to be slipping in and out of consciousness. When he first opened his eyes he looked around himself with a mixture of confusion and fear. Granger started laughing, the Weasleys started crying. The two teachers stood up and announced victoriously, "He's alive!" The entire hall erupted in cheers, while my colleagues tried to make a last minute escape, most succeeding in the mayhem that was created.

All around us people were laughing, crying and embracing. McGonagall created a shield around Potter to prevent the overexcited people from suffocating him. In a matter of seconds everyone swarmed around the shield to look in awe at their hero. Such complete joy was written on their faces that you would have thought that the existence of heaven was confirmed and they just received special invitations to go there on vacation

My son asked me what we should do, I didn't know what to answer - all I could think about was how much I wanted to find my wife. We did find her after a while and despite the awkwardness and apprehension that we felt among those people that were supposed to be our enemies, all three of us sat at one of the tables. We were exhausted and confused, we needed time to gather our wits and plan our next step. I wanted to take them both and run, my wife wanted to stay – being her usual optimistic self she thought that we had a ticket out of the whole mess.

My son, on the other hand, reached the perfect state of catatonic stupidity. We tried to talk to him but he was just nodding and staring into nothing. Sometimes he would lift his gaze at the ceiling like a chicken searching the skies for hawks. I managed to ignore him for a while, still striving to figure out what to do. My wife insisted that we are saved, that she did something that will redeem us; she wanted us to be alone and talk about it in private. She never had the chance; the Aurors came and took us away, separating us. She never loosed her nerve and even when she was tied with the Incarcerous, she smiled at me and told me to have patience because everything will be fine. Nothing happened, I'm still here in this hell in the middle of the sea and I haven't seen her since. I do see my son almost every day – looking older and gaunter – but not my wife. I know that Potter in his righteousness would never kill her, and I know that if he were to kill a Malfoy I or my son would be the first on his black list.

But no, no, Potter is not a killer, of that I'm sure. My wife must be in Azkaban as well – I and my son can't see her because she is in the women's quarters of the prison. The last time I've been in Azkaban, two years ago, men and women ate together; it was the only time we would see our female neighbours, this time though I haven't seen any women – I don't believe that Potter is in any way misogynistic and to such a degree that he would destroy all women prisoners. He changed all the prison regulations just like he changed everything else and created individual quarters; she is here, I know it.

I hear sounds - voices and steps. The scarecrow twitches and finally proves that he is alive by flashing a set of yellowed teeth my way and then hoping off of his stool.

The sounds are approaching, the scarecrow wraps his hand around the door knob but before pushing he turns to me with a malicious little grin.

"No chance Malfoy!" he hisses in a raspy, smoker's voice, "No bloody chance! You be rotting in here, you will!"

"You already are…" I answer back cringing at his butchering of the English language.

He throws me one last evil sneer and then ceremoniously opens the heavy door.

"Through here Mr. Hogberry," echoes a thick voice from the hallway.

"It's Hollingberry – I thought I told you two times before…" says another, this one in an affected tone. It is my solicitor - he has the perfect Ministry worker's voice, prim and unremarkable.

"Err – forgot again sir, sorry about that. With so many folks I meet 'round here every day…" He murmurs.

"Forgiven…" the higher pitched voice drawls dismissively.

"As I was sayin', he is the most annoying of the lot, I tell ye'!" the warden grunts as he walks through the door. "You ought to tell the minister all about this funny behaviour of his – disrespectful, don't even bother to look at us, he isn't. He just sat about on his filthy cot looking at a spot on the wall while we was suppose to carry his royal arse all the way to here."

"I see, I see…" he trails of as he enters the room, the large troll of a man moving aside to let him in. His appearance is as unremarkable as his voice – hound's-tooth overcoat and black trousers – he looks almost muggle.

"Mr Malfoy," he says and inclines his head at me. I return the gesture stiffly.

"Mr. Hollingberry, do come in. Make yourself at home," I say sarcastically at which he smirks.

"You shut yer' mouth Malfoy, ye'r speakin' to a Ministry's 'fficial." The warden grumbles gruffly, hunching his shoulders at me to appear menacing. This is the troll's great and only quality, he possesses a stunning intuition – a sixth sense in detecting the smallest signs of impertinence only from the tone and manner of speaking – just a necessary survival instinct that has obviously sprouted out of his lack of basic intellect. Hollingberry waves a dismissive hand his way, "Leave it to me Husher." He turns to me with a smile.

"Still your old mordant self, Lucius?" He shakes his head in amusement. "Though I dare say that your voice doesn't do you justice anymore – a bit raucous, a bit rough around the edges…" he speaks smoothly, relishing in the annoyance that undoubtedly etches itself on my face. "Though I wonder, has it become so rough because it is scarcely used…or perhaps, on contrary, you have been screaming your throat raw lately?" He is trying to be subtle about the incidents that occurred during our last encounter. He obviously fails – even the troll gets the hint this time – he sniggers from behind the man. `

"Spare me your wit, Lysander." I whisper to him.

He chuckles and strokes his thin goatee.

"I do believe it is precisely my wit you need these days." He says and his eyebrows go up into his hairline, making his face look pinched.

"If you will continue to use it the way you did, I might as well hire Husher – I'm sure that with his fists he can persuade more people than you did." I rasp and my throat is indeed very raw. Husher sneers at me. "Now, what did I tell yer' Malfoy?"

Hollingberry chuckles. The bastard is honestly amused. I am myself surprised at my carelessness – the truth is that after almost a whole year between brutes and convicts all my common sense dissolved. But as my once master used to say: "You have it in you Lucius, if you could, if you would only allow yourself you wouldn't be much more civilised than Fenrir." He was right of course, though he could never understand that the very fact that I managed to instruct and build myself so well shows that I am nothing like Fenrir or even himself for that matter.

"I cannot force lies on people. I am the devil's advocate as anyone might say." He sits himself on the chair opposite mine and after looking me straight in the eye for a moment, to see his words sink in, I suspect - he starts rummaging through his briefcase.

"And I see I cannot force the truth on you…" I say quietly.

"Perhaps two years ago you could have, but not anymore." He sighs dramatically and lifts a thin eyebrow at me. "Truth, truth – there are so many thrust in this world, don't you think? I'm sorry to tell you that I only believe what's factual, what can be proved - you have no substantiation. Even if my job is to support your side of the story I can hardly do that without proofs." He drawls as he produces a stack of parchments and a quill from the briefcase and neatly arranges them on the table between us. "Where do you think we are, at the market? There is no bargaining here and galleons have no say in it, I thought I told you before. If you give me factual – and I repeat – factual proof that you have not killed all those people we might be able to work something out." He blinks at me with saucer eyes after he carefully perches a pair of thin spectacles on his nose.

The reality is that I have no proof. He is right, I have no arguments. I have never felt so stupid in my life. We look at each other for a moment. He smirks – he knows.

"Charity Burbage." Is what I say. It is the hardest to convince them that she has not been murdered by me since…bits of her – that I'd rather not think about – have been found in my house. I have always tried to solve the seemingly unsolvable first.

"Indeed." He extracts one of the parchments from the pile and slides his beady eyes over it quickly. "Fragments of bones, hair and nails have been found at the Malfoy residence, at no. 28th Morgan's Vale, Wiltshire County." He reads quickly and then lifts his inquisitive eyes at me. "Isn't that your address, Lucius?"

"Obviously…" I answer.

"It says here that not only these fragments have been found but also blood and fingerprints belonging to Mrs Burbage have been discovered on several furniture pieces in your Drawing Room." He seems to think I don't believe him. "Here, have a look! You seem to struggle under the suspicion that I am giving you false information." He clicks his fingers at the warden and commands him to untie my hands. He grudgingly complies and pulls roughly at my ropes, releasing me. I rub my wrists and stretch my numb fingers. He extends his hand over the table, pushing the large file under my nose. I take it.

A short story of the victim's background – her valiant fight for the acceptance of muggleborns, her persistence of this goal despite the many antagonist forces, this is followed by pictures of her smiling in class with students, smiling at home with grandchildren and smiling by Dumbledore's side in the Main Hall of Hogwarts. Happiness, content, followed by hell – the victim tortured and murdered with the killing curse. The murderer (me) tried to rid of the body by destroying it. An attempt at a dissolving spell or potion – failed attempt, obviously. Lovely little story followed by another row of photographs showing the Aurors and the sleuth grimly examining some odd looking remains. I can recognize the lobby of my house and my heart twinges painfully.

I hear some shuffling followed by the smell of tobacco. Hollingberry smokes his pipe with relish. My mouth waters. I'm not a regular smoker but here, if I could, I would be.

"I always like making my clients feel at ease when preparing the case," he says with a sardonic smile. He takes a pack of cigarettes out of his hound's-tooth coat. I drop the file. He offers me one. I take it. It is the first time he does this and I wonder if he always keeps that pack there for his clients to make himself more agreeable.

I feel overwhelmed by a feeling of absolute indulgence. Everything from the fire on the end of his wand lighting my cigarette, to the first taste that stings the tip of my tongue overwhelms me. God help me – the state I must be in to be so enraptured by a bloody fag!

"So, Lucius, anything to say for yourself?" He asks.

"I haven't killed her. I don't know exactly what happened to her. I told you before, the Dark Lord killed her." I shrug blowing the smoke with elation. If I could close my eyes just now I could think I'm at home in front of the fire, with a glass in one hand and a book in the other and…

"Lucius, she was found in your home." The strident voice calls over the table.

"You can't exactly say that she was found in my house, can you? The remains could have been anyone's, I'm even wondering what they really were. I don't think that anyone can forget the Crouch incident." He looks at me surprised.

"Why, I can't believe this…" He smiles mockingly. "The things that people miss when kept away from civilisation. Tsk, tsk, tsk!"

"Such a talent for spotting the obvious, Lysander…What are you on about then?" Curiosity awakes me from my nicotine induced reverie.

"Sanguis Origo Lucius," he says arrogantly. "A quite fascinating invention, if I say so myself, an elaborated ritual that indicates the…ah…owner of the remains. The smallest piece of hair or fleck of skin can tell us more about a suspect and its victim than your regular fence watching neighbour. And this," he taps a gnarled finger on one of the grisly pictures on Burbage's file, "is not exactly what we call small in terms of evidences."

"I understand that you have already performed the ritual…" I say.

"Have no doubt about that," he smirks.

I look at the picture and try to see exactly what those remains are; they are just piles or balls of something impossible to identify. They remind me of the muck that littered my owlery back home. "What is this anyway…?" I push the paper away and look at it from the distance, I squint my eyes, I turn it over on all sides to catch a bit of light - but to no purpose, the chamber is dark, the images are unclear and to be honest with myself, my eyesight is far from what it used to be.

"You tell me what they are. You brought the poor woman in this state." I'm still trying to understand something of those pictures. Who could have done it? How did they do it? A dissolving potion? Wasn't it easier to transfigure the body like Crouch Jr. did with his father? And how could, whatever that potion left behind, have that shape?

Hollingberry sighs and rubs his arms shivering. "Oh do hurry up…I'll be nithered in here!" - Nithered*? - "Oh, alright then", he waves his wand impatiently casting a Lumos and then leans back into the rickety old chair glaring at me.

I dismiss my curiosity at his godforsaken slang and look back at the pictures that now are finally discernable. Three men hover around a tall, ornate table that I identify as the one Cissy used to have her tea and write correspondence on. Those odd lumps are placed directly on it and they seem to be using it as an examination table. If Cissy would only see this…

The Auror's face twists into a grimace, he clams a hand over his mouth and disappears from the picture as another man dressed in white robes prods the lumps with a long steel rod.

I'm sure that in this moment my face resembles greatly that of the Auror. I feel sick; those are indeed remains…they seem dense, compacted…like the fur and bones that the owls regurgitate after digestion, like the waste in the owlery…The snake…Oh God!

This is it! This is my chance! The snake, he used to feed them to that fat snake of his. Burbage was hanging upside down over my dinner table that night. The night he took my wand, the night Draco's ideals turned to reality and he wanted to go to the Order for help. The night the Dark Lord killed Charity Burbage…

I look up at him, my heart rising in my throat. I remember, this is proof, this is substantiation. I'm so enthusiastic that is choking me. I'm not a killer and now they will believe me.

"Well…" he asks impatiently. I feel strange. I look at him and the room spins. I'm a bit old for this youthful zeal of mine.

Breathe, breathe. It gets bad, my head hurts, I feel cold sweat on my forehead and my stomach churns painfully. I close my eyes and press my fingers into them. It gets worse, I feel myself drifting, and my consciousness flickers like a dyeing candle. This is so sudden. What is wrong with me? Those things are ghastly indeed, but they can't trigger such extreme reactions in me - I have seen worse.

I stare at the man in front of me. He looks…different. He seems almost, worried?

"I…don't feel…" I hear myself rasping in a strange, distant voice. I see him moving, but the vision blurs, shines unsteadily and is reduced to hazy patches of light and colour. I can't be giving up the ghost so stupidly just when I'm about to get my sorry hide out of prison.

"What is it Lucius?" It's like he speaks from the bottom of a well.

I can't keep my head straight, my chin falls in my chest and I try to think, I try to let out the thing that gnaws at my mind even in the state I'm in. Maybe, just maybe he will believe me if he hears this…Finally something I remember. He killed her.

"N –, "the world spins, "N –," I can't see, "Nagi - …," someone is moving, "Nag - …" Someone spoke…What did they say?

What is going on?

Darkness…

Pain! My whole body aches and burns! Something is hitting me, an immense power that pushes me against a wall, I feel it in my mouth and eyes and I'm trying to cover myself, striving to breathe. And the noise, oh Lord, the noise splits my head apart! Thousands of screams, a huge uproar that never ends and I scream along with it, competing with it. Cold, so cold it burns; knives tear my flesh and bone. I wish for warmth, I wish for someone to come. I scream again. Someone screams back in a harsh voice.

I fall to my knees, the immense power follows me and I'm suffocating, I'm drowning. I hate, hate, hate, loath and despise and I want them all to die! I claw my way up the stone and I cling to the wall behind me. I see it for the first time, its water; they are hosing me down again. The cutting jet of water hits me in the back taking the breath out of me, it throws me down and my cheek collides with the damp stone floor. Hate, hate, hate!

It stops. I'm freezing; I can't even feel the stone beneath me. For an insane moment I think that it was warmer under that jet of water. I heave and close my eyes; I need to gather what's left of my strength. What did I do now to deserve this?

"Had enough you mangy shite? HAD ENOUGH? Ever dare te' hit a Ministry's 'fficial again and you're really gonna miss this here soft punishment." The warden barks. I hear him drop the heavy hose and I listen to the sound of his boots approaching me. I do not look up; if I do I will hit him. Ah, yes I remember, I attacked my solicitor because he insisted that I'm guilty.

He smacks me over the back of my head. I cringe and grind my teeth as I get back up on all fours. Kneeling at the feet of this maggot…How I'd love to twist a knife into his fat chest. No magic, nothing clean, nothing elegant, just the feel of life seeping out of him in red rivers over my hand.

"You look at me, ye hear. To superior to do it, eh? If you ain't looking down at people, yer lookin' ye other way 'round, eh?" He laughs stupidly. "Answer me!" He yells and lifts his foot slightly. I know what follows and I tighten my abdominal muscles. In no time his boot collides painfully with my stomach and despite my try at shielding myself from the shock I double over and fall on my side.

I lift my head and look into Husher's hoggish face. He looms over me and grins like an idiot.

"Say you're sorry, ye' filthy rat!" He yells.

He is nothing. He is vermin. I gather all my forces to get myself off the floor. I won't grovel at the feet of this animal; he's not worth the mud on my shoes.

I face him. No, I don't face him exactly; I'm looking up at him. He is a mountain of a man; a broad-shouldered, small-headed brute. My legs shake, but I've been worse. This is nothing compared to what the Dark Lord was capable of. Who does this moronic hog think he is to torture me?

I spot movement in a corner of my eye. Hollingberry leers at me from a dark corner. He has been watching me all this time? The twisted bastard! Does he get of on this? I look back at Husher.

"I'm sorry…" His face relaxes into a brutish smile. "I'm sorry I can't perform real torture on you. Real, magical torture, the one you do with a wand and not with the fist. The sort of magic you haven't even dreamed of in all your worthless life!" I spat in the wardens face.

The rage disfigures him and I smile because at this point I don't care what he does, all I know is that my words have more power than his fists. Oh I see it, it hurts, you filthy, worthless squib!

His small, beady eyes narrow to slits and I fight the urge to gauge them right out of his skull.

"Squib", I hiss. His body flexes and like a cornered dog he bares his teeth at me. Go on then, hit me and give me a reason to attack you, give me an excuse. I wait - all my reflexes awake.

"That would be quite enough Husher!" drawls Hollingberry from the back. The beast steps back shakily, obviously making inhuman efforts to control himself.

"One of these days Malfoy…"he whispers breathlessly. I sneer and stare him down; he finally looks away and gets his meaty frame out of my sight.

Hollingberry steps forward.

"You are a truly abject piece of work Lucius. I honestly hoped that I could find a way out for you. I am a very sympathetic man, and I love my job but you have made all this very difficult. It is like you actually want to spend the rest of your days here…" He steps in front of me and casts the Incarcerous; I'm immobilised hand and foot and I have to lean back against the wall to prevent myself from falling like cardboard on the floor.

"I'm sorry I must do this Lucius, but you leave me no choice. If you are to try to throttle me again it would be most inconvenient. I wonder what it is that makes you so disappointingly stupid." He waits for an answer.

"How dare you speak to me that way?"

"I dare? I dare? Oh this is rich!" His laugh is forced. "You've hit me you utter brute, you lunged yourself at me and I had to stun you or else you would have killed me! I come here to help. I apparate all the way to the middle of the sea, in this nithered-" (Nithered? Since when does Lysander use Yorkshire slang? ) "-damp hole of a place because Kingsley is a righteous, upright citizen and believes in equal chances for everyone. I comply with his request when I could just lounge at the club and enjoy the summer sun with some agreeable company rather than try to help a wretched, ungrateful criminal such as you." He paces up and down in front of me, making a show out of his aggravation. "I always thought you irredeemable but I must do my duty, I'm a moral man, I believe in duty, in law and the people." He pulls out his usual flask from an inside pocket of his coat and takes a dramatic swig out of it. What I wouldn't give for a drop of whiskey to warm my brittle throat.

I cough and take my chance.

"How is Cardiff lately Lysander?" I ask him quietly. He stops his pacing, slips the flask back into his coat and turns around with a confused frown.

"What?"

"You heard me. Tell me a bit about Cardiff."

"Why?"

"Isn't that where you were raised and where you are still living today?"

"I dare say that you know all too well the answer to that. You fooled me into inviting you at my residence when I thought you were a respectable, dignified an-…"

"I THOUGHT…" I raise my voice to stop his upcoming rant. "I thought that perhaps you changed your residence. I merely wanted to congratulate you, Yorkshire and the North in general are indeed charming…lovely people, fascinating landscapes, intriguing dialect…"

"What are you trying to say, Lucius?" he whispers.

"Are you nithered Lysander?"

He widens his eyes at me and gawps for a second. The small twitch in the corner of his mouth turns slowly into a howl of laughter.

"This is the most hilarious thing I have ever heard Lucius. Oh God, you really have lost your touch and your mind. You cling to any silly little thing to turn the table in your favour. Nithered…Ha!" He continues to laugh like a moron.

"Ah, so you just went on a holiday in Harrogate and picked up some of the local slang?"

"Do stop this foolishness Lucius! My wife was born in Scarborough, that's just a random word I picked up from her. Your diversion techniques are getting pathetically obvious; you have seriously lost your touch."

"It was no diversion, it was curiosity…"

"Yes, yes curiosity…" He comes close to me and stares me unflinchingly in the eye. "There is only one villain here, one killer, one traitor, only one scum and that is you my dear demented friend. Nothing you do can save you anymore, not after what you did earlier, not after you attacked me. How dare you even think of accusing me of anything, you loathsome beast?" Spittle flies from his mouth as he rants.

"How do I know what you get up to in your free time Lysander? You had no qualms to welcome a then ex Death Eater in your home. And don't yap again about me manipulating you into anything, you needed my money, I needed nothing from you. If any of us tried to get under the other's skin it was you. Tell me the story of the little fortune you have gathered with my help. Such a short memory and such broadminded views, so easy to sway into anything with just a bit of sponsoring…" I hiss at him. He straightens himself and looks slightly surprised. He stares at me for a long while and starts to smile his most mocking smile.

"I don't know what you are talking about." His tone might be very convincing if one does not see his gloating smirk. "I regret but I can't linger. The time is up for this session, Mr Malfoy." he starts. "I need to announce that there is only one meeting before the final trial, I hope you will manage to control yourself until then."

I must grudgingly admit that he is right; I can't understand why I lost control. I remember attacking him but it's all so unclear; all I know is that he showed me some evidence pictures and insisted again and again that I killed Burbage. The truth is that I don't even know who killed that woman; it could have been anyone considering that the Dark Lord tampered with our memories a lot in that time. What if he is right, what if I killed her? But he must not know these thoughts. No one needs to know anything about me, just like before they will see only what I show them, only what I want them to see, only what they should see. It's just a game of strategy, nothing more. I don't have such high chances of ever getting out of here but maybe just maybe if I play my cards right, I won't have to tell the truth that they want to hear and yet somehow slip between their fingers…

"Well?" I look back up at him startled out of my thoughts. "Are you going to cooperate next time?"

"I might...if you will believe my side of the story."

"Oh how I wish to believe it, it would make my job so much easier. Alas, all the evidence points to you and to top it all your behaviour as of late makes impartiality very difficult from my part." He is mocking me and I'm tired and cold. This old shirt is frozen and clammy, sticking to my skin like a thin ice crust.

"Part of your job is to be unbiased, if I'm not mistaken…"

"I am the most unbiased person you have ever met." He inclines his head and walks briskly to the door. "I must go. We'll speak about poor Mrs Burbage next time. Maybe you will find it in you to tell me how you managed to reduce her to a pound of meatballs." He opens the door and I shiver.

"I. Did. Not. Kill. Her!" I whisper fiercely, still hoping that I haven't lost my touch at scaring people with words only. It seems I have, he just leers at me. I remember dear Bella – may the Devil rest her bones – saying: "The more brassed off Lucius is the happier he seems. People should piss their pants when he smiles…" I bet she would get her jollies out of seeing how pathetic and feeble I've become – bruised, filthy - a lame, emaciated, rheumatism eaten husk of a man. Oh, she would have a ball!

"Good day Lucius!" He smirks and walks out shutting the door behind him. I stand there leaning against the cold wall, like a crumbled old statue without a pedestal.

The air is frozen. My breath comes out in thick, white vapours. I wait for someone as always, someone to come and take me to my cell. I am insane, I must be, otherwise I wouldn't miss that stinking hole that I live in. But I do, because it's not as overbearing as this torture chamber, slightly warmer and I'm not alone, which is the most important aspect.

The door clings and opens widely, bouncing of the wall. Husher's hoggish frame occupies the entire doorway.

"A bit bored are we?" he chuckles. "Spunk, get yer' arse in here, we've got some work ter' do!"

They both enter and Spunk shuts the door behind him. His nickname is fitting him, he is the type that doesn't back away from any type of torture and his glee at the prospect of tormenting the prisoners is befitting that of a four year old in a candy shop. He is mad.

I must be going mad too, sometimes I don't even know where I am. I forget the days, the nights, myself. Something is teribly wrong and I don't know what. Memories or dreams, visions or truth. What is real and what is not?

All I know is pain and hate. Hate at them and at myself. I hate them for being alive, for breathing. I hate myself for being so weak, I hate myself for being so afraid.

Will the pain be bigger if I accept my fear?

Will it be that bad if I just give up and admit I murdered Burbage?

Fear steals my wits. Fear is a vicious circle.

I fear fear. I hate fear. I don't fear hate. Hate is the only factual thing I have.

Hate is my only reality.


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*Nithered - cold, freezing, frozen (Yorkshire slang)