Polish

She is alone in the wine parlor when they come. The name of the chamber comes more from the color scheme of the windowless inner room than any other factor, but Narcissa places an almost religious importance on the presence of wine in the room at all times. Tonight, a bottle of deepest red makes a home on the polished counter.

It is late, and she is reading, though the page never turns and she has no idea of what it is trying to tell her. She cannot sleep, and she cannot think, and her eyes won't stay focused on one spot long enough for her to make any sense of the words. She is oddly restless, waiting, perhaps, for something or someone to arrive. This impatience has been overtaking her often these past nights, and more and more frequently she paces alone through the silent corridors of the mansion.

The house is large, but she had never truly appreciated its size until her husband's arrest. Now, all its majesty serves only to increase the cold emptiness that finds an echo inside of her.

It is the smallest house-elf who finds her in the parlor near midnight. She does not know the creature's name; there has never been reason for her to refer to any of them by name. The solicitude of the beasts is disturbing, and she avoids contact with them as much as possible.

Some times, however, avoidance is impossible, and now is one of those times.

"Excuse me, Mistress," the creature in the doorway says in a voice even more high-pitched than would be expected from most of its kind.

She looks up from the pages in front of her, almost glad for the distraction.

"The - the -"

Narcissa is suddenly apprehensive. All the elves know she hates stuttering and unnecessary noise. It is rare for them to have such difficulty speaking around her anymore, and it is obvious that there is something else that frightens this creature more than the threat of Narcissa's wrath.

"The bad men are here, Mistress," the elf tells her, and its voice drops to a terrified whisper. It glances between Narcissa and the open doorway with unconcealed dread. Narcissa, however, lets out the breath she is barely aware of holding.

"Very well," she replies calmly. "Show them in. Bring them here." She gestures imperiously and the elf flees.

Narcissa knows what the Aurors are here for, and really, she is surprised they didn't come sooner. It doesn't matter, of course. Lucius always makes sure anything damaging is hidden. The Aurors haven't found anything truly incriminating before, and they won't find anything now. Narcissa has great faith in Lucius's skill, and his arrest hasn't shaken that faith in the slightest. The Department of Mysteries fiasco can hardly have been his fault.

Secretly, Narcissa blames her sisters. Her sister who escaped, which to Narcissa's mind speaks volumes, and her sister whose daughter was there. Many things in Narcissa's life may be blamed on her sisters, and she has never been hesitant to do so. The Black sisters have never gotten along, even before Andromeda betrayed them and Bellatrix went mad. There has never been any great love between the members of her family, and it is something that Narcissa accepts.

Ignoring the urge to grate her teeth - seething is ugly, and Narcissa is never ugly - she places her book carefully back on the shelf. She doubts she'll ever open it again.

The footsteps of her unwelcome guests in the tiled hall are loud and invasive, and Narcissa frowns resentfully. She hates clamor, and she can only imagine the amount of filth these intruders will bring into her pure house.

The house-elf appears in the doorway, then darts away as the Aurors fill the space. They hesitate there for a moment, and she conceals a sharp spurt of vindictive pleasure at the sight. She hates the Aurors, and their uncertainty and nervousness in this dark house give her great joy.

With impassive majesty, she beckons them in. "Welcome, gentlemen. Please, take a seat. Make yourselves comfortable." This is easy, too easy. She plays the perfect hostess unthinkingly. She has practiced this persona so long now it has become habit. The Aurors sit uneasily in chairs the color of blood, but one -their leader, she assumes - remains upright. She expects nothing else.

She can't remember how many times she's acted out this same drama, but always, it is the same. The same motions.

She rises easily and glides to the long low cabinet against the back wall. On the low counter, the perpetual elegant pail cradles ice and a bottle. "Wine, gentlemen?" she asks, carefully opening the bottle and beginning to pour, though she know they will not accept.

The offering, the pouring, the refusal, it is all part of the intricate dance she has constructed for these sorts of occasion. Each move she makes is a carefully choreographed ritual, and years of practice have freed her mind from the task so all her words may be best considered.

It is almost a game now, for her, to see how perfectly she can perform her little scenes. It is her own secret play, a drama always, and she is the only one who knows the ending. It gives her a private gratification, to know so much more than the arrogant Aurors who come to interrogate her and ransack the house.

The rich red of the wine sparkles in the glass, and she pauses a moment to admire its gem-like clarity. The color and glow are the only parts she likes about wine; Narcissa never drinks. Her nose wrinkles slightly at the sour scent, and she extends her arm further.

"Ah... ma'am..."

There is an edge to the man's voice that makes Narcissa suddenly wary. She turns slowly to face him, fingers still clenched gracefully around the narrow glass stem. The cup holds wine, wine he has not yet refused.

"You... you might want to sit down."

There is still that foreboding edge in his voice, and it takes a frightening amount of effort on her part not to show her inner panic. Her mind flickers wildly, trying to discern what sort of terrible news these Aurors might bring. She concentrates on keeping her breathing normal, reminding herself that this is not the first time one of these meetings has taken this particular turn. They told her to sit down when they came about Lucius's arrest, her disloyal mind reminds her.

She doesn't want to think about that right now. There are so many things the Aurors might believe a fragile woman like herself might find upsetting, and most are not really so terrible. Logically, she knows that their news is very likely perfectly ordinary, but under that calm front she is very near hysteria. All the logic in the world cannot overrule completely the fear his tone strikes through her.

"No, that's all right," she tells him, firmly, calmly, though her hands are trembling slightly and her voice feels as though it should do the same. Coldly, she reminds herself that there are certain circumstances under which imagination is not at all appropriate or helpful.

Meeting his eyes, she has to force herself to keep breathing. He studies her for a moment, then nods. "Very well. I... I don't know how to tell you this, ma'am..."

Her heart jumps painfully in her chest, and the muscles in her throat constrict tightly. Her eyes do not leave his face, but he pulls his gaze away. She can't even take pleasure at his discomfort.

"It's... it's your husband, ma'am." Suddenly, she can't look at him anymore. Her eyes close and she bites down hard on her lip. "He... he was killed. Last night. They broke out. Of Azkaban. And... and he was killed." He rushes through this news, jerkily, and her eyes snap open. For a moment she can only stare at him as he stares at some point on the wall behind her.

Slowly, her free hand rises to cover her mouth, and only the proximity of the counter behind her saves the wineglass. Stiffly, mechanically, she moves to the nearest chair, sinks down into it. Her brain has stopped functioning, and the air around her is thick and impossible to breathe. Dimly, she hears the head Auror saying he's sorry, sees the other figures standing and filing out, but none of it really registers. Nothing is really registering.

Her mind is a dark sucking vortex into which the world is disappearing, because the impossible has happened. In no sane universe could her husband have died, yet somehow he is dead.

She has no doubt as to the truth of the Auror's claim. She knows that if she picks up the newspaper tomorrow morning there it will be in writing. She knows, and yet she cannot believe it. It is impossible, in her world, for Lucius to be gone.

Unthinkingly, she stands and somehow finds herself by the counter again, leaning upon it for much needed support. With a hand that shakes like one twice her age, she picks up the wineglass and takes a single sip, savoring the acrid taste she usually abhors.

She stares in fascination at the way the wine laps at its sheer confining walls. With slow uncharacteristic clumsiness that is nearly purposeful, the glass slides through her hands and hangs in the air. She watches almost curiously as it descends.

The room around her fades away and suddenly she is lightheaded. She forces her eyelids down, and as they close, the spell breaks like an explosion inside of her. There is a sharp crash as the glass hits the floor and her eyes open lazily.

For the first time since the announcement of Lucius's death, she is seeing with perfect clarity. But only for an instant, because then the tears start flowing.

It's not that she misses her husband yet, or even that she's mourning him; the fact of his death is still just that: cold, distant fact, impersonal and impartial. She struggles to identify the emotion pouring in salty rivers from eyes accustomed to a desert clime under all circumstances.

It is loss, a sudden, deep-rooted feeling of unbelonging, but it is more than that. It is nothing specific she is without and misses, merely a general lack of something. It is as though something is gone that she had not even been aware of until it disappeared from under her. To her clouded mind and eyes, the feeling of violent change and inescapable endings is almost visible in the air around her.

And yet, even in this state of shock and near hysteria the habit of elegance has been so far engrained into her that she does not fling herself into one of the chairs or flee down that hall on bare feet as she so desperately wants to.

Instead, she twitches away the glass shards that have landed all around feet. Vaguely, she notices that her shoes are red - the same color as the wine droplets on her bare skin, the same color as the room, the same color as fresh blood.

Or perhaps some of the liquid beads dotting her pale feet and ankles are in fact blood, for there are tiny shards of glass that she is only now beginning to feel embedded in the uncovered sections of her flesh.

She stares downward for a moment, hypnotized by the blurred red haze. Straightening, she blinks forcefully and wipes away any stray tears with a delicate finger. Pulling her back royally straight, she lifts her chin decisively and marches out of the room.

She has letters to write, a memorial to plan - oh, what does she have that would be suitable to wear? - items to dispose of, new dramas to construct. Death is such a bother.

She ignores the hole inside that seems to expand with every step she takes. She pretends that her heart isn't shattering into as many pieces as the wineglass lying on the red parlor floor behind her.

Only the tears glittering on her pale lashes belie her falsity.