The Parisian night sky doesn't give Narcissa any feeling of serenity. The light pollution and the heavy, stinky air of a capital is same anywhere in Europe. The only differences are the skyline, the fragmented sounds of a melodic, foreign yet familiar language and the scents wafting up from the streets to her. Wix and non-magiques hurry by on the busy boulevard under her balcony. Narcissa catches fleeting, nonsensical, out of context words. She hears but doesn't see the people.
'Such a fitting image of my life in the last few years. Never truly seen, never truly heard.'
She wouldn't have thought that she is going to ever come back to Paris. Of course, she has hoped. But she knew that the odds weren't in her favour.
Her room on the Boulevard du Montparnasse looks over the Jardin du Luxembourg. It faces north, from here she could see the Eiffel Tower. And behind it, to the north west, hidden from view is the Arc de Triomphe.
Narcissa knows but doesn't see this. She is unable to lift her eyes off of the green, patinaed metalwork of her balcony's railing.
She read a book by a German muggle, Remarque, in her OWL-year, titled Arch of Triumph. The US-American first edition had a ghastly shade of Savoy blue, shabby cover which hid a novel of a peculiar, haunting atmosphere. It told the story of broken, persecuted people who slowly suffocate in the certainty of a looming, new war. She was fascinated by how deeply traumatised people who know their "peaceful" days in Paris are numbered try to make meaningful connections in the momentary respite of violence.
Narcissa didn't understand the novel´s atmosphere at the time, these peculiar feelings of estrangement, the oppressive stench of a certain violent future. The disembodiment that past traumas caused. She didn't understand an existence in a liminal space constituted of waiting, despair and escalating violence. With 15 years she didn't understand any of this. She was simply mesmerised by its world. She can clearly recall how the weight and haptic of the book and paper felt in her hands; how the afternoon light fell through the window behind her, in a hidden corner of the never visited arithmancy section of the library. The title was generic enough, she thought she can get away with reading a muggle book, since both her sisters have already graduated. Yet, one afternoon someone else visited her corner. Lily Evans' expression told Narcissa that she recognised the author. But she didn't say anything at all to Narcissa. She just stared at her with her deep, dark green eyes. Narcissa felt seen for the first time in her life. From then on, a ritual began. Lily visited Narcissa's corner of the library, read or worked on her assignments in silence. They never spoke, until the day Narcissa returned Lily's nonverbal greeting of a simple nod. Lily, brave, brilliant Lilly asked her to read out loud for her that day.
Thus, Arch of Triumph gained an entirely different, accidental but beautiful meaning.
Now, at 36, staring at the patinaed railing of her balcony on the Boulevard du Montparnasse, Narcissa feels the shadow of Remarque's Arc de Triomphe in her cells, in the deepest parts of her being. She has never felt such profound estrangement and emptiness in all her life. With 36 she understands Remarque's book.
She keeps on unseeingly staring at the greenness of the metalwork. Its colour and its form seem to tug her meandering mind in several directions.
The last time she was here in Paris, it was with Lucius, on the winter solstice of '94. Ironically enough, in this very arrondissement.
With her fickle, restless thoughts, she marvels at the dichotomy of being physically removed yet still somehow staying part of the city.
The lingering impressions of people long or not so long dead seem to settle around her like a dense, invisible fog. She feels like the melancholy, white-clad, female protagonist of Manet's painting "Balcony" of 1886. Her estrangement is merely not as visible. But her memories are more haunting.
The dark mark on Lucius's arm became steadily more distinctive throughout summer and autumn of '94. All the signs pointed to the Dark Lord gaining power. Again. Lucius was consumed by equal parts of elevation and fear. Narcissa became terrified for Draco, terrified of the future. But at the same time, she gained a deep sense of calmness of an absurd origin. Finally, the fate that has been hanging over their heads was going to reach them. But she refused to think that she couldn't spare her son the same outcome. She would do everything in her power to ensure Draco had a long, healthy, eventually perhaps even happy life. Whatever the costs for herself.
Her biggest obstacle in achieving this goal was her husband. Narcissa knew that she couldn't trust him and confide in him. Not because he would abandon them or willingly sacrifice his family for the cause, or that he wouldn't love them, far from it. Narcissa's heart had broken as she realised, the Dark Lord in his wrath surely would invade her husband´s mind and look for any signs of disloyalty or dissatisfaction. Of loyalty to someone else. Lucius was a proficient enough Occlumens but nowhere near enough to be able to successfully hide anything from the Dark Lord in the long term. Narcissa had swallowed her silent screams of despair. No one else was going to aid her.
Thus, like a worthy witch of House Black, Narcissa made her own way.
She asked Lucius to visit his ancestors with her. In true Slytherin fashion she told him, she wanted to spend time together, to remind themselves of the perspectives, why they are going to sacrifice, suffer and take risks in the future. All of which was true in their own right. Merely, it wasn't the whole truth. Her truth.
Lucius was so delighted by her initiation and interest, he had immediately agreed. While Draco was occupied with the Yule Ball and its preparations at Hogwarts, the Malfoys went to Paris. Lucius of course, began their tour in the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Narcissa listened as her husband told her stories of his ancestors, the magical founders of the Meroving dynasty. She held his hand, caressed the inside of his wrist, leant against him, caressed the nape of his neck. All the while she kept silent about the fact that the Blacks have codices and scrolls which testify that the Malfoys have their origins four centuries later, somewhere in the middle of the 11th century. She kept her silence, as she has done, since they entered into a courtship 17 years previously.
They ate lunch in Le Chardenoux, walked along the Saine, avoided the magical sights of Paris. They talked about their son, laughed about his antics, gently ribbed each other from whom he must have gotten his not insignificant penchant for melodramatics. Their breaths puffed and hung in the heavy Parisian winter air. Their smiles were small, neither of them being people for spirited nonverbal communication. But she clearly recalls how Lucius´s grey eyes crinkled with delight, amusement, even fleeting moments of carefree joy.
Lucius told her about his political machinations and goals at the ministry, the ones it was safe for her to hear about. She gave him insights into his political rivals´ familiar incidents, scandals that could give him advantage over them. All the while both of them painstakingly avoided talking about their personal future. Their dreams. Their hopes for their son. Their marriage.
She kept gently touching him throughout the day. They laughed quietly when faced with obnoxiously loud muggles preparing for their Christmas. Mostly in astonishment for muggles are far a less obnoxious people than wizards preparing for their own festivities.
Whispering, cuddling to him, she slowly stirred him to Jardin du Luxembourg. In a deserted corner she finally kissed him for the first time in a long while. By then the sun had almost set. She caressed his cheek as she leaned into him. She saw and felt his desire for her. She felt and allowed her own desire for him. Once, she had passionately loved this man. In a far removed, clinical part of her mind, she felt grateful that she still found his body very attractive.
She smiled at him, and told him her first ever lie. "There is something I have wanted to do here in Paris, ever since my OWL-year, husband of mine." She felt how her small smile reached her eyes, she knew, she comes across as mischievous, playful even with this particular smile. Rapt attention, curiosity and eagerness to please her were written on his face. A sudden wave of tenderness towards him engulfed her. She wanted him to feel cherished.
But she had a goal. To ensure the safety of her child.
Via the most ancient way a witch can use.
"There is a fantasy I haven't told you about yet." She murmured into his neck, tugging the collar of his Karakul fur coat out of the way. She felt him chuckle, how he hugged her waist, slowly pulling her flush against him.
"Which would be?" He whispered in her ear, burying his nose into her hair. Narcissa felt his delighted little hum at her scent. Lucius has always loved how she smelled.
"Riding my husband in the catacombs of Paris." Narcissa said without any hesitation.
Lucius choked on his own breath. After a guttural groan, he chuckled again. "How very... macabre of you, Wife."
"I thought, you are going to say scandalous." She teased him without putting distance between them.
"That too." Lucius murmured, while kissing her behind her ear.
"What else?" She asked slipping her hands under his coat.
"Hmm. Inspiring." He bit her earlobe and apparated them to the magical entrance for the catacombs.
In that moment, tasting his passion on his lips, fulfilling even by wizarding standards a strange desire of hers without question, slipping into their familiar banter, how he is both gentle and firm with her, an echo of her past love for him tugged at Narcissa.
Paris´ magical ossuary was lit by charmed fires that feed on the magical residue in the bones of long dead wix. On the day of the winter solstice, they were alone in the central chamber, surrounded by a circle of skulls and bones neatly stacked on each other, reaching the tall ceiling.
They divested their clothes. The charmed fires responded to Lucius´ and her magic – their flames sprung and stretched licking at the ceiling, dancing over skulls.
Narcissa didn't feel the cold, standing naked in the ossuary. For a long moment she just appreciated how the stark light accentuated Lucius´ muscles in his arms, over his ribs, along his stomach, his hips, his legs. She moaned at how beautiful he was.
What a pity that the inside doesn't match the outside. Narcissa thought. She bit him in her silent despair and lust. She wanted to spend her life with this man. And he let her down. To Lucius´ detriment Narcissa has never learned how to cope with disappointment by the very few people she trusted. She refuses to do so. However how it hurts her.
She felt how her despair, rage, fear, desire, affection and arousal began to fuel her magic.
This is going to be anything but beautiful. She thought as she kissed him harshly and bit his lip.
His hands roamed over her, spoiling her in and on all her weak spots. Lucius was a very talented lover, he knew her body more than she knows her own. In their 17 years together they thoroughly learned how to touch the other.
Narcissa felt tears of powerless disappointment gathering in her eyes at how perfectly he made her body sing - and just how careless he was with other parts of her.
She shoved him on his back, sat astride of him, feeling him even deeper in herself. She clawed at his shoulders and hid her teary face by licking along his neck. She rode him harder in a desperate attempt to keep her raw, stormy emotions inside.
Lucius mistook this for pure passion. And began to touch her just the way she needed.
Another unwanted emotion roared in Narcissa, clawing at her insides. Grief. For what they could have been. She felt the control over her magic slipping away. The magical fires raved themselves to a rich shade of purple. Their light glinting on Lucius´ blond hair, his sweaty, muscled chest.
Narcissa felt him nearing his climax, she leant close to him so they could share their breaths. She let her magic completely go, conducting the now wild magic with the arch of her body. As he came she felt her magic pulling also his magic into her.
Their combined wild magic manifested itself in a subconscious pledge of protection, witnessed by the magical remnants of Lucius´ ancestors. Sex is not only a connection, it also can be a magical exchange, especially if the partners have already brought a life together into this world. And if they are seeking each other´s body out on the longest night of the year.
Lucius knew nothing on a conscious level of what his magic pledged to do to the mother of his child. His magic is going to protect their son, no matter what the father himself is forced to do.
Narcissa, body and magic spent, felt like crying. She yearned for being held by her husband. But her husband wasn't hers anymore. Not since he allowed himself to be marked. Instead she smiled at him through her grief and caressed his cheek.
Cars honking down on the boulevard bring Narcissa out of her memories. She sucks in a deep breath of the stinky, loud Parisian August night. She breathes shakily out.
She tries to ban memories of her mind how it felt when her dead husband touched her. Do other widows too torture themselves by recalling how their spouses felt on and in their body? She is so mad at him, she is still unable to mourn him properly.
At the end, her efforts to secure Draco´s future were in vain. Lucius stumbled into circumstances that were too grave even for his innate, subconscious magic. He made her a widow before she reached 40 years of age.
A couple of hesitant, slow knocks on the balcony door bring her out of her spiralling, destructive thoughts. She turns her head to acknowledge the company. Half-distracted, still gathering herself, she wishes for a lifeline.
When her eyes fell on Hermione Granger, at first she just stares at her uncomprehending. Until slowly the events of the last two days play in front of her mind´s eyes.
"Is everything... Are you..?" Hermione stumbles over asking Narcissa something that she must have perceived either on Narcissaˋs face or her posture.
Narcissa takes this opportunity for what it is. A very welcome distraction. She abandons one part of her personal circle of mental misery by observing the strange witch who helped her undeserving sister. There is someone she can try to solve instead of wrestling with her own emotions. Instead of properly answering her, Narcissa allows a bitter smile to flee over her lips.
"Right you are." Hermione takes this gesture as an answer in its own right.
Narcissa instinctually quells her surprise at Hermione seeking her out. Yet, in the next moment she goes against her ingrained habits and quirks an eyebrow to willingly appear more forthcoming.
Insecurity and a hint of fear are written on Hermione´s features, in all her stilted, over-slow fidgeting with her fingers. She is slowly drumming with her right index and middle fingers on her thumb. Her feet are still looking away from Narcissa's direction, as if she would wish to bolt any minute because she is now realising what a monumental mistake she is about to make. Narcissa can't say that she is not intrigued. Even more so when she sees the two glasses and a bottle of wine in Hermione´s left hand.
She decides a small levity would do good to get the conversation rolling.
„I see, you are already getting acquainted with the local spirit and customs." A small smile is playing in the corner of Narcissa´s mouth. She makes sure to show amusement and a hint of teasing on her face, least the jumpy witch thinks she is criticising her.
„What?! No!" Hermione sputters, embarrassed, with red tint on her brown cheeks. „I merely asked our host what he would recommend for a talk."
Narcissa is even more amused and curious now.
„I stand by my previous sentence." She says, a hint of a laughter in her voice. As Hermione shuffles uncertainly on her feet, again, Narcissa realises however that levity isn't the path to reassure this woman. Not yet at least.
A different approach then.
„In any case, this was thoughtful gesture of you." Narcissa´s nod adds an emphasis to her statement. Hermione finally stops all her movement, and looks directly at Narcissa with an intensity that is a hint over the other side of socially acceptable.
Acknowledgement then. Narcissa idly observes.
Without waiting for a response for Narcissa knows it will be a while yet before this slightly awkward, unusual encounter blossoms into a conversation, she reaches out with her right. „Let's see what you have brought." She smiles, her small, rarely shown sincere smile as she sees Hermione come closer to her, stepping through the glass doors onto the balcony.
Narcissa accepts the bottle, looking at the etiquette she quirks her eyebrow. A pinot gris from Alsace. A Vendages Tradives at that. Somehow she doubts that this would have been the young woman's choice. Nevertheless she inclines her head slightly to acknowledge the efforts of reaching out and asking for help. She hums in appreciation. She is looking forward of experiencing this wine, even if she herself prefers German Grauburgunder, if it must be pinot gris. As long as it is not a ghastly pinot grigio! Pinot grigio´s lighter-bodied, fresh, crisp taste and pale, floral scent is a poor shadow of what this finicky vine can produce. But she supposes the hoi polloi must drink something as well. All in all, if it is pinot gris, it should be either Alsatian or German, in her opinion.
Hermione clears her throat, brining an utterly unapologetic Narcissa out of her wine musings. She turns her attention back to Hermione and the conversation yet to commence.
She looks from the green bottle to Hermioneˋs face. She is somewhat disturbed by the lengths Hermione seems to have gone to initiate a talk with her. And given the normally confident approach of the young woman, Narcissa knows this must be something unpleasant. Naturally, she hides her thoughts and feelings. It is quite enough to have one of them openly fretting over this conversation.
„Would you like a glass?" Narcissa asks at last. She knows Hermione is somewhat older than her friends but she isn't familiar enough with the little group to know their habits or preferences.
„A small one, please." Hermione croaks.
Narcissa pours her less than the customary one eighth of the bottle. And with a mental sigh suffers though the sight of Hermione taking and holding the glass of wine as if it were a mug of juice. Hermione ignores the stem of the glass entirely.
Morgana lend me strength! Narcissa can't catch her silent invocation soon enough.
As if the stem were a mere ornament. And not an essential part of the wineglass. Hermione even curls her palm around the glass.
Narcissa carefully schools her features that none of her discomfort is visible on her features. The next moment, with a hastily whispered „Cheers!" Hermione takes a hefty swig of the wine.
As if it were a glass of water.
Without looking at its colour, how the light breaks in this remarkable piece of nature and human effort. Without taking time to enjoy its scent. Without letting it have effect her taste buds.
What a heathen. Narcissa thinks with a long-suffering sigh but without malice, by now even slightly amused.
Hermione tries to suppress a cough. Her betrayed look at the glass tells Narcissa everything.
Not a drinker then. Good. She thinks.
„We mustn't drink wine for the alcohol, Ms. Granger." Narcissa knows she sounds pretentious but she can't help herself. Hermione looks at her expectant to Narcissa´s surprise, so she elaborates her view. „A good wine is a celebration in itself. We celebrate the ever-changing relationship between nature and human humility. We celebrate the effort on both sides that made this bottle possible. We honour the hard work put into its making. We pay tribute to the plant herself. And lastly, occasionally, we celebrate the company in which we may share this experience."
She allows the wine slightly to swirl in her glass. Nods at the customary golden, rich colour. She inhales its scent, hums in appreciation at its spiciness with a hint of apple blossom tones. At last she takes a sip, lets it idly flow around her mouth for a short while before swallowing. The Alsatian terroirˋs earthly minerality comes along the primer and secondary flavours. She nods again, this time in approval.
Hermione is staring at her as if she is conducting a strange ritual. Narcissa supposes for the uninitiated tasting wine might seem so. She suppresses a smile. She takes a slow sip, looking curiously at Hermione.
"What did you want to talk about Ms. Granger?"
Hermione stares at her, somewhat calculatingly, as if she were searching for something. She seems to have found it, for the next moment she simply says:
"About your sister." Narcissa stiffens. For a spell she contemplates giving into her occasional cowardice; it certainly would be the easiest to nip this conversation at its bud. But Narcissa is a curious person. And she never forgets a kindness done to her sister. Thus, Hermione Granger more than earned Narcissaˋs attention.
Narcissa allows herself to slide into her second circle of mental misery. Tentatively she says, "Hermione, I am not sure even I am able to answer your questions. Any excuse, any explanations on my part, made in her name would be..."
"You misunderstand me. I was referring to her episode on the train." Hermione interrupts her.
"Oh." Narcissa, suddenly too nauseated to say anything else, leaves it at that.
"Yes." Hermione steps closer to her and lightly touches Narcissa´s hand holding her wine glass. Her brown eyes earnest, entirely too old, her newly short hair defies gravity, her normally rich brown skin washed out by the unflattering light of street lamps. Yet Hermione Granger in this moment seems to burn with the intensity of her singular focus. "I see you, attempting to make the first amends. But in this instance, it isn't your responsibility. It is hers. You are accountable only for your own crimes and mistakes." Her hold on Narcissa´s hand becomes firmer.
Narcissa has never felt the cultural chasm between them as acutely as right now. Hermione knows nothing of carrying the weight of an almost extinct, centuries old magical dynasty. Nor does she understand pureblood customs regarding reparations. In a moment of startling clarity, Narcissa realises that the chasm stretches in both ways. She too is unable to perceive Hermione clearly. Not yet at least.
Something that Narcissa attributes to momentarily madness makes her blurt out her unveiled truth. "You offer me too much latitude."
"No, I don't think so. It is just the right amount." Hermione regards her with quiet, amused curiosity.
Is this what friendship is supposed to feel like? Narcissa wonders bewildered. Hermione steps away and places her glass on the table. She leans back against the railing.
"Now. Your sister." Her cadence shifts, becoming crisp, dare Narcissa think McGonagall-like. "Her episode on the train gave me a theory." Her earnest eyes not moving from Narcissa´s Hermione elaborates.
"Bellatrix told me that she retreated back into her mind during her torture. She hid there. She escaped to the most radical personification of otherness, someone who embodies everything which has never been part of her reality. And thus, absurdly this mental construct became a safe heaven. It was me. More precisely, she found solace in talking to her image of me..."
Narcissa exhales her pent-up tension and sorrow in a singular breath. She grins, grins at Hermione, for she immediately knows where Hermione is heading with this.
"You brilliant, brilliant witch!" Narcissa whispers then laugh out loud, she is unable to repress her elation, her excitement.
Hermione grins back at her, thrilled at finally being immediately intellectually understood. But she continues her explanation, needing to say her idea out loud.
"Since she is a witch extensively trained in mind magic, her magic, even in its shattered state, can create pathways to communicate with someone whom her magic recognises as safe and familiar. Our intimacy is of psychological origin. But yours is forged in reality, by years spent together..." Hermione trails off, still grinning at Narcissa.
Narcissa grins back and finishes the sentence: "My sister can talk to me."
Hope and a possible friendship in its infancy make Narcissa feel like she is flying.
Bloody Gryffindors. She thinks, for the first time in her life, affectionately.
A/N.: Hello Darklings. It has been quite a while, but no story is left behind, not even on this website. With this chapter I am changing the spacing of the structure, there are going to be more chapters overall. Thank you for your patience and for your kind messages to me.