riddlelog | so here i am {closed}

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so here i am {closed}

What: A chance meeting.
Where: A Tesco.
When: 6 September.
Who: Draco, Lucius, and Bellatrix.
Warnings: Draco getting scarred for life. Again. EDIT: Death Eater Sex Scenes (No Draco Involved Thank Merlin).

Draco is not, as it happens, expecting anything interesting to happen to him this evening. He's in a Tesco in Muggle London picking up a few things before heading back to where he's staying the night so that he can relax and have tea and something to eat. Living without a house elf around has been difficult but he's managing well enough—or at least without outright disaster. He's not completely useless. Most of the time.

Mostly he just wants to grab what he wants, pay, and go. Muggle brands escape him so he's just picking what looks good, trying to remember how the Muggle money system works offhand. It's not too difficult thankfully, after Scorpius helped explain it to him. And lo: one Draco Malfoy, prim and proud as ever, hair tied back, hat pulled down, and coat on to protect from the rain outside, carrying a small number of essentials as he makes his way to pay.

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The checkout presents a... particular problem, for two people with a distinct British drift to their English, who still act like they are foreigners in about a hundred little ways. It also means talking to a muggle girl she doesn't have the means to guide to certain death right now, and dealing with the ridiculously flammable paper, and she would much, much rather not. And that is clearly written on her face. Better to think of positive goals. Like the prospect of bleeding out this muggle – she gives him another glowing smile – and, well, after that, drunk on murder but sobered in general... at least smiling up at Lucius, her smile is actually genuine.

Which is probably disconcerting all by itself. Never mind that this degree of physical closeness, in public, for no other reason than enjoying his company would actually quietly unnerve her when sober. It's a bit unlike her.

"Well, wouldn't it be best to stick with the right sorts, then?" She does laugh, at the idea of foolishness and how easy this apparently is, from her entirely blind standpoint. "Join us for a drink?"

They might be slightly less drunk, but still wasted enough that, Lucius thinks as he fumbles with pound notes enough to buy the chocolate, alcohol and cheese that he doesn't intend the Muggle to actually eat, any bored late night worker probably thinks they're just drunk and strange. Perhaps they are, by normal people's standards. He hands Draco the bags; solicitude only goes so far, even in the service of luring a man to his death, and he indicates the man ought to go in front with a sweeping motion of his hand as Bella glomps onto his side. It's not until they're near the exit that he actually speaks, though, and only after finally leaning down to kiss Bella on her brightly smiling mouth. He imagines they look cute. Probably.

"We know a good pub, but it's a bit far. If you want to stay close by..." The trail off seems to indicate they'd be amenable. What it really indicates is they'll have to come up with an alternate plan for delivery to Bella's wonderfully distant Black estate.

Draco is momentarily distracted by a security camera and it takes him a bit to realize what it is. He snorts even though it worries him because he has no idea what to do with it. He remembers that Bellatrix is part of DMAC which means she should know and--"eyes everywhere these days," he says, sounding put out as he gestures to the camera with his free hand, "can't even do your shopping without someone watching."

They don't look cute, for the record.

As they walk out and Draco moves in front of them, the knuckles of his left hand just barely touch Bellatrix's arm - where her Dark Mark must rest. He wonders if it makes her feel a spark of magic. He hopes it makes her feel ill. "I'm amenable," he finally says, looking over his shoulder at them both, free fingers twitching slightly hidden in his sleeve, "to whatever you like."

Bella could kick herself for not thinking about the cameras sooner – they were certainly on record for an unfortunately long while. In on itself, not a problem. Sure, they dressed 'odd' by muggle standards, but that is hardly going to break the Statute. What is going to be a problem is the potential of a missing person notice for the muggle, last seen in their company, including... handage? Leggage? Footage. Footage of them. "Watching and storing it on tapes."

But Accio is such a basic spell, they don't need to pause for that right now.

So out is the way to go, and that's all well and good, better with Lucius by her side and the muggle up front, except his hand brushes against her skin, against her Mark, and she jerks her arm back instinctively. It's not the first time the mask slips, but unlike the badly concealed serial killer stare, or the brief moment of genuine fondness when Lucius had kissed her, the unadulterated hatred in her expression isn't in the least dimmed by substance use and/or abuse. She catches herself, but she is almost dizzy with the urge to harm, she could just gauge out his –

"It is odd. I always thought your eye colour was so rare, Lucius."

Only because he knows Bella so well, only because they've been something of a mismatched set of fair and dark for more than five years now - only because of these things does Lucius note the sudden rising rage. Sometimes he tries to make it rise on purpose, for that deliciously electric effect it had at certain times. This isn't one of those, and the analytical part of his mind pushes through the chemical haze. His own hand on Bellatrix isn't soothing or staying so much as urging patience. Soon enough she can vent her anger, soon enough, except...

His eye color is rare, except among Malfoys who tend to breed along similar lines. Gold hair that pales with age. Patrician bone structure. Height, near or at six feet. Lean lines. And storm-gray eyes with barely a hint of blue. He tilts his head, and when he narrows his own eyes they are startlingly clear for right now.

"They are not as common as brown," he murmurs. But it's not the eye color, really. There's hardly something so English as gray eyes. No, it's the combination of things; the overlong blond hair beginning to pale, the face, the drawl, the smirk. The Muggle's not as tall as he is, but the way he holds his head...Malfoy. He'd almost wager galleons on it.

Especially when he recalls his drunk words from when they'd first stumbled into the store; he looks almost exactly like Abraxas Malfoy, almost exactly, and Lucius turns his head to look at Bella. "What did I say Scorpius called his father? Draco?" He'd thought, when Scorpius had arrived, that perhaps he'd feel more kinship with a man meant to be his own son, but it turns out that's not the case - not if what he's suspecting is true.

Mostly just annoyance.

He'll know to take the tapes, which is the most important thing here besides not dying. First take care of one, then the other. Thank you, auntie.

They're outside, at least. And practically alone. "They run in the family," Draco drawls slowly as they slowly make the connection, setting down the bags (holding on to some of the chocolate) and turning toward them so that no one can hex him (or worse) in the back. He's smiling, that slow Malfoy smile, infuriating and knowing, and he lets them finish before he speaks again.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," easy as anything. "In any case I don't expect you to regret very nearly attempting to torture and murder a pureblood, because you won't remember it."

When he moves it's swift. Reaching for his wand strapped to his other arm makes his sleeve shift up, clearly revealing the Dark Mark seared into his skin before he's tossing the damned chocolate bars at Bellatrix to distract her and pointing his wand at Lucius first. "Obliviate."

Obliviation may just feature one incantation, but it is a lot trickier than that, if you would rather go big than go home. She is shocked, when it hits Lucius, but she remains, within her means, on track. This has not been a thought-through attack, this was the spell in its simpler version. Recent memories wiped, not a whole life. She sways slightly, now that Lucius has gone blank beside her for a moment, and it may be cover enough for the glimpse of the Dark Mark she got. He should be one of them.

Were she sober, were she at least not about as far away from sobriety as a person can be without succumbing to a poisoning, she would opt for stone cold murder. As it stands, she might miss, she might fail, and even with her mind numbed to this degree, the only thing that can make this situation worse is absolutely proving him right and then failing to get rid of the evidence. Him. She doesn't dodge, nor does she conjure a shield, and she doesn't draw her wand, against every fibre of her being. She holds her hands up in surrender, and her aim is obviously to talk him down.

Her wrist is still entirely blank.

"Your time must be darker than ours, Draco."

There's a moment, a space of a few seconds between when Draco tells them his full name and when he's pointed his wand at Lucius's face. It's enough time for his own wand to find it's way to his hand, and were he sober, enough time to block the incantation. He spent time as an Obliviator, after all, he certainly knows how to avoid the spell. But he's not sober, he's far from sober.

He uses that time to think, then speak, instead of defend, and the only thought that manages to form is that he needs to figure out what exactly occurs in this future. "Your son," he begins, and really, that must be the last straw because then he thinks nothing at all.

Obliviate is, for several long seconds, like being trapped in a bubble as memories are locked away to where they can't be accessed. He's still there, but he's not really aware. He's frozen in place as Bella tries to talk Draco down. But if he weren't, he'd likely tell her it isn't worth the effort. That they'd been pushing in a way that a Muggle wouldn't have realized but a Malfoy certainly would; that in Draco's position Lucius would be doing far worse than Obliviate.

"Nothing will happen to my son," Draco says coldly, "I'll be making sure of it." But Lucius is already gone - and it's true. Lucius would have done far worse than Obliviate them. Draco would have if it were someone else. When Bellatrix speaks Draco turns to her, wand pointed directly. He's smiling but his eyes are like ice chips, sharp and bearing down on her. Bellatrix... Her he might had been able to kill, were she alone.

His smile widens. "No, Bellatrix. Auntie. My time is free of tyranny and war and the fear of something like this. In my time, Tom Riddle is long dead."

He lets it sink in like that for just a moment. Just long enough. "This time is the dark one. Obliviate."

By the time they both come back to Earth Draco and his cheese and whiskey will be gone - Lucius will be holding a bottle of vodka and Bellatrix will have the candy for Rodolphus.

Draco has a lot of work to do before he moves places to stay tonight.

She is very much about to argue that this time is entirely free of war and fear and tyranny, as is the government's official stance, and she even keeps the friendly-ministry-employee voice for her attempt – and then he tells what she knows is a blatant lie. Tom Marvolo Riddle, dead? Impossible. Terrifying and impossible and making it impossibly difficult to resign herself to being obliviated for the sake of not handing him any proof for his entirely true torture-murder-claims.

He is gone before she comes to again, and when she does, it takes her a moment of abject confusion in the face of the muggle sweets in her hands before she recognises this particular sense of disorientation not as part of the drug haze, but as a sign of having been obliviated. Lucius is there – she remembers drinking with him, remembers one of them mentioning Rodolphus and chocolate and – blank.

"Did you obliviate me?" She takes a staggering step towards him, incredulous and trying to work around the sudden gap in her memory, while having trouble holding onto more than one piece of the puzzle at a time thanks to their previous escalations.

He's holding a bottle of vodka, which would be confusing even if he remembered the events of the the last few minutes; he would have taken the vodka and the damn chocolate. As it is, he lifts it and gives it a puzzled look before he catches Bella's arm as she staggers towards him. "Did you obliviate me?" He asks. It's...not entirely outside the realm of possibility, he thinks. They've done dumb shit and pointed wands at each other before.

One might even go so far as to say must be a day that ends in y.

He frowns a little harder, looking down the street as if its likely to give him an answer.

"Are we in Mu...the other London?" he whispers.

Her eyes widen and she steps even closer, steadied by his arm, but also unarguably crossing the line between 'normal interpersonal distance' and 'entirely in his space'. It looks a bit like she is trying to prevent icky muggle contamination by stepping close to all the amazing blood purity he represents, and that makes it more than a little funny. We––"

She is fully taking in her surroundings now, the shop not far from them, cars, streetlights. What, by Merlin's sodding testicles, had they taken to think this was even remotely okay?

"Did we obliviate each other over this?"

Alright, maybe it's the sudden nervousness, or the shock, but she is genuinely laughing at that. She isn't going to laugh tomorrow, but as of right now, she is nowhere near a state of mind to fully judge herself for the stupidity of it all.

It's fine. His hand can slide to her waist to make anyone passing think they're just a pair of tipsy lovers. It's odd, he thinks. He never realized Obliviate acts almost as an ice cold shower when it came to sobering up, he thinks. It's not worth it, but.

"...We must have," he says, murmuring in her ear. "No one else could have, right? Not here." Because he might be more comfortable in Muggle London than her, but only by a miniscule degree. That's how it was for most witches and wizards. Wizarding and Muggle worlds weren't meant to mix.

He chuckles a little as Bella suddenly laughs, and it's a little rueful. "Let's get back," he says. "And - Malfoy Manor, tonight. I'm not sure I wish to see Rodolphus' face just now, mm?"

"No, I don't think so." She pauses, making an effort to collect herself, before whispering back. "We can check the registry tomorrow, see if any of the... lesser kind live in the area, just to be safe."

It feels vaguely familiar, the idea of going back to his estate rather than Lestrange Manor, but she can't place when the thought must have first come up. Then again, even after the obliviating, she is still not in a state that she would want to face Rodolphus in – actually, make that 'especially because of the obliviating'. Somehow she felt as though he wouldn't find it quite as bizarrely funny as she did.

"I can do without his judgement right now. Are you good to apparate?" Sober, she would be loathe to ask, it's almost like admitting to a weakness, but she is in a state where she considers splicing a serious risk – and while she can fix it, she would just rather not want to deal.

If, Lucius thinks, they're registered. It's been much of DMLE's headache in recent weeks - chasing down the ones who've decided they're not to be trusted. Still, the registry is the first place to check, just to cover their bases.

He can't place the thought, either, but it's the only reasonable course of action. Rodolphus would be extremely unamused by the whole thing, and the Obliviating most of all. No, best to sleep this off and come up with an explanation in the morning, when they both have clearer heads. His hand rests at the back of Bella's waist as he looks down, a little assessment in his eyes. He is, of course, still not sober. But he's not wavering on his feet the way she is, and he nods as he leads her into the nearest alley. "I'm fine to do it," he says easily, and his lips twitching slightly.

"I swear neither one of us will lose a leg into the ether."

Bella is thinking of the other registries, too – muggleborn and half-blood, anyone who might have an address in the area – but she isn't particularly optimistic. There doesn't appear to be anything else amiss about them, either, and when she checks, her wand is still, or perhaps again, in its sheath.

She is a friend of the most simple solution, and it ties in with the family way: if it's not going well, just lie about it. And if lying is made exceptionally difficult because it is Rodolphus Lestrange you're trying to lie to, just pretend nothing is wrong and hope it doesn't catch his interest. But she'll take a better plan, once they're sober and can properly talk about it.

"I would much, much rather lose it to the ether than have to explain how it ended up on a muggle street during a disciplinary hearing," she says lightly, as she follows him into the alley, briefly looking over her shoulder to make sure no-one is watching. "We should be clear."

They're both accomplished liars, though Lucius' is hardly a family trait so much as a line of defense, necessary with the associations he's developed. Either way, Bella's right, it doesn't really work with Rodolphus Lestrange. Somehow he knows, somehow he sees through, and certainly he's not susceptible to the emotional manipulation Lucius excels at.

He glances out towards the street, just confirming what Bella says is true, and then he wraps his arm around her. Closer is better when you're apparating two, but this close? Probably not strictly necessary. But she doesn't protest, and there's only a soft popping sound before they appear again, this time in the master bedchamber at Malfoy Manor. "All present and accounted for, I believe."

She doesn't protest then, and she doesn't seem to have any intention at all whatsoever to bring distance back between them when they re-appear in his bedroom. All the better for his current houseguests – she isn't planning on leaving this room.

"I reckon so. Or else I can't bring myself to care, which makes me wonder what we thought we needed the vodka for." And it definitely seems to be very sincere wondering, that absolutely has her focus, because she is absolutely not kissing him right now.

Oh, wait. No, that's what's happening.

"I haven't the slightest idea, unless one of us was exhibiting signs of sobriety." Which seems incredibly unlikely, given the way his head is swimming. Obviously that feeling is exactly why he keeps his arm tight around her; they're keeping themselves upright in a world that somewhat resembles a carousel at the moment.

He doesn't have such an excellent excuse for why, when she leans up and kisses him, he not only kisses her back, but shifts his grip so he can lift her just a little higher as he leans against the post of his bed. But then, why does he need an excuse? It's not the first time this has happened. It won't be the last, and as the fingers of one hand thread into her tousled hair and fist there, he's very glad of that fact. It would be a sacrifice to give this up.

The sweets are dropped and forgotten in the moment of it. She does find that the spinning is less of a problem when she focuses on one thing at a time, and if that one thing is pressing her body against his, that's just as well. It's true, though: there is no need for excuses, not with all their previous arrangements in place. It isn't as if Rodolphus has to be here for this. He isn't always, and neither is Lucius, and neither is she. Sometimes, closing the doors on one is necessary, isn't it? And if she can cope being on the other side of it, so can he.

But honestly, that is a lot of thought for this time of night in this compromising a position, not that it stalls her. When he grips her hair, she grins into the kiss, and eagerness (and practice, perhaps) makes up for steady fingers when she begins to unfasten his robes. It would do her some good to think about the inevitable walk of shame to the apothecary tomorrow before work, or to think about the fact that work is lurking and sleep could do her some favour before that, but she is in an entirely single-minded mood right now.

The vodka is set on the floor, a dull clink of glass against stone, and then he has both hands free. He's not thinking of Rodolphus right now; perhaps he'll recall later that Bella is, in the eyes of the world, another man's fiancee. Or perhaps he won't. She wears his ring, after all. Regardless, right now, he's a little too drunk and a little too distracted to think of anyone who isn't in this room. Instead, he focuses his attention on the far too many buttons that close her robes, and then the far too many buttons that close the equally black top beneath.

"You always have too many clothes on, Bellatrix," he says, and because he knows her and knows her well, he tugs sharply on her hair, forcing her hair back with just a bit of a burn. His teeth scrape against the pulse in her throat as her robes float to his floor.

"It is called propriety, Lucius," a paradox statement that just about loses all of its arrogant force when it is partially gasped; he does know her very well indeed. She puts up just enough of a fight to make it worthwhile when he forces her head back, and then bares her throat, eternally grateful for the power of concealing charms. Stepping out of her clothes unseeing means doing an even greater number on personal distance, and she slides her hands up to his shoulders so his robes may follow suit.

"But you are entirely lost to polite society tonight, aren't you?" Teasing comes easier than haughtiness, and she shifts just enough to press her thigh against his crotch, bless the fact that she hasn't bothered to rid herself of the heel height advantage just yet.

His teeth first merely scrape against her skin, but he rewards that arch haughtiness with the kind of sharp bite that will be red, even blue the next morning. Then he leans back, his hand tight in her hair until he needs to let go in order for his dark robes to fall to the floor. Too impatient for anything else, he unlaces his boots with a wordless point of his fingers and steps out of them as her fingers unfasten the smooth buttons on his shirt.

"You know perfectly well, Bella," he says, and it'a a heated purr. "I'm nearly always lost to polite society when you wind me up this much." He doesn't remember the night, of course, the obliviation took care of that, but he's sure they must have wound each other up. "I expect if I had a mother she'd say you're quite ruining me." Desiderata Malfoy has, of course, been dead since he was thirteen, and even before that...had mostly left the rearing of the Malfoy heir to Abraxas. But he could pretend that she'd be concerned.

Not that his mother is first in his mind, not when Bella has her thigh grinding up against him. Lucius' gray eyes go nearly black with lust, and he drops his hand to her other leg, hiking it up to hook around his hip as he again uses magic to dispense with the rest of the fabric between them. "Tell me," he says, placing another sharp, hard bite along her jaw. "How do you want me tonight, darling?"

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so here i am {closed}

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YOU BET I UPLOADED THIS SILLY ASS ICON

EXCELLENT USE OF THAT PAID ACCOUNT

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