InsaneJournal

Always
Title: Always
Author: nishizono
Pairing: Severus/Lucius
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Sadly, they aren't mine.

SPOILER WARNING


Summary: Had I died there, I might have been a hero; but I did not, and I am not.


Author's Notes: For Lysa, Ldy, and V: because you understand why sometimes, when I stare up at the night sky, I can hear the breeze whispering, "Always."


~*~*~

"Severus, look at me."

Look... at... me...

"Severus? Severus!"

~*~*~

"Are you in pain?"

Am I in pain? Of course I'm in pain. This hurts more than anything I have ever known; more than the sting of betrayal in green eyes, more than the arc of a mentor's dying fall, and almost more than I can bear. I want to scream it to the uncaring sky, sink my teeth into it and tear it apart, shatter and destroy it just as assuredly as it has destroyed me.

But his voice is kind.

"Sleep now. You will feel better when you wake."

I try to laugh, and fail.

~*~*~

"Drink."

"Lucius?" I ask, even as I obediently part my lips. My voice is nothing more than a whisper of breath, and the potion burns my throat.

"Yes," he says.

I open my eyes to a blur of white and grey, and a sharp pain that radiates down the sides of my neck. If this is death, then it is misery.

"Stop trying to speak," he tells me. "Your throat isn't healed, and you'll only make it worse."

It isn't my throat that needs healing.

This time, when I laugh, it sounds hoarse and hollow.

~*~*~

"Draco?" I rasp, the moment I wake.

"Safe, if not entirely sound," Lucius assures me quietly.

Nodding, I open my eyes, and immediately close them against the harsh sunlight streaming in through the open window. The mattress shifts as he stands, and a moment later, I hear the rustle of drapes being drawn. When I blink again, the room is dark, and he is a pale specter amidst the shadows.

"I should be dead," I whisper softly, more to myself than to him.

"You aren't," he replies.

"I should be," I assert, and darkness overtakes me.

~*~*~

When I dream, I dream of her. When I wake, I see only him.

Eventually, he understands. Eventually, he comforts me with Dreamless Sleep, and for those long hours, I do not exist.

~*~*~

"How long has it been?" I whisper to him.

Lucius looks tired and drawn, with dark shadows beneath his clear grey eyes. The blond hair I have always envied is clean, but sometime between then and now, it has lost its sheen. For the first time in his life, Lucius Malfoy looks less the unapproachable deity and more the man.

"Two weeks," he tells me as he runs the tip of his wand over a raised pink scar on my throat. We have established a routine for these things, and it is predictable, if not altogether comforting. Sometimes I wake to the tingle of magic against my torn and bruised flesh; other times, he is waiting patiently by my bedside for me to shake sleep from my vision and settle against the pillows before he begins. It will take months, he tells me, to finish the treatments. Nagini's poison has damaged the tissue on the most basic cellular level, and the healing process will be exhausting for both of us.

I do not wonder when he developed such extraordinary skills as a healer. After all, when a man consorts death, he must specialize in life.

"I can move my legs," I note with surprise as my knee twitches upward at my command, and then, “Are we at the Manor?”

There is a soft sound, and when I glance up at him, Lucius graces me with something that might have been an amused smirk before the war. It almost means more than his caring for me for two weeks, because it is infinitely more difficult to smile than to mend torn flesh and broken bones. I was never able to meet that challenge, myself.

“Yes, we are at the Manor,” Lucius tells me, placing his wand on the nightstand with a click and pushing the comforter away from my leg. He cups my ankle in his hands, and there is magic in his fingertips as they rub small circles across the top of my foot. My muscles tingle, pinpricks of feeling that race up my legs and make me squirm against the sheets, despite myself.

“I should have taken the weeks of bedrest into account,” Lucius says with a frown, speaking more to himself than to me. “Even with the temporary paralysis, I might have prevented your muscles from atrophying.”

“Lucius,” I admonish him in a rasping whisper. He glances up at me through a curtain of blond hair, and I shake my head weakly. “I’m alive.”

After a moment of silence has passed between us, he lets out a long sigh that almost sounds relieved, and nods. “Yes,” he agrees quietly, “You’re alive.”

I fall asleep with the back of my knee cradled in his hands; and when I dream, I dream of Sorting Hats and the warmth of my childhood hero’s palm against my back.

~*~*~

When I wake, the fire has burned to ash and the room is lit only by the smoldering embers. There is a heavy warmth against my thigh, and for one terrifying moment, I remember the hot pressure of an open wound. When I look down, however, I breathe a sigh of relief, because there is blond hair fanned out across the heavy velvet comforter, and Lucius is snorting quietly.

Smirking at having caught my pretentious friend at something so plebian, I reach down and run clumsy fingertips across a tendril of hair that is curled against the green velvet. It does not shine, but it is soft, and I twine it around my forefinger with a thoughtful hum.

Lucius stirs then, and his breath is warm against my exposed thigh as he sighs in his sleep. Closing my eyes, I remain still until he has settled again, and ignore the tingle that begins where his lips have brushed my flesh and ends in a part of my body that has been seemingly unaffected by the lingering paralysis. Once he has murmured unintelligible declarations to my knees and hooked one arm over my shins, I dare to lift another few tendrils of his hair and slide my fingers through them.

“Do you remember,” I breathe, “The night I came here to the Manor, after Lil- she sent me away? No one else has ever withstood my temper with such patience, nor seen me give in to that sort of desperate weeping.”

This earns me no response from my sleeping companion, and I shake my head at my own foolishness. I suspect that he already knows all that I might tell him, but there are some things we have never said aloud.

There are too many things that I have never said aloud.

I stare at the shadows above the bed, and wonder how my life might have differed, if only I could have told the living what the dead so easily confess.

~*~*~

For the first time in almost three weeks, I see sunlight without wincing.

“I remember why I preferred the dungeons,” I comment hoarsely. There is no longer pain when I speak, but my voice is nothing like the smooth baritone it had once been.

Lucius’ shoulders shake with a halfhearted laugh, but he does not turn to face me. His spine is rigid beneath the fine linen of his shirt, and his hands are stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. Outlined in shadow against the bright morning light, he seems an exhausted yet proud figure, somehow lovely despite his obvious discomfort. Rather than wondering why his posture is full of such uncharacteristic trepidation, I wonder what I can do to put him at ease.

“Do you feel ready to try standing?” he asks me quietly.

“No,” I tell him honestly. Though I have regained almost full control of my upper body, my legs remain stubbornly unresponsive to all but the smallest of movements. “I’d like some tea, though.”

Lucius glances over his shoulder at me, and relents with a huff. From the outline of his hips through his dark grey trousers, he hasn’t been eating, and I know that his Malfoy pride will not allow him to serve anything less than a full tea upon a guest’s request. It is an unsubtle manipulation on my part, and I almost smile at the familiarity of it.

When he turns to face me, I suddenly understand his discomfort. In the full light of the morning, the stark contrast between the Lucius Malfoy I had always known and the Lucius Malfoy who stands before me is made all the more obvious. Though his shoulders are straight, and his chin is raised, the bones of the wrists that peek out from his trouser pockets look fragile, and the grey eyes that refuse to meet mine are bloodshot.

Once, a million years ago, I would have lied and told him he looked terrible. Instead, because I cannot bear the tension between us, I say, “Only you would survive the war with your beauty intact.”

It is one of those things that was never meant to be said aloud.

Lucius rolls his eyes and clears his throat, but his cheeks flush a light pink, and I cannot help but to smirk. Without saying a word beyond the incantation necessary to summon the tea tray and levitate it onto the nightstand, he takes a seat in the chair at my bedside. I politely avert my gaze from his trembling hands as he pours a cup of tea for each of us.

Instead, I focus on the large plate of scones that steam beside a small dish of Devon Cream. They are blackberry, my favorite on the rare occasion that I have allowed myself to indulge in such frivolities, and my stomach gives an insistent rumble. The nourishing potions that Lucius gives me each morning are enough to replenish vital nutrients, but have done nothing to assuage my hunger.

“It is too early for you to begin eating solid food,” he tells me regretfully as he helps me lift my teacup and cradle it against my stomach. “I apologize for being so thoughtless- I’ll banish them if you’d prefer.”

“No,” I tell him quickly, shaking my head. “No, I miss the smell of scones.”

Lucius nods, once, and blows across the surface of his tea to cool it. We sit in silence for some time while I concentrate on negotiating the treacherous path between saucer and lips with my cup. When I glance up at him, he is looking almost longingly at the scones.

“They’ll get cold,” I say quietly, gesturing to the plate with a jerk of my head that makes the muscles in my neck protest.

The look he gives me is indecipherable, but at last he nods, and sets to work slathering a scone with cream. For lack of anything better to do, I watch his hands, and think it somehow meaningful that he holds the knife as gently as he has always held his wand. When he is finished, he drops the scone onto the small plate beside his saucer, and stares at it.

“It isn’t an ouroboros,” I comment dryly.

Sighing, and shooting me a halfhearted glare, he lifts the scone to his lips and takes a bite. Seemingly of their own accord, his eyes flutter closed, and I smile fondly to myself. No man, especially not one with so hedonistic a nature as Lucius Malfoy, can resist blackberry scones with cream.

“Well?” I prompt, arching an eyebrow at his tongue, which has darted out to lick the cream from the corner of his lips.

“Excellent,” Lucius replies, as if I were daft for even daring to suggest that they might not be of the highest quality. Even now, he is one of the most vain creatures I have ever known.

“Describe it,” I request quietly, knowing that there is a very good chance he will refuse. Lucius has never been a particular expressive sort of person, but I am relying on his benevolence toward me, and the need I can hear in my own voice. It has very little to do with the scones themselves, and more to do with a desire to feel somehow connected to the material universe. For weeks, I have known nothing but this bed and this ache in my chest, and were I bolder, I might have gone as far as to reach for his hand; but for now, should he acquiesce, this will be enough to see me through another day.

For a moment, he looks as if he might refuse, and I turn my face away. Then, there is a quiet inhalation, and he murmurs, “Do you remember your first night here? It was summer, and my mother was having one of her pretentious soirees. You and I slipped out into the gardens and ate blackberries until we were sick from it.”

“Abraxas was furious with us,” I whisper with a smile, and turn back to look at him.

“More because I ruined my dress robes than because we had left without permission,” Lucius replies with a wistful smile of his own. “It took the house elves weeks to remove the stains.”

“It was worth it, though,” I tell him, settling back against the pillows. “I hid a handful in my pocket, and after your parents had retired for the evening, we snuck into the kitchen for cream and sugar.”

Lucius laughs, the first honest laugh I’ve heard from him in years, and says, “How many did we have? Less than a dozen, I think, and do you remember how we stared at them for the longest time?”

“I’d never been afforded the luxury of berries and cream,” I point out. “I was torn between wanting to eat all of them, and the knowledge that once I did, they would be gone.”

“Ah, but I promised I would bring you more,” Lucius replies. “And I did, on the first day of your fourth year.”

“You did,” I acquiesce with a sober nod. “Of course, having your package delivered to me in the middle of the Great Hall was absolutely mortifying- really, Lucius, pink wrapping paper?”

“It was all we had,” he says defensively, but the lie is betrayed by the mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“You are a complete prat,” I tell him, and resist the urge to toss a pillow at his smug expression.

Rather than replying, he takes another bite of his scone, and this time he makes no effort at all to conceal his delight. If anything, he dramatizes it by closing his eyes with a satisfied hum, and sucking his thumb into his mouth to lick the cream from it. I would chastise him, if I were not so fixated on his lips.

When he opens his eyes again, he catches me staring at him, but I refuse to look away. Something between us shifts in that moment, and before I can decide what it is, he is setting the scone aside and sliding out of his chair to sink down onto the edge of the bed.

“I can’t remember what they tasted like,” I confess in a whisper, my heart beating frantically in my chest.

Lucius searches my face for a moment, and despite my instincts, I do not flinch. After a moment, he seems to find whatever permission he needed, and he slowly leans in to brush his lips against mine.

There is a question in his gaze when he pulls away, and I answer it with a slow nod. The next kiss is as slow as the first, and I lift one hand to thread my fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. Grey eyes flutter open to meet mine, and close again when I lift my head from the pillows to press my lips more insistently against his.

The tip of his tongue tentatively meets mine before withdrawing, leaving bittersweet blackberry and smooth cream in its absence. I lick my lips, and his by proximity, before the muscles of my neck finally collapse, and I fall back against the pillows.

Lucius does not immediately open his eyes, but when he does, they are glazed. Beneath the sharp ridges of his cheekbones, a light flush tints his otherwise pale face a flattering shade of pink. I have the sudden urge to brush my knuckles along the length of his jaw, so I do, and he covers my hand with his own before bringing it to his lips for the briefest of moments.

“You should rest,” he tells me in a murmur that seeps into the heavy silence between us.

I nod and let my hand fall away, pride battling with the urge to ask him to stay with me until I sleep. Somehow, I know that he will, and that is enough to provide me with the strength I need to close my eyes.

And when I do, I dream of summer moonlight in auburn hair.

~*~*~

“Severus, open your eyes, look at me.”

Look… at… me…

I choke on a sob.

There are arms around me, a warm weight pressed against my back, and a voice that murmurs against my hair, “I’m here.”

No, I think, you aren’t.

~*~*~

When I wake, it is to the sickening realization that Lily is dead, and I should be as well; it is also to the surprising realization that, for the first time in almost twenty years, I have not slept alone.

I know that we won’t dare to speak of it, but the evidence is there in each strand of white blond hair on the pillow beside me. Lucius is sprawled in the chair at my bedside, his head propped on his fist and his lips parted on a sleepy sigh. Eventually, as if he can feel my gaze on his face, he opens his eyes.

“I suppose I must have fallen asleep here,” is the first thing he says to me, but the smile on his lips is a guilty one.

“I suppose so,” I tell him, resisting the urge to smirk. For all of his years of experience, Lucius Malfoy is a remarkably unskilled liar.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, stretching a bit and smoothing the front of his rumpled shirt. I have never seen him quite so tousled, and it is strangely endearing that he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Horrible,” I answer truthfully. My legs are tingling again in a most unpleasant manner, and when I try to bend my knees, they protest painfully.

“Let’s have a look, then,” Lucius says, rubbing sleep from his eyes and pushing the comforter away from my legs. I close my eyes as he prods me, seemingly at random, and murmurs, “You are improving.”

“Perhaps you’d care to inform my lower body of that fact,” I accuse with a pained grunt as his thumb finds a particularly uncooperative place behind my right knee.

“The pain is part of the healing process,” Lucius replies quietly, and I am almost grateful that his tone implies he is unaware of the profundity of that statement. In addition to being a terrible liar, I can imagine that Lucius Malfoy would make an equally horrendous psychotherapist.

The bedroom is almost unbearably warm from the sunlight flowing in through the open windows, and I shift beneath the heavy velvet with a frustrated sigh. Finally, I push the comforter away, and use the thin cotton sheets to cover myself only enough to be decent. There is a moment of hesitation in the fingers that rub small circles against my knee, but when I look up, Lucius’ gaze is fixed on his task.

“Is this helping?” he asks me quietly, smoothing the pad of his thumb along the top of my thigh, just above my knee.

“Yes,” I tell him. The tense muscles are slowly being coaxed into relaxing by his talented fingers, and I sink back against the pillows with a heavy sigh. It has been so long, too long, since I felt the warmth of touch against my skin, and I distractedly muse the possibility that I might end my recovery just as spoiled as Draco had been before the war.

Lucius moves upward, and the muscles of my thighs tense involuntarily before he soothes them with gentle pressure. That my body is reacting at all is a good sign, I know, but a small part of me wishes it would not be so quick to sort itself out. The light strokes of his fingertips feel so unequivocally good that I am torn between recovery and spending the rest of my life as an invalid in Lucius Malfoy’s care.

That thought makes me snort with halfhearted laughter, and I open my eyes when his hands stop.

“Did I hurt you?” Lucius asks me, concern shining in his eyes.

“No, I-“ I begin, but decide at the last minute that he might not be as amused as I am by the idea of him playing nursemaid. “Never mind, keep rubbing.”

“Yes sir,” he replies with an indignant huff at my imperious tone. Smirking now, I close my eyes again as he returns to his task.

The fingertips drift upward, and I let out a quiet gasp when his thumb brushes the sensitive flesh of my inner thigh. Lucius does not pause this time, only doubles the pressure as he continues, and I cannot find the courage to warn him that this is quickly heading in a direction I’m sure neither of us is prepared for. Nevertheless, as his hands slide higher on my inner thigh, I open my eyes and grab his wrist.

Lucius stares at me, and there is an unsettling mixture of apprehension and determination in his gaze. After a moment, I release him and look away, still unwilling to confess my body’s betrayal. If he has noticed my reaction to his touch, he says nothing, but there is a new hesitation in the way he strokes my thigh; if I had not known him for as long as I have, I might have thought that Lucius Malfoy had become suddenly shy.

“Your circulation has improved,” Lucius tells me in a low murmur, and I choke back almost hysterical laughter at the unintentional innuendo.

“The feeling in my thighs is beginning to return,” I reply hoarsely, suddenly hating this new roughness in my tone. Once, a thousand universes ago, I had prided myself on my ability to seduce anyone with my voice.

But this is Lucius Malfoy, and despite the fact that I can remember every nuance of what his lips taste like, he is not to be seduced.

It becomes very difficult to remind myself of that as his thumb strokes the crease of my inner thigh and grazes the sensitive flesh behind my testicles. Biting down on my lower lip to stifle a whimper, I close my eyes and turn my face to the side.

“Look at me,” Lucius commands in a hoarse whisper, and though my soul aches at his words, and I want with all of my being to defy him, I cannot.

The grey eyes that bore into my own are shining in the sunlight, and though they are bloodshot and tired, they are as clear as I have ever seen them. Something in his gaze challenges me to look away as his knuckles brush the base of my cock, but I grit my teeth as a blush rises to my cheeks, and keep my own gaze firmly locked on his face. My eyelids threaten to flutter closed as he strokes two fingers up the length of my prick, and do when he boldly swipes the pad of his thumb across the leaking head.

There is something like wonder in his eyes when I open my own, and this time I do not bother to suppress my quiet hiss when his fingers close around me. The touch is tentative at first, but grows more certain as I slowly rock my hips upward, silently urging him for more.

This is madness, I know, allowing Lucius Malfoy to touch me in so intimate a manner. We have been friends for as long as I care to remember, fought and killed together, hated and even loved one another, but never have we crossed this line. I never dreamed it possible- indeed, never dared to dream of it at all- but now that it is happening, real, more tangible than anything has been for a very long time, I refuse to allow it to slip from my grasp.

Lucius has always known how to illicit feeling in me, how to shatter each of my carefully crafted masks and draw out the raging, snarling beast that I have fought so hard to cage. Though it is with his hands now, rather than words, the effect is no different. There is fire in my veins, clutching at my heart with desperate talons, centralizing heat and aching need in the cock within his grasp.

“More, faster,” I gasp, pushing my head back against the pillows and gazing up at him through lowered lashes. It is surrender, though not defeat, and I have never felt so reckless and powerful in all my life.

Lucius acquiesces immediately, tightening his fingers around my prick and testing my resolve with every upward stroke. Just as I had suspected, there is magic in his fingertips, a raw understanding of how a thumb across the head of my cock and an almost imperceptible squeeze at the base can unravel me beneath his touch. A light flush darkens his otherwise pale cheeks, and his lips are slightly parted as he watches me arch and drag my broken fingernails against the soft cotton sheets.

“You’re beautiful,” he breathes, and from the expression that follows, I have no doubt that this, too, is one of those things that should never have been said aloud.

Once, I might have been mortified by such praise; now, I can feel my lips curve upward in what I am sure is a feral smile, and I am gratified to hear his breath hitch. There is life in the trembling muscles of my thighs, life in the ragged growls I offer as evidence of my transformation into this writhing, snarling creature who commands “faster” and “tighter” and “please.”

It begins as a dull, unfamiliar ache in the center of my chest, and for a moment I am almost certain I will cry. Just as I am readying myself to concede defeat and give in to the tears, it shifts, and my cock pulses in his fist. Groaning, I surrender to it, pleasure more exquisite than any agony, and clench the sheets between my trembling fingers. This is nothing like the furtive relief I have brought myself in those lonely nights behind the curtains of my bed, nothing like the heartsick nausea I have felt after hurried trysts with nameless faces in dark, dusty rooms above nondescript pubs. This is absolute release, complete and unquestioning faith in the hands that rip me apart and recreate me with warmth and light.

For a moment, I am convinced that I have been paralyzed all over again, stricken with some poison that has turned every muscle in my body to lead and my heart to ash. Lucius is there, his face so close to my own that I can feel his breath on my lips, and I close my eyes for a kiss that never comes.

“You- that is-“ Lucius murmurs, and when I open my eyes, he has pulled away and is staring down at me with an inscrutable expression. “I should see to- you should rest.”

“Lucius,” I say softly, suddenly miserable.

He does not answer, only turns away and mutters a cleaning charm before standing and shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. I stare up at him, confused, because Lucius has never backed away from me, even in the face of my infamous fits of temper.

“Perhaps you should go,” I tell him finally, struggling to erase the bitterness from my tone. Suddenly, I am lonely, even with him standing at my bedside, and very tired. When he still refuses to meet my gaze, I roll over with my back to him and close my eyes, ignoring the pain in my legs as I force them to move.

There is a quiet inhalation, as if he might address me, but then I hear the tap of his boots against the floor as he crosses the room. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and I sigh.

When sleep comes for me at last, I dream of him.

~*~*~

”Severus!”

The young man slowly turns and brushes a lock of wet hair away from his eyes. It is cold, his socks are soaked beneath his patched leather boots, and the clouds are heavy with the second snowstorm of the season. When he catches sight of the other, however, he cannot help but to smile at the way Lucius carefully makes his way across the icy street, as if the snow that clings to the hem of his cloak might sully his Malfoy pride.

“What is it?” Severus asks once Lucius has joined him on the other side of the narrow lane. The hour is growing late, and he is eager to get back to Hogwarts before night falls, but it is a rare thing that the haughty Malfoy heir makes an appearance in Hogsmeade.

“How are you keeping?” Lucius asks him, grey eyes darting to a small group of Gryffindors huddled in the warming charm outside Honeydukes.

Severus follows his gaze, and smirks, “I’ve only been given detention twice this term for hexing Black, which Dumbledore assures me is a vast improvement.”

Lucius laughs at that, and pulls his cloak more tightly around his slender body before throwing an arm over the smaller boy’s shoulders. Severus is not the sort of person who enjoys being touched, which is fitting since there are very few who care to touch him, but Lucius is one of two whose violations of that rule are always forgiven.

“And Lily? Have you made any progress with her?” Lucius prompts, and Severus feels that old familiar ache begin in the center of his chest.

“No,” he says flatly. “She still isn’t speaking to me.”

“Ah,” his companion replies. “Perhaps you should-“

“Don’t,” Severus hisses, making to pull away.

“Alright, alright,” Lucius says quickly, tugging him back beneath the warm weight of his arm. “I’m sorry.”

Severus remains tense for a moment, but when it becomes clear that the older boy has no intention of releasing him any time soon, he relaxes minutely. They stroll through snowy streets of Hogsmeade together in a companionable silence, until Lucius turns down an unfamiliar path.

“It isn’t like you to grace us with your presence in such unforgiving weather,” Severus comments, shivering slightly in the cold December air.

“Consider it my Christmas present to Scotland at large,” Lucius replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. Severus snorts, followed by an appreciative murmur as the older boy’s cloak is wrapped around his shoulders and Lucius tucks him against his side. “Besides, I haven’t seen you since the utter disaster that was mother’s Halloween party.”

Severus cannot help but to grin at the memory of Humbert Halfcotton’s failed attempt to transfigure himself into a dragon, and the subsequent destruction of the ballroom at Malfoy Manor. They had been watching from the stairs, having been banished from the soiree at midnight, and Severus had thought they would both die from laughing so hard.

“Where are we going?” Severus asks finally, realizing they have strayed closer to the Forbidden Forest. Unlike his peers, he has never feared the place or the creatures in it, but he is due to return to the castle soon, and the very last thing he wants to do with his Christmas holiday is to spend it scrubbing cauldrons in Slughorn’s classroom.

“It’s a surprise,” Lucius tells him, and there is a mad gleam in his eyes that Severus has learned to both adore and fear.

“I have to be back at the castle soon,” Severus says, already silently bemoaning the detentions to come.

“I’ve spoken with Dumbledore,” the older boy replies easily. “He assured me that it would be fine to keep you out a bit longer.”

“You’re lying,” Severus accuses, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Of course I am,” Lucius admits with a mischievous grin.

Severus huffs and pushes impatiently at his hair as they move deeper into the forest, surreptitiously scanning the underbrush for munksroot. The season is perfect for it, but it is difficult to find with the snow as thick as it is, and of course the apothecary hasn’t had a shipment since November.

Eventually, his constant vigilance is interrupted when Lucius takes his shoulder and steers him through a break in the trees. When they emerge on the other side, Severus feels his breath catch in his throat, and hears a similar sound from beside him.

The clearing seems to stretch on for miles, with a hill in the center that obscures all but the tips of the trees on the other side. A shimmering expanse of emerald green grass, held in stasis by the ice crystals that have formed around it, sweeps down the rise to greet them. Atop the hill, three trees rise out of the snow, their white blossoms as perfect as the day they bloomed. In the center of the ring they have formed, a fire is blazing, the orange flames rising up to kiss the darkening sky.

“Lucius,” Severus breathes, too in awe of the sight before him to care if he sounds like a child.

“Spring in December,” Lucius says quietly, squeezing the smaller boy’s shoulder. “Happy Christmas, Severus.”

~*~*~

My heart aches.

I cannot reason why it pains me so, that I should wake and find the chair at my bedside empty, but the terrible sadness that constricts my throat is all the evidence I need. It is dark outside- not even moonlight to illuminate the gardens below the bedroom window- and I am left with nothing but the dying embers in the fireplace to prove that he has been here.

We have decades of history, Lucius and I, and in all that time I have never once upset him without being told, in very clear terms, what I have done.

For the first time in all the years I have known him, I have been left alone, without answers.

There is a chill in the room, and I draw the comforter up to my chin. The shadows above the bed shift with every flicker of the dying flames, and I let a weary sigh pass through parted lips and into the night air. It seems odd, somehow, that it doesn’t turn to smoke.

It seems odd, somehow, that for the first time in almost twenty years, she was not my first thought upon waking.

It seems like a betrayal.

I close my eyes, and with a sick dread, realize that her face does not appear as quickly as it once did. A vague shimmer of green eyes and auburn hair paints an abstract portrait of the woman whose son I have sacrificed my everything to protect. At this thought, the colors shift, and I am back in the potions classroom at Hogwarts, scowling at a defiant boy who glares up at me with hatred in his mother’s eyes.

Damn Potter. Both of them.

Somewhere nearby, there is the sound of glass shattering, and I open my eyes as a light breeze lifts my hair from the pillow.

Still, he does not come, and I am alone with my wretched misery.

~*~*~

I suppose I could have ignored him, just as completely as he has ignored me.

I am a liar.

I haven’t the strength to ignore the fingertips that slowly map the curves of my thighs, nor the willpower to deny that the relief I feel when they brush my burgeoning erection is entirely physical. When his other hand hesitantly comes to rest on my shoulder, I open my eyes with a defeated sigh, knowing already that he will leave again once it is finished.

But for those moments when he does not, when he is here beside me, above me, and all around me, it will be worth it.

Lucius has already undressed, and his once flawless skin marked with a hundred scars that run more deeply than flesh and bone. We are brothers now, allies in a way that we never could have been before, when I bore the evidence of my battles like silver metals on my chest and his sins still lurked below a pristine and impenetrable surface. Once, I might have wept to see him this way; now, it is strangely comforting to understand that my childhood hero is just a man, after all.

We do not speak as he slides into bed beside me. What need have we for words, when we can see the evidence of our treachery pressed in hard, black lines between us as he reaches for my hand? I had always imagined that it would burn, to touch one to the other- but the Dark Lord is dead, I can feel it just as surely as I can feel Lucius’ lips on the side of my neck.

The marks we bear are nothing more than the debris of wasted time.

“Severus,” Lucius whispers. It is neither question nor address; just my name on his lips, three syllables of breath against my ear.

Suddenly, I want nothing more than to be pressed against him, to feel the weight of his body on mine. I want his teeth and his tongue, his hands and his cock; I want to be reduced to a mindless, needful thing, so consumed by desire that there is no more capacity for thought.

My legs will not cooperate.

“Shh,” he admonishes as I growl with frustration, and rolls atop me until our bodies are aligned, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, scars to scars. My lips find his, his hands are in my hair, and this is what my errant heart demands.

Lucius pulls away first, licking kiss-swollen lips and staring down at me with uncharacteristic uncertainty in his eyes. I know the question that haunts him, and I know the answer.

‘No,’ I want to tell him, ‘We can never go back.’

Instead, I lean up and press my lips to his.

There is a quiet sound, a sigh, and he moves, slowly rocking against me and leaving shivers of sensation along every centimeter of flesh he touches. I dissolve inside, hard as I am against him, and when I give in to the tremors that flow through my body, he kisses them away. That is what Lucius Malfoy does, has always done, and no one would believe me if I spoke it aloud, but it is a truth as constant as the steady rise and fall of the sun: he can be as kind and gentle as he is merciless and cruel.

I would never speak of it; it is my own jealously guarded secret, not to be tainted by giving it voice or breath.

Had I dared to think of it, had I thought to think of it, of this, I would have been beneath him, just where I have always been- and I am, but there is a balance when his hand wraps around me, holds me steady as he raises up onto his knees and peers down at me from beneath lowered lashes.

In a strange way, we are equals for the first time in all the years we have known one another.

“This is not pity,” Lucius tells me.

I know.

What I do not know is how the slick flesh that presses down against me came to be that way. Surely, I have not touched him, and though my mind is being ripped apart by the heat that slowly envelops me, I am certain I would have known if he had touched himself. The possibility that this encounter began not here in this bed, but elsewhere, sets every nerve in my body ablaze.

Lucius has always prided himself on riding into battle prepared.

In the span of a few heartbeats, I am inside him, and I would never have expected such an icy exterior to house so much warmth.

Spring in December.

“Please.”

It comes out as a breathy sigh, and I am not sure which of us surrendered to it until I open my eyes to find him staring down at me. This is the Lucius Malfoy I remember from my childhood- blond hair tousled by the wind and cheeks red from the winter air- only he is a man now, and the hands that grip my arms are strong, even as he trembles atop me.

Swallowing a quiet sob, I rock my hips upward. I would disappear inside him if I could, curl around his heart, warm and safe from the terrors of time and memory. The lips that descend to capture my sighs in a kiss are almost enough, must be enough, for now, to still the ache in my soul.

Lucius is as beautiful now as he ever was, if not moreso for the fragility I see in him, the shadows beneath his eyes and the scars that line the torso that brushes mine on every backwards thrust of his hips. They grey eyes have fluttered closed, pale lashes against flushed cheeks, and I give in to the desire to press a kiss to each of them, in turn. Lucius makes a quiet murmuring sound and bows his head to cover my lips with his.

I cannot stop kissing him, and for one breathless moment, I imagine that he feels the same.

“Touch me,” he murmurs, “Please.”

That word again. I wonder if he has ever said it to anyone before in his life, for I am certain this is the first time he has ever uttered it to me.

Wrapping my fingers around him, I stroke my thumb along the underside of his cock, and he whimpers. I have never done this before- not with him, not with anyone- but his back arches, and I cannot help but to smile. Pleasing Lucius, in one form or another, has always been important to me.

“Severus,” he whispers, and his eyes snap open to meet mine. There is something there, some unanswerable question, an unsolvable riddle, and I know at once that I am seeing Lucius Malfoy naked for the first time.

“Lucius,” I breathe, just to feel his name on my lips.

My fingers tighten around him as he tenses above me, eyes wide and teeth bared, and when I feel him pulse in my hand, over my stomach, around me and inside of me, I shatter.

There is no beauty in the sharp angle of my hips as I thrust into him one last time, no eloquence in the groan that makes my throat feel as if it’s being ripped to shreds, no finesse in my fingers on his hips, in his mouth. It is raw, brutal, imperfect, and utterly human.

Lucius collapses atop me, holding me through the shudders that wrack my body, and I know I needn’t explain that they run far deeper than tissue and bone. There are fingers in my hair, fingernails raking lightly across my scalp, warm breath against the side of my neck, and his hand in mine. If I could immortalize that moment, I would; etch it in ice as clear as glass, fit its jagged dimensions between the serrated edges of my broken heart.

When he pushes away from me, I know that he is going to leave, retreat into the safe familiarity of his Manor, his wife, his son- but he does not. There is a sigh, a whispered incantation, and a warm flannel stroking tiny circles over my torso.

I should have known better. Malfoys do not flee from battle; they will curse your heritage and spit their own blood in your face, defiant and lovely until the bitter end, but they do not flee.


“You should sleep,” he tells me softly, and tosses the flannel onto the floor before throwing one leg over mine and burying his face in the side of my neck.

When I press a kiss to the top of his head, I feel him smile, and I wish I could believe that he will still be there when I wake.

~*~*~

Lucius is there when I wake, but not in my arms. I can sense him hovering over me; can all but taste the apprehension that radiates in waves from his body.

“Potter is here,” he whispers urgently. “They went to retrieve your body from the shack, and when they didn’t find you-“

It needn’t be said. Who else would have come to collect me?

“Only just now?” I reply, disgusted.

When I open my eyes, Lucius is staring down at me. I would have expected to find him dressed and groomed, but his hair is tousled from sleep and there is a dressing gown belted haphazardly at his waist. The possibility that he has spent the night beside me makes me smile, and he looks at me as if I’ve suddenly lost my mind.

Perhaps I have.

“Tell him you’ve fed me to the hounds,” I instruct him with a yawn.

“Severus,” he says seriously, “He’s crying.”

“That is none of my concern,” I tell him, and it isn’t. I left that obligation behind the moment I felt the ache in my left arm subside for the first time in nearly twenty years. The Dark Lord is dead, and Lily’s son is safe.

What I do not dare confess to Lucius, or myself, is that I cannot bear to see the boy’s tears in her eyes. Harry Potter, the irritating child, does not deserve that consideration.

“I’ll send him away, then,” Lucius assures me.

“Tell him you’ve buried me in the garden,” I murmur, rolling onto my side.

There is a pause. The door of the bedroom opens, and I hear his footsteps as he pads out into the hall. Then, just before the door closes, he whispers, “I would have buried you in the family crypt.”

~*~*~

When Lucius returns, he is furious.

In a violent fit of temper, he hurls vases and furniture against the walls, until all that is left are the broken shards of glass and splintered wood piled in heaps on the floor. Not even the house elves dare to interrupt his wrath, nor do I.

It is enough that he has allowed me to witness it.

When it is finished, when he is standing with his back to me, shoulders heaving and hands curled into fists at his sides, only then do I speak.

“Lucius.”

It leaves my lips as a sigh.

“What right does he have?” Lucius demands. “What right do any of them have, to call you a hero?”

I have no answers for him; answers are not what either of us need.

“A hero.” It may as well have been a curse. “A hero indeed. What did you find at the end of your quest, Severus? What have you received in exchange for all your sacrifice?”

It is an old legend, the hero’s journey. I have read the stories, heard the tales, and I know what fame and fanfare should await the solemn knight as he returns from battle.

I want to tell him that it had been enough then, when I stared into Lily’s eyes for the last time, that her son was alive. I wish I could explain to him that my redemption, my peace, had been the knowledge that she was the one person I had not failed.

Had I died there, I might have been a hero; but I did not, and I am not.

I am nothing more than a weary veteran of faith.

“You deserve more,” Lucius tells me in a rough whisper. “Not to have lain there, forgotten, until they came for you.”

I want to laugh, or weep, or scream. Instead, I say, “No.”

“No?” he snarls.

“I do not belong in their world,” I murmur. “There is no place for me in their golden victory, in their new order.”

Lucius turns to look at me, and though his cheeks are still flushed, his face is a mask of indifference. It is the Lucius Malfoy I have always known, always cared for, and suddenly I hate him for it.

“I have helped to create it,” I explain quietly, “But my performance ends there.”

I am not sure I mean it until the words have left my lips- but I do, with an absolute certainty that I have not felt for anything else in all my life. Lily is dead, Harry is alive, the Dark Lord is no more, and I am free.

“I am alive,” I tell him, “But the man I was died there on the floor of that shack.”

Lucius blinks at me, slowly, and in the span of a heartbeat, my closest friend disappears before my eyes. Though I know every nuance of his stride as he crosses the room and sinks down onto the edge of the bed, I am only just meeting the man who stares down at me for a moment before brushing his lips across mine.

“I thought the future held a perfect place for us,” he confesses, stretching out beside me and burying his face in my shoulder.

“It will,” I promise.

~*~*~

It is strange, to see my name carved into the marble beside his, beneath and above those who gave him life. I cannot stop tracing the lines of them with my fingertips, and wondering if we were ever really the men this monument memorializes.

“Do you think they’ll be fooled?” Lucius asks from beside me, and covers my hand with his.

“No,” I reply, with a tremor of awe at the sound of my own voice, which has so recently returned to me. “They will claim to have seen us, some will even believe that they have- and perhaps they will again, someday.”

“The boy is already looking for you,” he tells me quietly.

“The boy will always be looking for me,” I reply.

A warm breeze sweeps across the gardens, lifting the ends of our hair and twining them together. It is a reminder, an assurance that we are still alive, still breathing, still standing shoulder-to-shoulder to face the coming dawn.

“Narcissa and Draco?” I ask, threading my fingers through his and pulling him closer.

“We’ve said our good-byes,” Lucius assures me, and there is no doubt in his voice. “For now.”

I cannot help but to smile. They have sworn to keep our secret, his and mine, and though I know we will meet them as frequently as our deception will allow, this solemn vow is their last act as wife and son.

We are not the only ones with new lives to lead.

“Are you ready?” he asks, and there is a gleam in his eyes that I have not seen since we were children.

Am I ready? Of course I am. I have been dreaming of this moment for almost twenty years, but never dared to believe that it might be granted to me.

Nodding, I pull him into my arms. We are taking nothing but the robes we wear and the wands in our sleeves. I know what a sacrifice this is for him, and my heart aches that he would be so willing to leave everything behind.

“You are a hero,” Lucius tells me suddenly. “If not theirs, then mine.”

When I glance down at him, he is staring into the distance, but there is a hint of a smile on his lips.

The lines around his eyes will never disappear, and his hair will never again be the color of sunlight; time will eventually deepen the hollows of his cheeks, and age will worsen the tremors in his hands- but Lucius Malfoy is beautiful, has always been beautiful, and will be beautiful long after sight has failed us both.

“Lucius,” I whisper. “Look at me.”

There is a pause, a breath, and his eyes are grey.

“Always,” I promise.

Pressing both hands to his back, my forehead to his, I close my eyes and smile. I needn’t wonder, then, what lies at the end of my journey or what legacy I will leave behind; the hero’s reward is here, in my arms.

With a whispered word and a shared heartbeat, we disappear.