"Cold Water," Lucius/Narcissa, PG-13 Title: Cold Water Author:kethlenda Characters/Pairing: Lucius/Narcissa Summary: They know nothing of the consolations of cold. Rating: PG-13 Warning(s): none Originally Written: 2/06 Notes: For sionnain
Later, after the Dark Lord has gone and left them reeling and bewildered in the graveyard, Lucius remembers how to be angry.
He has decided he liked the Dark Lord better in the metaphorical sense. The Dark Lord made a good nursery-bogey with which to frighten the Mudbloods, but now that he is in the flesh again, Lucius feels small. Smaller than he has felt in over a decade. He has lived as a potentate, lord of the manor, a force to be reckoned with in wizarding society. Now he is a minion again. That damned Muggle poet never said anything about serving in hell.
The pain of the Mark is receding from his arm, now, and a slower burn is devouring him now, a burn that is within rather than skin-deep.
The dying fire illuminates the cemetery in a lurid red glow, as though in a medieval vision of perdition. In the dancing shadows and flashes of light he sees the others coming together, bodies writhing in passion, fear and impotent rage their kindling. Long-dead names, now only words on stone, flicker in and out of vision. “Tom Riddle” on the highest stone—Lucius lets out a bitter laugh as he imagines that they dance upon the Dark Lord’s grave.
This consolation is not for him tonight. He turns to go.
“Going home to that frigid wife of yours?” taunts Alecto. She lifts her robes, offers an alternative.
He is upon her in a moment, hand at her throat and wand at her heart. “You will never speak thus of my wife. Never.” He lets go when he sees her eyes go glassy with fear.
They know nothing of the consolations of cold.
She is waiting for him, pale and straight as a lily, and he tries not to think of funerals. Her dress is white, and how did she know he wanted to see her in that color tonight?
She does not speak. He opens his mouth to greet her, and she presses a chill finger to his lips. Not tonight. It can wait till morning.
Her bedroom, not his. His is filled with books and ledgers, owls from the Ministry. The detritus of daily life: a thousand supposedly urgent things to think about. Her room is an oasis, a haven.
She reclines amid silken sheets, a Venus carved in icy marble and when did she slip out of that gown?, clad only in silver-gilt hair.
He sinks into her--A blade of red-hot iron, tempered in cold water. And even the sun goes to its rest in the sea.