Fic: Mythical (Lucius/Narcissa, PG13)
wah. i can't stand it.
but i'm done.
still awake! ahaha. if a little on the falling over side. anyway. the fic might obviously not make sense in places. forgive ><;;
plus, the title sucks, really. a lot. but oh well.
Disclaimer: not mine. shocking, I know.
Dedication: to Amalin, written on her birthday. Live long and write Tom/Hagrid always :)
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~mythical.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Narcissa sometimes thought he loved her, when he looked at her for so long without speaking. His eyes grew shadowed and she could imagine them softening, losing their distance. She still remembered that day in May of her last year that he had looked at her so intently as they sat on the tall grass by the willow, waiting for her to finish reading his poem. It was long, full of references to flowers and innocence and summer heat, but nothing about love. She'd seen it anyway, in the way his letters curled around the words so gently, so beautifully. Narcissus, the one no one could touch.
"You are the only one," he'd said, and she knew he wasn't lying.
He'd written about wanting to see her in a white dress, a garland of yellow flowers in her pale hair. He wanted to take her hand and guide her through the maze of gardens around them, leading her to the very center, where there are no more flowers. Deflowered, she thought. The crown of white-gold flowers on her head reminding her of who she was. Who he wanted her to be. A pale princess in the mirror, someone who wouldn't need him.
"Thank you," she'd said, lowering her eyelashes. She was well-versed in the acceptance of gifts. One elegant hand reached out to cover his, squeezing lightly. She had never said yes, but she didn't have to.
For a moment, she thought he loved her, and it was enough. The feel of him, warmer than she would've expected, solid and undeniably there, served to reassure her. As long as she didn't look him in the eye, it would be all right. There wasn't anything that she even needed him to say, in the end. She laced their fingers together slowly, carefully. The parchment lay between them, pretty words starting to lift and flutter, the sudden playful wind pushing them aside. Watching it flutter away, she didn't even sigh. Not even words were free between them, but it was so nice to pretend.
"When will you be free?" he'd said, after a while. Never, she thought, but she didn't say it. She kept her hand entwined with his, and kept her eyes on the sky, where the poem was, small and wrinkled, insignificant as a leaf. The things in between the words were what was important, she knew. Maybe if he never said he loved her, it would be all the proof she needed. Maybe if he never really looked into her eyes, it meant he could see her even in darkness.
"Whenever you want me," she'd replied. And maybe it wasn't love, then. Maybe she didn't want it to be. She'd taken a breath of the overly sweet spring air and released it, slowly. Ever since she could remember, she practiced the art of careful breathing. All the things she might have said instead, she released in slow, measured breaths. Time passed, and the urge to let the sentences form transmuted into the sighs so many of her classmates found alluring. Mysterious Narcissa. What is she really thinking of? Whom does she sigh over? What does she really want to say?
"I always want you," he'd said, of course. He was smiling at her, and it seemed warmer than his hand, almost as warm as the breeze sweeping across her face. She felt it on her skin, that slight curvature of his mouth. She knew he was lying, but it didn't matter. She could feel it anyway.
They were only words. Love, need, duty, desire. Words had their place, it was true. He'd offered her words, so carefully written, so painstakingly crafted-- just like her breaths. She told herself it didn't matter, but she wanted the lie like she wanted to be beautiful. Somehow, though, she couldn't believe it. It wasn't love. It was something else.
Years later, she'd recall their taste upon her lips, sweet as rose-petals. All the things he may have meant to say, and all the things she would never ask. He'd kissed her, then, slow and lingering like a cherished memory. She had been putting it away, even as it happened, shutting it gently into a corner of her mind, like dried flowers between heavy pages full of words. Before she knew their meaning, before she had a chance to forget what this tasted like, this moment when he thought her innocent.
She was barely eighteen when she'd decided love was a myth, rather like the one she was named after. Everyone assumed she took her name from the white flower with the golden center, but that was just a pretty story her mother told her friends. After all, who wants to admit to being named after someone who could only love their own reflection?
Narcissa may have been named after a myth, but she knew myths could still hurt you. There was really no end to it. You could hurt yourself by loving, and by hating, and by pretending not to care. If a Malfoy were honest, they'd say you hurt yourself the most when you understood yourself. Everyone would tell you that a Malfoy was never honest. That was simply a part of their charm.
She could see the future even then, simple like a bedtime story she could tell herself, complete with monsters and betrayal and love and miracles. The miracle wouldn't be hers, but perhaps she could keep it awhile. Myth or no, she wanted what she could get.
~~
The light was dimming, the voices fading as Narcissa walked slowly out to the balcony. Lucius didn't follow, not even turning his head to watch her go. She had told him she was pregnant and he had nodded, tossing back another glass full of sparkling clear liquid.
"Tell me it's all right," she wanted to say. "Tell me it's long over with him. Tell me it meant you wanted me when you touched me that night." But it was no use pretending, not anymore, and even if she was a Malfoy in name alone, she had her pride, still. She fisted her pale fingers in the folds of her moonlight-and-cherry-blossom dress, swallowing bitterness over and over before it became a part of her, more familiar than skin. She could breathe in winter, and laugh. She could do this-- she had to. She was weighed down, tethered surely as if there were stones in her pocket. But she wasn't drowning. She was simply coming down to earth.
She had developed a strange habit as of late. Narcissa brought the moonstone to her mouth, tasting smooth gems and silver band and equally pale skin. He'd given it to her that day on the grass, without explanation, knowing that she knew he didn't have to, not yet, knowing he meant he wanted to. Back then she thought she knew what he wanted, what she wanted. She thought she knew everything she needed to.
She tested it with her teeth as she stared out into the night sky, seeing if maybe this time it would break and shatter and she'd taste blood and silver on her tongue. But she never noticed any change, except in the moon growing ever thinner over the course of a month, just as her belly grew fuller with each day. She couldn't remember being thin anymore, untouchable, frail and magical like the first star after nightfall. Couldn't remember her old self, quite, and it was really no wonder that Lucius couldn't either. She'd lost track of herself along with her body, trying to remember why she'd wanted this. Narcissa was never very good at answering her own questions.
He looked at her like he didn't recognize her at all, like she was no different from a tree swaying in the fierce October wind, no more valuable than any other faceless voiceless servant. And still, she served him well, she knew that. And just like all the mirrors in Malfoy Manor, she was charmed into silence.
Lucius came out, well after midnight, saying nothing and simply wrapping thin, steely arms around her from behind. He rested his chin gently near the dip of her neck, inhaling lightly so that her whispy hair fluttered against his face. She shivered and breathed erratically, feeling several frantic, sudden kicks in her belly. She closed her eyes, feeling the strange, loud beat of three heartbeats, the sound pounding louder than everything and anything else.
The faint noises were still trickling in from behind the glass doors, too loud, boisterous, endlessly irritating. She hated them. Oh, how she hated them all. The way they looked at her. The way they whispered. The way they felt sorry for her "and that poor child", she hated most of all. What could they know? Nothing. Less than nothing. What did any of them know of love, or pain, or hopelessness? They pretended for so long, each of them believed their own lies by now. Just like perfect, darling Lucius. Just like she will. Soon. Oh, soon.
He sighed, blowing a stray silver-blonde curl back against her cheek. He liked the length of her glistening hair, no longer golden. Silver, after the baby, after all the spells, this time. Almost, but not quite purely silver. He liked how it tickled his nose, he liked how it slipped through his long, bony fingers, intractable and ethereal, smooth as water. Lucius told her this once, and while she suspected he'd been drunk at the time, for some reason she kept remembering it. He chewed on it now, thoughtfully, his arms tightening almost painfully around her ribs. She concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, out. Yes, just like that. She kept them even, delicate, shallow. It used to be easier, before. These days, it was harder to walk without panting slightly, harder to walk up and down the main staircase every day without stopping to catch her breath. He pressed his erection against her buttocks, rocking gently, and the rhythm broke. She gasped for air, suddenly not getting nearly enough, not nearly.
She allowed herself to wonder what he wanted. She didn't wonder whether -he- had showed up late to the party, looking flustered and oh-so out of place, nodding politely and congratulating them in that warm, golden voice. He would have meant it too, of course. Maybe that was what appalled her the most: that of them all, Lucius was the only one actually lying, and yet it stained them equally.
The announcement had only gone public tonight, when Lucius could be certain of the avoidance of yet another miscarriage. Narcissa had been certain since the beginning. As soon as he'd rolled off her, she felt heavier, denser. Different in a way she couldn't name. It was probably the potion, and the effect of all the complex-sounding spells she was meant to believe were harmless, merely there for her protection. She would have half expected to find herself in a strange dark room, with men in hooded cloaks standing around in a circle, looking on and chanting, but never coming closer as she and Lucius made a mockery of love. That didn't happen, of course. It was just another evening at home, and Lucius just wanted to try something new. He brought a book to bed, laying it on the low table to the side, and never even used it, merely chanting under his breath as he moved inside her.
He was gripping her at the waist, now, pressing her tighter back against him, and once again, she didn't resist. She merely sighed, not closing her eyes, not taking them off the velvety expanse of the cold night sky. Lucius' breathing was so harsh, so urgent, that she felt a vague curl of anger unclench within her chest, almost pushing her to say something. Something about whose backside he thought it was that he pushed into. Something about how she didn't need this, or him. The words were there, at the tip of her tongue, and she swallowed them. Let him think what he liked. He will, anyway.
"Do you see it?" he said, suddenly, in a strange, low voice. He sounded almost tender, and there was no hint of regret or desperation. His hips were no longer moving, and his voice was still, full of dark and secret things, and what she could almost mistake for sweetness.
Narcissa started, caught completely off guard. He always did this. Made her feel off-balance, startled, unsure of herself. She didn't want him to know, wanted it to be secret from him even if nothing else about her was. If he knew she liked it, wanted it, he'd manage to stop, somehow, she just knew it.
"See what?" she said, slowly, feeling him smile a little against her cheek. It made her heart skip a few beats.
His fingers moved to wrap around her thin, narrow wrist as it rested on the wrought-iron railing, pointing her hand north, towards where the horizon should be, index finger extended.
"See that? To the west, there?" Lucius said, pointing to the Great Dipper, startling her yet further. She didn't say anything, and neither did he, until finally Narcissa realized he was waiting for her answer before he continued.
"Yes, I think so," she whispered, thinking that she would never have guessed she'd have need of any of her Hogwarts classes ever again, but least of all Astronomy. It was never her best subject, not like Charms or Potions, though she was decent. And any first year could find the Great Dipper, of course. She was completely lost as to why Lucius would need to quiz her on it right now, of all times.
"Good." His hand moved, along with hers, a little upward. There was the North Star, and the end of the Little Dipper. "And that's where the Dragon lies coiled," he said, in that same even voice, moving their hands westward, curving across the sky in a strange bending motion. His arm stopped high to the west of north, pointing at a familiar-looking irregular quadrangle of stars. Must be the Dragon's head, she thought, still rather lost.
"It's beautiful," she said, not knowing what he was looking for, but honestly forgetting herself for a moment in contemplation of the sparkling lights, so enigmatic and so much more powerful than any wizarding magic could be. So much mystery, so much none of them will ever know or touch or hope to understand. The sight made her shiver as the cold night wind couldn't.
Lucius said nothing for long moments, his arm dropping as his fingers loosened around her wrist, finally stepping away from her altogether. He stood a mere breath away, and for some reason her awareness of him increased until it was almost painful, his insistent, white-hot presence against her back.
"Mm. Beautiful." For some moments, all she could hear was his breathing, deep and languorous. She almost didn't think he'd speak again, but of course that was silly of her. "See it? Thuban, the third star from the end?"
It was Alpha Draconis, the North Star some thousands of years ago, the center of the heavens. Narcissa remembered learning about it what seemed like ages ago, since it had been so important to ancient astrologers, being at the center of so many of their maps. It wasn't all that bright anymore, and she only recognized it because she knew exactly where she was looking. Still, she didn't know why she was looking there in the first place.
"The dragon's eye," Narcissa said, guessing based on her vague sense of the workings of Lucius' mind.
"Yes. Draco's eye. I've decided on a name, Narcissa," he said, sounding almost like boy again, free of cynicism and the inevitable patina of the unhappily aged.
Narcissa cringed inwardly, not wanting to be reminded. "Oh?" she breathed, as if it mattered. He would, of course, continue regardless of the illusion of her company.
Solemnly, he recited, "The dragon is ageless. It won't move, hovering low above the horizon, sweeping across a huge swath of sky. It waits for its time to uncoil once again. It waits for its second chance to rule the heavens. Polaris will dim, and Thuban will rise again, as strong as it had ever been. It may not be now, and it may not be a hundred years from now, but it will happen just as certain as the earth spins on its axis."
She shivered, remembering all the ancient-sounding rituals they'd dug up to ensure the life of this baby. She was almost certain they stopped short of invoking Tiamat, the draconic chaos goddess, but they'd called on every power they could that wasn't likely to turn around and curse them into oblivion. Privately, she thought this likely had nothing to do with gods and mythological creatures of universal destruction, but rather with loyalty to a House and a Lord who wouldn't show his face, speaking to snakes like he owned them and promising a second birth for every pureblood.
"Draco," she said, tasting the name on her tongue. It tasted bitter, seeming soaked in the crisp fall air, yet crackling with a strange, hidden sort of power. It disturbed her. She thought she'd think of wet leaves and dirt, and maybe something red hot like a sprinkling of pepper. Instead, it seemed natural, almost. This was, after all, how things were always meant to go. They both knew it was a boy, and they both knew it was a Malfoy. Everything else was nearly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, wasn't it?
Lucius had wrapped his arms around her once again, resting his mouth against her ear, wet and warm, waiting for some sign, it appeared. Some sign she'd long lost herself, most likely.
"Draco Malfoy," Lucius echoed. "It sounds like he has a great destiny ahead," he said, giving a little sigh. He was starting to believe his own myths, which was dangerous. But he had believed others' myths for awhile now, which might have been even more so.
"I love him already," she said in return, forcing a smile. It didn't matter if she made intelligent coversation, really, as long as she smiled and nodded sometimes. This was the Malfoy way, and she had learned it well by now.
Besides, it was true. She had loved him already.
~~
When she looked into baby Draco's eyes, she saw stars. They were so wide, watery grey and more innocent than flowers and sunshine. Lucius called him his little dragon and bounced him up high into the air, making baby Draco squeal and laugh long and sweet, like the sound of silver bells. She didn't think he was any sort of dragon, but she wasn't going to start contradicting him now. Narcissa liked to keep Draco still, held tightly in place, preferrably sleeping. Draco, it seemed, usually had other ideas. She missed the days he was a newborn, sleeping almost every day away. She could look at him without interruption, just a happy, sated baby in every way. And now he was a little bundle of chaos, insatiable and always growing. She liked it that he didn't know any words yet, and his first stumbling sound was "mama", just like she'd hoped it would be.
Sometimes she was afraid that the second word he'd learn would be "Draco", and that she wouldn't be the polestar in his sky, but rather a faded memory that didn't shine as bright as it could have. She'd grown melancholy after the birth, uncharacteristically withdrawn. She thought about all the choices she could've made, all the words she could've said. She thought about different names for Draco, a new one every day. Perhaps she could've named him John. She giggled at that, but it was true enough that she wanted to. John was a good British name, wasn't it? The Malfoys didn't have enough Johns, really.
She was nursing baby Draco already at sunrise, holding a shawl wrapped tightly around them both as she sat in the rocking chair by the window. It was warm in their bedroom, and Lucius was still asleep. This was her time to herself, these days, with Draco pleasantly drowsy and herself allowing her own eyes to drift shut, dozing lightly as she hummed an old French lullaby under her breath. And then she became aware of eyes on her, steady and unnervingly intense, like a bucket of cold water.
Lucius was staring at her, his body still sprawled in the position he'd slept in, his lashes veiling his eyes so that she couldn't discern any expression beyond the general lazy amusement he was good at projecting even at this hour of morning.
She kept rocking in her chair, looking back at him just as steadily. She was tired. So very tired.
His lips curled upward at one corner, slowly. He probably fancied he knew just what she was thinking, as usual. "I'll let you name the next one," he drawled softly, feeling generous at this moment between sleep and waking.
"There won't be a next one," she said, just as softly. She'd made sure of that.
Lucius' eyes widened slightly and his breath hissed between his teeth as he exhaled. So maybe now he began to understand. Or maybe he'd just decided she was certifiably mad. Either one was quite possible.
"What do you want?" he said, his face impassive, but she knew he was already plotting ways to defeat her: his sudden, inexplicable obstacle to getting whatever he wanted.
"Give me four years. Leave me the child until his fourth birthday, and then he could be your Dragon, for good or ill. Just let me love him until then. Just let me--"
Lucius' face was closed, immobile, a complete icy mask. He was silent for a long time, during which Narcissa had to seriously wonder if she'd made a big mistake. She didn't want to make an enemy of him, he must know that. And he did. He smiled, suddenly, his eyes twinkling with a distant grey light, and she had a flash or realization about just whose son was curled up so snugly in her arms.
"Now you're acting like a Malfoy, my dear. You remind me of my mother." He didn't give an answer, but she knew that a lack of a "no" usually meant "yes", just without the signature. It was the best she could hope for, she supposed.
She smiled thinly. Oh yes, this wasn't love at all.
This was understanding.
~~
but i'm done.
still awake! ahaha. if a little on the falling over side. anyway. the fic might obviously not make sense in places. forgive ><;;
plus, the title sucks, really. a lot. but oh well.
Disclaimer: not mine. shocking, I know.
Dedication: to Amalin, written on her birthday. Live long and write Tom/Hagrid always :)
~~~~~~~~~~~
~mythical.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Narcissa sometimes thought he loved her, when he looked at her for so long without speaking. His eyes grew shadowed and she could imagine them softening, losing their distance. She still remembered that day in May of her last year that he had looked at her so intently as they sat on the tall grass by the willow, waiting for her to finish reading his poem. It was long, full of references to flowers and innocence and summer heat, but nothing about love. She'd seen it anyway, in the way his letters curled around the words so gently, so beautifully. Narcissus, the one no one could touch.
"You are the only one," he'd said, and she knew he wasn't lying.
He'd written about wanting to see her in a white dress, a garland of yellow flowers in her pale hair. He wanted to take her hand and guide her through the maze of gardens around them, leading her to the very center, where there are no more flowers. Deflowered, she thought. The crown of white-gold flowers on her head reminding her of who she was. Who he wanted her to be. A pale princess in the mirror, someone who wouldn't need him.
"Thank you," she'd said, lowering her eyelashes. She was well-versed in the acceptance of gifts. One elegant hand reached out to cover his, squeezing lightly. She had never said yes, but she didn't have to.
For a moment, she thought he loved her, and it was enough. The feel of him, warmer than she would've expected, solid and undeniably there, served to reassure her. As long as she didn't look him in the eye, it would be all right. There wasn't anything that she even needed him to say, in the end. She laced their fingers together slowly, carefully. The parchment lay between them, pretty words starting to lift and flutter, the sudden playful wind pushing them aside. Watching it flutter away, she didn't even sigh. Not even words were free between them, but it was so nice to pretend.
"When will you be free?" he'd said, after a while. Never, she thought, but she didn't say it. She kept her hand entwined with his, and kept her eyes on the sky, where the poem was, small and wrinkled, insignificant as a leaf. The things in between the words were what was important, she knew. Maybe if he never said he loved her, it would be all the proof she needed. Maybe if he never really looked into her eyes, it meant he could see her even in darkness.
"Whenever you want me," she'd replied. And maybe it wasn't love, then. Maybe she didn't want it to be. She'd taken a breath of the overly sweet spring air and released it, slowly. Ever since she could remember, she practiced the art of careful breathing. All the things she might have said instead, she released in slow, measured breaths. Time passed, and the urge to let the sentences form transmuted into the sighs so many of her classmates found alluring. Mysterious Narcissa. What is she really thinking of? Whom does she sigh over? What does she really want to say?
"I always want you," he'd said, of course. He was smiling at her, and it seemed warmer than his hand, almost as warm as the breeze sweeping across her face. She felt it on her skin, that slight curvature of his mouth. She knew he was lying, but it didn't matter. She could feel it anyway.
They were only words. Love, need, duty, desire. Words had their place, it was true. He'd offered her words, so carefully written, so painstakingly crafted-- just like her breaths. She told herself it didn't matter, but she wanted the lie like she wanted to be beautiful. Somehow, though, she couldn't believe it. It wasn't love. It was something else.
Years later, she'd recall their taste upon her lips, sweet as rose-petals. All the things he may have meant to say, and all the things she would never ask. He'd kissed her, then, slow and lingering like a cherished memory. She had been putting it away, even as it happened, shutting it gently into a corner of her mind, like dried flowers between heavy pages full of words. Before she knew their meaning, before she had a chance to forget what this tasted like, this moment when he thought her innocent.
She was barely eighteen when she'd decided love was a myth, rather like the one she was named after. Everyone assumed she took her name from the white flower with the golden center, but that was just a pretty story her mother told her friends. After all, who wants to admit to being named after someone who could only love their own reflection?
Narcissa may have been named after a myth, but she knew myths could still hurt you. There was really no end to it. You could hurt yourself by loving, and by hating, and by pretending not to care. If a Malfoy were honest, they'd say you hurt yourself the most when you understood yourself. Everyone would tell you that a Malfoy was never honest. That was simply a part of their charm.
She could see the future even then, simple like a bedtime story she could tell herself, complete with monsters and betrayal and love and miracles. The miracle wouldn't be hers, but perhaps she could keep it awhile. Myth or no, she wanted what she could get.
~~
The light was dimming, the voices fading as Narcissa walked slowly out to the balcony. Lucius didn't follow, not even turning his head to watch her go. She had told him she was pregnant and he had nodded, tossing back another glass full of sparkling clear liquid.
"Tell me it's all right," she wanted to say. "Tell me it's long over with him. Tell me it meant you wanted me when you touched me that night." But it was no use pretending, not anymore, and even if she was a Malfoy in name alone, she had her pride, still. She fisted her pale fingers in the folds of her moonlight-and-cherry-blossom dress, swallowing bitterness over and over before it became a part of her, more familiar than skin. She could breathe in winter, and laugh. She could do this-- she had to. She was weighed down, tethered surely as if there were stones in her pocket. But she wasn't drowning. She was simply coming down to earth.
She had developed a strange habit as of late. Narcissa brought the moonstone to her mouth, tasting smooth gems and silver band and equally pale skin. He'd given it to her that day on the grass, without explanation, knowing that she knew he didn't have to, not yet, knowing he meant he wanted to. Back then she thought she knew what he wanted, what she wanted. She thought she knew everything she needed to.
She tested it with her teeth as she stared out into the night sky, seeing if maybe this time it would break and shatter and she'd taste blood and silver on her tongue. But she never noticed any change, except in the moon growing ever thinner over the course of a month, just as her belly grew fuller with each day. She couldn't remember being thin anymore, untouchable, frail and magical like the first star after nightfall. Couldn't remember her old self, quite, and it was really no wonder that Lucius couldn't either. She'd lost track of herself along with her body, trying to remember why she'd wanted this. Narcissa was never very good at answering her own questions.
He looked at her like he didn't recognize her at all, like she was no different from a tree swaying in the fierce October wind, no more valuable than any other faceless voiceless servant. And still, she served him well, she knew that. And just like all the mirrors in Malfoy Manor, she was charmed into silence.
Lucius came out, well after midnight, saying nothing and simply wrapping thin, steely arms around her from behind. He rested his chin gently near the dip of her neck, inhaling lightly so that her whispy hair fluttered against his face. She shivered and breathed erratically, feeling several frantic, sudden kicks in her belly. She closed her eyes, feeling the strange, loud beat of three heartbeats, the sound pounding louder than everything and anything else.
The faint noises were still trickling in from behind the glass doors, too loud, boisterous, endlessly irritating. She hated them. Oh, how she hated them all. The way they looked at her. The way they whispered. The way they felt sorry for her "and that poor child", she hated most of all. What could they know? Nothing. Less than nothing. What did any of them know of love, or pain, or hopelessness? They pretended for so long, each of them believed their own lies by now. Just like perfect, darling Lucius. Just like she will. Soon. Oh, soon.
He sighed, blowing a stray silver-blonde curl back against her cheek. He liked the length of her glistening hair, no longer golden. Silver, after the baby, after all the spells, this time. Almost, but not quite purely silver. He liked how it tickled his nose, he liked how it slipped through his long, bony fingers, intractable and ethereal, smooth as water. Lucius told her this once, and while she suspected he'd been drunk at the time, for some reason she kept remembering it. He chewed on it now, thoughtfully, his arms tightening almost painfully around her ribs. She concentrated on breathing. In, out. In, out. Yes, just like that. She kept them even, delicate, shallow. It used to be easier, before. These days, it was harder to walk without panting slightly, harder to walk up and down the main staircase every day without stopping to catch her breath. He pressed his erection against her buttocks, rocking gently, and the rhythm broke. She gasped for air, suddenly not getting nearly enough, not nearly.
She allowed herself to wonder what he wanted. She didn't wonder whether -he- had showed up late to the party, looking flustered and oh-so out of place, nodding politely and congratulating them in that warm, golden voice. He would have meant it too, of course. Maybe that was what appalled her the most: that of them all, Lucius was the only one actually lying, and yet it stained them equally.
The announcement had only gone public tonight, when Lucius could be certain of the avoidance of yet another miscarriage. Narcissa had been certain since the beginning. As soon as he'd rolled off her, she felt heavier, denser. Different in a way she couldn't name. It was probably the potion, and the effect of all the complex-sounding spells she was meant to believe were harmless, merely there for her protection. She would have half expected to find herself in a strange dark room, with men in hooded cloaks standing around in a circle, looking on and chanting, but never coming closer as she and Lucius made a mockery of love. That didn't happen, of course. It was just another evening at home, and Lucius just wanted to try something new. He brought a book to bed, laying it on the low table to the side, and never even used it, merely chanting under his breath as he moved inside her.
He was gripping her at the waist, now, pressing her tighter back against him, and once again, she didn't resist. She merely sighed, not closing her eyes, not taking them off the velvety expanse of the cold night sky. Lucius' breathing was so harsh, so urgent, that she felt a vague curl of anger unclench within her chest, almost pushing her to say something. Something about whose backside he thought it was that he pushed into. Something about how she didn't need this, or him. The words were there, at the tip of her tongue, and she swallowed them. Let him think what he liked. He will, anyway.
"Do you see it?" he said, suddenly, in a strange, low voice. He sounded almost tender, and there was no hint of regret or desperation. His hips were no longer moving, and his voice was still, full of dark and secret things, and what she could almost mistake for sweetness.
Narcissa started, caught completely off guard. He always did this. Made her feel off-balance, startled, unsure of herself. She didn't want him to know, wanted it to be secret from him even if nothing else about her was. If he knew she liked it, wanted it, he'd manage to stop, somehow, she just knew it.
"See what?" she said, slowly, feeling him smile a little against her cheek. It made her heart skip a few beats.
His fingers moved to wrap around her thin, narrow wrist as it rested on the wrought-iron railing, pointing her hand north, towards where the horizon should be, index finger extended.
"See that? To the west, there?" Lucius said, pointing to the Great Dipper, startling her yet further. She didn't say anything, and neither did he, until finally Narcissa realized he was waiting for her answer before he continued.
"Yes, I think so," she whispered, thinking that she would never have guessed she'd have need of any of her Hogwarts classes ever again, but least of all Astronomy. It was never her best subject, not like Charms or Potions, though she was decent. And any first year could find the Great Dipper, of course. She was completely lost as to why Lucius would need to quiz her on it right now, of all times.
"Good." His hand moved, along with hers, a little upward. There was the North Star, and the end of the Little Dipper. "And that's where the Dragon lies coiled," he said, in that same even voice, moving their hands westward, curving across the sky in a strange bending motion. His arm stopped high to the west of north, pointing at a familiar-looking irregular quadrangle of stars. Must be the Dragon's head, she thought, still rather lost.
"It's beautiful," she said, not knowing what he was looking for, but honestly forgetting herself for a moment in contemplation of the sparkling lights, so enigmatic and so much more powerful than any wizarding magic could be. So much mystery, so much none of them will ever know or touch or hope to understand. The sight made her shiver as the cold night wind couldn't.
Lucius said nothing for long moments, his arm dropping as his fingers loosened around her wrist, finally stepping away from her altogether. He stood a mere breath away, and for some reason her awareness of him increased until it was almost painful, his insistent, white-hot presence against her back.
"Mm. Beautiful." For some moments, all she could hear was his breathing, deep and languorous. She almost didn't think he'd speak again, but of course that was silly of her. "See it? Thuban, the third star from the end?"
It was Alpha Draconis, the North Star some thousands of years ago, the center of the heavens. Narcissa remembered learning about it what seemed like ages ago, since it had been so important to ancient astrologers, being at the center of so many of their maps. It wasn't all that bright anymore, and she only recognized it because she knew exactly where she was looking. Still, she didn't know why she was looking there in the first place.
"The dragon's eye," Narcissa said, guessing based on her vague sense of the workings of Lucius' mind.
"Yes. Draco's eye. I've decided on a name, Narcissa," he said, sounding almost like boy again, free of cynicism and the inevitable patina of the unhappily aged.
Narcissa cringed inwardly, not wanting to be reminded. "Oh?" she breathed, as if it mattered. He would, of course, continue regardless of the illusion of her company.
Solemnly, he recited, "The dragon is ageless. It won't move, hovering low above the horizon, sweeping across a huge swath of sky. It waits for its time to uncoil once again. It waits for its second chance to rule the heavens. Polaris will dim, and Thuban will rise again, as strong as it had ever been. It may not be now, and it may not be a hundred years from now, but it will happen just as certain as the earth spins on its axis."
She shivered, remembering all the ancient-sounding rituals they'd dug up to ensure the life of this baby. She was almost certain they stopped short of invoking Tiamat, the draconic chaos goddess, but they'd called on every power they could that wasn't likely to turn around and curse them into oblivion. Privately, she thought this likely had nothing to do with gods and mythological creatures of universal destruction, but rather with loyalty to a House and a Lord who wouldn't show his face, speaking to snakes like he owned them and promising a second birth for every pureblood.
"Draco," she said, tasting the name on her tongue. It tasted bitter, seeming soaked in the crisp fall air, yet crackling with a strange, hidden sort of power. It disturbed her. She thought she'd think of wet leaves and dirt, and maybe something red hot like a sprinkling of pepper. Instead, it seemed natural, almost. This was, after all, how things were always meant to go. They both knew it was a boy, and they both knew it was a Malfoy. Everything else was nearly irrelevant in the larger scheme of things, wasn't it?
Lucius had wrapped his arms around her once again, resting his mouth against her ear, wet and warm, waiting for some sign, it appeared. Some sign she'd long lost herself, most likely.
"Draco Malfoy," Lucius echoed. "It sounds like he has a great destiny ahead," he said, giving a little sigh. He was starting to believe his own myths, which was dangerous. But he had believed others' myths for awhile now, which might have been even more so.
"I love him already," she said in return, forcing a smile. It didn't matter if she made intelligent coversation, really, as long as she smiled and nodded sometimes. This was the Malfoy way, and she had learned it well by now.
Besides, it was true. She had loved him already.
~~
When she looked into baby Draco's eyes, she saw stars. They were so wide, watery grey and more innocent than flowers and sunshine. Lucius called him his little dragon and bounced him up high into the air, making baby Draco squeal and laugh long and sweet, like the sound of silver bells. She didn't think he was any sort of dragon, but she wasn't going to start contradicting him now. Narcissa liked to keep Draco still, held tightly in place, preferrably sleeping. Draco, it seemed, usually had other ideas. She missed the days he was a newborn, sleeping almost every day away. She could look at him without interruption, just a happy, sated baby in every way. And now he was a little bundle of chaos, insatiable and always growing. She liked it that he didn't know any words yet, and his first stumbling sound was "mama", just like she'd hoped it would be.
Sometimes she was afraid that the second word he'd learn would be "Draco", and that she wouldn't be the polestar in his sky, but rather a faded memory that didn't shine as bright as it could have. She'd grown melancholy after the birth, uncharacteristically withdrawn. She thought about all the choices she could've made, all the words she could've said. She thought about different names for Draco, a new one every day. Perhaps she could've named him John. She giggled at that, but it was true enough that she wanted to. John was a good British name, wasn't it? The Malfoys didn't have enough Johns, really.
She was nursing baby Draco already at sunrise, holding a shawl wrapped tightly around them both as she sat in the rocking chair by the window. It was warm in their bedroom, and Lucius was still asleep. This was her time to herself, these days, with Draco pleasantly drowsy and herself allowing her own eyes to drift shut, dozing lightly as she hummed an old French lullaby under her breath. And then she became aware of eyes on her, steady and unnervingly intense, like a bucket of cold water.
Lucius was staring at her, his body still sprawled in the position he'd slept in, his lashes veiling his eyes so that she couldn't discern any expression beyond the general lazy amusement he was good at projecting even at this hour of morning.
She kept rocking in her chair, looking back at him just as steadily. She was tired. So very tired.
His lips curled upward at one corner, slowly. He probably fancied he knew just what she was thinking, as usual. "I'll let you name the next one," he drawled softly, feeling generous at this moment between sleep and waking.
"There won't be a next one," she said, just as softly. She'd made sure of that.
Lucius' eyes widened slightly and his breath hissed between his teeth as he exhaled. So maybe now he began to understand. Or maybe he'd just decided she was certifiably mad. Either one was quite possible.
"What do you want?" he said, his face impassive, but she knew he was already plotting ways to defeat her: his sudden, inexplicable obstacle to getting whatever he wanted.
"Give me four years. Leave me the child until his fourth birthday, and then he could be your Dragon, for good or ill. Just let me love him until then. Just let me--"
Lucius' face was closed, immobile, a complete icy mask. He was silent for a long time, during which Narcissa had to seriously wonder if she'd made a big mistake. She didn't want to make an enemy of him, he must know that. And he did. He smiled, suddenly, his eyes twinkling with a distant grey light, and she had a flash or realization about just whose son was curled up so snugly in her arms.
"Now you're acting like a Malfoy, my dear. You remind me of my mother." He didn't give an answer, but she knew that a lack of a "no" usually meant "yes", just without the signature. It was the best she could hope for, she supposed.
She smiled thinly. Oh yes, this wasn't love at all.
This was understanding.
~~