So, basically, Narcissa is one of my favorite characters, and I wanted to write about her. I don't think she's given nearly enough credit for being such a complicated character. This probably isn't a one-shot, but I wanted to write some things from her point of view, because I think she's pretty amazing. These are a series of moments from Narcissa's point of view; some in the book, some will not have been. I don't know how many there will be; I already have three with at least one more planned. I don't own Harry Potter (haha, I wish I had that much money). Please enjoy and tell me what you think.

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My name is Narcissa. Narcissa means numbness, after the plant of that name and its effects.

I am a Death Eater, a follower of Voldemort.

I am an accomplished Occlumens, a passable Legimens, a mildly talented witch, and according to most a great beauty.

I am a Pureblood of the most noble house of Black.

I have married into another old, Pure, and rich family.

I am the sister of Bellatrix Lestrange.

I am the wife of Lucius Malfoy.

I am the mother of Draco Malfoy.

And I am not numb at all.

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I am awakened in the early hours of the morning by my personal house elf. "Mistress, there are Ministry officials at the door; they wish to speak to you," she squeaks, snapping her fingers as I sit up to levitate my dressing gown so I can step into it. I check myself in the mirror; while I know my appearance shouldn't matter, the wife of a rich and influential member of Pureblooded Wizarding society cannot look like any filth who has just rolled out of bed. I have no makeup, but given the early hour they will not expect any; my hair is carefully braided. I am presentable enough, though I wonder why I have to be. Why would the Ministry call at this early hour? I pick up my wand before I go; even in my own home, it is never safe to go about unarmed.

Apparating to the front door – it is a large house and it will not do to keep the Ministry waiting – I open the door. "Yes, gentlemen?" I say politely.

"Ma'am, we have a warrant to search this residence for any and all Dark artifacts and other evidence connected to the Dark Arts or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," the man says coldly. "Please step aside."

I pale, but allow them in; there is nothing else I can do. "What is the reason for this invasion of my home?" I demand, every inch the offended aristocrat.

"Your husband was apprehended in the early hours of the morning in the Department of Mysteries along with several other known Death Eaters, assaulting Harry Potter, along with several of his schoolmates. He is currently in Azkaban awaiting trial. We are here to collect evidence."

I sway. Lucius caught, Lucius in Azkaban…I cannot comprehend this. My husband is one of the most powerful men in the wizarding world; he is rich and connected both politically and otherwise. The idea of him being cold and alone in prison, accompanied only by dementors and the despair that they use to poison what seems like the very air you breathe, this is unimaginable, and the fact that it is true is nearly enough to break me.

With the most strength I think it has ever taken me, I make my way to one of the chairs placed in the room for visitors, folding my hands in my lap. "I do not know what you wish to find," I tell them, using every ounce of my Occlumency training to control my emotions and cover the lie, "but carry on. I will await the end of your search." My voice does not shake, and for that I am grateful. I am both a Black and a Malfoy; we do not simply break down and cry, even at things like the loss of one's husband and the invasion of one's home.

Even so, I must bring to bear every ounce of my self-control to not collapse on the floor, weeping and pleading for mercy. With everything in me I am aware that my husband is suffering, and were I allowed, I would walk into Azkaban itself to ease his pain. I remember everything my mother ever taught me about the strength of a woman – men may think that we are weak and need protecting, but beneath every delicate exterior there is a core of steel; how else could we survive bleeding, childbirth, the pain and outright torture of being a woman? And every time we suffer we must show that steel; a good woman does not wail and moan and cry like a common trollop. She endures.

And I must endure. Because were I to race to Azkaban to hold Lucius and give him some kind of hope though the torture of the Dementors, what would happen to Draco? What would happen to my son? It is for Draco that I must survive, that I must stay out of Azkaban, because he is fifteen, and even if he wishes he were not, he is still a boy, and he will need his mother after the loss of his father. He will need his mother when the real world finally comes crashing into his life.

I sit there for what seems like hours, my hands laced together, staring straight ahead and willing myself to remain strong. It is the hardest thing I have ever done, and it takes all of my self-control, but I do it, if only to preserve what is left of the dignity of my family and myself.

I only move when the Ministry official reenters the room. "Several suspicious items were found in your residence, ma'am. I am going to have to ask you a few questions before we leave."

He is still respectful, even though my husband is in jail, I note distantly, coldly. It is not so easy to destroy the dignity of hundreds of years of powerful ancestors. "Of course, sir."

"Did you have any knowledge of any of these items being in your residence?"

"Are you accusing me of something, sir?" I say, my most haughty expression daring him to call me on the lies that are about to come forth. "I knew nothing of them. I am sure you must be mistaken."

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. Did you know what your husband was doing tonight?"

I send a silent apology to my husband; even though he will never hear me lie, I can hardly bear to do anything to betray him. "I did not."

"Your son attends Hogwarts School, does he not? Is he still there?"

"I would think the school would notify me if my son had gone missing, sir; as they have not, I must assume he is."

He nods, and his jaw tightens. "Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to please live up your left sleeve and show me your arm."

If I were anything less than a lady, I would swear. But I was born and raised a perfect Black lady, and I do not. I merely smile politely. "Of course, sir." I lift up my sleeve, and he steps closer, peering at my arm. His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of the black skull with the snake for a tongue branded on my arm, and he looks up at me, much too slowly.

"Obliviate," I murmur, glad there is only one – I am an accomplished witch, but I am not entirely certain I would be able to spell them all before I was bested. I must modify his memory only slightly, only enough so that he remembers only the lovely, regal woman, free of the Dark Mark or anything other than a husband who has done things she had no knowledge of. It is a shame it had to come to this – it would have been better if he'd simply carried the news himself, without any need for magic – but I will do what I must to remain free.

His remain blank until the spell is finished; I pull down my sleeve, smiling sweetly at him as he comes to. "So, as you saw, I have no Dark Mark. I would be grateful if you would leave my home now, sir."

He nods, still not quite recovered. "Of course, ma'am…we'll be leaving now…" he says, looking slightly confused as he calls in his comrades and leads them away. I hope he is convincing enough that no one else feels the need to follow up; it gets more and more dangerous to keep magicking them.

As soon as they are gone, I stand, making my way to the window and ordering a house elf to fetch me a cup of tea. Posture perfect, hands clasped before me, I stare at the gray landscape before me until a house elf announces that my tea is here. I take the cup, and notice for the first time that my hands are shaking, and then I realize that it is not just my hands, it is all of me. I set it down, and when I lift up my hands, watching them shake, my vision blurs. The situation sets in then.

The Ministry knows that the Dark Lord has returned, and the advantage of surprise is lost. Very soon, the world will know, my son will know, that his father has gone to jail. Oh God, Lucius is in jail. And that is the thought that brings me to my knees.

I bury my face in my hands, my knees aching as my legs give out under the weight of that thought – that my husband, the man I have loved for eighteen years, is alone in Azkaban and I am here, the only person who can protect my child, my fortune, and my family name from both the government and the Dark Lord. I am weeping harder than I ever have before, great wrenching sobs that I am suddenly terrified will tear me apart, because I have never felt anything this painful before. Rage and grief and fear combined consume me for hours while I kneel on the hard marble floor. Sometimes I am furious at Lucius for endangering himself and leaving us here to fend for ourselves, and then I am guilty that I even dared to think that he was to blame for this. I rage internally at the Dark Lord for endangering my husband and getting him into this predicament; I rage at the Ministry for daring to imprison Lucius at all. And under it all I try to comprehend that Lucius is suffering and I am alone and everything we have taken for granted these past months is gone.

It is hours later when my sobbing finally ceases; when it is done, I ache from being wracked with such emotion. I kneel for a while longer, not sure I have the strength to stand, before I eventually realize that if I do not stand, the next person to come will find me here, in a most undignified position, in my dressing gown with my hair down, tear stained, red eyed, and completely not fit for company. I stand cautiously, not sure of my ability to even do that after the fierce and painful emotion of the last few hours; when I find I am able to do so, I make my way to my room.

A look in the mirror confirms what I already knew – I am a sight. My hair, while respectable for a woman who has rushed out of bed to answer the door, is a mess. My face is tear-stained and blotchy, my eyes and nose red from tears, my hands and sleeves damp, my dressing gown a mess. I look at myself, seized by sudden, wild amusement – I do not think I have ever in my adult life looked so undignified – and then take a deep breath, reaching for my makeup. This will not do. My husband may be in jail, my heart may be broken, but I am still a Black, I am still a Malfoy, and I will look the part. I will endure, because aside from my son, that is all I have.