Monday, 31 October 1973
Narcissa took a deep breath and smoothed her hands over the lap of her traveling robes. Though she was alone, this was the only outward indicator she would permit that might bely her agitation. A week ago she had received a letter from Lucius Malfoy (her husband, she had to quickly remind herself). It was only the second he had sent since their wedding, and like the first it was written in elegant script and its contents were brief. However, unlike the first, this one had contained unequivocal instructions that she was to return from France.
Not permanently, it seemed. He'd said only that she should be at Number 7 Chesterfield Street no later than five o'clock on this date so they could attend his parents' annual Samhain gala as the ostensible pair they were meant to have become after their nuptials in August. She peeked out the window of the carriage to see that it had stopped at her destination.
An elf showed her into the stately townhouse and seated her in a parlour with tea. She felt very much to be a guest as she waited for his arrival, her gaze moving curiously over the elegant but unwelcoming decor. She sat alone for nearly ten minutes before he swept into the room at last, already dressed in handsome formal robes.
She kept her expression carefully calm; she had years of practice hiding behind an untroubled face. But her chest seemed to constrict at the sight of him and her stomach gave a small flip. This was not new— she'd harboured a secret infatuation of him for years, most girls did though, and not always so secretly. It did not seem real that he was her husband.
That's because it isn't real, an insidious voice in her head that sounded strangely like Bellatrix whispered. She swallowed and the thought that that might change tonight flickered through her mind, but she immediately dispelled it. If she dwelt on such considerations she would never be able to remain unaffected in his presence.
"You're not wearing that, are you?"
She started; she'd been concentrating so hard on maintaining an icy aloofness that she had not noticed his gaze flickering over her. Two faint spots of color appeared on her cheeks but her voice was remarkably even when she replied.
"Of course not, these are my traveling robes." Honestly, did he think this was the sort of thing she'd wear to a gala? It was only quarter past five, they'd not be expected at the Manor for three hours yet!
"Well, hurry up and change, will you? My mother wants us to join them for an early supper beforehand, we need to be there by six."
Her lips parted in shock. "And you didn't think to mention this in your letter?"
"I said to be here at five, didn't I?" he snapped, glancing impatiently at an ornate grandfather clock on the opposite end of the sitting room. "I'm going to answer some post in my study," he added abruptly. "Let me know when you're ready and we'll floo over."
"In dress robes?" she protested.
"You think my elves don't keep a clean hearth?" he sneered, already heading out of the room.
"But the powder alone—" she began, but he was already out of the room. It was a brief and unsatisfactory reunion, but she supposed it could only get better from here. Biting back a wave of frustration, she followed an elf up to a spare bedroom and bath to hurry through her preparations and made it back downstairs with two minutes to spare. When she knocked on the door to his private study and he bid her to come inside, she felt another, irrational surge of hope: it would soothe her nerves considerably to hear just one kind word, and her elf had really done an excellent job with her hair given the constrained timeframe.
He was sitting at his desk, frowning at a sheet of parchment that was dense with numbers. A decanter of scotch and half-empty tumbler sat near his elbow, and he tossed down the page and picked up this instead when she entered.
"You've very nearly made us late," he groused, throwing back the rest of his drink and rising to his feet. His gaze swept over her once more, and she thought for a moment that his cold, grey eyes softened for a split second (her heart contracted), but in the next moment it was gone and he merely nodded. "You'll go first," he announced, crossing to the fireplace and taking down an ornate snuffbox. He tossed a pinch of its contents into the flames, which flared and turned green at once.
She delicately lifted the hem of her silk gown, trying not to cringe as the pristine suede of her shoes met with ash, and tried to keep the irritation from her voice as she announced "Malfoy Manor" and swirled off. She hated traveling by floo under the best of circumstances, and she held her skirts close to avoid them catching on any of the grates she passed.
Narcissa stepped out into the main drawing room of the Manor and was greeted at once by the lovely Mrs. Malfoy (the other Mrs. Malfoy, she had to remind herself, as the title now applied to her as well). Lucius arrived seconds later and had little more than a nod of acknowledgement for his mother, who looked neither surprised nor hurt by his careless reception. She told an elf to go fetch her husband and led the way to the dining room, enquiring politely after Narcissa's health and tactfully avoiding asking any questions that might lead to the topic of why she was now living in France.
They took their places at the table and waited for the patriarch to make his appearance. Lucius snapped impatiently at an elf to fill his goblet with wine and had very nearly finished it by the time his father arrived.
Narcissa smiled tentatively in Abraxas's direction, hoping her nerves did not show. It was her first time alone with her husband and his parents; in all past visits she'd had her own mother, and often her father there as well. From what Druella had told her last year, Abraxas had approached Cygnus at the Walpurgis Club and asked after her specifically, setting the entire courtship (if it could be called such) into motion. Narcissa had not the faintest idea why he had done such a thing, and less still could she comprehend what had made him think of her. Prior to all this, she had never spoken to the senior Mr. Malfoy, and would not have expected him to know her even as one of the Miss Blacks, let alone her given name. The fact that he'd come to her father so soon after Andromeda's decampment was stranger still, as most of the old families had been keeping their distance. She worried suddenly that he would believe his choice to be a poor one— that he'd made a mistake in securing for his son a wife that would not deign to stay in the country.
But Abraxas, as it turned out, had absolutely no interest in their marital affairs whatsoever. After greeting her cordially and taking his seat, he spent the entirety of the meal interrogating Lucius on various goings on at the Ministry, and even Narcissa could sense his subtle criticisms of most of the replies he received. Lucius bore the critiques fairly well, often conceding to his father's point, but after his third or fourth refill of wine, in response to a query why Minister Jenkins had not done more in the face of the rising acts of violence towards purebloods that had openly declined to support He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, he snapped silkily:
"Well Father, you might have asked Eugenia yourself, had she not declined the invitation to our soiree this evening for fear of meeting a similar fate as her predecessor."
This ended the discussion on politics quite abruptly, and the meal mercifully concluded shortly thereafter.
Mrs. Malfoy was kind enough to bring her daughter-in-law around the Manor to explain the preparations that had taken place for the annual event. This insinuation was, of course, that Narcissa would one day take over these responsibilities, but she did not give a hint of when that might be. Once the guests began to arrive, she left Narcissa on her own once more, but this at least was not an arena where she felt out of place. Like Lucius, she'd grown up surrounded by many of these families, and she was happy to greet dozens of friends and distant relatives as the evening came underway. Here she could feel truly like herself once again, and it was easy for a fleeting snatch of time to forget that she was no longer merely enjoying society as a beautiful and well-regarded young woman, unattached and carefree. It was not truly obvious until the dancing picked up in earnest. No one aside from her family would dare to ask for her hand so soon after her wedding to the hosts' son; a tragedy, as she did so love to waltz. Lucius, apparently, did as well, and did so with seemingly ever other woman in attendance while pointedly avoiding his wife.
Narcissa tried to convince herself this was not such a terrible thing as it seemed in the moment; that it was harmless and not an insult to her personally. However after a lengthy conversation with Ghada Shafiq, at the end of which Rabastan materialised to steal the other girl away, Narcissa could not help but to let her eyes roam the hall somewhat longingly.
He was dancing with Francesca Zabini again, and the sight of them together made her stomach turn. Once, in her fourth year of school, Narcissa had been unable to sleep and went down to the Common Room to fetch a book she'd left there during the day, hoping to read until she drifted off. She had not expected to see anyone else, it was past three in the morning, but her heart had nearly stopped upon spying Lucius Malfoy standing by the fire, one hand resting on the mantlepiece, presumably lost in thought. For several seconds she hesitated, debating whether to return to her dorm and put on a robe, or perhaps just return and remain there, or to go ahead with the book retrieval. As she deliberated from the shadows, he lifted a hand to rub his face and made a sound as though he were in pain, although some innate response in her body, thrumming low in her gut, told her he was not. It was not until that moment that she spied his companion, understandable as only a sliver of her was visible, the dark curls piled with artful messiness atop her head bobbing in a steady rhythm.
"Fuck, Francesca, I'm going to—" she'd heard him groan before whirling around and dashing silently back to her bed, face burning with humiliation though she still scarcely understood what she'd witnessed.
And now he was dancing with her, laughing as he held a flute of champagne in one hand and twirled her around with the other, tugging her close to whisper in her ear. She could not help but feel relieved when they parted ways and Lucius began to speak instead to Tarquin Travers, whose grandfather had recently stepped down from his position as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at long last.
"Oh hi, Cissy."
Though she did not know its owner well, Narcissa recognized the voice at once. In her eighteen years, she'd only ever met one person who spoke with such a high and breathy soprano, as though she were always surprised and somehow also in on a private and slightly scandalous joke.
"Laetitia, what a pleasant surprise." She'd never liked Lettie Avery, and it took little introspection to recognize that at least some of her distaste sprang from jealousy. Lettie was blonde and fair, like herself, but there the similarities ceased. Narcissa was more than a full head taller than the other girl and far slimmer, though for once her willowy stature did not feel like a benefit by comparison. Laetitia's portions seemed unreal at first glance, although no one had ever been able to prove them anything other than natural. By contrast, Narcissa felt herself to be bony and elongated, with no fat to pool at her hips, bust, or anywhere else.
Men loved Lettie. It didn't really matter their particular type or taste; the petite witch appealed to them all. Painfully delicate yet powerfully feminine, she was effortlessly entrancing. She was several years older than Narcissa— not nearly old enough to be considered by a separate pool of eligible suitors, but old enough to make Narcissa feel inexperienced and immature. It was anyone's guess why Laetitia was not yet married— as far as everyone knew, almost every single pureblood man between the ages of seventeen and forty had asked for her hand, but she'd turned them all down; or rather, coquettishly deferred giving a straight answer in order to keep them all interested.
"Lovely to see you back on this side of the channel," she trilled slyly, batting her eyelash and wiggling her fingers at Narcissa's cousin Evan Rosier as he passed. He grinned and returned the wave, promptly walking into a floating tray of champagne glasses. Seemingly satisfied, Lettie gave a small giggle and turned her attention fully to Narcissa. "I'd heard you were honeymooning in France? But then a week later I saw your new husband at dinner with August Rookwood and some other boys from the Ministry in town! I hope there's not already trouble brewing?" she asked with wide-eyed innocence.
"Obviously not, Laetitia," Narcissa replied as cordially as she could. "As I'm here tonight with my husband, at his family's gala."
"Well, the wedding was just marvelous," she sighed, carelessly fondling a pearl pendant that dangled from one ear as her eyes skated over the crowd.
Narcissa fought to keep her reply light, though a hint of smugness still managed to find its way into her voice. "Thank you, I thought it was well done." She did not hold out her hand to show off the large diamond that glittered there, but glanced down at it fondly.
"I do hope you're liking married life. Lucius is a charming boy," Laetitia enthused, but there was a hint of maliciousness in her huge blue eyes. "Insatiable, really. A good listener and fast learner." She laughed again, and it was the tinkle of silver bells. "But you must know that already, of course!"
Narcissa gave only a tight smile in reply, a creeping iciness driving out the superiority she'd felt only moments before.
"You're welcome, Cissy. I taught him everything he knows!" And then, as if they were old friends, she squeezed Narcissa's hand, apparently blind to her horrified expression. "You enjoy him now! Can I give you tiny bit of advice?"
She wanted to snap 'no,' but she knew so little of her husband, or the activities Lettie was referencing with such carelessness, that she found herself utterly silent.
"Don't let him get bored," she purred, still not releasing Narcissa's fingers. "He's easily distracted, that one."
"If you'll excuse me," Narcissa replied coldly after a beat of stunned silence. "I have other guests to see to." Pulling free from Lettie, Narcissa moved blindly and aimlessly into the crowd, her cheeks tinged with humiliation. Was it so obvious, then? Perhaps she should not have left after the wedding, but still her home in Blois seemed the only refuge she could fathom. She knew she could not approach her husband in such a flustered state and her gaze moved hopelessly around the crowd— she could just picture Laetitia laughing cruelly behind her and so she kept moving. Bellatrix was surely here somewhere, but she wasn't certain that she even wanted to see her sister right now, and she knew she did not want to see her brother-in-law.
After several rounds of the hall, she'd reached her decision and managed to calm herself enough to execute it. Squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin to show that she was not affected by the events of the evening, she headed towards a knot of men near the edge of the dance floor.
"Lucius, may have a word with you?"
Several of the wizards he stood with smirked knowingly at her arrival, but she ignored them, attempting to telepath to the only blond among them the urgency that he must, for once, act the role of her husband.
"What is it, Narcissa?" he drawled lazily, hardly sparing a glance in her direction. She angled her body away from the rest of the group, forcing him to turn away as well if he wished to hear her words, giving them a slight modicum of privacy.
"I'm leaving now," she announced at once without intending to. She had meant only to insinuate that she might consider going, remind him gently that he'd severely neglected her this evening, but something about the way he was looking at her, as though she were nothing more than an inconvenient acquaintance, drew the words forth before she could stop them. He did not seem concerned upon hearing them.
"Very well, have a pleasant journey," he replied, turning away from her once more.
Thursday, 1 November 1973
The following morning, Narcissa had Mimi prepare a carriage for the short trip to the Perrot estate. The lord and lady were abroad and the youngest at school, guaranteeing that she would find her quarry quite alone. She had arrived back in Blois late last night and slept hardly at all, but she could not wait even for an owl to summon him to her side. His elf showed her to the conservatory where he was eating breakfast when she arrived.
"Ma cherie," Michel rose to his feet, looking surprised and cautious. "I did not expect you back so soon… or perhaps at all."
Whatever Narcissa had planned to stay was lodged in her throat. Instead she simply shook her head and hurried across the room towards him, unable to describe her relief at seeing his gentle and concerned expression, the need to feel his warmth after the frigid reception she had received in London. She threw her arms around his neck when she reached him, and he wound his easily around her waist, murmuring softly. "Tu vas bien, cherie? Are you alright?"
"Oui," she breathed. "I am now," and she was— the pain of the weekend was already slipping away as he held her.
"Did he… hurt you?" he asked, unable to keep the trepidation from his voice. Mutely she shook her head, and felt her resolve crumble as she turned her face up to his. His hands stroked the hair back from her face, curving his fingers along her cheeks and jaw. As though reading her thoughts he lowered his head nearer, but still paused a fraction of an inch from her lips, giving her the opportunity to change her mind. She did not. Her toes pressed upward, body supported against his as her fingers curled in the front of his robes and she dragged his mouth to meet hers at last. For months now he had been her closest friend and confidante, showering upon her the affection and attention she had expected from Lucius that had not been forthcoming. It did not feel like a crime to do so, it felt as natural as breathing and after her husband's behaviour at the gala no trace of guilt spoiled it for her. It was not her first kiss but it was the first that gripped her, that she felt in every inch of her body; the first kiss, she believed, as a woman and not a girl.
When she pulled away, charmingly flushed, Michel was grinning. "How long I've waited for that!" he laughed, taking her hand an leading her to the table. Narcissa offered a rueful smile of her own as she took a seat on the bench beside him, but could not bring herself to apologise for her behaviour. "I suppose the gala was...?"
"Dreadful," she confirmed, but did not elaborate.
"Ah, you cannot imagine how I in turns both hoped and feared that you were having a wonderful time!" he continued, then added, "'It is extraordinary how a husband, absent and perhaps ridiculous from afar, is nonetheless so easily able to regain the advantage over us!'"
Despite herself she laughed. "Alexandre Dumas always knows just what to say," she agreed. "It was dreadful, Michel," she repeated with a sigh, resting her forehead against his shoulder once more. "I don't wish to speak of it any longer."
"Then we shall not," he agreed quickly. "Since you are here today, I will take you down to our vineyards. Harvest season is ending but I will show you where they are barreling some of the new wines."
She brightened at this suggestion. "I know so little about the process," she confessed. "I should like to see it in person."
He nodded agreeably. "Tonight before supper I will find pull some bottles from the cellar so you can try different vintages. Have you done a vertical tasting before? You will see how the sun and rain can change grapes from the same land and vine from year to year. Wine is a very good thing to know about, it is like learning the history of the land on your tongue."
And with that, things were returned to normal once more.
Tuesday, 25 December 1979
Happy bloody Christmas, Lucius thought darkly to himself as he stared into the fire in his study.
Months earlier, he'd managed to track down what seemed to be the earliest extant copy of Hélas, Je me suis Transfiguré Les Pieds, with handwritten edits and notes on stage direction by Malecrit himself. It had taken a small army of rare book dealers ages to find and he'd paid a fortune for it, but he'd been certain she would be delighted with the manuscript. Their discussion of the author shortly after she'd returned to London was not a happy memory, per se, but when he'd set out to obtain the present he'd done so thinking they could now laugh about it, the petty disputes of their earliest days cohabiting nothing but a shaky start to their matrimonial bliss. What a fool he'd been. It now sat in a box in a drawer of the desk, untouched and not gifted as intended. When he woke in the morning he'd wondered fleeting if she might attempt to reconcile for the holiday, but after he rose and dressed he discovered she was nowhere to be found in the Manor. An elf nervously informed him that she'd left already for Grimsden Hall. It would hardly do to turn up separately, hours after her, and he firmly told himself that he did not want to be with the Blacks anyway. Surely it would be a bleak affair after Regulus's fatal disappearance two weeks prior and Orion's untimely demise in September.
Gods, had it really only been three and a half months since Orion had died? It seemed to Lucius that he remembered it as through from another life. Regulus's funeral, held with an empty casket, took place days after his date of death appeared on Walburga's tapestry and felt much more real. Narcissa hadn't even been the one to tell him her beloved cousin was dead— Rodolphus had contacted him, presumably after learning the news from Bellatrix, to find out if he had any idea what might have happened to the boy.
If she was devastated by the mysterious death, she certainly was not allowing him to see it. They had not had even a single conversation on the subject; the closest they'd come was her informing him what time she would be leaving for the burial, and mentioning that it might look suspicious if he did not attend with her but that ultimately it was his decision whether or not he wanted go. Lucius had gone with her, but they'd sat in stony silence for the entirety of the carriage ride over (she had told him she would not floo or apparate but declined to give a reason for this decision). She had made it through the interment without showing any sign of weakness aside from a pale visage and slightly trembling fingers, but an hour later when he began to wonder if she had left the reception without him (and he'd be damned if he had to stay with these people a moment longer than absolutely necessary), he located her at last alone in the garden, vomiting quietly behind the dead rosebushes with tears running down her face. Deciding to do them both a kindness, he pretended not to have seen her and waited instead for her to return to the parlour and signify that it was time to leave.
He wondered how she would justify his absence to Druella and Cygnus at breakfast today. There was little doubt they would take it as a personal affront, he assumed at first, but then wondered if perhaps they were aware of their daughters affair. Perhaps they even knew and liked this other man, his imagination embellished cruelly. Had they considered him as a match when looking for husbands? At they very least they had known him as a boy and encouraged the children's friendship. Had they seen Narcissa with him after her wedding, happier than he himself would ever make her?
Unable to remain still any longer, Lucius stood and began to wander aimlessly through the familiar corridors of Manor. He'd spent his whole life here, and could not understand why no happy memories came to mind when he drifted through its halls. He'd tried to floo his parents this morning, but unsurprisingly they'd been absent, likely traveling. He did not really have anything to say to them anyway, it had simply occurred to him that he had not spoken to either of them recently. Narcissa handled the correspondence with his mother now, and prior to all this she'd always kept him apprised of the goings on with the senior Malfoys, but now as far as he knew they could both be dead and he'd be none the wiser.
We correspond, Narcissa had said, and suddenly he realised he was standing in her room and thinking about his parents no longer. To what degree? he wondered, picking up a stack of holiday cards and flipping through them. He recognised many names and tossed these aside carelessly, but at least a dozen were written in French and he pored over them with more interest than he cared to admit. About half were from people such as Adelise de Louis and Manon Chastain, clearly women, so he did not spend long on these either. Others were from families: Les Durands, La Famille Laurent, and he knew nothing about his faceless rival aside from the fact that he lived near her chateau; it was very probable that she knew his family well and it could be any of these. One card caught his eye, the only with an individual male name in it, but it was signed from both a Michel and Faustine on Perrot stationary, and he guessed it more likely that they were a married couple. Frustrated with his fruitless search and the fact he'd gone looking in the first place, Lucius restacked the cards and moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
Despite being freshly laundered, the sheets still smelled faintly of her perfume. He wanted to lie down in them, bury his face in her pillows and maybe get a moment of untroubled rest, but that desire alone was enough to prompt him to rise to his feet, disgusted by the impulse. What had become of him? He was ashamed of what he'd been reduced to, and he silently reaffirmed his vow that he would not be the one to relent first. Let her come to him, eyes wide and words soft, begging for his forgiveness. And he would grant it, assuming she agreed to some very basic terms.
Outside the room, he heard the door of the sitting room open, signaling her return. Lucius swore under his breath, knowing himself to be caught, and went out to meet her with a carefully blank expression.
"What were you doing in my room?" she demanded at once, pulling her cloak more snugly around her. Snowflakes still clung to her hair and shoulders.
"Your room?" he sneered. "This my house, none of its rooms are barred to me."
Narcissa looked as if she wished to argue but decided after a moment against it. "What were you hoping to find in there?" she asked tiredly instead, sinking onto a settee and slipping off her shoes with a small sigh of relief.
"Father Christmas seems to have forgotten to bring me any parcels this year, I was checking to see if he'd mistakenly left them with you," he replied archly, earning an irritated glare from his wife.
"Perhaps you haven't been good enough to merit any," she returned waspishly.
"That does seem likely," he agreed smoothly, "but it's never stopped him in the past."
For a brief moment, he thought this remark had very nearly earned the glimmer of a wry smile, but she quickly hardened herself towards him again. "I'm going to go lie down for a while, if you've quite finished with you search."
He nodded, but before she vanished into the bedroom he asked, "Is your family well?"
She hesitated. "Of course they aren't," she answered at last, her voice heavy, and she closed the door between them, shutting him out once more.