They had been courting for months now, much longer than Romulus had anticipated. At the dawn of their courtship, he had estimated only a few weeks would be necessary to achieve his aims. She was beautiful, for certain, but a woman nonetheless—and he had yet to meet one more than a shade different from the last. But as time passed, he found it more and more difficult to satiate his craving for her.
He would escort her to King's Cross at each finale of a weekend courting—accompanied by her lady's maids, an every-present reminder of her teasing chastity—and his blood would rush through each muscle, movement, moment. His mind was truly buoyant—entirely gratified.
But when the steam engine's shrill whistle cut through the thick London air, the life that merely moments earlier had acted to bring his satisfaction to a high now pounded against his flesh, triggering an instinctual want for more. His lungs: sucked in harsh gusts of her lingering scent; his tongue: searched frenziedly for a final taste of her.
At this instant, wonder would dawn, for she would raise the window pain in synchronicity with his fluctuation. Delicate fingers hidden beneath gloves would take shape in the dwindling silver light, followed by skin and eyes that hinted of pleasures to come. Her lips would extend minutely to meet her fingertips, pucker and release. He would find himself envious of the silken gloves that spent so much time stretched over her skin—that lingered precious moments longer than he against her mocking mouth. She would smile coquettishly; her hair would blow through the window; his fingers would contract, wanting more.
In the desperate days that stretched between their last and next moments, he would search for trinkets and baubles to rest along his favorite stretches of her skin in his absence. Some, she liked and kept. Others didn't suit her tastes. Few were not appropriate for a girl of her age to accept, and she promptly returned them with her thanks.
Each time her owl arrived at his window with a neatly packed parcel tied to its leg, he heard her voice hiss in his ear: "You can do better than baubles and tricks." An apparitional Narcissa would materialize before him, fierce and wild with her hair billowing about as it would in a storm. Her little teeth were sharp, and her dark eyes without depth. "Impress me," she'd whisper. Her form would writhe across his mind, "you'll never find yourself in my bed if you continue like this." Her legs would wrap around his dreams. "I can have anything I want;" and the words that would linger like smoke, "make me want you."
In his presence she grew bolder—her manners remained perfectly modest—but she was sharper, brighter. The atmosphere around her molded to the whims and actions of Narcissa, and it was plainly clear she was on the cusp of great change.
When Narcissa awoke each minute hair that covered her skin stood on end. She rose from her bed, and the moment her feet met the wood floor a pulsating hum soaked her skin. Life, greater than there was before, sparked in the air, and she knew a great transformation was readying itself in the grounds beneath her.
The thought of waking her maids, dressing, and politely inquiring after the action later occurred to Narcissa. But it passed through her mind so quickly she was already moving away the large tapestry that covered her wall before it reached its fullest fruition. She slipped behind the small oak door, and was soon within the corridors that ran like a skeleton beneath the estate.
As she followed the cold stone wall it curved and forked, the echo of ever-growing life began to reach her ears, and she knew if she ventured a little further, pushed on a little farther, she would see it breathing before her eyes. But she turned away, deciding to wait until the changing force was fully grown.
The Dark Lord's eyes rolled back within his head, and he raised a hand to each temple. He sat within a cold, cavernous chamber, upon a throne of skull and bone, from which he would watch the actions of the day. Flickers of green flame cast from the torches found their way into his vision. He pressed on further, extending his monumental mind until he found her.
Narcissa sat behind a grand desk within a study that was clearly not her own. Without shame she looked through it's contents. There were letters regarding the maintenance of Romulus's estate, remnants of his correspondence with her, arrangements for their weekend courting, but none of these maintained her attention for very long.
She continued to look for anything of interest—anything to explain the remarkable flare of life that hummed beneath her feet—and became still at the sight of a particular mark. The Dark Lord's ego surged with pride, for it was his mark she hesitated over, his mark that inspired her to inquire further.
Unfolding the parchment carefully, she absorbed its contents: plans for further recruitments—dates, locations, discussions of whom would best fortify Lord Voldemort's army. The mention of Hogwarts propelled her curiosity further, and the sparks of her pride that caused her to immediately look for her name amongst every piece of parchment inspired great feeling within the Dark Lord.
He watched her—her icy blue eyes bright with cunning and quick curiosity—her moon-pale skin alive with light—her blood that pooled beneath her cheeks, revealing the strength of her instinctual ambition. She seemed familiar in some way, kin to something very near. The little teeth at the corners of her mouth peeked out. She smiled at the Dark Lord's description of Hogwarts in one particular letter, and it became clear: she reminded him of a Tom Riddle left behind, a Tom Riddle just steps out of school, a Tom Riddle who supplied the shelves of Borgin and Burkes with the wizarding world's grandest and darkest objects.
His value was in the persuasive ability of creamy skin over sharp bones, the smile that spread with convincing ease, and the dark eyes that lured many. He assessed the girl. She represented power as old as magic blood, the assured legacy of those truly pure, the unyielding strength of the nobility. The Dark Lord momentarily considered binding his mark to her skin. But no—he focused on her delicate little wrists, the miniature veins which pressed fresh blood against her flesh, and concluded that he ought not blemish his emblem of purity.
The Dark Lord released his watch on Narcissa. His eyes rolled forward and focused on his fearsome pet. "Nagini," he hissed, "bring Romulus to me."
Lucius rushed through the brambles, unflinching at the contact of thorns that drew blood. Appiration had not been an option, as it was closely monitored by the Headmaster, nor were carriages or enchanted cars. He had studied the castle for weeks, found what it kept hidden. The only way out of Hogwarts was through passageways, and the only way to Wiltshire was underground. When the sons of the great purebloods received their challenge from the Dark Lord, many felt it impossible, for they had been told so many times before of Hogwarts's impenetrability. And where none could enter, none could leave. But Lucius understood this was a means to filter away the unwanted. Now, it was time to establish the good and the great.
Without warning, the air absorbed the light cast from his wand, robbing him of sight.
"Lumos," he said, but it was extinguished instantaneously.
"The Dark Lord," a voice said in a whipping whisper, "wishes to see your faith. Should you be chosen, he must know you will follow beyond your own perceptions."
Lucius took a step forward into the dark—it was palpable, like ink splashed into the air. It consumed him, filled his lungs, flooded his veins. He took another step, and the vines beneath his feet began to slither. They ran up his legs and pulled him under. The ground of the tunnel crumbled. But he did not panic. If Lord Voldemort wanted to see the lengths of his servitude, he would display them without delay. (It was not of any consequence that the faith he was executing was in his own self—in his belief that his actions would lead him to the power he was ready to inherit—for at this moment, the two were one in the same.)
At his lack of struggle, the Devil's Snare released him, and he found himself at the guarded mouth of a cave. Dark magic shimmered in the air before him. He nudged a rock into his path, testing the ground before him.
Words revealed themselves along the mouth: Only one way forward, to an end you cannot see. Should your doubt overcome your trust, you will be devoured by me.
Lucius stepped into the threshold of the cave, and the tunnel behind him became engulfed in Fiendfyre.
"Wise choice, young one," came the voice again, "but now there is the matter of your name."
"Malfoi," he responded in the original French.
"A pure and powerful lineage," the voice hissed, "but how to be certain?"
Lucius, growing impatient, drew his wand over his finger, opening the flesh and allowing the blood to flow. It fell to the earth beneath him, marking the ancient ground. The fire ceased and the voice recoiled.
"Reveal your faith," the parting words echoed through the cave, and Lucius raced into the dark.
His robes were ever so torn, his skin stained by blood and mud, but he paid this no mind, for it made him look every bit more the hero. It would be clear from the start that he would be most dedicated, most cunning, most talented. Lord Voldemort sensed his presence at the periphery of the tunnel, and was delighted that his next wave of power was now within his grasp.
He turned his attention to the matter before him. "In December you will be going to the Continent," he said to Romulus. "There is a wizard in Istanbul that has survived for nearly a millennium; he is similarly minded in regard to the mudblood infestation, and has pledged his devotion. You will ensure of it."
"Yes, my Lord," replied Romulus with practiced servitude.
"There is another whose sympathies err on our side, and for him you will travel to Prague. It is tantamount that you persuade him to follow the Dark Lord. He will secure the East."
Romulus nodded curtly, like any other soldier with his marching orders. The Dark Lord's attention was waning, his eyes drifting toward the mouth of the tunnel more and more. His wand rolled beneath his fingers, and Nagini curled in anticipation. She hissed, rising toward Lord Voldemort's hand, and hissed once more.
"Oh yes," the Dark Lord continued, "Miss Black will accompany you on your journey."
The torches along the heavy, stone walls crackled as they consumed air. The bustle-swish-scuff of activity just outside the cavern permeated the din. Echoes of a progressing recruit reached them. Romulus did not release breath for many moments. It was an effort to resist doubting the great wisdom of the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord knows all, he reminded himself, has foreseen the outcome. Surely, if he has chosen Narcissa it is to guarantee the very greatest result… Yet, he could not stop the thought—the doubt and curiosity that bloomed in his mind.
"There is a question which consumes you," mused the Dark Lord. "And I could very easily pluck it from your mind, but… go ahead."
Romulus selected his words with great care, "why Narcissa, my Lord? While her talents are promising, she has not yet graduated Hogwarts, nor is she a Death Eater. I do not see-"
"No, you cannot," said the Dark Lord, "and for that, you are forgiven." He paused, running a fingernail along Nagini's scales, allowing his extraordinary grace to linger before his follower.
"Dark minds make for fickle allies," he enthused, "and there is no room within my ranks for wavering dedication. Narcissa," his pronunciation of her name was notably hushed, eluding to an enviable familiarity, "will ensure they are steadfast in their loyalty—forever allegiant—to Lord Voldemort."
"How-?"
"It is her very nature," he murmured, "to inspire such devotion."
While in the library, a gentle hiss caught Narcissa's attention. It slipped into the air and away through the window before she could be certain of it's meaning, but she was consumed by the notion that the slithering sound was her name.
"Pardon," she asked of her lady's maid. The woman, much older than she, looked up from her charmed embroidery momentarily. "I didn't say a thing, Miss."
Narcissa's brow furrowed, and a little eleven appeared on her forehead. "Curious." She looked off in the direction of the sound and decided to follow.
"Narcissa," she heard it again and again and again as she descended further beneath the house. It hissed over the air, and just as she felt she was about to catch it, it disappeared.
She slipped away behind another door, and crept down the ancient stone stairs with great ease. Her soft, slender feet found their way forward, seeing what her eyes could not in the dwindling light.
"Lumos," she whispered, and the corridor before her filled with cold, blue light. There was still no one to be found, but the rumblings of life she felt upon waking were roaring beneath her.
The wall in front of her curved forward, acting as the ceiling for whatever lay under her feet. It was unlike the wall behind her, in that it was not several solid layers of stone and wood. Rather, it was like the walls built by wizards long ago that supported her home—rocks the size of a giant's head piled atop each other, bound into place by magic.
There was a gap between two not far from her, from which the sound of voices so familiar encouraged her to come nearer. She climbed atop one and then another until she could peer through the crevice. As the green light of the cavern beneath filled her eyes, a wide, satisfied leer consumed her.
Below her, she saw Romulus, and before him the Dark Lord upon a great and fearsome throne. Oh, she knew it! At breakfast Romulus had lied through his teeth. She knew as soon as his lips curled around the first word that each one to follow would be false. The house had practically grown limbs and lungs, yet still he grinned, waved it all away, and said things were perfectly ordinary.
She stretched her lips into a most alluring smile, and kept herself from claiming bullocks. He had focused so much of himself on impressing her that he would never allow for anything ordinary to occur—lest she began associating him with the word. But the more he lied, the greater the secret grew, and by the final course it had grown into a monster.
Romulus rose from his stance, and the Dark Lord, as if sensing Narcissa, glanced in her direction. But she did not hide or run away; she remained, waiting for the scene to unfold.
A great clatter resounded from the mouth of the cavern. Swords, battle-axes—relics of the Lestrange legacy—crashed to the ground. The aftermath of spells illuminated the space before the source, and a figure emerged. Men in dark robes wearing masks both menacing and intriguing to Narcissa filled the cavern and lined the walls, flanking the Dark Lord. The figure—a man—progressed further toward Lord Voldemort, but still she could not see.
She climbed further atop the boulder, an action which afforded her the advantage of a closer proximity to the Dark Lord. Her name—the same inviting hiss—pressed through the cracks, and she made herself as close to the scene as she could be. The figure stepped forward, and for a moment began to look familiar, before he kneeled at Lord Voldemort's feet.
"You have successfully overcome every obstacle we placed before you." The Dark Lord straightened in his throne, his tone vaguely proud. "Well done, young one, well done." He gestured to the Death Eater at his left as he spoke, "Your shattering of Knott's Cruciatus curse was most impressive."
"Thank you, your Grace," the voice was quiet, distant, and by the time it reached Narcissa it was but an echo.
The Dark Lord watched the man before him for a moment. "What brings you here?" he asked. "What has called you," the following words were formed slowly, like freezing ice, "to my service?"
The flames along the wall shivered in the shifting air. Narcissa was enraptured with anticipation, she pressed closer still.
"Noblesse oblige," the figure said, his voice perfectly clear. It traveled through space and sound in the smallest moment, and rang in Narcissa's ear. It struck so quickly in her mind, she felt the words were spoken solely for her.
Her breath quickened, her spine stiffened, and Narcissa as we will know her began to form.
There was a small sound that resounded from behind her, but so fixed was she on the proceedings beneath that she hardly paid it any mind.
The Dark Lord was increasingly intrigued. When he first proposed the question, he flipped his wand from finger to finger, but now it was still—clutched tightly in his palm. He watched the man for many moments, apparently working on a matter greater than those before him could conceive. Finally, the Dark Lord opened his mouth to speak.
A hand traced the shape of her leg—it was warm, familiar, wanting. It raised the hem of her robes, and a pair of lips met the flesh at the back of her knee, tickled, teased. Her breath became unsteady. "Beautiful," Romulus said, the word hushed—perhaps accidentally spoken.
"Lumos Maxima," Narcissa whispered, and her suitor was clearly outlined in the cold blue light.
She lost focus of the Dark Lord, of the man before him, of the words that etched themselves into her bones. Her breath halted briefly, for as she turned to face Romulus, she was struck by the strength that surged through him, the confidence of the smile that spread slowly over his face. And was for the first time keenly aware that she was perhaps the only person who'd never given him what he wanted, the moment he wanted it.
A rakish smile transformed her lips and deviated her eyes. "You lied to me this morning," she stated haughtily.
"About what?" he asked innocently as his lips brushed over the flesh he had uncovered. He continued higher, becoming bolder when she did not stop him.
"The Dark Lord," she replied, through the release of a satisfied sigh.
"I don't believe we ever spoke of him," he answered, pausing momentarily to glance at her as he spoke.
"Precisely the problem." She placed two elegant, delicate fingers beneath his chin, halting his progression. "I hardly find what's going on beneath us perfectly ordinary."
She crouched, descending to his height, and drew him near. Her silvery hair shone like waves of stardust in the lumos-light, her skin glowed like the moon on the sea. She leaned closer, let him feel the warmth that rolled forward from her skin, smell her lovely perfume. And then she kissed him—her lips parted minutely, brushed over his gently. He responded with great fervor, his lips pleading for hers. But she maintained a punishing distance, and with each attempt at enticing her closer, she stayed teasingly out of reach.
The Dark Lord assessed Lucius as he dueled three of his soldiers. He parried with great skill and was a most talented fighter. He was not especially strong, nor was he markedly quick. But he was cunning, oh so very cunning. And fortunately for dear Lucius that is what the Dark Lord preferred most of all, for strength and speed could be learnt, but a sharp and clever mind was a mark of those born greatest.
Lucius's words lingered in Lord Voldemort's mind. Noblesse oblige, he loved the very thought of it. It suited his purposes so perfectly. Words from another had not embraced his pride so thoroughly since those spoken by Miss Black.
He searched for her. She was near. He could sense her in the air above. Nagini hissed her name through the air again, and the most curious event transpired. In an instant, Lucius stunned his dueling partners, and looked all about the cavern, searching, yearning. The Dark Lord turned to Nagini, amused. Had the boy heard it too?
Nagini hissed her name once more. This time Narcissa turned to them, her hair flashing in the space she occupied above, and unmistakable recognition was clear across Lucius's face.
A dark, hoarse rattle, a ghost of legitimate joy rattled through Lord Voldemort. "Enough," he decreed, satisfied. "Step forward."
"Who is that?" Narcissa asked from her perch.
Romulus shrugged, disinterested. "Just a recruit."
"But he looks young," stated Narcissa, turning away from him again. "Perhaps my age."
"The Dark Lord has plans for you, you know," said Romulus, wanting her full attention.
"Plans?" she asked, transfixed.
"Mhmm, he wants you to accompany me on a tour of potential allies."
"But why?" Her eyes narrowed and her mind swam in this new light.
Romulus smiled smugly. "He felt that your presence would leave no room for disloyalty."
Terrifying, gleeful ambition consumed her. Her teeth were suddenly sharp and strong, her eyes bright and wild. When she spoke, her voice possessed an overwhelming clarity and pride, "When do we leave?"
Beneath her, Lucius kneeled at Lord Voldemort's feet, his arm within the dark wizard's hand. The Dark Lord pressed the tip of his wand to Lucius's forearm, and a mark the shape of a skull and a snake began to grow within his flesh.
The mark was not possessed by ink like the marks of many others. It was grand and dark and binding—mightier than the magic that swam in his blood, pushed through his heart, and bound his bones together.
Noblesse oblige, indeed.
Hello, all!
I know this story has been on hiatus for about a year now, but I'm very excited to be back! While on hiatus I made a tumblr as a source for pictures that inspired me, and things of that nature. The name is virtueofthevicious-hpff if you're interested. Thanks for reading!
