"It's okay," he says. He squeezes his wife's hand and lets go.
"Help my husband," Narcissa says, high and cold.
She trails fingers on his shoulder before stepping away to tend to Draco. Draco is fine - shaken, but fine save for a few heat burns. He babbled something about Crabbe. Lucius couldn't care less about Crabbe. Even now, his eyes trail back to Draco across the room. He's sure his fingers left bruises on the boy's wrist, he gripped him so tightly after he found him.
Lucius is a terrible sight: his hair hasn't been brushed in days, saved from tangles only by his fingers, bits of dried blood still flaking off; his left forearm is bleeding through the fabric of his torn robes, and on the other side burns peek out from one of the rips, snaking their way up to his elbow; his right eye is swollen half-shut and some of the too-deep cuts on his face are barely healed; seven of his fingernails are missing; every time he breathes pain goes through his chest; his hands keep shaking.
He's dead, gone, the Dark Lord is dead . . .
Lucius is sure he would survive without immediate medical attention. He has for several weeks, in fact. Narcissa didn't give him a choice. He casts his eyes up to the witch in front of him. Until only hours ago, they would have been killing each other. Exhaustion sits in every muscle. For once in his life, he can't find it in himself to say anything.
