Lucius Malfoy, Walpurgis Memory, 1960's
Archivists Notes: Although preserved within the pensieve, the memory itself is hazily, perhaps indicating that the subject, L. Malfoy, was forced to carry it himself for some time before finding the opportunity to use a pensieve.
It was very cold, his skin was raised in a million tiny bumps and pimples, and the fire, although summer sunshine shone in through the window, was burning behind him, making him shiver as well as sweat- the could feel the droplets running down his face already. The soreness in his lower back and the scratches over his hips and ribs had been caused by that nasty fall from his broom the evening before, never mind that his broom had been locked away since the end of the season, and now the fabric of his clothes bushed painfully against the tender, broken flesh.
His father was watching him, the horrible scratching quill still held tightly in his hand, as if Lucius was a momentary distraction that could be quickly brushed aside. The boy nervously wet his swollen lower lip- another souvenir of last night’s collision with the ground- and he tasted blood. It will never get better if you pick at it his nurses had repeatedly told him when he was younger, he remembered, and he put his tongue quickly back behind his teeth.
It did not help that as he stumbled over his words his father’s gaze grew colder and even more indifferent, such a contrast from the grey eyes that had looked at him with unveiled and uncontrolled lust the night before. For a moment, that lascivious face of the semi-stranger leered at him from behind his father’s desk. He recoiled, and immediately his father snapped for him to stand up straight, and as the boy unthinkingly did, the muscles in his shoulders and spine screamed in protest.
“If you can’t get a grip of yourself, Lucius” his father had said, “then you must return to elocution lessons.” The man had glanced back down at his work, and then up again in annoyance, “And if you can’t get used to the things in life a successful boy must do, then you are no son of mine.”
He nodded mutely, and he didn’t even attempt to meet his father’s eyes as he was dismissed from the room, passing on his way out the dark-haired errand boy, hardly five years older than Lucius, and blessed with effeminate good-looks, as well as a wardrobe filled with Abraxas’ favours, who strutted into the man’s office and shut the door behind him.
It was very cold, his skin was raised in a million tiny bumps and pimples, and the fire, although summer sunshine shone in through the window, was burning behind him, making him shiver as well as sweat- the could feel the droplets running down his face already. The soreness in his lower back and the scratches over his hips and ribs had been caused by that nasty fall from his broom the evening before, never mind that his broom had been locked away since the end of the season, and now the fabric of his clothes bushed painfully against the tender, broken flesh.
His father was watching him, the horrible scratching quill still held tightly in his hand, as if Lucius was a momentary distraction that could be quickly brushed aside. The boy nervously wet his swollen lower lip- another souvenir of last night’s collision with the ground- and he tasted blood. It will never get better if you pick at it his nurses had repeatedly told him when he was younger, he remembered, and he put his tongue quickly back behind his teeth.
It did not help that as he stumbled over his words his father’s gaze grew colder and even more indifferent, such a contrast from the grey eyes that had looked at him with unveiled and uncontrolled lust the night before. For a moment, that lascivious face of the semi-stranger leered at him from behind his father’s desk. He recoiled, and immediately his father snapped for him to stand up straight, and as the boy unthinkingly did, the muscles in his shoulders and spine screamed in protest.
“If you can’t get a grip of yourself, Lucius” his father had said, “then you must return to elocution lessons.” The man had glanced back down at his work, and then up again in annoyance, “And if you can’t get used to the things in life a successful boy must do, then you are no son of mine.”
He nodded mutely, and he didn’t even attempt to meet his father’s eyes as he was dismissed from the room, passing on his way out the dark-haired errand boy, hardly five years older than Lucius, and blessed with effeminate good-looks, as well as a wardrobe filled with Abraxas’ favours, who strutted into the man’s office and shut the door behind him.