User Profile

Name: Meg (phantomechomeg@comcast.net)
Age: 17



Character Age: 43

(Former) House: Slytherin

Physical character description (a paragraph will do): Lucius Malfoy possesses all the classical charm of all those nightmarish Greek gods, perfected through the calculated breeding and inbreeding of the purest, wealthiest, and most influential. The canon of his house is epitomized in him: the white-blonde hair, the aristocratic pallor, the cold grey eyes, all sculpted in the most traditional forms of masculine beauty, edged with the ruggedness that appeals contemporarily. He is the height of what it means to be a pureblood: all of his elegance dressed lavishly in the trappings of wealth, executed with the charm and style of a true noble house. His clothes are always tailored, his world in perfect order and cleanliness. Truly, even the eerie, stark uniforms of the Death Eaters become him.

Personal history: Lucius was the heir of the Malfoy family, and was raised as diminutive royalty. His background is relatively typical for any magical pureblood of the Dark persuasion—lavish, spoiled, full of myth and tradition and cheerful sadism against those who would taint the exquisite matter of their world. He grew, and was educated with more than his intelligence: he inherited a venomous dose of cunning, heightened in Slytherin’s dungeons and at Hogwarts’ hand. He wed Narcissa in alliance and politics, but sincerely loves her and has since they were first married, despite that passion is largely in lacking, and that he has been stern or even cruel to her in the past, simply out of the beautiful, brutal state of his character. He’d had such hopes for his son, whom Narcissa has guarded and adored into a state of disappointment. Thus far, Lucius is ignorant of Draco’s venture into the Death Eaters; he is still trapped in Azkaban, but once he is out, I would prefer him to discover his son’s deeds, and Narcissa’s.

Character personality: Lucius enjoys order immensely, to but it in the frankest terms. He enjoys clear-cut rules, a structure of society, the haves and have-nots. A great deal of his idolization of order is sheer, simple dominance. He had been, before Azkaban, free to do as he pleased, to rule and demand and be attended to, to stop laws, the oppress whom he pleased, to reign as a duke in his intriguing miniature kingdom. He possesses a notably short temper when denied such things as those he desires, and can become nasty when blocked. However, he emphasizes appearances greatly—a tactic for any blueblood, esp. one once hiding his history from the public—and so prefers to goad his enemies into making fools of themselves or attacking while he seems the generous innocent. He prefers schemes to displays of physical or magical power, but when he finally does release his blow—there is a reason he was one of the most prime Death Eaters.

Do you have any clear plans with your character? Clear plans? No, largely because I’ve only met up with two other players. I know what I want, but not necessarily will happen. I’d prefer to: Escape/be bought out of the Dementor-less Azkaban, antagonize the relationship between Narcissa and Snape, torture, maim, attack, brutalize, subvert, and in all ways harm the Order and their members, and further serve the Dark Lord in his trials to purify by fire the corruption and decay of the wizarding breed. I would prefer to accomplish all of this with Lucius’ distinct taste, class, elegance, and style, not to mention his glaringly cruel and hot-tempered character flaws. I’d like to have some interaction with Bellatrix, Fenrir, and other Death Eaters, but beyond that, I’d say I’m pretty free.

Specialties/idiosyncracies: I would like to make him something of a “clean freak,” esp. after his stint in Azkaban: being obsessed with making certain there is no dirt under his fingernails, no grime, no mud, no dust, even, in any sphere of his life, even using his cane to press buttons in elevators or toe open doors to avoid contact with the putrescence of the common herd. Not only is it in accordance with his perfect world of aristocracy, or symbolic of his purity-driven prejudices, it’s simply fun.



Simulation entry:

(I am first assuming this is after he is free from Azkaban, which I would like to have staged early on in play; he’d be rather boring in prison walls).

Lucius stood in the room, his room, a place that had lain uninhabited for over a year. Everything here, at least, was almost exactly as it had been, the covers still turned down upon the bed, the scatter of papers and even open books on the cherry writing desk, the candles still measured, half-burnt, on his bed stand. His closet door was open, revealing the gleam of tailored suits, the shine of polished boots lined meticulous on the floor. The only additions were a layer of dust, for the house-elves swept this room only once a week in its disuse, and the grubby robe he had worn in Azakaban, which was strewn in a pathetic puddle of grimy cloth on the otherwise spotless floor.

He himself remained in the doorway to the adjoining bathroom, hair damp and combed clean, blissfully clean for the first time in nearly fifteen months. A thick, soft white robe was tied about him, and he almost looked himself again, if some twenty pounds lighter, and the circles under his eyes several shades deeper than the rest of his fair skin. He’d stood here, watching it, trying to force it back into perspective with his life, trying to adapt back into his old form. He stared at the grubby robe, at the perfection of the polished bedstead. Vaguely, he moved to the desk, stepping over the abomination of cloth in his path.

He frowned at the journal he’d only just begun to keep when he was imprisoned—a leather-bound gift from Narcissa, used for detailing the fresh deeds he had planned now that the Dark Lord was returned. He did not bother checking the date of the last entry, simply seized up a quill and the first pot of ink and wrote, as if to prove to himself he still could.

When I was first at the Dark Lord’s right hand, the world seemed fresh and inevitable: we could not lose the war we waged in those red nights, striving ever-closer to our final victory. When the Dark Lord was what most called dead and I roamed the circles and wheels of society and played men as pawns, it seemed I had never been anything but this: benefactor, politician, aristocrat, father, husband. When the Dark Lord returned, it seemed I had never left his side at all, that society life had all been a strange, glossy, pale dream. When in Azkaban, there was no future nor past, and the world was encompassed within a narrow cell full of rot and stench. Now that I am free, I cannot name how the world feels, other than fragile.

I have been restored to home and titles, and duties, as well. Nothing fits. I cannot remember the names of the house elves, and Narcissa avoids my gaze until I am driven to rage with frustration at her childishness and fearfulness. I am slowly recalling my old responsibilities and pleasures, the services I so gladly undertook on our cause, but the world is more than fragile—it seems changed.

He let the quill rest on the paper, rereading it once. Something seemed to break over him, like sunlight, and he smiled a little to himself, a cajoling sort of smile, self-deprecating, and then increasing, deepening, to a vengeful sort of smile, vicious, lupine, prepared. He laughed a little recklessly, and smiled a little casually, and with his wand, forced a wild blossom of flame into the fireplace of his room. With another nonchalant, even amused, flick of his wand, he sent the filthy robe, the banner of his old, brief incarnation, flying off of the carpet and cast it into the fire. He laughed, a strange, cheerful laugh, and the many men he had been seemed to merge into the one he was now, idealist, aristocrat, fanatic, prisoner—into some new yet ancient thing, something dark and glad and pure in intent, pure as drowning, pure as clean death.

As if he had never left the room at all for a prison cell, as if the past sixteen years had never occurred and he was still young and full of calculated anger and cold zeal, he summoned a house elf to fetch him breakfast. After all, he would be seeing his son for the first time in fifteen months today, and then, then—he would attend the Dark Lord once more.

Anything else you would like us to take into consideration? Not at the moment, other than keep in mind how much Lucius hates the trio. Hermione, Muggleborn, a freak of nature; Harry, a half-blood, a perversion of purity; Ron, a pureblood, a blood-traitor brat of a blood-traitor line. I’m sure he’d love to kill them, or just torture them awhile—it was, after all, his specialty in the “old days.”

Friends (36):

Friend of (31):