Entry tags:

fic: lucius, rating: r

Fic: the secret is to know when to stop
Title: The Secret Is To Know When To Stop
Character: Lucius Malfoy
Warnings: violence, dark themes, and mentions of minor character death and abuse
Word count: ~1,400
Rating: R
Summary: First night, and the Dementors come. They’re in the hallway, as close to him as they can get without passing through the shields on the bars, and he’s lying on his back on the cot, looking at his fingers...

Notes: I have absolutely no idea where this came from - it just sort of happened. At any rate, it's a character study, of sorts - a look at Lucius in Azkaban, with Dementors, because I wanted them there. Also, it's self-beta'd, so feel free to point out any mistakes I've left in.

the secret is to know when to stop

“Every story has its chapter in the desert, the long slide from kingdom
to kingdom through the wilderness,
where you learn things, where you’re left to your own devices.”

- richard siken, ‘driving, not washing’


I: They bind him, chain him, and drum a little bit of madness into him with the point of a needle; brand him like an animal, a number etched into the skin of his wrist just above the Dark Mark. They’re trying to make a point, he thinks, trying to reinforce an idea - but he’s not here because he’s a Death Eater, he’s here because he was caught being a Death Eater, and that matters. Somehow, that matters.

The cell’s a square – six feet by six feet of cracked granite, a row of bars set high in one wall for a window, a bigger set of bars between him and the hallway. A slab of stone for a bed - worn down in the middle, smoothed out from the bodies that have been there before - and one ratty blanket folded on top of it. No privacy, but he’s used to having people watch his every move; and no comfort, but he’s done without before.

Cold, too, and going to get colder. But it’s only three steps to the window, the bottom of it just above his eyes, and he rests his forehead against the stone, feels the breeze in his hair, laced with sea-spray, the smell of salt and brine. They’ve left him the wind. They’ve left him the air.

And that’s more than enough.

II: First night, and the Dementors come. They’re in the hallway, as close to him as they can get without passing through the shields on the bars, and he’s lying on his back on the cot, looking at his fingers, curling his hands in and out of fists, waiting, and – the healer’s gone and you’re standing in the hallway, staring at the wall, one hand – he’s cold, but there’s moonlight and moonlight is better – curled around the handle of the door; you take a breath before you go – than heat in this place, anyway. – in.

The Dementors are here, they’re in the hallway, and he isn’t looking at them, is still watching his fingers, but he can hear them, - and she's curled up on the bed, arms around her stomach, too tight, the strain showing at her elbows, in the lines of her naked back, and you don't know how to fix her, you don't – the rustle of them moving, like the wind passing through leaves strewn across stone, the ebb and flow of their breathing-not-breathing - know how to fix this. – and he’s not going to look. He’s not going to look.

III: Three days – the sweat on his skin gone cold, sound of snapping bone hanging in the silence between each breath, your heartbeat slowed to a crawl and your hands feel numb, your wrists, - and they’re coming in the dawn, in the daylight, at night, and all the while he watches the ceiling and the dust swirling in the shafts of moonlight or sunlight; - your wrists make a snapping sound when you move them, like you've broken them, like you've broken your body along with his – or, if there’s no light, if it’s raining or cloudy, then in the back of his mind he’s counting the cracks, counting the cracks over and over again, just a little bit of order so he can think properly. Because the whole point is that he has to keep his brain occupied, has to keep himself - and some part of you thinks that this might be the part where you're supposed to say 'I'm sorry', only – thinking and contemplating and planning; he has to keep planning - you're not, really. Really, you’re not.

IV: The guards like to look at him, like to observe him, like to taunt him, and he watches them curl their hands around the bars, can smell the chocolate they’ve eaten, can hear the echo of the Dementors travelling through the prison somewhere beyond them, and – there will always be blood, – sometimes he thinks about killing them, about how easy it would be, about – know this: there will always be blood, and you will – how if he concentrated he could get his hands past the charms on the bars and – always remember. – snap their necks, one by one.

V: And later, weeks later, when the first guard fists a hand in his hair, and the second gets both his wrists, his smile is more of a flash of teeth than anything else, because it doesn’t matter, because they haven’t subdued him, not really; because he’ll always be dangerous, and killing them almost isn’t worth the effort. But he does it anyway, just to prove he can.

VI: Know this: – There’s nothing in the way of elegance in the beating, it’s - there will always be blood and you – all fists and feet, all brute force, no art at all. And it’s somewhere in the middle of it that he finds himself wishing – will always remember; you will not escape it. – they’d bring in someone who knew how to do it right.

Know this.

VII: If he stands in the right place he can see the stars through the window when the Dementors come – ‘You do it because you love me, boy. Because you love me.’ – and stay there, feeding his hands into the spill of moonlight that’s brushing up against his toes, watching the light illuminate his skin, the little flashes of magic trapped in his fingertips. He brings a hand up to his mouth, – and there you are, saying your answer against the pillow, the silk clinging to your tongue, taste of – and flicks his tongue over the pad of his thumb just to taste it, the fizz of it, to feel the echo of it in his blood, in his head, behind his eyes – blood in the back of your mouth. Saying 'But I don't. You know I don't' as if this time it might make a difference, might actually matter, even though – and all of it spilling through him like one long shivering note on a violin, like an orgasm, a rush of heat – you know it won't, even though you know it's not the answer he wants and now you're going to have to pay for it – and pleasure, the release of pressure built up by containment. And he closes his eyes, tilts his head to the side, a lock of hair in one eye; – because those are the rules of the game and they aren't going to change just because – the Dementors are shuffling restlessly in the hallway, someone’s screaming in a cell not far away, but none of it matters because there’s fire in his blood and – you don’t want to play along. – he’s not going to let it go away.

VIII: “Start at the beginning,” the Auror says, hands clasped together on the table, resting his weight on his elbows, leaning forward – he’s not far enough away. They haven’t put him far enough away – the rain, remember the rain, how you didn’t shield yourself against it, how – and that means they haven’t learned. That they think that he’s going to do things the easy way, that he’s going to follow the rules this time, but he’s – you let it soak through your robes, the fabric clinging to your skin, wrist to elbow, elbow to shoulder, the droplets running down the line of your neck as you looked at the – never been good at that.

“No,” he says – people, all of them either burned or still – a flash of teeth, one eyebrow arched, the beginnings of smile. “Everyone starts at the beginnings. Let’s begin at the ends.” – on fire.

IX: There’s frost on the wind, and he’s watching the man in the cell across the hallway, watching the line of his back, watching his shoulders – and wishing, a little absently, that he could fuck him, because he really isn’t half bad.

X: When you draw the knife from its sheath it – The same Auror again, asking the same question: “Where does it end, then? Tell me where it ends.” He wonders why they bother. It’s not like he’s saying anything – makes a rasping sound like scales against stone, and you hold it firmly in one hand for a moment, feeling the weight of it, and say ‘before – worthwhile. It’s not like he’s ever going to.

“It doesn’t.” – we begin, I want you to know that – “It must. Everything ends.” – you will not enjoy this.’

“Not this.”


~ fin.