Fic for scarletladyy: Posture (Narcissa/Hermione, PG, 692 words)
Notes: In my call for prompts below (you can still request one if you want...), scarletladyy asked for Narcissa/Hermione darkfic. Unbeta'd and I haven't written much lately so it might be a bit rusty. Hopefully not rusty to the point of creaking, though.
*
The lights flare on, filling every corner of the white room, filling your eyes until they water. You resist the urge to check under the desk for a shadow and focus on each breath. You aren’t innocent, but you aren’t guilty either. Yet.
The door opens and a woman appears, but you barely notice her as you strain to see the corridor; your eyes, still stinging, can only see darkness.
“Mrs Malfoy.”
Her voice registers and you repress a shudder of rage, not fear-never fear; she has your full attention now. As she claims the chair across from you, you straighten your spine and twist your mouth into a sour smile, keeping your lips closed. Silence, like darkness, has always served you well.
The Granger girl seems unperturbed. Rather than offering a barrage of questions, she locks her gaze onto yours, a pleasant smile on her face. You refuse to be taken in by it: despite the crinkling around the corners, her eyes are cold, pupils dilated.
You can barely breathe in the presence of this Mudblood, the bitch responsible for your husband’s incarceration-ten years in Azkaban for tax evasion, of all things-years after Voldemort’s defeat, when you finally dared to believe that the worst was over. Her fault, too, that Draco has been folded back in to the fabric of Wizarding society, after being taught to see the error of his ways, and only Floos once a week, out of the pretence of affection.
(You would blame her for Bella’s death, too, if you could, but you always knew that your sister’s life would be cut short by madness; it’s surprising she survived as long as she did.)
“I suppose you are wondering why you are here, Mrs Malfoy.” Granger’s voice remains pleasant, but you detect anxiety in the way her leg twitches. You don’t respond.
Your gratitude makes you hate her more; without her cleverness and her schemes, Potter would have failed and your husband and son would have died or gone mad. You have never doubted that: Lucius was already halfway to both by the end.
“Whether or not you ask, I know you must be curious. I can see it on your face.”
Granger is lying: your only concern at this moment is refusing to allow her another victory.
“It took me a long time to understand it-how your family seems to survive everything with barely a scratch. It isn’t that no one has tried to take all of you down; half of the Ministry has tried at one time or another. It surprised me, because, quite frankly, over half of the Blacks are mad, your husband is one of the most foolish men I’ve had the misfortune to meet, and your son has never had the desire to follow up on his threats.”
You wonder if you are supposed to react to this information, all of which you already knew.
Granger’s smile widens, revealing a row of perfectly aligned white teeth, not threatening in the slightest. “It’s you, though, isn’t it? You’re the only member of the family with a backbone, and the Ministry has paid the price for underestimating you.”
Also true, also unsurprising. You resist the urge to yawn, but it’s a near thing.
The smile changes, the teeth look sharper, and an expression reaches her eyes at last. Something churns in your stomach as loathing mingles with the first pangs of fear. You pull your shoulders back, squaring them against her.
“Do you know what happens to the spine when you isolate it from the muscles and cartilage and tissues around it? It becomes fragile. It breaks easily. It can’t support itself, never mind the rest of the body.”
Your throat has gone dry; you swallow, but when you speak your voice is hoarse anyway. “But you still have no evidence against me.”
“Mrs Malfoy, I feel you’ve rather missed the point of this interview. It hardly matters whether or not I can imprison you, as long as you’re alone long enough.”
You wait until she has left you in blackness before collapsing forward onto the desk, face in hands.
*
The lights flare on, filling every corner of the white room, filling your eyes until they water. You resist the urge to check under the desk for a shadow and focus on each breath. You aren’t innocent, but you aren’t guilty either. Yet.
The door opens and a woman appears, but you barely notice her as you strain to see the corridor; your eyes, still stinging, can only see darkness.
“Mrs Malfoy.”
Her voice registers and you repress a shudder of rage, not fear-never fear; she has your full attention now. As she claims the chair across from you, you straighten your spine and twist your mouth into a sour smile, keeping your lips closed. Silence, like darkness, has always served you well.
The Granger girl seems unperturbed. Rather than offering a barrage of questions, she locks her gaze onto yours, a pleasant smile on her face. You refuse to be taken in by it: despite the crinkling around the corners, her eyes are cold, pupils dilated.
You can barely breathe in the presence of this Mudblood, the bitch responsible for your husband’s incarceration-ten years in Azkaban for tax evasion, of all things-years after Voldemort’s defeat, when you finally dared to believe that the worst was over. Her fault, too, that Draco has been folded back in to the fabric of Wizarding society, after being taught to see the error of his ways, and only Floos once a week, out of the pretence of affection.
(You would blame her for Bella’s death, too, if you could, but you always knew that your sister’s life would be cut short by madness; it’s surprising she survived as long as she did.)
“I suppose you are wondering why you are here, Mrs Malfoy.” Granger’s voice remains pleasant, but you detect anxiety in the way her leg twitches. You don’t respond.
Your gratitude makes you hate her more; without her cleverness and her schemes, Potter would have failed and your husband and son would have died or gone mad. You have never doubted that: Lucius was already halfway to both by the end.
“Whether or not you ask, I know you must be curious. I can see it on your face.”
Granger is lying: your only concern at this moment is refusing to allow her another victory.
“It took me a long time to understand it-how your family seems to survive everything with barely a scratch. It isn’t that no one has tried to take all of you down; half of the Ministry has tried at one time or another. It surprised me, because, quite frankly, over half of the Blacks are mad, your husband is one of the most foolish men I’ve had the misfortune to meet, and your son has never had the desire to follow up on his threats.”
You wonder if you are supposed to react to this information, all of which you already knew.
Granger’s smile widens, revealing a row of perfectly aligned white teeth, not threatening in the slightest. “It’s you, though, isn’t it? You’re the only member of the family with a backbone, and the Ministry has paid the price for underestimating you.”
Also true, also unsurprising. You resist the urge to yawn, but it’s a near thing.
The smile changes, the teeth look sharper, and an expression reaches her eyes at last. Something churns in your stomach as loathing mingles with the first pangs of fear. You pull your shoulders back, squaring them against her.
“Do you know what happens to the spine when you isolate it from the muscles and cartilage and tissues around it? It becomes fragile. It breaks easily. It can’t support itself, never mind the rest of the body.”
Your throat has gone dry; you swallow, but when you speak your voice is hoarse anyway. “But you still have no evidence against me.”
“Mrs Malfoy, I feel you’ve rather missed the point of this interview. It hardly matters whether or not I can imprison you, as long as you’re alone long enough.”
You wait until she has left you in blackness before collapsing forward onto the desk, face in hands.