Title: Memory and Desire
Author: Lady K. d’Azrael - miltonic_satan@hotmail.com 
Pairing(s): Harry/Lucius
Rating: NC-17.
Summary: Harry is missing some memories - and suspects Lucius has taken them. 
I know the old ‘amnesia’ chestnut sounds like a plot line from Sunset Beach, 
but it’s not like that at all!
Disclaimer: No profit made. As if anyone would pay me for this stuff. Everything 
belongs to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros.
Authors Note: Written under the influence of Moloko and sneakily stolen violet 
creams (apologies to my dad for the latter). Also written when I should have been 
doing other things, like reading boring Middle English morality plays. Oh well. 
Since it is my compulsion to display my pretentious book-learning to the rest 
of the world, you should know that ‘consummatum est’ (‘it is finished’) is both 
Jesus’ last words on the cross and Dr. Faustus’ first after he sells his soul 
tot he devil - ooh, check out me with the sly post-modernist plagiarism. 
Thanks to: Sarah, my muse with a scourge. ‘Ah, the tears rolled down our 
cheeks, but whether from mirth or despair I know not.’

***

Unease

‘ . . . Mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain . . .’
                         [T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land]

Harry knew something was wrong, that he was not himself. He no longer knew 
his own mind. Things had seemed normal at the start of lower sixth year, but 
one phrase from Ron set it off; this feeling of unease.
“Where were you last week?”
“What?” Harry had looked up from the book he’d been reading in the firelight 
of the common room and blinked at Ron.
“Last week. You wrote to tell Hermione and I that you’d meet us in Diagon Alley 
on Wednesday, but you didn’t show up. I forgot all about it ‘cause we were so 
glad to see you on the train, but where were you then?”
It was primarily a physical feeling that assailed Harry - his body reacted to 
something his mind could not sort out. His stomach contracted, as if some spectre 
reached inside him with unseen fingers and wrenched his bowels. He grimaced and 
the quill he’d been chewing dropped from his ink-stained fingers
“I . . . I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean? Did those Dursley’s give you a hard time?”
“Er . . . yes, I suppose they must have.”
Ron was not generally the most perceptive of people, but at Harry’s confused 
statement his brow furrowed. 
“Harry - are you okay?”
“Yeah, fine. I just don’t want to talk about it at the moment. You know - family 
stuff. Excuse me.” Harry got up and walked quickly to the bathrooms were he vomited 
and then sat slumped in a cubicle, trembling like someone afflicted with palsy.
The only sensation that it could be compared with is a hang-over. The nausea and 
the feeling that one’s memory is not complete. The relevant chapter in the linear 
sequence of events impressed on his mind simply was not there. It was as if someone 
had neglected to file it; where the images should have been there was a gaping and 
egregious blank.
“Where’s Malfoy?” Harry asked in Potions the next day. Hermione blinked at him 
with a mixture of horror and confusion on her face.
“What? Where is he? I haven’t seen him all week. Is he sick or something?”
“Shh!” Hermione hissed.
“What?”
“Harry.” Hermione said very quietly, placing one hand on his shoulder. “He’d dead. 
You know he is. You went to his memorial service Come on, you should go to the 
hospital wing. You’re not well.”
She was right, Harry wasn’t well. He felt very queasy again.
“How did he die?” he asked later, as he was sipping iced water and sitting on 
one of the infirmary’s narrow beds.
Hermione spoke to him in a soft, concerned voice. Ron simply stood staring out 
the window with his hands in his pockets. 
“He . . . he was killed by Voldemort. He refused to join the Death Eaters and 
Voldemort killed him. Dumbledore was trying to protect him, but he left Hogwarts 
in secret one night to see his father. Some Death Eaters caught him as he was 
leaving Malfoy manor and he was killed.”
“How do you know all this?” Harry had a sharp headache between his temples and 
his scar throbbed dully, as it always seemed to these days.
“Harry.” Hermione looked at him imploringly, as if his questions broke her heart. 
“You told me.”
Harry found over the next weeks and months that certain objects or situations 
struck a chord, though he couldn’t explain why. There was something wrong with 
him - he knew that - but he tried not to show it, not to ask too many questions, 
as he saw how much it upset the others, who obviously thought he was close to 
having a nervous breakdown. Besides, there were other things to think about. 
The Dark Lord was gathering power and soon would make his move. Harry and other 
advanced students, practised daily in defence Against the Dark Arts, taught by 
Dumbledore himself.
 Harry noticed a ring on his left hand that he couldn’t recall being given. 
It was a large square-cut and faceted emerald set in a ring of hallmarked silver.  
Inside it was engraved ‘wild justice’ in a flowing script. 
Harry owned a journal. It wasn’t a diary, not really. Just a leather-bound book 
where he did little drawings and wrote thoughts that occurred to him from time 
to time. He found only one thing dated from the time he couldn’t remember:

I arrived at a place before I knew that I had stepped on the path that leads 
there. My mind can have veiled intentions. He understood that, even if I didn’t. 
He understands what it is to be reckless. He saw the warning signs in me, though 
I ignored them. ‘All roads lead to Rome’, they say. All of mine led to his door.

Things came to a head during a Quidditch match, Harry was swooping down toward 
the snitch when out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a visitor in the 
Slytherin stands. Lucius Malfoy, who was staring right back at him. Harry’s body 
responded violently, all his nerve-endings seemed to cry out as his stomach heaved 
and he fell twenty feet from his broom on to the muddy grass. He lay on his back, 
winded, gasping and hyperventilating. The image of Lucius’ face was imprinted on 
his mind like it had been branded there by a searing iron press. This was all he 
saw before he blacked out and it was many hours before he woke again in the infirmary. 

Consummatum Est
 
Voldemort was dead, but Harry could not feel elation, nor even relief. He could
not feel anything at all - it was a feeling beyond tiredness, it was a sensation 
that he was sure no one else had ever felt. His one and only Avada Kedavra had 
harnessed all the magic in his body. Now his frame felt empty; as hollow as an o, 
and light and insubstantial as if the slightest breeze would fell him. Harry 
staggered across the muddy battlefield that was strewn with the bodies of Death 
Eaters, Aurors and anyone else who had been unfortunate enough to get in the way. 
He was lurching forward, propelled and sustained upright by reserves of strength 
he didn’t know he had. He felt strangely detached from himself as if his eyes 
were two glass panes through which he peered out into the world around him. 
There was a roaring in his ears like he was travelling in a aeroplane with the 
windows open and distantly he became aware that someone was calling his name. 
He turned his head and the effort and lapse in concentration caused him to stumble, 
He caught sight of a black robed figure - a Death Eater come to finish him off 
in a last act of vengeance for the death of Voldemort. Harry hit the ground, 
faintly hearing the dull thud of his impact but knowing no pain. His glasses 
skittered away from him, one lens cracked like a spider web. Why was he wearing 
those stupid old things anyway? He should have put in his contact lenses, only 
there hadn’t been time. Harry knew nothing for countless moments except his 
breathing and the fluttering of some straggly stalks of grass just before his eyes.
“Harry.” The voice said again. Strong arms came around him and Harry was lifted 
into a sitting position. The Death Eater removed his mask, revealing pale, squinted 
features and opalescent eyes. The hood of his sabelline robe fell back and long, 
silvery strands of hair were whipped about by the wind.
“Lucius.” Harry said hoarsely. His voice did not seem his own and he was surprised 
to have actually spoken aloud.
“It is finished.”
This was too much for Harry to take in. He raised his numb fingers to his own 
cracked lips and then touched Lucius’.
“I know you. I know you somehow.” He said.
Lucius’ eyes widened in shock and he dropped Harry back onto the grass. Harry 
watched him helplessly as Lucius strode off over the grass and disappeared into 
the forbidden forest. Then Harry passed out.
	Harry faded in and out of consciousness over the next few days. He had 
been confined to a make-shift bed in a former classroom adjacent to the infirmary. 
He was dimly aware of people visiting him. Hermione. Good, she was alive. Ron, 
too, was a survivor. Dumbledore did not visit, that did not bode well. 
He had more or less recovered by the time the week was up. He was mainly confined 
to bed, but was able to get up and walk around his room if he wished. Since he had 
become coherent he had begun to wonder if seeing Lucius had been a dream or a figment
of his fevered imagination. Hermione and Ron came down to see him every afternoon. 
Ron was unharmed. Hermione had an ugly cut on her cheek that would become a scar. 
They told him who was dead and who was alive. Harry’s moods vacillated between 
moments of intense happiness and relief  and troughs of deep grief and despair.  
He was woken by a cool breeze on his face. The windows were open, the diaphanous 
muslin that had been pinned over them undulated softly in the night-time breeze. 
Lucius sat in a straight-backed chair before his bed, his long elegant hands 
folded in his lap.
“Lucius.” Harry said softly, somnolently aware.
“Harry.” Lucius replied. He moved slowly and gracefully, seating himself on the 
edge of the bed. “I should have known you would fight it. Apparently silly glamours 
and unforgivable curses have no power over The Boy Who Lived.” Lucius voice was 
contemptuous. “How much do you remember?”
“I . . . I remember nothing.”
“Nothing?” 
“Sometimes I almost remember something, but it’s gone again.”
“More than anyone else would realise. You knew me at the Quidditch match.” Lucius 
cast his eyes across the room, considering something. “You would be wise to forget
about it, child. Just be glad you’ve survived.”
“You took my memories, didn’t you?”
“You think so? Why don’t you prove it?”
Lucius smiled terribly and left the room.
Hours later, Harry found himself before a heavy wooden door in a damp corridor. 
He hesitated for a moment, then knocked.
“What?” Snape’s irritated voice barked through the door. Classes had not resumed, 
of course, but that didn’t deter Snape from working in his study as if there hadn’t 
been a war.
“Professor, can I ask you something?”
Snape opened the door. He looked ahead of him, slightly baffled, then adjusted his 
eye level to stare down at Harry.
“Oh, it’s you, Potter. Come in then . . . if you must.”
Harry smirked. This slight-irritation was a close as he’d ever seen Snape to being 
in a good mood.
“So, er . . . what do you know about memory restoratives?” Harry closed the door 
behind him and stood awkwardly in front of Snape’s desk as the older man seated himself.
“More than you ever will, no doubt. Is the memory loss spell or potion induced?”
“Well . . . you see, it’s kind of difficult to explain. I don’t know, since I was 
the person it was used on.”
“And you expect me to help you . . . how? Oh Potter, do sit down and stop pacing.”
“Well, I was hoping you could tell me how to go about getting them back - my 
memories I mean.”
“There isn’t a complete cure for that kind of thing.”
“I’ll try anything, sir.”
“Well.” Snape considered it. “It wouldn’t do any harm if you tried this.” He 
retrieved a tiny, delicate glass phial from a top shelf. “Do you know what it is?”
“Er no, sir. Sorry.”
Snape looked like he was about to take house points, then thought better of it.
 “Memento Vite. It counters the Obliviate curse. You will find that it dislodges 
the most prominent of the memories that have been obscured. These memories come 
back in incomplete and disordered fragments, often accompanied with pain or nausea. 
Much like the morning after being extremely drunk, or so I’m told. The memories will
not simply replay themselves, they need a trigger. The first few notes of a melody, 
a particular smell, a phrase or even something like a colour could bring them back.”
“Thank-you professor.”
“By the way Potter, you would know all of this if you read the relevant chapter in 
your sixth year text book.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that, sir.” Harry rolled his eyes and left Snape’s office. 
	Harry sat back down on his bed, downed the vile-tasting potion and sighed 
deeply. He wanted the nervous anticipation that wracked his frame to go away. God, 
what were the memories ? Were they so terrible that someone had had to curse them 
away? Harry opened the box of violet creams Hermione had left him and popped one 
in his mouth. The dark chocolate and peculiar powdery, floral taste of the soft 
centre spurred on a recollection so quickly that Harry barely had time to register 
what was happening.


“Why are you always feeding me?” Harry asked, laughing as Lucius attempted to 
force a chocolate between his lips.
“Because I like to see you content and satiated.” Lucius replied with a wicked 
glint. They were lying in bed together in the exclusive townhouse Lucius owned 
near Diagon Alley. The heavy light of the late summer morning spilled over the 
bed sheets. When Harry had first seen the bed it had covered with linen sheets 
so white and crisply folded back that he had thought it would surely be sacrilege 
to disturb them. Now they were utterly rumpled and the bed was suffused by the
 concupiscent, cloying smell of both their bodies. There was a barely-detectable 
floral scent that drifted across the room from the star-gazer lilies which stood 
in a glass vase on the dressing table. 
“Stop it! You’ll get chocolate on me!”
“Well, then I’d just have to lick it off you again.” Lucius climbed on top of him, 
his white limbs looking impossibly long and elegant in the sun. Harry snapped the 
chocolate from the older man’s fingers with a playful growling noise, like a tiger cub.
“Mmm I love violet creams.” Harry said, then began to suck the dark chocolate off 
each of Lucius’ fingers in turn.
“Can’t stand them.” Lucius smiled, regarding Harry under lowered lashes. “My grandmother
 used to gave them to me as a child and one day I ate a whole box in one go. I never 
could face them after that.”
“Well you’re just as bad as her.” Harry watched Lucius, transfixed by his nakedness. 
His body was really very pleasing, but it didn’t seem right for him to baring it 
all in the bright light, somehow. Harry always imagined him standing in the shadows, 
dressed in thick black robes. Harry stroked Lucius’ shoulders, which were lightly 
freckled, and then caressed his sinuous arms. He ran his fingertips over the inky 
tattoo on the soft skin on the inside joint of his elbow. Lucius flinched habitually.
“Does it hurt when I touch it?”
“It tingles. Perhaps because you’re linked to him.”
“What day is it?” Harry yawned.
“Wednesday. I should be at work.” Lucius traced Harry’s bottom tip with his finger 
tip, his calculating eyes roving over the pale boy beneath him.
“Hmm, I should be meeting Ron and Hermione. Buying school supplies and stuff.”
“I shouldn’t let you distract me.” Lucius leaned down, his dishevelled blond locks 
falling as a curtain around their faces. 
“Mmm. You’re the one sitting on top of me in that enticing manner.”
“Enticing?” Lucius snickered softly, his breath ghosting over Harry’s shoulder.
“Oh.” Harry writhed as Lucius began to kiss his neck in earnest. “I love you, 
Lucius.” He whispered.
Lucius pulled back and glared at him angrily. It strongly reminded Harry of the look 
of contempt and malice Lucius had given him after the incident in the Chamber of 
Secrets. “No more of that.”  he warned, then silenced Harry with a kiss. 

 
Harry found himself still lying on his bed. He had thought that a lot of time must 
have passed, but when he looked at his clock it had only been a few minutes. He felt 
very dizzy and sick and there was a vindictively sharp headache pounding at his 
temples. He could do nothing for the next three hours but lie in the foetal position 
on his bed and wait for the world to stop spinning.

Part III: Memento Mori

            ‘When parents die we have a word for that: you’re an orphan.
If a parent loses a child, there’s just no word for it. 
Maybe that’s just too fucking awful to contemplate.’ [Brenda, ‘Six Feet Under’]

It was two days after the first flashback that Harry experienced another. He had 
woken to find that someone had placed a vase of flowers on his window sill. He had 
breathed the faint floral scent, surpassingly lovely because it was natural, not 
a pungent recreation that resided in a bottle. He opened his eyes to see that they 
were coral-coloured stargazer lilies, raising their speckled faces to the sky. His 
first thought was, strangely, they’re not white. And it was when he pictured white 
lilies that the memory resurfaced.



A suffocating feeling of grief washed over Harry as the ebony coffin was slowly 
and reverently lowered on straps into the yawning maw of the grave. Draco was too 
young to die. Harry had never liked him, but he was no less sad because of that. 
He had been too young, a child in the wrong place and the wrong time. Harry wished 
fervently that he could see Draco alive as before, a sneer on his pale face as he 
bickered mindlessly with Harry over some quiddity of Quidditch.
Some people were crying. Narcissa Malfoy suddenly broke out in hysterical sobs and 
two women who looked like her sisters took her away from the crowd. Lucius Malfoy 
looked beyond tears and beyond grief. He stood in dignified black robes, clutching 
a black wide-brimmed hat. His knuckles were clenched and white and his eyes were 
dull and unfocussed like those of an unhealthy animal. Dumbledore and others gave 
a suitably sombre eulogies, earth was scattered, flowers were thrown - white 
lilies - and the crowd slowly dissipated. Harry had been made to come to the 
funeral by Dumbledore. He couldn’t help but feel it was supposed to be a cautionary 
lesson.  
	 	He released the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, letting 
his shoulders slump and began to walk around the grave to rejoin the mourners from 
Hogwarts who were making their way up the hill towards the gates of the graveyard.. 
Only Lucius remained, he was lost in his own thoughts. Harry paused and touched him 
lightly on the shoulder.
“Mr. Malfoy? It’s time to go.”
Lucius blinked and focussed on Harry, giving him a very gentle and unsettling smile.
“Yes.” He replied simply. They walked through the graveyard in silence for a while 
before Lucius asked: “Did you know Draco well?”
“No, not at all.”
“Neither did I. He was a strange boy. Did you know that he was good at Arithmancy? 
Strange that. It doesn’t run in the family.”
Harry shook his head, unsure what to say. Lucius continued: “I don’t think he knew 
himself. He wanted to be like me, everyone says.” He looked at Harry. “So, Boy Who 
Lived, are you going to kill Lord Voldemort?”
“I’ll try. No promises. I’m not the hero everyone makes out, you know.”
Lucius looked at him strangely. “You are very powerful. It’s only a pity that 
you’re so young. What age are you now?”
“Sixteen. Seventeen in a few days.”
“Yes . . . of course. Just a little younger than my son. He was young for his 
year too.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Malfoy. I don’t know what else to say.” Harry 
blushed to the tips of his ears, utterly clueless as to what one should say to 
someone in such a position.
“There’s nothing else to say. The whole thing is a very sorry affair. Goodbye 
for now, Mr. Potter.” Lucius walked away from him to join his wife and family.
 

Thraldom

Classes resumed three weeks after the fall of Voldemort. Harry was in the Great 
Hall at breakfast, laughing at Ron, who had been talking with his mouth full 
and got swatted by Hermione.
“Lover’s tiff?” Seamus asked, nudging Harry. Hermione blushed fiercely and Ron 
told him to stick it up his ass, which prompted another swatting. With a newspaper, 
no less - what did Hermione think he was - a wayward dog?
Ron’s retort had made Harry blush and stare at his plate. He couldn’t believe 
that he was no longer a virgin, or at least, the last memory had strongly 
inferred so. He simply couldn’t imagine a situation where He and Lucius Malfoy 
would decide to have sex. It was utterly ridiculous . . . and yet, his skin 
crawled with desire at the thought of it.
“So,” Seamus continued, apparently not discouraged by Ron’s glares, “I suppose 
you’ll be off to Thraldom to get sex toys next week.”
“Shut up, Finnegan.” Ron snapped.
“Oh come on, I know you wouldn’t miss out on an opportunity-”
“Leave it, Seamus.” Harry advised. Seamus was talking about the sixth years’ trip 
to Diagon Alley next week. They were supposed to be researching historical sights 
for History of Magic class, but everyone was clearly just going to go off and get
drunk and make up the answers to the questionnaire Binns had handed out.  Living 
through the war with Voldemort had given the sixth years an attitude of Carpe Diem 
that was rather irritating for the teachers, since what it really meant in the 
students’ lexicon was ‘life’s to short to study. Let’s play pranks and get drunk.’
Harry was struck by something Seamus had said. Thraldom, now that rang a bell. 
He started to drift off again, so that the argument between Seamus and Ron was 
only a slight hubbub in the back of his mind.


Curiosity and boredom were the first feelings that came back to him. Harry had 
arrived in Diagon Alley off the Knightbus and it was evening. After dropping off 
his belongings in his room at The Leaky Cauldron there was nothing really to do. 
The shops had shut and the streets were deserted, but Harry himself was excited 
to be away from the Dursley’s and was full of energy. He had intended just to go 
for a walk and to stretch his legs before dinner, but found himself pausing at the 
turn off into Knockturn Alley. His last experience there had been a terrifying one,
but he had been only a second year then, innocent of curses and the Dark Arts. 
Now he felt confident that he could take care of himself. True, the Dark Lord was 
gathering power, but Harry was no longer an ignorant child. 
There was another thing which pulled him down those dark and cobbled street - a 
rumour he had heard whispered among the older Gryffindor boys. They said that on 
Knockturn Alley was a strange shop called Thraldom where items catering to every 
perversion were sold. What these items might be, or even what perversions they 
might cater for, was not spoken of - it was all inference and dark allusion. 
Harry had no intention of going into such a shop, but he idly wondered if it did 
really exist - and if so, perhaps he could glance at  the window as he walked 
past and see if the wares displayed would cast any light on what the Gryffindor 
boys meant by their knowing glances.
	Harry hurried down the alley with his cloak wrapped tightly about him, 
more afraid than he would have liked to admit. He was beginning to think that 
Thraldom was only a myth created by some bored school boys, when he spotted 
it: a small Tudor building that overhung the street, looking slightly askew 
on its foundations. Harry paused, looking into the murky depths of the shop 
through its window. Everything was obscure in the darkness, Harry could only 
make out racks of books and magazines and of strange boxes. He lingered longer 
than he had intended, quite caught up in trying to make out the interior of the 
shop, for he failed no notice the figure behind him, until a raspy voice spoke out.
“Looking for something, child?”
Harry grasped his wand under his cloak and turned around. She speaker was a 
slightly haggard looking woman with badly bleached hair.
“No. I’m not looking for anything.” Harry said firmly. He was fairly confident 
that he wouldn’t be recognised - he had replaced his trademark glasses with 
contact lenses over the summer (not out of vanity, but because he was sick of 
his glasses sliding down his nose when he played Quidditch) and his hair was 
slightly longer, covering his trademark scar. 
“Oh but you are, child. You wouldn’t linger out here if you didn’t desire 
something.”
“Get away from me.” Harry tried to walk away from her, but found his arm 
grasped roughly.
“I wouldn’t do that, child.” She said. Her wand was pressed against his side.
“What do you want?” Harry asked, trying not to let his rising panic show.
“Isn’t it obvious? Give me your money.”
Harry didn’t know if he would have fought her or conceded to her demands, 
but he was saved by a flash of crimson light as a familiar voice said 
smoothly: ‘Expelliarmus.”
The witch was thrown back against the door of Thraldom, her wand clattered 
on the cobblestones. She heaped verbal curses upon the interloper, but obviously 
knew she was outmatched, for she picked up her wand, gathered her cloak about 
herself and took off down a side alley as fast as her high heeled boots would carry her.
Harry was somewhat dazed, but he looked up to see who his saviour was. Lucius 
Malfoy. That was somewhat unexpected.
“Mr. Potter.” He drawled. 
“Malfoy.” Harry replied. It was about a month since the funeral, for some reason 
Harry had often wondered about Lucius and how he was faring. Lucius walked towards 
him, sheathing his wand back within the depths of his cloak and then stood leaning 
casually upon his silver-tipped cane, regarding Harry beneath the lowered lids of 
those almost oriental, almond shaped eyes. Gods, he must be part Veela, Harry 
thought vaguely.
“Aren’t you doing to thank me, Mr. Potter? You are too young and unwary to be 
out in Knockturn Alley alone.”
“Thanks for your concern, Mr. Malfoy. What are you doing here?”
Lucius seemed amused by this: “What a strange and presumptuous question.”
“Er, sorry. I’m not quite used to you being on our side.”
“I am on no-one’s side.” Lucius hissed. “I saved you quite by accident. You’re 
lucky that I was doing a little after-hours trading on one of the less reputable 
apothecaries nearby.”
“Oh. Right . . . er, thanks again.” Harry was rather uneasy because he had no 
idea what Lucius’ agenda was. “But I could have defended myself.” He added, 
feeling somewhat foolish.
“So bold, and yet still a child.” Lucius studied Harry’s features. “Just a pretty
 child.”
“I’m not a child. I’m sixteen.” Harry said it automatically, still reeling from 
the ‘pretty’ comment that was a complete non-sequiteur. 
“The same as my Draco, yes.” Lucius said thoughtfully, musing more to himself 
than to Harry. “That is very young. When I was your age I was really in no 
position to make decisions or bold threats, though of course, I thought 
otherwise. Be careful what you get yourself into.” With that, Lucius Malfoy 
turned and, at a leisurely pace, walked away in the opposite direction from 
that Harry had come. His voice drifted back over his shoulder, advising: “I would
not linger if I were you. It is not safe for you here, especially after dark. 
Goodnight, Mr. Potter.”
	Harry hurried back to The Leaky Cauldron, hardly daring to look back, 
except once to see the upright, silver-haired figure disappear around a corner.
	The next day Harry was somewhat chastened form his experiences, yet the 
curiosity within him had not totally died. He contented himself with exploring 
the shops of Diagon Alley that he had never noticed before. The Leaky Cauldron 
was not the only pub there, he discovered - and later than evening went to an 
establishment called The Green Man where he bought himself a butterbeer and 
settled back to catch the end of the set of a folk band. He didn’t think much 
of the female vocalist, who had a rather piercing voice that reminded him of 
the Bansidhe he had studied in Defence Against the Dark Arts class, but mercifully 
their set was short. He had was sitting at the bar and had determined to stay only 
for one drink, when suddenly a glass of brandy was set before him. He looked up 
quizzically at the barman who said:
“It’s from the gentleman over there.”
Harry followed the barman’s gaze to a pair of eyes the colour of moonstones. They 
glittered from underneath the shade of  a black wide-brimmed hat. Lucius Malfoy, 
smiled at Harry and raised his glass to his lips. Harry had no idea what to make 
of that gesture, nor the indefinable look in Malfoy’s eyes. Harry blushed deeply 
and looked away, determined to look anywhere but at Malfoy, drinking nervously just 
for something to do with his hands. He had finished his drink and felt it coursing 
like fire through his veins, and it made him bold. He walked over to the snug where 
Lucius sat and addressed him:
“Hello Mr. Malfoy.” 
“Exploring again, Mr. Potter?”
“What’s it to you?”
Lucius’ eyes glittered, he obviously found Harry’s insolence provoking. 
“Why don’t you sit down before you topple over? Perhaps I shouldn’t have bought you 
that drink. You’re very flushed.” 
Harry didn’t like being told he was drunk. Especially by Lucius Malfoy. He sat down 
opposite him and demanded: “What do you want, Mr. Malfoy?”
“I could ask you the same thing. You seem to be looking for trouble.”
“What?” Harry said, more loudly than he had intended.
Lucius lifted his glass and looked at the amber brandy clarified by the light.
“Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’ve been very reckless these last few days. 
A young boy, all alone in London shouldn’t go to Knockturn Alley. He certainly 
shouldn’t be out drinking in strange bars.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. It just seems careless. You never know who might take
 advantage of you. I hear there are Death Eaters roaming the streets these days.”
“Thanks for your concern.”
“Would you like another drink?”  Lucius asked.
“Yes.” Harry admitted. He wasn’t drunk enough for this.
He found himself drawn into a bizarre conversation with Lucius. They spoke as if 
they were acquaintances, and not mortal enemies.
 “So . . . where is your wife?” Harry asked, after another brandy.
“France. She’s staying at her mother’s. And will be for some time, I suspect.”
“You didn’t . . . you didn’t want to go with her?”
Lucius gave another one of his amused glances. Harry was beginning to hate 
them - he always felt Lucius was laughing at and not with him.
“I’m not terribly fond of the South of France. The climate doesn’t agree with me.”
Lucius seemed to be inferring something by this, but what, Harry did not know.
“But don’t you want to spend time with your wife?”
Lucius considered this. “The truth is, I rather relish time away from Narcissa.”
“Don’t you love your wife?”
“What a novel concept. No, I’m afraid I married out of obligation to do so. 
I’ve never come to love her. She’s a nagging shrew.”
“Obligation?”
“Yes. To produce a Malfoy heir.”
Harry didn’t respond to that, he didn’t trust himself too. Instead he sipped 
his drink and stared at the patterns in the wood of the oak table top.
“Tell me about yourself then, Harry, if my ways are so strange to you.”
“Er . . . what do you want to know?”
“Once I hoped that you and Draco would be friends - why did you two never get on?”
“Because . . .” he was spoiled little elitist brat. “Because he was a Slytherin, 
I suppose.”
Lucius laughed. “I see. There’s always been rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin. 
I remember when I was at school . . . ah, my friends and I hated the Gryffindors. 
Particularly your father and his three cronies. They called themselves the Marauders, 
we called them the Faggot Foursome . . .”
Harry must have looked as appalled as he felt, for Lucius looked up and said 
‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. That was really a very coarse thing 
to say. It just popped into my mind for some reason. Funny how memory works, isn’t it?”  
Harry cleared his throat.
 “What do you mean, Mr. Malfoy? What do you mean by all of this?”
“Sorry?”
“Being here with me, buying me drinks - what is your dark purpose? Please tell 
me, because I can’t work it out.”
“Oh, and I do need a dark purpose, do I not? I couldn’t possibly simply want to 
share a drink and light conversation with an acquaintance.”
“We’re hardly friendly acquaintances! There was a time when you swore I’d come 
to ‘a sticky end’.” Harry lowered his voice, glancing around him to make sure 
none of the other patrons were paying them any attention. “You stood by when 
your Master tortured me!” 
 Lucius’ eyes glittered. “He’s no longer my master. I serve no one, and never 
will again. If you want someone to find fault with, look to yourself. You’re 
a foolish boy acting on some mad whim to destroy yourself.”
“No I’m not.”
“No?” Lucius’ voice was as intoxicating and smooth as chocolate melted with brandy.
Harry was suddenly perturbed, realising that these questions were leading him 
somewhere. 
“I was just . . . I wanted to be somewhere warm and filled with people. I don’t
like being alone.”
“But you are alone, and it frightens you.”
“I’m not lonely. I’ve got lots of friends.”
“The most lonely people in the world have many friends, Mr. Potter. I see in your 
very expressive eyes that you know what it is to be alone in the very centre of 
a crowd of people. I was that child, if you can believe it: talented, powerful 
and yet unappreciated. There was only one who ever made me feel of any worth. 
Only one . . . and you know what his name was don’t you?”  
“I’m not like you.” Harry said defiantly. “Voldemort was just a murderer, 
I would never join him.”
“It’s easy for you to say that. I know you’ve always thought that the world is 
black and white, but it’s not. I served Voldemort, that much is true. I made that 
pledge when I was very young, much as you are now. He was my idol, my mentor - much 
as Dumbledore is yours. Whatever his strengths and failings were it no longer 
matters - I have the Dark Mark and my fate will always be linked to his. Don’t 
make any hasty promises, young one. Not to Voldemort or anyone else who sets 
himself up as an idol.” Lucius stood up and drew a card from the pocket of his 
waistcoat. He tossed it lightly onto the table and it slid to a stop just before 
Harry’s hand that was lying flat on the table.
“If you find yourself having any more lonely desires to wander, I suggest you 
wander in that direction. It’s safest.”
With that, Lucius picked up his silver-tipped cane and walked briskly out of 
the pub. Harry turned the card over in his hand.

Lucius Malfoy
                                              9 Baydon Street
     London

“Earth to Harry!”
“Hey, do you think he’s living or stuffed?”
Hermione had hit him with the newspaper.
“Oi! I’m not a border collie!” Harry snapped blinking at them all. He didn’t 
feel as sick as he had after the last recollections, but was angry to have his 
memory interrupted when things were only beginning to unfold. Harry hid his 
irritation as best he could - he couldn’t afford to be angry with them; they 
would demand to know what was wrong and he knew he couldn’t tell them. He felt 
himself growing estranged from them - they all seemed so childish, even Hermione. 
They didn’t know what it was like to cast the killing curse. Avada Kedavra could 
not be cast disinterestedly, it channelled your hate. Harry had known true hatred 
in the moment he had killed Voldemort. It hadn’t been about saving the world 
from him it had been hatred, pure and simple. A deep and utter loathing for 
the man who had killed his parents and ruined his childhood. 
Oddly, it occurred to Harry, the people he was drawn to now were those who lived 
their lives in the grey areas between dark and light magic. Remus, he wrote 
letters to. Snape, he watched and observed. Lucius . . . Lucius occupied all 
his waking moments and most of his dreams.


A Heap of Broken Images

Harry was troubled as he lay in bed that night. His memory had created more 
questions than it answered. What was the significance in the episode? Why did 
Lucius want to erase it from his memory? Why did Harry have a sinking feeling 
that he and Lucius had done more than have a few drinks together?  The very 
image of Lucius - those glittering eyes, that superior smile - made him hard. 
He slid his hand into his pyjama bottoms and stroked himself a few times 
indulgently, before realising that the sensation was bringing back another 
memory and not just a fantasy.

A memory that was only a collection of lurid images. Damp linen beneath him 
and a hot body above him. His hands struggling to get a purchase on a sinuous 
back that was slick with sweat. His own mouth on Lucius’, biting down on his 
bottom lip. The tangle of Lucius’ pale hair around his face. The sharpness 
of Lucius’ hipbones sticking into the back of his thighs. How unsteady he felt, 
Harry thought vaguely, unbalanced, with one leg hiked up over the older man’s 
shoulder and the other awkwardly wrapped around his waist. But most of all, 
and always at the back of his mind, that strange feeling of Lucius’ cock sliding 
back and forth within him, almost painful and yet satisfying. This was what 
he’d wanted, that feeling that he was doing something stupid and irresponsible 
and somehow forbidden. Harry understood what Lucius had been warning him about 
before. He held on tighter and bit Lucius’ white shoulder as hard as he could, 
encouraging the older man’s ruthless thrusting with his boldness. 

Harry came, and the images disappeared as his reason was restored to him. 
He sat upright in bed, gasping and wide-eyed. He felt very foolish and slightly 
guilty as he wrapped his dressing gown around himself and wandered down the 
corridor towards the showers.  


What’s in a Name?


Harry sat on the sofa opposite Lucius in the front room of 9 Baydon Street. 
It was in the wizarding part of London, just a few streets away from Diagon 
Alley. A pale grey Georgian house, all lines and rectangles, in the midst 
of a row of similar, austere houses surrounded by newly painted black railings. 
It was night time and the room was dimly lit by oil lamps and an open fire, 
making it look smaller and more intimate than it really was. The room was 
painted in tones of off-white: cream walls, a rose-white ceiling and 
ivory-coloured gossamer drapes at swept down to the dark wood floor. The fireplace 
was surrounded in grey-veined white marble and there was a chaise longue against 
one wall, upholstered in silvery raw silk. Harry sat on the brown leather sofa 
and Lucius in a matching armchair, close to the fire. There was an elegant 
harpsichord  in the corner next to the window and Harry wondered if it was 
played or only for decoration. He liked the idea that Lucius could play it, 
those elegant fingers moving over the keys was a very romantic image to him.
“I didn’t know you lived in London.” 
Lucius sat back in his chair.
“I don’t. My estate is in Kent, near Canterbury. This is just my apartment 
in town.”
Harry hated it when people called London ‘town’. Nowhere that was so huge, 
unfriendly and baffling deserved to be casually and colloquially named ‘town’. 
“I tell Narcissa that I need it for ministry business, but really I just like
having a place to myself.” Lucius took a drink and sat back. “Gods, that woman 
is always at something - do you know what I mean?”
Harry nodded, thinking of Aunt Petunia and her nervous energy.
“I always marvel at the ability of someone who has nothing to do to make it seem 
like her life is so fraught and busy.” Lucius glanced up and saw that Harry was 
twisting his hands nervously and glancing around. “But of course, that’s not what 
you came here to talk about.”
“Hmm?” Harry became very aware that Lucius was looking at him.
“What is it that you wanted to speak about, Mr. Potter?”
“You can call me Harry. Everyone’s always calling me by my surname - like Snape, 
it’s always ‘Potter!’ in a disgusted voice. ‘Potter, ten points from Gryffindor!’” 
Harry knew he was babbling but was afraid of silence. He could feel Lucius 
evaluating him during silences.
Lucius smiled. “I find it very difficult to take Severus seriously. I can’t 
imagine him being imposing; he and I were often in trouble in school.”
“You were?”
“Well, actually, he was always in trouble after I did things and let him 
take the blame.”
“How very Slytherin of you.”
“Yes, I always was a credit to my house. But yes, I do remember being 
contemptuously called by my surname. ‘Malfoy - what are you doing in 
the restricted section?’.”
Harry laughed and Lucius continued, musing: “It’s always when you’re in 
trouble, isn’t it? My mother used my full name when I was really in for 
a thrashing. ‘Lucius Brutus Malfoy! What on earth have you cursed your 
brother with now?’”
 “Your middle name is Brutus? Why doesn’t that surprise me . . .”
“Yes. It was my father’s name.”
Harry paused. “It’s funny, even when we are ourselves we’re not free. 
We’re both named after our fathers.”
“Harry James Potter. That’s a very pedestrian name. Wizards usually choose
names with a bit more flair, at least Purebloods do. We don’t want people 
confusing us with muggles.”
“My mother was muggle-born, remember?”
“Yes. But then so was the father of the Dark Lord.”
 “What’s he like?”
“Voldemort, or Tom Riddle?”
“Tom Riddle. He was the one, wasn’t he. The only one who made you feel worthy.”
“Yes, of course. Tom Riddle . . .” Lucius ran his index finger around the brim 
of his wine glass. “All I can clearly recall are images, really. He looked much 
as he did when you saw his memory. Magical glamours he used to keep him handsome
 while he gathered followers. I remember . . . he had a beautiful and utterly 
false smile that never quite reached his eyes. And I remember his voice when he 
said my name, all soft sillibants like a serpent. To be called by him, there 
was no greater bliss.”
“Did you love him?”
Lucius laughed. “No, child. I have never loved anyone, nor ever will. I desired 
him and all the power he promised. Call it lust and vaulting ambition if you will. 
Don’t pity me and think that I was besotted. I can but pity myself for wasting 
my life in the service of that old snake.” He drank deeply and studied the wine 
sediment in the bottom of his glass as if he might divine the future with it. 
“The Dark Mark is the symbol of the pledge I made. I knew I’d never have the 
strength to break it, so I’ve given it a new meaning. Now when I look at the 
Mark it reminds me that I have to kill the man who gave it to me. My life is 
sustained only for revenge now - revenge for Draco’s life and for mine.”
“I feel like I understand you somehow.” Harry said, a little light-headed form 
the wine. “I want to kill Voldemort, but not for the reasons I should - not 
because I’m the world’s saviour, or whatever the Daily Prophet thinks, just 
because he killed my parents and because everything I’ve done in life he’s 
been there to fucking ruin it. I just want to be ordinary.”
Lucius smiled. “Ah, but you’re not ordinary. You’re one of the most 
powerful wizards I’ve ever known.”
“I’m not powerful.”
Lucius set down his glass and moved to Harry’s side on the sofa.
“Oh, but you are. I can feel it.” Lucius lifted his hand and brought it close 
to Harry’s cheek. “I feel it in you. A raw power, not a cleverness with charms 
and arcane knowledge.” Lucius lowered his voice to a whisper. “I dread to 
think what you could do if you ever learned to harness it.” 
Harry turned his face, craving the contact of Lucius’ hand. Lucius was not 
cold, as he had expected, he stroked the contour of Harry’s cheekbone.
“But still so young. Just a pretty child.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No, you’re not, are you? You can’t afford to be in these times.”
Harry closed the distance between them and kissed Lucius tentatively. Lucius 
indulged him for a brief second before pushing him back.
“Not a good idea, Harry.”
“Lucius, I know I’m young but . . . we’re probably going to die soon. 
I don’t really care for consequences.”
“Your boldness continues to intrigue me.” Lucius instigated the kiss this 
time and yet it was he who once again pushed Harry away, with one last 
condition: “One night, Harry. That’s all. It’ll have to be enough.”
Harry nodded, though he wasn’t really listening. He tangled his hands in the 
hair he had so long desired and kissed Lucius with more enthusiasm than skill.
He remembered Lucius’ caressing laughter, then being pulled up from the sofa 
and led from the room, but everything was becoming indistinct, and the more 
he tried to grasp on to the memory, the faster it slipped away.  


Wild Justice

‘Revenge is a kind of wild justice.’
                          [Francis Bacon]

Harry had to wait two weeks for the final piece of memory that the potion 
offered up. He was in Diagon Alley on the ‘Field Trip’. Ron and Hermione had 
rushed off ahead of him on a futile attempt to persuade Seamus against his 
crusade in search of Thraldom. Harry paused outside a jewellers. He glanced 
at the ring on his left hand.


“Do you like it?” Lucius asked.
Harry was staring at the Emerald ring in the shop window. Lucius stroked the 
fine hairs at the back of his neck.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I knew it was for you when I saw it. An Ethiopian Emerald - you can tell by
the vibrant colour. They used to say that Emeralds had the power to disclose
the future . . . and they were able to defend the wearer from evil sorcery.”
“ And they help lovers.” Harry added, looking at Lucius slyly.
“It would match your eyes.” Lucius said, not deigning to respond to Harry’s 
comment. “I think I shall buy it for you.”
“Don’t, it’s too expensive.”
“Don’t insult me. It is only a pretty trifle.” Lucius ushered Harry inside 
the shop and had him try it on.
“It fits this finger.” Harry said, sliding it on his left ring finger and 
smirking. Lucius frowned. 
“I think that would be more appropriate on the other hand.”
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Yes,”  the jeweller said hastily, as if anxious to prove his competency, 
“the fingers of the hand you write with are always be slightly larger.” 
Lucius sighed and paid for it. 
Harry walked along the street next to him, holding the ring between finger 
and thumb and studying it.
“‘Wild justice’. What does that mean?”
“‘Revenge is a kind of wild justice’. Well, that is an appropriate coincidence. 
You could almost apply it to our own situation with the Dark Lord, couldn’t you?”
“Yes.” Harry said, mimicking Lucius’ voice. “That is a coincidence, isn’t it? 
Why, one might almost think that you had set the whole thing up.”
“Your boldness just irritates me now, child.”
“I can’t believe that I have to go back to school.” Harry sighed, they were 
approaching Kings Cross station. They turned down a deserted side street and 
a heavy silence descended between them. Harry asked with a heavy heart: 
“Couldn’t I just . . . not go? You know . . . stay here in London.”
Lucius halted and looked at him seriously.
“No, child you certainly could not. It would not be wise for either of us.”
“Are you so ashamed of me?” Harry looked up at Lucius, trying again to 
communicate tacitly with him using his eyes. “I mean, is it so ridiculous? 
We’re fighting on the same side-”
“I am on no-one’s side.” Lucius hissed dangerously. 
“Lucius . . . I love you.”
Lucius halted and looked at him with a tired, almost sad look. Then he 
sighed and whispered: “Oh, you stupid child.” With a quick movement Harry 
hadn’t been expecting he pulled out his wand and said: “Obliviate.”


Harry gave a short, choked sob with his hand over his mouth. He quickly 
made down a side street and vomited, while tears streamed down his cheeks
and his head pounded. It was the worst of them all, and it was some time 
before he recovered enough to move. He knew he should find the others, 
who would be worried for him, but couldn’t bring himself to care enough. 
Instead, he headed in the opposite direction that they had gone, carefully 
avoiding Knockturn Alley.

Epilogue

Lucius came home to 9 Baydon Street to find that someone had tampered 
with his wards. His first thought was that it was a Death Eater come to 
finish him off. He was surprised to find that he wasn’t in the least afraid,
he just felt utterly tired and resigned. He pulled out his wand and entered 
the first room to his left, the living room. The fire was lit and the leather 
armchair was turned towards it. On the armrest of the chair Lucius could 
see a slender arm swathed in a plain black fabric; on one slender finger 
of the hand glittered an exquisite Emerald. 
“Potter.” He said, putting his wand back into his pocket.
“Lucius, please call me Harry.”
“What do you want?” Lucius came forward and stood by the fire, glaring at 
Harry, who did not turn his head to look at him. “How did you get past my wards?”
“Ah, despite what you think, Lucius, I am not a child. I know quite a few charms 
that are not on the Hogwarts syllabus, but may be found in the restricted section,
if you get my meaning.” Harry finally met Lucius’ malevolent stare. “So tell 
me - what are you doing still alive? The Dark lord is dead, as are many who served 
him. Have you not exacted your wild justice?”
“Yes, but what did you expect me to do - throw myself on Voldemort’s funeral pyre?”
Harry laughed softly. “Of course not. But I wondered what you were planning to do 
with the rest of your life.”
“Were you hoping I might be persuaded spend it with you? You do love me after 
all, don’t you?” Lucius’ voice dripped contempt like a Basilisk’s fangs drip venom.
“Perhaps, but that is irrelevant. What I do realise now is that you and I understand 
each other.” Harry lifted up his hand and studied the Emerald’s facets as the 
firelight flickered upon them. “This divines the future, doesn’t it? What do you see?”
Lucius sighed. “Do you want a drink?”
“Yes, and some violet creams.” Harry smiled at him. Somehow it reminded Lucius of 
Tom Riddle, but the smile was more genuine, it made his green eyes dance.    
Lucius didn’t keep house elves in his town house, so he went into the kitchen in 
search of wine and chocolates. Harry got up and went to the window, pulling back 
the gossamer drapes to look at the starless London sky and he noticed that there 
was a vase of lilies on top of the harpsichord. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

- Fin

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