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Lucius used to consider himself a simple, reasonable man with simple, reasonable priorities. These were, in order: 1. Keeping a steady influence over the Minister 2. Raising a decent heir, and 3. Remaining better-looking than his political rivals.
This, at least, was what he had thought Before. Before, when he was the kind of wizard who could serve the Dark Lord for years and then escape any and all punishment after his defeat, despite the Dark Mark on his arm and the dozens of witnesses who knew he had never been under an Imperius in his life.
His life had gone on unimpeded after the end of the first war – he didn't spend a single day in Azkaban, didn't lose a single Knut of his fortune, and even his reputation didn't suffer in the least. If anything, his influence in the Ministry had actually increased after so many of the previously important players had been killed or imprisoned.
Now though, a year-long stint in Azkaban and the start of a war later, he sees he's been taking a lot for granted. His life of affable dinner parties, polite social manoeuvers and vaguely-phrased gossip, all punctuated by the occasional purchase of a few peacocks, has died a brutal and senseless death. A death that nonetheless he thought he could have withstood, as long as he kept his dignity.
Sanctimonia Vincet Semper. Purity Will Always Conquer.
He just had to adapt now, he had thought, and rebuild later, just as he had last time.
But what he had failed to consider was that everything is different this time. For one, the Dark Lord has gone completely insane. For two, his dignity was lost pretty much the moment Malfoy Manor became the Death Eaters' headquarters.
He has since been subjected to an amount of humiliations that would honestly be impressive, if he wasn't the target of it. He has been made to go weeks without getting to so much as look at his hair-nourishing potions and oils and self-adjusting comb. He hasn't been able to moisturize and exfoliate in almost a month. He hasn't taken a nice relaxing perfumed bath in... in so long it makes him shudder whenever he makes the mistake of thinking about it.
The Dark Lord seems to always keep him busy with frankly preposterous tasks that he suspects are specifically designed to serve the dual purpose of consuming his time until he hasn't a single minute left for body care, and drive home just how low he's fallen out of his Lord's graces. It's... effective.
Now, in the shambles of his terminally ruined reputation, he's living a life he'd never wish on even his most loathed enemy. (Well. Maybe on Weasley... and, come to think of it, Parkinson. That scheming bastard. Also Mulciber. Mulciber truly deserves this – )
The fact of the matter is, he is a hostage in his own Manor. The halls his ancestors once walked, are now sullied by a cohort that might shame hell's denizens in both appearance and temperament. The elves are running themselves ragged to try and keep the devastation contained, often at the risk of bodily harm. Lucius honestly has no idea how he'll face his ancestors in the afterlife – a problem which becomes incresingly ugent every passing day.
His thoughts linger daily on the day the Dark Lord chose to utilize the manor as his base of operations. He thinks about an alernate reality in which he could have done something to stop him, could have constructed an argument so convincing it could have persuaded him to choose a different place.
In this reality though, there's not a lot he could have actually done – he was in Azkaban when the Dark Lord moved in. Lucius returned from his imprisonment to find his ancestral home overrun with filth, Narcissa looking as pale and stiff and close to cracking as a marble statue, and the Dark Lord smirking very meaningfully at him while lounging in his high back chair.
Could he have stopped him? Certainly not. And at a time when he was in need of salvaging his standing after causing the destruction of a powerful Horcrux, and failing his task so spectacularly at the Ministry, protesting in any way would have been the final nail in his very literal coffin.
But indulging in fantasies of self-determination and free will is the only way he has left to stay sane. Or whatever the definition of sane is these days, anyway. Lucius can't know – he's pretty sure he hasn't laid eyes on a sane person in over two years.
Sometimes he has moments of clarity where he realizes that of course he hasn't – he's holed up with a lunatic whose greatest ambition for the past 17 years has been child murder, and a group of people who more or less willingly follow him. That's hardly going to make for an environment that promotes healthy minds – and that's without counting his dear sister-in-law. Bella halves the average sanity level of any gathering just by herself.
The point is, his Manor is now the base of operations of the Dark side, and as such it houses basically every person and creature fighting for them. His house is overrun by all manner of vermin and scum, every room available occupied and quickly turning into a hovel.
But even in the middle of these anguishing facts, what causes him the most sorrow is his daily hair care routine, and the sheer impossibility of keeping up with it. Even shortened to a measly fifty minutes, the sheer number of people in the manor makes it impossible to remain undisturbed for even that lenght of time.
One time Macnair actually explodes the wall because Lucius has been too long with the bathroom. Nevermind that it is the literal middle of the night, and that this is his house!
“Is – Are you – right in front of me?” he asks disjointedly, very aware of the loud 'sssshhhh' sound coming from the toilet. Macnair is just going at it, just right there, in front of the crumbled down wall (through which Yaxley is staring, a bit confused, clearly caught mid-step), in front of Lucius himself, who is now floundering, with his wet hair still dripping from where he's holding them to the side of his head. “Just – right there?”
Macnair half-turns. Sneers. Then pulls out his wand (the wooden one) and just flicks Lucius through the other wall.
The reason he has to share bathrooms with the unwashed plebeians is that his own personal bathroom has been taken over by the Dark Lord. He's forced to use the other, smaller ones, in common with the general populace, who very likely are unable to even spell the word 'hygiene'. They... don't appreciate the amount of time he spends in the bathroom, and like Macnair, have been very vocal about their feelings. (By which he means they've hexed him. A lot).
He could barge in like the others do with him, and demand the use of a bathroom that is technically, actually his, but he'd rather not add another layer of trauma to himself by laying eyes on a disrobed Grayback. Or – Merlin forbid – Mulciber. The mere thought threatens to make him pass out.
Even barricading himself in a bathroom and finally getting his hair conditioned and moisturized the way god and nature intended it isn't a possibility. Because the Dark Lord took his wand.
With a smugness that seems a little excessive, frankly, given the circumstances. It's not like Lucius has any sort of power anymore. But now he can't even defend himself from the beasts roaming his own home. He can't even secure himself some time for taking care of his hair in his own bloody bathroom.
His hair... Oh, his poor hair. Once so luscious, it now resembles nothing more than a particularly oily mound of old hay.
Well... probably.
He hasn't been able to actually look at it, because someone destroyed all of his mirrors (they can't all have been smashed by accident. One or two, sure, four or five, why not, six or seven, given his new housemates, he wouldn't be surprised. But all fifty-six? That's on purpose. That kind of mean-spirited and heartless deed can only be carried out on purpose, and with a vegeance. Lucius is half-convinced it was the Dark Lord. Or Bella, as usual).
Bit it feels like oily old hay. Stringy, dry and greasy all at once. At least, it felt like that the last time he dared to touch it. That was over a week ago, as right now he's quite positive he'd have a breakdown if his fingers came into contact with the terrible consistency his beautiful soft locks have fallen to. In fact, just thinking about it makes the back of his eyes start to itch.
Okay, quickly, something positive and happy to take his mind off his suffering – he can't start crying in front of everyone... something bright and nice, something like....
… Death.
Oh yes, now there is a nice thought.
“What are you smiling about, dear?” Narcissa whispers to him with a tiny, terrified smile. She wants to get him back to neutral or cowering again, and for good reason: his continued health depends on how well he manages to be one with the furniture. Attracting attention will only make his life worse – though he's starting to doubt that's possible.
(He's been living in hell for months – since his hair care products went mysteriously missing, in fact. He suspects Bella).
Anyway, his wife is right – he has no business smiling to himself, especially not at the tense morning event that by some loose definition could be called breakfast. It involves eating, at least. Which is more of a tall order than it appears – how anybody could work up an appetite while in the presence of Avery's smell and Mulciber's excuse for a face is beyond Lucius. Not to mention the the Dark Lord's... well... everything.
“It's nothing, dear,” he whispers back, assuming a more appropriate expression. It's not hard – by now the abject fear is likely etched permanently on his face.
Even while nudging him away from a painful death, Narcissa looks slightly resentful at the possibility of Lucius enjoying something, even a mere thought, while she is clutching at straws to keep going.
At least, this is what he thinks that expression means.
It's been a couple of decades since they got married, but he still can't really read her. She once smiled at him and told him how handsome the new Abraxas horses were, what an interesting thing to spend all that money on, especially considering he already had four, and Draco was bound to absolutely love them. Not two minutes later, he'd found belladonna in his tea. Enough for him to notice immediately and stop drinking. She continued to smile calmly at him even through his spluttering, and Lucius has since started to clear any hefty expense with her beforehand.
So really, she could be thinking anything right now. The only thing Lucius is really sure of is that she isn't having any more fun than he is.
Breakfast passes in awkward silence, broken only by Bella's reckless and revolting attempts at drawing the Dark Lord into a conversation. Lucius manages not to vomit into his teacup, but it's a very near thing. He envies Severus his Hogwarts position with an intensity he hadn't thought possible. At this point, he'd put up with all of the dirty-blooded rabble, with all the – ugh – children. Hell, he'd even put up with Draco right now.
“Lucius,” the Dark Lord says, suddenly breaking the stiff silence. There's a glint of malice in his eyes, which never bodes well. Lucius freezes. “You look rather frazzled, my friend. Could our presence in your home perhaps be the cause?”
He gestures expansively around the table to clarify the use of the word 'we'. Do all these filthy murderers bother you, Lucius? Do the insane werewolf or the blood-thirsty scum make you uncomfortable?
“Far from it, my Lord. I can only hope that my small contribution can be of some use,” he says quickly. He's actually surprised the words make it past his teeth at all – they're so violently untrue that Lucius almost finds it offensive how easily they come out. It feels like his tongue should be on fire at the very least. “I am simply overwhelmed by this honor you chose to bestow upon me, my Lord.”
His Master looks like he doesn't believe him, which only a blind, deaf and not very bright child would, at this point. He also looks indulgent – good. As long as the Dark Lord finds him amusing, he'll keep his life. However nightmare-like.
“Is that so, Lucius? Then I have a task for you – this being your home, I believe you are the most qualified person for the job.”
“My Lord?”
“Wormtail. I've not seen him lately. Fetch him for me. You have until lunch.”
Lucius' mouth doesn't fall open, but only because he was expecting this. He just murmurs his servile assent while everybody around him laughs uproariously at the humiliating order. Lucius bears it stoically – it's hardly the first time it's happened – and just stays silent and thinks about how nice spontaneous combustion would be.
Two and a half hours later, Narcissa is frowning at him, her lips pursed and her wand held tight in her hand. He has already tried to borrow it, but it doesn't respond to him at all. ('Doesn't respond' might be putting it gently – one second in his hand and it starts emitting waves of heat so powerful that he's forced to let go immediately. The first attempt gave him burns on the entirety of his palm, like he pressed his hand into a sizzling frying pan).
“No – look,” he whispers furiously, “It's more like – ” he gestures with his hand, trying to explain the sharp yet smooth movement the spell requires. Narcissa tries again, but it's like this is the first time she's casting it, which cannot possibly be. She looks at him in irritation, and he throws his hands up.
“Honestly, dear? I thought we were on the same page here!” he says, deeply confused and perturbed, “How is it possible you can't cast a half-decent Bellus Capellus when your hair looks so suspiciously nice even as our lives are falling apart?”
She keeps fowning at him. “I... just wash them.”
“You – no spells? No potions? No oils? At all?”
“I suppose they might be naturally like this,” she says indifferently.
“What? No,” Lucius says automatically. It just can't be. How has he never known about this? Also how? With that color and texture, her hair looks as far from 'natural' as Bella is from 'well-adjusted'. “That's not – how – ?”
She lifts a shoulder, unconcerned. “Family trait?”
“But – but I – ”
She pats his shoulder in what is probably more physical contact than they've shared in the past ten years. “Not the moment for a nervous collapse, Lucius,” she reminds him. “The rat might wake at any moment.”
He turns to regard Wormtail, who is slumped into a chair, tied up inside an Incarcerous and knocked out by a Stupefy. Lucius can't help but think, of course Narcissa can cast those spell with clinical perfection. He still can't get over the fact that she doesn't use any products for her hair. Everyone knows there's something very wrong with the members of House Black, but to this degree?
Still, Wormtail is like a ticking bomb – he's sure to reveal Lucius' indiscretions without blinking. They better get done before he wakes up.
Narcissa takes a deep breath, and tries the spell again. By the fifth iteration, his hair feels slightly better than it has in weeks. It's nothing earth-shattering – if only he could get his hands on his wand, even for just a few minutes... – but when he gingerly brings himself to put the very tips of his fingers to the strands, they're definitely a bit less oily than they were half an hour ago. His head feels lighter, too.
Lucius has to drag Wormtail to the Dining Hall by hand, like a big sack of potatoes, because this is his life now. Terrible choices, terrible hair, and the increasing likelihood of a hernia of the disk. He was raised to wither away artistically on a Victorian chair with a book in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other. This is emphatically not what he is built for.
He manages to tug, kick and coerce the vile rat into the Dark Lord's presence. His Master sits at the head of the table as always – Lucius manages to ignore the thought that that used to be his place once upon a time – and his followers are already all seated around the poor mahogany splendor that also doesn't deserve any of this.
Lucius endures a few cracks about the importance of getting one's hands dirty and about his new role as the janitor. There's only to hope he won't be made to clean anytime soon. Although, can one even do that without a wand? It seems unlikely.
After that the attention focuses on Wormtail, and Lucius can go sit down. The slight improvement to the condition of his hair has already worked wonders for his mood – he's able to weather any and all taunts thrown his way, secure in the knowledge that at least his hair is cleaner and looks better than it has in a long time. Narcissa will soon improve at casting Bellus Capellus, and one of these days his hair will be an unparalleled wonder of beauty, volume and silkiness once more.
The fantasy is so close, so intense, that he can almost feel himself salivating.
The Dark Lord is now taunting Pettigrew about sending him back to Severus as a servant, and seems pretty absorbed. As casually as he can, Lucius picks up his spoon – silver, ornate, also deserving better than to be handled by this rabble – and discreetly inspects his reflection in the smooth metal.
The hair is a marked improvement since yesterday, but his skin is truly a fright. Moisturizing has been difficult under the circumstances. He's still the best looking person here though, even despite everything, and though the standard is admittedly low, that at least is something.
He's approaching something close to a good mood when – of course – awful reality comes crashing down on him, raining misery on his head. In this case it happens literally, as his head and face are suddenly drenched in some kind of liquid.
He doesn't need to raise his head and look, but he does anyway, and is faced with the picture of Bella, one hand braced on the table, leaning dangerously towards him from a few seats over. Her other hand is still in the air, still holding the wine glass upside down by way of two black-tipped fingers hooked around the stem. She is also directing a nasty smile his way, in the process making the experience somehow a little bit worse by making him look directly at her half-rotted teeth.
“Oops,” Bella says very deliberately, as Lucius freezes with his mouth slightly open. The wine has already permeated his hair, and drops of it are trickling down his forehead. The smell is strong and thick, and his brain can't seem to makes sense of the fact that it's in his hair. It stops and starts, refusing to accept the truth of the matter, and Lucius remains perfectly still and slightly gaping.
His soul-deep horror must be evident, because along with the snickers he hears in a faraway sort of way, Narcissa is shaking his arm and looking very alarmed indeed.
“Lucius, dear? It would seem as though you are not breathing... ? Please regain you composure... ”
His brain is still torn between two words and the inability to make sense of their connection. Hair. Wine. Hair. Wine. Hair. He feels his chin spasm – he might start sobbing right now, in front of every cursed piece of trash occupying his Dining Hall. He might, in fact, actually start sobbing in the Dark Lord's presence.
He feels himself stand, but the instinct to flee the scene abandons him once he takes in the way the Dark Lord's eyes are fixed on him. If the man had eyebrows, one of them would be raised right now.
“Something you would like to say, Lucius?” he says coldly, “Or were you about to do something irrevocably stupid, such as leaving without my permission?”
“Could I... could I be excused, then, my Lord?” he manages to say, somehow, without weeping. “I don't feel – ”
“No.”
The word is sharp, precise, but the relish with which it is spoken betrays the amusement the Dark Lord is finding in his plight. For a moment even the one-syllable word refuses to compute, and Lucius remains standing, acutely aware of every dark red drop staining his hair and dripping down his back. A sound escapes him. A tiny, high-pitched sound that comes directly from his soul.
“Yes, Lucius?”
He sees Narcissa shake her head and furiously mouth 'Sit down' through clenched teeth, and does so mechanically, saying the appropriate platitudes and apologies. He still can't quite bring himself to eat, though. Or do much more than stare wide-eyed into the middle distance.
“Malfoys,” he hears Bella observe mockingly, “Always so fucking dramatic.”
Which is truly rich, coming from her. His ancestors didn't have an entire room dedicated to the collection and display of their house elves' decapitated heads.
After lunch, Narcissa continues to demonstrate her disconcerting and unfortunate ineptitude with hair-related spells, going so far as to finally just cast an Aguamenti in his face, shutting up his critiquing with a powerful jet of water.
“You think if I manage to sneak out and get myself to the Ministry, they'll agree to arrest me?” he asks glumly, making no move to dry himself. He could easily procure a towel, seeing as they're currently stealing a few minutes of privacy in the cramped laundry room, but he can't quite bring himself to. It's about the hair, because everything is, but it's also not.
“Doubtful. Especially as the Dark Lord has the Minister under Imperius,” she reminds him.
“Azkaban was so much better than this,” he confesses, “Especially after the Dementors left.”
“I know, dear. I did bribe the guards to get you books to read and your favorite hair care potions.”
“You did,” he says, remembering the sojourn that had at the time seemed like the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He'd happily give his firstborn to live like that now. His hair used to be so clean and soft. It used to smell like lavender and lilies. It used to –
A ragged sound leaved him, and before he realizes it he's grabbed a pair of scissors from the drawer where Tinky keeps the sewing things.
“Dear – what are you – ”
“I'm cutting my hair!” he nearly yells, hearing his voice crack in the middle, “I don't see why it should have to go through all of this – I should be the only one to suffer –”
“Lucius – ”
She manages to wrest the scissors out of his hands, and then Vanishes them for good measure.
“There's – wine – ” he sobs incongruently into her shoulder. She's patting his arm soothingly, if a little awkwardly. They aren't used to all this touching. “My – my hair – ”
“I know, dear, I know... This silly war'll be over soon, and then we can have control of our house again,” she murmures in the voice of someone whose sanity depends on that single thought, “Why, we can even buy a new one. A new manor somewhere else. France, maybe. We can have a garden, a new greenhouse, and new horses, and as many peacocks as necessary...” the ones they used to keep met a very unfortunate end soon after the change in living arrangements. Lucius, as always, suspects Bella. “ ... And you can have however many hair care potions you wish for, no matter the cost or quantity... ”
“R-Really?”
“Yes,” she promises, sighing a bit sadly. It is becoming increasingly unlikely that the war will ever end, or that they'll be alive by that time, but the illusion is the only thing that keeps them both going.
But their moment ends too soon. A loud crack echoes in the cramped little room, and Tinky appears out of thin air to whisper urgently, “Master and Mistress is being needed by the Dark Master! It is being very urgent!”
Lucius exchanges a pale look with his wife, and they sigh almost in unison.
Respite is over – back to hell it is.