multiversallogs | 100 problems.

Entry tags:

100 problems.

Who: Lucius Malfoy(?) and Narcissa Malfoy
What: A denizen of Baedal of relative newness evaluates his options and goes with this one.
Where: Sobek Croix
When: Sundown
Notes: None
Warnings: Nnnot yet

It's getting late.

Vague concern of becoming lost in the dense woods, so different than the other neighbourhoods he had seen, is a distant kind of worry and the least of the current concerns that Lucius Malfoy is currently working through. There are spells and enchantments for that sort of thing. There are also things for which there are not any spells and enchantments at all, magical principles dictating that nothing comes from nothing. Everything comes of something. That's actually rather the problem.

Rather than move upon the beaten road, Lucius moves in parallel to it, relying on trees and long shadows to keep him at least partway concealed from those who aren't looking for him to begin with. Boots will become filthy in damp dirt and scratching bramble, but they are also only one of two sets that he's been wearing for the last little while, and most of their polish and what made them fine has long since scrubbed down in scuffs and wear. Fabrics of good make and dark tone don't exactly blend in with his surroundings, but he isn't really counting on this either.

Nor has he ever done this before.

But sometimes he reads.

A Homenum Revelio charm is currently why he is moving with any certainty, the presence of the charm making itself subtly known to the person it detected like a chill, or a predatory shadow over her head.

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A pause follows that, and then her hand on his arm (not the one she slammed a jar into), briefly, lightly, more establishing than anything else. "Tomorrow, then," she concedes, quieter. There's so much to deal with, she understands, and- that will be something she and her own Lucius have to contend with as well, at least some. She doesn't bother to even consider the notion that that resentment might be toward her - on some other occasion she might be inclined to pick a fight, but not today - and she makes a conscious effort to be patient. It's sometimes not her best skill; she tries.

Allergic to pity but not all of the physical acts that can come of it, Lucius does not dissuade or bristle at brief touch to his arm, a fleeting glancing to it before his attention is once again set forward.

If allowed, he is more content to lapse into silence that Lucius can pretend is companionable rather than sulky. Distracted is probably the better descriptor, as he has been given food for thought beyond simply getting through the hours, his stay in Baedal so far deviating between stressful, alarming, and boring. He is only as conscious of his wife's alternate beside him as he is of the ache in his shoulder -- it is there and niggling at him, but otherwise he removes his mind from it until it becomes necessary to pay attention to it once more.

Such as, when the townhouse comes into view, Lucius lifting his head to study it. It is nice. It is also smaller than the giant grey castle in Wiltshire that Lucius has called home all his life, but then, entirely portions of that building had gone unused in its excess.

He's also looking for something to complain about -- and finding nothing. Which somehow doesn't improve his mood anyway. The most he manages is a guttural 'mm' from the back of his throat.

As if by some wifely radar - or just the familiarity of having known one another since childhood (he has, she realizes, known her yet longer, and that's a very odd thought to have) - Narcissa's well aware of what he's doing over there and while she refrains (just) from rolling her eyes at him, there's a self-satisfied edge to her smile at his silence. Damned right there's nothing to complain about.

(Her Lucius had been living in some little flat alone, before she arrived, but as ever - Narcissa's presence merited more effort.)

She pauses, briefly, as they enter; no, she doesn't hear anyone else, and the house feels empty. That's...probably for the best, she decides. They'll have a bit of time to get him situated before he's obliged to deal with everyone else, and she'll have time to decide exactly how she's playing this.

"Come and sit," she says, letting the door swing shut behind them, tugging her gloves from her hands, "and let me see what I did to your shoulder." That verbal concession is as nice as she's going to be about hitting him with a jar, for the record; he did start it. "Then you can bathe, and I'll make you something to eat."

No servants, alas, but she's an excellent cook.

He did. Start it. But she finished it.

It's nice to be somewhere private and enclosed and nice, in any case, ever-present tension loosening just a little as Lucius moves on inside at invitation. Also nice that they are alone -- he could do with more time before running into anyone he knows, or thinks he knows, or resembles himself from the best part of two decades ago. His coat is shed, placed down upon a convenient flat surface along with his cane, his clothing antiquated by modern or Muggle standards and could probably do with repairs, or laundering, or-- getting thrown away, by now.

Fingers searching over the slightly damp spot at his shoulder, darker from the drab grey cotton of his shirt, he reports, dryly, "I think I'll live." But he does sit down, if only to get off his feet.

For her own peace of mind (the jar had broken, after all), Narcissa is determined to look for herself; it wouldn't be the first time Lucius downplayed something to her, after all, just the first time she'd been the one who inflicted it on him in the first place. (Their marital tug of war, mercifully, is not that way inclined.) Her fingers follow his, pressing and testing with brisk efficiency, and when she's satisfied she-

-laughs, quietly, as her hand comes away with a faint glow. It stains, she'd forgotten.

"Oh, dear."

What?

'What' is written in Lucius' expression as he twists to take a look himself, then. He'd have bitched more if he'd expected injury beyond a bruise, maybe a nick from a stray piece of glass. Grey eyes, then, seek out the strange stuff illuminated on her fingertips, and for all that he'd ignored it in the same way he's ignored the mud on his shoes and the roughness of stubble from angrily not shaving on his face, he now peers at the glowing moon water that stains his clothing and his skin.

An accusing look is flicked back up at her. "What is it?"

"Moonlight," she says, still smiling - more to herself than to him, watching the play of it on her fingertips under the light in here. Now is not really the time, but...oh, it is beautiful, and she's been so pleased ever since she discovered the pools. "I was collecting a sample to see if I couldn't divine some sort of magical application, or even to simply understand how it is..."

She'd rather like to fill her fountains at home with moonlight. Wouldn't that be something? -the truth is that she's restless here, and an intellectual challenge that appeals equally to her vanity has been an ideal distraction. Still, she draws her attention back to him a moment later, ushering him upstairs. "It's only light. The credulous outside Sobek Croix mistake the light in the trees for ghosts and fancy the place haunted. Now, if I haven't done you a terrible injury- a bath? A shower? I'll lay out clean clothes."

Being something of a dab hand at potions back in his day, Lucius is more distracted that he's been doused in moonlight than he is at the prospect of running water and clean clothing, momentarily distracted by her distraction, the smallest line of familiar exasperation once again printing between his eyebrows, before focusing on the matter at hand.

"And you're certain it's harmless?" he asks over the top of being ushered, a hand up like he's about to feel at the stuff himself before hesitating, not wishing to do so without knowing any better. Or without a decent pair of gloves. Slughorn taught him better than that.

Back on his feet, at least, and moving then to pick up coat and cane, desiring to leave none of his effects very far away from him, and certainly not his wand. But should he desire to leave swiftly, then the wool of an extra layer and the contents of his pockets are of the few items in the world he has, even if its just the dregs of his money and a tattered pamphlet.

"Positive," she assures him. "You'll glow a little where it touched you, a day or two, but it'll do you no ill. People swim in it, Merlin knows why." Perhaps the most reassuring part of this will be how unconcerned she is at having stained her own hands with it, if he's inclined to be reassured by anything.

Upstairs, then; she points out the spare bedroom where she'll lay out clothes (her husband's, she's decided on his behalf that he won't mind) and shows him the guest bath. This, as the rest of the house, still has the pristine crisp air of newness and it's evident enough in subtleties that they haven't been long settled in.

He has his doubts. Just on principle.

But tonight, he submits to being shepherded along, giving up on the simple things, like being overly neurotic about glowing in places for a few days, or dissecting the unnerving ease in which he listens to her and adapts to this environment. She was right when she'd noted Lucius' exhaustion, and on the later end of his 40s, this counts for something when it comes to token resistances. Maybe later, he will be more sharply aware-- according to himself-- that he doesn't belong here. Probably when he realises he's been given his younger double's clothing.

For now, he lays his cane against the guest bed, allows once-elegant boots to thud dropped against the ground, and glance at himself in the mirror, both at moon stains and the state of himself. And not linger there for any length of time. He'll take that bath, yes, he decides, mouth pulling in minute grimace.

"You don't ask about the future," he observes, quite suddenly, as he sets his coat down across the back of a chair. "You have your reasons, I imagine."

At that, she's still a moment - it is a small betrayal of her own anxieties tonight, but if he needs more than that to see that she isn't so blasé as she plays at...

Narcissa busies herself, promptly, with seeing that there's a towel in the guest bath and preparing to take and clean his things. "I do." A beat. "I do have my reasons, yes. You aren't the first." To have a future to tell her about.

The way she gazes at him for a long moment is somehow both distant and unnervingly present- it seems as though she'll say something, affected and important, but she breaks it off and steps away toward the door.

"Do you want something to drink, when you come down?" She does.

There is probably, at least, time enough for important affectations.

His own hesitation manifests as brief unfocus and internal thought, wondering what exactly she is supposed to know, and maybe also what she doesn't. Regardless, he isn't going to fill her in for as long as she isn't looking for him to do so, and even if she did-- it'd take more than a single drink to make him want to do any such thing.

Not that he's objecting when he swiftly asserts, "Please."

Not much further ado is necessary, then, as he moves from the guest bedroom to adjacent bathroom, which is substantially more than he counted on getting when he imagined what it would be like to mug another person for their possessions.

Once safely downstairs, Narcissa opens a bottle of wine to keep her company while she puts something together in the kitchen; something simple seems best, both for the sake of being quick and because she's not sure if he's up to anything too rich or heavy. There's fish, and it'll only take a half hour or so for parcels she can put tomato and capers over, light enough that she can eat a bit too (it'd be so awkward to make him eat alone) without being overfull.

She allows the details to distract her, and by the time he's done, there'll be food (she prepares it, serves it, and then casts a charm over it to keep until he's properly done - she doesn't anticipate him being in a hurry), wine, a pitcher of water on the table in an unsubtle hint to drink it, since he could probably use that too, and the lady of the house standing at the door out into the back garden, smoking.

It's not one of her better habits- but Merlin take it all, this night.

Naturally, he takes his time.

There is a degree of wear and tear that warm water and soap isn't going to do much to remove, seen in the shadows around his eyes, lines engraved into his face and the pickling bitterness reflected from the inside, but he can at least be clean. He can even shave, which he does, in a sudden fit of vanity as well as avoidance of its neglect being pointed out to him. By the time he is emerging from above, there is improvement, although his hair still seems to fall in rat's tail fragments despite the comb put through it. He's traded his previous garments for these new ones, which at least fits him in with his surroundings in more ways than one.

She can take note of his presence from the scrape of the water pitcher dragged across the table a few inches, Lucius still standing as he pours himself a glass, cane lent against the table. It's a show of restraint, anyway -- the food and the booze both far more tempting, for different reasons.

Exhaling and setting what's left of her cigarette in the ashtray, Narcissa shuts out the evening air, drawing the door closed behind her before she joins him, one hand still bearing that faint glow despite a good scrub before she went in the kitchen.

"Bellatrix thinks-" not Bellatrix says or Bellatrix knows, "-that there'll be victory." Hers. Theirs. She doesn't know what to call it any more, knows better than to think her sister would be inviting Lucius along with any victory of hers, real or imagined.

She goes on, as she sits down with her own plate and her own glass (of wine, not water), "We arrived in the midst of a plague- I caught up to her in the streets. She told me, then. Alastor Moody - he isn't here, you needn't worry - told me how I died."

These two realities are, she presumes he can conclude, somewhat at odds.

Lucius remains standing for the time it takes for him to drain at least half his glass, long, measured sips, before settling when she does. Food over wine, then, taking up utensils and letting them hover tentative over his plate of food before dividing out a rather large mouthful. Politely and unhurried, but he is hungry, and there's little doing to pretend otherwise. And the food is good.

He is also listening, and glances up at the mention of her death. Doesn't make sense. Moody died in the battle that took his first wand. A sips his wine-- generously-- and then rolls it in its glass in absent, thoughtful gesture. "That is what she would think," sounds curdled. It isn't like Lucius and Bellatrix have ever gotten along famously, but his voice is even sharper, now. "Where I am from, you are not the one who dies." If he can say anything good of his reality, it would be that, of the bad things that did not happen but could have.

He divides out a morsel of food with his fork, without bothering to set down his wine to do it. "But this sort of thing happens often, does it?"

"More often than I expect any of us would care to have it." A pause. "I have Evan's wand, from the last city." Her expression softens, minutely, at the mention of her favourite cousin; theirs was always the mostly-platonic mutual adoration of two borderline sociopaths, based on largely on Evan's willingness to go along with Narcissa's notion that the entire world revolves around her.

But he's dead (but Moody killed him), and in the present, she attends her meal more delicately.

"The other Narcissa-" there has to be a less unwieldy way of putting that, somehow, she'll think of it, "-is living a life I don't remember, too. It's strange. I feel as if I'm my own older sister." And this situation somehow makes that less frightening than it ordinarily would be.

(She won't talk about that fear, not ever, but it's evident so very briefly in the rueful expression that crosses her face as she considers how unusual it is that she can say those words here, in this context, without feeling it.)

It may be an amazing feat of divination that Lucius doesn't expect to feel like a long lost older brother to the one who has his name, here, but probably not -- and this thought is transparent in the twist at his mouth in customary sneer before his next sip of wine. But he is busy, also, chasing the subtle nuances of her expression, mostly to-- maybe-- can some context on how to handle it. Being a doppelganger.

The results are neutral, really. None of this is usual, even by wizarding standards. But wizarding standards does allow for some adjustment to the unusual.

"And yet, you are not. Stands to reason that none of us owe each other anything."

The situation with the Narcissas is different in many ways, not least of which being how much easier it is to separate their realities - to step apart just enough to relate to each other that way. She'll teach her to cook and try to manage her a bit, without interfering too much, and she supposes that's sort of sisterly, isn't it? Bossiness and all...

...but these Malfoy men, that's another story entirely.

"I don't believe there's a Lucius Malfoy in existence I'd consider myself obligated to," she says, lifting her wine glass. "Surely you don't imagine I do anything it doesn't please me to do."

She'd said something very similar to her younger self, quite recently.

Well. Touche.

If someone is going to put Lucius in his place, it may as well be done efficiently and bloodlessly, and there is a most subtle glimmer of wry half-smile at the corner of his mouth before it's dimmed again. "Perish the thought," he agrees, dryly. "But then again, I did have a mind to rob you and suffered minimal retribution. I think I still am, actually."

Just amicably, and at her behest, and never mind the jar to the shoulder. His fork scrapes up more food as if to add punctuation to his point.

...Narcissa finds herself momentarily stymied.

"You are a hateful man," she informs him, but she's trying, very hard, not to smile at him.

"I know."

Subtle hint of mock pity in this reply, poor you to marry one, my dear, before Lucius rather catches himself. Not that there is anything morally wrong in engaging in banter with the younger alternate version of one's wife and even if there was, morals are a relatively fluid kind of concept for any Malfoy worth his salt-- but he returns to his food and wine regardless, grey gaze flicking off in some other direction. It's like he'd said, about what they owed.

He is mostly done eating, as well, or at least satisfied himself to a point where a few more slower, smaller bites will have him near done. He finishes his glass of wine neatly, emptied container set down.

"I think I might retire for the evening."

Retiring from the field while you're still the victor, she doesn't say, realizing a moment later that it's actually easier to navigate this conversation when they're slightly at odds. At least then the boundaries are clearer, when she isn't searching for the safe middle ground between standoffish and too familiar. She doesn't owe him anything, no, but he's Lucius and he's hurt and her instinct-

-well, all right, her instinct has always been to burn down whatever hurt him. But after that, to help. To soothe. Only he isn't hers, precisely, and she doesn't know what's allowed, and she isn't used to having to think in terms of needing permission. It's unfamiliar and disconcerting, which automatically makes it annoying.

That isn't his fault, but that's annoying, too.

"I'll see you in the morning, then," she says, setting her own glass down beside her plate. At least this'll give her an opportunity to speak with her husband before the two of them meet. That- she thinks that would be best. "Do you need anything?"

Well he could take the bottle of wine with him, but refrains, getting to his feet instead and collecting up his cane in the process. Maybe if Lucius had more practice in living in a servant-less house, he'd go and take the dishes to the kitchen, or praise her on her cooking -- as it stands, he still isn't used to having no silver platter, despite recent shenanigans. Stealing is just another form of unrepentant taking, anyway.

"No. Just rest, thank you."

At least he doesn't have to be the only one unsure about how this works, or if he's meant to give her a 'thank you' that is less off the cuff and has more meaning, but affected sentiment was never needed before, so why start now?

"In the morning it is," he agrees, before moving back for the staircase in dignified retreat, the tap of his cane underscoring heavier footsteps.

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