It's been a while since you last heard from me but rest assured my writers block has been cured! Well, at least I wrote something that I think is passably good and decided to share it with you. I'm not sure if I'll continue it; I think it stands pretty well as a character sketch. But here's a little water to help your parched throat (I know you've been starving for me). For ominous music: I recommend you listen to The Council of Elrond, A Knife in the Dark, and Lothlorien from the Fellowship of the Ring Soundtrack. I listened to the soundtrack as I wrote this story. Enjoy!
Memories
They were everywhere, prowling around the mansion like overgrown boarhounds with less care than animals for the priceless antiques and her once perfectly clean rugs. She'd stopped leaving her quarters ever since they'd arrived; one would have thought that men of such upbringing would know how to behave. But not all of them had been raised as well as she'd been raised.
It was times like these when she spurned her upbringing and who she was. She knew there were many witches who would kill to have been born into the Black family and even more who would have killed her to be Mrs. Malfoy. She was lucky, in a way, to have married so well. Her parents had died shortly after Draco had been born. Narcissa winced as a particularly raucous laugh echoed down the hallways and slipped under her door to pound at her ears. They were never like this when their superiors were around. But Lucius had taken the upper crust and his overpowering presence away and left her to deal with the uncultured crumbs.
"I'll be back in a few hours, Narcissa. Don't frown at me like that, you'll get wrinkles," he had said, smirking when her frown deepened. "I'll have a surprise for you when you return." She wasn't sure she'd like the surprise or not.
She was glad her parents were dead, so they wouldn't see what her life was like now and wouldn't be ashamed that she had married Lucius. They hadn't seen the hurts; they had come after their death. It wasn't that Lucius was abusive, he just lost his temper every once in a while. He didn't mean to hurt her, he just couldn't control himself. Anyways, she deserved it. Lucius deserved perfection, and if she wasn't perfect, well, she could try her hardest to be so. He deserved it.
The sudden delicate tinkling of china, followed by a muffled expletive made her huddle more into the blanket wrapped around her as she sat before the fire, waiting for Lucius to return. There wasn't much she could do to prevent the slow but meticulous destruction of the house she had invested so much effort into. Hours of precise evaluation of positions and carefully selected elements of the family heirlooms led the house to have the exact mood she wanted: polite stolidity. It was only in her chambers and Draco's that she had let the personal slip in, although Draco had requested she stop invading his room and moving around and changing the furniture at her whim. He was growing up so quickly, her only son. Her only child. Lucius knew she could not get with child again.
They had started trying to have a child almost as soon as they were married, but complications had arisen from the beginning. It had taken over a year before she had gotten pregnant, and then she had fallen down the stairs after Lucius had bumped into her. The second time, the mediwizards had very gently informed her that the fetus was deformed and should it be birthed, it would be crippled. Lucius refused to have a crippled heir and it was aborted. They had waited a full year before trying again, and it was during this year that Lucius had won his place in the highest of the Dark Lord's circles. She remembered how proud she had been, and how he had made love to her that night. It was like he was touching her for the first time, and there had been no pain, only desire. It had been the first time they had actually made love, not just committed the marriage act. There was no force to it, it had simply happened.
Just the once, and she had gotten with child. She thought it must be a miracle and she faithfully followed the Dark Lord. Lucius had been so proud at how quickly she rose through the ranks. To her, the Dark Lord was the reason why she was pregnant, and why her pregnancy was going smoothly. She had complete faith that he would protect her baby. Getting rid of the muggle filth was just a bonus point.
No complications arose, and she went into labor just as any normal witch would have. It had been painful, but the pain had been overridden with glee. She was going to have a child. Narcissa knew she – she was certain it was a she – would be beautiful; how could a child not be beautiful if she were sired by Lucius Malfoy? Only after the birth did she open her eyes to find the mediwizards looking down at her with pained expressions, glancing at each other warily as if asking each other permission. In the corner, she had seen Lucius bent over in a chair, his face in his hands, his hair an unruly blond mess. Slowly, one of the mediwizards had leaned down to her and said gravely, "It was a still born." She had reached out to smooth Lucius' hair gently. "What does that mean?" she had asked, blissfully. "It means the baby was dead." Her hand had frozen. How could the baby have possibly been dead? She had felt it in her, alive and kicking. How had this life been taken away from her? How could the Dark Lord have let this happen?
As quickly as she had gained faith in the Dark Lord, she lost it. From that day on, she never attended another meeting. If he couldn't complete the simple task of protecting her baby, how would he exterminate the Muggles? The mediwizards had told her to remain in bed as much as she could and for a month, she never left her chambers. When Lucius came at night, she would plead a headache or some other nonsense until he got the idea and stopped coming. The month had dragged on into the next month, until the house elves that cleaned her room started looking at her with pity and she forbade them from entering her chambers while she was awake. Then one day Isabelle, a house elf that she had known ever since she was a baby and had come with her from her family's manor, came into her rooms and started cleaning.
"I thought I had ordered you to stay out of my chambers while I was awake," she had said, staring disinterestedly at the wall.
"Yes, mistress did, but Isabelle has come to tell mistress that she mustn't mope any longer!" Narcissa had been shocked at the elf's audacity and had sat up to face her.
"Isabelle can not bear to see mistress sad any longer!" the elf had continued, "And she is willing to risk clothes for it! Mistress must get out of bed and go see the sunshine because the days will be getting colder soon and the flowers are almost all dead and mistress has been lucky because the summer has lasted longer but mistress mustn't miss it!" The elf had been out of breath by the time she had finished and Narcissa had smiled for the first time in weeks. Isabelle had been right, it was time to get out of bed.
As if in a trance, she had taken a walk through the crispening air, admiring the state of neglect that she had allowed. The house elves had done the best they could to maintain the Manor, but they knew nothing about gardening spells and the flowers were brown and withering from the cold and lack of water. In her mind, she had seen a little blond child sleeping on the grass and she smiled at the illusion. She had felt a tugging in her chest and she knew she wanted a child. She had decided that she would try again, if not for her sake, than for Lucius. He had been so good while she was feeling ill, he deserved an heir.
That night, she had put on Lucius' favorite dressing gown, surprised at how much weight she had lost. Brushing off that detail, she set to work preparing herself in front of her vanity, glad she had not lost her skill after so long.
She had gotten to Lucius' chambers to find him working hard in his study. He didn't look up when she entered the room and so she undid the robe, waiting for him to turn around. He didn't.
"Lucius…" she had said gently, and he had jumped, visibly surprised.
"What are you doing here?" he had asked, returning to his work. She had let the robe fall on the floor and he turned at the noise to see her naked before him, her body glowing in the firelight. He had sat still for a moment as if memorizing her like a list of potions ingredients before he walked boldly to her and took her into a loved-starved embrace. As he lowered her to the ground, she had savored the scent of him she hadn't realized she'd missed. As they made love for the second and last time in her life, he commented on little things, like how much he loved her hair just so and how thin she'd gotten. He told her about the first time he'd seen her, not as Narcissa Black, a possible bride, but as a woman and she shivered despite the warmth of the fire nearby and the friction of the rug beneath her shoulder blades.
Nine months later, to the day, she gave birth to her son. It hadn't been the Dark Lord who had gotten her through the pregnancy, it had been her. She had initiated it, and had carried the baby, and the baby had been born, weak, but very much alive. Lucius had been aghast at how small the baby had been: just barely 5 pounds. Lucius chose his name, of course, but as she had cradled her tiny baby in her arms, Narcissa didn't care what he was called, just that he was hers.
Narcissa smiled in remembering and took a long sip of wine, swirling the bitter fluid around in her mouth before swallowing. She watched the flames flicker in the fireplace almost noiselessly. Lucius had hired a maid to take care of the baby, but Narcissa didn't leave her son's side. He slept in her bed at night and in the mornings she bathed him in her tub. She took him for walks in the garden and read to him from the books in the library. Lucius had stopped coming to her because she was always so busy. Her little Draco.
He had remained very small, but began talking very early. She remembered being there for his first sign of magic. It had been a warm morning, unusually warm because for the past few weeks snow had been falling very lightly, only to melt and leave everything wet – a very odd phenomenon in Britain, especially in February. Draco had been talking, sputtering phrases like there was no tomorrow and she had found his nonsensical musings amusing. At least, until he had started talking in his sleep. It was a tradeoff for him to sleep through the night, she supposed. Usually he spoke broken thoughts about sweets or toys but sometimes they connected and let her know what Draco was thinking. She hadn't told Lucius, afraid that he would get upset and angry at her or maybe hurt her little Draco by accident. She knew Draco still talked in his sleep; if she went into his room when he slept she would hear him muttering.
That morning she had awoken earlier than usual and watched the sunrise, cradling Draco's still sleeping form in her lap. His head had been supported by the crook of her arm, his nose nuzzling her bosom as if he sensed food nearby in his sleep. She had closed her eyes for a moment feeling completely relaxed, and when she had opened them again, she found herself rising up in front of the window. Wildly, she had glanced around for anyone who could have been levitating the chair, waking Draco in the process. Promptly, the chair had dropped, making him cry and as she had cooed him asleep again, she couldn't help but feel pride at Draco's simple levitation. He hadn't even been in danger, simply in bliss. When she told Lucius at breakfast, he hadn't been as pleased as she had been. "He's a Malfoy," he had said, "what did you expect?" He's more my son than yours, she had thought, sorely tempted to risk her well being for the slight satisfaction of Lucius' guilt. Instead, she had started letting Draco play with her wand.
Slowly she unwrapped herself from her blankets and went over to her vanity, kneeling when she arrived there and pulling open the bottom drawer to reveal a small blanket of quilted silk. She had made it for his first birthday. She remembered that day so well. His birthday party had been the first party she had attended in almost a year and it had been the first time Draco had been introduced to children. At first, he had been shy but the Parkinson girl had come up to him, bold as a toddler could be and said, "hello." To which Draco had responded with burying his face in his mother's skirt. Pansy Parkinson was nearly a year older than Draco and much more confident and she had pried him away to play with the other children. The nannies sat nearby, gossiping gaily while they watched the youngest children. The older ones stood around coolly, drinking glasses of pumpkin juice in imitation of the adults and their glasses of champagne.
For a little while, Narcissa forgot herself in the social whirl that she became whenever she hosted a party. She had forgotten how much she loved parties and everyone complimented her on how young she looked despite having a young child to look after. All the other mothers felt that children were a chore, but she knew Draco was never a chore for her. She loved her son and wanted the best for him.
That night after all of the presents had been received, the giant cake cut and served, the children retrieved by their parents and the house-elves left to clean up after the party, Narcissa gave her son the blanket. She had sewn it in secret on the rare occasions she let the nanny take Draco away. He had been thrilled and run off to bed to try it out and Narcissa had laughed, so filled with joy.
But her joy did not last long. That night was also important in her mind for much darker reasons. It had been the night the Dark Lord fell. Lucius, when he had heard the news, had been furious but thankfully he hadn't taken his anger out on her. He knew that he must defend the Malfoy name and that she might be needed in public for any number of reasons. A few days later, little Draco had asked her, "Why is father angry?" After a few moments, when she had pretended to straighten her blouse, she had replied, "Because some people think your father is a bad man."
"Is father a bad man, mother?" She had smiled at the fearful awe that Draco had looked up at her with. His eyes had been large and grey, pleading with her to tell him the truth. She didn't want to break his heart – he loved his father so much – but she couldn't lie to Draco.
"People make mistakes, Draco. Your father has just made more mistakes than most." Draco had nodded solemnly, as if he understood, which Narcissa doubted, and the matter had been dropped. She doubted he even remembered the conversation.
Narcissa held the blanket to her breast as she walked over to the bed and sat down on it. The sun was just beginning to set but the clouds cast a gloomy shadow over the view outside her window, turning the pinks to purple and the purple to gray, and she shut the shade, leaving the room in near darkness. Draco had slept with the blanket for nearly two years afterwards until one night when Lucius had barged in, torn Draco away from her and told him to sleep in his own quarters. Frightened and confused, Draco had asked where his quarters were and Lucius had looked as if he was going to murder his only heir. "Where all your toys are," she had said gently and Lucius had whirled on her a maniacal glint in his eye.
"Leave us, Draco," Lucius had commanded and Draco had run out as obediently as a house elf. As soon as he had left, Lucius pounced and Narcissa, unable to escape, had been forced to endure a torment of her senses that left her bruised and bloodied by morning. She hadn't let Draco see her until the bruises had healed (cuts she healed herself). When she had, Draco had run to her crying and she had shushed him, playing with him the entire afternoon. The night, Lucius had come again, and she didn't struggle like she had the last time. She waited again for the bruises to heal and again Lucius came to her. She hadn't questioned him or his reasons for coming after having left her alone for so long. After a year, he stopped, fed up that she wasn't fighting back any more. He said she'd lost her spark. Narcissa hadn't minded.
The year had changed Draco. He'd become more independent and grown up, trying to imitate his father as if that would make his father respect him more. Narcissa saw the hurt that Draco had felt every time he was brushed off during dinner, or told off for trying to start a conversation. It was like his soul had built up a callous and it was rejecting her too. The more he had distanced herself, the more she had cried for him.
But there were always the little times when he'd come to her for a brief chat, seeming wiser than only 6 years, which soon became 7 and then became 8. She knew no matter what, he would listen to her but as he grew to be a teenager, she knew she could only hope that he listened to her. But if she judged him to be anything like herself when she was his age, she knew that no matter what desires he may have within himself, family duty would win out in the end. She only hoped that he didn't condemn himself to misery and the destruction of the Malfoy reputation.
Sighing, she lay back on the bed, thinking of the last real conversation they had had with each other. It had been the last day of the Christmas Holidays and Draco had been bragging about how favored he had been at the last meeting. She had smiled weakly, giving glossy responses such as "Very good, Draco," and mid-brag he had stopped and looked at her in the same way he had looked at her when he had asked "Is father a bad man?". She had resisted the urge to take him into her arms as if he were a baby again.
"Is something wrong, mother?" He had reached out a hand to take hers from where it had been resting in her lap. She couldn't help noticing that he kept his nails perfectly filed just like she had taught him all those years ago. She had felt tears prick hers eyes and she smiled looking up at him, knowing that he was mature enough for the truth now, but she had been too afraid to say it.
"Sometimes, Draco, it's good to do something for yourself. I know that you like working for the cause and that it's all you've ever wanted, but I just wish you'd be a little selfish sometimes." Draco's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.
"But I am selfish, mother! I'm as spoiled as a baby with an overprotective and generous mother." She had squeezed his hand before sliding it back to her lap. Draco was always one to gloss over important issues with his wit.
A tear slipped from her eye now as she held the little quilt to her breast. A timid knock sounded at her door. Sighing, she brushed the tear away and went to put the quilt away. As she was shutting the drawer, another knock sounded.
"Just a moment," she called, checking her reflection in the vanity. Perfection stared back at her. Lucius would not be disappointed. Swiftly she opened the door, surprised when she did not see anyone there. As she walked forward to look down the hallways, she collided with something and toppled over, falling gracefully to the dirty carpet.
"Oh miss! Isabelle is so sorry! Isabelle is wanting to tell mistress that there is a man from the ministry waiting for mistress. Isabelle did not mean to make mistress fall! Please do not give Isabelle clothes…" Isabelle's large, saucer-shaped eyed were filled with tears of fear.
"Don't worry, Isabelle, it was my fault." Isabelle prostrated herself gratefully before Narcissa.
"Oh thank you mistress! Isabelle will never displease mistress again!" But Narcissa had already gotten up from the ground and was walking towards the entrance of the Manor, determined to ignore the various scorch and scuff marks that were debasing the value of her home. The entrance hall had not been left untouched, with an uncleaned spill on the carpet and a shoe-print on the wall. But she gathered as much Malfoy as she could muster and greeted the Ministry representative who stood close to the door as if he were prepared to bolt at any second.
"Ah, Mrs. Malfoy," he said, spotting her as she came down the staircase. His body relaxed visibly and he stepped forward to greet her. "I am Richard Lupin, a Ministry Representative."
"Well, what do you want?" she snapped, causing him to return to his wary stance. She knew she shouldn't enjoy using her status for her own amusement, but this man was too easy to scare.
"Well, um… you see, well…Mrs. Malfoy, there's no easy way to say this…"
"I don't have all day, you know."
"You're husband's been arrested." For a second Naricissa forgot to be a Malfoy. She forgot to breathe. She forgot to think. She forgot that her house was slowly being raped and pillaged but villainous rouges who claimed to be middle class.
"Excuse me?" she gasped out finally.
"He's been…are you all right?" No, she wanted to reply, I am going to bloody keel over and all you can ask is if I'm all right! How about 'maybe you should sit down, Mrs. Malfoy.' or maybe 'I'm very sorry Mrs. Malfoy.' Or –
"Of course I'm all right," her aristocratic upbringing snapped. "This is all just a mistake, of course, a Malfoy would never do anything wrong." The representative looked like he wanted to make a saucy retort but wisely kept his mouth shut.
"What may or may not be true, your husband has requested to see you."
Bloody hell, what had Lucius gotten her into?
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Well, that's it. I hope you like it. If you do, kindly drop me a review. It might move me towards adding more chapters to this story (that's a BIG hint). Ideas welcome!