With Good Intentions

Six days after the “Community Diversity Ambush” found Lucius Malfoy still pacing the halls of St. Mungo’s awaiting news about his family. Seldom was he seen without visitors and well-wishers, including the very famous Potter and his posse. Every two minutes, when alone, the disheveled Lord could be seen speaking to a small, hand-sized mini-portrait that sounded a great deal like Narcissa Malfoy…

“Don’t give up hope, Lucius. She’s a strong witch.”

“I can’t,” he hyperventilated, “I can’t bury another wife. She stood there, knowing the risks. But for that spell she cast at the last… Merlin, Cissa, but I do love her. The irritating swot’s gotten under my skin. Forgive me, love.”

“Nothing to forgive. Learn from her, my darling. She’ll teach you about the mantle of power in a different way. You're plan succeeded brilliantly — there’s nothing you could ask that won’t be granted you.”

“I want her with me.”

“And those two little angels she’s carrying, I will wager.”

“Gods! I was shite as a father to Draco. He paid for my incompetence with his life. A second chance… They’ll never replace —”

“I know. We survive, we pure-bloods. We adjust, we learn and we survive. Your sons will wield magic like no children since Tom Riddle Jr., but they will do so with the guiding hands of the two most brilliant people living in our world. In three generations — four at most — the Malfoys will head the new aristocracy. All beings must change or become extinct.”

“We almost were…” he admitted, his expression a plea for forgiveness.

“She’ll recover, Lucius, and while she does — pay attention. Make the Malfoy name and influence unassailable once more. Don’t fuck it up.”

A deep rumble made it’s way up the aristocratic prat’s chest. Bobbing with the unexpected laughter, he tucked her back in the pocket closest to his heart.

“Two pushy witches running my life…”