Disclaimer: HP isn't mine.
Summary: AU; Lucius is expected to be a father, any moment now. Until said moment is born, he has unfinished business with his sister-in-law.
Warning(s): Infidelity; cites domestic violence, miscarriages, and stillbirths.
~Canvas of Revival~
"…You cry still; tears all in the pillowcase;
Big girls all get a little taste;
Pushing me away, so I give her space;
Dealing with a heart that I didn't break..."
Drake & Rihanna, "Take Care"
November 1977
A symphony of sniffles, coughs, and whimpers of anguish dance around the master bedroom.
The blonde rubs the bridge of his nose, sweat coating his fingertip, candlelight alerting him, once again, of the golden band decorating his left ring finger.
He senses the brunette as she shifts, sighing as she turns her back to him, body shaking with an amalgam of fear, regret, and of course, the aftershock of incredulity.
Yet another owl flutters in vain outside his window. The creature may remain there all night, if it so desires. This owl, belonging to a different owner, surely bears the same message.
Lucius, the last one had read, penned as Bellatrix no doubt clutched a quill crooked and deformed by her ire, I endorse murder. When provoked, the act cannot be faulted. It should, then, come as no surprise to you what I expect. But, as I do not claim conceit enough to overestimate your intelligence, I'll make my sentiments to you quite explicit. Go to St. Mungo's and stand by my sister, as a proper husband would. Dispatch my other, you worthless, yellow-bellied sissy, to Paris immediately, and don't tarry. I've been dying to use Fiendyre. I do not wish to emotionally injure Narcissa by reducing a sister, a husband, and a home to ashes…but I shall, should you prove foolish and not heed my words.
But Lucius cannot bring himself to go to the hospital, regardless of how many letters Bellatrix and the Healers decide to send. He cannot concern himself with whether Narcissa has realized that no, he is not assisting the Minister. The notion of leaving such an iridescent soul, only to gaze upon a being whose significance is it's only worth, is sacrilege. Lucius's bed is warm for once and he is not keen to rise.
He now ascertains that Bellatrix is a huge part of the problem. Dispatch my other, she wrote. It is disgusting, the way Bellatrix thinks and speaks of Andromeda. Andromeda is not a parcel; she is not an owl; she is not property. And yet, the way she, Narcissa, and the other pureblood women so often cluster together in the French revelry, excluding her…
Lucius watched them from afar, mentally slashing the throats of each and every bitch—his wife included—who considers herself the better of a woman she could never aspire, in any aspect, to be the equal of.
"Aren't you due to leave, Lucius?" Andromeda asks, fragmenting the numb, deafening silence. Her voice is quiet, small—inflicted with splintering of emotions she should never bear.
"No," he says, not a full second after the question is posed. "I've held many a stillborn, Andromeda. I'm tired." Some may consider him cold, cruel, and indifferent, but Lucius Malfoy is a pragmatist. Life—and history—decrees that tonight will not differ from the preceding. No, he will not be on the receiving end of yet another Healer's pitiable stare as she relays yet another dreadful report. He does not possess the willpower to feign continue devotion to Narcissa and he absolutely refuses to select another headstone. Remaining tight-lipped has certainly been the best solution. Lucius has ceased to be the laughingstock of pureblood society, ceased to face his parents condemnation for lacking an heir, ceased to grit his teeth in response to Bellatrix's all-too-refutable theories.
Yes, if no one knew of Narcissa's latest pregnancy, they need not expect the best.
But of course, Narcissa, being too close to Bellatrix for Lucius's liking, clearly disposed of the details. The fool! The Dark Lord would sooner be hospitable to blood-traitors than would Narcissa return with an heir.
"Where is Lestrange?" Lucius wonders aloud, his grey eyes darkening as her glimmering diamond punctured his soul. It mocked him. He cannot speak aloud the given name of the man who has stolen Andromeda.
She whimpers, as if damaged by hearing her surname. "Rabastan is…" Her voice is cracked, hovering between lightning and polyester. Andromeda sits upright and tosses hair from her shoulder. The gesture is so sensual that Lucius has half a mind to take her again, but he's slightly more interested in the scum's location. Slightly. "Bella put him in the dungeons with Greyback." She finishes dully, arms folded while brown orbs stare forward.
"The dungeons? Why?" Lucius sputters as his ears perk at the revelation. He was under the impression that the Lestrange brothers were visiting their parents as they did monthly. What on Earth had transpired to warrant an audience with that mangy beast?
He realizes, when it's too late, his inquiry has triggered something she hoped to suppress. She doesn't answer, nor does she need to. The makeup has smeared, exposing an ugly bruise beneath her eye.
Lucius wraps an encouraging arm around his sister-in-law's shoulder. Andromeda relaxes under his touch, head lying upon his shoulder as she caresses his chest. She inhales deeply. "Rabastan, he… hit me, because I had a miscarriage."
Lucius was certain one of his lungs collapsed. He grips the sheets to steady his shaking hand. Had he not, he definitely would have scratched his eyes out for being so blunt and insensitive, for being the typical man, for speaking crassly about stillbirths.
He had no idea that Andromeda…
"It's ironic, you know," she presses on, the silence unbearable, "That Cissy and I are penalized when Bella has killed so many."
His stomach lurches, though he is not taken aback—not even vaguely. Bellatrix is hardly the motherly type. Dense as Rodolphus is, though, it awes Lucius that the oaf has managed to form a spawn.
"How does she know you're with me? Bellatrix?" It cuts away at his heart, his very existence, that it is Greyback who tears Rabastan limb from limb. Just the thought of the slender man as falling to the cold stone—bleeding incessantly, crying profusely—is inexpressibly fulfilling and intoxicating.
Andromeda's laugh is reminiscent of their Hogwarts days, their Prefect rounds, her rushing to congratulate him on the Quidditch pitch. "She knows I still love you."
The Earth moves beneath Lucius's body; candles tilt forward and tumble from their respective windowsills; portraits of Malfoy ancestors speak condescendingly, but all disturbances are unaddressed. Lucius cups Andromeda's wounded face, linking their lips as she rests her head on the bed's edge in response to the mounting passion.
God, he's waited so long to hear her voice those words, to know the longing glances she'd afford him in France are not the results of his hallucinations…
The lake of fire spreads, crafting an increasingly sensual atmosphere. It is exhilarating, the danger. Neither is properly motivated to extinguish the flames and they may very well die in this.
Death while coupled. It's gratifying. Metaphorical, along with its literal status.
"Listen to me," His silky speech is supplicating, more so than requesting, "We both know only one is fated to return to this manor." He reaches down to grasp her hand. "Why not make it make it three? Stay here, Andromeda. Please. Don't leave me alone." Lucius squeezes her hand, pacifying a hiss as his finger slips over her ring.
"Lucius," Andromeda breathes abruptly, lust glowing in her eyes as she leans forward, exploring his fair mane, "You and I both know that's improper. Cissy will surely have me at wits end, and what of my husband? He certainly needs mending before Rosier's wedding."
She rises and prances over to the door. "Do something about the fire. And for heaven's sake, dry your eyes. I'm not leaving you, only your home."
Suspended in the balance, Lucius rips the goblin-made object from his digit and tosses it against the glass. Lucius sees, with great resentment, the owl has not budged. With Andromeda gone, it makes no sense to ignore the bloody thing any longer. He seizes the letter from its beak, withholds the urge to murder, and shoos it away.
I'm a failure.
The elegant script of his spouse is barely readable, parchment heavy, soiled by tears.
Later, Lucius offers the lackluster apology to the dog as a gift.
Narcissa Malfoy need not reiterate common knowledge.
She's no Andromeda Lestrange.
Fin.