Thirty three years ago, Lucius Malfoy had to give up the love of his life because she was a muggle. Three months ago, Draco Malfoy, in hiding in the Muggle world, gave up the love of his life because she was a witch. Three days ago, that witch found out Draco was her younger sister’s A-level English Professor. Thirty three years ago, everyone ended up with the wrong person. Hopefully this time around things turn out right.
I’ve been wanting to write a sequel to Bloody Awful Poetry
ever since I finished posting it, but I could never figure out how to start. Then, a few months ago, I found an outline to a story I had plotted out before I had even imagined BAP. The vague, disjointed ideas I had for a BAP sequel fit perfectly into this outline and BAM! Completely outlined sequel! I just had to write it. It seems leaving university, getting a government job and BAP being nominated for COA in the Best Portrayal of Dawn
AND the Best Harry Potter Crossover
categories (go vote
for me BTW) has really gotten my creative juices flowing.
I had written the first chapter and sent it off to Fictionally, but they rejected it because it was a songfic. I’ve reworked it so that the lyrics are incorporated into the story flow. See if you can spot them.
As always, anything you recognize, I’m just borrowing. I’ll give them back, I promise! Chapter 1: Love Song
They say that a home’s windows are its eyes. They also say the eyes are the window to the soul. If this is true, then this home is lonely indeed. It stands high atop the chalk of Marlborough Downs, the wind blowing through the beech trees that surround it, and their innocent leaves batter its darkened windows. One could even go so far as to say it is merely a house, a manor house to be sure, but still a house. It is the life of its inhabitants that makes a house become a home.
On the edge of the grounds, two figures cut through the storm. Lightning flashes, backlighting them for a split second, and we see they are a man and a woman, dark, yet ethereal. The woman sways, meandering. The man walks with a purpose, corralling her towards their destination.
“Come on Dru!” He hisses, exasperated.
“When the night is dark and stormy you don’t have to reach out for me,” She whispers, singsong.
“I know, I know, you’ve said it before, ‘you’ll come to me’.” He interrupts her. “So come!” Every single time there’s a storm, it’s the same thing. Why do I put up with her? Why am I drawn to her?
He looks over the manor, taking in the state of disrepair, and wonders if his quarry still lives in his ancestral home. One way to find out.
“Dru?” He holds out his arm to her, and she takes it. They dash up the drive, ahead of the rain. A gust of wind blows open the journeyman’s entrance on the side of the house.
“Feels just like we’re dancing in the wind.” The woman, Dru, tugs the man towards the open door.
“Side door it is.”
As they go to step inside, however, an invisible barrier throws them back. Well,
someone lives here at least.
“Come on, Dru, let’s find a place to hole up for the day. It doesn’t look like anyone’s home. We’ll catch him on his way in.”
If the man and woman had decided to keep going up the drive to the front entrance, they would have known this was not the case, that they'd more than likely catch their prey on his way out.
In the southern corner of the house, opposite the journeyman’s entrance, on the second floor, a light was flickering in the window.
The master of the house sat slouched in his wing-backed chair, nursing a brandy, staring into the flames in the grate, wondering where everything went wrong. Once, he had been a pillar of Society, once, he had had influence, once, he had been respected, feared, revered. All that was gone now. They all left him, one by one. First, his Master left him, not once, but twice. His son disappeared at the same time, and slowly but surely his wife was drawing away from him.
He raises his glass to his lips, but it’s empty (like my life).
He stares at it for a time, then rouses himself to the sideboard, where the crystal decanter sits. He pours himself a finger and sighs as he turns and collapses back into his chair. Eyes closed, he toasts the flames. One more for the night , one more for the pain
. He doesn’t see the flames flare green, he doesn’t see the head floating in the fireplace, he doesn’t bother to open his eyes when it speaks.
“Lucius? Come to bed, it’s late.”
“What difference does it make if I sleep there or here?”
“I don’t understand how you can bear to stay in that rattling old house alone!”
At this, his eyes snap open, blazing.
“And whose fault is that?” He snaps.
“Fine. Once, we said we’d be together till death do us part. I suppose we said those words with only half our hearts.”
“I suppose so.”
He doesn’t respond. She sighs one last time, and the flames return to their orange hue. One more long goodbye. I don’t know how many more I can take.
He empties his glass in one gulp and shatters it against the mantle. Crystal shards scatter on the hearth, the state of his heart made manifest. Where had it all gone wrong?
Things were supposed to get better when his Master returned, was it already eight years ago now? Instead, things went from bad to worse. Amazing how time flies when you’re miserable.
He knew it was his own fault that his wife was drawing away from him. She couldn’t bear the memories, and he didn’t blame her. Most of the time. Usually.
Opening his home to his Lord, no, his former Lord was the beginning of the end, he now saw. Thirteen years of tenuous peace had dulled the memories of the last time around. He had forgotten the terror the Dark Bastard induced in his followers, or rather he had suppressed those memories. That final year playing host to the Dark Bastard and his minions had opened his eyes to his folly.
He remembered now how scared he had been the first time around, barely more than a boy, when his father had presented him to their Lord and Master. He remembered now how he had hated the feel of those spindly, cold fingers wrapping themselves around his wrist, drawing his arm up, his sleeve falling away, baring his forearm. He remembered the touch of the wand and the pain that it brought, how he had nearly bit through his tongue to keep from screaming. And I did the same to my own son. No wonder he left. He’s lucky the Bastard died when he did. He’s lucky he didn’t have to stay around, keep up the family name lest the Master destroy us all. Does he hate me, I wonder? I certainly hated my father afterwards, not just because of the Mark, but because it meant I couldn’t see…Mary.
He couldn’t sit any more. He couldn’t – He had to – He had to get up.
How could he have forgotten about her! His first love. His only love. Now that he thought about it, all he ever felt for Narcissa was affection. He had married her because she was of the right stock, and his father decided it was a good match, and he went along with it. Why? Why did I go along with it? I had been completely and totally in love with Mary. What changed?
His mind raced, thinking back to his youth. Newly graduated from Hogwarts, he had been wandering the Downs one day when he met her. Mary. All he could remember was he loved her from the start. They had been inseparable that entire summer, then when autumn came, he stopped seeing her. Why? He remembered saying he’d be hers forever, that she said she’d be his. He remembered them planning to elope, so why hadn’t they? Why?What was it?
It was there, in the back of his mind, on the edge of conscious thought, but he couldn’t for the life of him grasp the memory. He had a vague impression of his father’s study, a conversation about…love?
“No son of mine will lower himself to marry a Muggle!”
“I love her! I’m GOING to marry her whether you like it or not!”
“Life is NOT one of your silly little love songs!”
“I don’t care! Disown me if you like, but you’re not stopping me!”
“Don’t you walk away from me boy! You can love right, or you can love wrong. Loving that muggle of yours is WRONG!!
“And what makes you the expert? No-one wrote in the book of love that you’d always know!”
“I am your FATHER! You WILL heed my words!”
There was a flash of a wand, a spell was shouted, and that was the last time the Lucius ever thought of Mary.
Next time: A look into the past.
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