A Drabble Based on Things Women in Literature Have Died from Harry Potter Edition
1. Cold Hands
2. Beautiful Face
3. Missing Slippers
4. Wrist Fevers
5. Night Brain
6. Going outside at night …in Italy
7. Shawl Insufficiency
8. Too Many Pillows
9. Garden Troubles
10. Someone said, "NO" very loudly while they were in the room.
11. Letter reading fits
12. Drawing -room anguish
13. Not enough pillows
14. Haven't seen the sea in a long time
15. Too many novels
16. Pony Exhaustion
17. Strolling Congestion
18. Sherry served too cold
19. Ship Infidelity (Does anyone have a clue as to what this one is?)
20. Spent more than a month in London after growing up in Yorkshire.
A/N: Some of these are dark, some are silly. Some are dark and silly. And if anyone has any clue as to what Ship Infidelity is please let me know.
We begin our journey with Narcissa and the tragedy of Cold Hands.
Cold Hands
Lost in the art of pruning her roses, Narcissa forgot the time and found herself in the greenhouse after dark. As the sun slipped behind the last hill, tendrils of dense fog began to shroud the estate. Dark clouds gathered, thunder rolled, and drops of rain streaked the glass dome, matching Cissa's tear-stained cheeks. She sobbed into a delicate lace kerchief; her roses were now her only comfort. Her only escape from the prison that was once her home.
The Dark Lord's tempestuous moods had shaken her to the very core. As such, Cissa sought shelter in the place that always comforted her. Her greenhouse was filled with her beautiful roses, both magical and muggle.
Although warm in the glass dome. Cissa shuddered at the idea of the long walk back to the Manor. She was not dressed for the night air. Nor was she inclined to apparate. Weakened with the stress of the Dark Lord in her home, Lucius was imprisoned … apparating in this state would surely cause her to splinch. She faced the need to walk as if she were a common muggle.
First, she would finish her pruning as it was already cold and dark. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt. Caring for her treasured roses was all she had left of her old life. Her home is now filled with His followers coming and going as they pleased. The lower levels of the Manor turned into dungeons; prisoners were tortured in her formal dining room. The lascivious glances by wizards that were not fit to lick her boots. It was all too much to bear.
Her thoughts drifted to her son. Draco refused to speak to her, as if it were her fault Lucius had been arrested. Draco her precious baby, grew into a man overnight. If only Draco would confide in her, she mused.
Narcissa let out a squeak as her gloved hand caught on a thorn, pricking her delicate flesh. Blood pearled at the tip of her finger and fell on the petal of the white rose she had just trimmed. Tears welled in her eyes, not from the pain of the thorn but for everything she had lost. Lucius was a proper cunt for the position he put her into, yet she loved him and wanted him back. The longer she stood there, the harder she cried…sobbing into a tea towel, blood staining her robes. She dabbed at her tears, catching a glimpse of herself in the reflecting glass and the ridiculousness of everything. The weight of it all crashed over her like the waves in the sea.
She would straighten her robes, dry her tears, and pull herself together. Hiding in her greenhouse was foolish. She was not a little girl. She was Narcissa Malfoy, Lady of the Manor. She would not let the Dark Lord and his throng of miscreants chase her from her home. She would face this cold English night with courage.
With trepidation, Cissa gathered her robes and made for the door. Icy fog and drizzling rain met her as she stepped into the darkness, cutting through the delicate robes she had chosen that morning. She drew her wand and cast Lumos, lighting the garden path. Two small steps from the warmth of her greenhouse, Cissa found her courage wavering. She could no longer see the Manor. She could call on one of the house elves. Although most were in hiding, her personal elf would respond, and Tinker could apparate both to her chambers.
"T…ttt...i..n..k…er," Her teeth chattered. Gooseflesh pebbled her alabaster skin, shivers tingled up her spine, and worst of all, her hands were getting cold.
Seconds ticked by as cold rain began to soak through the layers, and Cissa called again for her elf. Shivering uncontrollably, Cissa took cautious steps up the path and called again. Her words muffled in the fog. Her mind was spinning. Had the Dark Lord killed all her House Elves? Where was Tinker? Why was she not answering? Cissa's blood ran cold as she remembered the look the Dark Lord had sent her way that very morning over tea. He had to be behind this. Tinker never failed to answer her call.
The pale blue tip of her wand trembled in the mist. Narcissa took one last look at the greenhouse. She could turn back, back to the warmth that it offered. Instead, she gathered her courage once more, moving quickly up the paved walk in the direction of the Manor.
The path twisted, and for a moment, Cissa believed she spotted the Manor. Then it was gone. Frustration was building; her elf would not answer, and she feared for the little creature's safety. She had taken this path a million times, during the day as well as the night. She knew this path. Why was she lost? Was the Dark Lord toying with her, perhaps?
Regardless, she was beyond cold. It started in the tips of her fingers, numbness, aching. She tried to tuck them under her arms. The wet robes pulled the remaining heat from her palms. She was now unable to feel her fingers. Cissa's fingers trembled. She fumbled, gasped, and… dropped her wand.
The wand clattered to stones and rolled into the tall grass. Narcissa dropped to her knees, her hands useless, her fingers unable to grasp. Cissa began to sob once more. All her courage was for naught. She lay in the damp grass, rain now pelting her fragile body. She shivered at her last thoughts of the warmth of the greenhouse. How could she have let her hands get cold….
The End