Holy couch potato, the cumulative visitors to all of my stories has gone up approximately six hundred in four days. Unbelievable. Indescribable as well.
This little thing is for Astronaut's Not-So-Heroic Death Challenge. One can assume what it is by the name.
I don't down any characters, places, things, blah blah Sugar Quills blah (Ha—I don't own that, either!)
It was a pretty pathetic way to die, when she thought about it.
She was brought up better than blue-blooded: Pure-blooded. Narcissa Black Malfoy had started life as member of the noblest Pureblood family in Wizarding England, and perhaps the entire Wizarding World. She was born with high standards, and often the best just wasn't enough for the precious one.
A flower among stars, one might say. The bright, harsh brilliance shone throughout her family, but Narcissa was more quietly beautiful, with a friendly demeanor.
Of course, most of the friendliness she had obtained naturally had been well-hidden by her graduation from Hogwarts. She was a Pureblood, yes; she would not settle for anything lower . . . whether she was sure she believed in that stuff or not.
Upon marrying Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy became part of the second most elite family, and soon gave both her in-laws and husband what they wanted most: an heir to the Malfoy Empire. Even if they did nothing but dawdle in Dark business, there was a lot to uphold with that simple name.
She raised her son right; or at least she hoped she did. When he started his education at Hogwarts, she had a feeling deep inside that he would display the same snotty attitude that her oldest sister had throughout her life. Even though she would never voice the opinion, Narcissa had hoped since Draco was born that he would grow up to be as kind and accepting as her other sister, Andromeda, had been.
As the youngest sister, of course Narcissa looked up to both Bellatrix and Andromeda; she had without a doubt gotten her likeable qualities from the younger of the two. Yet regardless of the fact that she admired the middle sister most, the coldness of their family won over, and Narcissa could not rebel against her family as she desperately wished she had some times.
Soon after her son was born, the Dark Lord had fallen, and Narcissa felt freer than she had since she had first been with Lucius. She always suspected he felt more strongly tied to Voldemort than to his wife, but she supposed all of the Death Eaters were that loyal. When the nose-less man, if he could be considered as such, was gone from their lives, she felt her small family grow closer, and she became happier.
When he returned, though . . . That was the straw that broke the camel's back. He got revenge on Lucius and gave Draco dreadful tasks. She had to trust Snape. Yet, it turned out in the long run that the two were on the same side after all.
As the second war progressed, she fell farther away from her husband's cause, as she sensed he was shying away from as well. Voldemort had stepped over them since he came to their home, and his most loyal follower—Narcissa's own sister—had been almost worse. As someone who had always been so composed, it became difficult after time to bite back retorts to her sister and her Lord. She despised the thing. She could no long consider him human, though she could never think that. If she thought her own thoughts in her own home, he would surely kill—or at least torture her. She wasn't safe in her own head.
Until blessed Harry Potter (and who would have thought anyone in her family would think that) defeated the Dark Lord again, for good. Narcissa was free in her home. Her husband was no longer a slave to a soulless monster, and her son was free to start his adult life by his own choices. Lucius cleaned up his ways and Draco tried his best to be more accepting. The transition was easy for the matriarch; she had held these characteristics under her cold voice and sharp gaze since adolescence.
So, she supposed, it was a pretty laughable way of dying. In fact, looking back she did laugh. She was so respectable, or at least admirable, throughout her life. When she had nothing to make people cower, even, she was liked. The now-aging woman had gone so far into her accepting lifestyle that she reformed ties with her only remaining sister. Narcissa got the idea from Andromeda to work with children. Once Draco was grown, she missed her baby, and it seemed she wouldn't get grandchildren for a while.
Narcissa worked in a nursery school for Wizarding children. It was perfect for her, she felt. She loved her job.
And yet, that one day she had been so foolish . . . She would never be able to tell Bellatrix how she died with a serious face.
It had been the end of the day, and Narcissa had just cleaned up the toys in the main room. After washing her hands, she decided vacuuming would be the easiest way to pick up remnants of the felt the children had been using for crafts. She took out the machine and plugged it in. It was the last thing Narcissa Malfoy ever did.
She stood in the afterlife. She had just arrived and was welcomed by her mother, who had a smirk on her face. Explaining what had happened to her youngest child, she felt snide; a damned Muggle contraption, obviously.
Once Narcissa let it sink in that she was dead, she felt depressed. She would never see Lucius again. Despite what people would think, she truly loved the man. She would have to wait years before he came to her, but she didn't want death for him. And it was worse with Draco—so much more life to live, yet so much time to miss. She would never meet any grandchildren, to top it all off.
Sitting down in her corner of the afterlife, hours, or perhaps years, after she had died, Narcissa began to laugh deliriously.
What a pathetic way for a witch to die.