A/N: Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.
The gates to the family mausoleum creak open obediently under Lucius' touch. He grimaces at the grating noise, mentally making a note to send an elf down here later to oil the hinges.
He casts a warming charm on himself before stepping into the structure despite knowing how futile the endeavour is. For as long as he could remember, the mausoleum always had a draft through it that chilled to the bone regardless of how many spells are cast. It was always dark too, seeming to swallow even the brightest Lumos.
In all his years, he's only been down here three times before. The first was when he was five and curious. He had gone in to explore and somehow had been locked in. Terrified, he'd pissed himself. Apparently, he was only in there for an hour — it felt much longer.
The second was when his mother had been interred in there. He hadn't wanted to go in, but Abraxas is nothing if not insistent — the man ruled his household with an iron fist. And the last had been when Abraxas himself had succumbed to dragon pox.
It has never been Lucius' favourite place. If he could help it, he'd never step foot into the place again so long as he lived. He has buried two Malfoys there. Now he's about to bury a third.
A breeze picks up just as Lucius lights the candles lining the insides of the tomb. In a short moment, the lights are extinguished once more, wisps of smoke rising from the wicks' end. If Lucius didn't know any better, he'd say that the place was haunted or worse, that it has a mind of its own.
Abandoning the attempt at lighting up the area, Lucius silently casts a Lumos, bringing forth a dim glow on the end of his wand and ventures further into the stone chamber.
"Father," he acknowledges as he reaches a familiar sarcophagus. "Mother," he nods at the one next to it. He lingers for just a moment, gazing pensively at the two before turning abruptly on his heels and journeying on. The deeper he goes in, the brighter it becomes until he comes to a room where stood the only four candles in the entire place that would stay lit.
This area, unlike the other parts of the mausoleum, contains no sarcophagi or urns housing the ashes of the dead. Instead, it is spacious and clutter free. It is also, Lucius is pleased to note, cleaned and dusted.
Striding ahead, Lucius goes to the middle of the room where a great big slab of stone is situated. Most days, that slab would be lonely and cold, but tonight, and for the following six nights, Draco is laid out upon it. His hands are folded together on top of his chest and he looks like he could just be sleeping. Lucius can't remember the last time Draco's ever slept so peacefully — it feels like an age ago. Bending over his son, he licks his thumb and smoothes a stray hair neatly behind Draco's ear.
People have always commented on how much Draco takes after Lucius, looks-wise, and while the boy is certainly a handsome lad, Lucius knows that to be only mostly true. Draco's nose has always been Cissa's, as is those cheekbones. A perfect blend of the two — their little boy.
Still looking at his son, Lucius reaches into his robe pocket and pulls out two knuts. He leans over and places the knut pieces, one over each of Draco's eyelids. Straightening, Lucius roves his gaze over the rest of his son, his eye catching on a stray thread at the cuff of Draco's dress robes.
Lucius picks at the string, frowning deeply. This wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. He can't let him show up in rags — he'll have to order a new set of robes for the boy. There will be no expenses spared, Lucius promises quietly. There should be nothing but the finest for the Malfoys.
He should feel tired, but he isn't, really. A night keeping vigil by Draco's side is nothing, not when there're lots still to be done.
For instance, he has to check that all the mirrors in the house are properly covered. The elves should have no problem performing the simple task, but it's all the more reason to make sure that there has been no slip up.
As he paces through the house, nodding distractedly at each covered glass and tugging at a few to straighten out the creases, he mentally recounts the other things that still require his attention. When he's satisfied that the mirrors have been dealt with to his liking, Lucius makes his way to his study and begins on the other pressing duties.
Half the afternoon is gone when Lucius finally looks up from sorting out the details for Draco's wake. The measurements for the new robes have been sent off to Twilfitt, a lovely, hand carved sarcophagus should be in the process of being made and the elves have been made aware to reserve all the white lilies in the garden for the occasion.
Lucius smiles softly, pleased to have gotten a decent amount of work done. He stretches in place, finally noticing the sandwich that has been placed on his desk. He hadn't even realised he'd missed lunch. Dragging the plate to himself, he picks up the food and bites into it.
Lucius grimaces as he chews the bite slowly. The sandwich is dry and tasteless, like chewing on parchment. It's just as well since he isn't that particularly hungry anyway. He places the rest of the sandwich down and pushes it away, already pulling the next parchment in queue closer.
A frown appears between his brows when he realises it is the guest list needing to be compiled. He barely recognises half of the people in their supposed social circle and knows their names even less. Lucius has always made it his business to know those who matter but anyone else he's usually dismissed within ten seconds of being introduced to them — it was always Narcissa's role to remind him who it was they were exchanging small talk with.
Not too keen on the prospect of seeking his wife out at the moment, Lucius tries to fill in the list from memory, taking great care to make sure he's spelled their names right. There are not much worse social faux pas than getting the names of your guest wrong.
After a good fifteen minutes, ten measly names are all Lucius manages to get down. At this rate, they'd be lucky he's even remembered their name enough to misspell it.
He sighs, glaring balefully at the mockingly short list. This simply wouldn't do.
Lucius sighs again — there's no two ways about it. He pushes out of his seat, taking his time fussing about with rearranging the things on his desk before finally leaving the sanctuary of his study to find Narcissa.
Patience has never been Lucius' strong point. After searching through the entire west wing for his elusive wife and finding not a hair of the infuriating woman, he's almost at the end of his tether.
Now he stalks through the east wing, marching angrily through the hallways while taking a quick scan of each passing room.
He is about to walk past one of the many bedrooms in this Merlin forsaken Manor when something stops him in his steps. Lucius turns stiffly to the door on his right. It is slightly ajar, just wide enough for him to see what's going on without having to stick his head in to peer behind the door.
One of the elves — Pinky? Twinky? Blinky? — is wringing a cloth out into a water-filled basin perched on a bedside table and lying on the bed itself is Draco, half-dressed and motionless. He notices, too late, that this room is — was — Draco's bedroom.
Lucius stares and stares at the fine criss-crossings all over Draco's pale torso, hidden always — unknown — under clothes. He stares as the elf delicately wipes the cloth down his son's chest, then down the arms, going between each finger meticulously as it cleans his son. He stares at his son, lying in his bed, on top of his blue sheets, as an elf washes him, like he's just passed out from a night of heavy drinking and everything's fine.
Lucius is hitting the elf, its frightened squeaks filling the air, before he registers what he's doing.
Blood seeps from the elf's — Jinky's? Rinky's? — nose where he's broken it and he stares at the purple spreading steadily on its cheeks and eye. The wretched thing is cowering in front of him, utter fear in its eyes and Lucius wants to give in to his baser urges, wants to beat it bloody till it's nothing left but blood and flesh and bones, a former husk of this living thing.
Slowly, he lowers his right fist and the left, which is holding the elf up by the scruff of his neck — he doesn't know when that happened — he lets go. The elf crumples into a snivelling, twitching heap at his feet and Lucius turns away from the sight in disgust.
"Why is he here?!" Lucius demands.
"Answer me!" Lucius screams, kicking the fallen creature when it fails to deliver an answer quick enough.
"Th-The- The Mistress," it stammers. "The Mistress asks... She... asks Binky t-to bring... bring... the Young Master h-here."
"Narcissa!" Lucius roars. "Where is she?!"
"M-Mis- Mistress is in the garden, M-Master," Binky says, clutching its ears and curling up into a ball on the floor.
Without another glance at the bed or at the elf, Lucius rushes out, the guest list the last thing on his mind, intent on confronting his wife.
True to the elf's word, he does find Narcissa in the garden. She is crouched over her precious rose bushes, weeding and tending to them with great care. Lucius storms across the path to her, towering over her crouched form.
Narcissa continues on with her work like he isn't there blocking her sun.
"What is the meaning of this?" Lucius says, voice pitched low and dangerous. Anyone else would have started bending over backwards to accommodate him, to try and not incur his wrath. Narcissa just says calmly, "I'm afraid I don't follow, husband."
"Don't be obtuse, Cissa," Lucius sneers. "It doesn't become you."
"Now we know where Draco gets it from," Narcissa comments, gazing coolly at the ugly expression on Lucius' face. Lucius closes his eyes, raising a shaky hand to his face and inhales deeply. When he opens his eyes again, Narcissa still hasn't abated her unflinching stare and Lucius averts his sight elsewhere.
"You can't do this," Lucius says softly. "He doesn't belong there. Not anymore."
He hears her stab the trowel she's been handling into the soil viciously several times.
"I am not leaving him in that place, Lucius," she says between gritted teeth. "He deserves better."
"What are you going to do if he starts rotting in his room, Cissa?" Lucius reasons gently.
"That will never happen," she says with such conviction that Lucius snaps his head back to her, worry and just the slightest bit of wariness creeping into his eyes as he looks at her. "I've placed a stasis charm on him. He'll remain like that forever. Perfect."
"What are you doing, Cissa?" Lucius asks shakily. "You can't- " Lucius cuts himself off, trying to think of the right words but finding that there simply is none.
"You can't just take him out of there, Cissa," Lucius reasons again. "There are traditions to uphold." At the mention of traditions, her eyes flash, turning dark in a millisecond and Lucius takes an involuntary step backwards.
"Fuck. Your. Traditions," she says, painstakingly enunciating every syllable. "This is our son, not some random stranger. Or do you even care that our son is gone?"
"Cissa," he says lowly, a hint of a warning in his tone. She blinks up at him, unfazed.
"I will not be intimidated," she sneers and Lucius can't help but think that she is wrong, that Draco got it from her. The boy's temperament has always been Narcissa's, only Narcissa's. "Not by the likes of you."
"Don't do this, Cissa," Lucius says, pleads.
"What right do you have to demand this of me now?!" she's yelling now and he can do nothing to stop her warpath. "To demand anything of me?!"
"You stood aside and let this happen!" she screams, yanking up parts of the bushes, whatever she could reach, by the roots. Dirt flies up everywhere and Lucius steps further back to avoid the splatter.
"He could have been saved! He could have lived!" she howls, the cry wounded and lanced with grief. "But you! You're making me bury him!"
"You!" she screams, picking up a rock and hurls it at him. If he hadn't dodged out of the way in time, it would have hit him in the head. "You who killed our boy!"
"You killed him!" she screams into her destroyed plants, fingers searching desperately for more to obliterate.
"You killed him!" Another rock hurtles in his direction as he beats a hasty retreat into the safety of the Manor.
"You killed our son!" he last hears before he runs away from her though those words still ring in his ears long after he's left her behind.
A/N: Fair warning, I may not be able to post up chapters next week. My free time has mostly been taken up by work and if not that, then assignments demands my attention.
That being said, review. Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten any author's day.