Untitled

ORIGINS & FAMILY: Name: Lucius Abraxas Malfoy Nicknames:  Luc ( at your own risk ) Birthday: August 3, 1950 Place of Birth: Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England Places Lived Since: Hogwarts, gallivanting about Europe Current Residence: Townhouse in London Notable Family Members: Abraxas Malfoy ( father ); Celine Malfoy ( mother, deceased )

PHYSICAL: Faceclaim: Bill Skarsgård Height: 6’4 Build: athletic Hair Color: dirty blonde Eye Color: green Jewelry? Tattoos? Piercings?: Malfoy signet ring, several hidden tattoos, no piercings Unique Mannerisms/Physical Habits: messing with his ring, smoking when he’s stressed, charm and manipulation

PERSONALITY: Occupation: Junior Member at the Wizengamot Affiliation: the Dark Lord Languages Spoken: English, French, Latin, Ancient Greek Positive Traits: charming, ambitious, meticulous, devoted, clever Negative Traits: manipulative, cruel, arrogant, selfish, harsh Likes: the hours just before sunrise, black coffee, challenges, a well-aged scotch Dislikes: being lied to, places that lack history, feeling out of control, nicknames Aesthetic: the inherent hubris of being young, wealthy, and powerful; this house is not haunted – you are; physical intimacy like a drug—only this touch makes you feel real, feel something; ancient archives full of dusty, heavy magic and lore; a face crafted for tragedy; oh golden boy, don’t act like you were kind, you were awful every time.

HISTORY :

ONE:

Your father is not a kind man, not by any sense of the word. He is not a good man, nor a good father, he has never been affectionate or encouraging, never saw you as anything more than a pawn for his own political gain. That golden boy, that perfect child – how could you be anything but a disappointment the very first time you expressed an opinion that was completely your own? You have your mother’s eyes, and he hates you for this – that woman he loved and killed with his relentless pursuit of power.

Being a Malfoy wasn’t enough for him, and maybe that was something driven into him by his own father – you never knew your grandfather and once might have been soft enough to feel something. It was enough for you, once. You loved these haunted halls, the sloping lawns, and misty twisty hedges – back when you still idolized your father, regardless of his faults.

Oh golden boy – don’t act like you were ever innocent. But then, you have always been a sucker, a masochist. And he has crafted you into his own image, nurtured that latent cruelty you once feared, gave you an outlet, and a purpose. Your father thinks you are a weapon to be aimed at his will, but you alone know what this cost; and what you are willing to risk for a taste of power and influence. Besides, he’s old now, his memory is failing….

TWO:

“What was the first bit of magic you ever performed?”  She laughs, moonlight floating through the open window, illuminating curves and curls. “I’m serious,” you press, that slow smirk tugging at your lips. “What is the very first magic you did -- not in school, not under controlled circumstances, but the very first time?”

“Hm,” she sits up, reaching for the glass of cognac you abandoned earlier in the evening and takes a sip. She’s gorgeous, the wife of a much older French Ministry official whom your father has send you here to learn from. “My grandfather has a vineyard in the Loire valley, do you know of it?” You nod but say nothing. “They say – I was too young to really remember it you see – that I made an entire field of vines burst into bloom in the middle winter!” She laughs, it's a beautiful melodic sound. “Why? Why does it matter?”

“And have you ever been able to replicate it? Something that powerful and spontaneous?”

She seems to wilt under the intensity of your gaze, a decorative ornament pressed beyond their purpose. You’re already pulling away, reaching for a cigarette which you light in a bit of wandless magic that’s more for show than actually impressive.

“Lucius, why would I ever need to worry about agricultural magic?”

“Obviously that’s not what I meant,” she hears the slightest edge in your voice and does not continue. You should tell her to leave, you’ve both gotten all you can from the other person, why linger over philosophical musings? But you’re still young, still foolish enough to mistake clever smiles and quick remarks for actual substances – or maybe you’re just too stubborn to not make your point, so you press on.

“It's not about the specifics of what you did, it's about the power and sheer will behind this first rush of magic. How can children so easily achieve something that for grown wizards requires years of study and practice?”

She laughs again, and you realize you would quickly come to find the sound annoying. Your gaze turns icy.

“The infamous Lucius Malfoy, a secret scholar and philosopher? Who would have ever thought?”

She’s trying to draw you back in, hands drifting across your chest and reaching for the cigarette. But you’re already gone, plotting your escape and spinning a web of lies and possible blackmail – insurance, should she decide to get angry and make a scene. You’ve always had a talent for self-preservation, even as the Malfoy name seems naturally imbued with a shield charm – all allegations and rumors easily deflected. Manipulation you learn at your father’s knee, and so you extract yourself from her embrace and walk into the ensuite.