A / N : The Author ducks as all her readers see the words 'Lucius POV' and hurl sharp objects in her general direction. Sorry! I'm not trying to drag out the suspense and make my readers suffer, I swear. But in practical terms, it made more sense to write the Lucius POV first and the Bella POV following. Anyway, to make up for it, I present a peace offering – a nineteen year old by the name of Rodolphus Lestrange. Because who hasn't been wondering about Rodolphus?
Chapter title is from the Sum 41 song. Let me know if you liked the chapter, as always. (And I'm sure Rodolphus would like to know if you liked him too . . .)
Pain For Pleasure
"Malfoy! Malfoy!"
Lucius groaned. His head hurt. And someone was laughing at him. He opened his eyes, an act that required a surprising amount of effort, and found himself lying on the carpet.
"What the . . .?"
Familiar laughter started up again.
"My thoughts exactly," nineteen year old Rodolphus Lestrange said with a twisted smile, watching him get to his feet. "How's your head?"
There was a throbbing lump on the back of his head, and his hair was matted with blood. "Fantastic," he said sourly. "Ow."
Rodolphus raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to assume you're thanking me for the healing spell in the privacy of your own head."
"What?" Lucius frowned. "You healed me?" It sure as hell didn't feel like it.
Rodolphus sniggered. "I never said healing spells were my speciality. That's Rabastan. But yeah, I healed you. Of course, it took me a while to figure out what was wrong with you. So I let you stumble around for a bit, after you fell out of the fireplace. I thought you were drunk. Then I realized how unlikely that was, unless they're putting something new in the pumpkin juice up at that school." He laughed again, but this time Lucius couldn't really say he was surprised. Slytherins tended to glory in each other's misery, though Rodolphus was, it had to be said, usually kinder than most. "So, onto the big question – who decided to use your head as a Quaffle?"
Lucius winced as a series of entirely unwelcome memories returned in a rush. "Bellatrix Black."
Rodolphus stared. "Bellatrix?" he repeated. "That crazy little fifth-year?"
Lucius rolled his eyes. "Lestrange, try and remember two years have passed since you left school. She's obviously no longer a fifth-year."
"Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry."
Lucius stared. Perhaps he was still concussed. Rodolphus was wearing a rather perplexing expression of embarrassment. Catching the querying look Lucius sent his way, he sighed.
"She was always a bit . . ." he trailed off. Apparently he couldn't find an appropriate adjective.
"Mmn. Well, the good news is, she's as-" here Lucius waved his arm in an expansive gesture intended to imply 'take your pick' - "as ever. And of course, she's decided her life's ambition is to serve the Dark Lord. Which I, apparently, am going to make happen for her. Or suffer social ruin. And did I mention that in her spare time, she likes to cause me bodily harm?" He rolled his eyes. "She's a lovely girl, really. Just wait until you get to know her."
Rodolphus was staring at him. "Sorry," he said at last. "You sort of lost me at 'her life's ambition is to serve the Dark Lord' . . ."
Lucius groaned. His skull was starting to ache again. Lestrange hadn't been joking, apparently. Healing charms really weren't his speciality. "I wouldn't worry about it," he muttered. "That part seems to lose everyone. Me, Rosier, Dolohov . . . from what I hear, even our master regards her as some sort of amusing novelty. Anyway, I believe this is off the point."
"Off the point?" Rodolphus laughed. "If the point was the insanity of Bellatrix Black, I've got news for you. We're still on the point."
Lucius scowled. "No," he said irritably, "that was an unwelcome distraction. The point was the question I intended to ask, which had something to do with you impersonating my father in a letter." Experience had taught him that letters alleging his father's sudden ill-health were usually, in reality, from another Death Eater.
"Oh, that. Right. Well," Rodolphus suddenly smirked - "tell me, do you remember Gideon and Fabian Prewett? You must do, Fabian was in my year – they were the golden boys of Gryffindor, top of every class, stars of the Quidditch team, the boys every girl wanted to marry . . . . you know the type, even if you don't know them."
"No," Lucius said slowly, "I remember. I also remember that they happen to be pureblood . . ." He left the unspoken question hanging in the air.
Rodolphus' grin widened. "Don't you just love blood traitors?" he quipped.
"Ah. I see."
"Exactly. So, if you've shaken off the concussion . . . ."
Lucius nodded. Suddenly, he felt very awake. "I'm ready."
"Good. In that case, come with me."
They left the house, though Lucius felt a little unsteady on his feet as the clear night air hit him in the face. Lestrange gripped him by the arm, laughing again, and pulled him into thin air. They reappeared on a country lane, at the end of which was a single small cottage. The air here was sweet, and lingering traces of moisture laced every breath they took. It had just stopped raining.
Lucius frowned at the house. The curtains were open, and both the Prewett brothers were in their sitting-room. The younger one, Fabian, was apparently trying his best to irritate his brother, whose nose was buried in a book.
"They're training to be Aurors," Rodolphus said contemptuously. "And yet they have no protection around their house. How thick can you get?"
Lucius shrugged. "They must think they're safe, as purebloods . . ."
"Well they aren't." Rodolphus was scowling again.
"What did they do?" Lucius hadn't thought to ask, before.
Rodolphus' scowl deepened. "Apparently, they – and Dumbledore – are actually thinking of fighting us. Can you believe it? I mean, why? They're purebloods, and they want to throw all that away to fight for Mudbloods and Muggles and filth. And they actually want to fight the Dark Lord! You don't just fight the Dark Lord, it's insane! I mean, it's not as if you could ever win, so why even try?" He broke off, breathing heavily.
Lucius pulled out his wand, fingering the handle. "I can't pretend I don't agree," he murmered, watching Gideon Prewett snap at his brother, beginning an argument.
"Yeah . . . ." Rodolphus pulled out his own wand, now wearing a gleeful expression. "Well, the Dark Lord wants us to give them a warning. A little taster . . . of what will happen if they don't start behaving in a manner more befitting to their blood status."
Lucius nodded and pulled his mask over his eyes, following Rodolphus silently over the threshold. The Prewett brothers, utterly absorbed in their petty argument, didn't realize they had company until it was too late.
"Expelliarmus!"
Lucius disarmed Fabian in an instant, leaving Rodolphus to deflect Gideon's lightening-quick stunning spell. Lestrange's jet of violet light hit the bell clock on the mantlepiece behind Gideon's head, shattering the glass. Lestrange himself scarcely ducked in time. Gideon's spell passed perilously close to him, ruffling his hair. He set his teeth in a snarl, and began to duel. Brilliant flares of light lit the room, and before long the two opponents were so involved in their duel that neither of them noticed when a stray spell almost hit Fabian in the mouth. Wandless and utterly defenseless, the young man rolled out of the way, only to find himself the recipient of a sudden kick from Lucius.
Ducking as a curse flew past his own head, Lucius hauled his wandless adversary out of the way and dragged him outside. "Crucio!"
Fabian screamed, writhing in agony as his tormentor repeated the incantation. "Crucio! Crucio!"
The torture spell came easily to Lucius. He didn't enjoy it, but he felt curiously detached while casting it. He always had. As long he felt there was a reason for it, he could continue to cast it, for as long as his master deemed necessary.
Eventually, when Fabian's eyes had closed and his body had gone limp, Lucius lifted the curse, and cast his gaze back towards the house, frowning. Rodolphus still hadn't emerged, and nor had the other Prewett brother. Which might not bode well.
Checking that Fabian's wand was still securely in his own pocket, and that Prewett really was unconscious, Lucius went back inside. It didn't take him long to find Lestrange. Rodolphus had overcome his oppponent and was now torturing him with relish. As he drew closer, Lucius realized that the bloody mass upon the floor was no longer conscious. Gideon's blank features did not so much as flicker as the red light of the Cruciatus Curse lashed his body.
"Lestrange!"
Rodolphus gave no indication he was even aware of Lucius calling his name.
"Expelliarmus!"
Rodolphus wheeled round as his wand flew from his hand. Lucius caught it neatly. They stared at each other for a moment, then Lucius tossed it back to him. "A warning," he said softly. "Not an execution."
Rodolphus scowled, and for a moment he looked as if he might actually curse Lucius. Then he shrugged. "Whatever you say," he replied in a tone of unconvincing indifference. He picked Gideon Prewett up by the neck of his robes and dragged him outside, dumping him on the ground beside his brother before he turned his wand to the house.
"Incendio!"
Orange flames leapt from his wand and poured into the empty doorway, rushing through the corridor and devouring the rooms within the house. Flames began to beat aginst the windows, and a searing heat touched Lucius' face as he raised his own wand and shouted "Morsmordre!" The Dark Mark burst forth, a vivid green beacon to blaze against the sky.
He and Lestrange walked away, following the lane uphill. Eventually they stopped and turned to watch the house burn behind them. Lucius leant against a fence, watching the flames swallow everything. The roof caved in with a crash, and the fire soared towards the sky, climbing higher and higher, almost as high as the Mark. After a moment Rodolphus leant his weight against the fence as well, digging in his pocket for a flask. He took a drag and passed it to Lucius, who wondered if this was Lestrange's version of an apology. As Rodolphus lit a cigarette, he was proved right.
"You think I went too far." It wasn't a question. It was more of a statement.
Lucius shrugged. He wasn't about to deny it.
Rodolphus swallowed. His eyes were oddly blank, as though he couldn't see the flickering firelight reflected in them. Ash fell from his cigarette onto the grass by his feet, but it took him a moment to stamp out the smouldering beginnings of another fire. He stared, unseeing, first at his shoes and then at the burning building below them. When he next spoke, he sounded calmer, if a little hoarse.
"It's just . . . . sometimes I get so angry. I don't even know why." He kicked the fence, reflecting. "I thought it would help," he frowned. "Doing what Rabastan does, fighting for a cause. I thought it might go away, if I felt part of something. All that anger. But it didn't. Not really. I mean, most of the time, I'm fine, but then some small, stupid thing gets under my skin and suddenly it's all I can feel. Anger. You know?"
Lucius considered it. "I'm not sure."
Rodolphus blinked, seeming to come back into focus. "What, you mean you never feel angry?"
Lucius shrugged. "Not really, no. Sometimes I feel annoyed. I tell myself it's anger, but who really knows? It could just be irritation." He laughed. That sounded ridiculous. But the more he thought about it, the more evident the truth of it became. The strongest emotion he ever really felt was annoyance. It sounded oddly pathetic, put like that, and he was suddenly reminded of the reason he never gave his emotions much consideration. "Most of the time," he admitted, "I don't feel anything."
Rodolphus stared. "Nothing?" he repeated incredulously. "Lucky you."
Lucius frowned. "Lucky? Would you call it that? I suppose it is . . . ." He took another gulp from the flask still in his hand, grimacing as the contents burned the back of his throat, and stared at the knuckles of his left hand, gripping the fence. They seemed to shine ghostly white in the gloom. He laughed softly. "You joined to feel part of something? I joined to feel anything at all."
There was silence for a beat.
"Did it work?"
"Not really."
Rodolphus took the flask back. "You know," he laughed, "we haven't had nearly enough alcohol to excuse this kind of talk. It's bloody depressing."
Lucius groaned. "It's probably the concussion talking."
"Then what's my excuse?" Rodolphus grinned.
Lucius shrugged. "I have no idea. But I ought to leave. I have less than a month until my NEWTs, and I've riled far too many teachers already. I'd prefer not to earn myself any more detentions if I can help it."
"Oh right." Rodolphus tucked the flask under his cloak again and tossed his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot. He glanced at the burning house, and the Mark hovering above it, and smiled. "See you." He disapparated with a 'pop'.
Lucius watched as Aurors began to appear and then he left himself. He walked through the deserted village of Hogsmeade, turning the evening's events over in his mind. He was still lost in thought when Filch made his way down to the Hogwarts gate and let him in, grumbling about how previous, non-Slytherin Head Boys had never abused their power so frequently. "Ought to leave you out there till morning, I ought . . ." he muttered, turning away with a scowl. Lucius watched him go and then wandered through the dark corridors, heading for the dungeons. It was as he turned a corner that he became aware of something. He was no longer alone. He could see light flickering against the walls - someone else's Lumos. He frowned. Apparently, he wasn't the only one wandering the corridors at night. There was, however, a difference. He was Head Boy. He had the right.
He stopped and quenched the light of his wand without warning, stepping out in front of the other person. There was a yelp, and he heard someone fall down. A surprisingly small someone. Summoning the fallen wand, which was still giving off a faint beam of light, he trained it on the ground, trying to get a better look at the little girl.
It was Bellatrix's sister.
They stared at each other in silence, both too shocked to speak. Lucius, because he couldn't for the life of him imagine what Bellatrix's sister (who according to her was much too quiet to break any rule) was doing roaming the corridors at night. Narcissa, however, was staring at him with an entirely different expression. There was a little bit of shame in it, at being caught, but mostly she looked . . . . horrified. Lucius frowned down at himself, and then he cursed. His cloak had come undone as he spun round, and the light of a wand worked both ways. He was covered in bloodstains, and it was much too late to hide them. It had been sheer luck they had escaped Filch's notice, but apparently Lucius' luck for the evening had run out.
When cornered, always try to gain the upper hand. Lucius pulled his cloak around him again and illuminated his own wand, throwing Narcissa's features into sharp relief.
"Get up," he said stiffly.
She scrambled to her feet and swallowed nervously. Her face was an unusual shade of pink, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Her chest rose and fell, as though she was out of breath. She was frightened, he realized with a jolt. Wonderful. He had acquired the ability to scare a little girl witless. He sighed.
"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to soften his voice a little. It didn't seem to have worked. She was still looking at him as though he might attack her at any moment.
"I – I was – running," she stammered.
Lucius raised an eyebrow. "You honestly expect me to believe that?" he asked incredulously.
Narcissa blushed. "It's true," she mumbled.
He frowned. "Running from what, exactly?"
She looked away from him, staring at the shadows on the wall instead. "Everything," she said softly. She laughed, just once. A miserable sound. "Then I realized I had nowhere to run to. So I just ran."
"That's ridiculous."
"I know." For a moment, she looked unhappier than ever. Then she frowned. "What were you doing?"
"I don't think that's any of your business," Lucius said shortly.
"You're covered in blood. And you smell like fire. And alcohol."
Lucius scowled, inwardly cursing the Black family. Why were they all so irritatingly observant? Why couldn't they be as airheaded as every other girl of his acquaintance?
"I don't think that's any of your business," he repeated, raising his wand.
"No, don't!" The little girl hugged herself, her eyes widening. "Please don't wipe my memory! Please!"
He hesitated. It was hard not to feel something of a monster, faced with such obvious terror. "Why not?" he demanded, hoping that his weakening resolve didn't show in his voice.
"B - because," she stuttered. "I can keep a secret."
"Is that so?"
Her chin came up, and she looked him in the eye again. There was a flash of defiance in her eyes. "If you ask me to," she said, "I'll keep anything secret for you. But you have to ask. If I promise you first, then no-one can say anything to make me tell. Because I promised you first." She held out her hand, for her wand. "Just ask," she said softly, "and I won't tell."
