Author's Note
This story should work no matter whether you're a dedicated Severus/Narcissa shipper or (like me) prefer them as just friends.
Rated M for violence.
"Get up, scum. You're bleeding on my carpet."
Her voice is harsh, and the tread of her elegant shoes is resolute. With his cheek pressed against the floor, he feels rather than hears her approach. Everyone else is filing out of the room in consternated silence. She is the only one moving towards him.
She halts only a step or two from where he's lying in a panting, twitching heap, a sorry testament to the multitude of ways in which a wizard's wand can inflict pain on the human body.
He wouldn't have expected her to be so keen on a close-up view. He doesn't remember her as the type to take pleasure in this sort of thing, not like her sister would have, but maybe she has hardened over the years. It wouldn't be the first time he has misjudged someone tonight. He told Albus Dumbledore that he was ready, but that was an error, too.
His master's fear of disloyalty and betrayal is extreme at the best of times, so of course a delay of two full hours would be considered a deliberate provocation, and dealt with accordingly. No doubt the Dark Lord will accept the rational explanation later, and be very content with the strategic possibilities it offers. But he was never going to renounce his right to mete out punishment to those who dare to advance his ends without his prior blessing.
So he has walked into the inevitable consequences of his lateness as if into a mere exercise, an etude in agony, a chance for the Dark Lord to spread the wings of his newly-created body and his restored wand, and a chance for him to reacquaint himself with the type of challenge he has not faced in over a decade. But he wasn't quite prepared for the enormous blast of sheer concentrated fury that knocked him flat almost as soon as he entered the room, and that kept him writhing at his master's feet for he doesn't know how long, until the Dark Lord either got bored or ran out of ideas. He's sure he has Harry Potter to thank for that.
"Up, I said."
She stands over him, a looming shadow darkening his already blurry view of her fine oriental rug. He coughs, and another mouthful of blood comes dribbling out.
She pulls in a sharp breath of disgust. "Don't you dare stain this house with your impure filth!"
He's braced for the kick, but he doesn't anticipate the message it conveys. It's neither a vicious dig into his injured ribs - he felt two or three of them crack in the convulsions of the Cruciatus Curse - nor a nauseating blow to the pit of his heaving stomach. Instead, the point of her shoe makes contact with the small of his relatively undamaged back, and it feels like... no more than a friendly nudge.
He gasps, in surprise rather than in pain, and hopes that nobody listening will be able to tell the difference. Then he tries, honestly tries, to pick himself up - not because she has told him to, but because he has to see her face to make sense of this.
His trembling limbs make things difficult. By the time he has got as far as hands and knees, her patience snaps. He can hear the tiny rustle of a wand being pulled out of a sleeve.
"Are you always this slow?" she mocks him coldly. "Move. Imperio."
It's wrong, it's all wrong. He's in no state to summon the presence of mind required to fight the curse, but there is nothing to fight. He waits in vain for the onset of that vague, floating sensation of relaxed contentment that heralds the termination of free will. When it doesn't come, he raises his head and looks up into her face. It is pale and haughty as always, her red lips a thin, hard line, but her eyes are bright with tears.
A quick glance around the room tells him they're alone. But the door into the adjacent dining room stands open. Distant voices indicate that the Dark Lord and his loyal servants have relocated rather than adjourned their conference, leaving her, excluded from their council of war by the lack of a mark on her arm, free to amuse herself in the meantime.
"I said move." She flicks her wand impatiently towards a nearby armchair, spurring him into action. He's not sure what exactly she has in mind, but he's too impressed with her performance to ruin it just because he can't yet see its purpose.
He doesn't quite make it into the armchair, but she's content to let him sit with his back propped against its bulk, one hand clutching his aching ribs, the other braced against the floor to keep himself upright. He has made a mess. There's blood still running down his chin - a bitten tongue can't heal within minutes - and mortifying as it is, he's probably also -
"Look at the state of you," she says, and her voice is hard and sneering even though her eyes continue to tell a completely different story. "You're a disgrace, stinking of blood and sweat and -"
He's suddenly more worried that she will overdo things by descending into uncharacteristic vulgarity than he is about being told just how far exactly he's been made to let himself go.
"Don't -" he croaks. It sounds pitiful enough even without any attempt at deceit, and she relents.
"Well, are you going to sit here all night?" Her wand is still in her hand, and after a quick glance over her shoulder to ascertain that they're still alone, she points it at his bleeding mouth.
He hastily shakes his head. He'll be expected to rejoin the meeting as soon as he can stand and walk, and she'll get in trouble if he turns up there cleaned up and tended to. They had better not rob the Dark Lord of the pleasure of gloating over the visible marks of his tardy servant's humiliation for the rest of the night. A perfunctory wipe with a stained sleeve will have to do.
She catches on and nods. The tip of her wand moves to his chest and hovers there, another unspoken question. This is a much better choice - more relevant, less difficult to conceal. He closes his eyes briefly to signal his assent and takes his hand away to give her a good aim. She murmurs the spell, and he instantly breathes more easily.
He still doesn't understand. He racks his sluggish brains to fathom her ulterior motives, but he can come up with none that make any sense. He's grateful for the respite, of course, but if this is really just about buying him five minutes of comfort, she's running an insane risk. The Dark Lord certainly wouldn't be pleased to see his artful efforts undone again so quickly. And there's not even a door between him and them.
"Why?" he mouths at her silently.
She rolls her eyes at him in exasperation. "Are you an idiot, as well as a coward?" she demands angrily, her voice still raised for the benefit of those in the next room. "Can't you tell I just want this to be over?"
Underneath her implacable tone, this must be the raw, unmitigated truth. She hasn't hardened, not in the least. He pities her, in a way. At least he made a choice, years ago, even if it was the wrong one. She was never granted that privilege.
With another glance over her shoulder, she Summons a tumbler from a tray on a side-table, fills it with water from the tip of her wand and pushes it into his hand.
He drinks quickly and greedily, like a thirsty child. Her expression softens as she watches him, and she reaches out to smooth a sweaty strand of his hair out of the way.
As always, carelessness begets disaster. Her husband chooses this precise moment to appear in the open doorway, expectant, impatient - and instantly suspicious.
But the glass in his hand is already gone - she must have seen her husband's reflection on the curved surface and Vanished it in the blink of an eye - and the hand in his hair turns into a claw, twisting into it so hard that he has to tilt his head back to get away from the pressure, her nails digging into his scalp.
"And now get out of my sight, you weakling," she hisses into his face, her voice dripping with venom, and then lets go of him with a shove. "Haven't you learned not to keep your Lord waiting?"
He has, but he might do it again just so he can admire her nerve some more.
She gathers her skirts around her as if they could get soiled by his proximity, throws him a last look of utter disdain, then sweeps majestically past her deeply approving husband and out of the room.
He knows it's not an option, but if he could afford an ally, he would pick her.
THE END