blood in the water

Rabastan had grown up being fed this kind of underhanded affection, the kind of attention that always stung, like a hand across his cheek. It was the way Rodolphus had thought to deal with him ever since they were boys, snapping at even the implication that Rabastan’s feelings should be taken into account. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect this from Lucius – he knew he could be blind when it came to the man currently digging his fingers into his shoulder, but he wasn’t that foolish. It was that Rabastan was just drunk enough that he didn’t particularly feel like backing down. Maybe Lucius was right, maybe there was a shred of truth to his words, but that didn’t feel particularly important right now. Rab just wanted to chip away at this cold facade until all that was left was a Lucius that could love and be loved in return without breaking everything he touched.

“You’re so fucked in the head that you think setting me up for failure is helping me,” Rabastan snarled, volume of his voice rising. He wasn’t thinking about where they were or who could hear. All he could focus on was the way Lucius was looking at him, as though he was this pathetic creature simply for having a working, functioning heart. “I bet a part of you wanted me to fail. A part of you wanted me to look like a goddamn fool because then I’m not a threat. Then, I can’t interfere in your little love affair with our mutual friend. Then, I will always be under your fucking thumb, always forced to your bidding on your time, on your schedule, whenever you feel like paying me even a sliver of attention. I’m not your wife, Lucius,” he spat venomously. “I don’t exist for your benefit, for you to throw around however you see fit.”

And as much as Rabastan was furious at Lucius, angry enough to throw a punch if he was provoked, he did feel a pang of sadness when Lucius pulled away, when the sharp squeezing pressure on the back of his neck was gone. The proximity between them and the proximity between anger and lust was really doing his head in, leaving him in a drunken haze where he couldn’t tell whether he wanted to punch Lucius in the throat or kiss him so hard they saw stars. Neither was an option, not really, but that didn’t stop his eyes from going practically black with desire.

“I fucking hate this version of you, you know that?” he said, emotion creeping into his voice. “You’re mean and you’re heartless, and you hurt because you can, and I know it’s somehow my fault for expecting you to be anything other than this…warped statue of a man, but I’m not built for this, Lucius. I’m not like you or my brother, who can force your feelings into tiny little boxes and pretend they never existed to begin with.” You know this. You’re like me, I know you’re like me, and it’s my fault you don’t remember. It’s my fault you catapulted yourself into playing pretend. “You, of all people, know how hard it is, being who we are. So, why are you trying to punish me for it? Isn’t the rest of the world enough?”

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, smooth and clean, sharp and angled, tearing his eyes away from Lucius for the first time since they stepped to the side of the ceremony. “It’s not even that I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It’s that I don’t want to keep shoveling your shit and dealing with the twisted mind-fuckery that is being your friend. If you can even call this that.”

Had he wanted to see Rabastan fail? Maybe, but not quite - Lucius didn’t understand what his reason was behind the tainted Felix, in all honesty, because he had chosen not to dwell on the thought before, during, or after the exchange. A simple slip of his finger, if anyone tried to delve through the memory and find him none the wiser to his own shortcoming. A part of him assumed Rabastan was too brazen, too self-assured to actually use it; another part was jealous, rightly so in his eyes, and a bit of sabotage of those he was envious of always made him feel a fraction better. But the disgusting truth may have rested in Rabastan’s assumptions alone - that the distance between them grew without passing reason, and the only times the other man was driven back towards Lucius’ company was when he needed an ego stroked, a smile given, a smidgen of praise for all his worthless endeavors, and Lucius did it. Without regard to the usual hurdles he made people jump through, he gave those soft pieces to Rabastan whenever he asked, and in return, Rabastan was supposed to give him unmitigated friendship. What did it matter if the situation was slightly manipulated? What did it matter if the push of Rabastan back toward him, back into the orbit of his life, was at Lucius’ hand? He should be grateful the other man wanted him there at all, the younger Lestrange having thoroughly evaded his own usefulness years ago. 

For reasons unbeknownst to him, parts of Rabastan’s counter landed as deftly as his own had; the word ‘wife’ thrown so venomously at him that Lucius’ nostrils flared at the accusation. This was possibly due to the fact he didn’t treat Narcissa in such a way, always treading carefully between his role of a husband and a patriarch, not wanting to accept the dichotomy they saw too often among the traditional families ( though, to be fair, he was unaware at how poor of a job he was doing ). It was more likely due to the fact that these quiet moments with Rabastan always led to the same outcome, regardless of how Lucius had meddled or what scenario had played out, good or bad; a viciousness lobbed at Lucius for reasons he didn’t quite remember, his favorite rabid dog biting the hand that feeds for no other reason than to what, exactly? The means to Rabastan’s end seemed so muddled and unclear - they’d been side by side nearly all their lives, and still, the man insisted on rendering confrontation in the worst way, choosing the path of broken tree branches and trampled plants despite knowing Lucius preferred a bit more finesse on the crooked walking path of their tilted arguments. 

It didn’t help that Lucius despised tastes of his own medicine; it was rare for someone to know him well enough to land verbal punches as well as he tossed them out, but here was Rabastan - inebriated, rosy-cheeked, chiseled in his righteousness - sticking arrows in his chest just to watch him bleed, knowing Lucius couldn’t do a thing about it here, couldn’t lose his temper here, couldn’t say anything the raven haired man wanted him to say here, even if Lucius had no bloody clue what that could be anymore... The tables felt turned and Lucius hated this seat. 

It was beginning to infuriate him, but the casket door was finally kicked close as Rabastan dragged a tired hand over sharp features, barbed wire words leaving his lips as he pronounced their friendship dead to rites. Nothing gentle is left to be said, Lucius’ anger more pronounced than his vulnerability, a little bit of color rising in his cheeks but otherwise, he forced his face to be expressionless. No one was allowed to hurt him - no one was allowed the satisfaction of seeing him break. 

“Then don’t,” Lucius offered, swinging the bat for Rabastan’s knees, rooted in spot and ignoring the need to step forward, to initiate intimacy, when the other had made so clear it wasn’t what he desired anymore. “Leave,” another flippant response, tone icy cold, verbally erecting barrier after barrier between them as he continued, gaze trained on Rabastan’s face with the exactness of a man observing a dead bug under a microscope. “You’ve already shown your hand, Lestrange - you want me to care more than I do, and I don’t, so go. You’re embarrassing me at work, and I have more important things to do than listen to your manic ramblings as some lofty show to a boyhood friendship neither of us can seem to maintain.”

“You’ve exposed your willful ignorance toward anything larger than yourself long enough, and I’ve grown tired of cleaning up every mess you make simply because you blame me for them.” That should’ve been it, a finality ringing in Lucius’ voice as he went to step away, angling his body so that his shoulder bumped roughly into Rabastan’s in some schoolyard display of aggression - but the movement brushed the back of his hand against Rabastan’s knuckles, skin hot against his own, the sensation making his pulse skip momentarily and the blond found his eyes closing as he paused. As if stepping into darkness granted him a right for tenderness, for truth, and maybe it’s because he knows Rabastan’s four Firewhiskeys gone to the wind and won’t remember this anyway, but he found himself offering softly under his breath, without even realizing what he was saying, “I don’t pretend they don’t exist, Rabastan. I just feel them in my own time. Not everyone means what they say or says what they mean like you - some become statues because we need to survive, but I feel all the same.” We’re more than friends, and his ring finger twitched, and suddenly, Lucius was careening back to reality. 

Hero. That’s the word they’d all opted for - the fledglings of press outside the hospital, the victims, the Healers of St. Mungo’s, even the back-up Aurors who had helped Lucius and Prewett boy cart all the victims out of the atrium and to here. Hero. As if hadn’t been a pawn in a scheme he had yet to understand the scope of; as if he hadn’t narrowly avoided becoming a victim by the sheer chance of universe alone. Hero. As if he didn’t run circles with villains, as if he didn’t have his own suspicions as to who had carried out such a nefarious plot, as if ignorance and panic alone hadn’t fueled his decision-making at the time. Hero.... As if he wouldn’t have simply let them all fall and die like the gnats they were, if Rabastan hadn’t been in the mix. 

And like the hero he had been dubbed, Lucius had left for only an hour or two, before coming back with a cart laden with bouquets, gifted by the Malfoy Foundation to those affected by the night’s undoing. The press still squandered outside despite the late hour had an absolute field day with that image. Mostly whites, some yellows, and three bundles in particular that were different from the rest - personal, if one could believe, that Lucius took a personal interest in anybody but himself. His objective perception remained that it wasn’t being tender, but a decisive attempt to roll public image in his favor. That made it easier to swallow, at least - tenderness was a concept he didn’t like to touch, and this night had already left him feeling splayed open & vulnerable for everyone to see. Might as well make use of it. 

Lucius chewed the inside of his cheek as he made his way through the halls, the turmoil having died to the waiting rooms and mourning lounges, the worst of the chaos having ebbed its way to those peripherally affected. The Healers had gotten the thick of the crowds out of this area; once the antidotes were given, bed rest was the only treatment left to prescribe. He hoped that everyone would stay asleep - last thing he needed to be known for was his unrelenting talent with flower decorum & etiquette, the practice outdated and ridiculous but a talent nonetheless. He’d lucked out with the first few affected, leaving behind a modest collection of white jasmines ( good fortune, positive energy ), but he had a special set picked out for the first victim of the night - the annoying gnat of an Auror herself, Longbottom, of course had been idiotic enough to drink the very well she was supposed to be guarding. Typical. Lucius couldn’t even luck out enough that the poisoning might’ve taken her toward the death bed she deserved, instead living to fight another day like the gutter rat she was.

Foxgloves ( healing, but also, insincerity & pain ) had been his selection for her - a towering bundle of purples and whites ( ceremonious gestures, implied innocence ), hosta leaves around the base ( it looked nice, sue him ) all gathered together in a clear vase with a silver ribbon around the middle. A Romantic era gesture that spelled out hatred better than he could ever say, lest he peak any more of her suspicions in him. Lucius was delicately placing the bouquet down at her bedside, eager to make his escape, when a tell-tale rustle from her bed indicated the worst of the scenario - she had woken. Fighting the frown that often crawled across his features in Longbottom’s presence, he simply straightened up with a quieted sigh, refusing to look at her as he murmured in the darkness of her room, “It’s a shame what happened tonight. The Prewett boy saved your life. We’re lucky no one died - you’re very lucky to be alive.” To bother me another day was best left unsaid.

It’s barely been an hour, and the Minister had just been carted off by Shacklebolt, a slew of security detail in tow to address whatever inane concern had been conjured up by the masses this time, leaving Lucius to do both their jobs for him. At a swearing in ceremony that Harold had insisted on creating for the sake of good publicity, and he couldn’t even be damned to stay for the actual event itself, which couldn’t kick off until he graciously provided them with his presence once again. 

Typical. Always stuck cleaning up messes that had no right to be there in the first place. Lucius didn’t make a move to follow the discernible circle of advisors and protectors, his place being here, playing damage control for the Minister’s constantly worsening image, despite his best efforts. The blond waved off the glass of champagne offered to him by the closet waiter, frowning for a moment before pressing his lips into a tidy, neutral line. Tonight was not the night to be thrown off his game. 

The cameras were already flashing as he weaved toward them - a gaggle of reporters and columnists and photojournalists all pretending to be the eyes & ears of the people when really, they were slaves to the intricate web of lies Lucius had woven and dubbed a ‘public image’ on Minchum’s behalf. At least his place here was widely understood; albeit, he was dreading this moment, because he knew he would have to face her tonight, unable to avoid her presence any longer despite his best attempts since Valentine’s Day. 

It didn’t help that the idea of legacies had been pricking the softest pieces of his mind of the late, after Narcissa had finally broken the news to him re: her untimely pregnancy. He had been with Sinistra literally the night before, and although his wife was none the wiser to his whereabouts, a guilt had begun rotting within the chest cavity his heart was supposed to be located in. Before their affair had been a necessary action, a visceral desire to be succumbed to in a controlled environment, but now? It felt like he was already disappointing his unborn heir, already allowing himself to falter into the same tainted light his own father had resided in for much of Lucius’ life. 

“Let’s save the questions for afterwards, people, you’ve barely even gotten a show yet. The Minister will make his official comments then,” Lucius waved off the crowd with one sweeping motion of his hand, stepping deeper into their throng and managing to come face to face with the very woman he’d taken to avoiding for the past two weeks. “Sinistra,” the blond’s expression didn’t change, giving her a curt nod before turning his body so they were side-by-side rather than facing one another, not wanting to give any of the other idiots the idea they may speak to him. He couldn’t offer her an actual apology, not here, but he tried for second best, keeping his tone even to ward off any eavesdroppers. “You look well. I think I owe yo-- The Quibbler an exclusive, if you’re interested. I know I’ve been lacking in communication lately.” 

The sight of the castle looming through a break in the tree-line was almost sickening. Bellatrix had graduated well over a decade ago, and yet twice in a month the castle was offending her gaze. It almost felt like a cage now - it had felt freeing, at the time. Being taught magic in an official capacity, as opposed to the illegal magic her parents taught her from a young age, initially it was very exciting. However, the longer she spent there the more it felt restrictive. The sort of magic Bellatrix wanted to explore, the magic that thrummed through her veins and made her heart beat was not simple charms and transfiguration. It was dark magic, darkness that only a man such as the Dark Lord could teach efficiently. Hogwarts was child’s play, and Bellatrix had grown to resent it quickly. 

Breaking in and damaging the school and Dumbledore’s office had almost felt like retribution - revenge for wasting so many years of her childhood where she could have been honing her skills in the necessary areas. Now she was frustrated - frustrated that she was back here once more, frustrated that the memories they had so carefully retrieved had proved useless. If the mission tomorrow was a failure, Bellatrix would surely find herself being seriously punished by the Dark Lord. The last thing she wanted was to feel his wrath, but she could almost sense it coming - like a wave of discomfort, washing over her.

Lost in all these thoughts as she approached the edge of the forest, Bellatrix set a foot wrong and found herself falling with a exclamation of surprise. As she fell she fumbled for her wand, which jolted from her hand as she landed with a thud. Taking in her surroundings, Bellatrix swore loudly as she looked up to see the gaping hole that had clearly been glamoured. She had been right - the teachers had set booby traps. A rustle of movement to her left had her head whipping around, and Bellatrix frowned in confusion. “Malfoy? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Wait….how long have you been here?”

In retrospect, Lucius sort of deserved this. Not that he’d ever admit it, but it wasn’t like he’d even thought to check for glamour spells in the area when he’d traipsed along the treeline of the Forbidden Forest, testing any gaps for breaks in the security wards he was warned would be present. The first chink he’d found, he’d immediately stepped forward without question, proud of himself for finding a hole in their seamless brigade, only to be tossed wand-over-ass into an.... actual sink hole. The resounding thump had knocked the wind out of him when his back connected with a boulder of some sort, a pause in his reflexes long enough to send his wand skittering across the dirt floor. 

It wasn’t until Lucius had sighed and gone to search for his wand, an accio on his lips that the snare was activated, tendrils wrapping around his chest and slamming him back against the trunk of wretched creature. He knew better than to panic, relaxing within the stupid thing’s grip with a soft sigh, settling into place. Getting out of this mess by himself would require controlled effort and composure, even the slightest twitch of his muscles alerting the Devil’s Snare that he was trying to escape its clutches. Good thing he had enough patience to wait here all night, if he had to. 

He hadn’t been there very long when company joined him - although it was difficult to gauge the passage of time in a pitch-black dirt cellar, he hadn’t caught a glimpse of sunlight when she’d fallen, meaning it was probably still night. That was good, at least. He wouldn’t have known who joined him if the familiar scent of burning spice, with a hint of something sinister and feminine, cedar perhaps, but that wasn’t the point; the point was that he was joined by none other than his least favorite Lestrange in the country, now that Rodolphus wasn’t around. 

“Bellatrix, darling, you must realize I have no clue, it’s not like I have the bloody stars to go by,” Lucius huffed quietly around a grin he didn’t have to hide, silently cursing the Dark Lord. Of course he hadn’t trusted Lucius with this mission - of course he’d send his favorite pet sniveling after him, waiting for him to fail, and look at that! They both were carelessly pompous enough to stride right into - he’d assumed Minerva’s - trap, Bellatrix not much wiser than him, it seemed. 

“There’s no point in struggling - it already knows you’re here,” but the warning was pointless, Lucius hearing the tell tale rustle of bark against stone, knowing she was about to be just as ensnared as he’d become - albeit, the Devil lessened its grip on Lucius as it focused on new prey, allowing the man to shake his shoulder once and causing the back up wand he always kept up his sleeve to fall into his hand, although he made no move to use it. Not yet, at least. He deserved a passing moment of joy, all things considered, to bother his sister-in-law.

How Rabastan ended up here, he had no idea. An invitation had appeared in the post, which he’d promptly burned, only to have his mother send him a howler, demanding why he was such an insolent little brat, who had taught him to be so ungrateful because it certainly wasn’t her, how he could spurn such responsibility when Rodolphus was risking his goddamn life. The letter was angry enough to make Rab hesitate in his decision, but at the end of the day, he wasn’t built for these kind of functions. He’d ultimately say the wrong thing, offend someone, and leave the party worse than he’d found it, and it was moments like this where he missed his brother. Rodolphus had taken most of this burden, and it wasn’t like he was doing his brother a favor, but Rabastan had benefited all the same. He’d put the event out of his mind…until he’d received an owl from Barty, formally letting him know that he’d be in attendance, and Rabastan felt his heart stutter and squeeze. Perhaps tonight, he’d have the chance to mend their friendship, to soothe the rift between them that had lasted for far too long.

As soon as he arrived at the party, however, and Barty was nowhere to be found, Rabastan realized that he had fallen into a classic trap of Sabine Lestrange. His mother had always had her claws in his skull, from the day he was born until the day he died, and he felt stupid and childish and wholly naive. She’d gotten in his head, seen what he desired, and then used it to reel him in like someone coaxing a rabbit into a trap with a carrot stick. He couldn’t think of anyone else who’d want to lure him to such a dull event, and it only benefited her to have him rubbing elbows with the powerful and influential. Merlin knows she probably wanted him to find some simpering wife here who would help continue the Lestrange name. Now that he was here, he couldn’t fucking leave, so of course, he hitched his wagon to the refreshments table, pouring an extra splash of whisky from his flask into his already spiked drink and tiding over a pleasant buzz to last him through the night. And certainly, he was drinking to make the event more bearable, but also he was drinking because he didn’t know how to be the person he was supposed to be here, all buttoned up and stiff, and he’d rather be a gregarious caricature of himself, with the excuse of alcohol to mitigate his total lack of decorum.

He was on his fourth glass of punch when he saw, across the room, a familiar shock of golden hair, the classically refined features of Lucius Malfoy standing out even this far away. Rabastan felt his heart sink into his stomach like a rock at the sight of him. He wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t see the flush in Lucius’ cheeks, the way his lips pressed together, the way his eyes almost looked black, all pupil no iris. And, of course, not even a moment later, Antonin Dolohov appeared as well. The two men separated in the crowd, going opposite ways, but that didn’t matter. Just the sight of them together was enough to rile Rabastan up, picking at all of his most sensitive insecurities. Rabastan was moving before he even registered what was happening, practically shoving his way through the crowd, cutting a path directly to Lucius as his mind went blank and fuzzy with rage, with hurt, with betrayal. He couldn’t say half of the things he wanted to because they wouldn’t make any sense to Lucius, and that was his own doing, but he did have one bone to pick with his friend, and it was the matter of the tampered Felix that had left him reckless and useless in Dumbledore’s office, a child that had to be babysat while Bellatrix carried the brunt of the mission on her back. And sure, perhaps Rabastan wouldn’t be able to get out everything he needed to say, but he’d be able to get in a few choice words, barbed and nasty, and that had to be enough for him. He had no other choice.

It was without much care and without a whole lot of tact that he bodily shoved himself into the middle of Lucius’ conversation, interrupting the thing with a sharp look at his friend and a cold, snarling demand, “I need to steal Lucius for a moment. It’s been so long since I’ve seen my friend, and we have much to discuss.” His hand latched around Lucius’ wrist, dragging him away from the group, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he felt himself thinking of the way he used to feel Lucius’ pulse when he thought Lucius was sleeping because the steady thud, thud, thud was the one thing that could calm his racing mind.

Rabastan only stopped them when they were at the edge of the party, away from the throng, and perhaps this was a conversation that required even more privacy than what Rab had afforded them, but all he was thinking about was how much hurt he had in him, like a walking fucking bruise that spelled out Lucius Malfoy’s name. “Did you know?” he asked blearily, the moment they were alone (or as alone as they could be for this kind of event). “And did you do it on purpose?” He already knew the answer - Lucius was the smartest man he’d ever met, and nothing, nothing, ever slipped past him. Rabastan really just wanted to see if Lucius had the gall to lie to him to his face. Perhaps that would be the insult he needed to finally kick his habit, his on again off again addiction to the way Lucius made him feel. “You think I’ll stay around no matter how many times you kick me in the ribs. You think I’m just this thing you can control and own and make to look like a fool and then you’ll say some pretty words and I’ll forget it all, but I’m fucking tired of it, Lucius. What have I ever done to deserve being treated like the dirt on your shoe?”

Conversations with Antonin always left Lucius a bit flustered, in the same vein as spending too much time around Bellatrix, which was equal parts perplexing as it was annoying. He had allowed himself to be distracted by the other man for much too long, emerging back into the throng of attendees with his usual haughtiness, hoping that if he acted like he’d never left the room, no one would really be of the wiser. The welcoming speeches seemed to have subsided, and the schedule of events listed the swearing in to come next, but without the Minister’s presence... The master of ceremonies was informed by Lucius earlier that no such thing was allowed to occur until Minchum returned, given the duty of a swearing in rested solely on him.  

Since that appeared not to have happened - damn Shacklebolt - the quartet had begun a secondary set, filling the atrium with the somber, minor chord versions of the classics they had already played the first time around. It was downright eerie, and Lucius was making his way toward them to insist they change to literally anything else when he was intercepted by a gaggle of men looking too serious for their own good. He knew they worked for the Department of Intoxicating Substances, which were technically Aurors to some, but to Lucius, they were a downright bore and a fucking bother when he had more pressing matters at hand ( specifically the ambiance that was quickly spiraling toward depressing ). It’s here, lost in his own thoughts and looking for a means of escape as he ignored their exaggerated qualms over the refreshment table lacking surveillance, that Rabastan had found him. A surprise to say the least, given that Lucius had curated the guest list personally, and would’ve noticed the younger Lestrange’s name - still, a twitch of a smile sat around his mouth when the other man cut in, as unceremonious as ever, but effectively providing the exact departure Lucius had been seeking, despite the abruptness of his informality. 

His lips had curled into a smirk as Rabastan dragged him away, having not yet realized his friend’s haste was to direct ire at the Malfoy heir, rather than save him from loathsome company. It’s not until they’d stolen off to one of the more dimly lit corners of the atrium that Rabastan rounded on him, a darkness in his eyes Lucius was sure he’d never been on the receiving end of before; it immediately caused the blond to bristle, hackles raising despite the smirk that only widened for appearance’s sake. “Come now, Rabastan, let’s not fight - I would hate to mistake your drunken mania for insubordination,” Lucius chided, but his words lacked mirth, a wolfish edge to his features as he caught the unmistakable whiff of punch & Firewhiskey on Rab’s breath, their newfound proximity not helping in the slightest as he realized he hadn’t been called away for a moment of kinship. 

In Rabastan’s minute of righteousness, any familiarity Lucius let leak into his expression was swiftly squashed; like a steel curtain dropping, he was scrubbed of the flash of adoration in his eyes, the crookedly wry smile, the affection that bubbled so easily in his words that the other man’s presence always called forth. This is what he deserved for allowing his weakness, his affinity for the Lestrange to show so blatantly; a dog who couldn’t be given an inch of leash without running a mile. Maybe, just maybe, Rabastan had a right to be a little annoyed, but he absolutely did not have the right to corner Lucius at his place of work, to toss him face first into a confrontation about their mutual allegiance surrounded by fucking Aurors, his disgusting display of raw emotion in such a setting putting Lucius immediately on edge. It’s this vein of thought that has Lucius seething with his own quiet fury, although none of the surrounding attendees would ever know. It would take much more than a snarling pet to break Lucius’ composure when prying eyes were all around. 

He stepped forward, closing what little space was left between them, a tight grip falling to clasp on Rabastan’s shoulder and squeeze, daring him to pull away as the blond rooted him in place. The smile now carved into his lips was too wide, vicious, as he ducked and placed his lips by his ear, whispering for only Rabastan to hear, tone carefully neutral but thrumming with an anger as he spat quietly. To onlookers, they looked like two men sharing a secret discussion, but this was more akin to a spar than a pleasantry. 

“Did I know what exactly? That you’d ruin the most basic of tasks with your own insecurity? That you’d been trusted with a responsibility you’d squander because of your ubiquitous need to fail when you’re propped up for unrelenting success? Or that your obsession with being a black sheep has left you woefully unprepared for shouldering any level of expectation?” Lucius replied fervently, each accusation lobed with painful accuracy for no other reason than he knew it would hurt. That’s what Lucius did, it’s what he was best at - seeing the emotional needs of others and crushing them under his dragon hide heel at the first sign of threat. An exacting awareness to where they landed, the best defensive mechanism for a man who relied so heavily on verbal cruelties over feats of strength to keep others beneath him. 

“You’re so focused on yourself, you never see the bigger picture - all I’ve ever done is tried to push you forward, Rabastan, and all you want to do is hold yourself back,” he continued, not realizing his hand had crept from the raven haired man’s shoulder to the back of his neck until he used it to drag Rabastan’s gaze back toward his own, emerald meeting hazel, flashes of hurt and tenderness for only him to see. “It was a test, you blundering oaf, and you failed it - and here you are, blaming anyone but yourself when you’ve fallen short,” and with that, Lucius released his grip, the tips of his fingers aching with how hard he had clenched into Rabastan’s skin, jaw clicking as he finally stepped away. His picture perfect smile had disappeared as well. 

Lucius was in his prime, always content when he sat in the middle of the thrumming pulse of activity. Tonight’s task had become the maintenance of appearances, the duty of being the face & words of a Minister who’d already dove off from attendance to take care of a passing trade ultimatum with the German government, Kingsley in tow - good riddance. It was always in Lucius’ favor to avoid the Minister speaking for himself, Minchum’s tendency toward foot-in-mouth syndrome so woefully common that Lucius was surprised the man ever won the election at all. 

The Malfoy heir was a composed man, having weaned off the drink & its seductive temptation half a decade ago, but even he sometimes found himself having wandered too close to the refreshments table, the energy of all the room’s attention on him both thrilling & terrifying, his subconscious begging for a numbing against his own accord. Quickly excusing himself & sidestepping the lure nearby, the Malfoy heard the polite applause of a crowd preparing for a speech to be delivered - he should weave his way back into the junket, do his job, but if the Minister for fucking Magic could skip out on an entire event, well... Lucius could have a minute to himself. 

He slipped down a half-hidden hallway toward the Ministry Security Hub, knowing full well the usual alcove would be empty, the opening slew of introductions having called the attention of the room. No one would find him here, finally getting the cigarette he’d been salivating for since lunch. 

Lucius rounded the corner to his hiding place with ease, caught up in the ticking of proverbial boxes in his mind when he ran into none other than Antonin Dolohov, the only other body in a space Lucius was sure would be vacant. If it had been anybody else, he would’ve muttered excuses before ducking back toward the atrium, annoyed and seething of being robbed a moment of solitude, but Dolohov was his friend - or at least his ally. Lucius didn’t feel the need to run and hide from him. 

“Dolohov... what a surprise,” Lucius hesitated for a moment, lingering in plain sight before finally stepping into the shadows of the alcove. The small space beckoned for an uncomfortable proximity, but Lucius cast his discomfort aside, the enticement of nicotine too critical to ignore. He doesn’t say anything else as he withdrew his case, extracting a cigarette and lighting up with a snap of his fingers, as he was prone to do. “Didn’t see you on the invite list - I would think an Auror ceremony would be well beneath you - certainly is for me,” he took a drag, exhaled, took another and continued around a lungful of blessed smoke, “Unless you have some other reason to be here...?” Their master loved tossing unforeseen variables in Lucius’ path, just to see how he’d react, so there’s a hint of suspicion around Lucius’ words, eyes narrowing slightly as a cloud unfurled from his lips. 

“A father…?” Nothing could stop the crack in his composure, the wry smile tugging at the side of his lips, trying to be stifled but unrelenting in his sheer joy over the idea.

“Happiest…? Hm. I’m… I’m not sure. Happiness seems to be an illy defined errand for fools, to be fair.”

Lucius paused, opened his mouth to speak again, but ultimately clamped it back shut for another minute. Perfectly polished veneer fluttered with a very concerning realization - it deepened the lines beside his eyes, the frown twitching on the corners of his lips, a flash of sadness in emerald hues.

“To be perfectly forthright, I… I don’t remember.” 

He didn’t have those memories anymore, thanks to a certain someone - not that Lucius was any the wiser.

“…. Irrelevancy. I’ve sacrificed too much, just to uphold the honor & purity of my namesake. We’re the only driving force forward of our heritage, our lineage - we are the line that connects the past to the future. I take that duty very seriously. It was a burden at times, but such is the life of the patriarch. 

For that to all be in vain, to sink into mediocrity or obscurity despite everything I’ve lost…. That’s a fate worse than death.”

“Following the Dark Lord is a means to an end, and that end is solidifying the place of Malfoys in history. It’s always been about legacy - of my ancestors, of my kin, and the heritage of our bloodline. 

Power is such an objectifying term - tell me, where’s the power in a man who slaps his face and name over his every heinous deed? Sure, he’s notorious, but he’s painted a target on his back in red & white, begging for a shot to be fired. The presence of gods begs for heretics, disbelievers, rebellion - even the omnipotent receive spit in the face. Look at Grindelwald, once untouchable, now rotting in a prison cell somewhere in… well, who the bloody hell knows?

What power do I really have? Maybe none, if that’s how you want to quantify it - notoriety. But when gods die, and kingdoms fall, and the dust settles, the Malfoys have always been there to rise again from the ashes. Real power is the wisdom to stand back and watch cities raze, and know you stayed in the shadows long enough to not get burned… and to claim another day. Real power rests in survival.”