Vexation of Spirit
A/N: I like to think of this as the alternate universe version of my fic The Night Dances. They have several similarities.
The cell was cool and stark, furnished by two plain chairs, a table, and a wooden stand in the corner. Windows lined the far wall: the greatest of small mercies. Pale, plentiful light flooded the room.
The woman who sat at the table, facing the door, was heartbreakingly beautiful, but terribly weary. Her head swayed gently as if it were only held upright by a force of will which had recently suffered a tremendous blow. She smoothed her coarse gray robes with hands so fine that it was obvious their owner was accustomed to better. Still, that she had energy to care about her appearance was a positive sign; one that indicated recovery as potential in the future.
The door opened to admit a tall black man with a golden hoop in his ear. His face betrayed no emotion as his eyes grazed the woman's figure.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Malfoy." He set a long scroll of parchment on the stand in the corner, and balanced a navy Quick-Quotes Quill over the parchment. Then he moved to take the remaining chair across from her, his somber black robes emitting a faint smell of musk and rain.
Drawing out his wand, he conjured a pitcher of water and two glasses. He filled both of them and considerately set one in front of Narcissa, who inclined her head in thanks.
"My name is Kingsley Shacklebolt. How do you do?"
"How do you do," she returned neutrally.
"I'm here to interview you," he said in his deep, slow voice. "My Quick-Quotes Quill will be taking our words down over in the corner. You should have been informed . . . you've been read your rights? And have you signed the Statement of Waiver and Privilege?"
She nodded impatiently, though she ought to have been accustomed to formalities.
"Then you understand that my purpose here is to determine your role in the recent war, in order for the Wizengamot to decide what to decree – if they should charge you for war crimes or not. Anything you say here will be recorded and may be used against you in a Wizengamot trial. Have you taken Veritaserum?"
"Yes." And she proved it by pouring out angry words of truth. "Bastards – those bastards. That old bastard! We had a deal. He gave me his word of honor: my information for his protection. He was supposed to guarantee my freedom and the lives of my husband and son. He lied, though. He lied!"
She half-leapt from her seat. At a warning look from Kingsley, however, she seated herself again, albeit with ill grace.
"Slow down, Mrs. Malfoy. It's been recorded that every time you have been interviewed under the influence of Veritaserum, you have spoken of a contract you had with Albus Dumbledore. But Albus Dumbledore is dead. And there seem to be no witnesses, no contract of any kind."
"Of course they all deny it! They would rather have seen my husband and son dead. They did! And who now would speak up in defense of the remaining Malfoy?"
Kingsley would have liked to ease his way into the interview; he hated abrupt beginnings. But he felt lucky in finding Narcissa so communicative, and decided to go along with her. "So you say there were witnesses?"
"Witnesses, yes!" High splotches of color had risen in her cheeks. "Snape, though he is dead . . . ! Minerva McGonagall – Remus Lupin – ask either of them!"
"And you did not insist on an actual contract, although you stood with more to lose?"
The flared nostrils of an aristocrat. "The word of a true gentleman is worth more than a hundred contracts. I upheld my end of the agreement."
"I'm very sorry that you believe you have been cheated. I believe the Wizengamot may look into it when your case comes up. There's no denying that we could not have won the war without the large amount of data obtained by spies."
Kingsley had followed Narcissa's case with interest. Near the end of the war, Lucius had committed suicide. Draco had been captured and Kissed. Charges were pending against Narcissa for abetting Sirius' death before the war, and furthermore, for abetting her husband and son in committing war crimes during the actual fighting. But there had been another side to the story . . .
She turned livid eyes upon him. "You were a member of the Order, Mr. Shacklebolt. You will also deny you knew of my pact with that man?"
He bowed his head. "I was not privy to everything Professor Dumbledore knew."
In fact, Kingsley had only been aware of Narcissa's role as a spy after Draco had been Kissed and charges had already been pressed against her. The actual prosecution, however, was having difficulty getting started. There were many war criminals these days; most of them with far more heinous deeds to their name than Narcissa Malfoy.
Narcissa made a small sound of disgust.
"Will you please tell me then, Mrs. Malfoy, the circumstances in which you made this pact with the Headmaster, and the course of your actual spying?"
There was a pause.
"Lucius grew more and more involved in the Dark Lord's service. He could not have backed out. There was no other way! Then he was incarcerated. After that, after his escape, there was certainly no return.
"But the Death Eaters were led by madmen: Voldemort and Bellatrix – my sister. And they, in their madness and arrogance, would not listen to Lucius, or anyone else, when rational suggestions were offered. Draco was branded. I had to get my family off a sinking ship."
"It's irrational! The Dark Lord is being precipitate in his plans. To attempt an assassination of Lord G –--- is worse than imprudent, it is -," she was cut off by his hand, which had hastened to cover her mouth.
"Don't say things like that," Lucius said, looking unnaturally guilty. "It is necessary to undermine the Ministry's power structure by eliminating some of their key leaders . . ."
"But he is moving too quickly! You are poorly prepared, yet you rush into many different plans."
"The Dark Lord has ears everywhere," he said. "It is best not to speak of one's . . . doubts."
And though his manner was perfectly composed, his words betrayed his underlying nervousness. This weakness in her husband was more hateful to Narcissa than anything else.
"Yes?" he pressed, seeking her acquiescence. The hand which had stopped her words went to her forehead and smoothed back a lock of hair.
She bit her lip and said nothing more.
"What gave you the idea to offer yourself as a spy to Dumbledore?"
"Severus Snape – I suppose you could call him a family friend – set the example." Narcissa laughed cynically. "A fine example it was! Snape is dead now. If I'm lucky, I'll evade Azkaban by the skin of my teeth."
"So you saw what Snape had done," Kingsley prompted. "What next?"
"I sent an owl to Dumbledore one afternoon, forewarning him of my visit. Without waiting for a reply, I Apparated to the Forbidden Forest that evening. Lucius was at another Death Eater meeting. The werewolf found me in the forest, and brought me to the Headmaster's office. Really, there's no excuse for Lupin's failure to back my words. Vile half-breed."
"Actually, he's a half-blood," Kingsley said calmly. "How did Dumbledore receive you?"
"He welcomed me with a smiling face and open arms. Damned blood traitor. He asked me if I wanted tea – if I wanted tea! As if I had come secretly at night to drink his tea. When I told him what I wanted, he summoned Snape, asking him to bring Veritaserum to ensure I was not lying." As an afterthought, Narcissa added, "Snape would have said I tell the truth. He would never have betrayed us."
"His word wouldn't have counted for much," Kingsley pointed out. "Go on."
"My story stood his test. He had great faith in Snape's potion-brewing abilities – and in his loyalty. He agreed to my terms, in the presence of Lupin, his deputy headmistress, and Snape."
"Headmaster," Lupin began. "It is not my intention to affront, but are you sure that it is wise to, er, take this course of action?"
Blinking furiously at the "unintended" insult, Narcissa seized her previously untouched teacup and took a long swallow, to prevent herself from responding to the werewolf. If she maimed him, she could give up all hope of obtaining Dumbledore's cooperation.
"What are you suggesting, Lupin? I assure you that Mrs. Malfoy's abilities and her sense of honor render her quite capable of carrying out what she proposes. Unless you are implying that my Veritaserum is faulty," Snape said coldly.
"Not at all, Severus," Lupin said, shamefaced. A rush of gratitude towards Snape overcame Narcissa. Despite his defection, he had retained a healthy respect and even affection for Lucius (which had been returned), and which extended to Narcissa.
"I'm sure Remus didn't mean to insult anyone," Dumbledore said kindly. "Thank you both for your input," he continued, addressing Snape and Lupin. "Minerva, do you have anything to add?"
His Deputy Headmistress, who had remained silent during the entire exchange, shook her head, tight-lipped. Narcissa was sure she shared Lupin's views.
"That's settled, then," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly at her.
"I was to give him useful, valid information in the form of a report at least every two weeks. In return, he would keep me from Azkaban, and keep Lucius and Draco from the kisses of the dementors. He would also try to lessen their sentences as much as he could. I did not hope for much in that direction. It was enough for me that they would live."
"And the reports?"
"I was not sparing. I gave him everything – likely victims and venues of attack, new weapons Voldemort was developing, even a list of Avery's allergies to twenty bloody kinds of seafood!"
"He used that to great effect," Kingsley noted.
"Wonderful, for all that it helped us," Narcissa sneered. "I cloaked myself with anti-detection spells and followed Lucius to meetings; when conferences were held at our manor I lingered before locked doors and eavesdropped like a common thief under my own roof. Under the guise of womanly concern, I coaxed as much information as I could from Draco, who was not as cunning or suspicious as his father. He was just a boy. I used my own son!"
"Draco."
He started and looked around. "Mother!" He closed the door of the dining hall behind him.
"How was the meeting, darling?"
He stretched vigorously in response, groaning. "Exhausting! Things are – getting difficult." His expression was shifty, as though he were afraid of betraying a confidence. "Father's stayed behind to talk everything over for the millionth time."
"Come with me. Have something to eat," she said tenderly, putting an arm around his shoulder. Displaying a rare moment of weakness, he leaned against her and allowed himself to be steered to the parlor.
"I risked my life so many times, and in the end I am the only surviving member of my family. A lesson in irony, if I've ever had one."
"You didn't believe that the Death Eaters' cause was worth dying for? It's well known that Lucius did."
"She is a poor woman who sacrifices her family for an ideal." Narcissa took a long draught of water.
Kingsley raised his eyebrows.
"Perhaps you might have taken less drastic measures." Narcissa's story had come out while Bellatrix was still alive. The press had gleefully published every invective the late Mrs. Lestrange had hurled at her youngest sister from a cell in Azkaban. "You have now no husband or child, and both of your sisters have disowned you."
"Bellatrix has never approved of anyone save her precious Dark Lord," Narcissa laughed, an empty sound. "And surely you didn't think I'd expect Andromeda to come to my aid?" Despite her indifferent tone, something dark and lonely passed through her face.
"I had been sister-less for several years before I shed that abhorrent surname," Mrs. Tonks said firmly to reporters.
"Treacherous girl! I want it known that I despise a woman who will betray not only her sister, but her husband and son for her own selfish interests," Bellatrix spat when she was questioned in turn.
Andromeda, once grown, had never had anything kind to say to her sisters. And Bellatrix had always known how best to hurt Narcissa. The mention of Lucius and Draco tore her apart. As she sat in her cell, Narcissa tried not to think of them, but her perverse mind delighted in bringing their faces before her eyes. They alternately wore disgusted, hateful, or shocked expressions.
The guard outside Narcissa's cell looked upon her with grim satisfaction as, moaning, Narcissa pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. So the woman who, with her family, had brought misery to so many was suffering remorse. The guard sneered. So much the better.
Because he knew she would hate him for it, Kingsley tried not to let his pity shine through his eyes. "Your niece has expressed sympathy, Mrs. Malfoy."
"That certainly won't please her mother," Narcissa said dryly. "Tell her to stop wasting her breath."
Kingsley cleared his throat. "When exactly did you begin spying for Dumbledore?"
"The middle of April," she murmured. The war had ended in June.
"That's quite late."
"I have told you that going to Dumbledore was my last resort. I did not want to go to him if there were any other way. But time was running out . . ." Her fair hands clenched on top of the table until they were white-knuckled. Kingsley suspected she rather resented the great degree of which Veritaserum loosened her tongue.
"Your husband didn't notice anything suspicious then? And I believe you've said Draco didn't . . ."
"Both of them were heavily preoccupied. But I think Lucius suspected in the end. He would no longer touch me."
"Come to bed, Lucius," she said softly, lingering in the door of his study. "It's late."
"Later," he said distantly, without looking up. "I still have much to do."
"It can wait."
Then he raised his head and gave her a long, hard look. "It can't."
He offered no apology, no gentle reassurance. Narcissa spun around and fled, hoping he hadn't seen the tears gathered in the corners of her eyes.
For a moment, Kingsley was afraid she was going to cry, but she mastered herself.
"How did you love them?" he asked softly.
"When I was a girl," Narcissa said, "I met Lucius. He told me, 'You have the shoulder blades of an angel. I see where your wings must fit.' When Draco was a boy, he told me, 'Mummy, you are the prettiest lady in the world.' How I loved them!"
Perhaps it would be advisable to get some background on Narcissa, Kingsley thought, sensing her softer side. Painting the formidable mistress of the Malfoy line as a woman loving and tender with her family would be the best way to generate compassion for her. At this point, Kingsley sympathized with Narcissa greatly. If he could do anything to keep her from Azkaban, he would. Personal curiosity also motivated his next statement.
"It might be advisable, Mrs. Malfoy, for you to give me a brief sketch of your character. We should have done this in the beginning, but . . ."
"Well . . ." she said slowly, hesitating. "That's a rather broad question," she continued at last, when it became clear that Veritaserum would not allow her to be silent for long. "May I ask what you are after, particularly?"
"Just a brief description of your pursuits – your passions, if you will. Your values."
"You may be disappointed in this respect," she murmured, almost sneeringly. "My hobbies included painting and piano playing – I was never fond of Muggle-baiting. Lucius was a fine violinist; we would often perform duets in the evenings. I had not the leisure to pursue additional pastimes." She allowed herself a wry smile. "The term 'housewife' is so misleading, and terribly degrading. Have you any idea how much energy and effort it takes to manage the Malfoy household affairs, financial or otherwise, even jointly?
"As for my values: I valued my family above everything else. Blood ties are important. And as a woman with several very embarrassing relations," here she paused, blanching slightly, "you will allow that I naturally developed unusually strong attachments to those whom I had no need to be ashamed of."
He had no doubt she was talking of Andromeda and Nymphadora (or Tonks, as she preferred to be called), both women he was extremely fond of; and Sirius, whom he had deeply mourned.
"Besides that, I married very well. I could not have been happier if I had wed someone with twice the power and tenfold the money Lucius had. We were . . ." she looked in danger of stumbling over her words, as people who are suddenly overcome with emotion are wont to do. "We were perfectly united in spirit . . . and Draco was our son. I could not help loving him. I could not help loving both of them."
"What other values do you have aside from family?"
"Honor." She scowled. Dumbledore's apparent lack of the virtue had blasted her opinion of him, whatever it had been before.
"The extermination of Muggles and Muggle-borns was never high on your list of priorities?"
"I suppose not," she agreed reluctantly, as if she were somehow betraying her husband and son's memory. "But it was still a priority," she added, almost childishly.
"Mrs. Malfoy, if you publicly renounce your family and their ideals, it may make it easier for you to obtain a pardon from the Minister of Magic."
Narcissa didn't bat an eyelash. "Next, you ought to ask me to spit on my husband's grave."
Heavy, awkward silence descended on them. Kingsley was normally a man more than capable of controlling his emotions. Guilt bore down on him like a runaway express train. In order to alleviate the unaccountable shame he suddenly felt, Kingsley sought to correct Narcissa's misplaced rage against Dumbledore.
"What I don't understand is why you must blame Albus Dumbledore. Didn't Dumbledore die before Lucius killed himself?"
"There is no excuse for his breach of contract," she said slowly. "He gave his fucking word!"
"Language, Mrs. Malfoy."
"You're not married, are you, Shacklebolt?"
"No . . ."
"I'd like to see you watch your husband point a wand at his chest and perform Incendio. I'd like to see you watch him go up in flames, and stand there as the wind blew his warm ashes onto your cheek. I could do nothing."
A battlefield, littered with corpses lying in strange attitudes. But all Narcissa had eyes for were the scattered black ashes on the ground, and on her cheek. The wind picked up, and wafted the ashes from her cheek. They flaked off gradually, the only farewell Narcissa had from her husband. She stood there, inert.
And there was a terrible wailing.
Narcissa's lovely face was terrible to behold. Kingsley's famed iron resolve nearly gave way then. His back grew hot, and his robes were sticky against his skin. He seized his glass and tipped it back, draining it in one gulp. He found it difficult to swallow.
Across from him, Narcissa watched evenly, almost approvingly. "May I assume this interview is over?"
Time had slipped by like a thief in the night. His watch told Kingsley it had nearly been an hour.
"Just – just a minute, Mrs. Malfoy." He had faltered. Kingsley never hesitated. He cleared his throat as surreptitiously as he could.
"Tell me," he said. "What would you do if you were pardoned?"
She took a minute to collect her thoughts. "I would leave England. I would buy a villa in Italy, or perhaps France. And I would quietly surround myself with things I love. Volumes of poetry. Tender nocturnes. Excellent Sauternes. And bowers of wisteria; soft draperies of purple."
A slight pause. "Do you regret any of it?"
"I would have acted exactly as I did, even if I could turn back time. Don't you see I had no other course?" She did not ask demandingly, it was a plea for understanding. While she spoke, she spread her hands inquiringly; she knocked her water over. It spread quickly over the surface of the table and dripped onto the floor.
Kingsley absorbed her words in silence.
The spill wet the tips of her fingers, which she turned to the light. As Kingsley caught sight of them, he fancied they were stained with blood. But the moment passed.
Then: "Thank you."
Two words of common courtesy, softly uttered and graciously received. Kingsley stood and collected his things – the parchment containing the transcript of the interview, and his quill. He headed for the door. Before he exited, he looked back. He nodded at Narcissa.
"Goodbye."
His last glimpse of her was an image he would carry for the rest of his life: the matriarch of the Malfoy family sitting with her back straight, at the bare table in the whitewashed room; head held high, and a tired sort of pride in her eyes.
When Kingsley stood before the Minister to present his findings on Narcissa Black Malfoy, he had not prepared a summary of his report. Instead, he dropped the report on the Minister's desk and said simply, "Spare her."
The Minister turned bewildered eyes on him, but Kingsley could offer no elaboration. He had only his wordless conviction.
He had thought about burning the report, but Kingsley was not a fool.
Two weeks passed. Narcissa was released from custody. She immediately secured the Malfoy assets and left England. Kingsley was sure she had found her peace: silken words, rooms of wisteria, and liquid music.
He went and got himself married. Although he admired Narcissa tremendously, he felt it that was terrible to fall in love with an ideal. If nothing else, he had learned that ideals led to grief. But sometimes, over the years, he could not keep himself from thinking about golden hair shining under green-and-purple lattices of light and shadow, and Mrs. Shacklebolt could never understand the melancholy moods that occasionally overtook her husband.
"And I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: this also I perceived is vexation of spirit." – Ecclesiastes