*
He is nice.
In one of those entirely un-nice sort of ways.
She likes him.
The way one likes chocolate ice cream, or crystal bracelets.
He is nice and they always say he is far too good for her.
And he probably is. But she always did have high standards.
And he is nice looking too, like polished furniture and pretty china.
But he is cold too, and that only adds to the mystery. He is rude and condescending.
It's okay.
She's still fond of him, and she wrings her pale hands together and she beams.
He notices her from afar, the blond girl with sugar quills and emerald ribbon laces.
The girl seems too nice for him.
But she isn't.
She's made of steel, inside. Her skull is like a rock and she is made of strength that few who live now possess.
And because of this, she shall not make a good Mother. She is not compassionate enough.
But she catches his eye--his diamond eyes--and he asks her to marry him someday.
She is thrilled. This is what she has wanted. This is what she's been waiting for. Her parents are beaming in pictures, they are thrilled. She finally found a young man. They couldn't have asked for anyone better.
It's a pretty diamond ring. Too pretty. It's showy, and so she likes it. But it's gaudy too.
He smirks at her- "...pretty, hmm?"
"Of course," she nods, "the most stunning thing ever."
And it is.
They marry, and it's a nice wedding. Even nicer than their relationship. The decorations are lavish and her dress is made of the finest silk ever. And the faces in the crowd are smiling, of course.
He still likes her, and he likes her even more because she's simple. He can be a Death Eater, he can worship Voldemort, he can push her around, and she can still be his darling wife. She can still put on a happy face during meetings and balls.
And the facade shant crumble.
And she will put up with a lot during their relationship.
She knows this. Even then. She's always been odd and perceptive like that.
Soon they have a child and he is lovely. And she looks down at the small baby and smiles slightly, her husband's arm wrapped protectively around her.
And it's a nice little play. Where the people live happily ever after. Together.
She likes the play; it's nice, after all. It's the whole fairytale. And she wants to keep watching it, and playing in it...
--and she tries.
He likes his son. The heir to Malfoy Manor and everything that comes with. His son shall be big, booming, and amazing.
Oh. And he shall serve Voldemort as well.
She wasn't supposed to get attached to her son.
But she did anyway.
She held the baby tightly in her arms and she cradled him, she pushed him in the pram, she wore the flowered dresses and she made tea in the morning.
It was still a play.
He kissed her on the cheek every morning before 'work' and she smiled daintily and held her cooing son.
"Lock the door behind me," he says.
"I know," she whispers.
And she forgets to lock the door.
It wouldn't be freedom if she locked it.
He smiles at her when he sees her holding his son. She looks good with him. An absolute natural. It looks right. It feels right. It is not right.
They are both relatively happy and they have this unspoken deal.
'You financially and socially support me and I will socially support you and serve as caretaker for our son.'
It's a nice unspoken bond.
And it works well.
Words were unnecessary.
She is the Queen of Malfoy Manor and she plays the role well. Maybe even best.
He is gone often. Off on business. She does not see the charming man anymore, but when she does it is brief and simple. And when it's not brief and simple--it's a ball.
There are many.
He waltzes with her and she smiles primly up at him. They link arms and she sips white wine. Expensive white wine. She smiles and says: "Yes, that's my husband there." And "our son's doing just fine. Learned how to ride a broom yesterday." Sometimes even, "yes, it would appear so. We're really happy."
And they were happy.
If happy meant absolutely miserable.
Sometimes he comes home with blood on his hands. Crimson blood. She holds back a shudder, she is tough.
"Go wash up for dinner," she says curtly as she puts her hand over young Draco's eyes.
He kisses her on the cheek, "of course Darling."
"What was that Mummy?" The young boy asks.
"That was Daddy doing his job," she says with a quick sigh.
And it's his job.
And he does it well.
Maybe even best.
They grow older. He is not so charming and she is not so stunning.
No one is, though.
Their son goes off to Hogwarts and he gets decent marks and does decent things. He is not a nice boy. He is like his Father.
The Manor seems big and quiet now. It's eerie. And sometimes she swears she hears ghosts talking to her.
But she also swears that he still loves her.
So maybe she's just going mad.
It cannot be blamed.
She does not bother to wince at the blood on his hands now she merely nods.
He is a nice man.
He just does his job.
And one day, one day she dies.
They all do, really.
She dies at the front door with brass knocker.
Waiting for him to come home and kiss her on the cheek.
She always waits now, it's a habit. The ghosts upstairs scare her now.
She falls to the floor with a small 'thud' that is heard by no one.
And it's done.
He comes home and sees her at the door: "Narcissa?" He says, not losing his cool, "darling, I'm home now."
She is stone cold and her face is pale. Like Snow White...only not so pretty.
He kneels down next to her and touches her blond hair that has emerald ribbon laces in it.
A drop of blood falls on his hand.
It is her blood now.
This was not his job.
He spreads her ashes across the Hogwarts lake, they used to always go there as children. They'd kiss there too, sometimes. When no one was looking. And she'd giggle and suck on sugar quills. It was tranquil there.
It was their spot.
He spreads the ashes just before the sun rises and no one sees. No one's supposed to see. That's the mystery of it.
It always was the beauty of it.
'I love you,' he says quietly, under his breath, 'and you bloody better have known that before you croaked.'
And part of her did.
*
He is nice.
In one of those entirely un-nice sort of ways.
She likes him.
The way one likes chocolate ice cream, or crystal bracelets.
He is nice and they always say he is far too good for her.
And he probably is. But she always did have high standards.
And he is nice looking too, like polished furniture and pretty china.
But he is cold too, and that only adds to the mystery. He is rude and condescending.
It's okay.
She's still fond of him, and she wrings her pale hands together and she beams.
He notices her from afar, the blond girl with sugar quills and emerald ribbon laces.
The girl seems too nice for him.
But she isn't.
She's made of steel, inside. Her skull is like a rock and she is made of strength that few who live now possess.
And because of this, she shall not make a good Mother. She is not compassionate enough.
But she catches his eye--his diamond eyes--and he asks her to marry him someday.
She is thrilled. This is what she has wanted. This is what she's been waiting for. Her parents are beaming in pictures, they are thrilled. She finally found a young man. They couldn't have asked for anyone better.
It's a pretty diamond ring. Too pretty. It's showy, and so she likes it. But it's gaudy too.
He smirks at her- "...pretty, hmm?"
"Of course," she nods, "the most stunning thing ever."
And it is.
They marry, and it's a nice wedding. Even nicer than their relationship. The decorations are lavish and her dress is made of the finest silk ever. And the faces in the crowd are smiling, of course.
He still likes her, and he likes her even more because she's simple. He can be a Death Eater, he can worship Voldemort, he can push her around, and she can still be his darling wife. She can still put on a happy face during meetings and balls.
And the facade shant crumble.
And she will put up with a lot during their relationship.
She knows this. Even then. She's always been odd and perceptive like that.
Soon they have a child and he is lovely. And she looks down at the small baby and smiles slightly, her husband's arm wrapped protectively around her.
And it's a nice little play. Where the people live happily ever after. Together.
She likes the play; it's nice, after all. It's the whole fairytale. And she wants to keep watching it, and playing in it...
--and she tries.
He likes his son. The heir to Malfoy Manor and everything that comes with. His son shall be big, booming, and amazing.
Oh. And he shall serve Voldemort as well.
She wasn't supposed to get attached to her son.
But she did anyway.
She held the baby tightly in her arms and she cradled him, she pushed him in the pram, she wore the flowered dresses and she made tea in the morning.
It was still a play.
He kissed her on the cheek every morning before 'work' and she smiled daintily and held her cooing son.
"Lock the door behind me," he says.
"I know," she whispers.
And she forgets to lock the door.
It wouldn't be freedom if she locked it.
He smiles at her when he sees her holding his son. She looks good with him. An absolute natural. It looks right. It feels right. It is not right.
They are both relatively happy and they have this unspoken deal.
'You financially and socially support me and I will socially support you and serve as caretaker for our son.'
It's a nice unspoken bond.
And it works well.
Words were unnecessary.
She is the Queen of Malfoy Manor and she plays the role well. Maybe even best.
He is gone often. Off on business. She does not see the charming man anymore, but when she does it is brief and simple. And when it's not brief and simple--it's a ball.
There are many.
He waltzes with her and she smiles primly up at him. They link arms and she sips white wine. Expensive white wine. She smiles and says: "Yes, that's my husband there." And "our son's doing just fine. Learned how to ride a broom yesterday." Sometimes even, "yes, it would appear so. We're really happy."
And they were happy.
If happy meant absolutely miserable.
Sometimes he comes home with blood on his hands. Crimson blood. She holds back a shudder, she is tough.
"Go wash up for dinner," she says curtly as she puts her hand over young Draco's eyes.
He kisses her on the cheek, "of course Darling."
"What was that Mummy?" The young boy asks.
"That was Daddy doing his job," she says with a quick sigh.
And it's his job.
And he does it well.
Maybe even best.
They grow older. He is not so charming and she is not so stunning.
No one is, though.
Their son goes off to Hogwarts and he gets decent marks and does decent things. He is not a nice boy. He is like his Father.
The Manor seems big and quiet now. It's eerie. And sometimes she swears she hears ghosts talking to her.
But she also swears that he still loves her.
So maybe she's just going mad.
It cannot be blamed.
She does not bother to wince at the blood on his hands now she merely nods.
He is a nice man.
He just does his job.
And one day, one day she dies.
They all do, really.
She dies at the front door with brass knocker.
Waiting for him to come home and kiss her on the cheek.
She always waits now, it's a habit. The ghosts upstairs scare her now.
She falls to the floor with a small 'thud' that is heard by no one.
And it's done.
He comes home and sees her at the door: "Narcissa?" He says, not losing his cool, "darling, I'm home now."
She is stone cold and her face is pale. Like Snow White...only not so pretty.
He kneels down next to her and touches her blond hair that has emerald ribbon laces in it.
A drop of blood falls on his hand.
It is her blood now.
This was not his job.
He spreads her ashes across the Hogwarts lake, they used to always go there as children. They'd kiss there too, sometimes. When no one was looking. And she'd giggle and suck on sugar quills. It was tranquil there.
It was their spot.
He spreads the ashes just before the sun rises and no one sees. No one's supposed to see. That's the mystery of it.
It always was the beauty of it.
'I love you,' he says quietly, under his breath, 'and you bloody better have known that before you croaked.'
And part of her did.
*