Lucius walks through the manor slowly, its stone walls almost unrecognisable now. The impact of the Dark Lord's presence is tangible, floating through the air like static.
Cold, uncomfortable.
He hates it.
It's still worlds better than Azkaban. Anything was.
Winding up in prison had definitely not been Lucius' plan when he'd followed His Lordship's orders; quite the opposite, actually. He'd known the risks involved, had known how he would be treated if Azkaban was where he'd ended up. He'd even made sure to be extra careful to avoid it.
Stupid Potter, ruining perfect plans.
He can still feel the after effects of his time spent incarcerated; of the treatment he'd endured. His skin is still lined with scars and gashes and bruises from the guard's beatings, his body still unnaturally thin and gaunt from the lack of proper care. They'd delighted in harming a Malfoy, had smiled as they hit him, humiliated him; ensuring his days blurred together in a heap of agony and embarrassment.
Bastards, the lot of them. More deserving of a cell than half the people already in one.
He preferred the harsh treatment of the Dark Lord, the excruciating pain of the cruciatus curse. He was accustomed to dealing with it; had long since mastered the art of minimising the aftershocks. Azkaban was unstable, he'd never known when an attack was coming, and had never been healed afterwards.
Here, at least, he knows what to expect. Here, he has access to healing potions, to his wand. To his wife.
A sigh leaves his lips as he continues to his room. He needs a shower. Badly. His body is covered in dirt and blood, his once blond hair dusted in brown and clumped together by substances he didn't even want to think of.
Draco had had to double take to recognise him, his shock at Lucius' appearance evident by his facial expression. Narcissa hadn't been around, but he guessed her reaction would've been much the same.
His bedroom is just as he remembers it; vast and warm, filled with family heirlooms and personal belongings. The air smells of Narcissa; both her natural scent and her perfume, and Lucius inhales deeply, letting it wash over him. Comforting.
He walks straight past his closet, past the king sized bed, and right into their personal bathroom. It's a large room, filled with white marble and expensive furnishings; a beautiful, wide mirror behind a large sink, a vast bath and double shower.
He strips quickly, body aching with each movement. The Azkaban uniform is thrown to the side, ready to be taken care of by an elf later. He moves to the shower, turning the water on to near scalding, watching as steam curled up from it, rising up into the air and fogging the mirror.
He steps under the harsh spray, closing his eyes as the water runs down his tired body, washing away the remnants of his time spent incarcerated.
He barely hears the door open over the pound of the water, but the soft, hopeful Lucius? Is something he recognises instantly. Almost immediately, he turns to her, face open, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.
Narcissa stands in the doorway, obviously exhausted but as beautiful as ever. She moves towards him, tentative, as if she thought he'd disappear. It looks as if she wants to touch, to reach out, but the flow of water stops her.
"I'll be out soon," Lucius murmurs, looking away. "Give me a minute."
He makes no attempt to cover his body under her prying eyes, despite the slight embarrassment he feels. His body is definitely not what it once was; toned muscle has dissipated to skin stretched over bone, but he thinks, hopes, Narcissa doesn't mind.
"I'll prep something," she responds, eyes fixated on a large gash that runs down his left ribcage, before leaving him be.
He watches her go before cleaning himself as quickly and efficiently as possible, eager to be with her again. He'd missed her with an only slightly surprising ferocity, something dissimilar to what he'd felt the last time he'd been incarcerated.
That, he's sure, can be attributed to the Dark Lord too.
Moments later, he's stepping out of the shower. He dries himself with a fluffy towel before wrapping it around his waist and exiting the room, making his way to where Narcissa stands near the bed, hands fiddling with a vial. There's a sole pair of underwear laid out for him to wear, and he puts them on without question.
Narcissa turns to him once he's dressed, and Lucius wastes no time in leaning down and kissing her. It's soft, slow, drags on for longer than it should; longer than their usual ones last. His hand rests against her cheek, touch delicate, loving, as he breathes her in.
She falls against his body, face burying in the crook of his neck while he buries his against her forehead. His lips press to her temple, eyes fluttering shut as he whispers, "I missed you."
His voice is quiet, so, so quiet. Narcissa barely hears it, even with their proximity.
She mumbles back something of the same sentiment, and Lucius holds on a little longer before stepping back. He thinks there might be a dampness to her eyes, her cheeks, but doesn't mention it.
Narcissa picks the vial she'd been holding before back up, and Lucius notices the two others that rest atop their sheets. "Sit," she says, and Lucius complies without thought.
Predictably, she unscrews the lid and applies the potion to his skin. It's an orangey liquid, intended to help with infection. She applies it quickly, nodding to one of the other vials when he gasps at the sensation.
"Painkiller," she murmurs as he picks up the container, a crystal like blue substance simmering under the glass. "It'll make this more bearable."
He swallows it in one gulp, grimacing at the bad taste but not commenting on it. Closing his eyes, he lets Narcissa works the substance into his skin, sighing against her touch.
She works quickly, her movements practiced, and soon enough she's grabbing the third vial and unscrewing the lid. She applies it with deft fingers; the thick, white cream cool against Lucius' heated skin.
"Scaring," she says as way of explanation, and Lucius nods.
Somewhere along the way he asks about what's happened, what he's missed, and she fills him in as much as she can. She tells him of the Dark Lord's plans, of her unbreakable vow, of Draco's failure. It's one bad thing after another, and a pit of anxiety forms in Lucius' stomach; sickening. He's worried for what's to come.
He dresses once Narcissa allows him, his clothes loose around his thinned frame. He doesn't stay in them for long, only wearing the formal robe while he dines. Their home has, apparently, turned into a base of death eaters, and they loiter around the halls.
The shift of demeanour towards Lucius is palpable, the loss of respect evident.
It only makes his growing anxiety worse, and he finds himself thankful for his skill at protection spells.
They retire uncharacteristically early, but Lucius is exhausted – would rather be with his family than those situated in the dining hall. Draco had been set with another, smaller task; ordered to be watched over by Severus and Bellatrix to ensure he did it properly, so it was only Lucius and Narcissa that trudged up the stairs.
They move to their bedroom, situated in a secluded ward, quickly discarding their robes and dressing for bed. The feeling of soft pyjamas against his skin is almost foreign, and Lucius sighs softly as he slips under the bed's covers, pleased.
He sinks into the soft mattress, lying back against the pillows and letting the blankets wrap him in warmth. Narcissa settles against his side, body beautifully familiar. He'd missed this, missed his bed. Sleeping on the stone floor would've been better than the sorry excuse Azkaban had deemed a mattress.
He falls asleep almost instantly, his exhausted body giving in to unconscious easily. Narcissa isn't far behind, sleeping better now that he's back at her side.
The first few hours go by without issue, their bodies resting in sync. But later, in the dead of the night, the nightmares Lucius had experienced while incarcerated start to come back.
It happens slowly, at first; nothing but faint whispers and distant screams, blurred images of blood and bodies he can't decipher. As time passes, they get increasingly clear, forming horrific pictures in his mind.
His body thrashes in jerky, uneven movements, head moving against his pillows. He kicks off his blankets, the sudden movement intended for an unknown attacker inside his nightmare.
Even while locked in the trappings of his mind, he feels disorientated. Uncertain. Afraid.
He can't quite make out what's what, and it makes his heart beat even harder. He thinks, maybe, he sees the bodies of his family, each of them lying cold on the floor, eyes open and staring.
Dead.
He screams.
Lucius wakes with a start, bolting upright, his chest heaving with heavy pants. His eyes are glassy as he stares in front of him, unseeing.
He stays silent for a moment, swallowing down the all-consuming fear the nightmare had prompted, and focuses on fixing his breathing; somewhat, at least. It isn't until after he's calmed a bit that he notices Narcissa next to him, watching him; eyes wide and worried.
She places a hand to his shoulder, his face, and Lucius reaches a hand to cover hers, staring. It's almost as if he's confused as to why she's there.
"Sweetheart," she starts, but stops, her quiet voice fading into the background.
They stay like that for a long while, Lucius shaking off the remnants of his nightmare. Eventually, Narcissa tugs at his hand, pulling him back down to the bed. He rests against her, his face pressed to the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent and letting the sheer familiarity of it calm him.
She rocks him back to slumber, fingertips running through his hair, down his back; the same way she'd been calming him for years.
He's on the brink of sleep when he hears her talk, a whispered "you'll be fine" said against his forehead. He's long since fallen back into unconsciousness when she continues.
"We all will."