there is LITTLE that brings a genuine smile to lucius malfoy's lips. very. little. among them, the slightest touch of narcissa's hand. the delicate brush of her fingertips against his skin sends a wave of warmth in an otherwise frigid dungeon that he would never admit he CRAVES.
narcissa is a STRANGE woman, even by wizarding standards, but something about her has always urged him closer and closer still. GRAVITY in the empty void of darkness that lucius malfoy lives in keeps him moving forward, keeps him striving for the best, keeps him DETERMINED to provide EVERYTHING for his family.
despite the ANGRY outbursts that plague MALFOY MANOR, as of late, it has felt... off.
he sits alone in his study, as he has been doing for weeks now. he's bitten his nails down to the quick, nearly bore a HOLE in the floor from the tapping of GENUINE LEATHER shoes against the stone floor of the manor.
while usually devoid of color, his face is more of an ashen pale these days, usually with cold sweat gathering in small beads at his temple. his hair, a mess. he cannot recall the last time he washed it, but the state of his GOLDEN LOCKS is the last thing on his mind.
ANXIOUSLY, he waits, the windows open in the dead of winter, praying to merlin or WHOEVER is listening that something, ANYTHING happen to make all of this go away.
there is a soft rap of softer knuckles against the heavy BLACK door and as it pushes open slowly, narcissa appears. there is a BREATH, a release of air that's been HELD CAPTIVE IN HIS LUNGS for almost too long.
he FORCES a smile, rests his hand (now in a fist---NO he was not biting his nails!) on the desk, balled in a loose fist. "my love," he greets her with as much of a smile as he can MANAGE. it's sad. it's small. it's shaky. and it reminds him FAR TOO MUCH of draco, with pallid, shaking hands trying to follow instructions from lucius' OWL on how to fix an extremely rare, extrememly finnicky piece of DARK MAGIC. alone.
"why couldn't the dark lord allow ME? why does it have to be our draco?" he all but SPITS the words into the air, trying to keep his voice down as much as possible. you NEVER KNOW where the dark lord keeps his spies.
@narcisme come get your husband; he's a disaster
