Unlikely Alliances

Update 10/05/05: As per the new rules, I\'m adding a disclaimer here. This story really needs an actual chapter update, but no such luck.
Disclaimer: Pursuant to copyright law, I acknowledge that I own none of the characters, concepts, or other related material in Harry Potter. I make no money from the writing of fan fiction based on the property of others.

Chapter 1
Lucius
Wars have always claimed the lives of young men; it is a basic truth intrinsic to the very nature of conflict. I knew this when my son enlisted in the service of the Dark Lord. His mother was adamantly against the idea, but I think he had long ago ceased listening. Even if she had still held sway over Draco, she was killed before the time came for him to actually swear his allegiance. Bellatrix murdered her in our bed at His instruction. The mattress was quite ruined.

I told Bella time and again not to touch him, but she didn’t listen; she was quite mad by this time. I made certain to acquire the master’s permission, and when I came into Draco’s room one night to find her astride him I slew her without remorse. I felt the least I could do for her was kill her by physical means; I broke her neck as she rode herself to orgasm. Draco had been watching me approach the entire time, his gaze dulled by lust. He barely flinched as I seized her chin and forehead in my hands and jerked. She twitched a few times as I threw her to the floor.

Draco invited me into his bed; I was sorely tempted. His unashamed nakedness and arousal made my heart flutter excitedly in my chest--and other portions of my anatomy give more than a token twitch. Name a young god, name a hero, and Draco was him, golden and flushed and sculpted. But I resisted the urge to remove my robes and finish what Bella had started. I got as far as my knees on the mattress, tasting his eager mouth, before I regained my control. He watched me, amused, as I awkwardly disentangled myself. Draco rose, wrapping a sheet about his waist. He smirked as he helped me adjust my robes and smooth down my hair.

One month later I stood beside him as he received his Mark. Draco did not even wince as it was cast. His Mark was vivid and new, where mine was faded, and when we clasped arms the Dark Marks grew warm and pulsed slightly. Draco looked up at me, hand firmly grasping my elbow, his gaze intense and smoldering.

“My son,” I said softly. He nodded.

“Your son is a man,” he declared. His voice was firm.

The night he killed Snape, he found him in his office. The dungeons are a perfect place to perpetrate unspeakable things. He put his hand on Severus’ elbow and let him feel the flare of the Dark Mark. Draco told me he died silently.

The death of a professor within the school sent a ripple of fear through Dumbledore’s foolish allies. It also propelled Draco through the ranks of the Death Eaters. It was interesting to watch the investigation take shape. The same students who were most likely to be associated with the Death Eaters were also those closest to Snape. He favored them in his treatment and in his grading; why would any of them want to kill him? For a while a theory floated that one of the other students had killed him in the hopes that it would look like a part of the Dark Lord’s plot and cover them from suspicion. No evidence could be found that pointed directly to any one student. I was quite proud of my son for creating such befuddlement.

Draco left Hogwarts before the year was over and came to join us. He proved himself time and again a loyal and worthy servant of the Dark Lord. This pleased Him to no end, which fostered jealousy. Even I was occasionally envious. A few foolish members of our order struck out against him. The master did not have to deal with these impudent twits; Draco dispatched them neatly and presented the Dark Lord with the bodies, like a falcon delivering its prey and receiving its share of the spoils for its effort. No one so much as muttered darkly about Draco after that.

I stood in the darkness, awaiting the arrival of the dawn and the combat. There was no doubt in my mind that we would be victorious. I could hear the nervous shuffling of those who opposed us, likewise awaiting the light. Someone foolishly lit a wand on the other side but it was quickly extinguished. I looked at my son, scanning the horizon, his wand light in his hand and ready.

I offered him a smile. He returned it easily.

“This decides it,” he murmured. I nodded and returned my gaze to the growing light. Only moments lay between us and the battle. Murmured spells arose from the field ahead of us as Death Eaters and Muggle-lovers both cast various protections over themselves in anticipation. These were small comforts for the combatants, unlikely to have any effect on the outcome; the combination of magical and physical combat was sure to kill many. I caressed the hilt of my sword and heard Draco check his own blade. The morning chill was inconsequential, and I slipped the cloak from my shoulders. It would only get in my way. Somewhere to the rear of us the Dark Lord waited to step in when the moment was right.

I watched the very top of the brilliant blood-red sun climb over the horizon. When it seemed to reach the proper point, I raised my voice to the field.

“Fellow Death Eaters, the time has come.”

The roar that arose seemed hardly possible for such a small army. Of course, many voices were supplemented by the Sonorous spell. But it was sure to send at least a few of the amassed army they faced scrambling. Draco raised his sword and joined the clamor. I felt a flush of pride as I gazed upon the fury in his face. I stepped down from my vantage point on the rock.

“Leave none alive.”

And then I was flooded with the noise and fury of battle, the clash of spells and swords as we fought across the field. I felt a cold thrill as the Dark Lord strode past me into the fray, clearing a path through the combatants by killing all who stood in his way. The sinking feeling broke through the elation that the master’s arrival had created. I raised my eyes from the body of my last victim and looked toward the forest. A second line waited there. In fact, a sizeable force stood among the trees.

Draco came up beside me.

“Who do you see?” I asked. He smiled fiercely and looked to Voldemort.

“Potter.”

And then it happened. At first I did not recognize the sound, like a broomstick taking off. And then I looked up and saw the black cloud coming up out of the forest, curving upward and then raining down in the midst of our forces. Archers. They had a line of archers, standing behind the fighters, their wands raised and wand-arrows launched as quickly as each one could say the incantation. I hadn’t time to raise my wand, so I raised my voice, shouting hoarsely into the Death Eaters.

Alas, the warning came too late. I watched, frozen in horror, as an arrow sliced down through the air and struck Draco in the shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground. Time seemed to slow as I threw myself forward, running toward my son. He clambered to his feet and was immediately struck by two more, striking in his chest. Draco dropped to his knees. I screamed my impotent rage and the cry turned to one of pain as an arrow grazed my shoulder.

I ran forward to shield Draco from the now-charging enemy. Other Death Eaters covered my retreat as I dragged him back toward where the Dark Lord stood. Voldemort bent and touched Draco’s cheek. Something passed between them, unspoken, and for a moment I was bewildered. Then he straightened.

“This ends now,” he told me, leaving me with my wounded son. He walked into the fray and it seemed to part before him.

I turned my attention to Draco. He inhaled sharply, wetly, his lung pierced. I stroked his bloodstained hair out of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. He coughed forcefully, and his lips were stained crimson. There was a certain numbness, watching my only child die. I was a child again, watching my father’s favorite hound bleed to death, gored by a wild boar.

“Don’t be sorry, Draco,” I said, forcing myself to smile. I couldn’t even muster anger at my enemy at that moment; the numbness was pervasive. All I felt was the pain in my arm, and the hot trickle of blood out of my sleeve and down my flesh. I had laughed at the old cliché of the life passing before one’s eyes, but Draco’s seemed to replay itself in my mind as I watched him die. In a few seconds I felt I watched him go from toddler to teen.

Draco was fading fast; the color was draining from his skin. He smiled faintly. When he tried to speak again, he could not. I shushed him with my fingertips, moving to stroke his face and hair. He coughed feebly. Those intense blue eyes were growing glazed. There were no famous last words, no sudden show of bravado in the face of death. Draco looked frightened. He clutched at me suddenly, and his wild gaze seemed to stare through me. With the frantic energy of the dying, he spoke.

“Oh god, it’s cold,” he choked. He convulsed in my arms and then lay still. I let him slide to the ground. The scent of death was upon him in an instant, as his muscles released. His skin was waxy and his eyes stared sightlessly up at me; I pushed his lids closed firmly. The great equalizer, Death, had finally broughtco dco down. I left the thing that was once my son and turned back toward the raging battle. The noise of it had seemed to disappear as I watched Draco die.

I stood slowly, leaning on my sword to get up from my knees. The whole exchange had taken less than a minute. I looked for the Dark Lord, and found him by the swath of dead around him. He was staring intently forward, like a cobra watching a mongoose. I followed his gaze and saw Potter. The boy looked frightened, much as Draco had just before he died. Good, I thought. He deserved to feel fear. If even my son--my strong and noble son--could feel terror, Potter should also.

The Dark Lord raised his wand and pointed it at Potter. I halted to watch the spectacle, and was momentarily blinded by the green flash of an exceptionally potent Killing Curse. The rushing-wind sound was loud even from where I stood, and I wondered if Potter would even be identifiable. Then my vision returned to me and I looked at where the two had stood.

Two bodies lay on the ground. I staggered forward and was shocked to see Potter begin to rise. The Dark Lord remained down. I stumbled to his inert form and heard myself cry out in shock. Potter looked at me, adjusted his glasses, and raised his wand.

Then the battle interceded between us. I tried to help an embattled Death Eater and was struck hard in the throat by a sword hilt. It sent me spinning to the ground and I had to fight my way back up before I was trampled. I threw myself forward, toward where Potter had stood. He was still there, watching as though the battle could not touch him. I suppose if I had survived an encounter with the Dark Lord--and emerged victorious--I would be smug too. And yet he did not appear arrogant. Instead, he looked numb, just as I felt. I lurched forward until I stood in arms’ reach of him, all the while expecting him to strike. We regarded each other for a long moment.

“Tell them to surrender,” he said softly.

I stared at him. He crossed his arms.

“Never,” I wheezed.

“Surrender, Malfoy. You know you can’t win.”

Damn him. Damn him. I cast a Sonorous and relayed the news, and something inside me died.

Potter stepped forward and put his hand out for my wand. I raised my chin defiantly, and with it my sword. He sighed. Then he did something rather unexpected; he kicked my left leg out from under me, driving me to my knees with a howl of pain. I felt myecapecap splinter when his foot struck it.

“Give me your wand, Malfoy,” he growled, thrusting his against my chest. I clutched my sword still, defiant. At his side he had a blade of his own, which he had not drawn in the battle. In fact, he was completely clean of any sign that there had been a fight, except that his scar was bleeding down his forehead. He wiped at it and stared down at me. His eyes were shockingly green, glowing as if they had captured the Killing Curse when the Dark Lord cast it. It was futile to resist him. I dropped my sword and handed him my wand.

“You are wounded,” he stated. I nodded. “Can you stand?”

“Not after what you did,” I husked. My throat felt like a rope had tightened around it. “Not without help.”

He reached out a hand and I looked at it for a moment. Finally I swallowed my pride and reached up. His fingers closed around my arm and pain shot through my body, worse than the Cruciatus curse. Worse than anything I could imagine. I could not even scream. I lost consciousness.

I woke to find myself in near total darkness, and the room was silent save for the breathing of the other patients. Death Eater and Muggle-lover had been put side by side; all are equal in pain and in death.

There was a single window, and some pale moonlight illuminated my surroundings. I checked myself over first; everything seemed to be long healed and I wondered just how long I had been unconscious. Someone had kept mils ils neatly trimmed, and the careful goatee I had grown some months before had been likewise shaped and trimmed. Probably so I wouldn’t look too pitiful at my trial, I thought. I turned my arm in the moonlight, marveling at the pale pink lines that cut through the Dark Mark. They tugged, as scar tissue is wont to do, but there was no real pain.

Then I looked around the room. It seemed oddly familiar, and I carefultoodtood. My legs seemed weak beneath me. How long? I wondered again. I crept silently to the window and looked out.

What I saw made me want to laugh, or perhaps cry, or kill myself. Or some mixture of those things. I had been brought to the infirmary at Hogwarts.

Of course! What better place to keep the wounded? Allies would be safe here, and enemies could be prevented from escaping. I could not Apparate, for example. And without my wand I was really powerless against any guards that lay between me and the edge of the school grounds. They were cleverer than I’d thought. I went back to my bed and found that my clothing had been cleaned and folded. Items that had been damaged were now repaired. I dressed quickly, not because of any haste or perceived immodesty but because it was freezing in the hospital wing. I put on socks but not shoes, opting instead to carry these with me. The black leather boots I wore into battle would be loud on the parquet and stone flooring in the castle.

The door yielded to my hand and I walked slowly out into the corridors of the school. It was familiar ground to me; I had spent seven years of my life sneaking around these hallways at night, after all. But where should I go? I knew it was inevitable that I should be discovered and recaptured, but for the moment I was free to roam. I let my feet carry me down to the library. There at least I knew it would be warm; the library was always uncomfortably hot in the warm months, but it was decidedly cozy the rest of the year.

I pushed through the library doors and closed them quietly behind me. As always, there was a low fire burning in the grate. I settled into one of the uncomfortable armchairs and watched the magical embers glow. It was only after several mis ths that I realized I was not alone.

“If you’re smart, you won’t do anng rng rash, Malfoy,” a voice said softly from behind me. I kept myself from startling by sheer force of will.

Slowly, carefully, I turned toward the origin of the voice. Hermione Granger stepped out into the firelight where I could see her.

“I suppose I should let someone know that you’re awake and wandering around the castle,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “They’ll want to move you down to the Slytherin dormitories now that you’re no longer in need of a hospital bed.”

It was not long before we were brought to trial. Surrounded by Dementors, I looked up at the circle of Dumbledore’s lackeys and knew that I would not live to see another day. Then again, I had known we could not be defeated, as well. Normally I would be greatly displeased to be proven wrong; on this particular occasion I was rather pleased.

“Called to testify is Mister Harry Potter, Knight of the Order of the Phoenix, holder of the Wizard Star.”

They asked him a number of mundane things, such as where he was on the day of the battle and if he could identify the prisoner. Finally, the Wizengamot came to the point.

“Do you believe that Lucius Malfoy, as a known member of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s personal army and a traitor to wizarddom, should be put to death?”

I took a deep breath, and the courtroom seemed to breathe with me. Suddenly I realized I was shivering, and calmed myself. The Dementors must have gotten to me.

“No.”

Potter was staring at me. His eyes seemed to bore a hole through whatever was left of my soul after three months in the custody of the Dementors. They seemed perfectly willing to feast on their former allies. Potter took a breath and I held my own, swallowing nervously while I awaited his answer. He had shocked me; what could he possibly want to do with me?

Then he exhaled normally. He red hed his glasses and wiped them on his shirt before settling them back on his nose. Then he brushed his bangs out of his eyes, offering us all the barest glimpse of his scar. Artful, that. Reminding the court just who he was and what he represented. Very nice. And possibly totally tenttentional. Potter had always been a mystery to me; I myself tried always to be in careful control of my physical actions, choosing how people perceived me, but Potter seemed to achieve those same ends without any sort of artifice.

“It is my personal opinion, albeit far from expert, that Lucius Malfoy would be of far more use to us alive. In fact, I think he should be released into the custody of the Department of Mysteries.”

I had rather hoped for a death sentence; anything was better than time with those terrible creatures in Azkaban. I certainly had not thought of being released. Of course, it remained to be seen if the court would take him seriously and consider his proposal. Many Death Eaters would scoff at the idea of serving the Ministry, but I had done the same thing at the end of the first War. Swallowed my pride and kept my head down, pushing papers until the time was right to act again, never knowing if that time would actually come. Of course, I was rewarded with the loss of my wife, my son, and my freedom. I chose not to think about that.

The judges deliberated for some time, and I noticed that the Dementors on either side of me were beginning to grow restless. Would they respect the decision of the court? I edged away from them as far as I could. The gallery was becoming noisy. Many of them had anticipated the first public Kiss in many years. They began to realize they would be disappointed. I looked up at them all, seated behind me. How many of them had lost friends to the Death Eaters? Family? They would not be pleased if I were to walk out of this courtroom a free man. Finally, Dumbledore stood aaiseaised his hands for silence. The courtroom immediately stilled. Even the stirring Dementors halted their rustling.

“Lucius Malfoy, you have been found guilty of all charges against you.” I had known that already; I had not offered any argument against it. I had tried the Imperius excuse before, and it wouldn’t work again. And of course, I was completely exhausted in mind and body. He continued: “Furthermore, it is the opinion of this body that you are dangerous.”

My heart sank.

“In order that you cannot present a hazard to the ongoing peace in Britain, we are hereby ordering that you shall be released to the custody…”

I thought I was going to weep. Azkaban it was, then. The Dementors seemed to perk up.

“Of the Department of Mysteries.”

Behind me the gallery veritably exploded with sound. I did not permit myself to smile. The Dementors howled in fury, but moved no closerturnturned toward the gallery and saw that some of them had risen from their chairs. Wands were out. Furniture had been broken. I felt a thrill of fear; would they defy the court and seek justice for themselves? I would not be able to defend myself it they did, chained as I was.

“It would be very foolish for anyone to interfere in the decision of the ngamngamot,” announced the Weasley who sat on the bench. He had a firm, clear voice. Perhaps he was the one who had worked with dragons. A strange point on a judge’s résumé.