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?!
* 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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