Fic for deathjunke
Author: a_shadow_there
Recipient: deathjunke
Title: Some Kind of Nothingness
Pairing: Narcissa Malfoy/Vittoria Zabini; mentions of Narcissa/Bellatrix, Narcissa/Lucius, and Lucius/others.
Rating: R; angst, hurt/comfort, infidelity, sex
Word Count: ~1140
Summary: After Draco takes the Dark Mark, Narcissa is anxiety-ridden. She seeks comfort in the embrace of an old friend.
Author's Notes: I had something completely different in the works for you deathjunke but as I was working on it this popped into my head and simply would not be denied - still, I hope it meets with your approval! Mrs Zabini has no canon first name, so I've picked one out for her. And I nicked the title from the Manic Street Preachers song of the same name.
When Narcissa closes her eyes, she can see it, the moment that it all starts to fall apart: the Mark; jet-black and fanning out against the pale of Draco's forearm; the skin inflamed red, with blood and irritation; and the contorted twist of her son's lips as he exhales, deep and shuddering and wincing with the pain of it.
She can see it: Draco's life, ebbing away like oceans before the pull of the tide; inevitable, unstoppable.
She can see it: Lucius' face wan and his eyes hollow; the tremble in his fingertips and the stoic struggle to retain his customary stiff upper lip.
She can see it: her own eyes searching, searching, searching for some sign that Lucius will reach out and defend Draco, pluck him from the cavernous maw into which he is about to descend, but she knows that he will not.
Narcissa knows to whom Lucius' loyalty is sworn.
She sees it every time she closes her eyes. Every time she tries to sleep. She tosses, and turns; the bed feels cold (so cold), its icy fingers grasping at her flesh; nails clawing and tearing at her.
She feels it (cold; so cold) and she cannot sleep.
Not anymore.
Not since -
Draco took the Mark.
Rolling onto her side, Narcissa pushes back the covers. The sheets, once so silken, feel as sandpaper against her skin now. She rises. Padding across the creaking timber floor to her bureau, she is careful not to wake Lucius: not out of any sense of concern for his well-being - Narcissa doesn't understand at all how he can sleep; he, her husband, who has dragged them here.
With a furtive glance over her shoulder to ensure that Lucius does indeed sleep still, Narcissa takes up a quill, the nearest scrap of parchment, and scrawls hastily and as quietly as she is able:
I need to see you.
I will be waiting when you arrive.
Yours,
Narcissa
In the darkness, Narcissa seals the letter and exits the bedroom, leaving Lucius' stilted snores, and his betrayal, behind her.
*
Wrapping her cloak tightly about her, Narcissa slips silently from street to street; the dark of earliest morning and the gentle clack-clack of her heels on the pavement the only witnesses to her movements.
As Narcissa nears her destination, the heavy, grey clouds open above her; their imperceptible seams splitting and releasing a steady stream of persistent rain. It collects on the tip of her nose and the rise of her upper lip. It is cold, almost deathly so but it is also, and at once invigorating; a reminder of life, and of what that used to be like.
*
Narcissa paces the room, slow and deliberate. She focuses, intense and silent, on each footfall against the plush carpet; on the feel of the heat prickling her skin.
She focuses on the feel of the bottle against her fingers, and the amber hue of the Firewhiskey.
There was a time, Narcissa thinks as she pours herself a drink, that she could have - would have - gone to Bellatrix; dearest Bellatrix.
There was a time, when they were young (she wonders: were they ever so young?) when Narcissa would have fled to her sister without hesitation: a time before the Dark Lord, a time before war, and a time before Azkaban.
There was a time, when Narcissa would have divulged herself of her deepest and darkest fears, of the anxieties that quaked within her very soul, and Bellatrix would have pulled her close, and held her to, and kissed all of her sister's concerns away.
There was a time when humanity tempered Bellatrix's cruelty and madness.
But that time - that time no longer exists. It hasn't for a long time now - Narcissa knows that just as surely as she knows that it once did.
She raises her glass to her lips and swallows, and the smacking of lips and the sloshing of liquid are drowned out by the shriek of a key in the lock.
"Narcissa," Vittoria says as she enters the room (this room, their room) and closes the door behind her. She eases off her shoes - a pair of brilliant red stiletto heels - with her toes and lets them fall to the floor with a dull thud. "It has been too long."
Narcissa nods, placing her glass down on the table. She crosses the room, greeting Vittoria with outstretched hands. "It has," Narcissa says; her voice barely more than a whisper, stifled by her worries.
She can recall the last time they were together, like this (not quite like this, nothing has ever been quite like this, and for that Narcissa is thankful). It was after the passing of Vittoria's husband. It was always after the passing of Vittoria's husband - after each and every one of them. Vittoria came to Narcissa, and Narcissa came for her; a lightning quick burst of affection and illumination in the bleak landscape of her marriage. Narcissa's single mistress to Lucius' many.
"It has," Narcissa repeats, squeezing Vittoria's hands in her own. "Far too long," she adds, before her voice cracks under the weight of it all.
"Oh, Narcissa," Vittoria soothes. Taking Narcissa in her arms and clutching her to her ample bosom, Vittoria runs her hand over Narcissa's hair. "Oh Cissa," she whispers, tilting Narcissa's chin up so that she may look her in the eye, "whatever is wrong, dear?"
Narcissa sniffs, and tries to straighten up in Vittoria's arms; she tries, in futility, to pull herself together; to hold herself together, but she can't. She can't.
"The Mark," Narcissa murmurs; her lips pressed flush against Vittoria's décolletage. "He's taken the Mark."
"Draco?"
Narcissa nods. "Yes," she expels with a single strained breath; a breath that is warm on her lips, and against Vittoria's skin.
Vittoria says nothing - there is, Narcissa knows, nothing she can say and at that moment she is grateful for the silence. For its reverence; its solemnity.
Instead, Vittoria manoeuvres her weight so that she is able to take most, if not all, of Narcissa's; and, supporting her, she guides Narcissa to the bed.
There, Narcissa cries; she sobs and speaks, giving utterance to all that troubles her.
There, Vittoria brushes the greying white-blonde hair from Narcissa's puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks; she runs her thumb across Narcissa's mouth catching the concerns as they fall from her lips.
There, Narcissa feels alive again, for the second time that night; with Vittoria between her legs and exultant cries of climax imminent on her tongue as she arches, upupup and everything - everything - fades and she can no longer see Draco's mark, Lucius' fear, or the hollow insanity in Bellatrix's gaze.
There, she sees it: the nothingness; the absence of her fears, consumptive and unyielding.
Narcissa is free again; she is alive.
At least, for a moment.
Recipient: deathjunke
Title: Some Kind of Nothingness
Pairing: Narcissa Malfoy/Vittoria Zabini; mentions of Narcissa/Bellatrix, Narcissa/Lucius, and Lucius/others.
Rating: R; angst, hurt/comfort, infidelity, sex
Word Count: ~1140
Summary: After Draco takes the Dark Mark, Narcissa is anxiety-ridden. She seeks comfort in the embrace of an old friend.
Author's Notes: I had something completely different in the works for you deathjunke but as I was working on it this popped into my head and simply would not be denied - still, I hope it meets with your approval! Mrs Zabini has no canon first name, so I've picked one out for her. And I nicked the title from the Manic Street Preachers song of the same name.
When Narcissa closes her eyes, she can see it, the moment that it all starts to fall apart: the Mark; jet-black and fanning out against the pale of Draco's forearm; the skin inflamed red, with blood and irritation; and the contorted twist of her son's lips as he exhales, deep and shuddering and wincing with the pain of it.
She can see it: Draco's life, ebbing away like oceans before the pull of the tide; inevitable, unstoppable.
She can see it: Lucius' face wan and his eyes hollow; the tremble in his fingertips and the stoic struggle to retain his customary stiff upper lip.
She can see it: her own eyes searching, searching, searching for some sign that Lucius will reach out and defend Draco, pluck him from the cavernous maw into which he is about to descend, but she knows that he will not.
Narcissa knows to whom Lucius' loyalty is sworn.
She sees it every time she closes her eyes. Every time she tries to sleep. She tosses, and turns; the bed feels cold (so cold), its icy fingers grasping at her flesh; nails clawing and tearing at her.
She feels it (cold; so cold) and she cannot sleep.
Not anymore.
Not since -
Draco took the Mark.
Rolling onto her side, Narcissa pushes back the covers. The sheets, once so silken, feel as sandpaper against her skin now. She rises. Padding across the creaking timber floor to her bureau, she is careful not to wake Lucius: not out of any sense of concern for his well-being - Narcissa doesn't understand at all how he can sleep; he, her husband, who has dragged them here.
With a furtive glance over her shoulder to ensure that Lucius does indeed sleep still, Narcissa takes up a quill, the nearest scrap of parchment, and scrawls hastily and as quietly as she is able:
I need to see you.
I will be waiting when you arrive.
Yours,
Narcissa
In the darkness, Narcissa seals the letter and exits the bedroom, leaving Lucius' stilted snores, and his betrayal, behind her.
*
Wrapping her cloak tightly about her, Narcissa slips silently from street to street; the dark of earliest morning and the gentle clack-clack of her heels on the pavement the only witnesses to her movements.
As Narcissa nears her destination, the heavy, grey clouds open above her; their imperceptible seams splitting and releasing a steady stream of persistent rain. It collects on the tip of her nose and the rise of her upper lip. It is cold, almost deathly so but it is also, and at once invigorating; a reminder of life, and of what that used to be like.
*
Narcissa paces the room, slow and deliberate. She focuses, intense and silent, on each footfall against the plush carpet; on the feel of the heat prickling her skin.
She focuses on the feel of the bottle against her fingers, and the amber hue of the Firewhiskey.
There was a time, Narcissa thinks as she pours herself a drink, that she could have - would have - gone to Bellatrix; dearest Bellatrix.
There was a time, when they were young (she wonders: were they ever so young?) when Narcissa would have fled to her sister without hesitation: a time before the Dark Lord, a time before war, and a time before Azkaban.
There was a time, when Narcissa would have divulged herself of her deepest and darkest fears, of the anxieties that quaked within her very soul, and Bellatrix would have pulled her close, and held her to, and kissed all of her sister's concerns away.
There was a time when humanity tempered Bellatrix's cruelty and madness.
But that time - that time no longer exists. It hasn't for a long time now - Narcissa knows that just as surely as she knows that it once did.
She raises her glass to her lips and swallows, and the smacking of lips and the sloshing of liquid are drowned out by the shriek of a key in the lock.
"Narcissa," Vittoria says as she enters the room (this room, their room) and closes the door behind her. She eases off her shoes - a pair of brilliant red stiletto heels - with her toes and lets them fall to the floor with a dull thud. "It has been too long."
Narcissa nods, placing her glass down on the table. She crosses the room, greeting Vittoria with outstretched hands. "It has," Narcissa says; her voice barely more than a whisper, stifled by her worries.
She can recall the last time they were together, like this (not quite like this, nothing has ever been quite like this, and for that Narcissa is thankful). It was after the passing of Vittoria's husband. It was always after the passing of Vittoria's husband - after each and every one of them. Vittoria came to Narcissa, and Narcissa came for her; a lightning quick burst of affection and illumination in the bleak landscape of her marriage. Narcissa's single mistress to Lucius' many.
"It has," Narcissa repeats, squeezing Vittoria's hands in her own. "Far too long," she adds, before her voice cracks under the weight of it all.
"Oh, Narcissa," Vittoria soothes. Taking Narcissa in her arms and clutching her to her ample bosom, Vittoria runs her hand over Narcissa's hair. "Oh Cissa," she whispers, tilting Narcissa's chin up so that she may look her in the eye, "whatever is wrong, dear?"
Narcissa sniffs, and tries to straighten up in Vittoria's arms; she tries, in futility, to pull herself together; to hold herself together, but she can't. She can't.
"The Mark," Narcissa murmurs; her lips pressed flush against Vittoria's décolletage. "He's taken the Mark."
"Draco?"
Narcissa nods. "Yes," she expels with a single strained breath; a breath that is warm on her lips, and against Vittoria's skin.
Vittoria says nothing - there is, Narcissa knows, nothing she can say and at that moment she is grateful for the silence. For its reverence; its solemnity.
Instead, Vittoria manoeuvres her weight so that she is able to take most, if not all, of Narcissa's; and, supporting her, she guides Narcissa to the bed.
There, Narcissa cries; she sobs and speaks, giving utterance to all that troubles her.
There, Vittoria brushes the greying white-blonde hair from Narcissa's puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks; she runs her thumb across Narcissa's mouth catching the concerns as they fall from her lips.
There, Narcissa feels alive again, for the second time that night; with Vittoria between her legs and exultant cries of climax imminent on her tongue as she arches, upupup and everything - everything - fades and she can no longer see Draco's mark, Lucius' fear, or the hollow insanity in Bellatrix's gaze.
There, she sees it: the nothingness; the absence of her fears, consumptive and unyielding.
Narcissa is free again; she is alive.
At least, for a moment.