Pity

The curl of Narcissa's lip—the flare of her nostrils—is gone when she and Andromeda emerge from the loo.

Really, Lucius ought to have expected this the second he saw the blood traitor flounce through the front door, but he didn't. He let it blindside him, just like he felt when Narcissa first kissed him—when she turned down his first proposal—when she accepted the second one—when she said she wasn't going to join him as a Death Eater. Sometimes, Lucius thinks that his wife is the headstrong one in that family, wonders why his wife has to be the Black who doesn't just rebel, doesn't even cut contact in order to do it, but demurely makes the selfish choice and then sticks around long enough to rub her disobedience into the wound.

At least Andromeda had the decency to hand over the Black name when she stuck it to the hierarchy. Narcissa, meanwhile, tarnishes everything you give her and then slits your wrists on the scrap metal.

Or slits her own wrists on it, more like. Slits her own thigh on it, if you're going to get technical. Lucius isn't stupid; he knows the look that's on her face, the one that means she's just flung free a little of the tightness in her chest, and she's not wearing it because of any talk she may have just had with her sister.

Bellatrix follows his gaze—sneers. "Look at her, prancing around like she still belongs here. Poor widdle Meda whose family never loved her and ditched her when all she wanted was Mudblood love—somebody's got a short-term memory, and it isn't us."

Bellatrix invited her, Lucius wants to retort—he knows as much because Narcissa told him so last night. What did she think would happen if Andromeda accepted, anyway?—that Andromeda would come in here with her head cowed and her tail between her legs, begging for forgiveness, for acceptance? This is her sister, Narcissa's sister, that they're talking about. Black women don't ask for permission or for forgiveness. They do what the hell they want, and they don't give a damn how it affects anybody but themselves. Bellatrix ought to know: she's the one who taught it to both her sisters.

But he doesn't; he knows better; he's not interested in serving himself up on a platter for her to ravage tonight. "Excuse me," he says slickly. "I need to speak to my wife."

His pulse quickens with expectation as he crosses the ballroom to them—brunette and blonde, blood traitor and Death Eater's wife. They seem nothing alike, and yet, in some ways, they're the exact same—because neither of them does what they're told, what's in their own bloody best interests, Andromeda who cut herself out of the family and Narcissa who just—cuts herself.

Sometimes, Lucius thinks she does it to punish them—for joining Riddle and expecting her to do the same, for making her choose between her favorite sister and the rest of her family, for having the audacity to ask her to grow up and get over it and breathe what she preaches—as if to say, look, look what they made her do to them, to herself. Look how tortured and battered and broken she is. Won't they give her pity? Won't they rescue her from herself, indulge her every whim, give her the loving, safe, harmonious world that they know better than to promise?

"Lucius," Andromeda greets him, but he's got less to say to her than even Walburga does tonight. His eyes slide straight onto his wife.

She doesn't put up much fight as he strong-arms her into the courtyard and Prior Incantatos her wand—feels the sting of evidence on his own leg as he does. He sighs and hisses his displeasure, knowing nothing will change in the morning, knowing he'll only hurt himself if he allows himself to care.

Lucius doesn't care, not anymore, not after all these times.