Praeterita
mutare non possumus.*
CICERO
– In Pisonem
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 once more 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 knew her!
He swallowed a good deal of vodka, but it did no good. The self-hate
didn’t lessen one bit. All around him, cheerful, 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 wasn’t going to forgive him, ever.
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, dearest,
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 hiccupped, “Oi! Bad
luck, buddy! Happy New Year!”
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. Inflicting pain on someone else didn’t release the pain in his chest one bit. He let go, shrugged,
and with an indifferent growl, he muttered, “Avada Kedavra!”
The
Muggle stopped twitching at once, and Lucius looked down on the corpse for
another minute. He had drunk quite a lot, but was still sober enough to fully
grasp what he had done – not that he cared, but it seemed rather significant
all the same. He had just killed a human being, for the first time in his life
killed another human being. Why did people make such a big fuss about it? It
was easy. It was nothing really. If he compared his two ‘firsts’ that night –
his first killing and the first time he had kissed the only girl he had ever
loved – the latter seemed an event of epic, incomprehensible proportions, while
the other was really, really nothing.
He
sneered, thinking of that ridiculous superstition, how killing was supposed to
split the soul. He had killed a man
just now, and he felt absolutely nothing about it.
He
contemplated the agonised, now frozen features of his victim. “I know just how you feel, buddy,” he mumbled bitterly. “Split soul, my ass! They want to know
how a split soul feels?! Walk in my shoes tonight, people! And it’s got
nothing, nothing to do with murder!”
As a
matter of fact, he did feel hollow, but he sincerely doubted it had anything to
do with the corpse before him. It had felt just as bad ten minutes ago. The
vodka couldn’t fill the void, nothing would fill it but Narcissa – Narcissa… He screamed her name until he
was hoarse, not caring how idiotic this was, and not stopping before he hadn’t
found the next bar to finish himself off.
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 gotten 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 matching 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 altogether, but it had to do.
* Praeterita… What’s
happened cannot be undone.
*****
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