Corallian

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I finished Bathilda Bagshot's cat portrait late last night, in a fog, and woke to it meowing this morning.

I am awake, but stay still under the covers.

The high pitched slur of soft feline calls stirs someone besides me. A strong arm reaches around and pulls me backwards in embrace. It squeezes my chest so hard I can hardly breathe. To be loved is a feeling incomparable to all else, save being the object of envy. My hand travels to grasp Samson's and meets a row of intricate rings.

Eyes fly open in alarm, I glance down to see a pale hand holding me.

Lucius Malfoy is in my bed.

Yesterday rushes back. I lift his arm so I can escape his grasp. What is this feeling? Is it being lost? Is it being pulled in several directions? Is it shame? Unable to describe it with a single word, I can only dwell on how it leaves an unsavory emptiness in my being.

Sad, relieved, precious, heartbreaking.

As Lucius's arm moves, I see the black lines printed on his skin. The Dark Mark, it is a thing of beauty. Tracing the clearly defined outlines, I marvel at it's soft edges and striking medium. Ink comes alive with the promise of thought from human skin. The skull and snake blend so perfectly that it could not be determined when one began and the other ended; they were one and the same and yet disjoint. This of type of image is not a creation of mortal minds; it is collective thought echoed loud enough to see. Just as Michelangelo, who spoke of his angel in marble whispering to be freed, the Dark Lord is an artist.

I shall like to meet him one day.

A hand grabs mine away from the arm and pulls them back. Lucius draws my touch to his face. The image of his nearly translucent skin burns in my mind. He looks to be made of wax in the morning sun.

My hands turn to water, and I cannot feel him even as he presses my fingertips against his brow.

"Good morning," he whispers with a smirk.

Silence.

I rise and shut myself in the lavatory so I do not lay my soul bare for him.

Chill of cold porcelain beneath my hands make me nauseous and disgusted at what I have just done. And yet there was a small voice my mind that taunted that I had wanted him, that I was not sorry. I throw on my dressing gown and prepare to face the man in my bed.

Lucius is already dressed when I emerge. He buttons the top collar of his shirt as he makes his way toward me.

"Tonight, I want to see you again." He slides a hand around my waist and places a potent kiss on my neck. "Malfoy Manor, six in the evening, sharp."

"And what if I am busy?"

His smile is sly. "Until then, Narcissa."

And then he leaves wordlessly.

I spend the day cleaning my flat, vanishing all traces of canvases, paints, and frames except for the giant yellow cat. The studio room seems absurdly large without any art strewn about. It doesn't feel like home, but I'll buy some furniture and make it into something soon enough. Perhaps I'll move.

Darkness falls on London quickly in these shortening days. I glance at the clock and notice that it is already five. Should I go see Lucius? I do need to give him the painting for Ms. Bagshot. It's merely a business call; I'm not going to visit.

I keep my getting-ready brief. Simply straighten my hair, dust my eyes with shadow, line them with ink, and put on some lipcolor. Then there's rouge and curling the lashes. I'm in the middle of applying the finishing power when I see myself, really see myself, in the mirror. It strikes me that I'm rather like Miranda Graves, preening myself and studying every angle. Feeling foolish that I was trying to impress Lucius, I drop the brush and stop.

The robes I choose are a rich wine color, wool pinched at the waist and flowing at the feet. My hand lingers over my mother's blue gown as I close the wardrobe door. It's funny, I'm going to see a man much like the one I refused to marry.

It is five thirty when I Apparate, shrunken canvas in my hand. Malfoy Manor is quite magnificent in the setting dusk. Yellow street lights line its iron gates, flickering in the breezing autumn wind. I approach the gates and pause my steps when I see someone coming down the dark marble stairs toward the gates. Quickly restoring the painting, I hold its weight against my shoulder. It will be obvious once he sees me that I'm here for business.

The figure makes its way to the iron bars, and I know that it is not Lucius but a woman. She has on tightly fitted floral robes and a pair of clacking high heels similar to my own. The gates let her out with a puff of smoke. She regards me with her bright green eyes and smile mysteriously. Falling at the edges, her copper spun hair is tucked in a messy and haste bun. After a subtle nod, she continues down the street, swing her hips with every straight step.

I set the painting against the gates and hurry home angrily.

How could I be so stupid to think that he wouldn't have someone else? Six o'clock and no earlier. He told me six so he could have his other fling leave before I arrived. I should have never taken him for anything more.

My eyes are stinging when I struggle trying to unlock my front door.

I'm such a fool to be played by him.

Once the door is open, I rush in and shut it forcefully. I lean against the door to make sure it is closed.

"Narcissa."

A sandy voice calls from the growing shadows.

"I'm so glad you're still here. I was afraid you'd packed up and left."

I wave my wand to light the candles and they reveal Samson, sitting on the floor. My heart leaps at the sight of him, long brown hair curving around his shoulders. His casual black robes pool around his crossed legs. They aren't expensive, but I don't care. He smiles and my breath catches in my lungs. My Samson.

"I'm sorry, Narcissa," he says apologetically.

No, I'm sorry. I can't meet his sharp eyes.

"I thought about what you said," Samson continues as he walks toward me, "and you're right. I should have considered you more."

There is something in his hands.

"No," I whisper weakly.

"Yes, I'm sorry. And I want to make things right."

My heart flutters in my chest. What have I done? What have I done? He'll never forgive me.

He presses something cold and smooth into my hands. I look down and see that it's a pair of scissors. Samson then summons a chair from the bedroom and sits down. There is nothing in the room but us, two ants in a box. He pulls my hand and the scissors toward his face.

"I want you to cut my hair."

Words catch in my throat, and I cannot do anything but shake my head.

"I want you to do it," he insists.

The scissors weigh impossibly. Samson drags a lock of long hair forward and envelope my hand in his, guiding me to make the first cut. Our fingers press the handle closed, and the hair falls against the resounding snip. Falling, falling, falling, it hits the ground with a soft hiss. The left over edge is jagged and uneven, staring at me accusingly. I am frozen by his willingness to surrender himself.

"It's all right."

He smiles at me encouragingly.

And so I cut his hair, long strands of brown all broken and cast away.

A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light.

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Footnotes: Inspirations from Regina Spektor's "Samson". Please review!