The Weapon
Here we are, again.
Day off from work, time to post something else that I wrote, and this time it's in English.
I wrote this fic long time ago and it was my first attempt at writing in English.
This is a little trip inside Narcissa Malfoy's mind and heart.
I adore the Malfoy family, I find them so intresting, passionate, beautiful and united... And I love Cissy, I think she's a wonderful charachter.
I really think Harry would have died if Narcissa had not been the strong and loving woman she is.
The weapon who killed Voldmeort is Cissy, yay!
Actually, Voldie, you had to be more careful when abusing the poor little Lucius, he has a wife and she's dangerous!
Next time you'll know better...
Ah, and, Mr. Potter? You are just lucky you were in school with Draco!
This was inspired, among other things, by Makani's wonderful work.
The story behind this story can be read here.
It is the ff I talked about in my loooooooong post of October 5th.
Feel free to comment, post suggestions and everything that could help me become a better writer.
The Weapon
Era: Deathly Hallows
Characters: The Malfoy Family
Pairing: Narcissa/Lucius
Rating: G
Warning: none, really. Deathly Hallows spoilers, but do we need to say that anymore? Some violence implied but not described. Psychological violence also, but very mild and only mentioned. Tons of family love.
Word count: 1171
She simply would not yield.
They could beat her, tear her to pieces, make her the laughing-stock of all the Purebloods, devastate her house, break her husband, use her son as a puppet.
No.
Narcissa would not yield.
Now it was time to take Lucius’ hand and tell him, in that way that had always been so automatic between them, so perfect, in that complete communication that never betrayed them, now it was the moment to tell him “Do it, my love. Obey. Relent. Humiliate yourself. And perhaps we’ll see the end of this night.”
She could still remember Bellatrix’ words, her dear sister, never sweet, never tender, but still sister, bound to her through something that nobody, not even Him could undo, bound through generations of Blacks, women and men with purer and more ancient blood then he could ever dream of. She still remembered Bella’s exact words, that afternoon, in the Manor’s gardens; her thin lips moving, trying, albeit without affection, albeit without love, to warn her. “He is very disappointed, Cissy. And I fear for you. Lucius and Draco… There is nothing to do for them. But you can still have your credit back with him, if you just…”
“If you just had ever bothered to listen to me, Bella. If you just had cared to understand who I am, if you just had done that once in this last few years... No, thank you. We appreciate your interest, Bellatrix, dear sister. We appreciate it dearly, I, my husband and son.”
And Narcissa moved forward, letting her white and green gown collect the writhed leaves, letting the alders of the vast garden hide her from whoever was looking from the manor’s windows, leaving her sister Bellatrix alone, leaving her alone thinking she was crazy, fool and desperate.
Never.
Never had Narcissa been desperate. Hope was like that fire he had lighted inside her, so many years ago, bright as the memory of that first kiss, under the shadows of the Forbidden Forest. “Have you ever seen a Unicorn, Black?” And she said no and then followed him to the edge of the forest, silently, the fear of being caught making her heart pound in her throat, and Lucius’ hand holding hers while they rushed across the grounds, reaching that clearing, that stunning view. The animal, white and glorious, moving peacefully in the night, the long silvery mane flowing in the wind blowing through the trees, and the gentle sound of his stride was counterpoint to her heartbeat.
And then they had come back, outside the forest, walking slowly, until they had seen the castle again. The moon was shining upon the highest towers, and he had suddenly stopped, looking at her, and in his eyes there was something new, something powerful and frightening, and so she backed off, surprised by that gaze, and bumped with her back against a tree, and, all of a sudden, he was there, holding her, and he just whispered her name, so close, and nothing had seemed important no more.
That night the fire was lit, with a kiss and those grey eyes, so confident, so proud, which would never leave her alone again.
How could she be desperate?
Her sister was desperate. Bellatrix, strong and invincible, Bellatrix, who never gave ground to anybody, Bellatrix, who had married Rodolphus and, in her own way, had honoured and respected him, but never loved him. Bellatrix, who wouldn’t admit how much she suffered from knowing he didn’t care at all if she loved him or not. Bellatrix, heart of steel, locked in a chest made of lies, Bellatrix, who had been waiting, screaming and cursing the entire world, until He had come to save her from that prison of anguish and agony. He, who was her whole world, He, whom she loved so desperately and so vainly, He, the one now mocking her, using her, vilifying her, transforming her into something broken, reduced to begging for a bit of his attention, of his consideration, willing to kill the whole world, to make it crumble and fall into chaos, only for one look from Him.
Bella was desperate, not Narcissa.
She knew now what she had to do, she had always known what she would need to do. For him, for Lucius. She had to be his strength, his shield, his maul, she would have to sustain him, direct him.
Together.
Together, like a fortress under siege, together they would survive. Together! shouted that fire burning inside her, that fire that became overwhelming and invincible when she set her gaze on Draco.
Draco, with shadows around his eyes, full of tears he never would dare to shed, Draco with delicate and nervous hands, stained with blood so useless and vain, trembling from such a young and lonesome fear… Draco, who had almost killed Fenrir, when he had dared to insult her, Draco, whose eyes had shone with that savage light once again, that day, while he pointed his wand and hit the wolf, again and again, frantically, until Yaxley had stopped him. Draco, who suffered his punishment with such a pride, such strength, to make her so proud and break her heart, Draco who still tried to smile to her, every morning, at the awakening.
She smiled back, and that little innocent pretence was fuel for that flame they still bore, secretly, within them. That flame burned stronger when, at night, Lucius would hold her tight, his face so dry, but haunted by the ghosts of tears he didn’t dare to cry; when he would look at her with those grey eyes, once so confident and proud, and he could do nothing but beg her forgiveness, without words, but with the eloquence of his anguished gaze, knowing he had not given her what he promised, that night, in the safe shield of the secular trees of the Forbidden Forest.
Then Narcissa would stroke his hair, hold him close and make a weapon out of his pain, a sharp weapon, a treacherous weapon, an invisible weapon.
A weapon. Narcissa Malfoy now was a weapon, a weapon Voldemort wouldn’t recognise, a weapon he wouldn’t fear, a weapon forged by the heat of that flame, lit so many years before, and that nothing could ever put out. A weapon tempered in Lucius’s tears, becoming unyielding and bitter. A weapon carrying Draco’s terror like a frozen gem on its hilt.
Narcissa Malfoy was a weapon and that weapon would hit Voldemort in his most decisive hour, in his triumph, when he would be at the top, so that the fall would be devastating and unstoppable.
When the moment would come, that weapon would strike.
Narcissa closed her fingers on Lucius’ wrist. At her touch, he put his hands on his robes, withdrew a wand and passed it along to Voldemort, who held it up in front of his red eyes, examining it closely
“What is it?”
“Elm, My Lord,”