FIC: Love in the Asylum, Sirius/Lucius, R.
Title: Love in the Asylum
Pairing/Characters: Sirius/Lucius, Lucius/Narcissa. Narcissa/Bellatrix, Bellatrix/Rodolphus implied.
Rating: R, mainly for adult themes.
Warnings: Slash, implied incest, slight non-con, character death, angst.
HBP spoilers: No
Author's Note: I wrote this one for leatherdykeuk for Harry_Holidays. Thanks to Jazzypom and Kethlenda for the beta!
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
Dylan Thomas, Love in the Asylum
_________________________________________
I don’t like you, the boy tells him, arms folded across his chest, face twisted into an expression of sneering scorn. He’s impeccably attired, without a hint of dirt, all his clothing pristine. He's older, a little taller, wearing a smirk with natural ease that bespeaks wealth and stature.
Good, the second boy says darkly. This is my house. Get out. His stamps his foot against the hardwood floor, rattling the dishes on the serving board behind him. He's angry, furious at the insult the older blond boy has just tossed at him, unable to do anything because he doesn't even have a proper wand or know any real magic.
His face is hot with shame as he hears the twittering laughter from the doorway; he feels ashamed, worthless and unable to bear the family name with pride like mama always tells him to.
It's a filthy room with you in it, the older boy says disdainfully, and he stops and gives the two girls a nod as he leaves the room.
My mama will be mad at you and your mama, too, Bellatrix sing-songs at him, pulling at one of her dark pigtails. She wants one of us girls to marry him one day.
No, Sirius Black says furiously, shaking his head so that his hair falls in his eyes. He brushes it back angrily. You're not going to marry Lucius Malfoy. Neither you nor Cissa or Andromeda.
Bellatrix shrugs and turns to leave the room. You don't know anything, Sirius, and you can’t tell me what to do, she says, and he wishes he could hex her when she laughs.
He doesn't, but he breaks a crystal goblet with all that anger he can't yet control and he slices his hand on a jagged piece of broken glass. Sirius stares at the blood on his hand, so angry he cannot register the throbbing pain, and he decides to hate Lucius Malfoy forever.
* * * * *
I think you know my cousin, Sirius? That is Narcissa’s voice; smooth and cultured like the cream he’s just added to his coffee.
He sips at it and wishes it was it was something stronger, something that burned.
Like whiskey.
His eyes stray to Sirius, sprawled in one of the fine chairs in the Blacks dining room. He’s coiled up tight; violence lingering in the caress of his fingers on the smooth mahogany wood of the table. Yes, he says, his voice low and dangerous. I know your cousin. What he doesn't say is that he is a friend to Mudbloods and probably Muggles, a disgrace to their noble name.
Narcissa sits beside the window, pale light drifting around her and draping her porcelain perfection with the softest of shadows. She smiles and her eyes stray across the room to her sister, a dark presence hovering in the corner of the room like a nightmare on the edge of sleep.
We all know everyone, Bellatrix purrs, and her voice is like velvet edged with thorns. Don't we, Sirius?
The young man named Sirius doesn't answer; he shoots daggers with his eyes at his cousin but shrugs noncommittally. His fingers, rap-rap, rap-rap, on the table in time to music he alone presumably hears.
The talk strays to other things, politics and school and the rising threat of the unchecked Mudblood menace, and Lucius watches the way Sirius’ face darkens and his fingers still their motion, settling into quiet, as they speak.
Too bad Andromeda couldn’t join us, Sirius says, and unlike his cousin there are only thorns in his voice; thorns and the rough edge of steel, intending to cut. An unpleasant smile settles onto his face as Bellatrix hisses like a scalded cat at the name that falls like a curse from Sirius’ full mouth.
Lucius looks over to Narcissa, her beauty marred by the obvious distaste the mention of her sister brings. The sky outside has turned to sour milk to match her voice. Let’s not speak of it.
You look lovely today, Miss Black, Lucius interjects smoothly- and she smiles at him- her eyes are as cold as his.
Bellatrix laughs in the darkness; the sound makes Narcissa's eyes shine.
* * * * *
Hate them all, the whole family, he tells his brother after they’ve left, pacing the length and breadth of the music room, footfalls beating out an angry tattoo. Worthless purebloods. I can’t stand it. I can’t be like that.
Regulus is staring out at the darkened sky, which is littered with stars and the soft curve of a crescent moon. I don’t want to be worthless, Regulus says.
Sirius hears determination in his voice and he looks up, Regulus looks like a Spartan on his way to Thermopylae-straight-backed, proud, chin tilted up in angry defiance. The muted light throws his shadow on the wall behind them; Sirius imagines him with a shield and a sword facing down a host of angry Persians.
You could never be worthless, Sirius tells him, and wishes Regulus would look at him.
* * * * *
Lucius lies in his marriage bed and looks down at his wife; pale hair strewn about her pillow and the cold white sheets of the bed. She’s sleeping soundly and he can see her diamond ring glitter where her hand lays on the pillow, as the moon touches the place where they rest.
I want to hurt, she’d whispered through her tears, fingers digging into his back, nails slicing into his skin as they'd lain together the first time. Make me hurt.
He looks down at the Mark burned into his skin, barely visible, just a vague obscurity on his skin. In the recesses of his mind he sees her sister, bowed before Voldemort, dark hair spilling like a fountain of darkness over her crimson robes. Her arm bared, the smell of the flesh burning, ecstasy twisting razor-sharp and flowing over face like water.
(Bellatrix at their wedding with her viper’s smile, her mad eyes surrounded by finery and some perfume that made her smell like roses. So, you’ll be her first man.
He did not miss the emphasis, nor its place, on the word man. Her last, he agrees, and Bellatrix laughs and moves away from him. She embraces her sister, and presses her lips to Narcissa's, and they hold the embrace longer than is necessary, longer than she and Lucius did at the church. )
Her cousin; messy hair tumbling in front of his face like a little child, making a small whimper of pain before falling silent beneath the lick of flame. He’s white-faced and shaking when it’s over; Bellatrix grabs his arm and her tongue licks out, like a snake, to trace the reddened flesh.
Blacks woven into the tapestry of Voldemort’s grand design; sister, cousin, husband.
Fine threads, so easily cut, so simple to unravel.
I will, he promises her, and kisses her, and wonders if she tastes death on his lips.
Death Eater.
She sleeps through the night, and every night after, even when he’s gone. She’s too fair a flower to bear the Master’s mark, but sometimes he thinks her heart is the blackest of all. She smiles at him in the morning over tea, when death clings to his hair and his clothes and makes his eyes glow like quicksilver.
He remembers how the light fell around her, perfect and pure.
Even the light lies.
* * * * *
Sirius stares at his brother, muttering nonsense about the soul and the waters and a cave where both lie hidden.
Why did you do it? He asks, miserable, feeling the dark press of doom around them both, clinging to Regulus and choking him like ivy. What made you do it, Regulus?
His brother’s eyes are wild, and now he no longer looks like a soldier off to war; more a prisoner brought back, broken and destroyed, than anything.
I didn’t want to be worthless, he said, shivering from a cold that has seeped inside of him, his back-gloved hand clasped over his forearm covered in dirty linen and black wool.
You were never worthless, Sirius breathes quietly, and feels his eyes burn with tears and thick, vicious rage. Was it her?
Silence between them for a moment; thick with the words they’ve never said but should have.
Finally Regulus laughs like a hyena braying. The sound of it hurts Sirius’ ears.
You never understood anything, Regulus said, before brushing past him to get to the heavy oak door. Don’t try and follow me.
He doesn’t look back, and the door thuds with the finality of a death knell, and Sirius sinks to the floor and cries, the press of the wood hard on his knees.
* * * * *
He can barely stand it that they’ve come, that they’re standing next to the grave with heads respectfully bowed, the sky slate-gray and gently curved with ominously low clouds full of waiting rain.
Narcissa, that cold Madonna, hugs him and presses her cold cheek to his. The angels in this cemetery have shed more tears than you. He cannot make himself touch her, as if she’s poisonous, as if her very touch will rot him away from the inside.
Bellatrix saunters over to him, her hand on the arm of the tall dark wizard she’d married, a mad light behind her eyes that reminds him of hellfire. She doesn’t move to embrace him, for which he is grateful, and as she moves away he thinks he can smell sulfur in her wake.
Lucius Malfoy stands and regards him for a long time, his blond hair pulled back in a neat queue, and Sirius is reminded of when they were children and they hated each other the moment their eyes first met.
I hate you. The words are childish; he says them anyway. They taste bitter but delicious in his mouth, like dark chocolate.
My wife was most upset at your cousin’s demise, Black. He’s faintly amused with his eyes narrowed but only just, hands clasped neatly behind his back like some army officer. His hair is almost white against the overcast sky.
Sirius thinks he looks like some angel of death, sent to punish the living for walking too long amongst the dead.
Your wife will weep only when that mad sister of hers is here somewhere, Sirius retorts, nodding towards the edge of the cemetery, where smooth ground lies untouched by granite tombs, presumably there for the rest of the Noble and Ancient House of Black when they surrender their mortal coil.
He remembers his cousins, entwined white limbs out by the lake in the drenching heat of the summer’s sun.
(Regulus, laughing softly. Let’s go and leave them to their madness, brother mine. She’ll hex us bad if she knows we saw them.
I’m not afraid of Bella, Sirius had said bravely; he’s young and he’s lying.
I don’t mean Bella, Regulus had answered, and laughed.)
Lucius appears unconcerned. Perhaps. And did you weep for your brother, Black?
Get away from me, and get out of here. Sirius turns his back on him, looks out at the necropolis before him. Everyone is gone, now, Apparated back to have tea with his destroyed mother in their ruin of a house.
You Blacks have a problem. Do you know what that is? Lucius is walking towards him; Sirius hears the crunch of leaves beneath the other man’s boots.
He has a thousand answers; none of them worth saying.
Too much fire in your blood. Lucius’ hand reaches out and curls around his neck; Sirius tenses but doesn’t move, instead he stares at some ancestral tombstone and watches the way the wind picks up the dried rose petals and tosses them against the gray stone.
Bellatrix, she’s a firebrand, you know. She’ll burn out and take whole cities with her. Lucius is taller than he is; he leans down and touches his mouth, just so, the finest of caresses like gossamer against Sirius' skin.
Your brother, such a passionate desire to prove himself. We see where that got him. Lucius chuckles and turns his head, as if looking back at Regulus’ grave. His hand snakes across Sirius' neck, leather sliding slickly on skin, and he pulls to wrench Sirius’ head back.
Sirius feels the warm heat of Lucius’ body, the strength of the muscles beneath his impeccable robes. Where will that leave you, I wonder? His thumb brushes slowly over Sirius’ full mouth, he can taste the leather of it, pungent and sweet.
What about your wife? He makes the words a sneer, throws them out like a slap, but it is desperate and he does not like the way he leans back, even just a little, drawn by the heat of the other man's body.
My wife is a Malfoy now. We are not known for our passion. Again, his thumb sweeps over Sirius’ bottom lip. His free hand winds into Sirius’ hair, coiling, pulling sharply, and pain dances before him and shimmers beneath his eyes.
So you’ll never taste life, or whatever it is that they say? Sirius glares at him, fiercely angry, trying not to give in to his temper as Lucius so obviously wants, though his rage simmers just beneath the surface, a fine rolling boil in his blood.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll taste death. Just like your brother. Lucius’ breath makes gooseflesh rise on Sirius' skin, tingles race down his spine towards the earth beneath him. Perhaps I’ll find it tastes like dirt. Do you think that is what Regulus tasted, Black, when he died? They found him face-down in the mud, didn’t they?
Sirius growls, captured as he is in Lucius’ foul embrace. For a moment he considers using the secret magic, but won’t betray their secret, not for the brother who betrayed him. James and Peter and Remus…they are his family now.
They’ll be waiting for him, as it happens. He has no time to tarry here with Malfoy. I have nothing left to say to you.
Lucius laughs softly and murmurs, Good. I don’t want to talk anymore, as it happens. He kisses him, and his lips are cold but his mouth is burning-hot, engulfing.
His kiss tastes like death.
Death Eater.
Sirius struggles hard, but he doesn't mean it, not really. Lucius is well gifted in this game-his hands are cold but they bring a slow burn to his body, long-fingered caresses meant to entice and shame. They are wrapped in an embrace, all darkness and light, hands eager and punishing and brutal.
Sirius stares up at the blank, empty face of the angel as Lucius takes him roughly against the stone mausoleum. Drops of rain fall around them, shivery-cold darts of silver in the muted light of the afternoon. Sirius watches how the water drips down the faces of the stone angels and makes them look like they are crying.
Sirius' hands scratch at the rough granite surface until they bleed.
* * * * *
Sirius remembers that moment, sometimes, in Azkaban. The Dementors leave him alone when he remembers the funeral, and his mother, and how loud her sobs sounded in the churchyard.
It is when he allows himself to remember Lucius, his cold hands and his burning eyes and the darkness that passed between them that day that the Dementors glide forward, silent as death, their breath rattling like chains as they approach.
He forces himself to think of other things, and stares at his hands. Sometimes he scrapes them on the rough stone walls of his cell, until they bleed.
It is then that he falls asleep with the roar of the sea in his ears and the taste of the sea on his tongue.
Pairing/Characters: Sirius/Lucius, Lucius/Narcissa. Narcissa/Bellatrix, Bellatrix/Rodolphus implied.
Rating: R, mainly for adult themes.
Warnings: Slash, implied incest, slight non-con, character death, angst.
HBP spoilers: No
Author's Note: I wrote this one for leatherdykeuk for Harry_Holidays. Thanks to Jazzypom and Kethlenda for the beta!
I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.
Dylan Thomas, Love in the Asylum
_________________________________________
I don’t like you, the boy tells him, arms folded across his chest, face twisted into an expression of sneering scorn. He’s impeccably attired, without a hint of dirt, all his clothing pristine. He's older, a little taller, wearing a smirk with natural ease that bespeaks wealth and stature.
Good, the second boy says darkly. This is my house. Get out. His stamps his foot against the hardwood floor, rattling the dishes on the serving board behind him. He's angry, furious at the insult the older blond boy has just tossed at him, unable to do anything because he doesn't even have a proper wand or know any real magic.
His face is hot with shame as he hears the twittering laughter from the doorway; he feels ashamed, worthless and unable to bear the family name with pride like mama always tells him to.
It's a filthy room with you in it, the older boy says disdainfully, and he stops and gives the two girls a nod as he leaves the room.
My mama will be mad at you and your mama, too, Bellatrix sing-songs at him, pulling at one of her dark pigtails. She wants one of us girls to marry him one day.
No, Sirius Black says furiously, shaking his head so that his hair falls in his eyes. He brushes it back angrily. You're not going to marry Lucius Malfoy. Neither you nor Cissa or Andromeda.
Bellatrix shrugs and turns to leave the room. You don't know anything, Sirius, and you can’t tell me what to do, she says, and he wishes he could hex her when she laughs.
He doesn't, but he breaks a crystal goblet with all that anger he can't yet control and he slices his hand on a jagged piece of broken glass. Sirius stares at the blood on his hand, so angry he cannot register the throbbing pain, and he decides to hate Lucius Malfoy forever.
* * * * *
I think you know my cousin, Sirius? That is Narcissa’s voice; smooth and cultured like the cream he’s just added to his coffee.
He sips at it and wishes it was it was something stronger, something that burned.
Like whiskey.
His eyes stray to Sirius, sprawled in one of the fine chairs in the Blacks dining room. He’s coiled up tight; violence lingering in the caress of his fingers on the smooth mahogany wood of the table. Yes, he says, his voice low and dangerous. I know your cousin. What he doesn't say is that he is a friend to Mudbloods and probably Muggles, a disgrace to their noble name.
Narcissa sits beside the window, pale light drifting around her and draping her porcelain perfection with the softest of shadows. She smiles and her eyes stray across the room to her sister, a dark presence hovering in the corner of the room like a nightmare on the edge of sleep.
We all know everyone, Bellatrix purrs, and her voice is like velvet edged with thorns. Don't we, Sirius?
The young man named Sirius doesn't answer; he shoots daggers with his eyes at his cousin but shrugs noncommittally. His fingers, rap-rap, rap-rap, on the table in time to music he alone presumably hears.
The talk strays to other things, politics and school and the rising threat of the unchecked Mudblood menace, and Lucius watches the way Sirius’ face darkens and his fingers still their motion, settling into quiet, as they speak.
Too bad Andromeda couldn’t join us, Sirius says, and unlike his cousin there are only thorns in his voice; thorns and the rough edge of steel, intending to cut. An unpleasant smile settles onto his face as Bellatrix hisses like a scalded cat at the name that falls like a curse from Sirius’ full mouth.
Lucius looks over to Narcissa, her beauty marred by the obvious distaste the mention of her sister brings. The sky outside has turned to sour milk to match her voice. Let’s not speak of it.
You look lovely today, Miss Black, Lucius interjects smoothly- and she smiles at him- her eyes are as cold as his.
Bellatrix laughs in the darkness; the sound makes Narcissa's eyes shine.
* * * * *
Hate them all, the whole family, he tells his brother after they’ve left, pacing the length and breadth of the music room, footfalls beating out an angry tattoo. Worthless purebloods. I can’t stand it. I can’t be like that.
Regulus is staring out at the darkened sky, which is littered with stars and the soft curve of a crescent moon. I don’t want to be worthless, Regulus says.
Sirius hears determination in his voice and he looks up, Regulus looks like a Spartan on his way to Thermopylae-straight-backed, proud, chin tilted up in angry defiance. The muted light throws his shadow on the wall behind them; Sirius imagines him with a shield and a sword facing down a host of angry Persians.
You could never be worthless, Sirius tells him, and wishes Regulus would look at him.
* * * * *
Lucius lies in his marriage bed and looks down at his wife; pale hair strewn about her pillow and the cold white sheets of the bed. She’s sleeping soundly and he can see her diamond ring glitter where her hand lays on the pillow, as the moon touches the place where they rest.
I want to hurt, she’d whispered through her tears, fingers digging into his back, nails slicing into his skin as they'd lain together the first time. Make me hurt.
He looks down at the Mark burned into his skin, barely visible, just a vague obscurity on his skin. In the recesses of his mind he sees her sister, bowed before Voldemort, dark hair spilling like a fountain of darkness over her crimson robes. Her arm bared, the smell of the flesh burning, ecstasy twisting razor-sharp and flowing over face like water.
(Bellatrix at their wedding with her viper’s smile, her mad eyes surrounded by finery and some perfume that made her smell like roses. So, you’ll be her first man.
He did not miss the emphasis, nor its place, on the word man. Her last, he agrees, and Bellatrix laughs and moves away from him. She embraces her sister, and presses her lips to Narcissa's, and they hold the embrace longer than is necessary, longer than she and Lucius did at the church. )
Her cousin; messy hair tumbling in front of his face like a little child, making a small whimper of pain before falling silent beneath the lick of flame. He’s white-faced and shaking when it’s over; Bellatrix grabs his arm and her tongue licks out, like a snake, to trace the reddened flesh.
Blacks woven into the tapestry of Voldemort’s grand design; sister, cousin, husband.
Fine threads, so easily cut, so simple to unravel.
I will, he promises her, and kisses her, and wonders if she tastes death on his lips.
Death Eater.
She sleeps through the night, and every night after, even when he’s gone. She’s too fair a flower to bear the Master’s mark, but sometimes he thinks her heart is the blackest of all. She smiles at him in the morning over tea, when death clings to his hair and his clothes and makes his eyes glow like quicksilver.
He remembers how the light fell around her, perfect and pure.
Even the light lies.
* * * * *
Sirius stares at his brother, muttering nonsense about the soul and the waters and a cave where both lie hidden.
Why did you do it? He asks, miserable, feeling the dark press of doom around them both, clinging to Regulus and choking him like ivy. What made you do it, Regulus?
His brother’s eyes are wild, and now he no longer looks like a soldier off to war; more a prisoner brought back, broken and destroyed, than anything.
I didn’t want to be worthless, he said, shivering from a cold that has seeped inside of him, his back-gloved hand clasped over his forearm covered in dirty linen and black wool.
You were never worthless, Sirius breathes quietly, and feels his eyes burn with tears and thick, vicious rage. Was it her?
Silence between them for a moment; thick with the words they’ve never said but should have.
Finally Regulus laughs like a hyena braying. The sound of it hurts Sirius’ ears.
You never understood anything, Regulus said, before brushing past him to get to the heavy oak door. Don’t try and follow me.
He doesn’t look back, and the door thuds with the finality of a death knell, and Sirius sinks to the floor and cries, the press of the wood hard on his knees.
* * * * *
He can barely stand it that they’ve come, that they’re standing next to the grave with heads respectfully bowed, the sky slate-gray and gently curved with ominously low clouds full of waiting rain.
Narcissa, that cold Madonna, hugs him and presses her cold cheek to his. The angels in this cemetery have shed more tears than you. He cannot make himself touch her, as if she’s poisonous, as if her very touch will rot him away from the inside.
Bellatrix saunters over to him, her hand on the arm of the tall dark wizard she’d married, a mad light behind her eyes that reminds him of hellfire. She doesn’t move to embrace him, for which he is grateful, and as she moves away he thinks he can smell sulfur in her wake.
Lucius Malfoy stands and regards him for a long time, his blond hair pulled back in a neat queue, and Sirius is reminded of when they were children and they hated each other the moment their eyes first met.
I hate you. The words are childish; he says them anyway. They taste bitter but delicious in his mouth, like dark chocolate.
My wife was most upset at your cousin’s demise, Black. He’s faintly amused with his eyes narrowed but only just, hands clasped neatly behind his back like some army officer. His hair is almost white against the overcast sky.
Sirius thinks he looks like some angel of death, sent to punish the living for walking too long amongst the dead.
Your wife will weep only when that mad sister of hers is here somewhere, Sirius retorts, nodding towards the edge of the cemetery, where smooth ground lies untouched by granite tombs, presumably there for the rest of the Noble and Ancient House of Black when they surrender their mortal coil.
He remembers his cousins, entwined white limbs out by the lake in the drenching heat of the summer’s sun.
(Regulus, laughing softly. Let’s go and leave them to their madness, brother mine. She’ll hex us bad if she knows we saw them.
I’m not afraid of Bella, Sirius had said bravely; he’s young and he’s lying.
I don’t mean Bella, Regulus had answered, and laughed.)
Lucius appears unconcerned. Perhaps. And did you weep for your brother, Black?
Get away from me, and get out of here. Sirius turns his back on him, looks out at the necropolis before him. Everyone is gone, now, Apparated back to have tea with his destroyed mother in their ruin of a house.
You Blacks have a problem. Do you know what that is? Lucius is walking towards him; Sirius hears the crunch of leaves beneath the other man’s boots.
He has a thousand answers; none of them worth saying.
Too much fire in your blood. Lucius’ hand reaches out and curls around his neck; Sirius tenses but doesn’t move, instead he stares at some ancestral tombstone and watches the way the wind picks up the dried rose petals and tosses them against the gray stone.
Bellatrix, she’s a firebrand, you know. She’ll burn out and take whole cities with her. Lucius is taller than he is; he leans down and touches his mouth, just so, the finest of caresses like gossamer against Sirius' skin.
Your brother, such a passionate desire to prove himself. We see where that got him. Lucius chuckles and turns his head, as if looking back at Regulus’ grave. His hand snakes across Sirius' neck, leather sliding slickly on skin, and he pulls to wrench Sirius’ head back.
Sirius feels the warm heat of Lucius’ body, the strength of the muscles beneath his impeccable robes. Where will that leave you, I wonder? His thumb brushes slowly over Sirius’ full mouth, he can taste the leather of it, pungent and sweet.
What about your wife? He makes the words a sneer, throws them out like a slap, but it is desperate and he does not like the way he leans back, even just a little, drawn by the heat of the other man's body.
My wife is a Malfoy now. We are not known for our passion. Again, his thumb sweeps over Sirius’ bottom lip. His free hand winds into Sirius’ hair, coiling, pulling sharply, and pain dances before him and shimmers beneath his eyes.
So you’ll never taste life, or whatever it is that they say? Sirius glares at him, fiercely angry, trying not to give in to his temper as Lucius so obviously wants, though his rage simmers just beneath the surface, a fine rolling boil in his blood.
Maybe not. Maybe I’ll taste death. Just like your brother. Lucius’ breath makes gooseflesh rise on Sirius' skin, tingles race down his spine towards the earth beneath him. Perhaps I’ll find it tastes like dirt. Do you think that is what Regulus tasted, Black, when he died? They found him face-down in the mud, didn’t they?
Sirius growls, captured as he is in Lucius’ foul embrace. For a moment he considers using the secret magic, but won’t betray their secret, not for the brother who betrayed him. James and Peter and Remus…they are his family now.
They’ll be waiting for him, as it happens. He has no time to tarry here with Malfoy. I have nothing left to say to you.
Lucius laughs softly and murmurs, Good. I don’t want to talk anymore, as it happens. He kisses him, and his lips are cold but his mouth is burning-hot, engulfing.
His kiss tastes like death.
Death Eater.
Sirius struggles hard, but he doesn't mean it, not really. Lucius is well gifted in this game-his hands are cold but they bring a slow burn to his body, long-fingered caresses meant to entice and shame. They are wrapped in an embrace, all darkness and light, hands eager and punishing and brutal.
Sirius stares up at the blank, empty face of the angel as Lucius takes him roughly against the stone mausoleum. Drops of rain fall around them, shivery-cold darts of silver in the muted light of the afternoon. Sirius watches how the water drips down the faces of the stone angels and makes them look like they are crying.
Sirius' hands scratch at the rough granite surface until they bleed.
* * * * *
Sirius remembers that moment, sometimes, in Azkaban. The Dementors leave him alone when he remembers the funeral, and his mother, and how loud her sobs sounded in the churchyard.
It is when he allows himself to remember Lucius, his cold hands and his burning eyes and the darkness that passed between them that day that the Dementors glide forward, silent as death, their breath rattling like chains as they approach.
He forces himself to think of other things, and stares at his hands. Sometimes he scrapes them on the rough stone walls of his cell, until they bleed.
It is then that he falls asleep with the roar of the sea in his ears and the taste of the sea on his tongue.