Ad Mortem Festinamus

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! When Rabastan had undone the spell binding him to the floor, Narcissa had long gone, and after a little struggle, he had understood Rodolphus' advise to leave her alone for now, to give her some time to calm down again. He had won the fight with the still screeching Isabella - he would have cruciated her, but again, Rabastan and Rodolphus had stopped him. Performing an Unforgivable in front of a hundred party guests wouldn't have made anything better, all right -

He had rushed out of the apartment, equipped with a bottle of vodka, the first full bottle he had seen, and had run away. He had run until his sides were stitching, but he couldn't run away from the pain, the sheer horror. How could that have happened?! That Isabella person meant nothing, nothing! And Narcissa meant everything, was the only one who had ever mattered, the only one who would ever matter! How could this have gone so terribly wrong?! How he had craved to get a single chance with her, he would have given his right arm for this one chance, he had got it, and then? Where had he gone wrong to cock this up so completely?!

She would never look at him again. He swallowed a good deal of vodka, but it did no good. The self-hate didn't lessen one bit. All around him, happy, drunken muggles were celebrating the New Year, cheering and toasting and starting fireworks, he had no idea where he was by now. How dared those maggots being happy?! He had to get away from them, he couldn't bear to see their joy.

He walked away, down the road, turning into a deserted alley. When he had emptied half of the bottle, he began to have difficulties walking straight, but instead of feeling better, he felt worse and worse. He remembered how it had felt to kiss her, and it gave him physical pain. That had been, thoroughly unrivalled, the best minutes of his entire life. He had never been in love with any other girl, had never known how it could actually feel to kiss that one person that he truly loved... He had observed her for five whole years, he knew her, her disposition - she wouldn't forgive him, never.

It would have been better if they had never kissed at all, it would have been better if he had never experienced how it would feel. Knowing that he could never get close her again - oh Merlin! He took a swig at the bottle. Oh Narcissa! Sweetest, prettiest, incomparable Narcissa! What could he do? Wasn't there anything he could do? He couldn't just let her slip away from him! She must listen to him, she must understand - understand what, a merciless voice in his head whispered, strangely sounding like Abraxas. Understanding that you are what you are? That you can't get through a single week without shagging the next best girl?!

But this wasn't true! He would never have got involved with any other witch, if he hadn't believed that he had lost Narcissa for good already! If only he could be with her, he wouldn't do as much as look at another! For Salazar's sake, he hadn't believed he could ever feel so deeply for anyone! He raised the bottle once again, noticing that he'd have to get a new one soon, when someone bumped into him.

"Sssorry, mate," some stinking, drunken muggle blabbered. "Din't sssee ya there!"

He lost his balance and grabbed Lucius' arm, making him lose hold of the bottle. It smashed on the pavement, and the muggle hiccuped, "Oi! Bad luck, buddy!"

That was it. Enough. He'd had it! With one energetic move, he hurled the muggle to the ground and grabbed his wand. "I'm not your buddy, you piece of filth! Crucio!"

The muggle screamed in agony, wiggling, curling up in pain. Lucius had never used that curse on a human being and watched his victim curiously. He tried some other curses, only stopping for a moment when he heard the rattle of a window, and someone yelling, "Bugger off, ye drunk bastards, or I'll call the police!"

Amusing as that prospect surely was, Lucius nonetheless decided to silence his prey before continuing the torture. He didn't want to be disturbed again. At first, it felt good, relieving, to get some of his anger off his chest, but in time he got bored. He let go, shrugged, and hissed the Killing Curse, but it didn't work. He hadn't got the hang of it, or maybe he didn't care enough - you'd have to mean the Unforgivables - because nothing happened. The muggle was still twitching and spasming, and Lucius just walked away.

He couldn't say how he had got home to his apartment, but at least, he had managed, for he woke up in his own bed, around three o'clock in the next afternoon, still dressed and shoes on, and feeling as if he had picked up and lost a fight with a troll. His head was stuck in a vice, and he sank back with a groan after his first timid attempt to sit up. He fumbled for his wand and summoned a glass of water. Merlin, how much had he drunk?! When trying to recall the previous night, he got a warm, fuzzy feeling in his belly - for approximately two seconds. Oh no. No, no, no - it must not be - it must not have happened!

The first thing coming back to his mind was she - Narcissa - his Narcissa - they had kissed - and it had been the most precious moment in all his life. And then he had ruined it all. No - that Isabella character had ruined it. He had forgotten that she was even there, as soon as spotting his big love at the party. His fault was that he had come with that person! That he had ever got involved with her!

He sneered, thinking what his father would say - not that he had the least intention to inform him. Abraxas would say that it suited him right, that he had always warned his son that his sins would come back to him one day. Never had he felt so bitter about his father, because that one had been right. The old bastard had never been attached to anyone! Who was he to talk!

He wailed in misery, his state of mind befitting his physical condition perfectly. It was already dark again when he could force himself to get up and take a shower. Half a gallon of coffee and a thousand gallons of hot water returned some of his spirits, gave him one or two helpful notions and a resolution. Checking his reflection in the damp bathroom mirror suggested that he had already looked better - fitter - more decent, but it had to do.

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Praeterita... What's happened cannot be undone.