Blackgrave Manor

Blackgrave Manor

Chapter 11.

Narcissa felt herself wrapped in a white down comforter. She could rest, finally, after her long days of wandering. She could float, not feeling her feet, letting the fluffy down support her. Narcissa loved everything. She was a benign and gentle goddess, approving from afar.

Narcissa watched, a soft smile curving her lips, as Lucius removed a round black object and set it upon the Dursley's pillow. He moved his wand in a complicated pattern, and green fire sprang from the tip, tracing bright sigils in the air. Like a forest, Narcissa thought. Sparks brushed against her face, like leaves. There was a forest in the fog, branches appearing and disappearing, everything still and quiet and safe. She could walk forever along the forest path, never hearing an angry voice, never hearing anything except the soft calls of unknown birds . . .

In her dream, Narcissa paused beneath a spreading oak. The fog obscured the topmost branches, making it seem as if the tree never ended. It grew and grew, powerful, still.

The nearest branch was too close somehow. It loomed above Narcissa's head, too dark, too real. It could break, Narcissa thought. Everything could break.

Narcissa willed the branch not to fall. She had to be safe in the mist. That was what it was for, so she could take each moment on its own terms, so she would never have to remember--

Something rustled in the underbrush. Narcissa whirled, her white dress spinning with her.

"Relax, darling,"

said Lucius' voice, infinitely far away. "Only a few more minutes here."

Narcissa saw dark eyes in the undergrowth, dark eyes glinting, and then she heard Hagrid shouting and saw Lucius' twisted smile. They were only ghost sights, ghost sounds, as she fell into her memory.

It had been a church. They had stood in a church. Not a great cathedral by any means, just a chapel, and a forgotten chapel at that. Dust coated the floor, and one of the stained-glass windows had been broken. Paper was pasted over it, but light still seeped around the edges. The light was cold, far colder than it ought to be. Narcissa shivered.

Lord Voldemort stood by the altar. His face was turned away from Narcissa; she saw his cheek, terribly pale, and the dark hair against it. He was waiting for something; perhaps, like Narcissa, he was watching the light.

Narcissa drew her child's head against her shoulder, and shivered again. She still couldn't believe how small and fragile Draco was. Would he ever grow into his name? She looked down at his fine, silvery hair, and hoped that he wouldn't catch cold.

"Give me the child," said Lord Voldemort. His hands rested gently on the altar. Red light spilled across them.

Why couldn't the window full of flames be broken? Narcissa wondered.

"I'm waiting," Lord Voldemort said quietly.

Narcissa hesitated a moment longer-- but, after all, this was why they had come. She held her baby out, warning, "Be careful. He's sleeping."

"I am always careful," said Lord Voldemort. He placed Draco on the altar. Red light soaked into the baby's pure white robes.

It was still cold, thought Narcissa. The flames weren't real.

Lord Voldemort produced a small silver knife, almost a pen-knife. He stared down at Draco, and spoke, still quietly, almost to himself. "So long. I have waited so long. These things come in pairs, you know. Two enemies, two children, sun and shadow, shadow and sun. Substance dies but shadow endures, war ends but anger lasts . . . I have waited a very long time."

The baby shifted, waking. Narcissa tried to speak but could not. She could feel the room freezing, as all the remaining warmth was drawn to Lord Voldemort's words. He barely needed an incantation. He was the power.

Lord Voldemort drew the silver knife across Draco's face.

Narcissa still could not speak. She could only watch, frozen, as Voldemort kneeled beside the altar and bent his head toward Draco.

Not again, Narcissa thought. The people she loved must not be hurt again, she could not-- For a moment she felt her real body, clenched the storm raven's feather in her hand, and then her memory pulled her back.

Lord Voldemort looked up at her. His mouth was covered in blood, and his eyes were the same color red.

"No!" Narcissa screamed. "You can't!"

She was in the Dursley's bedroom once more, in the gray house in the gray room. Lucius had his own knife, made of stone. She was still screaming, "No! Never again!"