Chapter 11

Narcissa's pale hand ran down the grand vanity table that stood forgotten in her parent's old master bedroom. Her reflection in the oval mirror was disconcerting - the last time she had seen herself reflected in that polished ornament, she had been a young woman; no tired eyes, no dark circles under them that required real dedication to hide, no lines across her temple that spoke of years of worrying; no lots of things she wasn't inclined to compare.

She hesitated before picking up her mother's perfume and spraying some into the empty air. Like a homecoming the rich scent welcomed her back into an old life, inviting her to close her eyes and believe that when she opened them her mother would be sitting on the vanity imparting some wisdom as she did her makeup. She kept them closed, almost able to hear her mother reminding her that a lady is known by her shoes and her gloves.

The fortress was intent on driving her mad, she thought indignantly once she opened her eyes and surveyed the lifeless room. Like Hogwarts, the Black Fortress's stairway system had a life of its own. The many doors in the ballroom entrance gave the inhabitants the illusion of choice, when in fact the fortress itself decided what room they really needed to go in. Originally intended to ensure visitors would never get lost on their way to the toilets, the fortress had sometimes taken the role of protecting the residents from themselves.

With resignation Narcissa sat in front of the vanity, placing the bottle of burgundy liquid back in its place next to the row of lipsticks. Twenty three years since she had sat in this room. Twenty three years since her mother had died and the fortress had decided to seal the room. They had ended on icy terms, but Narcissa now understood her mother's cruel sorrow from having lost a daughter to social confines - there were some loses that just did not dull with time.

Druella had never been the same after that wicked night in October when Andromeda had had a vision of courage and so packed her stuff and left into the night.

As Narcissa studied her aged reflection in the mirror, she finally understood that it had been the grief that had ruined her mother, far more than the societal disgrace.

Druella had been sitting on the chair Narcissa now sat when she had officially announced to her daughter her betrothal to Lucius a few years after the... incident with Andromeda.

"Now, you will finish your N.E.W.T.'s and by August you'll have married Lucius Malfoy." Druella had said dryly as she carefully moved her wand around her head, sculpting an elaborate hairstyle.

Narcissa had felt her heart drop to her stomach like a glacier violently falling into the sea. She had always known this would be her inevitable end but that didn't make finally facing her betrothal any easier.

"I suggest you start wiping that sour look from your face - after what your blood traitor for a sister did, you should be thankful that that Malfoy boy still wants you." Druella had scolded coldly, her expression becoming increasingly darker.

"No." Narcissa had whispered.

"I beg your pardon?" Druella hissed back, immediately swinging round from her vanity table.

"No." Narcissa had repeated, quickly brushing off an angry tear that had fallen down her cheek. She had well known that what she was doing was foolish and futile but any less felt like too easy a surrender. "You go and marry Lucius. I don't want to share his bed."

"Want?" Druella had repeated incredulously as she stood up and slowly made her way to where Narcissa had been standing by the bed. "Since when has 'want' have anything to do with this?" She continued pitilessly.

"Please Mama..." Narcissa begged in a low whimper.

"Stop. Crying." Druella ordered, her heart clenching into iron. "A lady of your upbringing should know better than to cry; or are you another failure for a daughter?"

Narcissa had quickly shaken her head as she bit her lower lip, willing her eyes to stop weeping, but tried as she might, the fat tears had kept pouring down her pretty face as her body was convulsed with silent sobs. Druella had roughly grabbed her daughter's chin in her hand and slowly snarled, "do not provoke me any further, Narcissa Black, or I may lose my temper. And believe me when I say that I can hate you as much as I have loved you so far." Druella let go of her daughter. "Now get out of my sight. I expect you looking your best for when the Malfoy's arrive in an hour."

Narcissa shook her head, gazing back in the mirror to find in her older features evidence that she had long since grown-up and she was her own woman now. With an eye roll, she remembered how that particular dinner party still stood as the most awkward in her life.

Everyone had shown up dressed to the nines, stiffly uncomfortable and thinking of a hundred other things they could be doing with their evening.

Her father had sat at the head of the table, nervously gulping down wine with Lucius at his left and Abraxas at his right. Next to her soon to be husband had been Rodolphus; and between herself and her brother-in-law was Bella, discreetly pulling at the diamond choker on her neck that was living up to its name. In front of them the two matriarchs had sat together, both sending each other haughty looks and trying to one-up the other. Narcissa hadn't understood what they were trying to accomplish - her mother had always said that society was the intercourse of persons on a footing of equality, real or apparent. As Druella sent a politely worded insult to Hecuba Malfoy's way concerning the allegations of her cousin's affair with a muggle, Narcissa had tried to understand why they were acting like either was superior to the other.

"Will you be attending the World Cup?" Her father had asked Hecuba in an attempt to break the animosity that was seething from the two witches.

"I would never participate in what I consider to be the death of art and civilisation." Hecuba bit back. The whole table had turned to look at Druella; the pureblood had taken a calmly measured spoonful of her soup, somehow managing to convey contempt without moving a muscle beyond her dainty eating.

Narcissa had taken a sip of her own soup, reflecting on how her mother was going contrary to all that which she had taught her. Good breeding was not supposed to consist in who could win the tacky blood-purity competition; but in an easy, civil and respectful behaviour. The sour mood on the table had been disheartening from the first course.

"Style, like silk, all too often conceals eczema." Narcissa said out loud as she stood up from the chair and moved to the bed, flopping backwards into the large expanse of heavily decorated sheets.

Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. Her sister was dead. Her husband was dead. Her cousins were dead. Her brothers-in-law were dead. Her niece was dead. Her friends were dead. Death used to mean something - a statement instead of a list. Now all graves were shallow. This late age of world's experience had bred in them all, all witches and wizards, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; all in a perfectly upright and stoical bearing. And yet, as Narcissa emptily looked up at the dark wooden beams she wondered why, if death was so peaceful and painless, did all living things prefer life to death?

She remembered Lucius clinging on senselessly onto his last few months of life like a stubborn child who refused to let go of his toy. The cruel magic imbued in the dark mark on his left forearm spread all over his body poisoning its host as it was designed to do upon the death of the Dark Lord. Dark magic always killed its victim in the end, whether in one sharp blow or a slow trickle that corroded on the soul for decades until there was nothing left. It had been worse at night, when her husband woke up feeling a phantom pain of the cruciatus twisting and tearing his body. During the day the poor man could barely breath, his lungs choking on themselves as visions and voices teased with him relentlessly.

He used to say it started with goosebumps spreading through the length of his arm like a mocking warning; the anticipation of the pain almost as painful as the pain itself. Narcissa remembered watching him unable to do anything to give him a respite from his torture. Such a proud man had been reduced to a whimpering mess - the fear had been all over him, like a dead cold air falling down from the sky, suffocating him, clutching his lungs.

That damned mark.

And the irony of it all was that she had helped create it. It had been the summer before her sixth year - the Dark Lord had been Bella's guest at Black Fortress. It had been a time when Narcissa was still furious at her family for discarding Andromeda. That handsome man had swooped down on her, immediately recognising her talent and her pain the moment they had shaken hands.

During that almost dreamlike time before the wars when anything was possible, some corners of the universe bred the most terrible things. Things which acted against everything any sane person believed in. Amongst those corners was Black Fortress. Surrounded by the sea and the sky it was easy to forget the real world in which consequences existed. She had been a pampered teenager, incapable of grasping the effects of her actions. It had been like watching an object fall into a black hole, for no matter how long you watched, you would never see the object enter despite it already being sucked in.

He had asked her to help him create a branding mark for his followers. A mark that would ensure their loyalty. A mark that would ensure he owned them. Narcissa had argued that such a creation would destroy an essential part of whoever underwent it, for it meant renouncing freedom, and renouncing one's freedom was to renounce one's humanity. But he had persisted, charming her the way only he knew how. For after all, what was charm but the ability of obtaining the answer 'yes' without having asked a clear question?

And so young Narcissa had poured herself into dabbling into the theory of that dark magic, producing for the Dark Lord a plethora of ways for branding someone.

Narcissa had then gone back to Hogwarts, quickly forgetting her bizarre summer amidst the ordinary chatter of school life. That was, until the Christmas holidays when after tightly embracing her older sister at Platform 9 3/4's, her Bella had lifted her sleeve and shown her that black skull and snake tattoo marring her snow white skin. Petrified in the middle of the busy platform, Narcissa stared at it with silent horror as her sister proudly told her all about the ritual. She knew there was no possible quid pro quo for someone who renounced everything.

That winter had been spent in a constant state of shock with each beloved family and friend she had ever held dear to her heart, proudly showing her their mark. With frantic desperation each night she poured back over all her papers, calculating with masochistic precision all the effects that would slowly manifest with time and fruitlessly trying to invent a remedy despite knowing there was no solution for someone who had voluntarily offered everything. What right can a slave have against his master?

"Don't worry, Cissy. I'll restore the Black name back to its rightful glory after what that blood traitor did to us." Bella would reassure her at night when Narcissa slipped into her sister's room. Narcissa would trace a finger over the tattoo, imagining she could erase it with her finger. "This is just the first step, Cissy. The Dark Lord has great, great plans for us. It will be a new world order."

Narcissa never said anything. What could she do except watch the train wreck she had designed grotesquely unfold? Every so often, the Dark Lord would come back to her, demanding more research from her, exploiting her guilt. When she asked, what have I done? She really meant, what am I doing?

For twenty six years Narcissa had carried around that guilt with her like cold, soaking wet clothes that clung on her skin. She had sworn she had been about to have a nervous breakdown when she watched the Dark Lord carve out her son's arm; his muffled screams mingling with the smell of burnt flesh. The only thing that kept her from stupidly trying to draw wand against the Dark Lord was the knowledge that there was a fundamental difference between her son's mark and that of everyone else who had it. Her son didn't want it, whereas all the other death eaters in the room had gladly given up their soul for it.

Narcissa knew she could fight back dark magic that had been imposed on the host, unlike if the magic had been welcomed in. She didn't sleep for a week after the ritual on Draco, desperately creating a potion that would keep the darkness at bay. But her husband... her husband had been a lost cause from the start. So had her sister. So had every one else. The mark made them all dependent on the Dark Lord's lifeline. If he lived, so did they. Death eaters indeed.

"He is dead." She remembered calling out, knowing that she was condemning those she loved to death. He is dead. He is dead. He is dead. Those three words echoing forever in her head, even when they stopped sounding like words. He is dead. He is dead...

Why had the fortress decided to open this room up to her? She wondered tiredly, propping herself up.

"Limpy." She called out softly.

"Yes, mistress?" He asked shyly.

"Why...?"

The little house elf stroked his downcast ears and refused to look his mistress in the eye. "The fortress and Limpy decided that..."

"Decided what Limpy?" Narcissa asked sitting up properly.

"Decided to show mistress that mistress has been brave in the past, and that mistress deserves better now." Limpy said in one hurried sentence as he hunched himself into a little ball expecting to be reprimanded. Old habits died hard.

"Oh Limpy..." Narcissa said softly. The house elf opened one eye nervously and slowly untied himself from the knot he got into. "If only that were true." The pureblood stood up. "C'mon, Limpy. Lets get out of here. We need to start on Master Draco's potion before Miss Granger arrives."

"Yes, Mistress."

Until next time, dear reader. Until next time. R&R!