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She burrows under her covers, which blanket her in warmth. If Narcissa tries hard enough, she can make the argument downstairs fade into a gentle lull that could almost put her to sleep. Bella is arguing with their parents again, her voice haughty and indignant, just as Narcissa knows it best. Now that her sister is nearly of age and will be expected to marry soon, Bella has begun to express some rather inconvenient views.
“I’ll do what I want,” Bellatrix says, and Narcissa can envision her pout. “I’ll marry who I want, or not marry at all. There are bigger things coming, you’ll see! More important than wedding dresses or flowers–”
“You will do what’s asked of you to carry on the bloodline!” her father nearly yells in response.
Narcissa takes her pillow and covers her ears, muffling the sound. She knows how this fight goes because she’s heard it dozens of times over the last year. Without even listening, she could recite it in her sleep.
Just as she’s letting the gentle tendrils of sleep pull her down, Narcissa’s door creaks open. “Cissy,” a voice says, gentle footsteps padding into the room. Her sisters both call her that affectionately. When they were children, it had been funny that the shortened version of her name sounded so similar to the word “sissy,” indicative of a sisterly relationship. Privately, Narcissa thinks it sounds childish now, but she would never admit it aloud.
The voice speaks up after a pause. “Bella is yelling again.”
Andromeda. Her middle sister is only a few years older than her, so they have both been watching Bella’s slow rejection of marriage as onlookers rather than active participants, as they are too young to marry now.
“I know,” she responds, inviting her sister to join her on the plush bed. “When do you think it will stop?”
Andy giggles. “When one of them dies.”
Narcissa laughs, but it’s not all that funny. She doesn’t want any of her family to be dead, of course, but she doesn’t want Bella to throw herself into reckless situations just because she thinks she can handle it. “What do you think you’ll do? When it’s your time to marry?”
“I suppose it depends on the arrangement,” Andy answers cautiously. “And on who they ask me to marry.”
She’s being cagey about it, but Narcissa doesn’t push. She knows her sisters have secrets that they don’t divulge. Being the youngest often means that people treat her like a child–except her parents, who treat her like a grown adult.
“I hope to marry someone I love,” Narcissa says, and Andy rolls over in the bed so they’re facing each other. “I don’t want to be unhappy.”
Andy smiles softly, which Narcissa can just barely make out in the dim light. “Of course not. But what would you do if you fell in love with someone who isn’t pureblood?”
Her breath catches in her throat. In all honesty, Narcissa had never really considered this to be a possibility. Before going to Hogwarts, everyone she knew was a pureblood. Even now, she’s never been close with anyone of a different blood status to hers. Nobody else understands their culture the way that other purebloods do. How could she fall in love with somebody who doesn’t understand where she comes from, or how she’s expected to act?
“That won’t happen,” she assures her sister with a dismissive smile.
Andy seems to find this a good end to the conversation. Instead of retreating to her own room, she pulls Narcissa’s covers over her shoulders and breathes deeply. In silence, they listen to the sound of the fight downstairs coming to a close. Bella’s angry footsteps echo all the way up the stairs, and her bedroom door slams closed a moment later. Narcissa tries not to flinch.
With Andromeda beside her and the house once again pleasantly quiet, Narcissa falls into a gentle sleep.
Narcissa meets Lucius when she is eighteen.
Their first meeting had been coordinated by both sets of parents; hers looking for a pureblood husband and his searching for a woman to bear his child. If she must admit, they’re not meeting in the most romantic of circumstances. Arranged meetings don’t lend themselves well to organic relationships, but she tries not to mind so much. She’s not twelve anymore.
She takes a great deal of time that morning making herself look presentable. Her hair, which had been called on several occasions her best feature, had been half pinned back. It doesn’t fall into her eyes or obscure her face, but it still falls past her shoulders in sleek strands of silvery blond.
Narcissa tugs anxiously on the collar of her dark jacket as she stands outside the tea shop. The cold wind whips at her face, and she’s sure that her cheeks and nose must be flushed pink by now, but she can’t yet bring herself to walk in. She can see him sitting at a table through the window, so she watches a moment longer.
Lucius takes a sip of tea and sets the cup back down softly. Finally, Narcissa pulls the door open.
She warms up quickly after cordial greetings are out of the way. Lucius is pleasant, if somewhat distant. As far as partners go, he’s far from horrible.
“I understand that your parents want a wedding as soon as possible,” Lucius is saying, and Narcissa nods, feeling a hot flash of embarrassment rise on her face.
Truthfully, the only reason her parents are pushing their union so hard is because of what happened with Andromeda. Honestly, sneaking off to marry a Muggleborn? Narcissa can’t even fathom what she must have been thinking. Everyone in the Sacred Twenty-Eight has heard about the scandal by now, including Lucius, who eyes her warily.
Despite this, Narcissa believes that a small part of her will never stop loving her sister.
“Yes,” she says in response to his statement. “I believe they want something this summer.”
She winces internally. Narcissa has always hated the heat. She’s always preferred the cooler undertones of spring or autumn. A summer wedding sounds, in her opinion, miserable. But if her parents expect it of her, then she will do it.
Lucius nods. “I’m sure that will be satisfactory.”
An awkward silence hangs over them like a blanket. Narcissa knows it’s her responsibility to fill in the gaps, but she can’t bring herself to. Perhaps she’s seeing how Lucius will react. Perhaps she’s not all that invested in the partnership. Regardless, her parents would be hysterical if they could see the stall that the conversation is taking.
She supposes it’s a good thing that her parents aren’t here.
“You know,” Lucius begins as he picks up a scone, “I’ve always been partial to spring weddings, myself.”
Narcissa can’t help it; she laughs. Lucius grins in response, a movement so slight that she almost misses it entirely.
Perhaps she can make this work.
“Draco, darling, don’t run in the halls.”
Narcissa speeds up her steps to catch up with her five-year-old son, but it’s unnecessary. He slows a moment later, grinning up at her. “Sorry, Mother.”
He reaches for her hand, intertwining their fingers, and Narcissa lets him. Lately, Lucius has been encouraging Draco to become more independent, and act like a “real Malfoy heir.” Privately, Narcissa looks down at her son and sees not the heir to the Malfoy name, but the inquisitive young boy that races down the halls because he’s excited to tell his father that he mastered a new move on his broomstick.
“Do you think he’ll be proud of me?” Draco asks. They pass a window and the sunlight filtering in illuminates her son’s pale hair, and Narcissa feels a familiar rush of affection.
“I’m sure he’ll be very pleased with your progress,” she answers, and Draco beams. “I certainly am.”
They make it to the dining room moments later, ready to join Lucius for dinner. Much like when she lived with her parents, dinner in her family is a formal affair. There is leniency with breakfast and lunch, but Lucius treats dinner as an etiquette lesson for Draco.
Narcissa doesn’t mind as much as Draco does; etiquette is a necessary skill for any pureblood witch or wizard, especially one who is heir to their family.
After dinner, once Draco is settled in his room, Lucius and Narcissa retire to the sitting room. He wordlessly offers her a drink, but she declines, as usual. She likes to keep her head clear at night.
“Draco seems happy with his new broomstick,” Lucius muses as they sit. He sips his drink tastefully, seemingly more engaged with the alcohol than with their conversation, but she knows better. He’s waiting for her to respond because he knows something’s been bothering her.
He understands her, and she understands him.
It may not have been love at first sight, but she and Lucius are partners in this life they’ve built together. She cares for him deeply, and he cares for her in return. And, of course, there’s Draco, who lights up her life like no other.
“I think you put too much pressure on him,” she admits in response to the silent invitation. “He’s just a boy, Lucius.”
“He's the heir to this family. He must learn how to behave.”
Narcissa sighs. Perhaps she should have accepted that drink after all. “Of course. I agree that he must be taught etiquette and how to uphold the family reputation. The last thing I want is for our family to fall apart.”
Lucius softens; he agrees. He reaches for her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze, willing her to continue.
She does. “But that doesn’t mean that he’s not a child. He deserves to ride his broomstick and play with his friends and tell you about his day.”
“It’s not a question of what he deserves,” Lucius says, suddenly urgent despite his previous calm demeanor. “Draco deserves the world, we both agree on that, Cissa.”
She, too, softens in response to the nickname. In all her life, Lucius has been the only one to call her that. She likes it better than the nickname her sisters gave her; Cissy sounds affectionate but childish, whereas Cissa holds the same fondness with none of the petulance. It had been one of the first things that truly drew her to Lucius. She had told him about the nickname and he had listened, coming up with the perfect medium.
Narcissa leans into her husband’s shoulder, breathing deeply. It’s getting late, and they’ll be going to bed soon, but she must resolve this issue. “So you’ll go easier on him?”
“I will,” he agrees, pecking her on the lips quickly before standing up.
By the time she joins him in bed, Lucius welcomes her with open arms. Perhaps her childish dream of satisfying both herself and her parents with her marriage is not so out of reach.
She walks through the halls with her shoulders hunched, as if she’s trying to protect herself from a flying barrage of curses at any moment. This, Narcissa thinks, is ridiculous; she should be standing tall and dignified in her own home, just as her parents had taught her. But with Death Eaters treating the manor as their home base, she can’t confidently say that the home is hers anymore.
Lucius, too, has been feeling these effects. His hair is limper than it’s ever been, and dark circles line his eyes. He hasn’t been sleeping, and neither has she. They jerk awake every few hours as though they’re under attack.
“I know it’s unpleasant,” Lucius says as they get ready for bed one night. Narcissa runs a comb through her hair gently, focusing on the fine silvery strands with an excess of caution. “But we must support him. If he asks for our house, we give it. If he asks for our wands, we hand them over.”
He doesn’t explain why; they are both intimately familiar with what will happen if their support falters for even a moment.
“And if he asks for Draco?” she asks through tight lips. Lucius flinches.
“Then we must do what we need to,” he responds. The tension sits heavy in the air, and try as she might, Narcissa can’t ignore it. It’s been putting a strain on their marriage for the last few months, but neither of them have had the time or the energy to properly address the issue.
“I cannot support a man who puts our son in danger,” she declares.
“Cissa–”
“But I do support you, Lucius,” she finishes, and he visibly deflates with relief. “I will stand by your side. That’s what we agreed upon when we married, is it not?”
A hint of a smile flickers across his face. “You looked so beautiful that day,” he says, and Narcissa’s heart skips a beat as if she’s a romance obsessed schoolgirl. Lucius has never been one for reminiscing, but perhaps he feels the need to cling onto what good memories they have left.
“If I recall correctly,” she replies, settling into his embrace like it’s second nature, “you looked quite good yourself.”
He leans in to kiss her, but they are startled by a knock at the door. They pull apart instantly, and her fingers curl around her wand. Narcissa’s heart pounds in her chest so forcefully that it might break a rib, but she reaches a trembling hand to the doorknob anyway.
Her shoulders sag in relief as she opens it. “Draco,” she greets breathlessly, letting him in with what she hopes is a reassuring smile.
“Is there something you need?” Lucius asks, rising to his feet.
Draco shifts uneasily. Her boy looks more sunken and pale than she’s ever seen him, and Narcissa wants nothing more than to wrap him in her arms and never let go. “No,” he answers woodenly. “No, I just thought I’d say goodnight.”
Narcissa reaches for a hug, smoothing his hair down. She holds him for longer than necessary, but she doesn’t dare let go. Her life is slipping like sand through her fingers, and she won’t lose Draco, too. Lucius even walks over and joins them, and they stand in a group hug for several moments before pulling away.
“Goodnight, Draco,” she says as he departs.
No, she will not get the Dark Mark, but she will do whatever it takes to get her family out of this war alive.
“Draco!”
Her throat is sore from screaming. Narcissa wonders, for a terrifying moment, if her voice might give out. How could she possibly call for her son then?
“Draco!”
Hogwarts is a graveyard of bodies and rubble, but she pays this no mind. Hand in hand with Lucius, they search for their son, calling his name until their throats can no longer continue. The Dark Lord is dead, the Order is celebrating, and Narcissa cannot find her son.
“Cissa,” Lucius whispers, pointing to a decimated corridor several yards away. But what draws her attention is the person sitting among the rubble. Her breath catches in her throat.
“Draco!” she cries, and she’s running, hair flying out behind her. It doesn’t take long to reach her son, and when she does, she wraps him in a hug so fierce that he grunts slightly. He’s taller than her now, and she lets her chin rest on his shoulder. Lucius follows close behind, breathing heavily as though he’s ready to collapse under the weight of the world.
She doesn’t feel much different.
“We should leave,” Lucius says curtly. “We won’t be wanted at this celebration.”
He’s right, and Narcissa knows it. Even after she stops hugging Draco, she keeps their hands clasped together. It’s for her comfort as much as it is for his. Neither of them can begrudge themselves the security now.
“Why did you do it?” Draco asks softly as they cross the bridge. “Why did you lie to the Dark Lord and say Potter was dead?”
Narcissa lets her gaze flicker to the early morning fog up ahead. If she looks closely, she can see the sun peek through. “His presence was destroying us. It was destroying you. I couldn’t let that happen.”
She doesn’t add that it’s her lie that allows them to walk away right now.
Draco nods, and she thinks his eyes might be watering, but he looks away too soon for her to tell.
“Come on, Mother,” he says, his steely gaze focused forward. “Let’s go home.”