Author: Calex
Title: Cruel Punishments
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Wes and co belong to Joss, Cissa and the rest of the Potter gang are JK Rowling's.
Pairing: #211 in TtH FFA, Wesley/Narcissa Malfoy
The party was going on in full swing, the world had been saved, after all. An evil madman had been "taken care of", and the children could finally sleep safe and sound in their beds again. In short, it had gotten to be quite boring. Narcissa sighed irritably as she surveyed the gaily dancing couples, heard the loud, raucous laughter and the incessant chat, chat, chat of the guests that attended the ministry thrown party. Bugger all of them, those who didn't carry shadows on their faces, the one making all of the bloody noise and brought all of that pomp and show.
Nine out of ten, their lives weren't that affected by the-madman-who-is-now-no-more, they just went along for the ride. Nine out of ten of them hadn't been on that battlefield, flagging their guts out for their family's safety, for their country's safety. For mankind, wizard-kind. Nine out of ten hadn't smelt the charred human flesh, the stale sweat, the abundance of old and fresh blood, the damp stench of earth mixed with things she didn't want to think about. Nine out of ten hadn't felt the deadly exhaustion, the despair, the pain, hadn't tasted that bitter taste of giving up. More than a few had succumbed to that helplessness, that sense that what they were looking for didn't exist, that the fight was useless. Nine out of ten hadn't felt that pain, that anger, that despair at losing a loved one. Nine out of ten knew nothing of what war was like, of what real pain was like, suffering. And she… the most unlikely of sources… she knew far better than any of them.
Narcissa shook her head, a bitter smile playing at cruelly beautiful lips. It was irony, pure and simple, for her of all people to know what it was like. She, who many previously thought to be some arm-ornament to a pompous ministry official, who turned her nose up at everyone, for everyone was beneath her. She who had probably never lifted a finger to do menial work in her life, pampered, sheltered… spoilt. They knew nothing of her life, of her. Never knew just how determined and coldly calculating Narcissa Black Malfoy could be, had had to be. Who knew the woman behind the mask, the charade? Few, oh so few knew. Sometimes… sometimes she herself didn't know. It was confusing work, trying to pretend to be someone she wasn't. But she had to say she was pretty damned good at it. She had fooled everyone, everyone. She'd even fooled the Dark Lord. She could still remember the shock and betrayal in Lucius' face as she'd hexed everyone in that little sinister tête-à-tête in order to save Severus from getting grievously harmed. But she couldn't leave him for the Dark Lord to crucio to death, Narcissa had precious few people she considered friends, so her best friend really was quite indispensable.
It was just too bad that the Dark Lord had taken her and Severus' betrayals so badly. She really had loved her husband, once upon a time. She'd loved the man with his ideals, his cool eyes and cruel smile. She had given her heart to Lucius Malfoy when she was very young, when she knew nothing. It was only too bad that those ideals of his, that family of his had brought him into the attention of Lord Voldemort. The man…thing had twisted her husband up, changed him. Narcissa knew her husband no longer long before that moment, but before she had apparated herself and Severus away, both of them holding their own injuries, her eyes had met Lucius' and understanding had passed between them. In that small moment, it was as though Lucius was as he was, years before, unchanged. Then the moment was broken by a hex thrown in her direction, and she had gotten the hell away after that. That was the last time she saw Lucius. Voldemort was a cruel master, and as he'd not had her to appease his wrath at, he took his anger out on Lucius, Lucius who had always been loyal to the Dark Lord's cause and knew nothing of his wife's deceit.
The next she saw of him was to identify his body… or what was left of it. Beautiful Lucius he was no longer, she couldn't even see her husband in that mangled corpse she had been brought to see. She saw the crest on the one remaining finger Voldemort had left him, though, and that one act of recklessness that Lucius had sported just before they got married. The tattoo, it's twin on her shoulder-blade. A small curving dragon, it's wings wrapped around itself. It still gleamed and glistened on his dirt and blood smeared forearm, the opposite to his dark mark. The silver scales were luminescent, and there seemed to be genuine pain in the dragon's eyes as it looked up at her, it's protector gone. Then it had closed it's eyes and the tattoo seemed to smoke before turning into something like a muggle tattoo, lifeless and one dimensional. She hadn't cried, not there, but the tears had come to her that night when she lay in her bed, ever alone.
The thoughts were far too morbid for her taste. Narcissa's fingers curled tighter around the stem of her champagne flute, then relaxed. She wouldn't think of bad things here, not now. The past, gone. It was over and done with…. But she still lived with the guilt of her husband's death on her conscience. She saved one man… and condemned the other. The life of her best friend for that of her husband. What a cruel price to pay. She hadn't been able to speak properly to Severus since then, seeing the man always made her… remember. Made her edgy. Guilt didn't sit well with Narcissa, she avoided it all she could. She was, mostly, a remorseless woman, cold. But she was still human, still felt, when the occasion rose for it. Her husband's death always left a bitter taste of guilt in her mouth, unaccustomed. She disliked it greatly. It inconvenienced her, this new conscience. She preferred being the amoral bitch she used to be.
"You shouldn't brood. Take it from me, I know that too much brooding can be tiresome."
Narcissa flicked an irritable glance backward, about to ream into the unfortunate man who disturbed her peace when she realised who it was. With a slow, almost comical (for him, at least. And he found it very comical) blink, she stared at the figure that had appeared next to her. The dark haired man offered her a grin. "Hello, Cissa."
"Merlin," she murmured, her face paling. "Hell's bells and beyond, Wesley. I… You're dead. You're supposed to be dead."
"I am, aren't I?" Wesley looked rueful. Then he grinned at her. "It's quite the day for one to see Narcissa Black sitting out a party. Even as…tiresome as this."
"Malfoy," she corrected absently, eyes still skimming over heartbreakingly familiar features. "What in Circe's name is going on, Wesley?"
"Well," he smiled, self-deprecatingly. "I was killed in a light vs. evil kind of war. That is to say, a good war. Fight the good fight and all that," he laughed ironically. "It seems the Powers That Be aren't quite done with me, yet."
"Power's That Be?" she inquired in a voice one would associate to be used in discussion about weather, or something equally as mundane.
"Hmm. What's this Malfoy business?"
"I married Luc, Wesley."
Wesley blinked.
"You married Luc? What in damnation were you thinking, woman?"
"I think the point is that I wasn't," she said, dryly. "I was hopelessly in love with him, at the time. Dazzled by him. He was quite the charismatic little fuckwit, back in the day. Good looking, as well."
"If you like the type," he muttered. "Did he cut that godawful hair of his?"
Narcissa threw back her head and laughed.
"No, I'm afraid. Luc was always vain about his hair."
Wesley made a face at her.
"I bet he started using a cane like his father did." At the look on Narcissa face, Wesley blanched. "Good Lord, he didn't."
"Oh yes," Narcissa smiled, slightly, wistfully. "I hated that bloody cane of his. Always told him that it made him look like a right prat. And the hair made him look like a goddamn pansy. But did he listen to me?" she snorted. "I think not. Someone should have hexed Edward Malfoy to death long before cousin Elspeth did."
Wesley grinned at his cousin, blue eyes that matched hers exactly gleaming with remembered mischief.
"It's not nice to think ill of the dead, Cissa." Then he frowned when he saw eyes darken. "What's wrong?"
"That's just what we were doing, Wesley." Her voice was soft as her eyes took in the party, fingers rubbing the base of her flute. "I'd almost forgotten, what with talking to you. But… that's exactly what we were doing. Luc's dead." The abruptness in her tone made him almost miss the last sentence. When it sank in, however, he stared at her, horrified.
"Cissa…"
"C'est la vie, right?" she laughed bitterly, picking up her flute and downing the contents. She didn't even grimace at the taste of the flat, cheap champagne. She flagged down another house elf and helped herself to another. She drank that one down as well, before she turned to face him again, her mouth curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes, those haunted eyes that were so like his. "I made him die."
"Cissa-"
"Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't personally kill him. I wouldn't have had it in me. But… I killed him. It was me that caused him his death. Me. Stupid, stupid. They found out Sev was a spy for Dumbledore." She looked up, her eyes wild. "I didn't know, but I couldn't let them crucio him to death, could I? Sev might be a caustic git, but he's my best friend. I had to save him, didn't I?"
Wesley's heart broke just a little. Cissa might have seemed to be the frailest of the Black sisters, but she wasn't, she so wasn't. Those that thought so knew nothing of Narcissa Black. The youngest had steel in her spine, ice in her blood and determination in spades. She had courage aplenty, too, and a good brain in that pretty head of hers. So many took Narcissa for granted, anonymous despite her beauty for so few would recon she would be capable of what she was. She could withstand so much pain, this cousin he thought of as his favourite. Cissa had strength in spades, in that slim body of hers. Strength that none would even guess at. To see her almost broken like this… he hurt. And he knew the wisdom in the PTB for sending him back home. He was needed here, despite the war being over. Or… not quite so over as they wanted to believe it was. He leaned over and took Cissa in his arms, ignoring the fact that they were in a party, in public, just took her into his arms like he had so many times as they were little and even though he knew she wouldn't cry, he held her.
"It wasn't wrong," he finally said into her hair. "It will never be wrong. You made a mistake, my little viper, but your intentions… they were good."
"Is that enough?"
Wesley grinned, crookedly.
"It's good enough for Buddhists." Then he sighed. "It will never be good enough for you, darling. But you would feel as wretched if Sev had been killed instead, and you had done nothing to help him."
"The Dark Lord tortured Luc because I wasn't there, because I turned coat. Wes… they destroyed him. I.." her eyes gleamed just a bit, with unshed tears, and he wondered if she would break down. But Narcissa, despite forming cracks, would not allow for the world to see her shatter. She was prouder than that, she was a Black. Blacks never showed weakness. She lifted that stubborn chin of hers and met his eyes. "They made me identify his body. I… I almost couldn't, Wes. Not because it was him, but because… because there was almost nothing left to work with."
Wesley closed him eyes, and wished that Voldemort was alive so he could kill the bastard with his bare hands. He knew that his cousin, should she know his thoughts, would only smile in amusement and drawl about men's complexity and need for ego rubbing and being so-called protectors to the female race. He knew she was somewhat right, but that was just how he was programmed. They'd hurt his family, he wanted to rip something (or someone) apart. Instead, he sighed and took a flute of champagne from a house elf. He toasted her, then took a hefty gulp, wishing it were whisky, or something equally strong. He remembered they had a bottle of pink brandy at the Black manor. He wondered if that was where Narcissa was living, now.
"I live in Malfoy manor, still," she said, as though able to read his thoughts. She didn't look at him, though, seeming faraway. "Just Draco and I this year. For Yuletide. Not that we were ever the sort that celebrates Yuletide the way it should. But… just the two of us, this year." She then frowned. "Are you staying long?"
"I don't know," he said, honestly. "But… I aspect it shall be quite some time." She nodded, absently.
"You can stay in the manor. I know you haven't met Draco yet (he's my son). We can celebrate Yule like we did when we were younger," she smiled, slightly. "You can have the room near mine. Draco has the right wing entirely to himself. We have the left. We can sit in the library drinking port or cognac and talk about old times. Would that be satisfactory?"
He found he had quite the lump in his throat. Yule with family… he hadn't had that for far too long. He shot Narcissa a smile.
"That would be lovely. Thank you."
"It's quite alright." She looked at him then, shrewdly. "You can tell me all about this Powers That Be business, and answer a few questions I have as to your being here and… alive."
He sighed. He forgot that he'd always believed his cousin should have been sorted into Ravenclaw.
End ficlet
