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( 1980 )
“Busy time at the ministry, I hear.”
Lucius Malfoy, JKR.
I - April Fools. [ complete ]
II – Performance Art. [ complete ]
III – Narcissa’s Monologue. (Ivy + Libertine) [ complete ]
IV - Barty Crouch’s Party/Conspiring with the Enemy. [ complete ]
V - Journal. [ complete ]
To come:
VI - It’s All Hearsay, My Friend.
I - April Fools
His is a routine life.
At six o’clock each workday morning, with the final peals of his alarm clock echoing in his ears, the potions boy slides his feet to the floor and gropes dizzily for his slippers with his toes. Naked, he stumbles to the bathroom, brushes his teeth, wipes the frosting of sleep from the corners of his eyes. In the mirror his face always looks surprised, a little shell-shocked, perhaps. He prods the hollows beneath his eyes with the tips of his fingers and worries about his health.
Sometimes, when in the process of dressing, he accidentally wakes Lucius; sometimes he does it on purpose. A dropped shoe, a clatter of a hairbrush, a cabinet door slammed indelicately shut, and Lucius stirs, makes some small sound of protest at the interuption of his dreams. They exchange confused words in the darkness, conversations which would not make sense in sunlight. Sometimes they hold hands; sometimes Severus kisses him, softly, on his hands, on his neck.
Sometimes Severus remains silent, still, waiting for Lucius to roll over and fall asleep again.
When he is satisfied that Lucius has settled, Severus goes to the kitchen, grabs some bread, slathers butter on it, washes it down with water. Sometimes he makes coffee, sometimes he skips eating altogether. By this time a weak light will have begun to filter through the windows, and Severus usually feels a strong urge to return to the bedroom, to stand framed in the doorjamb and watch that light grow brighter on Lucius’ skin. Sometimes he does just that, dryly swallowing his breakfast. The lump in his throat he often suffers at such times he attributes to the grainy consistency of the loaf.
Within ten minutes he is outside, his thin fingers clawed around his broomstick, the cold morning air suffusing his cheeks with a flush of red. When it is raining he wears a thick, muddy-looking cloak that makes him sweat and scrapes uncomfortably against his wrists. In the snow, he wears a sweater under the cloak, hood up, and pulls his old Hogwarts scarf around his neck. He never wears gloves.
He flies into the rising sun. When he is halfway to the home of Evan Rosier, the sun is already high and bright in his eyes. He curses, attempting to shade his eyes while maintaining control of his broom. On those days it is overcast, he stares dully ahead at the silvery, flat orb tucked behind the clouds, and thinks of Lucius.
Alighting on the front porch of the Rosier’s mansion, Severus may or may not be greeted by either a house elf, Rosier’s close friend Alan Wilkes, or Rosier himself. Whoever it is, they quickly escort him into the basement of the house, where Severus will spend the next eight hours preparing potions in a small makeshift laboratory. He mixes drugs, medicinal balms, virulent potions; he crushes mandrake, five-finger leaf, dogwood; he works until his fingers ache and all the while there is Lucius’ writhing body to distract him, the image lingering insistently in the periphery of his mind.
A phantasm of desire.
In no way has Severus’ faith in the Death Eater’s diminished. He remains a firm supporter of genocide; he knows the pro-pureblood diatribe by heart. His sole complaint is the fact that the revolution impinges on his life. The trouble with work is that it interferes with sex. It imposes a schedule; it demands a large portion of Severus’ time and attention, time and attention which would be more pleasantly spent fucking the insatiable Malfoy Jr. into a stupor.
Technically speaking, Severus’ involvement with the Death Eaters is voluntary. He is paid nothing by way of salary, although Marcel himself has permitted Severus to remain as a ‘lodger’ with the Malfoys. However, if Severus is to dodge from his responsibilities -- as he oft feels inclined to -- it is a certainty that Marcel will retract even this minor act of generosity. This leaves Severus to face an apparently intractable dilemma; made no less difficult by the knowledge that any Death Eater who betrays the Dark Lord, even in duties, is assured of a torture worse than that delivered to a Mud-blood.
‘It bores me,’ he complains imprudently to Lucius one morning. ‘I fail to see the point. I’m not learning anything. I don’t see anything happening. I sit in there, I chop, I boil, I sweat like a slave. They might as well chain me to the damned wall and be done with it.’
‘Shut up.’ Lucius’ tone is envious, and Severus realises far too late what he’s accidentally implied. ‘You’re such a child,’ Lucius concludes bitterly, and as punishment spends two nights in Narcissa’s bedroom while Severus, alone, writhes himself into excruciating knots of self-torture.
So these days Severus chops, boils and sweats in frustrated silence, and does not give rein to his adolescent objections. Rosier, a tight-lipped man aspiring to the same level of brutal austerity as Marcel Malfoy, rarely interrupts Severus’ labours, saving to dismiss him at the conclusion of each working day. Exhausted and reeking of various herbs, Severus then flies back to the Islington apartment, stows his broomstick in the hall closet, and prowls off down the corridor in search of Lucius.
Some evenings Lucius waits for him on the stairs; other days Severus discovers the man sprawled in the tub, idly washing his hair. ‘Strip,’ Lucius will command lazily, one forearm slung over the edge of the bath, his long fingers over-reaching the tiles... and minutes later Severus, nude, tired, but smirking nonetheless, sinks into the foam and the Death Eater’s blissful embrace.
Occasionally Narcissa will enter the room while they are mid-coitus. She says nothing, only watches. Sometimes she smiles, but it is a vague, troubled smile.
At dinner she cautions them. ‘Keep it secret,’ she will say. ‘Do yourselves that courtesy, at least.’
‘Marcel knows,’ Lucius murmurs. ‘I think Frank guesses. Karkaroff saw, certainly...’
‘They know you are fucking,’ she corrects him sharply. ‘There is a difference.’
‘To you,’ says Severus, smarting. The innuendo is lost to him; he hears only her withering cynicism, and responds in kind.
Narcissa gives him a pitying look. ‘I told you he was stupid,’ she says, turning to Lucius. ‘Young and stupid. This is not a game, Lucius.’
Angrily, Severus jabs his fork into a potato so hard that the metal jars against the ceramic plate. Narcissa’s expression doesn’t change. Lucius stares blankly from one to the other, then presses his hands against his face. ‘No more,’ he hisses. ‘Go to your room.’
Both Narcissa and Severus stand. Lucius opens his eyes and laughs until he cries.
*
There are comments. Some are formless, speculative, unsure. Others are not so ambiguous.
Frank says: ‘Is Lucius always so bloody jealous of people? I’m only the damned chauffeur, for godsake.’
Wilkes says: ‘The potions boy, is it? Marcel wanted me to keep an eye on you.’
Rosier says: ‘At least I don’t have to worry about you fucking my wife on the sly.’
Narcissa says: ‘Pretend I don’t exist. I don’t mind. I haven’t really existed for years.’
Marcel leaves a letter for Severus with Rosier.
‘Don’t even think about it.’
*
In contrast, the weekends are wonderful.
April Fool’s Day, 1980...
It is morning and sunlight streams kamikaze through the vertical blinds. Severus has been laying in bed for a while, dream-drunk and lethargic, hesitant to deprive himself of the warmth of the sheets. Faced with the blinding intrusion of dawn he grunts, punches a fist frustratedly into the pillows, and then drags himself up onto his knees. His pajama bottoms are sticky and smell rancid. Severus is actually fairly surprised that he still has them on. He snaps at the waistband thoughtfully, then gets up and goes to the bathroom.
The Death Eater is in the shower, singing comically off-key. His silhouette flutters behind the foggy glass shower screen, slim and blurred at the edges, a tall and pretty ghost-creature. Severus pulls off his pajamas by sticking his toes in the cuffs and raising his legs. He takes a piss, seeing how far he can stand from the toilet bowl whilst keeping his aim true. He hears Lucius open the screen door behind him and smiles; already he knows how this day will go. When he turns he sees that Lucius has left the shower door ajar. One pale, dripping arm is wedged in the gap, and Lucius clenches his fist and beckons with an index finger. Severus walks to it, bites it. The hand withdraws with a yelp, followed by a muffled laugh. Severus snickers and steps confidently in.
Lucius is standing with his back to Severus, sucking his hurt finger into his mouth. The water is hot; the tiles are blue; the Death Eater’s skin is white and red, white and purple. At pit of his spine the flesh is dappled with a frequency of peach-coloured freckles, little flecks which Severus is surprised he hasn’t noticed before. Gently, Severus lifts the length of Lucius’ waterlogged hair over his shoulder, smoothes his palms slowly along Lucius’ sides with the same deliberate firmness as that of a potter molding clay.
Between his hands Lucius trembles in anticipation; he pushes backwards within the tight confines, crushing his buttocks against Severus’ body. Severus slides his arms around Lucius’ stomach, rolling his thumbs downward from the navel. The Death Eaters insistent wriggling is encouraging: it creates a delicious friction, a sensation augmented by the deluge of steaming water which bursts from the overhead shower nozzle. Gracefully, Lucius arches his body, bracing his forearms against the tiled wall, cushioning his head. He bounces his perfectly curved bottom at Severus in a manner which is not so much alluring than excited.
It is a simple seduction, and a fairly unnecessary one. After a few slippery first attempts, Severus finds the right angle and enters the man without too much difficulty. They begin fucking at a slow rhythm: careful, constrained sex, mindful of the slippery floor and slippier skin. Then Lucius’ legs go out from under him: a nerve has been struck, and he is suddenly boneless and helpless. Severus pinions him in place with his cock and his hands on Lucius’ shoulders. Lucius offers the meekest of protests, claws at the tiles with his fingernails, grips vainly at one of the taps and only succeeds in increasing the heat. The ridges of his spine flex to the surface of his skin. Severus continues to fuck him, and Lucius’ head starts to bang against the wall: he is in no position to shield himself.
A few intense minutes pass before Severus finishes. He withdraws, Lucius finally turns, and they hold each other. Lucius is weeping, breathily, but this is nothing new -- he usually cries during and after sex. His hair is soaked and is less blond, more brown.
Severus half-carries Lucius out of the shower and into the bedroom. In his wake he leaves a trail of soggy footprints and drag-lines where Lucius’ heels have touched the ground, like a pattern of Morse code. He does not want to wet the bed sheets, so he maneuvers Lucius over the low-lying bedside table and fucks him again. The sound of their wet bodies slapping together resounds in Severus’ ears; it is a noise like clapping, a muted applause. By this stage Lucius is verging on hysteria, and Severus isn’t sure whether or not Lucius is in pain, or shock, or is suffering some breed of mental multiple orgasm. He would hazard a guess that it is a mixture of all three.
When he tires of this position Severus returns to the bathroom and picks up a towel. He dries Lucius off, parting Lucius’ thighs for him, lifting the thin arms as if Lucius were a doll. He tucks Lucius into bed and watches him for a while. Lucius’ gray eyes are wide and childishly vacant; he is waiting obediently for a prompt, or alternately, a dismissal. When neither is forthcoming he starts to complain -- not in words but in glares, in the vicious twisting of his neck, in crude gestures which are mercifully obscured by the sheets.
Lucius the mute.
Severus takes pity on him, untucks the blankets, lifts Lucius’ legs and continues to fuck him where he left off. Reaching out a slim, floundering arm, Lucius grips a pillow, pressing it conscientiously over his own face to stifle his moans. Severus finds this sort of initiative highly amusing. He laughs even as he orgasms, and then rolls off onto his back beside Lucius. Immediately Lucius grips him, pressing kisses to his wrists and the centre of his palms. Then he takes Severus’ hand and holds it against his stomach, breathing deeply so that Severus feels the stretch and deflation of his skin. His cock is hard and then not hard against Severus’ leg, hard and then not hard, hard and then he moves away.
They doze off for a half hour or so, Severus laying protectively across Lucius’ chest. Then Severus yawns, rises from the bed and starts to go through Lucius’ wardrobe for clothes. Lucius follows him a few steps behind, looking unsure and haunted. He is caught in the limbo between personalities and does not know what to do with himself. He shifts awkwardly from foot to foot as Severus dresses him, again manipulating Lucius’ body as if he were a doll. Lucius permits this indignity, apropos of choice or motivation. Severus regards him with a critical eye, and Lucius averts his gaze, stares at the carpet. When Severus reaches to cup his chin in his hands, Lucius balks and recoils.
‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t intend to look at you. Not now.’
Severus snickers. ‘Scared you might say something you’d regret later?’ he inquires.
There are no words which do not bespeak an incrimination. ‘I will not,’ says Lucius firmly, sulkily. ‘You should go. You should not ask.’
‘Very amusing, sir,’ says Severus, lazing back against the wardrobe door. He scratches at his bare stomach idly. ‘The Death Eater has a sentimental soul.’
‘And the potions-boy has a bitter tongue.’
Severus hits him. Caught off-balance, Lucius sits down heavily on the floor with his legs spread, his palms pressed against the sore point on his chest. Severus kneels down in front of him, between his thighs, and bats at Lucius’ face and shoulders until Lucius wriggles away on his bottom across the carpet. Severus catches hold of Lucius’ ankle and drags him back. He pushes Lucius onto his back and sits on Lucius’ stomach. Lucius reaches up, pulls him down, kisses him violently. They grapple at each other, shredding cotton, tearing buttons, rolling over and over, and for once Lucius ends up on top, straddling Severus’ hips, pinning Severus’ hands over his head. The Death Eater’s face is contorted in rage.
‘I can’t change you,’ he spits out into Severus’ face.
The gritty weight of Lucius’ body is as offensive and unexpected as his anger. For a second Severus imagines he can see past the superficial details of the game into the primitive base of it, past the lust and the obsession into the regret and the fear. In that second everything is new, and nothing has changed. Severus’s reply, a mimic of Lucius’ affected drawl, is purposefully offhand.
‘That makes two of us,’ he says.
If there is to be a single exchange in their shared history which best surmises their relationship, it must be this -- a joint admission of obstinacy.
II – Performance Art
Lucius had not left his brother’s apartment since the excursion to the graveyard at Little Hangleton. Confined, sluggish, pampered... he was beginning to think of himself as an old housecat, a kept animal, growing fatter and lazier as each day passed. Too blunt of claw to go chasing for rats anymore, and even the hook-nosed potions-boy could give him the slip when he wasn’t feeling in the mood. He often spent his afternoons sprawled on the floor, digging his fingernails into the thick ply while Narcissa rolled the balls of her thumbs down the length of his spine.
( Air.. Air.. )
His imprisonment was not conducive to his health or his psychosis. His mind had lost some of its sharpness; the Voice prevailed. February, March, April, these were the red raw months -- those in-between days Lucius would later come to associate with idle vice and definitive boundaries. Mornings slurred into nights, sex segued into sleep, and even his bruises began to blur into each other, vivid purples fading into a blush of pink. Lucius soon tired of guising these markings, the visible memoirs of the boy’s wrath. While the balms he used cured the symptoms of Severus’ abuse, they provided no protection against further blight.
He came to wear his wounds like badges, and never failed to be impressed by the legacy of sores the boy rent on the canvas of his skin. A patch-worked pale harlequin, all scar tissue and sores, stared back at him every time he chanced to catch a glimpse of his war-worn body in a mirror.
Mine is a chameleon body, Lucius reminded himself. It suffers transformation gladly.
He was disturbed, though; disturbed and unsure. He was not made of stone. The heart he claimed he did not possess still troubled him at times. There were days when it hurt him to rise from the blankets’ cocoon, to disentangle limb from limb, lip from lip. He blamed the boy, but did not dare voice an accusation. There were words that were meant to go unsaid, vows too complex and delicate to be transposed to the clumsy regulation of language. What they had and what they knew could only be revealed in the strictest confidence of Self, in the whispers of the Voice, and the quietude of dreamless nights.
It was an exquisite silence.
( “...You’re too proud. And I am -- I do not like saying things that -- are not solid. We will just keep it to ourselves, then. A mutual understanding. Your -- ah, secret. Is safe. Avec moi...” )
They had shared a belated first kiss one March evening, the steam of their coitus rising in musky clouds from between their perspiring thighs. With hands of steel and ivory the boy gripped his shoulders and slid into his mouth, his tongue clumsy, untrained. It was a demanding kiss, this -- incriminating, impulsive, unbearable, and in the face of such exquisite fury Lucius choked and withdrew.
“This is not a game,” he told Severus reprovingly, and wiped the stain from his lips with the edge of the sheets.
In the dim light of the bedroom the boy’s eyes were birdbright and ferocious. “Maybe to you.”
Theirs was a clandestine affair: out of sight, but rarely out of mind. Released in the friction of their embraces, Lucius began to feel his own reservations slowly unraveling like errant spools of thread. The merest brush of the boy’s body against his never failed to leave him with an agonising erection which lingered long after its inspiration had departed. In his frequent letters to his brother, Lucius reiterated his promises, over and over, regurgitating the favoured mantra of pet and plaything. This minor betrayal, his first lie, filled him with all the naughty excitement of a juvenile truant.
‘Pet,’ he would repeat later for the boy’s audience, ‘plaything’ he would tease, but these reassurances, afforded in the haze of the afterglow, sounded hollow even to his own ears. They reeked of self-doubt and imprudence, and the boy must have known it too: heard it, smelt it, felt it. A condescending smirk was his only demur.
A pet. No more, no less...
Performance art. A tangled web of lies.
In the darkness of the bedroom Lucius’ fingers stole over the boy’s sharp hips and skittered through the coarse fleece of the pubis, securing the heft of that adolescent cock in the chilly grasp of his palm. He festooned the boy’s neck with garlands of saliva and spit-sloppy kisses, his tongue tracing the cartography of collar, ribs, and the sternum’s shallow groove; he learnt the minutiae of physique in the methodology of his tongue. He wore himself out with his legs clamped about Severus’ thigh, his cock bleeding rivulets of semen into the silken sheets. With their bodies fused together by coital glue he slithered and hissed and moaned, and every quavering ‘oh gosh’ was underscored by the rhythms of the flesh.
A new character had been excavated from Lucius’ veritable archive of personalities. It was part-parody, part-reality, and it stunk of the Voice and the twisted lies that mouthless parasite would seep into his brain. It ached to fuck and it ached to be touched, to be known inside and out. It ached to launch the boy back against the blankets and devour him, piece by piece, to hear him cry out, to watch him disintegrate, regenerate, its spindle-fingers sinking thickly into his vacantly hungry skin. It wanted to speak, to tell the boy things Lucius didn’t know, to say ludicrous things, about love and want and forever, with a plastic and unmoving smile that verged on monstrous.
“I hate you,” Lucius whispered.
The boy pressed his damp fingers to Lucius’ temples, moved them loosely through the sheaf of sweat-drenched blonde hair. They crossed his chin, slid down his neck, palpated the Braille nub of an areola. They nursed a bruise on Lucius’ chest, momentarily owned the bony jut of his hip, nestled casually in the hollow of his thighs.
“You’re meant to,” the boy replied, and Lucius sensed a form of challenge in the lithe curl of his lip.
He watched the boy a time in silence, his breath the meter of their communion. The chorus of voices in his head would not permit him avert his eyes from the boy’s broad-palmed hands. He saw the flex of knuckles, the curve of the wrist, the graceful arch of the forearm flexing to the splay of the fingers. He was awed and repulsed, freed and captured, exhausted and exhilarated, and behind Lucius’ gray eyes a thousand squirming, half-foreign thoughts welled like rising damp.
“I like it best when you hurt me,” he told the boy, light-headed and feverish. “You could kill me with those hands. Every time, I think -- will he? Won’t he? You disgust me. Vous me rendez malade. Next time I insist you strangle me.”
He closed his eyes deliberately, then, with effort. He could still see those hands, though, superimposed on the slide-screen membrane of his lids. With his right eye he saw one wrap dangerously about his neck; with the left he witnessed Severus cupping his elbow, fingers digging into the tortured flesh of his upper arm. These images blended together and became something altogether more sinister, and ultimately more tender.
“It’s lucky,” Severus remarked coolly, “that you’re already locked up.”
“Fuck you. Fuck me.” He writhed, voices slamming uncomfortably together in his head.
“Charming as the offer is, sir, I’m working early tomorrow. Unlike some people, I do have a job to go to.”
“I’ll -- ah. I will touch you.”
“I’m warning you, sir,” came the perplexed, if sleepy demur, “lay your hands on my bloody penis again tonight and I’ll be compelled to get out of bed, lock myself in the bathroom, wank myself stupid, and then fall asleep in the tub.”
Lucius paused. “How.. utterly passé.”
A torturous half hour passed them by, witness to heated breathing, furious glares, and voiceless accusations. Lucius leant closer, kissed the boy’s forehead, his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his shoulders, his collarbone, and the small nipples which puckered deliciously beneath the rough of his tongue. He nuzzled the boy’s chin and the boy lost control, gripped him, bit him, threw him, spread him, battered into him until his legs were numb and his teeth drew blood from his lip.
A minor violence.
They fell apart, later. The boy rolled to the other side of the bed, and took the sheets with him.
( A pet...
no more...
and apparently, no lesser for it. )
In his journal Lucius referred to their relationship as ‘sex’. When he was in a particularly affectionate mood, he would amend it to ‘my little obsession’, or alternately, ‘my secret’. In a sense, it remained simply that: a secret, a closet fantasy Lucius could only truly indulge when the lights were dim. What wickedness he gave away freely each night could only be betrayed by the meeting of their eyes the following morning. The nervous clatter of Narcissa’s teacup at the breakfast table was a jarring reminder of his duties, his status, and the slimy, malformed creature which had burrowed itself uninvited into the molten pit of her womb.
The Malfoys had been married on the fourteenth of April; a private event. The necessity for secrecy required that the ceremony take place in the maroon lounge room of the Islington apartment; the boy was the only sulking witness to the ritual farce. A companion of Marcel, who went by the unlikely tag of Mulciber, arrived to preside over the nuptials -- such as they were. When these idiocies were complete Mulciber drew Lucius aside, maneuvering him firmly into the kitchen by his elbow. There, Mulciber offered the groom a gruff congratulations, and then proceeded to inform him that he would greatly please Marcel if he were to impregnate his bride as soon as possible.
The crassness of this order jarred Lucius’ sensibilities; and as consequence he forbore to tell Mulciber that Narcissa had been pregnant for almost two months.
That evening Lucius shied from the boy’s withering glare and proceeded along the corridor to the marital bedroom. Spreading his wife across the fresh sheets he examined her appraisingly, while she in turn appraised him, glassy-eyed and volatile. His hands skimmed across her skin to find that faint swelling of her belly, and kneaded the hardness which lay within her, that diminutive kernel of life. For a second he fancied it moved beneath his touch, as if defying the inquisitive inspection of its parent.
When he fucked her he imagined its foetal body slithering across the head of his cock, plaintively fending off each thrust with webbed and fragile fingers.
“Sometimes I think you are getting soft,” she said afterwards. Her head rested on his chest; his fingers still spasmed erratically inside her cunt. “I think you are getting soft, and then -- you surprise me. You can be cruel, when you want to be. And yet you aren’t like Marcel. When Marcel fucked he was like a machine gun: rapid, static, over before you blink. The word ‘no’ was sexy to him. Whereas you, Lucius Malfoy...” she paused to steal a drag from his cigarette. “You may be less than a man, but you are more than a lover.”
Lucius laughed softly. She dragged her body across his chest -- nipple to nipple, navel to navel.
“You are lucky I understand you,” she said. “If I did not, I would begrudge you your indiscretions. If I did not, I would write to Marcel and tell him that the boy must leave. But I do understand. And I have decided that I do not mind the boy. At first I thought he was evil. Now I realise he is only stupid. Stupid and angry. You are both fools: obsessive, impulsive, too proud to give an inch. You and your little circular battles; your little games of sex and power. I watch you trying to outdo each other, and all the while you live together in fear. He is afraid you’ll leave him. You are scared you’ll stay. I find it quite amusing, and also rather sad. It is painful to see such great weakness in so strong a character.”
“A unique perspective, Mrs. Malfoy,” was Lucius’ only response.
She affected an air of diplomacy to his face, but when asleep she retreated inside herself, away from him; her knees curled automatically toward her chest. She held her body like a closed fist and beside her, cold despite the burden of his blankets, Lucius came aware of the void which lay between them -- an nonnegotiable distance he knew intuitively he could never hope to bridge. Whilst awake, it was easy to anticipate her movements, to perceive her physical outline with the clearness of a corner’s edge, or the slope of a pain of glass. But asleep, there was something dusky about her. If Lucius were to touch her at this time, he was unsure whether his fingers would trespass a solidity of flesh, or move on through her as if she were no more than a wraith, a passing figment of his vivid imagination.
Whereas the boy was anything but distant. When Severus slept he was sprawling and sinuous, draping himself over and under Lucius’ form, anchoring the man with his slight weight. Even if they began the night apart, Lucius would wake to discover the boy’s head pillowed by his stomach, the boy’s twitching fingers lurking in the recesses of his hair. It was an unconscious bondage, a pressure of the flesh. Through half-lidded eyes Lucius perceived a clarity of obsession in the protective alignment of the boy’s body, and reached the sudden understanding that he and Severus were more alike than different.
The idea disturbed Lucius for some reason he could not fathom. In the wake of his epiphany he felt an overwhelming desire to explain himself. He held the boy and the boy’s eyes snapped open, his chin propped on the ridge of Lucius’ chest. Hook-nosed and angular he was a homely thing, jointed at right angles, all elbow and knee and hip and rib and nose -- a far cry from a suitable consort. Lucius opened his mouth; no words came; the boy yawned, belched quietly into his palm, and bedded himself down again. Annoyed, Lucius pushed him aside, off, away.
Silence was not golden. It was invested with the hues of the boy’s body, it was black and silver, and its outline was the lustrous purple of a wound.
*
Marcel wrote to Lucius on the first of June. The elegant scrawl of his message concealed an order phrased as a question. Within hours of its arrival, Lucius was dressed and ready. Bleary eyed in the morning sun, Lucius ventured from the apartment for the first time in eleven weeks. In the alley behind the block he waited for the familiar clatter of Frank Longbottom’s carriage. Beside him the boy slid his hand into Lucius’ pants and played with his cock in a manner that was not so much rough as careless. The Death Eater, suffering in trembling silence the coarse jerkings of those acid-burnt fingertips, pushed futilely at Severus’ shoulders with his palms.
( Air.. air.. )
“How are we coping, sir?” the boy murmured.
“..mon dieu,” the Death Eater replied, reverting to French in this ecstatic moment of torture.
Frank arrived. They climbed in, Lucius covering his crotch with one hand. The journey took less than ten minutes. All through it Lucius watched Frank, envying the ease with which he and the boy spoke of little things, facile middle-class pleasantries. Frank was jovial, disarming and cheerful as always. He seemed completely oblivious to the power of language, the tricks and games inherent to speech, from the subtleties of innuendo to the jar of insults. His ignorance grated on Lucius nerves, more so the fact that the boy appeared quite capable of responding to Frank in kind.
Outside the Ministry of Magic, Lucius stepped out, beckoning Severus to follow him alone. In the lee of the massive building, hidden from prying Ministry eyes, they pressed against each other. The boy’s fingers crept underneath Lucius’ shirt and dug into the small of his back -- almost playfully. Almost. If he had intended play, Lucius thought, the boy would have pushed with his fingertips, not his nails. Four half-crescents throbbed on his pale skin; a possessive branding.
As it was expected of him -- as this was part of their circular rituals -- Lucius rolled back his eyes until the whites showed, and breathed a moan into the pit of the boy’s neck.
“You’re a fool,” Severus hissed into his ear. “You’d walk in there, without protection, without your wand... and you think they won’t clap you in irons as soon as look as you? You think they write the names of their Aurors on a plaque in the lobby? I can’t believe I have to be the one to tell you that you’re being irrational. No, wait, irrational isn’t the word for it. Completely insane would be a better way to phrase it. You’re a Malfoy, sir. You’re Marcel’s bloody brother. They probably have a cell reserved for you in Azkaban.”
“Probably,” Lucius conceded.
The boy let out a disgruntled note of annoyance, and shook his head.
“You miss the -- ah, point,” Lucius murmured. The boy’s chest smelt of sweat and other musky odors, a particularly primal unguent, and it was becoming increasingly difficult for Lucius to concentrate on anything beyond the immediacy of that smell, that piquant aphrodisiac... dizzily he withdrew, his back to the wall. “I am Marcel’s brother,” he said, “which means -- even if they suspect me -- it will serve their best interests to allow me my freedom. I can lead them to him. I hold -- ah, all the cards, as it were.”
“They could make you tell them.”
“That would be unethical. The Ministry was founded on a strict code of morality. They are not like us. For instance, I am sure that no employee of the Ministry would dream of inviting a boy -- say, ten years their junior -- into their bedchamber. Much less of inserting their fingers into his -- ah...”
“Asshole, sir. It’s called an asshole.”
“Your vocabulary never ceases to amaze me.” Lucius smiled faintly. “I shouldn’t worry, on my account. I am very good at talking people into things they might -- ah, otherwise be disinclined to pursue. Our situation a case in point.”
“You really are mad,” the boy spat out. “Certifiable.” He was sulking, now; his features overcast; his hands were heavier, hotter, sweaty-palmed. His sullen attitude was both entertaining and attractive; it made him appear younger than he was.
“Probably. Shouldn’t you have asked such questions before you climbed into bed with me?”
“Shouldn’t you have mentioned it before you decided to -- masturbate me?”
“A mad man tells no secrets. Saving in a fit of anger. I think -- yes. You should ask me what I think of you when I am angry. I am far more -- ah, candid at such times.”
“I could make you angry.”
“I dare you to try.”
The boy gazed downward at his right hand, clenched and unclenched his fist purposefully. He seemed torn: the pleasure he would derive from striking Lucius was balanced by thoughts of repercussions. Lucius, however, had no such qualms. He dodged in, bit Severus hard on the cheek, then tore himself away and up the stairs before the boy could retaliate. With his hand cupped to his bleeding face, Severus returned to the carriage loudly cursing the name of all things Malfoy, much to Frank’s amusement.
The Ministry’s staff left Lucius waiting for a half-hour in the interrogation room, a mug of lukewarm coffee their only concession toward genuine hospitability. Alone, bored and slightly queasy, Lucius nursed the bruising of his forearms, layering the budding marks with the salve of his own saliva. A steamy spring sunshine blistered down upon him through a solitary window -- placed far too high in the wall to permit a view. Offering his hands to the light, Lucius saw the individual imprint of each of the boy’s fingers: small badges of heated colour, scars hard-won in the battlefield of lust. The band of his wedding ring appeared comparatively dull, tarnished by the grit and grime of the countless other Malfoys who had preceded him.
( Air.. air.. )
He tasted Severus’ blood in his mouth and, possessed of a sudden, fanciful frame of mind, mistook it for his own.
*
“Ah -- sir. Good morning.”
“Lucius Malfoy.”
“Mr. Crouch. How very nice to make your acquaintance.”
“Hah.”
“You must understand that I came here as soon as I received your summons -- but I am afraid my wife is a little light-headed when it comes to remembering important engagements. Her mind is not -- ah, precisely what it used to be, and I have been rather preoccupied with my own affairs of late. However, I would hate for you to think I had been avoiding you on purpose.”
“There have been men sent to your house on no less than eight occasions.”
“For the past few years I’ve been -- ah, absent. Certain matters called me to France; I have only recently returned to Britain. I’m sorry to hear that your employees are so ill informed. I did leave various forwarding addresses.. though as I said, my wife is prone to absent-mindedness.”
“Hmph. A very convenient absent-mindedness, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would hate to imagine that you were implying anything by that, Mr. Crouch. After all, I’m here now, and quite willing and ready to answer any questions you may have of me. Furthermore, I find it mildly insulting that you would -- ah, make light of Narcissa’s condition.”
“I assure you, Mr. Malfoy --”
“You want to talk to me about Marcel.”
“...yes. For a start, I’d like to --”
“Naturally, I read the papers; I consider it quite shameful. Though I rarely enjoy reading about matters of politics. I do not like to trouble myself; affairs pertaining to the civil war are of little interest to me.”
“The civil war... is of no interest to you?”
“Of course not. I am quite assured that the Ministry will take care of Voldemort; I have complete faith in their abilities. But I am afraid that you are very much mistaken, Mr. Crouch, if you seek me only to ask of my brother. My family and I are not -- exactly close. My father has gone so far as to literally disown me; and my brother.. There are -- ah, tensions. If you wish to find Marcel, I’m afraid you will have to ask someone else. We parted ways long ago. As I said, I have only recently returned to Britain... most of the troubles here are new to me.”
“You’re telling me that you don’t know where your own brother is?”
“Not quite -- my brother. Hah. As I said -- there are tensions.. Ah, yes, I can read your expression well -- I will not say it, and I hope that you will accept this information in strict confidence. I do have a certain amount of pride, and it would not be -- ah. Yes. I know little of my brother and intend to keep it that way. Though I admit I did hear that Marcel was reputed to be a Death Eater...”
“He is yet to stand trial.”
“He is yet to be caught. But if Marcel did prove to be a Death Eater, I would not be surprised. He was a very tiresome sibling. I shouldn’t wonder that he decided to join such a pathetic cause. May I ask why it is taking you so much time to apprehend him?”
“You may not. When was the last time you saw Marcel, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Six and a half years ago at a family dinner, a night which concluded with a great deal of hexing and many smashed plates. I must say, this is a delightful coffee --”
“Can you tell me about the people he associated with at the time?”
“I do not remember any of them -- at least not by name. Saving my wife, of course. And I do believe her experiences with him left her in -- something of a state. As I’m sure those men you sent to my house can testify. I sincerely beg that you do not involve her in this whole sordid affair...”
“We may need to. Information she possesses may be essential to this case, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Ah -- I simply feel... never mind. I am sure you know best. Yet you must understand that this situation is causing myself and my wife great frustration and anxiety. We are good citizens; we have little wish to have our name associated with the Death Eaters. I do insist that you clear this whole matter up as quickly as possible. Ah... Perhaps I could offer a little monetary incentive to your Aurors. It will be nothing much -- I’m afraid the fortune I inherited from my mother is barely enough to survive on, in these days of impossible inflation. A thousand galleons is all I shall be able to spare this month, I fear -- ah, the look on your face tells me that this is hardly sufficient. Ten thousand, then? Fifty? We shall say fifty for the moment.”
“I...”
“Though I take little interest in -- ah, political matters, I am quite concerned about those poor orphans whose parents have been lost in the war. I hope that some of this money will be spent on their care. Given that I have effectively lost a family, I am well able to sympathise with their plight.”
“...That’s very kind of you, Mr. Malfoy.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr. Crouch. I do understand that these are desperate times, and the Ministry needs all the encouragement it can get. If it is at all possible, I would like to offer my congratulations to those contributing members of the Ministry personally. Their remarkable fortitude should not go unaccredited, and I am sure I could take time from my busy schedule to -- perhaps, a party?”
“...I’m not too --”
“Of course, my current home is impossibly small. Still, I do feel obliged --”
“I don’t think --”
“Fifteen thousand galleons is quite a hefty amount to part with, Mr. Crouch. I hope it conveys to you my deepest support and sympathy.”
“It does. Thank you. I think that will be all.”
“It was my pleasure to help. Ah -- my coffee. No, I’m fine, I can bring it out with me --”
“Mr. Malfoy?”
“Mr. Crouch?”
“My wife...”
“Yes, Mr. Crouch?”
“...my wife and I are holding a gathering of sorts at my house this upcoming Friday. If you would like to attend --”
“Why thank you, Mr. Crouch. You are so very kind.”
*
Outside the Ministry of Magic, Frank and Severus waited in the carriage. Severus tortured a loose thread on the hem of his sleeve while Frank chattered on, occasionally interjecting with single-syllabic demurs and concessions. At any moment he expected to see a parade of guards stampede out of the Ministry, holding Lucius between them, bound for Azkaban. He despised Marcel and his ludicrous demands; but he despised Lucius more for acquiescing. He did not know what to do about it all, and this lack of control compounded his anxiety. On one hand he could appreciate Lucius’ trust in Marcel’s strategic decisions; on the other he saw only the ominous specter of failure and imprisonment.
Frank was sympathetic to his concern. “I shouldn’t worry about him,” he told the boy comfortingly. “If Marcel told Lucius to do it, then Lucius will be fine. He speaks nicely, you know. Convincing, like. Used to be a joke in the office -- when I was still Marcel’s aide, when Lucius was active in Britain. They used to say, Luc could sell a drowning man a glass of water. I ain’t sure how he does it, exactly, but he does.”
“He plays games,” said Severus coldly. “That’s what he does. Stupid, stupid games.”
“Well, he ain’t lost one yet, far as I know,” said Frank, with a casual shrug. “Reckon it’s a gift, or something similar. But then, all the Malfoys are funny creatures like that. You’d never believe half the stories I could tell you about them.”
Severus smirked, raised his gaze from the study of his cuffs. “Try me,” he said.
“Where do I start?” Clicking his tongue thoughtfully against his teeth, Frank relaxed back on his seat. “I guess there’s always been plenty of rumors going around about who Lucius’ father is,” he said. “His mother was very beautiful, but also a bit of a... well, a woman of loose morals, so to speak. Apparently even Lord Voldemort himself had a, you know. An affair. Which is probably the real reason why the Malfoys are pretty much at the top, when it comes to the Death Eater ranks. I’m guessing that the Dark Lord is wondering if Luc ain’t his own, ha ha, flesh and blood.”
“Ha ha,” Severus echoed dully, picking now at the rim of the window. He’d overheard a story along these lines before: Wilkes and Rosier idly speculating in the corridors of Rosier’s mansion. It hadn’t impressed him then, and it didn’t impress him now.
“Of course, that’s only the start of it. See,” Frank leaned closer, “Luc’ mother supposedly died by her own hand. But there’s... speculations. Rumors, and the like -- and I don’t usually listen to them, but sometimes something just catches your attention, and you can’t help but listen. There were... strange circumstances, surrounding her death. The Ministry investigated, but let’s face it, the most wizards working for the Ministry couldn’t find shit if they went to the bog, eh? It could have been murder, you know. Malfoys are all a bit mad, no offence to them, but... you know what I mean. Our Luc ain’t exactly the picture of a healthy mind, is he? I wouldn’t be surprised if old Mr. Malfoy hadn’t decided to off his Missus the moment he discovered about her... liaisons.”
Severus peeled away a strip of plastic from the window ledge, very, very slowly.
“And there’s stories, too, that there’s another of them. A kid, see, Lucius’ age -- maybe a bit older, maybe a bit younger, maybe a twin. No one’s really sure, and you can be sure as hell that Marcel ain’t talking. I had an old friend in the Ministry, see, and he told me that his friend who does the registry -- births, deaths, marriages -- he said that there were five kids born to the Malfoys: two girls, stillbirths, and three boys. Marcel, Damien, and Lucius. Ain’t nothing in the records about Damien’s death, or his life. Boy could still be around somewhere, and you’d never know it. Maybe stuck in an attic in the Malfoy’s manor, maybe a mad man. I don’t know, no one does. Pretty crazy, eh?”
“Very crazy,” Severus agreed.
“Bit of an old puzzle, ain’t it?” said Frank. “Rumor has it that Lucius is married, too. To bloody Narcissa, would you believe? ‘Course, I know they’re probably both doing the dirty, like, on account of living together for so long, and Lucius not being allowed out of the place. He’s got to get a little fun somehow, if you know what I mean. But there isn’t any way Marcel’d pass off his wife to his brother. For one thing, Malfoys don’t divorce. It’s all Death Do Us Part with them, traditional and such. Anyway, my friend in the registry would have told me if something like that’d happened.”
Frank’s ignorance was almost refreshing. Severus noosed his left index with the plastic strip and tugged. “I’m sure your friend is very well informed,” he commented snidely, watching the tip of his finger throb through a spectrum of purple and red.
“Do you want to tell me anything, Sev?” Frank asked suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“You looked like you wanted to say something, is all.” There was an embarrassed note in Frank’s voice: as if he’d been caught doing something that was not so much wrong as uncharacteristic. He blinked a few times in quick succession, a gormless expression on his round face. “At least, you sounded kinda like you did. Heck, if you’ve heard anything, I’m all ears. I’ve always been a bit of a, you know, Malfoy aficionado...”
Severus stared at him for a long moment, then swung his head toward the window. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling. A wash of apprehension flooded his veins; his heart jammered in his chest -- and the annoyance of it all was that he could not put his finger on precisely what was wrong. Frank had always had a habit of voicing thoughts at random, odd questions which somehow jarred with the flow of conversation. On prior occasions, Severus had merely put this down to Frank’s absentminded nature. Yet...
Yet what?
He sucked his lower lip between his teeth, slid one hand over the latch on the carriage door. The metal handle was cool to the touch. His thumb rolled along its underside, testing the viability of this particular avenue to escape.
“You can tell me,” said Frank.
Irrational. You’re being irrational. Severus withdrew his hand, with some difficulty. “I don’t have anything to say,” he said haltingly, and then jumped as the door beside him jerked open. Looking pale, yet somehow self-satisfied, Lucius hoisted himself into the carriage, and Severus, his concentration broken, deferentially shifted up the seat to make room. When he next turned his gaze to Frank, the ex-aide to Marcel Malfoy was smiling openly -- that honest, stupid grin of his. The sense of foreboding that had seemed so palpable only seconds before lapsed abruptly into memory, and Severus willed himself to forget about it.
You’ll be scared of your own shadow, next.
“How’d it go?” Frank asked Lucius.
The Death Eater yawned. “Shut up, Frank,” he said. “Start the carriage. I want to go home.”
“Right you are, mate.”
As they flew over the sprawl of Muggle urbanity, Severus settled his nerves by indulging in a little Longbottom-baiting. With a coy glance in Frank’s direction, he nudged Lucius’ ankle lightly under the seat.
“Sir?” said Severus. “Can I ask you something?”
“Mm?”
“Are you Lord Voldemort’s bastard lovechild?”
“...what?”
“Did your father murder your mother in a fit of jealous rage?”
“...Excuse me?”
“Do you, perchance, have a mad brother locked up in the attic of your house? Goes by the name of Damien, apparently.”
“What?”
“Inquiring minds want to know, sir.”
“...not to my knowledge. Why?”
“No reason.” Severus smirked. “There you go, Frank. Does that put your mind at rest?”
For the remainder of the journey home, the naturally garrulous Frank Longbottom didn’t say a word. He even managed to withhold his counsel when Severus, growing increasingly irritated by the charade of chaste relations, gave up on modesty, regulation and dignity all in the same instant. Without the prelude of request, the boy reached across the carriage, brusquely tore away Lucius’ glasses with his left hand, and kissed the man firmly on the mouth.
By the time they reached the apartment, Lucius was naked to the waist, Severus had one finger up Lucius’ asshole, and the embarrassed goodbye Frank bid them was barely audible over the flood of inanities which spooled from Lucius’ trembling lips.
III - Narcissa’s Monologue
(by Ivy Blossom. progressive dance remix by Libertine)
These mud-puddle moments and the pieces of you, she is thinking. Like threading a needle; sucking firmly on the thread so the end won’t fray.
It’s mid-afternoon and heavy sunlight is pouring through the west windows. The boy is long gone, away dirtying his fingers at Rosier’s house, collecting to him that odor of sulfur and boiled cabbage which Narcissa always smells before he arrives. It gets into the elevator ahead of him, you see, the airing system, filters up through thirty-forty flights of concrete and metal and then sneaks in under the door.
Infiltration, and it’s a dirty thing, this smell: a little like breathing in the air someone else just exhaled.
Mouth to mouth to mouth to mouth. The boy is away and Lucius is lying on the couch, asleep, resting, his breathing even and soundless, his mouth relaxed, hands unclenched, one resting palm down on his chest, the other dangling off the couch, fingers nearly grazing the carpet. His hair is tucked under his right shoulder; he looks peaceful, calm. Watching him like this makes Narcissa feel a little bit powerful, because this serene pose has been orchestrated by her: a gift to him. While the boy can sate him in ways she, presently, can not -- rattling the picture frames with his violent thrusts, pushing the headboard of Lucius’ bed up against the wall -- only she can bring her husband this kind of peace.
He lies so still his eyes don’t even move behind his eyelids. If she didn’t know better, she’d imagine he were dead.
He’d said --
I can’t trust you now, but one day I’d like to try.
He’d said --
There’s moments I feel like shouting, and the words don’t come.
She’s playing detective and medic with her spell-warmed wand, and in her hands the pensieve feels somehow heavier, like there’s substance in it beyond the visible, beyond the gauzy smoke-haze that swirls to the rim.
He’d said --
Air.
-- three letters, one word, and a mystery unpeeling that she doesn’t want to see.
*
She remembers this:
( ...the manor, Marie; the portrait gallery. And the newly wed Narcissa Malfoy is creeping, toe-to-heel, along a wing of the manor dedicated entirely to portraits, all too aware of the paintings’ steely eyes, the way they push their monocles up to the bridge of their noses. She mistakes silence for disdain until one of them, a fat woman in a corset, whispers a fearful, “Marie?” as she passes by.
“Marie?”
Narcissa looks straight ahead but the name follows her, echoes down the long corridors, passes nervously from portrait to portrait, from the wall to her left, to the right, and back to the left again. The whispers build to a sibilant, inchoate hiss -- it moves in vibrations from the core of the room to the outskirts until all are involved in its disyncopated pulse.
Marie. Narcissa feels the worm of fear germinate in the pit of her lungs, like an unscratchable itch or unhealable ache, a wound that tears into the collective Malfoy psyche. It wells there inside of her and, when she cannot contain it any longer, it spouts from the fracture of her lips and rallies away to the Tudor-beamed ceiling; becomes part of the massive, breathless, Malfoy-sigh, a sound which suggests the manor itself has groaned its dissent. It is a plea or a curse or a waltz maybe, in three-three time, and in her immediate peripheral Narcissa glimpses something green, something white-gold, something transparent and fleeting.
And as she spins to stare there looms the painting, larger than life, and it does not speak, nor move. An eyebrow is raised, has always been raised, and those eyes are so gray they might once have been part of the sky.
Marie Malfoy.
Narcissa feels as if she’s looking into a mirror, the kind that shows you as you will look in thirty, forty years. That nose, those lips, that long, white-blonde hair... and suddenly she understands why the portraits whisper to her, and look afraid. She is a young, naïve version of this stately, arrogant-looking woman, the woman whose name Marcel sometimes curses in his sleep, the woman Lucius claims never to have known.
It makes sense now. It makes horrible, perfect sense. She was not married for love; Marcel chose her simply to replace his mother. Marie had been the only truly worthy woman to bear the family name: Marie, the double Malfoy. Born a Malfoy, married to a Malfoy, unsullied by other pedigrees, fresh from France, foreign and familiar, stern and gentle, a live wire, a firecracker, a snapped whip, and warm arms in the dark after a vicious nightmare -- Narcissa gleans information from the house elves, who chitter about diamonds and beauty and suspected murder...
During the early period of their marriage, when she was still attempting to please Marcel, Narcissa fastened her hair in the manner Marie once had.
She thought that perhaps it worked, for a little while... )
*
It is a confusion -- that is the word for it: the Unsolved. There is Marie and there is Marcel; and there is Lucius who gasps for oxygen even when the windows are open; there is the possibility of murder and somewhere, somehow, there is Lucius’ pet demon, his Voice, as he calls it, which simpers around the corners of everything and refuses to be tied down. There is Narcissa who looks like Marie (by accident? by design?) and there are others, too, bits she can’t put her finger on just yet, but she knows intuitively that they are out there, and ready to be pinned, scanned, and twisted within the depths of her pensieve.
This isn’t the first time she’s played detective, and it won’t be the last time; she’s learnt already that when you’re a Malfoy you come to expect it. They’re unstuck, all of them, on some basic biological level, and everything they touch ends up splintering into a hundred thousand pieces. And here she is, the devoted wife, trying to piece it back together, with only her own wavering imagination to help her -- lesser women, she is sure, would balk at such a task, but Narcissa loves, and in the end that makes all the difference.
The pieces of you, she is thinking. You can trust me to do anything, except watch you suffer.
Silver threads and the whirl of someone else’s dream. When you’re working with such sensitive material, it’s difficult to know how far is too far, how much is too much. But she mustn’t (can’t) think of it as prying; it’s assisting, nothing more sinister than necessary psychological surgery, and she knows he’d thank her -- if he knew. And he’s not the only martyr here, by any means -- it goes both ways; debts accrued on both sides.
The cost to Self and sanity. Narcissa bites her lip, a nervous habit she’s yet to grow out of. Balanced precariously on her lap, the pensieve ripples, almost purrs at her, and its silver threads spin out like tentacles, stroke lazily at her fingertips. Her wand shifts statically through them, cataloging and containing the refuse of Lucius’ mind.
So much here looks like her but isn’t. Before Narcissa’s eyes the image of a woman shimmers uppermost
-- a narrow-lipped creature with long, white-blonde hair
-- older, stronger; she moves as if her hips are steeped in some slick oil
-- she is sitting on the grass, laughing
-- she looks stern, a bloodied rabbit in her hand
-- she is Marie Malfoy, and her slim calves are tucked up under a pale pink skirt
-- her breasts are seen at an angle looking down
-- the white lace of a bra
-- the vague illusion of cleavage
-- then the face transforms into Narcissa’s own: eyes shut, lips trembling slightly
-- and from there a graveyard, a darkness beyond darker hills
-- a tall, slim man with a worried, shameful smile and curling hands that guarantee a violence --
The boy.
The silence tastes like copper in her mouth.
*
She remembers this:
( ...the sight of Lucius weeping. She’s eleven, thirteen, somewhere in-between, and this is the day she tells him she loves him. She tells him she’ll kill herself if she’s forced to marry Marcel. It feels like incest to her, marrying the brother -- like a terrible mistake, the punch line of some gross cosmic joke. And Marcel is gross, in that sinister way of his, in that way she can’t explain, can just feel...
Marcel is older, darker, (indifferent) -- and when they are finally introduced (late December, her second year at Hogwarts) he looks first at her breasts, then at her stomach -- as if he could look into her, as if his stare could pierce her skin, inspect her uterus. His gray eyes dart from one hip to the other, mentally measuring their breadth, picturing his child already housed there, evaluating the accommodations.
Narcissa has never been raped, but imagines it must feel something like this. She spends an hour and a half in the shower afterwards, crying, trying to scrub off the feeling of those eyes. Later, Lucius cries with her, as they sit together on her parents’ front porch.
Her hair is still damp. His fingers curl in the material of her dress at her thigh. He touches her face like it is his own.
“I’ll ask him to choose someone else. I want --”
“To keep me, Luc. To keep me.”
“Yes.” There is no falter in his voice, no hesitation. It is a statement of fact. A sudden epiphany. An ultimate truth. “That’s what I want.”
But the following week he seems to have forgotten. When she asks of Marcel’s reply, Lucius only stares at her strangely and shakes his head as if to suggest he’s no idea what she’s talking about. And perhaps by that time, he honestly doesn’t. There’s a vacant look in his eyes, a kind of absence; he is a hollow thing to her, rendered as two dimensional as card...)
*
Air, he said to her then, says to her now, as if it all makes perfect sense.
The pensieve is only a temporary solution, of course. It’s clear to Narcissa that her husband has been disturbed in some strange and sinister way, and now nothing settles inside his head, nothing will lie still. Instead it blooms malignantly, takes on the shape of his father’s madness-tumor, threatens his life and her dreams. It has to be removed; you can’t bargain with disease any more than you can trust a card game with luck. All or nothing, is her understanding; and all and nothing is what she, in her clinical, doctorly wisdom, gifts him with each dreamless night.
What does it feel like, Narcissa often wonders, living with the vacancy in his mind? Can he feel the absence: does it leave a mark, an indent of where the memory once was? Does he know that something is missing; do his synapses reach out along the networks of his brain, only to discover nothing there? Are there moments when he half-remembers, or remembers remembering, and finds himself engulfed in the absence of knowledge, of emotion, of smell and taste and touch? Does someone who is blind see darkness, or simply nothing at all?
How does he live like this, without these memories? Narcissa has never personally used a pensieve to cleanse, only to capture. There are many hateful things she would prefer not to have known, but at the same time, the idea of forgetting them makes her feel profoundly nervous. How foolish would she become, if she couldn’t remember what she knew, if she didn’t remember what had gone before?
She imagines what it would be like to purge herself of the knowledge that her husband slept with his jail-bait lover. She would drag the silver strands of that memory from her skull... and then leap out of bed every night, fearing for Lucius’ safety when she heard the moaning, the banging, the pleading. In her horror she would envisage the Ministry’s Aurors interrogating him; if she forgot enough, she might even feel brave enough to go in and protect him.
And over and over and over she would open the door and see them together, Lucius pressed against the bed, his back, his waist, his arms, his neck bruised and red and sore, the boy pumping into him as if he wanted to rip him apart.
Lucius biting into the pillow and tearing at the cotton.
The boy cursing his way to orgasm...
No -- if she ever forgot her place she might be heartbroken. As it stands, she finds herself merely disappointed. And there is always small consolation to be found in his madness, in her memories of unsticking...
Unsticking the unstuck. Cut back to silver threads and the boy reappearing like a broken record’s refrain. There’s water, always. It rises and Narcissa can smell brine, not wholly unlike the ingrained scents of the potions-boy, and
-- four pairs of hands and Lucius’ face
-- a dark man standing on the edge of a field
-- a younger Marcel, red with anger, and his arms folded across his chest
-- yelling now at something beyond the pensieve’s rim
-- and that something is laughing, laughing
-- Marie kissing a man whose hair is black, not blonde
-- then the potions-boy holding Lucius’ head above water, face so confused
-- foam and violence and a fleck of soap stuck to his/your/our chin
And then there’s nothing but the weight of Severus’ kisses, the boy’s mouth obliterating anything which might have meaning. Frustrated, Narcissa spools the strands about the spindle of her wand, drives deeper to the core of him, until the boy is no more than a vague twist of black and white, left to cool on the outskirts of the bowl.
Which is as much, after all, as he deserves.
*
She remembers this less clearly:
( ...A soft cry in darkness. The manor by night. Shadows streaming shadows. A bay window and beneath it Lucius awkwardly crouching, Marcel’s wand sliding into his skull. A moment, a breath, and un petit mort inside of her.
Marcel’s eyes meeting hers. Grey and gray and gray and red.
They struggle a while until he hits her, so hard her head snaps back into the wall.
A mess. All of it a mess. Lucius left in a quiet heap on the carpet across the room, and she with white-sparks of pain streaking across the surface of her eyes like fireworks, and Marcel saying confidently: ‘In time you’ll learn to hate me as much as you love him.’
In time.
Then a cabinet of purple bottles, glassed in shelves, and Marcel Malfoy pushing the cork firmly home.
‘You could lose your mind in a house like this,’ Lucius had told her cheerily that morning. ‘There are cracks in the floorboards, so the pieces fall in...’)
*
Times change. These days, instead of Marcel’s wand relieving Lucius of unpleasantness, of difficult thoughts and futile emotions, of whatever it is that causes him to melt down into his various parts, his various personalities -- it is hers. It’s poor beaten down Narcissa Malfoy who has risen to this unenviable task; Narcissa who will dutifully tear pieces of Lucius away, so pieces of Lucius can survive.
It is a hobby of sorts; she is thankful for it, if only because it relieves the tedium. On the drearier days she releases her mind to idle speculation: she dreams of locked cupboards that come alive with her voice, with the swish of her hair, with the sight of her -- as he saw her, as he remembered her. How many of Marcel’s purple bottles contain her image? she wonders -- admitting to herself that their numbers are probably far fewer than she would like.
She puts away the pensieve and returns to sit on the floor beside Lucius’ couch, her legs spread inelegantly on either side of her. As always, when she is alone, her hands gravitate automatically to her stomach, to rest there on the swell of the child. Yesterday, seated in this same position, she’d actually felt the baby move within her. She hadn’t told Lucius or the boy about it -- it wasn’t any of their concern, anyway. The baby was speaking just to her, for her, communicating in pushes and shoves, in small hands, arms stretching, saying, I’m here, can you feel me?
If Lucius and the boy suffer their forms of communication in blood and moans and thrusting, then she and her baby share theirs in these small motions, this tiny foetal body which turns gently now between her palms. Exclusive, linked together, independent of each other, yet wholly at each other’s mercy in so many ways -- and Narcissa Malfoy lays her head dreamily back against her husband’s shoulder, and thinks, quite absently: What an odd foursome we are.
IV - Barty Crouch’s Party/Conspiring With The Enemy
6.14pm
“I am... unable to find my shirt.”
“Did you check the wardrobe?” Severus Snape, deeply involved in the purging of pimples, barely glances up from the mirror. He is half dressed, bare chested, besocked but not beshoed. His feet skid a little on the tiles as he examines himself, discovering that his reflection, although not conventionally handsome, is pleasing enough -- if the length of his nose can be balanced by the strength of his jaw.
“I found it,” says Lucius.
“Well done, sir.”
“You’ve squirted onto the mirror,” says Lucius reprovingly.
It’s not a line or even an attempt at it, just an absent comment and the hint of a sneer, but they fuck anyway, because Severus wants to grind Lucius’ head against the mirror, and because he likes the way Lucius’ hands claw reflexively over the gold taps.
When they leave the apartment Lucius kisses Narcissa goodbye on the cheek, and whispers in her ear, “I won’t ask you to wait up,” to which she responds, with that air of resignation she wears so well, “I would, anyway.”
I would! You would! Who wouldn’t? And the sex -- the SEX! that blindpawingscrapingsucking -- has invested Severus with a rising excitability, a bouyancy, a shrieking screaming potential for mischief, and so he follows Lucius’ motions without even thinking, kisses the woman’s other cheek, and to her incredulous expression he says, cheerily, “Me too, ma’am;” one hand dug deep into the left pocket of Lucius’ trousuers and rising, groping, and... ultimately failing.
“Is he drunk already?” Narcissa asks, lofting an eyebrow.
“I gave him a little brandy,” Lucius admits, disentangling himself. “Can you tell?”
6.45pm
“Lucius Malfoy and companion.”
“Winky does not see you on the list, sir.”
“In that case, I suggest you -- ah, look under the Ms, and not under the Ls.”
“Oh, Winky is sorry sir. It is all my mistake.”
“Yes.”
“Winky is so terrible. Winky might have been so bad as to turn sir away by accident, if sir hadn’t pointed out that...”
“No, Winky wouldn’t have.”
“...Oh. Yes, sir, sir is right, Winky is wrong again. Please, sir, thank you, sir, have a nice night, sir.”
“Thank you. You are too kind.”
Together they pass through the gateway, but before they have proceeded more than ten metres they are halted a second time, this time by a man Severus immediately recognises.
“Spoken to Voldemort lately?”
It is Alan Wilkes, slinking and catty. He closes in upon them like a shark scenting fresh meat. In the frosty air his breath steams through his nose, and his lashes shimmer glassily, glazedly. In one hand he carries a glass of some noxious green liquor. He appears a little pale under the lanterns which hum overhead, unhealthy looking, but his teeth are very sharp and he tears them against his lower lip in a manner which suggests a verbal restraint.
This thought, which occurs to Severus automatically upon regarding the man, suddenly returns to him: and he is aware that, even in his slightly drunken state, he is aware. His natural instincts remain intact, may have even become more focussed. And they’re telling him: This isn’t going to be pretty. This isn’t going to be nice. Best you run now, Severus, while you still have feet to stand on.
“I’m sorry?” says Lucius calmly, offhandedly. “Do I know you?”
From behind Alan’s back Frank Longbottom stumbles forwards, offers Severus a beseeching look, an apology guised in a weak half-smile.
“Hello, Longbottom,” says Lucius, without so much as blinking. “Fancy seeing you here.” He gazes levelly at a Alan. “I think you’ll find him quite the adept chauffeur, sir...”
“So he let you out,” Alan interupts. With his free hand he reaches out, brushes his fingers across Lucius’ collar -- a paternal, patronising gesture, even though Alan can’t be more than five years older than Severus himself. “Remarkable, that,” says Alan, flicking his index against Lucius’ chin. “I wonder what Voldemort has planned, don’t you?”
The distance between them immediately takes on a palpable form. Frank looks sideways, stares across the grass. “Oh, hell,” he says weakly, under his breath. Severus shares his sentiments exactly.
“Excuse me?” says Lucius.
“I said, I wonder what Voldemort has planned, Lucius,” Alan repeats.
To his credit Lucius does not rise to the bait. Delicately he withdraws a step, bending to adjust his spectacles as he does so. When he rises there’s something different about the way he holds himself, a simple yet convincing transformation. It’s as if, in these breif minutes, Lucius has analysed all the complexities of his current situation and ascertained exactly which personality he must call upon to rid himself of Alan’s presence.
So it is an anxious man that Lucius presents to Alan Wilkes: a little flitty, a little edgy, unsure of himself, a boy-man or a man-boy, still struggling with the awkwardness of adolescence. Smoothing back his hair, Lucius cocks his head sharply, and in that bland and quizzical stare Severus experiences a sudden, painful deja-vu. For he recognises this stare, this feverish apprehension, these clumsy pretensions: he recognises himself in Lucius, and realises to his horror and shame that Lucius is playing an eighteen year old Severus, fresh and innocent and naive and twelve hours from a hands-on introduction to buggery.
“What are you talking about?” Lucius asks Alan coldly. “As if I’d know about what Voldemort gets up to. No one ever tells me anything.”
“So I’ve heard,” says Alan, in a quiet voice. “Perhaps Marcel thinks it’s better this way. Keeping his little brother out of the... out of trouble. Are you sure he let you leave the apartment?”
“Are you sure he doesn’t wipe my arse for me, too?” Lucius asks, patting at his pockets for a cigarette.
Severus, although embarrassed beyond belief, grudgingly has to admit that this rejoiner is certainly worthy of his younger self. Alan is obviously taken aback, and tries a different tactic.
“I see you have yourself an escort.”
“A friend of the family,” says Lucius automatically.
“Is that so?”
“Well, my wif--” Lucius begins, but doesn’t get a chance to complete the sentence. Alan Wilkes’ glass, filled to the brim with liquor, has shattered loudly at Lucius’ feet. All further words are lost in Alan’s profuse apologies, in Lucius’ overly sincere dismissals of the event.
“Shit, how clumsy of me.”
“Not your fault. I’m sure it could, ah, happen to anyone.”
“Look, allow me to take care of it, Lucius.”
“Oh, I couldn’t have you cleaning my shoes for me. That would be... hah. Well, if you insist...”
As Alan stoops to magic away the green stains inking the hem of Lucius’ trousuers, Severus grasps Frank roughly by the elbow, steers him a short distance from the others. Standing in the relative privacy a sliver of tree-shadow provides, Frank puffs at up him miserably, his plump face flushed with colour. From the hopeless cast of his eyes he is clearly anticipating a punishment; Severus cannot help but oblige him.
“I want to know two things, you fat prat,” he says coldly, coarse nails biting into the fleshiness of Frank’s upper arm. “Firstly: what the fuck was that, and secondly, why the fuck are you here, Frank?”
“The man owled me, asked me for a lift here,” says Frank. “Geeze, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t know about this, mate.”
Severus waits. Frank blusters.
“Sev, would you quit it? I told you, I don’t know anything. I don’t understand why he did it. I mean, it can’t...” He spreads his free arm wide in an expression of defeat. “Jesus, would you quit... Look, Sev, I can’t tell you, for certain. I ain’t in the know or the like, you must have figured that by now. But...”
“But?” Severus prompts.
“Well, I don’t know what Marcel told you, mate, but I don’t think this is about the war.”
“Pardon?”
Frank intakes a deep breath. “I can’t explain it, kid,” he says, an incipient slur catching on the edges of the consonants. “Only that this place is swarming with ruddy Death Eaters. I’ve counted five of them, five or six. Including Wilkes and Rosier, and I know for a fact that the two of them are under close Ministry scrutiny at the moment. Seems almost like this isn’t a party for theirs, it’s a party for ours.”
“If it’s a party for Death Eaters, how can it not be about the war?” Severus asks, reasonably enough. “You think it’s entrapment, or something?”
Frank smirks, shaking his head. “Ask Lucius,” he says, pulling sharply away before Severus can catch him. “Ask him: When is a war not a war?”
Behind them Alan and Lucius have finished with each other, have muttered what strained words of regret they can manage through gritted teeth, and are now impatiently awaiting the return of their respective escorts. With a last rueful glance over his shoulder, Frank slips diffidently to Alan’s side; the duo sidle off together in silence.
“I think we handled that rather well,” says Lucius.
“I’m sure we did.”
“As point of interest, what exactly did Frank say to you?”
“He told me to ask you a question,” says Severus.
“Oh?”
“When is a war not a war?”
“That’s easy,” says Lucius, laying a hand firmly on Severus’ shoulder. “When it’s family.”
6.58pm
Right outside the circle and right inside the firing line, that’s what Frank Longbottom is thinking. He’d call it luck, sheer stupid blind luck, if he wasn’t sweating like a stuck pig and if the other two weren’t beside him, making shop talk. It’s like walking a tightrope here, pardon the cliche, but there’s no two ways about it; he’s trembling on the highwire with devils howling up from below, and he can do it, sure, certainly, (keep a level head at all times, they’d said; keep your cool, because in times of stress your worst enemy is always going to be yourself) but the trouble is they expect him to fall. That’s what he’s meant to do, that’s who Frank Longbottom is: just your average clumsy localboy who couldn’t find his own ass with a map. Right? Right?
This one time he’s dragging Lucius screaming and crying out of the manor and for some inconcievable reason Lucius gets an erection -- it’s lodged, warm and heavy, against Frank’s thigh and Frank wonders now if this is the only reason he’s got himself in so deep. Not because he’s got any sexual inclination in that direction, (thanks, but no thanks) but because it’s only then that it occurs to Frank that Lucius is human, too. A profound shock to the system! Forget the Death Eaters a minute, forget the war and forget even the Malfoy’s brutal legacy, this skinny weeping creature in his arms is a man. He might have a tough armour about him, but you know the old adage; in the end they bleed, too, just like everyone else.
So it comes to Frank like a revelation, a sort of hideous epiphany, that Lucius Malfoy isn’t the austere authoritarian he thinks he is, pretends to be during those cold coach silences. Lucius isn’t even close to being his brother. Might not even be a proper Malfoy, come to think of it, although Frank has his own ideas about that one -- he’s done his research, skimmed through the records (you can find just about anything in the ledgers these days). Lucius is just the kid who never grew up, more fool him, more fool the Ministry and the Dark Lord and Marcel, too, and Frank’s fighting two battles here, one for the Cause and one against these idiotic paternal feelings that swell up inside of him. The boy, the potions-boy, he’s another part of it -- fierce black eyes and those thin and adroit wrists which itch to do damage -- only unlike Lucius, the boy’s a mistake.
Frank’s mistake.
Next time some kid asks to hitch a ride in Frank’s carriage, Frank is going to drive right on by. He doesn’t need any more loose ends than he can help.
Outside the circle and inside the firing line, and Alan Wilkes and Evan Rosier are there beside him, and Evan is saying, out of the corner of his mouth: “You’d make a subtle man weep, Alan.”
The three of them are leaning into the bushes, unwilling to meet each others’ eyes. The devious nature of their task has a two-fold effect. In a practical sense it is essential to the completion of the job, but the actual act undermines the sense of unity that originally brought them together. Frank has figured by this stage that he’s on the outer, the third wheel, as it were, and that’s a mercy in and of itself. His name won’t be the first on the lips of the Death Eaters, his name won’t be bandied around by Marcel and his compatriots, and when the revolution comes, he sure as hell won’t have his back to the wall.
Alan says: “It’s over now, anyway. Who found out about the security spells, though? That’s what I’d like to know. It is not as if every part of the garden can be monitored...”
Evan says: “Longbottom’s got a contact in the Ministry, right?”
Frank wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead and massages the sore part of his arm.
Alan says: “You know, if it were me, I’d have used Imperius. Quicker, gets the job done.”
Evan says: “We really shouldn’t have to agree with this. What can he do, anyway?”
Alan says: “What can he do? You think an Auror got Mulciber?”
Frank says, quietly, “If that’s the case, then what makes you so special?”
7.14pm
There are lanterns in the gardens. They cast thin guidelines of light from the arched gateway and on through the gardens, finally concluding at the base of a massive folliot -- a bandstand, almost, with curlicues of marble stretching lazily down the pillars. About it groups of shadow gather, faces gaining features briefly when the lanterns’ beams bob their way. Music, a thin threnody of strings, hums from some unseen source to underline the stutter of conversation: a melody in three-four time, a waltz. Occasionally a crackle of magic interupts -- a luminescent wand twirled in mid-air to perform a party trick, and then a smattering of applause to break the lull.
It is a little bit like counting the seconds after lightning, Severus thinks, like waiting for the predictable, the thunder after fire.
He is uneasy. It is not the alcohol or the crowds who bustle past him, jarring him first with their elbows and then with their meaningless apologies: it is not even his recent encounter with Alan and Frank. Instead it is something vaguer, something which does not have a solid base but flirts elusively and mistily beyond his concentration. Lucius has long since parted from his company, is even now moving seamlessly through the partygoers -- Severus is not so jaded that he cannot appreciate Lucius’ talent for conversation, for assimilation -- but that uneasiness, the fear of That Which Is To Come, keeps Severus immobile. He has seated himself on a bench out of the way of the others, idling a glass of punch between his hands, and watches.
Frank is right about one thing, at the very least. The Death Eaters are out in force tonight: Evan Rosier, Alan Wilkes, and two others Severus recognises by description: Jacques Deveaux and Antonin Dolohov. Sunken cheeked, preening, they are all hushed voices and the slur of fingers barely meeting, barely touching, liasons made and unmade in each chance side glance. They move apart, then gravitate toward each other. Antonin casually overfills the glass of a flush-faced Ministry wife, and Deveaux places a comforting hand on her shoulder, a hint of sexuality there, in the curve of his lip, in the bristling of his thin moustache.
And Severus Snape is wondering -- how can they not notice? How can they not know? Are we so innocuous as to be invisible?
It makes no sense, to have them here, to have even Lucius here. This is the party of the most reknowned of all Ministry prosecutors -- a private party, no less -- and yet there they are, Aurors rubbing shoulders with Death Eaters. Whose game is this, Severus would like to know. Is it another trick which has been lingering up Marcel Malfoy’s sleeve, or is it a trick of the Ministry -- to lure them into a false sense of security?
He is conscious of the terrible weight of politics which hangs over the gathering; he is conscious of the two forces pulling doggedly at each others’ strings, like some gross, fatal display of puppetry. In the thick of it he is one small and insignificant pawn, a guerilla, a mere terrorist. We are one, he notes, absently, but they are many.
The punch tastes like watermelon, like rasberry and blueberry and something undefinable but potent nontheless.
Severus rises from his seat and crosses the grass toward Lucius, hangs uselessly outside the circle which has formed around the man. He feels protective and jealous simultaneously. Protective of those thin bones, those myopic eyes, that pale and blemished skin. Jealous of those who listen, those he must share Lucius with. Their eyes on Lucius, their conversation -- it grates on him. He bears it only because Lucius would wish him to.
Rule #4 : Always put on a brave face.
His head is filled with hands and gold taps and the reflection of Lucius’ orgasm. Robes are funny things, he’s thinking. Not much good for running in, certainly no good for flying in (ever try skimming over treetops with a hemline?), but if there's one thing you can count on a robe for, it's hiding a boner. The snub nose of his cock is humming against the dark fabric. Like it wants to escape and bury itself in something Lucius-ish. Severus sips his drink and bites down his misgivings.
Lucius is saying --
“Dear Lady Crouch, you should not look so worried; I have it on your husband’s authority that this war should be over -- quite, quite soon..”
Lucius is saying --
“I understand your sentiments exactly. How terrible for you, to have to suffer so much in the name of enterprise...”
Lucius is saying --
“You would never believe the women in France. Those accents and the way they slur their eyes -- ah, you understand me? The way they look not at you but beside you, as if to touch you with their gaze would be -- how do you say? An experience in itself...”
-- and all of it cool, too cool to be real.
He is disarming and charming; his smile too wide but he wears it well. As he leans forward to whisper some sweet note into the ear of Barty Crouch’s wife (she simpers, big boned and red-cheeked as a milkmaid) a fat youth flusters from the ranks of the circle, purposefully inserting himself into Lucius’ line of sight. “I’m the Junior Minister for Magical Castastrophes,” he babbles witlessly, drunkenly, and takes Lucius’ long fingers in his pudgy pink hand.
“Then bring me the Senior Minister,” Lucius riposts dryly, and the crowd laughs and jeers. The fat youth falls away, purple faced and utterly deflated. But before the laughter can peeter out, Lucius takes pity on him; smiles and reaches for his arm. “...or the Senior Minister of the future,” he continues calmly, undercutting the circle’s hysteria. “It is a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
The mercy of a Malfoy, Severus thinks.
“Cornelius Fudge,” says the youth breathlessly, and adds, in a rush, fast words to fill the narrowing distance between them, “We were at school together... do you remember? You were so awfully clever...”
“Thank you, Cornelius,” Lucius replies. “You are too kind.”
Boner status now negligible. Jealousy spikes Severus in the gut. Glass in hand, he walks away, long strides through the fresh grass -- because he does not want to see this, and because he does not trust himself not to speak.
7.17pm
There are orders. There is, of course, a game to be played.
Back home in Walthamstowe Frank has a pregant wife and before he left they’d been throwing around names: George and Alfred and Johnathan and Evan and Alan and Lucius and Marcel, Marcel, Marcel... he’s surprised he hasn’t had a breakdown yet, he’s surprised Millicent puts up with it. A job’s a job, she’s told him on several occasions. If you try not to take it home with you, I’ll try not to listen. Even our walls have ears, she’s trying to say, and that’s an unsettling thought, more unsettling because it’s his wife (she deserves so much more) who’s brought it up.
Of course she’s only trying to help, because she knows that he knows that if he makes it out of this with all faculties intact he’ll be one lucky man.
Frank Longbottom is going to be a father. And in the end, that’s what it’s all about, right? Fathers, and children, and lineage. The unspoilt thread of history. Forget the war, because in twenty years no one’s going to remember it. What remains at the end of the day, what lives, what thrives, will be the measure of victory. The dead will get a bronze plaque and the young will inherit the earth, and that’s the way it’s always been, forever and ever anon.
Maybe he’s going a little crazy now that it’s starting to happen, maybe he’s going crazy with worry for Narcissa, and maybe he’s grateful to the boy, because at least the boy takes Lucius’ mind off the issue at hand. Perhaps picking up the kid wasn’t such a bad idea after all. But you can only stave of the enevitable for so long, and it could be months, it could be years, but It Will Happen. Narcissa in a red dress and Lucius in silver, and that’s where the balance is, right there, in the minutes before the storm.
Evan says: “In the long run, you can’t question this. You can just obey.”
Frank says: “That’s bullshit, Rosier, and you know it.”
Evan says: “What am I supposed to do? Run? I’m not ending up like Mulciber.”
Frank says: “You already have, mate. The only thing that makes you different from him is two weeks and an killing curse.”
7.30pm
When the conversation becomes intolerable Lucius excuses himself politely from his company and departs. Over the period of his confinement in the apartment he has forgotten (perhaps on purpose) how witlessly dull the rich can be. Already they have tired him with their talk of jewelry and parties and Quidditch. Placed within the context of war it all seems frivilously irrelevant: small talk on the brink of an apocalypse. Lucius, if the choice were his, would prefer to spend his last minutes fucking than ensconsed in a facile discussion of fashion.
To this end he pursues the potions-boy across the lawns, and -- with a conspiratorial wink serving as lure -- leads Severus a merry dance beyond the circle of lanterns and then on through a thicket of trees. Once the lights have faded into a distant blur they collapse upon each other, the surrounding bushes crackling to accomodate their sprawled limbs.
“Not quite your -- ah, crowd, boy?” Lucius asks, lighting a cigarette.
Severus yawns lazily. The attention has cheered him up considerably: there is no emotional ailment, he feels, that a romp through someone else’s flowerbeds can fail to solve. “Not quite.”
“Rather more finery than you are used to, I dare say. Not that I would hold your upbringing against you.” A joke, ostensibly. “Not that I blame you for wanting to leave. I admit, I am slightly too sober to enjoy myself. Furthermore, I do not wish to detract from the attention the Lady Crouch is recieving. She is the -- ah, life and soul, I suppose you would say. Homely women are like moths, I think. They flutter to any flame that may warm their ego...” In the dim light the tip of his cigarette glows in the reflex of an inhalation. “...and do not pause to contemplate the risk of a burning,” he concludes. “Though she is safe here, in the company of these fools.”
“I thought these would be your sort of people.”
“Hardly. My sort of people are rather above these sort of people. My sort of people are the ones who pull the strings, see -- and these sort of people are the ones who follow.. limp little creatures, stupid, unrefined. Puffed up and purile local gods.”
“They think highly of you, sir,” Severus comments, a snide note in his voice. “Your charity.”
“There is nothing charitable about financial heroism,” Lucius returns shortly. “It is not -- ah, a selfless act, but one driven to further one’s own ends; whether it be to impress or garner respect. To advertise oneself as humanitarian is no less than criminal.”
“Surely there’s no harm in telling others of your generosity?”
“Essentially, no. The only difficulty I see is that you insist on calling it charity. Charity is a gift with no returns.”
Severus raises his head from Lucius’ chest to gaze blearily about them. Before his eyes the trees seem to fuse into each other. “I don’t see you profiting from it,” he remarks.
“Don’t be so dim-witted. I was invited to this delightfully inane party, for one thing. And no... not my pants, for goodness sake,” Lucius continues, as Severus -- who proves, despite his drunkeness, to be quite capable of unfastening the complex loopings of Lucius’ belt -- pries hopefully at the first button of Lucius’ fly. “At least do me some courtesy and wait until I’ve finished smoking.”
“And then...”
“And then,” Lucius agrees.
They share a kiss which tastes of punch and cigarette smoke, and the boy purrs a satisfied groan into the back of Lucius’ throat. “I notice you called me a friend of the family,” he says, when they part.
“You object?”
“A little.”
“Jail-bait,” Lucius slurs. “You are my little secret, and I think you will stay that way.”
“You like secrets, don`t you, sir.”
“It is preferable to trading in outright lies. I think silence -- ah, is the best defence.”
“Against me?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“You keep too many secrets.”
“Touché.”
And then Severus, tired of talking, tired of listening, snares the cigarette from Lucius’ fingertips, grinds it purposefully against the treetrunk an inch from Lucius’ ear, and waits.
7.40pm
Here’s the skinny: Arnold Mulciber is found at home in a pool of his own blood with fourty eight silver-steel knives pinning his body to the floor. Cloud of angry hexes swarming the air above him, pink and blue and red. Door unlocked, no signs of a struggle, and the worst part is that Mulciber did it to himself. He’s sat there in his swank little river-side apartment and calmly inserted fourty eight implements into his torso, one after the other, twisting them savagely now and then so the blood comes faster. Steak knives, bread knives, butter knives -- he’s raided his own kitchen for the tools. You’d think that a man intending to commit suicide would find a more pleasant way to go.
Hazard a guess: was it Imperius? You bet, mate. The Death Eaters blame the Ministry and the Ministry blames the Death Eaters, even though three Aurors have claimed responsibility for the kill. (Idiots!) There’ll be an investigation, of course, but not right now. What with the war. What with the fact that no one seems to care. So, a Death Eater died -- happens all the time. If the Ministry doesn’t get you, the in-fighting sure will. Like dogs around a bone, all of them, drunk on the notion of power beyond their wildest dreams, without having the faintest clue of what their wildest dreams entail.
Word on the street is that Mulciber tackled someone further up the Dark Magic food chain, and bit off more than he could chew. Which would be believable, if it wasn’t for the fact that Mulciber’s case history just doesn’t pan out. A quiet man, say his neighbours. A studious man, says his landlord. A man uninterested in politics, dedicated to his study -- and what’s more, he’s a specialist in the Imperius curse. He spends his free time convincing Muggles they can fly off tall buildings (suicide rates for Mulciber’s district attest to this. Local government blames a lack of understanding between parents and children). It’d take one nasty bastard to attack a man like that, to use his most famous weapon against him.
A real bloody sadist.
Frank knows all this because he’s read the ledgers. The case has been filed under Assailant Unknown and he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been privy to Severus’ mindless yapping in the carriage. If he hadn’t done the leg work, the ground work, if he hadn’t been knee deep in the shit already. Arnold Mulciber, 59, mutilated, cursed, dead. As a doornail, as any other prone and inanimate object you’d care to mention. This man, this quiet, hardworking man, this man with a spotless Death Eater record and connections in all sorts of places... dead. The question isn’t How: it’s the Why which is turning Frank’s stomach.
“The Man Who Knew Too Much,” Frank intones schepulchrally. “Don’t look at me, mate, I’m just the messenger.”
Alan and Evan exchange glances.
Evan says hopefully: “We’re still talking about the war, right?”
7.45pm
Later --
“You like my bum, don`t you, boy.”
It is an echo, a conversational refrain, and Severus responds to it in kind.
“It is preferable to your face.”
“Well, well, well. Touché again. You are becoming quite the quick-witted one. My word, the things children pick up.. You are -- oh. Gosh. I think we should -- ah.”
“We should ‘ah’, should we?”
“Yes, boy. ‘Ah’ me. ‘Ah’ me now.”
8.05pm
Evan Rosier is twenty six, married, no children, and his best friend Alan Wilkes is twenty five, married, no children. They’ve been Death Eaters for three years and four years respectively. They worked with Marcel Malfoy in his offices before the raid, in the days when the name Malfoy was still a by-word in respectable society. Dutiful subjects, both. Morally ambivalent, pig-headed, your basic everyday Death Eater prats. Middle-class morons. And a thousand other words Frank would like to use, but doesn’t. Because he knows his place, and his place right now is to play dogsbody, and to keep his big mouth shut.
In a way it’s like they’re speaking a different language, Rosier and Wilkes, Lucius and Severus. Only seeing what they’re meant to see, only knowing what they’re meant to know. Like they’re horses, blinkered, intent only upon a single objective: the finishing line. Which is getting closer and closer all the time. Evan’s wife, Anabel, who moves like a rabbit -- all bug-eyes and quick ears -- seems to feel the pressure, even if her husband is oblivious to it. Funny how women can sense these sort of things, some sort of feminine sixth sense.
Frank has caught her weeping in the Rosier’s study more times than he can count, wringing her hands like it’s all hopeless, like she’s powerless to stop it. Maybe she’s right, maybe she’s tried it, maybe she’s had The Talk with Evan, and he’s just smirked in her face, that all-knowing look of his that makes Frank’s hands siezure into fists. Poor Anabel. But it’s the sad fact of the matter: You can’t talk sense to a dead man, any more than you can talk sense to a man like Lucius Malfoy.
Mulciber’s dead. Who claimed the body? Did anyone? Is he mouldering away somewhere in the Ministry’s morgue, ugly Muggle-killing bastard that he is, rigor mortis giving him a decomposing stiffy (that’d be one of Lucius’ clever little tidbits of trivia) dead eyes wide and staring at the roof of his metal coffin? Mulciber, can you hear me? Dead in a Ministry bin... was that part of your plan? Or did you forget to read the fine print of the contract, the part that reads: You are Ours. All else is forfiet. I say, mate, I say, Mulciber -- how does it feel to know you’re a pawn in someone else’s game? How does it feel, fuck you, how does it feel? And tell me, Mulciber, is it something like this?
Sink with a shiny steel finish and a loo so clean you could eat off it, and Frank starts crying in the Crouch’s toilet. The tears come from nowhere and maybe this is what it’s like for Anabel. Maybe this is what it’s like for anyone who’s forced to sit by and shut up and watch men and women march dutifully to their deaths. Can you take this, mate? Does this make you a man? Is this what Millicent wants from you? He’s beside himself, he’s sniffling into toilet paper, and in the mirror his nose is red like he’s been drinking -- which he has. Too much, probably. He’s lost his cool. No, wait. Did he ever have a cool in the first place?
Severus snaps all the time. He’s just a kid, he doesn’t care who sees him lash out. And maybe Lucius, man of a thousand faces, does it too, breaks down in secret. Crawls into the bathroom alone and stares at himself and thinks: You’re a fucking twat. Evan and Alan don’t, though, because they don’t know how. They don’t have that sort of self-understanding. And Frank knows this for certain, because if they did, they wouldn’t be here.
They aren’t his friends. They’re associates, that’s the best way to term it, and all of them working for the Cause, before the Cause got perverted. He’s worked alongside them for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be normal, what it’s like not to kill, and not to hate, and not to destroy. The funny thing? He knows the Death Eater rants so well he has them memorised, any time someone talks politics to him the words come out easy, like a recital, he can say, They’re just animals, he can say, They’re not like us, he can say, They aren’t worthy. But can he remember the other side of the debate? Can he remember how to argue for the Muggles, for the Mud-bloods, can he remember how to phrase it, how to make it real? Like hell he can. His voice has gone the way of his loyalty, his faith, and Arnold Mulciber. All locked up in a metal bin, in the deep cold depths of the Ministry of Magic.
Take a deep breath, mate. Pull yourself together. Do you hear me, Frank Longbottom? Get it together...
8.24pm
“Well, well, well. Fancy seeing you here. How are you doing, Peter?”
“Um, I’m a little busy r-right now. Er. What was your name again? W-Wilder...”
“Wilkes. Alan Wilkes. We met in...”
“I feel a little ill. I th-thought I just saw Lucius Malfoy talking to Lady Crouch.”
“You must be mistaken.”
“C-Cornelius said it’s him. I said it couldn’t -- couldn’t possibly be. We all know wh-what happened.”
“Can I ask how much you’ve had to drink tonight, Peter?”
“I... yes, you’re right. I m-mustn’t be thinking straight.”
“Precisely.”
“This -- is this a t-trick? No one ever told me th-that there was going to be a t-trick.”
“I don’t think it’s anything...”
“Sh-should I report it? I’m s-supposed to report everything to V-V-V...”
“No! I mean, no, he’s probably just a relative of the Malfoys. Nothing you should worry your head about.”
“B-but after K-Karkaroff...”
“I’m quite sure of it, Peter. And you can be sure that You Know Who wouldn’t want you to waste his time on silly little things like this, am I right?”
8.30pm
Karkaroff. That’s a name Frank hasn’t heard for a long time, not since old Mad-Eye Moody put the man away. Not much of a story, really, that one; nothing quite so grotesque as Mulciber’s self-immolation. Azkaban for another of the Dark Lord’s servants, Igor weeping like a baby in the courtroom, unable to speak through his tears. So you danced a slow drag with the devil and got caught with your pants down? Hey, bad luck mate, wouldn’t want to be you. But now the word triggers a memory, another name the potions-boy hinted at in his bored confessions, (‘Some blackeyed prat who thought he could get one over me...’) and Frank wonders if Moody, by some accident of fate, hasn’t inadvertantly saved Igor Karkaroff’s life.
He passes by Alan and his friend, eyes red-rimmed, nose still a little on the pink side. But feeling better. He’s got a handle on this thing now, right around the neck of it: he’s figured out how to play it safe while playing it cool. Millicent has faith in him. The potions-boy has faith in him. And Lucius Malfoy might not have faith, but he understands the concept of loyalty, and if Frank’s going to start anywhere, it might as well be here. There. Wherever he can find a place to plant his feet, where the ground won’t come asunder beneath him.
Someone calls his name from across the gardens and he follows the voice to its source.
“Would you mind, dear? Only I am so terribly tired of...”
“No, ma’am.”
“You are a darling, Frank. A darling.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
When he returns from a quick tour of the Crouch’s basement (having been sent there to retrieve a finer ilk of liquor for Lady Crouch), Frank Longbottom is relieved to find Lucius and Severus in clear sight: Lucius insinuating himself into the larger, most boisterous circles of guests, Severus sitting boredly on his own on the steps of the folliot. As Frank steps to Lady Crouch’s side, he hears Lucius laughing -- a sound he hasn’t heard before -- and it strikes him as both odd and delightful.
He delivers the alcohol, accepts the woman’s drunken thanks, and slides on sneakered-feet back to Alan. By this time Evan has returned from his socialising, and stands slumped at Alan’s side. Both are watching Lucius. Beady eyes, beady eyes, and Frank purses his lips, eeks out a sigh.
“I wouldn’t be getting too fond of him,” says Alan wryly. “You know how it goes.”
Frank exchanges a look with Evan. “Do you think no one will notice?” he whispers. “They already have, mate.”
“Truths can be bought,” says Alan diplomatically.
The sudden twist of Evan’s features provides sufficient evidence for Frank to presume that at least one member of their gathering has realised precisely what cost such a venture would entail.
“I’m going to get another drink,” says Frank. “If it’s alright with you, you can both see yourselves home.”
8.35pm
If Lucius is to be completely honest with himself he has to admit he does not understand why Marcel has sent him here. There is no political merit in securing the favour of Ministry wives and Junior Ministers; there is no real power here. He wants Aurors -- names, faces, personal details-- and they are suspiciously absent from the gathering. He wonders if Barty has set him up -- but only briefly. His faith in Marcel’s ineffability is the sole point of constancy he has in this war, his faith in Marcel and his faith in the boy’s unswerving devotion. Marcel cannot be wrong, and so it is up to Lucius to prove him right, despite the odds against him.
Under the pretence of fetching himself a drink he removes himself from the clutching grasp of Lady Crouch and steps beyond the circle of light, edging deeper into the gardens. Vines filled with perfectly spherical moon-fruit burst from trellises before him; he follows them to a juncture and then proceeds down the left-hand path. The air is thick with the smell of growth, of cut-grass and compost and other heady, earthy aromas. The soil underfoot is moist and gives easily beneath the weight of his boots.
( Air... air... )
After a half hour of wandering he realises he has entered a maze. In the darkness all roads now look alike, and the constellations of fruit which burst about him have taken on a luminous quality, reflecting the surreal cast of night and sky. He can no longer hear the sounds of the party; the faint strains of music have been overcome by the enchanting whistling of wind.
By this time he is also conscious that he is being followed.
Hunted.
Lucius makes no sign that he is aware of their presence. He walks on.
8.40pm
The potions-boy is still alone, still morose, still nineteen years old.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” Frank tells him, squatting down on the steps of the folliot. “But I like you, mate. You’re a bastard but I like you. You understand that, don’t you?”
“You’re drunk,” says Severus, accurately enough. And, in a moment of alcohol induced honesty, adds, “So’m I.”
“You’re only a kid, ain’t you?” says Frank, ignoring him. “A bloody teenager. You shouldn’t even be involved in this. You’re far too young. If I’d known what was going to happen, I wouldn’t have let you stay with him, that first night.”
“Wilkes...” says Severus.
“They aren’t going to last,” says Frank confidently. “Death Eaters like him, they have their death warrant signed from the moment they receive the brand. They’re pawns, no more, no less. They mean nothing to the Dark Lord. He can recruit countless others like them in the blink of an eye. Wilkes, Rosier, Deveaux... they’re expendable. They’ll end up dead or in Azkaban, and there won’t be no one to cry for them ‘cepting their widows. But not you, mate, I don’t think. And not Lucius, neither.”
“He disappeared, did you notice?” says Severus. “I think he’s fucking someone in the bushes. I wouldn’t put it past the asshole.”
“Does he love you?” Frank asks.
Severus gives Frank a cold look, although his eyes are slightly unfocussed. “I’m sick of your riddles,” he says.
“I thought so,” says Frank, sounding suddenly more cheerful. “Did you want another glass of punch?”
8.45pm
Lucius walks, is followed, does not turn around. In his left hand the thin reed of his wand trembles.
It has become clear to him over the past ten minutes that the maze is based around the structure of a simplex grid. Each internal square spans a little over twenty metres, from which adjacent paths extend at irregular intervals. There are no dead ends; there are no hidden roads, no secret passageways. It is therefore not a maze in the most commonly understood of terms: instead of possessing a solitary, correct route, it has multiple solutions: every path will, inevitably, pass by either entrance or exit. The only manner in which to differentiate between the two routes is through direction. Because he wishes to bide his time, and because it suits him at this time to play hard to get, Lucius changes course often. He is aware that should he venture into the center of the grid he will be forced to face his hunter.
Despite his misgivings he is a secretly excited by this game. As the prey in this situation he knows that the ball is ultimately in his court; that he alone can decide when and where the confrontation will occur. Under his breath he has begun to recite a variety of protective mantras. If he is attacked, he will be safe for as long as it will take him to utter a counter-spell.
In the darkness he gifts the hunter with a face. Sometimes it is Narcissa following him, sometimes it is the boy, sometimes even his father. Most often, however, it is his brother.
( Air... air... )
The Voice rises like a Leviathan from the depths of his mind and whispers, None of this is true.
8.58pm
“You never told me why,” says Frank. “Do you even know?”
Severus stares into his glass, where the liquid contents have begun to crystalise. “I was eighteen,” he says. “I didn’t think I needed a reason.”
“I could help you to get out,” says Frank. “I could help you fake your death, or maybe get you a pass somewhere, set you up overseas. I hear Bulgaria is right nice ‘round this time of year.” He laughs humourlessly. “Only you’re too deep in, right now. You’ve become a part of it, just like I have. To get you out now would be tricky, and even if we managed it, you wouldn’t leave Lucius.”
“Tricky,” Severus echoes, holding out his hands, palms uppermost, to simulate a balance. “Death Eaters,” he says, and tips one side of the scale. “Azkaban,” he says, and the scale skews to the right again. “Death Eaters... Azkaban... Death Eaters... Azkaban...”
“I reckon you’re giving yourself a bit too much credit, mate,” says Frank. “In the general scheme of things you ain’t that important. Saving on account of who you choose to dally with. What’ve you done all this time, except play about with potions and sport a neat little tattoo?”
“Raidin’,” says Severus vaguely.
“Did you kill anyone?”
“No. I think -- I think Evan did. I just brought the... I cast a spell, I think.”
“You know, in my first few months as a Death Eater, I spent most of my time in raids,” says Frank. “I killed a fair few Muggles, I admit it; wasn’t pretty, but I had to do it. In fact you’re the first Death Eater I’ve ever met who’s never killed -- in the line of duty, of course. But that’s only to be expected, really. They keep you holed up in that little laboratory, and they don’t let you out, and they won’t let you speak to anyone but me, and Lucius, and Rosier.”
“Wilkes...”
“And Wilkes.”
“Right.”
Frank stares out across the lawn and touches one hand to his lips. “Have you ever wondered, Severus,” he says, “exactly why that is?”
9.01pm
The center is close. By this stage he can make out the shape of a second folliot through the leaves, smaller that the first, its domed roof rising like a monument above the level of the vines. It occurs to him that, should he sincerely wish to avoid a confrontation, he must now double back; turn right where he has been turning left, and proceed as quickly as he can toward the exit and the anonymity of the crowds outside.
( Air.. air.. )
Only he needs the confrontation now. His curiosity has gained an almost sexual intensity; it is akin to awaiting the approach of orgasm. The smell of grass has thickened the air and his body is tense, sinew-strung; his knuckles are white and hard about the barrel of the wand. Everything has been leading up to this moment. The maze is a hunt and the hunt is a maze, but only the hunt can provide them with a true, single solution.
As prey, it is his duty to reveal it.
Lucius sidesteps through the leaves.
9.02pm
“You don’t see where the danger is,” says Frank. “You say Azkaban like you’re doomed to end up there, and I’m telling you now, that ain’t going to happen. There ain’t no jury in hell that will convict a potions-boy. Some kid with a brand and a penchant for mixing shit up in a guy’s basement? You got to be joking. You ain’t even close to what they’re after.”
“Lucius,” says Severus, cautiously.
“No.”
“Wilkes, then. Evan killed people, too.”
“I’m your friend,” says Frank. “That’s is the only reason I’m telling you this, that’s the only reason. We been around together for a bit, we’ve had a chat or two, and we’re mates, or as near to mates as you can be in the midst of a civil war. Right?”
“Right,” says Severus.
“You shouldn’t be scared of the Ministry,” says Frank. “The only danger you got right now is from inside.”
Severus laughs, chokes a little, and sets aside his glass. “Don’t be a prat,” he begins to say, but mid-way through his face contorts; and he concedes the point by vomiting into the grass at Frank’s feet.
9.03pm
( Air.. air.. )
He has run to the base of the folliot. Sounds of the approaching hunter filter through the vines: branches clumsily broken, the rough tread of boots, the breathy, short-winded pants of someone unused to covering such distance at speed. Lucius does not wait idly for him to make an appearance. The sparking flare of his wand sketches another form of maze across the stagnant air, lines it with charms, with hexes, with every combative spell he can dream the name of. Only when his memory and his body are exhausted does he take pause.
( Air.. air.. )
Although his muscles are wasted from his exertions, adrenaline continues to course freely through Lucius’ veins. He relaxes, discovering as he does so that he is absurdly happy. He has bettered the maze and the hunt, and the spell that flutters to his lips is the killing curse. There is nothing so satisfying as this, there is nothing so clensing as this meld of fear and power. In this state, he thinks, we will win the war.
In the far distance a dog howls werefully at the moon and he experiences a weakness at the back of his knees which feels like eternity must.
The hunter runs on.
( Air.. air.. )
If it is Wilkes who has been chasing him, they will fight.
If it is the boy, they will fuck.
Lucius is prepared for either eventuality, and excited by the prospect of both.
It is a great disappointment to him, then, that when the hunter peers hesitantly around the corner, his thin, pointed face belongs to a boy Lucius has never seen before in his life.
9.05pm
Frank wipes Severus’ face with a hankerchief, conscientiously pushing the slick mess of the boy’s hair down the back of his collar. “Maybe it was a bad time to discuss this now,” he admits, hoisting the boy to his feet. “You won’t even remember half of it, anyway.”
Severus hangs from Frank’s shoulder, his vision blurring into a spectrum of greens and greys.
“We’ll walk it off,” says Frank. “How about that?”
9.06pm
Absurdly, Lucius is reminded of his younger self. There is a flickering resemblence in those pale eyes, in the way the boy holds himself: ill at ease with the length and angularity of his limbs. If it were not for the squared shape of the head and the breadth of the shoulders, Lucius might have mistaken the boy for a phantasm, manufactured by his mind at the Voice’s request. A child-Self, he thinks. I have run almost a mile in circles from a boy who is my younger double -- which may or may not be akin to escaping one’s past.
The thought comes from nowhere and means -- on secondary analysis -- absolutely nothing to him, but before he can speak a seizure quickens his heart rate, and he is forced to breathe stiffly and hoarsely as he feels the threat of water collect in his lungs.
“Lucius Malfoy. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
The boy steps forward and spreads his arms to show he carries no wand. Unconvinced, Lucius retains hold of his own.
“I want to trade with you.”
The Voice reluctantly releases its grip on his throat. Lucius manages, softly: “Speak thy terms, oh child of negligible graces.”
It’s an insult which falls on deaf ears. The boy does not move closer, but immediately his stance changes; his chest puffs proudly outward like a rooster’s. Vaguely, Lucius wonders if perhaps this was the wrong move; it’s clear the boy has not expected Lucius to grant him audience at all. But the hunt is over, has come to soggy, pathetic conclusion, and Lucius lacks the heart to play further games of cat and mouse, hound and hare.
“My name is Bart -- Bartholemew. I have information for you. I`ll tell you -- on the condition that you let me become one of you.”
“Tell me.”
“I want a promise...”
“I make no promises.”
“I shan`t say a word, then.”
“If you say so. Abientot, mon petit...”
Lucius steps purposely forward; Bartholemew deflates. “Fine,” he groans childishly. “But -- I want -- you have to understand that I believe in what you believe. My father -- he knows nothing. He hates Muggles and sneers at Mud-bloods and yet he insists on bringing the Death Eaters --”
Are his acts a matter of public knowledge, now? Must everyone presume to know his dealings? First Alan Wilkes, and now this arrogant boy, with his fair hair and his uneasy motions. It is aggravating to Lucius; it proves to him conclusively that there are more spies in the ranks of the Death Eaters that he would hitherto have liked to believe. He makes a motion of his hand, cutting the boy short. “Not so loud.”
“I want to be part of the revolt,” the boy pleads.
“This is not a revolt. This is a way of life.”
The words are Marcel’s; the inference, however, is entirely Lucius’ own.
“I --”
“Speak your piece, boy.”
“My father -- you know my father, sir. Barty Crouch. I -- don`t look at me like that, I’m not a spy. Honestly...”
Lucius says nothing.
“Once a week my father takes me to Azkaban. Maybe because he wants to teach me a lesson about what happens to people who practise Dark Magic. But I’m allowed near the cells, see; I’m allowed to see the prisoners before they’re tried.” The boy’s cheeks are high with colour. The act of recollection has infused him with a sense of purpose and self-worth. “There were two of them -- Death Eaters. They came to France looking for you. Went around asking questions -- who you were fucking, if any of the women were pregnant. I spoke to them in their cells, listened to them sleeping. They talked -- they said your name. Malfoy. They were going to kill you, I think, if they found you had children.”
( Air.. air.. )
“My father,” says Lucius quietly.
“I tried to find out who sent them, sir,” Bartholemew says. “But they wouldn’t tell me, didn’t trust me. Mentioned something about bastards and the purity of the... of the Malfoy line. I didn’t completely understand it. Only the funny thing is, sir...”
He is warming toward a punchline. Lucius waits.
“The funny thing is that they must be the only Death Eaters in the world who reckon you’re still alive, sir,” Bartholemew confides. “Everyone else says you’re dead. They say Marcel killed you a year ago for attempting to take over the Malfoy estate.”
( Air.. air.. )
But here in the thick of it there is no air, the edges of the maze are fraying, and the Voice is whispering, in its smooth voice, Your move now.
Lucius comes unstuck, not for the first time. He opens his mouth to speak but inhales only water, the wealth of a flood pooling in his lungs.
V - Journal
29th June 1980
I am feeling better now. Understand that I have had a grave shock to my system and as a result have been convalescing in the apartment with Narcissa as my loyal nurse and the boy my frustrating although well meaning pet. The turn I took at the Crouchs’ party was most unfortunate and embarrassed me to the very root of my being. According to the boy I lay prone in the grass for some time until he came (with Bartholemew Jr.) to carry me home. The sight I must have made borne in the arms of that hook-nosed adolescent does not bear thinking about.
This house is warmer than it once was. Or perhaps I should say fuller for there are many bodies here now albiet infrequent in their passing. We have always been subject to the visits of Frank Longbottom but in addition to his bumbling presence there is now Bartholemew Jr (I refer to him as Junior which never ceases to frustrate him) and the Lestranges. Junior has visited us often since my turn and he is quite the enthusiastic type which jarrs somewhat on my nerves. I tolerate him because I have little other choice available to me. He is a prime source of information on the Ministry’s affairs and I suppose I should not look such a gift horse in the mouth. He and the boy have struck up a vague friendship or at least a tolerance of each other and talk as schoolfriends do. Although I would not admit it aloud I suffer hideously from jealousy. I dislike the boy spending time with others who are unworthy of his time (i.e. everyone save myself).
The Lestranges have fled from France in leiu of attacks and assassinations of key members of the Cause. They despair of ever returning and while I do not wish to seem a pessimist I must concur in this instance. It is dangerous for those of our kind and it would be a folly to walk blindly toward a certain death. I hope that Marcel shall see fit to guide his followers in France at a later date once we have won our battles here in England.
I am not particularly friendly with Italo but Francoise has spent many days here. I appreciate her beauty more in England than I ever did in France: here she is a foreign thing and exotic and consequently a source of great temptation to me. One day as she and Narcissa sat in the living room on the sofa I felt compelled to ask them if they might kiss before me. Francoise smiled and Narcissa flushed. They confered together out of range of my hearing and then returned to the room. Speechless they pressed against each other in a manner that filled me with such burgeoning lust that for a moment I imagined that nothing existed beyond their interwoven shadows. It is the contrast of them that aches me: Narcissa is slim and fair where Francoise is voluptuous and dark and together they are everything I might ever wish to discover in womankind.
Hand in hand in hand I led them to the bedroom and we made love there as the sun streamed through the curtains and stained us gold. I swear that there has never been a prettier picture than that of Francoise’s dark eyes gazing wantonly toward me even as her tongue delved between Narcissa’s slim thighs. The shudders of my wife in the throes of passion: they were fantastic and I could not tear my eyes from her. It occured to me at this moment that I did not know her quite as well as I liked to imagine. There is a devilment in her which I think I have passed over in my hunger for the boy and it is a devilment I shall not wittingly pass over again.
When it came to me that I would prefer to play the voyeur in this situation I slipped from the bed and seated myself on the beside table. There I remained in silence as my wife and Francoise pleasured each other. Their cries to my ears made a marvellous harmony; their limbs strived in tandem. At the pinacle of their lovemaking they lay atop each other with thighs entwined and moved as men and women do.
I was spell bound. Their ankles and their lips and their hair and their breasts! How could I be anything but in love! With her head thrown back and her chin uplifted I could mistake Narcissa for some glorious angel and Francoise her demonic advocate. Francoise’s red mouth blurred over Narcissa’s nipples and my own mouth shaped an O as if in mimick. And their fingers! An unholy thing the way Francoise’s index slid inside Narcissa, disappearing to the hilt only to be withdrawn and suckled upon. I tell you this now: I could not breathe for fear of breaking the magic that had so joined them.
After they fell apart I made love to both of them in turn. Then they lay upon each other and I lay atop them and lost in a haze of lust I was unsure which woman I penetrated and if it was the same woman I had penetrated in the beginning. My fanciful mind imagined that each thrust brought me to a different lover: that I would fuck Narcissa’s cunt and then fuck Francoise’s cunt and then fuck Narcissa’s cunt until both became one with my cock serving as conduit of this incredible and impossible merger. Whatever the truth of the matter we all came to our weeping zeniths within seconds of each other. Then I went away awhile to smoke and ponder upon my life while the women returned to what fantasies they dared.
I do like Francoise and I especially like her when she is having sex with my wife.
Now that I have covered these small episodes of debauch I will turn to matters of more importance. Foremost in my mind is the necessity I have to confront my father. After hearing Junior elaborate on his Death Eater revelations I can assume only that Jean-Luc has conspired to murder me. He has done so in secret evidently for Marcel would certainly have informed me if he had any inkling of those conspiracies which lurked beneath his nose. I was never aware my father had so many close contacts within the Death Eater ranks but as the boy persists in reminding me: I learn something new every day.
In the past fortnight I have oft found myself in tears. I suffer no illusions that my relationship to Jean-Luc is idyllic yet until I heard Junior speak of it I could not truly believe he would do me such ill. I may not be his son by blood but I must be something to him surely. He cared for me in the past. There are photographs (torn, now) in the family manor which show me upon his lap. I am smiling. He is smiling although the rip in the paper leaves him lacking a shoulder and a leg. The memory of this upsets me even now as I write. I think I shall retire a while to think.
. . . .
I have returned now and my mind although fogged from liquor is more determined and set to the purpose at hand. My father desires me dead. I can accept this in theory for I am not his child and the lies that once bound me to him must ache him fearfully. I will not tolerate it in practice however. I shall not slit my throat for him. It is not in my nature to cause myself harm so that others may live in righteousness.
Four days ago I wrote to Marcel asking what I should do on this matter. He replied that I had but one option available to me. In my anguish I foolishly asked what it was.
You know, he replied.
He is right. I do know. I have always known. There are few resolutions in the history of the Malfoy family that have not come about by the shed of blood.
Here is my little secret: I have stolen something from the boy. He has set up a small laboratory in the study to play with his potions. One morning as he flew to work I crept inside and took it upon myself to liberate him of his latest brew. It is a deathly green and lies now in its stoppered vial at the back of my warderobe. I call it my ‘other secret’; the boy is my primary one.
Needless to say the boy did not miss my small act of treachery. In a cold voice he asked me if I were of a mind to poison him. The very idea of this caused me great hysteria and I laughed until my ribs hurt and he began to fuck me. The sex mollified him somewhat and dazed in the afterglow the boy elaborated in detail on the importance of Narcissa within our little household stressing of all things her skills as a cook. I find him highly amusing.
He says he will accompany me to my father’s house and that his faithless friend Junior will come too. While his talent in potion making I will not debate I do find flaw in his mathematics. He seems completely incapable of putting two and two together. Given the terrible thing that I must do I find that I am thankful for this. I would hate to lose his loyalty over a matter so trivial as my family affairs.
-L.M.
continued in Issue 5 (not yet received)
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