Event: The Nott Party November 4th, 1980
@ladylycorine
Marcus straightened his sleeves, rolling back his shoulders so that he stood an inch taller. He was learning. He had dressed his best, but not so well that he had the look of someone trying too hard. His robes he had purchased especially for parties like these, and they were plain because they were the only dress robes he had in his possession. The golden embroidery was subtle, and Marcus had taken to twisting it with a spell between formal events so that it took a new design each time he wore it. Tonight, it formed a neat braid along the cuffs. Anything more would be ostentatious for one who had climbed up from a pile of corpses.
If Narcissa had noticed him hovering, she didn’t show it. But then he would never have expected either of the Malfoys to acknowledge him so openly. He was just a McKinnon (and Marcus feared that was all he would ever be)--they had no reason to. But Marcus wanted more. What, he didn’t know exactly. Answers maybe. A map, someone to tell him what the fuck he was doing. A distraction from the past and the memories that replayed in his head every time he closed his eyes, every time he got even a whiff of iron or rust.
He waited until her conversation had ended and the wix she’d been speaking to moved on. Then he made his move, standing some two feet from Narcissa, observing the flowers decorating the hedge as if he wasn’t immune to any beauty they might possess. Oh Marcus saw it alright--these flowers were luminous, clearly imbued with magic--but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. These people had so much, while Marcus had sold his soul just to have a roof over his head.
“Alexander Nott in the Wizengamot,” he said quietly. “I’ll be seeing his face a lot more from now on.” And his schedule. His correspondences. But was he useful to the Silent Dagger. He looked at Narcissa; her beauty wasn’t lost on him either, and though it didn’t leave that bitter taste, it was terrifying. She was terrifying. Maybe if Marcus hadn’t already lived through the worst kind of nightmare, he'd never have let himself have anything to do with her or Lucius. But he had, and instead of trembling in fear, he felt the same daring and reckless courage as if he were holding his hand over an flame.













