Chapter 14
The Ghost in the Manor
Narcissa woke to an empty bed.
It had been happening for months now.
She used to wake up to the steady presence of Lucius beside her, his breathing slow, his body still warm with sleep. Even in the most difficult years of their marriage, even when the world had collapsed around them, he had been there.
Not anymore.
She lay still for a moment, staring at the empty space beside her, the sheets untouched, cold. He hadn't come to bed at all.
The clock chimed softly. Five in the morning.
Where was he?
Narcissa exhaled, pushing herself up, her silk nightgown slipping off one shoulder as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She already knew the answer.
The old manor.
For decades, Lucius had refused to set foot in his mother's childhood estate. It was a place he never spoke of, a past he had buried so deeply that even Narcissa—his wife, his partner—had never fully understood why.
Now?
He was there every week.
Ripping down the old walls, rebuilding, changing the structure, the furniture, the history.
And the strangest part? No one was allowed to visit.
Not her. Not Draco.
No one.
Narcissa pulled on her robe, tightening the belt with a sharp tug before making her way downstairs. The house-elves averted their eyes as she passed, their silence more telling than words.
She knew they knew.
Everyone in the house could feel it.
Lucius Malfoy was unraveling.
Narcissa had watched it happen.
At the Ministry's Summer Ball, she had seen exactly what she wasn't supposed to see.
She had seen Hermione Granger.
More importantly, she had seen Lucius watching Hermione Granger.
The way his gaze had locked onto her from across the room. The way his fingers had curled ever so slightly around the stem of his glass. The way he had leaned in, whispered something to Narcissa, but never looked away.
And then, there was Blackwood.
Narcissa had never paid much attention to the man before. But that night, she had watched closely.
The way he moved. The way he carried himself. The way he looked at Hermione Granger.
And then the way Lucius looked at Blackwood.
With pure, unfiltered loathing.
It hadn't made sense at first. Lucius had always despised Granger, yes. Had always dismissed her with his usual superiority. But this?
This wasn't hate.
This was obsession.
And then, when Blackwood had spoken—had looked Lucius in the eye and said those words—everything had shifted.
"You never got over her, did you?"
Lucius had gone still.
Too still.
And Narcissa, Narcissa had felt the entire world tilt.
Because for the first time in their marriage, she had no idea what Lucius was thinking.
No idea what she was seeing.
That night, when they returned home, she had waited.
Waited as Lucius poured himself a drink. Waited as he loosened the high collar of his robes. Waited as he tried to pretend she wasn't there.
Then-
"Lucius."
He stilled.
"What did he mean?"
Lucius didn't turn around.
Didn't answer.
Narcissa stepped forward. "When Blackwood said—'You never got over her'—what did he mean?"
Lucius's fingers clenched around the edge of the desk.
Still, he said nothing.
"I want to understand," she continued, voice softer now. "I deserve to understand."
And finally, Lucius turned.
His face was carefully blank. But his eyes?
His eyes were a storm.
"You're imagining things, Narcissa." His voice was low, dangerous. "Do not bring this up again."
And then he walked away, leaving her standing there, in the cold, suffocating silence of their home.
Now, weeks later, Narcissa stood at the front of the manor—the one Lucius had been rebuilding in secret.
She had followed him.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Lucius had never explicitly forbidden her from coming. He had never needed to. There had always been an understanding between them. An unspoken agreement that she never pushed too far.
Tonight, she broke it.
The manor loomed before her, its old structure almost unrecognizable after all the renovations. A strange, lingering tension filled the air, as if the walls themselves carried a secret.
She stepped inside.
And then she saw him.
Lucius stood in the middle of the grand hall, his back to her, staring at something on the wall.
She followed his gaze—
A portrait.
An unfinished painting of Hermione Granger.
Everything inside Narcissa froze.
Lucius didn't turn.
Didn't move.
But his voice—his voice was not Lucius Malfoy.
It was something broken.
"You shouldn't be here, Narcissa."
She swallowed, staring at the brushstrokes of wild brown hair, the careful detailing of those too-clever eyes.
"What have you done?"
Lucius's fingers twitched at his side.
For a moment, just one, she thought she saw it—
The ghost of a man who no longer knew himself.
And then—
The storm came.
Nobody Recognized Lucius Malfoy Anymore.
Not his wife.
Not his son.
Not even himself.
Draco had tried. Had spoken to him, tried to make sense of the rage that now boiled beneath the surface at all times.
The explosions of fury that came without warning.
The cold, hollow detachment when anyone asked him about the rumors.
About Granger.
Because there were rumors now.
Narcissa had heard them.
"Two enemies, or two lovers?"
"An impossible love."
"A war that was never about hate."
And the worst part?
Lucius never denied them.
He never even acknowledged them.
Until one night, when Narcissa tried one last time.
When she reached for him in the dark, and he flinched.
Pulled away.
Like her touch burned.
Like it terrified him.
And for the first time in thirty years, Narcissa Malfoy realized ; Lucius had already left.
Not in body.
But in every way that mattered.
Lucius Malfoy was a man haunted.
And the ghost?
Was still alive.