Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. They belong to J.K. Rowling.
Notes: This was inspired by Milla's (drama-princess) Snape/Sinistra fic titled 'Rest With Me', which you should all read. This is also very, VERY dark and a little sick, so consider yourself warned. This is also my 100th story to be posted on fanfiction.net. Hooray!
Hopeless Power
By Bohemian Storm
As his hand struck her cold cheekbone, he realized that he had never felt so powerful. He felt completely invincible, as though hitting his wife with all his strength had empowered him like nothing ever before. The laceration above her eyebrow oozed thick blood and he felt as though that blood was his life force. That blood made him stronger. It made him want to hit her again, to make her cry and ask him to stop. He felt like a God, and for a moment, he thought he knew what his own Dark Lord must feel like when he kills.
And almost immediately following the elating high came a crushing guilt. He was a coward following orders and nothing more. His power hadn't been earned, it had been handed to him and with it he was told to kill the life that grew within his wife's belly. He was twenty three years old and his wife was pregnant with their second child. She was pregnant with a baby that would eventually grow into a tiny girl and become his daughter.
A daughter would bring him nothing. A daughter was useless. He needed an heir; the Dark Lord had explained everything so simply to him. That was why he had married Narcissa Black, that was why he slept with her every single night and possibly once or twice throughout the day. That was why he was now beating the life out of her with his hands, trying to stop the growing baby inside of her from ever living.
He needed her to have a boy. Voldemort needed her to have a boy. If Narcissa could bear him an acceptable heir they would have secured their position in Voldemort's ranks with their son. Narcissa had already been pregnant once before and it had been a girl that time as well. Lucius didn't know how Voldemort had been so certain, but they had come to him, Narcissa beaming like some kind of fucking child, staring up at her mother because she had finally done something right.
Her smile had been nearly heartbreaking. Perhaps if Lucius had actually loved her he would have felt some sort of pity while she stared at the Dark Lord like a puppy would stare at her master. Maybe if he had cared the slightest bit about his wife he would have told her to stop sniveling and look like she belonged to the pureblood family she had married in to. He would have never told her to act like a Black, because, as far as his family was concerned, the Blacks were good for two things only. The first was for their money and the second was for their genes. Nothing else that came out of that family was worth a second glance; Sirius Black was proof of that.
So rather than saying anything, Lucius had watched her cower and simper before their Lord, then had nearly smiled when he told her that the baby would have to die. It didn't quite sink in that he would have to be the one to do the killing. Voldemort hadn't explained why, just that the baby wouldn't be allowed to live and that Lucius would have to see to it with his own hands.
He had asked politely why they couldn't find a doctor, someone who could get rid of the child in a humane and safe way, but Voldemort had merely chuckled.
Lucius had been given no answer, just the repeated instruction to go home and destroy the little girl that would soon take shape in his wife's womb. He had left Voldemort's place shakily, wondering exactly what was expected of him. In order to kill the baby he would have to inflict some sort of pain upon his wife. He would have to hurt her.
And after the first brutal slap, he had lost his inhibitions. The bitch deserved every single slap that he rained down on her face, every punch that he delivered to her chest and every kick that connected solidly with her abdomen. She had cried at first and begged for him to stop, but he hadn't heard her pleas. He was tuned out of the world, his eyes seeing only her face, her bruised arms and shoulders.
After only minutes of his brutal assault, she had begun to bleed, her eyes going wide and her shaking hand being held out for his inspection. She was bleeding from inside and the baby would die because of it. Lucius was suddenly, inexplicably pleased with the sight of her blood seeping slowly across their dark wood floor. It made him feel powerful and he knew how cowardly that sort of power was. His power stemmed from beating his wife, a woman with a small frame and a smaller sense of self. She was defined by him and he was using Voldemort's orders to shape that definition to his liking.
This was their second attempt and their second failure. Their Lord knew that the child inside of her was a girl again and he had ordered for it to be disposed of. When he had said this, Lucius had smiled coldly at his wife, letting her know what was to come when they arrived back at their mansion. She hadn't reacted, just hung her head on their way on and stared at the ground. She had become so submissive around him; he might just have to change that as well.
Now, as his open hand cracked down across her face for a second time, she whimpered and pulled herself into a tighter ball. He didn't know why she tried to escape him, it wasn't as though he was in a fit of rage or passion that would pass momentarily. He wasn't beating her to berate her or insult her; he was beating her for a simple reason. He had been ordered to do it.
His laboured breathing filled the bedroom, a sound that would have been considered normal had they been in the bed rather than on the floor. He gasped for air, then reached down and grabbed a fistful of Narcissa's hair, pulling her to her feet. She choked on her cry, then stared up at him defiantly. Oh, yes, here was the woman he had married. The snotty, audacious woman that his family had picked for him was so obviously a Black in her mannerisms and her blatant disregard for authority.
"Once a Black, always a Black," he managed to choke out, before slapping her again.
Narcissa's head rocked back, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of another muffled cry of pain. She simply remained silent, her icy eyes staring into his own with an uncomfortable sort of dead feeling. He wondered if perhaps he had gone too far for a brief moment, but the feeling was fleeting, disappearing into the mechanical movements of his limbs.
He dropped her back to the floor, her wrist twisting painfully under her as she fell. He wanted to feel that power again, to know that he held it all and that his wife held none.
"Why do you do it like this, Lucius?" she asked in a soft voice.
His hand struck cold skin again and it split over her cheek bone, blood spilling down her face.
"Because he told me to," he answered harshly.
"He told you to get rid of the child, not to beat me into oblivion," she said.
Lucius fell silent, his hand held high, wavering slightly before it came down across her face again.
"Because I want to," he hissed.
Her eyes seemed to close in defeat, but when they opened he could see the same bold challenge deep within them.
Do it, her eyes said to him. Go ahead and do it. See what it gets you. You're nothing but a coward, but if this is what you need to feel like a man, then just go ahead and fucking do it.
He hated her eyes and wondered how Voldemort might react if he chose to tear them out.
Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it.
She was taunting him, always fucking taunting him. She was so goddamn self righteous, a Black in perfection. She was just like her cousin, even when she denied it and said that he was a disgrace to the family name. She was like him in every single way, down to the last infuriatingly brazen glare. They all thought so highly of themselves and if she thought she could break him by urging him on, then he would prove her wrong.
His boot connected firmly with her stomach and the air whooshed from her lungs. Even as she struggled for breath, Lucius knew the look that would be in her eyes. A satisfied, zealous look that told him he would never be able to beat her into submission. It wasn't what he wanted, but he had been curious. How many of these merciless assaults could she take? The possibilities for her seemed completely endless.
She was bleeding again, her eyes on the blood that stained her dress and her dark robes before trickling across the floor. The puddle grew steadily and she looked up at him, satisfaction in her eyes. She thought she had won, he had given in to whatever anger she thought he held against her and had taken it out on her. She was right. He had let her eyes seduce him into fighting his own battles with her against the baby that needed to die. He had let her win.
So he helped her from the floor, bloodied and bruised, and took her lovingly into his arms. He carried her to their bathroom and filled the tub with healing water before slipping her out of her clothing and robes and into the scented bath. As the water rushed over her, she looked up at him and smiled gratefully. He found himself smiling back and smoothed a hand over the cut above her eyebrow.
They would try again that night. He would help her heal, kiss away the pain and they would go to bed that night and try for another child. Neither had any hopes in their heart about the sex of the new child, knowing that any hope was futile. They lived in a world where hope didn't matter, and the only thing they had left to cling to was their power.
End