Narcissa's Garden

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"Mother," the little boy looked up, pulling at his mother's long green dress, "why do old people love gardening so much?"

The young witch - who could hardly be classified as belonging to the 'old people' category - smiled at her fair-haired son. "It gives them peace," she began, "to know that some things still have innocence and beauty in them. These roses, my dear, are innocent and beautiful," she bent down to touch his face gently, "like you."

"Daddy says you're innocent and beautiful too," the boy chimed.

His mother smiled sadly at these words. Her husband was beautiful also, but far from innocent as his soul had been immersed in the darkest sins and was now beyond redemption. Since she could not and would not say these things out loud, especially in front of her son until he discovered them for himself, she merely said, "That was awfully sweet of your father."

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There were days and nights when she couldn't bear to live this lie of a life, even if it was for the sake of the one she loved the most. It was even worse that at times she did not know whether that was her husband or her son.

"Lucius," she would whisper some nights, lying awake, "when are you going to stop lying to our son about your past?"

"As soon as he grows old enough to appreciate all that I've done, my love." As always, his voice would be gentle and affectionate but ice-like in its stillness.

"Appreciate what? The killing? The bloodshed?"

He would sigh lazily and say, "It was all in the past."

"But you don't regret it," she'd retort with icy accusation. "You would do it again if you had to."

And he would grow calm and still again. That calm was gradually killing her. "I believe I would." After a pause, "Why does it bother you so? Your family always agreed with the Dark Lord." He would turn to her and touch her hair, always warily. "You weren't like this, love. I don't want to hear that my wife has become a mudblood-lover overnight."

"I haven't. I just don't want my son to become a murderer because of hero-worshipping his father."

"Our son will grow up knowing the significance of his blood," he would affirm. "He will live in a respected world, free of dirty bloods and anyone who defends that rubbish. Why don't you think like Bellatrix?" he would nag irritably, "You have no idea how respected she is among the Dark Lord's servants."

That would make her snap. "The Dark Lord is dead, Lucius! And dear Bella is rotting away is Azkaban! You should have married her instead and lived a blissful life while keeping her company there." And Narcissa would bolt out of bed defiantly, not returning until at least the light of day could be seen.

She would take long walks in her garden, tearing rose petals, always oblivious of the thorns that would scratch and tear at her bare feet as she paced through those gardens. She would march through the tangles in the rain and the snow, oblivious of the cold, of the damp, of the pain and blood, missing all the lost beauty and innocence in her husband, in her sister, and even in herself because she was hideous and guilty for continuing to live a life like this. Those nights, she would long for beauty and innocence in her life.

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When she was young, and when Bellatrix and even Andromeda were young, their mother would tell them a story about the Garden of Good and Evil. She would lovingly preach the responsibilities of women in raising their families - not only their children, but the entire family - for they were the ones that had sown the seeds. Both husband and children grew because of the woman--nurturing mother and agreeable wife. Any failure of either man or child was the failure of the woman.

Thinking and reflecting upon the outcome of her own family, Narcissa remembered how her mother had lived what had seemed to be a life free of regrets. The only flaw would've been Andromeda's betrayal against the pure-blooded family, but Mrs. Black had nobly passed away before that incident.

Andromeda herself, although may have been a traitor and an outright disgrace to her former family, lived humbly and happily with her husband and child, regardless of the blood that coursed though their respective veins.

Bellatrix, the idiot - Narcissa always wanted to add, for in her mind the other sister was no less a disgrace than the eldest - had wound up in Azkaban because of her passion for the Dark Arts. But even she had landed there with an ironic pride and grace because she was accompanied by her husband who would always remain by her side. They may have been a wicked and merciless couple, Narcissa reflected enviously, but they were in a continuous harmony with one another and that would never change.

Love was never the question because Lucius did love her without a doubt. The fact that she would always love him more would often depress her: firstly, because he had always had the upper hand, and lastly, because she could never do a thing about it.

It had been this way throughout their friendship, then their relationship, and now their marriage. Sometimes she would cry, oblivious - of course - of even her tears, because Lucius would never run after her on the nights she left. Not once.

Despite the failures in life her sisters were said to have been, Narcissa was certain that they were better off than her, comfortable within the scope of their own little family close to them. They were happy within their Gardens of Good and Evil... of Love.

It was only Narcissa's Garden that seemed to be tearing her apart.

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