Set 5 years after the final battle. Narcissa goes to number 12 Grimmald Place. It is midnight...
She walks in the lamplight, head bowed against the weight of some hidden burden. Cars flicker by, their firefly headlights briefly lighting up the road then vanishing into the dark like some mocking insect.
Music steals the silence of the night with a tinny voice creeping through rusted speakers. The streetlamps seem to flicker in objection to this invasion into the silent world that is Night.
The walker looks up at a house. A broken window. A rusted pair of numbers of the gate. This house is abandoned. No one's lived here for years.
Her fingers trace the numbers. The 1 has fallen sideways into the 2, as if drunk with exhaustion. Her numb hand rests on the iron gate. The paint is peeling, yet still its touch is familiar. Her gaze avoids the house beyond. The door's blown off its hinges by some unworldly force, the windows cracked and caved in. The world has entered this house, and deemed it too frail. Ivy creeps up the steps and inside, going where no human will any more. It claims the house for its own, never dreaming that the true owner stands at the gate and dares not enter for fear of disturbing ghosts who have too long lain at rest.
"Rightful owner of the house of Black..."
She says the words to herself, convincing herself.
"I – the rightful owner." Yet the gate does not admit her entrance. Perhaps it is some old magic placed there by the last owner, or perhaps it is simply her hand refusing to push the gate open.
"I am the last Black left." He voice breaks the night once again.
"My sister is gone." Belatrix; so wild, yet so constant...
"My cousin is gone." Sirius; so hated, yet so irremovable...
"My aunt is gone. My uncle is gone. My Mother is gone. My Father is gone. I am the last Black. I am Narcissa Malfoy. I am Narcissa Black."
Her voice is transparent; it drifts away almost before it can be said to have existed at all.
A strand of hair is tugged free of her hood. She raises a hand to tuck it back in, then pauses. Decision wavers. Resolution fails. She takes hold of her hood with both hands and throws it back. The streetlight illuminates her sharp face. Her eyebrows form a disapproving arch above her ice cold eyes, yet her brow is furrowed with worry and anguish. Her once black hair is now streaked with white. Age has not been gentle to her, yet it has given her definition in a way youth could not.
"I am Narcissa Black..." she repeats softly. "I am Narcissa Black. The night is mine. Magic is mine. Power is mine. Grief... is also mine. Anguish is also mine, hate is also mine. I am Narcissa Black."
Narcissa Black... Narcissa Black... Echoes of a name by ruins of a house. Echoes of a past by ruins of a memory. Narcissa Black...
It is midnight. The street is deserted. A gate creaks. A car door slams. And a name echoes in the empty recesses of the night.
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