Black soles of polished shoes pace around the carpeted floor, stepping over the ashes with single hand in a pocket while the other played mindlessly with the wand in his fingers. Leaning against the white marbled structure decorating the chimney in the infamous snakeās nest, he taps the surface with the tip of his wand - pale blue eyes too calm and too focused all at once. Yet these shoot up towards the end of the hall, by the girlās dormitory, at the slightest sight of movement. If anyone caught glance of Lucius Malfoy on this lovely Saturday afternoon, theyād think his fiddle fingers are a simple result of the nervousness in his heart and impatience to see his beloved betrothed. Poor boy, so sweet of him, theyād whisper, to yearn for his awaken future bride - a tragic love indeed!
They knew little of the twist in his lungs, a blaze-like sharpness that cut him open, rising vile to his throat and acid to his tongue.
Cold drops of sweat ran down his back at the flashes of that dreadful night. In a blink of an eye, a night of meticulous planning and cheer diversion turned into a cruel, living nightmare. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the light dissolve from Bellatrixās stare, dead cold still as the limb body of his sister thrust into the wall. Narcissa Cygne Black - a porcelain doll with blood stains smearing pearly flesh, tinging perfect golden curls spread over the blackened floor. It was petrifying, the piercing silence that reined - panic slipping through their senses and running high on the bloodstream of all three wicked warlocks. And he should have stayed - Merlin knows he should have stayed. He, the husband to be, the protector of their future family, left the scene a scurry rat too scared of getting caught. All the wizard had done was leave her inert, delicate figure curled against the wall.
Coughs attack his lungs, taking out a handkerchief from his pocket as he cleaned the sweat on his neck. Lucius Malfoy was no suspicious man, even less a man of God, but he couldnāt help the nagging feeling tugging at his heartstrings telling him that this was justice.
When he hears light steps approaching, the aristocrat turns around - feeble smile on his lips, and an arm offered for her to hold. He can barely meet her eyes - striking, clear condoning eyes - when his gaze wavers to the side. What is she thinking? How will she react? Does she curse his beating heart in the privacy of her mind?
āNarcissa,ā he licks his lips, breath caught in the back of his throat. āItās good to finally see you.ā Leaning over - slow and vacillating - he places a soft kiss on her cheek, with an arm gently hugging around her waist; purely a show, he knows, for those curious eyes lingering in the common room.
āMay we go out, darling?ā
To be hard, Narcissa must first learn to be pliant.
The gaze that she has to offer him is deceptively warm, trailing over his pale features almost affectionately as the pale blonde allowed herself to be drawn into his embrace. Coward. It was the vile whisper in her brain, an insult longing to be thrown his way. Repulsion and derision were the emotions beating beneath her breast, but she hid them well - as she must. She even leaned into his kiss, offering up her alabaster cheek for better access as she wrapped her lithe arms around his neck. In that moment they were a pretty picture of infatuation and adoration - a doting fiance and his loving bride to be.
Had he held her so close when she was broken and battered, bleeding onto the castle wall? Certainly, they both knew the answer to that: a firm and resounding no.
There had been no love as he fled the scene like a flea-bitten dog; only fear for himself and his precious image. He had left her for the wolves to find and they were both lucky that it was Remus Lupin who had stumbled upon her and not some other depraved student, clamoring for her privileged pure blood. The rumors that had amassed during her time in the infirmary had been more than enough to show her how few friends she had in the castle.
āLucius, darling.ā She speaks his name against the line of his cheek, her lips brushing warmly against his flesh. What she feels, she locks deep away with everything else.
āWhy donāt we just stay in tonight?ā
Polished nails graze against the hair at the nape of the boyās neck as she pulls away. A too blue gaze is trained on gray irises, as if she has eyes only for him. Somehow she manages to contort her features into the form of a petulant pout, allowing the very real exhaustion she feels to seep into her expression.
āItās only that Iām still not feeling myself,ā she insists. Itās not a lie; not really. Narcissa isnāt certain who she is anymore - only what she must be. Lucius, Bellatrix and Rodolphus - they had all made a mess of things and despite her personal feelings or her own trauma, it was up to her to sweep up the debris left behind. She slips from his grip long enough to take his hand in her own, entwining their fingers as the witch leads him to one of the empty sofas in the common room. There was no escaping the many eyes that trailed their way.
This is, after all, for their benefit - Narcissa Black, the bloody crowd pleaser. Let them have what they wanted.
Even though itās the last thing she wants at the moment, the prefect manages to curl into Luciusā side. Disgust and apprehension are swallowed like a bitter pill and she even manages to place a pale hand on his thigh, even if she squeezes the fabric and flesh beneath her grip a little harder than she ought to have.
āIf you think for one sliver of a moment that I want to be with you alone -ā
Her words are whispered into the curve of his ear, lips all smiles for their audience and a slender body attentive to his. She, at least, is above reproach.
āYou really are a fool.ā
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