Heart Line
In the morning-muted corridor, Narcissa took a deep breath. She smoothed her hands over her trim skirt as if the solidity of her hips could encourage a solidity of thought. She schooled a pleasant smile, and knocked softly on the heavy door.
"Yes?" Her husband's voice was its usual impatience.
She entered the study as though standing before a firing squad. "Good morning, darling."
"Morning." More an acknowledgment of the time than the wife. He barely glanced up from his desk. In fact, she'd been waiting there nervously for nearly a minute before he set aside his quill to regard her. "What can I do for you?"
She recalled a time...some time ago...when she'd been...13? Perhaps 14? A young Slytherin called on the carpet before Dumbledore for charming a cluster of cauldrons to chase an enemy Gryffindor through the dungeons. At the time, she'd denied nothing. Held her chin high and confessed. Dumbledore had laughed. Consigned her to a week's of detentions with McGonagall, then asked her for the spell she'd used.
This situation was entirely different. He shouldn't make me feel this way. Resentment stopped her throat and she cleared it demurely. "I hoped to do some shopping -"
"No."
Her nostrils flared. She felt her eye twitch. "Lucius -"
"Narcissa." His hands - graceful and cold - clapped onto his embossed blotter. "I have already expressed my wishes on this matter. Why you insist on resurrecting the issue is beyond me."
"It's been months, Lucius. Draco and I both grow stir crazy and with summer approaching we could both use new clothes."
"You know how to request the catalogues, I believe." He pushed away from his desk and stood. Thinner now, his robes swished more. It was an intimidating trait. "I refuse to have my son and wife accosted in the streets or humiliated or...worse. Narcissa it is not safe. You are still a Malfoy -"
"We cannot live in hiding forever, Lucius!"
"Do you recall what they called me after our trials?" He leaned into her space. She could smell the Earl Grey on his breath, feel the heat of it. "What they shouted at us as we left the Wizengamot? The Prophet's headlines?"
Her jaw tightened. She could feel his magic bristling, but it was time. Time for her own magic to bristle. Time for this to be settled. "I will go without your permission."
"The bloody hell you will."
"I will take Draco and we will prove to you -"
He rounded on her so quickly she jumped. "Respect my wishes!" He bellowed suddenly. "For the last several weeks you have attempted at every turn to flout my authority in this house - my house! I am weary of it!"
Her hot tears were embarrassing - and galvanising. "I'm weary as well!" She shouted back, pulse racing with a cocktail of fury, fear and shame. "I'm weary of your sulking and bullying and stubborn refusal to -"
The back of his hand silenced her. The blow was quick and hard. The worst kind of shock. Narcissa reeled, caught herself against his desk. Her ear rang brightly and pain was a hot knife stabbing into her neck. Agape, tasting her own blood, she tried to remember to breathe.
"You've changed." He breathed as though he was also shocked by the violence. "There was a time when you knew your place. We were so happy, Narcissa." He reached for her cheek and she lurched away. His face worked uncertainty and frustration. "I want to protect you. To keep you safe, witch!"
When she staggered away from him again, he grabbed her arm harshly. "Listen to me!"
She yelped. "Let me go!"
His mouth tightened, knowing shouting would draw attention from the house's other occupant: his son. And that relationship was strained enough. He drew his wife to his chest. Clamped a hand over her mouth. "Dammit, Narcissa! Shhh!"
But his wrist scraped hard her injured cheek and again she cried out, flicked her head from his hand. "Ow! How dare you!" She jabbed an elbow awkwardly into his chest. They tussled further. "Let me go!" She trembled, felt her magic arcing, knew that if she could reach her wand at her waist -
"What the Hell?!" Draco's intrusion brought a freeze to their heated encounter. The young man - eyes wide, manic - stared for a second. His jaw was stone. He was taller than she'd ever realised. "Father." A breath. She watched his wand slide smoothly into his hand from his sleeve. "Let her go."
Lucius rattled behind her. His muscles twitched. A nervous thoroughbred. It felt as though his arms, his hands still painfully tight on her arms, were incapable of releasing her. "This is none of your concern, Draco." Lucius' breath puffed at her loosened hair.
"Son…" She whispered. His eyes flicked to hers. Silver studs. He saw her rapidly bruising cheek and the studs hardened.
Draco stepped forward. In that moment, a harsh cut of sun bissecting him, Narcissa saw her saviour. Smoothly, he took hold of his father's hand curling around her arm. "I said let her go." His wand raised level with Lucius' neck and she was freed.
Her body was so tensed that when she staggered away, her knees weakened. It was Draco who caught her against him, one arm supporting her and the other still a defense against his father. Lucius leaned against his desk, suddenly crumpled. His left eye twitched and he couldn't hold Draco's gaze.
"Draco." Narcissa took a deep breath, attempting to compose herself. She placed a hand against his chest. The hard cage held a hammering drum. "Please."
He didn't look away from Lucius, but his wand arm began to lower. "Gather some things, mother. We'll be leaving for a time."
She looked up at her son. He was so impossibly tall. A tower to her. "Draco?" Her eyelids fluttered and she felt tears escape.
His eyes cut to her just briefly. "Go on, mum. I'll come to your rooms soon. Lock up, right?"
She didn't argue. Nodded. Reluctant to step from his side. She looked between father and son as she backed away. Her conservative heels felt too high. Her head throbbed and she swayed, stepped out of the shoes. At the door, she turned back only once. "Draco…"
The two men were still as statues. Dust motes caught light like fairy fluff in the air. She feared for a second - hoped? - that the son might kill the father. But Draco's free hand gestured firmly from his side. Go.
She went.
Her bedroom was dark. She wrung her hands. Paced for a moment. She was concerned about the confrontation in Lucius' study. Strangely or not so strangely she couldn't be arsed if Lucius was killed, but what of Draco? For a feverish second her mind muddled how they would protect him.
How does one dispose of a body? What if there is Fiendfyre? She chewed her lip. The corner of her mouth spat pain and she remembered her face. Cradled it. What if Draco is injured?
Numbly, she did as her son bade. Confident in his confidence. Her charmed valise held numerous frocks and blouses, skirts and shoes. She gave no thought to wardrobe, simply levitated handfuls of hangers into the canvas maw. Next her lingerie. She disregarded jewels. Felt instinctively inclined to focus on necessities.
The valise snapped closed in conjunction with a sharp rap on her door. "Mother."
She hurried to cancel her locking charm and Draco swept in importantly. "Draco!" The temptation to hug him, to touch him, to check for wounds was great but she resisted. "Are you alright?"
He was more concerned for her it seemed. His hands took her shoulders, turned her this way and that. Seeing no serious damage, he focused on her face. Took her unmarked cheek to turn the other. "Damn," he whispered.
"It's alright."
"Bollocks. Heal it up. D'you have dittany?" He was already gathering her bag from her bed.
"Draco where are we going?"
"Somewhere he won't find us."
"We can't run away from -"
"I have to decide what to do, mum. I need some time. Come on." He'd grabbed her cloak from the wardrobe door, stepped to her again. "Fix your face."
In her lav, she looked in the mirror and gasped. "Oh." The entire side of her head was purpling. Her lips split at the corners and blood had gone sticky there. She drew her wand from its holster and started hot water flowing into the sink. Her hands shook as she rinsed her mouth and face. She took several deep breaths before attempting her few healing charms, but even after, her face remained blue and bruised. At least the pain was gone.
She collected a few toiletries and left the bathroom. Draco was seated on the foot of her bed. He looked at his wand in his hands. She paused. "Draco. Your father?"
"I imagine he'll be collecting himself for a full bluster soon enough."
She dropped her tooth and hairbrush into her bag. "Where will we go."
"I have an idea."
"I see." I trust you. She reached for his face. He let her caress his cheek, even rubbed against her palm. There was a day's stubble there. "I'm sorry."
"Mum." He murmured into her hand. "I think father may be losing his mind."
"Perhaps." She stepped away from him. "I'm certainly losing mine."
Draco stood. "Come on. We've quite an apparation." She nodded. No questions. Would follow her savior anywhere.
On the massive Malfoy grounds, dusk muted the treeline. The air was fresh and the promise of freedom sweet. Narcissa licked her lips. Her bag brushed Draco's as they linked arms. "Hold on," he said.
She turned her tender face into his shoulder. Curled an arm around his waist. He returned the half embrace and she felt the familiar heady swirl of magical travel absorb her. She held on tightly. She would hold on forever…
From dusk to dusk, they touched down in a densely wooded forest. Narcissa lost her balance and oophed gracelessly onto her arse. Draco followed her roll, managing to catch himself over her form. "Ah!" He grimaced at a pain in his elbow.
"Alright, son?" Narcissa blew hair from her face, touching his shoulder in concern.
"Mm." He pushed onto his side, sat up and cradled his arm. "Yeah. I'm fine." His suit sleeve was torn. A bit of blood showed through on the exposed skin. "Must have hit a stone. You?"
She sat up. "I'm fine. Let me see?" She reached for his arm but he shrugged off her hand.
"Later."
She looked around, let him help her to her feet. "Draco?"
"Hm?"
"Please tell me we are not camping."
"No! No." He seemed as disgusted by the idea as she did. "Well. I mean, not really camping."
"Where are we?"
"Wales."
She gave him her most suspicious brow. He ignored it and raised his wand. Cast a simple point me charm. "Come on. This way."
They climbed a leafy incline. Difficult for Narcissa in pumps and a trim skirt. Draco tried not to grin as he hauled her along behind him. Her complaints were wholly expected. As was her reaction when they finally emerged behind a rustic fence encircling an idyllic setting.
She blinked and frowned. "What is this?"
Draco dusted his trouser legs. Cast a quick cleaning spell over both of them. "This is a caravan camp, mum."
The site was large. A few acres. Lightly wooded, it was cool and inviting. And full of modern muggle caravans.
Narcissa glared at him. She looked unconvinced. Magical caravans were common in their world. Often, the gypsy witches and wizards passed through with some magical faire or other. Their wooden wagons were lighted with lanterns and decorated with bright, elaborate tapestries. There was music and the tingle of enchantments in the air. Tables set up in seconds displayed jewelry and their singular Bohemian attire. Skirts swirled and faces smiled. Fortunes were read and crystal balls clouded with truth.
She looked back at the sparse muggle campground with its plastic and metal caravans. Tents dotted here and there. Lawn chairs littered the lawn. Cars and lorries. Dogs tied on stakes barked or scratched at fleas. And fat, old muggles.
No magic. No skirts. No wagons or fortune tellers. "I can't do this," she said. Panic tinged her voice.
"He'll never look here." Draco took her valise. "Come on, mum."
"How do you know this place?" She hadn't budged.
Draco sighed. He knew this witch. She would need answers before any progress would be made. "I came here once with Aunt Bella. During…" He trailed off. Looked at the campground now so peaceful, recalled it aflame.
Narcissa nodded slowly, understanding. Draco's stint as a Death Eater had left him scarred in many ways. She knew he had no fondness for the memories, so she didn't pursue details. "Of course." I trust you. So she gestured. "Lead on, then."
Draco made his way around the site's fenced barrier. A few metres from the offices, he stopped them. "You wait here, mum." He dropped his own bag. "Stay out of sight. I'm going to make...arrangements for us."
"I suppose you are," Narcissa said. "In case you haven't noticed, we are not in possession of a muggle caravan."
"We will be." He secreted his wand in his sleeve. "Just...wait here."
Narcissa nodded, smirking. "As you wish." She settled herself against an impressive fir nearby and watched her son stalk toward the only structures clustered on the property that didn't have wheels on. A large sign - handpainted green on white - read: Welcome to Heritage Yew Caravan Camp! A Perfect Place for a Rest She frowned. From the inhabitants she'd seen thus far, she wondered if the sign spoke of eternal rest.
It was quiet, though. And peaceful. The dogs had settled and she could hear birds chirping. She closed her eyes and leaned her throbbing head against the tree at her back. Smells of resin and fertile black soil. Narcissa sighed.
A loud bang broke her reverie. She started from the tree, worried muggles were brandishing guns, prepared to burn the witch. She hadn't thought to check for stakes. But instead she saw her son approaching, laughing and conversing genially with a rather portly and...brightly ginger man. "Oh, good goddess," she whispered.
"Mum! Good news. Mr. Thwackett here has a caravan ready for us!" His smile seemed so genuine.
She returned it. "Delightful!"
The muggle was clearly Imperiused. Draco was clearly victorious. Narcissa grinned at her son wryly as she shook Mr. Thwackett's hand. "Thank you kindly, sir. I look forward to our stay."
"My pleasure!" Thwackett was a friendly sort. Jolly and pink cheeked. Freckled. "Always happy to take care of our proud RAF boys. I was a member of the Fusiliers, myself!" He made a sudden show of saluting Draco.
Narcissa smiled at her son. He shrugged innocently.
"Well, come along then. I'm sure you're tired from your walk. Bad news about your MG. Never were much for reliability, the older models." For all Narcissa knew, they were speaking some made-up language. She just followed along quietly, listening to their genial banter.
Draco was good at this. She wondered when he had become so muggle savvy. If he didn't have some secret life she should ferret out.
Camp residents waved as they passed by. They seemed almost too friendly. As if they had all been imperiused by the fresh Welsh air and sunshine filtering through the green canopy. She wondered if there was some evil here far worse than any the Dark Lord had ever known…
"Well, here we are! Old Bessie."
Old Bessie was a tiny contraption comprised of metal and windows. It was a bit like a sardine tin with an overlarge screened awning attached. Thwackett threw aside a flap and ushered them into the cool shade. He wrested a ring of keys from his pocket, freed one for Draco and opened the caravan door. "Nice and clean," he said. "The missus does fine work with a scrubber!"
It was indeed, clean. There was hardly enough room for any mess to accumulate. They'd walked directly into a kitchenette. And dining area. And bedroom. Narcissa had to assume the tiny door to the left led to a lavatory, though she feared imagining its size. She cleared her throat. "Lovely!"
"It's perfect." Draco turned to Thwackett. "Thank you, sir. I believe we'll take it from here."
"Good!" Thwackett handed over a packet bulging with leaflets. "Here's a schedule of some of our events upcoming. I hope you like a good pig roast!"
Cissa blinked. Draco was laughing, stepping out with the muggle. Alone in the caravan, she looked up. She was only a few inches from the ceiling here. No wonder Draco had stooped so lowly. She sighed. Nudged their valises underneath the table before her. How has this happened?
"Well. That was easy." Draco closed the caravan door. She had no choice but to maneuver into the seating area to let him pass. He stopped. Hair brushing the ceiling. His long arm reached out and opened the mystery door. Behind it, he commented. "Oh you'll be happy, mum! There's a little bathtub!"
She was not happy. "Draco…"
The door closed and he reappeared. Behind him, there was bed. Just bed. She gestured to it. "Where are we going to sleep?"
He looked to her gesture. Stared for a moment. "There?"
She regarded him as one would a mental patient. Or a Longbottom. "Together?"
His face worked. "We are family, mum." Quite matter of fact.
She blushed brightly. Looked about. "I hardly know what to do…"
"Look." He rubbed at her arms, meaning comfort. "I know this seems...insane. But I think we need to be here for a while. I think we need to regroup." He urged her to sit at the little table. "I'm going to the shop. They have groceries and such. I think a cuppa will benefit us. And we'll talk."
She nodded. Feet bumped their bags. Tea sounded lovely. "Right."
He touched her face. "Does it hurt?"
"No."
"Liar."
"Go get the tea."
He smirked. "I'll be back." Paused bent in the doorway. "Unless the geriatric muggles get me."
"That isn't funny!" She called to his back. More quiet. She examined her nails. Her cuticles were a bit dry. Picked at one. Stopped herself. She sniffed. Something smelled vaguely of cauldron soap. Do muggles use cauldron soap? Surely not. She couldn't take it. Rose with purpose and dropped their bags on the bed.
The one bed. It was an odd bed. The width of the caravan and the length of a park bench. I suppose if we sleep sideways… She looked back to the tiny table. It was built into seating cushioned in periwinkle blue. Or I could sleep underneath the table.
She sighed and began their unpacking. It wasn't difficult to organise. There were only four drawers total, in the area beneath the bed. But they were spacious and she made do. There was also storage above the table and miniscule stove. She had to admit that the muggles made ingenius use of the space at their disposal, limited as it was.
Task completed, she sat on the bed to have a look about. And sank into mattress. "Oh!" She pushed up onto her elbows. "That was unexpected…" Less a proper bed and more a giant pillow filled with down. But surprisingly comfortable.
The wall opposite her was mainly shelving. The thin shelves held books. She didn't have to get closer to read the titles. His Nubile Mistress. Can You Keep a Secret? The Irish Au Pair. The Love Child of Daniel McDonough. She also didn't have to wonder at the contents; the covers - buxom women wrapped in forbidden man-arms - were more than suggestive.
And above the books, paradoxically, were two images. One, a photo of an elderly woman in a crown - "Our Beloved Queen" - and the other a painting of a younger woman wearing rags. Narcissa squinted to read the title of the painting. The Washer Woman.
Her head cocked. "How bloody odd," she murmured.
Draco crashed into the caravan, an ungainly box in his arms and loaded with bags. She rushed to his aid. "Good goddess, you've planned for a year's stay!"
There was hardly space for the grocering. Much of it fell off the counter or rolled from the table. "That woman just kept telling me I needed things!" He chased an apple onto the caravan's steps and caught it at the door. "I couldn't tell her no. They're so damn nice, mum!"
"I've noticed." She regarded a packet of paper plates with disdain. "I put our things away."
"Where?"
She glared at him. He smirked. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I know it's dreadfully small. I didn't realise -"
"That we would be joined at the hip?"
He poked her hip. "Could be worse."
She flushed hotly and gaped at him. "Draco!"
He bit into an apple and sat to the little table. "Put the kettle on, mum. I'm knackered."
She looked from his chewing face to the tiny stove. "Put the kettle on…" She repeated, lost. There were knobs and things. "...How?"
Draco had the audacity to laugh. "This is going to be an adventure, mum."
The muggle stove was a debacle. They'd opened the few windows of the caravan to dispel the excess gas and taken their tea beneath the awning outside. Plastic spoons did not clink pleasantly against plastic cups. But the tea was delicious and hot and the cream was fresh and cold and the picnic table beneath the awning was decorated with muggle hieroglyphics.
"Did you know Keith loves Meranda?" Draco asked absently, rubbing the inscription.
Narcissa scoffed. "I highly doubt that."
He looked up sharply. A loon sang of evening fall. "Do you love father?"
The light from within their camper softened the sadness on her face. She tried to smile. Had to lie. "Of course I do."
"Has he hit you before?"
"No, Draco." She rubbed at her eyes. "Your father's changed. It's understandable. After everything that's happened -"
"Everything that he caused?" Draco toyed with his empty cup. "He should be in Azkaban."
"And the same could be said of you," she reminded softly. "You did take the mark, Draco."
He was very quiet. His eyes darkened and Narcissa swallowed. "Do you think I would have chosen that path? If they hadn't threatened to kill me? To kill you?" Then as if he'd spoken too much, he looked away. "Doesn't matter now, I suppose."
She was so tired of tears in her eyes. She refused to let them fall. Not in front of him. Not again. "Draco. You never really told me -"
"I said it doesn't matter." He stood. Took her empty cup. "I could sleep for days, mum."
She nodded. "Go on to bed, then. I might...try to bathe."
Behind her, he rubbed her shoulder. Bent to kiss the part in her hair. "Good night, then. And good luck. I hope you and the soap can both fit." He didn't see her eyeroll.
Alone again, she stared through netting into the not quite darkness around them. It would be difficult to be lonely here. Their muggle neighbours were only a few yards away on either side. And the old couple to the left were doing much the same as the Malfoys: talking quietly beneath their awning.
She felt things. Freedom. Away from the confines of her dreary manor and the still-prying eyes of the Daily Prophet. Away from the rumours and stares. Away from her unhinged husband. Anonymity was comforting. And safety. It was odd to feel safe. Strange and alien. And even odder that it should be her son making it so.
He will protect me. He has protected me. The sudden and startling realisation melted her. It served to stoke an ember to a flame; a tiny curiosity blazed into a possibility. He might do anything for me…
Inside the caravan she scowled. Draco's clothes littered the floor. She sighed heavily and gathered them. Not a house elf...or a caravan elf. She wasn't certain how they would go about laundering their attire, and looking about she settled for tossing the lump onto their seating. Later.
She was stopped short at the tiny lav's door. The moonlight filtering through their screen windows revealed her son sleeping in their bed. He'd kindly left a generous space for her, sheets eskew around his bare torso. Stars painted him marble. His face was peaceful - a dead face. For a moment, she watched his chest to make certain it was moving.
The tiny lav was a nightmare. The toilet closed to become a table. Sort of. The sink was part of the shower. The shower was above the bathtub. The bathtub was barely big enough for Narcissa and she was well aware she was a small witch. By the time she was submerged in water that was either scalding or freezing, she'd bruised her elbows and knees on every surface. It was exhausting.
And the muggle soap was an overpowering amalgamation of lavendar, vanilla and mint. Noxious and unsettling. She couldn't seem to rinse it away, and after she was frustrated with the trying, she surrendered and toweled off, successfully bruising all her unbruised places.
The bedding was pure luxury to her stiff body. For the first time in months, she felt herself relax into the cotton's embrace. Outside, crickets chirped. A breeze turned the stench of vanilla into a pleasant presence, and she began to drift.
She may have been asleep. She may have been dreaming the feeling of his body curling round hers; the sinewy arm encircling, the belly lurching against her bottom, the whispered, "You smell good…" Yes, she must have been dreaming…
She woke alone. And to laughter. An almost alien sound. The duvet was a mess around her and her gown was bunched in all the wrong places, a breast nearly revealed. Even half asleep she hoped Draco hadn't seen that. Draco. She heard his voice outside. Conveniently she reached beneath the bed and retrieved her dressing gown. In the kitchenette, a proper British breakfast rested beneath a shimmery warming charm.
She smiled, waved her wand and tucked in. The crispy bacon rashers were perfect. Toasties toasty. Beans not too mushy. Eggs perfectly runny. Or she was starving. Either way, it was delicious. Had Draco cooked? The stove was clean, so she doubted he'd produced the elaborate meal.
She dressed in a simple cotton frock, fitted to a flare and sporting little capped sleeves. Outside, Draco was engaged in spirited conversation with a muggle man and woman. At the sound of the caravan door, he waved her over. "Mother. This is James Chester and his wife Lynne. Lynne left you the delicious breakfast."
The smile came easy and felt real. "Thank you so very much, Lynne. It was wonderful!"
Lynne was as petite as Narcissa if a bit more plump. And old enough for a head of silvery white hair. She smiled in return, but the smile fell rather quickly. "Oh you dear love! Whatever happened to your face?"
"Oh!" Cissa's hand clapped over the slow fading bruise. Slightly panicked eyes flitted to her son. Muggles were frighteningly forward.
"We were in an accident," Draco explained. "Our car. That's why we walked here yesterday."
"Oh my." Lynne tutted. She took in the fresh bruises on Narcissa's elbows and legs with a motherly eye. "You poor dear. Well, if you need any ointments I've enough to ease a horse. You just come see me."
Narcissa couldn't wrap her mind around muggle ointments. "Thank you again."
The Chesters left, kindly reminding the Malfoys of the pig roast in a few days and that they would be terribly remiss by not being there. Draco (obviously not thinking) promised their attendance and bade the couple a good day. He turned to Narcissa. "What the hell happened to you?" He reached for her arm.
She watched him gentle the appendage, almost felt as if it was no longer a part of her, but something that belonged to him. "The stupid tiny lav." When his fingers brushed the inside of her elbow, she jumped. "Ah!"
He let her go guiltily. "Sorry."
She read into his pinkening ears. "Did you sleep well?"
His pink ears spread to encompass his face and deepened to fuschia. "Yeah. I did." He turned back to the caravan.
Narcissa smiled just slightly. Perhaps she hadn't been dreaming.
They lazed. During the warmest part of the day, they read beneath their awning. Narcissa had chosen Can You Keep a Secret? The novel was hardly secretive. Muggles wrote of their sexual exploits with great exaggeration. During a particularly steamy enounter between Latin Rafe and French Maude, she had to close the book. No one really makes love like that.
"Good book?" Her son read in a hammock stretching from the caravan to a thick stake. His linen-clad leg pushed him to a fro slowly. She shrugged. "Must be exciting."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because you twirl your hair faster and suck on your lip every once in a while."
I do? She slid the incriminating book between her hip and the lounge. "It has its moments."
"Perhaps I'll read yours next." He commented. "Mine's a bit slow."
"Mine won't interest you." She walked toward him, adjusted his book so she could read the title. Hand Stories: History, Science and Myth of Palmistry. "Palmistry?" She looked down at his hooded eyes. He was staring up at her. "Longing for old Trelawney's classes?"
He chuckled. "I thought it would be more interesting. Muggles are as boring as wizards are, it seems."
She thought of her book and raised a brow. "Oh, I don't know."
He sat up suddenly in the hammock, swinging his legs over until one came to rest between hers. "Let's see," he said. He took her wrist, turned her palm up. "Look here. You've a very prominent line of head." His finger slid firmly up the middle of her hand and Narcissa felt her stomach twirl. "Means you're an intellect. And very pragmatic." He glanced up. "I agree with that summary whole heartedly." He turned her hand awkwardly.
"Ow!" She resisted, wrist complaining.
So instead he tugged. "Sit." The hammock dipped, pressing their hips together. He pulled the book onto his lap and scanned a page. "Yes. This line is your line of affection." His thumb rolled across her palm and he studied. "See. A little line for a marriage and a little line for a child and a little line for…"
"For what?" Suddenly this was very fascinating.
He shook his head. "Another little branch. Maybe for another marriage."
"I hardly want two husbands. One is more than I want now."
Absently, Draco stroked the little branch. "Well. Perhaps it's a new relationship."
"Hmmm." She leaned in closer. Knew her hair brushed his ear. "What's the curved one here?"
"Life." Another rub, circling her thumb. "Yours is long and well-defined. You'll live long and be healthy."
"I like that." she moved his hand so she could see her own palm. His fingers curled around hers. "What's this very wonky one? I've always thought it was strange."
"That's your heart line."
"What does it mean?"
He traced the line in question. "It's about emotion. Passion."
Her heart seemed to beat faster at the touch. "Sad." She frowned. "It seems very thin."
"Deep," Draco corrected. "And no branches until the end here. As if you've been hiding your feelings."
"Does your book make that speculation?"
"No. I do."
"I see." She slid her hand from his focus and took his own. Let her nail tickle his palm. She heard his breath hitch. "Yours seems rather deep, too. And only the one branch here. What are you hiding, Draco?"
"Nothing." He took his hand back. Flexed it as though it tingled. She made to take the book from his lap but he grabbed at it quickly. "Don't!"
So she let it go. Again he reddened. She wiggled to the edge of the hammock and stood. It seemed he was hiding something - but not in his palm. "Thank you for the reading, oh divine one." She sunk back into her lounge. Back to the acrobatic exploits of Rafe and Maude. Her heart line still humming.
After a moment's silence Draco rose and entered the caravan quickly. She heard the noisy lock schuck on the lavatory door. Her secret smile deepened.
AN: Yes, I know I have two works in progress. No, I have not abandoned them. But Valentine's Day is approaching, and I need to make it bearable with steamy hot Narco decorated pink and red and bloody. It will get squicky and not for the squeamish, but gods it's worth it... It is complete and the final chapter of three will go up on the auspicious day.
