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Lucius Malfoy, a Hogwarts graduate of '72, believed himself to be beyond surprise. Yet here he was, unexpectedly caught in a situation that intrigued him oh so desperately.
Fortune had favoured him: Lord Voldemort, a fierce advocate for the pure-blood traditions, had noticed Lucius's considerable magical potential and deemed him useful for future endeavours. Lucius had once again managed to utilise his luck, convincing the Parkinsons and Macnair to join Voldemort's party—the former providing financial support for the campaign, and the latter offering his skill as a formidable combatant. And then luck smiled on him repeatedly, again and again...
So where had it all led to? Lucius Malfoy had found himself where he was meant to be—on the continent, acting as one of two "recruiters." The Dark Lord had contacted Grindelwald's sympathisers, who still clung to the dream of wizard supremacy and espoused purist sentiments. He decided that the illustrious name of the Malfoys would serve him well if one of the family members set to the continent. The task seemed a genuine blessing for Lucius: several months away from his father’s iron grip, with a complete carte blanche regarding social interactions. New countries, new acquaintances, a perfect opportunity to forge new connections and make a name for himself within pureblood European society.
It was because Lucius excelled at everything he did that he now found himself utterly baffled.
What had happened was that a certain girl had managed to completely ‘screw up’ (no other word came to mind, thanks to a certain Slytherin half-blood for expanding his vocabulary) Lucius’ entire Danish campaign.
At first glance, she seemed like a bull in a china shop and was about as Danish as he was. Her name was as confusing as the woman herself: either Cordelia or Virgilia and her surname—Sørensen—was even stranger. And probably, as real as her first name. At formal gatherings, she defied every rule of ballroom etiquette by leaving her hair half-loose, her chestnut curls sometimes whipping the faces of overzealous dance partners—no delicacy there! At private meetings, she somehow slipped past secretaries and assistants, showing up in mundane Muggle attire, claiming it was far more comfortable than robes and just as impressive as the finest brocade ("You couldn’t ignore me, Mister Malfoy, could you?"). Her straightforwardness endeared, her memory and quick wit amazed the audience, and the thought of losing to such a woman didn’t provoke excessive aversion. But where had she come from? What was she trying to achieve by constantly sabotaging Lucius? And why, above all, has she chosen him as a target?
Her mystery was magnetic. And yes, he fell to those charms. So much so that he allowed himself to forget the marriage contracts back home and began to ponder the occasional flirting. Naturally, he presented all of this to the Dark Lord under the guise of intrigue. After all, there needed to be a way to discredit the girl, and the quickest route was to give the public a reason to gossip about the frivolity of an unmarried woman. It would work without fail, especially in the chauvinistic magical world. This was the card Lucius intended to play.
And yet, he was the one who got caught.
***
The Danes were to be kept on ice for a couple of weeks, especially since, during his time in Copenhagen, Lucius had managed to strike deals with the Soviet authorities, securing permission for a short journey across the Baltics: Riga, Vilnius, Klaipėda, and Tallinn. He apparated via Warsaw, as his apparition area width didn't allow the direct travel to Tallinn. The first day was spent studying the organisation of the magical community within a socialist republic, familiarising himself with the language and the local customs (and he wasn’t at all surprised to learn that the locals were not fond of communists). The wizards' disdain for the regime's attempts to lump together ancient families and those who'd barely discovered magic was a weakness he could easily manipulate.
There were no balls in the USSR as one might expect in Britain—this relatively young country just couldn’t afford it. But the Baltics had shown their Muggle superiors the prospects of dancing as a sport, allowing the wizards to disguise traditional gatherings as competitions, a ruse they eagerly exploited.
One such event was scheduled for the evening, right after a series of meetings with officials bearing laughable acronyms, reminiscent of alphabet soup. Dolokhov, who had arrived a day later, offered Lucius a brief rundown, consisting mainly of "Idiots, they fucked up an Empire" and "If they try to play chicken with you, don’t take the bait," and vanished shortly after with these very officials. After a few performances and a speech by the head of the dance association, finally, it was time to get down to business.
A couple of fleeting glances were enough for Lucius to pinpoint the wizards in the room, and estimate their loyalty to the current regime, their level of wealth, and magical prowess. In Britain, such skills were rarely needed: after Hogwarts, it would only require one to have eyes and to put them to good use, as new faces were a rarity, aside from mudbloods (and who in their right mind cared about mudbloods?). Here, on the fringes of Europe, where Lucius was a stranger himself, his father's lessons came into play immediately.
Perhaps because of his trained observance, fostered by Abraxas, Lucius managed to spot her.
She was spinning through a mediocre foxtrot with some poor bureaucrat from the local government. Remarkably, she blended in—no passing glance lingered on her, and this time she didn’t stand out with either her dress or hairstyle (oh, so she could tame those curls—though after a few rather close encounters, Lucius found himself inclined to call them something else entirely). Had it not been for their several meetings in Denmark, he might not have noticed her: a dull ordinariness, just like her wand—average length, unremarkable, a plain wood, albeit with some sort of carving.
But now his attention was inevitably drawn back to the colourful, voluminous skirt, the neat bun at her nape, and the ghost of her laughter that dissolved into the ballroom music. Something had to be done. Otherwise, the plans for the evening risked crumbling, and that was something the illustrious Lucius Malfoy could not allow.
If the temptation was too great, then why not succumb to it?
Especially since Merlin had seen fit to let the bloody foxtrot finally end.
Stealing the young woman from her current partner’s clutches proved laughably simple, and the next waltz was entirely Lucius’ — completely and exclusively his. As was the rest of the evening, or rather, what remained of this ill-fated soirée.
***
But the burning desire for possession could not be quelled. With him, with Lucius Malfoy himself, the girl neither laughed nor flirted, and her figure in his arms felt even more rigid than it had looked a few minutes earlier beside that Russian imbecile.
"What do you want from me, Malfoy?" she asked bluntly as soon as the music started and Lucius led their pair around in a wide circle.
Well, straight to the point! And complete lack of caution. If she were a Muggle, she wouldn't behave like this when the storm clouds were gathering.
"For a start, a pleasant company, Miss..." He had to pretend that he couldn't quite remember the girl, let alone her surname. Perhaps lowering her guard wouldn’t hurt.
"Virgilia Sørensen. Don’t pretend you haven’t been staring at me all evening. You usually lie better than this."
Lucius smirked over her head. No, she was certainly not a Mudblood—they don’t know how to decipher such looks, they are not taught to recognise flattery and deceit. At least not at her age—and Sørensen looks about Bellatrix’s age, hardly older.
"And where did you learn such perceptiveness, Miss Sørensen?"
"At Durmstrang. I had a wonderful teacher, quite the serpent."
Step. Step. Spin her under the arm, letting her slip towards the central circle. Catch the girl again, pulling her along with him, counterclockwise. Sørensen sighes sharply when Lucius’ gloved hand brushes against the bare skin of her shoulder. Against his will, Lucius glances at his partner and feels his eyes widen to the size of galleons for a split second.
Around the girl’s quite modest neckline hangs a pendant, suspiciously resembling a Time-Turner. Possibly a weird, modified version (at the very least because it is completely flat), but it is unmistakably a damn Time-Turner.
Caught by surprise, Lucius inadvertently misses the moment to offer a suitable response. Or ask who had taught her to notice the subtleties of others’ behaviour.
They remain silent for the rest of the waltz, and afterwards, Sørensen vanishes from sight faster than the startled Lucius can stop her. All that was left was a Muggle note tucked into his glove, with the words: "Step out onto the balcony when you’re done."
Questions gnaw at him, and now their number far exceeds any reasonable limit.
***
The balcony of the Marienberg Castle ballroom, or Maariyamägi as it is also called, overlooks the Gulf of Tallinn, which is still locked in ice. Behind, through the glass doors, the sounds of conversation and the rustle of fabric mingle with the polka played by the invited quartet. Ahead, the balustrade and railings are dusted with the fluffy snow, usual for a mild winter, and Lucius finds himself realising how much he has missed the white cover. In Wiltshire, snowfalls are rare, as they are in the other southern counties. Even in Denmark, where he had spent the last month, the weather had remained unseasonably warm, and the snowflakes melted as soon as they touched the ground. But now, white flakes danced through the air, clinging to his cloak and landing on his hair and eyelashes.
Sørensen already waits for him, sitting on the railings at the far end of the balcony. Her petite figure is concealed by a dark Muggle coat, blending into the shadows of the night shore. The chandelier light spilling from the curtained windows of the ballroom is far too dim to make out anything beyond her silhouette. She flinches slightly at the sound of the closing door but does not turn, continuing to gaze out at the sea.
Tap. Tap-tap.
Looking closer, Lucius can catch the faint movement of her hips beneath the coat. Through the gaps in the balustrade, he sees her boots with thick heels thumping against the balcony posts.
Tap-tap. Tap.
"Why are you nervous, Miss Sørensen?" Lucius inquires as he approaches.
"I'm not nervous," she retorts, finally turning to face him and looking up straight into his eyes.
Bold. It’s even surprising—what if he was skilled in Legilimency? Has she got nothing to hide? But no, such a foolish assumption, as surely someone with a Time-Turner around their neck has plenty to hide.
"You’re nervous. And you flinch at the sound of your very name. Not used to it?"
From her widening eyes, Lucius realises he’s hit the mark.
"Well, I guess, I can never deceive you, Mr Malfoy."
Anyone caught in a lie, attempting to conceal their identity, would typically panic, but instead of fear, Sørensen’s face blooms into a smile. It is as charming as it is disconcerting.
"And doesn’t that scare you?" he asks without much thought.
"It would be foolish to fear the inevitable," Sørensen chuckles.
"So, how many times have you travelled through time to pull the wool over my eyes?"
Now, there’s a flicker of tightly controlled fear in her eyes.
"What are you talking about?"
"Don’t play coy. I saw the Time-Turner."
Sørensen’s smile fades, pricking Lucius with a vague sense of regret, and then she lets out a quiet laugh, more to herself, tilting her head.
"Well, as you said, it seems nothing can be hidden from you," she mutters under her breath. "But I can’t tell. I’d rather not end up who-knows-where. I’ve already caused enough trouble as it is."
"Are you saying that this Time-Turner shifts not by an hour or two?"
"In this timeline, I haven’t even been born yet. By just under ten years."
"And so, your name isn’t Virgilia Sørensen?"
"No."
"Because in that future, we will be well-acquainted."
His tone doesn’t invite a question. The picture, once blurry, begins to fit together like a mosaic.
No-longer-Sørensen nods silently, tucking one leg beneath her and turning halfway towards the sea. Her gaze shifts downwards, to where a tent has been set up at the quay below for those wanting tea in the fresh air—or, perhaps, something stronger. With a flick of her wand, Virgilia summons two mugs glistening with enamel—evidently magical, given the steam still rising from them. One floats to rest on the railing before Lucius, while the other gently lands in the girl’s hand.
He raises the spiced drink to his lips. Mulled wine? How thoughtful.
"Have you received the mark yet, Lucius?" asks let’s-call-her-Virgilia, without beating around the bush, as she taps her heel again on the parapet.
"What mark, Miss Sørensen?"
Not even Narcissa knew much about his close connection with the Dark Lord. With war looming, they tried not to draw attention, and certainly not to associate his face with the Death Eaters. What on earth is happening in that future? Had the Malfoys finally achieved worldwide praise thanks to their service? Does that mean his current mission will succeed?
"Now you’re trying to deceive me. Show me your left arm."
Is Sørensen one of the Death Eaters? Does that mean that nearly… how long, a quarter of a century later?… the Dark Lord’s followers still wield a great influence in society?
"That would be somewhat difficult to do," Lucius chuckles, leaning his elbow on the railing. The cup is pleasantly warming his hand, the frosty air clears his head, and the situation intrigues him more and more.
"So, it’s already late."
Virgilia sighs wearily, placing her cup on the flat surface of the railing, and begins pulling out the pins holding her hair in a bun, one by one. The hem of her coat lifts slightly, pulling her skirt with it, and reveals a thigh covered in snug fabric.
"Do you think I’ll regret it? The superiority of purebloods is undeniable, magic of such calibre cannot be achieved without centuries of ancestral experience and innate talent…"
"I don’t think, I know," she interrupts him, dropping a handful of pins between them. "And everything is possible if no one proves it doesn’t exist."
"Gifted wizards without a heritage are more the exception than the rule," Lucius smirks, watching the pile of thin wires scatter. "And I suppose, you are just about to offer yourself as an example."
"Hinting at my lack of noble lineage during our very first personal conversation?"
"Oh, not at all, Miss Sørensen, you are hardly someone to mistake for a Mudblood."
And then Virgilia rolls up the sleeve of her coat, exposing her left forearm.
Lucius lets out a meaningful chuckle.
"How awkward."
"This scar on my hand or my survival?" Sørensen replies with a wry smile.
He involuntarily recalls Bellatrix with her love of "playing" with her victims before finishing them off.
A laugh escapes his throat, as genuine as it is inappropriate.
Virgilia smiles in return, and it takes all of Lucius’s willpower to keep his hand on the railing, rather than letting it slide closer to her knee.
Merlin, what a woman...
Suddenly, she grabs the Time-Turner, pushing her hand beneath the scarf covering her neck and neckline.
"Well, it’s time for me to go, Mr Malfoy. I hope you don’t remember me. For your own sake."
She casts a fleeting glance at the ice-bound sea below, then meets Lucius’ eyes again.
And with a gust of snow, she disappears.
From that moment, Lucius Malfoy's Tempus begins counting twenty-five years.