Disclaimer: All canon characters, plots and situations from the Harry Potter series belong to JK Rowling. I make no profit from this story.
Warning: Mention of torture/death
Pairing: Narcissa M/Lucius M
Distance
"... I hate myself when I'm away from you,
I swear I'm sorry. Please don't hate me too …"
"You must understand, Cissy," he spoke, his words soft, but urgent. She had yet to turn and face him from her spot at the vanity, and in his current state, he wouldn't blame her.
Their eyes met through the mirror, azure to silver, and he couldn't help but admire her endless strength. He knew she was aching to break down, fall apart - she wouldn't.
"I do, Lucius. Understand. That doesn't mean I like it," she responded with a slight twist of her delicate features.
"As if I do, Narcissa?" His voice rose, the heaviness of his evening weighing in. "You think I enjoy this… this… affair?" he spat, gesturing wildly at the blood splattered across his finely tailored robes.
She raised the soft arch of her brow, knowing he wasn't wholly innocent. Her husband quite liked the power his position held and the duties that came along with it. He may not admit it, but Narcissa Malfoy was no fool.
He moved to stand behind her, reaching out to run his fingers through her loose blonde locks. He took a deep breath to calm his shot nerves. "It's all for you, my love. For us, for Draco - for the Malfoy name."
Narcissa stood, turning to take his hand in her own. "Oh, Lucius," she cried, pulling him flush against her to bury her face in his chest.
When she pulled away, his eyes darkened at the sight of blood smeared on her cheek - a stark contrast of red against porcelain skin.
He stroked the spot, smearing it further and cringed at the pleasure it brought him. She was a vision, as much now as the day he'd first laid eyes on her many, many years ago.
He watched his thumb rub the streak methodically, her words falling on deaf ears as his thoughts grew dark.
He craved the spike of adrenaline that came with dirtying one's hands. He could smell fear a mile off, and the scent clouded his senses and fueled his will to torture, to kill.
Lucius Malfoy hated himself.
He hated the rush of joy that flooded his veins as he ripped open those of another.
He hated the satisfaction the sight of blood brought him - flowing freely from a broken body, running in rivers across his hands, splattered like artwork on his most expensive robes.
He hated how very much he loved it.
There was nothing quite as gratifying as watching the life drain from someone's eyes, knowing their blood would run cold as yours pumped viciously in malicious contentment.
He refocused on his witch before him, heart falling at the sight of tired resignation that marred her once lively features. He pulled her close once more, burying his face and breathing in the floral scent he'd fallen in love with.
"I'm so sorry, pet," he murmured into her hair, whispering it over and over again. "Say you don't hate me. Tell me you don't, please. I beg of you, Cissy."
They stayed there, frozen in shared pain as the light of the moon shone through the large glass windows of their suite. It illuminated the sharp planes of his face, and brought out the timeless beauty in her delicate features.
She clutched his robes, eyes closed and heart clenching as evidence of his crime stained the satin covering her flesh. She spoke, merely a wisp in the air as she steeled her features and pushed the pain away for another night, as always.
"I could never, darling."
