Not With a Bang

Pairing: Secret

Universe: Post-Hogwarts

Rating: M for language, implied sex

Summary: Originally submitted to the Wordsmiths & Betas Rare Pairs One Shot Competition (awarded Overall Honorable Mention, Runner Up Judge's Favorite, Runner Up Fan Favorite), first posted in Amortentia, and now finds a home here.

In sum: Narcissa Malfoy has a terrible secret.


Narcissa woke in the middle of the night, her eyes fluttering open as she heard the whisper of his voice float through her mind. She woke slowly, deliberately; she fought it, as she always did, knowing that the moment her eyes opened her view of reality would be dim and crushing. In the darkness she could see the glow of Lucius's pale hair, his shoulders shaking in his sleep.

He never would recover. Neither would she.

She ought to hold him, she knew. She wanted to, but he was a stranger in her arms. Had been for a long time.

Too long.

With Draco missing nearly a year, she had been wretchedly emptied, hollowed out with sorrow and left aching in her grief. The Dark Lord's presence was pervasive, his twisted influence a lingering shadow in what scattered shards remained of her life.

And then there was him.

She heard her name on his lips, a fleeting whisper in a darkened room. He shouldn't say it, should never have said it. And she - she shouldn't hear it. There were so many elements of wrong that she spent most of her time desperately fighting it; whatever pleasure she managed to take from him, it was scattered and frantic, scarcely enough to outweigh the guilt.

But in the intimate moments, in the pressure of his fingers on her back, the brush of his lips on her throat - she was powerless and whole. Desolate and fulfilled.

It was wrong. All wrong.

She wasn't sure she could identify how it started; truth be told, she hadn't even realized how far she'd gone until she heard herself say his name, a desperate cry that ripped itself from her lips, and afterwards she had gasped, hearing it, her nails embedded in his shoulder, the look of rapturous hunger in his eye that hadn't yet extinguished. It never would, perhaps. He always wanted more, he always demanded more, and yet he must have known.

Surely he had known she never had anything to give.

A symptom of his youth, she was sure. He was a well that could never be filled, and so was she, in a manner of speaking. Never enough.

Never enough.

But the slip of his tongue along her spine, the scrape of his teeth against her inner thigh; she was somehow even less without it. Despite her better judgment she knew she would amount to less than nothing without him, and she was powerless in his arms.

He held her like the world was ending, and perhaps it was. She wondered how he had even seen her, how he had managed to catch a glimpse of her at all when she was so sure she had already disappeared, her presence shrinking to nothing in the heavy weight of her loss. The loss of her husband, the shell of him cold in her bed; the loss of her son, his absence an abrasion embedded in the depths of her soul. She was sure she had gone. She was sure she was nothing.

And yet he saw her.

She had always been vain, always been proud. Always been beautiful. Perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised when it happened; perhaps he'd been looking long before she actually caught the glimmer of craving in his eye.

First it was her name on his lips; her first hint should have been the shiver that ran through her, the dull roar that pulsed to a scream in her mind at hearing him say it. It felt like a secret even when it was nothing, even when it was less than nothing; just her name on his lips.

And then it was the brush of his hand up her spine when nobody was looking. She'd had to close her eyes at the agony of it. The devastation of knowing it was wrong, all wrong, and yet please - please.

Again.

Again.

When had he known he had her? Perhaps she'd never want to know, never want to admit herself so weak as to allow herself comfort in his grasp.

Stop.

She'd felt him smile at that.

Never.

Please, she begged, as he brought his hands to her waist. Stop.

He relaxed his hold and she nearly wept against him.

His breath against her ear, laughing.

Never.

She realized she had left the bed, left her chambers, left the interior of the home she'd spent years building and only moments destroying; she was wandering in her gardens, her feet bare, her hair loose. This is what it had come to.

It was dark outside, and dewy. The smell of gardenias and summer in the air and yet she could only think of him, of the elegance of his fingers, the quickness of his wit, whenever she permitted him his stolen moments; it was rare, certainly, but she was weak. Her life had made her weak. Her love had made her damaged, and he had sprung up in the cracks, finding a twisted home in her contemptible vulnerability.

This cannot last, she told him, and he pressed her roughly against the wall.

Fine, he muttered, ripping her bodice and lowering his head to her breasts.

This has to stop, she insisted, and he ground against her, lifting her leg over his hip.

Fine, he agreed, slipping inside her. Say my name.

No.

Say it.

And it always came out in a gasp, revealed itself in a whimper.

Again.

No.

Say it again.

No, no, no.

But she always did. And she clung to him, selfishly.

Don't stop.

I won't.

Don't -

Never, he promised her, and the pain was exquisite.

She sank to the ground, fighting it. Fighting the want, the need. It was wrong, all wrong; it was all she had and that alone was proof she had nothing.

Less than nothing.

This has to stop.

Fine, he said, his arms tight around her as she sobbed against his chest. Proof she had nothing.

And now she was here. Another sleepless night, like always. The smell of gardenias and summer and yet all she could think of was him.

The sun would be up soon, she thought, closing her eyes.

"You should be sleeping."

He always knew where to find her. He was observant that way, and relentless.

A symptom of youth.

"Don't," she warned, her eyes still closed.

He knelt behind her, his chest pressed against her back. She would have sighed in satisfaction if the thought of him didn't catch in her throat and choke her.

"Lie to me," she whispered.

"This doesn't mean anything," he murmured back, his lips against her ear.

She sighed, letting it happen.

Again.

"Say my name," he told her, tangling his fingers in her hair and yanking her head back, running his fingers delicately from the curve of her lips to the pulsing hollow of her chest.

Wrong, all wrong.

"Theo," she said, and he sank his teeth into her neck.


a/n: For a follow up to this story/pairing, read on . . .