Cowboys and Angels

moment thirteen: jump (May 1987.)

That morning after her ill-considered murder attempt, he had summoned the family solicitor, and made her sit and listen as he removed her from his will, and further: cutting any legal recourse she had over the Malfoy estates or businesses. Now that her usefulness was over, she was but a bauble to him, and so a bauble she would be.

He'd sat there barely listening, and smiled at her the whole time as she was chained by law and writ and custom. She wanted to grab the letter opener from the desk and ram it through one of his eyes.

But no. That would be far too quick, for what he had done to her. In the months following, she resigned herself to be quiet, docile, compliant. She did what she was told, and did not stir. In time, she thought his guard would relax, and it did not. So every day her will crumpled just that little bit more, and she slid into the bottle that little bit further for solace.

She degraded herself, willingly in the end because she knew how much it appalled him, and that was the only weapon she had left against her husband.

Besides her son.

That was one of the things that kept her from flinging herself out a upper storey window and making a hideously aristocratic mess on the front lawn - that and the need she had to see Lucius fall.

And the impervious charms he'd put on the windows, of course.

From that day on, she was not allowed to be anything but a bauble. Cosseted. Feted. Patronised. Kept safe. For her own good, Lucius had told her - everything was always for her own good.

Why she was not allowed to write owls to her family, or any others without his approval. Why he always had to insist she shop with other aristocratic wives - women who by and large hated her, or were jealous. Death Eaters were never short on ambition, and their wives even less so. Broken by their own lust for power, consumed by fear and paranoia in this strange new world without the Dark Lord, they tore at one another, exploiting weakness, preying on those who could not be as strong, as heartless, as cruel. In many ways there were even more imaginative than their husbands. They could not use Cruciatus or Imperius or Avada Kedavra as their menfolk did - in private, always in private - as they were often the public face of those old families, the women's eyes wet with tears as they pleaded on the front page of the daily prophet in those early years, desperate to be granted an 'innocent' verdict in the court of popular opinion.

Often they could not sully themselves with dark powers, as the family had to survive if the men fell, and so they found other ways. A knife in the dark. A word carefully spoken here or there. Manipulating the wills and minds and hearts of all far more deftly than Imperius.

Narcissa knew, of course. She had been like that as well, used those skills. Her own hands were probably steeped in blood, and she didn't regret her choices. She'd done what she needed to for them to survive - for them all to survive, and to repay her, Lucius might as well had stripped her naked and sent her into a nest of vipers.

On second thoughts, she would have preferred the vipers. But Narcissa was agile, and quick, and kept her head above water, and managed not to drown amongst those society bitches. Even so, they did make effective jailers. Perhaps that was the whole point - they were so busy watching one another, their husbands knew their own backs were safe.

So she survived the soirées and contretemps, the banquets and the luncheons, and the social dos. And after every one she made sure she locked herself in her room and got completely plastered.

Drinking became a way of life, a cycle. She drank to fortify herself in the morning, and then at night to forget what had happened. She drank to get back at Lucius, and because she was worth nothing more.

She always made sure, however, she was sober for Draco. Now that she was relieved of all her other responsibilities, he kept her sane. He was her salvation. Watching him grow was a delight: seeing his first steps, hearing his first word - admittedly, it was 'Father'- bursting with pride as the magical precognitives tested him first at the age of three, and then again at six, and declared that her son would be very very powerful one day.

Of course, that was only to be expected considering his conception, but Narcissa pushed such dark thoughts aside. No matter what his destiny had been, it was his now to shape. He was free from burden and responsibility, and Narcissa revelled vicariously in that wanton privilege of being 'free'. She cosseted him, perhaps too much. She fired almost all the nannies, and played with him, taught him to speak and read and laugh and live. Lucius hardly spent any time with him, and that suited her just fine. He loomed as a presence, a god, more than a person or father in Draco's life, and they were always polite, and tolerably affectionate in Draco's presence. She wanted the best for her son, even if it required her to lie to create the illusion, and she begged and pleaded and cajoled with every last speck of power she had over her husband to get him to comply in the pleasant little fairy tale life she build up around her.

Of course, for that, he owned her, utterly. Occasionally he would ask her to spread a rumour amongst the circle of society guards that watched her, and she would then watch in turn as one of them stumbled and fell. Death Eater society had never been very forgiving, and less so in these uncertain times. So she helped Lucius pick off the survivors, eliminate his rivals and tried not to imagine all the blood she had on her hands.

If nothing else, she always made sure none of the rumours could be traced back to her - if not for her own good, but Draco's.

Lucius realised how much she cared for Draco, and so her salvation was also her greatest weakness. When she dared to question his orders, or challenge his judgement, or did anything without his approval, he simply had the house elves remove her. "Mrs Malfoy is unwell," he would say, "she needs to be restrained for her own good." And then they would restrain her, little fingers, hands pressing, catching, twisting. House elves could carry several times their own body weight of course, and it only took a few of them to cart her off to her rooms - all out of a true and utter concern for her - and lock her away for the time being. Lucius would refuse her access to Draco till she capitulated.

And she always capitulated.

But even now, as she looked down at her son as he read at her feet, eyes as always too wide, too hungry for knowledge, she wondered if in the end Lucius would take even this respite from her, just to show her he could. Narcissa added it to the list of reasons for wishing him dead, and smiled at her son when he looked up tentatively to her for approval.