byrightsinhell | Backstory: All war is deception

Backstory: All war is deception

Lucius Malfoy, a bit shaken, looks into his mirror and is sobered to see a pale young man with blood along one temple who looks like he’s just been through hell. He’s seeing his fiancée in less than an hour, but a social engagement was hardly an excuse one offered to the Dark Lord. After a shower a small bit of healing magic, he would look (he hoped) as good as new.

Shortly after, he checked the mirror again. A vast improvement. His color was normal, the blood was gone as if it had never been. The change of clothing helped as well; wearing all black had certainly made his pallor look worse than it was.

The truth of the matter, of course, was that he’d had a very close call. They Ministry had authorized Aurors to use unforgivables, though it had mainly been kept out of the Prophet. They didn’t want the outside wizarding community to be scared, they way they so clearly were. But the war was going to get worse, before it got better, even if Lucius was confident of being on the winning side. And he’d been involved long enough to know that it was far from a game anymore.

He closed his eyes on the mirror, attempting to clear his mind, then opened them again. He had to leave all that, for now. He needed to focus on being relaxed. Charming. Confident. And perhaps he would even manage to enjoy what was left of the evening. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

At the agreed upon moment, he apparated to the Black’s designated arrival area, and headed for the house. His smile was as flawless as his dress, and it would take a good eye indeed to detect anything artificial in it.

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The easy victory leaves her momentarily taken aback, and Narcissa reevaluates his mood swiftly - his distraction had been clear to her, but now she thinks she'd underestimated it. "The pavilion, then," she says, instead of commenting.

He nods, and takes the moment or two of walking over to think of how he'll begin the conversation that they need to have. In the pleasant warmth of a fine garden, it all seems slightly surreal.

When they're seated (and he's sure no one is nearby, though who would be, he couldn't say), he says, "Narcissa - do you trust me?" It's, for once, a serious question.

It is, she thinks, a question that she should have a ready answer for - but she finds she doesn't. It's never been so directly addressed and never been something she's thought of so specifically, so she pauses, waits and weighs her thoughts.

"Yes," she decides eventually, slowly. "Yes, I do."

He nods and takes her hand. "I'm glad. Because I've come to trust you. And there are a few things we still need to discuss before the wedding. I don't know that I intended it to be tonight, but... well."

For a moment, he listens to the stillness of the night around them, looking up at the stars. Without looking back at her yet, he says, "Have you ever given much thought to politics?"

"Some," she says, guarded; in spite of the slightly wary tone (maybe it's more that she wants to trust him), she slides closer on the pavilion's bench when he takes her hand, tucking herself into his side.

When one's elder sister is Bellatrix Lestrange, there are certain illusions that one is not permitted to have. Narcissa, watching Lucius in the dim light of the evening, begins to suspect.

He figures as much; Narcissa's incredibly observant, and Bellatrix (and even her husband, to a lesser extent) is not incredibly subtle.

"I trust that you know, at least, that there's a war for wizarding Britain going on, as much as no one wants to speak of it. It's been building for years."

"I am my sister's confidante in many things, Lucius, don't pussyfoot. I know what you're speaking of." Bella doesn't tell her everything and never will unless she loses her mind and concedes to her sister's insistence that her place ought to be by her side in all of these things, but she tells her enough.

Her eyes narrow and she realizes, abruptly, that she likely does know exactly what he's speaking of. With sudden swiftness she drops his hand and reaches for his left sleeve- but her hands aren't as fast or as strong as his, and she'll only succeed if he lets her.

He catches her wrist, almost by instinct, stopping her. But then he seems to think better of it and lets her go. He rolls up his sleeve himself, though, and lets her see mark. It's not jet black, but certainly visible enough to those who knew what they were looking for.

He'd been so proud of it. There were only a handful who had been deemed worthy of it, he was one of the youngest who had; there were a couple who were younger, and a few around his age, but it was still an achievement. Now there was pride, still, but it was tempered by years of secrecy and danger. It was a lot of weight for a small tattoo to carry.

The expression on her face - of one who does know what she's looking for, first of all - isn't shock or dismay. It's merely grim satisfaction; she's hardly pleased, but neither is she surprised. She was right.

"Bella didn't say you'd taken the mark. I wonder why not." Narcissa still reaches out, though her fingertips stop short of the mark itself and rest against his arm.

He doesn't shy away, letting her fingers rest there. "If I had to guess? I doubt she thought I deserved it. I've always been a bit too temperate for your sister's tastes, I gather."

After a moment, he says, "I wondered if you'd suspected, before now."

"She doesn't think you deserve me, either," Narcissa remarks frankly, avoiding the subject of whether or not she'd suspected until she's quite ready to answer it. Her fingers trace around the edges of the dark mark restlessly, though she doesn't look at it much after the initial examination.

He smiles a little. "Yes, she made that quite clear. Which is why it's probably best I'm not marrying her, isn't it?" Of course, it's a mask for a larger question, but he's not going to push her on this. He'll let her react when she's ready.

"There are a good many reasons why that's true, dear." She flattens her hand on his skin and frowns, in contrast to her light remark, as her mind works through what this means - immediately and the larger context. She'd said to him quite early in their courtship that she'd thought of things he hadn't, but now she considers that perhaps he'd done the same.

He gives her a moment to think. Even if she'd suspected, there's a difference between suspecting and knowing. His skin is warm under her fingers, thanks to the charms keeping the garden pleasant.

"Well," she says, choosing her words carefully, "I'm glad you didn't wait until the wedding night for this, Lucius, I'd have choked you."

She'd certainly have tried, anyway.

Instead of that, she balances her hands on his knee and presses a small kiss to the corner of his mouth. "It's all right." On second thought - and considering his cautious demeanor, as if she might bolt if he moved too fast or simply as if he might be having nerves of his own - Narcissa kisses him again and less chastely.

He returns it, a little cautiously at first, but warming to it as she deepens the kiss. He slides an arm around her waist, pulling her a little closer to him.

Once the aching kiss ends, he says, "I swear to you, I wasn't going to wait that long. On my honor as a Malfoy. I just hadn't found the right moment."

"I believe you," she promises, her hands having at some point migrated to his shoulders and now laced together behind his neck. "I'm just not certain there is a right moment for that."

"No, perhaps not." He touches her cheek with his other hand. "I was out, tonight, before I came here. You may have guessed, that's what came up with your sister. That's why I've been a bit distracted."

--but she hadn't guessed and alarm rises in her eyes, suddenly. "You weren't hurt, were you?" Her hands drop to his body, pressing briskly as if she will simply poke until she finds somewhere that hurts in lieu of trusting him to answer honestly.

"Not badly. I patched myself up before I came." He may have a few bruises that if she presses hard enough she could find, but nothing threatening. "The Ministry is starting to panic, though."

He's quiet a moment, then says, "I thought that it might be over shortly, not so long ago. Now I think it will get worse, before it gets better."

Relenting, she leans against him instead of digging for injuries and rests her head and pale curls against his shoulder. "How much worse?"

He considers protecting her. How much he'll shield her, now and when she's his wife, is something he's been giving thought to, but hadn't really decided.

But he decides now. She's strong enough to cope, and he doesn't mean to make a habit of lying to her. "The Ministry has given the aurors larger powers. They've authorized the use of unforgivables."

A sharp, quiet inhalation of breath is the only answer that she gives for some time; the silence draws out so long that perhaps she might not intend to answer at all. The truth is that her first response strikes her as something their engagement is not entirely suited to; lovers make those kind of promises, and they are...something. Engaged to be married, she reasons, but most of all for reasons of practicality and suitability.

Here and now she mightn't say she loves him, though now she considers it.

He laces his fingers with hers, in response to her silence. "It's only fair you should know. Now, beforehand."

He hates that it pains her, and regrets that he's asking her to marry him in the middle of such an uncertain time. But it's because the time is uncertain that marriage seems all the more pressing.

He admires her strength now, though, more than ever.

After a beat, her eyes on their hands, she changes her mind about her silence and looks up. "If you die, Lucius Malfoy, if you die and you leave me alone with some infant and your name, I will throw open your house and ruin that name out of spite. I think, therefore, that it'll be in your best interests not to leave me unattended."

She delivers it with perfect equanimity, and it's quite a neat threat for all that she'd never carry it out.

(Some women are more creative when they decide to demand someone not die.)

He blinks, and then he begins to laugh, quiet but helplessly. It really wasn't that funny, but it's been a tense night for him, and his tension has been looking for a release somewhere.

It doesn't last too long, though, and he says, "Narcissa, I swear to you, if I am on the verge of dying, the threat of your revenge will be the strongest possible incentive to recover."

"Good," she says, satisfied by his reaction and trying not to start laughing herself. "I'm glad we understand each other so well."

He kisses her again, warmly. "Absolutely." His smile fades, though it doesn't disappear. "And once it's done, there will be nothing you want that you can't have. We'll be one of the most honored families in the country. Things will be better, once it's all over."

Narcissa's own smile is more thin, and she kisses him again instead of answering; as much faith as she can muster, those sort of promises have always left her chilled. They're so easy to break.

Lucius, while pragmatic about his own death, hasn't the slightest inkling that Voldemort could lose this war. The man is immensely powerful, a brilliant strategist, and he understands that things in wizarding Britain have gone very, very wrong. In this first war, Lucius is following him both because he believes in the cause, and because he thinks it's the winning side.

So he kisses her back, hoping that his closeness will reassure her. He's not a hero - he has no intention of dying if he can help it, and he wouldn't want to leave her if he did.

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Backstory: All war is deception

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