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Lucius had his doubts long before the Dark Lord fell.
He'd never been much for fanaticism. Slytherins hardly ever were, for all that witless rabble associated them with it. They were too self-interested, too independent, too prudent to support someone who didn't first prove worthy of it. It was Gryffindors who were the fanatics; the ones who railed and gnashed their teeth against the unfeeling, inexorable truth of the universe.
Never mind that fanaticism didn't pay for the Manor's upkeep or his dependents' wages.
It'd been the thing in vogue, following the Dark Lord, inherited directly from their parents, who'd gone to school with him and told them tales of his black powers since childhood. And maybe they'd thought - hoped - that he'd be the one to change this world of festering rot, swarming with Muggles and Muggle-borns gnawing away at the edges of what was left of it.
Maybe they'd thought - hoped - that they just might get to live.
But no such thing.
The Dark Lord didn't care for pure-bloods any more than he cared for Muggles. He wasn't even a pure-blood. He was nothing more than a bastard child, from a Muggle father and a mother from a decayed pure-blood family. What the Dark Lord craved was to claim the inheritance his mother had denied him and lay waste to the entire world. But what else could one even hope for from such a corrupted tree?
What had truly set Lucius' doubts in, however, had been Regulus and Severus.
Severus had always kept to himself, ever since their schooldays. But as the war wore on, he had become quieter and withdrawn. He'd thought himself clever - that no one would notice his frequent absences when he wasn't needed, but he couldn't hope to fool someone who knew him. Lucius had never asked why he'd betrayed the Dark Lord, but Severus had never had the stomach for Death Eaters anyway. For all his acerbity and heaping contempt for the world, the man was soft-hearted to the core.
And Regulus, soft, bright-eyed Regulus, whose only fault was that he'd loved his family too much.
Narcissa had adored him.
Lucius had heard the whispered rumours among the Death Eaters - that he'd betrayed the Dark Lord and got himself killed for his troubles. Regulus might not have been his blood, but he'd been family, and family was sacrosanct.
What had Lucius been fighting for if not for family?
For the future.
For freedom.
For his son to grow up and inherit the world of his ancestors.
But one still didn't ignore the Dark Lord's call.
When he ordered Lucius to go to the Department of Mysteries to get the prophecy from Potter, he resented it. He didn't mind using kids to achieve his goals, but killing them was another matter.
He kept thinking of Draco.
"Your son is of the same age, isn't he?" the Dark Lord asked, seemingly offhand, and Lucius lowered his gaze. "When you get the prophecy, keep Potter alive but kill the rest."
Rookwood wanted to kill them when the kids were still unaware of their presence, but Lucius stopped him. He indulged the Potter boy in conversation, amused by his feeble attempts to buy time. When Bellatrix tried to accio the prophecy from Potter's hand, he admonished her and let it slip that the kids wouldn't be harmed as long as they held on to it. Sweet, mad Bellatrix - always so useful in her rashness. Then the idiot boy goaded her into attacking him, and Lucius had to deflect it, reminding her of the prophecy.
It had been easy. Almost too easy.
But Lucius wasn't sure if it had been worth it - not as he watched the bars of his cell close in Azkaban.