fic: straight lines, he’s running out of time (hp, lucissa)

[human_veil]

straight lines, he’s running out of time
lucius/narcissa / hbp era / 1.1k

Letters, not sent.

written for hetswap

Dear Ghosts, I’m sorry. Who can understand?
What we call History, you call home.

— The Eternal City: Poems, Kathleen Graber.

 

 

 

 

Water runs over reddened flesh, Draco’s arm held in Narcissa’s hand. She tries to be gentle. Delicate. He needs it, she tells herself, and so her grip is feather-light despite the anger bubbling beneath her breast. It’s laced with fear, or perhaps it’s her fear that’s laced with anger, the adrenaline that courses through her veins terror-induced and waning. She runs a cloth over swollen skin and washes away the blood that clings, her jaw set tight as she looks at her son.  

The Mark stares back, blacker than black, the depth of its darkness astonishing.

Narcissa swallows around her fear and starts to plan.

 

 

 

 

JUNE, 1996.

I hope

I’m worried

I told you not to go.

 

 

 

 

Summer’s breeze filters in through the balcony. It fills her room--their room--and rustles the sheets, the empty side of the bed brought to life. In her sleep, Narcissa dreams of dusk. A memory: Sea and salt and sand, ripples of water stained by the sky’s reflection, blue turned blood orange. Beautiful, says a voice in her head, familiar and yet foreign, faded, but still, she smiles. Her head turns to hide it; not the expression, but the feeling behind it, the warmth that tightens her chest, frightening in its unfamiliarity, in its force. This must be love, she thinks. Had thought.

Phantom heat brushes her wrist. Delicate, tender. Persuasive. Sand shifts beneath her feet; it clings to her bare legs, crusts along her calf, all the way up her thigh, to where the cut of her swimsuit digs against her flesh. Her back hits a wall--a rock, rough and ragged, its edges sharp where they cut into her spine. The pain doesn’t register, not now, not then. There’s only the feel of his mouth: warm, ardent, obsessive, tender. She kisses back until the laugh catches in her throat, nerves or giddy pleasure looking for release.

Narcissa wakes with the taste of salt on her tongue. Teardrops or memory, she can’t say.

 

 

 

 

AUGUST, 1996.

I wish you were here.

 

 

 

 

OCTOBER, 1996.

Our son has been gone for over a month and I think of him every second. It’s a nightmare, Lucius. The mission He’s given him--

 

Severus informs me Draco is settling. Bella seems to think he’s lying. Bella always seems to think he’s lying, it’s starting--

 

Draco hasn’t owled since his return. Do you remember when he would write weekly? I believe he’s trying to--

 

Would it be awfully repetitive to say I ache to have you here with me?

 

 

 

 

Narcissa Malfoy does not wallow. She does not mope, she does not brood. She has been raised better, she thinks. Self-pity is beneath her; she refuses to indulge it, just as she’d refused to do so when she lost Andromeda, or Sirius, or Regulus, or her father, or--

“Oh, stop moping, Cissy!” Bellatrix spits the words, barely looking up as she paces, rapid-fire. Back and forth and back and forth and back. “He was useless, anyway.”

The glance she spares is directed to Narcissa’s hands, where Lucius’ wedding ring sits, far too big, around the tip of her index finger. The distaste is clear, her sister’s dismissive contempt obvious.

Narcissa can’t hold her tongue. “Perhaps you should focus on your own failings, rather than my husband’s,” she says, and watches as Bellatrix stills, stares, surprised for only a second before she sputters and swears, setting off again. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Narcissa listens to her mutter like a mad-woman, a fanatic lost in prayer, the sister she remembers buried somewhere beneath the devotion.

She shifts Lucius’ ring to her thumb as familiar agitation stirs in her chest: angst looking for a latch, something to release the pressure. Candlelight flickers in polished silver, Narcissa’s sight blurring as she stares. She feels as if she’s going stir-crazy.

She picks up a quill and writes.

I fear I’m spending too much time with my sister…

 

 

 

 

FEBRUARY, 1997.

I keep dreaming of our first kiss. It’s happened six or seven times, now. You remember it, don’t you? My grandmother’s waterfront, ‘hidden’ by the cliff. You weren’t supposed to be there but you came anyway, and you were so sure we wouldn’t be caught…  I’m not sure my grandmother ever forgave you for it.

I never told you, but before Draco, it’s the memory I used to cast a Patronus. No wonder it was rubbish.

 

 

 

 

APRIL, 1997.

I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for this.

 

 

 

 

MAY, 1997.

He’s so much like you, Lucius. He has the same eyes -- I know, I know, but it’s true. They’re just as expressive. I can tell when he’s lying, which is most of the time, now. He never quite manages to hold my gaze. Bella believes he’s doing it to shelter me. She says Draco doesn’t want me to worry…  Do you see what I mean? For some stupid reason, it makes me miss you more.

 

 

 

 

In a moment of weakness, she’d caved to her curiosity. Had caught Bellatrix out on the balcony, her sister a silhouette in the dying light. She’d asked about Azkaban. Or rather, she’d tried to. The words hand tangled on her tongue, her question lacking the expected eloquence. What was it... she’d said. I. I mean--

Bellatrix had only looked at her. There’d been a multitude of answers in her dark gaze, but Narcissa could see the question there, too. It lurked in the shadows, its protective streak reminiscent of old, almost forgotten days. Why do you want to know? the look said. Why would you do that to yourself?

 

 

 

 

JUNE, 1997.

I’m not angry anymore. I just want you to come home.

 

 

 

 

When she’s reunited with her husband, Narcissa understands: Everything Bellatrix refused to say clings to the crevices of Lucius’ body, the man who greets her a shadow of his former self. She does not say, I missed you. She does not say, I’m glad to see you. She does not say, I love you. She feels it all, but the sentiment seems hollow, the words insufficient in conveying just how true they are.

She lifts a hand, beckoning, and he comes to her as if pulled by string. It’s comforting in a way she’s never cared to admit; he holds a unique power over her, she thinks, distant. His presence is both her weakness and a source of strength.

Once within reach, Lucius doesn’t hesitate. It’s as if physically incapable. He wraps her in his arms, her name a broken cry filled to the brim with relief. “I’m sorry,” Lucius whispers, voice rough with disuse, the apology so soft she can barely hear. “Cissa…”

Narcissa only holds him tighter.