Monologue a la Lucius (repost)

DISCLAIMER: I do not own the fandom of Harry Potter. The Harry Potter Universe is property of J. K. Rowling. I am making no revenue from the writing of this fanfiction; I write for my own pleasure, not for profit. I intend no copyright infringement.


Monologue a la Lucius

Lucius’s Point of View, a little oneshot.

When I wrote this, it was as if Lucius was speaking it, like an interview or mental monologue. OMG! Lucius talks to me! (Either that, or the voices in my head are doing a blooming good impression).

Ha! You’re just jealous that the voices talk to me in Lucius’s voice – aren’t you – though, that might just be my new muse talking, I didn’t realise there were male muses!


~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Despite what people will tell you, and regardless of the… interesting tattoo marring my left arm – I am indeed a gentleman, and I am perfectly capable of behaving thus!

Honestly.

Though, one must admit that my past behaviour was savage to say the least. Chivalry went out of the window; and manners were forgotten. Political correctness was a figment of my imagination.

It is rather impolite to hex and curse people, don’t you know; and rather unchivalrous to aim such hexes at a witch. Everyone knows that a gentlewizard won’t raise his wand to a witch… even if said witch is firing some very nasty curses your way.

… and political correctness? What political correctness? Good Merlin! I can’t believe I actually accepted all the diatribe spoken by my Father, his Father before him, his Father before him (can we assume that I don’t have to keep saying ‘and his Father before him’? I presume you’re intelligent enough to understand my meaning?)

And to think! Even with believing all that, shall we be realistic in our description, nonsense – for what else could it be called?

Anyway… to think with all that ‘Pureblood superiority’ nonsense running through my head, and through my veins if you’re being literal; I actually followed a halfblood. I bowed to someone with less ‘bloodstatus’ than I! I slaved like a house elf to a wizard who (by my own twisted views of the time) was technically below me!

Though, I wouldn’t have mentioned that to him. The Dark Lord was rather keen to keep his lack of pureblooditity quiet. He had a rather hungry Naga by his side, for just such occasions as when someone (idiotically) pointed out the worst kept secret of the Death Eaters.

And what, you may ask (or not, but I shall tell you anyway), changed everything? What turned my entire universe upside down and inside out? What opened my eyes to the real world?

Well, what is rather rude, you must forgive my manners (honestly, I do have them, but I find myself embarrassingly out of practice in using them. My governess would have a fit could she see me now!). To be accurate, it was whom who changed everything, not what… or is that who whom changed? I never was sure about whom and who, who seemed more of a shortcut of whom.

Good Merlin… I’m starting to sound like the Hogwart’s Express!

Now, where was I before I began my rather ridiculous train impression? Ah yes, whom.

The whom would be the witch who saved my life. And that is a tale to tell in it’s own right. But there are no handsome princes (well, I’m technically a Viscount, it’s as close to a prince as you’ll get these days. Magical Britain hasn’t seen a royal family since Mordred… and that incident should have warned the first of the purebloods that inbreeding wasn’t such a good idea).

Good grief! I am once more digressing; perhaps it is because I had tea this morning, and not my usual coffee? Can a lack of coffee cause one to ramble on as if one’s tongue is not controlled by one’s mind?

Evidently it can. I shall continue to blame the Earl Grey, should anyone ask why I wander from the topic in hand.

The topic in hand… oh yes, the story of why I’m seated in the exclusive clientele lounge of Fulsi quod Mico.

But really, why is the best Jeweller in Magical Britain named ‘Shine and Sparkle’ in Latin? Was there not a better name to be had when this business began? It sounds rather tacky to be truthful. Though, someone came up with Draco Dormiens Nunquami Titilandus for Hogwarts! What the blazes does tickling dragons have to do with education for Merlin’s sake? At least my university had some idea Tenus disco, tenus ministro - to learn to serve*… though, I ended up serving the wrong person – person? Is that accurate? Could the Dark Lord be described as a person?

I shall continue to lay the fault at the feet of my cup of Earl Grey. Not that my saucers or cups have feet, mind you.

The woman who saved my life after I made the decision to save myself… Changing sides half-way-through a battle is all well and good – but then you find that your former comrades know all your weaknesses (though, I shall inform you that they are few in number); and those weaknesses are exploited without mercy.

Narcissa. Merlin bless her; there was not enough left to fill a match box once those… (I am not going to swear. I shall think of a less rude term… perhaps I can’t think of a less rude term, pray do excuse my language)… BASTARDS had finished throwing hexes.

We might have been a marriage of convenience, but we did respect each other.

Hmm… you thought it was an arranged marriage? Do you think I wanted to wed the Black sister I was officially betrothed to? Bellatrix wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, thank-you very much; I could have coped with my first betrothed, but Andromeda was blessed to fall in love and elope away from the mess that is purebloodidity.

Narcissa had been expected to wed her cousin Sirius Black, closer in age – but far too close as far as bloodlines went. So, we did the unthinkable (as far as our social circle was concerned), we eloped. Oh, there was a huge ceremony for the cameras a week later – but only to cover up the ultimate gaffe we’d made in society’s eyes!

So, they (and when I say they, I am referring to the Death Eaters) murdered her, and kept on cursing and hexing ‘til there was naught but ash on the Hogwarts lawn… there’s a very pretty rose bush there now, and it blooms with beautiful pale gold roses… strange, I planted a pink rose – but perhaps her essence seeped into the soil and it is that that turned the petals?

So, in the middle of a battle I found myself crumbling as the first chink in my armour was broken fully. I could only hope that Draco had practiced that time old Slytherin tendency – running away… though, any Slytherin worth their salt would use the term tactical retreat.

Once more, I am holding the tea responsible for my loss of topic. I apologise on behalf of the Earl Grey.

I could have killed Severus Snape – though, I’d have had to go about the messy, and illegal business of raising him from the dead first – so at the time I settled for some rather degrading name calling… Sectumsempra was a brilliant invention – but its brilliance diminished exponentially, in my opinion, once I found myself subjected to it.

Whomever had cast it, had made an utter pigs ear of it – and the counter charm was useless. I was bleeding to death, all that ‘pure blood’ soaking into the earth in rivers of red.

… I found myself suddenly staring at a vaulted, arched, stone ceiling; gargoyles peered down at me from their ledges and pulled faces; ‘death is a rather odd feeling’, I thought at the time, until I realised that the odd feeling was actually the tugging of someone physically sewing various wounds closed; whilst I lay on a completely blood-soaked mattress.

I’d watched in hideous fascination as five healers performed the bizarre alternative therapy; thank goodness for the numbing ointment that meant I couldn’t feel a thing! Their needles and scissors followed the wand of other healers – who’s spellcraft barely kept the wounds closed for long enough for them to be stitched.

I was later told that the correct term was suture; and that patchwork quilt wasn’t a politically correct way to describe oneself after receiving close to seven hundred of these sutures.

But the biggest shock was when I turned my head to the left (a huge achievement for one in such dire straights!); there was a tube digging into a vein in my arm, piercing one eye of my dark mark. I tried to make a joke about rather than patchwork quilt, I would be better referring to myself as the Bayeux Tapestry – that didn’t go down to well with the healers either.

Harold? Arrow in the eye? All the sewing?

Ah! Now you understand the punch line, so to speak. Do forgive my rather twisted sense of humour.

I shall still censure the tea.

But it was whom was attached to the end of that tube in my arm… one Miss Hermione Granger; who had her face turned away from me, drinking blood-replenishing potion as if it were going out of fashion.

Ah, did I digress to mention that the major problem of a certain ‘slicing hex’ is being a haemophiliac; whom is allergic to blood replenishing potion; and in possession of a rather rare and recessive blood type…

… I did mention that all this inbreeding was a rather nasty business, didn’t I.

So, my saviour was Miss Hermione Granger, a former enemy, below me in bloodstatus – and the only other magical person in the bloody country with the same bloodtype.

Life, if you’ll pardon the expression (and language), is a bitch.

She had her head on Potter’s shoulder and her right arm behind her back so she faced away from me (that can’t have been comfortable for her!); and she was using another of those long tubes as a straw to drink the blood replenishing potion directly from the caldron.

Apparently it tastes even worse warm. I wouldn’t know, I haven’t had it since I was a tot (though I have a rather vague memory of spending three weeks at Saint Mungos due to the allergic reaction). However, I swallow enough colagulent potions to know that any potion to do with the blood leaves a hideous taste in one’s mouth; Severus assured me it was the base ingredient that tasted foul.

No, I would not welcome another cup of tea, thank-you! One is causing far too much trouble on it’s own!

Where was I… oh yes she was turned away. I asked her why she wouldn’t look at me; and her reply was that she had a tendency to faint at the sight of blood that wasn’t her own, and that if she feinted she wouldn’t be much use.

I pointed out it was her blood. And the reply was, (and I quote) “Yep, but it’s coming out of you; and please change the subject as the sound of it dripping onto the floor is making me feel sick”.

So thus, I found myself being stitched together, sorry, I apologise, sutured together; with someone else’s blood flowing through my veins, my heart pumping her life fluid… and strangely enough I couldn’t think of anything to say.

How to start a conversation with a witch whom you’ve attempted to kill; and because you didn’t manage to kill her you were tortured for hours; but then you’re glad you didn’t kill her as you’d be dead if she was?

And that made about as much sense as the G-string. How do witches manage with a bit of string between’s one’s arse cheeks? She loves them, says something about not having a vee pea elle… whatever the bloody hell that is! I ended up tangled in one of the damned articles when I tripped over it on the bedroom floor! What’s wrong with good, old fashioned knickers these days?

Who needs veritaserum, when a pot of tea will do the job nicely?

So? What to discuss with a witch who I should hate, yet I adore beyond anything for this transfusion? Politics was a non-starter. So, what did we discuss, I hear you ask…

… the weather.

Oh yes, my first conversation with Miss Hermione Granger began with the words, “Lovely weather we’ve been having recently, don’t you think?”?

Not one of my better moments. But I think I’ve said worse; I once made the mistake of telling Narcissa her bum did look big in that dress! For Merlin’s sake the dress had a bustle! Her arse was supposed to look big!

Witches. I’ll never understand them. Never shall I drink tea at breakfast again, either!

It was some weeks before I actually remembered I owed the witch a life debt. And I announced it formally at a ceremony to award the heroes. Someone put me on the guest list; I’m not sure why. I could only think I would win the award for the most stitches (sorry, sutures) placed onto a wizard… I was given an order of Merlin third class for my bravery and assistance in changing sides.

Miss Granger was actually rather upset that she held my life debt. I thought she’d be pleased that my manners had returned thus and I was behaving like the gentleman I was raised to be.

She was far from pleased and tried her hardest to remove the debt without asking anything from me. She could have asked for the moon and I’d have attempted to drag it from the sky and place it in her hands… though, it would be rather too large for her petite little grip; but tis only a figure of speech.

But twas not to be, a life debt must be paid; and the holder of the debt must ask a boon… she came up with one some time later: “Give me full access to your library for one year.”

A rather odd request, don’t you think?

After six months of pillaging my bookshelves and absorbing the knowledge, I did the unthinkable – probably because I wasn’t thinking at the time and ignored my mind… I knelt down next to where she sat on the floor reading from a huge tome, and I kissed her.

Oh; and what a kiss. An embrace of lips that shall forever be routed in my memory as the dawn of the first light of my life; and the dawn of change.

Oh, did I forget to mention that loving and living with a Gryffindor induces oneself to wear one’s heart on one’s sleeves and confess emotions one didn’t know existed? Draco was rather disgusted with me for my sudden sentimentality – or was he more repulsed when he walked into the library to find Hermione with her face between the pages of a book, and my face between her thighs?

Well, he’s given us our privacy, as he’s moved to the Malfoy townhouse in London for some space (buggered if I know why, the townhouse is tiny in comparison to the Manor).

Hmmm. Must be one of those modern phrases, like ‘cool’ – what does being cold have to do with something good?

Tea, it is the drink of the devil himself, I tell you!


Ah, but this brings me back to why I must be a gentleman and be honourable…

My witch, though she tells me off for my saying she’s mine – she doesn’t like being referred to as a possession, you know. Though doesn’t stop me saying it, she is my witch – sure as heck isn’t someone else’s! I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: I shall never comprehend the psychology of the female of the species.

You’d think that after cohabiting with me for two years that she’d be used to my possessive nature – it’s the only way I know to show I care. I’ve managed to twist the term ‘useless’ into an endearment; for example:

”You’re useless at romance, Lucius!” said she.

“Oh? Don’t you like the bunch of incredibly rare roses that had to be imported from half way across the globe, my witch?” answered I.

“They’re lovely, but a bit much. I’d have settled for a bunch of daisies off the lawn!” said she with a smile.

“There’s daises DARING to grow on MY lawn?! Said I

She giggled, “Oh, Lucius – you’re useless sometimes, but I love you.”

Send all complaints on a postcard to the cup of tea, if you please.

Well, how to explain… well, to cut a long story short – sex magic is the oldest and most ancient form of magic there is, and it is the most unpredictable… and it doesn’t really approve of contraceptive charms – and as I’m also allergic to the contraceptive potion…

… I’ll give you three guesses, shall I?

Oh yes, we’ll be expecting the pitter patter of little Malfoy feet within the next six months. Though, Merlin knows where that phrase came from – infants can’t walk for months and months!

Am I excited? Happy? Exstatic?

I think damn well annoyed that Hermione vomits at the scent of coffee and won’t let me eat breakfast without her. I tell you, it is the lack of coffee that’s doing this, and having to drink tea – not the fact that I’m just a little… oh, what’s the word…

Hmm? What did you say?

No, no! I. am not nervous.

Malfoys. Do. Not. Become. Nervous.

No. We don’t.

Nervous is an impossibility for a Malfoy, you see.

Don’t look at me like that! You make me out to be a liar!


Oh yes, I’ll have a cup of tea whilst I wait for the master jeweller to come out and assist me in designing the perfect engagement ring – shall I pour?





A/N: I haven’t a flipping clue where this came from! It just struck me as amusing. I hope he’s not too OOC, I tried to keep him just a little bit stuck up.

* To learn to serve was the ‘motto’ of my High School – and I can’t for the life of me remember the Latin translation – so blame the internet translator if it’s wrong.