The Lines Are Drawn – Narcissa Malfoy / Benjy Fenwick

For The Christmas Character Challenge by The Kawaii Neko:

27 – Frost – write about Narcissa Malfoy

The brand still burns her skin, itching red and angry where the wand pressed against the fragile flesh and tore through blood and sinew. She did not cry then, and she will not cry now. Again and again she pushes back the tears that threaten to break through the dam of her defences.

She tugs down the sleeves of her robes, lowers her head, and goes to class.

It is not enough.

Around every corner she can see his eyes, iron grey and heavy with grief. He knows what she did, for she is an open book to him, every thought, every feeling laid out like a sonnet to be read and analysed. All the deep things of her, even those that are hidden to her, are plain as day to him.

Strange, that a Muggleborn should have such skill, should find so easily the key to her heart.

"Narcissa!"

She is weak, and cannot resist the urgent whisper. With a quick look around to make certain that neither Lucius nor Regulus are in sight, she vanishes behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy.

Benjy Fenwick stares, first at her wrists, then at her face. She tugs again, and the damp material slides past the tattoo, but she can do nothing to arrest the movement of Benjy's dark eyes, lingering on the hollows in her cheeks, or the pallor beneath her eyes.

"You did it, then," he says, and his voice is rough around the edges. "I wouldn't have thought…" he trails off, staring at a spot beyond her. "But then again… maybe I did think." He meets her eyes then, something dark and hot curling like smoke in them. "We were always hiding, weren't we, Narcissa? Always creeping around, hiding behind statues and greenhouse – and you – you – hiding behind your sisters, your parents – good Godric, you really don't believe in this Pureblood nonsense, do you?"

But maybe she did, a long time ago.

"I'm just trying to protect my family," she tells him, and wills her voice to stop shaking. "He is strong, Benjy, far, far stronger than you can ever imagine. And – he's terrible. Crossing him means death. I had to join – I had no choice" –

"So it's a game, now? Align yourself with the strongest, eh? And you're wrong – he won't win. And he's wrong – and you know that. He isn't out for justice, or the Wizarding world, or protecting the magical population – or whatever utter lies he's fed you with. Simply put, he's a megalomaniac. And your lot are just egging him on." And then the fire starts up in his eyes again, and when he turns his head, she can see the blood rise to his face, the angles of his cheekbones still dark in the shadow of the statue. "Well, you can do what you like – you always did what you wanted, and I couldn't stop you. But me, I'm on the right side. I'm going to stand and fight. Simple as that."

And that was Benjy all over. Perhaps life was really that simple for him – a hundred times had Narcissa both blessed and cursed that peculiar bull-headed Gryffindor tendency. But as much as he said that she could not understand, there were things that he could not understand either.

Life would always be complicated for her.

"This is the end," he says, and her heart stutters, catching painfully in her chest. "We can't carry on – not together, anyway. The lines are drawn, now." His voice is thick. His chest heaves against her, muscles straining in his shoulders and neck. For one, two, three seconds he stills, head bowed over hers, then stumbles out of the alcove and walks away.

.

.

She carries on.

An ability that is peculiarly hers, to ignore, to rationalise, and to compartmentalise. And always, she knows what she is doing. Lucius is none the wiser – he cannot know, for her secrets are locked in the minds of two people only – but his eyes are on her, constantly, consistently, waiting, watching.

There are other eyes on her too. Not often, but always unexpected; a flash of grey across a classroom, in the dining hall or on the Quidditch pitch. She carries the tsunamis of those memories always with her, never outwardly, but bubbling just inside.

Lucius leaves Hogwarts. Then she leaves Hogwarts, and they marry. She watches, as though in a dream, the minister's wand circling their joined hands, the golden threads emerging, weaving, cocooning her, imprisoning her in a gilded web she cannot escape.

The Dark Lord's eyes are dark in his pale face, and each time he turns, they flash red and murderous. There are countless meetings, at Grimmauld Place, in their own large mansion that she tries to call home as best she can, and goes on missions in mouldy dark alleyways and in the forgotten corners of the magical world. All the while, she hugs her black hood and cloak about her like a second skin, and sets her features into a mask like the White witch, captured in an eternal frost.

Two years – two years of tears and spells and charms, gasping and shuddering in tangles of silken sheets, and she still cannot have a baby. Lucius' contempt stares at her across the room, white and blue and icy. Her fingers twitch, feeling along the shape angles of her belly, and she wonders what would change if she had chosen differently all those years ago.

By the thirteenth mission, she knows the routine, slips her mask into place, and follows Lucius and Amycus along the foul winding lane. Behind her, she can hear Regulus' breath hitching, his boots stumbling against hers.

And then they round the corner, directly beneath the streetlamps, and there, at last, they have the Order pinned down –

Three faces, white, wreathing bodies, blood and sweat, and the stench of fear –

Lucius twirls his wand, and Marlene McKinnon crumples.

Amycus slashes his own, and Caradoc Dearborn vanishes.

One left. One left.

She raises her wand, hand steady against her heartbeat, and then the figure moans, cloak slipping off.

She freezes.

Iron grey eyes, heavy and dull with despair, but still smoky with anger –

The lines are drawn now –

Behind her, Regulus' warm breath stops, starts again, turning to ice and horror.

And then she watches, as though turned to stone, as Amycus huffs with impatience, draws his own wand, and blasts Benjy Fenwick into a thousand pieces.