Long Lost Lucille
Title: Long Lost Lucille
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Lucille Murphy, Siobhan Potter (nee Murphy), Liam Connolly - all OC's, courtesy of aiseiri_47, Lucas Malory (OC), Hermione Granger, Lucius Malfoy
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, Implied Adultery
Word Count: 4,701
Summary: Like countless other wizards and witches, Lucille Murphy had found herself taking advantage of the fabulous hospitality of Mr Malfoy. Like them, she had gossiped and speculated about his elusive person, revelling in the mysteries surrounding him. And just like everyone else, she had been awed at the sight of his face.
But, unlike others, Lucille was no longer concerned with who he was. Instead, she was rapidly becoming obsessed with what he might be…
Author's Note: This one-shot is a companion to The Magnificent Malfoy, and I strongly recommend reading that story first.
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The air, not quite transparent, was trembling above the street. On the other side, St. James’s Park was slowly crumbling under the heat, and on the pavements Muggles were moving about in slow motion. The city noise, usually so intense and steady, was muffled as if neither vehicles nor people possessed the energy to make themselves heard.
Above it all, on a balcony on the third floor, Lucille Murphy was leaning against the marble balustrade. She was idly watching the scene before her, not really taking it in. All of it - the street and the park and the people and the heat - was just a cardboard décor to frame the reality which was acted out inside her mind.
Flower boxes hung from the banister, and she absent-mindedly reached out to pluck a white clematis. Twirling the miserable-looking flower between her right thumb and forefinger, Lucille sighed. It was too hot to think properly, and she was in dire need of a clever plan. Friday had arrived once more, and she did not mean to let her guardian keep her locked up again.
“I do not care if you have come of age and rights, Lucille. As long as you live in this house, you will do as I say.”
“But -”
“That is not a suitable place for a young woman like yourself. End of story.”
Her sigh was more sad than annoyed as the conversation replayed in her mind. He was being unreasonable, which was not at all like him, and it both bothered Lucille and made her terribly curious. But whatever his reasons were he must think they were good, because he was a man who very rarely raised his voice. In fact, she was not sure if they had ever argued before, which was probably why it hurt so much just to think of it.
Throwing the molested flower over the balustrade, Lucille bit her lip. She was torn like never before, both wanting to run to his chambers to beg him for forgiveness and have his grey eyes look kindly at her again, and wanting to defy his new dictatorship and flee his house for good. Releasing her grip on the marble to gather her skirts, she aimlessly drifted back into her bedroom.
It was slightly cooler in here, and the room welcomed her. It was not extravagant, and perhaps it was not typical for a young woman of her age with its abundance of books and lack of Witch Weekly, but she liked it. The desk was spacious and the bed soft, and a few minutes in the blue armchair would always help to lead her disorganised thoughts back on track. Well, almost always. This afternoon she found no peace there, but got up again after a few restless moments. Instead, Lucille found herself walking over to the closet. What with her eyes being adjusted to the blazing sunlight, she stood blindly in the darkness at first, but her confident hand soon grasped the lamp string and pulled it.
She did not have eyes for her cloaks or robes or dresses, not for her even lines of shoes or any of the fine clothing that his money had bought her. All that she saw was the evening gown that she had cleverly hung on the full-figure mirror, so that her reflection appeared to be wearing it. Mesmerised, she watched herself. It was not that she was vain, no, for even if she always wanted to look her best, Lucille figured that there were things more important in life than ribbons and laces. But this dress… Once she had had the size altered slightly, secretly, it was clear that it could not have been made for anyone but her. There was not another garment in her closet in the same shade of green, not one that fit her figure so well. Wearing it, she knew, both felt like being held by comforting arms, and made her look like a woman. Taking a few steps into the closet, she reached out to touch the silk. A gown. A gown so beautiful, and the cause of so much disagreement.
She had hated Anna, her nurse, nanny and governess, for telling him. But it had been hate wasted, because the older woman would not respond to Lucille’s angry glares and stubborn silence. Anna had meant no harm and probably not known how her employer would react, and the sadness she carried in her eyes soon made Lucille forgive her. It had been a wise decision, Lucille thought now, because of the few true friends she had, the governess was her best confidant, one used to keeping secrets and offering the right words of comfort. She had always made sure to keep a slight distance between herself and the girl, but it mattered very little. Lucille had been so young when she was left in the care of her relative that the Swedish woman was the closest thing to a mother she had ever known. A small smile appeared on her face as she fondly stroked the folds of the dress; she was glad to have her governess in the house still.
“Lucille?”
As if summoned by her thoughts, the woman now stood in her room, hair braided and body dressed in crimson work robes. Lucille fumbled with the lamp string, but was still in the closet when Anna spotted her. A worried look passed over her face.
“You still haven’t returned the dress?”
Lucille shook her head. “No. And I don’t intend to.”
The governess reached out to turn off the light, and in the same motion she caught the hand of her friend and former student. She led her to the bed, where they both sat down on the blue spread.
“Tell me, Lucille, why it matters so much to you. It’s just a dress. Why not return it and make peace with Mr Malory again?”
“It was a gift. You know that I never return gifts.”
Anna raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me that’s your only reason? Why do you want to keep it so badly?”
“Why does Lucas want me to get rid of it so badly?”
“I’m guessing that it hurts his pride when you accept charity from a stranger, as if he couldn’t afford to buy you clothes himself.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Lucille burst out.
“That,” Anna smiled, “is the logic of a man and a father.”
“But he’s not my father,” Lucille mumbled, her gaze dropping to the bedspread.
“No. But you have lived in his house for sixteen years, and you’re closely related. He cares about you, Lucille, very much.”
The older woman stroked her hand again, and when Lucille lifted her chin and met her eyes, they were filled with sympathy.
“Will you please return the dress, dear?” Anna asked gently.
“No,” Lucille replied firmly, without pulling her hand away. “And it is not about the dress, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
Lucille was surprised. Seeing how close they were, she always assumed that her guardian and her governess discussed these things; that they had no secrets from one another. But what did she know? Perhaps they had better things to talk about when they withdrew to the library in the evenings.
“Lucas won’t let me attend the parties at Malfoy manor.”
Anna was silent for a moment. “So that was where you went, in Wiltshire?”
“Yes, twice, and it was amazing. I want to go again.”
The gaze of the older woman drifted then, through the window, out of focus and into infinity. For a brief while, nothing was heard but the distant bustle of the streets. Lucille waited patiently for Anna to gather her thoughts. At last, she squeezed Lucille’s hand slightly, and stood up with a small sigh.
“Do what you must, my dear. I don’t doubt that your uncle will come around.”
“I do,” said Lucille glumly.
“In any case, good luck,” Anna winked. “I’m travelling with Saga and Henrik to Merridown today, so we won’t see you for about a week. Unless you want to come with us?”
“No thank you,” Lucille said.
Her friend only nodded, and then she was alone in the room again.
Lucille leaned back on her bed, her eyes following the swirls and patterns of the tall ceiling while her thoughts lingered with the children, who were loosely labelled as her ‘cousins’. Saga was Lucas’ daughter, and Henrik Anna’s son, and although they were not related, Lucille supposedly had family ties to both of them. She snorted at it where she laid, the heat not allowing her mind to untie the complicated knots that made up her family. She closed her eyes, and thought of Lucas. To him, Lucille knew, she was definitely related. He was usually introduced as her uncle, but it was not his official title that had her convinced. They had been given the same posture, same little gestures and similar facial features. The same eyes. And clearly, the same stubbornness.
They had never forbid her to ask questions. They had just refused to answer. When they had discovered her, eleven years old and trying to write down the names of all of her know relatives on parchment, no one had shouted, but the scroll had gently been removed from her and she had never seen it again. There were no tomes of names and records in the library, and no family tapestries decorated the walls of the London flat or the Hampshire estate.
Opening her eyes, Lucille rolled over on her side and stared at the wallpaper. Her thoughts were running wild again, with suspicions and theories on why Lucas was acting the way he did, on what his reasons were. It made very little sense. Or perhaps it made perfect sense; she could no longer tell. Confused and frustrated and bothered by the hot air, she felt her eyelids droop.
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“Lucille?”
The whisper was soft. As was the hand on her shoulder, and the glow of the streetlights. She could not estimate how long she had been asleep, but dusk had come and gone and the temperature had dropped somewhat. She sat up, and met his grey gaze.
“What do you want?” Still upset with him, she did not care about being polite.
“I sent Herby to fetch you for dinner, but he said that you were sleeping.”
“I might as well sleep, seeing as I have nothing better to do or no place better to be.”
“Lucille… Why are you being so difficult with this?” Lucas reached out for her hand, but she moved away from him.
“I’m not being difficult…” she mumbled, not sure of herself when his voice was so gentle.
“Did I ever deny you anything but this?”
She only needed to think for a second before answering him. “No.”
“Then why won’t you trust my judgement, just this once?”
“Because you have no reason to forbid it, uncle Lucas!”
She had not meant to mock the title that was supposed to tie them to each other, but it was done. Bracing herself, she waited for him to raise his voice, speak harsh words, or simply leave. But he remained where he was, still calm.
“I have reasons. I just don’t think that you are ready for them, yet.”
“When will I be ready, then? I’m almost eighteen years old!”
Lucille had leaned forward to emphasise her words, but now it was Lucas who put more distance between them. He got up from his place at the very edge of her bed, and walked over to the French door that opened up to her balcony. She watched him, his tall, dark silhouette against the orange city lights, and desperately wished that she knew what he was thinking. He stood there, motionless, for a little while. When he walked back to where she was sitting, his expression had changed somewhat.
“Can you tell me precisely why you want to go there?”
“Why does anyone want to go to a party? The people. The atmosphere, the mingling, the food!”
“But there are other parties. Plenty of them in London.”
“I’m not interested in them. I want to go to Wiltshire, and I ought at least to show the host how well the new evening gown fits me.”
She had expected that to be the end of their discussion, that bringing up the dress would infuriate him. But he remained perfectly composed.
“You had better go and put it on, then.”
“You’re going to let me go?” She could not believe it.
“I don’t see how I have a choice in the matter. If I force you to stay here you will be miserable and cross with me. If I let you go, you will hopefully be content.”
He reached out again, and this time she let him hold her hand.
“Little Lucille… I only ever wanted for you to be safe.”
“I know. Thank you, Lucas.”
She placed a kiss on the back of his hand, quite like she had used to do as a very small girl. In response he released Lucille’s hand to stroke her hair; an affectionate gesture so very rare from him.
“Get dressed. I will Disillusion a carriage for you.”
As Lucas left the room, Lucille saw that he carried a smile on his face. Whatever his connection to her was, his facial expression then was one of a father, or an uncle. Or a brother, even.
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Malfoy Manor and its surroundings were all alight when Lucille stepped out of her carriage. She caught a scent of the festivities as her foot touched the ground, and at once her heart started beating harder with excitement. Last time she had come with two friends, but just like her they had been forbidden to come here again. Now she was on her own, for good and for bad. Not admitting it to herself, she still felt a flicker of nervousness in her stomach as she approached the gates.
Once inside, she had to pause for a moment to take in the scene. The garden was even more crowded than it had been last time, and all the people seemed to be wearing brighter clothes, shinier jewels, and their exuberant laughter rippled through the air.
“Miss? May Tessie take your cloak, miss?”
Startled, she looked down at a sweet, wrinkled house-elf.
“Oh. Thank you,” Lucille said and freed herself of the light summer cloak. A couple of wizards who were passing by looked appreciatively at her then, and she suddenly felt exposed. But as she started to move, and felt how the corset piece hugged her upper body and saw how the green layers flooded around her legs, the feeling faded. She could have passed for a princess that evening, and Malfoy Manor was a backdrop worthy of her show.
Most of the faces were unknown to her, but mingling was easy nonetheless. A glass of champagne appeared in her hand without her really noticing how, and she was caught in the never-ending stream of empty words that was supposed to pass for conversation. The lights were blinding and the multitude of perfumes overwhelming, and when Lucille tilted her head back she could see no stars on the black vault. The orchestra played as if under an Imperius curse, and the barrels of mead and bottles of wine seemed bottomless. Lucille felt how her grasp of reality and directions was rapidly escaping her, but only a ghost of doubt passed through her mind before she let herself go with the intoxicating flow of the night.
She noticed nothing of relevance or meaning before the chiming of a bell signalled that supper was about to be served. The swirling river of party guests altered its direction, and Lucille realised that she was now on her own, companionless, and without friends to dine with. She looked around, desperate for a glimpse of someone she had spoken to at least once before this evening. When she finally saw a face that was if not familiar, then at least known to her, she forgot all about shyness and quickly made her way through the moving crowds.
“Miss Granger?” Lucille nearly did not recognise her own voice; it was so distant, not quite hers, almost as if spoken by her mirror reflection.
The famous woman turned back to look at her. She was perhaps not the most beautiful lady of the party, but Lucille was sure she was among the most well-respected. This evening Hermione Granger was clad in grey velvet, and her hand rested on the arm of that man with curly red hair, whose name Lucille could not recall, but whose face seemed oddly familiar.
“Good evening… Lucille, is it? Forgive me, I have forgotten your surname.”
“It is Murphy, but that’s quite all right. Excuse me for being so forward, but I was wondering if I may join your party for supper?”
Miss Granger did not even exchange a glance with her escort. “You certainly may. Liam?”
After giving her a look which Lucille could not quite interpret, the man offered her his other arm and began to guide them towards the tables. He did not seem all too burdened by the task, Lucille thought.
“Murphy, eh? That was my half-sister’s maiden name,” he remarked in a clear Irish accent.
Lucille only nodded and smiled. ‘Murphy’ - whose maiden name was it not? The days had long since passed when she would react on the name in the Daily Prophet or on the Wireless, wondering if the person mentioned might be related to her. There were simply too many Murphys around for it to be likely.
They joined a group of what seemed to be light acquaintances as opposed to close friends, and settled before filled plates. But as the others began to eat, Lucille realised that food was the last thing on her mind. As most guests were seated, she found that it was much easier to get a clear view of the people assembled. Craning her neck, she tried to find the right face among the hundreds.
“Looking for anyone in particular?” Miss Granger’s voice sounded amused rather than curious.
Blushing slightly from being caught, Lucille answered: “I was only keeping an eye out for Mr Malfoy. I’d hoped to get a chance to speak with him tonight.”
“Ah, the elusive host.” This time she did exchange a meaningful look with the Irishman. “I’m sure we will be able to locate him once supper is finished.”
Lucille tried to focus on her knife and fork, and the discussion on elfish welfare that Miss Granger had engaged the rest of the table in, but her attention continued to drift. Her memory of Mr Malfoy was very vague, as she had had her fair share of wine when he had so kindly insisted on knowing her name and address to be able to replace the dress she had torn on a chair. That had been at the end of her first visit to one of his parties; last time she had not seen him at all.
Elusive is the word, she thought and put a cherry tomato in her mouth.
She had listened to the gossip about Mr Malfoy, and spread some of it herself, but as she kept glancing around for a glimpse of his face, or his light blond hair, Lucille realised that she no longer cared who he was. She had become far more interested in what he was. She was not daft, and Lucas’ reaction was only one of several clues her mind was trying to puzzle together to some kind of conclusion.
Dinner dragged on, and at last, when the first people rose to invade the garden and the marble dance floor again, Lucille tried to remain where she was. Miss Granger had hinted again that she would help her find their host, so she figured that it would be best to be patient. And still, she kept watching for any sign of him.
“Miss Murphy? Lucille?”
She tore her gaze from a blond man who had turned out not to be Mr Malfoy, and looked attentively at the woman in grey.
“I’m sorry, I -”
But Miss Granger interrupted Lucille’s apology with a pointed nod towards the terrace. Lucille spun around, and something undefined made her heart jump as she saw Mr Malfoy standing there, looking out over the guests and the grounds; his people and his kingdom. She could not say if he was tall, or if it was his confident posture that made him seem so.
“Oh! Do you think I should…?”
Miss Granger nodded in agreement. “Yes, go ahead.” She leaned back into the arms of the red-headed man, and smiled encouragingly.
A little unsteady from renewed nervousness, Lucille got up. Taking a deep breath and summoning all of her courage, she started making her way over to the grand staircase. She halted briefly before the bottom step, and looked up at him. He was still standing in the same spot, his eyes focused on the orchestra. But as she began to climb the smooth marble, watching him all the while, his gaze dropped and landed on her. Lucille’s first impulse was to look away, to turn around and run, but instead she tried to calm the manic beating of her heart, and took a better hold of the skirts so not to trip before him. It seemed as an eternity passed while she made her way up the steps; an eternity during which she experienced fear and excitement, confusion and anticipation, and an endless wonder if there was any truth to her assumptions. His steady look never left her, but there was neither denial nor confirmation to read in his eyes. When she finally reached the end of her journey, he took a graceful step back to allow her some space on the terrace.
“Miss Murphy,” he nodded.
“Mr Malfoy,” she said with a slight gasp, short of breath not from the walk up the staircase, but from the magnitude of the moment.
She remembered her manners, and offered him a hand which he took a gentle hold of, and kissed gentler yet. Straightening his back again, he held on to it for a moment longer.
“That is a beautiful ring you are wearing,” he said, and with a stroke of his thumb he indicated the piece with its clear stone and subtle engravings.
“Thank you, sir. I have been told it used to belong to my mother.”
“She must have been a woman of exquisite taste, then.”
“I suspect so. I never knew her.”
He nodded, released her hand and changed the subject. “Are you enjoying the party, Miss Murphy?”
“I am, very much.”
“Splendid. That makes an old man happy to hear,” Mr Malfoy said with the faintest wink. “So,” he interrupted as Lucille began to form a protest against him calling himself old, “is there anything I can do for you?”
“I wanted to thank you for this dress, Mr Malfoy. You bought it to replace the one I ripped while attending your party,” she clarified, in case he would have forgotten.
But his face told her that he had not. “You are most welcome. And if I may say so, you look stunning.”
“The gown is stunning,” Lucille smiled. “And if it’s not too bold, sir, I’d like to say that your taste is exquisite.”
A soft laugh escaped him, and he bowed his head. “My thanks for such a compliment, miss.”
The sound of his last word died away, but neither of them took the initiative to revive the conversation. Lucille had never stood this close to the mysterious, the magnificent, Lucius Malfoy for so long before. While everything about him was intimidating by nature, she found an unexpected comfort from being in his presence, and she let herself examine his face more closely. Lucille paid less attention to his obvious likeness to the man who called himself her uncle, but more to the explosion of feelings that the very sight of him triggered inside her. Barely aware that she was being scrutinised in much the same way, she opened her mouth to speak.
“Mr Malfoy, I -”
“Would you -”
They were both interrupted by the arrival of a house-elf. Furrowing his brow, Malfoy turned to the creature.
“Yes?”
“Sir, your - your guest upstairs sends me for you,” the elf squeaked. It then glanced at Lucille, as if wondering how much it could say in front of her. “She is saying she is impatient, sir.”
“Very well. Tell her I shall be there directly.”
The servant disappeared after a swift bow, and Lucius Malfoy turned back to her with a sigh.
“My apologies, Miss Murphy, but this is one guest I must not keep waiting.”
“I understand. Thank you for your time, sir,” she said and curtseyed with well-practiced elegance.
“I hope we will meet again soon,” he said, and ended their conversation with a full bow.
Lucille remained at the terrace, watching him as he walked away. She felt an inexplicable sense of loss as one of the smaller oak doors closed behind him. For a moment she looked across the open space, hypnotised by the ring handle that was still swaying. Then, without knowing why, or what her intentions were, she hurried over the terrace to follow him.
She had expected the door to be locked, but found that it swung forward without a sound when she lifted the heavy handle. A small room appeared inside, with another door to the right, and a set of steps that twisted up to the left. Lucille thought that she saw a shadow disappear in the staircase, so after closing the door carefully, she followed in what he hoped to be his track.
The chase led her through corridors, past a small library, and up several more staircases. It was difficult to keep up with his steps, and Lucille tried to hurry although she was terrified of what he would say, or do, if he turned back and discovered her. But he never looked back, and she followed him, unnoticed, inside a dark hall that seemed to lead to a private apartment. She stopped in the shadows, hesitant to walk closer to the light that filtered through the curtains that hung in front of an open door. Her whole body was trembling, and she was almost suffocated by fear of being found. She thought that her slightest movement and her very breathing must surely be heard by whoever was in that room. It was only when she heard voices that she managed to forget about her own worry. Caught by her own curiosity and overwhelming need to finally know, she carefully edged closer to he curtains.
“Lucius, at last. What took you so long?”
The voice belonged to a woman, and through a narrow parting in the fabric, Lucille found a view of her. Her hair was a wonderful shade of red, and it tumbled and curled around her face, past her shoulders and half-way down her back. The displeased frown on her lips was demanding an answer, but her eyes were not; they were demanding something else altogether, and it made Lucille blush in her hiding-place. As the woman wrapped herself around Mr Malfoy, she almost got up to leave.
“Siobhan, wait,” the owner of the manor said and took hold of her upper arms.
“What is it?” she wondered, impatient, judging by her facial expression, but unmoving under his touch.
Lucius Malfoy did not answer at first, but stared in silence at the woman named Siobhan. His words, as he finally spoke, were rushed, as if he feared her response.
“I have made some… research. I found out about your secret, about what you never told me. I see that you had your reasons, and maybe I should have waited for you to share it with me, but…” he trailed off, looking at her for guidance.
“What on earth are you mumbling about?” the woman asked, eyebrows raised.
“She’s here, Siobhan.”
“Who is?”
“Your daughter. Our daughter. Lucille.”
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