Narcissa apparated at the edge of the village and breathed in dawn frost, allowing ozone-tinged moisture to melt and coat the back of her throat. She was grateful Macnair lived in a good part of town—and at the edge, especially since all the other wizarding residents did not live nearby. Once she found her bearings, Narcissa set off across the bare stretch of long-fallow field, along the hedgerow towards her destination. As rime crunched under her polished black boots, she let her thoughts turn to Miss Burke.
Branda had left Thursday morning to work (whatever that meant for an ingrediwitch) and had not returned for three mornings after—unless she turned up after Narcissa's visit with Macnair. It was a strange thing, mused Narcissa as she passed the silent Muggle houses lining the street, that anyone should want to live as an Aconitor the way Miss Burke did. Narcissa did not see the attraction to their seasonal, semi-nomadic lifestyle. Why wander about the countryside to scrounge up ingredients when one might set up a farm for those same ingredients? What was it about living outside in the dirt—like animals (like Muggles)—that did not bother them? To Narcissa, it was unfathomable.
It wasn't seven o'clock in the morning when she opened the creaky gate to Macnair's house, which she liked to refer to as his 'little bachelor hut.' It was a neat, two-story brick structure with wide back and front gardens, and plenty of room at the sides. Narcissa had always thought it odd he should want such a spacious home with no family. A house or smart flat in London—much closer to his job at the Ministry—would suit him better she thought as she pulled her cloak out of the brambly reach of the untended blackberry hedge. Couldn't he keep it trimmed like the blackthorn hedges that ran the sides of the property? She supposed a man like Walden Macnair would need a wife to keep track of such things.
Lucius had thought it funny when she insisted on going to Macnair's to tell him off for departing so abruptly the night before. And she'd worked so hard to find him a date after she'd seen him without one! So, still wide awake and running on champagne, smoked salmon hors d'oeuvres, and the scent of her husband's and other men's rich cologne, Narcissa had set off from the manor, still in her dress robes, determined to tell Macnair off. Lucius let her go alone, his only determination being not to fall asleep in the shower.
Narcissa had almost reached the front step when a woman dressed in black silk and one of Macnair's old leather jackets exited the house, shutting the door behind her. Hair the color of dried leaves flopped over the woman's shoulder from where she'd tied it lazily at her neck. She strode past Narcissa with hardly a glance.
"Excuse me. . ."
Narcissa did not know what it was precisely about the woman that made her speak to her, but something—something—was familiar about her . . . troublingly familiar. The woman stopped at the gate and turned towards Narcissa. It was not her litheness nor the sharp angles of her expressionless face (at least not those features), but nor was it the woman's oblong eyes or the wide-set lines of her shoulders beneath the puffy man-jacket. It was the way she stood: legs loose but with her feet planted, her back straight and impatient—What do you want, woman?
"Are you Eira?"
The woman might have wavered a little—her eyes widened a fraction, and the unreadable set of her face became almost readable in the set of her jaw.
"Ie. I'm Eira."
Narcissa stared at her. She did not know what to say or do now, and Eira didn't exactly help when she did not ask who Narcissa was. Unexpectedly, Eira abandoned her original path through the gate, stepping instead towards the side of the house, looking Narcissa up and down once. Narcissa followed. All she could finally think to say was, "What are you doing here?"
"You haven't figured that out?" Eira said this with the brusque air of a put-upon big sister who must inform the younger one of their ignorance.
But Narcissa had not been the little sister in a very long time. "Is he home?"
"Macnair? No, he left; said he was going to get something."
Narcissa watched Eira open the drawer on an old bedside table that had been set against the back of the house, pull out and open a rusted tea tin, and extract a handful of gold and silver coins.
"What is that?" asked Narcissa.
"He hates going back inside when he forgets to take money." Eira casually dropped the coins into one of the leather jacket's pockets.
Narcissa felt her eyes narrow. "You're taking his money, then?"
"There's no food in his house," said Eira, who began retracing her steps to the gate.
"But—wait a moment."
Eira stopped and waited for Narcissa to speak.
"If he's gone, why are you still here—not to mention taking his money?"
"He told me where it was a long time ago." Eira held up a galleon she'd tucked in between two fingers.
"All right, but why are you here without him?"
"I told you: he got up to go get something."
Had he, now?
"And what is this 'something' . . . Mrs Burke?"
"I'm not a Burke."
That raised Narcissa's eyebrows. "You're not?"
"I'm a Cadwallader, and we don't like it when people stop us in the street to ask stupid questions."
"We're hardly out in the street, Mrs—er—Miss Cadwallader. . .? I'm sorry; I thought you would prefer to be addressed properly."
"'Mrs Burke' isn't my proper title."
How had Lucius described trying to get information out of Eira? Oh yes: like pulling teeth.
"Then how shall I address you?"
Eira put her hand atop the gate latch. "I'm a Cadwallader."
What sort of answer was that—A Cadwallader?
"Wait!"
Eira glowered, but she stopped. Narcissa noted that her face looked fresh, as though she'd recently scrubbed it clean, but why would she allow her scars to be seen so publicly? It was a kind of brazenness Narcissa could not appreciate. But that wasn't what was important here, Narcissa reminded herself as she spoke in an even, measured tone. "Just tell me what you're doing with him."
"What does it look like?" Eira snapped impatiently.
"For how long?" Because Narcissa knew that Macnair had failed to mention that he'd been carrying on with Eira last autumn, even after Lucius had made it known he wanted to find Nicander.
"Why don't you ask him?" Eira tilted her chin at Macnair's house. "You came here to see him, didn't you?" Eira turned from Narcissa, opened the gate to step out. . .
"Wait!
"What?" Eira's glower had deepened with impatience.
"Have you talked to Lucius recently?"
Mist from Eira's breath veiled her face; then drifted away to reveal her stony expression.
Narcissa tried to prompt Eira. "He wants to find your husband—"
"I told you; I'm not married." The gate's metal hinge creaked as it opened, then swung shut as Eira set off down the street.
Swallowing an exasperated noise, Narcissa followed. "Listen—if you don't want to talk to my husband, I'll understand. But if you talked through me, we could figure out what happened to Nicander, and—"
"He's fucking dead!" They had reached the start of the fallow field. A pair of crows were squawking angrily in its center as they hopped and pecked at each other over a small carcass each had spotted. Narcissa watched Eira pull out a small pipe, deftly pack the bowl with her little finger, and light it with her wand.
"Dead?"
Eira replied with the pipestem clenched in her teeth. "Yep, dead. Give me a better explanation—or better yet, ask Lucius for one."
Narcissa wondered if Eira had always been so prickly. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"He disappeared over nine years ago; packed up his shit and left without saying where he was going, right after he made another deal on the black market. So, maybe he scammed the wrong person finally and they went the whole hog with him; or maybe—" Eira sucked in smoke and blew a white stream that floated away in a thick wisp, "maybe he fucked the wrong woman and her old man caught up to him. Maybe he owed debts or just died in an accident where no one can locate him. Whatever happened, he never bothered to send word back to me or anybody else in fucking nine whole years, so unless he's in a different country or been drinking Polyjuice potion every day for that long, he's probably dead."
Narcissa stared at Eira, unsure how to proceed. Eira had begun walking across the field again when she whipped around and yanked her pipe from her lips.
"And tell your nob-fuck of a husband to stay away from my kids!"
Narcissa scoffed—how could she not? "I don't see how you've the right to tell anyone to stay away from your children, Miss Cadwallader; as if you're ever with them."
Narcissa expected Eira to balk at her words, to deny or try to hide shame at her recriminations. She did not. Instead, when she next spoke, every word and knowing flash of her eyes was clear and sharp.
"You think my daughter wants me around her. . .? You think she wouldn't grind me into the pavement if she saw me again? Because if I were her, I would; I'd drag me to the edge of the nearest stream and hold my head underwater until my legs stopped kicking—if I were her."
What was Narcissa supposed to say to that?
"So, if you're ever going to insult me again, Black, try harder, because I know I'm a bad mother."
Narcissa snarled through gritted teeth, "You call me by my proper name. . ."
Eira smirked. "Why? You are a Black. You don't turn into someone else just because you let your husband cum inside you after the papers are signed."
Narcissa blew an angry breath through her teeth. "Listen to me now, you rung-out whore: those brats of yours would still be scrabbling about Knockturn Alley for fallen knuts if my husband hadn't taken a liking to them. I never thought I'd see a brood of wizarding children more ragged than the Weasleys'—"
"You've had a very sheltered life if you think the Weasleys are all that ragged, my dear," interrupted Eira with a raised eyebrow.
"Lucius has elevated your children simply by remembering their names!" Narcissa's angry tone had pitched an octave higher. "Now he's feeding them with his own gold; buying their debts so they won't stay beholden to a mere shopkeeper!"
"Tell Lucius I said to go straight to Hell! I'd rather watch my kids suck rainwater from a drainpipe before they get a dry nibble from his tit!"
Eira had stepped closer to Narcissa; Narcissa stepped forward in kind. "It's a little late for that sort of sentiment, don't you think? Contracts have already been signed, for God's sake."
Eira betrayed no emotion as she leaned back from Narcissa, eyes still narrowed. The morning continued around the two women whose breaths drew ragged and cloudy, combining in the empty space between them, holding secrets loud and unspoken. Sky was turning from chilled downy blue to the dove-pink that tries to fool northerners into seeing spring warmth. Inside Eira's skull, air surrounding the words "contracts," "already," and "signed" thrummed like a hammer strike.
Eira turned without another word to Narcissa and strode directly across the fallow field, past the crows that still argued over the freeze-hardened carcass, past the lone raven that now sat on a fence post with an eye on its smaller relatives' meal, too wary of their ancestors' shared rivalry to steal the meat yet.
It was a moment before Narcissa understood that she had inadvertently revealed something to Eira.
Eira
Macnair's personal office was located on level four of the Ministry of Magic. Eira did not need to have visited it before to reckon its location within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—where was the Beast Division, and where were the offices for the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures? From there Eira knew she would likely find Macnair's office, and she did.
Like most executioners, Walden Macnair was an enterprising man. He had learned how to render the body parts of different creatures into ingredients, how to process skins and hides, and how to circumvent the law when it came to the non-tradeable parts he gleaned from the remains. Traditionally, executioners had been given rights to any property that was on the condemned once their sentence was carried out, mainly clothes. With animals, the custom was no different. Macnair was, by British Wizarding law, entitled to the fresh carcasses of the animals he was tasked with executing, euthanizing, and those of already dead creatures he was hired to collect. If for any reason the Ministry or St Mungo's required the condemned animal's body after it was killed, a formal process that had become almost ritualized in its many apologies and agreements over denying the executioner his due was required. It was a testament to how secure Macnair was in his position that he often hid some of what he was supposed to discard of in his office: non-tradeable venom, horns, bile, other such things. Eira actually had some of his property at her house since helping him render ingredients was how she made most of her money now. It mightn't be long before he asked if she would help at an execution.
Eira found him sifting through a cabinet that held pickled innards in jars, wads of hair and feathers, talons, teeth, and vials of liquids. He looked up with surprise at Eira's entry.
"You and me, we need to have a fucking particular conversation about Lucius-fucking-Malfoy and my kids, Walden."
Macnair's mouth gaped slightly, his black mustache twitching. His wits returned when Eira shut the door behind her with a slamming bang. "I—not here, all right? Let me grab what I need, and we'll talk at my house."
"Fucking now, Walden!"
"At the house! I know it's Sunday, but there are still people around the Ministry. Just let me grab my shit, and we'll go!"
Ten minutes later, Macnair was dodging Eira's wild, barely aimed slaps to his head and shoulders as he explained Lucius's contract with not just Branda, but with Donius also. There was no way to deny that Lucius had covertly bought Branda through her debts to the apothecary.
"And you fuckin' witnessed it, Walden? You just fucking let him trap my daughter into a fucking debt-bondage to him, huh?"
Macnair blocked her next thwack with his forearm, hunched his shoulders in anticipation of the next. Eira was livid, though he supposed he couldn't totally blame her. She wasn't exactly trying to hurt him so much as show him how frustrated she was, anyway.
Eira paced his kitchen for a minute, her face flushed and her hair nearly fallen out of its ponytail so that wisps of it blew in front of her face with each heated exhalation.
"FUCK!
"Relax, Eira. She doesn't have a bloody clue about it. She only knows that he's her patron. I doubt Lucius even blinked when Donius told him how much she owed him, rich cunt he is. Probably won't ever have her pay it back, at all."
Eira snarled through bared teeth. "He's definitely a cunt, but he's not a fucking charitable one, Walden. Fucking Lucius!"
"Eira—come on! The girl doesn't even know—lives in the right fat lap of luxury with them now, for God's sake. You don't think that's a good thing?"
Eira stopped pacing enough to stare at Macnair with a new kind of shock. "'Lives' with them?"
Macnair bit his lip, shifted a little, then nodded. "Aye, she lives at the manor with them. . . Lucius took her in after a fight she had with Donius over New Year's—I don't know about what, so don't ask me. She's been living with the Malfoys since—when she's not off working, anyway."
For several moments, Eira could not move. Ice seemed to be forming in her gut. Lucius had her daughter living with him, had had her there for more than two months. How much longer before he managed to wheedle the truth about Nicander out of Branda—if he didn't simply grow tired of trying and decided to beat it out of her? How tough was Branda anymore? How much smarter or stupider had she grown?
Then a different notion perforated Eira's thoughts. She narrowed her eyes at Macnair, voice dropping to a grating, cat-mad bass. "Why would he let her into his house like that?"
"What do you mean?" Macnair asked. "I told you he became her patron. . ."
"You didn't fucking tell me before now, Walden, you prick!"
Macnair stiffened slightly, stood up a little straighter. Now his eyes were narrowing at Eira, whose fury had only been exacerbated. He shook his head at her, smiling in the hopes of lightening the atmosphere.
"Eira, look, it's practically Lucius's job to take care of her, now. And he likes her! Why shouldn't he—"
"Is he fucking her?"
Macnair wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. "What?"
"Is—Lucius—fucking—my child, Macnair?!"
"Wha—no! Eira, he doesn't look twice at her when she's bent over lacing her boots! Even if he did, Narcissa's had him by the balls since they married. Besides, I was there when they each signed the contract, Branda and Lucius. There're rules for him, as well as for her . . . and she's not his type, anyway!"
Macnair had thought this would be a comforting thing to say to Eira. It was not.
"You what?"
"I was there; even offered to sign as a witness for them. Hieronymus Nott did that, though."
He sensed her reaction before she moved toward him, so that when she first tried to hit him, he blocked her fist with his forearm.
"Oi!"
"You lying cunt!" Eira lurched towards him again, struck his bicep as he hunched his shoulder. His arms were still crossed, his greater height almost a shield as much as his bulk.
"Fuck, Eira! Leave off!"
"You fucking watched that shit, yeah? You fucking wank-stains just let him do that to her, and you didn't fucking tell me all this time?!"
"Ow—get the fuck off me you bitch!"
Eira didn't have time to react before Macnair sent her careening backwards so that she hit the brick wall by the fireplace with a smacking thud that knocked the wind out of her. If she weren't so pumped from adrenaline, she would have been stunned, but Eira continued to glare at him with the same rage and disgust as seconds before. "You han't nothing but a cunt licker, Macnair. I should've locked my pussy when you came calling—"
Macnair snarled from across the kitchen. "Slut, you came on to me!"
But Eira was already turning to leave. "Don't fucking follow me out, or I'll shove that poker up your arsehole just to hear the first little squeals of shock you'd make!"
Macnair did follow her, if only to the threshold, telling her what a slag she was; how she was lucky he was letting her walk out of his house. Eira spat back that he was still a lousy fuck even after everything she'd shown him and let him do to her, which was a lie, but which riled him up enough that he shouted a final "Fuck you," called her an old cunt, and slammed the door behind her. He didn't even demand his leather jacket back. Later, Eira would suppose she ought to give him credit for never mentioning her scars to insult her.
Lucius
Lucius expected there to be some sort of confrontation. Narcissa told him what had transpired between herself and Eira that morning, and he could see no escape from having to explain his actions to her—the mother of the girl he was 'patron' to. That argument he wasn't worried about, but there was also the little fact of what essentially amounted to his ownership of Branda. It was more custom than anything, but because Lucius had the power—however legal or illegal—to hold the poor girl as he wished, it was still fact. Branda was practically a nobody, so who of any substance would be concerned about her bondage to him? Legally speaking, she did owe him the debts that had been signed over by Donius. Even if it weren't legal, most traditionally minded witches and wizards viewed contracts and debts as important to uphold, so, even if Lucius weren't within the law, most would agree that he was within his rights to hold a certain amount of dominion over Branda. And the fact that he allowed her—an Aconitor (and a trainee one at that)—to live in his house, with his family, almost like an equal, would make Lucius seem a pure saint to many in their society.
He had every right to do what he'd done, Lucius believed.
All that Sunday, Lucius stayed home, waiting for Eira to storm up to the manor in a mood. By the time Narcissa called him from his study for tea, he found he'd grown quite agitated: was she going to show up at all, or was she really that bloody lousy as a mother that she wouldn't even stand up for her daughter in this?
But Eira never came to the manor that day, and before he knew it, Lucius felt his Dark Mark burn black.
Presently, he and all the other Death Eaters, from Wormtail to Severus to their ten escaped fellows, were kneeling in a semicircle around the Dark Lord. Lucius allowed his eyes to flick upward and caught a glimpse of the dancing candlelight against the polished wooden flooring and in the faces of the other Death Eaters. To his right, across the space that contained the velvet-lined chair their master sometimes occupied, and then the vacant spot to its right that was Bellatrix's allotted place, Lucius could see Rodolphus's slight tremble. Would Rodolphus be next? Would he be held accountable for not paying closer attention to his wife's actions and not informing his master of them?
"Bella. . ."
Lord Voldemort whispered lowly as Bellatrix rose to her knees before him. Her white knuckles flashed in her lap, stark against her black robes as they shook. Either she was staring at them or else at the floor, for she kept her neck bent; her long hair curtained her face, but Lucius could tell she was silently weeping. Well, he thought to himself, she shouldn't have been so stupid.
The Dark Lord repeated himself, this time with a hovering threat behind the expectation for Bellatrix to respond: "Bella."
"I—I am sorry, my Lord. I'm so sorry. Please . . . believe me . . . please!" Lucius watched her cower as Lord Voldemort stepped closer to her, clearly fearing another moment under the Cruciatus Curse.
"Look at me, Bella."
Bellatrix did as commanded; at the same time, Lucius looked away. He hated that he would have to recount all of this to Narcissa, hated that he would have to describe how pitiful her sister was as she begged her beloved master for mercy. He would have to watch the distress in his wife's face as she imagined the scene, the pity and disgust she would try to force down. Once, he had told Narcissa, "At least you do not have to actually see her like that." Narcissa had nearly broken down then, screaming at Lucius that she would rather she did see her sister in those moments, that she might then understand Bellatrix just a little better . . . that Bellatrix might appreciate Narcissa's show of concern for her after those meetings just a little more. "Damn you, Lucius!" Narcissa had shrieked at him while she clenched her fists and paced awkwardly in front of the fireplace in her simultaneous struggle to contain and release her anger. In their old age, Narcissa would say it was to Lucius's credit that he never scoffed at her or even walked away from her when she was like that.
"Oh, Bella . . . what is your master to do with you? How should Lord Voldemort proceed when one of his most faithful Death Eaters goes behind his back?"
"M-my Lord—I did not mean—I did not intend to deceive you! I swear it! It was a mistake!"
Lord Voldemort did not respond to her, and his silence set Bellatrix whimpering.
"Quiet yourself, Bella."
Lucius shivered as the Dark Lord returned to the chair that faced the Death Eaters, his long robes swishing, sending quiet gusts of air against Lucius. His sister-in-law remained kneeling in the room's center, surrounded by himself and the others. For several dread filled moments the Dark Lord merely sat back and surveyed Bellatrix in silence, and Lucius thought he caught a smirk from the lipless, white seam that was Voldemort's mouth when a uniquely violent tremor shook Bellatrix's thin frame. Bellatrix had always struggled the most under the Dark Lord's silences, most especially when they were directed at her.
"What did she do?" Lucius had asked Rodolphus, who stood in a corner by himself, thick arms crossed over his great chest. The news that Bellatrix was in trouble had spread; she was already inside the darkened room with the Dark Lord while the others continued to gather in the antechamber.
Taller than Lucius, and raised with a sense of pride to rival his own, Rodolphus was a generally stoic sort of person, but he'd been unable to look anywhere but into the corners with anxiety filled eyes as he told Lucius that Bellatrix had gone to London that day, stood outside the Ministry of Magic, and attempted to Imperius a passing worker.
"'Attempted'?" Lucius prodded.
"Rabastan figured out that she was doing something she wasn't supposed to." Then Rodolphus's eyes shifted to the ceiling before lowering to look at Lucius, then away again as he shook his head. "She doesn't always think ahead as she used to."
Lucius did not dare try to comfort Rodolphus, who would only be embarrassed by the gesture. He was known for being unmovable and scorned open displays of soft emotions with few exceptions. Lucius had no idea how he and Bellatrix showed affection to each other. Well, it wasn't his business anyway, he reminded himself.
"She knew she was not to do such a thing without being told by the Dark Lord. . ."
"Bellatrix has always been fervent." Lucius had lowered his voice for what he said next, "And really, who among us can blame her for wanting to please him in this?" Because really, who amongst the Death Eaters was not eager for their master to finally—finally—hear that damned Prophecy?
"You were under orders to stay away from the Ministry . . . to let those who are not under threat from the Aurors to undertake stealing the Prophecy for me . . . were you not, Bella?"
Bellatrix nodded once, her body rocking forward. "Yes, Master. I was foolish. Please—I beg for your mercy—"
Lord Voldemort spoke softly, "Get up, Bella. . . You know how Lord Voldemort is displeased by disobedience, do you not? But of course, you know this . . . have I not shown you favor in all your years of service to me? You could not be so stupid as to believe your little jaunt to the Ministry this afternoon would please me . . . could you?"
"No Master! Never! I—" Bellatrix swallowed audibly. "I—I did not think properly—My Lord knows I wish only to please him—I know how important the Prophecy is to you—"
"Do you know what the Prophecy contains, dear Bella? I wish you to share your knowledge with me, then!"
Even standing, Bellatrix seemed to shrink, the flush in her blanched face evident even the dim candlelight. Lucius nearly sighed. The Dark Lord was playing, now. Bellatrix needed to shut her mouth and let their master rage at her until he was satisfied; couldn't she see that her begging was annoying him?
"M-master—"
"Rabastan! Come here."
The younger Lestrange brother, slight as the elder was sturdy, began shuffling on his knees towards the Dark Lord, who chuckled. "You may get up, Rabastan; you did not disobey me as your brother's wife did, today."
Your brother's wife. Bellatrix would be hurt by that, thought Lucius, her not being referred to as herself by Lord Voldemort. At least Rabastan had it in him to keep his expression still.
"You may all stand." Lucius and the rest of the Death Eaters rose as one.
"You did well to follow Bellatrix, Rabastan. You have shown me you understand that, faithful and worthy as you and your family have always been, you must be alert for any acts of foolishness from each other. You have your master's gratitude. When the time comes, you will be rewarded for it."
Rabastan bowed low. "I am grateful to you, Master. Thank you . . . thank you. . ."
"As for the rest of you. . ." The Dark Lord lifted himself from the chair to stride amongst the crescent of his servants. "Your desire to gratify Lord Voldemort's wishes is commendable. . . You know I always reward diligence. . . However," And here, the room shivered with trepidation. "I have sensed for some time now a certain—impatience—during these meetings. . ."
At these words an unnatural stillness settled about the chamber, as though the Death Eaters were holding a collective breath.
"It is as if . . . why, as if the tasks I have set you all . . . the preparations to rebuild our army, the retrieval of the Prophecy. . ." Lucius wished his insides did not seize the way they did when the Dark Lord stopped directly in front of him, even as he was not turned towards Lucius as he continued to address the room, "have grown wearisome for you all. . . And I do not even hear any protestations to the contrary!"
The tension that had previously held the Death Eaters in thrall broke in a series of muffled 'no, my Lords' and 'forgive us, Masters'. Lucius wished they would all shut up—stop sounding so guilty.
"Surely, I cannot be right." Voldemort reentered their center (to the relief of Lucius) and gestured for Rabastan to return to his place beside Rodolphus. Bellatrix remained where she'd been for the entirety of the gathering, though she seemed to have regained some of her strength in the minutes Voldemort's attentions were spent elsewhere. He turned to face her, still addressing the collected Death Eaters. "Bellatrix does not find my directives tiresome, do you, Bella?"
Bellatrix's eyes shone as she nodded emphatically. "Never, Master! No one could ever—"
She quieted immediately as the Dark Lord waved a pale hand for her to be silent as he stepped away from her, speaking slowly and deliberately, "You would all do well to follow Rabastan's example of today. He has, quite possibly, preserved our goal of further secrecy . . . if only for the time being. And Bellatrix. . ." Voldemort pivoted in a whirl of black robes to hold Bellatrix in the fire of his scarlet irises. "One can always look to Bellatrix as an example of eager service. . ."
Lucius watched as, again, his sister-in-law's face drained of color. Lord Voldemort did not tolerate foolishness in the actions of his followers.
"There is nothing further that I wish to discuss with you all tonight. Leave me . . . except for you, Bella. . . you shall stay."
Bellatrix remained standing, head bowed as the Death Eaters shuffled around her to take their leave in a ritualized exit they had always performed, without the Dark Lord's direction, as though nature itself had dictated it to them. All would approach Lord Voldemort with slight bows that grew deeper as they bid him farewell, but it was always the one who stood furthest from the Dark Lord's side who moved first, then the Death Eater directly to their left or right, and so on until the current most highly ranked servants were the last to go. Tonight, instead of leaving his master's presence with Bellatrix in his wake, or he in hers, Lucius found himself glancing back at Rodolphus kneeling before a now seated Lord Voldemort to offer final excuses for his wife's lapse in judgement, though he did not hear him beg forgiveness on her behalf. Smart man, for it was too late for any more of that, and Lucius found himself making his exit from the house before he might hear Bellatrix being tortured some more.
On his way to the hall, it didn't escape Lucius's notice that Macnair was avoiding him. Lucius decided he would deal with the executioner later.
He was just opening the door to leave the house when Rodolphus ran up behind him in an obvious hurry. "Lucius! The Dark Lord wishes you back."
Lucius must have looked unsettled at this, for Rodolphus quickly added, "He wants to ask you about Nicander Burke."
Relieved slightly, Lucius strode past the few remaining Death Eaters, ignoring their curious looks as he ascended the stairs to the room they had been ordered to vacate only minutes before.
"Have you found him yet—your old friend, Lucius?" The Dark Lord sat reposed in the velvet chair, his eyes cast upon the suspended form of Bellatrix, whom he'd bewitched to hang in midair upside down, long enough that her loose, long robes had slid down her body and slipped over her head. In a few minutes, they would slide free of her dangling arms. Lucius would have to relate this to Narcissa, as well.
"No, my Lord. He has proven rather elusive in that regard."
"You have my permission, if you do find him, to reveal my return, Lucius."
"Thank you, my Lord. Thank you." Lucius stood from the chair he'd been provided (Bellatrix would eat him alive for it, later, he was sure) to bow to Lord Voldemort, but his master waved him down with a lazy wave.
"You have his firstborn in your employ, do you not, Lucius? A daughter, yes?"
Lucius did not question his master about which Death Eater had related their knowledge about Branda.
"Yes, my Lord.
"How old is she?"
"She is . . . nineteen soon, I believe. . ."
"She is an Aconitor?" The Dark Lord spoke calmly, almost with an air of indifference as he continued to address Lucius whilst observing the rotating form of Bellatrix, who made occasional choked, quiet whimpers that could still be heard several feet away. The chair Lucius had been offered was set in a way so that he could see both the Dark Lord and Bellatrix from the corner of each eye.
"Yes, my Lord."
"And you own her through debts unpaid?"
"Indeed, my Lord. Her cousin—an apothecary—passed those debts to me when I offered him and the girl my patronage. . . The girl is ignorant of this."
"I see," mused Voldemort. He continued to watch Bellatrix dangle helplessly before addressing Lucius again. "Have you found me a new Death Eater, Lucius?"
For a second, Lucius was confused; then, he understood. "Branda Burke, my Lord?"
"I see your answer already in your mind, Lucius. You do not see her in my service?"
"I—" Lucius swallowed, feeling somewhat nervous: what if this was a disappointment to his master? He could not afford—Lucius could not allow anymore slip ups as he had with the diary. . .
"I had thought perhaps she might become one of us, my Lord, but she—I think—she is too much like her father, who also was not a Death Eater, my Lord. Nicander was too wild; too uninterested in—"
"I did not ask you about her father, Lucius, I asked you about the girl." The Dark Lord had turned his eyes to Lucius, away from Bellatrix.
"Of course, my Lord. . . Forgive me. The girl—Branda—she is too . . . I suppose . . . she is too untried, I think, my Lord. She is too naïve and untrustworthy to enter your service, Master." Lucius lowered his head respectfully at Lord Voldemort. "And she is not—well, truthfully, I do not consider her loyalty unwavering."
The Dark Lord's gaze was steady. "Not even to yourself, Lucius?"
Lucius could not repress the sigh that escaped him. "No, my Lord. She does much as she pleases. But I confess: I have indulged her nature, unrestrained as it is. I am afraid I make her sound less respectable than she is, my Lord."
"You think it better for her to be indulged in this, Lucius."
Lucius was unsure if his master was questioning him. "My Lord. . .?"
"You prefer her to be as she is, Lucius. And perhaps you are right; we need as many allies as we do those who would accept the Dark Mark in full service to me."
Lord Voldemort shifted, turned to look at Bellatrix, who had fallen silent and still as they'd talked. Another glance sideways told Lucius that her robes had finally fallen past her wrists to lie in a dark, rumbled heap directly below her. He refused to allow himself to look her over, didn't even try to determine if she was at least half-covered or naked now.
"Perhaps in time you will bring me Nicander's daughter, Lucius."
Lucius did not give himself time to hesitate. "I would bring her to you now, should you wish it, my Lord."
"No. I am not so intrigued in the girl as I have made myself seem. You will be her patron, as you have seen to, Lucius." The Dark Lord stood; Lucius rose with him, keeping his stature lowered. "You shall continue to search for her father when you are not fulfilling my commands. But remember, Lucius: my desire to hear the Prophecy comes before your own self-indulgence. I need not remind you of you past failures. . . Despite everything, you have remained my most prized Death Eater." Lord Voldemort strode slowly across the room to where Bellatrix hung suspended; Lucius walked obediently behind him.
"Continue serving me as well as you have these past months, Lucius, and you and your family shall be rewarded as you desire."
Lucius bowed low. "I am grateful to you, Master. Your mercy will never be forgotten."
"Let us hope not." Voldemort stood before Bellatrix, his luminous white face mere inches from her own slack, reddened one. Lucius watched as he raised his wand and with a mere flick brought Bellatrix back to consciousness. She gasped as though she'd been pulled back from drowning.
Voldemort turned to Lucius. "Take her from here—or have Rodolphus fetch her—I care not. Until you are next summoned, Lucius. . ."
When the Dark Lord disapparated from the chamber, Lucius lowered Bellatrix to the floor. He tried to pick up her robes to hand them to her, but she spat at him angrily and held them to her before snarling, "Get away from me, Lucius! I don't need your help!"
"I'll tell Narcissa you asked after her then, shall I?"
Once Lucius entered the landing to descend the stairs for the second time that night, he called down to Rodolphus that his wife wanted him and that she was already undressed for him. Then he exited the Riddle House and prepared himself to tell his wife how her older sister had been punished.
