Word Count: 671
Challenge/Competition: The 'three prompts' competition
Prompts: Lucius Malfoy, front door, 'i knew you wouldn't be able to see it through'
Warnings: One explicit word (sorry!)
Disclaimer: I don't claim to own Harry Potter, it's all JKR's.
He doesn't know whether it's the allure of her seemingly unattainable nature, or if there is actually something about her. He shrugs - there's never been something about anyone. Never feeling or wanting, just a Death Eater puppet drowning in a patchwork marriage.
There are days where he just wants to stand alone and scream until his lungs burn, to kiss somebody with such ardence that his heart threatens to burst from his chest, to just be filled with a happiness that prompts smiling until his face aches. There is a liveliness that he desires to thrive inside of him, but is aware that everything inside is so long numb and frigid.
Dullness, black and white, patchwork, drowning, numbness: all aspects Lucius has come to accept are a part of him. They make up all the shattered little pieces of his soul, and that has always been it for him. This is his life, and he has to accept it. There could be worse fates, he tells himself each day (a skilled liar).
He meets her, and it's like he becomes everything he wanted to be and more. She incites an inferno in his heart, a burning in his lungs, a smile on his face. It's wrong - Merlin, it's wrong, but it feels so utterly right. But he is always two steps behind her, and she runs rings of fire around him before he can even blink. She twists him into knots, manipulating him with tears and and beauty and baffling intellect.
Her heart is just so soft, such a stark contrast to himself and to Narcissa and to all those that surround him - he is pulled towards her. Still dragging behind, he is in so deep that he can barely breathe. 'Fuck I love you,' he mumbles, heat of the moment, stopping dead in his tracks, realising. He is in Daphne's chains, Narcissa's shackles. There is no fathomable way out of this.
And she wants him to choose. She won't take no for an answer. So it's pull on the last thread holding his marriage together or push away the one thing that makes him feel alive. He knows what he wants but it's not about that - not for a Malfoy, not for a pureblood, it's never been about that. So many times he tells himself he will not leave his wife, he will not dishonour his family, he will not be this selfish.
But he is, he will, he must.
Never has he seen so much emotion spill out of his hardened wife. She screams, smashes plates, cries tears of frustration, and it is so utterly different to the dignified and quiet Narcissa that he has become so accustomed to. He remains so silent - indifference. When she calms, he offers her so many apologies, lies that slide off of his tongue far too easily. The front door is slammed behind him, and he thinks that he is really free. The shackles loosen, the air fills his lungs, the weight on his shoulders lifts a fraction.
The dark cloud over his head does not move.
He takes ten dizzying steps and then can take no more, as the reality of the situation seeps into his bones. He apparates to Daphne, dread sitting in his stomach like lead. Tears track his face for the first time in decades. To Daphne, he really is sorry. The dishonor is too much. The fear is too much. The thoughts of Draco are too much. Everything is absolutely overwhelming, and he thinks he might explode from the tension that claws at his insides. Maybe it was better to be dead inside, he decides.
'I knew you wouldn't be able to see it through,' she says, monotone, and she walks him to the door. She does not look at him, she does not say anything else. He leaves. He shatters. He once again accepts that this is his life. He is a puppet. He is a Malfoy. He will always be shackled.