Catching up -- Week 17: What is the oddest gift you've ever been given?
"Oh Lucius, thank goodness you're here. I --"
"How is he?"
My mother's eyes were red-rimmed. "Not well," she whispered, her bottom lip quivering as she spoke. "Not well at all. The healers say he won't last the night." She twisted a sodden lace handkerchief between her hands and glanced up. She seemed to have aged ten years since the last time I saw her. "He's been asking for you for days. Why didn't you come sooner?"
I made no effort to hide the stress and anger bubbling just beneath the surface of my skin. "Mother, have you no idea what I've been through these past two weeks?" I hissed, leaning in to glare into her tear-streaked face. She lowered her eyes and pressed the handkerchief to her lips with trembling fingers. "I'm a free man right now by the skin of my teeth, and you ask why I didn't come here before this?"
Her lips moved in a soundless apology, and when she did not meet my eye I straightened slowly, acknowledging her show of atonement with a curt nod. "The important thing is you're here now," she said, her voice thick with tears. "Go. He's waiting." I turned on my heel and strode toward the bedroom door. My hand was on the doorknob when my mother's voice brought me up short. "Lucius. Be kind to him. Let him die in peace."
I turned my head just enough to let her know I had heard. "You ask me to give what I have never received?" I said quietly. Her only response was a sob, and I pushed the door open and stepped into the dark room beyond.
The atmosphere inside was stifling. Fetid. I immediately regretted not taking a deep breath before I entered. My skin was crawling with perspiration within a half dozen steps, but my father lay shivering beneath a pile of blankets as though the windows had been flung open to bathe the room in the cold November air. Grayish flesh hung in loose, papery folds on his cheeks, as though the bones beneath had shrunk and the skin had collapsed in against itself. I could hear the breath rattling in his chest from across the room, and as I watched, a spasm of pain rippled across his face.
Father, I thought, and my heart skipped a beat.
The rustling of my cloak alerted him to my presence, and he stirred. "Who's there?" His voice was thin and reedy, but somehow it frightened me more than his loudest shouts ever had. "Abigail?"
"No, Father." I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and stepped closer to the bed. "It's Lucius."
His eyes cracked open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the yellowing whites. "About time," he mumbled. "I had given you up for Azkaban."
I smirked. "I managed to talk my way out."
"Coward." His eyelids fluttered shut as though he couldn't bear the sight of me any longer, and the small spark of compassion I'd been nursing since entering his presence sputtered and died on the spot. "This is how you show your loyalty to our Lord?"
"Our Lord," I said through teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached, "is gone. The Potter brat took care of that. I saw no reason to sacrifice the rest of my life to his memory."
"He will return. Mark my words, Lucius. And when he does, he will not be happy with your betrayal. Yours, nor none of the others. My only regret at leaving this life is I will not be here to see it. I have a gift for you."
The sudden turn in the conversation made me bite back the angry retort forming on my lips. "On the bedside table," he said. "There."
A small black book lay where he had indicated, and I reached out to pick it up. "This?" I asked, tucking my cane under my arm to flip through the faded parchment pages. Each one was blank. "What is it?"
My father's eyes snapped open, and a grim smile curled his lips. "That," he said, "is the key to bringing the Dark Lord back. Young and whole again. All it requires is the soul of an innocent, and he will return." The smile grew wider, drawing back against his toothless mouth.
"You're delirious." I made to toss the book back on the table where it had lain, but my father's hand streaked out from beneath the duvet and he grabbed my wrist with far more vigor than I'd have believed he could summon. My heart hammered in my chest. It took every ounce of my restraint not to yank my wrist away from his between his feeble fingers.
"No. Take that book, Lucius." His eyes burned with a madness I could not understand. "The Dark Lord himself gave it to me, many years ago. His memory is preserved within its pages." The strength seemed to drain from him all at once, and his grip on my wrist faltered. "If you have the courage, you will learn how to use it to hasten his return. If not -- and I expect you won't -- you will throw it in the fire as soon as you leave this room." His arm dropped back to the bed and his eyes drifted shut once again.
For several long, horrible moments, the only sound in the room was the wheezing of my father's breaths. I could barely hear it over the pounding of blood in my ears. Then: "Have you nothing to say to me?"
"I..." I didn't. But I was a father myself by then, and knew what Malfoy fathers expected of their sons. "Thank you. Father."
He grunted as another flicker of pain caused his eyes to squeeze tightly shut. "You will be head of the Malfoy family by morning, Lucius." His final words came out in a pained gasp, and I was glad of it. "Merlin help my descendants."
I did not say goodbye. I did not offer words of comfort as he died. The relief I felt as he sputtered out his last breath was as profound as that I had felt when the Minister told me I was free to go. My mother rushed past me as I stepped back into the sitting room, calling my father's name, but I did not try to comfort her, either. A fire roared in the hearth and I stood beside it for a long while, watching the flames dance in the grate as I held the small black book in my hand. More than once, I was only a heartbeat away from tossing it into the heart of the fire, but something within me was unwilling to give my father that final bit of satisfaction.
I tucked it into the pocket of my robes and left my father's house for the last time.
"How is he?"
My mother's eyes were red-rimmed. "Not well," she whispered, her bottom lip quivering as she spoke. "Not well at all. The healers say he won't last the night." She twisted a sodden lace handkerchief between her hands and glanced up. She seemed to have aged ten years since the last time I saw her. "He's been asking for you for days. Why didn't you come sooner?"
I made no effort to hide the stress and anger bubbling just beneath the surface of my skin. "Mother, have you no idea what I've been through these past two weeks?" I hissed, leaning in to glare into her tear-streaked face. She lowered her eyes and pressed the handkerchief to her lips with trembling fingers. "I'm a free man right now by the skin of my teeth, and you ask why I didn't come here before this?"
Her lips moved in a soundless apology, and when she did not meet my eye I straightened slowly, acknowledging her show of atonement with a curt nod. "The important thing is you're here now," she said, her voice thick with tears. "Go. He's waiting." I turned on my heel and strode toward the bedroom door. My hand was on the doorknob when my mother's voice brought me up short. "Lucius. Be kind to him. Let him die in peace."
I turned my head just enough to let her know I had heard. "You ask me to give what I have never received?" I said quietly. Her only response was a sob, and I pushed the door open and stepped into the dark room beyond.
The atmosphere inside was stifling. Fetid. I immediately regretted not taking a deep breath before I entered. My skin was crawling with perspiration within a half dozen steps, but my father lay shivering beneath a pile of blankets as though the windows had been flung open to bathe the room in the cold November air. Grayish flesh hung in loose, papery folds on his cheeks, as though the bones beneath had shrunk and the skin had collapsed in against itself. I could hear the breath rattling in his chest from across the room, and as I watched, a spasm of pain rippled across his face.
Father, I thought, and my heart skipped a beat.
The rustling of my cloak alerted him to my presence, and he stirred. "Who's there?" His voice was thin and reedy, but somehow it frightened me more than his loudest shouts ever had. "Abigail?"
"No, Father." I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and stepped closer to the bed. "It's Lucius."
His eyes cracked open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the yellowing whites. "About time," he mumbled. "I had given you up for Azkaban."
I smirked. "I managed to talk my way out."
"Coward." His eyelids fluttered shut as though he couldn't bear the sight of me any longer, and the small spark of compassion I'd been nursing since entering his presence sputtered and died on the spot. "This is how you show your loyalty to our Lord?"
"Our Lord," I said through teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached, "is gone. The Potter brat took care of that. I saw no reason to sacrifice the rest of my life to his memory."
"He will return. Mark my words, Lucius. And when he does, he will not be happy with your betrayal. Yours, nor none of the others. My only regret at leaving this life is I will not be here to see it. I have a gift for you."
The sudden turn in the conversation made me bite back the angry retort forming on my lips. "On the bedside table," he said. "There."
A small black book lay where he had indicated, and I reached out to pick it up. "This?" I asked, tucking my cane under my arm to flip through the faded parchment pages. Each one was blank. "What is it?"
My father's eyes snapped open, and a grim smile curled his lips. "That," he said, "is the key to bringing the Dark Lord back. Young and whole again. All it requires is the soul of an innocent, and he will return." The smile grew wider, drawing back against his toothless mouth.
"You're delirious." I made to toss the book back on the table where it had lain, but my father's hand streaked out from beneath the duvet and he grabbed my wrist with far more vigor than I'd have believed he could summon. My heart hammered in my chest. It took every ounce of my restraint not to yank my wrist away from his between his feeble fingers.
"No. Take that book, Lucius." His eyes burned with a madness I could not understand. "The Dark Lord himself gave it to me, many years ago. His memory is preserved within its pages." The strength seemed to drain from him all at once, and his grip on my wrist faltered. "If you have the courage, you will learn how to use it to hasten his return. If not -- and I expect you won't -- you will throw it in the fire as soon as you leave this room." His arm dropped back to the bed and his eyes drifted shut once again.
For several long, horrible moments, the only sound in the room was the wheezing of my father's breaths. I could barely hear it over the pounding of blood in my ears. Then: "Have you nothing to say to me?"
"I..." I didn't. But I was a father myself by then, and knew what Malfoy fathers expected of their sons. "Thank you. Father."
He grunted as another flicker of pain caused his eyes to squeeze tightly shut. "You will be head of the Malfoy family by morning, Lucius." His final words came out in a pained gasp, and I was glad of it. "Merlin help my descendants."
I did not say goodbye. I did not offer words of comfort as he died. The relief I felt as he sputtered out his last breath was as profound as that I had felt when the Minister told me I was free to go. My mother rushed past me as I stepped back into the sitting room, calling my father's name, but I did not try to comfort her, either. A fire roared in the hearth and I stood beside it for a long while, watching the flames dance in the grate as I held the small black book in my hand. More than once, I was only a heartbeat away from tossing it into the heart of the fire, but something within me was unwilling to give my father that final bit of satisfaction.
I tucked it into the pocket of my robes and left my father's house for the last time.