Blackgrave Manor

Blackgrave Manor

Chapter 12.

Narcissa stared at Lucius, still screaming. How could he seem so poised, so confident, so cold? She had given her darling baby into Lord Voldemort's hands, had watched his bright blood pour out for some unspeakable ritual . . . Lucius knew about all Voldemort's plans, he knew how his quest for immortality drew everything in, like the freezing black night between the stars-- yet he could still plot and laugh quite unconcernedly. Lucius never flinched, looking into his son's round eyes.

He hadn't noticed Narcissa screaming. He hadn't even turned around.

The stone knife marked gray sigils in the air, dank and solid amid the shining tracery of the spell's beginning. The symbols seemed more substantial than Narcissa herself. She was only a wisp, a voice in a dirty white dress . . .

She had the feather, though. That had to count for something. There were creatures in the world that still felt warmth, that could ask for love and friendship and find it returned sevenfold. There was power there, somewhere.

Narcissa felt soft wings brush her mind, or almost felt them, the way sometimes she sensed thunder far away without ever hearing it. She smelled rain. How strange to think there was any world beyond this colorless house, or even beyond Lucius and his spell.

Lucius was chanting something. His voice grew louder, and his syllables pushed past each other, racing toward completion. Narcissa wished for her wand. She was certain if she had it she could stop Lucius, undo his spell, turn everything ordinary and simple and safe.

The stony sigils moved closer together. They were forming into a cold thick ball, with just a faint shimmer of green fire round the outside. "Facio!" cried Lucius. "I am done!" He slashed his own hand with the knife and held it out, cupped, waiting. The sphere dropped slowly toward his palm.

"Don't!" Narcissa shouted. "I won't let this happen!" She flung herself at Lucius, almost tripping over the white folds of her skirt, waving her hands hopelessly at the sphere. Lucius dropped his knife and grabbed the back of her dress, trying to pull her up, but it was too late. She was falling toward the gray ball, hands outstretched.

"Narcissa, you idiot!" said Lucius. "That thing will eat you!"

Her hand was already touching the sphere. Narcissa knew what would happen. An icy numbness would begin at her fingertips and push, ever colder, toward her heart . . . She shut her eyes, resigned, terrified.

But her hand wasn't freezing. It was burning. Narcissa opened her eyes again and saw the sphere crash through the bedroom window. There was a loud crunch, as if it had hit pavement. Thunder rumbled.

Narcissa stood up straight, pulled away from Lucius, and looked at her hand. The palm had a reddish triangular burn mark, like the point of an iris, or a feather. The storm raven had helped her, after all.

"Well," said Lucius. "That was a disaster. Shall we go home now?"

Narcissa knew she was in shock. She had no idea what anything meant, not any more. "The Dursleys . . ." she said vaguely.

"I feel no responsibility for their broken window-glass. And they won't be back for hours anyway. I am actually capable of arranging some details of my schemes."

"But . . . he . . ." Narcissa waved at Hagrid. He stood forlorn and ice-covered, near the bedroom door.

"Oh, he'll melt in a few hours. Your compassion is touching, darling, but this is really not the time or place to indulge it. Take my arm, and we'll go."

Lucius held his arm out, blithely confident. Narcissa only looked at it. Was this all? After all her fear and the cold nights and everything Lucius had done-- after she had remembered Lord Voldemort-- could they just go home?

"I'm waiting," said Lucius.