Vacillation and Volition, Chapter Two
Title: Vacillation and Volition, Chapter Two: The Adversities of Azkaban
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Lucas Malory (OC), Lucius Malfoy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,634
Author's Note: To read this story from the beginning, please click here.
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An unforgiving light woke him up. Its harsh brightness offered such a sharp contrast to the previous evening that Lucas could not comprehend how the two days could belong to the same reality. While shielding his eyes from the morning, he managed to push himself into a sitting position. Briefly, he wondered if last night’s ordeal had only been a figment of his nightmares, but the attack of a blazing headache erased all of his doubts. Resting his elbows against naked knees, Lucas buried his face in a pair of trembling hands. Wild thoughts and restless questions tried to push their way through his mind, causing his head to throb with increased pain.
When his eyes had adapted to the brightness, he rose onto uncertain feet and made his way over to the window. Outside, everything looked mostly the same as it had for the past summer, except for the sharp shadows created by the new sun. Lucas watched the scene for a while, taking in the world as he knew it. They Wolfhounds were lying in front of the house, and Mats, their old caretaker and handyman, was over at the field tending to the horses. And beyond, green hills spread in every direction. It was a beautiful place, peaceful if a little isolated. But Lucas would not want it any other way. If it had been possible, he would gladly have stayed at the estate and never faced the world outside again. He did not have the slightest desire to go anywhere, not even as far as their flat in London.
With a sigh, he recalled that his own will had little to do with where he would be going. He thought he had approached the problem from all possible angles, but he could only find one solution. If solution was even the right word for it - it seemed more like a personal sacrifice, from which he wouldn’t gain a thing. But there was nothing else to be done about it. He had to go.
He lingered for another moment, waiting for the appearance of resolve, some determination. But none came. There was no great feeling in his chest, not even annoyance or fear. No passion pushed him to complete his task, no will to protect himself, his grandfather or Merridown. Moving away from the window and over to his closets in search of suitable travelling wear, a dejected sigh escaped Lucas Malory.
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It was fascinating, he thought, the power and possibilities that rested with words such as “family” and “father”. He doubted that getting a pass to Azkaban on the spot was regular procedure, but it certainly made things less complicated. The Ministry official had eyed him with open curiosity. Vowed to silence or not, Lucas didn’t doubt for a second that the man would spread his gossip around the pubs; as if Lucius Malfoy wasn’t surrounded by enough scandal and speculations already, it was now also to be known that he had sired a bastard son who had appeared out of the blue, requesting a visit with his father at the prison.
“Excellent weather for sailing,” the Ministry man had commented, and Lucas supposed he was right. Reflections danced upon the waves, and a gentle breeze played in his blond hair. The boat was empty, except for his Auror escort and the captain. Worn men, both of them, with grave expressions upon their wind-beaten faces. Although not hostile, there was nothing about them that invited to conversation, so Lucas leaned against the railing in silence, thoughtfully running his fingers against the rough wood.
He had never sought information on his father on purpose, but The Daily Prophet had kept him fairly well-informed nonetheless. He could see the face before his eyes - the long hair, lighter than his own, the typical pure-blood forehead, a set of steel grey eyes that looked kinder in Lucas’ face, and the straight nose that gave an impression of absolute determination. But most distinct was the mouth, its lips twisted in a trademark smirk. And interesting face, for sure. Lucas knew it, but it had never inspired any kind of emotion in him. He had read the article on his father’s arrest, but not experienced either offence or relief.
And now Lucius had ‘requested’ his presence. There was no obvious reason why he would do such a thing, but Lucas highly doubted that the man wanted to build a relationship, or even to include him in his will or on a family tapestry. Lucius Malfoy had never bothered with him before, and Lucas could only imagine that his assistance was greatly needed.
“Ten minutes, Mr Malory,” the Auror informed him.
Turning around, Lucas nodded. Over the captain’s shoulder, he could see the black island approaching swiftly, and how unforgiving rocks cut through the waves. The sight did not fill him with fear as he had worried it would, but some invisible memory of Dementors’ ooze still caused his heart to beat faster. The prison, dark as the stones it rested upon, rose before them, and when he thought of all the wizards who had lost their selves and souls in there, Lucas shuddered in the sunlight. What would his father be like? Even without a Dementor on constant guard, imprisonment could meddle with a man’s mind. The walls confined not only one’s body, but also wit and manner. Surprised at the turn of his own thoughts, Lucas realised he was more concerned about the possibility that Malfoy might be mad than the fact that he bore a Dark Mark upon his arm.
The Auror, taciturn as ever, soon lead the way along a slippery path. The sunlight seemed somewhat diminished, and as breathing became a little more difficult, Lucas recognised the pressure of numerous anti-Apparation wards. Letting his gaze travel along the jagged shoreline, he guessed that they had arrived at one of very few safe points.
There were no gates. No walls or exercise areas. Instead, here and there where the earth would allow it, gravestones adorned the dead land. They were all more or less withered; their cursed names sunk into oblivion and moss. Lucas traced his way along the illegible lines, catching scattered letters here and there, but stopped abruptly when they seemed to be spelling his own name. He shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the childish thoughts, but it was no use. Azkaban towered over them now, and the gravestones, numerous and anonymous and grey, crept in closer on the path. They leaned in, they reached up; they were like drowning men begging for rescue, but Lucas could offer none. When the solid iron doors opened before him he had to resist the urge to run inside, desperate to escape the pleading voices in his head.
But once over the threshold, with the bangs of bolting locks echoing against his shoulders, Lucas regretted his eagerness to come inside. The silence was deafening. Not a thing was heard of sea or of people, so there was no saying what might be lurking in the darkness of corridors and catacombs. Daring to look around, he found himself in a hall of sorts, with an impossibly tall ceiling. The room was in the shape of a half-circle, and eight wooden doors with iron rings for handles were evenly cut into the walls. An Auror was positioned in front of each one, arms crossed over their chests and all clad in deepest black.
“Your wand, Mr Malory.”
Nearly jumping at the unexpected words from his escort, Lucas spun around to see his hand reached out.
“My wand?”
“No visitor is allowed to carry a wand.”
“I would be defenceless, sir.”
The corner of the Auror’s mouth twitched. “They are unarmed and behind bars, so fear not. Please surrender your wand, Mr Malory, or we shall have to return to the shore.”
Reluctantly, Lucas reached within his travelling cloak and grasped the smooth birch wood. He still carried his first ever wand, and due to his constant care it was in perfect condition after nearly fifteen years. To his knowledge, no one else had touched it since that day when Ollivander placed it in his hand. The Auror, however, had no compassion for his hesitance, but promptly snatched the wand out of Lucas’ fingers and pocketed it.
“Good. If you will come this way, then.”
They approached the fifth door counting from the left, and the sour-looking Auror in front of it. Lucas could hardly blame him for his miserable face; Azkaban couldn’t be the workplace of their choice.
“Auror Russel here will lead you on. Best of luck, Mr Malory.”
Whipping out his wand with a single, smooth motion, the Auror named Russel unlocked the door with a voiceless spell. He gestured for Lucas to step through and, wand pointed at his back, he followed and closed the door behind them. Lucas thought for a moment to ask the Auror if he could perhaps stop pointing a wand at him, but he suspected it was no use. Instead, he focused on remaining upright in the narrow, slippery corridor. A raw coldness ruled the place, and the torches were sputtering and flickering from drops of water that kept dripping from the ceiling. Lucas thought they must have walked for a full five minutes when the finally lost his balance and had to break his fall by putting both hands on the floor before him. A frightening squeak was heard, and he was sure that he had seen a rat scurry off into the darkness.
“Up we get, Mr Malory,” the Auror commanded, and Lucas felt a prickle at the back of his neck as if he was about to be put back on his feet by magic.
“I’m quite all right, thank you,” Lucas said and stood back up again, brow furrowed in annoyance. Really, he could see that working with ruthless criminals would harden a man, but had this Auror no manners whatsoever? Offended, he brushed his dirt-covered hands against his cloak and continued through the dark corridor. After a few more minutes, they reached another door and Lucas was asked to stand back.
“We shall pass through this block of long-term prisoners, before we reach the high-security ward,” Auror Russel said, sourly as ever. Lucas merely nodded and stepped into the cell block. The corridor was wider now, and there were cells on both sides of it. He hesitated for a moment, listening for any sound of living souls behind the doors, but heard nothing. Somehow he thought he would have been more comfortable with prisoners banging on their doors and glaring at him through little windows in the iron doors. But the windows were all slid shut, and the silence told nothing of the villains that rested within. The Auror forced him to move forward, and Lucas moved swiftly past the lines of cell doors, feeling horribly exposed.
When they had nearly reached the end and yet another door, a sharp sound, thunder-like, boomed through the entire block. Lucas spun around, heart beating wildly in his chest, and sought the Auror’s eyes for guidance. But Auror Russel, with flaring nostrils and a stark white face, was searching his pockets for something. Before long he pulled out an object similar to a clock attached to a chain, and after glancing at it, he paled further.
“We have a serious disturbance. Mr Malory, I’m going to have to ask you to step into this cell.”
“What?”
Lucas, his hands now shaking slightly, thought for sure that he must have misheard the man. A cell?
“I have no time for this!” the Auror growled. “I have been summoned, and I can’t drag you along with me. Step into this cell here, Malory!”
He had opened a cell door for Lucas, and the lightless space inside was suddenly threatening to suck him inside. Panicking slightly, he just stared at the Auror.
“You cannot possibly be serious to think that -”
“I assure you that I am perfectly serious! Get in there, or I will Stun you!”
Hardly aware of what he was doing, but too well-versed in duelling to doubt the word of a man with a wand, Lucas stepped over the threshold. The door was slammed shut behind him before he had a chance to take a breath of the stale air, and the force of it almost knocked him to the floor again. The silence, the complete and utter silence that had followed the thunder, surpassed all other impressions. Lucas felt how cold sweat broke out on his temples as his eyes tried to navigate through the minimal, gloomy space. It was completely empty but for a bunk, and hardly any bigger than a broom cupboard. He made a conscious attempt to draw deep, even breaths, but instantly felt like throwing up when the ghastly taste of the air stuck to his tongue. His heart, hammering madly at the base of his throat, seemed to have swollen to twice its usual size and was threatening to choke him. All of a sudden, the black walls seemed to be moving in on him, and losing his senses completely, Lucas put both palms against the left wall and pushed back with all of his might. He didn’t feel how acid water and slime covered his hands and ran along his wrists, all the way down his sleeves to drip off of his elbows. Irregular, wheezy gasps of breaths escaped him, and when he could no longer take in enough oxygen to keep pushing, he collapsed into a shivering heap with his back against the wall, knees pushed up to his face. His arms hugged tightly around his folded legs, and he pressed his eyes shut.
Slowly, like when one wakes up from a nightmare that doesn’t want to let go off you, Lucas felt how he regained control of his mind and body. He became aware of the unpleasantness that stuck to his palms, and how his own body reeked of fear and panic. Shame took hold of him and he came close to vomiting again, but resolutely kept his eyes shut to block out the horrendous reality had come to find himself in.
All that remained was the silence. It was pounding against his eardrums, and when Lucas heard the first trace of a whisper he was convinced it was his own mind that had created it. But one whisper was soon followed by another, and he was forced to accept that it was taking place outside of his imagination. He opened one eye, saw the cell exactly as it had been when he entered it an eternity ago, and dared to open the other. The whispers grew stronger, and with a jolt he realised that it was the prisoners speaking to each other. He got to his feet, shaking violently but still managing to keep his bile where it belonged, and tried to make out words in the buzzing of voices. And then, clear as a bell, one of the voices detached itself from the others and spoke to him.
“Aha, aha. So the bastard whelp has come out of its prissy kennel, at long last.”
The voice was dry and the words unfriendly, but Lucas didn’t care. Someone was talking to him, outside of this black space; he had not been consumed by the darkness. His own voice, when he found it, was trembling.
“W-who are you?”
A joyless laughter cackled. “Who I am, whelp? No matter. Just another piece of waste. But you - look at you!”
Lucas did, and in want for something better he used his cloak for wiping his hands again. He was glad the darkness prevented him from inspecting his appearance, because it could be no better than a complete disaster.
“Such a sad sight,” the voice cackled on, not sounding even remotely sorry. Lucas opted not to answer, but that didn’t stop the disembodied voice.
“He was such a great wizard, your father. Shame he had to end up in here. Not that he will be staying long, of course, with such a loyal mongrel coming to help him.”
“I’m not -” Lucas began his protest, but was interrupted.
“SILENCE!”
The order echoed through the block, and the voice, along with all the whispers, died away at once. Lucas could soon hear footsteps approaching, and resisted a great urge to bang on the door and beg for it to be opened faster. When light and relatively fresh air finally spilled into the cell, Lucas had to fight back tears of relief. The anger he had meant to release at Auror Russel faded when he saw that it was a different Auror who had come to let him out.
“We apologise for the inconvenience, Mr Malory, but there has been an attempt at a break-out in another block. I have been ordered to escort you to Malfoy. Unless you’d rather return to the entrance hall?”
It was a tempting offer, but Lucas managed to decline. He hadn’t come this far, including a brief visit to Hell, to simply turn back again. He had to see Lucius Malfoy, had to know what he wanted.
The high-security ward was different. It was lighter, and the walls weren’t quite as wet and dripping. Cells only lined the left wall, and through the square holes in each door Lucas could see that the prisoners had proper windows, if behind bars, with a view of the endless sea. Overall, the area seemed clean and decidedly more comfortable than what he had just experienced.
“High-security?” Lucas frowned.
The Auror nodded. “You’ll find no simple thieves or trouble-makers here.”
That statement didn’t quite explain why the worst criminals would inhabit the better cells, but Lucas decided to hold his tongue again. He looked at the Auror to urge him on, but the man was about to return through the door.
“Sir, what - how -”
“Sorry,” the Auror said, picking up the right key from his bunch, “Malfoy’ll be the sixth door. I’ll give you half an hour while I go help the others sort out the runaway.”
Lucas stared after the man as he left with an apologising nod. A moment ago he had been locked in with the long-term prisoners, and now he was free to walk around and talk to each and any of the high-security ones? It made no sense whatsoever.
Slowly, he turned around. This place was also quiet, but it was not a dead silence. He could feel the presence of people behind the doors, and he was sure they knew he was standing in the corridor. But they let him be. There was only really one thing left to do, so Lucas began to slowly make his way towards door number six. He pulled a hand, dirty but at least slime-free, through his hair and made a vain attempt at straightening his clothes. When he reached the door behind which his father was supposed to be, Lucas could perhaps not call his appearance respectable, but it was an improvement. The small hole was shut from the inside, so lost for what else to do, Lucas knocked on the door.
“Put your hand against the stone wall, please.”
Lucas twitched at the sound of the voice. Had he really never heard it before? It seemed so familiar. What had it said? To put his hand on the wall, yes. Lucas did, and a moment later the seemingly-solid material transformed. It was still stone, he could feel it under his fingers, but it had become transparent and shimmering, like clear waves frozen in mid-motion.
A man was standing behind the gleaming material, and he was pulling his hand back from the spot where it had rested exactly opposite Lucas’. Lucas hurried to withdraw his own, trying to escape the eerie feeling of facing a live reflection of himself. The man before him nodded politely.
“Mr Malory. You do me great honour by paying me a visit. I only wish the circumstances could have been a little less unpleasant. Please, take a seat.”
Lucas looked over his shoulder, and spotted a comfortable, high-backed chair that had most certainly not been standing there before he knocked on the door. Lucius Malfoy had found a chair too, on his side, so Lucas decided to comply and sit back. For a while they just surveyed one another.
“I feel that I should apologise for the hassle in the long-term block,” Lucius spoke. “But it was the best I could do to assure that we got some time to speak in peace.”
“You caused that?”
Malfoy put his fingertips together in front of his face and leaned back. “I’m still not completely powerless, Mr Malory. I couldn’t very well have a horde of Aurors listening in to our conversation here. No, what I have got to say concerns the two of us, and no one else.”
“So you will tell me why I am here, then?”
“Naturally, or else there would have been little point in me summoning you, don’t you think?”
Lucas did not reply. They were talking like shallow acquaintances, him and his father. His father, for Merlin’s sake! Shouldn’t this conversation have begun with some kind of explanation from Lucius’ side? A word or two why he had never bothered with Lucas before?
“I will assume that you know what has become of my son, Draco?”
His son. Not his other son. Draco, his son. Lucas tried to sort out his emotions, but there was no time. Lucius Malfoy had raised his eyebrows, expecting an answer.
“Nothing beyond the fact that he ran off from Hogwarts together with the Potions Master, Professor Snape.”
“Ah, yes. Snape. Another complication.” Lucius paused and rubbed his forehead for a moment. “Well, I suppose Snape can’t be left out of the equation. Here’s the scenario, simple as it was - the Dark Lord set Draco a task, most likely as vengeance for a mistake I made. Draco failed, so Snape completed the task for him.”
Lucas did not know it, but his forehead was now wrinkled in the very same fashion as his father’s. Lucius seemed to be waiting for it, so Lucas asked the question that was resting at the tip of his tongue.
“Why would Snape sacrifice himself in such a thoughtless way? Do his loyalties run that deep?”
“Certainly not,” Lucius shook his head. “Well, at least not to me. Snape was forced to commit to an Unbreakable Vow, by someone who thought she had Draco’s best interests at heart.”
“Your wife?”
“Foolish woman,” Lucius muttered. “But it’s no use dwelling on that. I can no longer count on Snape, or Narcissa or Draco.”
“Which is why I’m here?” Lucas asked.
“Exactly.”
“Your last option, then.”
“Ah - wrong. The option I had hoped never to have to use, not wanting to involve you in this.”
Suddenly feeling very tired, Lucas didn’t know what to think. Was he being used as some kind of emergency resort, or was Lucius really telling the truth? He sighed.
“I sense your doubt,” Lucius said, a shadow of a smile passing over his face. “There is of course nothing I can say to convince you of my honesty, so I won’t waste our time with trying. What I need to ask you though, Mr Malory, is whether you will agree to assisting me or not?”
“Why should I?”
Lucius’ smile became more pronounced. “Morals? I should have guessed. But at least in this I hope I will be able to gain your sympathy. You see, Mr Malory, I do not seek to escape the confinement of these walls to rejoin the Dark Lord. No.” He paused, gaze lost somewhere in the distance, and Lucas waited. At long last, Lucius shook his head and continued. “No,” he repeated, “it’s a woman who calls me out of Azkaban.”
“A woman?” Lucas stared.
“A woman and her child, to be more precise,” Lucius sighed. “I’m sorry, Mr Malory, but our Auror friend will be returning any minute now. Much as I dislike to pressure you on the matter, I need an answer from you now. Will you help me?”
Lucas tried to reach out with all his senses; he made a desperate attempt at finding out if Lucius Malfoy was being sincere, or if he was using the lie he thought was most likely to win Lucas over. He was no Legilimens, but well equipped with a different ability, so instead of prodding Lucius’ mind he sought out his heart. He found it open, unprepared for the intrusion and - to his utter surprise - filled with the very same gift.
“You!” Lucius hissed, and cut off the access to his feelings at once. But it didn’t matter. Lucas had seen and sensed enough. With a new confidence, he met his father’s glare.
“What do you need me to do?”
Instantly, Lucius’ face shifted from troubled to businesslike. While searching the folds of his clothes he leaned forward, and he soon withdrew a small, golden item from a pocket. Without realising it, Lucas leaned forward as well, a little curious about the object.
“I need you to go to my Manor. You will go to my office in the southern wing - the password is tiramisu - and there, in the third drawer to the right in my desk, you will find a Disillusioned document. I need you to take it with you, lift the charm and give it to a Mr Dington at the Ministry.”
“I thought your wife still resided at the Manor? I doubt she will let me in.”
“Well thought. Which is why you need to have this.”
Lucius got to his feet and slid back the metal covering the window on his door. Lucas copied his motions, and through the square hole he found himself face to face with the un-blurred version of Malfoy. A well-polished hand reached through the opening, and Lucas held out his own to accept the golden object. It was a coin, he saw now, and it felt warm to his touch. No. More than warm. As it lay on his palm for a few moments, Lucas felt the coin grow hot and alive. But he never thought to drop it; it was a pleasant sort of heat. His eyes full of wonder and questions, he looked up at Lucius.
A mysterious sort of smile had appeared on his father’s face, and for the briefest instant Lucas thought he recognised a flicker of pride. Then Lucius nodded, approvingly.
“I see that it recognises your blood. It’s the only remaining Malfoy coin, cast by a family Goblin in the seventeenth century. With that in your hand, no one has the power to deny you passage to the House of our ancestors.”
Lucas lifted his hand to his face, and inspected the coin closer. It shone with such brilliance that it could just as well have been made yesterday. One side bore a man’s face upon it, but he chose to ignore its similarity to his own. The other, a few words of Latin which Lucas assumed to be the Malfoy’s family motto. But as he began to rack his brain for the translation, the heavy door to the cell block was abruptly pushed open. He pocketed the coin at once, and when he turned to his right he saw that the chair had vanished and that the wall was once again of solid stone. While the Auror walked up the corridor, he looked at Lucius one last time. The peculiar smile was still on his lips, and he made a small bow of farewell.
“Until our next encounter then, Mr Malory.”
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