1977
The new garter wrapped around her thigh was hot against her sensitive skin, but Narcissa Black ignored it. It was not uncomfortable, merely sensitive. Ignoring the delicate tendrils of sensation, she instead listened to the clack-clack-clack of her heels against the stone floor of the Ministry atrium. Shoulders back, chin up, she ignored the furtive looks and whispers from the few witches and wizards there at that hour. The letter from the Auror Department, which had severely over-stepped its bounds, had made it clear they expected her on this date. Narcissa had shown up precisely five minutes before the close of the work day.
It was the Black way, to inconvenience those who decided to inconvenience them.
The Atrium was cavernous. The others melded into the shadows on the sides, flickering wildly in the blue flames coming from the torches. It had been nicely done, the enlarging charms upon the space the Ministry had carved out for the magical folk. It had not even been the Ministry itself that had built the columns extending a hundred feet up, but the older version, the Wizard's Council, which governing bodies had been rightfully limited to purebloods. The current form of government, the Ministry, was weak and puling and littered with halfbloods and mudbloods.
Once more, her eyes swept over the columns, the blue flames, the mirror bright tiles upon the floor. Her gaze fell on the Fountain of Magical Brethren, which was demeaned by the presence of centaur, goblin, and elf. The Dark Lord would restore all of this to its former glory.
With a small sigh, she turned her attention to the guard.
"They are expecting you on the second floor," said the guard. He was some half-blood with whom she had gone to Hogwarts with. Narcissa did not remember his name.
"Thank you," she said. "That will be all."
"I've got to take down information on your wand," he added, more anxious still.
Narcissa raised her eyebrow at him. "This wand?" she drew it, toyed with it, and let it rest against the corner of her lip. "No. I think not. That will be all."
She did not give him another glance, but strode, unhurried, to the bank of lifts. The garter seemed to tighten, sending a jolt of pure sensation between her thighs. A smile flicked across her lips, there and gone again, surely missed by anyone who might be looking at her. Lucius had chosen today, of all days, to finally give her the garter she would wear during their wedding… and on their wedding night. The bored expression he had worn when he'd opened the box for her had been a mask: his blue eyes had been so hot on her body she'd walked away near singed. And he had done nothing at all to hide the erection burgeoning in his trousers. Instead, he'd drawn her eye to it, letting his pocket watch dangle just before it, twitching it from side to side.
"It's here."
The voice startled her out of her thoughts.
There before her stood the Head of Magical Law Enforcement's son, his straw-colored hair flopped in his eyes.
"Very well," she said, allowing him to gesture her inside the lift.
He was quiet, Barty Crouch Jr. A pureblood who had been sorted into Hufflepuff was not terribly unusual, if slightly bland. In years, he'd been sandwiched in between her older sisters. No one in her family had considered him a match for any of the girls: his father was much too involved in taking down so-called Dark witches and wizards, many of whom were simply purebloods who were merely speaking the truth of the inferiority of those who had not grown up in the traditional ways. Evidence was planted on them, and they were arrested, given the mockery of a trial, and forced to pay a heavy fine.
And what of you, Barty? Where do your loyalties lie?
There was little time to contemplate this. The lift doors swept open, swooshing with a windy wheeze. As he gestured her forward, she caught sight of a rather conspicuous ring on his middle finger: it was heavy and thick, with a large black stone that seemed to draw light into it rather than reflect it.
"Are you not coming?" she asked.
"Not senior enough, I'm afraid," he said. His light tone belied the surge of almost reptilian anger. "Auror Moody and Auror Longbottom do not see fit to air their questions for the rest of us to hear them."
She clicked her tongue. "Is your father not the head of this department?"
"He does not believe that entitles me to anything. I must prove myself."
"And you're well on your way," came a new, jovial voice.
Narcissa had not attended Hogwarts with Frank Longbottom, for he was a good ten years older than she was, but she knew him on sight. He was a pureblood; she was taller than him by a handful of inches, but his steady gaze on her had the brief, disturbing effect of making her feel small. The garter tightened, making her suck in a breath.
Longbottom took out a hookah, waggling at lightly, tapping the end of it with his wand. "Mind if I do?" he asked blandly. "We wouldn't want any accidental curses to arrive at the Ministry."
"That would be a grave tragedy," said Narcissa. At this precise moment, Narcissa did not have anything magical on her at all but for her wand. A dark detector would not detect anything so harmless as the garter.
Longbottom blew on the end of the hookah. Sparkling grey smoke enveloped her, coiling around her, ignoring both Barty and Longbottom. Instinct had her holding her breath, not wanting to draw a single particle of the magical smoke into her body. Blowing her breath out slowly through her nose, she waited, caught between patience and the desire to complete her task for the Dark Lord.
Magic swept over her, checking her for cursed objects and listening charms. Her skin tingled at the sensation.
Finally, the smoke slunk back to the hookah, disappointed it had not found anything with which to incriminate her. Inwardly, she smiled, meeting Longbottom's shrewd brown gaze without flinching.
"Free of curses, I take it?" Narcissa said.
"Hmm," he murmured. "Very well, then. Are you ready, Miss Black? Or — is it Mrs. Malfoy?"
"You know it is not," she said coldly, having regained her balance. "You would have read about our wedding in the Daily Prophet."
"My mistake," Longbottom said, hard and unrepentant. "If you'll follow me, this should not take much time."
He turned his back on her. In the next instant, seizing the advantage, Narcissa breathed out a spell. The ring on Crouch's finger sparked; an ember fell upon her wrist. No ordinary ring, the Dark Lord had imbued it with power of his own, power that Frank Longbottom, popular Auror though he was, did not even sense as he strode down the corridor. Despite his efforts, the Dark Lord would be listening to every word they said in their interrogation of her. And if she could achieve it — and Narcissa would achieve it — that little listening charm would be hidden somewhere about the Auror office, and the Dark Lord would be apprised of their every move for months to come.
But first, Narcissa had to submit to their questioning.
Longbottom brought her straight to Alastair Moody's office, the half blood with more limbs than sense — and that said much, for a man with a peg in place of a leg. It was likely a self-inflicted injury, considering halfbloods did not have the ingrained muscle control of purebloods. Their wands were always backfiring on their own owners.
The office was nearly as eccentric and hodge-podge as its owner. Three different foe glasses hung behind the desk: one was black, another grey, and a third tan, but rather than reflect the room before them, they all had shambling, shadowy figures moving about in the background. Torches with violet flames hung on the walls beside them, giving the room an eerie, other-worldly feel. The desk was clear of every object but a silvery sphere that radiated cold.
Behind that desk sat Alistair Moody, lumpy face pulled into a scowl, and fingers steepled together.
Staring openly, she seated herself, crossing her legs, and letting her foot swing. She raised both eyebrows: "Well? I have a dinner commitment in Carne Alley."
"Perhaps if you'd arrived sooner—"
"This is not my concern," she said. Again, her garter tightened, and she shifted her hips, squirming as she did so. "Make this fast, please."
"Very well," said Moody, placing both fists on his desk and leaning toward her. "Tell me your cousin's whereabouts."
"Which cousin?" she asked. It tightened again, and she wriggled. "I have several."
The two Aurors exchanged a glance.
"Are you quite comfortable, Ms Black?" Longbottom asked.
"I am perfectly so," she said, tranquil. "My groom, Lucius, saw fit to give me my garter today." She shifted her legs apart, letting her knees fall ever so slightly open. They were men. They noticed. "He did the thing properly; there are diamonds woven into it. It's… quite tight, but… breathtaking." She could not help but smirk. "It is a wedding tradition among purebloods. You may not have heard of it."
"I've heard of it," Moody said flatly. "Tell us of your cousin's whereabouts."
She leaned forward, widening her eyes. "Do you mean my dear cousin Sirius?" she asked, blinking rapidly. "I haven't seen him since the last family dinner — he is always so charming, is he not?" Narcissa had not seen Sirius since she had graduated Hogwarts, and good riddance to the filthy blood traitor. He had always been a thorn in the family's side: always. "Such a strong member of the family…"
The two men exchanged a glance. Within it, she could see an inkling of distrust. Inside, she laughed.
"Tell us of your cousin Regulus's whereabouts," Longbottom said finally.
Narcissa sat back, letting her arms fall to her sides. Beneath her wrist, she felt the ember of the Dark Lord's listening spell burn into the seat. "Regulus is on the continent," she said, "on his tour."
"Ah yes," said Moody, the half-wit, nodding. "On the continent. On his tour. That's what you purebloods do once you've left Hogwarts, eh? Go for a nice little tour of the magical communities of Europe? You purebloods sure like to do things exactly the way Grandfather did it, don't you?"
Longbottom cleared his throat.
"No offense to the purebloods in the room," Moody added expansively. Then, like a hawk, his eyes narrowed on her. With a flick of his wand and an unfortunate lack of backfiring, three photos zoomed toward her. Regulus, the hood of his cloak slipping as he looked over his shoulder before walking into Knockturn Alley; Regulus, exchanging something in a velvet bag with a hag; Regulus, staring up at a haunted wood, location unknown. "If he is on the continent, why has he been seen in England these last few days?"
Narcissa raised her eyebrows, then plucked at the garter beneath her robes. "He came back?" she suggested.
"Not through official channels," said Longbottom.
Narcissa lifted her shoulder. "I am not certain why he is here," she said. "I'm afraid I am of no help to you gentlemen. Of the two, it is dear Sirius I am closest to." In fact, had she wanted to, she could tell them that Regulus had procured two items of importance to the Dark Lord, and was being lauded for it at this moment at Malfoy Manor. But it would take the Imperius curse to get her to help these two gentlemen. "Is that all? I've a… presentation to make to my husband-to-be."
In the end, they had to let her go. She sailed out of the room, leaving only the ember behind her.
The Dark Lord was pleased with her. She discovered this after her errand to Carne Alley, to pick up the meal she'd ordered in preparation for the celebration. The Gilded Wand was an upper class restaurant, nestled at the very end of the alley renowned for its hedonism. Narcissa Apparated directly behind the building, peering down the twisted lane, hearing the music beat in her ears. Surely Lucius had not purchased her garter from one of these notorious little shops.
Better here than Jennit Alley, she thought. Something akin to a shiver went through her and she pressed her thighs together. While her parents and Lucius might allow her to travel to Carne Alley, Jennit Alley was another matter.
"I have an order for Narcissa Black," she said, sharper than she intended, once she'd yanked herself from her distracting thoughts.
"The chef is putting the finishing touches on now," the hostess whispered, flinching. "He wanted it done just as you came in, miss. So it'll be hot, miss."
"Does the chef not know is way around a simple warming charm?"
"No. I mean, yes! He does! He is pureblood… he trained at Beauxbatons and at Le Noued Dore—"
"I did not need your chef's life story," said Narcissa.
"No," she whispered. "No. Of course not."
Narcissa peered at her. She was very young; younger than Narcissa, with a triangular sort of face and crisp features. Her gaze steadily refused to meet Narcissa's, but the eyes were blue. All of this was framed by a short blond bob. "Are you his daughter?" she asked briskly.
"Yes."
"Hm," said Narcissa.
Several gilded hampers floated her way. The chef himself came out; he was stout and surly, with a mustache that took up half his face. He had none of the beauty of his daughter, and also none of the timidity. A steady stream of compliments, instructions, and pleasantries warmed Narcissa, who shrunk the hampers in order to fit them in her purse.
"What," she asked the shy girl, "is your name?"
"Vinda," said the girl, looking at the ground, "Vinda Rosier."
"Named for her grandmother," the proud father said.
"A pleasure," said Narcissa.
A fleeting glance revealed deep-set eyes, one blue one green, fringed with black lashes.
It was nearing seven, and it was with a sense of urgency that Narcissa returned to the little garden behind the restaurant. The Dark Lord preferred to take his meals at thirty after the hour; it would do for her to make haste, to settle the food into the hands of that house elf whose name she could never remember, and to ensure that the Dark Lord was not kept waiting. It surged through her, and for several minutes Narcissa forgot even the garter around her thigh. It was not until the scraping, craven little elf took it out of her hands that she felt a measure of relief and then… the tingling awareness of the garter returned.
It felt, she thought, as it might were Lucius's own hands circling her thighs.
She had not felt his hands there. There are strict proprieties to be observed between them. But Narcissa had thought of it, often, sinking into half waking dreams and drawing circles upon her body, pretending it was Lucius doing the drawing. They would bond next week; the Dark Lord himself had offered to perform the ceremony. It was soon, but one did not ask the Dark Lord to delay. It was meant to be, she and Lucius. It pleased her to think of the acts of man and wife; it pleased her even more to know she would be participating in those acts soon.
An elbow pressed into her side.
"The Dark Lord wishes to see you." It was her sister, Bellatrix, pale and pretty and eyes dilated.
Narcissa jumped. "Where?"
"The blue drawing room," Bellatrix said. Then, giving her a little shove, reminiscent of the ones when they were children, she added, "you do not keep the Dark Lord waiting, Cissy."
The drawing room, true to its name, was done in soft and muted shades of blue, from the Lemurian rug that stretched nearly from wall to wall, to the dusky blue panels between the open windows. Her betrothal gift to Lucius had been a breeding pair of peacocks; their soft calls filtered in through the glass. Two figures stood before the grand fireplace: one with pale hair, one with black. The one on the left, with the walking stick and long pale hair, hovered in a sort of bow before the other.
The Dark Lord turned to her. In looks, he was near ageless. There was a blurred sort of whiteness to his features, softening his features, but not a wrinkle marred the brow. No lines crinkled the corners of eyes or lips. He might be a statue brought to life, but for the fiery red glint in his eyes. Once, after several glasses of elf-made wine, Bellatrix had explained that the red glint was the power that resided within his person, welling up from his soul. He has advanced our understanding of magic more than any other wizard in history: More than Circe, more than Merlin. After all of that, of course he looks different. Though she was now married, Bellatrix's low, fervent tones had been remarkably like that of a woman passionately discussing her lover.
Narcissa accepted it as truth, nevertheless. Those eyes were on her now: they were black, but for the red glints within. A flick of a glance to the left showed her Lucius peering up at her from under his curtain of hair, smiling at her. Her knees went weak.
The garter, as though sensing it, grew taut. Narcissa stopped and sank into a curtsy, holding it.
"Narcissa," said the Dark Lord. Then, miraculously, his face relaxed into a smile. "Cissy. I have just been telling young Lucius how pleased I am with you."
A little pulse went through her. "I have but done your bidding, my Lord," she said.
"Yes, you did," he agreed. "But not all of my servants would have been able to do it with such… finesse. Lucius, you must be a proud groom-to-be."
"I am, my Lord."
"As you should be." A rare, jovial note crept into the Dark Lord's tone. "I will share with you later what I have already learned; once we are done toasting brave Regulus. But first – Lucius has told me he presented you with a certain garment."
Narcissa's gaze arrowed to Lucius. A frisson went through them both. She saw it in his eyes. The Dark Lord meant the garter she wore, the diamond-crusted garter that Lucius had slid upon her leg, warming her flesh with his fingers. It was tradition for the groom to present his bride with the gift; prior to the ceremony, the bride would present herself wearing the garter – and nothing else – before her husband-to-be. Her body grew wet just thinking of that moment. By the Dark Lord's words, would he wish to be there when she…? She saw the same question echoed back at her. The flicker of dismay in Lucius's blue eyes was evident.
He did not wish to share her.
"My Lord, he did," said Narcissa.
"I assume it is beautiful as befitting a pureblood bride?" the Dark Lord asked. There was amusement in his tone. The back of her neck prickled.
"It is. Lucius has superb taste," said Narcissa. "Do you wish to see it, My Lord?"
The bold question did not take him aback. Another rarity: a smile stretched his lips thin. "And you would show me, wouldn't you? You are a good girl, Narcissa. Cissy. No, I know what your tradition is. I do not need to be presented with a… garter. In fact, I have something to present to you."
Narcissa's mouth gaped open. After a moment, she shut it with a snap. "My Lord?"
He drew his wand, lazily tracing a circle in the air. "Yes. We may, if you will, perform the ritual. I may give it to you, and you may present yourself to me as you wear it."
"Y-yes, my Lord," Narcissa stammered. "Anything, my Lord."
"Your wife to be is a good witch," the Dark Lord murmured.
"She is," Lucius said, proud. But Narcissa noted the relief in him.
"She would have presented herself to us both," the Dark Lord said softly. "It is well that you two are so united in purpose, Lucius, even if you had your moment of jealousy. No matter. You may have her body and have no need to share with me." Cold laughter accompanied the words. The Dark Lord was above such considerations. "But I will have her loyalty."
"Always, my Lord," Narcissa and Lucius vowed together, as one.
The wand flicked again. A silvery circle appeared, spinning into existence. Seconds later, it was a mask: light and heavily stylized, with holes for eyes, but featured a carved nose and lips. It had the same, blurred quality as the Dark Lord's own face. A peacock let out a mournful hoot just under the window, covering the small pop that signaled the completion of the Dark Lord's charm. Narcissa's hands were shaking: it was an honor beyond honor to be given one of these masks. It meant that as surely as she was Lucius's bride to be, she was now the Dark Lord's as well. They were meant only for his inner circle, those who were most trusted, and Narcissa had not ever thought such an honor would come to her.
"My Lord," she said throatily.
"I am well pleased with you," he told her. "Go on, Cissy. Take it."
Trembling with emotion, Narcissa took the mask. It was cold to the touch, but warmed in her hands. There were delicate carvings upon it. Her heart squeezed when she saw he had even saw fit to carve a flower – a narcissus, of course – just below both ears. It was, in a sense, a cursed object. Should anyone try to take it off of her, to compromise her identity, they would suffer. But for her… it was a gift. It was blessed.
"Put it on."
Narcissa obeyed the command at once. It fit to her face perfectly; the Dark Lord would make no mistakes, of course he would not. Still, it was a thrilling little shock to know he knew the contours of her face so well. Without needing another command, she straightened, presenting her masked face to the Dark Lord, pride reverberating through her. Few witches were given his regard like this. I will plant a thousand embers, she thought, fiercely. A thousand. In his name.
"Just so," said the Dark Lord. "It is well, Cissy. Welcome."
"Thank you, my Lord."
The Dark Lord was not an indulgent man; yet, when he passed, he bent one more smile upon her. The red in his eyes leapt like flames. "If there are more private things you wish to present," he said, "we will not wait dinner for you. However, you two are expected to be there as we toast Regulus. There is much to discuss. And you are one of us, now, Cissy."
With that, he was gone, leaving behind a scent of power.
Thoughts whirling, Narcissa turned to Lucius. The mask did not hinder her vision in the slightest. Lucius was there before her, straightened fully, one eyebrow raised, and a smile playing across his lips. He was pleased with her, she knew, because of the Dark Lord's pleasure. A giddy laugh escaped her. She was not like Bellatrix, was not intrinsically drawn to the Dark Arts, did not have quite her resolve to do everything it took to further the Dark Lord's aims. But today… today, she had proven that she could do small things, and do them well. It was power she was feeling. It filled her, making her nipples grow taut, adding wetness between her thighs.
There was no trembling in her hands now. Each button came away easily. Head thrown back, mask still on, Narcissa bared herself to Lucius.
"Now?" he asked.
"The Dark Lord practically commanded it," she said huskily. "We've leave not to join him for dinner."
Her breasts were now bare to his gaze for the first time. Here, she paused, drawing light circles around one of her nipples, hardening it further, send pleasure rippling through her, mingling with the power, combining into something heady enough to make her head spin. With Lucius's gaze on her, it was as though she had never done this before, never touched sensitive skin. Gooseflesh rose up on her belly. Her fingers returned to their earlier task, unbuttoning her robes. They fell away from her, spilling to the floor.
There had been no need today to wear undergarments. The garter had been enough.
It was gratifying to see that Lucius's thumb caressed himself over the fabric of his trousers. Even from this distance, she could see the erection that burgeoned there.
"Does it please you, Lucius?" she said softly, plucking at the garter.
"It does," he said. Then, softer, in a tone that approached wonder: "You are… so beautiful, did you know?"
In fact, Narcissa had grown up being told that of the sisters Black, she was the pretty one. This had been said by everyone from her grandparents, to her aunts and uncles. Even the portraits on the walls had said it, though it had not sounded a compliment coming from Phineas Nigellus Black, Hogwarts most worthy Headmaster. But Narcissa had not felt it more than she did at this moment. She knew what Lucius was seeing: creamy skin, a slender waist, neatly trimmed blond curls between her thighs. Her legs were long and slim. They would open for him soon enough… tonight, even, if he wished it. If he wished to anticipate their bonding, she would allow it.
"See what you do to me," he told her, making quick work of undoing his trousers.
His erection, long and slender like her legs, jutted toward her from a thick thatch of hair. Idly, he stroked it, gaze fixed on where her garter circled her thigh.
"What will you, Lucius?" she asked.
He strode toward her, penis bobbing in front of him, stepping out of his trousers. There was light – but also uncertainty – in his pale blue eyes. "What do you wish, Narcissa? What will you? Would you see it a betrayal if we…?"
"No," she said, fingering her mask. "We are united, you and I. We will bond, but… we are already united. I wish you to know that."
"I do," he swore. His hand came down on her thigh, squeezing it hard, until the sweetness of it made her body even hotter. He feathered kisses on her jaw. "I know it… the Dark Lord knows it. We are, Narcissa."
They made love, then, for the first time. She no longer sensed any uncertainty in him. He was all authority as he touched her, sweeping his hands up and down her body. There was no hesitation at all when he touched her between her thighs. His thumb found her nub and rubbed circles around it; his fingers – first one, and then another – slid into her, making her gasp against his mouth. This first orgasm with another partner was easy. Lucius had her trembling and crying out within minutes, tightening on the fingers he had inside her.
It was with surety that he spoke the charm that had cushions falling to the floor around them. Lucius arranged them, and then her, upon them. And with a sigh, his broad body, naked now, came down upon hers. There was no hesitancy with which he entered her, spreading her legs wide, cautioning her to keep them there. The only time he paused, in fact, was once he'd pushed all the way inside her, expelling a soft grunt against her ear. "You're so tight, Narcissa," he swore, pressing a kiss against her ear.
He pressed in and out of her with a determined rhythm, grunting at the top of each thrust. As she watched pleasure tighten on his face, watching his brow furrow, and his lips part, she was reminded that she still wore the silvery mask given to her by the Dark Lord. Wishing him to see the pleasure that the determined rhythm was giving her, she pushed it up. His eyes bore into hers. He was a big man, Lucius, broad of shoulder. And his erection stretched her, the broad, blunt head of it pressing into her again and again until she could feel another climax. It built and built, and she did not care that their first time was in the blue drawing room upon a pile of conjured cushions. All that mattered was Lucius and his body, joining with hers.
He swore when she bit him.
Then, burying his face against her shoulder, he cried out. Heat splashed inside her, and she knew he was coming in her. Her orgasm had spurred on his own. For the second time that night, pleasure mingled with power, and she choked on a sob.
"Merlin, Narcissa," he said, rolling off of her, casual in his nudity. His penis was wet, speckled with blood, and softening. White fluid lingered at the tip.
"I should like to do that again," she said. "But in a bed."
"After we bond," he said, implacable. "It is forgivable to do this – I think it is the point of the presentation of the garter. My father always said that it was the last out a man has before a lifetime of marriage."
She nestled against him, hiding her disappointment. It would be a long week. "My mother said something similar."
"Your mother said that?" he asked, astonished. "To you?"
She hid her smile. Had Lucius expected that witches did not think to judge a wizard by his prowess in bed. "Perhaps not in so many words," she allowed, as he continued to tense up.
"Perhaps not at all," he said. "Witches do not have the same – it is not the same. A wizard would like to know a preview, if you will, of what his life will be like in the marital bed. Witches have no such considerations." It was as though he thought it impossible for a witch to have a husband who was a good lover. Did he expect that witches did not speak of such things?
"Mm," she said. "Even if they did," she said, "it would not matter. I did not find you lacking."
"Of course you did not," he said. "And you… were splendid, Narcissa. But I knew you would be. I've known it since you were seventeen, and home from Hogwarts for Christmas."
"Yes," she said, "the dinner party at the Lestrange estate."
He'd relaxed against her once more. "The very one," he said, hand coming up to stroke her hair. "You need never fear that I do not desire you," he said.
Narcissa stretched along his body, hooking her leg over his, sweeping her hand up to cover his chest. It lay directly over his heart. "I do not," she said, amused. "Why would you not desire me?"
Lucius murmured something, something sweet, and then summoned his house elf. "Go get a damp cloth," he told it, as it cowered before them, twisting its ears in its hands. "Make sure it is warm water, mind you. You do not wish another punishment today, do you, Dobby?"
"No, Master," it muttered.
It returned a short while later with a bowl filled with hot water and perfumed steam coming off it. Lucius performed for her the role of body servant, washing blood and seed from between her legs. There was quite a bit of blood; Lucius had not cringed to take her maidenhead. Narcissa scarce remembered feeling anything but pleasure.
The house elf watched, big eyes on her, waiting further orders. Leaning back against her hands, legs spread, Death Eater mask askew upon her, Lucius wiping the mess away, Narcissa had a moment of pure contentment. Their bonding ceremony was not so far away. Then they could do this every night. She flipped her long golden hair over her shoulder. Her belly clenched with remembered pleasure when he swiped the damp cloth against her clit.
"You are clean," he announced a moment later.
It was not a moment too soon. The Dark Mark upon Lucius's arm – which habitually looked like a slightly pink scar, turned black. His jaw grew taut.
"The Dark Lord is calling us," he said. "I suppose dinner must be over."
Indeed, it was. The others, looking well-fed and satiated, plump upon the dishes provided by Narcissa and eaten in Lucius's formal dining room, had filled the receiving room. Narcissa knew most of the faces, though not all. There was Severus Snape, lurking near one of the windows, sallow face downcast and thin lips down-turned. Bellatrix stood with her husband and his brother, though there was naked longing upon her face as she looked at the Dark Lord who, in turn, was speaking to Regulus Black and Augustus Rookwood. Others wore their masks, even here.
With a small jolt, Narcissa recognized the ring upon the Dark Lord's finger: it was the same ring that Barty Crouch Jr. had been wearing earlier that evening. So he had already been there and gone, then? His presence here was one of the trickiest, considering who his father was, and Narcissa did not blame him for either leaving early or remaining masked in order to hide his presence here.
After letting her gaze rove around, and allow the others to see her, she slid her silvery mask over her own face. It drew stares, of course. Everyone knew who she was; they had never seen her as truly one of the Dark Lord's, not in the same way Lucius and Bellatrix and Crouch and even Snape were. She did not go about Britain or the Continent as did Regulus and others did – not until today. Today she was more than just an errand girl. Today, she had infiltrated the Head Auror's office and left behind an ember, allowing the Dark Lord to listen upon one of his greatest enemies.
Not his greatest enemy, thought Narcissa. That honor was reserved for Albus Dumbledore, who had buried himself behind Hogwarts's protective enchantments, and would not be so easy to spy upon. She had heard it told that he was canny when it came to enemies; she'd not had much to do with him in school, but she would believe it.
"I have received several gifts tonight, the first of which is thanks to young Miss Black – Cissy," said the Dark Lord. "She is a clever girl, and managed to plant a sensory charm in the halfblood Alistair Moody's office." He flicked his wand. Sparks emerged. A picture within them formed, red-tinged, but sharp otherwise. Three people grouped around the desk.
"—believe she knows nothing, but she's a good liar," said Longbottom. His voice was tinny.
"Black was seen outside Nurmengard; most of those siblings are thick as thieves—"
"They aren't siblings, but cousins—"
"Little difference when it comes to the Blacks. Don't they always marry their cousins?"
"And proud of it!" shouted Bellatrix, to general laughter from the listening Death Eaters.
The picture hung in the air still showed Moody's office. A little surge of pride went through Narcissa. She had done this. She had planted the sensory charm that even now was showing the Dark Lord what he wanted to know; it would continue to do so. The Dark Lord now had a window into the office of the Aurors. With a beaming sort of smile, she looked at Lucius, and received a smile in return.
"Regulus is a right little twat, but he stole something from Nurmengard. The Unspeakables have been buzzing about it these last two days… whatever it was that was stolen—"
"Is mine now," said the Dark Lord, with great satisfaction. A sweep of his arm broke the charm. Longbottom and Moody and whoever the third person had been were gone in an instant. Their small voices cut off mid-word. "They know of our Regulus's theft, but we knew they would find out. It is no matter. Grindelwald's glass is mine."
"I was there with them this day," said Rookwood, smirking. "Those mummers at home and abroad have no idea what they had. They could only guess at it. And their guesses are, of course, wrong." At this, several of the masked ones laughed. "They are so easily led astray…"
"Well done, Augustus," said the Dark Lord, nodding. "And now, Regulus, if you will."
There was an air of sharp-edged glee, reminding Narcissa of the music vibrating beneath her feet in Carne Alley. The bodies of the Death Eaters pressed closer. Lucius wrapped his arm around her and drew her closer to the front.
Regulus, who was closer to her own age than of his oft-lamented younger brother Sirius, drew a velvet bag from his breast pocket. A surge of pride went through Narcissa. Her eye caught Bellatrix, who beamed at her. It was well done that so many of their family were on the right side of this. Regulus's daring trip to Nurmengard had pleased the Dark Lord, which was not an easy task. Guarded by Austrian Aurors, it was a feat for him to have stolen the valuable artifact…
…which he was now pulling out of the bag.
Standing on her tiptoes, she peered over Wilkes's shoulder. It was very small and winking at her.
"I shrunk it down for the journey," murmured Regulus, flicking a glance upward. "It's larger, see…"
"Do it," said the Dark Lord.
Light arced from Regulus's wand, landing on the small, glimmering object in his hand. It rippled outward, rebounding on itself, before the object lifted into the air and began to spin. It moved like a drunken bumblebee, bobbing in the air, spinning almost lazily as it grew. Regulus had done the thing properly, it seemed, as shrinking or expanding instantaneously was likely to strip delicate enchantments away. The larger it grew, the faster it went… faster and faster… the entire room was silent now, staring at it. Was it a glass or a veil? It was impossible to tell.
It gave one last spin, and at last it was its proper size. There were many things one could say about Grindelwald: brilliant, visionary, misrepresented, and maligned. But Narcissa had not known he had had such style. This had not been taught to her at Hogwarts, nor had she heard it from her parents and grandparents, those who would be more honest about Grindelwald's nature. But this mirror — or perhaps it was a veil, for there was something off about the glass, it had too much movement — was truly a thing of beauty. Ebony wood surrounded it, giving off a pearly sheen.
Nevertheless, it was a mirror. Regulus had gone to Nurmengard for this?
Squinting, she peered at it. There were strange carvings across the bottom. It appeared to be a field under a carved moon. The grass swayed and was trampled in a rhythm Narcissa could not discern, as though the carvings were being stepped on by invisible feet.. "What are those?" she breathed to Lucius. "Runes? Charms?"
"Thestrals, my dear," he said, then pressed a kiss to her hair. "A herd of thestrals canters across the bottom. You cannot see them?"
Narcissa shook her head. She had never seen anyone die.
"Our friend Regulus has brought this back from Nurmengard itself. Tell us, Regulus, did you happen across its former master?" Despite the Dark Lord's affinity for Grindelwald, Narcissa could hear a current of glee in his tone.
Regulus smiled. "No, in fact. They keep him very well guarded. Very well guarded indeed."
"The ICOW is made up of wizards near as powerless as Mudbloods," the Dark Lord announced. "But you did well to liberate this from their collection. My friends, our young friend Regulus has brought us Grindelwald's own foe glass."
Narcissa flicked a glance at him in disbelief. A foe glass? Regulus had gone to Nurmengard — that former bastion of wizardry the world had not seen in many a year, with its surely countless magical artifacts kept under magical lock and key — and returned with a foe glass? They were uncommon, to be sure, but… truly, a foe glass? If the Dark Lord had anyone equal to him, it was that coward who lurked at Hogwarts, hiding behind children. So what need would the Dark Lord have—?
His marble-white hand reached out to stroke the ebony. "I have heard whispers that Grindelwald used this not to know his enemies, but to draw them to him." There was a reverence in his tone she had not heard before. The mirror rippled. The veil of glass stirred in an unseen wind.
"Dumbledore! Summoned here!" someone near her squeaked this.
"And let him come!" Bellatrix shouted. "The Dark Lord will defeat him once and for all."
"But Dumbledore!" This was a low moan coming from a masked wizard, short and stocky, who stood near her.
The proud back of the Dark Lord stiffened. "Do not be foolish," he said coldly. "It will not be as precise as that… it will but create an opportunity." Long white fingers stirred the mirror. Ripples spread over it. "Should it work as I have studied, it will allow me to meet my great enemy… and we know I do not wish to confront him at Hogwarts… not unless absolutely necessary… No. This will draw Dumbledore from his redoubt… All it took was a charm of sufficient strength – which I have."
"Perhaps it will provide you with sufficient bait?" Narcissa asked, before she could stop herself.
"Dear Cissy has it right," he said softly, peering over his shoulder at her. The red in his eyes had nearly swallowed the black. "Bait for an old fool." As the others laughed, the sound of it raising to the ceiling above them, the very highest in Malfoy Manor, the Dark Lord turned once more to the mirror. His hands crept over it.
Could he feel the power in it? Narcissa thought he might.
"Quiet," he said.
The sound cut off as though snipped with scissors.
Then, without further hesitation, the yew and phoenix wand rapped against the ebony. "Revelio," the Dark Lord said in a hiss.
For a full ten breaths — Narcissa counted them — the mirror did nothing. Her stomach squeezed at the same time Lucius's hand wrapped around her bicep, fingers digging in painfully. Should the mirror do nothing, the Dark Lord's mood would plummet. This did not bode well for those in the room. A shiver passed through her, and she had to fight the craven urge to flee…
Mist formed on the face of the mirror.
"The Master of Death approaches…"
The sepulchral voice sent chills up and down her spine. The Master of Death was a fairy story. And yet… Narcissa found herself with fear that burrowed into the deepest parts of her. When she was a little girl, too young even for a wand, she'd stumbled onto a boggart at her Uncle Orion and Aunt Walburga's home. Narcissa remembered that was the last time she'd felt fear like this: lung-freezing, marrow-eating fear.
"Alas," said the Dark Lord, turning away from the mirror in a jagged, impatient gesture, "Gellert Grindelwald was always obsessed with those Deathly Hallows. It appears his mirror is likewise afflicted."
But Narcissa sucked in her breath through her teeth. All but she had turned with the Dark Lord. In the commotion, no one saw the veil part, and two faces coalesce: a young man, thin faced, with a scar like lightning over his brow, stared out at her. Beside him, there for but a moment, was a pale, redheaded girl. But they are children!
In the next breath, they were gone again, the veil sweeping shut. Still, Narcissa stared.
Beside her, Lucius murmured, "What is it?"
"I thought I saw—"
"What did you see? Dumbledore? He would like to consider himself the Master of Death. The only thing he's master of is teenagers."
"No," said Narcissa, shaking her head slowly. "No. I saw nothing. It was a trick of the light."
Not too far away, the Dark Lord was speaking: "—Grindelwald set too much on the Hallows, those fairy tale creations by parents in order to entertain their children. Perhaps I will see what I can do to modify the charms properly. My experiments have led me to different conclusions than did Grindelwald… though our aims were, yes, very similar. This is no fault of your own, Regulus… I should have remembered my predecessor's obsession…"
Regulus was still stammering out his apologies.
Narcissa gave the mirror one last look. Had she imagined it? Or had she truly seen what she thought?
Deep within the Ministry, in the rooms in which only Unspeakables were allowed entry, stood a veil. It was tall and thin; there were some places that seemed torn and others that were translucent. Found long ago, it had been brought to the Ministry and studied off and on ever since. The Unspeakables who did so grew bored with it quickly, for there were much more exciting mysteries to study than an old veil that still concealed more of its nature than it revealed.
Had anyone been there to see it the moment He Who Must Not Be Named performed a spell upon a mirror that had once belonged to Gellert Grindelwald, they would have – quite suddenly – found the veil very interesting indeed. Without warning, it blew about the room as though caught in a vortex. A loud sound, like that of a thousand voices screaming in alarm, pealed, vibrating the stones. There was a large CRACK! and the veil ripped in two almost all the way to the top
Out tumbled two figures, one tall and black-haired and male, the other small and red-headed and female. They fell together, falling unconscious, jerking as though both were under the Cruciatus curse.
Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley spent the first hour of their existence in 1977 tumbled together in a heap on the cold stone floor of the Ministry of Magic, little knowing where and when they were and who had brought them there.
xxxx
Author's Note: About a month and a half ago, after I posted the birthday fic for lilyevansJan30, I had a depressing little thought that it was my last fanfic. But then, as with Backward with Purpose, this fic invited me on another adventure. I am so glad it did. And, if you have made it through to read this note, I am fairly sure I got Narcissa out of my system (for now), and most of this story will be told from the POV of Harry.
Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you review!
Thanks to Magic, Hazzy, Bum, and Tessa for notes and comments.