A Series of Unfortunate Consequences From Unfortunate Actions

Hiii, Happy New Year, everyone! Thank you all for reviewing my other fics! Been busy, naturally for the holidays, but I'm back to post more! This one is a slightly different HP fanfic; it's from Lucius' point of view. It's set during Harry and co's 6th year and hopefully, Lucius' nasty arse will still be sitting in Azkaban where he belongs after his cruel actions and stupid behavior.

Here, in this short one-chapter fic, Lucius is lamenting his consequences (though he doesn't see it as consequences stemming from his actions) and his thoughts mull over to an incident in Draco's childhood that few people know about, not even most of Hogwart's teachers or even Draco's instruments Crabbe and Goyle.

Also a brief note saying that I am not very familiar with the British grading system or how they designate grade levels in their primary schools, so for now, I'm saying level three or third level to mean the equivalent of the American third grade and so on.

The usual disclaimers that none of these characters are mine; they belong to JK Rowling; I'm just borrowing them for my own amusement and other fans' entertainment. I am forever grateful to JK for loaning us the wonderful Harry Potter and her other menagerie of interesting characters. Part of the title is also borrowed from Lemony Snicket's series A Series of Unfortunate Events. Soooo, here goes!

By: CNJ

PG-13

Lucius:

Why I am here is beyond my comprehension. Yes, I, Lucius Marterus Malfoy, proud patriarch of the Malfoy Manor and one of the wizarding world's most prominent, finest families, am now sitting in a dank, smelly cold cell in Azkaban.

I am here thanks to that nosy, scheming basilisk by the name of Harry Potter and his little friends, who are almost as bad. Half of them are mudbloods and all of them associate with muggles. The stupid irony is that I am an almost fifty year old man and Harry and his cronies are only sixteen-year-old troublemaking idealists who haven't lived long enough to understand civilized society's rules.

I also blame those incompetent Ministry fools for falling for their story about Lord Voldemort appearing in the Department of Mysteries and about some stupid prophecy. The auror class B that they hired for me was a complete dolt and did nothing to help my case, so due to his incompetence, the Ministry's gullibility and noodle-spined stand, and to Potter and his little Order of DA or some drivel, I'm stuck with these outlaws and wastes of humanities.

I wander over and sit on the hard, narrow bench in my narrow cell and chuckle mirthlessly at the irony of it all and mentally compare it to the comfort and luxury of Malfoy Manor. I snort bitterly as I remember that just a month ago, my wife, Narcissa informed me through owl that the Malfoy Manor was raided and foreclosed. Narcissa and my son Draco have been forced to live with Narcissa's parents.

Narcissa tells me that Draco has complained nonstop and up until he left for his sixth year at Hogwarts, was driving her mad with his complaining. Good riddance. That boy is too whiny. I've done so much for Draco; he is the one who will carry on the Malfoy name and tradition. I can only hope Draco lives up to his family name.

Draco should be a little more grateful for all he has, especially all that I've given him. It was me who'd gotten him a coveted spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team and who had paid Minister Fudge himself to order Dumbledore to appoint my son prefect last year.

Thinking of Fudge makes me more bitter than I already am. You'd think that fool would be grateful for the extra money and the tip in boosting my son's position at Hogwarts. But no, that ungrateful idiot left me in the lurch when the aurors arrested me last spring.

Speaking of ungrateful fools, since I have been in Azkaban, I have not heard one word from Severus Snape. He owes me grandly. Since he was young and had the scrape with Lord Voldemort and Lord Voldemort threatened to kill him, it was I who covered his pathetic arse and did not tell the Dark Lord that Snape was hiding at Hogwarts.

I snicker cynically again and lean back on the hard, uncomfortable bench and think of that unfortunate irony...Severus or Snivellus, as he was known in our Hogwarts days teaching Potions of all things under that Dumbledore sod. Of course, I'd extracted a small price for my little favor.

Snape was to see to it that my son came first and that especially in his class, Draco got breaks, more breaks than Potter and his cronies...the brother and sister from that trashy muggle-loving Weasel family, and the Granger girl, who is from mudblood roots. I do hope Lord Voldemort gets that miserable, greasy, low-class Snivellus and makes him pay.

Draco had also another good chance with Professor Umbridge. She was a string from the Ministry, but from what Draco told me, she just about the only Hogwarts teacher who had any common sense. I smiled as I remembered the torment that I'd heard Umbridge had wreaked on Potter for backtalking her.

If only she'd had the gumption to stay, but Dumbledore fired her. She'd fled and even though Draco told me that he'd tried to owl her, there has been no word from her since. She was the last one that could give my son the break that he needs since his grades are not the greatest.

Yes, I'd like to believe that Draco is capable of achieving great things and high marks, but unfortunately throughout all of his Hogwarts years, his best has only been Acceptables and Exceeds Expectations, never Outstandings. In addition, in his first two years, he had the nerve to let a few of his grades fall to Poor, partly because he was overshadowed by brains like Granger and the famous Potter. Much as I detest admitting, Potter also has consistently outshone my son in the academic area as well.

With a disgusted sigh, I roll onto my back as I realize that Draco's academic chances are growing slimmer, especially now in year 6 with Umbridge gone and me unable to stay on Snivellus's back. It is a very good thing that no one knows about Draco's level three disaster back in primary school.

It was stupid, really, that teacher back in primary school ordered Draco to be held back a year. The primary school board backed her up. Of course, Draco didn't help his case any; he had indeed received many Poors and Dreadfuls that year. Against my will, I find my mind slipping back to that time.

It had been so embarrassing having to go to a teacher's conference and discuss my son being an abysmal academic failure by the third level of primary school. That teacher and the headmistress had just looked at me so pityingly and told me flatly that Draco would be repeating level three and there was nothing I could do about it.

Draco was to remain in grade three while all of his classmates moved on to level four. I'd been fuming, but had tried to stay calm and explain why Draco should not be forced to repeat level three, but to no avail. Finally, I'd snapped that I'd transfer my son to a different primary school and walked out of there.

That still didn't completely erase the stain on the Malfoy name, because all the primary schools in wizarding London use the same stupid system, so Draco's failure was known to the entire school board, so even though I made plans and put in a motion to have my son transferred, he still had to stay in level three, much to Narcissa's and my disgust.

Narcissa had dressed Draco down just that afternoon. So had I when I'd received his mark report and seen the Dreadfuls and Poors and the note requesting the conference. Draco had wailed about the teacher picking on him and such nonsense like that, but I'd just told him I'd deal with him after the conference and that he was to stay in his room until then.

Lo and behold all, when I got back to Malfoy Manor from the conference after finding out that he'd still have to do level three over again despite the transfer, I found my son sitting on the floor beside his bed, face buried in his hands, actually weeping like a small, weak child.

As if that weren't a soiling bad enough for the Malfoy name, having a son who wept was just one thing we didn't need. I'd stood a long minute, watching this sniveling, pathetic thing who was supposed to be a Malfoy, trying not to yell at him for making a bigger fool of himself than he already had. Malfoys don't weep, especially Malfoy males!

I'd considered giving him a good smacking, but that would be counterproductive also and might give him an excuse to continue crying like an overgrown baby. Finally, I'd said quietly, "Ohh, Draco, do stop that weeping...stop it...it's not the end of the world."

Draco had wiped his face on his robe and had looked up, his normally calm, composed pointed face and pale blond hair, so much like mine, rather pathetic and disheveled. His eyes were horribly bloodshot and his face was disgustingly wet with tears and snot.

I'd sighed and handed him a towel to try to clean himself off. I'd ushered him to his washroom, where he could wash his face and hopefully wipe away evidence of his tears before Merlin forbid, anyone should see him in this state.

"Well, Draco, you blew it, but be thankful you are part of the Malfoys, so we can cover your failure up," I'd told him, putting a paternal hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, Father, it's so unfair..." Draco had whined. "I'll be the laughingstock of the school, stuck in level three while everybody goes to level four..." His lower lip had trembled dangerously and his pale gray eyes, so like mine had watered anew.

"Draco...now, let's not start again with the foolish tears and no more of that pathetic whining," I'd told him firmly. "Any more tears from you and you will be the laughingstock of wizard society. Malfoys don't sit and weep when life is unfair to us...we plan around these stupid nuisances of life...I've made plans to have you transferred to a different primary school and once you're there, we will let no one know that you're a year and a half older than your new classmates. They will believe that you're still eight." My son had nodded rather numbly. At least he'd stopped the foolish weeping and seemed to be regaining his composure.

So he'd gone to a different primary school and there, no one but a few teachers had known about his retention. Thanks to dire warnings on my part, those teachers were not foolhardy enough to let it leak that my son was ten and still in level three. As far as I know, no one at Hogwarts knows that as of this year, Draco will turn eighteen in February while most of his year six classmates are still sixteen or seventeen.

That had been one stain on the Malfoy name that we'd successfully covered and kept hidden. But this one, this blundering that landed me in Azkaban will be much more difficult to cover. It will be impossible to undo.

I do hope that Draco has enough of a brain to continue on the Malfoy name, though I suspect with his intelligence being only average, much as I detest to admit, he doesn't stand much of a chance, especially with little ninnies like Potter, Granger, and the Weasels on the loose.

A bell clangs and aurors, class S come around and rattle their sticks on the bars, summoning us to dinner. With a gusty sigh, I sit up and straighten my ugly green prison robe. When the auror opens my cell and binds me, I roll my eyes.

The auror levitates me to the magical strip where the Azkaban prisoners stand bound. The strip takes the prisoners and me down to the kitchen where we eat the usual pathetic supper of bland rice, hard, tasteless meats and water.

Merlin knows, unless Lord Voldemort and his followers can hatch a plan to overthrow the Ministry and take back the wizard world for our side, I stand to endure this monotony for the next fifty years.