Marriage was dull.
Narcissa felt terrible for thinking that in the aftermath of the war. There were good witches who had been rendered destitute, despised, and night deranged once the executions- so sorry, hearings- were concluded. Lucius's influence saved her from ever being strapped to that chair before the mobs, saved her from even being questioned.
How could anyone doubt poor, sweet, milky white Narcissa Malfoy- young mother and wife? Whose forearms remained as unmarked and untainted as her reputation.
The purebloods adored her as an icon of selfless witch-hood who bravely entered and withstood the pit of vipers for the purest of reasons: true love. The halfbloods loved her for her whiff of old-world grandeur and the charities she started for orphans. The mudbloods- well, who really cared what they thought.
Her role was a role Narcissa could play with aplomb and it didn't hurt that she, Lucius and Draco formed such an attractive trio for the newspapers. The headlines went slowly from 'Death Eater Escapes' to 'An Unforgivable Victim' to 'A Tragedy of Our Times' until they wound up being labeled as 'The Hope for the Future.'
No one could resist the scintillating horrors that Lucius claimed to have suffered and Narcissa claimed to have witnessed. Everyone could see the deep grief in their faces as they spoke of their time imprisoned in the fanatical cult. As for those who couldn't? Well, they hardly mattered.
Now, Lucius was content to fade away until he could achieve his desired role as the puppet master of the ministry. No limelight for Lucius. Too much time in the sun might damage his thin veneer of respectable, virile wizard.
No, Lucius wanted no more time under the scrutiny of the public eye. He was content to spend his days in his study, writing letters in code, uncovering political plots through careful newspaper reading, and engaging his half-blood lover in highbrow, intellectual status plays.
Narcissa's role then because, for the first time ever, a single, simple note: mother. Mother to a spoiled angel who ran the house elves ragged and then charms them in the next moment. He wanted for little, her darling Draco, which left her, again, roleless. A state that Narcissa did not care for in the lest.
Which had, in turn, led her to this hidden chamber beneath the atrium of the Manor with only a lumos and an elaborate backstory for company. She was the ravaged young bride exploring her deadly husband's secret storehouse, in hopes of finding the magical key to grant her freedom. Or the intrepid explorer charting an unknown treasure chamber and avoiding the traps set for the unwary. Or maybe she was the beautiful death eater spy who was prowling through Dumbledore's artifacts. Or-
Or honestly, she was very disappointed.
The Black homes were stuffed to the rafters with malevolent trinkets that could entice you with a waltz or melt the skin off your fingers. Exploring the attic could not have been more thrilling than being a curse breaker for Gringotts as you unlocked chests and poked through armoires. Sirius- the only He Who Must Not Be Named in her life- was good at that game when he was younger. But it was she and Regulus who had explored the most of their estates.
This estate would not have held her cousin's interest long. Malfoy's dealt more in money than history. Lucius's vault in Gringotts had literally stolen her breath, but there were precious few memories tied to those coins. No interesting portraits lined the walls of the Malfoy vaults. All Draco's ancestors were as perfectly groomed and controlled as his father.
Narcissa set down a delicately blown glass globe and looked around the small room again. A few daggers hung on the wall along with a single sword stained brown by what could only be blood. Jars of restricted potion ingredients: Boomslang skin and worse, filled one wall. No points for guessing at whose bequest those were stored here. One trunk held a carefully folded tapestry. Another had an extension charm and was filled with galleons. A third was a carefully dusted collection of extra wands. The fourth held a -
A single diary?
Narcissa picked up the battered book and corrected her initial assessment. A single, well worn, never written in, diary belonging to one T. M. Riddle. Now, why would Lucius have devoted an entire, well-warded trunk to such a simple item? Perhaps Mr. Riddle was one of his ex-lovers? If so, Narcissa suddenly, desperately, wanted to know what secrets had been wiped clean of these pages.
Well pleased with her venture into the forbidden, Narcissa retreated to her suite and set the diary on the table before her. It looked no different in the light of the setting sun than it had in the dungeons. A normal journal, if a little poor quality. Simple leather binding and, yes, every single page was blank. She checked.
Feeling a fit of capriciousness, Narcissa filled her pen and scrawled across the inside cover.
Just who are you Mr. T. M. Riddle?
When she glanced down again, the words had disappeared.
Intriguing, Narcissa thought. Is this a bonded book? Were her words now being read by the diary's twin halfway across the world? If so, who had the other half of this journal?
It was with delight that Narcissa saw the new words appear.
The question, I think, is who are you?
A/N: If I ever want to sit down and write a crackish story- it will be a Tom Riddle/ Young, Bored Mother Narcissa with this as the opening scene. I like this version of Narcissa- she has more personality than most of my renditions of the woman. But I need a few more plot whisps to tie this into something solid. Let me know if you liked it!
