𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆

Part 7

June Rennie

When Lucius woke, he was looking up at a familiar ceiling. His mind felt remarkably clear, which was a foreign sensation. He heard no strange voices, no thoughts that weren't his own invaded his head. He did not feel disembodied, torn to shreds, confined, controlled, occupied, conquered or ravaged. He recognized that he was in Malfoy Manor, in his own bed. He could feel cool, clean sheets against his feet. His eyes were gummy, his limbs tired and sore, and he felt resolutely sure that he was not insane. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Draco? He felt his presence in an odd way, as if he could smell Draco's skin, but not see his face, as if he could almost hear his voice lingering in a room he had recently vacated, as if he had been recently touched, and the warmth of his son's fingers remained on his arm. He has been here, he has been with me. He rescued me. I knew he would find a way. Lucius felt proud, relieved. All is not lost.

He heard movement beyond his range of vision, but his body was far too weak for him to turn his head. "Draco?" His voice was barely more than a whisper. He heard crisp feet moving toward him, and saw Narcissa's face looking into his.

"Lucius. Welcome home." She caressed his cheek. The sensation was almost overwhelming. He eyes fluttered shut, and he felt his brain mercifully shutting down. "We have a great deal of work to do..."

***

June Rennie saw the Daily Prophet when she came into work. She often came in on the weekends, it gave her a chance to catch up on the research she didn't want to do in front of the others. She had her ambitions, after all. She wasn't sure how she felt about seeing Draco's picture splayed out in the paper, positively snarling up at her. It wasn't the most flattering picture. He looked very young and very angry; a stock photo, no doubt. Everyone knew about his past, of course. It was well-known that he was a former Death Eater; truth be told, this was one of the most valuable things about him to his team. He knew things that made even the bravest of them quake to hear. Of course, given his recent history, the fact that he was one of the remaining three with a key to Voldemort's prison, he was also a subject of their various spells and counter spells of protection. That protection, of course, was for him and from him. Even in the department, few people really trusted him. June herself had at one point been responsible for finding spells to prevent Draco from using his power to conjure his father.

She had also had a crush on him from the moment he had first wandered into their department offices.

No one could blame her, of course. He was a beautiful man. Certainly, he could be an absolute jerk, he could be endlessly brutal. But it was that trace of sadness in his eyes, underscored by a hint of defiance, that appealed to her. She had been at Hogwarts, too, of course. She had been a Slytherin, she had seen him sitting angrily in the common room, fingers steepled in front of him. He had always seemed so small, so delicate, so hard and sharp at the same time. She had laughed at his jokes, when he was in the mood to be amusing. She had graduated two years before he did, though. He was young and, while noting his beauty, his graceful motion, his sheer moneyed presence, she had never thought of him the way she did now.

She had seen him once in a muggle bar, more than a year ago now, drinking like the sun might not rise in the morning. His fine hair was mussed, his silvery eyes (such strange, intense, dramatic eyes) had been unfocused. She had pulled up a stool next to him, put her hand on his knee. She did have her ambitions, after all. He had looked up at her sharply then, almost confused, but not quite. He wasn't stupid, this one. Oh no. Even if he hadn't been the top of his class (She had done her homework, and school records were the easiest to pilfer for an Unspeakable), he paid attention, he listened, he watched. He had looked at her, her hand sliding up his thigh, with a kind of incredulity, a kind of question. Almost scoffing, but not quite. He didn't look at her hand, but focused those unfocused eyes on hers, unblinking. She leaned in and kissed him. He didn't resist. Eventually he responded, slowly, as though his lips were recovering a long, cold winter.