A/N: I hope no one thought it was Sirius Black in the previous chapter. Anyway, here's another dark chapter for your perusal. If you're looking for a slightly more optimistic take on the Narcissa/Lucius relationship, you should check out my other fic entitled "The Sanctity of Blood," /shameless plugging. The next chapter of this fic will be on a much lighter note, I promise. I just haven't written it yet, is all. Enjoy!
"Get up, you worthless slag, and stop your blubbering. You disgust me. I want you out of my sight."
There are times when Narcissa wished he would just hit her. She sees his fingers twitching against his thigh, curling into a fist. She sees the skin turning white as it tightens across his knuckles. She knows he wants to, longs to, the same way his fingers once longed to caress her years ago when they were first in love, and there was nothing in the world but them.
But no, he doesn't strike her. All Malfoys, you see, are taught never to hit women. They are taught to charm them, pleasure them, marry them, but never to hit them.
No, he doesn't strike her.
Of course, he doesn't caress her, either.
His gaze is cold as he looks down at Narcissa's weeping, huddled form. He doesn't need to hit me, she's realized over the years. The words he throws at her—like stones, like knives—have hurt her more than fists possibly could.
Narcissa's tears darken the carpet beneath her. She reaches out to him, to brush the edge of his robes, his cloak, to feel something of his that reminds her that under the ice there is human flesh. But he lifts his robes away delicately, his nose crinkling slightly in revulsion.
She wishes he would push her, kick her, slap her. Because then she'd have proof. Proof that he isn't the perfect husband he claims to be. Proof that she doesn't deserve this.
And then I'd finally get to feel his skin against mine again.
The trouble with words, as harmful as they might be, is that they never leave a mark. If they did, her whole body would be covered in bruises and scars.
Narcissa wasn't always like this. A pitiful, cowering mass. There was a time when she was beautiful. She used to be the most celebrated debutante in my generation—the envy of every Pureblood female in the Wizarding community, and her fame only grew when she had married the most eligible bachelor.
If I had known what I would turn into… if I had known what loving Lucius Malfoy would turn me into…
Oh, yes. She loved Lucius Malfoy.
She loves Lucius Malfoy like she loves the blood that runs through her veins, and the hundreds of years of Black ancestry that flows within her. She loves him because he's her husband, and he gave her a son of the Blood. She loves him because she doesn't know how not to.
Yet, despite her love, Narcissa has tried to teach herself to be numb to him. She tried desperately to learn to be cold from within and without, so she wouldn't have to feel his words, or his threats, or the looks of disgust he shoots at her with eyes that cut like razors.
The only thing she learned was that she could never be as cold as he was.
When they were younger, when they'd have a row, he'd always storm out angry and violent. He'd taunt her, call her filthy names, whittle her down to nothing. He was a master of crafting words that could destroy Narcissa. That hasn't changed.
Hours later in the dead of night, after he'd cooled off and she had cried herself to sleep, he would go to her. Holding her closely against himself, he'd whisper apologies into her hair. His lips would brush her closed eyelids, kissing away the tears. He would promise to never do it again. He would beg, plead, for her forgiveness.
Foolishly… foolishly… she would grant it every time. Foolishly, she would believe his empty promises. With all her heart, she knew that never again would he hurt her. Never again would he cause her to cry. With her entire being, she believed him.
It was because she held this belief so dearly that she felt so devastated and heartbroken when he hurt her—inevitably—again. And again.
And again.
This time, however, after countless years of marriage and countless years' worth of words between them, there would be no nighttime apologies whispered under warm sheets. There wouldn't be hushed promises or lingering kisses. Narcissa's husband never apologizes anymore. And he never, ever touches her. Not her.
He purses his lips as he glares at the contemptible creature he once called wife. She wonders for a fleeting moment whether he was going to spit on her, but instead he turns away toward the door.
Inexplicably, outrageously, she whispers, "I love you" to his retreating back. "More than you know." It was almost inaudible, and Narcissa wouldn't have known he heard her if he hadn't paused, his back stiffening.
"Clean yourself up," he replies briskly.
All Malfoys, you see, are taught never to hit women.
But just as they are taught not to hit women, they're never taught not to hurt them at all.