School and Theme: Hogwarts - Write about an innocent being turned into a scapegoat/Extra theme.
Mandatory Prompt: [Word] poison
Additional Prompt(s): [Physical appearance] A jagged scar
Year: 1
Word count: 2609
Additional Information: Post war AU
Trigger warning: Major character death, some foul language
SPECIAL RULE:
You must set your story in a single location. The location has to be small and specific.
Hello everyone. Let me just start by saying, I do not like this story. I do not like this round i general (sorry to whoever came up with it). I started out with a different story in mind but I couldn't make it work so I had to start over. Hopefully, I can reuse that idea because I really love it and I want you guys to read it too. Despite all that, however, my wonderful Hogwarts teammates helped me make this readable — honestly, if you like this even a tiny bit, it's all because of them. So, without further ado, let's get this over with, shall we?
And, like i said, the biggest of thanks to everyone that beta'd: Smjl, accio-broom, be11atrixthestrange (but also CutewithaCapital-Q, adenei, Cheesyficwriter and Selene Blackburn because they helped get this idea off the ground)
Narcissa Malfoy could not remember the last time she had left her bed. She had considered herself lucky to leave the war with only house-arrest as punishment for her involvement, but as her body started giving up on her, the witch realised her mistake.
Her legs were the first to give out from the illness spreading through her like poison. These days, she barely felt them. She barely felt anything. Was she human or just a part of the bed, like the pillows or the duvet? Was she even alive or was she just another piece of furniture, collecting dust in the empty Manor, forgotten by the world?
What was the point in living in such a state? Her precious dragon was locked away, her sister wanted nothing to do with her, and her name was in tatters. If only her mother could see her now: nearly comatose with an incompetent elf as her sole company. Oh how the mighty fall.
Winky was being quite weird about it as well, which the Malfoy matriarch attributed to an odd sense of loyalty to her ailing mistress. The creature would stop mid-sentence and stare at a wall or she would bring her burnt food or even the wrong meal at the wrong time. Narcissa would not tolerate such insubordination; she refused to be treated as a sick person.
She could only take it one week before she cracked. After being subjected to Narcissa's chastising, Winky now only came by to deliver meals and empty the bed pot. Narcissa could feel something was wrong, even back then, but it was beneath her to admit defeat so soon. She would get up every morning, brush her hair into a careful updo before hobbling over to the seat by the window.
The window used to be open back when it all started. Narcissa would not leave the room in such a state — she couldn't allow the gossips to see her like this — but she ruled over her estate from her self-imposed prison. Her prized rose gardens were in broad view and the witch would alternate between nitpicking the flaws of Winky's gardening and complaining to the elf about the audacity of the latest floozy that made it on the Prophet's first page.
Her arms followed next and it got to a point where Narcissa couldn't even reach the hairbrush on her nightstand. The first couple of days, she fooled herself into having hope, but her spirits could not last any longer. She was forced to face her situation and she fell into a great depression, refusing to let the elf even open the blinds. The birds flying free in the clear skies were too painful a reminder of the freedom Narcissa would never get back.
The only way she could count the time was by counting the cracks on the walls, the jagged scars a painful reminder or the house's dark history. The skin of her back had slowly started to split open, as if to engulf the mattress below and make her a part of it forever. Her limbs had atrophied, leaving barely any meat between the skin and bone. Her face was gaunt and her skin near-translucent, like the canopy drapes concealing her from the empty room.
Her room — the place where she once felt love in the arms of her husband, where she felt joy like no other from her baby's fist closing around her finger for the first time — was going to become her tomb; a place of life turned into a place of sickness and despair. She knew there was no hope left for her, but she longed to hold on a bit more. Draco's sentence was going to end someday, and she wanted to see her son's face again before she crossed the Veil.
But the illness had stolen that possibility from her, too. Her eyes had been the last to go, the familiar surroundings giving way to a blurry landscape of silver and green, barely visible in the darkness. Oh how she wished to see her rose gardens one last time instead of that filthy, ornate tapestry. All she had left was her mind's eye, and she spent all her time reminiscing, her body melding with the bed below as her mind travelled to the glories of the past.
The room was closing in on her. Day in, day out, the walls got closer and closer to the bed, intent on crushing her like an offending bug — even though she knew they were still in place, stoic and unyielding. Her own body odour mixed with the distinct smell of old, worn out wood, creating a sombre potpourri of decay and despair. Critters crawled in the walls day and night, almost extinguishing what little sanity she had left with the sound of their movement echoing louder than her own thoughts. She didn't know how much longer she had left but she was sure to suffer every last minute of it.
Narcissa let out a hiss as the door burst open, what little she had left of her vision going white with the sudden burst of light from the hallway. She was about to scold Winky for being so reckless when the intruder took a couple of steps into the room, too heavy to belong to the elf. The floorboards creaked, and she could feel the vibrations all the way to the back of her skull, so attuned as she was to the room around her.
She squinted in vain, unable to make out anything other than a shadow. The form, however, was too petite to be her boy, making her deflate back into the abyss of the feather mattress. Was this a vision, like those she had as a young witch? Had the Reaper finally come to collect his dues?
"I see the poison has been working."
The voice was familiar but the Malfoy matriarch couldn't quite place it. She tried sitting up but struggled to lift her arms and settled for trying to raise her head. Who would be so rude to barge in like that? And what was that poison they were talking about?
"Oh, don't bother, Narcissa." The voice took on a mocking tone as it approached. The footsteps ceased, and goosebumps rose all over her body as the mattress dipped by her knees. The foreign weight disturbed her more than the words, and she could find no comfort. It was as if the stranger had walked in, ripped the mattress from underneath her and left her lying on the cold, hardwood boards.
"You've played the hostess enough in your life. I won't judge you." The stranger patted her arm, making her skin crawl with unease, before leaning over her. Narcissa struggled to focus, but she could only make out a large brown shape around what would be the intruder's face.
She cursed herself for her weakness. The witch had never felt so helpless in her life and she utterly despised that feeling. Her near-blind eyes travelled downwards, stopping as a lighter patch of colour caught her attention. It took enough effort to wipe out her remaining strength, but she managed to distinguish a jagged scar on the stranger's neck.
Something tickled the back of her mind in recognition but it was just out of reach for the dying witch. She opened her mouth to speak but only managed a weak croak, as if the dust that surrounded her had covered her throat in its thick coat. The intruder laughed, the sound of happiness tainted by pure malice.
Even incapacitated, she could recognise the evil in her presence. As she was now one with the room around her, she had once been one with the darkness living in her home. A darkness she recognised standing before her now.
The stranger stood up and Narcissa could breathe again, as if the air that filled the mattress inflated her lungs as well. She heard the footsteps circle the bed to her other side, where her water jug stood, every step counting down the time she had left. She pushed her head back in the pillow, physically trying to pressure her brain into thinking faster.
Who did she know with a scar like that? She ran through her mental catalogue of Death Eaters twice, coming up empty. She went through every day that monster had spent in the Manor, taking it apart second by second, but there was still nothing. Not one of those wretched cretins had any marks besides the one they displayed so proudly on their arms.
But they gave out scars left and right, didn't they? And then it clicked: the girl from that day. Draco's classmate, the Mudblood her sister had maimed. Amongst all the nicks and bruises the girl had littered on her body, Narcissa for sure had noted a cut on her neck from that cursed knife. But why would the girl come pay her a visit in her dying hour? And why would she mention poison? No, something didn't fit.
"Here, Cissy, have a drink."
The Granger girl certainly wouldn't know the nickname her family had reserved for her. And she didn't match the aura of pure malice that had permeated Narcissa's little safe haven. Her mind jumped to her first days of illness, where she scoured through the papers to remain updated on the outside world she still had hope of rejoining. Rodolphus was imprisoned. Rabastan was imprisoned. Greyback was imprisoned. Macnair was-
The water assaulted her senses, breaking her focus as her body struggled to survive the attack. It burned on its way up her nose and she tried to cough it back up before swallowing a big gulp in an attempt to get some air. Narcissa's wet hair stuck to her neck like worms and the drenched sheets clung to her like a second skin.
Her attacker let up, giving her a second to breath before the torture continued. It was all the time needed for Narcissa to focus on the slight metallic tinge left on her tongue: poison. I see the poison has been working. Narcissa wasn't sick; she was being murdered.
Her reprieve was brief before the water was back, brutally forcing its way into her ravaged body until the jug was empty. "There," the murderer taunted in Miss Granger's voice, "that's much better now, isn't it, you rotten bitch?"
Macnair was imprisoned. Yaxley was imprisoned. Dolohov-
Dolohov had disappeared in the confusion of the Battle once the Dark Lord was gone. Narcissa hadn't spotted his name in any articles, aside from mentions of him still being in the wind. And hadn't he been in the Ministry when they had attacked those stupid kids? She could remember him being quite angry after the Dark Lord's punishment for their failure that day.
He had also always been jealous of Lucius' favour with the Dark Lord, feeling he deserved better treatment than he received. Incriminating Miss Granger for Narcissa's murder would take out two birds with one stone; she could only imagine the joy with which the Azkaban guards would mock her family about her passing. The Light side was as rotten as the Dark one, the blasted guards would have a field day on their powertrip of taunting her loved ones.
She needed to alert someone. She needed to get up and fight. She needed her wand. She needed to breathe.
It was getting harder and harder to get oxygen in her lungs, the large intake of poison working quickly to take her out. Blood rushed to her ears and she could hear a faint ringing she was sure was in her head. As the blurring in her eyes got worse, the colours moulding into darkness, all she could feel was the wet bed beneath her, pulling her in like quicksand.
Narcissa desperately clawed at the sheets with what little strength she had left. Her fingers tangled up in the satin sheets, the sense of the wet cloth getting farther and farther away from her. It didn't take long until she lost feeling below the wrist, her body readying to take her to the next plane. Sound was next, Dolohov's laugh the last thing she would ever hear. The comforting musk of a closed off room slowly faded and her world went black.
Antonin watched on as Narcissa seized on that filthy bed, a twisted pleasure curling in his stomach at the sight. His anonymous letter was already on its way to Azkaban and he could just picture Lucious' reaction. Serves him right for stealing my rightful place on our Lord's side, the slimy ferret.
It wasn't like Narcissa was innocent either; she deserved every bit of what she got. The wretched witch had spent so much time belittling and looking down on him just because of his last name. It was so satisfying to watch her suffer, weak and incapable, locked away in a filthy room. Oh how the mighty fall.
He huffed and pushed the riotous curls away from his face, the humidity in the enclosed space making them unbearable. He scratched at the scar on his neck with a vengeance, noting with sick satisfaction that it hadn't been there the last time he had encountered that blasted girl.
The stupid bint had cost him everything. The Dark Lord never looked at him the same after that day at the Department of Mysteries and everyone else in His ranks mocked him incessantly for his failure. Bested by a filthy Mudblood. He couldn't scar her visibly any more, not without getting himself caught, but he could ruin her in other ways. Being framed for murder wouldn't do that well for her reputation, he reckoned.
His fingers tingled with imminent transformation back to his own form and he was so eager to let it wear out. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of wearing the Mudblood's skin any longer but he had come too close to give up now. The foul-smelling potion made him retch as he opened his flask but he forced a swallow down, the liquid scorching a trail in his throat.
Narcissa's body had stopped moving by the time the Polyjuice settled in his stomach, her eyes open but rolled in the back of her head. She was already a skeleton, the poison the imperiused elf had spiked her water with having done its work. Sure, he could have just Avada'd the witch but the Ministry had stopped looking for him a while ago now and there was nothing better than toying with your food.
"Winky," he called out, the Mudblood's light tone grinding in his ears. The elf apparated with a loud pop, staring at the girl's face curiously as Dolohov handed her the empty water jug. "I'm Hermione Granger, remember me? Narcissa won't need this anymore."
Antonin looked on in disgust as the creature rushed to its mistress' side, using every medical spell in its arsenal to wake Lady Malfoy. With a loud sob, it levitated the body to see if she would move, and the melted skin from inactivity stretched and tore as the corpse rose from the bed. The dried blood released a horrible rot in the air and the Death Eater knew it was his time to go. His job was done, after all.
Narcissa Malfoy had always been poison and she had found an end most fitting for her wretched soul. Hopefully, he would take the Mudblood bitch down too.
The door slammed shut behind him, sealing Narcissa's final resting place like the harrowing mausoleum the room had become. Good riddance.