It was one of Narcissa's well kept secrets, that she could do muggle cooking. As a child, she had snuck down to the kitchens and watch the house-elves at work. They'd known she was there, of course. But they'd never told.
"We keeps our mistress' secrets," they said.
Sometimes, they let her try her hand cooking. One day though, they refused. Narcissa hadn't understood why then, but she did now. Her parents had found out. And, of course, it wasn't acceptable for their daughter to cook - least of all the muggle way.
Narcissa hadn't forgiven them for that. There were many things she hadn't forgiven them for.
It wasn't till Hogwarts she was able to cook again. The house-elves (or was it castle-elves?) hadn't been at all happy. But Narcissa had begged and pleaded, and threatened, until they let her. It had taken many nights, and Narcissa suspected they'd only given in because Dumbledore had had a quiet word with them. Good old Dumbledore. She wasn't, as a Slytherin, supposed to like the old man, but she did. He'd always been nice to her.
"Bring me some flour," she told the house-elf beside her, one dressed in an old flannel. The house-elf rushed off, so eager. They all were, when she asked them for things.
Narcissa didn't need to remind herself to thank them.
Later, Narcissa stared down at her creations, not unhappily. Chocolate chip and afghan biscuits, hokey pokey and almond. Over one hundred of them. The house-elves hadn't seemed too happy, trying to prepare dinner at the same time. But Narcissa herself was immensely satisfied. Baking always left her feeling like that.
Narcissa asked the house-elves to find some containers in which to store the biscuits. And then, when they were all nicely packed away, she told them to eat the afghans. Baking always left her feeling generous.
Dinner proved to be some sort of chicken, with roast vegetables following pumpkin soup. Narcissa poked the chicken with her fork. It looked rather plain, for the sort of things Narcissa had imagined the Malfoys would eat. So, when she cut the meat, it was cautiously. For all she knew, twenty-four blackbirds could come flying out.
They didn't. It was only an apricot.
Narcissa sighed with relief, and ate.
The dinner passed in silence. The food, Narcissa had to admit, was good. The Malfoy's house-elves certainly knew their stuff. The wine, also, was good. Some sort of muggle wine, Narcissa figured - wizard wines always had a bitter aftertaste. Obviously, Lucius' disdain of Muggles didn't extend to their alcohol.
After dessert it was, (a tall glass of ice cream in apricot sauce, surrounded in spun sugar) after all the last dishes had been whisked away by house-elves, when Lucius deigned to speak to Narcissa.
"I have heard," he said, "that you were down in the kitchens."
Though she did not let it show, Narcissa's heart fell. Not so much as fell even - it was more like it skydived.
"Narcissa, if you had wanted biscuits, the house-elves would have been more than happy to get them for you," Lucius said, his voice disdainful.
"I didn't want biscuits," Narcissa answered.
Lucius' eyebrows raised, but the hair was so pale one would barely noticed. Narcissa did.
"Oh?" he asked.
"Oh what?" Narcissa said, looking down at the man, who even when seated, was half a head taller than her.
He was not going to take her cooking away from her.
For a moment, Lucius looked like he would not answer. Then, he told her,
"It is hardly fit for a Malfoy's wife to spend her days baking."
"Oh?" Narcissa said. "And what, I wonder, would you have me do instead? File my nails?"
Narcissa was amazed how calm her voice was. Maybe, when one's heart had dropped as far as hers had, it wasn't there to interfere in arguments.
"No. But there are many, far more suitable, tasks for a lady of your rank to engage in."
"I though humankind had got past the days when ladies were expected to stay home and tat lace. I guess I was wrong. Perhaps it was only the Muggles who ever got that far.
"Perhaps," Lucius said, and Narcissa felt like she had been slapped. "But 'tatting lace' is not such a waste of time as baking biscuits you do not intend to eat."
Narcissa felt like asked what on earth she was supposed to do with lace. But she decided, perhaps, it was time for a change of tactic.
"Lucius, I did not mean... I thought it would be nice, you know, for me to bake you biscuits. I did not mean to get so carried away," Narcissa said, lowering her head and fluttering her eyelashes.
Lucius laughed.
"Of course you didn't, Narcissa dear. Just, please, please, don't do it again. It really isn't appropriate."
Narcissa didn't answer. She had no intention of following Lucius' instructions, of course. Narcissa would bake until every room of Malfoy Manor was filled biscuits. And then, she would make Lucius Malfoy eat his words. Or, if she was feeling particularly cruel, the biscuits.
Unfortunately, Narcissa never did. The house-elves seemed mysteriously deaf to her requests for ingredients, and much as Narcissa searched, she could not find them.
It was also, it seemed, after she paid a quick visist to a muggle pharmacist, not allowable for her to leave the house. Of course, Lucius himself was allowed to go gallavanting whenever and wherever he wanted. Though Narcissa did not think what he did could be described as gallavanting. More like rape, pillage and murder.
Narcissa knew who her husband's master was.
The only good thing about being married to a Malfoy, Narcissa had decided, was that you knew you wouldn't end up dead at the hands of a gang of deatheaters. You would never have to return home to a dark mark.
Not that Narcissa would ever return home, as Narcissa could never leave it.
But the end result was, that Narcissa was not worried, as many witches were, about Lord Voldemort.
Narcissa was more afraid of the fact her pills had run out, and she had no way of getting more.
Narcissa had no wish to bear Lucius' child.
Out. Narcissa wanted out. There must be some way, she thought, out of this godforsaken place!
Narcissa stared out her window, squinting at the sun. Lucius wasn't back yet, and wouldn't be for a long time yet. He might not even be back at all today...
Narcissa stood up. It was high time she explored Malfoy Manor. There were six floors, and she hadn't even been on half of them. Yes, that sounded good, to explore. It would take her mind off being confined in the building, take her mind off being trapped, of not even being able to get pills...
Enough. Narcissa pushed turned from the window, and walked to the door (though it was more of a stomp). The corridor she walked down was identical to the others in the manor. White walls, with green and silver trim at the top. Slytherin colours, Narcissa thought with a grim smile. Was there a single Malfoy who hadn't been in Slytherin?
The wall's whiteness was emphasized even more by the lack of paintings. It was funny, as Narcissa had always imagined the manor would be full of paintings, disapproving ancestors staring down at you.
Narcissa finally reached the stairs, and she ran up them two at a time. She slowed down as she reached the fourth floor - these steps, it seemed, were rarely used, and so had fallen into disrepair. Narcissa wondered at the spiderwebs that clung to the corners.
And then the fifth floor. The floorboard squeaked as Narcissa took a nervous step onto it. She looked up nervously - it was dark.
Narcissa drew her wand out her robes, and whispered a quiet 'Lumos'. The corridor lit up. Spiders scuttled from the light that flickered and danced along the walls. These walls were not white, even in the dim light Narcissa could tell that. They had faded gray, and appeared striped green from where the paint had peeled off. As if that weren't enough, there were a million stains, a million cobwebs. Narcissa could feel a million eyes on her - thousands of spiders, all with their eight eyes trained on Narcissa.
Narcissa was clutching at her robes, and let go. She brought a hand up to her wand. Even through the silk fabric, her nails had cut into her palm. There were bloodstains on her robes.
"I should go," Narcissa said, to herself and to the spiders. Go? they whispered. But you have barely arrived.
Narcissa shook her said, a sudden, vicious movement. She was being silly. They were just spiders. Even if they were most likely poisonous.
Narcissa strode down the hall, and pushed open the first door she came to, wincing at it squeaked in disapproval. In the room, Narcissa shielded her eyes. The windows, even in their dusty, dirty state, let in the whole of the midday sun. Still, Narcissa left her light glowing as she walked up to the window, and smeared away a layer of grim with her robe sleeve. She winced as the muck came off; still, it was better than getting it on her hands. The robe was already spoilt with blood.
Narcissa stood back against the window, and examined the room. It was small - Narcissa hadn't imagined any room in the manor would be this small. There was a bed, with flowery pink bed sheets folded neatly upon it, their colours faded. Against one wall was a dressing table; a surprisingly clean mirror sat on it. Narcissa walked forward to stare briefly at her reflection. She couldn't believe how scared her blue eyes looked.
"It's just a house," she told her reflection. "It can't hurt you." At that, the door swung back, squeaking in laughter. She spun round, and watched it slam.
"It can't hurt you," she repeated, looking back at the mirror.
Narcissa glanced down at the surface of the dressing table. A lilac cloth was spread across it; a red stain cut straight down the middle.
"It can't hurt you," she said, backing away.
She stood for a minute with her eyes squeezed shut, her hands once again grasping her robes as she fought to regain control of her mind. Finally, she opened her eyes again, and knelt down in front of the dresser. The carpet was plush, still soft but for some stains she winced at.
Narcissa opened drawer after drawer, lifting a few of the spidery robes out to admire.
"They just don't make them like they used to," she whispered to herself, admiring a lace pattern cuffing the neck of a magenta robe. She held the dress up to her slender form, and laughed despite herself. The robe's owner had been even thinner than she. Then again, she thought, cocking her head at the robe, the owner might've been from when corsets were still in use.
The next drawer she opened did not contain robes. Instead it held a book, bound in dark leather. She pulled it gently out the drawer, and crossed her legs beneath it.
The books pages, she quickly learned, had obviously been magicked to stay white - there was no way it could've been as old as some of the other things in here, and not been yellow with age.
"A Pictorial History of the Malfoy Family," Narcissa read from the first page. She stared at it, wondering what it meant. Was it a photo album?
The next page answered her question. It was not a photo album, but something close enough. A postcard-sized painting had been attached to the page, and it's occupants blinked up at her.
A woman stood to the right of a tall, blond man, her arm clutching his. In front of the pair stood a small boy, perhaps eleven years old. They were all dressed in black, but the lady's robes were trimmed with silver. One sleeve's embroidery was stained red, and Narcissa shivered. She quietly read the caption to herself - 'Feyd Malfoy with his wife, Aliciba Malfoy and their son Azrael, in the year of 1663.'
"So old," Narcissa whispered, turning the page, reading out the next caption.
"Azrael Malfoy with his wife Courticia Malfoy and their son Damon in the year of 1690. I wonder... that must be the boy from the last photo," she said, a finger placed delicately on the longhaired man. His arm was wound tight around his wife's, and his wife had an arrogant smile on her face. The whole family looked down on Narcissa.
Narcissa shuddered, and turned the page.
"Damon Malfoy with -" Narcissa squinted -"Sienna Malfoy. And their son. 1723."
Narcissa found herself being unnerved. There was no difference in the generations - a man with his wife, and one child, a boy. No girls at all, and the woman were obviously not born Malfoys. And the all had pale blond hair.
"Like me," Narcissa said.
The next page was, 'Harper Malfoy with his wife Victoria Malfoy and their son Joseph in the year of 1754.' The next, 'Joseph Malfoy with his wife Patricia Malfoy and their son...'
Narcissa shut the book suddenly, but left her finger marking the page. She gulped. This was scary, too scary. Narcissa glanced at the window. The sun was closer to the horizon; she was hungry.
Narcissa headed down to her rooms, taking the book with her.
When Narcissa got to her rooms, she proceeded to flumph down on top of her green sheeted bed, the book discarded beside her. She stretched, and settled down to just lie there for a few minutes, rubbing her eyes.
Eventually, she got up to pull the cord beside her bed. Though she could hear no sound, she knew somewhere in the manor, a bell would ring out and call a house-elf to her. How the house-elves knew who rang, Narcissa did not know. Maybe there was a whole room of bells, each one with a different sound. She smiled at the image.
It wasn't long before a house-elf appeared. The creature bowed low, and asked,
"What does Mistress want?"
Narcissa yawned, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, and said,
"You may have noticed I have not had lunch as of yet. I would like you to bring me some -" the house-elf nodded, but Narcissa shock her head -"I want scrambled eggs on toast, after which you will bring me an ice-cream sundae. It will have chocolate and nuts on it. I will have a glass of home-made lemonade, and finally you will bring me a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough."
The house-elf blinked its large, owl-like eyes at her, and asked,
"Is that all you wish, Mistress?"
"That is all," Narcissa said. "You are dismissed."
The house-elf bowed again, and disappeared. Narcissa rubbed her head. She hated it when they just disappeared like that.
Later again, Narcissa lay tummy-down on her bed, scooping what remained of the cookie dough out of a porcelain bowl and licking it off her fingers. Much as Narcissa liked to bake, she'd always felt a bit sorry, cooking the dough. It was a sin, really, to cook such a delectable object. It never tasted quite so good after it had been in the oven.
Finally, Narcissa dumped the bowl down beside her bed, and pulled the string again. The same spindly house-elf appeared, and whisked the bowl away as she'd told it to before. Once she was alone, Narcissa took the book up in her arms, and opened it to where she'd left off, at Joseph Malfoy. She wanted to see if anything changed in the pattern, or if for the whole book it was the same - a Malfoy, his wife and his son. She wanted to see if they kept the same hair from through out the whole book. She'd always been proud of her hair colour, that blonde so pale as to be white, but after viewing a book in which everyone had hair that colour, it didn't seem quite so special.
Narcissa flipped a page over, to 1815.
"Midas Malfoy with his wife Serinda and their son... Serinda?" Narcissa asked.
Narcissa slid off her bed and into her study, searching quickly through the sparse collection of books that piled along the shelves. The book she took out was a thick one; the words 'A Lockhart Family History' engraved down the side. When she returned to her bed, she flipped straight to the family trees.
Here it was - "Serinda Lockhart m Midas Malfoy". They'd married in 1810, and their boy, Aristol, had been born the year after.
What Narcissa saw next drew the little colour she had in her face completely away.
They'd had a daughter. A daughter whose name had no name listed, because... because she'd died the day she was born, and if it was a natural death, well... if it was a natural death, Narcissa was in love with Lucius!
Narcissa shuddered, staring at the family tree. How many girl children, she wondered, had been killed to fit the Malfoy's strange tradition? Did they kill anyone of alternative hair colour also?
Narcissa lay back on her bed, feeling faint. They killed their children. They killed their children just so they could have their 'perfect' little family.
Narcissa ran to her bathroom and spent the next ten minutes retching up her lunch. She stood panting over the toilet bowl for a further five minutes. Then she shook her head, and went to wash her face.
She was probably just overreacting, she told herself. It was probably completely coincidental ... the child had probably been stillborn.
Narcissa kept telling herself that at she went back to her bedroom, and went back to flipping through the book.
Shouldn't be too long now, Narcissa thought, staring at 'Thessal Malfoy' till she got to Lucius as a child. Briefly, she wondered if he'd ever been... ever been nice.
But two pages later, she quickly dashed that idea, as she stared at the cruel face of a young Lucius Malfoy. He looked the same as he did now, but for the age difference. Narcissa shuddered, and flipped ahead to the empty page after it.
There. There would be her portrait, and she could just see the words.
"Lucius Malfoy with his wife Narcissa Malfoy and their son...." Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut, and whispered '1991' to herself.
Opening her eyes again, she threw the book across the room.
It landed face up against the wall, none the worse for being chucked furiously across the room.
Narcissa started to laugh, a high, unnatural laugh. And when she stopped laughing, she cried.
-------
One more part to go. :) This part, I notice, is over twice as long as the first. Yay! I hope you're all enjoying it. Tell me if you are!
Narcissa, Lucius etc etc do not belong to be. They're JK Rowling's, and I'm just trying to understand them.
"We keeps our mistress' secrets," they said.
Sometimes, they let her try her hand cooking. One day though, they refused. Narcissa hadn't understood why then, but she did now. Her parents had found out. And, of course, it wasn't acceptable for their daughter to cook - least of all the muggle way.
Narcissa hadn't forgiven them for that. There were many things she hadn't forgiven them for.
It wasn't till Hogwarts she was able to cook again. The house-elves (or was it castle-elves?) hadn't been at all happy. But Narcissa had begged and pleaded, and threatened, until they let her. It had taken many nights, and Narcissa suspected they'd only given in because Dumbledore had had a quiet word with them. Good old Dumbledore. She wasn't, as a Slytherin, supposed to like the old man, but she did. He'd always been nice to her.
"Bring me some flour," she told the house-elf beside her, one dressed in an old flannel. The house-elf rushed off, so eager. They all were, when she asked them for things.
Narcissa didn't need to remind herself to thank them.
Later, Narcissa stared down at her creations, not unhappily. Chocolate chip and afghan biscuits, hokey pokey and almond. Over one hundred of them. The house-elves hadn't seemed too happy, trying to prepare dinner at the same time. But Narcissa herself was immensely satisfied. Baking always left her feeling like that.
Narcissa asked the house-elves to find some containers in which to store the biscuits. And then, when they were all nicely packed away, she told them to eat the afghans. Baking always left her feeling generous.
Dinner proved to be some sort of chicken, with roast vegetables following pumpkin soup. Narcissa poked the chicken with her fork. It looked rather plain, for the sort of things Narcissa had imagined the Malfoys would eat. So, when she cut the meat, it was cautiously. For all she knew, twenty-four blackbirds could come flying out.
They didn't. It was only an apricot.
Narcissa sighed with relief, and ate.
The dinner passed in silence. The food, Narcissa had to admit, was good. The Malfoy's house-elves certainly knew their stuff. The wine, also, was good. Some sort of muggle wine, Narcissa figured - wizard wines always had a bitter aftertaste. Obviously, Lucius' disdain of Muggles didn't extend to their alcohol.
After dessert it was, (a tall glass of ice cream in apricot sauce, surrounded in spun sugar) after all the last dishes had been whisked away by house-elves, when Lucius deigned to speak to Narcissa.
"I have heard," he said, "that you were down in the kitchens."
Though she did not let it show, Narcissa's heart fell. Not so much as fell even - it was more like it skydived.
"Narcissa, if you had wanted biscuits, the house-elves would have been more than happy to get them for you," Lucius said, his voice disdainful.
"I didn't want biscuits," Narcissa answered.
Lucius' eyebrows raised, but the hair was so pale one would barely noticed. Narcissa did.
"Oh?" he asked.
"Oh what?" Narcissa said, looking down at the man, who even when seated, was half a head taller than her.
He was not going to take her cooking away from her.
For a moment, Lucius looked like he would not answer. Then, he told her,
"It is hardly fit for a Malfoy's wife to spend her days baking."
"Oh?" Narcissa said. "And what, I wonder, would you have me do instead? File my nails?"
Narcissa was amazed how calm her voice was. Maybe, when one's heart had dropped as far as hers had, it wasn't there to interfere in arguments.
"No. But there are many, far more suitable, tasks for a lady of your rank to engage in."
"I though humankind had got past the days when ladies were expected to stay home and tat lace. I guess I was wrong. Perhaps it was only the Muggles who ever got that far.
"Perhaps," Lucius said, and Narcissa felt like she had been slapped. "But 'tatting lace' is not such a waste of time as baking biscuits you do not intend to eat."
Narcissa felt like asked what on earth she was supposed to do with lace. But she decided, perhaps, it was time for a change of tactic.
"Lucius, I did not mean... I thought it would be nice, you know, for me to bake you biscuits. I did not mean to get so carried away," Narcissa said, lowering her head and fluttering her eyelashes.
Lucius laughed.
"Of course you didn't, Narcissa dear. Just, please, please, don't do it again. It really isn't appropriate."
Narcissa didn't answer. She had no intention of following Lucius' instructions, of course. Narcissa would bake until every room of Malfoy Manor was filled biscuits. And then, she would make Lucius Malfoy eat his words. Or, if she was feeling particularly cruel, the biscuits.
Unfortunately, Narcissa never did. The house-elves seemed mysteriously deaf to her requests for ingredients, and much as Narcissa searched, she could not find them.
It was also, it seemed, after she paid a quick visist to a muggle pharmacist, not allowable for her to leave the house. Of course, Lucius himself was allowed to go gallavanting whenever and wherever he wanted. Though Narcissa did not think what he did could be described as gallavanting. More like rape, pillage and murder.
Narcissa knew who her husband's master was.
The only good thing about being married to a Malfoy, Narcissa had decided, was that you knew you wouldn't end up dead at the hands of a gang of deatheaters. You would never have to return home to a dark mark.
Not that Narcissa would ever return home, as Narcissa could never leave it.
But the end result was, that Narcissa was not worried, as many witches were, about Lord Voldemort.
Narcissa was more afraid of the fact her pills had run out, and she had no way of getting more.
Narcissa had no wish to bear Lucius' child.
Out. Narcissa wanted out. There must be some way, she thought, out of this godforsaken place!
Narcissa stared out her window, squinting at the sun. Lucius wasn't back yet, and wouldn't be for a long time yet. He might not even be back at all today...
Narcissa stood up. It was high time she explored Malfoy Manor. There were six floors, and she hadn't even been on half of them. Yes, that sounded good, to explore. It would take her mind off being confined in the building, take her mind off being trapped, of not even being able to get pills...
Enough. Narcissa pushed turned from the window, and walked to the door (though it was more of a stomp). The corridor she walked down was identical to the others in the manor. White walls, with green and silver trim at the top. Slytherin colours, Narcissa thought with a grim smile. Was there a single Malfoy who hadn't been in Slytherin?
The wall's whiteness was emphasized even more by the lack of paintings. It was funny, as Narcissa had always imagined the manor would be full of paintings, disapproving ancestors staring down at you.
Narcissa finally reached the stairs, and she ran up them two at a time. She slowed down as she reached the fourth floor - these steps, it seemed, were rarely used, and so had fallen into disrepair. Narcissa wondered at the spiderwebs that clung to the corners.
And then the fifth floor. The floorboard squeaked as Narcissa took a nervous step onto it. She looked up nervously - it was dark.
Narcissa drew her wand out her robes, and whispered a quiet 'Lumos'. The corridor lit up. Spiders scuttled from the light that flickered and danced along the walls. These walls were not white, even in the dim light Narcissa could tell that. They had faded gray, and appeared striped green from where the paint had peeled off. As if that weren't enough, there were a million stains, a million cobwebs. Narcissa could feel a million eyes on her - thousands of spiders, all with their eight eyes trained on Narcissa.
Narcissa was clutching at her robes, and let go. She brought a hand up to her wand. Even through the silk fabric, her nails had cut into her palm. There were bloodstains on her robes.
"I should go," Narcissa said, to herself and to the spiders. Go? they whispered. But you have barely arrived.
Narcissa shook her said, a sudden, vicious movement. She was being silly. They were just spiders. Even if they were most likely poisonous.
Narcissa strode down the hall, and pushed open the first door she came to, wincing at it squeaked in disapproval. In the room, Narcissa shielded her eyes. The windows, even in their dusty, dirty state, let in the whole of the midday sun. Still, Narcissa left her light glowing as she walked up to the window, and smeared away a layer of grim with her robe sleeve. She winced as the muck came off; still, it was better than getting it on her hands. The robe was already spoilt with blood.
Narcissa stood back against the window, and examined the room. It was small - Narcissa hadn't imagined any room in the manor would be this small. There was a bed, with flowery pink bed sheets folded neatly upon it, their colours faded. Against one wall was a dressing table; a surprisingly clean mirror sat on it. Narcissa walked forward to stare briefly at her reflection. She couldn't believe how scared her blue eyes looked.
"It's just a house," she told her reflection. "It can't hurt you." At that, the door swung back, squeaking in laughter. She spun round, and watched it slam.
"It can't hurt you," she repeated, looking back at the mirror.
Narcissa glanced down at the surface of the dressing table. A lilac cloth was spread across it; a red stain cut straight down the middle.
"It can't hurt you," she said, backing away.
She stood for a minute with her eyes squeezed shut, her hands once again grasping her robes as she fought to regain control of her mind. Finally, she opened her eyes again, and knelt down in front of the dresser. The carpet was plush, still soft but for some stains she winced at.
Narcissa opened drawer after drawer, lifting a few of the spidery robes out to admire.
"They just don't make them like they used to," she whispered to herself, admiring a lace pattern cuffing the neck of a magenta robe. She held the dress up to her slender form, and laughed despite herself. The robe's owner had been even thinner than she. Then again, she thought, cocking her head at the robe, the owner might've been from when corsets were still in use.
The next drawer she opened did not contain robes. Instead it held a book, bound in dark leather. She pulled it gently out the drawer, and crossed her legs beneath it.
The books pages, she quickly learned, had obviously been magicked to stay white - there was no way it could've been as old as some of the other things in here, and not been yellow with age.
"A Pictorial History of the Malfoy Family," Narcissa read from the first page. She stared at it, wondering what it meant. Was it a photo album?
The next page answered her question. It was not a photo album, but something close enough. A postcard-sized painting had been attached to the page, and it's occupants blinked up at her.
A woman stood to the right of a tall, blond man, her arm clutching his. In front of the pair stood a small boy, perhaps eleven years old. They were all dressed in black, but the lady's robes were trimmed with silver. One sleeve's embroidery was stained red, and Narcissa shivered. She quietly read the caption to herself - 'Feyd Malfoy with his wife, Aliciba Malfoy and their son Azrael, in the year of 1663.'
"So old," Narcissa whispered, turning the page, reading out the next caption.
"Azrael Malfoy with his wife Courticia Malfoy and their son Damon in the year of 1690. I wonder... that must be the boy from the last photo," she said, a finger placed delicately on the longhaired man. His arm was wound tight around his wife's, and his wife had an arrogant smile on her face. The whole family looked down on Narcissa.
Narcissa shuddered, and turned the page.
"Damon Malfoy with -" Narcissa squinted -"Sienna Malfoy. And their son. 1723."
Narcissa found herself being unnerved. There was no difference in the generations - a man with his wife, and one child, a boy. No girls at all, and the woman were obviously not born Malfoys. And the all had pale blond hair.
"Like me," Narcissa said.
The next page was, 'Harper Malfoy with his wife Victoria Malfoy and their son Joseph in the year of 1754.' The next, 'Joseph Malfoy with his wife Patricia Malfoy and their son...'
Narcissa shut the book suddenly, but left her finger marking the page. She gulped. This was scary, too scary. Narcissa glanced at the window. The sun was closer to the horizon; she was hungry.
Narcissa headed down to her rooms, taking the book with her.
When Narcissa got to her rooms, she proceeded to flumph down on top of her green sheeted bed, the book discarded beside her. She stretched, and settled down to just lie there for a few minutes, rubbing her eyes.
Eventually, she got up to pull the cord beside her bed. Though she could hear no sound, she knew somewhere in the manor, a bell would ring out and call a house-elf to her. How the house-elves knew who rang, Narcissa did not know. Maybe there was a whole room of bells, each one with a different sound. She smiled at the image.
It wasn't long before a house-elf appeared. The creature bowed low, and asked,
"What does Mistress want?"
Narcissa yawned, covering her mouth with a delicate hand, and said,
"You may have noticed I have not had lunch as of yet. I would like you to bring me some -" the house-elf nodded, but Narcissa shock her head -"I want scrambled eggs on toast, after which you will bring me an ice-cream sundae. It will have chocolate and nuts on it. I will have a glass of home-made lemonade, and finally you will bring me a batch of chocolate chip cookie dough."
The house-elf blinked its large, owl-like eyes at her, and asked,
"Is that all you wish, Mistress?"
"That is all," Narcissa said. "You are dismissed."
The house-elf bowed again, and disappeared. Narcissa rubbed her head. She hated it when they just disappeared like that.
Later again, Narcissa lay tummy-down on her bed, scooping what remained of the cookie dough out of a porcelain bowl and licking it off her fingers. Much as Narcissa liked to bake, she'd always felt a bit sorry, cooking the dough. It was a sin, really, to cook such a delectable object. It never tasted quite so good after it had been in the oven.
Finally, Narcissa dumped the bowl down beside her bed, and pulled the string again. The same spindly house-elf appeared, and whisked the bowl away as she'd told it to before. Once she was alone, Narcissa took the book up in her arms, and opened it to where she'd left off, at Joseph Malfoy. She wanted to see if anything changed in the pattern, or if for the whole book it was the same - a Malfoy, his wife and his son. She wanted to see if they kept the same hair from through out the whole book. She'd always been proud of her hair colour, that blonde so pale as to be white, but after viewing a book in which everyone had hair that colour, it didn't seem quite so special.
Narcissa flipped a page over, to 1815.
"Midas Malfoy with his wife Serinda and their son... Serinda?" Narcissa asked.
Narcissa slid off her bed and into her study, searching quickly through the sparse collection of books that piled along the shelves. The book she took out was a thick one; the words 'A Lockhart Family History' engraved down the side. When she returned to her bed, she flipped straight to the family trees.
Here it was - "Serinda Lockhart m Midas Malfoy". They'd married in 1810, and their boy, Aristol, had been born the year after.
What Narcissa saw next drew the little colour she had in her face completely away.
They'd had a daughter. A daughter whose name had no name listed, because... because she'd died the day she was born, and if it was a natural death, well... if it was a natural death, Narcissa was in love with Lucius!
Narcissa shuddered, staring at the family tree. How many girl children, she wondered, had been killed to fit the Malfoy's strange tradition? Did they kill anyone of alternative hair colour also?
Narcissa lay back on her bed, feeling faint. They killed their children. They killed their children just so they could have their 'perfect' little family.
Narcissa ran to her bathroom and spent the next ten minutes retching up her lunch. She stood panting over the toilet bowl for a further five minutes. Then she shook her head, and went to wash her face.
She was probably just overreacting, she told herself. It was probably completely coincidental ... the child had probably been stillborn.
Narcissa kept telling herself that at she went back to her bedroom, and went back to flipping through the book.
Shouldn't be too long now, Narcissa thought, staring at 'Thessal Malfoy' till she got to Lucius as a child. Briefly, she wondered if he'd ever been... ever been nice.
But two pages later, she quickly dashed that idea, as she stared at the cruel face of a young Lucius Malfoy. He looked the same as he did now, but for the age difference. Narcissa shuddered, and flipped ahead to the empty page after it.
There. There would be her portrait, and she could just see the words.
"Lucius Malfoy with his wife Narcissa Malfoy and their son...." Narcissa squeezed her eyes shut, and whispered '1991' to herself.
Opening her eyes again, she threw the book across the room.
It landed face up against the wall, none the worse for being chucked furiously across the room.
Narcissa started to laugh, a high, unnatural laugh. And when she stopped laughing, she cried.
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One more part to go. :) This part, I notice, is over twice as long as the first. Yay! I hope you're all enjoying it. Tell me if you are!
Narcissa, Lucius etc etc do not belong to be. They're JK Rowling's, and I'm just trying to understand them.