fic: we will be whole again (narcissa, pg)
Title: We will be whole again
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR. DH spoilers within. I've only read the book once; any canon inaccuracies are my own.
Summary: Lord Voldemort has taken both husband and son from Narcissa Malfoy. She is determined to have them back.
Rating: PG
Characters: Narcissa gen, mostly, with some Lucius/Narcissa (they are married, after all!)
Word Count: 7,761
Author's Notes: I've shipped Lucius/Narcissa for some time, and Narcissa herself has fascinated me ever since she appeared in HBP. DH merely cemented my love affair with her character, and this is the result. Enjoy, I hope -- all comments, reviews, and concrit welcome.
--
A knock at the door, and she can hear Bellatrix rise from her armchair. Footsteps, and a sudden intake of breath --
"Mother?"
The sun hangs low in the dying day; Narcissa is still curled upon herself, her head nestled against the pillow. The word reaches her, shuddering as it dissipates, and she sees herself running down the staircase, into the atrium, and collapsing onto her floor before him. He would join her there, another casualty of war, and together, they would share their isolation. But, she thinks, it would not do to greet her son in such a fashion.
She rises from the bed, reaching for a robe. He is waiting. She strides through the hallway, steadying her pace as she turns for the stairs and simultaneously sweeps her hair into a loose bun. She spots her sister, unimpressed, standing off to the side. Waiting near her is Severus. Even he, the consummate master of his emotions, cannot hide his obvious exhaustion.
And there -- there is Draco.
The usual compliments she pays him upon returning home for the summer holidays -- oh, Draco, how much you've grown, how handsome you look! -- do not even occur to her. Indeed, they are contradictions: he seems oddly stunted, and there is nothing dashing about travel-stained clothes and grimy hair. From the corner of her eye, she notices Bellatrix tap her foot against the floor and Severus open his mouth to say something, but she holds up one hand and leaves the other gripping the banister. "Welcome home, Draco."
He raises his face and looks at her as he has not looked at her in years. There is no rebellious adolescent in him now, only a terrified child who has heard a rustling under his bed or a sound in the night. His wand falls to the floor as he stumbles forward, and Narcissa catches him, locking her arms around his neck. His body exudes a powerful odor -- he must not have washed in days -- but she presses her face against his slumped form, inhaling deeply.
This is Draco. This is her son. He is alive.
--
She lingers not far away from the bathtub when the house elf ushers him in, strips him of his clothes, and helps him into the water. She has not seen her son naked since he was very young, but she look and gasps. Scratches and bruises litter his body, but these are not what draw her attention: on his back is a series of cuts. They could almost be beautiful, the meticulous brushwork of an artist on this pale canvas, each stroke equivalently angled, but this is not art and that red is not paint. It is blood, barely contained by the tension of the scars. Shaking, he lowers himself into the bath. The water inches up to his shoulder; a cry is torn from him.
Narcissa raises her fist to her mouth, biting it as her son's face contorts. She wants to holds his hands and whisper sweet and comforting words, and Merlin, she wants him to tell her everything -- everything that has happened so that she could hate him more, rage at him, and lay all of their suffering at his feet. She imagines, however, that he finds the pain only too recent, and as for herself -- she forces her hand back down to her side.
When he climbs out of the bath and acknowledges her for thee first time, she expects him to protest her presence. She remembers that he is of age now, his birthday having passed some days ago. Draco looks at her but says nothing as the elf dresses him.
"I will take care of him from here, Mimsy," she says. The elf bows, exiting.
Draco walks to his bedroom without too much difficulty. Narcissa follows. She has already drawn the curtains in his bedroom and pulled back the covers. She tries to smile as he slides beneath the blankets and warily glances around the room. "I'm -- I'm so happy you're home, Draco."
"I'm glad -- " He breaks off " -- I'm glad to be home too."
"We can talk later, if you'd like," she ventures.
"Later," he stresses.
"Yes, later. You need to rest now." She sits down on his bed, looking down at the boy -- the man, now -- who has been hers for seventeen years. "Would you like to take some Sleeping Potion?"
"Mother, you don't -- you don't have to."
"If you need it -- "
"Mother, I don’t."
She bends down, kissing his forehead. "Then sleep well, my dear."
Narcissa is her bedroom now, situated before the mirror, hands locked behind her back. Draco, she hopes, is asleep. Bellatrix is deep in conversation with Severus, who is staying the night. They were in the drawing room until Narcissa told them to go elsewhere. Where they are now, she does not know and she does not care. All is quiet in the house, and that is all that matters. There is so much that she does not know that she must know, aware only of what the Daily Prophet has reported -- which is to say that she is aware of almost nothing. Dumbledore is dead, and no one is sure how it happened. She wants to know if she is the mother to a murderer. She wants to know who hurt Draco, her child.
She looks at the bottles of perfumes and powders lining her dresser. It is too much, she thinks sorrowfully, for her to bear.
Narcissa hears a laugh and looks up. "Poor, poor darling," her mirror coos.
"Please," she says quietly.
"Afraid of sympathy?"
"I don't need your sympathy."
"Oh, but you do! Your husband has been in jail for a year now with no prospect of release. Your son looks like he's been mauled by a werewolf, and you're lucky that he is still alive. And you are all alone save for Bellatrix, but you're not overly fond of her these days because she reminds you of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's scheming. No one as beautiful and privileged as you deserves to be in such a position."
Narcissa picks up a yet unopened bottle. Lucius had given it to her the day before he rushed off to the Department of Mysteries. All the witches of England are mad for this scent, he said to her. She remembers how he twirled her around in his arms when she told him that she would not wear it until he captured the Potter boy, how he carried her to their bed and made love to her with all the vigor of anticipated victory. She fingers the perfume, having kept the promise thus far.
"I told you, I don't need your sympathy," she repeats.
"Darling, there is no need to lie to yourself. Let's be honest here: people like you were not made for war. What were you ever but the most pampered and delicate -- "
"Shut up!" she yells, hurling the perfume into the mirror.
Glass meets glass in a symphony of shatters, and a heavy scent seeps into the air. Tears stinging her eyes, Narcissa inhales, almost swooning. Lucius, she thinks, had been right: the witches of England would go mad for this scent, but that was one year ago. Since then, she has hoped for his release from prison, and she has prayed that Draco would remain unharmed. All of that has depended on the Dark Lord's bountiful mercy, and in praying for his compassion, she knows that she has erred.
She looks at her splintered, silent reflection in the mirror. Narcissa touches her face, where the lightest of wrinkles are scored upon her forehead and the shadows beneath her eyes have darkened. Vanity has no role in war; a world such as this renders all beauty -- and, by extension, Narcissa herself -- useless. Her blue eyes will save neither husband nor son. Sniffling, she gives her head a shake. Today is the last day she cries. Tomorrow, she must be strong -- for Lucius, for Draco, for herself.
--
She stops him at the front door. "I need to speak to you," she says.
"Narcissa, I really must go."
"Severus, this is urgent."
"The Dark Lord is expecting me."
She glares at him. "The Dark Lord can wait."
He appraises her for a moment. "You would dare to say such a thing?"
"This won't take long." She turns around and heads toward the study. She does not check to see if he will follow, but she suspects that he will. Once they are safely ensconced between the desk and the bookshelves, she closes the door behind them and locks it. "Is Dumbledore really dead?"
"He is." Severus's cheek twitches for an instant.
"Did -- did Draco kill him?"
His eyes search her face, but she wills herself to remain expressionless. "I'm not sure if I am at liberty to tell you that."
"Draco is my son, Severus," she whispers. "You were his sworn protector, now tell me."
"Draco did not kill him."
Narcissa closes her eyes. Whether she feels relieved or not, she is unsure. Her son, at least, is not a killer, but he failed the Dark Lord. That, as she knows very well, can be costly, and the Dark Lord will notice that this is the second Malfoy to not meet expectations. "Who did?"
"I did."
She nods, her throat too constricted to say much. "Thank you, Severus, for -- for helping him."
"I would have died otherwise," he notes with a slight smile.
Narcissa returns the smile; it is their secret, after all. She points her wand at the door, which flies open. "Well, leave, if you must."
As he reaches the front door, she stops him again. "Wait!"
"Yes?" Severus looks behind him.
"Was Draco -- was he punished for not succeeding?"
He pauses, his face softening somewhat. "Dumbledore is dead. That was the goal, was it not?"
"He was spared, then?"
"You jest, Narcissa," he sneers before striding away.
--
As siblings, they have often had their troubles, but Narcissa has never wanted to curse her sister more. Bellatrix seems utterly attached to her nephew, lecturing him in low tones whenever she stumbles upon the opportunity. Sometimes, she is unable to find them at all and is left wondering just where they might have hidden themselves. Since his return, Narcissa has not been able to speak to him beyond perfunctory greetings and bland small talk. There is not, she thinks, enough privacy in this manor. When Bellatrix is summoned away one day, she does not bother to hide her pleasure.
"Draco?" She knocks on his door. "Draco?" A shuffling of steps, and his face appears. "I was wondering if you would like to take your lunch with me today instead of in your room. Just -- just you and I in the parlor."
"Okay," he mumbles, closing the door.
"I'll see you in ten minutes, then?"
He does not respond.
The parlor is one of Narcissa's favorite rooms in the manor. Paneled with windows, it is always bright and warm, a particular advantage during the winter months. Today, Mimsy has pushed the windows open. A light breeze circulates through the room. Outside, the summer is cheerful. As she sits at the table and waits for Draco, she tries to imbibe some of this joy -- she has never known a more miserable summer.
"The young master, Mistress," the elf announces, stepping aside as the door swings open.
She stands to greet him. Though still a little ragged in appearance, he looks healthier now than when he first came home. That is enough to make Narcissa smile more warmly than she has in quite some time. Draco seems to sense this, and a slight flush rises to his cheeks. "You look wonderful," she says. "That color looks good on you."
He looks down at the sleeve of his navy blue robes. "Thank you, Mother."
"Please, sit," she insists, gesturing to the open seat across from her. She looks towards the elf and nods her head. The elf bows and leaves. "It's so rare that you and I can spend some time alone together. Either you're at school or -- " She falls into silence. Draco shrugs, making a noncommittal noise. They stare at one another. "What sort of ideas," Narcissa begins quietly, "has Aunt Bellatrix been putting into your mind?"
In an instant, the nonchalance on Draco's face is replaced with an intense anxiety. "N-nothing -- no ideas."
"Draco!" The admonition comes out harsher than she intends it to. She cringes as he cowers under her wrath. "Draco, this is for your own safety. You must tell me what she's been saying to you." Narcissa waits for a response. She does not receive one. "Oh, my dear, you don't understand, do you? You think that the Dark Lord will leave us alone simply because Albus Dumbledore -- "
But at the mention of the name, Draco shudders, and Narcissa realizes that there is much that Severus did not tell her. She stumbles out of her chair and kneels on the floor before him, taking his hands in hers. "Draco, look at me. Draco, look at me!" There is an edge of hysteria in her words now, but she cannot control it. She has never seen her son so troubled before, and if that did not trouble her in equal turn, what sort of mother would she be? "Draco, I want to help you -- I want to help us, I want to protect us, all of us. I can't -- oh, Draco, please, look at me."
He looks at her, his gray eyes shot with horror.
"Draco, I can't do anything if you do not first tell me what happened."
There it is: the challenge, thrown before him. He can answer its summons and bring solidarity to their family, or he can ignore it and remain a solitary son with only the contents of his bedroom for company. Narcissa wonders what she will do then, if Draco decides that he neither wants nor needs her mothering. She grips his hands tighter -- she has already lost her husband to the Dark Lord's whims, and she does not think that she will live if she loses her son as well.
"I cornered him on the tower," he says, his voice cracking. "I disarmed him, so he didn't have a wand. He would have died, if only I could -- but I couldn't, Mother. I couldn't kill him."
"So Severus did."
Draco nods. "Then we Apparated, together, to where -- to where he was waiting. We didn't say anything until everyone had returned, and then Professor Snape, he -- he explained what happened."
"Was the Dark Lord pleased?" Narcissa asks.
"Oh, yes. Dumbledore dead…why wouldn't he be pleased? But he still -- " Draco is shaking and Narcissa is practically holding him down " -- he took me into a room, just he and I. Then he asked me questions, and every time I couldn't answer…" The image of Draco's marked back flashes through her mind. She digs her nails into his wrist, realizing that it hurts him but needing to know that he is still sitting here, still alive. "He asked me how it is that the Malfoys have become a family of traitors and why we care only for our gold and not for him. He asked me why -- why we have failed him, first Father and now…He asked me if he could ever trust us again. Aunt Bellatrix…" He sighs. "She's been telling me that it doesn't matter. I have to go back."
"No, Draco, you won't."
"I have been going back, Mother. With her," he retorts. "And you can't stop me. If I don't go back, I'll die! And Father will die too, and you as well!"
In any other setting, his statement might have sounded laughably melodramatic. Here, they are hung with the reality of their own circumstances. Sobered, Narcissa releases him. "Strange, isn't it, that only the Dark Lord can save us from himself."
"Don't worry, Mother, he won't give me anything important to do."
She looks at him again. So young, only seventeen, and already his servant! "What have you been doing, Draco?"
"Just -- " He gulps " -- just some torture. Mudbloods and Muggles and that sort."
Her joints stiff, Narcissa stands up and returns to her seat. They eat in silence for the next few minutes before she places her spoon back on the table. Draco looks up. "Something wrong with the soup, Mother?"
She sits there. "Did the Dark Lord say anything about Lucius?"
Draco shakes his head.
--
Later in the afternoon, Narcissa finds herself standing outside her son's bedroom again. She knocks, barely cognizant of what she is about to do. Draco opens the door, raising an eyebrow. "Mother, are you all right?"
"Hmm?" She breaks out of her reverie, stunned to find him before her. "Oh, Draco! Draco, there is something very, very important I need to ask you."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm quite well. Where does the Dark Lord make his headquarters?"
She says this all rather fast. Draco raises both eyebrows now. "Mother, why -- "
"Never mind why, dear. I need to know."
"Well -- well, it depends, doesn't it?"
--
"Cissy, please -- "
"Well, here we are. I hope you didn't lead me to the wrong headquarters." Narcissa gestures to the dilapidated building before them. "This is the right place, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, it is."
"Good."
"Look, Cissy, the Dark Lord will not want to hear any protest from you, of all people. Lucius -- "
Narcissa grips her wand, relishing the possibility of hexing her sister, but she forces herself to relax. From childhood, she has been trained to remain composed and unperturbed, even under the most taxing of situations. If there is ever a time for poise, it is now. "Bella, don't speak to me about Lucius. This is not your business but mine. I shall handle it." She pauses. "And if you wanted to dissuade me, it is too late now."
Arriving on the front steps, they stop. The doors are plain but for a brass knocker. Even in the night, Bellatrix's eyes appear to gleam. "This is a fool's errand, Cissy. He'll never agree to it, and you -- you're no match for the Dark Lord."
At these words, Narcissa closes her eyes. All of Bellatrix's objections have already occurred to her. Of course it is a fool's errand, of course he will never agree to it, and of course she is no match for the Dark Lord. What she is attempting now can only be the recourse of those who have no other options left to them. When Narcissa looks into her future, she can see only a singular path winding into the brambles and thorns. Lucius and Draco have had their turns -- it is hers now.
Clearing her throat, she reaches for the knocker. The reverberation of metal and wood still ringing in her ears, the door opens.
"Good evening, Wormtail," she says, articulating each syllable clearly. "I am here to see your master."
The short, balding man looks down. "H-he is busy right now, Mrs. Malfoy."
"Please, Wormtail, this is very important. Could you tell him that?"
"I -- I don’t th-think that he's taking any visitors -- "
"Wormtail," Narcissa begins, but Bellatrix steps in front of her, robes swirling.
"Take her to the Dark Lord, you filthy creature," she spits. "If he will see her, then he'll see her, and if not, then she'll leave. I think that is for him, not you, to decide."
"Yes, yes, sorry." Wormtail backs away, leaving the front door ajar.
Narcissa turns to her sister, whose face is hidden in the shadows of her hood. "Bella, I -- thank you."
"But I'm not coming with you," she says, crossing her arms.
"I didn't want you to."
Narcissa steps over the threshold of the house. Next to her, Wormtail is shaking even more than she is. Squaring her shoulders and says, "Take me to him."
The hallways of the building are illogically planned, twisting this way and that in no discernible pattern. Murmurs are hidden behind doors; the occasional cry pierces the dim quiet. As they descend further into the bowels of the house, Narcissa pulls her robes tightly about her. For a summer night, it is very chilly. Suddenly, Wormtail comes to a stop before a set of double doors.
"Is this it?" she asks.
As he begins to nod, a cold voice emanates from the inside of the room. "Wormtail, is that you?"
Narcissa identifies its source and stumbles into the wall, vainly clutching it for support.
"Y-yes, my lord."
"And who have you brought with you?"
With one hand, Wormtail wrenches one of the doors open before placing the other on her back and shoving her forward with surprising strength. Staggering into the candlelight, she hears the door close behind her and footsteps scampering away.
"Present yourself," the Dark Lord orders.
She thinks of her injured son and imprisoned husband and pretends, for a moment, that they are standing with her. But when she lifts her chin and seeks Dark Lord perched on his armchair and dais, she knows that here, now, there is only Narcissa -- daughter of Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier, sister of Bellatrix Lestrange, wife of Lucius Malfoy, mother of Draco Malfoy, and utterly alone before the most powerful Dark wizard ever to be born.
"I am Narcissa Malfoy," she says, hoping that her voice is loud enough to carry the length of the room. "I come to seek a favor, my lord."
A few barely concealed laughs can be heard. Her eyes scan the room: she and the Dark Lord are not without company tonight. The Death Eaters' presence makes her uncomfortable, though she recognizes that she is hardly in any position to complain about such a thing.
"Lucius Malfoy's wife, and you come to seek a favor from me. That is asking for a lot, isn't it?" Narcissa can imagine a smile twisting his mouth. She says nothing. "Step forward."
As if compelled by some external force, she walks toward him, the Dark Lord looming ever nearer. Then she stops and is left staring at his feet, where a giant serpent is coiled.
The Dark Lord lets out a soft chuckle. "Why, Narcissa, where are you manners? It is my favor you seek, not the floor's. I would have expected better from you." Narcissa's head is wrenched upward. Heart racing, she holds his stare. He seems amused. "There, much better. Now, tell me, how is Draco?"
Two of the Death Eaters exchange looks. "Draco is doing very well," she replies.
"He is flourishing at home, I am sure."
"Of course."
"Your husband?"
"My husband," she mutters, almost to herself. "My lord, I have come to see you about Lucius. I have -- I have come to petition for his freedom."
"His freedom? You know as well as I do that he is in Azkaban. I have no leverage over his freedom."
"My lord, you control the Dementors; therefore, you must also control Azkaban."
"You are a clever witch, Narcissa. If only the man you married were half as smart."
"If only," she echoes. "Lucius has not served you as well as you should be served."
He smiles at her. "Your son is not doing much better."
"Draco is still young," she says, averting her eyes for a moment. "He will learn."
"I am wondering, Narcissa, why you have not joined your sister in our cause."
"I -- I do not have her skill with the wand." On an impulse, she inclines her head, praying that he will be flattered by her deference. "My lord, I have only ever been a daughter, a wife, and a mother. I am -- I am no one, really."
"So it would seem. Narcissa, your husband has been locked away for a year. Why do you come to me now and beg for his release?"
She pauses. "Dumbledore is dead, my lord. That is a great victory. The Dementors -- Azkaban -- are already under your command, and the Ministry will be yours in due time. Lucius…surely, he has been punished enough. He is a talented wizard with much to contribute to your cause -- "
"Silly girl. 'Punished enough'? I will remind you that your husband, Narcissa, failed to obtain the prophecy whose only defenders were six underage wizards." At his feet, the snake stirs. "But you speak rightly: victory is close. The Ministry will fall, the Order will fall, and at last, the Potter boy too will die. There is no serious opposition to my forces, who are stronger and more numerous than ever. Do enlighten me: what need do I have of your pitiful husband's so-called talent?"
Narcissa opens her mouth, then closes it. Her initial beseeching has produced nothing -- as expected, he has not yielded to her wishes. There is, then, one remaining course of action, one that she did not dare to tell Bellatrix. She hopes that what she is about to do is the right thing. "My lord, I can provide you with a headquarters. A permanent headquarters."
Around her, the Death Eaters launch into a hushed conversation, occasionally glaring at her, but the Dark Lord pays them no attention. "Elaborate."
"I hear it from my son that you and your followers are constantly switching headquarters, unable to find a satisfactory one. In all of the moving, there can be confusion, dropped plans, and so forth. It adds inefficiency to your operations." She stops, struggles to restart. "I can give you complete use of Malfoy Manor, my lord. I offer all of our family's assets to your cause."
"Malfoy Manor. Nagini -- " To Narcissa's horror, the snake crawls up the armchair, placing its head level to the Dark Lord's " -- what do you think of this? An interesting proposition, no?"
"The property has been in the family for centuries," she continues. "It is very well protected, all provisions and housing will be provided, and my Lord, you will be the true master of the house. My family -- we will be your most devoted servants, I swear it."
"Malfoy Manor," he repeats, savoring the words. "The Malfoy inheritance at my disposal."
Narcissa nods. "All of it."
"How very tempting your offer is, I must admit."
One of the Death Eaters raises his head. "My lord, how can you trust her?"
"Dolohov, she has not lied. Except, of course, about the state of her dear Draco, but I can forgive that. A mother's folly."
"Will you -- " Narcissa steps forward, as if to press the importance of the issue " -- will you accept?"
The Dark Lord settles back against his chair, his throne. Manners be damned, Narcissa cannot look at him.
"I suppose I can return Lucius Malfoy, if the man means so much to you."
Trembling, she sinks to the floor and kisses the hem of his robe. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, my lord," she whispers, enraptured. "You are kind and merciful. Thank you."
The Dark Lord continues to speak, talking of the details of the exchange, but Narcissa is not listening. Unbidden, a thought rises within her, enveloping her supplicated form in its warmth: we will be whole again.
--
They sit in the drawing room, eyes fixed on the clock.
"Is he really coming home?" Draco asks for what Narcissa believes is the tenth time.
"Yes."
"He could be lying, couldn't he?"
"Draco, we swore an Unbreakable Vow that evening: your father for this house. He is worried that I might double-cross him and that he would be without his promised headquarters."
Her son is pale. "Father is going to be angry with you."
"Your father is going to be a free man," she replies smoothly, unwilling to admit that she shares some of Draco's fears. "You can ask him yourself if he would rather be back in Azkaban."
They return their attentions to the clock. "When did you say he would be arriving?" Draco asks.
"At three."
"Two minutes, then."
"Is -- is he coming here alone?"
"No, your Aunt Bellatrix is escorting him home."
"The house?"
Narcissa exhales slowly. "Your father will deal with the house. The deeds are under his name, after all. If the house is to obey the Dark Lord's commands, its rightful owner has to authorize it."
Silence. "Mother, I can't believe -- "
"What you can and cannot believe doesn't matter anymore, Draco," she says softly. "The Dark Lord, the Death Eaters -- this is their house now, and it would be best if you hid any -- any lingering resentment."
He makes a face. "But we're very happy to host them here, aren't we?"
"Naturally."
Suddenly, the door creaks open, and they both jump with surprise. Draco looks back at the clock, but hungrily, Narcissa turns toward the sound and the name tumbles from her mouth: "Lucius."
He is thin and gaunt, his hair too long and messy, his robes stained and clearly secondhand, but when she collides with him and his hands drop to her waist, pulling her in tightly against him, none of it registers with her. There is something solid in her arms now, and he is whispering to her. She thinks that they could be twenty again, drunk on the spirits of a love newly discovered, not a couple reunited after a year's separation, not a couple made haggard by the progression of years.
She doesn't kiss him, there in the drawing room. That can be saved for a different, more private moment. She lets him go -- he has a son to greet. She watches them regard one another, as men. Surely, Lucius has heard of what the Dark Lord made Draco do, and Draco has been without a father for a year. They hug briefly. Narcissa smiles, unworried. They will talk later, the two of them. Now is not the time for deliberation.
Azkaban has worn Lucius down, but unlike Draco, he at least does not bear any exterior signs of torment. She catches a glimpse of him, undressing, as she walks to the bedroom. Her breathing quickens; she hurries away. One year later, and he is still beautiful. It will all be right, she says to herself. It will all be right.
--
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Narcissa. Draco and I had quite a bit to discuss, and -- what did you do to your mirror?"
"I broke it." She smiles at him, her head on a tilt.
"The Black temper rises to the surface. I see you have yet to fix it."
"The mirror doesn't matter, Lucius."
She is standing before its remains, just as she did those many nights ago, but tonight is different. Tonight, he is here. He inches towards her, and she raises her arms out of reflex, pulling herself up to meet his lips. After bathing, he is sweet again. They tumble onto the bed, her fingers tugging at the clasps of his robe. She will reacquaint herself with him, here and now.
"No, Narcissa, please." Gently, he extricates himself from her limbs and moves to occupy his half of the bed. She will sleep with emptiness no longer, but his distance bothers her. "Another night?"
She swallows, looks away. "Yes. Another night, then."
"But I still -- Narcissa, please. Narcissa, look at me." Angrily, she dashes her tears away with the back of her hand and faces him. His silver eyes are wide, insistent. The skin at their corners is crinkled; she has never thought of her husband as old before. As he runs a finger down her cheek, she thinks that he is frightened as well. And that, in itself, is the most frightening thing of all. "You haven't changed at all, love."
She reaches for his hand, pulls it away from her face. "No, I've changed."
"You're still -- so beautiful, Narcissa."
"Not all change is that superficial."
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. "You're right, of course. I think -- and do correct me if I am wrong, but the Narcissa I knew would not have handed her home over to the Dark Lord."
"I needed you back, Lucius," she whispers. "If you only knew what it was like to -- to go to bed every single night, knowing that there would be no one there to -- to kiss you in the morning…"
"Were you so desperate?" His tone is light, but he is holding her to him.
"You don't understand."
"Oh, but I do understand. Azkaban is no holiday, love."
When she next speaks, her voice is small. "I missed you, Lucius."
Here they are, then -- husband and wife, together. She clings to him, as if she might wrest the happiness they should be sharing from his very skin, but nothing changes. Nothing changes. They are still in the night, and she feels as alone as she was when Lucius was the Dementors' charge. She is not the only one who has changed.
"The Dark Lord is not pleased with me," he says after a long silence. "Even after I -- I gave him what is, in essence, full ownership of the house, he was not kind."
"Draco told me as much."
"Narcissa, I must tell you, the idea of the Dark Lord and the rest of them using and living in this house -- this house, Narcissa! -- does not please me at all." His voice, already low, drops another register. "The Malfoys are already laughingstocks among the Death Eaters. Even your sister, Bellatrix, risks mockery by associating with us, and not even the Dark Lord himself can reasonably doubt her loyalty to his work. Can you imagine them here? Here, under our roof! This manor has belonged to my family for generations, and you have the gall to sign it away?"
"I signed it away for you," she hisses.
"What good am I to you now?" he shouts, and wildly, Narcissa wonders if Draco can hear them. "The entire wizarding world knows me to be a Death Eater. My connections there are useless. The Dark Lord does not trust me, he has no faith in Draco -- Merlin, it is a miracle that he hasn't had us all killed."
Their happy reunion of the afternoon is forgotten. Every joyous scene she has ever imagined is forgotten. Narcissa holds a different man in her arms. He has neither the supercilious ease with life nor the cocksure optimism that she has ever associated with him. Staring at his face, she wants to hit him and sob against his shoulder, ask him why the Dark Lord should doubt them so, why fate has led them to such an end, why everything, everything is now so broken and wrong. She shuts her eyes tightly -- if she abandons her self-control, perhaps Lucius will too. Perhaps Lucius has already lost his, and she is the only one remaining with a level head and clear mind.
"I gave the house away so that you could come back to me," she says between gritted teeth. "When we were married, we were sworn to one another for life. I was not going to leave you in Azkaban to die."
"Then why wait a year?"
She breathes. The Dark Lord has asked her this very question. For him, she had one answer. For her husband, she has a different, no less truthful one. "Your son, Lucius. You know very well what the Dark Lord did to him in retribution for what -- for what happened at the Department of Mysteries, but I do not think either of us can truly grasp what it's done to him. Lucius, I am -- I am not very special. I have only ever tried to love Draco, buy him chocolates and sweets, but you're his father. You can understand better than I what has happened to him. You can teach him, guide him, help him -- help him grow up. He needs you more than he needs me."
"Narcissa -- " he starts, but she places a finger on his lips. She does not think she can bear to hear his voice.
"What's done is done. The Dark Lord and his -- and the Death Eaters are coming tomorrow. It is expected that we will be in the atrium to greet them. All three of us."
"I know. Nine o'clock, tomorrow morning."
She nods, pressing a hand to his heart. It beats onward. "Goodnight, then."
--
There are certain skills that are ingrained so deeply in her that it seems they belong to her alone. One of them is the skill of receiving guests with inimitable grace and dignity. Narcissa Malfoy knows how to receive guests.
She rises at four, when the earth is still dark and Lucius is breathing lightly next to her. She puts on a bathrobe, nothing more, and leaves, calling for Mimsy. Together, they rush from room to room, checking for dust, errant furniture, and perhaps the stray insect. Hastily, she throws a glance at her gardens, relieved to find them pristine and tidy. She tells the manor's portraits that there will be many strange men running around the house from now on, though from their gloomy dispositions, it is clear that they already know of the change. At eight, when Lucius and Draco wander into the dining room, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, she is already sitting at the side of the table, head upright and back erect.
"We don't have much time," she says as they delve into their breakfast. "Eat quickly, then get dressed. And wear something nice -- the nicest thing you have. Draco, those dress robes we bought last summer -- "
"I know, Mother." The spoon is quivering in his grasp.
Soon, Narcissa leaves the table -- she ate her breakfast an hour ago -- and heads upstairs. "Oh, there you are," a feeble voice drawls as she enters the bedroom.
She looks over her shoulder to find the mirror mended. "Did Lucius fix you?"
"Well, naturally. Unlike some, he does not tolerate broken glass in the household."
"Complain to me later, I don't have time for it right now. An important guest is arriving soon and -- " She gestures at herself " -- I need something very…something very striking to wear."
"Something blue, then." The mirror stifles a yawn. "I have always been convinced that it is your best color. Matches your eyes, and you still have the figure for it."
Despite herself, she quirks an eyebrow. " 'Still'?"
"You said you didn't have much time?"
"So, blue, you say." Narcissa thinks, then points her wand at her wardrobe. "Accio Dress!"
The fabric flies into her hands and she holds it up for inspection. "Your opinion, dearest mirror?"
"Ooh, I approve. You don't wear that one enough."
"But if I wore it more often, would it still be as striking?"
As the mirror devises a suitable response to her question, she surveys her dress. A severe column of lacing runs down the back until it reaches the waist. There, the skirt bustles before flowing outward along a wave of flounces. She steps into the fabric's embrace and pulls the sleeves onto her arms. Before the mirror's watchful gaze, she executes a small turn, admiring the effect.
"Blue suits you."
Pivoting towards the door, Narcissa laughs to herself. "Conspiring with my mirror with regards to my wardrobe, Lucius?"
"You can tell you dear mirror that I've held that opinion for much longer than it has." Leaning against the doorframe, he cranes forward to look at it. "Funny, I would have expected it to have answered with something cheeky."
"It knows when to remain silent."
"A valuable skill, no doubt. Do you need help with the lacing?"
"I was going to -- "
Narcissa points uselessly at her wand, but Lucius guides her to one of the bedposts. She braces herself as he begins pulling and threading the ribbons through their exact and demanding holes. He is perhaps a little rougher than he needs to be, but she does not protest: she finds novelty in his touch after its yearlong absence, relishing every insistent tug of his fingertips. When the lacing is complete and he leaves to dress himself, she watches his receding figure with an expression approaching yearning. She shakes her head. Now is not the time to become infatuated -- not for the first time -- with her husband. Returning to the mirror, she stands so that it faces her back.
"Did Lucius do a competent job of it?"
"He did a marvelous job."
"Good."
She dabs each cheek with a touch of blush and coats her lips with carmine. She coaxes her hair into a strict bun, checking once and then again for stray locks. From the depths of her jewelry box, she finds a pair of diamond pendants Lucius had given her for some long past anniversary. When both she and the mirror are satisfied, she examines her reflection.
"Goodness, Narcissa."
"Is something the matter?"
Lucius stands behind her, his hands resting upon her shoulders. "You look for all the world like your sister."
She wants to ask him how this is so when there can be two siblings no further apart in appearance than Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy, but then, she begins to see. An odd defiance pierces her gaze, one that Bellatrix often wears while eulogizing the Dark Lord. The thought pulls the corners of her mouth upward. They are sisters, after all, and they must have something in common.
"I needed to save us. Nothing else matters anymore -- not the house, the lands, or even the gold." She toys with her fingers, unable to look at herself and Lucius in the mirror. "If the Dark Lord triumphs and we are safe, then I want him to win."
"And if the Dark Lord -- " Lucius clears his throat " -- if the Dark Lord fails?"
"So long as you and I and Draco are unharmed, then let him fail."
"What do you think will happen?"
She tries to read his face, but it is impenetrable. "It's impossible to guess."
"Well, if you think that remaining in his favor will keep us safe, then you've clearly placed your bets on him."
"Perhaps."
"I apologize, Narcissa, for treating you -- treating you a bit harshly last night. That was never my intention."
"It's no matter," she says, waving her hand.
"Are you ready to, erm -- ?"
"Yes, I think I'm ready."
He pauses. "You're not afraid, are you?"
Her heart adamant against the constraints of her chest, Narcissa has never been more afraid in her life. "Of course not," she replies.
--
The clock sings its nine chimes and then there are footsteps outside her door. She stands in the middle, flanked by husband and son, and raises her voice. "Come in."
It is a sight she will not forget -- the Dark Lord in a traveling cloak, trailing like whispers on the floor; his snake, already beginning to explore the premises; her sister, at his side and perfectly alert; and the Death Eaters, organized in masked row upon masked row.
They are her allies, she tells herself.
She looks to her left, but sweat has pooled at Lucius's temples. Thus, she raises her own gaze.
"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," she says, then curtsies. "My family is honored to serve you."
"And I thank you, Narcissa, for your boundless hospitality."
Jeers from the Death Eaters; the Dark Lord does not trouble to hush them.
Then Lucius steps forward, his head lowered. He kneels at his master's feet. "I am most eager to aid you, my lord, in whatever way possible."
The act silences the atrium, and Narcissa advances. She mimics her husband. "Whatever is ours is yours, my lord."
Lastly, Draco lowers himself, an avatar of impeccable obedience. "I -- I am yours, my lord," he stammers.
Narcissa closes her eyes.
"I am satisfied," he pronounces, almost bored with the proceedings.
"The drawing room is to the left," Bellatrix says, "if my lord finds the need to perhaps organize matters first."
"The drawing room, then."
Bodies swarm around their still folded forms. Above them, a contemptuous laughter. "Get up, Lucius -- you and your devoted son. Lord Voldemort still requires your presence at meetings. If your wife is happiest on the floor, then she is more than welcome to remain there."
On both sides of her, she hears the cracking of joints and rustle of fabric as they rise. Peeking out of one eye, she sees Lucius covertly extend a hand toward her. She gropes for him, and he pulls her to her feet. Draco shifts a little closer until they are huddled in a circle. Father and son, seemingly identical. Narcissa bites her lip. "Well, go," she manages.
She watches them disappear into the drawing room. When Draco was a child, they would crowd around its fireplace during the winter and tell stories until a fierce and bubbly laugh was roused from the boy. As he grew older, their pursuits turned to playing chess on the coffee table during the summer holidays. He could beat his mother effortlessly by the time he turned thirteen, although his father would forever present a more formidable challenge. They stopped playing chess two years ago, when Lucius was recalled to the Dark Lord's service. Then Draco became pricklier in temperament, and even their afternoon teas ceased -- adolescence, Lucius explained sagely.
Now the atrium is empty, the drawing room door closed and locked. He has taken them from her yet again, but she is serene. Motionless in her regalia, she thinks that she understands at last. Dominant though he is, the Dark Lord can only claim so much of them as his own: their allegiance, their politics, their magic. But Narcissa clings to his most cherished belief, that blood is the most essential element, that it must be faithful to itself.
In the end, they will be hers again. She knows that it must be so.
--
Signing off, V.M. Bell
Author: V.M. Bell
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to JKR. DH spoilers within. I've only read the book once; any canon inaccuracies are my own.
Summary: Lord Voldemort has taken both husband and son from Narcissa Malfoy. She is determined to have them back.
Rating: PG
Characters: Narcissa gen, mostly, with some Lucius/Narcissa (they are married, after all!)
Word Count: 7,761
Author's Notes: I've shipped Lucius/Narcissa for some time, and Narcissa herself has fascinated me ever since she appeared in HBP. DH merely cemented my love affair with her character, and this is the result. Enjoy, I hope -- all comments, reviews, and concrit welcome.
--
A knock at the door, and she can hear Bellatrix rise from her armchair. Footsteps, and a sudden intake of breath --
"Mother?"
The sun hangs low in the dying day; Narcissa is still curled upon herself, her head nestled against the pillow. The word reaches her, shuddering as it dissipates, and she sees herself running down the staircase, into the atrium, and collapsing onto her floor before him. He would join her there, another casualty of war, and together, they would share their isolation. But, she thinks, it would not do to greet her son in such a fashion.
She rises from the bed, reaching for a robe. He is waiting. She strides through the hallway, steadying her pace as she turns for the stairs and simultaneously sweeps her hair into a loose bun. She spots her sister, unimpressed, standing off to the side. Waiting near her is Severus. Even he, the consummate master of his emotions, cannot hide his obvious exhaustion.
And there -- there is Draco.
The usual compliments she pays him upon returning home for the summer holidays -- oh, Draco, how much you've grown, how handsome you look! -- do not even occur to her. Indeed, they are contradictions: he seems oddly stunted, and there is nothing dashing about travel-stained clothes and grimy hair. From the corner of her eye, she notices Bellatrix tap her foot against the floor and Severus open his mouth to say something, but she holds up one hand and leaves the other gripping the banister. "Welcome home, Draco."
He raises his face and looks at her as he has not looked at her in years. There is no rebellious adolescent in him now, only a terrified child who has heard a rustling under his bed or a sound in the night. His wand falls to the floor as he stumbles forward, and Narcissa catches him, locking her arms around his neck. His body exudes a powerful odor -- he must not have washed in days -- but she presses her face against his slumped form, inhaling deeply.
This is Draco. This is her son. He is alive.
--
She lingers not far away from the bathtub when the house elf ushers him in, strips him of his clothes, and helps him into the water. She has not seen her son naked since he was very young, but she look and gasps. Scratches and bruises litter his body, but these are not what draw her attention: on his back is a series of cuts. They could almost be beautiful, the meticulous brushwork of an artist on this pale canvas, each stroke equivalently angled, but this is not art and that red is not paint. It is blood, barely contained by the tension of the scars. Shaking, he lowers himself into the bath. The water inches up to his shoulder; a cry is torn from him.
Narcissa raises her fist to her mouth, biting it as her son's face contorts. She wants to holds his hands and whisper sweet and comforting words, and Merlin, she wants him to tell her everything -- everything that has happened so that she could hate him more, rage at him, and lay all of their suffering at his feet. She imagines, however, that he finds the pain only too recent, and as for herself -- she forces her hand back down to her side.
When he climbs out of the bath and acknowledges her for thee first time, she expects him to protest her presence. She remembers that he is of age now, his birthday having passed some days ago. Draco looks at her but says nothing as the elf dresses him.
"I will take care of him from here, Mimsy," she says. The elf bows, exiting.
Draco walks to his bedroom without too much difficulty. Narcissa follows. She has already drawn the curtains in his bedroom and pulled back the covers. She tries to smile as he slides beneath the blankets and warily glances around the room. "I'm -- I'm so happy you're home, Draco."
"I'm glad -- " He breaks off " -- I'm glad to be home too."
"We can talk later, if you'd like," she ventures.
"Later," he stresses.
"Yes, later. You need to rest now." She sits down on his bed, looking down at the boy -- the man, now -- who has been hers for seventeen years. "Would you like to take some Sleeping Potion?"
"Mother, you don't -- you don't have to."
"If you need it -- "
"Mother, I don’t."
She bends down, kissing his forehead. "Then sleep well, my dear."
Narcissa is her bedroom now, situated before the mirror, hands locked behind her back. Draco, she hopes, is asleep. Bellatrix is deep in conversation with Severus, who is staying the night. They were in the drawing room until Narcissa told them to go elsewhere. Where they are now, she does not know and she does not care. All is quiet in the house, and that is all that matters. There is so much that she does not know that she must know, aware only of what the Daily Prophet has reported -- which is to say that she is aware of almost nothing. Dumbledore is dead, and no one is sure how it happened. She wants to know if she is the mother to a murderer. She wants to know who hurt Draco, her child.
She looks at the bottles of perfumes and powders lining her dresser. It is too much, she thinks sorrowfully, for her to bear.
Narcissa hears a laugh and looks up. "Poor, poor darling," her mirror coos.
"Please," she says quietly.
"Afraid of sympathy?"
"I don't need your sympathy."
"Oh, but you do! Your husband has been in jail for a year now with no prospect of release. Your son looks like he's been mauled by a werewolf, and you're lucky that he is still alive. And you are all alone save for Bellatrix, but you're not overly fond of her these days because she reminds you of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's scheming. No one as beautiful and privileged as you deserves to be in such a position."
Narcissa picks up a yet unopened bottle. Lucius had given it to her the day before he rushed off to the Department of Mysteries. All the witches of England are mad for this scent, he said to her. She remembers how he twirled her around in his arms when she told him that she would not wear it until he captured the Potter boy, how he carried her to their bed and made love to her with all the vigor of anticipated victory. She fingers the perfume, having kept the promise thus far.
"I told you, I don't need your sympathy," she repeats.
"Darling, there is no need to lie to yourself. Let's be honest here: people like you were not made for war. What were you ever but the most pampered and delicate -- "
"Shut up!" she yells, hurling the perfume into the mirror.
Glass meets glass in a symphony of shatters, and a heavy scent seeps into the air. Tears stinging her eyes, Narcissa inhales, almost swooning. Lucius, she thinks, had been right: the witches of England would go mad for this scent, but that was one year ago. Since then, she has hoped for his release from prison, and she has prayed that Draco would remain unharmed. All of that has depended on the Dark Lord's bountiful mercy, and in praying for his compassion, she knows that she has erred.
She looks at her splintered, silent reflection in the mirror. Narcissa touches her face, where the lightest of wrinkles are scored upon her forehead and the shadows beneath her eyes have darkened. Vanity has no role in war; a world such as this renders all beauty -- and, by extension, Narcissa herself -- useless. Her blue eyes will save neither husband nor son. Sniffling, she gives her head a shake. Today is the last day she cries. Tomorrow, she must be strong -- for Lucius, for Draco, for herself.
--
She stops him at the front door. "I need to speak to you," she says.
"Narcissa, I really must go."
"Severus, this is urgent."
"The Dark Lord is expecting me."
She glares at him. "The Dark Lord can wait."
He appraises her for a moment. "You would dare to say such a thing?"
"This won't take long." She turns around and heads toward the study. She does not check to see if he will follow, but she suspects that he will. Once they are safely ensconced between the desk and the bookshelves, she closes the door behind them and locks it. "Is Dumbledore really dead?"
"He is." Severus's cheek twitches for an instant.
"Did -- did Draco kill him?"
His eyes search her face, but she wills herself to remain expressionless. "I'm not sure if I am at liberty to tell you that."
"Draco is my son, Severus," she whispers. "You were his sworn protector, now tell me."
"Draco did not kill him."
Narcissa closes her eyes. Whether she feels relieved or not, she is unsure. Her son, at least, is not a killer, but he failed the Dark Lord. That, as she knows very well, can be costly, and the Dark Lord will notice that this is the second Malfoy to not meet expectations. "Who did?"
"I did."
She nods, her throat too constricted to say much. "Thank you, Severus, for -- for helping him."
"I would have died otherwise," he notes with a slight smile.
Narcissa returns the smile; it is their secret, after all. She points her wand at the door, which flies open. "Well, leave, if you must."
As he reaches the front door, she stops him again. "Wait!"
"Yes?" Severus looks behind him.
"Was Draco -- was he punished for not succeeding?"
He pauses, his face softening somewhat. "Dumbledore is dead. That was the goal, was it not?"
"He was spared, then?"
"You jest, Narcissa," he sneers before striding away.
--
As siblings, they have often had their troubles, but Narcissa has never wanted to curse her sister more. Bellatrix seems utterly attached to her nephew, lecturing him in low tones whenever she stumbles upon the opportunity. Sometimes, she is unable to find them at all and is left wondering just where they might have hidden themselves. Since his return, Narcissa has not been able to speak to him beyond perfunctory greetings and bland small talk. There is not, she thinks, enough privacy in this manor. When Bellatrix is summoned away one day, she does not bother to hide her pleasure.
"Draco?" She knocks on his door. "Draco?" A shuffling of steps, and his face appears. "I was wondering if you would like to take your lunch with me today instead of in your room. Just -- just you and I in the parlor."
"Okay," he mumbles, closing the door.
"I'll see you in ten minutes, then?"
He does not respond.
The parlor is one of Narcissa's favorite rooms in the manor. Paneled with windows, it is always bright and warm, a particular advantage during the winter months. Today, Mimsy has pushed the windows open. A light breeze circulates through the room. Outside, the summer is cheerful. As she sits at the table and waits for Draco, she tries to imbibe some of this joy -- she has never known a more miserable summer.
"The young master, Mistress," the elf announces, stepping aside as the door swings open.
She stands to greet him. Though still a little ragged in appearance, he looks healthier now than when he first came home. That is enough to make Narcissa smile more warmly than she has in quite some time. Draco seems to sense this, and a slight flush rises to his cheeks. "You look wonderful," she says. "That color looks good on you."
He looks down at the sleeve of his navy blue robes. "Thank you, Mother."
"Please, sit," she insists, gesturing to the open seat across from her. She looks towards the elf and nods her head. The elf bows and leaves. "It's so rare that you and I can spend some time alone together. Either you're at school or -- " She falls into silence. Draco shrugs, making a noncommittal noise. They stare at one another. "What sort of ideas," Narcissa begins quietly, "has Aunt Bellatrix been putting into your mind?"
In an instant, the nonchalance on Draco's face is replaced with an intense anxiety. "N-nothing -- no ideas."
"Draco!" The admonition comes out harsher than she intends it to. She cringes as he cowers under her wrath. "Draco, this is for your own safety. You must tell me what she's been saying to you." Narcissa waits for a response. She does not receive one. "Oh, my dear, you don't understand, do you? You think that the Dark Lord will leave us alone simply because Albus Dumbledore -- "
But at the mention of the name, Draco shudders, and Narcissa realizes that there is much that Severus did not tell her. She stumbles out of her chair and kneels on the floor before him, taking his hands in hers. "Draco, look at me. Draco, look at me!" There is an edge of hysteria in her words now, but she cannot control it. She has never seen her son so troubled before, and if that did not trouble her in equal turn, what sort of mother would she be? "Draco, I want to help you -- I want to help us, I want to protect us, all of us. I can't -- oh, Draco, please, look at me."
He looks at her, his gray eyes shot with horror.
"Draco, I can't do anything if you do not first tell me what happened."
There it is: the challenge, thrown before him. He can answer its summons and bring solidarity to their family, or he can ignore it and remain a solitary son with only the contents of his bedroom for company. Narcissa wonders what she will do then, if Draco decides that he neither wants nor needs her mothering. She grips his hands tighter -- she has already lost her husband to the Dark Lord's whims, and she does not think that she will live if she loses her son as well.
"I cornered him on the tower," he says, his voice cracking. "I disarmed him, so he didn't have a wand. He would have died, if only I could -- but I couldn't, Mother. I couldn't kill him."
"So Severus did."
Draco nods. "Then we Apparated, together, to where -- to where he was waiting. We didn't say anything until everyone had returned, and then Professor Snape, he -- he explained what happened."
"Was the Dark Lord pleased?" Narcissa asks.
"Oh, yes. Dumbledore dead…why wouldn't he be pleased? But he still -- " Draco is shaking and Narcissa is practically holding him down " -- he took me into a room, just he and I. Then he asked me questions, and every time I couldn't answer…" The image of Draco's marked back flashes through her mind. She digs her nails into his wrist, realizing that it hurts him but needing to know that he is still sitting here, still alive. "He asked me how it is that the Malfoys have become a family of traitors and why we care only for our gold and not for him. He asked me why -- why we have failed him, first Father and now…He asked me if he could ever trust us again. Aunt Bellatrix…" He sighs. "She's been telling me that it doesn't matter. I have to go back."
"No, Draco, you won't."
"I have been going back, Mother. With her," he retorts. "And you can't stop me. If I don't go back, I'll die! And Father will die too, and you as well!"
In any other setting, his statement might have sounded laughably melodramatic. Here, they are hung with the reality of their own circumstances. Sobered, Narcissa releases him. "Strange, isn't it, that only the Dark Lord can save us from himself."
"Don't worry, Mother, he won't give me anything important to do."
She looks at him again. So young, only seventeen, and already his servant! "What have you been doing, Draco?"
"Just -- " He gulps " -- just some torture. Mudbloods and Muggles and that sort."
Her joints stiff, Narcissa stands up and returns to her seat. They eat in silence for the next few minutes before she places her spoon back on the table. Draco looks up. "Something wrong with the soup, Mother?"
She sits there. "Did the Dark Lord say anything about Lucius?"
Draco shakes his head.
--
Later in the afternoon, Narcissa finds herself standing outside her son's bedroom again. She knocks, barely cognizant of what she is about to do. Draco opens the door, raising an eyebrow. "Mother, are you all right?"
"Hmm?" She breaks out of her reverie, stunned to find him before her. "Oh, Draco! Draco, there is something very, very important I need to ask you."
"Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes, yes, I'm quite well. Where does the Dark Lord make his headquarters?"
She says this all rather fast. Draco raises both eyebrows now. "Mother, why -- "
"Never mind why, dear. I need to know."
"Well -- well, it depends, doesn't it?"
--
"Cissy, please -- "
"Well, here we are. I hope you didn't lead me to the wrong headquarters." Narcissa gestures to the dilapidated building before them. "This is the right place, isn't it?"
"Well, yes, it is."
"Good."
"Look, Cissy, the Dark Lord will not want to hear any protest from you, of all people. Lucius -- "
Narcissa grips her wand, relishing the possibility of hexing her sister, but she forces herself to relax. From childhood, she has been trained to remain composed and unperturbed, even under the most taxing of situations. If there is ever a time for poise, it is now. "Bella, don't speak to me about Lucius. This is not your business but mine. I shall handle it." She pauses. "And if you wanted to dissuade me, it is too late now."
Arriving on the front steps, they stop. The doors are plain but for a brass knocker. Even in the night, Bellatrix's eyes appear to gleam. "This is a fool's errand, Cissy. He'll never agree to it, and you -- you're no match for the Dark Lord."
At these words, Narcissa closes her eyes. All of Bellatrix's objections have already occurred to her. Of course it is a fool's errand, of course he will never agree to it, and of course she is no match for the Dark Lord. What she is attempting now can only be the recourse of those who have no other options left to them. When Narcissa looks into her future, she can see only a singular path winding into the brambles and thorns. Lucius and Draco have had their turns -- it is hers now.
Clearing her throat, she reaches for the knocker. The reverberation of metal and wood still ringing in her ears, the door opens.
"Good evening, Wormtail," she says, articulating each syllable clearly. "I am here to see your master."
The short, balding man looks down. "H-he is busy right now, Mrs. Malfoy."
"Please, Wormtail, this is very important. Could you tell him that?"
"I -- I don’t th-think that he's taking any visitors -- "
"Wormtail," Narcissa begins, but Bellatrix steps in front of her, robes swirling.
"Take her to the Dark Lord, you filthy creature," she spits. "If he will see her, then he'll see her, and if not, then she'll leave. I think that is for him, not you, to decide."
"Yes, yes, sorry." Wormtail backs away, leaving the front door ajar.
Narcissa turns to her sister, whose face is hidden in the shadows of her hood. "Bella, I -- thank you."
"But I'm not coming with you," she says, crossing her arms.
"I didn't want you to."
Narcissa steps over the threshold of the house. Next to her, Wormtail is shaking even more than she is. Squaring her shoulders and says, "Take me to him."
The hallways of the building are illogically planned, twisting this way and that in no discernible pattern. Murmurs are hidden behind doors; the occasional cry pierces the dim quiet. As they descend further into the bowels of the house, Narcissa pulls her robes tightly about her. For a summer night, it is very chilly. Suddenly, Wormtail comes to a stop before a set of double doors.
"Is this it?" she asks.
As he begins to nod, a cold voice emanates from the inside of the room. "Wormtail, is that you?"
Narcissa identifies its source and stumbles into the wall, vainly clutching it for support.
"Y-yes, my lord."
"And who have you brought with you?"
With one hand, Wormtail wrenches one of the doors open before placing the other on her back and shoving her forward with surprising strength. Staggering into the candlelight, she hears the door close behind her and footsteps scampering away.
"Present yourself," the Dark Lord orders.
She thinks of her injured son and imprisoned husband and pretends, for a moment, that they are standing with her. But when she lifts her chin and seeks Dark Lord perched on his armchair and dais, she knows that here, now, there is only Narcissa -- daughter of Cygnus Black and Druella Rosier, sister of Bellatrix Lestrange, wife of Lucius Malfoy, mother of Draco Malfoy, and utterly alone before the most powerful Dark wizard ever to be born.
"I am Narcissa Malfoy," she says, hoping that her voice is loud enough to carry the length of the room. "I come to seek a favor, my lord."
A few barely concealed laughs can be heard. Her eyes scan the room: she and the Dark Lord are not without company tonight. The Death Eaters' presence makes her uncomfortable, though she recognizes that she is hardly in any position to complain about such a thing.
"Lucius Malfoy's wife, and you come to seek a favor from me. That is asking for a lot, isn't it?" Narcissa can imagine a smile twisting his mouth. She says nothing. "Step forward."
As if compelled by some external force, she walks toward him, the Dark Lord looming ever nearer. Then she stops and is left staring at his feet, where a giant serpent is coiled.
The Dark Lord lets out a soft chuckle. "Why, Narcissa, where are you manners? It is my favor you seek, not the floor's. I would have expected better from you." Narcissa's head is wrenched upward. Heart racing, she holds his stare. He seems amused. "There, much better. Now, tell me, how is Draco?"
Two of the Death Eaters exchange looks. "Draco is doing very well," she replies.
"He is flourishing at home, I am sure."
"Of course."
"Your husband?"
"My husband," she mutters, almost to herself. "My lord, I have come to see you about Lucius. I have -- I have come to petition for his freedom."
"His freedom? You know as well as I do that he is in Azkaban. I have no leverage over his freedom."
"My lord, you control the Dementors; therefore, you must also control Azkaban."
"You are a clever witch, Narcissa. If only the man you married were half as smart."
"If only," she echoes. "Lucius has not served you as well as you should be served."
He smiles at her. "Your son is not doing much better."
"Draco is still young," she says, averting her eyes for a moment. "He will learn."
"I am wondering, Narcissa, why you have not joined your sister in our cause."
"I -- I do not have her skill with the wand." On an impulse, she inclines her head, praying that he will be flattered by her deference. "My lord, I have only ever been a daughter, a wife, and a mother. I am -- I am no one, really."
"So it would seem. Narcissa, your husband has been locked away for a year. Why do you come to me now and beg for his release?"
She pauses. "Dumbledore is dead, my lord. That is a great victory. The Dementors -- Azkaban -- are already under your command, and the Ministry will be yours in due time. Lucius…surely, he has been punished enough. He is a talented wizard with much to contribute to your cause -- "
"Silly girl. 'Punished enough'? I will remind you that your husband, Narcissa, failed to obtain the prophecy whose only defenders were six underage wizards." At his feet, the snake stirs. "But you speak rightly: victory is close. The Ministry will fall, the Order will fall, and at last, the Potter boy too will die. There is no serious opposition to my forces, who are stronger and more numerous than ever. Do enlighten me: what need do I have of your pitiful husband's so-called talent?"
Narcissa opens her mouth, then closes it. Her initial beseeching has produced nothing -- as expected, he has not yielded to her wishes. There is, then, one remaining course of action, one that she did not dare to tell Bellatrix. She hopes that what she is about to do is the right thing. "My lord, I can provide you with a headquarters. A permanent headquarters."
Around her, the Death Eaters launch into a hushed conversation, occasionally glaring at her, but the Dark Lord pays them no attention. "Elaborate."
"I hear it from my son that you and your followers are constantly switching headquarters, unable to find a satisfactory one. In all of the moving, there can be confusion, dropped plans, and so forth. It adds inefficiency to your operations." She stops, struggles to restart. "I can give you complete use of Malfoy Manor, my lord. I offer all of our family's assets to your cause."
"Malfoy Manor. Nagini -- " To Narcissa's horror, the snake crawls up the armchair, placing its head level to the Dark Lord's " -- what do you think of this? An interesting proposition, no?"
"The property has been in the family for centuries," she continues. "It is very well protected, all provisions and housing will be provided, and my Lord, you will be the true master of the house. My family -- we will be your most devoted servants, I swear it."
"Malfoy Manor," he repeats, savoring the words. "The Malfoy inheritance at my disposal."
Narcissa nods. "All of it."
"How very tempting your offer is, I must admit."
One of the Death Eaters raises his head. "My lord, how can you trust her?"
"Dolohov, she has not lied. Except, of course, about the state of her dear Draco, but I can forgive that. A mother's folly."
"Will you -- " Narcissa steps forward, as if to press the importance of the issue " -- will you accept?"
The Dark Lord settles back against his chair, his throne. Manners be damned, Narcissa cannot look at him.
"I suppose I can return Lucius Malfoy, if the man means so much to you."
Trembling, she sinks to the floor and kisses the hem of his robe. "Thank you, thank you, thank you, my lord," she whispers, enraptured. "You are kind and merciful. Thank you."
The Dark Lord continues to speak, talking of the details of the exchange, but Narcissa is not listening. Unbidden, a thought rises within her, enveloping her supplicated form in its warmth: we will be whole again.
--
They sit in the drawing room, eyes fixed on the clock.
"Is he really coming home?" Draco asks for what Narcissa believes is the tenth time.
"Yes."
"He could be lying, couldn't he?"
"Draco, we swore an Unbreakable Vow that evening: your father for this house. He is worried that I might double-cross him and that he would be without his promised headquarters."
Her son is pale. "Father is going to be angry with you."
"Your father is going to be a free man," she replies smoothly, unwilling to admit that she shares some of Draco's fears. "You can ask him yourself if he would rather be back in Azkaban."
They return their attentions to the clock. "When did you say he would be arriving?" Draco asks.
"At three."
"Two minutes, then."
"Is -- is he coming here alone?"
"No, your Aunt Bellatrix is escorting him home."
"The house?"
Narcissa exhales slowly. "Your father will deal with the house. The deeds are under his name, after all. If the house is to obey the Dark Lord's commands, its rightful owner has to authorize it."
Silence. "Mother, I can't believe -- "
"What you can and cannot believe doesn't matter anymore, Draco," she says softly. "The Dark Lord, the Death Eaters -- this is their house now, and it would be best if you hid any -- any lingering resentment."
He makes a face. "But we're very happy to host them here, aren't we?"
"Naturally."
Suddenly, the door creaks open, and they both jump with surprise. Draco looks back at the clock, but hungrily, Narcissa turns toward the sound and the name tumbles from her mouth: "Lucius."
He is thin and gaunt, his hair too long and messy, his robes stained and clearly secondhand, but when she collides with him and his hands drop to her waist, pulling her in tightly against him, none of it registers with her. There is something solid in her arms now, and he is whispering to her. She thinks that they could be twenty again, drunk on the spirits of a love newly discovered, not a couple reunited after a year's separation, not a couple made haggard by the progression of years.
She doesn't kiss him, there in the drawing room. That can be saved for a different, more private moment. She lets him go -- he has a son to greet. She watches them regard one another, as men. Surely, Lucius has heard of what the Dark Lord made Draco do, and Draco has been without a father for a year. They hug briefly. Narcissa smiles, unworried. They will talk later, the two of them. Now is not the time for deliberation.
Azkaban has worn Lucius down, but unlike Draco, he at least does not bear any exterior signs of torment. She catches a glimpse of him, undressing, as she walks to the bedroom. Her breathing quickens; she hurries away. One year later, and he is still beautiful. It will all be right, she says to herself. It will all be right.
--
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Narcissa. Draco and I had quite a bit to discuss, and -- what did you do to your mirror?"
"I broke it." She smiles at him, her head on a tilt.
"The Black temper rises to the surface. I see you have yet to fix it."
"The mirror doesn't matter, Lucius."
She is standing before its remains, just as she did those many nights ago, but tonight is different. Tonight, he is here. He inches towards her, and she raises her arms out of reflex, pulling herself up to meet his lips. After bathing, he is sweet again. They tumble onto the bed, her fingers tugging at the clasps of his robe. She will reacquaint herself with him, here and now.
"No, Narcissa, please." Gently, he extricates himself from her limbs and moves to occupy his half of the bed. She will sleep with emptiness no longer, but his distance bothers her. "Another night?"
She swallows, looks away. "Yes. Another night, then."
"But I still -- Narcissa, please. Narcissa, look at me." Angrily, she dashes her tears away with the back of her hand and faces him. His silver eyes are wide, insistent. The skin at their corners is crinkled; she has never thought of her husband as old before. As he runs a finger down her cheek, she thinks that he is frightened as well. And that, in itself, is the most frightening thing of all. "You haven't changed at all, love."
She reaches for his hand, pulls it away from her face. "No, I've changed."
"You're still -- so beautiful, Narcissa."
"Not all change is that superficial."
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. "You're right, of course. I think -- and do correct me if I am wrong, but the Narcissa I knew would not have handed her home over to the Dark Lord."
"I needed you back, Lucius," she whispers. "If you only knew what it was like to -- to go to bed every single night, knowing that there would be no one there to -- to kiss you in the morning…"
"Were you so desperate?" His tone is light, but he is holding her to him.
"You don't understand."
"Oh, but I do understand. Azkaban is no holiday, love."
When she next speaks, her voice is small. "I missed you, Lucius."
Here they are, then -- husband and wife, together. She clings to him, as if she might wrest the happiness they should be sharing from his very skin, but nothing changes. Nothing changes. They are still in the night, and she feels as alone as she was when Lucius was the Dementors' charge. She is not the only one who has changed.
"The Dark Lord is not pleased with me," he says after a long silence. "Even after I -- I gave him what is, in essence, full ownership of the house, he was not kind."
"Draco told me as much."
"Narcissa, I must tell you, the idea of the Dark Lord and the rest of them using and living in this house -- this house, Narcissa! -- does not please me at all." His voice, already low, drops another register. "The Malfoys are already laughingstocks among the Death Eaters. Even your sister, Bellatrix, risks mockery by associating with us, and not even the Dark Lord himself can reasonably doubt her loyalty to his work. Can you imagine them here? Here, under our roof! This manor has belonged to my family for generations, and you have the gall to sign it away?"
"I signed it away for you," she hisses.
"What good am I to you now?" he shouts, and wildly, Narcissa wonders if Draco can hear them. "The entire wizarding world knows me to be a Death Eater. My connections there are useless. The Dark Lord does not trust me, he has no faith in Draco -- Merlin, it is a miracle that he hasn't had us all killed."
Their happy reunion of the afternoon is forgotten. Every joyous scene she has ever imagined is forgotten. Narcissa holds a different man in her arms. He has neither the supercilious ease with life nor the cocksure optimism that she has ever associated with him. Staring at his face, she wants to hit him and sob against his shoulder, ask him why the Dark Lord should doubt them so, why fate has led them to such an end, why everything, everything is now so broken and wrong. She shuts her eyes tightly -- if she abandons her self-control, perhaps Lucius will too. Perhaps Lucius has already lost his, and she is the only one remaining with a level head and clear mind.
"I gave the house away so that you could come back to me," she says between gritted teeth. "When we were married, we were sworn to one another for life. I was not going to leave you in Azkaban to die."
"Then why wait a year?"
She breathes. The Dark Lord has asked her this very question. For him, she had one answer. For her husband, she has a different, no less truthful one. "Your son, Lucius. You know very well what the Dark Lord did to him in retribution for what -- for what happened at the Department of Mysteries, but I do not think either of us can truly grasp what it's done to him. Lucius, I am -- I am not very special. I have only ever tried to love Draco, buy him chocolates and sweets, but you're his father. You can understand better than I what has happened to him. You can teach him, guide him, help him -- help him grow up. He needs you more than he needs me."
"Narcissa -- " he starts, but she places a finger on his lips. She does not think she can bear to hear his voice.
"What's done is done. The Dark Lord and his -- and the Death Eaters are coming tomorrow. It is expected that we will be in the atrium to greet them. All three of us."
"I know. Nine o'clock, tomorrow morning."
She nods, pressing a hand to his heart. It beats onward. "Goodnight, then."
--
There are certain skills that are ingrained so deeply in her that it seems they belong to her alone. One of them is the skill of receiving guests with inimitable grace and dignity. Narcissa Malfoy knows how to receive guests.
She rises at four, when the earth is still dark and Lucius is breathing lightly next to her. She puts on a bathrobe, nothing more, and leaves, calling for Mimsy. Together, they rush from room to room, checking for dust, errant furniture, and perhaps the stray insect. Hastily, she throws a glance at her gardens, relieved to find them pristine and tidy. She tells the manor's portraits that there will be many strange men running around the house from now on, though from their gloomy dispositions, it is clear that they already know of the change. At eight, when Lucius and Draco wander into the dining room, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, she is already sitting at the side of the table, head upright and back erect.
"We don't have much time," she says as they delve into their breakfast. "Eat quickly, then get dressed. And wear something nice -- the nicest thing you have. Draco, those dress robes we bought last summer -- "
"I know, Mother." The spoon is quivering in his grasp.
Soon, Narcissa leaves the table -- she ate her breakfast an hour ago -- and heads upstairs. "Oh, there you are," a feeble voice drawls as she enters the bedroom.
She looks over her shoulder to find the mirror mended. "Did Lucius fix you?"
"Well, naturally. Unlike some, he does not tolerate broken glass in the household."
"Complain to me later, I don't have time for it right now. An important guest is arriving soon and -- " She gestures at herself " -- I need something very…something very striking to wear."
"Something blue, then." The mirror stifles a yawn. "I have always been convinced that it is your best color. Matches your eyes, and you still have the figure for it."
Despite herself, she quirks an eyebrow. " 'Still'?"
"You said you didn't have much time?"
"So, blue, you say." Narcissa thinks, then points her wand at her wardrobe. "Accio Dress!"
The fabric flies into her hands and she holds it up for inspection. "Your opinion, dearest mirror?"
"Ooh, I approve. You don't wear that one enough."
"But if I wore it more often, would it still be as striking?"
As the mirror devises a suitable response to her question, she surveys her dress. A severe column of lacing runs down the back until it reaches the waist. There, the skirt bustles before flowing outward along a wave of flounces. She steps into the fabric's embrace and pulls the sleeves onto her arms. Before the mirror's watchful gaze, she executes a small turn, admiring the effect.
"Blue suits you."
Pivoting towards the door, Narcissa laughs to herself. "Conspiring with my mirror with regards to my wardrobe, Lucius?"
"You can tell you dear mirror that I've held that opinion for much longer than it has." Leaning against the doorframe, he cranes forward to look at it. "Funny, I would have expected it to have answered with something cheeky."
"It knows when to remain silent."
"A valuable skill, no doubt. Do you need help with the lacing?"
"I was going to -- "
Narcissa points uselessly at her wand, but Lucius guides her to one of the bedposts. She braces herself as he begins pulling and threading the ribbons through their exact and demanding holes. He is perhaps a little rougher than he needs to be, but she does not protest: she finds novelty in his touch after its yearlong absence, relishing every insistent tug of his fingertips. When the lacing is complete and he leaves to dress himself, she watches his receding figure with an expression approaching yearning. She shakes her head. Now is not the time to become infatuated -- not for the first time -- with her husband. Returning to the mirror, she stands so that it faces her back.
"Did Lucius do a competent job of it?"
"He did a marvelous job."
"Good."
She dabs each cheek with a touch of blush and coats her lips with carmine. She coaxes her hair into a strict bun, checking once and then again for stray locks. From the depths of her jewelry box, she finds a pair of diamond pendants Lucius had given her for some long past anniversary. When both she and the mirror are satisfied, she examines her reflection.
"Goodness, Narcissa."
"Is something the matter?"
Lucius stands behind her, his hands resting upon her shoulders. "You look for all the world like your sister."
She wants to ask him how this is so when there can be two siblings no further apart in appearance than Bellatrix Lestrange and Narcissa Malfoy, but then, she begins to see. An odd defiance pierces her gaze, one that Bellatrix often wears while eulogizing the Dark Lord. The thought pulls the corners of her mouth upward. They are sisters, after all, and they must have something in common.
"I needed to save us. Nothing else matters anymore -- not the house, the lands, or even the gold." She toys with her fingers, unable to look at herself and Lucius in the mirror. "If the Dark Lord triumphs and we are safe, then I want him to win."
"And if the Dark Lord -- " Lucius clears his throat " -- if the Dark Lord fails?"
"So long as you and I and Draco are unharmed, then let him fail."
"What do you think will happen?"
She tries to read his face, but it is impenetrable. "It's impossible to guess."
"Well, if you think that remaining in his favor will keep us safe, then you've clearly placed your bets on him."
"Perhaps."
"I apologize, Narcissa, for treating you -- treating you a bit harshly last night. That was never my intention."
"It's no matter," she says, waving her hand.
"Are you ready to, erm -- ?"
"Yes, I think I'm ready."
He pauses. "You're not afraid, are you?"
Her heart adamant against the constraints of her chest, Narcissa has never been more afraid in her life. "Of course not," she replies.
--
The clock sings its nine chimes and then there are footsteps outside her door. She stands in the middle, flanked by husband and son, and raises her voice. "Come in."
It is a sight she will not forget -- the Dark Lord in a traveling cloak, trailing like whispers on the floor; his snake, already beginning to explore the premises; her sister, at his side and perfectly alert; and the Death Eaters, organized in masked row upon masked row.
They are her allies, she tells herself.
She looks to her left, but sweat has pooled at Lucius's temples. Thus, she raises her own gaze.
"Welcome to Malfoy Manor," she says, then curtsies. "My family is honored to serve you."
"And I thank you, Narcissa, for your boundless hospitality."
Jeers from the Death Eaters; the Dark Lord does not trouble to hush them.
Then Lucius steps forward, his head lowered. He kneels at his master's feet. "I am most eager to aid you, my lord, in whatever way possible."
The act silences the atrium, and Narcissa advances. She mimics her husband. "Whatever is ours is yours, my lord."
Lastly, Draco lowers himself, an avatar of impeccable obedience. "I -- I am yours, my lord," he stammers.
Narcissa closes her eyes.
"I am satisfied," he pronounces, almost bored with the proceedings.
"The drawing room is to the left," Bellatrix says, "if my lord finds the need to perhaps organize matters first."
"The drawing room, then."
Bodies swarm around their still folded forms. Above them, a contemptuous laughter. "Get up, Lucius -- you and your devoted son. Lord Voldemort still requires your presence at meetings. If your wife is happiest on the floor, then she is more than welcome to remain there."
On both sides of her, she hears the cracking of joints and rustle of fabric as they rise. Peeking out of one eye, she sees Lucius covertly extend a hand toward her. She gropes for him, and he pulls her to her feet. Draco shifts a little closer until they are huddled in a circle. Father and son, seemingly identical. Narcissa bites her lip. "Well, go," she manages.
She watches them disappear into the drawing room. When Draco was a child, they would crowd around its fireplace during the winter and tell stories until a fierce and bubbly laugh was roused from the boy. As he grew older, their pursuits turned to playing chess on the coffee table during the summer holidays. He could beat his mother effortlessly by the time he turned thirteen, although his father would forever present a more formidable challenge. They stopped playing chess two years ago, when Lucius was recalled to the Dark Lord's service. Then Draco became pricklier in temperament, and even their afternoon teas ceased -- adolescence, Lucius explained sagely.
Now the atrium is empty, the drawing room door closed and locked. He has taken them from her yet again, but she is serene. Motionless in her regalia, she thinks that she understands at last. Dominant though he is, the Dark Lord can only claim so much of them as his own: their allegiance, their politics, their magic. But Narcissa clings to his most cherished belief, that blood is the most essential element, that it must be faithful to itself.
In the end, they will be hers again. She knows that it must be so.
--
Signing off, V.M. Bell