"Why Lucius sucks"
Chapter Eleven: A Kindness in Shadows
Hogwarts was always quieter right before spring break. The sky outside hung heavy with mist, and the scent of cold stone mixed with fresh earth drifted through the open windows. Students still bustled, but slower now—drained, distracted, distant. Most were dreaming of home.
Not everyone was.
James Potter lingered in a forgotten corridor on the fourth floor. He wasn’t sure why he had come—Lucius had only suggested it—but something about the way he'd said it made it impossible to say no. Like a dare with silk gloves.
The older boy leaned against the wall, blonde hair perfectly combed, eyes cool and calculating behind his pristine prefect badge.
“You’ve got fire,” Lucius said, voice like warm smoke. “You hide it behind all that foolish Gryffindor noise, but I see it. You want to be more than them.”
James swallowed hard. His fists clenched. He hated how Lucius’s words slid under his skin like they belonged there.
“They cheer when you’re loud,” Lucius continued, taking slow steps toward him. “But they’ll only follow when you learn how to be quiet. Controlled. Commanding.”
He stopped just short of James’s space.
“You can have more. If you learn to take it.”
James said nothing. His breathing had slowed, not from calm but tension. Lucius wasn’t touching him, but it felt like he was. Every word pressed against his chest like a hand he couldn’t swat away.
It was... confusing.
Down in the dungeons, Severus was sitting at a chair far too soft for a first-year’s comfort. Lucius’s private study wasn’t supposed to exist, but it did—tucked between classrooms, cloaked by spells, known only to those he allowed in.
Severus wasn’t sure if he felt honored or hunted.
The room smelled of polished wood, rare ink, and faint rosewater. On the desk lay books with cracked spines and names Severus barely recognized, but Lucius said were important. Potions manuals with blood-slick diagrams, folded letters written in foreign runes.
Lucius poured tea into a porcelain cup and placed it gently in front of Severus.
“I know what it’s like,” Lucius said, “to have more potential than they expect. To be born into a world that doesn’t value you until you make them.”
He sat across from Severus, legs crossed, every movement deliberate.
“Men like us aren’t given power. We earn it. Quietly. Strategically. That’s what Slytherin is.”
Severus didn’t trust easily. But this? This made sense. His father never talked to him like this. No one at home did. No teacher had spoken with such purpose. And when Lucius offered him a heavy book of rare potion theory—annotated, clearly used—Severus felt something strange coil in his chest.
“Why?” he asked, voice dry.
Lucius only smiled.
“Because I want to see what you become.”
At the Gryffindor table, Lily sat stiffly, pushing mashed potatoes across her plate. Her eyes flicked toward James—quiet, still, blank. It was wrong. James didn’t do quiet. He laughed. He shouted. He played dumb games with Sirius and pushed his luck at every meal.
But now he just listened.
To Lucius.
Always Lucius.
“He’s got his hooks in him,” Mei whispered, leaning across the table. “It’s not just James. He’s got Snape too. You seen it?”
Lily nodded. She didn’t want to admit how badly it bothered her.
Narcissa had noticed too. She didn’t say much, but she watched everything with sharp, cool eyes. At breakfast, when Lucius passed behind Severus’s chair and let his fingers brush the boy’s shoulder, Narcissa’s hand twitched. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
She said nothing.
That night, back in the dungeons, Lucius stood by the fireplace in his study. Severus remained seated, the book open in his lap. His fingers traced Lucius’s handwriting in the margins. Notes written in long, looping script. Praise. Questions. Commands.
“I think about you,” Lucius said, voice low. “More than I should.”
Severus froze. He didn’t look up.
Lucius moved behind him and placed a hand on the back of his chair.
“Don’t disappoint me.”
It wasn’t a threat. Not exactly. It was worse—a promise wrapped in affection. The kind that made Severus ache and hate himself for wanting more.
Meanwhile, James stared at the ceiling in the Gryffindor dorms, the curtains around his bed drawn shut. His fingers curled in the blanket, cold despite the fire roaring below.
He remembered Lucius’s voice. The way it slid down his spine like water and wire.
You can have more.
You deserve more.
And deep down, a part of James believed him.