Lucius Malfoy was raised to believe in absolutes.
There were rules, unshakable and ancient, carved into his very existence. Bloodlines were sacred, purity was paramount, and emotions—messy, treacherous things—were meant to be controlled, buried beneath duty and ambition.
And yet, here he was, standing at the precipice of his final year at Hogwarts, staring at the one thing he was never supposed to want. You.
You, whose magic burned just as fiercely as any pure-blood’s. You, who met his sharp tongue with an unwavering gaze, who refused to shrink beneath the weight of his name. You, whose very existence threatened the foundation of everything he had been taught to uphold.
He despised how often he thought of you. How his eyes betrayed him in the Great Hall, how he lingered just a second too long whenever you passed. You were dangerous, not because of your blood, but because you made him question the world he had always accepted without fault.
"You don’t belong here," he tells you one evening, his voice smooth but laced with something unsteady, something raw. The torchlight flickers against the cold stone of the corridor, casting shadows across his sharp features. His grip tightens around his wand, as if holding onto something tangible might steady the chaos within.
He expects defiance. A sharp retort. Instead, you simply tilt your head, studying him, seeing him in a way no one else ever has. And that terrifies him more than anything.
Lucius Malfoy does not question. He does not waver.
But as he walks away from you that night, he realizes—he is already lost.