(A/N) I try not to question inspiration. I've never really been able to get into Lucius's head before. Go figure. Sort of a companion piece to No One Mourns the Wicked, or at least at the same time. Not mine, obviously.
She's still lovely. I'm infirm, nearly broken, but it would kill me to show it. We were brought up in a world that demanded perfection and dispassion and a twist of loyalties that culminate in the loyalty one's blood, and she and I were perfect and dispassionate and loyal. We were on the top of the our world, but then the world changed under us, and we can't know where we stand. So we hold to our old loyalties, clinging to the perfection we once had. Here, I'd nearly forgotten that perfection. I'm frightened that I've forgotten how lovely she is, like an angel.
No, not an angel, not so sickeningly sweet and not remotely stupid. She's like nothing else in the world and it shames me that I've forced her into this situation. She looks down at me, distant and perfect, emotionless when I know she must hurt. But appearances are appearances, and I have given Fudge the worst glare I can manage for bringing her here. Seeing her again is like a glimpse of heaven, but she shouldn't be here, having her soul seeped of happiness.
"Leave us." Her voice. I'd forgotten how beautiful it was, trapped in memories of failure. And the way she jerks her chin a little higher to make up for her lack of height, and the way dirt never seems to stain her pristine, perfect robes. Fudge glances at me, and I don't speak, don't move. I daren't, because it's taking all my willpower to stand here, matching her impassiveness. I will not have her see me broken, or see how close I was to slitting my throat with the razor they gave me, so that I might be presentable to her.
They'd nearly made me forget her, here in this ninth, frozen circle of Hell. It's Heaven to see her again, Hell to know that a few moments I'll be left with only the memory of the Cruciatus Curse. Fudge is gone, and I lean back against the wall, lacking the strength to hold myself upright. My eyes devour her, perfect and unchangeable.
It's barely a breath of air, and my voice is ragged from disuse. I don't even know if she hears it. "My pretty one…"