Title: Drip, drip
Author: Raven ( [email protected] )
Pairing: Lucius/Voldemort (implied)
Rating: R (archiver)
Summary: Lucius remembers the past which includes Draco, his trial, and a leaky faucet.

Drip...Drip...

The damn thing would not stop dripping. He longed to turn off the faucet, to get out of bed, walk to the bathroom and start slamming his fist or another object onto the metal exterior until it shut off. Until it stopped that infernal dripping.

Drip...drip...

He would ignore it for now in favor of staying in bed. In favor of not having to walk on that intolerably cold floor. He was completely naked under the covers and had no desire to throw on a robe over his pale body just to shut off a bloody faucet.

Drip...drip...

He hated the bed. With the comfy mattress and the down pillows. So damned expensive. It had been their second bed. They had made a mess of the first. It was a lesson to be learned. Never mix pixie stick candy with chocolate syrup. A large brown stain with flaky white sugar had been the result, destined to never come out of the sheets nor the mattress. It should have been revolting.

Drip...drip...

It had been him who had to go out and buy a new mattress. Salazar knew that the other one couldn't venture out. Not in those times. Bloodshed, mass murder. It had been wonderful and beautiful. Red spilling out of bodies left and right. Out of his own. Each time he was taken. It had flowed like a river, so much he had passed out a few times. It had taken some getting used to.

Drip..drip...

Back then, it was all hands. Hands on his body, hands on his eyes, his mouth, choking him, suffocating him. Strangling him. And he loved it. He fell back into those hands time and time again. Hands with their sharp claws, digging into his skin, burrowing their way into his soul, taking whatever innocence he had and ripping it apart. It had felt like a miracle. It was what he craved for.

Drip...drip...

The Dark Lord had never been a very kind master. He was always too willing to break a bone, scratch some skin, bite off flesh as though it were made of rubber. And he had invited it, welcomed it, initiated it. There was no true bondage, no whips or chains. Just skin and teeth. That was all they had needed. He didn't need riches, for they were already his. He did not rely on false promises of a new day, for he was a skeptic and believed very little.
"So why stay, Lucius?"

Drip...drip...

Because he wanted reality, and reality was the Dark Lord. His hands, his teeth, his bones. Reality lay in that bed, inviting him to feast until he was too full to eat anymore. Reality was the art in throwing up whatever lay within him and coming back to dine some more. Reality was theirs to make. It should have lasted forever.

Drip...drip...

He hated that faucet. It was interfering with his sleep. He needed rest. Laying awake was too time-consuming, too tedius. It made him think and remember. `Don't think about the hands.' He wouldn't think about it tonight. He would think about the weight of Voldemort, how he lay on top of him, crushing him. He would think about the way Voldemort touched him, skin stinging with pain and pleasure. He would think of the blood that came out when the Dark Lord was done with him. It didn't disgust either of them. They drank it in like wine and after, they were anxious to make more flow like honey. His thoughts made him bleed, made him ache in some internal spot that he couldn't name.

Drip...drip...

There was no love between them. What they shared could never be considered as love. Just lust, simple lust that made them burn. It was the act that kept their fires alive. And so, they had developed a bond. Something to keep a secret, between them. The bed would only know their secrets. And beds don't talk. Not as though Voldemort would. Silence save for screaming and strangled sobs. But even those were blissful music.

Drip...drip....

And it just kept dripping away. They had thought it would last forever. The world would see their reality. The world would see the world as how it was. But in a few seconds, it was all wiped out. One moment Voldemort was inside him, ramming away, bringing out the blood to cleanse them both. And the next, he was gone. A mere shadow of his former self. And he could no longer see him. It was a horrid waste.

Drip...drip...

He had Draco then. Narcissa had popped him out. Lucius stood by her side, watched as his son was being born, stood by Draco's bedside as the cradle was rocked by an unseen hand. Lucius wasn't into seeing much of anything in those days. They passed by, leaving him numb. He tried to take pleasure in seeing his son grow. So young, so advanced. Had even had pictures done. He was there, but he wasn't seeing himself. Not in the pictures, not in the albums, not in Narcissa's eyes. He saw himself in dreams, though. Dreams that couldn't last forever.

Drip....drip....

Draco had been a year old when Lucius died. And it had been because of Draco that Lucius rose again. Draco had waddled into the bathroom, had seen the blood, the cleansing blood. He had grabbed at his father's ponytail and yanked hard, a favorite pasttime for him, and had gotten no response. The loss of his greatest companion was too much for his little mind and he screamed. Loud enough to wake the household.

Drip...drip....

Quick intervention. That's what had saved him. Or, at least, that's what the doctor had said. Quick intervention. As a result, he got scars on his wrists and arms and a month long prescription of antidepressants which he didn't bother taking. The whole scene had been hidden. Narcissa had fretted. Draco had only grinned, as though he had known what he had done. Lucius felt no guilt at trying to die, only bitterness. For the one thing in his life that he had truly wished to succeed at, he had failed. Whereas there were so many other things he had succeeded at when he couldn't care less.

Drip...drip....

The inquisitions were hellish. One by one, the Death Eaters came a-marchin'. And the Aurors took their sweet time in interrogation chambers. The screams were not the same as before. Monsters, murderers, beautiful torturers. Was there ever a difference? The Aurors and the Death Eaters. One monster from another. And up they sprang, eager for blood, for cries, for pleas, for accusations. They got what they wanted from a few, but many more were able to escape. Unfortunately, this only made their blood thrist quicken. One hates to see prey get away, it makes them more on guard for the next.

Drip....drip...

He had set it up with Severus. He had already been questioned several different times. Imperio: The Cure for Everything. However, the Ministry was at a boiling point and many wished to see him taken down. He would be interrogated by Crouch this time. A man of honor and principle. A judge. A bastard.

"Lucius, I don't think we can do this."

"Oh, but you must, Severus." A low tone, a breezy whisper. "And you will. For me, you will."

And he did. Severus had followed his instructions perfectly, just as Lucius had known he would.

Drip....drip...

"Mr. Malfoy, please, have a seat."

And then, it all began. First were the questions. The endless barrage of mind-numbing questions that Lucius had never bothered to ask of himself, let alone formulate an answer to. He repeated his story. What would Crouch know about the hands and the blood?

And then came the attack. First physical. It was always physical. The Aurors knew nothing of mind manipulation or brainwashing. The art had been lost when the Death Eaters fell from grace. Instead, there were the punches, the slaps, the kicks, the slamming of the head on the table. The broken nose followed shortly as well as the broken arm.

Drip...drip...

His blood flowed that day, dyeing his hair a crimson red, illuminating his paleness. Making him glow an unearthly red, as though he were some sort of mythological creature from days of yore. Lucifer, he was. Aide to the Devil himself.

"Voldemort's bitch."

And with that comment, Lucius knew Crouch knew. Knew about the blood and the hands and the teeth and the pain and the bond. He knew but he didn't understand, which made it all the more painful when he felt the older man shove him onto the floor.

Drip...drip....

It had hurt. Not the agonizing pain of when Voldemort had taken him, but a chronic ache that left him feeling cold and empty. There was no pleasure as Crouch's teeth sunk into his shoulder, as Crouch's hands felt along the broken bones of his arm, as Crouch's cock rammed into his ass. But still, the blood flowed. And when Crouch came inside him, the salty liquid went into each little cut and bruise within, burning him with its prescense. Forcing him to stay here. In reality. In the reality the Aurors had created for themselves.

Drip....drip...

"You are a Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy. Admit it."

He admitted nothing of the sort. He would never be submissive, even on the cold floor with Crouch on top of him. Would never say a damned thing, even as the physical attack came again. He would not plea or scream even as the cuts worsened within. He was bleeding internally but still the victor, still the hero of the warped fairie tale that had become his nightmare. Pain overrided his senses and he passed out. Sweet oblivion beckoned and there he saw himself and Voldemort. Alone, surrounded by blankets of leaves, grass, and soil. Under the ground. At peace at last.

Drip...drip....

But it couldn't end there. Severus had paled considerably as the tape ran on and on. Almost as pale as Crouch as he watched. Stood there and watched the tape go on and on. It seemed like an eternity had passed before it was over. Severus was glaring at Crouch. Lucius was smiling. Crouch was stammering in anger.

"Leave me and my family at piece, Crouch. Or everyone will see the video. Your reputation will be in ruins."

"As will yours be, Lucius."

"I'll have sympathy and the law on my side." A small smirk. "What will you have?"

The Malfoys. A prestigious Pure-blooded family that made many donations. Lucius Malfoy, never been proven a Death Eater but anyone who can hand out money to Muggle charities can't be what the press is making of him. Lucius, Lucifer or Light? The public had already chosen, had already accepted him. Crouch, a man who would see his family up the river.

In the end, Crouch gave up and walked out.

Drip....drip....

Severus had asked if he was satisfied. Lucius wasn't. He never could be again. But maybe that was just as well. His family was safe. He had spared Draco the trauma of growing up without a father since the boy had made it so clear before that he needed one. It had been hard for Severus, Lucius knew, to install that small video camera. A Muggle device had saved him, spared him from Azkaban, had kept him safe. He would thank them in his own way later on.

Now though, he simply wanted to sleep.

Drip....drip....

And then he realized...

Drip...drip....

That the faucet wasn't dripping. The repairman had been called in yesterday and the day before. But it hadn't dripped. Not one drop had spilled. It was the Malfoy household. Everything worked. Except the occupants.

Drip...drip....

And as Lucius lay awake, thinking over the video of Crouch taking him and the memories of Voldemort's hands, he wondered if he would ever stop crying.