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Harshness,
cold and deceit
This was written for houses'
birthday, and focuses on two of her (and my) favourite characters in the
fandoms of Harry Potter and Anita Blake: Narcissa Malfoy and Edward.
First, let
me quickly brief those of you who do not know the Anitaverse (for those
of you who do, just skip the next two paragraphs): in this world, the
supernatural has been outted, big time. The US was the first country to
grant vampires civil rights. Everywhere, weres are discriminated against
because of their "infection" (and when I say weres, I don't
just mean werewolves, but also wereleopards, lions, swans, etc - a favourite
of mine? wererats). The supernatural has been turned into a business like
any other.
Now, as for
Edward: lovely Edward is a bounty hunter, and a hell of a good one at
that. He tends to go for monster contracts: he enjoys killing weres and
vamps. He also has a slight personality disorder: one minute, he can be
Ted Forrester, one of his identities and a "good ol' boy" with
a Southern accent, a cowboy hat, a charming smile, and a fiancée
in New Mexico, and the next he will become Death, all emotions utterly
gone from him as he goes in for the kill. Yep, Edward is no choir boy.
And it's not clear at all which one of his personas is most like the true
him.
Harshness,
cold and deceit
for houses
He was never out of his league.
There were, of course, times when he could not be as comfortable as he
wished, usually times when he was in the company of, or when his business
was however remotely connected to, one small necromancer who would hate
to hear him call her small, and who led a life almost as interesting as
his own.
But he was never out of his league.
Even now, with his back pressed to the wall behind which he had taken
cover to reload his Beretta, there was no telltale trickle of sweat down
his spine, no increase in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, no anxious
knot in his lungs, no hesitation in his precise gestures, no flicker in
his dead eyes.
He pushed himself off the wall and fired into the open space left by the
door as he ran to the other side of the frame. Two more men down. Six
to go. He let the bullets fly by, counting to nine before stepping into
the open space to open fire. When he retreated to the cover of the wall
an instant later, he knew he only had two men left to shoot. His contact
was going to learn what it meant to give Ned Woods incomplete information.
Or rather, his contact's acquaintances, since there was very little learning
you could do once permanently dead. He reloaded.
Again, he called forth the mental image of the room's disposition, of
the two remaining men's location, and stepped into the open. He immediately
noted that the superimposition of his mental tracing on reality was not
perfect. His bullets caught the two men between the eyes, but there was
unplanned movement on his left. He spun in time to lodge a third bullet
in the heart of the man who had until then escaped his notice, but not
before he himself was hit.
He did not feel the wound at first; in fact, it took him an instant to
realise that the gunshot he heard likely meant, given the man was a professional,
that he must have been hit. He looked down and there it was, right under
his ribs, the entry point.
His contact might have time to learn not to give him incomplete information
after all. His death would be slow and painful.
When the first hints of pain reached his brain, Edward locked them away
to focus on the present. There were probably more men on their way to
block the exit and he had little ammo left; his only option was to take
another way out. He broke into a run, ignoring the signals of pain his
brain was continually receiving from his stomach, senses alert on his
surroundings. He balled the cloth of his black cotton top over the wound
with his free hand to prevent the dripping blood from leaving an obvious
trail. He strongly disliked being the prey instead of the hunter.
According to the plans of the house he had earlier studied, there should
be a staircase to his right; he ran up the stairs, knowing they were less
likely to look for him on the second floor. Who in their right mind would
go up when chased? But there stood a tall oak in the backyard; he would
climb onto it through a window, and from there down to the ground.
The first door he tried was locked and he moved on to the next one. It
opened onto a child's room. At least some of the information his contact
had given him was correct; Remulus, the owner of the house, was
away on vacation with his family. The room was empty and perfectly tidy,
much more orderly than a child's room should be. He closed the door shut
without a sound and blocked it with a chair.
He barely noticed the drawings that had been taped on the window panes,
suddenly aware of a regular burst of heat pulsing from the object in his
pocket. He did not do robberies, that was what he should have answered,
as had been his first instinct. He was a bounty hunter, not a thief. But
the money had been good, and the idea of stealing from Balthazar Remulus
much too enticing. He might not get to kill anything too challenging,
but the job in itself was a bigger challenge than he had found those past
few months. He had taken the job, and there he was. Trying to open the
window with one hand, he fished in his pocket for the artefact. He had
been told it was neutralised. The things that he had been misinformed
about were starting to grow alarmingly in number. This simply did not
happen to him.
The object was nothing more than a small wooden cube with a symbol on
each face – or that was what it had been when he had disabled the
alarms and taken it out of its vault. The window gave way at last right
as he was staring at the artefact that kept changing shape on his palm,
at an increasing rate. The pace of the heat burst grew accordingly, and
with each throb the heat seemed to spread more into Edward. There was
blood on it, he suddenly noticed, his blood that had run down his stomach
to seep through his pants pocket. He was distantly aware of the sounds
of men's voices in the hallway outside, but his body was taken in by the
expanding warmth and soon enough even his brain was unable to function
beyond registering sensations.
He thought he heard the door slam open right as the heat reached an unbearable
level, seeming to settle down on his stomach wound. His vision grew red
and he blindly reached for purchase with his free hand, which slid down
the window pane, tearing down one of the childish drawings on its way.
Edward lost consciousness as he hit the floor.
Under the confused eyes of the guard that had burst into the bedroom,
he swiftly proceeded to disappear from this plane.
***
Narcissa Malfoy was going over the menu her house elves had planned for
the next dinner party. It had been long since Lucius had last pretended
to care about, or at least notice the efforts she put in preserving their
family image, but more than ever she put great thought into it. Now that
the Dark Lord was back, putting up as respectable a front as possible
was of dire importance. The hint of a frown graced her smooth brow when
she noticed the shrimp that had been planned. It was a well-known fact
that that detestable little man Fudge disliked shrimp. And, detestable
though he might be, Cornelius Fudge happened to be the best kind of Minister
of Magic they could have hoped for: blind and power-hungry.
Narcissa suppressed a sigh as she sharply underlined the shrimp. The elves
would have to be punished, of course, what a tedious chore. She might
just ask Draco to do it; her devious boy did seem to enjoy it immensely.
She hoped he would soon grow out of that phase; Morgan knew that Lucius
never had. Inflicting pain ought to be nothing more than a means to an
end, and not an end in itself.
The rest of the menu seemed satisfactory, if lacking in originality. Narcissa
drew herself up from the armchair she had been settled in and gasped in
shock as a man's form began to appear in the middle of her living room,
lying on his stomach, head turned away from her. The mansion was of course
protected against unwanted Apparitions, but this was obviously not one.
A red haze tasting strongly of a magic foreign to her suffused him as
he gradually took form, then slowly receded.
Wand in hand, Narcissa cautiously and steadily approached the black-clad
body, pursing her lips in disgust when she realised that blood was seeping
into the carpet. She walked around the still body to get a look at his
face. He did not look like much, she noted with dismay. Ordinary features,
rather boyish maybe, under short fair hair. She could not guess at his
age more precisely than to say, in his early thirties perhaps?
He had a piece of paper clutched in his hand and she crouched down, taking
care that her robes did not reach the blood. Could this dying man be a
message for Lucius, from a Deatheater or the Dark Lord himself? She remembered
the odd sensation she had got from the magic that had him appear and admonished
herself for this irrational assumption. She would have recognised their
dark magic from a mile off. This had been different.
She tugged the paper out the man's clutching fingers and frowned as she
unwrinkled it. It seemed to be a child's drawing, that of a big house
with three badly drawn inhabitants, all blond, a man, a woman and a significantly
shorter boy. Above the roof were clumsily written the two words "Malfoy
Mansion" in capital letters.
After a second's shock, Narcissa's lips set into a disdainful line. Draco
was not this short.
She rose, looking down at the bleeding body at her feet. What to do? The
sensible thing would be to Apparate him somewhere else, in some deserted
land far from here, or if she were feeling generous near a Muggle hospital.
As if that were a blessing, a Muggle hospital. She could well imagine
the lack of hygiene of a place overrun with them, bleeding, sick and exhausted.
She looked back down at the drawing in her hand. The child had signed,
Helena, in the bottom right corner. Narcissa could not recall any of their
acquaintance's children going by the name of Helena. The enigma piqued
her curiosity, coupled with the strange taste of the magic that had brought
the man here. Should she let him die, she would never have her answer.
Should Lucius hear of his presence, the result would be the same. Her
husband was increasingly short of temper these days and he would not tolerate
this man's presence in his home.
She would need to act quickly. She folded the drawing neatly and thrust
it in one of her pockets, then crouched again and rolled the body over.
She rid the man of his top, hardly noticing his well-toned chest to focus
on the bleeding wound. She had been told more than once, back in her Hogwarts
days, that she would have made quite a Healer. When looking at the life
she led, she found it rather ironic that she had such a facility at easing
pain and curing people. Oh, she was not a Deatheater herself, she did
not bear his Mark, but she helped the Dark Lord along in her own way.
She was, in every possible manner, Lucius' wife.
She had once had the occasion to put her healing skills to good use, shortly
after the Dark Lord's demise, when Lucius had come back from a Deatheater
raid with a stomach wound not unlike the one this stranger sported. Well,
quite unlike really, she amended when it came upon her that the man's
wound might be Muggle-caused. Hopefully he was not a Muggle himself.
As she cast a first spell to stabilise the man's state and slow the bleeding,
she recalled Lucius' face on that day. It was the day when he had admitted
that the tide had turned. He had hung up his Deatheater mask and Narcissa
had only approved. What good would it have done, to sacrifice themselves
to a dead master that could no longer either hurt them, or offer them
anything? Lucius was still so young then, every bit the man she had been
glad to be promised to. There had been a passion in him that he had still
not forsaken, but in those days the fire in his cold eyes would occasionally
burn for her. As soon as he had been well enough, they had made fierce,
passionate love, which had threatened to put all of her efforts to naught
due to the severity of his not quite healed wound.
After that, the cold had seeped into him more and more every day.
She cast a second spell that ought to have the man's damaged vessels,
muscles and flesh knit back together. It would be a long, tedious process,
and rather painful for him, but she might brew him a painkiller if he
cooperated. She then summoned a stretcher under him and again wrinkled
her nose at the state of the carpet. She sent a summoning spell to Blinky,
a house elf she could be sure of, and patiently waited for it to arrive.
She glanced at the man's frowning, sweaty face and brushed a few damp
strands of hair off his forehead. He was burning up. She cast a cooling
charm and his features grew less tense in a matter of seconds.
"What is it you want Blinky do, mistress?"
"Tend to the carpet, then prepare the guest room. Not a word of it,
or of this man, to anyone."
"Yes, mistress."
Narcissa looked at the small creature wrapped in an old rag for a second,
then headed for the door, stretcher following behind her. She Accio'ed
the Invisibility Cloak she kept in a wooden chest in the attic and waited
patiently for it to get there. She then covered the man with it and headed
for the guest room. She did not meet any elf, but then they had learned
to make themselves discreet whenever one of their masters walked by. They
were well-trained.
Blinky was only just finishing dressing the bed when Narcissa walked in.
The elf drooped its large-eared head down in a small bow and Narcissa
dismissed it with a look. She wrinkled her nose at what she was forced
to do and took the man's shoes off. She transferred him to the bed after
throwing back the covers and noticed while doing so that his other hand
held yet something else. It was no small task to pry his fingers open,
but she finally got her hands on a small cube of reddish wood with some
symbols carved on each face. She examined it for a moment, aware that
it retained a faint aftertaste of the foreign magic, then slipped it into
her pocket and straightened.
She spent a few more seconds studying the man's ordinary features, then
turned on her heels and walked out of the room after setting up a few
warding spells.
***
Silverware clicked against the china plates, the only occasional sounds
to break the silence that had settled over the table for dinner.
"Zabini and I are meeting up with Warrington and Montague tomorrow."
Narcissa smiled absent-mindedly at her son. "Practice?"
"What else?"
The answer got her attention. It was uttered without so much as a hint
of contempt, no underlying haughtiness, only such nonchalance as would
always set off alarm signals in her mind. She arched an elegant eyebrow
at her son. "Indeed, I wonder."
She glanced at Lucius, who was paying them absolutely no heed as he looked
over some letter he had just received. She had trouble recalling the last
time he had talked to Draco of his own volition for something other than
a blame or a sneer.
Narcissa looked back at her son, who was doing his best at looking inconspicuous;
she hoped he would soon learn to better hide his true feelings and thoughts.
"You are spending a lot of time with the Zabini boy."
Draco shrugged, as if on the defensive. "He's good on a broom."
"I don't disapprove. In fact, I think he is a good deal worthier
of being your friend than either Vincent or Gregory."
"The Crabbes and the Goyles are much better families than the Zabinis,"
Lucius cut in imperiously, rolling the parchment he had been reading and
returning his attention to his plate.
Narcissa cut a small piece of venison and put it in her mouth, meeting
her husband's cold grey eyes without a hint of a challenge in hers. Unlike
her son, she had long since mastered the art of not showing her thoughts.
Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle might have Deatheaters for fathers, contrarily
to Blaise Zabini, but she had been quite appalled by Draco's choice of
schoolmates. She could understand what he saw in them; they probably never
questioned him, since they lacked the wits for it, and their muscles could
certainly come in handy. She was simply glad that he would take up the
company of someone who had more of a brain than the two thugs, if only
for Quidditch-related purposes.
Which brought her back to the fact that she was quite certain Quidditch
would not be on the agenda the next day. Her devious boy was so transparent
to her. But she would need to probe him later, when Lucius was not there.
The meal was quickly over. Lucius retired to his study and Draco to his
chambers. Narcissa made for the guest room. She knew she was living dangerously,
and if ever Lucius learnt of the man's presence... She fingered the wooden
cube she had taken from him and that now resided in the pockets of her
well-cut robes. If this were an object of some foreign power, as she suspected,
she could not let this opportunity pass them by. Narcissa Malfoy was very
dedicated to her family.
She walked into the guest room and closed the door behind herself. There
was a moan of pain and she walked to the bedside to find the man thrashing
about, covered in sweat. The cooling charm she had earlier cast should
not have worn off so rapidly. She sat by his side and was about to cast
another one when his eyes shot open and his hand came to grab her wrist.
The eyes – blue, like her own – were burning with pain. His
face was contorted in a mask of agony. His grip was like steel. Then the
eyes seemed to focus on her and, slowly, everything was wiped from them.
Every feeling leaked out into nothingness, and not a hint of pain was
left in either the eyes or the features. Narcissa was so stunned by the
transformation that she sat there, staring. She did not even acknowledge
dropping her wand when he twisted her wrist just so.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice raw with disuse and tone peculiar
in its evenness.
The question brought her back to her senses. She reached for her wand
with her free hand, but before she could get it she found herself lying
on her back on the bed, the bare-chested stranger on top of her, their
faces inches away. He had pinned her hands on each side of her head and
she was powerless to buck him off. He was stronger than he looked and
she respected the fact that he could function through the pain he was
bound to be in. Nothing in his face but the coat of sweat would have hinted
at his condition. She found that her breath had caught in her throat as
tingles travelled down her spine.
"Who are you?" he repeated, and she noticed he had an American
accent.
How distasteful. An American.
She arched an arrogant eyebrow at him, not attempting to suppress the
wry quirk of her lips. "Given you would not be alive if it weren't
for me, I would expect some other form of gratitude."
He stared at her with those empty eyes of his for a second in silence,
then tightened his hold on her wrists. "Who are you, and where am
I?"
"I do not give my name to strangers who are threatening me,"
she replied icily, drawing up all the haughtiness she was capable of despite
her precarious position. "In fact, I begin to suspect I truly should
have let you bleed to death. Kindly let go of me. You are, whether you
will it or not, at my mercy. Your wound needs tending to."
After a few more moments during which Narcissa wondered whether the man
would not simply kill her – she knew from that emptiness in his
eyes that he could be none but a killer – he relented and let go
of her wrists. He got off her and slumped in the bed with his back to
the wall, watching her every move tensely. His lips formed a thin line,
the only sign to betray his pain.
Narcissa made a show of rubbing her sore wrists as she straightened up.
"Who are you?" he repeated yet again.
"I truly feel as if I should be asking that question," she answered
as she got her wand back. "Lie down."
She had a look at his wound after he cautiously complied. The scar was
quite apparent, but nothing quicker could have been expected. She could
not see why he would still be burning up. She put a hand on his sweaty
forehead and allowed herself the smallest of frowns. All the while his
eyes were heavy on her, though she would not pay them any mind.
"Where are my weapons?" he asked at last, changing questions.
"You did not arrive with any," she answered absent-mindedly,
still puzzling over his high temperature. "And even if you had, do
you really think I would give them over? Especially after the treatment
you have just given me."
She prodded at the wound to check on the scarred tissue, making him suck
his stomach in with pain. No sound escaped him. Until a tense, "Are
you a nurse then?"
Again, she mustered up all of her haughtiness to be reflected in the look
she cast him. "I do not need to work for a living. But I have been
tending to you, if such was your question." And again, a slight frown
as her gaze travelled back down his chest to the wound. "You seem
to be reacting well to the charm, I cannot see why your body temperature
is still so high."
A small pause, and then, "The charm?" The voice was even, any
emotion obliterated from it, but the question still stood. Brilliant.
He would be a Muggle. At least he knew of magic, she presumed, given his
manner of entrance. Narcissa suspected he would not be worth the trouble
she was going through. "Where are we?"
"In a guest room at the very same house you suddenly appeared in,"
she answered, "and I would very much like to know how you did that."
The gaze turned speculative for an instant. "So would I." He
looked at her wand. "What's that for?"
"To do magic, of course."
One of his lips' corners raised into an amused smirk. "A magic wand?"
Amusement seeped through his voice only slightly. The smirk went as rapidly
as it had appeared and the voice was as cold as ever: "What next,
broomsticks?"
"I would have thought you knew of the wizarding world, given your
manner of entry into my living room."
Another pause. "The wizarding world." The cold eyes swept over
the room. "Where am I?"
"This is Malfoy Manor. You're in Devon."
"And there's a wizarding world in England."
"All over the world, really," she answered tiredly. "But
England is the only bearable place to live in."
A wild light had come on at the back of his dead eyes. He propped himself
up on his elbows. "Tell me, have vampires been granted civil rights
in the United States?"
She frowned her nose in disgust. "Morgan, I hope not. Surely even
the American Secretary of Magic would not be such a fool."
He brought a hand to his injured side with a small wince, letting his
head fall back down on the pillow. For the first time since he had seen
her, his eyes were shut tight in pain, and she irritatingly found herself
missing the weight of his gaze on her. When he passed out some half a
minute later, Narcissa realised they still had not introduced themselves.
***
When Edward next reached consciousness, he was glad to find that he was
alone in the room. Alone and in the dark, though not dark enough for him
not to quickly get accustomed to it. After a brief argument with himself,
he decided to hell with eventual surveillance and allowed himself to grimace
at the pain that was smarting his side. He had a fever, and from what
the woman had said she could not guess at its cause. He felt the wound
tentatively, surprised again that it would already be scarring.
But then, this was alternative medicine if anything was.
He was as far from home as he could get – whatever home was. He
had been shot. He had been set up, too, he had no doubt about that. Things
would not have gotten so far out of control if he had not been set up.
He had been shot, set up, magically taken to another world altogether
– unless this place and the blond woman were just feverish hallucinations
– not to mention to England, and robbed of what he had himself stolen.
Maybe, just maybe, he ought to admit that – no. The fever was
giving him delirium. This was well within his league. The blond woman
had been a surprise with her cool haughtiness, but surely she would not
be hard to play. Good ol' Ted might not be the best one for that, though.
Maybe – just maybe – she could actually be one for Death himself.
Pain had not prevented Edward from noticing her quick intake of breath
when he had rolled her under him, nor that quick look in her eyes she
had immediately covered up.
She was a lonely, haughty, proud, beautiful woman. Married, too. She was
well within his league.
Edward pushed the pain to the back of his mind and forced himself to function
past the weakness of his body. He sat up slowly. He was left without any
of his most beloved weapons, only the garrotte that was hidden along his
leather belt. He almost smiled when he noticed a glass of water on the
bedside table. Of course, it could well be mixed with a poison or a truth
serum, but he did not see why the woman would simply not have injected
either one to him while he was out. The risks were minimal and he did
need it. He willed his hand to stop trembling as he brought the glass
to his lips, sniffed it suspiciously, then took a tentative sip.
It tasted like water, which did not mean anything.
He drank it carefully so as not to spill a drop, which his parched throat
would not have allowed. He did not feel any stronger, but he forced himself
to stand and, leaning on the bedside table, reached for the window. With
difficulty, he pulled the curtains open. Starlight flooded him. The window,
however, was stuck closed. He would not have had the strength to go anywhere,
in any case. The landscape in front of him was what he expected from the
gardens of an English – manor, had she said? Malfoy Manor. The name
rang vaguely familiar, but he could not pinpoint it.
When he felt his legs would no longer support him, he headed back to bed.
He would rather have searched through the room, but his condition would
not allow it. He was feeling hotter and hotter by the second. His legs
gave under him right as he reached the bed and he only just managed to
fall onto it. He lay on his back and breathed deep, regular breaths, hating
to lose control of his body.
She had said it, he was at her mercy. Good thing he would be able to play
that to his advantage.
Soon enough, a fevered sleep had claimed him yet again.
When he next woke up, it was to feel a wet cloth wiped on his forehead.
It was now day. Her big blue eyes came into focus, shining with discontent.
"My cooling charms have but little effect on you now. I hope you
appreciate the lengths to which I am going, using this Muggle method to
try and bring you some measure of relief."
"Muggle?" he managed, then licked his lips to wet them.
She brought a glass to his lips, supporting his head with her other hand
to allow him to drink. "Non-wizarding folk." She laid his head
back down on the pillow, her gentle gestures contrasting with the disgust
painted across her aristocratic features. Disgust was replaced by mild
irritation as she took up the wet cloth. "I cannot see what to do
to bring the fever down, and am still powerless in finding its cause.
I would be rather annoyed if you were to die now that I have made so much
effort to keep you alive, Muggle."
The emptiness came within him; he welcomed it as he would an old lover.
"Edward."
A raised eyebrow, apparently a trademark of hers. "Narcissa."
"Narcissa," he repeated evenly, maybe stressing the s's a little,
watching her closely.
A flicker of something in her eyes, too brief for him to identify.
"Well. Any thought on how to improve your condition?"
He thought for a moment. The fever was so high it might have been hard
to think clearly, if he had not been himself. The emptiness was a useful
refuge where such things could not touch him, but more than useful it
had become pleasant over the years. An old friend, an old lover. The emptiness
would never fail him, and Death always came victorious. The emptiness
held the madness at bay, too, all the more so when he had to deal with
such concepts as being in another dimension. Anita would probably be jealous
if she ever heard of that story, which she of course never would.
"Might be due to an infection." In another state of mind, he
might have wished he did not have to ask this question. "Did you
take out the bullet?"
The shadow of a frown came to disturb her harmonious, smooth features.
"The bullet?"
"Let me guess, you wizard types don't have guns. Muggle weapons.
The bullet is their projectile, a small leaden ball. I've got one inside
of me right now."
She looked truly, profoundly shocked. "How primitive."
"Only when you're on the receiving end. I tend to avoid that."
She raised an eyebrow as if to question that statement, and he did not
take her up on it given his current condition. "You'll have to open
me up and take it out."
He expected her to show some reluctance but found none in her levelled
gaze. "Very well." There was maybe only a challenge in her blue
eyes as her fingers curled around her wand, and somewhere in the far recesses
of his mind he felt anticipation that he could take her up. "You
might want a painkiller first."
"I'd rather keep my wits about."
She raised questioning eyebrows, but did not comment. She muttered something
under her breath, wand pointed at his wound, and felt her put the wet
cloth in his hands. Immediately he brought it to his mouth and bit on
it, hard, to keep from screaming with pain. A couple of muttered words
later and he saw the bullet float up, covered with his blood. He grabbed
it in his free hand and met her gaze, biting harder than ever into the
cloth. Another incantation and pain was searing his side again. He waited
until he grew accustomed to it, until it could no longer reach him all
through the emptiness, then gradually released his hold on the cloth.
Her tone held some hint of respect. "I have rarely seen such withholding
of pain."
Yes, Narcissa could take Death. Narcissa would fall for Death, if Edward
had his will. She might wear a wedding ring, but so far nothing she had
said or done had identified her as wife to anybody. She was his for the
taking.
He propped himself up on an elbow, eyes empty and tone even. "Some
Muggles aren't as bad as others."
He opened his hand and looked at the bullet, then wiped it clean with
the cloth. Somebody would pay for this. As soon as he got back home, he
would make this his own crusade, starting with his contact Barry. If Barry
proved more resilient to torture than planned – unlikely –
or died before giving him sufficient information, Edward would go to the
one that had offered the job, although he was probably not involved; a
"probably" was not good enough in his line of work. He would
go all the way to Remulus himself if it was needed. Heads would roll.
He heard Narcissa whisper another word and the pain he held at bay vaguely
relented. He looked back at her and inclined his head ever so slightly
forward in a gesture of thanks. One of the corners of her lips lifted
in the hint of a satisfied smile.
"Now that you feel better, if you would care to tell me how you came
to be here..."
He weighed his options, reminded once again that she had been right in
asserting that he was at her mercy. However... "Does your husband
know I'm here?"
She glanced down at her wedding ring before meeting Edward's gaze dead
on. "No. He would most likely kill you before we could learn anything
concerning this." And at this she held up between two fingers the
artefact he had been sent to steal. "I found it in your hand when
you appeared. In your other hand was this drawing."
She let him have the drawing, keeping the cube out of reach. He looked
at it curiously. A child's drawing of Malfoy Manor, or so it said. Helena
– the name of one of Balthazar's kids. The faint memory of drawings
taped to a window; that of grabbing desperately for purchase. The pulse
of the artefact as it spun and morphed. Now he remembered where he knew
the name from.
"Who drew this?"
He looked up at her. Again, weighed his options. "As you might have
guessed, I'm not from around here. This was drawn by a child in my world."
"And this?"
He looked at the cube, then back at her wide eyes. "I don't know."
An expectant pause. He knew everything would be played in the next few
minutes.
She raised an eyebrow again as she slipped the cube back in her pocket.
"In that case, give me one reason why I should not just dispose of
your body."
He let a small measure of amusement penetrate his eyes. Double up or nothing.
"What makes you think you could do it?"
Most people would have answered by listing the things they had going in
their favour, starting with their wand, the fact that he was wounded,
that he did not know anything about this world and that he was at their
place, in enemy territory as it were. Narcissa Malfoy, however, opened
her mouth to answer, then took a good look at his eyes and seemed to think
better of it.
Instead, she asked, "Do I have any other option?"
The game was far from being won yet. "Help me get back home."
"Why would I do that?"
"Saves you the trouble of having to explain me to your husband."
"Again, disposing of you would achieve the same result."
"Given you manage it, and discreetly at that."
"Given I manage it."
Edward let his cold gaze sweep over her body, taking note of the unmistakable
signs of attraction she was showing. Cold though she might like to pretend
she was, her emotions were just as easy to read as anybody else's, simply
on a different level. To Edward, she was no different than a hundred other
wanna-be cold persons he had interacted with. Ruthless, callous, pitiless
they might be, but none could reach the true state of absence of feeling
he knew so intimately. They were all, ultimately, driven by their emotions,
and as such were easy to manipulate.
He steadily looked away at the window, leaving her to collect herself
and wonder whether she had dreamt his look.
"What precautions have you taken against your husband finding out
about me?"
She looked up from her hands to his face, meeting his gaze without any
show of feeling. "I cast a few discreet warding spells. This is not
for you to worry about." She paused, evidently on the verge of saying
something. Edward simply waited. "I will not help you go home. You,
however, will help me find out everything about the cube."
Edward let the shadow of a smile play on his lips, barely existing enough
for her to maybe guess at it and wonder, again, whether she was imagining
things.
Then he nodded.
She raised an eyebrow, nodded back, drew herself up. "I have a dinner
to attend to. I will be back with you later this night. I suggest you
think back on everything you know about the artefact."
"Narcissa," he called her back as she neared the door. She paused,
then turned around to face him. Her look was almost fearful, as fearful
as she would let herself go. "I will need to eat."
"Yes," she acknowledged with a cold smile. "You will."
She walked out.
***
Narcissa tried her best to rationalise keeping Edward alive. She truly
did. She could only spare a few hours a day for him, adding fleeting visits
when she had the opportunity. For once, she resented her own thoroughness
when after only thirty minutes, she had already asked him all the relevant
questions. She then told herself she kept him because he was quite obviously
withholding information – which he was. She would not risk helping
herself to some of Lucius' stack of Veritaserum, which he kept under very
good lock, and finding out what Edward was hiding became her priority.
Fortunately, when that argument threatened to crumble under the weight
of her inability to get anything out of him that he did not wish to share,
she discovered that he was quite learned, for a Muggle. His mastery of
several languages and his sharp analytic mind made him apt to help her
research the Malfoy library for any reference to the artefact in question.
Narcissa was not the most influential Deatheater's wife merely due to
either one of her last names, Black or Malfoy. She was the most influential
Deatheater's wife because she was no fool. In fact, she was much more
down to earth than most wizards she knew, including her husband and the
Dark Lord. They had ideals. They had a vision. She had nothing but her
determination to serve her family's best interests.
However, she had to acknowledge that keeping Edward did nothing for her
family. If anything, it endangered it. Narcissa was not one to take risks.
Keeping this Muggle under Lucius' nose was a great risk. After a few days,
she recognised that, while the artefact did matter and she deemed Edward
helpful, it was not the reason she kept him. This was only an additional
benefit.
She kept him because he was colder than anyone she had ever met, a coldness
that was not so much the contrary of heat as the absence of it. He scared
her. He scared her to the depths of her being in a way no one ever had,
and she cherished the adrenaline rush and the imperceptible shivers he
triggered in her. Paradoxically, Edward's coldness had her admit to herself
how much she missed the heat that Lucius no longer showed her.
Lucius underestimated her, too, which Edward never did. (She was perfectly
aware that she had moved on to comparing the two men, albeit on a peculiar
scale – Edward was a Muggle and had no hope of
rivalling Lucius after all.) In fact, interacting with Edward was like
one big game, the rules of which they were both constantly reinventing.
It was entertaining to hold a conversation with one who both had a sharp
wit and did not think her part of the wallpaper.
On the previous day, she had watched him with amusement when he had asked
her to give him a book that was on the desk across the room from the bed,
as if he were too weak to get it himself. He had never stood in her presence,
but she knew all the same that he could walk perfectly well. He had searched
the whole room a few times already at night.
She consequently watched him with a sardonically raised eyebrow. "Am
I supposed to believe you could not get it yourself?"
That humourless smirk of his, and then he repeated, "Would you Accio
the Chronicles of Celdar for me?"
She did so while holding his gaze steadily, then handed the book to him
without a twitch to her lips. Inside, laughter was bubbling up. Yes, Edward
provided her with entertainment, a thing that her life had come to greatly
lack.
As far as the research was concerned, they had not uncovered much. They
had been unable to find anything resembling the symbols on the cube. As
far as they had been able to conjecture, the artefact had been activated
by Edward's blood, but neither of them was willing to test that theory
until they learned more about the cube. Narcissa had been shocked to learn
that their world was a children's story in his own, and disappointed that
he knew not what was supposedly to become of them. Of course, she could
not be sure he was telling the truth, but his answers pointed to how unfamiliar
he was with the books, beyond their mere premise. What little she could
guess of him did not hint at the contrary; she could hardly picture him
reading those books, should it be for himself or to, Morgan forbid, a
child.
She was, however, rather puzzled as to how a story featuring the Dark
Lord could be intended for children.
The drawing of Malfoy Manor seemed to have given a destination to the
artefact, an apparent gateway between dimensions. Narcissa carefully avoided
thinking about exactly what it meant that she was nothing but a character
in the world he came from; the implications were too dizzying and she
enjoyed the concept of free will. Edward, in any case, was not troubled
by it one way or another; he had pointed out that for all they knew, his
world might be a work of fiction in yet another dimension, or in the Muggle
world of this very dimension for that matter. His sense of self was too
strong to let the idea affect him.
But those were only assumptions on which they were working, and they had
no solid facts about the wooden cube that had brought him here. Narcissa's
head spun with the possibilities it created for one who could master it.
She had forgotten herself and gone on a tirade about it; Edward had watched
her coolly, untouched by her excitation. His imperturbable look had brought
her down immediately.
It was now a week since Edward had appeared in her living room. Blinky
was a Black house elf and completely loyal to Narcissa; it had not mentioned
anything pertaining to Edward to anyone. The latter had proved quite Muggle
indeed, and unable to work past the lock she had put on the door. There
was no reason either Lucius or Draco should enter the guest room. So far,
her secret was safe. But for how much longer?
Beyond this, Narcissa had no doubt at all that she would reveal Edward's
existence, or rather terminate it herself, as soon as she knew all she
wanted about the artefact. He provided her with entertainment, yes, but
entertainment was highly overrated. She was only indulging herself temporarily.
In fact, she was resolved to end this within the next few days. One week,
already, had been too long.
She had felt his gaze on her for a few minutes when he finally spoke,
in that even tone that betrayed absolutely nothing, and which made one
feel it was not because he was a master at dissimulation, but because
there was nothing to betray. "What's his name?"
She looked up at him calmly. His back was propped up against a pillow,
a discarded book open in his lap. "His?"
"Your husband's."
A tendril of irritation closed in on her. "Lucius."
Edward tilted his head ever so slightly to the side, watching her with
empty, dead eyes. She forced herself to hold his gaze, hard as it was
not to glance away. "Does he make you stay here?"
"Nobody makes me do anything," she replied
haughtily.
The shadow of a smile, or just an illusion maybe. "Do you love him?"
She paused, licked her suddenly dry lips, ignored the loud thump of her
heart. Edward was watching her steadily, blue eyes reflecting absolutely
nothing. Then, at last, the admission, a whisper and yet a shout. "Yes..."
And still, no emotion. "Does he love you?"
Her chest felt as if it would burst from too much pressure. Her heart
would implode, her ribcage cave in, her lungs collapse and shrivel. The
horrifying vision of herself lasted but a second, more than enough to
jolt her profoundly. There was a tightness in her throat and she clamped
her hands on the book she held. She could only focus on Edward's eyes
as the question rocked back and forth within her, bumping into her inner
walls painfully. She pressed her lips tightly together, willing herself
to control the pain. She closed her eyes, and when she next opened them
Edward was kneeling on the ground in front of her, his hands to each side
of her on the wide armchair.
His eyes had come alive.
He moved slowly, as one touched by a Tardus Curse. She could have told
him to stop at any moment, which was the most agonising of it all, because
she did not. He paused, his breath blowing gently on her lips. She looked
at him steadily, at the eyes that held such warmth and desire, then closed
her own and pressed her lips on his. The kiss started gently, soon growing
in heat. Lips parted and tongues plunged in. His hands settled on her
waist, gripping the material of her robes, as hers brought him closer
to her by the nape and the shoulder. She felt that she needed to drink
him in and hold him there forever, driven by an urge that was not hers
to command.
His teeth scraped on her bottom lip the way Lucius used to favour and
she melted against him.
The next moment, she had drawn herself up. Despite her sudden gesture,
he was still kneeling at her feet, not unbalanced in the slightest. He
was looking up at her, eyes empty all anew. His lips were swollen just
as she imagined hers were. The ragged breaths she was hearing were hers,
she realised with horror. She thinned her lips to a line. Such emptiness
reflected in those eyes.
The slap rang loudly in the small room.
She walked out with as much hauteur as being a Black and a Malfoy had
taught her.
***
Edward let his head turn with the slap, not feeling the sting any. He
whipped his head back to catch sight of her regal exit from the room.
Such pride. He had not been sure how exactly she would react, only that
he would get his way in either case. What had happened was, by far, the
most sensible and least troublesome option.
He looked down at the wooden cube he had artfully picked from her pocket,
then stood up. Reality was such that he had to take this chance, unless
he wanted to take a bigger risk by remaining at Narcissa's mercy.
He picked up a bit of parchment and a quill, drawing a simplified house
to figure his hideout in New Mexico, some hundred miles from Ted's place.
He scrambled the place's name next to it. Conjectures were all he had
to go on with, something which he never let happen. Things such as this
whole adventure never happened to him; they happened to people like Anita
who had potential, but not yet mastery. He had achieved mastery. He was
supposed to be beyond this stage. And this was the reason why, quite logically,
anyone who was even remotely involved in this matter would pay the price.
Death would make sure of that.
He slid his shoes back on, tied the laces, took his garrotte from his
belt and sliced his palm open by applying enough pressure with the thin
wire. All the while, emptiness and single-minded determination filled
him. His aim was cold and unfeeling; he would go home and deal out punishment,
but not because of a vain, passionate desire for revenge. He would deal
out punishment because such things never happened to him.
He watched the blood rising to the surface along the thin cut, put the
garrotte back in place after wiping it on the sheets, then purposefully
widened the cut so as to heighten the blood flow. When he felt there was
enough, he clutched the hasty drawing in his intact hand and closed the
other one around the wooden cube.
The beat started out slowly, heat already seeping through him with each
pulse. The process was much slower than he remembered it, probably due
to the difference in the blood flow, but the no-longer-cube did pick up
in rhythm. He felt no fear, no apprehension, as the red haze gradually
suffused him.
***
Narcissa stopped a few steps from his door. She was not by any means tempted
to walk back in. He was a filthy Muggle, no matter how smart, cold or
attractive. But beyond this, the true reason was that she loved Lucius
with every piece of her ice queen's heart. She loved him and she loved
their son, her Draco, the fruit of their joining. She loved them more
than she could say, a feeling possibly only heightened by the knowledge
that she could bear no more children after her devious little dragon.
It seemed right, in some way, that perfection should be reached at their
first try; why should she mourn the loss of what could only have been
pale imitations? Their family was perfect.
She composed herself hastily and headed for her room. There, she would
let herself reflect to some length on what had just happened. But not
in the hallways, not where she might run into her precious Draco.
She heard them around the corner, far before they or she reached it.
"It was a decent snog," Draco admitted rather offhandedly. "I've
had better."
Whoever was with him – Narcissa wagered it was the Zabini boy –
chuckled incredulously. Engrossed with the matter of the artefact, she
had quite forgotten to pursue the issue of what her son was truly up to
during those holidays, if not Quidditch. It seemed as if he were only
exploring some of the more pleasurable aspects of life. Pushing her feelings
deeper within herself, Narcissa rounded the corner.
It was the Zabini boy indeed, lips parted as he cut himself short before
replying to Draco. Blaise was not simply smarter, but also much more pleasant
to look at than either Vincent or Gregory were. Narcissa was indeed worried
that he might be prettier than her boy, with those green eyes and the
wavy brown hair that fell just short of his eyes. His face was that of
a choir boy, only she had seen it twisted in the most devious mask. A
true Slytherin.
"Blaise, I did not know you were visiting Draco today," she
greeted him with a short-lived dry smile.
"Mother." Draco was quite unable to hide his dismay. "I
– er –"
Blaise smiled at her, the angelic smile that suited his features so well.
He smoothed the lie in effortlessly, much better at it than his friend.
"Mrs Malfoy, it's a pleasure to see you again. Draco and I were practicing
Quidditch and he suggested we come here for refreshments."
"Of course." She raised an eyebrow at her son. "I do hope
you are familiar enough with flying safely, or should we have a talk on
the matter?"
Draco's cheeks were tinged pink. Her son was blushing. How unbecoming.
"No, thank you, mother."
She simply watched him for a second. "On your way then."
Draco stalked away stiffly, obviously ill-at-ease at being thus found
out by his mother, but Blaise strode naturally, almost leisurely, endeavouring
to engage Draco in an easy conversation. Yes, her Draco could much profit
from this association. She smoothed down her robes mechanically and frowned
when she came upon the noticeable absence of the artefact that had so
filled her thoughts the last week. Heart thudding loud again, she headed
back for the guest room, just short of running.
She opened the door and halted at the sight. Edward looked up at her from
the middle of the red mist, face deprived of any sign of surprise but
eyes maybe not so empty as usual. They seemed to speak of paths not taken
and lives not lived, of regrets that would not be had and remorse that
did not so much as exist. They spoke of so much more and of nothing at
all at the same time. The very nothingness that had so troubled her claimed
them at last.
She rushed forward, the wave of foreign magic washing over her as soon
as she crossed the wards she had put on the room.
He was gone. He had gone.
And with him, the artefact.
***
Narcissa knocked on Draco's door an hour after dinner, once all traces
of Edward's existence had been wiped from the manor, including the childish
drawing. She had to wait a few seconds before he grumbled his assent for
her to walk in. He was standing on the other side of the room, his whole
attitude speaking of defiance. His arms were crossed over his chest and
his features were schooled into the Malfoy look of arrogance. Something
had greatly distressed him, and as ever with him it was obvious.
She allowed herself to frown as she closed the door behind her. "What
is it now, Draco?"
By the time she turned back to him, his look was slightly mollified. He
glanced away, annoyed rather than infuriated. "Nothing."
"You should learn to be a better actor if you want to deserve the
name you bear," she reproached him sharply, walking up to him. She
surveyed the room, glad to find everything in its place, then looked back
at him. "I asked you a question. What is the matter?"
"Nothing," he repeated, setting his jaw.
She raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, stubbornness is another one of our
traits."
"Look, if you're here for the safety talk, don't bother," he
snapped viciously, this short of snarling. "I won't be needing it
anymore. Father says I should spend my time with Crabbe and Goyle. They're
hardly a girl magnet."
Narcissa's surprise did not show. She took the news in placidly, biting
back what she had planned to say about the Zabini boy. "What did
you tell him?"
"I told him to sod off."
For the second time that day, Narcissa found herself slapping someone.
However, this time the slap, and not what had triggered it, hurt.
"He is your father, and you will show him proper respect."
Draco's eyes were disbelieving as he turned back to her, cheek flushing
red where she had hit him. "I thought you liked Blaise!"
She hoped to mirror Edward's coldness. "Your father knows what is
best for you, Draco, and I mean for you to follow his wishes." She
lowered her voice a notch. "What you, or I, think is irrelevant.
You shall make him proud. Do you understand me?"
Draco looked as if he would protest, then composed himself, and nodded.
"Yes."
Narcissa studied him closely. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, mother."
She brushed his hair out of his face, overwhelmed by a sudden softness.
Her fingers lingered on his smooth cheek. "Do not get caught in love's
nets too early, Draco," she whispered, then kissed his forehead.
She turned and walked out, thankful that he had not drawn away from such
an uncharacteristic display of affection.
A surge of emotions was swirling in her bosom. She felt as if she could
do anything. She walked into Lucius' study without knocking, found him
bent over his desk studying some parchment.
"What do you want?" he asked impatiently without even looking
up.
Seeing him quelled everything in her. Where there had been tumult was
suddenly silence, an eerie silence that shook her more than a thousand
endless screams. He was her everything, the why and the how of her existence
ever since she had laid eyes on him some thirty years ago, knowing that
they were promised. A Malfoy and a Black, a powerful alliance; but more
than that, it had been him and her, Lucius and Narcissa, and he had been
just as beautiful as he was now.
Wordlessly she walked around the desk to him. There were no words for
what she felt. Still he had not looked up from the parchment when she
slid her hands around his waist, dropping her head to rest it between
his shoulder blades. She breathed in the scent of him, let him turn around
in her embrace.
"Narcissa?" he asked in a raw whisper.
She did not want to open her eyes. She feared that she had imagined the
edge in his voice, the emotion; she feared that she would have to meet
cold grey eyes and an impatient look. She let his voice exert its magnetic
enthralment on her.
"Lucius," she answered in a whisper of her own, tightening her
hold on him as she raised her head to nuzzle his neck. It was an almost
animal gesture, but she did not linger on the thought as she let her tongue
dart out and lick at his skin, opening all of her senses to him. He still
tasted of dark magic, so dark, so pure, she wanted to bathe in his taste.
She had cleansed herself after being exposed to the foreign magic, but
she was not yet truly cleansed, not in the way that mattered. "Tell
me again..."
Fingers came to her chin, tilted her face towards his. She opened her
eyes and wanted to crawl into him and stay curled there forever at the
sight of his beauty. His grey eyes were clouded over, troubled as they
used to be; there was such deep, raw emotion in his look, distress at
her sight as she felt at his. "You are the moon to my nights, Narcissa."
She let him kiss her and in that kiss she found herself again. Lucius
put out the fire while she drew the curtains open, heartbeat slow and
regular in the quiet before the storm. They made love on the rug, the
room bathed in nothing but moonlight. Each touch, bite, nuzzle, kiss,
stroke, lick, rub marked some fated reunion of two souls that had lost
each other.
That night, she found herself again.
***
Ted Forrester smiled at Becca, his fiancée's daughter. "You
sure you don't mind?"
"Sure. They're not really good anyway."
He smiled and tousled the kid's hair gently, then walked off towards Donna's
bedroom. He settled under the sheet, not bothering to check that his weapons
were accessible since he knew they were. Donna looked at him with a smile
as she noticed the books.
"What are you reading those for? Becca says they suck. Horrible clichés
abound. I'm surprised the were associations didn't get them banned for
discrimination." She ran an absent-minded hand up his arm. "I
didn't figure you for the children's stories type, anyway."
Ted smiled his good-natured smile at her, thinking to himself that she
was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, all softness, warmth and
openness. "I have a hankering for them. Go figure."
"Go figure," she agreed, then pecked him on the lips. "Good
read, then." She shook her head, smiling. "Will you ever stop
surprising me?"
"I hope not."
She kept smiling, so beautiful, then rolled away and reached out to turn
her bedside lamp off. Ted watched her back for a few seconds, revelling
in the feeling of how lucky he was to have her. He dropped a kiss on one
of her shoulder blades, running fingers down her arm, then turned back
to the first book of the series.
Edward turned to the first page, thinking that he would wait for the morning
to initiate the taking-out of everyone involved in this wooden cube business.
The Cube of Drezkan, he had managed to learn from Barry, and it had only
been too easy with that name to learn how to destroy it. Barry was still
alive, knocked out and locked away in one of Edward's hideouts; on the
next day, they would get started on drawing out the list of people Death
would have to deal with. Before that, Edward had one thing to do.
Edward wanted to learn all J.K. Rowling could tell him about the most
beautiful woman he had ever known, all harshness, cold and deceit, with
a vibrant undercurrent of passion. A woman he had not been able to win
over, a woman he would have thought less of if he had. A woman whose love
seemed indomitable and whose loyalties ran deeper than he could reach.
A woman Death might have loved. Harshness, cold and deceit. Passion.
~~ FIN ~~
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