Chapter 9: Suffocating Cowardice

"I'd suffocate. From my own cowardice."

~ Julia Glass, And the Dark Sacred Night

Every day felt weaved together; differentiating between them had become an arduous task, for each day now seemed relatively the same: long, wearisome and perpetual. Hermione was in a sort of limbo; she had been flung into the netherworld, where mortals suffer eternally.

Initially, she had engulfed herself in her work, wishing it would somehow preoccupy her mind long enough to forget. Only, she had never forgotten. She was cheating herself, and the worst part of it all was that she knew she was cheating herself. Her intellect had refused to allow her to succumb to delusion. Hermione frowned, as a familiar thought arose in her mind: she wondered if her intelligence was her damnation.

Presently, she was seated in her office, blue and weary, and obscured by the mountain of files and documents on her desk. Her head and arms were lethargically placed against the surface of her desk; she was listening, unaware of precisely what she listening for: perhaps, she was trying to listen to her contradictory heart, her tyrannical mind, or simply... nothing. The grandfather clock ticked rhythmically, serving as a constant reminder of time slipping from her grasp. She would have to make a choice soon, but indecision had possessed her.

Tell Ron, said her heart. Don't lie to yourself. You want to be in the child's life. You want to see her grow. You want to love her. And you know you're not a coward. Goddamn it, Hermione! You were one of the driving forces behind Voldemort's demise.

Don't tell him, said her heart. Your presence in the child's life is unnecessary. Narcissa said so herself. And you are a coward, Hermione. Why else would you fear telling Ron? Don't you realize that if your daughter were to know you she would be disappointed by you?

You are being a fool. You're still the stupid girl you were, Hermione, said her mind. You can't hide it forever. Stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your brain! Imagine Ron finds out later on. He will certainly leave you then ... and then you'll have absolutely nothing.

But Narcissa promised she wouldn't tell anyone, answered the darker side of her heart. No one will know.

"But I will," whispered Hermione.

She pursed her lips.

Nothing answered too: the silence was heavy and full of judgement.

She could move on (could she move on?) without telling anyone of what had occurred. Ron would then never know, and if he never knew, then he wouldn't leave... (or had their marriage reached a point where its destruction was inevitable?).

Narcissa had given her the choice to be free. But was there freedom in this choice? (Or was she simply afraid of the choice that would truly grant her freedom? How odd is it, thought Hermione, that sometimes one is most afraid of their liberation... Only cowards are afraid of being free... )

She crumpled a blank piece of paper and threw it into the dust bin. Damn that witch, she then thought, for tempting her with a choice she hadn't previously considered. Damn her vixen ways. Damn her for making her question her intentions (and damn her... for being... so terribly complicated and complex and for bloody... well, being, Hermione stammered mentally).

She thought of her silver eyes (damn them too): sharp and piercing like scimitars, like iron gates unwilling to let intruders in, and unwilling to let anything out. What was it that Narcissa kept shrouded behind those eyes? Was it pain and sorrow? How deep did it go?

When Hermione had first laid her eyes on the witch, it was during the Quidditch World cup. She had watched her from her place; the Slytherin was sitting in Fudge's luxury box like a queen. She had been wearing a dark, emerald frock. Her bare, long, and slender legs had been crossed. Her thick and soft hair had fallen in loose waves around her delicate neck. She had looked rather disinterested in the game. Her expression had remained vacant even when the team her family had supported had scored.

Hermione had wondered if she was a Veela, as she was ethereally fair, and incredibly beautiful. She had thought she would shapeshift and show her monstrous side like the other Veelas at the game, as Narcissa's beauty was such that it would've had to been marred in some way. It could not have been real, for how could a mere human, a mere mortal be the personification of perfection?

And so, she had watched Narcissa instead of the game. And not once had her appearance altered like a Veela. Hermione had been forced to conclude the witch was entirely human. Yet, how was it that she held such supernatural beauty? How was it that she was a mortal with the beauty of the immortals? (And this was when Hermione had truly begun to believe in ideals).

Hermione would have never watched the game of 1994's Quidditch World Cup if Narcissa hadn't felt her stare, as at one point during the game, her silver eyes had caught her brown, and Hermione had blushed and quickly glanced the other way. Narcissa's grey eyes had been etched into memory: they were frigid and icy like the waters of antarctica. She had thought Narcissa was beautiful like a gelid day in winter; and this was how she had subconsciously entitled her as Narcissa, the Ice Queen.

But, during the day in which Narcissa had fallen to the ground, and clutched her son to her chest, Hermione had realized Narcissa was not an Ice Queen. Instead, Hermione had realized she was like the goddess Persephone, who had been forced to endure a life in the underworld. She was not made of ice— no, she was like still water: Endless, dark and deep—full of mysteries and enigmas. After the battle, Hermione's curiosity had been even further piqued. Her intellect had been bewitched, as the woman had become a pandora's box.

(And she desired to open her).

Now, she pondered: How was it that Narcissa had known her fears? Did she carry a keen intuition… or had she used legilimency? If the latter was the case, it wasn't fair how Narcissa was able to peer into her mind. Hermione felt violated (felt angered that she had never learned Legilimency— that she was unable to dig into the other woman's mind, to discover her inner landscape). And, if Narcissa had used legilimency, had she found… perhaps other things?

Hermione blushed. She told herself she had nothing to hide from Narcissa other than her indecision and cowardice (and Hermione's obstinate intellect questioned her conclusion: Don't lie, it whispered). And when she thought her notion had become rooted (it hadn't), the door to her office suddenly sprung open.

It was Harry. He had stormed in. His hands were placed against his knees, and his back was arched. He was perspiring and utterly unsettled.

"Hermione," he panted between breaths.

Hermione, however, did not respond. She was completely icebound. What was it that had rattled him so? She feared the worst.

"Ginny — Ginny is having the baby!" he answered.

She let out a gasp, "Oh—." Ginny was having the baby. Hermione's eyes expanded once she had mentally repeated what Harry had said. Ginny was nearing her ninth term, and they had all been waiting for this to happen at any moment...

And it was happening. Right now.

"Merlin's bloody beard! Right now?"

"Yes," he yelled. "Now!"

"Oh shit- shit." Hermione rose from her seat and put her coat around herself. "Let's go, then!"

Black Manor loomed before Narcissa. It had seemed so large when she had been a little girl, but now Narcissa realized that Black Manor was not especially large or small for a manor. To a keen eye, the averageness of its dimensions would have been quite evident, but to the unsuspecting eye, the estate was large and gigantic, as its intimidating character made it appear rather enormous.

The finest materials had been used to craft it. Each stone in the manor had been placed there by hand. The ceilings were lined with pure gold trimmings. It was adorned by dark Italian marble, and there were formidable gargoyles placed at the gated entrance and atop the roof.

This had been her home before she had been married to Lucius. This had been the home of the Blacks for centuries.

And now it was hers again.

Unfortunate events had brought it under her ownership. If the events had transpired in a manner to the liking of the elders of the Black household, the manor would have been under the ownership of a Black male. But Sirius had been disowned. His brother had perished. And Bellatrix had died. And Andromeda, too, had been disowned. One by one, every Black that had been older than her had fallen like leaves of a tree in autumn.

And so, the manor had fallen to her, the youngest child. She was the only remaining leaf. And ironically, she had been the child whose fortune was said would only be made through marriage, through being sold.

And yet, all of this was hers. Narcissa smirked sadly and with resentment.

Her mother and father (particularly her father) would have hated to know she had been the inheritor, for she was a woman. And in their eyes, she was not even the sort of woman who could rival a man: as a child, she would often cry at the silliest things, and was accused of being far too sensitive. Narcissa had been nothing at all like Bellatrix, who had constantly made it her mission to prove that she was no less than a man. As such, Narcissa's father had never suspected that his youngest daughter would inherit the manor— for, her curse was that she was born a girl, and that too, a beautiful one. Accordingly, she had been forced to acquire an excellent dowry by marrying the most suitable and wealthiest pureblood boy. To be a pretty pureblood wife to an affluent pureblood man had been decided for her long before she had even been of age. And when she had been married off to Lucius, in her parents' eyes, the life they had given her was not terrible— to them, making more heirs and expanding the pureblood line was a most respectable life for a pureblood girl.

One day, her father had been punishing a house elf with a Cruciatus Curse. "Stop it Papa!" she had shouted at him. "Why must you torture him?!"

"Quiet!" her father had bellowed. He had then taken his leather belt and whipped her back with it. "It's her Rosier blood," he had told his wife later that night. Her mother had been quietly offended and the next morning she had scolded Narcissa in secrecy. "Don't you ever talk back to your father. Do you hear me girl?" Narcissa had been about to nod, but she had been interrupted by a sharp slap to the cheek; she had quickly come to realize that being outspoken was not appreciated in her household.

Narcissa had cried to her eldest sister that night: "Bella, am I not a good Black?" During her formative years, she had despised her appearance: she had a Rosier's colouring. Her hair was far too fair and soft; it was not dark, wild and stubborn like a Black's, and her eyes were not like their obsidian gems.

Bella had chuckled heartily, a chuckle only Sirius could rival, while rubbing Narcissa's injured back with a soothing balm. "No. You are not even a good Rosier. You cry when Papa yells at the house elves. It isn't the pureblood way." She had shaken her head and tsked, "Oh, you pea-brained girl," while Narcissa had continued to sniffle. "When you were born, I vowed I would protect you. But you make it very hard for me to live up to my vow."

Narcissa's sniffles had become louder. "I'm not pea-brained."

"Ferme ta bouche. I don't want you to be hurt again. Now remember. Écoute moi ma petite: neither a Rosier or a Black would cry if they saw a stupid house elf Crucio'd... only a mudblood would."

"I'm not a mudblood!" Narcissa had retorted. At seven, she hadn't really known what they were, but she had known the word was used only out of spite.

"Yes, I know, silly," Bella had cooed. "Ugh... just try not to cry in front of Maman and Papa again. Alright? And remember to use the soothing balm every night."

Narcissa had briskly nodded while tears had continued to dribble down her cheeks. She had thought her sister had left, but then Bellatrix had walked back, and had kissed her forehead. "You'll be a Black, Cissy." She had sighed next to her ear. "I'll make sure of it… I will always be here for you."

And Bellatrix had lived up to her promise. Andromeda had left her alone, but Bellatrix had stayed, and despite her wrongdoings, she had tried to ensure her son's safety by forcing Snape to take the Unbreakable Vow. Bellatrix had ensured she'd become a proper Black, as well. She had informed Papa and Maman that Lucius was indeed a most suitable match. And so, she had been married off against her will, and had been thrown into the cool waters of apathy. Finally, she had learned the art of indifference, the art of being a Black.

But, though her choices had been made for her, as per the law of cause and effect, it seemed fate had not paid mind to the preferences of the elders in her family. Narcissa had never been their choice. But now, the universe had spoken: and its choice had been her all along.

The iron gates opened for Narcissa. And so, she stepped into her first home, the home that had tossed her out.

"Hello again," she said, as she marched forward with two suitcases hovering behind her, onto the stone path that led to the large, unwelcoming front doors. A doleful but sardonic smile frolicked across her fine features. "Did you think you could get rid of me with such ease?" she said acerbically. "To my regret, and I assume yours as well, I am a Black. I am obstinate," Narcissa thought of Sirius and Bellatrix, "...until the very end." Her father had been wrong; she could have never been anything but a Black, for his blood was overpowering. It marred and tainted everything it touched. Its darkness was all consuming. Its vigorous power was possessive. Every child of his had been trifled by it.

The wind on the estate suddenly made a shrill noise, and the trees swayed. It was as though the manor was reawakening from a deep slumber. The air was imbued with magic. It was a different sort of magic. It was often said that during the crafting of the manor, ancient magic had been used to ensure that it would have a subtle sentience, so that it would be able to defend itself if the need ever arose. Narcissa did not know if there was truth to the lore; nevertheless, she had always felt that the manor had some sort of energy... it was stubborn and obstinate like a Black.

Suddenly, a tree limb swatted her back. Narcissa turned around and furrowed her pale brows. She pointed her wand at the tree. "Don't you dare," she hissed. "Or I shall kill you with fiendfyre." The tree was still, as though it had never moved.

Perhaps, it hadn't. The manor delighted in gaslighting.

Narcissa then wondered if it had been Black Manor that had driven nearly every Black mad or if the madness of the Blacks had been absorbed by their dwelling.

If the former was true— how pathetic and comical would that be, she then thought to herself, as she started to walk to the front of the manor once more.

When she had stood before the entrance, she knocked upon one of the large, oak doors with a handle that was shaped like a snake eating its tail. She then waited for a moment. Her heart thudded against her chest. For two years, ever since the last war and thus the day she had inherited the manor, Narcissa had never come to see it, as she had not wanted to relive memories of her childhood; she had not wanted to see how the past had led to her present circumstances.

The doors soon creaked open, and dust instantly blew out from the innards of the manor. Narcissa was forced to cough. When her coughing had subsided, she stepped in and she heard the doors close behind her.

"Well. Well. Cela fait un bail. Look who's here," said an older woman condescendingly. Her English accent was touched by French. Narcissa furrowed her brows, and turned her attention to where the voice had ushered from; and there, she found the portrait of her mother. Her fair hair was coiled into an intricate bun, and her grey eyes were bitter. Next to her portrait was her father's portrait. His dark eyes were intently settled against her person.

Narcissa could feel her inner child's fright. Her lips quivered and she almost bowed her head until her higher mind made her recall that these were merely their portraits.

Her mother's portrait continued: "What are you doing here? Where is Bellatrix? Why has she not come to see me?"

"Elle est morte," Narcissa said frigidly while slowly turning towards the spiral staircases in the foyer.

"Dead?" whispered her mother in disbelief.

"Dead?" Her father's portrait echoed. "YOU LIE!" he then bellowed.

As she marched up the stairs, she halted before her father's portrait. "Yes, Papa. She was killed by Molly Weasley."

"A WEASLEY?!" he exclaimed.

"Yes. A Weasley. I must regrettably inform you that she could not rid the whole world of mudbloods before her demise," continued Narcissa acerbically. "Times have changed. Volde-"

"How dare you speak his name!"

Narcissa remained composed. "Voldemort has not won. And I will be having a daughter," she announced. "She will be a half-blood like your Dark Lord."

"See, he was a half-blood, Cygnus. I told you so!" said his wife.

"Quiet, woman," said Cygnus. His dark eyes had darkened even more. They had begun to look crazed. "You are a stain upon our family," he then said to Narcissa. "I should have killed you when you came out of your mother's womb."

At this, Narcissa chuckled dryly. "The Black family is nearly extinct, Papa. Upon my divorce, I will be the only person who will carry the family name."

"YOU HARLOT!" her mother had meanwhile shrieked. Her mother's portrait had now began to sob: "Oh mon dieu!" she cried hysterically. "My Bella is dead while you and Andromeda live!" She sniffled. "This world is terribly unfair… I pray this revolting half-breed you're carrying dies before it sees daylight!"

Narcissa remained unruffled. "Maman, brûle en enfer. My daughter will be as magical as any pureblood. And she will be cleverer than most. She will be treated with your utmost respect. She will not be ridiculed."

Her father began to chuckle darkly. "And why shall I heed to your orders?"

"Because I will otherwise be forced to silence the both of you with a charm before putting you in a box, wherein you will be imprisoned until the end of time," answered Narcissa flatly before turning away from them, and recommencing her march up the stairs.

"You bitch!" hollered her mother.

"I have learned from the best, Maman,'" Narcissa replied while smiling frostily. She paused for effect when she had reached the top of the stairs. "Now, listen carefully," she then said slowly, "I am simply yearning to confine you in a box. For, due to people like you and Papa, my son has died. And my cousins - And even Bellatrix, who I vehemently hated and loved with every fibre of my being, died ultimately because of you two. If she had not been forced to prove her worth to you, she would still be alive, and my niece and cousin would be here — and all those innocent lives would have not been lost!" Narcissa caught her breath and tried to calm herself. "But, I am attempting to be civilized," she whispered after a moment. "Though, it is very hard to be civilized with savages like you," she confessed. "So, you see, I have given the both of you a chance. Do not test my patience."

This time her mother's portrait did not respond. Narcissa smirked triumphantly. "And oh yes — I shall be moving the both of you to a chamber that will be seldom used. I cannot have you two in the foyer. You are not … a very welcoming sight. Nevertheless, as I am not a brute, I'll ensure you have a window through which you can view the gardens."

Her parents did not respond; her father remained mute while her mother sniffled. Narcissa released a relieved sigh and headed towards the chamber that used to belong to her.

When she had entered it, she closed the door, leaned against it and sealed her eyes shut, while her luggage slowly flew to the opulent bed in the chamber and fell there. "Why could I have not found my spine decades earlier?" she whispered to herself. Because you are a coward. Her thought made her think of a muggleborn woman with hair as feral as a Black's. Narcissa had used an old Slytherin tactic: call a Gryffindor a coward, and they will wonder if they are one. In truth, she knew the witch was not a coward; she feared the day Hermione would come to realize this (Narcissa's fear had many layers. She had lied to Hermione about how deeply she had peered into her mind; Narcissa had crossed boundaries and entered territories where some of the witch's most intimate secrets were enshrouded. There, she had been rendered thunderstruck by the longing, passion and the inception of devotion she had unearthed; for, she had seen soft skin under softer bed sheets, wet lips and wetter ones… the primal orchestra of syncing heartbeats and fervent whimpers. With haste, Narcissa had retreated from Hermione's mind. And, much to her exasperation and ire, she had been left ... wanton, and breathless for Hermione's hungry gaze; it was this that she feared and denied most of all).

A moment passed by before she reopened her eyes. They were twinkling. Thinking of the witch had made Narcissa recall something beautiful. Her slender, long hand fell against her abdomen, against a small bulge that could not be seen, but could be felt. She stroked the swelling with her thumb, and answered the question she had asked herself earlier: "But then, I wouldn't have had you..." she whispered softly.

Author's Note: I apologize for the slow update! I am taking summer courses at university, and they are very fast paced, so updates might be on the slower end until September. However, I do hope to update every two weeks.

Anyhow, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Narcissa has left Lucius (more info on how that happened will be given later) and Harry is having his first baby. This was actually supposed to be only half of the chapter, but I don't know when I'll get the other half done, so I decided to post this for now, since I haven't updated this story in roughly a month.

As always, your thoughts are welcomed. Thank you so much for reading this fic and for leaving lovely reviews. Knowing that this story brings some sort of joy to your life always makes me smile! :)