dear_mun | (no subject)

[He gives a soft, scoffing sound of laughter at her remarks, tired and sad laughter though it is. They always did share a cutting sense of humor but maybe this time the truth is a little too close.

He watches her eyes, then looks down as she reaches out to him. Tensing, half expecting her to change her mind at any moment.

She does not. His mouth presses together and twists again as he works at a thick lump of emotion rising in his throat. Steadily he completes an familiar gesture, curling his hand slightly around hers, thumb stroking the back of her fingers.]

Runs in the family, you think? Well. I know that your mother would have a few choice words about this.

[He sobers further, voice quiet.]

Then again, I can only begin to imagine what my father might have to say.

[Oh, but his touch is cold. Goose flesh rises on her arm in response to his considerably lower body temperature and her own instinctive fear of a predator, but she refuses to allow herself to shiver in either cold or revulsion as he completes a gesture they've shared for over two decades. Her husband is still there.

Just... changed.]

She'd be horrified. I'm the good daughter, you know - her perfect blonde angelic child. She'd roll in her grave if she knew she'd birthed three rebellious witches.

[But only one mad one. There's a point of pride.

After a moment, she curls her fingers to return his hold, eyes cutting to their hands as those long nails graze her skin; not at all something she's used to.]

Are we still children, Lucius? To worry about the opinions of parents who no longer control our lives?

[New and dangerous territory, this - but one that demands exploration. Their world is changing in more ways than one, and they must needs change with it to survive and flourish.]

[Another quiet sardonic scoff of laughter at, nearly a snort. Druella Black wasn't on the same level as her sister-in-law, but still a woman not to be trifled with. How could she have been otherwise, mother to such three daughters? It says something that Narcissa would be the 'angelic' one; he would have never loved her were she truly an angel.

He words have weight of truth to him - he's prided himself on being the head of the family, doing things for himself his own way for most of his adult life, far out of the length of his father's shadow. Still, he swallows thinly: he's certain Abraxas has been spinning wildly in his grave, ever since the night his son climbed out of his and had not the grace to go right back in again.

The world is changing, and the old order stands on the edge of being violently swept away. Malfoys have been at the heart of society for hundreds of years, they must adapt their loyalties and professed values once more if they want to maintain hold on their proper place. It would be hard enough as it is, the stink of Dark Arts and collaboration lingering about them still. But Lucius is...stubborn, petty, and never likes admitting when he's wrong.

Worst of all for him, in this case: he's as closest to a true believer in blood purity as one can be, without becoming an outright fanatic.]

It's about a bit more than that, however. History, and continuity, and honor. Legacy.

[For the good of the family is a Malfoy credo, but it can as often mean for the good of the family name as it can the actual family itself. He ultimately picks out the right value over the other, but it can be a war getting there at times.

Her repressed shudder written across her skin makes him grimace in sympathy, but what can he do? His impulse is to hold her but that would only make it worse. He gives her hand what he hopes is a passable squeeze of reassurance.]

[Being angelic is relative in this instance. Bella is-- was-- batshit crazy, Andromeda the romantic rebel... leaving Narcissa to learn from their mistakes and hide her own desires and predilections so they can be pursued in peace with no one the wiser.

She's never wanted the Dark Mark, and while the rhetoric of the wizard they all bowed to had been enthralling and galvanising in the seventies when she was young and unwilling to rock the boat - now? Now, she's more than a little annoyed that they all fell for such drivel. He had hexed her. Her, a Black and a Malfoy, from two of the oldest lines in magical Britain. He'd taken her family, and her home, and he had hexed her - and no one had done anything at all to step in for that vaunted legacy they'd spent so long upholding.

So she lied.

She lied, and he's dead, and Narcissa has a chance at a proper future, albeit one where they need to quite thoroughly publicly atone for certain... past occurrences.

Purity is important, but not at the cost of their entire world. It's simply not sustainable. Anyone who breeds dogs knows this.]

What good is a family legacy when the line is no more? What price do we put on our continued existence? Your own has been cut short already - and deliberately so. An act of premeditation, you told me. Would you not change something to avoid that, given the chance to go back? This world stopped being ours long before we were born. It behooves us to move with the times.

[She's still holding his hand; the chill isn't so off-putting, now, though she's not at all certain of those nails. What happens if he accidentally breaks her skin? Wariness of his new nature is only sensible.]

Draco still exists. He was conceived before; what's happened to me has no bearing on his fitness or status -- unless I suppose some of the old guard might consider him a blood-traitor now, considering our collective shift in alliances toward the very end...

[He's musing, in a distracted and self-absorbed way she has every right to be rather annoyed with. Not that this is anything new, either.]

For his well-being I'd sacrifice much. Up to and including my pride, my values. [Didn't he already, in a way?] For your well-being, also. But for my own...?

[That's more complicated. He looks up, then back to their hands again as he traces her gaze. Seeing her focus on his nails he forces wryness into his tone.]

I've tried cutting them before, so you know. They keep growing back.

He does, and he very nearly died in this farce of a war. We could have lost everything.

[She could probably conceive again - Draco wasn't her only pregnancy - but whether they should attempt it is another story, and for him, an impossible one. She assumes. Actually, she doesn't want to think about it. Vampires don't beget other vampires in the biologically accepted manner.]

I simply feel as though... we made the wrong sort of sacrifices. We cared more for what our son is, rather than who.

[Her eyes lift to study his face momentarily, an anguish at the ruination of everything they thought they held dear swiftly hidden as she returns to gaze to their hands. His skin is paler than hers. That had never been the case.]

There's a charm to halt that. I doubt you'd have come across it; it passes through ladies' circles.

[The less said about the struggle they had getting to Draco, the better. Those were painful years, all the more so because they didn't talk about what happened - not with each other, not really, and certainly not with anyone else.

If he wants to torment himself he can still recall clearly his father grousing "it's been four years why hasn't that blasted wife of yours managed to give you a son yet" -- and the white hot fury that surged as he thought of Narcissa quietly weeping in a dark bedroom, back to him as she hid her face -- and all Lucius wanted was to scream at him.

But now? Well...now he's old, and his wife while still lovely is hardly young herself, and if by some miracle they could beget another offspring now it would be a half-breed. A half-breed Malfoy.

No; they have their son, and for him that's more than enough. The child he adored and yet was so appallingly bad at times in showing his approval of. It's not like he doesn't know - he just also didn't know a better way to be a father, any other.]

You might well not be wrong, in that. [This also hurts to say. His voice has gone hoarse again.] He used to worship me like a god, when he was small - I know I've lost that now, all his respect and likely even his affection. Carried off in the fog of war like everything else. Suppose I deserve that: I enjoyed it too much, took too much advantage.

[Their only child was precious to them and now he's broken - marked and scarred by their experience, as bad perhaps even worse than everyone else. It's killing him, by degrees. He wishes he could make his son smile again. He wishes he didn't see those nightmares buried in Draco's eyes.]

Is there? [He blinks at her, bleary and detached surprise; it seems surreal to discuss this practically.] Really.

[No one ever spoke of those things; it simply wasn't done. He was young, she was younger, and not even certain that marriage was something she wanted despite the expectations placed on her as soon as she was born. By the time she realised that a particular wifely duty was going to be a problem-- she never told Lucius she'd overheard that grousing. He didn't need to know. And not even her own mother spoke with her about it - the most Druella had done was pat her hand with shadows in her eyes and mention some herbs that might help.

Draco's entry into the world had been a lengthy journey fraught with grief and worry, and utter elation when he'd been the longed-for son and heir.

Narcissa really could have done with some professional help after that, but instead they had a war.]

Of course he did. How could he not? You gave him everything he wanted, including your attention. [It hurts, to see him hurting. More than it did to realise he's no longer as he should be, because that's purely physical. Narcissa grew into the love she holds for her husband, and to see him in pain-- well. She hasn't dropped his hand yet, however cold and foreign it might be.] But I think it's something that would have to be earned, this time around. I spoiled him as much as you did.

[Her lip quirks at his tone of disbelief about his nails.]

Yes, darling husband, there is. I'm not in the habit of speaking for the pleasure of hearing my own voice, and given the way you loved to buy me silks and laces, not ripping them with fingernails is a marvellous this. Shall I show you?

Attention, yes, certainly; but never... [He berated Draco if his grades were less than perfect and scowled any time he didn't excel in his extracurriculars and the last time he probably actually hugged Draco, gave him anything more than a firm pat on the shoulder - his son was likely still a toddler. He was loving, yes, but distant and stern and demanding, and at the time it seemed fine but it feels like such a mistake now. Now they don't know how to talk to one another. Now if he even tries to open up more, he can't find the words and his son is uncomfortable; they both fidget and flinch. Their relationship is ice cold and full of silences, he doesn't know how to make it better.

He wanted to be a confident man like his father, a man of influence like him, but a better family man than he was. He didn't, he wasn't; he might have turned out exactly like him in that after all. At some point, he swears, that was the one thing he wanted to do right but he got...distracted.

By comforts, and privilege, and matters of standing and pride.

There are no second chances in life. Now he doesn't have a life anymore, regardless.]

He knows you love him, that you always loved him. He doesn't hesitate, when he needs comfort, to go to you.

[He'd resent it but it would be insane to be jealous of his wife for being a better parent. Anyway at least it means Draco has something to hold onto. He probably needs that right now.]

Oh go on and laugh at me -- you know you're the only person I could ever endure that from.

[With anyone else he'd be seething; with her he makes this comment very mild.]

Lucius... [Draco doesn't doubt his father's love, and she knows that. They simply showed it in far different ways.} He has that only because it was more socially acceptable for me to dote on him than you, more so given how late his arrival was. My indulgence was permitted. [Therefore his was not. And they did play to their audience; how else to attain and retain their status? Narcissa knows how to play the game as well as he does, despite her distaste for it.]

I'm hardly laughing. [But her lip quirks a little higher. Amused, perhaps.] Had you known of this yourself, I'd have been surprised.

[She turns his hand over so his palm is facing down, and reaches for her wand. A clearly demonstrated motion and three precise words in Latin (the last tells the spell to duplicate it on the other hand), and he now knows how to keep his nails at one specific length. An acceptable length. A length that is unlikely to catch on the fabric of his clothes, or the delicate skin of his wife. It wouldn't do to cut her, in his current position.]

It will wear off in two weeks, or thereabouts.

[She's not wrong. He knows this, it was his reasoning for his behavior at the time. Still-] I do wish-- [He shakes his head abruptly, cutting off. Pointless. What could it possibly matter now?

He's still half convinced he'll never see his son again. He's a monster now, an inferior freak, Draco would be horrified.

But he silently watches her perform her spell, doing the best to hide the twist of anger and uncertainty in his stomach - she has to do this because he can't. He'll never use magic again. For the rest of his existence if he wants a spell cast he'll need another to do it for him.]

...Thank you. [He is grateful still, albeit subdued and quietly.]

You wish..? [She hates when he leaves a sentence hanging, and there's as much prompt in her tone as there is curiosity.

And... yes. He is. Neither is his fault, nor his choice. Their son will see it - just as she sees the way he does his level best to hide his response to her magic from her.

Magic.

He's a vampire.

...

--how did that not occur to her? In every other way, physical changes aside, he's been every bit the man she's lived her life beside. That he could no longer perform the one action that defines them as a people barely crossed her mind, because he's still so very much himself. Narcissa feels vaguely sick. Has she rubbed salt into this clearly still raw wound?]

...you're welcome, of course.

[She puts her wand away, then lets her hands fall to her sides, in lieu of doing anything with them that might be misconstrued as condescending or pitying.]

There are things I would have done differently, could I go back now. That's all.

[Quietly, almost impatiently is how he sounds. But one as familiar with his character as she is knows better - Lucius never regrets anything. His ego simply won't allow it. Even things that have clearly turned out to be mistakes: he huffs, and he draws himself tall, and he insists it was still the only action that made perfect sense at the time.

But seeing what's become of his son, how badly it broke him trying to fit into a path Draco was clearly never meant to follow, he can't stop the regret from coming.

He watches his wife pull back, her expression trying to close off to him - too late. He guesses what she must be thinking. Mostly, though, he misses her touch already: he spent so long afraid to make contact, but now he craves her familiar reassurance like an addict. He lifts his hand again, hesitating midway - will she pull back, this time? - before reaching to cup the side of her face.]

There's no need for shame, for having what I would never deny you.

[If she ends up feeling guilty for having magic when she's around him, he'll hate himself more than ever.]

[There are a million things she'd have done differently, looking back - but isn't that the benefit of hindsight? And given the opportunity to start again, one wouldn't have the experience or knowledge to take a different path, and it's entirely possible that everything turns out in exactly the same way.

There are no second chances.

This is their life, these are their choices.

But of the forty-two and a half years she's lived, the one choice she doesn't regret now is standing in front of her. More than half of those years have been spent with him, and Narcissa knows that between Lucius and Draco, her world is perfectly balanced.

Of course, Lucius has never had fangs before.

Her gaze moves straight to his hand as he lifts it, and though she steels herself not to move away, the chill of his flesh still causes a slight flinch as the heel of his hand nestles along her jaw. His fingers feel strange on her cheek - tentative, cold. Foreign.

She lets him stay there. He's her husband, and this is simply something else to learn about him.]

I have never once felt shame for being a witch, Lucius... but I would never intentionally hurt you, or flaunt a capability that was forcibly taken from you.

There's nothing to be done. [He's trying to be practical. Never mind that within he's full of rage and loss. His habit is to tamp emotion down rather than deal with it, which makes times like this very hard indeed.] But perhaps you better understand why, now, that I've been so reluctant to come back.

[Live like a ghost in the walls of his own home, drifting from one room to another, a powerless remnant of the being he once was. He imagines his family would look on him with dismay and pity. He imagines it might be worse even, than when the Dark Lord had taken over - even denied his wand he'd at least known he could cast magic again if only he got hold of one.

Now he has nothing. Now - in his own magic-centered wizard supremacist worldview - he is nothing.]

[Perhaps that's something else they should change... so many years of repressing everything turned out so well for them, after all.]

...yes, I suppose I do.

[Those who topple from pedestals, no matter how they got there and how they were brought down, seldom manage to rise from the ashes of their own former glory. It's not likely to be any different for a once proud man, scion of a proud family, who is now no better than a Muggle - and a creature to boot.

And yet-- she can't bring herself to turn her back on him. He still cups her cheek, and the cool touch is making her cold in return, though her skin likely feels much warmer than anything he's currently accustomed to.]

But if you do nothing else, at least let me - her - know what happened to you. Allow some sort of closure, if you refuse to return entirely. You owe your family that much.

[Narcissa is the quietly practical one; her husband is a man in need of a serious wake-up call. He honestly, ardently believes his way of thinking is the only real way, the right way. Never mind how much it's cost to maintain, how much of that world has already been destroyed, how much picking the loyalties he did ultimately took from him.

How much harm being cold and arrogant and cruel did to his wife, to their son...to himself, even.

The tide is rising. The version of the world where the old values, the old ways could prosper is being swept away. Lucius still lives in a delusion; if he continued unchecked after the war he might actually have tried to carry on, telling himself the name and the money was enough, that eventually people would have seen reason and come around. But things can never, ever be as they were before. Especially now.

It could be an opportunity, in a twisted fashion. If he could bear to see it.]

Oh, believe me. She already knows. Everyone does. It was quite the bit of news once that story broke out, I'm sure you can picture it.

[Lucius Malfoy, known Death-Eater, the only war criminal to avoid Azkaban completely, notorious high society man and champion of pure-blood rights...a vampire? If the Daily Prophet headlines had been any more exuberant and attention seeking, they would have been literally screaming.]

I didn't look back because I thought it better...they not see me this way. Spare them the horror.

Still, you may be right. Perhaps it was wrong of me not to give proper farewell. [A pause before he echoes her, slowly, despondently thoughtful:] Closure.

[He might have tried.

Narcissa suspects she'd try harder to temper his arrogance than he would to maintain the status quo in the face of what was, for their cause, an unmitigated disaster - and a cause not worth the fight, in the end. Not when it nearly cost them their son.

There's nothing wrong with elitism, of course. She's quite used to being the Better Sort, and sees no reason for that to change. But in this new world forged by the death of the Dark Lord (the death she helped bring about, and hopes fervently that no one takes it for the treason it was and sees only the still very real desperate concern of a mother for her child), it might do to be... charitable. In a much broader scope than previously.

And then he says she knows, and a dispassionate part of her wonders how she took it.]

I can, thank you. Two black sheep in my family, you'll recall. [The media had crowed, others had tutted, Pureblood society had been horrified, and the Blacks simply carried on as they always had.

A pity, now, the line has completely ended in name. More than one era came to an end of late.] I... think that perhaps you ought to consider talking with her, rather than delivering a speech you've prepared and disappearing again.

Yes. But not the same as- [Of course he thinks his fall more grandiose, more impressive; but on second thought that is really not a thing he wants to imply to his wife about her family and her feelings, is it?] Er. Never mind. You'll have to forgive me my rather misplaced preening.

[He manages to say that with the same dry knowing humor he would habitually. But his expression beneath is dull and tired, not shining with the knife of cool wit he's sharpened on so many others.

Merlin he feels so drawn-out all the time. So old. Is that what it's like to live with the world no longer at your feet? When everything you took for granted turns to ash in your mouth?]

Was that what you'd expect of me? Among other things...I've found this whole situation leaves me entirely without proper words. No amount of preparation could combat it.

[One eyebrow arches in the beginnings of delicate disbelief at his almost-insinuation - but it doesn't climb any higher once he corrects his misstep.

That hasn't changed.

Of course, she's still quite stiff beneath his touch, but that could be her body's instinctive reaction to being so close to a predator.

She chooses to ignore his request for forgiveness, as it's rhetorical.]

I would expect you to attempt to strong-arm this situation the way you do any other political quagmire; to announce to all and sundry precisely what you expect to occur, and leave with the firm belief that it would happen, because it always has done.

[His hand at her cheek feels less cold to her, now.]

You've always done that, darling. It's why I turned you down the first time you proposed - because you didn't.

[He sees that eyebrow raise, and his mouth twitches at the corner - almost a smirk, almost a smile. There are few people in the world he can tolerate repeatedly puncturing his ego. Narcissa is certainly the only one who's ever made him almost enjoy it.

He wanted someone who would be his match, after all. His equal.]

Some might believe acting with confidence and high expectations in life is hardly a bad thing.

[His smile this time is still weak, emotional - but it's a true smile at last, with some of the warmth managing to creep its way into his eyes. The kind of look he can only give to members of his own family.

His hand goes to further cup the side of her face, gently caressing her, his thumb stroking the space just beneath her eye.]

You did make me pay for it, though, didn't you. That little misstep. At the time I'd never before experienced such anxiety. The thought that anyone would say no to an offer for me.

[Then he should thank his lucky stars he had the stones to do it properly the second time around. It was the only proof she had that he genuinely wanted her, and not just her name and the countless centuries in the past her bloodline snaked back.

She's glad she grew to love him... and she knows that his news will utterly devastate her in a couple of months time, should he actually deliver it. But given she hasn't run screaming here, perhaps things will turn out better than he hopes there.][There is far too much warmth in those words for it to be anything other than an endearment, and while she simply can't will her body to relax into his careful caress (a part of her is screaming in terror that he'll turn on her at any moment), she does tilt her head just a fraction in acceptance (he is her husband, and there has to be some measure of trust).] You needed a little less wind in your sails at the time, so puffed up and proud were you. I had to be certain you weren't just shopping for a pretty little trophy.

[He's so very pale... yet another part of her is concerned for his health and completely ignores his vampirism. He ought to be in bed, with soup and tea.]

Any man would be a fool, to think of you only as a trophy. [He was a bit smitten, to be honest, even right from the start. Rather unusual for people in their social standing to look for more than marriage but a real love match. There was something special about her, though. Anyway it all worked out in the end.

Until this happened.]

And more foolish still to describe you only as 'pretty'.

[His eyes narrow as he says it, there's that familiar arrogant look. He's as proud for his wife as he is of her, though. There's a subtle difference.]

...I've missed talking to you. I've missed...this [he means touching her, being with her] so much.

[ooc: missed portion: [...perhaps things will turn out better than he hopes there.] You arrogant little peacock. [There is far too much warmth in those words for it to be anything other than an endearment...]]

...then I'm lucky I didn't accept a fool, aren't I?

[Not that he hasn't done some foolish things - bit that's the past. His current situation is unfortunate, but he can turn it to his uses, if he chooses to. If he wants to.

Those are the words that relax her muscles just a fraction-- not too much (instinct is so strong, here), but enough that he should hear the truth of her words.]

And that's why you simply must return home. Please.

[Endearment or not, his expression to that is a silent mixture of fond amusement and 'really, must you?' (He gets its it: they are a bit much. But he likes having nice things, dammit. He always has.)]

It isn't so easy. [He pleads with her for understanding - it can never be simple, how could it? Everything is all...such a mess. Him most of all, perhaps.] It can't be. It won't.

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Apologies, week from hell.

Sorry to hear that - things better now, I hope? :c

Nooooope! Although I am seeing an upward trend.

Aww. Well I hope things keep going that direction, then!

Thank you! So do I, it's too exhausting, otherwise.

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Aw, it ate one of my sentences.

Oops, I hate when that happens!