Hungry Thirsty Crazy

He hated how trusting her face was, how open...and how brave.  That was something he had never had, and something he was not used to seeing.  A Slytherin's natural reaction to this kind of 'talk' was to be blank, shut away, sealed to all outsiders.  Give nothing away because one never knows how it could be used against him.  Hermione was the opposite.  In her eyes he could see everything, the anxiety, the love, determination, and optimism.  God, how he wished he knew what that felt like.

She made room for him on the bed, scooting over among the blankets.  He climbed on and wished fervently that he was here for something else.  How easy it would be to fall into bed with her, to make love to her like none of this had ever happened...

But he had crossed the bridge.  Even if his mind and his mouth could pretend, his face could not.  Truthfully, he didn't want to pretend anymore.  Though it had been necessary, he had not liked keeping things from Hermione.  The honesty that existed between them was perhaps the greatest strength of their relationship and he didn't relish being the one to upset that balance.  Now it would be reset, though who knew with what consequence...

 

 

 

"Just tell me," she said softly, sensing his hesitation.  It was unsettling to see Lucius like this.  Whatever he held within him could not be good.  Hermione was unable to stop her arms from twining around him.  He gave her a squeeze in return, and that at least gave her some comfort.

He swallowed.  Then he began.  "Do you remember a few months ago...right after you learned of Pound's extracurricular activities, and I had been to my mother's estate for the first time since...since I initially found my book there?"

That dark time.  Yes, she remembered.  It was easy to recall the feeling that had threatened to consume her until she found the haven of Lucius's arms.  It was a heavy despair, a feeling that in spite of everything she had done, every battle she fought, and every way she excelled, that she was still an outsider.  A second-class citizen.  A fraud in the eyes of the public.  She would never forget that feeling, at least not until the wizarding world forgot its stupid prejudices.

"I remember."

Lucius sighed.  "I found something at the estate.  I was...going through the place to see what could be salvaged and what needed to be redone so I could eventually give it to Draco.  I decided to go into the library.  I felt fine.  I was composed, even thoughtful.  I picked up the book from where I left it.  I was paging through when I found a letter from my father."

Hermione's eyes widened.  If she remembered correctly, his father had died years ago.  How had one of his missives found its way into Lucius's book?

"My mother put it there.  Apparently he asked her to give it to me after he died."

Clearly she was delinquent in that task, as with so many others.  "She never did."

"No.  I guess this was her way of finally passing it on," he agreed.

Unable to contain her curiosity, Hermione asked, "What did it say?"

Lucius looked away for a long moment.  "It said many things," he murmured, "but the most important part was that my mother broke down and told him about what happened to me as a child only a few weeks before he died."

She closed her eyes.  What a shock it must have been to the haughty elder Malfoy - and to Lucius.  And what a coward his mother truly was...

"He was already very ill by that point.  He couldn't leave the Manor, and our relationship had soured to the point that I would not have seen him anyway.  A letter was his only recourse."

"Would you have gone to see him if you had gotten it?"

Lucius nodded.  "Yes.  I think I would have."

"So it was...positive, then?"

He nodded again.  "At first I thought a different man must have written the letter, but...I know how different a man I was to myself than to Draco, and it was the same with my father.  He wasn't around much, and when he was, I saw only what he wanted me to."  There was a brief silence in which Lucius shook his head in sad wonder.  "I never thought he would do anything to publicly endanger my family's image or reputation.  It shows how little I knew of him."

"What did he do?"  Hermione was entranced, as surprised as Lucius at this unforeseen dimension of his father.  At least he had come to his senses and supported his son, even if it was nearly too late.

A forlorn little smile tugged at Lucius's lips.  "He requested a Time Turner."

Her jaw dropped.  "To...to go back and..."

"Prevent it."

She shook her head, a curious adrenaline surging through her.  "They would never approve it...too many years gone by, and too many variables..."  Hell, it had taken an awful lot of time and effort and entreaties by McGonagall to get her a Time Turner for something as simple as taking an extra class.

"Well, at first I wasn't sure if he was even telling the truth.  We are good liars..."

"He wouldn't lie to you on his deathbed.  He had nothing to lose."  Of that she was certain.  If his father had been humble enough to reach out, even just in a letter, he would not dare do Lucius the disservice of lying.  A man facing death did not have time for lies - Lucius had proved that when they first met.

"You have more faith than I."  He reached out to smooth a hand fondly through her curls.  "But you're right.  He wasn't lying."

"You went to the Ministry to check?"

"I had to know.  Let me tell you, that was a thoroughly pleasant experience," he muttered flatly.

"Oh, Lucius.  Were they rotten to you?"

"Some of them.  Surprisingly, your friend Potter vouched for me.  I suspect he only wanted a window to warn me about that Edgecombe girl.  He really is a puzzle, that one.  After their history he should relish the possibility that Draco might get his heart ripped out by some ginger viper."

Hermione smiled, warmed by Harry's grudging assistance.  "He's not a puzzle.  He's just a good man."

Lucius shrugged.  "In any case, the Unspeakables found the Time Turner request.  He really went through with it."

"It must have broken his heart when they turned him down," she said, feeling a twinge in her chest.

"That's the thing, Hermione.  They didn't turn him down."

She sat up quickly, staring him in the face.  "What?"

"They approved the request."

"But...but why...then..."

"They approved it two days after he died."

Her face fell.  How awful.  To think that so many things could have been prevented if the Ministry's bureaucracy had moved just a little bit faster...and how terrible his father must have felt, waiting for an answer until the very moment of his death.

"I'm sorry, Lucius."

He winced and shook his head.  "Don't be sorry.  In fact, don't say anything until I finish."

Hermione sat back on her heels, confused by his vehement reaction.  It almost seemed like he was upset by her apology. 

He went on, no longer looking at her.  "So I was sitting there, in the Time Room, the request in my hands.  I asked the Unspeakable about a half dozen questions.  Then he asked me...if I wanted to resubmit the request.  You see, my father had declared me as a designee on the original, so I am eligible to carry out the time travel.  The trouble was that the original request was expired.  In order to fulfill the request, it would have to be resubmitted and recalculated to determine if it was still appropriate.  I don't know what made me say it, Hermione.  I don't know why I said yes."

There were a million questions in her mind and a leaden feeling in her gut.  She could see Lucius drawing away from her, armoring himself for her reaction.

"I didn't expect anything to come of it.  It was ludicrous.  I don't know why they approved his request in the first place and certainly didn't think they would approve mine.  Maybe I thought the rejection would bring some kind of closure, or that it was somehow respecting my father's wishes...I don't know.  Weeks passed and I heard nothing, so I assumed they had not even bothered to calculate it.  But then I got the letter that I had been approved."

She spoke around a lump in her throat.  "Lucius, that's wonderful."

He made a sound, something between a laugh and a moan.  "Wonderful?  No.  No, my love..."

"Of course it's wonderful!" she exclaimed.  "You have the chance to do what your father couldn't.  You have the chance to save yourself!  Imagine it, Lucius.  Imagine never being hurt, never being betrayed by your mother, never joining Voldemort...just being happy."

At last he looked at her.  "I am happy now.  I am happy with you."

"This isn't about me."  She felt her eyes becoming glassy with tears.  "You shouldn't even think about me.  It's your life, Lucius, and you have a chance that people wish for every day."

"They wish for it, but they don't know what it feels like to try to decide between what you have and what might be."  He swallowed hard.  "I couldn't do it.  The Unspeakables advised me that I could just wait it out, but the time is nearly up, and--"

Hermione moved forward to envelope him in a tight embrace.  "You don't have to explain things to me.  You need to do this."

He pulled her away gently.  "But you understand what it means, don't you?  Everything we have...it will disappear."

She understood better than he could know.  It hurt to think about it, but it also hurt to think about denying him this chance.  Their relationship would never be the same.  She would always know that she had prevented him from rewriting a terrible past; the guilt would be unbearable.  And over time, would he come to resent her for it?  He would tell her no, but emotions like that weren't always fully controllable.

"I know," she responded, the tears finally spilling over, "but you'll always regret it if you don't do this."

"I will regret throwing away our relationship, too.  One choice isn't better than the other," he said hoarsely.

"You wouldn't be throwing anything away," she said earnestly.  "I want you to do this."

 

 

 

Lucius stared at her.  He didn't know what he had expected when he opened the dialogue.  However, it certainly wasn't this.  It wasn't her trying to talk him into it.  It was supposed to be him cajoling her into letting him do it, convincing her not to hate him somehow.  If he was looking for resistance, he would find none here.

It hit him then, just how strong and beautiful and noble and incredible she was.  He had never met anyone in his life that he could describe as altruistic until now.  She wasn't even factoring herself into the equation.  That was unthinkable for him.  Unthinkable.

All he could do was remind himself of the real reason he was doing this - the reason she didn't even need to hear.  This would save her.  It would preserve this wonderful person before him, who had strength of mind, magic, and character that he could only aspire to.

He would save her, and maybe someday in the new future...

No, he would not get his hopes up.  He leaned forward into her embrace, toppling her to the mattress, and held on for dear life as he released the dam of his emotions.

 

 

 

They walked into the Ministry separately, but met up again in the dark, tiled corridors of the Department of Mysteries.  Hermione could only imagine what was going through his head.  His greatest mistake had happened here, and now he was here to try to change everything.

She reached for his hand.  He held onto her tightly and she wasn't surprised to find that his palm was clammy.

"It's going to be all right," she said.  She wasn't sure if it was more for him or for herself.  She wasn't sure of anything.

He didn't reply.  But he did give her hand a tight squeeze when they came to the door.  Then, with a deep breath, he let go and raised his fist to knock.

 

 

 

He felt guilty.  He hadn't told her about the prophecies or the attack they foretold because the Unspeakable had explicitly said he was not to speak of it outside the Department of Mysteries.  In that respect, his hands were tied.  She thought he was here to try to save himself, when in reality he was here to save her.

He still couldn't comprehend her altruism.  If their positions were reversed, he would have advised her not to do it.  His need for her would have trumped whatever she needed because he was greedy.  Greedy, self-centered, and spineless.

Lucius tried not to think about how these might be the last moments of their time as a couple.  He told himself that it didn't matter; as long as she was alive, he would be happy.  It was better to be alone by choice than by circumstance.

She stayed with him as he was led to yet another part of the Department of Mysteries.  The Unspeakables said nothing, though he was certain that Hermione's presence confused them.  All except one; 47 was there, and he seemed unfazed by it all.  It gave Lucius comfort where little else could, for he recognized now that 47 was almost certainly the better kind of Slytherin.  He knew it in his gut.

It was 47 who took him aside and gave him the robes he was to wear.  Lucius felt like a gladiator being outfitted for his last great battle.  Glory and agony...

 

 

 

Hermione's stomach churned as she watched him.  They had insisted that he wear all black since he was going back to a night scene.  He looked as he had the first time she saw him in the Department of Mysteries: draped in black fabric that moved like smoke, his pale hair a stark and sumptuous contrast.  His face couldn't have been more different, though.

That day it had held so much cold detachment.  Smugness.  A predatory glaze.  That day he had been a hunter, an experienced, confident specialist who was sure of his kill before he even made it.  Today he looked like a regular man sent to slay a dragon – a man with nothing but a sword, which may as well have been a toothpick to his quarry.

The Unspeakables were silent as they prepared him.  They, too, felt the strange momentousness of this.  Perhaps they wondered why Hermione Granger, Muggleborn war princess, was the one to accompany Lucius on this very personal mission.  She didn't worry about it; they would speak of it amongst themselves, but their job prohibited them from ever mentioning it outside this room.

"Are you ready, Mr. Malfoy?" one of the black-robed Unspeakables said.

"Yes," Lucius nodded.

"All right.  Once you complete the required number of turns with the time-turner, you will find yourself in this room in 1966.  Someone has already gone back to ensure the room will be clear and they have placed a portkey to Wiltshire for you to use.  Activate this portkey and you will find yourself on the path to your home.  As we have told you before, you may use only what force is necessary to prevent the incident from occurring.  In this case, reasonable force has been determined to be a Confundus charm.  Do not be seen.  Do not speak to anyone.  Return to the Ministry with the same portkey and then to the present with the time-turner.  We understand the delicate nature of this request, so we will try to give you privacy.  However, there will be a Department of Mysteries representative monitoring you, so if you diverge from this course of action, we will know.  The full force of the law can be brought upon you if you attempt to alter the past in any way besides what we have laid out here.  Is that understood?"

"Perfectly."

"Very well."  The Unspeakable extracted a time-turner from his pocket.  It was silver with stars carved into the paper-thin metal.  The small hourglass was filled with dark volcanic sand.  He stepped up the small platform to Lucius, who bowed his head slightly as the Unspeakable draped the delicate silver chain around his neck.  The Unspeakable indicated the small turning lever that Hermione was familiar with.

"You turn here, one at a time."

"How many times?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Thirteen."

"Lucky thirteen," Lucius murmured, and placed his hands on the time-turner.  "Anything else?"

There was a slight pause, as if the Unspeakable was unsure of his next words.  "Just what I've already told you.  Remember, with time travel, everything that is meant happen has already happened, whether it's in the past or the future.  Trust your instincts.  And--"

"There is always another option," Lucius finished.

"Yes.  Now, if you're ready, you may go back.  Number 96 will be waiting for you."

 

 

 

Lucius didn't do it right away.  He looked at the time-turner, then at Hermione.  He didn't bother to try to hide the uncertainty in his eyes.

"I'llÉI'll be here when you get back," she choked out, forcing a smile.

His jaw tensed.  Yes, she would be.  That was why he was doing this.  To make sure she would live.  To make sure she would be here.

"I know you will," he said softly.  Then he took a great, calming breath, gathering his resolve, and he began to turn.

 

 

 

The people blurred away almost instantaneously.  It was disorienting, but he kept his eyes open.  This was probably the only time he would experience this.  He watched the years melt away, andÉ

In a stab of peculiar irony, he saw himself in reverse, running through this very room in his Death Eater robes.  If he had any sense at all, he would stop the turning right here and grab that foolish man and explain exactly what would happen if he went on.  Ah, but then he would either go mad or be arrested the moment he returned, and he didn't fancy a second trip to Azkaban for preventing the first.

So that scene spiraled away and so did many others, back, back, backÉ

And then he was at thirteen.  He stopped.  The world slowed and congealed around him once more.

It was eerily silent.  It was the same room he had left, for certain.  It was empty and dimly-lit.  He could hear the sound of the deserted Ministry, rooms full of roaring, empty silence all around him.  He had never felt just how far beneath the ground the Ministry was, but at that moment, he felt like he was in a tomb.

With a slight shudder, he scanned the room for the Portkey.  The only thing there was a small paperweight sitting on a stool.  It was in the shape of a cobra, reared up and ready to strike.  Someone had an inappropriate sense of humor.  He rolled his eyes and reached for it.

He felt the tug in his midsection and closed his eyes.  Portkeys always nauseated him if he kept them open.  Though, in these circumstances it probably wouldn't matter, because he was nauseated already.

Then he was on his feet in the dewy grass.  The heat and lank humidity hit him.  He bowed over and dropped the portkey.  Just the scent of the night was enough to bring him back, to force him to remember what it was like to have his face pressed into the moist grass.  How suffocating it had been, boxed in by the thick air, feeling its deadening tendrils absorb his screamsÉ

His hands were shaking.  His heart felt like it was going to beat right out of his chest.  Sweet Merlin.  He wanted to prevent it, not relive it, but he couldn't stop the flood of memories.  The stunning lash of pain.  The stink of him.  The feel of a man's weight pressing down on him, trapping him in a cage of flesh.  The sundering of his innocenceÉ

He had to sink to his knees.  He hadn't anticipated this.  He thought he had laid those memories to rest.  It was only too clear that he had merely repressed them.  Reintroducing the environment, the sickly humid night fraught with the smell of earth and grass, dredged it all back up. 

A hand on his shoulder made him start badly.  He was ready to hex whoever had startled him, but he saw that it was only the Unspeakable who had been assigned to watch over him - 96.  He was a tall man, lean, dressed in formfitting black with a hood pulled low over his face. 

"Go," he said.  "Or the opportunity will pass."

Gathering himself as best as he could, Lucius nodded and stood.  He wasn't embarrassed to have been seen like that, on his hands and knees shaking like a leaf in a brisk wind.  Anyone who had experienced what he had would feel the same.  He said some jumbled prayer in his mind – a prayer that he would not lose his mind and kill the Muggle vagrant the moment he saw him.

He walked away from the other man, who had disappeared into the shadows.  A simple Disillusionment charm made him blend imperceptibly with the dark night.  The path was out in the open and there would be no cover, so that was the only way to go unnoticed.

His heart hurt, physically hurt, when he saw the little boy meandering up the path.  He was beautiful.  His cheeks were pink from exertion and his eyes bore a youthful sparkle.  He wasn't thinking about anything great or terrible.  If he recalled correctly, he was thinking about how wet his shoes were.

That was the last night he had ever thought of anything so simple.  The boy's eyes were downcast, looking at the ground, his dew-soaked shoesÉand there was the man, coming the other way.  Lucius raised his wand.  All it would take was one Confundus charm; it would dash the sick thoughts from the man's head, muddle him, and he would pass the boy and go on his drunken way.

His hand tightened around his wand.  What good would it do?  A monster was a monster.  If it was not him, it would be some other child.  He still couldn't believe that he had been the only one.  Men with this sort of sickness didn't just strike once.  They were predators, insatiable consumersÉthe solution was not a Confundus.  It was a Killing Curse that he couldn't deliver.

Closer, closer he drew.  Lucius's head exploded in questions.  He had been trying to ignore them, because he wanted so badly for this never to have happened.  He wanted to grant his father's dying wish.  Above all, he wanted to save Hermione and prevent whatever massacre that was to come.  But somehow, nobody could tell him what the result would be.  All they could tell him was that it was favorable.

What the hell did favorable mean?  If he had not been accosted that day, he would have gone home.  He would have continued his life as the Malfoy heir.  He would have been brainwashed by his father, just as he was.  Perhaps he would have joined Voldemort, perhaps not.  Though, if he hadn't, he suspected he would have been on the short list of purebloods who needed to die and who had indeed died in the first war.  Was that a favorable outcome?

And Hermione.  Would he ever meet her?  Know her?  Love her?  He thought he had made peace with his choice, but now that he was in the midst of enacting it, he wanted to balk.

He had seen in her eyes how afraid she was.  She was terrified that this would change everything.  This would make all that they had become null and void.  She said she would be there when he returned, but what if he was returning to a world that was radically changed?  There would be no Hermione, and he wouldn't know his loss.

Favorable.  What was favorable?

 

 

 

Hermione paced.  She was trying not to cry, not to hyperventilate.  She was also waiting for the world to shift around her.  She knew how time travel worked, but this situation wasn't the same as the one she'd faced while in possession of a Time Turner.  That had only been a few hours to change; those hours had not contained much, and so there was no great consequence to rewriting them.

There was more than three decades' difference between past and present in this case.  Even with the degree of logic she possessed, she couldn't see any way that Lucius could change an event that happened so long ago without radically altering everything that had happened since.  If he was never assaulted, he would never have grown into the man he was and he certainly never would have written the book.  Without the book, she never would have crossed paths with him again and inadvertently begun the chain of events that brought them together.  It just wasn't possible.

At any moment, she expected her memories of Lucius to melt away.  In the world that he created with this change, they would probably never speak, let alone be lovers.  He would return without any memory of why he had gone; only the Unspeakables would know.

But he would be happy.  He would be whole.  He would never have to know the pain of violation and he would never give himself to Voldemort.  It would beÉfavorable.

She blinked back tears once more.  She knew that in reality, no time was actually passing, but it felt like forever.  And with each moment of waiting, the heartbreak within her grew and compounded.  She had fallen in love with Lucius, utterly and completely, and she had let him walk away because this was what he needed to do.  She loved himÉand so she let him go.

 

 

 

He couldn't do it.  'Favorable' wasn't good enough for him.  His life was favorable now.  He was alive, his family was alive, and the world was free of a madman's tyranny.  He didn't fool himself that that would last long, for there was always another madman, but this place he was at wasn't so bad.  He had come to his senses.  He'd seen through the heavy veil of pureblood rhetoric.  He had fallen in love with an incredible, complex, beautiful, and fulfilling woman.  If he changed his past, all of that would be thrown into question.  Who was that really 'favorable' for?  It had taken him a long time to come to this place of contentment, but he couldn't give it all up for the avoidance of one terrible pain.

And the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the prophecy had not mentioned that he had to prevent the rape.  It had only stated that he had to go back in time.  Well, he was here, wasn't he?  He had fulfilled the prophecy's conditions.  Through that, he had ensured that Hermione would be safe.  Wasn't that what he had really come back for?

Besides, if this was meant to happen, wouldn't he have made it home that night unmolested?  That was how time travel worked, wasn't it?

Forty-seven's words echoed in his head.  Everything that is meant to happen has already happened...trust your instincts...there is always another option...

He sheathed his wand.  He heard the boy's first cries – his own cries.  With his heart in his throat, he turned and walked the other way.

 

 

 

"Sir?"

A whisper cut through Hermione's panic and grief.  When she looked up, she saw that one of the Unspeakables was addressing the man who was presumably their leader - the one who called himself 47.  How he could read the parchment presented to him with a featureless mask over his face was beyond her.

"Let it go," he responded.

"But sir--"

"I said let it go.  Relay the message."  His tone was final.

The other Unspeakable nodded and hurried away.  Hermione could only wonder what the exchange meant...and what it all meant.

 

 

 

Lucius knew the Unspeakable was following him.  Why he did not stop him or force him to return, he didn't know.  But as long as he didn't, he was going to figure out something that had nagged at him for years.  He was going to see what his parents had been doing that night.

He moved through the Manor like a wraith.  They weren't in their bedroom.  Not in the library.  His father wasn't in his study.  At last, he located them in his mother's sitting room.

She was seated, cheeks red.  He was standing, his posture tight and angry.

"You don't love me!" his mother shouted.  "You have never loved me!"

"Imogene," Abraxas started coldly, "do not even pretend that you love me.  We both know it's a lie.  Why should it unsettle you more than it does me?"

"I gave you a son!" she slurred.  Drunk, of course.

"Yes, and that is about all you have done!" he thundered.  "You are a slave to this!"  He picked up an empty wine bottle and waved it at her.  "All day and all night, you drink.  You ignore your son.  You have no idea what he is doing.  He's been raised by House Elves.  Do you even know what day it is?  What month?"

"July!" she fired back angrily.

"All right, so you look at the paper in the morning when you go for your hangover potion.  What an accomplishment."

She rocketed unsteadily to her feet.  "Don't you see?  This is why I can't stop.  You are so unkind to me!"

Abraxas put the bottle down.  He looked like he was summoning some great self-control from deep within himself.  Lucius had never seen his father look like that – enraged and pitying at the same time.

"Imogene," he said softly, "don't try to blame this on me.  You drank before you ever married me."

"I'm like a pet in this society," she replied bitterly.  "Born to breed!  I never made a single decision of my own.  As soon as it was legal, I was shipped off to live in some man's pretty mansion, like a bloody objet d'art!"

"I have given you everything I can.  I have never tried to hold you back.  I wish you would do something with the money, the influence, anything!" he exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air.  "Start a charity, a book club, whatever you want.  But you don't, and you won't.  You just sit here, Imogene.  You sit here and wallow."

"And what is it you're doing at work, Abraxas?  You don't need to work sixteen hour days.  You don't need to go on all those business trips to China, though I'm sure you have some pretty witch there to take your mind off your useless wife!"

"I have never been unfaithful to you."

She snorted, but fell silent.

"How highly you think of me," he sighed.  "But I take our marriage seriously, even if you don't.  We are not in love.  So what?"

"So what?  That's all you can say about it?"

"Yes," he replied.  "Because if I cared more than that, I would be a drunk, too."

"Instead you're just a workaholic.  You are so much better than me, Abraxas," she retorted coldly.  "You pay no attention to Lucius, either, except to criticize him."

"I only have to criticize him because he has no direction when I'm not around."

"Maybe if you were around a little more, it wouldn't be an issue!"

"So what should I do, hm?  Leave my job?  Leave this family with no income so that I can do your job?" he growled.  "I don't ask much of you because I know you detest me, but is it so difficult to be a mother to your child?"

"I never asked for this!"  There were tears in her eyes.

Abraxas rubbed his hands over his face.  "Neither did I."

After a long moment of silence, his posture straightened.  He pulled out his wand and flicked it.  Some books on a shelf were upset as a bottle of liquor flew out from behind them.  It settled in his hand and he held it by the long glass neck.

"You need help, Imogene.  I can't love you and you can't love me, but you can love our son.  It isn't too late."  He looked at the bottle for a moment.  "It's just a few weeks in the hospital.  They can be very discrete.  I would ensure that they were."

After that, he turned and headed for the door.  Lucius had to step back quickly.  The look his father wore with his back to his mother was one he he was familiar with – an expression of great pain, exhaustion, and despair.  He genuinely felt bad for his wife.  In the way of children with an imperious parent, Lucius had never though his father capable of that.

His mother was crying.  For what, he didn't know.  She probably didn't even know.  Abraxas shut the door and strode away, looking as though he hated the sound of her sobs.  Lucius followed in bewildered shock.

Abraxas went to his study.  He collapsed upon a chaise, the bottle still clasped in his hands.  Lucius's eyes widened when a minute later, his father uncapped the bottle and lifted it.  Merlin, did he have two alcoholic parents?

He lifted the bottle, but he never drank from it.  His hand stopped.  He sat there, paralyzed for a long minute.  And then, with a cry of anger, he launched the bottle at the fireplace.  It shattered against the stones, splashing its clear contents in a wet swath.  He jabbed his wand at the fireplace and the fire roared to life, quickly burning through the liquor and slowly melting the glass.

Abraxas sat there for a long time, staring into the flames.  Then he stood up and walked to his desk.  By the firelight, he took out some folders.  Lucius looked over his shoulder.  They were work papers.

Understanding hit him quite suddenly.  Abraxas was no better than his mother.  Her drug of choice was alcohol, and his was work.  They both drowned themselves in their respective opium, so miserable were they with each otherÉ

Lucius backed out of the room.  Neither of them had ever been able to fight off their demons.  His father had worked himself to death and his mother had drunk herself to death.  And he, somehow, had been caught in between, watching both of them self-destruct, wanting only a mother, a father...anything.

He would not do this to Draco.  Draco would marry a woman he loved, and who loved him in return.  If that meant the Edgecombe girl, so be it.  If that meant a half-blood, a squib, or a muggle, so be it.  This couldn't continue in his family.  Enough misery had been wrung out in two generations to last a thousand years.

He was standing there in the corridor trying to sort how he felt when the door to his father's study opened again.  He had to press himself against the wall to avoid the man; he was walking like he was on a mission.  Perplexed, Lucius once again followed him.

Oh.  Oh, he wasÉ

Walking to his bedroom.  Lucius's bedroom.  His heart clenched.  If he had gone directly to his son after the fight with Imogene, rather than to get his hit of work, he would have known.  He would have found out what happened.  He would have caught the elf still burning the bloody clothesÉ

He hung back.  He didn't know if he could bear to look at the child version of himself, lost in a restless sleep, looking fine on the outside and torn apart on the inside.  The smell of mint tea had eradicated the scent of blood and grass.  Ten minutes earlier.  Ten minutes earlier and Abraxas would have known.

He heard his father sigh.  Then he saw him lean down and place a gentle kiss across his son's forehead.  Only a half hour before, that forehead had been split and bleeding exactly where his lips brushed.  Lucius felt like he could curl up and die.

He slid down the wall and sat.  There were so many if-onlys.  He had never known how close he'd been to discovery.  He had never known his father had come to him like this.  His mind could hardly process the way Abraxas sat now, on the bed's edge, staring in rapt attention at his sleeping son's face.  What he would have given to have seen that look, even once, when he was awake.

Eventually Abraxas left, closing the door quietly behind him.  That left Lucius alone in his old bedroom, the nine-year-old form of him immersed in nightmares five feet away.  And what nightmares they had been, full of faceless men, full of smells and tastes that choked him until he woke wanting to scream, but unable to.

God.

Like his father had done before, he went to the bed.  He removed one of his gloves and gave in to the terrible need to somehow comfort the boy he had been.  He could feel the ghost of his own fingers across his cheek.  Tears welled in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

He was stunned out of his remorseful concentration by the thump of something hitting the floor.  He lifted off the bed and whirled.  His Disillusionment Charm was still in place, but he had spoken out loudÉ

The House Elf was there.  He had dropped the tea mug on the carpeted floor, startled by the disembodied voice.  The boy in the bed didn't stir.

"IsÉis someone there?" the elf asked in a tremulous, familiar voice.

Another thing made sense to Lucius very suddenly.  The look in the elf's eyes as he grew older, crueler, more hatefulÉthat look that had always incensed him.  The look of undying, patient loyalty - at last, he knew why it was there.

With a flick of his wrist, Lucius ended the charm.  He blinked into existence.  The elf jumped back with a gasp.  It raised a trembling, wrinkled brown hand.

Lucius advanced on the creature until it was backed into the wall.  The elf stared up at him fearfully with wide golden eyes.

"WhoÉwho are you?"

He ignored the question.  For the first time in his life, Lucius crouched down, putting himself on level with the elf.  He reached out and took the servant's thin, pillowcase-clad shoulders.

"Don't give up on him.  No matter what he does, no matter how awful he isÉnever give up on him.  He will see the light.  Do this for himÉfor usÉplease, Dobby."

If it was at all possible, the elf's eyes widened even more.  But slowly, he nodded.

"Tell no one," Lucius said softly.

Dobby nodded again, solemn.

"Thank you."  He rose to his feet again and turned his back on the elf, retreating. 

But as he slipped out the door, he heard Dobby's low whisper of, "You're welcome, Master Lucius."

 

 

 

The Unspeakable was waiting for him in the corridor.  He was a silent sentinel, still among the shadows.  Lucius didn't quite understand why the man was letting him get away with all this but he wasn't going to ask questions.  He stopped across from him, staring across the empty space, unsure what to say or do.

He wasn't done.  He had one more thing to do.  Or rather, one thing he had already done.  It all made sense now.

Lucius extracted the time-turner from where it had nestled beneath the collar of his robe.  With one glance at the man who was following him, he began to turn it.  His brain had long since figured out the ratio of turns to time; ten and a half would bring him where he needed to be.

The Unspeakable knew he was disobeying even more, and his arm shot out to grip Lucius's as he turned the time turner.  However, he didn't try to stop him – he just traveled with him.  When he stopped halfway through the eleventh turn and the world solidified, they stood there for a moment, the Unspeakable's black clad hand tight about his forearm.

Lucius watched him.  He was certain the Unspeakable was staring back even though the hood obscured his eyes.  After a long, tense minute, his companion lifted his hand.

He didn't need verbal permission.  Lucius turned and began to walk.  His parents' bedroom was not far.  He didn't bother with the Disillusionment Charm; he knew the house was empty. 

When he approached the bedroom door, the stench of almost-death hit him.  Just beyond the slab of wood, his father was losing his battle against Dragon Pox.  He hadn't been there.  Of course, the excuse of it being contagious and him having a young son was, on the surface, a good enough reason not to be.  However, they all knew that he would not have gone, anyhow.

Two years after his father died, a vaccine had at last been developed for Dragon Pox.  Lucius had seen to it that he, Narcissa, and Draco all got it.  Their pictures had been in the Daily Prophet; his father had been one of the highest-profile people to die of Dragon Pox in recent memory.  His death had galvanized the pureblood medical community to eradicate the disease – a bit of egocentric self-preservation that had benefited everyone.

Since he'd been vaccinated, he could go in there now with no fear of contracting the disease.  And he knew he was meant to go in there.  After his father's death, his mother had sent him a letter, one that had been a jumble of emotions – but the predominant one had been anger at Lucius for refusing to see him before he died. 

She had no right to be angry at him, and he still believed that.  But there was one thing she had writtenÉ

You should know that your father called out for you before he died.  He screamed, begged for you, shouting, "Lucius, come back!  Come back!" until he was hoarse.

The aim of it had been to make him feel guilty.  He hadn't – somehow, he had never been able to muster the feeling, and was only filled with anger at her.  He'd never understood his own emotions on the subjectÉbut now, it was becoming clearer.

He grasped the door knob and turned it.  The smell was worse inside the room; sweat and the fester of disease filled the air.  Abraxas was alone.  He knew his mother had never loved her husband, but for her to guilt Lucius about not being there, and then to be absent herselfÉ

He approached the bed without fear.  Abraxas lay there, still, jaundiced, a sheen of sweat upon his sore-riddled brow.  Even in rest, his face was tight with pain.  This was a death Lucius wouldn't wish on anyone, not even his inadequate father.

"Father," he said softly.

Abraxas didn't stir.

Lucius reached out to shake his bandaged arm gently.  The pain woke him; his blue eyes flew open and he moaned.  His eyes were bloodshot, wide, and slightly crazed.  Lucius could feel the heat of his fever through the layers of bandages.  He was burning alive.

"Father," he said again, with more force.

The wild blue eyes fixed on him.  Then they drifted away; he thought he was hallucinating.

"Abraxas."

"Are you real?" he rasped through split, raw lips.

"Yes."

"LuciusÉshouldn't have comeÉyou'll get sickÉ"

"I won't."

Abraxas couldn't focus on him.  His eyes were drooping.  He didn't realize that this wasn't his son of the present.

"I wanted to thank you, father."

He attempted a bark of laughter; it sounded more like a cough.  "For what?"

"For trying to fix it."

"FixÉwhat?"

"For trying to prevent my rape."

That made his eyes pop open.  Abraxas tried to sit up, groaning through his teeth as the action tore open precariously healed sores.  Lucius placed gentle hands on his fabric-wrapped shoulders.

"Don't.  You're too weak."

"You shouldn't know about that.  I didn't tell her.  She wasn't supposed to give you the letter until after I died."

Lucius looked into his panicked eyes.  "She did what you asked of her."

The strength drained out of his father.  "Then you'reÉ"

"Yes."

Lucius's ears caught the sound of footsteps.  His mother was coming.

"I have to go.  Thank you, father.  I forgive you, andÉ" he shook his head at the dying man, "somehow I love you."

With speed and strength he shouldn't have had, Abraxas clamped on to his arm.  His eyes brimmed with tears.  "Don't leave.  Don't leave me.  She will leave me alone to die."

"I can't stay," he responded softly.  With practiced hands, he pried his father's fingers from his arm.  He recast his Disillusionment Charm and disappeared from sight.

"Lucius!" his father cried.  "No!  Don't go!"

He knew Abraxas was partially delirious.  He knew it was pain and fear that made his voice so desperate.  His mother wouldn't believe him.  Still, he couldn't force the man's words from his mind.  She will leave me alone to die.

He stayed.  He stood there, hidden, while he screamed.

"Lucius!  Come back!  Please!  Please, come back.  PleaseÉLucius!"

His mother came in.  She tried to calm him, but not terribly hard.  Most would have given him a Calming Draught or a Dreamless Sleep potion; she couldn't be bothered.  With one last sharp statement of, "Lucius is not here, Abraxas!  Just like his bloody father," she swept from the room.

And so, Imogene Malfoy left her husband to die alone, exacting revenge for a crime Abraxas had never purposely committed.  But Abraxas wasn't alone, because Lucius stayed, and right before his sire closed his eyes forever, he reached out to touch his sweaty, splotchy cheek.  At the cool contact of his hand, Abraxas stilled.  Rationally, he couldn't know Lucius was there – his mind was too ravaged by the fever.  But instinctively, he knew.  He knew and he let go.

Lucius understood why there had been no guilt over his father's death.  He knew why his conscience was clean on the matter.  He had been there.  He had been there all along, in an impossible temporal paradox.  And his mother was the villain, the cold woman who had never been able to forgive Abraxas for marrying her, for forcing her to bear a child she didn't want – for tying her into a life of pureblood protocol and boredom. 

He couldn't muster much sympathy for her.  His ex-wife's sister, Andromeda, had felt the same and she had done something about it.  She had gone her own way and been disowned for it.  Imogene could have done that.  Instead, she chose to passively torture those around her until everyone was just as miserable as she was.  She had succeeded on all counts.

Lucius closed his father's vacant blue eyes, so like his own, and left the room.  He crossed into the space of the large closet between his parents' rooms.  Anti-infection wards had been set; he felt them tingle over him, killing whatever he brought with him.  As long as he left out of his mother's room, he would not bring the infection back with him.

He peered into his mother's room.  She was asleep in bed with an empty wine glass still loosely clasped in her hand.  When she dropped it, she would be startled awake and realize that her husband was dead.  It would be the happiest moment of her life.

Lucius took a deep breath to temper the hatred that rose in him.  What was done was done.  He couldn't linger here much longer.

Walking softly, he left her room.  His feet carried him through the corridors, to the foyer, out the door.  There, on the sprawling lawn, the Unspeakable waited for him.

Lucius walked up beside the man.  He held out his left arm.  Understanding, the Unspeakable once again grasped it.  With his right hand, Lucius turned the Time-Turner the remaining two and a half turns.  When they were back in the right time, he reached into his pocket for the Portkey.

He hesitated a moment, taking in the forbidding visage of his ancestral home.  At that moment, he vowed that its walls would never again witness so much pain.  From now on there would be only happiness.

With a solid feeling of rightness aligning in his chest, Lucius activated the Portkey.

 

 

 

He blinked into sight so suddenly that she couldn't believe her eyes.  Hermione cried out and ran to him.  The Unspeakable that held his arm quickly relinquished it, lest he be caught in the embrace with which Hermione smothered Lucius.

She knew everything was all right when he squeezed her back.

"IsÉisÉ" she stammered to his chest, "are youÉ?"

He pulled back slightly, holding her at arm's length.  His eyes, indescribable at that moment, held hers.  "Hermione, I didn't do it."

She blinked.  It took a long moment for his statement to process.  "What?  Why didn't you?"  Tears welled in her eyes.  He was supposed to change everything.  He was supposed to be happy.  Why hadn't he done it?

"I couldn't," he said softly.

"Why?" she repeated, tears cascading down her face.  She wanted Lucius to never have known that feeling of pain and violation.  She felt so terrible and greedy for being happy that he had changed his mind.

His palms cupped her cheeks.  "If I change my past, you will never be my future."  He leaned forward and kissed her gently, knowing that the Unspeakables were watching in shocked confusion.  Then he went down on one knee. 

"Hermione, will you marry me?"