Backstory: If in some smothering dreams you too could pace...
November, 1981
Lucius apparated sloppily into his study. He'd been fleeing, and he tore the mask from his face almost before he'd fully materialized. He found it hard to breathe. With a gesture and a muttered word, he locked the door; he didn't want any bloody house elves wandering in and asking him if he required anything.
Everything had come crashing down. 48 hours ago, if somene had told him Voldemort would have lost the war, decisively, he would have been incapable of believing it. And yet.
He fumbled a little for the decanter of wine, pouring a glass and downing it all at once. He should be thinking. He needed to protect his family, to cover his tracks. He'd been careful; even before now, they'd been too much in the public eye for him to afford sloppiness. But, he had to wonder bitterly, had he been careful enough? He'd spent the better part of the past decade doing all manner of things in the Dark Lord's service, if masked and cloaked as he did so. There were suspicions and rumors, he'd little doubt, especially given his in-laws.
Bellatrix would be captured, he had no doubt. If she was taken alive, she could betray him, but he suspected her love for Narcissa, such as it was, might buy them a reprieve. He couldn't be certain, though. There was no certainty, tonight.
He sank into his reading chair, staring into the fire. For the past several years he had told himself, steadily, that whatever was required, it was done for the larger good. He wasn't squeamish, and it was wartime. Aurors knew what they were in for; muggles, mudbloods and blood-traitors deserved what they'd gotten. And if he hadn't personally agreed with every one of the Dark Lord's views, well, that was only to be expected. He was still the only option; Voldemort would win, he should win. Should have won, Lucius mentally corrected. It had been a long and blood-soaked struggle, and yet it all led here.
With a detached emotion not unlike amusement, he noticed his hands were shaking.
He'd known both Longbottoms at school, at least slightly. He'd had potions with Frank in his seventh year. Alice was younger, a round faced little Ravenclaw girl. They'd both been from pure, old families, though the Longbottoms had always entertained hopelessly naive and progressive views on blood heritage that placed them in a slightly different sphere of wizarding society from the Malfoys. And he'd known they were aurors, of course; unlike Death Eaters, aurors didn't wear masks. But there was a great deal he didn't know. For one, he didn't know if Rodolphus had reason to believe they might know what had become of the Dark Lord, of if they'd simply been unlucky enough to be caught at the moment the Lestranges needed a scapegoat.
Merlin knew that, for Bellatrix at least, it had very quickly ceased to be an exercise in gaining information.
Lucius would have killed the Longbottoms himself, without a moment's hesitation, had it been necessary. But any fool could see they'd no more idea of what had become of Voldemort than the Death Eaters had. Whatever had happened in the Potter house, the couple hadn't been privy to it. He thought they'd have to kill the pair, so they wouldn't testify against those who'd unmasked. But that, it turned out, had been eventually rendered moot.
In the quiet of his study, he could hear the faint echo of the screams of a pair of strong, pureblood wizards who'd taken ages to break. Taking care to master his hands, Lucius poured another glass of wine.
It was over now. He was sure he'd escaped without being seen, when the aurors had come to rescue the Longbottoms. And he knew, without a doubt, that whether Voldemort was alive in some form or, as he deemed more likely, dead entirely, the war had ended. No one had the combination of commitment and charisma to keep the Dark Lord's followers united. Many of them didn't even know one another. Zealots like the Lestranges would go to Azkaban or die resisting capture. Moderates like himself, Nott, Snape - they would have to have a combination of wits and luck, but they could, in theory, fade back into their more public personnas. As if none of it had ever been.
Lucius wasn't entirely sure he knew who he was, without the war.
He covered his face with his hands. He had to think. But nothing came, and for a long time, he simply sat there. The fire reflected off the porcelain mask, forgotten on the floor.
Lucius apparated sloppily into his study. He'd been fleeing, and he tore the mask from his face almost before he'd fully materialized. He found it hard to breathe. With a gesture and a muttered word, he locked the door; he didn't want any bloody house elves wandering in and asking him if he required anything.
Everything had come crashing down. 48 hours ago, if somene had told him Voldemort would have lost the war, decisively, he would have been incapable of believing it. And yet.
He fumbled a little for the decanter of wine, pouring a glass and downing it all at once. He should be thinking. He needed to protect his family, to cover his tracks. He'd been careful; even before now, they'd been too much in the public eye for him to afford sloppiness. But, he had to wonder bitterly, had he been careful enough? He'd spent the better part of the past decade doing all manner of things in the Dark Lord's service, if masked and cloaked as he did so. There were suspicions and rumors, he'd little doubt, especially given his in-laws.
Bellatrix would be captured, he had no doubt. If she was taken alive, she could betray him, but he suspected her love for Narcissa, such as it was, might buy them a reprieve. He couldn't be certain, though. There was no certainty, tonight.
He sank into his reading chair, staring into the fire. For the past several years he had told himself, steadily, that whatever was required, it was done for the larger good. He wasn't squeamish, and it was wartime. Aurors knew what they were in for; muggles, mudbloods and blood-traitors deserved what they'd gotten. And if he hadn't personally agreed with every one of the Dark Lord's views, well, that was only to be expected. He was still the only option; Voldemort would win, he should win. Should have won, Lucius mentally corrected. It had been a long and blood-soaked struggle, and yet it all led here.
With a detached emotion not unlike amusement, he noticed his hands were shaking.
He'd known both Longbottoms at school, at least slightly. He'd had potions with Frank in his seventh year. Alice was younger, a round faced little Ravenclaw girl. They'd both been from pure, old families, though the Longbottoms had always entertained hopelessly naive and progressive views on blood heritage that placed them in a slightly different sphere of wizarding society from the Malfoys. And he'd known they were aurors, of course; unlike Death Eaters, aurors didn't wear masks. But there was a great deal he didn't know. For one, he didn't know if Rodolphus had reason to believe they might know what had become of the Dark Lord, of if they'd simply been unlucky enough to be caught at the moment the Lestranges needed a scapegoat.
Merlin knew that, for Bellatrix at least, it had very quickly ceased to be an exercise in gaining information.
Lucius would have killed the Longbottoms himself, without a moment's hesitation, had it been necessary. But any fool could see they'd no more idea of what had become of Voldemort than the Death Eaters had. Whatever had happened in the Potter house, the couple hadn't been privy to it. He thought they'd have to kill the pair, so they wouldn't testify against those who'd unmasked. But that, it turned out, had been eventually rendered moot.
In the quiet of his study, he could hear the faint echo of the screams of a pair of strong, pureblood wizards who'd taken ages to break. Taking care to master his hands, Lucius poured another glass of wine.
It was over now. He was sure he'd escaped without being seen, when the aurors had come to rescue the Longbottoms. And he knew, without a doubt, that whether Voldemort was alive in some form or, as he deemed more likely, dead entirely, the war had ended. No one had the combination of commitment and charisma to keep the Dark Lord's followers united. Many of them didn't even know one another. Zealots like the Lestranges would go to Azkaban or die resisting capture. Moderates like himself, Nott, Snape - they would have to have a combination of wits and luck, but they could, in theory, fade back into their more public personnas. As if none of it had ever been.
Lucius wasn't entirely sure he knew who he was, without the war.
He covered his face with his hands. He had to think. But nothing came, and for a long time, he simply sat there. The fire reflected off the porcelain mask, forgotten on the floor.