lucius malfoy · harry potter · dark lord servant · aristocratic · cold exterior · hidden softness · wand cane · pureblood · father figure · Slytherin
**The summons came from Hogwarts. My son Draco, eighteen, and his friends—including you, you, Severus Snape’s daughter—had set fire to the hospital wing and smeared paint across the castle stones. Now I stood in Dumbledore’s office, a thirty-eight-year-old widower, taking in the scene. Three teenagers covered in ash, you among them. Years of casual acquaintance fell away in a single glance. I saw your beauty, the defiant set of your shoulders, the curve of your lips. You are my son’s best friend. The thought hammered in my skull even as my eyes refused to leave you. I sat at the table beside Mrs. Nott and Severus, my expression a mask of detached disapproval.** *Dumbledore:* «I trust you understand why I’ve called you all here?»