-Fic, Challenge 76 ("Reality provides us with facts so romantic that...)
Title: From Behind Bars, the World
Summary: Narcissa is willing to go to anyone and try anything to help her family, even Gellert Grindelwald. ("Reality provides us with facts so romantic that imagination itself could add nothing to them." -Jules Verne)
Characters/Pairings: Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Gellert Grindelwald. Gellert Grindelwald/Narcissa Malfoy
Genre: Gen/Romance
Beta: None
Rating/Warnings: PG-13. Large age difference, I suppose.
Word Count: 1592
“You are being ridiculous Cissy,” the dark haired witch hissed quietly, as the blonde woman fixed her hair in front of the vanity.
“What if he could help?” she asked, eyes piercing her sister’s reflection.
“He’s in a prison,” she pointed out.
“So were you for fourteen years,” she pointed out sharply.
The sharp exhalation said everything.
The rain came down in sheets, though the witch walked through dry. Repelling charms were rather simple, though given the last few months it felt like a luxury. The large gates loomed above her, and Narcissa read the message engraved. And she didn’t care, whether her mission fit in with its ideals. Her family mattered.
“What do you want?” the guard asked, accent thick. He sounded common.
“I desire to speak with the prisoner,” she stated calmly.
“The prisoner?” the guard laughed, “Why would I let you do that?”
“Do you fear him so greatly?” Narcissa asked, sensing his fear.
“I never said that,” he stepped back from the window.
Her eyes looked past him to see a stack of mail, yellowing behind him. “You have been neglecting your duties,” she had caught the scent. He could not escape.
“You don’t - you can’t,” he was angry, then pleading.
“I shall bring them to him, when I speak with him,” the witch stated. The rain poured loudly in the pause. She stood, the wind ruffling through her cloak, chilling her bones. But she was not turning back.
“You can’t tell no one,” the guard declared.
Narcissa nodded. The gate open, and her small figure slipped in, hardly a blip from the horizon. The steps were long and winding, but Narcissa refused to rest at any point. Her family needed her. Her breath was loud when she reached the top, where the sound of humming came through.
“Hello,” she greeted neutrally, not sure where he was, as the window into his room left most of the room to her imagination. And she could not see him.
“A pretty girl has come to see me?” a voice asked, light and charming, even as it sounded old.
“I am a woman,” Narcissa declared.
“You’re a child,” he retorted immediately.
“I have come to talk with you,” she did not care if he thought her a child. Her son was more important than her pride.
“Whatever about?” the voice laughed again, “You have come a long distance for a small chat.”
“You have heard of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” Narcissa asked. He was not her lord, so she refused to call him such.
“That Tom Riddle boy?” a flash of yellow white hair flashed in view and out. “I’ve heard about him.”
“Tom Riddle?” she inquired.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he was walking around the room, “I’ve been told all about him: the little orphan who considers himself a dark wizard. Fashioned himself a new name, though. Lord Voldemort you call him, if you call him anything.”
She was amazed! This man had been locked up for such a long time, long before the first war when Narcissa had been a girl, young and freshly out of Hogwarts. “He’s searching for a wand that will work for him against Potter,” she explained.
“A wand?” his voice was still light, but there was tension.
“He has tried other wizards’ wands, but they fail,” she explained. Oh her Lucius, without even a wand.
“Why should I help you?” he asked, coming up to the window without warning, his eyes gleaming, looking down at her.
“To be remembered as the greater wizard,” Narcissa suggested. She had little idea what would motivate the man.
His eyes flickered across her face, then down. “You’re young,” he told her, but then he caught sight of what she was holding. “You have some things of mine,” he declared.
Her heart beat faster, but she was giving him something, letters. Narcissa lifted them up to the bars. A hand, wrinkled, with long thin fingers grasped them. His eyes looked down as he flipped through the envelopes. “He never stopped writing,” he spoke aloud in wonder.
“Who?” she asked, not having opened them. The letters had been unmarked, except for his name.
“That comment was not for you,” his eyes looked up. But then he smiled, face easing up. “I am rather used to the luxury of thinking out loud. I need to speak to make sure I have not gone deaf.” He laughed.
Narcissa smiled. She did not begrudge such a lonely man small happinesses.
“Do you have a quill, ink and paper?” he asked, looking out at her, though he seemed but partially present.
She had predicted perhaps having a message to send of her own, but she could give it once she returned. It was safer that way. Taking out the requested items, Narcissa passed them through one at a time.
“I will not ask of you your time,” he spoke to her again, “as I have all of it in the world and you rather little. Yet if I were to write a message briefly, would you do the kindness of delivering it for me?” His eyes danced, brightly, so happy and pleased.
Though they had just met, it tugged at her heartstrings, and she knew she would want someone to do so for her husband, for her son, if they were ever in the circumstance of having no one, no one but a stranger. “Whom should I deliver it to?” Narcissa asked.
“Albus Dumbledore,” he laughed, his tongue rolling over the syllables as if they were sweets.
“Oh,” Narcissa took a step back.
But he had caught on. “What?” he demanded, face against the bars, “Tell me!” His voice was so demanding, so strong.
Glancing down, the witch stepped up to the bars, only mere inches from his face. Her hand came up, stroking one cheek. He did not react to it, watching her for any sign of what her exclamation had meant. She sighed quietly. “He died,” she spoke softly, “Vol- he had Dumbledore murdered.”
Her eyes glanced up. A nerve on his old temple twitched. His face shifted, just barely, from before. But his eyes - they blazed brightly like the sun. Anger strong and true. And hurt, such pain. “I will help you,” he declared, mouth barely moving, quiet but firm.
Her face lit up, and Narcissa felt mild shame in feeling so excited when the other being - one she felt an odd connection with - experienced such pain. But her son was the most important thing in the world, not her.
“I cannot tell you anything,” he told her, as her eyes flashed back up, “Albus told me about Tom. He would get it from you. But he will not get what he is looking for.” This man was old, aging behind bars without magic or contact with the outside world, yet Narcissa felt her heart beat faster. She believed him. She followed each word coming out of his mouth.
And the man was smiling, differently than before. “You look just like him,” the wizard declared, a playful look in his eyes she did not understand.
“Dumbledore?” Narcissa asked.
“Yes, Albus,” he replied, “When we were young.” His hand came up, slipping through the bars. It did not touch her skin, but Narcissa felt her face leaning into it.
It was so much to take in. They knew each other when they were young? But Dumbledore had -
But it was hard to think when he was pulling her face so close, when had he gotten so close? “I am going to give you the world, your world, the one you sought to save,” he whispered to her. A shiver ran up her spine. “Do you believe me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Narcissa replied breathily.
Her forehead touched the bars, cold as ice, but his lips pressed against hers, warm - hot. Her lips parted, as she softly moaned. Her hand grasped his cheek, pulling her flush against the door. Her eyes closed, and the world faded away. Whimpers left her mouth when he pulled back.
His eyes sparkled, light dancing across like freckles in the grey. “Your eyes are so blue,” he spoke, as his breath playing against her skin. Her chest heaved. “Say my name,” he told her.
“Grindelwald,” she replied, pronouncing each letter correctly.
“No,” he told her, eyes flashing, “Say my name.”
Narcissa blinked. She had never thought of him as that, barely thought of his name at all. “Gellert,” she spoke, the second syllable becoming a whimper as his hand stroked her face.
“And what is your name?” he asked, playful.
“Narcissa Malfoy,” she gave him her full name.
“Narcissa,” he spoke, sensual and slow. But when he looked back down into her eyes, there was sadness there. “You should go, my Narcissa.”
“I will write to you,” she replied, lingering close to the door.
“Tom cannot know anything,” Gellert declared. His voice was firm.
She disliked it, but Gellert was right. He would know. “After,” she promised, “After Potter defeats him, I will write to you. I will visit.” He had promised her the world. What was it to promise him such small things? And she wanted to.
But the sadness stayed, even as her thumb caressed his skin. “After,” he repeated calmly. He kissed her again, full and strong, and she sensed hints of need. It left her struggling to think.
Slowly she backed away from the door, toward the stairs, looking at him the entire time. It would not be too long until she returned…
32 points for fic + 5 points for challenge = 37 points for slytherin
-Silyara, Slytherin
Summary: Narcissa is willing to go to anyone and try anything to help her family, even Gellert Grindelwald. ("Reality provides us with facts so romantic that imagination itself could add nothing to them." -Jules Verne)
Characters/Pairings: Narcissa Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, Gellert Grindelwald. Gellert Grindelwald/Narcissa Malfoy
Genre: Gen/Romance
Beta: None
Rating/Warnings: PG-13. Large age difference, I suppose.
Word Count: 1592
“You are being ridiculous Cissy,” the dark haired witch hissed quietly, as the blonde woman fixed her hair in front of the vanity.
“What if he could help?” she asked, eyes piercing her sister’s reflection.
“He’s in a prison,” she pointed out.
“So were you for fourteen years,” she pointed out sharply.
The sharp exhalation said everything.
The rain came down in sheets, though the witch walked through dry. Repelling charms were rather simple, though given the last few months it felt like a luxury. The large gates loomed above her, and Narcissa read the message engraved. And she didn’t care, whether her mission fit in with its ideals. Her family mattered.
“What do you want?” the guard asked, accent thick. He sounded common.
“I desire to speak with the prisoner,” she stated calmly.
“The prisoner?” the guard laughed, “Why would I let you do that?”
“Do you fear him so greatly?” Narcissa asked, sensing his fear.
“I never said that,” he stepped back from the window.
Her eyes looked past him to see a stack of mail, yellowing behind him. “You have been neglecting your duties,” she had caught the scent. He could not escape.
“You don’t - you can’t,” he was angry, then pleading.
“I shall bring them to him, when I speak with him,” the witch stated. The rain poured loudly in the pause. She stood, the wind ruffling through her cloak, chilling her bones. But she was not turning back.
“You can’t tell no one,” the guard declared.
Narcissa nodded. The gate open, and her small figure slipped in, hardly a blip from the horizon. The steps were long and winding, but Narcissa refused to rest at any point. Her family needed her. Her breath was loud when she reached the top, where the sound of humming came through.
“Hello,” she greeted neutrally, not sure where he was, as the window into his room left most of the room to her imagination. And she could not see him.
“A pretty girl has come to see me?” a voice asked, light and charming, even as it sounded old.
“I am a woman,” Narcissa declared.
“You’re a child,” he retorted immediately.
“I have come to talk with you,” she did not care if he thought her a child. Her son was more important than her pride.
“Whatever about?” the voice laughed again, “You have come a long distance for a small chat.”
“You have heard of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?” Narcissa asked. He was not her lord, so she refused to call him such.
“That Tom Riddle boy?” a flash of yellow white hair flashed in view and out. “I’ve heard about him.”
“Tom Riddle?” she inquired.
“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” he was walking around the room, “I’ve been told all about him: the little orphan who considers himself a dark wizard. Fashioned himself a new name, though. Lord Voldemort you call him, if you call him anything.”
She was amazed! This man had been locked up for such a long time, long before the first war when Narcissa had been a girl, young and freshly out of Hogwarts. “He’s searching for a wand that will work for him against Potter,” she explained.
“A wand?” his voice was still light, but there was tension.
“He has tried other wizards’ wands, but they fail,” she explained. Oh her Lucius, without even a wand.
“Why should I help you?” he asked, coming up to the window without warning, his eyes gleaming, looking down at her.
“To be remembered as the greater wizard,” Narcissa suggested. She had little idea what would motivate the man.
His eyes flickered across her face, then down. “You’re young,” he told her, but then he caught sight of what she was holding. “You have some things of mine,” he declared.
Her heart beat faster, but she was giving him something, letters. Narcissa lifted them up to the bars. A hand, wrinkled, with long thin fingers grasped them. His eyes looked down as he flipped through the envelopes. “He never stopped writing,” he spoke aloud in wonder.
“Who?” she asked, not having opened them. The letters had been unmarked, except for his name.
“That comment was not for you,” his eyes looked up. But then he smiled, face easing up. “I am rather used to the luxury of thinking out loud. I need to speak to make sure I have not gone deaf.” He laughed.
Narcissa smiled. She did not begrudge such a lonely man small happinesses.
“Do you have a quill, ink and paper?” he asked, looking out at her, though he seemed but partially present.
She had predicted perhaps having a message to send of her own, but she could give it once she returned. It was safer that way. Taking out the requested items, Narcissa passed them through one at a time.
“I will not ask of you your time,” he spoke to her again, “as I have all of it in the world and you rather little. Yet if I were to write a message briefly, would you do the kindness of delivering it for me?” His eyes danced, brightly, so happy and pleased.
Though they had just met, it tugged at her heartstrings, and she knew she would want someone to do so for her husband, for her son, if they were ever in the circumstance of having no one, no one but a stranger. “Whom should I deliver it to?” Narcissa asked.
“Albus Dumbledore,” he laughed, his tongue rolling over the syllables as if they were sweets.
“Oh,” Narcissa took a step back.
But he had caught on. “What?” he demanded, face against the bars, “Tell me!” His voice was so demanding, so strong.
Glancing down, the witch stepped up to the bars, only mere inches from his face. Her hand came up, stroking one cheek. He did not react to it, watching her for any sign of what her exclamation had meant. She sighed quietly. “He died,” she spoke softly, “Vol- he had Dumbledore murdered.”
Her eyes glanced up. A nerve on his old temple twitched. His face shifted, just barely, from before. But his eyes - they blazed brightly like the sun. Anger strong and true. And hurt, such pain. “I will help you,” he declared, mouth barely moving, quiet but firm.
Her face lit up, and Narcissa felt mild shame in feeling so excited when the other being - one she felt an odd connection with - experienced such pain. But her son was the most important thing in the world, not her.
“I cannot tell you anything,” he told her, as her eyes flashed back up, “Albus told me about Tom. He would get it from you. But he will not get what he is looking for.” This man was old, aging behind bars without magic or contact with the outside world, yet Narcissa felt her heart beat faster. She believed him. She followed each word coming out of his mouth.
And the man was smiling, differently than before. “You look just like him,” the wizard declared, a playful look in his eyes she did not understand.
“Dumbledore?” Narcissa asked.
“Yes, Albus,” he replied, “When we were young.” His hand came up, slipping through the bars. It did not touch her skin, but Narcissa felt her face leaning into it.
It was so much to take in. They knew each other when they were young? But Dumbledore had -
But it was hard to think when he was pulling her face so close, when had he gotten so close? “I am going to give you the world, your world, the one you sought to save,” he whispered to her. A shiver ran up her spine. “Do you believe me?” he asked.
“Yes,” Narcissa replied breathily.
Her forehead touched the bars, cold as ice, but his lips pressed against hers, warm - hot. Her lips parted, as she softly moaned. Her hand grasped his cheek, pulling her flush against the door. Her eyes closed, and the world faded away. Whimpers left her mouth when he pulled back.
His eyes sparkled, light dancing across like freckles in the grey. “Your eyes are so blue,” he spoke, as his breath playing against her skin. Her chest heaved. “Say my name,” he told her.
“Grindelwald,” she replied, pronouncing each letter correctly.
“No,” he told her, eyes flashing, “Say my name.”
Narcissa blinked. She had never thought of him as that, barely thought of his name at all. “Gellert,” she spoke, the second syllable becoming a whimper as his hand stroked her face.
“And what is your name?” he asked, playful.
“Narcissa Malfoy,” she gave him her full name.
“Narcissa,” he spoke, sensual and slow. But when he looked back down into her eyes, there was sadness there. “You should go, my Narcissa.”
“I will write to you,” she replied, lingering close to the door.
“Tom cannot know anything,” Gellert declared. His voice was firm.
She disliked it, but Gellert was right. He would know. “After,” she promised, “After Potter defeats him, I will write to you. I will visit.” He had promised her the world. What was it to promise him such small things? And she wanted to.
But the sadness stayed, even as her thumb caressed his skin. “After,” he repeated calmly. He kissed her again, full and strong, and she sensed hints of need. It left her struggling to think.
Slowly she backed away from the door, toward the stairs, looking at him the entire time. It would not be too long until she returned…
32 points for fic + 5 points for challenge = 37 points for slytherin
-Silyara, Slytherin