#frucius

(So I had these rely cute rambles about them meeting and being cute at hogwarts and then living in a cottage with like 4 kids and a dog or something in the same village as Augusta and living happily ever after etc and then in a modern au they have to be rivals/enemies to lovers and how they met at a convention and were arguing for like 2 hours at someone's booth about whether DC (lu) or Marvel (frank) were better and then ended up spending the whole rest of the day together and basically meet up at different conventions and stuff but tumblr deleted it went I went to post it so im going to just link the fics I've written for them before. I'm sorry I know I'm a day late. I was out today so I didn't have much time to rewrite it. Anyway I hope you enjoy/enjoyed these if you've read them!)

Bicycle ~ 2513 words

At last, defeated, he pushed back his covers and slipped into the silence of the castle. The stones were cool beneath his bare feet, the corridors echoing with the ghostly hush of early hours. He descended staircases as though descending into confession, until the night air met him— a relief against the heat of his thoughts. The Quidditch pitch stretched vast and empty before him. Perhaps here, in the open dark, he could breathe.

But he was not alone.

The sound reached him first: tyh keen whistle of broomsticks slicing the air, punctuated by laughter. Laughter— unrestrained, the kind that belonged to those untouched by grief. His body knew before his mind admitted it. He stepped closer, peering through the mist that hovered low over the grass.

His Lucius.

And Narcissa.

Their blond heads gleamed pale against the dim horizon, hair catching the first tentative fingers of dawn. Lucius corrected her grip on the broom, hand brushing hers in a way that was casual, natural, practiced. She laughed, startled and pleased, and his lips curved in reply. That smile—it had once been Frank’s triumph. He had waited entire weeks for it, drawn it forth in stolen hours by the lake, in hurried whispers behind tapestries. Now it bloomed freely, without shame, and it belonged to her.

Frank stood frozen at the edge of the pitch, a silent witness to his own undoing. When Lucius caught her mid-dive, his hand steady on her arm, her laughter echoing through the empty stands, Frank turned away. He could not bear it.

The day that followed was merciless.

At breakfast, the Great Hall brimmed with noise, spoons clattering, owls swooping overhead. Frank pushed food around his plate, appetite fled. Across the room, Lucius entered with Narcissa at his side, his hand grazing her elbow in absent-minded familiarity as he guided her to the Slytherin table. They bent close together in conversation. Frank dropped his gaze to his porridge, though he could not block out the sound of her laugh.

“Longbottom, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Edgar remarked, frowning at him.

“I’m fine,” Frank lied, forcing his mouth into something resembling a smile. Alice Fortescue, kind as always, caught his eye and offered him a piece of toast. He accepted with murmured thanks, though the bread turned to ash on his tongue. He could not explain to them—could not lay bare that his ghost was alive and laughing just a few tables away.

In Potions, disaster awaited. His hands shook as he measured the asphodel root, spilling it across the desk. Slughorn tutted, but Frank barely heard him. Across the room, Lucius leaned close to Narcissa, their heads almost touching as they bent over a shared textbook. Lucius’s mouth curved at something she said. Frank’s heart clenched. That curve had once been his reward, conjured by his words, his presence. Now it belonged to another.

By midday, the castle itself conspired against him. He glimpsed them everywhere: Narcissa waiting outside Charms, Lucius reaching for her books, their fingers brushing in the exchange; the pair in the courtyard, sunlight gilding her hair while Lucius leaned close as if drawn by gravity. Even Andromeda Black, passing with a stack of Arithmancy notes, rolled her eyes at the sight of them. Bellatrix sneered openly, muttering something venomous that Frank could not catch.

He wanted to hate Narcissa. He wanted to summon in himself some righteous anger, some reason to despise her. But he could not. She made Lucius happy. That was the ruin of it. The lightness in his eyes was unmistakable, the uncoiling of something that had long been wound tight. Frank knew that look. He had lived for it.

The Marauders, passing by in a blur of noise, did not help. James Potter, ever irreverent, whistled under his breath as Lucius and Narcissa crossed the courtyard. “The Malfoys and the Blacks,” he muttered to Sirius. “Breeding peacocks, aren’t they?” Sirius only scoffed, though his eyes narrowed in something like disdain. Frank caught the exchange and felt his stomach knot. Even ridicule could not diminish what he had lost.

By evening, Frank was hollow. He retreated to the library, his last refuge, hoping the quiet stacks would soothe him. But they were there too. Narcissa sat elegantly in a high-backed chair, Lucius standing over her shoulder, hair falling like silk as he pointed something out in her book. She tilted her head up, eyes bright, lips curved in a small, private smile.

Frank fled before either could notice him.

He ended up by the lake. The water mirrored the bruised sky, rippling with the first stars. He sank onto the damp grass, pressing his palms into the earth as though to anchor himself. He remembered nights here with Lucius, the air sharp with secrecy, the thrill of stolen kisses and whispered promises. Lucius’s hand in his, warm, sure. The world had felt perilous, yes—but radiant, more alive.

Now the memory burned like salt in a wound.

Alice found him there by accident, clutching her Herbology notes against the wind. “Frank,” she said softly, frowning. “You look unwell. Are you—?”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, the lie rehearsed now. She hesitated, but did not press. She left him with a small, worried glance.

He sat until the cold seeped through his robes, until the stars blurred through his tears. The castle bells tolled curfew, but he did not rise. He pressed the heel of his hand against his mouth to stifle the sob that broke loose anyway.

He did not resent Lucius’s joy—that was the cruelty of it. He only wished, selfishly, that joy might still be his to give. But Lucius’s smile, his warmth, his laughter—all that fire had found a new vessel. Frank would learn to live with absence. To pass Lucius in corridors without looking too long, to hear Narcissa’s laughter without flinching, to carry his grief like a second skin.

And as he trudged back to the dormitory, hollow and exhausted, he knew he would not sleep tonight either. Perhaps not tomorrow. Perhaps not for many nights to come. For every time he closed his eyes, he would see it all again: dawn light gilding Narcissa’s hair, Lucius’s smile blooming for her, and the quiet certainty that he had lost something he could never regain.

. . .