A Dark Place in Time

A Dark Place in Time

Draco Malfoy is an idiot.

She finds that she is entitled to think this; she may even, should she feel like it, say it out loud.

Narcissa Malfoy heaves a sigh and props her elbows on the table. She rests her chin against one palm and runs her fingers across her brows in a vain attempt to wipe away some of the weariness that has enfolded her for the last days like a thick, heavy cloak.

Why can't he just let it be? Sleep, she thinks, if only I could -

The sudden touch of a hand grabbing hold of her arm startles her, causes her head to jerk up, and she looks into the lucid eyes of her son.

"Mum," he whispers, his voice coarse and raspy as if he hasn't been using it for a long time, and she can hear the trace of anguish beneath it. "Mum, won't you rather go to bed? It's late, it's been a - a stressful day, and you look tired and -"

He nods towards the door that leads to the entrance hall and up the flight of stairs and, eventually, to a room which holds memories aplenty. An encouraging smile plays across his lips, so determinedly placed onto his face that the corners of his mouth whiten, but his hand on her arm tightens, holding her firmly in place. She feels her heart ache at the conflicting emotions that twitch across his face, at how he's torn between protecting her like the grown-up man he's supposed to be and turning to her for comfort like a child in its sorrow.

Potter's intentions, however, are obvious; his protective instincts, always at the ready, have clearly kicked in. He sends Draco an understanding, supportive look and smiles reluctantly at her, as usual a tad sheepish, and she mentally rolls her eyes at him. Would he ever manage to behave normally around her? But then, she ponders, a venomous spark flaring up inside her, chances were that this was his usual behaviour, clumsy, awkward nitwit that he was, unworthy of any Malfoy's gentler attitude!

Feeling the spiteful thoughts fuel her mind, she casts him a scornful glance, her eyebrows raised, and as expected, a fierce blush creeps up his cheeks, much to her delight. A little shake of the head, a demonstratively stifled sigh, and he'd be busy revelling in self-reproaches and not trouble her son any further!

It had taken them some time to realise that it was her who could wield that kind of power over Potter, that he could very well and without hesitation plunge himself into screaming matches with both male Malfoys, regardless of the (rather different) reactions he provoked. Yet a scornful or, even better, a hurt look from Mrs Narcissa Malfoy, Mother and Saviouress of the Saviour's life would force him into submission for hours, if not days, much to their amusement.

The sudden revelation that there was no them any longer hits her like a Stunning Spell, and for a second, the world seems to break to pieces that tumble down around her, cutting her off from her surroundings. It feels almost pleasant, as if she were able to withdraw to a secure place, and she jerks when the grip around her arm tightens again, pulling her from her safe haven.

"Mum," she hears her son say, urge and a certain grumbling in his voice that reminds her of five-years-old Draco not getting his will, and she feels irritation well up inside her. "What?" she snaps before she can get a grip on herself again. Merlin, maybe she really should go upstairs now, before she turns into an old, nagging hag before her son's eyes.

"Mum, I just thought that you might want to rest, that -" His voice trails off, and he lowers his head, his shimmering hair, silvery where hers is golden, falls across his face and hides it from her gaze.

"Draco," Potter interjects, his voice sounding strained, and although she'd rather face a shrieking banshee deprived of her prey then agree with Potter, she cannot entirely blame him. "Don't you think that your father's funeral concerns your mother as well, now doesn't it, so -"

"Stop it," Draco hisses through his teeth, and shoots Potter a smouldering glare from under the blond strands. Narcissa's hand twitches to stroke them away from his forehead and tuck them behind his ear, to caress his face until the tense lines and dark circles under his eyes vanish. Knowing however that it would be the most stupid thing to do right now, she settles for a disapproving click of her tongue at his uncontrolled behaviour.

Potter's mouth snaps shut, his hand rubbing repeatedly over his face, and she can hear him inhale deeply. He's not lost his temper so far, she has to acknowledge, and for a second she considers provoking the hell out of him, just for the fun of seeing him cringe afterwards, and for the distraction it would provide.

The tension is almost palpable. Silence hangs over them like a black cloud out of which lightning might strike any moment, setting everything on fire. Her son is staring at the table, stony-faced and sullen, his hands cramping around the delicate bone china cup in front of him. Potter has started cracking his knuckles, producing a sound that is extra-loud in the room, like twigs breaking, and Narcissa wonders whether she's heard something that nerve-grating ever before. A tight knot is forming in her throat, and she longs to shout at him, yell that he should stop it, every single crack is like an explosion in her head, and suddenly, she hates him with a passion of hitherto unexperienced extent. How could he dare do something that ordinary, that normal, when nothing would ever be normal again?

"Mrs Malfoy," Potter says all of a sudden. Crack. She grits her teeth and stares at him. Crack. "I'm only offering to - to help, to -" Crack. "To - see, I do have the position to exert some influence, and I'd be happy - glad to do something about the dis- disgraceful way - that the Ministry refuses to pay him his last honours. Officially, I mean, of course I'll be there, and P-Percy, and Her-"

She continues to stare at him, merciless and unblinking, biding her time until he gets himself caught up in his own awkward babbling.

"Oh, you know. We'll be there." Crack. "It's that M-Mr Malfoy - I could -"

"I said stop it!" Draco blurts out, his voice rising in pitch and volume. "You, you, it's always about you! Your position, your offer, your influence! Oh, aren't we glad that Our Hero Potter is still around to save us? What would we do without you, how have we existed before you graced our home with your presence? If we acknowledge that you're the best, would you leave us in peace then?"

Crimson dots are flashing high up on his cheeks, and he clenches his fists until his knuckles are white. He is shaking with rage, ready to strike out, the most dreadful, stinging insults on the tip of his tongue.

He's like me, Narcissa thinks, and a sharp stab of pain cuts through her, bereaving her of the ability to breathe, to think, to exist for a moment. Memories of Draco's father flash through her mind; young Lucius working hard to get his volatile temper under control upon realising that he gets quite honest when he's angry, barking out truths he'd never say consciously; truths like because I love you, you obnoxious girl. He'd excelled at calculated rages later on, utilising them to great avail, yet she sometimes missed his impetuous outbursts.

She, and Draco alike, though - pain has always made them close up, get sarcastic, and eventually, they have to lash out, hit something or hurt someone to lessen the pain to an endurable degree. Potter has yet to learn to bear it.

"I'm not-" Potter yells back, and immediately lowers his voice again, forcing calming, soft tones into it, understanding nothing. "Let's not argue, Draco. You're-"

"I'm what? Don't you dare patronise me as if I were a stupid child! My dad is gone!"

Her anguish comes back with full blast, and before she can control herself, she gasps. The shock on Draco's face is almost unbearably painful to watch. He draws in a sharp breath, and his hand reaches for her arm. "Mum, I'm sorry! I'm sorry." There's a soft touch on her temple as his cheek is pressed against it, but she feels the hotness of his skin and knows that it isn't over.

"It's none of your business, Potter," Draco snarls, throwing his head back. "You really don't need to poke your nose into everything! For Merlin's sake, you'd even utilise the death of a man you hated to demonstrate that you're the centre of the universe! Hey, here are some news for you - the world hasn't revolved, isn't revolving and never will revolve exclusively around you! You don't even understand what this is all about, what a funeral according to our tradition means! How could you?"

Potter has buried his face in his hands, now peering at Draco from between two fingers. "All I wanted," he says, his voice tight as if it might snap from suppressed emotion. "All I wanted is to do something for you. For you both."

"You actually think that I, and Mum, that we want this? That we'd be happy with all those people gathering around my father's coffin? That we're mad for some hypocritical eulogies? Do you really understand nothing?" A hiccupping sound escapes him. "Why I put up with you at all is bey-"

"Draco. Enough." Narcissa's gets up and grabs her son's hands, squeezing them. They're trembling like fluttering birds, and for a second, she fears he might wrest himself free, fully giving in to his wrath, and his anguish. He gulps, and lowers his head.

"I think we'd all better go to bed now."

She pecks Draco's cheek, nods at Potter and walks out of the room, not turning back. Later that night, she hears the floorboards on the second landing that leads up to the bedrooms creak under quick footsteps. But although sleep fails her again until the early hours of dawn, she doesn't hear any evidence of a second person walking up the stairs.

************

"I'm seeing Potter," Draco had said as the beans had been spilt, his chin raised defiantly; and with a scowl on her face and worry in her heart, she'd watched him move from Potter to Harry to him, as if the mere idea that there could be any other him was ridiculous, even pathetic.

Lucius had been delighted. After the first (and horrible) dinner Potter had spent at their house, with a conversation afterwards that awkward didn't even begin to cover, Lucius had turned to her in their room. His long hair tickled her nose as it spilled over her pillow, and she held her breath at the expression in his eyes - cunning, scheming, alive. "Well, well," he mumbled. "Possibilities looming ahead, aren't they?"

Potter, however, had been a disappointment. Not that this had come as a surprise; yet if she had to do him full justice, she'd acknowledge that the tightened policies towards what some ignorants dared to call shady families was neither his, nor his superior's doing. After a few years of somewhat hesitant reconsolidation which had been triggered by shock and the survival struggles of the immediate aftermath of the war, voices became louder and louder which advocated a more differentiated view - a mere excuse of those enviers to redline those who were about to re-climb the social ladder back to where they belonged. And that unworthy creature, Marlena Edgecombe, who'd sneaked from her subaltern position at the Department of Magical Transportation all the way up to the Minister's chair, Merlin only knew by use of which means, she'd jumped at the chance to denigrate those whom she knew were outclassing her in almost all respects.

Narcissa tosses and turns uneasily in her bed. The twilight of dawn has already made way for bright sunlight that is streaming into the room from under the curtains, and that little nuisance Prissy is bound to appear any minute with her dressing gown. She knows she has to get up, that she can't stay here forever, but just for some minutes she allows herself to revel in the fantasy.

Odd that she should miss him most during this time of the day. His scent is still around, and only yesterday, she'd woken up with a long, silvery hair wrapped thrice around her wrist; she's constantly torn between clutching his pillow close, allowing her tears to come, and hurling it into the farthest corner of the room in a fit of hatred against him for leaving her. This time, it had been entirely theirs, a time of talking and laughing and quarrelling and making love, and just being together.

************

"You're so beautiful, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

Narcissa scowls, and dabs at the lines that are etched into the delicate skin around her eyes. "Am I that pathetic that I need the flattery of a mirror?"

"Um," the mirror replies. "I think your son is looking for you. Uh, out there."

She's already heard him pace up and down impatiently and snarl at Prissy, who'd then in return pinched her fingers in the bedside cabinet's drawer. Guilt washes over her when she realises that she'd rather stay in here and be chatted up by the mirror than confront her grief-stricken son.

A few deep breaths, and she steps out of the bathroom. Standing at the oriel window, Draco is staring blankly out at the rain, which has been sheeting down incessantly for hours. His shoulders are drawn together, betraying his tension, and his fingers, which are curled around the window-catch twitch convulsively, as if all of his restlessness were poured into them.

Upon becoming aware of her steps, his head moves ever so slightly, and she hears him draw in air. For a split-second, she is tempted to rush over to him. She longs to pull him into her arms and stroke and kiss the sorrow from his face like she had done when his pet Kneazle had disappeared. Her body screams to hold him tight like on that evening more than ten years ago, when she'd found him again in the Great Hall and they had huddled together with Lucius on the other -

With a desperate effort, she shakes off the memories and confines herself to running two fingers across his cheek. He turns his head and smiles at her, his lips quivering a bit, and there is a softness on his face she hasn't encountered often with him; sometimes, she remembers, and a flash of something alarmingly akin to jealousy jolts through her, when he thinks that Potter's not looking.

A lump is sitting in her throat, scorching hot, stifling her, and she swallows hard. She can't allow it, not now. There is so much to see to, decisions have to be made, events arranged, she cannot allow herself any weakness, any tears. Later, she tells herself, there will be time, plenty of time, an abundance of time.

"Well, we'd better get started, Mr Greenhill's due at five to pick up the garment for Lu- for the funeral, and it won't sort itself out, now will it?"

Draco flinches, nods, yet remains transfixed.

"You don't have to do this, dear," she says, and smoothes down the upturned collar of his shirt. "I'll be doing -"

"Shush, Mum." A peck on her cheek, his hand squeezing her shoulder, and he walks over to the huge wardrobe that contains Lucius's vast collection of clothing.

They work their way through the racks in silence for some time, merely communicating by a raising of brows, shaking of heads and the occasional rolling of eyes.

Narcissa finds the endeavour oddly peaceful. For days, she's been dreading this particular duty, her apprehension heightened by the authorities' reluctant and thrice postponed release of the body. But rummaging in the clothing that looks and feels and smells so familiar to her, in a quiet, composed atmosphere and side by side with her son, holds an unexpected amount of comfort; and for quite some time, she's oblivious to the fact that Draco's not sharing her feelings.

A sudden gasp from him alerts her to his condition. He's clutching a green strip she only belatedly recognises as Lucius's old school tie, and on first impulse, she has to bite back a smile at her sentimental old husband.

"Draco."

He gazes at her with shrouded eyes.

"We're almost through. I can really handle this alone."

He shakes his head almost violently and digs again deep into the wardrobe, his shoulders twitching.

"Would you - darling, would you like this one to be - used?" She nods at the tie, quite warming up to the idea, and allows herself a moment to dwell on the memories of their first encounter at school, how she'd stood there and stared at the tall blond boy, and then had slipped some Balding Potion into his pumpkin juice because he'd talked only to Andy and Bella.

Draco snorts, the corners of his mouth curved downwards in contempt. "Hogwarts," he says with a mirthless laugh. "Stronghold of all that is good and noble, isn't it? Well, at least our magnanimous Mrs McGonagall doesn't stoop to siding with those fucking twats from the Ministry and - "

"Draco, language" Narcissa interrupts, mildly rebuking, her mind still wandering the corridors of a Hogwarts long past.

"Harry did tell you that she's coming? Mum?"

"What? Oh, no. I mean, yes, Potter did, but I already knew. Minerva's sent me an Owl the day before yesterday."

"Ha. That meddlesome git. It is none of his bloody business, see?" Draco growls, and the anguish in his voice tears her heart apart.

"Is it not?" Narcissa says calmly and reaches for a long robe of black wool with a broad stripe of dark green satin embroidered along the seam. Her hand runs across the soft, thick material, luxurious and pure, and in the wake of her fingers, an almost imperceptible scent of sandalwood and vetiver rises from the cloth. It's the smell of his favourite soap, the one he insisted on importing at horrendous costs, and for a split second, she can hear him, feel him, sense him around her more palpably than ever. She inhales deeply, as if to take in as much of his scent as she can to keep it forever, and then folds the robe and puts it down onto the ottoman as a potential choice.

Draco is worrying his lower lip. "It's not - He's - Surely you wouldn't want to be indebted to Harry."

She casts him a slightly huffy look. "Don't you use me as your excuse, young man."

"Mum!"

"Oh, Draco." All of a sudden, she's exhausted. All the energy that has kept her upright for the last hours has drained from her; the memories that have been soothing her mind just now have evaporated. Although she craves to learn what's troubling him and racks her brain for a way to ask him without causing him to dig his heels in, she finds herself incapable of concentrating on his sensitivities which seem so childish and negligible to her right now.

Aghast at her own petulance, she pats his arm and once again immerses herself in her work.

Silence returns, yet it's a far cry from the comfortable quietness that has enwrapped them only a few minutes earlier. Draco is rummaging around in the chest of drawers that holds Lucius's shirts, ties, gloves and all the other accoutrements that had made him the stylish man he was. Sudden, almost painful tenderness rises up inside Narcissa as her gaze falls onto a fine suede belt that Draco has rather carelessly thrown onto the bed, and she only realises that she's lost herself in thoughts of where, and why Lucius had acquired it, when her son's angry voice startles her.

"He's pitying me! That fool dares to pity me!"

"I- I beg your pardon, dear?"

Draco stares at her, wide-eyed, and an endearingly bashful look creeps into his eyes.

"Nothing," he mumbles, and buries his head in the topmost drawer. "You." He swallows audibly and looks up. "Mum. You wouldn't actually want Harry to - to interfere, would you?"

"Draco." She heaves a huge sigh. Draco is again evading her gaze, is starting to dig into Lucius's boxes filled to the brim with bow ties, and she feels her gut tighten from testiness. We can continue like that ad infinitum, she thinks, he'll fob me off with subterfuges and flimsy excuses and even put the blame on me for not accepting Potter's offer, and we'll be none the wiser afterwards!

He's never been comfortable with putting feelings and emotions into words, however plainly they were written all over his face, and usually, she excels at wresting even the deepest secrets from him with just a few shrewdly placed comments.

Now, however, words fail her, her mind refuses to focus, and she finds herself unable to come up with the amount of patience required for coaxing out of him what bothered him. Suddenly, it's as if their grief is like a wall between them, separating where it should unite.

"Dad would've hated it, wouldn't he? He despised them, those - those boot lickers!" she hears him hiss, but whether more to himself, as a justification for his denial, or aimed at her to trigger a response, she can't tell.

Lucius, she thinks, oh Lucius, Lucius. You would have loved it, wouldn't you? You'd have relished in their embarrassment and reluctance, giving a damn about debts and whether they meant it seriously or not, you'd have rejoiced at bending them to your will for one last time; it's really as if they remembered two different men, her husband and Draco's father.

"Draco," she repeats, and closes the door of the wardrobe with a loud click. "Sit down."

Her son lowers himself onto the edge of the bed, his hands fumbling nervously with one of Lucius's fine silken scarves, tearing and tugging at the delicate material.

"What's troubling you, dear? Come, tell your old mum," she says in a feeble attempt at raising the spirits but is met with an almost huffy stare.

"I'm not his charity project! He knows what is best, how to handle things, he's infallible! It's - ah, I don't know. Why can't he just stop talking about it, stop arranging things for me?"

"Well," Narcissa mumbles tentatively, "maybe he thinks that -"

"Thinking? Who, Harry?" Draco snaps, and Narcissa frowns at him, a tad puzzled. "He's not thinking in the least, as always! God, how I hate this attitude! He's always diving head first into everything! No one's expecting him to mull things over endlessly, but would it be too much to ask for to give it one moment of consideration? No, it's Hero Potter, and off he goes!"

"Dear. It's - " At a loss of words, she settles picking some imaginary lint off his shirt. "It's - siding with us might be inopportune, or contrary to the current policy, but at the end of the day, it won't ruin Potter's career. I even doubt it'll cause any serious harm, that abominable Edgecombe woman will probably condemn him to office duty for some time."

But her son is clearly not listening to what she says. He snorts derisively and rubs his hands over his face, leaving behind fibres of silk on his cheeks and in his hair. His gaze is lost in the distance.

"I know that his job's a dangerous one, that he'll be putting his life on stake every now and then, and - and I wouldn't want him to be different, but I do want him to be sensible! How's this going to work in the future, I ask you!"

A gush of warmth is rising from the pit of her stomach and fills up her whole body at his words, oddly enough for a moment chasing away the spectres of loss and grief. She smiles and runs a hand through Draco's hair.

"I'm sorry, Mum," he whispers. "It's - it's not - I shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be worrying about this right now."

"Don't be silly. If you -" she heaves a deep breath and takes the plunge. "If you really love him, there'll be no right or wrong time, you'll always worry about this, and about many things more."

************

Narcissa yawns and stretches herself like a Kneazle, trying to shake off the fatigue that has engulfed her the moment she's entered Mr Greenhill's shop. What a bore that man was! The low-brow conversation he obviously deemed witty, the most inappropriate compliments he paid Andromeda! Hadn't his coffin-making skills been no less than legendary, she'd have left in an outrage. She'd cut the visit short by simply picking the most expensive, most elegant coffin.

A chirping sound that emanates from the region of her left thigh startles her, and with an impatient clicking of her tongue, she glances down. Prissy's huge green eyes stare up to her, and she peeps, "Missis is home! So early -" She swallows heavily, and Narcissa twitches in a fit of pique.

"Yes, indeed I am home, how observant of you! Don't tell me you haven't got the tea ready?"

"Oh, yes, yes, Prissy has! There is tea, and biscuits for Missis, and some toast, and Prissy will make sandwiches if Missis wants, of course if Missis is hungry Prissy will get her some although dinner will be ready in -"

The already high-pitched voice of the house-elf gets shriller with every word as she babbles on, and Narcissa frowns at the little creature which is bustling about in front of her. Scurrying to and fro, she almost trips herself up, the tip of her nose bobs up and down as she tries to evade her mistress' gaze, and eventually, she starts hiccupping piteously.

Strangling a house-elf would not land her in Azkaban, now would it, Narcissa wonders, her relief of being home again displaced by painful memories of Lucius mastering a crowd of shivering elves with a single, stern look.

Prissy freezes, her huge eyes staring directly into Narcissa's, and a last, pathetic hiccup escapes her.

"Prissy," Narcissa says softly, and Prissy's lower lip starts to quiver. "Prissy. I'll have my tea outside. Take the tray out onto the terrace, will you, and bring me some biscuits with it."

Not paying any heed to the elf which resumes her whining, she strides across the room towards the terrace. A sudden need for fresh, cool air is pounding in her ears, as if the house - her house, her home - was closing in on her, depriving her of the ability to breathe freely.

Shoving the curtain aside, she flings the huge double door open and steps out. The balmy air, already redolent of warmth and sun and life, fills her lungs and sends a gush of tranquillity and peace through her body. With a hearty yawn, she raises her arms and is about to stretch her body as her gaze falls onto two figures standing in the corner of the terrace.

Within a moment, the peaceful atmosphere is gone again.

"Mum!" she hears a voice gasp, and "Mrs Malfoy!" another one, slightly deeper yet no less aghast, calls out simultaneously. One figure jumps back from the fencing, hands are tugging hastily at clothes, buttoning up shirts and closing zips, and running through unruly hair, to no avail as usual.

"We, um. Mrs Malfoy. Ah. We're just. You're back early, we -" Potter fumbles with the uppermost button of his wrongly fastened shirt, balancing on one foot to reach for his shoe with the tips of the other foot's toes, and almost topples over. A blush so fierce that Narcissa can see it glow even in the dim light is creeping up his throat and cheeks, his tongue is darting repeatedly over his lips. What an awkward clod he is, stammering and shuffling his feet like a schoolboy!

Draco, however, stands frozen. Apart from his initial outburst, he hasn't said anything, and has merely pulled his shirt back over his chest, holding it in place with his crossed arms. He has averted his face, thus she can only barely make out how tight his lips are pressed together, and in the twilight, she more feels than sees the muscle on his cheek twitch. Torn between the indignation at them for putting her in such an inconvenient situation and the wish to ease Draco's tension, she settles for, "Care for some tea?"

"No!" Potter the idiot blurts out, and she sighs.

"Well, then probably you'd better - "

"I'm sorry, Mum," Draco whispers and walks past her, his eyes downcast, his back rigid and his shoulders hunched. Potter casts her a sheepish grin and trots after him, murmuring unintelligible nonsense and groping for Draco's wrist. Draco hisses and slaps his hand away, wrapping his arms even tighter around his chest as if clutching for support. Potter withdraws his hand hesitatingly, and in passing by, he extends it to pat Prissy's head who is huddling herself into the folds of the brocade curtain and - is the silly creature trying to strangle herself with the cord?

Narcissa sighs again. Quelling the urge to follow Draco and comfort him, she clicks her tongue at the shivering house-elf. "My tea. Prissy, please."

A few minutes later, she's indulging in the peaceful silence. The clinking and clattering of the tea set's bone china, placed on the table by trembling fingers and interspersed with the chattering of tiny teeth, had been grating on her nerves, and she'd cut Prissy's stuttered apologies short, sending the little creature away with a wave of her hand.

A moment of quietness and rest, that's what she needs right now, and -

From the corner of her eyes, she sees the little elf scurry past her, a dark object pressed against the bony chest which she only belatedly recognises as Potter's shoe; and suddenly, she finds herself succumbing to a fit of laughter she hasn't even been aware of suppressing. There is, she realises, a hysterical edge to her laughter, she hears it and recognises the pain beneath it, but she just can't stop. She laughs until her sides ache.

Her silly boy, so afraid is he to hurt her, and so little does he understand! Tenderness wells up inside her, and her amusement dissolves into an affectionate and gentle smile. She makes a mental note to tell Prissy to serve him his favourite titbits for breakfast tomorrow; that he would understand.

A fond smile still playing around her mouth, she grabs a scone and nibbles away on it, and stirs her cooling tea, her mind wandering.

An image is turning up over and over again, it is burnt into her mind, reminding her of those odd Muggle photographs that are only capable of showing one single moment; plain imperfection, like all things Muggle.

What if though, she thinks as the image surfaces anew in her mind, what if you capture a perfect moment, the moment in time that conveys it all?

Draco's chest is bare, his shirt only loosely hanging off his shoulders. His head is thrown back in a graceful arc, exposing the sensitive skin of his throat through which the veins are shining like blue-hued lines, and Potter's tongue is licking off the beads of sweat that glisten there despite the cool air. One of his hands is cradling the back of Potter's head, shimmering like a delicate carving from ivory against the mop of ink hair, and holds it firmly in place. With an almost painful intensity, she recognises the plethora of feelings that are so clearly expressed in the simple curving of his hand - ardour, tenderness, possession, comfort, love - and although she sees but a tiny part of his face, the bliss it radiates is almost blinding.

Moments of perfection, she thinks with a pang, if only for an instant, how little value we attach to them while experiencing them, and how much we long for them when they're gone forever. And if we've destroyed them out of sheer ignorance, the yearning becomes unbearable.

************

She's not heeding the murmurs and whispers and hisses that follow her through the long corridors, the click-clacking of her shoes echoing off the grey walls. With her head held high, she proceeds to the Auror Department, and with a swift flick of her wand, the door to the outer office room flings open. A youngish witch who looks a bit like a Bones, the poor girl, jumps up from behind a huge desk, knocking over a glass with a bubbling brown liquid. She yelps and dabs at the wet spots while fumbling for her wand in a drawer, and Narcissa scowls.

"I do hope my presence does not cause any inconvenience," she says with detached politeness. "I'm here to see Mr Potter. I take it he's in?"

"Y-yes, he is," the girl stammers, "but -"

"I'll find my way, thank you."

The girl calls after her when she makes for the corridor that leads to the separate offices, and involuntarily, she feels her back stiffen, her hand tightening around her wand.

"Wait!" the girl shouts. "Wait! You can't just - oh, Mr Shacklebolt!"

The last outcry stops her dead in her track. The Head of the Auror Department is standing at the door, his tall figure even from the distance towering over her.

"Narcissa," he says and extends his hand. "What an unexpected pleasure. Can I be of any assistance to you?"

She bristles at his gentle tone. "Kingsley," she says, nodding haughtily and setting off down the corridor. "I'm on my way to Potter's office."

To her annoyance, he falls into step beside her, and she's already scolding herself for coming here, she should have cornered Potter somewhere else, where no harpies were waiting to rejoice in her pain, and no bloody do-gooders were hovering over her to exploit her humiliation. "Please allow me to express my condolences on your loss. If there is anything I can do for you, please don't hesitate to - "

She draws to a halt. Rage is welling up inside her so mightily that she has to bite down onto the inside of her cheek to remain clear-headed, to keep the surroundings from blurring to dots and spots of intense red and to drown out the blood that is pounding in her ears.

"What a noble and generous offer," she says icily, her voice shaking ever so slightly, and she digs her nails into her palm. "I do appreciate it, believe me, yet I'm terribly sorry I lack the time for exchanging pleasantries. I'd like to catch Mr Potter before he's off for lunch, see?"

"Narcissa, please, just a word with you," Shacklebolt insists, and inexplicably, the tone of his low, sonorous voice makes her calm down a bit. She turns her head to look at him, and finds his dark eyes search her face in a not unkind way. He is worrying his lower lip as if he's turning the words over and over in his mouth to find the right shape.

"I'm serious about what I said. I - let me phrase it this way: I'd rather be the one to make the decisions and face the consequences, you understand?"

Wrath stirs in the pit of her stomach again. "And grave consequences they'd be, for offering such a tremendous affront to our fellow wizards, now wouldn't they, even for our Golden Boy?" she mumbles more to herself, but Shacklebolt smiles a tad wistfully and shrugs his shoulders in an apologetic gesture.

"Who knows what the future will bring? But serious or not, he's willing to bear them," he answers in the same pensive, half-soliloquy tone, as if it weren't for her to hear. Despite her anger, she has to acknowledge his style, and sends him a brief smile.

So Potter's really ready to go out on a limb, she ponders as she walks on, almost nauseated with disgust. As if it weren't enough that someone would have to take a risk - however minor - for something that should be a given in a civilised world, that this fact screamed injustice; no, all the world would know that and wag their tongue at them.

She stops in front of the door that bears Potter's name in bold red letters, and knocks vehemently.

"Come in," she hears his voice call from within, but upon entering, she finds him crouched on the floor, with his back to her and swearing under his breath when a stack of files slips out from a cabinet and tumbles onto the floor.

"One moment, I'll be right with you," he gnashes through his teeth, and Narcissa scowls at his desperate attempt to catch at least the topmost files. His wand is lying on his desk, next to a Golden Snitch that is placed on a tiny velvet cushion. For a second, she's tempted to let his wand glide to him with a nonchalant gesture, but he beats her to it. In a blink of the eye, the wand is in his hand, and with ill grace, she recalls countless Prophet headlines at how brilliant Potter was at mastering wandless magic.

The files whish back into the cabinet, and Potter straightens himself into an upright position, facing her.

"Mrs Malfoy," he exclaims, surprise and - what? Anticipation? - in his voice, and with another swish of his wand, a comfy chair glides towards her from across the room. "Please, do sit down. I have to admit that your visit comes as quite a surprise, and I - "

A buzzing sound interrupts him, and he picks up a coin-shaped item, sending her an apologetic smile. "Yes, Antonia? What? When? No, I did hand it in in triplicate, I'm dead certain!"

He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated fashion. "Parchmentwork," he hisses at her from the corner of his mouth, pulling a face. "The Auror's True Enemy. Sorry, Antonia, come again? Oh. Um, could you do me a favour and re-check whether Gillis has the third copy on his desk? He's not yet yelled at me for spending five Knuts too much last month, so I reckon he hasn't finished - uh? Oh, I see. I -" he laughs out loud, and a wave of indignation seizes her at his inappropriate behaviour, insensitive dolt that he is. "Oh, I'd just love to see Hermione's face when she gets wind of that! Better not come near her department for the next few days, then, I'd say. But that also means that I'm in the clear, my dear, y'know, me being just a dumb, outdoorsy Auror not, ah, versed in the sophisticated ways of bureaucracy! Yup, that's my final - what?"

He chuckles. "You're a treasure, you truly are. Ah, Antonia, I've another favour to ask, could you get me some sandwiches? I've, um, a visitor, and we'd -" he sends Narcissa a questioning look, mouthing the words cucumber and roast beef, and she accepts with a haughty nod while trying to silence her suddenly grumbling stomach. "We'd like an assortment of our canteen's finest selection. Thanks!"

She huddles herself deeply into the squashy chair, forcing her tense muscles to relax. None of the demanding words she has memorised over and over again will come to her mind now, she is tongue-tied by a rush of puzzlement that confuses and irritates her.

"Mrs Malfoy," Potter repeats, putting the coin-shaped device down. Although she can see some of her own confusion reflected in his eyes, he's a far cry from the clumsy boy she's - had she really been about to think got used to? The man across from her, however, is virtually unknown to her; it's, she realises with a jolt, the first time she sees him outside the family, on his territory and at his conditions.

"What can I do for you? I -" He's again interrupted. After a shy knock at the door, the girl from the outer office tiptoes in, balancing a tray laden with piles of sandwiches, a jug and two glasses. She puts it down with trembling hands, eager to evade Narcissa's gaze, and sends Potter a secretive glance. He smiles at her, thanking her politely, and she makes for the door in a rush, albeit not quick enough to hide the tinge of crimson that has spread on her cheeks. Hero-worshipping, Narcissa thinks in an attempt to rekindle her contempt for the Chosen One.

"Please help yourself," Potter says, gesturing at the tray and reaching for a glass. "You care for some - uh, I think it's supposed to be gillywater." He pulls a face again, and she declines with a mere twitch of her eyebrow.

"Now, what can I do for you?" Potter repeats while grabbing a sandwich and munching away on it. "Sh- sorry. I'm really hungry, I hope you don't mind," he adds as if on an afterthought, and she casts him an ironic glance.

"Can't you guess?" she scoffs, strangely enough finding herself unable to utter her concern, let alone her husband's name in front of him.

Potter smiles a tad ruefully and takes his time swallowing the mouthful, a pensive look on his face. "Of course I can, I'm sorry. So I'll - I'll just get everything under way."

Trust the dimwit to get it all just the wrong way round, she thinks with almost pleasurable scorn. "No, Mr Potter, I'd prefer if you got nothing under way."

He blinks, puzzled, and if he were a dog, she thinks, his ears would droop. "N-no?"

"No." She's tempted to leave it at that, to simply get up and walk out of the room, yet Potter heaves a sigh and raises a hand as if in defeat.

"See, I'm no good at sophisticated diplomacy, as you well know. So let's not beat about the bush, shall we? I have to admit that I'm a bit surprised at this - I thought that you'd like me to - well, I've been under the impression that you'd prefer to go through with it."

"Whatever your impression might be, Mr Potter, why don't you just stop talking about it, stop arranging things for us?"

Potter shoots her a look that's half mockery, half scorn. "So that you don't have to return me a favour?" he snorts, and in a blinding rage that flares up inside her, she swears to herself that she'd simply kill him should he really have the audacity to mention that debt for his unworthy life he - quite accidentally - owed her in the same breath with her beloved Lucius. "Rest assured that I'm not harbouring any base motives, that -"

"I think it goes without saying that I'd rather not owe you a favour, but if it couldn't be helped - no, please don't tell me again that I won't be in debt to you, I do believe you - I'd be willing to grasp the nettle if I considered it worth the price. As to your motives, rest assured I couldn't care less as long as it resulted in the desired outcome. However, - "

A chuckle from Potter interrupts her. He grins at her, and she thinks she hears him mumble something about Slytherins, but after a moment, his eyes darken. "Now, Draco's not thinking that way, is he?"

"Well, I'd say our relationship is a tad different from the one you enjoy with my son, isn't it?"

To her relief, Potter's finally blushing, the professional Auror so demonstratively at ease has really been getting on her nerves.

"Um. Yes. Oh, I - See, that's why I don't understand it, his disapproval, his resistance. I - I thought he'd be - less unhappy."

"Maybe," she replies silkily, "Draco doesn't exactly care for being manipulated by use of his parents, have you taken that into consideration while concocting your little plan?"

As expected, Potter's temper flares. "I am not manipulating him," he hisses, his eyes smouldering. "How dare you say something like that! It's not true, and Draco knows -" His eyes go wide. "Has Draco said that? Does he really think - that, that obstinate idiot! He can't really be thinking that I'd use the death of his father to - to - manipulate him to - to whatever purpose, to ingratiate myself with him, or something!"

"Are you not? Are you not interfering into something that is a mere concern of the family?" she says with wilful cruelty, and Potter flinches, looking like he might fly into another passion every moment.

The corners of his mouth curve downwards, and something that isn't far from a sneer appears on his face. He snorts mirthlessly, his head bobbing up and down in a mocking nod. "How did I ever dare?" he growls. "Stupid me! That's rich, that's very rich! I've been doing everything he wanted me to, have socialised with his friends, have tiptoed around you, just to - to make him see that I care, and now he thinks I'm trying to manipulate him! Great. Wonderful. Seems I'm caught up in a nice and comfortable no-win situation, aren't I? Pray tell me, to what end should I manipulate him, why - oh, this is ridiculous!"

His fist slams onto the table, but despite his rage, a hint of misery has crept into his voice which, to her utter horror, strikes a compassionate chord within her.

"Now will you calm down," she says impatiently, fighting down the absolutely absurd urge to extend her hand and pat his arm. To prevent herself from caving in, she reaches across the table, letting her hand hover over the tray, and finally picks a cucumber sandwich, not heeding Potter's dumbfounded stare. She takes a bite and is surprised to find it quite tasty, the flavour of the slightly sweetish bread, the juicy cucumber and the salty butter mingle on her tongue and for a moment, the simple pleasure takes her mind off the awkward situation.

"Now, I didn't say that this is what Draco thinks, did I?"

"What -"

The door bursts open, and the reception girl darts in. "Mr Potter, is everything okay?"

They both stare at her, how she's standing in the doorframe, her hand twitching repeatedly towards the pocket of her robes where, no doubt, her wand is stashed away, ready to plunge herself into battle to defend her hero against whatever menace he's exposed to.

"Yes, yes," Potter says testily, yet his voice is shaking ever so slightly. "We're -" he casts Narcissa a look, an impish spark dancing in his eyes, and she can't help but acknowledge the ridiculousness of the situation with a smile. "Everything's fine."

The girl throws her a scathing look that's almost Narcissa's undoing, and not quite slams the door when leaving.

Potter blows out a long-pent up breath and rubs his temples. When he looks up again, there is sadness in his face and worry, and the fear of losing someone he loves which she feels reverberate deep down in the pit of her stomach.

"I - um, I guess I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm sorry. See, it's -" he presses his clenched fist against his lips as if to keep himself from pouring out his heart to her, and she's surprised to find herself wishing he would.

"I simply have to do something!" he blurts out eventually. "I can't just be around him and see how unhappy he is, how he's suffering, and not do anything about it. It's - it's just how I am. It'd be nothing but a poor consolation what I have to offer, I know, and I might not understand the tradition but - but I know what burying - oh, whatever. I got the impression that it means a lot to Draco. I might have tackled it the wrong way, but it's - it's all I can do for him."

Narcissa smiles a bit at his youthful rashness, trying to hold the pain at bay that seemed to have withdrawn to a secluded section of her mind during the dispute and is now returning at full blast. Silly her, how could she allow this to happen? "Have you ever considered that he doesn't want you to do anything at all?"

Potter's head jerks up, his eyes narrowing distrustfully at her, and she raises her hand to silence him.

"Maybe all he wants is you to be there."

A shaky sigh escapes Potter, and she feels her treacherous heart clench with sympathy. "Tiptoeing around me, eh?" she says with a mocking tease in her voice.

Potter's hands reach for the Golden Snitch, turning the little item over and over, letting it roll between his fingers and stroking the little wings that flutter under his caressing touch. A pensive expression is on his face, softening his features, and a smile, which she suddenly finds oddly charming, tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"You thought I'm behaving like an idiot around you because I'm oh-so-awed? Oh, I am, I really am," he chuckles, and a vast number of emotions is in his green eyes, gentle mocking, tenderness and care, and a wistful sorrow from the past. "But. You're his mum. How could I - he loves you so much, he'd never forgive me if I - um. If I hurt you. And," his cheeks went scarlet with embarrassment, and she almost lets him off the hook. "I. I wouldn't want to hurt you either."

Merlin, the boy's setting his table on fire with his face. "Right," she says. "Back to business. Mr Potter, I'd be very grateful if you could arrange it that my late husband be interred with full honours."

Potter stares at her, stunned, and only slowly, understanding is dawning on his face. "I'd be honoured."

"The rest is up to you," she says, getting up. While leaving, she turns her head half back and mumbles, "If you love him."

************

It's all over now.

The day has passed in a haze. Only single moments are engraved into her mind, like flashes lightening up a thundery sky: the first tone of the magnificent organ, carrying her away with its painful beauty, the smell of the huge candles that were floating about in the church, the coffin soaring up from its place at the church crossing and levitating past her, the repetitious thuds when shovel after shovel of dirt was tossed onto the lid of the coffin, moments providing both pain and comfort.

There were other sounds too, sobs from her right, and she recalls a searing pain surging through her when she'd seen the tears that were dripping down her son's cheek. She'd grabbed his hand, squeezing it and moving her fingers against his, and another flash of memory encompasses the sensation of another hand's touch when Draco pulled her hand closer to his body. Potter had his arm wrapped around Draco's waist, steadying him and holding him tight, Draco was leaning on to him; and she'd been amazed by the amount of comfort she'd drawn from that.

"You must relax, dear, you look horrible."

Andromeda, dear, understanding, knowing Andromeda. She's with her now, back at the Manor, at her side like she's been the whole day, not doing much but being there, knowing what to say and when to remain silent.

After the wake, Andromeda had shooed the rented cleansing elves in with a long-forgotten Blackish authority that had wrested this day's first genuine smile from Narcissa, and had suggested that they go over to her house while the elves were at work.

Potter had kept Teddy busy during their stay, chatting about his looming departure to Hogwarts. She'd been grateful for that, yet the boy's red-rimmed eyes and puffy cheeks, his genuine grief that was unmarred by any social conventions, had unexpectedly conveyed comfort to her; and the memories of Teddy's quite inexplicable adoration for her late husband conjured a smile on her lips.

It had, however, only slightly lessened the almost crackling tension between him and Draco. They'd hardly looked at each other and hadn't touched at all, as if the tender moments during the ceremony had been only a figment of Narcissa's imagination; and worry about what was going on between them hovered in the back of her mind like a bird of prey biding its time.

They'd left earlier, claiming that they'd go look after the elves which 'for sure have ransacked the entire house by now'. Andromeda had raised her eyebrows at the lame joke but had, thankfully, refrained from commenting as well as enquiring, had only sent them a musing, and slightly annoyed, look.

"Shall I see you in?"

"No, dear, you'd better Apparate back right away. Teddy'll be worried otherwise."

Andromeda chuckles and pulls Narcissa into a tight embrace. "Good night, little sister. See - see if you can. Can -" Andromeda's fingers touch her cheek, and Narcissa leans into the caress. "It doesn't do any good, bottling up your emotions, you know. Crying does help, even if you - even if you fear you might never stop again."

She wanders aimlessly through the house, lost in thoughts of a blessed past and a precarious future, and finally decides to get herself some reading to set her mind at ease. The light from the corridor streams into the library when she steps in, and she nearly yelps with shock when it falls on two figures that are huddled together on the chaise longue. She stands there for a while, gazing down pensively at them, and then a smile that is both wistful and serene spreads across her face. She fetches a blanket and tucks them in.

Potter shifts in his sleep, causing Draco's hand to slip off his shoulder. Draco stirs and mewls like a kitten, nuzzling his chin against Potter's collarbone, and Potter's hand goes up, grabbing and clutching and holding Draco's, intertwining their fingers so closely that nothing in this world could ever separate them. And Draco gives a contented sigh, and relaxes against Harry.

With a sensation quite resembling relief, Narcissa feels her heart and eyes eventually spill over with tears. She hurries up the flight of stairs, and flings herself on that side of the bed that will now always be made. And she cries.

************

Where evil is darkness and goodness is light
And love is the lightning that cuts through the night
And strikes only once in a dark place in time
And forms a gold stairway that all of us climb.
(Don McLean, Chain Lightning)