A/N: Inspired by "Where You Going? Where You Been?" by Joyce Carol Oates, and "The Dead" by James Joyce.
Written for a contest at The Final Battle
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"Her Portrait"
If he were painter, he'd paint her, right there, as she was standing on the stairs, peering upward as if searching for some light. Or maybe it was a darkness she was searching for? A darkness to cover her, surround her, hide her from the light she had found.
Discovering the truth can be hard, and it showed on her face. Her sparkling blue eyes held a warmth that was a curse to her. She tried to hide it, to cover it up with a veil of hatred, as cold as crystals, but her efforts were in vain. Her mouth was no longer a slash across her face whose one purpose was to show condescension. It seemed as if it had a new purpose: to smile playfully and to open wide, allowing a small, horrid giggle to escape from her throat.
Do you think you can escape me? he asked her once. Of course, she replied. He smiled at her, but his smile held no kindness; it said that he was right, and she was wrong.
She failed to escape him the moment his hand was on her hip, and his mouth was on her neck. She was a complete and utter failure -- no better than the girls who came before her, with their stupid bubble gum and their cherry lips.
But, she thought, sitting in his bed as his arm reached out and grabbed her, I've kept him far longer than they have.
Surely that meant something? His arm tightened around her waist, and she looked down at it, noticing that the Dark Mark branded on his arm was looking more vivid as the days went on. Did that mean something? Was the Dark Lord gaining power? Was his hold on the world nearly secured? Were the Muggles gone? She wanted to ask him, but she didn't think she felt like sitting through one of his temper tantrums about how she didn't trust him.
He noticed her glance towards his arm, but he didn't feel like making something out of it. Better to just hold her closer and kiss her skin. "Narcissa?" he whispered against her hair. "Lay back down."
His voice was filled with lust and his tone reminded her of their school years, of late nights sneaking into his dorm, of frantic whispers inside a closet. His body was pressed against hers, and she was reminded of a night in the Quidditch Locker Room showers, after a horrible game in the rain. Was it love that she felt that night? Was that the moment she realized that she rather die than see him die? Or was that all an illusion? Did she really feel those things? Did she really feel them now? Wasn't love a weakness?
His hand was in her hair now and his mouth was somewhere on her neck. Love was such a silly word to describe what she felt, even if it was a weakness. How can you love someone you hate?
Ah, but she didn't hate him, did she? No, she felt like she wanted to hate him when he reeked of misogyny – a feeling passed down through generations of Malfoys. She felt like she should hate him when he smirked pridefully at her, flaunting his superior position in their relationship. A Malfoy was nothing compared to the prestige of the Black family, after all . . . .
Yet there was a tingling in her limbs . . . a thrumming anticipation . . . a slow-pulsed joy . . . when he touched her. She was helpless against such things.
"Narcissa?" he whispered again.
"Lucius?" she replied.
"The Dark Lord is calling me . . . ."
She nodded as he stood up, feeling as if a very important part of her had been severed in half. Perhaps he was her arm that was savagely ripped off her person?
He smirked down at her, before he left and said, "I'll return soon."
She smirked back at him, and replied, ironically, "Yes, because you just can't live without me."
His smirk disappeared, and a second later, he was gone.
FIN.
