Lucius Malfoy stepped into the office of the Secretary of State for Defence with the air of a man who owned the ground he walked on. His polished boots made no sound against the thick, patterned carpet. The cane in his gloved hand, silver-tipped and gleaming under the sharp light, clicked once against the floor before he brought it to rest before him. It was a subtle, deliberate statement. A chess piece moving into position.
Across the room, behind a large oak desk cluttered with folders, an untouched cup of tea, and a half-smoked cigarette curling into nothingness, sat the Right Honourable Geoffrey Hastings, Secretary of State for Defence. He was a man well-versed in the political dance of Westminster, having cut his teeth during the Falklands and sharpened his tongue against the iron of Whitehall's bureaucratic machinery.
He was not, however, accustomed to men like Lucius Malfoy.
Hastings gave Malfoy a once-over, his expression caught somewhere between bemusement and disdain.
The long, tailored coat, the impossibly expensive waistcoat, the cane like some relic from a century long past—it was all a bit much for his taste. The sort of thing you'd expect from an eccentric aristocrat who still thought the Empire existed.
"You're a bit lost, aren't you?" Hastings said, leaning back in his chair, fingers laced across his stomach. "MI5's down the road. Parliament's that way. You're in the office of the Defence Secretary, old boy. Unless you've come to sell me one of those silly private security firms you lot run, I suggest you turn around before I start laughing."
Lucius smiled, slow and deliberate, his fingers flexing around the handle of his cane. The room felt colder suddenly, though Hastings couldn't tell if it was the air or something else, something unseen. Malfoy took another step forward, gaze steady, unblinking.
"Mr Hastings," he said smoothly, voice like silk wrapped around steel, "I do admire the British ability to mock what it doesn't understand. It has, after all, kept the country afloat for centuries. But I assure you, I am exactly where I mean to be."
Hastings exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. "That right? And what exactly does a man dressed for a Victorian masquerade want with the Ministry of Defence?"
Lucius tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question, then lifted his cane, tapping the tip lightly against the edge of the desk.
It exploded, its splinters hitting the wall and the bookcase and embedding into the sofa. Hastings looked on wide-eyed as the wooden debris struck everywhere except at the two of them. The cup of tea on Hastings' desk met the floor with a loud splat.
And then, as quickly as it came, the cup began to rise and then the thin, dusty air transformed into something resembling his desk once more. It was as if nothing had changed, except that the tea in his cup was now gone.
Hastings swallowed, his fingers tightening against the armrests of his chair.
"Now," Malfoy continued, voice calm, unhurried, "perhaps we can have a proper conversation."
"Jesus Christ. You lot really do exist don't you? Magic is real?" Hastings let out a slow breath. "Jesus fucking Christ!"
"No, not quite."
The Defence Secretary forced a smirk, though his hands were less steady than before. "I don't like your parlour tricks, Malboy."
"It's Malfoy, Mr. Hastings," Lucius' smile widened. "You misunderstand. What you just experienced was not a trick. It was merely… a glimpse." He lowered his voice. "Would you like to see more?"
Hastings didn't answer immediately. He reached for his cigarette instead, lighting it with a flick of his lighter, taking a slow drag as if that might steady him. "Alright," he muttered. "Let's say, hypothetically, I entertain this. Let's say I believe you. What do you want?"
Lucius leaned forward, placing both hands on the desk. The silver snake of his cane gleamed as it caught the dim light.
"Power," he said simply. "For both of us."
Hastings scoffed. "That right? What kind of power?"
"The kind that matters," Lucius replied. "The kind that shapes the future. Britain is standing on the edge of something vast, something you cannot yet see. But I assure you, there are those who do see it. There are forces at play beyond your understanding, Mr. Hastings. Forces that will sweep through this nation like a tide. You may stand with us… or be left to drown."
Hastings took another slow drag of his cigarette, considering. "You lot planning a war, then?"
Lucius chuckled, straightening. "Not quite. But we are preparing for the inevitability of one."
Hastings frowned. "And where do I come in all of that?"
Lucius regarded him as one might a promising student. "You, Mr Hastings, have something we require. Goldeneye."
Hastings stiffened. That was not a name spoken lightly. His cigarette dropped in his lap and he stood, hurrying before his three-thousand pound trousers were ruined. "How the hell do you know about that?" he asked angrily.
Lucius waved a hand dismissively. "You are not the only ones with intelligence networks. But I am not here to argue details. I am here to offer a bargain."
Hastings let out a sharp, mirthless laugh. "Oh, you're mad. Absolutely bloody mad. You think I'd just hand over access to one of the most classified—"
"Not hand over," Lucius corrected smoothly. "Simply… grant us a key. Allow us to ensure that Goldeneye remains pointed in the correct direction. A deterrent, if you will."
"Deterrent for what?"
"For our friends from across the pond," Lucius replied silkily. "If they think they can come in anytime they want and try to play the hero in things that don't concern them. This will be for extraneous circumstances, desperate times, if you will. We will, of course, try the diplomatic routes first."
Hastings exhaled through his nose. "And if I refuse?"
Lucius shrugged. "Then we find another means. But consider this: help us, and you will find your political career most agreeable. The Prime Minister's seat will be within your grasp. A government reshaped to your will." He smiled. "Resist us and it will delay us. But it will only be a delay because more than enough fools in the Parliament want to be the Prime Minister, giving them the same offer wouldn't be too hard, I'd wager."
A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken implications. Hastings, for all his cynicism, was not a fool. He knew power when it stood before him.
After a long moment, he stubbed out his cigarette, eyes calculating. "Let's say I were… hypothetically interested. What's my first step?"
Lucius smiled. "A simple meeting. An introduction to my associates. And in time, you will see that you have chosen the correct side."
Hastings exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Christ. This is madness."
Lucius turned, making his way towards the door. Before he left, he glanced back, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Madness? No, Minister. This is the future."
And then, he was gone, leaving the room just as he had entered, silent and assured, his gait unhurried and his demeanour satisfied.
Outside, he stood on the pavement, lighting a cigarette.
The Dark Lord had been right as usual.
This was better than the Imperius. The unforgivable curse would take an extreme amount of control to maintain and it posed the risk of wearing out at any moment. Greed, though, was a far better curse than the Imperius.
Simple, old-fashioned greed. Far easier to cast and maintain than the Imperius.
He looked up to see that the rain was beginning to fall. It was a beautiful day.