Chapter 24: Narcissa Black-Malfoy
April 1999
Yell-o-brik Road, Stonehenge City.
"-and with my husband and future family to support me, I have decided to stop hiding my true identity. I am tired of the deceptions it entailed, though I understand they were for my protection. I can only be grateful to Draco and Lady Malfoy for agreeing to the masquerade."
Under Draco's seemingly tender gaze, Ginny cast a spell on herself. Her blonde hair, neatly pulled into a chignon, unfurled itself from the hairdo and curled in its original, elastic waves. Ginny shot an indescribable look at Draco, who merely nodded, ignoring the mute plea in her eyes: if they went through with this there was no going back, and they both knew it. He watched her attentively, careful to appear to all satisfied but aloof when he felt like his world might disintegrate any moment now. He hadn't felt this anxious since Lord Voldemort had assigned him his first mission, when he had realized that his life and those of his parents were at stake and of little importance to the man who yielded power over them. As the Dark Lord once, she held the meaning of his existence in his hands; that, alone, was enough to justify all his actions.
"I am Ginevra Molly Weasley Malfoy," Ginny enounced placidly as she cast an additional spell on herself. A rich auburn color sprang from her roots into the mass of her hair, framing her tired features with a crown of red curls. "Heir to the Weasley bloodline, consort to Lord Malfoy, and bearer of the heirs to the Malfoy and Weasley bloodlines," she added, employing formulas older than she knew and that had been coldly dictated by Narcissa. "Thank you, and have a good day."
"That will be all," Draco said as he draped a protective arm around Ginny.
She buried her face in his shoulder, hoping to avoid the crackle of the photographers' flashes. A fuzzy noise rose from the crowd assembled in front of the new Ministry as words of surprise turned into questions, hypotheses morphed into conclusions, and gossip flared. Lord and Lady Malfoy ascended the marble steps that lead them back into the shadows of the Ministry, seemingly untouched by the inquiring glances wizards stepping out of the building shot them. They made an oddly beautiful couple, he with his sharp and elegant features that seemed stolen from statues of the Classical era, she with the vivid hair and bulging stomach that appeared to draw the life from her, so pale and tired did she look.
Draco directed his wife toward the room that had been reserved for them. Narcissa and Izha having decided earlier that day to visit an exposition of Pre-Columbian artifacts, Draco had ensured that Ginny would have a place to rest as they waited for the two women. The room was small and soberly decorated, though a wide window and fat armchairs made it more comfortable than appeared at first glance. Ginny stood by the entrance regally, her back so straight one could have placed a ruler against it and found it perfectly aligned. She bore the distant, polite smile that had graced her features ever since her return to Malfoy Manor. Draco, unnerved by it though he would rather have proclaimed himself Harry Potter's number one fan than admitted it, pulled an armchair back for her. Obediently she took her seat, folded her hands on her lap, and stared at the console on the wall opposite of her.
"I'm proud of you," Draco said softly as he placed his hands on her shoulders, and he meant it, for gratitude was not a word of the Malfoy dictionary and therefore found other means to exist.
From the way she flinched, he sensed that she had perceived the truth in his statement. Her shoulders relaxed for an instant, and he thought-perhaps even hoped-that she would turn toward him and ask him why he had said that, what he meant, and how could he be proud of her for doing something she had no choice but to do. But again she sat up and turned her head so that all he could see was her neck and the way her red curls coiled at the nape of it. He felt that Ginny Weasley had never been less herself than she was now, despite the public announcement and the hue of her hair; and while he understood that this was the price to pay for her being now irrevocably bound to him, that rationalization filled him with bitterness.
"Mother and Izha will be here shortly," he added when the silence stretched between them, rich with the emptiness their lives and decisions had allowed them to carve.
Ginny had never known an instant of silence in her years growing up at The Burrow. Hogwarts had taught her the pleasures and the dangers of solitude; Durmstrang had revealed its usefulness, its capacity to help one replenish oneself and plan. The loneliness Ginny now immersed herself in was devoid of emotion, of rationalization, of thoughts whatsoever; it was the mute immobility some butterflies can impose to their limbs, and by which if they stand still long enough, they can merge with their surroundings, and escape alive. All that mattered to Ginny now was just that: her friends had to live; her sons had to live; and so she, too, had to live.
Draco removed his hands from Ginny's tense shoulders, holding back a sigh of fatigue and resignation.
"I have invited Blaise and Shehzin for dinner tomorrow night," he said at last, annoyed at the childish impulses that made him feel he needed to bridge the silence.
She didn't say anything.
"Ginevra…" he murmured in a voice that could have been tinged by warning and tiredness alike.
"That will be lovely, I'm sure," Ginny said primly.
Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her distant politeness.
"Thank you," she added, incapable of refusing herself the pleasure of infusing her recognition with a hint of sarcasm.
She never found out how pleased Draco was by this minuscule sign of mockery because he was not one to betray relief, and because at that moment the doors of the boudoir opened before Narcissa and Izha.
"-notice their command of gold-plating spells?" Izha was saying. "I can't believe we are still unable to reproduce them!"
"I doubt wizards today are interested in such fine elements," Narcissa observed, her countenance changing noticeably as she noticed the back of Ginny's head. "Vulgarity and commonness have invaded our lives with an ease I find rather disturbing."
Draco glared at Narcissa, all the while grateful that Ginny couldn't see his reaction: she needed not know about the fight he and Narcissa had had, during which the elder woman had most vehemently opposed Ginny's return to the Manor. Only the pain of betrayal could account for Narcissa's unexpectedly violent demands, which had ranged from "sending Miss Weasley to Azkaban where she belongs" to "decapitating her and have the house elves burry her body in the park". Draco hadn't seen his mother lose her temper as she had that day since his father's death. He had stood firm, and Narcissa had been expressing her discontentment ever since.
The Malfoy matriarch merely smiled at her son's frown, pursing her lips like a cat that has just managed to drink some milk from its master's cup without getting caught. Izha eyed them all calmly, as always, imbued with an eerie air of knowledge and acceptance. So cautious in her choice of words and mild in her actions that she passed for timid to all the British wizards who had met her, she nonetheless had the capacity to exude a cool wisdom that managed to keep Narcissa's increasingly mercurial temper in check. In this situation, however, it took neither discernment nor sagacity to perceive the explosive state of things.
"I trust you had an enjoyable time, then?" Draco asked politely, daring his mother to push her uncustomary rudeness further. Not one to irk her son when she knew of his tense mood, Narcissa quickly regained the domain of acceptability.
"We did indeed. They had a remarkable collection of artifacts. I haven't seen such a display since the exposition on Japanese witchcraft, back in nineteen ninety two."
"I heard that the one on Babylonian deities was quite appreciable, as well," Izha pointed out.
"Nonsense," Narcissa immediately countered, and she seemed about to engage into an argument when Izha gave her a meaningful look, followed by a glance toward Ginny, whose profile revealed closed eyes and a smooth, if very faint, breathing. Unsure of why she allowed the younger woman to dictate the course of her actions with her subtle hints and sage demeanor, Narcissa nonetheless relented. "Perhaps we should go," she added at last. "Ginevra appears tired."
At the mention of her name, Ginny seemed pulled from her torpor.
"Oh, I'm fine," she said softly.
The glare Narcissa shot her held no complacence, and Draco nodded subtly, acknowledging Izha's suggestion. He offered Ginny his arm. She hesitated before taking it, forgetting the ease with which she had allowed him to protectively hug her, earlier; while her instincts pushed her to accept his marks of concern and perhaps even affection, the memory of what he had done to Dean and what he had promised rarely failed to keep her in line, vis-à-vis Draco but also herself. She managed to keep her emotions at bay, but every hesitation was an additional breath of hope for Draco, whose eyes, predatory and calculating, never left her.
As the four of them exited the room, two men, a little bit taller than Draco and quite bulkier, fell into step with them. Their faces were smooth and exceedingly common, so similar in fact that they could have been twins, without the glaring resemblance twins usually exhibit. Everything about them breathed inconspicuousness, and that made Ginny nervous.
"Who are they?" she whispered, staring straight ahead.
"Body guards," Draco answered smoothly. "With the declaration you just made, it's better if you stayed out of harm's way for a while, and they'll guaranty that."
"You're having me followed?" Ginny hissed. "Isn't my word enough?"
"In other circumstances I'd retort that no, it isn't, but in this case, it isn't your word I'm concerned about. You just revealed that you're the last heir to one of the most ancient pure-blood families and bearing the sons of the handsomest male in all of Great Britain; that's bound to make a good deal of people curious, jealous, if not downright angry."
Narcissa smiled knowingly, not so critical in her judgment of Draco's vanity as Izha, who rolled her eyes and snickered in a rather undignified way.
"You're paranoid," Ginny muttered, although she had to admit he probably had a point.
"Think of Pansy, love," he retorted casually, and felt Ginny tense. It wasn't until he inadvertently added, "Not to mention Aunt Bella," that her face fell and she pulled her hand from where it rested in the crook of his arm.
In front of them, Narcissa, as if sensing a disruption in the atmosphere, stopped and turned around, slowly, her face a carefully composed mask of neutrality. Ginny stepped back, eyes wide with anger, as her memory replayed the night of her family's death and "Aunt Bella"'s unforgivable role in it.
"She didn't-" Narcissa began, but Ginny didn't give her a chance to go on.
"Don't," she said flatly, her entire persona such an embodiment of revulsion that Narcissa was taken aback. "I saw it. Don't even try."
Not for the first time since Lucius had carefully reordered their lives so that they may recover from Voldemort's reign, Narcissa had to face the troubling legacy of war. The certitude with which Ginny uttered these words did not push her to wonder how the younger woman had "seen it", though if the fact that she had been civil to Bellatrix during their earlier interactions was any indication, something had happened during her escape to make her acquire this disturbing new piece of knowledge.
So Narcissa did what she had to do, and, despite her recent aversion for Ginny, neglected to defend her sister. A part of her knew already that Bella had not risen to the highest ranks of Voldemort's followers out of amiability or luck. She had simply chosen not to acknowledge these disconcerting possibilities about her sister's past. Unfortunately, she could not face Ginevra again without having heard from her sister the exact implications of her daughter-in-law's words. She quickly walked away from her startled son, his livid wife, and the ever-impassible Izha.
Draco turned to Ginny and wordlessly beckoned her closer. She once again looped her arm around his but stared straight ahead, chin high and eyes glossed over with tears. They headed for the Apparition gates.
***
Lestrange Estate.
Narcissa tossed her ermine-lined cloak to the house-elf as soon as she set foot into her sister's home. The Lestrange manor was not nearly as impressive nor as refined as the Malfoy one, all heavy stones, protruding beams and thick, wooden doors. It nestled cozily in the dense forest that covered the estate, pulsing with the Dark Magic its inhabitants practiced regularly. Naricssa had never felt more ill at ease than she did that afternoon, as though the shadows and coarseness she had once found outlandish but unthreatening had suddenly turned into the reminiscence of darker events.
"I'm in the parlor," came Bellatrix' rich drawl, magnified by a spell. "And Rufee, bring us tea."
The house-elf scrambled away, leaving Narcissa to direct herself through the manor. The dark corridors were nothing to Malfoy Manor's dimly lit ones, and each step she took resonated against the cold, tiled floor. The four panels of Botticelli's "Tale of Nastagio degli Onesti" (1) lined the walls, infusing the entire walk toward the parlor with an elegant and artistic gore that never failed to sicken Narcissa. She felt a cold sense of dread seeping into her, and acquired the certitude that the visit she was about to make to her sister held more significance than the friendly tea-conversations they usually had.
"Did you know that she was a Weasley?" Bellatrix asked as soon as Narcissa had entered the boudoir, decked in wine-red and gold tapestries.
She was sitting languorously on an ottoman, her heavy, black hair thrown negligently on one shoulder, her hooded eyes calmly taking in her visitor's appearance. Her older sister was the only woman of nearly fifty Narcissa knew who was able to look stunningly appealing and threatening at the same time. There was an air of raw, powerful magnetism about her that had stopped impressing Narcissa a while ago but that, once in a while, still managed to surprise her. Now happened to be one of those moments, an instance that could have proved dramatic had Narcissa not been perfectly accustomed to dealing with Blacks, Malfoys, and the cohorts of their acquaintances and emerging alive.
"Yes, I did," Narcissa answered coolly.
"Come, now, Cissy. I've known you long enough to know when you're lying."
"Is that so?" Narcissa retorted, her smirk matching her sister's. "You forget that you are referring to years when you still took the time to preoccupy yourself whether I was lying or not. Back in the days when you wanted to figure out where Andromeda hid her candy, who I liked, or whether I was truthful to the Dark Lord-but since then? No, it's been a while since you could tell."
Bellatrix frowned regally, in a gesture that was as much a tentative to dissimulate her displeasure as it was an acknowledgement of what her sister had just declared.
"Someone's got her knickers in a bunch, it would appear," she purred.
Narcissa burst out laughing, feeling oddly liberated.
"I've got my knickers in a bunch? Bella, you were still wearing diapers that your knickers were already in a bunch!" Another crystalline laugh rippled through her and she steadied herself against the dark, ebony piano that was one of the most employed outlets of her sister's anger. "No, I'm quite calm and," Narcissa smiled sarcastically, "my knickers are doing well for themselves. There's no particular reason for me to be upset-provided, of course, you believe that I knew my daughter-in-law was none other than Ginevra Weasley."
"And you knew?" Bellatrix asked again, peering inquisitively into Narcissa's eyes.
It was easier for the blonde woman to reiterate her lie once it had already been uttered. Some part of her, some visceral instinct, understood that Bellatrix could not be allowed to learn that Ginevra had had ill motives regarding her son, her family. While she was no longer one of Lord Voldemort's closest lieutenants, she was nonetheless a very, very dangerous witch-perhaps even a bit unhinged at times, if Narcissa did think so herself.
"Yes, Bella, I knew," Narcissa repeated. A small smile graced her lips. "But once I realized that she and Draco were so taken with each other, I figured it would be an acceptable match; she is, after all, from a very respectable family."
At the mention of Ginevra's family, the corner of Bellatrix's eye twitched, reminding Narcissa that she had not come to her sister's home to be interrogated, but to interrogate. And that spasm was too reminiscent of the times when twelve year old Bella came back with a dead kitten in her school-bag to allow Narcissa much room for misinterpretation.
"I thought you had looked for a suitable bride at that marrying agency… Hesperides' Apple, was it?"
Damn her and her memory, Narcissa thought as she saw her sister's eyes narrow in amusement, as though she were a cat playing with her prey.
"I did," Narcissa conceded, and managed not to gloat when her following statement quelled the glint of victory that had sparked in Bellatrix's dark pupils. "But before I had found a suitable match, Draco presented me a friend he had made. A friend from Durmstrang. One he had been exchanging letters with, as per your suggestion, in fact."
Bellatrix tactfully refrained from scowling, although it became obvious that had she known correspondence with a student from the prestigious Durmstrang would lead to her nephew's marriage to a blood-traitor, she would have refrained from making such a suggestion. At last, she gestured for Narcissa to sit down, and the younger woman was pleased to see that she had passed her sister's examination.
"Yes, well," Bellatrix went on, waving the matter off, "I don't always make the best suggestions."
"Nor the best choices," Narcissa pointed out, immediately conjuring the cloud of tension Bellatrix thought she had dispelled.
The house-elf appeared with a tray toppling with sugar-cookies, tea-cups and a teapot.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Bellatrix asked slowly, her voice gone suddenly metallic.
"Well, following this morning's revelation, reporters came up to me and-"
"Narcissa, please," Bellatrix snapped. "I don't care about the who, when, and where. What is it you're trying to say?"
Her posture noticeably more tense than earlier, she now appeared to be not only all ears but about to bare her claws. The house-elf quickly unloaded the tray, looking very much like he was about to die-which, for all he knew, might very well have been a possibility. Bellatrix, attuned to other beings' painful emotions, felt his apprehension, and threw the sugar-pot at him.
"Rufee, get out!" she hissed, and the house-elf gladly complied. Then, turning to Narcissa again, she added, "Now say what you came to say, Narcissa. I'm tired of playing mind games with you."
"And then you tell me I'm lying?" Narcissa smirked. "You love mind-games too much for your own good. This is what got you in that situation in the first place."
"If you're referring to-"
"You know what I'm referring to, Bella, just as you know why I'm here-and that's because people have been asking me questions to which I don't have the answers."
Bellatrix smiled eerily, in a gesture that revealed her sharp canines, and gave her face the haunted look she carried from Azkaban.
"You never bothered to ask these questions, sister dearest. I suppose the truth would have been too troubling for your precious little mind to bear."
"Well I'm asking them now," Narcissa said petulantly, annoyed by her sister's condescendence when it came to matters related to the war-as though her life hadn't been threatened and nearly destroyed by it; as though she hadn't lost a husband and, in some ways, a son to it.
"Indeed. What is it you're asking, Cissy?" Bellatrix asked, leaning forward, her smile more predatory as their dialogue progressed. Narcissa understood that whatever she learned then and there would forever change her relation with her sister. Unfortunately, there was no going back.
"Did you know that they were going to kill the Weasleys?" Narcissa breathed out, unable, unwilling to get any closer to the real question on her first try.
"They? Yes, Narcissa, I knew that they were going to kill the Weasleys."
"Were you a part of that raid?" Narcissa added, able to keep her voice firm despite the implications of the erratic twitching of Bellatrix' eye.
"Yes."
"Did you kill them, Bella?" Narcissa asked, praying fervently for a negative answer although by that point, such an alternative should not even have been conceivable.
"Well, it depends, when you think about it," Bellatrix pointed out, humidifying her lips with her tongue. "I definitely got one of the twins… And I'm pretty sure I got that cow, Molly."
"Oh my God," Narcissa whispered, her mind reeling with the implications of what she know knew for a fact.
"God? No, he's long gone, my dear. Didn't you get the memo?" Bellatrix said, and smiled ferociously.
My sister killed my grandsons' grandmother and uncle. Ginevra's family. Oh, Draco, Draco-if I had known… But I did. There is no getting beyond this, Narcissa understood at last.
***
Malfoy Manor.
A shadow slipped through the dimly lit corridors, heading knowingly through the labyrinth that was the manor, visibly unperturbed by the plethora of doors and intersections. She reached the greenhouse, guided by the wavering light and humid smell that wafted from there at night. She pushed open the glass door and was immediately surrounded by a warm, fragrant moist, one that never failed to appease her when her anxieties made her restless. She had been coming down here a lot, as of late. The pulsing stillness of the vegetation had her willingly captive.
It was when she reached the bench of roses that she noticed something was amiss. The water-spray and clippers she never wielded unless hidden by nighttime were missing. She stilled, listening, and finally perceived it, the murmur that was more than the vegetal shuffle customary to the greenhouse, the murmur that was inherently human. Wearily she headed in that direction, increasingly curious about the snipping sound that arose from behind the curtain of Irate Ivy. As she peaked through to observe the intruder, the ivy emitted a hissing sound and started coiling its tentacles menacingly.
"Be quiet, you'll wake up the other plants," Ginny snapped, and Narcissa was surprised to see the ivy pipe down,
Ginny stood by the working table, wearing over her nightgown the silk kimono Draco had brought back from Japan for her. Despite her resentment toward the mother of her grandchildren, Narcissa allowed herself a small smile for this gesture and then, her face once again arranged in a stern mask, she approached Ginny.
"I had been wondering about the Persephone Orchid's sudden vitality," she said softly, if not kindly.
Ginny jolted and turned around, her expression guarded.
"How often do you come down here?" Narcissa went on conversationally, unaware of why she was speaking to this woman who had poisoned her son's existence and her own.
Ginny was unsure how to respond. Draco's mother didn't look particularly pleased to find her daughter-in-law in the greenhouse, but as she hadn't yet made cutting comment or directed the Irate Ivy to strangle her, Ginny decided to answer, feeling nearly as nervous as she had been during her first days at Malfoy Manor-as though, even though she had no illusions regarding Narcissa's role in her family's tragedy, she couldn't bring herself to hold her completely accountable for it.
"A few times a week, I guess. The babies tend to do their gymnastic at odd hours of the night and it kills my back. I take care of the plants until the boys fall asleep again."
"Have you told Draco?" Narcissa asked, surprising Ginny by her failure to criticize the pregnant witch's over-sensitiveness.
"No," Ginny said, the ghost of a bitter smile on her lips.
"Of course not," Narcissa added, the chill in her voice suddenly more pronounced. Ginny stared at her evenly.
"Of course not. He certainly has more preoccupying things to worry about."
"More preoccupying than the health and well-being of the woman who carries his sons?" Narcissa hissed, her voice filled with venom. "Certainly."
Ginny allowed herself to snort delicately, hoping that the sound of the orchid's clipped branch would cover the incarnation of her derision. She made the mistake of adding, under her breath, "Well-being indeed". And for the first time in her otherwise adventurous existence, Ginny had the unpleasant surprise of seeing Narcissa Malfoy snap.
"You think you're so miserable, cooped up in here amongst people who hate you?" she bit out, each word as cutting as a razor blade. "Do you have any idea-any idea at all-what Draco underwent to be here today, to have your pathetic little self trample over everything he nearly lost his life trying to establish? You think you've had it so hard, losing your family, that you're entitled to your petty little revenge? Imagine if the life of those you mourn so vindictively had been placed in your hands!" Narcissa advanced toward Ginny, radiating a cold, Veela-worthy fury, her expression fierce and murderous. "What would you have done? Do you honestly believe you would have spared us-spared us as mercilessly as you did by coming into Draco's life and breaking havoc because your dignity demanded it?"
Ginny, startled by the remark, could not even bring herself to deny an accusation that she had indeed, at times, addressed herself. But Gryffindors were not ones to trouble themselves with subtleties, and the Weasleys were no exception, sticking to the comfort of black and white rather than delving into the subtleties of different shades of gray.
"I don't understand what you're talking about," Ginny said, looking at the orchid's dark red petals. Narcissa laughed harshly.
"Of course you do! Look at yourself! Right now you're probably searching your memory for things Draco may have said or done that warrant your anger. Don't you understand he had no choice?" Narcissa asked, her voice suddenly shrill.
It was Ginny's turn to laugh, although it felt bitter in her throat and she had to push the words out.
"No choice? No, of course not. He had no choice but to beat up Dean within a few inches of his life, no choice-"
"Dan? The man with who you were staying?" Narcissa interrupted, sounding so genuinely surprised that Ginny could only nod. "Draco showed up at some Muggle-born's house looking for his wife, and before he could utter a word he was being punched in the face. How would you have reacted?"
"Dean didn't-"
"He most certainly did!" Narcissa snorted. "Of course Draco retaliated! As for how that ended, well… Draco has always been a jealous boy. And easily angered. "
"But he didn't have a single bruise!"
"I wouldn't have been nearly as imposing when I then tried to convince you to come home, don't you think?" Draco's cool, but distinctly amused voice emerged from the darkness of the greenhouse. Both women turned toward him.
"What are you doing here?" Ginny asked automatically, her mind still processing Narcissa's revelation and Draco's comment. Home. She had almost called this place "home", once, before.
"Well," he answered, shooting her a winsome smile, "the two women of my life are having a pajama-party in my greenhouse, so I figured I would drop by."
"Pajama?" Narcissa said, as startled as Ginny by the Muggle reference.
"Dean hit you?" Ginny asked.
"He did,"-Draco's grin turned feral-"but then I hit him back. And you don't emerge from a month under Rabastan's tutelage without in-depth knowledge of how to hit back."
Ginny looked at him oddly, a hint of fear sliding in her eyes.
"Rabastan's tutelage?"
Draco shrugged, and Narcissa turned, wide eyed to her son.
"She doesn't know? Perhaps you should tell-"
"No," came Draco's immediate response.
"I'm going to bed," Ginny said, replacing the clippers on the work-table and quickly disappearing behind the curtain of Irate Ivy, without a second glance for the mother and son.
As she headed toward the room she shared with Draco, Ginny felt an immense weariness overwhelming her. Her belly was heavy as she climbed the stairs, and she felt in her back the strain of keeping herself upright. She didn't know what to believe anymore, how to act, what to give in to; stranding straight or bending, ignoring or forgiving-either, at that point, seemed like viable option, but which one to choose?
Back in the greenhouse, Narcissa picked up the clippers and began cutting the remaining dead branches from the orchid. Draco leaned against the trunk of a fruit-tree.
"I don't suppose you've spoken to her, then," Narcissa said after a peaceful silence had settled between them, as inviting to confession as a maternal caress.
"No," Draco said. "She won't listen," he added as an after-thought, and Narcissa turned, shocked by the defeatism she perceived in his voice.
"Why wouldn't she?" she asked, thinking that after the verbal lashing she had just received, the girl had better demonstrate some common-sense in listening to Draco's version of events she understood so little about. Knowing that Draco would be angry if he learned that Narcissa had given Ginny the full [scope] of her thoughts, she refrained from mentioning that incident.
"She is so convinced that I killed her family out of spite, or even hate, that there isn't any possibility of convincing her otherwise. She holds to that certitude like a drowning woman to a reef-"
"-failing to understand that the reef's sharp sides will cut her until the sharks come, called forth the blood."
Draco smirked in a disabused way.
"That's quite a gory metaphor."
"How else would you refer to Bellatrix, Frollo, or even Pansy? The press and common wizards are nothing compared to them and how delightfully they would tear Ginevra to shreds. She needs you to take care of her as fiercely as you took care of yourself during the war," Narcissa sighed, "and of us."
"Mother-"
"Shh," Narcissa said, placing her finger on her son's lips. "You should talk to her. A woman alone in a greenhouse in the middle of the night needs explanations, Draco. Explanations, or a way out. Now good night," she added and patted his cheek.
Draco nodded.
"Good night," he said, and headed for the exit.
He was halfway through the ivy-curtain when a thought struck him.
"But you were alone in the greenhouse, too, weren't you?"
She smiled enigmatically and turned her back to him, signifying in no uncertain terms that their discussion was over. Thoughtful, Draco regained his room, where Ginny had fallen asleep on her side of the bed, curled up around a belly so big Draco yearned to help her carry it.
(1) About Botticelli's "Tale of Nastagio degli Onesti"… It's not as famous as his "Primavera" or "birth of Venus", nor, in my opinion, as elegant. For those of you who don't know of it, or don't feel like Googling it-a more than understandable approach, I wouldn't want to, either-all you need to know (with respect to my story) is that three of the four panels depict a man hunting down a woman, the woman being torn apart by the man's hounds, and the man cutting the woman's heart out. Somehow it's supposed to be a love story because he loved her, she ignored him, he killed himself and she died later on of an unrelated cause; because suicide is a sin and she had been a bitch, they were condemned to replaying this scene every day-namely, the hunting, killing, and tearing the heart out-as their eternal punishment. Moral of the story: "Do not refuse the love that is being offered to you." I just felt that the hunting and ripping fit well with Bellatrix and Rodolphus' personalities.
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