Bohemian Rhapsody

moment eight: strong of voice and sure of purpose (July 1971).

Narcissa sat, nervous amongst the attendees, all in their fine robes. First she twiddled her fingers. Then she sat on them when the people on either side of her started giving her funny looks. Then she bit her lower lip, teasing it with her teeth.

She wished Dumbledore was giving the speeches; he was always amusing, if a little peculiar, as her mother was fond of saying. But today he had delegated to his deputy, that horrible pinch-faced little man, Professor Linitus, and he droned on much as he had in advanced Arithmacy - one of the reasons she'd given up on the subject after fifth year.

Looking around, she noted the names of some of the people sitting in their finest gowns and robes. She'd been introduced to a few by her parents, whilst in London, or on her family estate on the isle of Mona. Her mother preferred the estate; she always told Narcissa that one should always meet anyone on home territory, as it gave you the natural advantage, and in wizarding society, one needed every advantage one could get.

At the moment, Narcissa certainly had no advantages, no certainty. This was the first graduation she had ever attended, and thus had no idea if it was proceeding smoothly or not. She supposed that many of the family members here also had no idea as to the proceedings, having their eldest child graduate today, with no past experience if the parents themselves had gone to Durmstrang or somesuch; but they were not her, and she wanted it very much to be over.

She started to bite at her fingernails, nervously, knowing that this was no seemly way for either one of the Morgan clan, nor a Ravenclaw, nor a Prefect, and one in their Sixth Year to behave. But Narcissa knew the families sitting on either side of her, and she knew that her mother could turn them into social outcasts with a word. It was not that she bragged of her family's influence, or cared for its use much herself; but it hung like a certainty, reassuring in the back of her mind.

If she craned her neck slightly, just a tad off to the left - yes! - she could see him, sitting straight in his chair, but not rigidly so. Amongst many talents, Lucius Malfoy had the gift of elegance, poise, and he didn't hesitate to show it off. He was placed next to the empty seat of the Deputy Headmaster, as befitted the Head Boy on his final day, and was seemingly engrossed in everything that was being said, every single boring syllable.

Narcissa noted this: her mother had told her that if there was ever a family given to dissemblance, to acting a part and out-and-out lying, it would be the Malfoys. It was part of their reputation, their mystique. They were fallen angels amongst the great wizarding families, spoken of in whispers, derided but never openly so, as if they had unknown powers to call upon. It was well known that Lucius' grandfather, Julian, had openly supported the dark wizard Grindelwald and his muggle puppets Hitler and Moseley during the thirties, only to recant when war broke out. It seems they had realised that if Grindelwald succeeded, and Britain was invaded, then Julian would probably see his estate confiscated and granted to some Aryan pig.

The Malfoys were nothing if not self-centred, and that had been their weakness - even since Lord Francis Malfoy had chucked his lot in with Cromwell's lot during the Civil War, apparently in the hope of setting the Lord Protector's crown on the brow of him or his heirs, or even better, waiting out the Republic till the monarchy was restored, with a Malfoy as King. Of course, events had taken a rather different turn, and so the Malfoys had been humbled when the Stuarts had returned to power, but Francis' son had grovelled appropriately, and condemned enough of his fellow Parliamentarians, and managed to keep his land and money. The title though, had passed into memory, and that had always grated.

Narcissa herself was in line to be the 23^rd Baroness of Anglesey on her mother side, and her father was technically Lord of the Isles: even if the title had been extinguished by law several hundred years ago. She wondered briefly if that bitterness on behalf of the Malfoys was what gave them their reputation for entering into rather risky alliances, just for the potential reward. Grindelwald was not the first black stain on the Malfoy reputation, and her mother had lectured her severely on the fact it would not be the last. She had seen through Narcissa's gentle questioning of Lucius and his family, and told her daughter to fix her sights on higher, and more lofty ambitions.

Narcissa pouted as some overly large woman with a similarly overly large hat moved, blocking her view of the stage. Well, blocking her view of Lucius, anyway. She'd always been interested in him from the first time she'd seen him: sitting alone at the Slytherin table, brooding, defiant, surly, and not giving a damn about anyone else. She was in first year, he in second, and already he'd seemed more real than anyone she'd ever met. One of her friends had whispered to her who it was, and Narcissa felt the pieces come together in her head: this was what her mother's set meant when they talked about 'those sorts of people' - this gloriously proud young man, who could be both strong and broken at the same time. She'd watched him for ages - at lunch, or breakfast, or dinner; in corridors, and in the library. Like her, he seemed to have a great fondness for learning, and books, and the musty smell of acceptance and trust she gleaned from the old pages she poured into her ideal of him.

He was like history, come alive, the product of a thousand years of breeding made explicit in one man, and as a history student she knew no greater temptation.

History. There was a thought. She needed to think up a topic for her consultation with Professor Binns: it was nearly the end of the academic year, and all sixth years were have supposed to have decided upon the subjects for their advanced seventh year papers by now. Hmm. Something she could connect with the Malfoys, perhaps, she wondered, smiling at herself inwardly. No. That would be silly of her, as if she weren't already silly enough, fawning over some sensitive try-hard rebel who barely even knew she existed, and by all reports, probably wouldn't care if he knew. Dormitory gossip said that she was the wrong gender for Lucius Malfoy.

She shied away from that painful possibility, and concentrated instead on the proper conduct of a Ravenclaw, learning. She could do something about the muggle second world war, she supposed. It always fascinated her, the parallels between muggle and magical culture and history. The Axis powers had had their own wizards, led by Grindelwald, and Churchill had depended upon Hogwarts, and more frequently, Albus Dumbledore, in the last months of the war. It had needed a victory both magical and muggle to finally win. What frightened her most about that bloody conflict was perhaps the Japanese onslaught: look what a people could do, without magical help. It was beyond belief. Except they had their Emperor, who presided over public ceremony, and represented the soul of the nation. Yes, there was a possibility. Royal magics were some of the most ancient, and most deeply rooted in the psyche. Something about the subconscious effect of royal magics upon a populace then, with perhaps previous examples from various dynastic bloodlines.

Narcissa set the question to one side, allowing it to cogitate by itself in her mind, idly listing a set of sources and potential research with another. She'd put quill to parchment after this interminable ceremony and work something out for real, and go see Binns with it tomorrow. He was sure to approve it: she was one of the few history students who hadn't had their own love of the subject destroyed by his farcical way of teaching it.

Blinking, she realised someone was watching her, head cocked slightly to one side, and with a sudden horror, realised it was Lucius Malfoy. He was looking oddly at her, and as the colour drained from her face, she knew she was biting and sucking on her bottom lip: a subconscious reaction Narcissa had whenever she was thinking deeply about a problem. Mortified, Narcissa stopped immediately, and attempted to retrain her blush, her eyes not quite meeting Lucius', one hand snaking up to absently tuck a few threads of gold hair into her bun, the other smoothing her robes. Nevermore had Narcissa Morgan cared about appearances, and at this instant she wished she could look beyond perfect. Letting her breath go in a hiss, she looked back at him, certain of how foolish she must look. Instead, he merely gave a small smile, infinite in its capacity for arrogance, as if he knew everything about her, and found her amusing, like a house elf.

Narcissa's blood began to boil then, and she sat silent amongst the applauding crowd as Lucius Malfoy, Head Boy of 1971, rose to give the valedictorian speech. She wondered if she stood then, wailed and weeped and gnashed her teeth and pulled her hair, whether he'd actually see her, or just smile his little smile, and go on regardless.

For a second, she wanted to kill him.