Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling, and consequently own nothing. Take that,
you money robbing lawyer people!!
Narcissa's thoughts on her wedding day.a little angsty, a little sad, feel free to flame.
Porcelain Woman
By Madame Plot Bunnie I do not love you.
You know that. You've known that ever since our fathers began to arrange "union" when we were thirteen.
I know that you don't love me either. I know that you would rather be able to continue gallivanting around with your drunkard friends and your whores. And I know that even though we will be married, you still will.
My bridesmaids are rushing about, giggling, chatting happily about how lucky I am to acquire such a charming, handsome, wealthy husband.
But I am nobody's fool.
You'll marry me because you have to, create an heir because you need to, and then ignore me because you want to. I'll sit alone in your house. Yes, alone, because I know you won't allow our child to be attached to me. You'll want him (for it will be a male, you deserve nothing less) to be just like you-cold, aloof, and emotionless. I will be your trophy wife, a porcelain woman for you to parade around and show off to society.
Someone fastens a pearl necklace about my throat. "Lovely," they say, gesturing to the mirror.
I gaze into the looking glass. A blue-eyed girl of nineteen stares austerely back. Another bridesmaid begins to sweep my long blonde hair off of my china doll skin.
The perfect trophy wife.
I stand and slip into my shoes. I smooth the silken material of my white skirts. White. They should be black. For this "I do" is my death sentence. The end of my enjoyable, carefree life; the start of a cold silence that will be with me until I die. It frightens me.
I stop to think of you. Your cold good looks, your striking height, your steel-like gray eyes. Altogether, people find you most enticing. Charming, even.
But I do not. All I manage to see is a cocky, arrogant scoundrel who thinks that the world will bow down to him. You never even tried to get to know me. Your father formally introduced us at our engagement party four years ago, although we had met at Hogwarts. You took one look at me, smirked, and whispered in my ear, "She'll be good enough at night."
See what I mean by cocky, arrogant scoundrel?
Someone nudges me and rushes me over to the double doors. Numbly, I take my place next to my father. He takes my slender hand in his and pats it, attempting to smile at me. "It will be a good marriage, Narcissa, dear," he says.
And suddenly I hate him. He's not the one who will have to endure years of you. He's not the one who will become a marionette. He is not the one who will wake up every morning for the rest of his life, and see you sleeping at his side.
I will.
The wedding march begins to play, the great doors swing open, and the bridal party begins the procession down that wretched aisle. I walk blindly toward the altar, guided arm-in-arm with my father. As we draw closer, I am able to see your face. You are smiling at me.
It is hard to believe, but there you are, smiling at me. I can almost feel some of my hatred melt. But then I must remember what you are like. You are either drunk or a spectacular actor, I think, as I leave my father's arm and venture on alone.
And then I realize. You are not smiling at me.
You're flirting with my bridesmaids.
Mentally I sigh as I stand opposite you and you nod at me, as if acknowledging my presence. Yes, you nod. On our wedding day, you have the audacity to flirt with my attendants, but you can only manage a nod to the woman who will, in minutes, become your wife?
You are scum, I think, as you take my hand in your cold one. The minister begins to drone, and I tune him out until I hear the words, "Do you, Lucius Malfoy, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
I look at you. You look at me. For a fleeting second, I think I can see what looks like uncertainty flash through those steely orbs, but it is gone so fast I cannot really be sure.
"I do."
My heart feels of lead as you slip a heavy, gold ring on my finger, engraved with a large M. The minister then turns on me and asks, "Do you, Narcissa Rochefort, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
In blind panic, I turn to my father, who nods fervently. I turn my gaze back to you, locking it with your eyes,. I do not blink. I look deep into those cold eyes, trying to find some scrap of caring, some glimpse of human emotion.
I can't.
"I do," I say, letting the condemning words fall off my tongue and past the confines of my lips. The minister smiles at us as I slip the ring into your finger. You smirk at me. That smirk wrenches my heart. My fate is sealed.
The minister, still smiling cheerfully, raises his hands. "I now pronounce you man and wife." The crowd cheers. "You may kiss the bride."
Tears well in my eyes as you lean forward and our lips meet. Your mouth is cold and your lips feel strange and unwelcome against my own. Offhandedly, I realize that this is the first time we have ever kissed. I sincerely hope it will be the last.
After a few seconds that seem to span all eternity, we break apart. The crowd claps as we walk past. You offer me your arm, and I take it, playing along.
This is the start of being a trophy wife.
This is how we will be until one of us dies.
I had better get used to it.
We walk arm-in-arm down the aisle, smiling gamely at our guests, who are all cheering. We glide out the double doors and into the waiting carriage. I immediately break away from you. You dutifully help me into the carriage. I pointedly sit on the seat opposite you. You barely seem to mind. You give me a fleeting glance, before turning your full attention out the window.
I can feel the tears start to well again, but I blink them back furiously. I refuse to give in, to cry in front of you, my husband. A whip crack from outside and a lurching forward tells us the carriage has begun its journey.
As we begin to move in silence, I uncover one lone thought from the depths of my soul.
I do not love you.
Narcissa's thoughts on her wedding day.a little angsty, a little sad, feel free to flame.
Porcelain Woman
By Madame Plot Bunnie I do not love you.
You know that. You've known that ever since our fathers began to arrange "union" when we were thirteen.
I know that you don't love me either. I know that you would rather be able to continue gallivanting around with your drunkard friends and your whores. And I know that even though we will be married, you still will.
My bridesmaids are rushing about, giggling, chatting happily about how lucky I am to acquire such a charming, handsome, wealthy husband.
But I am nobody's fool.
You'll marry me because you have to, create an heir because you need to, and then ignore me because you want to. I'll sit alone in your house. Yes, alone, because I know you won't allow our child to be attached to me. You'll want him (for it will be a male, you deserve nothing less) to be just like you-cold, aloof, and emotionless. I will be your trophy wife, a porcelain woman for you to parade around and show off to society.
Someone fastens a pearl necklace about my throat. "Lovely," they say, gesturing to the mirror.
I gaze into the looking glass. A blue-eyed girl of nineteen stares austerely back. Another bridesmaid begins to sweep my long blonde hair off of my china doll skin.
The perfect trophy wife.
I stand and slip into my shoes. I smooth the silken material of my white skirts. White. They should be black. For this "I do" is my death sentence. The end of my enjoyable, carefree life; the start of a cold silence that will be with me until I die. It frightens me.
I stop to think of you. Your cold good looks, your striking height, your steel-like gray eyes. Altogether, people find you most enticing. Charming, even.
But I do not. All I manage to see is a cocky, arrogant scoundrel who thinks that the world will bow down to him. You never even tried to get to know me. Your father formally introduced us at our engagement party four years ago, although we had met at Hogwarts. You took one look at me, smirked, and whispered in my ear, "She'll be good enough at night."
See what I mean by cocky, arrogant scoundrel?
Someone nudges me and rushes me over to the double doors. Numbly, I take my place next to my father. He takes my slender hand in his and pats it, attempting to smile at me. "It will be a good marriage, Narcissa, dear," he says.
And suddenly I hate him. He's not the one who will have to endure years of you. He's not the one who will become a marionette. He is not the one who will wake up every morning for the rest of his life, and see you sleeping at his side.
I will.
The wedding march begins to play, the great doors swing open, and the bridal party begins the procession down that wretched aisle. I walk blindly toward the altar, guided arm-in-arm with my father. As we draw closer, I am able to see your face. You are smiling at me.
It is hard to believe, but there you are, smiling at me. I can almost feel some of my hatred melt. But then I must remember what you are like. You are either drunk or a spectacular actor, I think, as I leave my father's arm and venture on alone.
And then I realize. You are not smiling at me.
You're flirting with my bridesmaids.
Mentally I sigh as I stand opposite you and you nod at me, as if acknowledging my presence. Yes, you nod. On our wedding day, you have the audacity to flirt with my attendants, but you can only manage a nod to the woman who will, in minutes, become your wife?
You are scum, I think, as you take my hand in your cold one. The minister begins to drone, and I tune him out until I hear the words, "Do you, Lucius Malfoy, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
I look at you. You look at me. For a fleeting second, I think I can see what looks like uncertainty flash through those steely orbs, but it is gone so fast I cannot really be sure.
"I do."
My heart feels of lead as you slip a heavy, gold ring on my finger, engraved with a large M. The minister then turns on me and asks, "Do you, Narcissa Rochefort, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
In blind panic, I turn to my father, who nods fervently. I turn my gaze back to you, locking it with your eyes,. I do not blink. I look deep into those cold eyes, trying to find some scrap of caring, some glimpse of human emotion.
I can't.
"I do," I say, letting the condemning words fall off my tongue and past the confines of my lips. The minister smiles at us as I slip the ring into your finger. You smirk at me. That smirk wrenches my heart. My fate is sealed.
The minister, still smiling cheerfully, raises his hands. "I now pronounce you man and wife." The crowd cheers. "You may kiss the bride."
Tears well in my eyes as you lean forward and our lips meet. Your mouth is cold and your lips feel strange and unwelcome against my own. Offhandedly, I realize that this is the first time we have ever kissed. I sincerely hope it will be the last.
After a few seconds that seem to span all eternity, we break apart. The crowd claps as we walk past. You offer me your arm, and I take it, playing along.
This is the start of being a trophy wife.
This is how we will be until one of us dies.
I had better get used to it.
We walk arm-in-arm down the aisle, smiling gamely at our guests, who are all cheering. We glide out the double doors and into the waiting carriage. I immediately break away from you. You dutifully help me into the carriage. I pointedly sit on the seat opposite you. You barely seem to mind. You give me a fleeting glance, before turning your full attention out the window.
I can feel the tears start to well again, but I blink them back furiously. I refuse to give in, to cry in front of you, my husband. A whip crack from outside and a lurching forward tells us the carriage has begun its journey.
As we begin to move in silence, I uncover one lone thought from the depths of my soul.
I do not love you.