"So, Lucius dear, tell me how you've been," said Narcissa Malfoy, setting down her teacup on the arm of the low-lying chair she now occupied so that she could view the fireplace where the disembodied head of her husband now floated, since Azkaban was not permitting visitors while they underwent changes in management and maintenance. Besides, Lucius had told her that he did not want his wife to see him in such a state. Malfoy men and their egos.
"Well, Narcissa, since Azkaban is far from a holiday home, my answer will not be in any positive fashion, will it? The cells are cold, the bed lumpy and the food sub-standard, but I'm coping as well as can be expected. Now, how's Draco doing? He didn't come visit me after my trial."
Narcissa thought of the Daily Prophet paper she'd left in the dining room, the smiled she'd had upon seeing it, at seeing her son happy. But she very well couldn't tell her husband about that, could she? He wouldn't understand. That was something she did not want him to taint, to ruin.
"He was occupied with the rebuilding of Hogwarts at the time. As for now, he's doing extremely well in all his studies and continues to make me proud."
Lucius sneered. "How touching. How very, very touching. He's gone soft then, hasn't he? I'm barely gone and already he's disappointed me. What has he done now, befriended Potter?"
"Draco has not gone soft, I can assure you. As for Harry Potter, he spoke in Draco's defense at his trial, and I am grateful, as you should be. Would you really want your son to be sitting in a cell next to you? Do you want the shadow of your actions hanging over him all his life? We must adapt, Lucius, to this new world order the Ministry are making, or we will not survive. We served Voldemort; be glad we have not faced more dire repercussions."
"I suppose that's true. Just as long as our boy doesn't go about befriending Mudblood. I don't think I could survive the shame," Lucius lamented.
"Of course," she replied demurely.
"I can't tell where you are," Lucius remarked, as if just noting his wife's surroundings. "Why are you not at the Manor?"
As if she'd want to live there, after everything that happened?
"It has been seized by the Ministry to undergo a magical cleansing, if you will, cataloguing artefacts of nefarious interests and seeing if Voldemort left anything behind that could prove a danger. I think it's also meant to be a statement to the rest of the Wizarding community 'Look at the ancestral home of the Malfoy's, see how we take it apart,' perhaps. It may be poor taste, but I suppose real estate as an effective weapon as anything."
"Stop your blabbering," Lucius seethed. "You let them take my house! You let those filthy wizards defile my house, the house of my ancestors! You let them rootle through it as if they were House Elves looking for a sock! You use the Dark Lord's name so carelessly! Narcissa, what has happened to you, what happened to the the woman I married."
The teacup smashed. Narcissa gripped the padded armrests of the chair, fierce and proud and defiant. "It is just a house! Bricks and mortar and cobwebs! I did not let them do anything! I did what I had to do to keep myself and Draco safe, so that he wasn't thrown in prison because of you and your fanatism. Your obsession. Say if they hadn't taken it, say something had been in there, something Voldemort left, and it hurt Draco? Hurt me? Would that be acceptable to you? Would we deserve it? As for Voldemort's name, he was not my Lord, and he hurt my boy, maybe not physically but mentally..."
"Draco should have been able to handle it," Lucius pretested.
"I am not finished! Do not interrupt me! I am not afraid of his memory, like you so clearly are. I loved you when I married you, I love you still, but I will never again compromise my or Draco's safety ever again. So if that means that we lose the Manor, I am more than willing to make that sacrifice. We must look at the bigger picture, Lucius. What will Draco's life look like in ten years, if we cling to the life we had before now?"
"I just want what's best for the boy," he murmured, although he did not look remorseful.
"I know," she said, equally soft.
"Do you think he will ever forgive me? I know that's why he didn't visit, you don't have to pretend for my sake, my dear."
As if everything was always about him.
"It will take time," was all she said. "You are his father, and he cares for you. Only those that we love can ever truly hurt us, for love is a powerful source of magic, as we all know. But I do not speak for Draco."
"Indeed. How have you been, my love? It must be so hard living on your own."
"I am managing well enough. I have plenty to keep me busy."
"Such as?"
"Nothing you'd be interested in, dear," she retorted vaguely, clearing the stain from the carpet and fixing the teacup with a wave of her wand.
"Come now, since when do we keep secrets from each other?" he drawled, trying for charming but coming off as arrogant.
"Committees, letter-writing, expanding my magical capabilities."
"Indeed, nothing so glorious as running the Malfoy household. Well, at least you have House Elves for all that menial labor; you're beneath such mundane work, my love."
"Indeed," she lied, inspecting her nails.
They talked for another hour, the conversation often stilted and forced, each walking on eggshells so as not to evoke another fight. When the guards finally called Lucius away, he seemed almost...relieved, as if their earlier verbal sparring had taken some invisible toll on him. Maybe it was just because he was disappointed in her, that she had not done enough to preserve his legacy. She was fine with that, she was, but somewhere within her she was still that teenage girl, vying for his affection, his approval. How far ago those days were, when he'd looked at her like she was the only star in the sky, all he would ever need. Her, and his money.
She wandered from room to room, listless, picking up books to read and discarding them, straightening paintings that didn't need to be straightened. Narcissa found herself in the dining room, staring at the Daily Prophet's latest edition as if it were an unpleasant insect. Pure boredom made her pick it up, skim the overly-exaggerated, bombastic article. These attention-seeking reporters. They were a breed all of their own. When she got to who had supplied the information, all it said was, 'a reliable source of good standing who was close to one party.' Well, that could only mean one thing.
"It seems Mr Zabini has made his next move," mused Narcissa, fingers drumming on the tabletop. She was well aware of the incident at Hogsmeade and Draco and Hermione had explained the ordeal to her in a joint letter, since they did not want her to make any assumptions based on false information.
Placing the offending article under her arm, she moved to the parlour and the modest fireplace, flames dancing gracefully. With a flick of her wrist, the paper was alight, the picture of Draco and Hermione sitting down by the lake, heads bent in conversation slowly melting away. If this became a reoccurrence, she would have to do something about it. Perhaps she should speak to Blaise, or his mother, try to put her side of things across. One did not go sneaking about taking pictures of her son and his friend without consequence.
Having settled the matter, Narcissa retreated to her study, taking off the glamorously gold embroidered robe she had been wearing in favor of her long sleeved blue blouse and casual grey trousers. She flopped into hr chair with a sigh, setting out a quill, a spare quill, two pots of ink and several large pieces of parchment. A memory came to her, unbidden, of herself when she was younger, setting out supplies like this in the library at Hogwarts when she wanted to study or catch up on revision. When they'd begun dating, Lucius often visited her, either to joke about her work ethic or insist she worked too hard, depending on his mood. She liked it, though: the ritual of organisation, of getting lost in a task and the sense of achievement only hard work ever provided.
Which was why she'd volunteered for so many different charities. And it wasn't just for public appearance, for a Malfoy to be seen being active in the community. Many of the places she had inquired to had ouright declined, but she'd worn most of them down. From arranging homes for Muggle-borns who'd had theirs destroyed to finding homes for all the new orphans of the world. She also did consultant work for the Ministry, from providing insight into the minds of Death Eaters the Aurors were hunting down to her expertise on Potions and dark weaponry and artifacts. Most of the objects in Malfoy Manor she'd catalogued herself. Not that she'd tell anyone that, of course.
Under her mountains of paperwork she found a started letter, lines crossed out and bits added in. Her letter to Andy. Andromeda. She'd started it so many times yet couldn't find the right words. If she'd lost Lucius and Draco, then had to raise a child alone. She wouldn't have been able to cope. Narcissa had visited her often, when Draco was younger, and the two had gotten on very well, but she had to do it behind her husband's back, which always made her feel uneasy, as if she was betraying him. So the visits became less frequent, until it was just a letter here or there. Then, no letters. No contact of any kind. Andy had seemed to understand, she truly had, but that made it almost worse. That they'd both given up so easily, when once they had been inseparable.
Narcissa had seen her at the funeral, seen her clutching baby Teddy, who had been silently crying, as if sensing a loss but not able to articulate it yet. She'd been buried with her father on one side, her husband on the other, as they would have wanted it. Draco had been there too, and he knew that he wanted his cousin's boy to have a good life, a better one. Which was why he felt so lost.
Yes, she knew about the nightmares, although their events were far from imaginary. She'd told Hermione to keep an eye on him, practically begged her, or as close as she could get. She had initially refused, not wanting to invade his space when he was most vulnerable, especially at the time they had only begun to become friends, but even she could she that her son was plagued, tormented by what he'd seen and done. She still thought of that little girl. What she knew her son had done for her. But she didn't know the best way to broach the subject. Maybe she'd bring it up, gently, when he came home for the holidays, if his condition had deteriorated. Maybe she wasn't what he needed.
But she could only deal with so much by herself. Only give so much of herself. Maybe she didn't have to do it alone, though. With a sudden haste, she drew a fresh piece of parchment, quill scarping passionately.
My Dearest Andy,
I know I have so much to apologize for...
After an hour, she set her quill down, tears gleaming at the corners of her eyes, although did not yet fall. Blowing lightly on the ink to dry it, Narcissa slipped her heels back on from where she had discarded them under her desk, heading for the glass doors of the sun room. The sky had turned a dusky purple with steaks of orange and pink, the sun trying to maintain dominance in the sky for as long as it could. But the moon always came. She found her new owl, who she'd named Ophelia after Hermione had introduced her to the works of Muggle William Shakespeare in one of their lengthy discussions over the summer.
"Take this to Andromeda," she asked, stroking the owl's pure white feathers. The barn owl blinked and seemed to how it's head, moving it's leg so she could tie the letter. With an almighty flap of it's wings, it took flight, barely disrupting the bush of stargazer lilies nearby as it ascended. Narcissa was once again alone, the sound of the crickets and the smell of damp soil her only company. It must have rained without her noticing. Indeed, the air had that crisp quality to it, as if the healing purity of the rain had unearthed some undelved layer in the earth. A chill swept over her and she suddenly longer for a warm bath, a crackling fire, a good meal with good wine and an excellent book. Perhaps that one Hermione had mentioned in one of her last letters, the one about a boy and a girl and a garden. Yes, that sounded like an evening well spent.
So Narcissa did just that.
Author's Note: Two chapters in one day! I beat my record! (Claps thyself on the back because I can). This chapter was really interesting to write, and I hope that I did the two justice. While it may appear that Narcissa and Hermione are too alike, I think that's what makes them both so fun to write, especially when one mentions the other, how their differences compliment and contrast. Narcissa is isolated at this point, but trying to reach out to those around her, whereas Hermione is always surrounded by people yet has difficulty opening up at times. Maybe that's just something I have to work on. In the meantime, Dramione are back in the next chapter. Commence the fluff!
All my love, Temperance.