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"Narcissa, you've got to stop wasting your money like this."

Samson is resentful of the fact I left the house with a hundred galleons and came back with only paints and a hat. He paces the floor of my studio room, shaking his hands angrily in the air. I cannot understand why it is a worth a fuss. It isn't as though we're desperate for gold.

"It's only a hundred galleons," I say dismissively. My hat is quite worth what I paid for it. As for the rest...

His usually smiling brown eyes flash. "Only?" he repeats. "Only a hundred? Your father's money won't last you forever!"

"Then he'll give me more."

"And what will you do if he doesn't?"

"I sell my work."

To the elite, no less. My paintings are everywhere, hung in the houses of our most noble families. My first independent gallery is coming up, and there are whispers that the Minister himself will be present.

Samson snorts cruelly, as though it were laughable to consider. "Your work barely pays for itself, and Malfoy pockets most of it anyway. You can't be the high society lady you want to be on that measly bit."

I feel hurt and insulted.

"Well, if you were half as presentable as he is, maybe I wouldn't need him!" I shout crossly. "With your hair and your despicable pretense!"

He stops and presses his mouth into a thin white line. I can see clearly that his clenched fists mean molten anger will erupt from his mouth the moment he opens it. We stare at each other in unease, and he finally states dangerously, "And what if I don't want to be like him?"

"Then maybe—maybe I can't be with you."

He closes his mouth and stomps over to the door. With sharp movements, he grabs his cloak and swing it over his raw-boned shoulders. I can tell he's seconds away from leaving. Samson places a hand on he front door but glances back at me. I make no pleads for him to stay; I want him gone.

The door slams behind him, and the air is suddenly silent and void-like.

My legs feel weak and I sink onto a nearby stool, arms hanging heavily to my sides. I sometimes play this scene in my head when I am angry with Samson, thinking of how empowered and brazen it would feel to tell him off. But I feel none of those things now that I've done it. All that strikes me is how cold and empty it is without him. It is as though I am singularly alone.

I pull my bun down, trying to grasp at some solace, even if it is a breathy embrace from falling hair, mother's hair.

I look at a finished canvas by my feet. It is ugly without Samson.

Taking my wand, I shred it to pieces.

The oil and fabric screech as they dances across the floor. I send more destructive blasts at other nearby canvases. They're all worthless now anyway. My eyes burn with tears and I blink them back. Wood and scorched material explode everywhere. A poorly directed spell nearly hits my owl, and he hoots angrily while taking off in a frantic circle around the room before dodging out of the window.

I am crying now, earnestly, not caring if my make up smudges or tracks.

My insides ache like hopeless ashes, and I fall to the ground clutching my knees.

He's gone.

He's gone and I made him leave.

I can't stop sobbing. He wasn't coming back. The room spins with every spasm filled breath.

Suddenly, there's a knock on my door. The hollow sound echos around me and, for a moment, my hopes lift. Perhaps he has returned to forgive me. I'll open the door and he'll kiss me and take me in his arms. We'll embrace and say our apologies. But then I remember that Samson has a key. He has no need to request entry. More knocking comes from the door.

I stay very still and pretend to not be home.

"I know you're in there, Narcissa!" a smooth voice calls from outside.

My heart sinks.

I find a handkerchief in the bedroom and wipe my eyes before I open the door. Only jarring the door open a sliver, I peer out at my visitor. Lucius is standing outside, sharp and tall as an evergreen. I move to shut the door, but he is much stronger and pushes it open easily against my shaking hands. Lucius forces himself into the room. I turn away so he won't see the puffy redness around my eyes.

"Narcissa, your owl just came to me with this." He holds up a scrap of shredded painting. Lucius takes a look around the room and gasps. Concerned, he exclaims, "Merlin! What have you done?"

He steps over broken frames and runs a hand over one of the ruined paintings.

"What has happened?" he whispers, looking at me.

I retreat back to my stool and dab at my nose. I have nothing to say to him.

Running a hand through his close cropped hair, Lucius edges his way to me and bends down to get a good look. I bow my head to hide behind my flaxen curtain. He places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. The warm touch only serves to make my heart palpitate and my eyes run again. Oh Samson, this isn't Samson.

"Narcissa, are you hurt?" he asks me softly.

I shake my head and press the handkerchief to my eyes.

"Why have you done this?"

He pulls my face upward with a gentle hand under my chin. I meet his gaze and notice that his grey eyes are kind, rather than the walls they usually are. He is beautiful like as the light in his name, but just as the Morning Star was before he fell from Heaven, Lucius is not what he seems. Inside his charm and shining exterior, his soul is the color of coal. One night at the Nott estate, in a drunken haze, he solemnly whispered to me that he holds the fate of our world in his hands, planning the deaths of wizards for the sake of his Lord.

"I don't want to p—paint anymore," I reply with a quavering voice.

He lowers himself on one knee and peers up at me. His words are lithe and soothing, an aria played especially for me. "But you are very talented, princess."

My eyes swim again. and I sniff back the moisture.

"We had a row. I'm blind now without him."

To my surprise, Lucius smiles. Gingerly, he takes my hand in both of his and squeezes my palm. There is a strangely satisfied look about him, like when a mischievous cat has finally caught his elusive mouse. "Then be with me," he says boldly. "Forget that git and be with me. I can give you anything you want and more."

I can't find a reply. The air between us is thick enough to cut.

Lucius rises and sweeps my long hair aside; the strands flow through his fingers easily, not catching on his rings. My eyes never leave his. He bends down and brushes his lip against mine. With closed eyes and sight surrendered, I let him kiss me as roaming hands lingering behind my ear and around my waist. It is an ephemeral rush of excited delight set against bitter loneliness.

His lips grow more demanding with each second as they trail down my neck. Lucius pulls me up against him in one swift motion and I gasp involuntarily. I cannot help but fear where this is going. My chest thumps painfully to remind me that this is not the man I love, but I oblige his wandering lips just the same.

He pulls me toward the bedroom with a wicked smile.

I follow.

He unhooks the top closure of my dress.

I let him.

He slides a hand up my skirt.

I sigh into his mouth.

He whispers that he's loved me for ages.

I die.

It is what he says to all of his conquests.

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Footnote: Morning Star was God's most prized angel before he fell and became Satan (Milton, Paradise Lost).