I.19. – Heartbroken

He was in agony trying to think of a way of “declaring himself” to her. He was constantly torn between the fear of offending her and shame at his own cowardice; he shed tears of despair and frustrated desire.

GUSTAVE FLAUBERT – Madame Bovary

The summer of 1972 was memorable for many features, like the unusual heat, or the beginning of the comet-like career of the Hobgoblins. The Holyhead Harpies won the Federation Cup after a thrilling season, Harold Marjoribanks became Minister for Magic after the discovery of his predecessor’s slush funds, England missed qualifying for the European Championship in the deciding match against Andorra, and Cygnus Black funded a foundation for the benefit of orphaned children to finance their magical education.

There was much applause for such a charitable act, though mockers claimed he had only done so to distract from the fact that his second daughter had run away and got married to a Muggleborn. In fact, Cygnus had used the money he would have given as her dowry in an act of vindictiveness. He had refused to attend Andromeda’s wedding and had likewise forbidden his wife and other children to go – not that Bellatrix would have been tempted, but Narcissa would have liked to. The plan to go to France on holiday had been cancelled, Narcissa had been locked up for two weeks, but let out again as soon as her mother had recovered.

Another trip was cancelled – Lucius Malfoy did not join his mates Cle and Bertie for their long-planned journey around the world, but stayed in England instead. He took an apartment in London, close to Artemis College, furnished it, and otherwise frittered away his time by playing Quidditch, watching Quidditch and trying hard to keep a constant level of drunkenness at all times. He resumed his old habit of getting off with every pretty witch that crossed his way, and attended every party he possibly could. Any superficial observer would have reckoned that this was just another rich boy having the time of his life, and Lucius did everything to maintain that misconception, although he had never felt more miserable.

He avoided thinking of his future; every time he did think about it, he was nauseated by his prospects. He would study the most boring subjects in the world – Wizard Law and Economics. After finishing College, he would start to work for his unbearable father, sooner or later he’d have to pick a wife to produce the inevitable heir, and the only thing he could hope for was that he’d die a quick, painless death. The sooner, the better.

People think that money matters, they easily assume that very rich people must automatically be very happy, but that, of course, is nonsense. Yes, Lucius Malfoy would never worry how to pay the rent, he could afford every luxury, but did that make him happy? Did he get any true satisfaction out of his family fortune? Certainly not! He could think of only one thing, one person to make him happy, he had been happier with her than ever before. He’d rather talk to Narcissa for five minutes than sleep with any other for a whole night. But he had got the message. He would stay away from her, and if it broke his heart.

Briefly, he had employed himself in starting to write in a diary, which he found preposterous in itself and would never acknowledge to anyone. He gave up that odd habit soon enough anyway, because what good was there in filling pages and pages with his pining and craving and yearning for the one girl that got only more perfect in his mind the more he thought of her? Even her rejection of him set her apart, higher and higher. All those poems he had memorised to please her came back to him; as cheesy as they were, they seemed to describe his depression far better than he could have described it himself.

He wandered through the streets teeming with Muggles, talking, laughing, their tiny tin vehicles puffing, but he hardly noticed them. He settled on the steps of some grand building, a church maybe, or a courthouse, and took out the half-filled diary, every page brimming over with grief over his lost love, and he added some more crap, scribbling in a frenzy.

‘Magna civitas, magna solitude! The City’s voice itself, is soft like solitude’s. Alas! I have nor hope nor health, nor peace within nor calm around, nor that content surpassing wealth… I met a lady in the meads, full beautiful – a fairy’s child, her hair was long, her foot was light, and her eyes were wild… There is a smile of love and there is a smile of deceit and there is a Smile of Smiles in which these two smiles meet. And there is a frown of hate and there is a frown of disdain and there is a Frown of Frowns which you strive to forget in vain. Her lips were red, her looks were free, her locks were yellow as gold. The nightmare life-in-death was she, who thickens man’s blood with cold. Alone, alone, all, all alone, alone on a wide, wide sea! And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony. He went like one that has been stunned and is of sense forlorn. A sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening! Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, goddess excellently bright! Earth let not thy envious shade dare itself to interpose, goddess excellently bright. She walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies; and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, had half impaired the nameless grace which waves in every raven tress, or softly lightens o’er her face; where thoughts serenely sweet express how pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, so soft, so calm, yet eloquent, the smiles that win, the tints that glow, but tell of days in goodness spent, a mind at peace with all below, a heart whose love is innocent!

A grief without a pang, void, dark and drear, a stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, which finds no natural outlet, no relief, in word, or sigh, or tear – Oh Lady! Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given, save to the pure, and in their purest hour… Joy, Lady! Is the spirit and the power… Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud – joy is the sweet voice… There was a time when fancy made me dream of happiness; for hope grew round me, like the twining vine, and fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth, nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. But oh! Each visitation suspends what nature gave me at my birth… Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, reality’s dark dream! What a scream of agony by torture lengthened out… Or lonely house long held the witches’ home… May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, silent as though they watched the sleeping earth! With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice, to her may all things live, from pole to pole, their life the eddying of her living soul! Dear Lady! Friend devoutest of my choice, thus mayest though ever, evermore rejoice!’*

He reread what he had scribbled on the papyrus parchment, and sneered at himself in disdain. ‘Get a grip, you bloody loser,’ he thought, ‘She’d detest you even more if she knew what utter rubbish you’re fabricating for her sake!’ He hurled the booklet onto the street and saw a dozen Muggle cars roll over the costly leather cover. Served the bloody thing right; sentimentality only made things worse! He got up with a groan and trotted down the alley like a somnambulist, miraculously finding his way to the Leaky Cauldron and ordering a bottle of schnapps.

He met loads of new people on his drunken rambles, and one night, he crossed the path of a couple of people that would change everything. He had been out with his old buddies Golly and Crabs; they had been sailing first, seen a troll fight next, and ended up in someone’s apartment with a dozen other guys who had seen the fight, and a whole barrel of Firewhiskey.

One of these chaps was Rabastan Lestrange. He, too, had studied Wizard Law, finished his WASP degree cum laude, and just started to work as a junior Law Wizard in the practise of Yaxley senior. At first, they talked about work and studies, but the more they got drunk, the more interesting it got. Rabastan was interested in the Dark Arts, so were Lucius and the others, and when they had emptied half of the whiskey, they began to perform their favourite curses. Despite some minor injuries – one bloke sustained a deep cut that had to be mended, another couldn’t undo a backfiring spell that had sewed his mouth and eyes shut – they were having lots of fun.

“You’re really good, Malfoy,” Lestrange said appreciatively. “Who taught you?”

“I’m mainly an autodidact. My old man hadn’t got the patience to show me much.”

“That is all the more impressive! You could go far if you received the proper training!” And then he lowered his voice and offered to introduce him to his older brother and some other wizards who practised the Dark Arts together on a whole new level, as he claimed, not only the usual ‘school yard rubbish’. Lucius was delighted. He admired the Dark Arts and had always thought that it was a shame that they had been banned from his own school. Plus it finally gave him something to do, something useful and special, something worthy of his notice.

A few days later, Lestrange fulfilled his promise and introduced Lucius. They met in a deserted building in the outskirts of London. Lestrange was there, his brother and sister-in-law – upon recognising her, Lucius thought to himself that the evening had already paid off, even if it led to nothing else. It was Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black, Narcissa’s oldest sister. Then there were four older wizards who turned out to be Reginald Lestrange, Rabastan’s and Rodolphus’ father, their uncle Robinius, Evan’s father, Mr Rosier, and finally, a tall wizard in a hooded cloak, whose face was hidden.

Rabastan had told him how to behave towards this wizard who was clearly ‘Lord Voldemort’, the leader of the gang. Lucius disapproved of kneeling down for anyone, but he had been too curious to protest, and facing the man now, he thought he understood the instruction. This ‘Lord Voldemort’ – and how had he cackled about that stupid pseudonym! – had an air of eerie menace, the air around him seemed charged with frizzing electricity. So he kneeled down and bowed his head, until an unnaturally high voice ordered him to stand up again.

The wizard stripped off his hood; Lucius had to muster all his self-control not to give a start. And he had thought he was pale! The man’s features were bony, his complexion waxen and odd, and as for his eyes – they had a scarlet tinge and sparkled with a sort of energy that bespoke adamant will and ruthlessness. And once he had performed a few spells, Lucius was lost completely. He wanted to learn this! He’d be glad if he was only half as good as this guy!

At the same time, Narcissa was sitting on her window sill, gazing at the crescent moon. Lately, she had difficulties falling asleep, or sleeping through the night, and she had developed the habit of turning on the music box and listening while watching the night sky. When she couldn’t sleep as a child, her mother had told her to count sheep – it had never worked. Counting stars was much better, making at least her eyes tired from squinting so hard to catch even the faintest glow.

Her mother was getting better each day, though when she had read the Daily Prophet and found a short note on Andy’s wedding, she had sustained a slight setback. Since then, Cygnus Black would get up twenty minutes earlier each morning to search through the papers before he thought them fit to be presented to his wife. Narcissa played for her mother each morning, afternoon and night, whatever she wished, however corny (because the truth was that Amandine’s taste wasn’t very refined, in her daughter’s opinion). Everyone tiptoed around her, trying to read her wishes from her eyes, but incapable of granting her only real wish.

She missed Andromeda, but didn’t dare to acknowledge it. Her little girl was becoming a mother! She had dreamt of being a grandmother, knowing that Bellatrix was a hopeless case and therefore putting all her hopes in Andromeda instead. She had imagined how they would toast on the good news – Andromeda would drink orange juice instead of champagne, of course – how she would accompany her to the midwife, holding her hand and soothing her, dispelling her worries.

And the wedding! Bellatrix had robbed her of her motherly rights of a proper wedding already by refusing to have a great ceremony, and only the bridegroom’s nearest relations and the other four Blacks had been present in the unattractive registry office that stank of ammonia cleaner. Amandine had believed she could throw a huge party for her next daughter, buy some outrageously expensive wedding robes and exquisite underwear, and then, they would have whispered confidentially, and Amandine would have given her some tips for her wedding night, like her own, good mother had done, then…

How could the girl have been so stupid! And lewd! Surely that boy must be to blame, for her little daughter had been a good girl until she had met him, she wouldn’t have got involved in such a way with any boy by her own doing! Pregnant! Pregnant before she had received her graduation roll even! Amandine was no fool; she knew that those things happened all the time, but she had been perfectly sure that none of her daughters could fall like that.

Every day, she made Narcissa promise to have a big wedding one day, and in the evening, she would demand that Narcissa swear never to leave her. The girl merely smiled, not commenting on the inconsistency and uttering whatever her mother wished to hear. She did not wish to excite her mother even in a small way, and therefore avoided any kind of cheek. If she had known about her mother’s true feelings, she could have talked to her and owned that she was feeling the same. She missed Andy. Bella was long gone, they had never been very close to begin with, as their temperaments were too different. Narcissa felt incredibly lonely. Her parents couldn’t replace her sisters, couldn’t replace peers that Narcissa could talk to openly, even if they had always disagreed in the first place.

Also, she had failed to reach her declared aim – the letter with her OWL results had come. Twelve O’s, predictably, but just as predictably… 1218 points. Third-best result ever, since the beginning of the records. But that also meant twenty-seven points less than Muggleborn Tom Riddle. Oh well. She knew it was nonsensical to get aggravated because of this, but it hurt her severely that the only thing she had ever truly set her heart on, her only ambition ever, she had failed to achieve.

And there was yet another thing that bugged her. Bugged her badly… After that awful morning, she had heard nothing else of Lucius Malfoy. She had been pretty harsh with him, all right. But he ought to understand how awfully upset she had been then! His affection couldn’t have been that deep if he was so easily frightened away, right? And this made her pretty mad at herself, for ever believing in his hollow professions in the first place.

She cast a furtive glance at the small flower on her desk, long faded but still there. It was the Angel’s Tear that Lucius had given her for the ball night; Elsy had found it the next day, crumpled on the floor, and unwittingly, had put the flower into a small vase, much to her mistress’ displeasure. But in spite of all her ranting, Narcissa hadn’t disposed of the little bud – in fact, this was the only flower of the many that Lucius had given her in the course of the years that she had actually kept. If someone had asked her why on earth she didn’t throw it away – at least now when it was all dry and dowdy – she would have been unable to give an answer, any answer at all. She hardly allowed herself looking at it, but couldn’t bring herself to get rid of it either.

She hated herself for these thoughts, but she couldn’t help it. All the time, she had images in her head how he was flirting with other girls. These whims disgusted her much more than all his real girlfriends in school had. In her head, he was charming and sweet to some daft cow, as charming and attentive as he had always been with her. His piercing gaze now lingered on another, his beautiful hands touched another, he’d smile at another, make another girl tremble with excitement… The bloody bastard! After all they had – well… After all he had – and all she had – mmh – put into this… But she thought she had got what she deserved, for ever buying into his – his – this utter bullshit. Andy had been right when she said Narcissa was too good for him. But if she was too good, why was she suffering now, and not he?!

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* Magna civitas… Big city, big solitude.

‘The City’s voice…’ – From: Percy Bysshe Shelley, ‘Stanzas’.

‘I met a lady…’ – From: John Keats, ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’.

‘There is a smile…’ – From: William Blake, ‘The Smile’.

‘Her lips were red…’ – From: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘The Rime Of The Ancient Mariner’.

‘Thou fair-haired…’ – From: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘To The Evening Star’.

‘Queen and huntress…’ – From: Ben Jonson, ‘Hymn To Diana’.

‘She walks…’ – From: Lord Byron, ‘She walks in Beauty’.

‘A grief without…’ From: Samuel Taylor Coleridge, ‘Dejection: An Ode’.

*****

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