Supernatural Fic: what rough beast, its hour come around at last
***
Title: what rough beast, its hour come around at last
Author: kat_lair / Mistress Kat
Fandom: Harry Potter/Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Lucius Malfoy, implied Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: R for the implications but I’m probably overtly cautious as it’s all largely off screen
Word count: 3,048
Warnings: Features evil!Sam in the Death Eater camp, tread accordingly. All the nasty things tend to happen off screen though.
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: There are no prophesies about Sam Winchester.
Author notes: Written for ‘It’s So Easy Being Evil’ Summer 2013 Challenge at evilsam_spn. My prompt song was ‘It’s Not Over Yet’ from A Very Potter Sequel. This fic really doesn’t have much to do with the song itself, awesome as it is, except for the fusion concept. Note that I have taken liberties with the ages. While Sam Winchester’s D.O.B. (1983) actually makes him 3 years younger than Harry Potter (D.O.B. 1980), here the Winchesters are in their 20s around the time of Voldemort’s resurrection. Thank you to margaret_r for a wonderful and speedy beta-read and to pushkin666 for brainstorming and handholding. The title and the line of poetry Lucius thinks of in the fic are from The Second Coming by W. B. Yeats.
There are no prophesies about Sam Winchester because no one sees him coming. But even if they had, it would not have made any difference.
***
The Winchesters are not an old wizarding family. Sometimes Lucius thinks it would have been... well, not easier because there was little ease to be had any more, but somehow... more acceptable, if they had been. There is still enough pride in him left to believe that power like this could only come from a pure blood line.
Nowadays, his self-preservation is stronger than his pride though, and Lucius knows better than to voice his thoughts out loud.
***
They show up during those first jubilant weeks after Voldemort’s resurrection; two young men with implacable accents and quick smiles that Lucius mistrusts immediately.
“They’re alright,” Nott says. “Used to know their father.” There’s an undercurrent of distaste to those words, one that Nott thinks he’s hidden but Lucius sees the way the older Winchester boy narrows his eyes and sidesteps the ‘hail fellow, well met’ pat to the back Notts tries to offer.
The younger one only smiles wider.
Lucius nods his greetings along with the others, neither fawning nor sneering. It’s his careful neutrality, his willingness to wait and see that later ensures his survival.
***
The Winchesters blend in well, although the younger one doesn’t seem to try as hard as his brother. Dean follows orders well and while his skills are rough, there is undeniable power there. Nott says something about the brothers making good foot soldiers and Lucius thinks once more that the man is a waste of space, and blind to boot. He doesn’t see the way Dean’s eyes flicker to Sam every time they’re told to do something and how he only gets on with the task once Sam smiles or nods imperceptibly. Even then, the way the two of them execute their orders is rarely quite to the letter. Nothing there that could be interpreted as rebelling per se and indeed often their improvisation leads to better results than the original plan.
The Dark Lord likes that. Silently, Lucius thinks it’s because it allows him to maintain the illusion of blind obedience without actually dealing with the disaster such blindness often results in. During one of the twice-weekly dinners that make mockery of such occasions, The Dark Lord residing at the end of the table, everyone else too tense to even taste the food in front of them, he raises a glass to the Winchesters. Enjoying the internal rivalries such an action inflames, Voldemort praises the information they’ve brought to the effort, before returning to his increasingly incomprehensible monologue about the glorious future of the wizardkind.
Lucius pretends to drink deeply while he watches the other Death Eaters frowning and muttering, so caught up in their petty jealousies and plans that they fail to see the bigger one crumbling right before their eyes, like people who are too busy hacking up trees to notice the forest fire heading their way. Outwardly, everything is going well: the Ministry is still clinging to denial like a safety blanket, while Dumbledore does the same with his secrets, inadvertently disadvantaging his best weapon in the process. The Death Eaters are recruiting briskly, both willing and unwilling soldiers joining the Dark Lord’s ranks, but...
But.
Over the rim of his wine goblet, Lucius watches Voldemort tracing a bony finger over Nagini’s scales, his lipless mouth curved into a terrible gash of a smile, and his eyes... his eyes burning with madness that must have hollowed him out years ago, even before his death, only Lucius had been too young then to see it.
Things fall apart, he thinks, the old poem rising up from his memory like a body floating to the surface of a lake. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.
***
For a while, Lucius presumes Dean is the one to watch out for. He’s older and more serious, protective of his little brother in a way anyone with a family - a real family, not one tied to you by a black mark on your arm - can understand. His skill in interrogation and pain matches that of Bellatrix’s, perhaps even surpasses it, though no one has been stupid enough to suggest that yet.
It’s because he doesn’t enjoy it the way she does, Lucius thinks. For Dean Crucio is nothing but a tool among others, and a blunt one at that. He never walks into the cells with that barely contained excitement and he never walks out with glazed eyes or trembling hands. It’s what makes him so effective, it’s what makes him someone worth keeping an eye on.
And because Lucius is watching Dean, he soon realises that it’s not the elder Winchester brother he really needs to worry about.
***
Despite everything, Malfoy Manor is still his so when someone discovers and steps into the hidden section of the library the periphery ward wakes up Lucius with an insistent buzzing that only he can feel.
The corridors are quiet and the library even quieter. Someone has cast a silencing charm around the row of shelves they shouldn’t have even been able to see, but the place still recognises its owner and a simple flick of his wand counteracts the spell without alerting those who cast it. Somehow, Lucius isn’t even surprised when he hears the low murmured voices of Sam and Dean.
There is a gap between the shelves that widens to accept him, the books squeezing together tighter until Lucius can see as well as hear, albeit not very much. Wordlessly, he casts a glamour over his hiding place, just a mild one that gently encourages people to look the other way in case their eyes wander his way. It’s mostly precaution as the Winchesters are clearly not expecting to be overheard and too distracted by whatever it is that they are arguing about, but Lucius is still grateful to his younger self for having the patience to persist with learning the wordless and wandless magic despite the difficulty.
“...one more time, I’m going to tear out his tongue through his spine!” Dean says. It doesn’t sound like an empty promise.
“As amusing as that would be, we need more time,” Sam answers.
The shadow blanking the flickering candlelight must be Dean, walking back and forth in a frustrated manner. “I don’t understand,” he says, “we could take this place over now. I know you have no more interest in securing the ‘hearts and minds’ of this sorry excuse of an army than I do, so what are we waiting for?”
“Some privacy. It seems to be hard come by lately.” There’s a wry tone to Sam’s voice that makes Lucius wonder if... But no, impossible. “I need to get him on his own,” he continues.
“Sam, Sammy, you know I will protect you,” Dean says, almost pleading.
“Shh, I know,” Sam soothes him. “I know you could kill them all but there are still so many and I don’t want you... tired, not when it’s not necessary.”
A silence then, and Lucius presses closer to the shelves, his face pushed right against the cracked spines of old books as he strains to see what is going on. There’s a rustle of clothes and the two shadows intertwine, only to separate a moment later.
“Fine,” Dean says. “But I’m still going to kill that brown-nosed little rat.”
Sam laughs. It’s not a nice sound. “Oh my brother,” he says and as Lucius watches he holds out his hands in front of him, palms a few inches apart as if he’s about to pray, “I look forward to that almost as much as I look forward to finally getting to drop this damn shield.”
Dean makes a sound, somewhere between hum and whine. “Yeah,” he breathes, stepping closer, “miss it.”
Sam slowly pulls his hands apart and it’s as if he’s ripping a split in some invisible curtain. The power that spills through makes every hair in Lucius’ body stand on end, the air suddenly alive and heavy with raw magic more powerful than he’s ever felt, more powerful even than Voldemort’s. The space between Sam’s palms crackles with lightning and Dean’s face is bathed in the eerie light, his expression distorted with pleasure as he almost writhes against the energy swirling around them.
“You’ll never go without,” Sam says. His eyes are black like the night, and terrible.
Lucius digs his nails into his palms, fighting not to run, like a small furry animal, frozen in the hopes the hawk won’t see it if it just stays still. There is one thing Malfoys are even better at than increasing their money and influence: surviving. And right now, that is taking priority over everything else.
Sam Winchester is not doing anything with his magic, just letting it spill into the room and over his brother, the power flickering between them like a flame. He is not saying an incantation or brewing a potion or tracing a charm, nothing that would count as using the Dark Arts. And yet, the energy pours out of him like bloodied water, dark and menacing, raking over Lucius’ mind like splintered nails.
Sam Winchester is not using his magic for the Dark, his magic is Dark.
Lucius doesn’t know how long it lasts but eventually Sam reins his power back in and with a sound like a door slamming shut it’s gone. No, not gone, but... behind the shield he was talking about. And even more frightening than his dark magic, is the ease with which Sam can hide it.
Dean stretches languidly; his body loose and relaxed, and says something about having a raid in the morning. Lucius isn’t really listening anymore, and he quietly lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’s been holding once the brothers leave.
It takes him another ten minutes until he can make his limbs move enough to do the same.
***
Lucius thinks about not doing anything but... he’s dedicated decades of his life to Voldemort and his cause, so he has to try.
“My Lord,” he says the next day, after what everyone calls a ‘strategic meeting’ but lately resembles nothing so much as school kids bickering around a table, “May I have a word?”
“I always have time for my most loyal follower,” Voldemort says, spreading his arm grandiosely and beckoning him to follow.
They settle in one of the smaller drawing rooms and suddenly, seeing the Dark Lord invite him to sit as if this is his manor to play host in, twists Lucius’ insides like never before. One of the house elves apparates into the room just long enough to see Lucius shake his head at her before disapparating right out. They never even seem to notice Voldemort and he never pays any attention to them.
“We almost have him,” Voldemort is saying. There’s a faraway look in his colourless eyes, fixated on a goal that Lucius has become to think of as more and more unattainable. “That Potter pest, I can almost feel his heart in my hand.” He clenches his long fingers into a fist, squeezing his hand rhythmically. There is power in him, Lucius can feel it, has always felt it, but now that he has a comparison base, Voldemort’s magic feels as hollow as an empty eggshell, and as fragile.
But Lucius has to try. “My Lord,” he says. “I wanted to... talk to you about the Winchesters.”
Voldemort blinks and Lucius almost expects to see a white nictitating membrane slide over his eyes. “What about the Winchesters? I hear they have great potential.”
“Yes my Lord.” And it’s about to be realised, very soon, he thinks. “They are... strong in the Dark Arts. Stronger than,” you, “they perhaps let on.”
“Taking the enemy by surprise, good, good,” Voldemort says. “That is why the Ministry will be easy pickings. Already it is like a rotten apple; all red and shiny on the outside but crawling with my little worms on the inside.” He leans forward, licking at the edges of his lipless mouth, his tongue dry and grey like a cockroach peeking out. “Tell me, any news of Potter?”
That was all he cared about anymore; that blasted boy. If he’d just let Harry Potter be, Lucius is sure the Death Eaters would be in power by now. But no, Voldemort was fixated on a child and so they all were forced to hide in the shadows like vermin instead of ruling the world as was their right.
“Potter is under surveillance,” Lucius says. Frankly, he doesn’t know for sure if that’s the case at the moment and he’s well past caring. Besides, he thinks soon it won’t matter either way.
Voldemort sits back up, seemingly satisfied with the answer, too sure of the blind faith of his followers, too sure of his power, to doubt or question.
Or to see what lies just beneath his sunken nose, Lucius thinks bitterly. He says nothing more, just lets the now familiar monologue wash over him while he considers his options. Because of all the snakes Voldemort has taken to his bosom, Sam Winchester is the one that will bite him.
***
After their non conversation Lucius goes back to the library. He scours through every book on prophesies, Dark and Light, important and menial. He reads Trelawney’s prophecy about Voldemort and Harry again.
He finds nothing, not a word or a hint, no throwaway line that even remotely refers to the coming of a dark wizard like Sam Winchester.
It’s like he exists outside prophesies and foretellings. Sam Winchester’s destiny, it seems, is not foretold. Sam Winchester is making his own.
Perhaps it’s time for Lucius Malfoy to do the same.
***
He watches the Winchesters constantly now, and knows that they know he’s doing it. At first he expects to be cornered by Dean in some dark corridor, wonders if he can hold his own long enough to explain, but it never happens. The Winchesters simply watch him back.
Lucius sees the way they are watching the others too, sorting the wheat from the chaff he assumes, determined to make sure the harvest is good for the Malfoy family. There are other things they do, small things; pushing there, pulling here, setting up connections, ignoring orders while making it seem they are following them - preparing.
Lucius, in his own way, is doing the same. He steps back from Nott, from Pettigrew, from everyone who he kept close to out of necessity before but who will be of no use soon. He is still Voldemort’s right hand man. He hears things. He gives orders. And if those things and those orders end up benefitting the Winchesters, then he is also good enough to appear not to know anything about it.
He keeps an eye out for opportunity, for the kind of privacy that Sam and Dean were discussing that night in the library. It arrives three weeks later, on a stultifying August evening.
“Potter has been spotted in Little Hastings,” Nott tells him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Something about a holiday cottage, a last minute trip. He’ll be vulnerable for at least a couple of hours before his watchers catch up.”
“Good job,” Lucius says. “I will relay the information to the Dark Lord immediately.”
Nott looks disappointed but doesn’t have the courage to challenge him about it. If he’d wanted the glory of bringing the news, he should’ve had the brains to take them directly to Voldemort instead of coming to Lucius first.
“My Lord.” He finds Voldemort in what used to be Lucius’ study, Nagini wrapped around the desk, her head resting over the books like a giant paperweight. “We’ve got Potter.”
Voldemort stands up, his mouth opening like he can taste his prey. “Come with me, Lucius,” he says. “Come witness my victory.”
There’s a second, maybe two, that Lucius considers it. He could go. Voldemort could even manage to kill the Potter kid. There was a chance... But even if he did, Lucius no longer thinks it would make any difference in the long run. “It’s an honour, my Lord,” he says, “But I am needed here, preparing for your return. If I may suggest...”
Lucius bows his head like he is regretting a missed opportunity but then says: “You should take Peter Pettigrew, my Lord. He too has been a loyal servant.”
Voldemort nods, already distracted by the prospect of a battle. “And where are we going?” he asks. “Where is Potter?”
“Bryher,” Lucius says, “in the Isles of Scilly.”
***
Voldemort and Pettigrew apparate away almost immediately, hurrying outside the gates and the wards. The rumours of Potter’s imminent death have already started to circulate so Lucius doesn’t have to search for the Winchesters, they are right there, among the milling crowd. Now that he is set on this course, there is no going back and Lucius walks right over to them, making no secret of his approach.
Or what he says. “Bryher, the Sciulli Isles,” he tells them. “Won’t get much more private than that.” He looks Sam in the eyes then, watches them darken, watches as that terrible power starts to trickle through the cracks. “He’s got Pettigrew with him too,” Lucius adds, turning to Dean.
“I’ll bring you a tail, Malfoy,” Dean promises, and his grin is full of teeth.
Sam says nothing but he cups Lucius’ face briefly, a benediction of sorts, the dark magic caressing Lucius’ skin like tarnished velvet. The he grabs Dean’s hand and the two of them vanish, the anti-apparation wards doing nothing to hold them.
The silence lasts for a few seconds before the room erupts with furious voices. Not all of them realise the significance of Lucius’ actions, but they all felt the power leeching out of Sam Winchester, the remnants of it still hanging in the air.
“What have you done?” Nott asks. His voice trembles with outrage. “Malfoy, what have you done?”
“What I had to,” Lucius says, turning to look at him. “The only thing left to do.” Then he pulls out his wand and kills Nott, swiftly and without hesitation.
Because if there’s one thing Lucius Malfoy knows, it’s how to back a winner.
***
Title: what rough beast, its hour come around at last
Author: kat_lair / Mistress Kat
Fandom: Harry Potter/Supernatural
Characters/Pairing: Lucius Malfoy, implied Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Rating: R for the implications but I’m probably overtly cautious as it’s all largely off screen
Word count: 3,048
Warnings: Features evil!Sam in the Death Eater camp, tread accordingly. All the nasty things tend to happen off screen though.
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: There are no prophesies about Sam Winchester.
Author notes: Written for ‘It’s So Easy Being Evil’ Summer 2013 Challenge at evilsam_spn. My prompt song was ‘It’s Not Over Yet’ from A Very Potter Sequel. This fic really doesn’t have much to do with the song itself, awesome as it is, except for the fusion concept. Note that I have taken liberties with the ages. While Sam Winchester’s D.O.B. (1983) actually makes him 3 years younger than Harry Potter (D.O.B. 1980), here the Winchesters are in their 20s around the time of Voldemort’s resurrection. Thank you to margaret_r for a wonderful and speedy beta-read and to pushkin666 for brainstorming and handholding. The title and the line of poetry Lucius thinks of in the fic are from The Second Coming by W. B. Yeats.
There are no prophesies about Sam Winchester because no one sees him coming. But even if they had, it would not have made any difference.
***
The Winchesters are not an old wizarding family. Sometimes Lucius thinks it would have been... well, not easier because there was little ease to be had any more, but somehow... more acceptable, if they had been. There is still enough pride in him left to believe that power like this could only come from a pure blood line.
Nowadays, his self-preservation is stronger than his pride though, and Lucius knows better than to voice his thoughts out loud.
***
They show up during those first jubilant weeks after Voldemort’s resurrection; two young men with implacable accents and quick smiles that Lucius mistrusts immediately.
“They’re alright,” Nott says. “Used to know their father.” There’s an undercurrent of distaste to those words, one that Nott thinks he’s hidden but Lucius sees the way the older Winchester boy narrows his eyes and sidesteps the ‘hail fellow, well met’ pat to the back Notts tries to offer.
The younger one only smiles wider.
Lucius nods his greetings along with the others, neither fawning nor sneering. It’s his careful neutrality, his willingness to wait and see that later ensures his survival.
***
The Winchesters blend in well, although the younger one doesn’t seem to try as hard as his brother. Dean follows orders well and while his skills are rough, there is undeniable power there. Nott says something about the brothers making good foot soldiers and Lucius thinks once more that the man is a waste of space, and blind to boot. He doesn’t see the way Dean’s eyes flicker to Sam every time they’re told to do something and how he only gets on with the task once Sam smiles or nods imperceptibly. Even then, the way the two of them execute their orders is rarely quite to the letter. Nothing there that could be interpreted as rebelling per se and indeed often their improvisation leads to better results than the original plan.
The Dark Lord likes that. Silently, Lucius thinks it’s because it allows him to maintain the illusion of blind obedience without actually dealing with the disaster such blindness often results in. During one of the twice-weekly dinners that make mockery of such occasions, The Dark Lord residing at the end of the table, everyone else too tense to even taste the food in front of them, he raises a glass to the Winchesters. Enjoying the internal rivalries such an action inflames, Voldemort praises the information they’ve brought to the effort, before returning to his increasingly incomprehensible monologue about the glorious future of the wizardkind.
Lucius pretends to drink deeply while he watches the other Death Eaters frowning and muttering, so caught up in their petty jealousies and plans that they fail to see the bigger one crumbling right before their eyes, like people who are too busy hacking up trees to notice the forest fire heading their way. Outwardly, everything is going well: the Ministry is still clinging to denial like a safety blanket, while Dumbledore does the same with his secrets, inadvertently disadvantaging his best weapon in the process. The Death Eaters are recruiting briskly, both willing and unwilling soldiers joining the Dark Lord’s ranks, but...
But.
Over the rim of his wine goblet, Lucius watches Voldemort tracing a bony finger over Nagini’s scales, his lipless mouth curved into a terrible gash of a smile, and his eyes... his eyes burning with madness that must have hollowed him out years ago, even before his death, only Lucius had been too young then to see it.
Things fall apart, he thinks, the old poem rising up from his memory like a body floating to the surface of a lake. Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.
***
For a while, Lucius presumes Dean is the one to watch out for. He’s older and more serious, protective of his little brother in a way anyone with a family - a real family, not one tied to you by a black mark on your arm - can understand. His skill in interrogation and pain matches that of Bellatrix’s, perhaps even surpasses it, though no one has been stupid enough to suggest that yet.
It’s because he doesn’t enjoy it the way she does, Lucius thinks. For Dean Crucio is nothing but a tool among others, and a blunt one at that. He never walks into the cells with that barely contained excitement and he never walks out with glazed eyes or trembling hands. It’s what makes him so effective, it’s what makes him someone worth keeping an eye on.
And because Lucius is watching Dean, he soon realises that it’s not the elder Winchester brother he really needs to worry about.
***
Despite everything, Malfoy Manor is still his so when someone discovers and steps into the hidden section of the library the periphery ward wakes up Lucius with an insistent buzzing that only he can feel.
The corridors are quiet and the library even quieter. Someone has cast a silencing charm around the row of shelves they shouldn’t have even been able to see, but the place still recognises its owner and a simple flick of his wand counteracts the spell without alerting those who cast it. Somehow, Lucius isn’t even surprised when he hears the low murmured voices of Sam and Dean.
There is a gap between the shelves that widens to accept him, the books squeezing together tighter until Lucius can see as well as hear, albeit not very much. Wordlessly, he casts a glamour over his hiding place, just a mild one that gently encourages people to look the other way in case their eyes wander his way. It’s mostly precaution as the Winchesters are clearly not expecting to be overheard and too distracted by whatever it is that they are arguing about, but Lucius is still grateful to his younger self for having the patience to persist with learning the wordless and wandless magic despite the difficulty.
“...one more time, I’m going to tear out his tongue through his spine!” Dean says. It doesn’t sound like an empty promise.
“As amusing as that would be, we need more time,” Sam answers.
The shadow blanking the flickering candlelight must be Dean, walking back and forth in a frustrated manner. “I don’t understand,” he says, “we could take this place over now. I know you have no more interest in securing the ‘hearts and minds’ of this sorry excuse of an army than I do, so what are we waiting for?”
“Some privacy. It seems to be hard come by lately.” There’s a wry tone to Sam’s voice that makes Lucius wonder if... But no, impossible. “I need to get him on his own,” he continues.
“Sam, Sammy, you know I will protect you,” Dean says, almost pleading.
“Shh, I know,” Sam soothes him. “I know you could kill them all but there are still so many and I don’t want you... tired, not when it’s not necessary.”
A silence then, and Lucius presses closer to the shelves, his face pushed right against the cracked spines of old books as he strains to see what is going on. There’s a rustle of clothes and the two shadows intertwine, only to separate a moment later.
“Fine,” Dean says. “But I’m still going to kill that brown-nosed little rat.”
Sam laughs. It’s not a nice sound. “Oh my brother,” he says and as Lucius watches he holds out his hands in front of him, palms a few inches apart as if he’s about to pray, “I look forward to that almost as much as I look forward to finally getting to drop this damn shield.”
Dean makes a sound, somewhere between hum and whine. “Yeah,” he breathes, stepping closer, “miss it.”
Sam slowly pulls his hands apart and it’s as if he’s ripping a split in some invisible curtain. The power that spills through makes every hair in Lucius’ body stand on end, the air suddenly alive and heavy with raw magic more powerful than he’s ever felt, more powerful even than Voldemort’s. The space between Sam’s palms crackles with lightning and Dean’s face is bathed in the eerie light, his expression distorted with pleasure as he almost writhes against the energy swirling around them.
“You’ll never go without,” Sam says. His eyes are black like the night, and terrible.
Lucius digs his nails into his palms, fighting not to run, like a small furry animal, frozen in the hopes the hawk won’t see it if it just stays still. There is one thing Malfoys are even better at than increasing their money and influence: surviving. And right now, that is taking priority over everything else.
Sam Winchester is not doing anything with his magic, just letting it spill into the room and over his brother, the power flickering between them like a flame. He is not saying an incantation or brewing a potion or tracing a charm, nothing that would count as using the Dark Arts. And yet, the energy pours out of him like bloodied water, dark and menacing, raking over Lucius’ mind like splintered nails.
Sam Winchester is not using his magic for the Dark, his magic is Dark.
Lucius doesn’t know how long it lasts but eventually Sam reins his power back in and with a sound like a door slamming shut it’s gone. No, not gone, but... behind the shield he was talking about. And even more frightening than his dark magic, is the ease with which Sam can hide it.
Dean stretches languidly; his body loose and relaxed, and says something about having a raid in the morning. Lucius isn’t really listening anymore, and he quietly lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’s been holding once the brothers leave.
It takes him another ten minutes until he can make his limbs move enough to do the same.
***
Lucius thinks about not doing anything but... he’s dedicated decades of his life to Voldemort and his cause, so he has to try.
“My Lord,” he says the next day, after what everyone calls a ‘strategic meeting’ but lately resembles nothing so much as school kids bickering around a table, “May I have a word?”
“I always have time for my most loyal follower,” Voldemort says, spreading his arm grandiosely and beckoning him to follow.
They settle in one of the smaller drawing rooms and suddenly, seeing the Dark Lord invite him to sit as if this is his manor to play host in, twists Lucius’ insides like never before. One of the house elves apparates into the room just long enough to see Lucius shake his head at her before disapparating right out. They never even seem to notice Voldemort and he never pays any attention to them.
“We almost have him,” Voldemort is saying. There’s a faraway look in his colourless eyes, fixated on a goal that Lucius has become to think of as more and more unattainable. “That Potter pest, I can almost feel his heart in my hand.” He clenches his long fingers into a fist, squeezing his hand rhythmically. There is power in him, Lucius can feel it, has always felt it, but now that he has a comparison base, Voldemort’s magic feels as hollow as an empty eggshell, and as fragile.
But Lucius has to try. “My Lord,” he says. “I wanted to... talk to you about the Winchesters.”
Voldemort blinks and Lucius almost expects to see a white nictitating membrane slide over his eyes. “What about the Winchesters? I hear they have great potential.”
“Yes my Lord.” And it’s about to be realised, very soon, he thinks. “They are... strong in the Dark Arts. Stronger than,” you, “they perhaps let on.”
“Taking the enemy by surprise, good, good,” Voldemort says. “That is why the Ministry will be easy pickings. Already it is like a rotten apple; all red and shiny on the outside but crawling with my little worms on the inside.” He leans forward, licking at the edges of his lipless mouth, his tongue dry and grey like a cockroach peeking out. “Tell me, any news of Potter?”
That was all he cared about anymore; that blasted boy. If he’d just let Harry Potter be, Lucius is sure the Death Eaters would be in power by now. But no, Voldemort was fixated on a child and so they all were forced to hide in the shadows like vermin instead of ruling the world as was their right.
“Potter is under surveillance,” Lucius says. Frankly, he doesn’t know for sure if that’s the case at the moment and he’s well past caring. Besides, he thinks soon it won’t matter either way.
Voldemort sits back up, seemingly satisfied with the answer, too sure of the blind faith of his followers, too sure of his power, to doubt or question.
Or to see what lies just beneath his sunken nose, Lucius thinks bitterly. He says nothing more, just lets the now familiar monologue wash over him while he considers his options. Because of all the snakes Voldemort has taken to his bosom, Sam Winchester is the one that will bite him.
***
After their non conversation Lucius goes back to the library. He scours through every book on prophesies, Dark and Light, important and menial. He reads Trelawney’s prophecy about Voldemort and Harry again.
He finds nothing, not a word or a hint, no throwaway line that even remotely refers to the coming of a dark wizard like Sam Winchester.
It’s like he exists outside prophesies and foretellings. Sam Winchester’s destiny, it seems, is not foretold. Sam Winchester is making his own.
Perhaps it’s time for Lucius Malfoy to do the same.
***
He watches the Winchesters constantly now, and knows that they know he’s doing it. At first he expects to be cornered by Dean in some dark corridor, wonders if he can hold his own long enough to explain, but it never happens. The Winchesters simply watch him back.
Lucius sees the way they are watching the others too, sorting the wheat from the chaff he assumes, determined to make sure the harvest is good for the Malfoy family. There are other things they do, small things; pushing there, pulling here, setting up connections, ignoring orders while making it seem they are following them - preparing.
Lucius, in his own way, is doing the same. He steps back from Nott, from Pettigrew, from everyone who he kept close to out of necessity before but who will be of no use soon. He is still Voldemort’s right hand man. He hears things. He gives orders. And if those things and those orders end up benefitting the Winchesters, then he is also good enough to appear not to know anything about it.
He keeps an eye out for opportunity, for the kind of privacy that Sam and Dean were discussing that night in the library. It arrives three weeks later, on a stultifying August evening.
“Potter has been spotted in Little Hastings,” Nott tells him, practically vibrating with excitement. “Something about a holiday cottage, a last minute trip. He’ll be vulnerable for at least a couple of hours before his watchers catch up.”
“Good job,” Lucius says. “I will relay the information to the Dark Lord immediately.”
Nott looks disappointed but doesn’t have the courage to challenge him about it. If he’d wanted the glory of bringing the news, he should’ve had the brains to take them directly to Voldemort instead of coming to Lucius first.
“My Lord.” He finds Voldemort in what used to be Lucius’ study, Nagini wrapped around the desk, her head resting over the books like a giant paperweight. “We’ve got Potter.”
Voldemort stands up, his mouth opening like he can taste his prey. “Come with me, Lucius,” he says. “Come witness my victory.”
There’s a second, maybe two, that Lucius considers it. He could go. Voldemort could even manage to kill the Potter kid. There was a chance... But even if he did, Lucius no longer thinks it would make any difference in the long run. “It’s an honour, my Lord,” he says, “But I am needed here, preparing for your return. If I may suggest...”
Lucius bows his head like he is regretting a missed opportunity but then says: “You should take Peter Pettigrew, my Lord. He too has been a loyal servant.”
Voldemort nods, already distracted by the prospect of a battle. “And where are we going?” he asks. “Where is Potter?”
“Bryher,” Lucius says, “in the Isles of Scilly.”
***
Voldemort and Pettigrew apparate away almost immediately, hurrying outside the gates and the wards. The rumours of Potter’s imminent death have already started to circulate so Lucius doesn’t have to search for the Winchesters, they are right there, among the milling crowd. Now that he is set on this course, there is no going back and Lucius walks right over to them, making no secret of his approach.
Or what he says. “Bryher, the Sciulli Isles,” he tells them. “Won’t get much more private than that.” He looks Sam in the eyes then, watches them darken, watches as that terrible power starts to trickle through the cracks. “He’s got Pettigrew with him too,” Lucius adds, turning to Dean.
“I’ll bring you a tail, Malfoy,” Dean promises, and his grin is full of teeth.
Sam says nothing but he cups Lucius’ face briefly, a benediction of sorts, the dark magic caressing Lucius’ skin like tarnished velvet. The he grabs Dean’s hand and the two of them vanish, the anti-apparation wards doing nothing to hold them.
The silence lasts for a few seconds before the room erupts with furious voices. Not all of them realise the significance of Lucius’ actions, but they all felt the power leeching out of Sam Winchester, the remnants of it still hanging in the air.
“What have you done?” Nott asks. His voice trembles with outrage. “Malfoy, what have you done?”
“What I had to,” Lucius says, turning to look at him. “The only thing left to do.” Then he pulls out his wand and kills Nott, swiftly and without hesitation.
Because if there’s one thing Lucius Malfoy knows, it’s how to back a winner.
***