A Space of Our Own

Most nights, I sit up alone for an hour or so after Lucius has gone to bed. I enjoy the stillness of the drawing room, and the way the rich burgundies and greens fade to shades of grey as the light disappears. I look out into the darkness of the Manor grounds, never seeing anything beyond the manicured trees, never hearing anything but the occasional chink of ice in my glass, and I think of her.

Sometimes I run snapshots through my mind of our adolescent passion. Vivid yet distorted snatches appear unbidden, like the snubby tip of her nose, or her favourite bobbly sweater and it is suddenly hard to remember what she looked like as a whole. But I do recall her warmth, how good it felt to stroke my fingers up and down the side of her belly and cushion the side of my face on the inside of her thigh as we talked.

And she could quite happily rest like that - so unembarrassed, so unconcerned about lying spread eagled in another girl's bed and casually chatting about the Transfiguration homework or the last Quidditch match. Until she got cold that is, when she would pull me up to eye level in that brisk way and smile like...like....well, only like Molly, really. It was always so pleasant and unencumbered with worry for her. We were Molly and Narcissa, we loved each other, and it was as simple as that.

Merlin - Transfiguration. And that bloody lecherous pervert Dumbledore, who she would not hear a word against. Not that I have anyone but myself to blame of course, one can hide these things, and we should have done just that. I cringe to think about it now, the way that doddery old fool revelled in being included in our little game. I hear he's still at it too, always smiling down beatifically at everyone, playing the favourite uncle, like he's any different from any other red-blooded wizard. Oh, I know better now, and my own naivety sickens me. I cannot bear to contemplate what he must have thought when he looked at us, at her. She always said I was paranoid of course, but I doubt it. No matter. Lucius will deal with him one day. Lucius is nothing if not good at his job.

I stretch my neck and sigh for a time when I thought no one would dare marginalize me. When no one would doubt the purity and intensity of my feelings. Where I did not know the complete acceptance of me and my "quirks" was based soley on my family connections and my own willingness to play the role I was assigned: elegant, cultured and demure. Often I wonder what she would make of the things I see, or I imagine her responding to things I hear, and the ghost of her presence is a comfort until our time in the evening together.

For that is what this is. After she met Arthur and it was made clear to me that "loving" Molly was not the slightest barrier to a good marriage, ("You know, Narcissa," my father said at the time "your grandmother was never a great one for the chaps, but it didn't stop her having five very successful marriages"), I had no choice but to make her my little secret. Besides, I betrayed us both as teenagers, and so the least I can do is ensure her memory is not violated. So I carry on with my life as I have to, and indeed as I want to, but every day I set aside a little time to think of her. I am blessed with a beautiful home, a husband who treats me well and a wonderful son, but there is space for them all in my heart. Forever, if need be.