Title: State of Reality
Rating: T for now, M later
Disclaimer: J.K. owns it all.
Summary: A short piece about the most unlikely couple: Bill Weasley and Narcissa Malfoy. "It was like he had momentarily abandoned his life of obligations and expectation and entered this alternate state of reality in which nothing existed but himself and the exquisite creation that was Narcissa Malfoy."
Author's Note: Despite my love for Hermione/Draco and Hermione/Tom fics, which are quite popular, I do have an untapped passion for stories about unusual couples (or if not unusual, those that you don't get many fics focusing on that ship, like Neville/Luna). Untapped until this little tale here, that is, which is my first story about a couple that is both not written about and completely random. I would hazard a guess that I have about two or three more chapters to create for this baby, and then I'll be done with it. I'm not ambitious enough to attempt a novel-length fic on such an unorthodox coupling yet – yet.
"Life is fragile and absurd." - Cecily von Ziegesar
He heard that she broke after Voldemort killed her son as a punishment for failing at his assigned task of killing Dumbledore. But she knew as well as everyone else that it was meant more to further punish Lucius for the ministry disaster, and remind his followers that mishaps in servitude were not taken lightly.
He saw her a few days after it happened, after Draco's body had been found in an abandoned shack a few miles from Malfoy Manor. She had entered Gringotts cautiously, warily, without a trace of the superiority he was accustomed to seeing her radiate. Before, he had only seen her stride (for that was the perfect way to describe her walk, graceful yet determined) with her head held high, brilliantly blonde hair cascading down her back in a shimmering wave, looking down her nose at those around her disdainfully. Yet that day there was a black scarf wrapped around her head, as if she didn't want to be recognized, but no one could mistake her with hair like that.
She got into the long line in front of the desk, waiting her turn, which was odd in itself, because never in his memory had the Malfoys waited at Gringotts. They always demanded and received prompt service, since their vault at the bank was rather…immense. However, that day, for whatever reason, not wanting to draw attention to herself, or a lack in her feelings of self-importance, Narcissa Malfoy politely stepped to the back of the line and stood for thirty minutes, and even allowed a Probity Probe to be swept over her body.
Bill Weasley was finishing up a report on the curse he had recently created a counter for, and once he digested her hasty transformation he immediately turned back to the task and all thoughts of Narcissa Malfoy and her dead son and disgraced husband were pushed from his mind. It wasn't until she was leaving and he ran into her at the door that he even remembered she was there.
She gave him a startled look, her icy blue eyes showing every sign of distress, which he attributed to the painfully recent loss of her son. He stared at her for a few seconds, taking in her haggard appearance and red-rimmed eyes, and then held the door open, gesturing for her to walk through. After all, he had always been the most laid-back member of the Weasley family. Almost as if she expected him to Avada Kedavra her retreating figure, she furtively glanced over her shoulder as she hurried down the street and out of sight.
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The next time he saw her was much more noteworthy. He was with Fleur in London at a wizard restaurant. It was two months until their wedding, exactly. Nonnah's was clandestine, cozy, and tastefully romantic. Intimate tables that sat no more than two had Silencing Charms cast over them to ensure privacy. Small white candles hovered over everyone's heads, similar to the Great Hall at Hogwarts, providing the rather dim lighting in the expansive room. Fleur was chattering happily away about the catering arrangements when he saw her enter out of the corner of his eye. He watched her curiously, only half-hearing what Fleur was saying about chocolate profiteroles. She seemed to be a regular, or was otherwise well-known, because a waiter instantly led her over to the bar and conjured up a glass of elfish wine. She sipped on it daintily, starring down at her hands and fiddling with something on one of her fingers. Something on the ring finger of her left hand.
"Bill? What do you think about zat?"
He snapped his head back towards Fleur. "You know that I don't give a damn about the food or the decorations or the color of Ginny's and Gabrielle's dresses. I just want to marry you."
She smiled at him, obviously pleased, and grabbed his hand across the table.
"And my muzzer wonders why I want to marry you…I think Gabrielle is ze only one zat understands…"
With a small grin, he leaned over to kiss her cheek, one of the few displays of public affection he engaged in, as he stood up to go to the loo. The lavatories were down a small hallway that was concealed from the front of the restaurant, which was perhaps the only reason why what happened as he was returning to his table occurred. Narcissa was coming around the corner as he was leaving the bathroom. They stared at each other awkwardly, neither knowing what to do or say. What does a woman who has lost everything say to someone indirectly responsible for putting her husband in Azkaban? What does a man say to someone who has hated and disrespected his family for as long as he can remember just because they fraternize with muggleborns and Harry Potter? In the silence, Bill noticed there was no ring on the ring finger of her left hand.
"Hello, William," she said softly, her voice hinting that those were two words she had never expected to utter to him.
It was strange to be called William instead of Bill; he could not recall anyone ever calling him that except his mother on the two occasions she had ever been completely furious with him (once when he was 11 and he accidentally broke Charlie's arm while they were playing Quidditch in the backyard, and once when he was 17 and almost had his Head Boy badge taken away for trapping Argus Filch in a spare broom closet before he caught Charlie out of bed after hours with a girl. Professor McGonagall had shared his mother's sentiments ("-supposed to be setting a good example, and instead you're a patron for your younger brother while he participates in irresponsible behavior -"), but Dumbledore had merely chuckled and told him that next time, he might want to consider employing the Room of Requirement in a less harmful manner, like for causing a disturbance sure to attract Flich's attention). But perhaps even more strange was hearing her call him something other than "stupid Weasley boy" or "filthy blood traitor".
"How are you, Narcissa?" he asked almost playfully, unable to comprehend the absurdity of the situation. Despite his more forgiving nature, he was now an adult, and addressing her as Ms. Malfoy would give her the upper hand. He wanted to be equal.
She gazed at him coldly, apparently affronted. He could almost feel her change back into her previous self, if only temporarily.
"How would you be doing?" she spat at him before walking into the lavatory and slamming the door behind her. Before he was out of earshot, he heard a loud sob issue from inside.
He felt a momentary pang of guilt rip at his conscience, but family loyalty was something he could not escape – it was in his blood. And the blood of his family had been spilt on more than one occasion because of the Death Eaters. After a moment, he walked back to the table, working the frown off his face to avoid questions from Fleur.
Narcissa had still not left the bathroom when they left.
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It was such a random act of fate that he almost couldn't fathom the nonsensicality of it.
He didn't know why he did it. It was a completely unwarranted act of kindness. But she had just looked so sad, staring out the window at the deserted street, watching the rain come down in torrents. She held a cup of tea in mid-air, her eyes blank, revealing nothing on the nature of her thoughts. He had been heading to the Ministry to talk to his father and had come inside the tiny muggle coffee shop to escape the sudden storm that had erupted without warning. He had glanced around quickly, noting that the slightly overweight owner was chatting happily in the back with one of her girlfriends; she ignored him completely. Then he saw her, thinking to himself she was an attractive older woman with a troubled air about her, when he did a double take. Narcissa Malfoy in a muggle coffee shop. That was something he had never expected to see, and almost involuntarily he made his way to her table by the window, disconcerted. She flicked her eyes in his direction, let her gaze settle on his for a moment, and then turned it back out the window.
"This seems to be a strange place for you to spend your afternoon."
Perhaps it was his tone, light and inquiring, not accusatory and scathing, or perhaps it was the beating her ego had taken over the past couple of weeks, or perhaps it was just her mere desire for company, but she neither brushed him off nor seemed offended. On the contrary, she answered him in such a way it was like they were good friends who happened to run into each other unexpectedly.
"I know. It's just that no one in these places knows who I am, and I can't stand sitting around that empty house all damn day."
It was so intimate, the off-hand way with which she offered him insight into her feelings and motives. Despite a lack of invitation, he sat down, moving cautiously so as not to alarm her. Still she stared out the window, and he vaguely wondered when she had last taken a sip of her tea.
"I'm sure some of your old friends would meet up with you."
At this she laughed, but eerily, hollowly, and he knew she found no humor in what he had said.
"Friends? What friends. Any 'friends' you have when you're the wife of a prominent Death Eater only associate with you because you're at the same level as them. And all the while they're hoping you'll fall, so maybe they can move up a notch. And when you do fall, it's to tumultuous applause and a synchronized shout of 'good riddance'." She shook her head uncomprehendingly, closing her eyes as if in pain. He resisted the inexplicable urge to grab her hand comfortingly.
"What a waste of life," she commented, finally looking at him. He stared at her, for the first time in his life unsure of what to say or do. But he did not allow that to show on his face or in his movement; instead, he stared at her searchingly, as if trying to figure her out.
The minutes ticked by, and they just looked at each other. She had yet to lower her hand with the tea cup in it; he had yet to shake the water out of his eyes. He could not read her thoughts, and she could not discern his. After ten minutes had passed, the rain began to subside, the wind could no longer be heard howling, and he stood up, still not breaking eye contact. He leaned down, having finally decided what he could say. Corny as it may have sounded, he could finally read something in her eyes: appreciation.
"Your life is not yet wasted."
He could feel her eyes following him as he exited the restaurant.
Author's Note: k, end of that installment. What are you thoughts? Give me anything! Feedback on my idea or writing style, general feelings about the story so far, predictions for what I'm going to do with them in the future…