Frozen Fire

In this place, behind these walls, memories serve as double-bladed weapons. After the doors clang shut and the locks are snapped into place, there is nothing left to do but remember. The Dementors see to it that he keeps the fondest of his memories tucked safely in a desolate corner of his mind.

But this is one he does not dare recall. It lingers like a mirage, just beyond his fingertips.

The clouds no longer bless the earth with their offerings, but he still hears the faint drips of water from the eaves of the old house, remnants of the light sprinkle that had just passed overhead. She sleeps beside him, now, washed in the dim light of candles whose flames have nearly drowned in their wax.

Narcissa has always been a woman of passion, in spite of her gilded appearance, but throughout their marriage, he has never seen her as she has been, tonight. The enterprise that looms on tomorrow's horizon has lit something within both of them, he believes: her way of affirming her commitment to him, to the Cause, with her body as the medium, as the conduit. Come what may, her hair whispered as it slid over his chest; always, her fingertips promised, as they pressed into his shoulder.

It takes hardly a thought for his fingers to lift from the silk sheets to the silk of her arm. His skin calls to hers no matter the time, spiting whatever is supposed to monopolise his focus at any given moment.

To have such a woman by his side is a gift he has doubtless taken for granted. He attempts to close his eyes, to breathe the scent of Narcissa, to seize the slumber that seems suddenly so very elusive. As always, his skin calls to hers, and he answers the call, gathering her sleeping form to him as the night sinks into fitful rest and a full heart.

It was laughably easy, to hold his head high, to stare his accusers in the face. His eyes had burned into the assembled members of the Wizengamot, for what little good it did. His attention, otherwise, was on her. The fact that she was there, so coldly elegant in the face of those who expected a more discomposed woman, gave a warmth and energy to his chilled demeanour that he imagined none but her would notice.

It was easy to let his thoughts wander, during that trial. He had no need to pay attention, as the verdict was inevitable. When he was called to give testimony, it proved no problem to wrap himself in the coldest persona that came to mind, to sink into blankets of ice as the Interrogator lobbed question after question.

A fire built upon impotent rage is a scant source of warmth, but it suffices. As Lucius languishes in his squalid cell, his family awaits the guillotine of the Dark Lord's vengeance, and he knows that he cannot protect them. If ever he could.

His eyes turn to the small, high window that is his only source of light. Storm clouds brew overhead, and the moonlight disappears. He is so far away from that night, in which the drizzle dampened the manor grounds every bit as lightly as his fingertips had stroked his sleeping wife's arm. Memories are his prisoner's legacy: just another thing he cannot protect, now.

As it will forever, his skin calls to hers. He gathers those thoughts to himself, and thinks of better days, and the night sinks into fitful rest and an empty heart.