(A/N) It's been ages, I know. Thank you, Padfoot's Sidekick, for reviewing. I sincerly hope my audience is larger than that. I really do appreciate constructive criticism; this is my first long fic, and I really want help on how to improve my writing. Thanks also goes, as always, to Rowlings to creating such a wonderful playground for elderly five-year-olds, and to Thessaly for insuring my spelling and grammar aren't completely aweful.
Dacia Woodworth arrived punctually at four, in a dark green tea dress and her second best hat. Narcissa was waiting for her in the south-facing parlor, one decorated specifically for small tea parties of this sort. Entering it was like walking into a cloud; everything was light, white and airy, from the gauze curtains to the frothy lace patterned carpets to the doilies on the painted coffee table. When Dacia entered, her jaw sagged a bit as she took in the dainty white room, and its occupant. Narcissa was dressed in a pale green tea gown, the only touch of color in the room, and seated intentionally in a shaft of afternoon sun that lighted her pale hair to a true gold and showed the fineness of the exquisite china teacups on the table in front of her. Shock was not flattering to Dacia's rather meager charms, Narcissa noted. Dacia Woodworth was an ordinary enough looking girl, with dirty blond hair crimped and curled into the latest fashion, and a rather endearing round face. The sagging jaw, unfortunately, only emphasized the fact that Dacia would have several chins in a few years. Everything else about was perfectly ordinary. As a poorer relation to a wealthy family, she had to keep herself presentable if she were to remain under Mr. Woodworth's roof. She wasn't intelligent, but just cunning enough to make herself indispensable to her cousins by knowing absolutely everything about absolutely everyone. Narcissa had no doubt that that evening the after dinner conversation at Woodworth House would be a long monologue by Dacia, reciting everything Narcissa had said, and everything that she hadn't, and a very detailed picture of the room they were currently occupying.
As Dacia collected herself, Narcissa looked up and smiled politely, saying, "My dear Dacia. How lovely to see you again. Do sit down."
By this time, Dacia was ready to talk. "Narcissa, darling, how are you? Well, of course. You do look splendid, darling. And such a lovely house. I've never seen such lovely curtains." Dacia sat carefully on the edge of one of the delicate, white chairs, chattering all the while.
Pouring tea, Narcissa waited until Dacia stopped to breath before interjecting gently, "I've been away so long I feel that I don't know my old friends anymore. Do you know how Delphinium Clarke has been of late?"
"Oh, didn't you hear? Delphi, who we all expected to marry old Theodor Nott (the widower, you remember; ever so rich and as the Clarkes haven't had a penny since that great-uncle of hers gambled it all away, well-); anyway, back in July, she suddenly took it into her head to run off with that jumped-up Mark Flint. Can you imagine?" Dacia paused, both for dramatic effect and to inhale a macaroon, and Narcissa made appropriately startled noises. "Poor Mrs. Clarke," Dacia continued, dusting off her fingers and eyeing the plate of cakes , "After Christabelle married Antony Zabini last winter, she's been looking to Delphinium to mend the family fortunes. Not that I have anything against Antony, of course; he has wonderful manners and impeccable breeding, but his family isn't, well, they're certainly not well enough off to pay all the Clarke's debts. I do wonder what the poor woman will do."
"Though her state is nothing to old Mrs. Parkinson's. Did you hear about Evelyn Parkinson?" Without even waiting for Narcissa to shake her head, Dacia leaned forward conspiratorially, even though the room held only the two of them, and said, "Well, the Parkinsons were having a house party and young Evelyn got himself magically locked in the greenhouse with pretty little Celia Clare, and when the adults finally got the door open, well! There will be a wedding as soon as they graduate; that's all I will say on the subject. Poor Mrs. Parkinson was horrified, of course, but I must say there must have been something wrong with the way she raised him, that he turned out so badly. And Mrs. Clare! To bring up such an immodest girl. When I have children I'm sure they'd be well behaved."
"Quite," murmured Narcissa, refilling her guest's teacup. "And who is in London these days? I haven't heard from my sister in ever so long, London society being what it is."
Dacia smiled and gushed, "Oh, Mrs. Lestrange is still the toast of London. The lower classes are much sparser these days, though, what with His work. No more of your upstart mudbloods bothering us," Dacia continued with a sniff that might having passed as only approving in other company, but was here noted as having rather more nerves then it ought. "Why, just last night, the Dark Mark appeared above Peter Clearwater's house, the blood-traitor. He actually married a Muggle, can you believe!"
Dacia swallowed, and changed the subject, "But I do have to stop babbling, my dear Narcissa. You've barely said a word. How is dear Lucius? Will I see him before I leave tonight?"
Narcissa tensed as facts smashed into each other and certain knowledge of what Lucius had been doing the evening before fought its way into her concious. She supposed she'd known subconsciously all along, but refused to recognize what she could imagine away. Forcing herself to be calm, and hoping Dacia hadn't caught the hesitation, or that she wouldn't understand it if she had, Narcissa said quickly, "No, he has business with our groundskeeper this evening. But he is very well, thank you."
Dacia left in the early evening, trailing promises of invitations and parties. Narcissa ordered her dinner to her suite as Lucius wasn't home yet, and showed no intention of returning soon. She retreated to her windowseat, and scowled at her favorite sitting room for a moment before forcing her features into a more neutral expression. Scowling formed wrinkles. Still, keeping her face calm didn't change the fact that she suddenly didn't want to be in her room right now. She didn't want to be spending her days wandering around an empty house, listening to it echo her loneliness. That was the problem, she realized: having grown up with two sisters constantly in attendance, she just wasn't used to being completely alone. She needed something to do, someone to interact with. It was Dacia that had brought on this fit of sulks; Dacia, who could be pushed and prodded to Narcissa's whim without even noticing she was being manipulated. Though she'd said so much less than her companion, it was Narcissa who had directed the conversation that afternoon. And she had enjoyed it. She hadn't enjoyed herself that much since she'd come back from her honeymoon.
"Ennui," Narcissa murmured to herself. "I need something to do." She'd already redecorated the house, so that wasn't an option. It was too soon after her honeymoon to wish to go traveling. Then, slowly, Narcissa began to smile.
London. But, of course. Lucius had a townhouse there, it would be perfectly respectable. And there would be people. People to watch, people to talk to, people to understand. And scandals to be privy to, society to know, fashion to follow, parties, balls, opera, ballet. All those things she'd loved on her first, all too brief, visit to the city. Bellatrix, Narcissa thought with a toss of her gold head, had been queen of London far too long.
Articulating the thought brought a low laugh to her lips. She knew, regardless of such foolish thoughts, that she would never, ever try and take something Bella wanted. All through her childhood she'd watched her two older sisters, and she knew more about what touched them, and what they were capable of doing, than anyone else. Andromeda, she had always pitied; too shy, too bookish, and too nice to survive a world of old families and old magic and old vengeance. Bellatrix, she had always feared, though she hated to admit it. Bellatrix, dark and passionate, bearing the mark of a warrior on her arm, the only woman to do so. Bellatrix, who had ruled Slytherin from the age of thirteen, who had ruled her parents from the age of six, who had ruled her sisters all their lives. Who had wound Lucius Malfoy around her perfect red-nailed fingers, until she lost him after her engagement. Narcissa had always pretended indifference to her family--they had showed her little enough affection--but she would always be very slightly afraid of her sister.
Fear is a type of power, Narcissa told herself firmly. You mustn't let anyone, even Bellatrix, especially Bellatrix, have that sort of power over you. To London you will go, and though you won't try to outshine her, you also won't avoid her.
With that firm determination in mind, Narcissa clapped her hands for Eli to come and pack her trunks.