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Hungry Thirsty Crazy	By : AndreaLorraine Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 47434 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 34
- 35
- 36
He
hated how trusting her face was, how open...and how brave. That was something he had never had,
and something he was not used to seeing.
A Slytherin's natural reaction to this kind of 'talk' was to be blank,
shut away, sealed to all outsiders.
Give nothing away because one never knows how it could be used against
him. Hermione was the
opposite. In her eyes he could see
everything, the anxiety, the love, determination, and optimism. God, how he
wished he knew what that felt like.

She
made room for him on the bed, scooting over among the blankets. He climbed on and wished fervently that
he was here for something else.
How easy it would be to fall into bed with her, to make love to her like
none of this had ever happened...

But
he had crossed the bridge. Even if
his mind and his mouth could pretend, his face could not. Truthfully, he didn't want to pretend
anymore. Though it had been
necessary, he had not liked keeping things from Hermione. The honesty that existed between them
was perhaps the greatest strength of their relationship and he didn't relish
being the one to upset that balance.
Now it would be reset, though who knew with what consequence...

"Just
tell me," she said softly, sensing his hesitation. It was unsettling to see Lucius like
this. Whatever he held within him
could not be good. Hermione was
unable to stop her arms from twining around him. He gave her a squeeze in return, and that at least gave her
some comfort.

He
swallowed. Then he began. "Do you remember a few months
ago...right after you learned of Pound's extracurricular activities, and I had
been to my mother's estate for the first time since...since I initially found
my book there?"

That
dark time. Yes, she
remembered. It was easy to recall
the feeling that had threatened to consume her until she found the haven of Lucius's
arms. It was a heavy despair, a
feeling that in spite of everything she had done, every battle she fought, and
every way she excelled, that she was still an outsider. A second-class citizen. A fraud in the eyes of the public. She would never forget that feeling, at
least not until the wizarding world forgot its stupid prejudices.

"I
remember."

Lucius
sighed. "I found something at
the estate. I was...going through
the place to see what could be salvaged and what needed to be redone so I could
eventually give it to Draco. I
decided to go into the library. I
felt fine. I was composed, even
thoughtful. I picked up the book
from where I left it. I was paging
through when I found a letter from my father."

Hermione's
eyes widened. If she remembered
correctly, his father had died years ago.
How had one of his missives found its way into Lucius's book?

"My
mother put it there. Apparently he
asked her to give it to me after he died."

Clearly
she was delinquent in that task, as with so many others. "She never did."

"No. I guess this was her way of finally
passing it on," he agreed.

Unable
to contain her curiosity, Hermione asked, "What did it say?"

Lucius
looked away for a long moment. "It
said many things," he murmured, "but the most important part was that
my mother broke down and told him about what happened to me as a child only a
few weeks before he died."

She
closed her eyes. What a shock it
must have been to the haughty elder Malfoy - and to Lucius. And what a coward his mother truly was...

"He
was already very ill by that point.
He couldn't leave the Manor, and our relationship had soured to the
point that I would not have seen him anyway. A letter was his only recourse."

"Would
you have gone to see him if you had gotten it?"

Lucius
nodded. "Yes. I think I would have."

"So
it was...positive, then?"

He
nodded again. "At first I
thought a different man must have written the letter, but...I know how
different a man I was to myself than to Draco, and it was the same with my
father. He wasn't around much, and
when he was, I saw only what he wanted me to." There was a brief silence in which Lucius shook his head in
sad wonder. "I never thought
he would do anything to publicly endanger my family's image or reputation. It shows how little I knew of him."

"What
did he do?" Hermione was
entranced, as surprised as Lucius at this unforeseen dimension of his
father. At least he had come to
his senses and supported his son, even if it was nearly too late.

A
forlorn little smile tugged at Lucius's lips. "He requested a Time Turner."

Her
jaw dropped. "To...to go back
and..."

"Prevent
it."

She
shook her head, a curious adrenaline surging through her. "They would never approve it...too
many years gone by, and too many variables..." Hell, it had taken an awful lot of time and effort and
entreaties by McGonagall to get her a Time Turner for something as simple as
taking an extra class.

"Well,
at first I wasn't sure if he was even telling the truth. We are good liars..."

"He
wouldn't lie to you on his deathbed.
He had nothing to lose."
Of that she was certain. If
his father had been humble enough to reach out, even just in a letter, he would
not dare do Lucius the disservice of lying. A man facing death did not have time for lies - Lucius had
proved that when they first met.

"You
have more faith than I." He
reached out to smooth a hand fondly through her curls. "But you're right. He wasn't lying."

"You
went to the Ministry to check?"

"I
had to know. Let me tell you, that
was a thoroughly pleasant experience," he muttered flatly.

"Oh,
Lucius. Were they rotten to you?"

"Some
of them. Surprisingly, your friend
Potter vouched for me. I suspect
he only wanted a window to warn me about that Edgecombe girl. He really is a puzzle, that one. After their history he should relish
the possibility that Draco might get his heart ripped out by some ginger viper."

Hermione
smiled, warmed by Harry's grudging assistance. "He's not a puzzle. He's just a good man."

Lucius
shrugged. "In any case, the
Unspeakables found the Time Turner request. He really went through with it."

"It
must have broken his heart when they turned him down," she said, feeling a
twinge in her chest.

"That's
the thing, Hermione. They didn't
turn him down."

She
sat up quickly, staring him in the face.
"What?"

"They
approved the request."

"But...but
why...then..."

"They
approved it two days after he died."

Her
face fell. How awful. To think that so many things could have
been prevented if the Ministry's bureaucracy had moved just a little bit
faster...and how terrible his father must have felt, waiting for an answer
until the very moment of his death.

"I'm
sorry, Lucius."

He
winced and shook his head. "Don't
be sorry. In fact, don't say
anything until I finish."

Hermione
sat back on her heels, confused by his vehement reaction. It almost seemed like he was upset by
her apology.

He
went on, no longer looking at her.
"So I was sitting there, in the Time Room, the request in my
hands. I asked the Unspeakable
about a half dozen questions. Then
he asked me...if I wanted to resubmit the request. You see, my father had declared me as a designee on the
original, so I am eligible to carry out the time travel. The trouble was that the original
request was expired. In order to
fulfill the request, it would have to be resubmitted and recalculated to
determine if it was still appropriate.
I don't know what made me say it, Hermione. I don't know why I said yes."

There
were a million questions in her mind and a leaden feeling in her gut. She could see Lucius drawing away from
her, armoring himself for her reaction.

"I
didn't expect anything to come of it.
It was ludicrous. I don't
know why they approved his request in the first place and certainly didn't
think they would approve mine.
Maybe I thought the rejection would bring some kind of closure, or that
it was somehow respecting my father's wishes...I don't know. Weeks passed and I heard nothing, so I
assumed they had not even bothered to calculate it. But then I got the letter that I had been approved."

She
spoke around a lump in her throat.
"Lucius, that's wonderful."

He
made a sound, something between a laugh and a moan. "Wonderful?
No. No, my love..."

"Of
course it's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "You have the chance to do what your father couldn't. You have the chance to save
yourself! Imagine it, Lucius. Imagine never being hurt, never being
betrayed by your mother, never joining Voldemort...just being happy."

At
last he looked at her. "I am
happy now. I am happy with you."

"This
isn't about me." She felt her
eyes becoming glassy with tears. "You
shouldn't even think about me. It's
your life, Lucius, and you have a chance that people wish for every day."

"They
wish for it, but they don't know what it feels like to try to decide between
what you have and what might be."
He swallowed hard. "I
couldn't do it. The Unspeakables
advised me that I could just wait it out, but the time is nearly up, and--"

Hermione
moved forward to envelope him in a tight embrace. "You don't have to explain things to me. You need to do this."

He
pulled her away gently. "But
you understand what it means, don't you?
Everything we have...it will disappear."

She
understood better than he could know.
It hurt to think about it, but it also hurt to think about denying him
this chance. Their relationship
would never be the same. She would
always know that she had prevented him from rewriting a terrible past; the
guilt would be unbearable. And
over time, would he come to resent her for it? He would tell her no, but emotions like that weren't always
fully controllable.

"I
know," she responded, the tears finally spilling over, "but you'll
always regret it if you don't do this."

"I
will regret throwing away our relationship, too. One choice isn't better than the other," he said
hoarsely.

"You
wouldn't be throwing anything away," she said earnestly. "I want you to do this."

Lucius
stared at her. He didn't know what
he had expected when he opened the dialogue. However, it certainly wasn't this. It wasn't her
trying to talk him into it. It was supposed to be him cajoling her into letting him do
it, convincing her not to hate him somehow. If he was looking for resistance, he would find none here.

It
hit him then, just how strong and beautiful and noble and incredible she was. He
had never met anyone in his life that he could describe as altruistic until
now. She wasn't even factoring
herself into the equation. That
was unthinkable for him.
Unthinkable.

All
he could do was remind himself of the real reason he was doing this - the
reason she didn't even need to hear.
This would save her. It
would preserve this wonderful person before him, who had strength of mind,
magic, and character that he could only aspire to.

He
would save her, and maybe someday in the new future...

No,
he would not get his hopes up. He
leaned forward into her embrace, toppling her to the mattress, and held on for
dear life as he released the dam of his emotions.

They
walked into the Ministry separately, but met up again in the dark, tiled
corridors of the Department of Mysteries.
Hermione could only imagine what was going through his head. His greatest mistake had happened here,
and now he was here to try to change everything.

She
reached for his hand. He held onto
her tightly and she wasn't surprised to find that his palm was clammy.

"It's
going to be all right," she said.
She wasn't sure if it was more for him or for herself. She wasn't sure of anything.

He
didn't reply. But he did give her
hand a tight squeeze when they came to the door. Then, with a deep breath, he let go and raised his fist to
knock.

He
felt guilty. He hadn't told her
about the prophecies or the attack they foretold because the Unspeakable had
explicitly said he was not to speak of it outside the Department of
Mysteries. In that respect, his
hands were tied. She thought he
was here to try to save himself, when in reality he was here to save her.

He
still couldn't comprehend her altruism.
If their positions were reversed, he would have advised her not to do
it. His need for her would have
trumped whatever she needed because
he was greedy. Greedy,
self-centered, and spineless.

Lucius
tried not to think about how these might be the last moments of their time as a
couple. He told himself that it
didn't matter; as long as she was alive, he would be happy. It was better to be alone by choice
than by circumstance.

She
stayed with him as he was led to yet another part of the Department of Mysteries. The Unspeakables said nothing, though
he was certain that Hermione's presence confused them. All except one; 47 was there, and he
seemed unfazed by it all. It gave
Lucius comfort where little else could, for he recognized now that 47 was
almost certainly the better kind of Slytherin. He knew it in his gut.

It
was 47 who took him aside and gave him the robes he was to wear. Lucius felt like a gladiator being
outfitted for his last great battle.
Glory and agony...

Hermione's
stomach churned as she watched him.
They had insisted that he wear all black since he was going back to a
night scene. He looked as he had
the first time she saw him in the Department of Mysteries: draped in black
fabric that moved like smoke, his pale hair a stark and sumptuous
contrast. His face couldn't have
been more different, though.

That
day it had held so much cold detachment.
Smugness. A predatory
glaze. That day he had been a
hunter, an experienced, confident specialist who was sure of his kill before he
even made it. Today he looked like
a regular man sent to slay a dragon – a man with nothing but a sword,
which may as well have been a toothpick to his quarry.

The
Unspeakables were silent as they prepared him. They, too, felt the strange momentousness of this. Perhaps they wondered why Hermione
Granger, Muggleborn war princess, was the one to accompany Lucius on this very
personal mission. She didn't worry
about it; they would speak of it amongst themselves, but their job prohibited
them from ever mentioning it outside this room.

"Are
you ready, Mr. Malfoy?" one of the black-robed Unspeakables said.

"Yes,"
Lucius nodded.

"All
right. Once you complete the
required number of turns with the time-turner, you will find yourself in this
room in 1966. Someone has already
gone back to ensure the room will be clear and they have placed a portkey to
Wiltshire for you to use. Activate
this portkey and you will find yourself on the path to your home. As we have told you before, you may use
only what force is necessary to prevent the incident from occurring. In this case, reasonable force has been
determined to be a Confundus charm.
Do not be seen. Do not
speak to anyone. Return to the
Ministry with the same portkey and then to the present with the time-turner. We understand the delicate nature of
this request, so we will try to give you privacy. However, there will be a Department of Mysteries
representative monitoring you, so if you diverge from this course of action, we
will know. The full force of the
law can be brought upon you if you attempt to alter the past in any way besides
what we have laid out here. Is
that understood?"

"Perfectly."

"Very
well." The Unspeakable
extracted a time-turner from his pocket.
It was silver with stars carved into the paper-thin metal. The small hourglass was filled with
dark volcanic sand. He stepped up
the small platform to Lucius, who bowed his head slightly as the Unspeakable
draped the delicate silver chain around his neck. The Unspeakable indicated the small turning lever that
Hermione was familiar with.

"You
turn here, one at a time."

"How
many times?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Thirteen."

"Lucky
thirteen," Lucius murmured, and placed his hands on the time-turner. "Anything else?"

There
was a slight pause, as if the Unspeakable was unsure of his next words. "Just what I've already told
you. Remember, with time travel,
everything that is meant happen has already happened, whether it's in the past
or the future. Trust your
instincts. And--"

"There
is always another option," Lucius finished.

"Yes. Now, if you're ready, you may go
back. Number 96 will be waiting
for you."

Lucius
didn't do it right away. He looked
at the time-turner, then at Hermione.
He didn't bother to try to hide the uncertainty in his eyes.

"I'll�I'll
be here when you get back," she choked out, forcing a smile.

His
jaw tensed. Yes, she would
be. That was why he was doing
this. To make sure she would live. To make sure she would be here.

"I
know you will," he said softly.
Then he took a great, calming breath, gathering his resolve, and he
began to turn.

The
people blurred away almost instantaneously. It was disorienting, but he kept his eyes open. This was probably the only time he
would experience this. He watched
the years melt away, and�

In
a stab of peculiar irony, he saw himself in reverse, running through this very
room in his Death Eater robes. If
he had any sense at all, he would stop the turning right here and grab that
foolish man and explain exactly what would happen if he went on. Ah, but then he would either go mad or
be arrested the moment he returned, and he didn't fancy a second trip to
Azkaban for preventing the first.

So
that scene spiraled away and so did many others, back, back, back�

And
then he was at thirteen. He
stopped. The world slowed and
congealed around him once more.

It
was eerily silent. It was the same
room he had left, for certain. It
was empty and dimly-lit. He could
hear the sound of the deserted Ministry, rooms full of roaring, empty silence
all around him. He had never felt
just how far beneath the ground the Ministry was, but at that moment, he felt
like he was in a tomb.

With
a slight shudder, he scanned the room for the Portkey. The only thing there was a small
paperweight sitting on a stool. It
was in the shape of a cobra, reared up and ready to strike. Someone had an inappropriate sense of
humor. He rolled his eyes and
reached for it.

He
felt the tug in his midsection and closed his eyes. Portkeys always nauseated him if he kept them open. Though, in these circumstances it
probably wouldn't matter, because he was nauseated already.

Then
he was on his feet in the dewy grass.
The heat and lank humidity hit him. He bowed over and dropped the portkey. Just the scent of the night was enough
to bring him back, to force him to remember what it was like to have his face
pressed into the moist grass. How
suffocating it had been, boxed in by the thick air, feeling its deadening
tendrils absorb his screams�

His
hands were shaking. His heart felt
like it was going to beat right out of his chest. Sweet Merlin.
He wanted to prevent it, not relive it, but he couldn't stop the flood
of memories. The stunning lash of
pain. The stink of him. The feel of a man's weight pressing
down on him, trapping him in a cage of flesh. The sundering of his innocence�

He
had to sink to his knees. He hadn't
anticipated this. He thought he
had laid those memories to rest.
It was only too clear that he had merely repressed them. Reintroducing the environment, the
sickly humid night fraught with the smell of earth and grass, dredged it all
back up.

A
hand on his shoulder made him start badly. He was ready to hex whoever had startled him, but he saw
that it was only the Unspeakable who had been assigned to watch over him -
96. He was a tall man, lean,
dressed in formfitting black with a hood pulled low over his face.

"Go,"
he said. "Or the opportunity
will pass."

Gathering
himself as best as he could, Lucius nodded and stood. He wasn't embarrassed to have been seen like that, on his
hands and knees shaking like a leaf in a brisk wind. Anyone who had experienced what he had would feel the
same. He said some jumbled prayer
in his mind – a prayer that he would not lose his mind and kill the
Muggle vagrant the moment he saw him.

He
walked away from the other man, who had disappeared into the shadows. A simple Disillusionment charm made him
blend imperceptibly with the dark night.
The path was out in the open and there would be no cover, so that was
the only way to go unnoticed.

His
heart hurt, physically hurt, when he saw the little boy meandering up the
path. He was beautiful. His cheeks were pink from exertion and
his eyes bore a youthful sparkle.
He wasn't thinking about anything great or terrible. If he recalled correctly, he was
thinking about how wet his shoes were.

That
was the last night he had ever thought of anything so simple. The boy's eyes were downcast, looking
at the ground, his dew-soaked shoes�and there was the man, coming the other
way. Lucius raised his wand. All it would take was one Confundus
charm; it would dash the sick thoughts from the man's head, muddle him, and he
would pass the boy and go on his drunken way.

His
hand tightened around his wand. What
good would it do? A monster was a
monster. If it was not him, it
would be some other child. He
still couldn't believe that he had been the only one. Men with this sort of sickness didn't just strike once. They were predators, insatiable
consumers�the solution was not a Confundus. It was a Killing Curse that he couldn't deliver.

Closer,
closer he drew. Lucius's head
exploded in questions. He had been
trying to ignore them, because he wanted so badly for this never to have
happened. He wanted to grant his
father's dying wish. Above all, he
wanted to save Hermione and prevent whatever massacre that was to come. But somehow, nobody could tell him what
the result would be. All they
could tell him was that it was favorable.

What
the hell did favorable mean? If he
had not been accosted that day, he would have gone home. He would have continued his life as the
Malfoy heir. He would have been
brainwashed by his father, just as he was. Perhaps he would have joined Voldemort, perhaps not. Though, if he hadn't, he suspected he
would have been on the short list of purebloods who needed to die and who had
indeed died in the first war. Was
that a favorable outcome?

And
Hermione. Would he ever meet
her? Know her? Love
her? He thought he had made peace
with his choice, but now that he was in the midst of enacting it, he wanted to
balk.

He
had seen in her eyes how afraid she was.
She was terrified that this would change everything. This would make all that they had
become null and void. She said she
would be there when he returned, but what if he was returning to a world that
was radically changed? There would
be no Hermione, and he wouldn't know his loss.

Favorable. What was favorable?

Hermione
paced. She was trying not to cry,
not to hyperventilate. She was
also waiting for the world to shift around her. She knew how time travel worked, but this situation wasn't
the same as the one she'd faced while in possession of a Time Turner. That had only been a few hours to
change; those hours had not contained much, and so there was no great
consequence to rewriting them.

There
was more than three decades' difference between past and present in this
case. Even with the degree of
logic she possessed, she couldn't see any way that Lucius could change an event
that happened so long ago without radically altering everything that had
happened since. If he was never
assaulted, he would never have grown into the man he was and he certainly never
would have written the book.
Without the book, she never would have crossed paths with him again and
inadvertently begun the chain of events that brought them together. It just wasn't possible.

At
any moment, she expected her memories of Lucius to melt away. In the world that he created with this
change, they would probably never speak, let alone be lovers. He would return without any memory of
why he had gone; only the Unspeakables would know.

But
he would be happy. He would be
whole. He would never have to know
the pain of violation and he would never
give himself to Voldemort. It
would be�favorable.

She
blinked back tears once more. She
knew that in reality, no time was actually passing, but it felt like
forever. And with each moment of
waiting, the heartbreak within her grew and compounded. She had fallen in love with Lucius,
utterly and completely, and she had let him walk away because this was what he
needed to do. She loved him�and so
she let him go.

He
couldn't do it. 'Favorable' wasn't
good enough for him. His life was
favorable now. He was alive, his family was alive, and
the world was free of a madman's tyranny.
He didn't fool himself that that would last long, for there was always
another madman, but this place he was at wasn't so bad. He had come to his senses. He'd seen through the heavy veil of
pureblood rhetoric. He had fallen
in love with an incredible, complex, beautiful, and fulfilling woman. If he changed his past, all of that
would be thrown into question. Who
was that really 'favorable' for?
It had taken him a long time to come to this place of contentment, but
he couldn't give it all up for the avoidance of one terrible pain.

And
the more he thought about it, the more certain he was that the prophecy had not
mentioned that he had to prevent the rape. It had only stated that he had to go back in time. Well, he was here, wasn't he? He had fulfilled the prophecy's
conditions. Through that, he had
ensured that Hermione would be safe.
Wasn't that what he had really come back for?

Besides,
if this was meant to happen, wouldn't he have made it home that night
unmolested? That was how time
travel worked, wasn't it?

Forty-seven's
words echoed in his head. Everything that is meant to happen has
already happened...trust your instincts...there is always another option...

He
sheathed his wand. He heard the
boy's first cries – his own cries.
With his heart in his throat, he turned and walked the other way.

"Sir?"

A
whisper cut through Hermione's panic and grief. When she looked up, she saw that one of the Unspeakables was
addressing the man who was presumably their leader - the one who called himself
47. How he could read the
parchment presented to him with a featureless mask over his face was beyond
her.

"Let
it go," he responded.

"But
sir--"

"I
said let it go. Relay the message." His tone was final.

The
other Unspeakable nodded and hurried away. Hermione could only wonder what the exchange meant...and
what it all meant.

Lucius
knew the Unspeakable was following him.
Why he did not stop him or force him to return, he didn't know. But as long as he didn't, he was going
to figure out something that had nagged at him for years. He was going to see what his parents
had been doing that night.

He
moved through the Manor like a wraith.
They weren't in their bedroom.
Not in the library. His
father wasn't in his study. At
last, he located them in his mother's sitting room.

She
was seated, cheeks red. He was
standing, his posture tight and angry.

"You
don't love me!" his mother shouted.
"You have never loved me!"

"Imogene,"
Abraxas started coldly, "do not even pretend
that you love me. We both know it's
a lie. Why should it unsettle you
more than it does me?"

"I
gave you a son!" she slurred.
Drunk, of course.

"Yes,
and that is about all you have done!" he thundered. "You are a slave to this!" He picked up an empty wine bottle and
waved it at her. "All day and
all night, you drink. You ignore
your son. You have no idea what he is doing. He's been raised by House Elves. Do you even know what day it is? What month?"

"July!"
she fired back angrily.

"All
right, so you look at the paper in the morning when you go for your hangover
potion. What an accomplishment."

She
rocketed unsteadily to her feet. "Don't
you see? This is why I can't
stop. You are so unkind to me!"

Abraxas
put the bottle down. He looked
like he was summoning some great self-control from deep within himself. Lucius had never seen his father look
like that – enraged and pitying at the same time.

"Imogene,"
he said softly, "don't try to blame this on me. You drank before you ever married me."

"I'm
like a pet in this society," she replied bitterly. "Born to breed! I never made a single decision of my
own. As soon as it was legal, I
was shipped off to live in some man's pretty mansion, like a bloody objet d'art!"

"I
have given you everything I can. I
have never tried to hold you
back. I wish you would do something with the money, the influence,
anything!" he exclaimed, tossing his hands in the air. "Start a charity, a book club,
whatever you want. But you don't,
and you won't. You just sit here,
Imogene. You sit here and wallow."

"And
what is it you're doing at work, Abraxas?
You don't need to work sixteen hour days. You don't need to go on all those business trips to China,
though I'm sure you have some pretty witch there to take your mind off your
useless wife!"

"I
have never been unfaithful to you."

She
snorted, but fell silent.

"How
highly you think of me," he sighed.
"But I take our marriage seriously, even if you don't. We are not in love. So what?"

"So
what? That's all you can say about it?"

"Yes,"
he replied. "Because if I
cared more than that, I would be a drunk, too."

"Instead
you're just a workaholic. You are
so much better than me, Abraxas," she retorted coldly. "You pay no attention to Lucius,
either, except to criticize him."

"I
only have to criticize him because he has no direction when I'm not around."

"Maybe
if you were around a little more, it wouldn't be an issue!"

"So
what should I do, hm? Leave my
job? Leave this family with no
income so that I can do your job?"
he growled. "I don't ask much
of you because I know you detest me, but is it so difficult to be a mother to
your child?"

"I
never asked for this!" There
were tears in her eyes.

Abraxas
rubbed his hands over his face. "Neither
did I."

After
a long moment of silence, his posture straightened. He pulled out his wand and flicked it. Some books on a shelf were upset as a
bottle of liquor flew out from behind them. It settled in his hand and he held it by the long glass
neck.

"You
need help, Imogene. I can't love
you and you can't love me, but you can love our son. It isn't too late." He looked at the bottle for a moment. "It's just a few weeks in the
hospital. They can be very
discrete. I would ensure that they
were."

After
that, he turned and headed for the door.
Lucius had to step back quickly.
The look his father wore with his back to his mother was one he he was
familiar with – an expression of great pain, exhaustion, and
despair. He genuinely felt bad for his wife. In the way of children with an
imperious parent, Lucius had never though his father capable of that.

His
mother was crying. For what, he
didn't know. She probably didn't
even know. Abraxas shut the door
and strode away, looking as though he hated the sound of her sobs. Lucius followed in bewildered shock.

Abraxas
went to his study. He collapsed
upon a chaise, the bottle still clasped in his hands. Lucius's eyes widened when a minute later, his father
uncapped the bottle and lifted it.
Merlin, did he have two
alcoholic parents?

He
lifted the bottle, but he never drank from it. His hand stopped.
He sat there, paralyzed for a long minute. And then, with a cry of anger, he launched the bottle at the
fireplace. It shattered against
the stones, splashing its clear contents in a wet swath. He jabbed his wand at the fireplace and
the fire roared to life, quickly burning through the liquor and slowly melting
the glass.

Abraxas
sat there for a long time, staring into the flames. Then he stood up and walked to his desk. By the firelight, he took out some
folders. Lucius looked over his
shoulder. They were work papers.

Understanding
hit him quite suddenly. Abraxas
was no better than his mother. Her
drug of choice was alcohol, and his was work. They both drowned themselves in their respective opium, so
miserable were they with each other�

Lucius
backed out of the room. Neither of
them had ever been able to fight off their demons. His father had worked himself to death and his mother had
drunk herself to death. And he,
somehow, had been caught in between, watching both of them self-destruct,
wanting only a mother, a father...anything.

He
would not do this to Draco. Draco
would marry a woman he loved, and who loved him in return. If that meant the Edgecombe girl, so be
it. If that meant a half-blood, a
squib, or a muggle, so be it. This
couldn't continue in his family.
Enough misery had been wrung out in two generations to last a thousand
years.

He
was standing there in the corridor trying to sort how he felt when the door to
his father's study opened again.
He had to press himself against the wall to avoid the man; he was
walking like he was on a mission.
Perplexed, Lucius once again followed him.

Oh. Oh, he was�

Walking
to his bedroom. Lucius's
bedroom. His heart clenched. If he had gone directly to his son
after the fight with Imogene, rather than to get his hit of work, he would have
known. He would have found out
what happened. He would have
caught the elf still burning the bloody clothes�

He
hung back. He didn't know if he
could bear to look at the child version of himself, lost in a restless sleep,
looking fine on the outside and torn apart on the inside. The smell of mint tea had eradicated the
scent of blood and grass. Ten
minutes earlier. Ten minutes
earlier and Abraxas would have known.

He
heard his father sigh. Then he saw
him lean down and place a gentle kiss across his son's forehead. Only a half hour before, that forehead
had been split and bleeding exactly where his lips brushed. Lucius felt like he could curl up and
die.

He
slid down the wall and sat. There
were so many if-onlys. He had
never known how close he'd been to discovery. He had never known his father had come to him like
this. His mind could hardly
process the way Abraxas sat now, on the bed's edge, staring in rapt attention
at his sleeping son's face. What
he would have given to have seen that look, even once, when he was awake.

Eventually
Abraxas left, closing the door quietly behind him. That left Lucius alone in his old bedroom, the nine-year-old
form of him immersed in nightmares five feet away. And what nightmares they had been, full of faceless men,
full of smells and tastes that choked him until he woke wanting to scream, but
unable to.

God.

Like
his father had done before, he went to the bed. He removed one of his gloves and gave in to the terrible
need to somehow comfort the boy he had been. He could feel the ghost of his own fingers across his
cheek. Tears welled in his eyes.

"I'm
sorry," he whispered.

He
was stunned out of his remorseful concentration by the thump of something
hitting the floor. He lifted off
the bed and whirled. His
Disillusionment Charm was still in place, but he had spoken out loud�

The
House Elf was there. He had
dropped the tea mug on the carpeted floor, startled by the disembodied
voice. The boy in the bed didn't
stir.

"Is�is
someone there?" the elf asked in a tremulous, familiar voice.

Another
thing made sense to Lucius very suddenly.
The look in the elf's eyes as he grew older, crueler, more hateful�that
look that had always incensed him.
The look of undying, patient loyalty - at last, he knew why it was
there.

With
a flick of his wrist, Lucius ended the charm. He blinked into existence. The elf jumped back with a gasp. It raised a trembling, wrinkled brown hand.

Lucius
advanced on the creature until it was backed into the wall. The elf stared up at him fearfully with
wide golden eyes.

"Who�who
are you?"

He
ignored the question. For the
first time in his life, Lucius crouched down, putting himself on level with the
elf. He reached out and took the
servant's thin, pillowcase-clad shoulders.

"Don't
give up on him. No matter what he
does, no matter how awful he is�never give up on him. He will see the
light. Do this for him�for
us�please, Dobby."

If
it was at all possible, the elf's eyes widened even more. But slowly, he nodded.

"Tell
no one," Lucius said softly.

Dobby
nodded again, solemn.

"Thank
you." He rose to his feet
again and turned his back on the elf, retreating.

But
as he slipped out the door, he heard Dobby's low whisper of, "You're
welcome, Master Lucius."

The
Unspeakable was waiting for him in the corridor. He was a silent sentinel, still among the shadows. Lucius didn't quite understand why the
man was letting him get away with all this but he wasn't going to ask
questions. He stopped across from
him, staring across the empty space, unsure what to say or do.

He
wasn't done. He had one more thing
to do. Or rather, one thing he had
already done. It all made sense
now.

Lucius
extracted the time-turner from where it had nestled beneath the collar of his
robe. With one glance at the man
who was following him, he began to turn it. His brain had long since figured out the ratio of turns to
time; ten and a half would bring him where he needed to be.

The
Unspeakable knew he was disobeying even more, and his arm shot out to grip
Lucius's as he turned the time turner.
However, he didn't try to stop him – he just traveled with
him. When he stopped halfway
through the eleventh turn and the world solidified, they stood there for a
moment, the Unspeakable's black clad hand tight about his forearm.

Lucius
watched him. He was certain the
Unspeakable was staring back even though the hood obscured his eyes. After a long, tense minute, his
companion lifted his hand.

He
didn't need verbal permission.
Lucius turned and began to walk.
His parents' bedroom was not far.
He didn't bother with the Disillusionment Charm; he knew the house was
empty.

When
he approached the bedroom door, the stench of almost-death hit him. Just beyond the slab of wood, his
father was losing his battle against Dragon Pox. He hadn't been there.
Of course, the excuse of it being contagious and him having a young son
was, on the surface, a good enough reason not to be. However, they all knew that he would not have gone, anyhow.

Two
years after his father died, a vaccine had at last been developed for Dragon
Pox. Lucius had seen to it that
he, Narcissa, and Draco all got it.
Their pictures had been in the Daily Prophet; his father had been one of
the highest-profile people to die of Dragon Pox in recent memory. His death had galvanized the pureblood
medical community to eradicate the disease – a bit of egocentric
self-preservation that had benefited everyone.

Since
he'd been vaccinated, he could go in there now with no fear of contracting the
disease. And he knew he was meant
to go in there. After his father's
death, his mother had sent him a letter, one that had been a jumble of emotions
– but the predominant one had been anger at Lucius for refusing to see
him before he died.

She
had no right to be angry at him, and he still believed that. But there was one thing she had
written�

You should know that your
father called out for you before he died.
He screamed, begged for you, shouting, "Lucius, come back! Come back!" until he was hoarse.

The
aim of it had been to make him feel guilty. He hadn't – somehow, he had never been able to muster
the feeling, and was only filled with anger at her. He'd never understood his own emotions on the subject�but
now, it was becoming clearer.

He
grasped the door knob and turned it.
The smell was worse inside the room; sweat and the fester of disease
filled the air. Abraxas was
alone. He knew his mother had
never loved her husband, but for her to guilt Lucius about not being there, and
then to be absent herself�

He
approached the bed without fear.
Abraxas lay there, still, jaundiced, a sheen of sweat upon his
sore-riddled brow. Even in rest,
his face was tight with pain. This
was a death Lucius wouldn't wish on anyone, not even his inadequate father.

"Father,"
he said softly.

Abraxas
didn't stir.

Lucius
reached out to shake his bandaged arm gently. The pain woke him; his blue eyes flew open and he
moaned. His eyes were bloodshot,
wide, and slightly crazed. Lucius
could feel the heat of his fever through the layers of bandages. He was burning alive.

"Father,"
he said again, with more force.

The
wild blue eyes fixed on him. Then
they drifted away; he thought he was hallucinating.

"Abraxas."

"Are
you real?" he rasped through split, raw lips.

"Yes."

"Lucius�shouldn't
have come�you'll get sick�"

"I
won't."

Abraxas
couldn't focus on him. His eyes
were drooping. He didn't realize
that this wasn't his son of the present.

"I
wanted to thank you, father."

He
attempted a bark of laughter; it sounded more like a cough. "For what?"

"For
trying to fix it."

"Fix�what?"

"For
trying to prevent my rape."

That
made his eyes pop open. Abraxas
tried to sit up, groaning through his teeth as the action tore open
precariously healed sores. Lucius
placed gentle hands on his fabric-wrapped shoulders.

"Don't. You're too weak."

"You
shouldn't know about that. I didn't
tell her. She wasn't supposed to
give you the letter until after I died."

Lucius
looked into his panicked eyes. "She
did what you asked of her."

The
strength drained out of his father.
"Then you're�"

"Yes."

Lucius's
ears caught the sound of footsteps.
His mother was coming.

"I
have to go. Thank you,
father. I forgive you, and�"
he shook his head at the dying man, "somehow I love you."

With
speed and strength he shouldn't have had, Abraxas clamped on to his arm. His eyes brimmed with tears. "Don't leave. Don't leave me. She will leave me alone to die."

"I
can't stay," he responded softly.
With practiced hands, he pried his father's fingers from his arm. He recast his Disillusionment Charm and
disappeared from sight.

"Lucius!"
his father cried. "No! Don't go!"

He
knew Abraxas was partially
delirious. He knew it was pain and
fear that made his voice so desperate.
His mother wouldn't believe him.
Still, he couldn't force the man's words from his mind. She
will leave me alone to die.

He
stayed. He stood there, hidden,
while he screamed.

"Lucius! Come back! Please! Please,
come back. Please�Lucius!"

His
mother came in. She tried to calm
him, but not terribly hard. Most
would have given him a Calming Draught or a Dreamless Sleep potion; she couldn't
be bothered. With one last sharp
statement of, "Lucius is not here, Abraxas! Just like his bloody father," she swept from the room.

And
so, Imogene Malfoy left her husband to die alone, exacting revenge for a crime
Abraxas had never purposely committed.
But Abraxas wasn't alone, because Lucius stayed, and right before his
sire closed his eyes forever, he reached out to touch his sweaty, splotchy
cheek. At the cool contact of his
hand, Abraxas stilled. Rationally,
he couldn't know Lucius was there – his mind was too ravaged by the
fever. But instinctively, he
knew. He knew and he let go.

Lucius
understood why there had been no guilt over his father's death. He knew why his conscience was clean on
the matter. He had been there. He had been there all along, in an
impossible temporal paradox. And
his mother was the villain, the cold woman who had never been able to forgive
Abraxas for marrying her, for forcing her to bear a child she didn't want
– for tying her into a life of pureblood protocol and boredom.

He
couldn't muster much sympathy for her.
His ex-wife's sister, Andromeda, had felt the same and she had done
something about it. She had gone
her own way and been disowned for it.
Imogene could have done that.
Instead, she chose to passively torture those around her until everyone
was just as miserable as she was.
She had succeeded on all counts.

Lucius
closed his father's vacant blue eyes, so like his own, and left the room. He crossed into the space of the large
closet between his parents' rooms.
Anti-infection wards had been set; he felt them tingle over him, killing
whatever he brought with him. As
long as he left out of his mother's room, he would not bring the infection back
with him.

He
peered into his mother's room. She
was asleep in bed with an empty wine glass still loosely clasped in her
hand. When she dropped it, she
would be startled awake and realize that her husband was dead. It would be the happiest moment of her
life.

Lucius
took a deep breath to temper the hatred that rose in him. What was done was done. He couldn't linger here much longer.

Walking
softly, he left her room. His feet
carried him through the corridors, to the foyer, out the door. There, on the sprawling lawn, the
Unspeakable waited for him.

Lucius
walked up beside the man. He held
out his left arm. Understanding,
the Unspeakable once again grasped it.
With his right hand, Lucius turned the Time-Turner the remaining two and
a half turns. When they were back
in the right time, he reached into his pocket for the Portkey.

He
hesitated a moment, taking in the forbidding visage of his ancestral home. At that moment, he vowed that its walls
would never again witness so much pain.
From now on there would be only happiness.

With
a solid feeling of rightness aligning in his chest, Lucius activated the
Portkey.

He
blinked into sight so suddenly that she couldn't believe her eyes. Hermione cried out and ran to him. The Unspeakable that held his arm quickly
relinquished it, lest he be caught in the embrace with which Hermione smothered
Lucius.

She
knew everything was all right when he squeezed her back.

"Is�is�"
she stammered to his chest, "are you�?"

He
pulled back slightly, holding her at arm's length. His eyes, indescribable at that moment, held hers. "Hermione, I didn't do it."

She
blinked. It took a long moment for
his statement to process. "What? Why didn't you?" Tears welled in her eyes. He was supposed to change
everything. He was supposed to be
happy. Why hadn't he done it?

"I
couldn't," he said softly.

"Why?"
she repeated, tears cascading down her face. She wanted Lucius to never have known that feeling of pain
and violation. She felt so
terrible and greedy for being happy
that he had changed his mind.

His
palms cupped her cheeks. "If
I change my past, you will never be my future." He leaned forward and kissed her gently, knowing that the
Unspeakables were watching in shocked confusion. Then he went down on one knee.

"Hermione,
will you marry me?"
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