Author's Note: This is my little (literally, little) conjecture of the events which succeeded our favorite trio's escape from Malfoy Manor. Implied non-con; implied Narcissa/Voldemort. What's the portmanteau for this, "Cissamort?" Goodness.
~:~ Shell of Glory ~:~
Defeated, your eyes roll as frost begrimes your rose garden; its tenacity Imperiuses the lives of your flowers. They slump, heads obediently bent as petals sway, dutifully awaiting Old Man Winter's next wish.
Your abhorrence of the plants, not the frigid tempeatures, is justified-for the roses are helplessly submissive, ambitions handcuffed, icy gusts dwindling their magnificence.
Anger surges through your fingertips as you ascend the manor steps, indignation birthed from the resentment of that which you are.
Long gone is the exaltation of this place. That this grand, lustrous structure was once your husband's kingdom, that it once played host to your lavish festivities, hardly seems logical.
"You slag! He has not bestowed you with permission to leave this house!"
The vigorous blow your sister deals parrots without retort. You are not fazed by her contemptuous tone and it is foolish that you, mistress to the one she craves, might yearn for softness.
Yes, you are far more, and far worse, than just the Dark Lord's begrudging lover.
Slave.
Bitch.
Nowhere is it written that you should be afforded the favor of lamenting-not as long as your son's fear endures, twilight screeches met with apathy, shrouded by your own; not while consent is given to your husband's daily submergence into quicksands of delirium.
"Rise," Your master hisses, pincers drawing fresh blood which floweth down sensitive flesh and soils the parlor floor. "To your family, I have been most merciful, showering you with compassion, despite your ambivalence. And yet, your wails of my alleged wrongdoing persist. Pray tell, woman, who are you?"
Slender, crimson arrows impale opals of ocean blue.
The vaguest glimmer of a smile graces your face, appreciative of an invitation to utter your first, sincere words of the season.
"My Lord, I am nothing, only a shell of glory."
~:~
Fin.