Tired
Draco was gone, married to the Parkinson girl. He no longer needed a mother, or so he says. Narcissa doubts it, and she is correct in her doubtfulness, but perhaps she is too late. And she hates Pansy Parkinson more than she hates the Aurors or Dumbledore, even though she doesn't know it. Narcissa hates Pansy because she greedily snatched Draco away, and Draco was all Narcissa had now.
Narcissa misses Lucius in the most terrible way, even though she doesn't know it. Sometimes, she listens very carefully, desperately trying to hear him, but then she catches herself, and, disgusted with her display of wistful emotion, goes back to staring at whatever she's staring at.
The war is over now. Lucius is long dead, and so is part of her; the only stable piece of her soul, the only part she could lean on. He would have been proud of the way he had died, Narcissa reflected grimly. He died fighting for his cause, during the final battle. Narcissa received the owl of false regret, and sat and stared, thoughts racing, and one may have thought she'd stayed that way ever since.
And it was tiring, I can assure you. All this sitting and staring and thinking and regretting that she didn't tell him how much it mattered that he was there. It was all very corroding to what was left of Narcissa's spirit.
Pansy and Draco were staying at the manor, with its walls lined with stone that seemed to seal in the frigid cold. And at lunch one day, Narcissa rose from her seat, her usual blank stare on her face and announced. She said, in a whisper colder than the manor's coldest halls, "It's been a long day. I think," and she sighed, "I think I want to go to sleep."
Narcissa was thinner than usual, and she did look tired, Draco chose this time to notice. But perhaps he was too late. And as Narcissa walked wearily away from the dusty dining room, leaving the world behind, and the fine silver, the unbelievable wealth and incomparable power, Pansy Parkinson shrilly called out, "Mother? Where are you going?" And Draco said, "Let her go. She needs him, I think."
"Needs who?"
So perhaps Draco saw his mother more accurately than he thought. And Narcissa went to sleep and didn't wake up, and you can be certain she's better now.
Draco and Pansy raise their two young children in France. They never visit the manor. Draco is horribly afraid of the memories he will find there, though he doesn't know it.
- - - - - -
The manor is quiet. The sun of the English countryside washes through the tall glass windows, lacing the walls and high ceilings, and what a shame that there is no one present to view it, no living being anyway, especially at sunrise or sunset. It is as cold as ever, though the ghosts of the Malfoy family cannot feel the cold, and even if they could, they wouldn't mind. Lucius and Narcissa are once again together, and their souls sit quietly, and they are happy, or as close to happy as fate would allow.
And since Narcissa's eternal sleep began, the servants and elves are long gone, with Draco or elsewhere, and no one is there to clean the once polished wood and tall gilded objects. All the dust has settled. Everything is dusty... the shadows, even.
-fin
A/N: Not what I thought my first Lucius/Narcissa fic would be like, but hey. If you like it let me know! If it sucks please {nicely} tell me why. All violent, angry flames will be happily used to set things on fire. ;-)
Draco was gone, married to the Parkinson girl. He no longer needed a mother, or so he says. Narcissa doubts it, and she is correct in her doubtfulness, but perhaps she is too late. And she hates Pansy Parkinson more than she hates the Aurors or Dumbledore, even though she doesn't know it. Narcissa hates Pansy because she greedily snatched Draco away, and Draco was all Narcissa had now.
Narcissa misses Lucius in the most terrible way, even though she doesn't know it. Sometimes, she listens very carefully, desperately trying to hear him, but then she catches herself, and, disgusted with her display of wistful emotion, goes back to staring at whatever she's staring at.
The war is over now. Lucius is long dead, and so is part of her; the only stable piece of her soul, the only part she could lean on. He would have been proud of the way he had died, Narcissa reflected grimly. He died fighting for his cause, during the final battle. Narcissa received the owl of false regret, and sat and stared, thoughts racing, and one may have thought she'd stayed that way ever since.
And it was tiring, I can assure you. All this sitting and staring and thinking and regretting that she didn't tell him how much it mattered that he was there. It was all very corroding to what was left of Narcissa's spirit.
Pansy and Draco were staying at the manor, with its walls lined with stone that seemed to seal in the frigid cold. And at lunch one day, Narcissa rose from her seat, her usual blank stare on her face and announced. She said, in a whisper colder than the manor's coldest halls, "It's been a long day. I think," and she sighed, "I think I want to go to sleep."
Narcissa was thinner than usual, and she did look tired, Draco chose this time to notice. But perhaps he was too late. And as Narcissa walked wearily away from the dusty dining room, leaving the world behind, and the fine silver, the unbelievable wealth and incomparable power, Pansy Parkinson shrilly called out, "Mother? Where are you going?" And Draco said, "Let her go. She needs him, I think."
"Needs who?"
So perhaps Draco saw his mother more accurately than he thought. And Narcissa went to sleep and didn't wake up, and you can be certain she's better now.
Draco and Pansy raise their two young children in France. They never visit the manor. Draco is horribly afraid of the memories he will find there, though he doesn't know it.
- - - - - -
The manor is quiet. The sun of the English countryside washes through the tall glass windows, lacing the walls and high ceilings, and what a shame that there is no one present to view it, no living being anyway, especially at sunrise or sunset. It is as cold as ever, though the ghosts of the Malfoy family cannot feel the cold, and even if they could, they wouldn't mind. Lucius and Narcissa are once again together, and their souls sit quietly, and they are happy, or as close to happy as fate would allow.
And since Narcissa's eternal sleep began, the servants and elves are long gone, with Draco or elsewhere, and no one is there to clean the once polished wood and tall gilded objects. All the dust has settled. Everything is dusty... the shadows, even.
-fin
A/N: Not what I thought my first Lucius/Narcissa fic would be like, but hey. If you like it let me know! If it sucks please {nicely} tell me why. All violent, angry flames will be happily used to set things on fire. ;-)