(A/N) I know it's been forever, but writing a cohesive storyline is definitely harder than it looks. Gwen Lennox, like Cassandra, belongs to Thessaly, but again, I lay claim to her family. And remember: Feed the Author. Reviewing is a Good Thing.
Regulus came by for tea the next day, it turned out. He brought Pyramus Austin with him, and the three of them spent most of the afternoon talking about everything and nothing. Narcissa supposed they must make an odd picture in her front parlor: Regulus in his favorite matte black, dramatic and handsome, but for the bags under dark blue eyes and a slight tightness to the fragile face, draped across an armchair by the fire; Narcissa, porcelain and perfect with the exact same eyes, but for the bags, seated on the lace sofa, a blue and silver doll; Pyramus slouched in the other chair, somehow managing to make his mother's exquisite taste in robes appear shabby, mussing already disordered blond hair and narrowly avoiding smattering Narcissa's pale parlor with ink from his quill as he gestured and scratched.
Regulus had just finished a long discourse about some Polyjuice experiments, when Pyramus looked up from the paper he'd been scribbling on and said, "He's not in research anymore, you know. He's a spy, now."
A long pause followed that announcement. Finally, Narcissa turned to her cousin, one pale brow raised. Regulus shrugged a little, the animation gone from his face, replaced by a resigned sort of anger. "And is it interesting?" Narcissa inquired coolly, holding out a hand for Regulus's empty teacup when he gave no more response.
"God, Narcissa, don't you care?" Regulus snapped, his anger at himself spilling over to the closest target. "It's not just mudbloods. Purebloods, too; people I've known since I was born. I betray people for Him, then murder them. And all you can ask is if it's interesting?" He slammed the teacup onto the table and, rising, stalked over to the window and looked out at the dreary London street.
Narcissa picked up his near empty teacup and considered the leaves at the bottom. "Have you killed any of your kin? Then, no, I don't particularly care, Regulus. What is betrayal, exactly? Survival, as often as not. If you don't kill these people, you will die. You know that. So why shouldn't do what you have to, not to die?"
Regulus turned away from the window to gape at his cousin. "What if survival interferes with doing what's right? Cissa, even you must have some things you won't contemplate doing!"
"Of course I do. They're all severely detrimental to my health and happiness. Really, Regulus. I'm a Malfoy now, as well as a Black. Malfoy--bad faith. And Great-Great Aunt Capella switched sides so many times we still have arguments about whether she was pro- or anti-Revolution, but have any of her progeny ever held it against her? No. You were brought up as I was; we know the only thing that is sacrosanct is the Family."
Regulus swallowed and looked away again. Finally he replied in a defeated voice, "I know."
The white hand holding Regulus's cup shook a little, and Narcissa put the empty teacup carefully on the delicate coffee table by her side, looking intently away from its contents. They showed her more than she wanted to know. "It's Sirius, isn't it?"
One black shoulder rose and fell. Only the slight sound of the street drifted through the window. It began to rain. Finally, Regulus said, quietly, "When you condemn all outside the Family to the vacuities of survival, do you include Him?"
That got a gasp from Narcissa. "You're not actually going to-" For the first time in a long while Narcissa responded instantly, without thinking, and heard the slight waver in her voice. Forcing herself to stop, she gripped her teacup and forced her hands to stop shaking, forced her face to smooth, forced her heart to slow.
"He is only mortal," Regulus said lightly.
"They don't think so." Both cousins turned to Pyramus, blinking in unison as they remembered his presence.
"You won't-" Regulus began, his face blanching with fear.
"I never talk about things you say," Pyramus assured his friend. "You're the only one who listens to me, so you're the only one who I tell things. But they don't think He's mortal. They say he's found the key to immortality. So you shouldn't try what you're saying."
Narcissa blinked a little at this earnest speech. It was one of the longest she'd ever heard Pyramus make on a single subject, without drifting into the realms of Poesy. Regulus, however, replied instantly, "He's not immortal; He's just harder to kill. You see-"
"I don't want to know," Narcissa cut in firmly. "And I think it's time for you to go. Lucius will be home soon to take me to dinner at the Lennox's, and I have to change."
Pyramus and Regulus rose obediently, Pyramus nodding absently to her, already lost in a literary dream brought on by the rain. Regulus made his goodbyes properly, but he was clearly already beginning to have said as much. In a rare gesture of kindness, Narcissa took his hand and, catching his eye, said quietly, "Family, remember? You'll always be safe with me."
----------------------------------
Mr. Lennox was a banker, and it showed. He had a slight squint and ink-stained fingers, and would talk forever of the dullest subjects imaginable. He only had one house, and it was in the center of London, with gaudy, nearly vulgar displays of wealth to counteract the newness of everything and to hide the traffic of the dreadful Muggle motorcars outside the windows. The Lennoxes had used to be quite well off, but in the seventeenth century the branch Matthew Lennox was descended from had lost most of their fortune when a colonial venture failed. They'd scraped by since with a slight resurgence during the Regency, but Matthew Lennox was the first to make any real money. Since he was extremely good at making money, Society chose to ignore his Muggle-born great-great grandmother. Lucius Malfoy only patronized his establishment because Matthew's mother had been a Malfoy tenant, and the family had yet to forget that their establishment had been based in the Malfoy fortune.
Dinner was uninspiring, but Gwendolyn Lennox, who was home for the holidays, was a rare delight. She'd been in Slytherin at school, and Narcissa had a vague memory that the younger girl had been a Prefect in Sirius' year. She worked for the Ministry now, and had some of the class her father lacked. She was also fiendishly intelligent, a fact Narcissa did not remember from school. When they left the men to their port and business, the conversation turned interesting. Naturally, it began with the comings and going in London, but at some point veered to the Ministry, and its attempt to find able-bodied workers. Narcissa, remembering her conversation with Marcella Abbott at the MacNair's ball, mentioned Mr. Jonathon Abbott, and made a mental note to be sure he knew whom to thank.
By the Lucius and Lennox rejoined them, Narcissa gathered that while Matthew was a Death Eater (not the Gwendolyn had even hinted so much; sometimes you could just tell by the company a man kept), his daughter chose to support the Cause in a far more subtle fashion.
Compliments were exchanged and after-dinner tea was served. Swirling the dregs around the bottom of her cup, Narcissa saw, for a second, a blackwood coffin covered by a shroud, and quickly put the cup away. Never before had she disliked all the rituals of tea quite so much.
By Monday, Narcissa was almost dreading Mrs. Austin's tea party. When she'd tried to divine any sort useful information in her crystal ball, all she seen was the funeral. And, occasionally, a strong face framed in black hair, gone too quickly to be identified as anything other than a Black. Teacups, any sort of cards, almost anything that would reflect, would tell her the same thing, sometimes even when she didn't look for it.
On Tuesday morning they stopped. What had been going to happen had happened, she supposed, or at least had been set in motion to happen. Fixing her hair up in soft twist and pulling two curls forward to frame her face, Narcissa considered her mirror. Finally approving the blend of youth and maturity, she sat back and let her mind wander as she neatened and set her make-up. Jonathon Abbott had gotten a job as junior assistant to the Auror's office and had sent her a very effusive note of thanks. Apparently his courtship was costing something rather beyond his means. Tomorrow, Celia Clare and Evelyn Parkinson were going to be married; Narcissa had received an invitation soon after the MacNair's ball. Lucius was away again. He was also avoiding her. It was very subtle, of course. Narcissa doubted Lucius could be anything but subtle, and he would never be so rude as to blatantly avoid his wife's company. Narcissa might have succeeded in convincing herself that she didn't mind, except that whenever she did see him he seemed to be with Bellatrix. The smug looks Bella sent her direction were almost enough to make Narcissa encourage Lestrange's advances, if only to give Bella a taste of her own medicine.
Really though, there was no reason to fuss. Everyone knew that fidelity was not a particularly enduring characteristic of any member of society. At least Lucius was discreet. Everyone, including Mrs. Sutton, had known that Vassily Sutton had kept a house on the Scottish border expressly for his mistress. Smoothing her lilac skirt, Narcissa wrapped a soft scarf spelled against rain around herself and put thoughts of husbands, faithful or otherwise, from her head as she headed to tea with the matriarchs of the wizarding world.
When she returned that evening, Lucius was still gone. Narcissa tried to settle, first with her lace, then with a book, and finally practicing the harp. It wasn't as if she never had spent an evening alone. Lucius was often away in the evenings. After butchering a sonata she'd been able to play three days before perfectly for the third time, Narcissa put her harp away, and unable to resist, brought her crystal ball to the coffee table. Clearing her mind of all thought but her husband, Narcissa focused on the mist in the center of the ball. Only one image appeared, and it wasn't Lucius. It was Bellatrix fanatic devotion written across her features. As Narcissa watched, the devotion faded for a moment, replaced by loathing, hate, misery. But only for a moment. The fanaticism rekindled in the eyes, and her mouth moved, forming the words, "Yes, my lord."
Profoundly disturbed, Narcissa covered her crystal with a black velvet cloth, wondering what it was possible for the Dark Lord to ask her to do that she'd ever hesitate to do. Suddenly very tired, Narcissa trailed upstairs, forgetting to smooth away the frown lines.