Chapter Text
It had been easy for Narcissa Malfoy at first. So very, very easy. There were things to do, people to testify against mostly. That hadn't won her any friends on either side. Like anything else in life, it all came down to making lists. Except she wasn't planning the party of the season. Written on parchment were dates to appear at the Ministry, not dates for caterers to arrive. She kept little notes on how much and who to donate money to.
But then, things started slowing down. The trials couldn't go on forever, after all.
Lucius kept himself busy as much as he could. He hadn't gotten off completely for his actions in the war. It'd be some time before the Malfoy name was held in esteem again and Lucius certainly wouldn't be the reason why it would be. But he could try to make things a little better for them. That's what he said as they passed each other in the dark halls of Malfoy Manor.
And Draco? Narcissa's heart gave a leap whenever she thought of him. Finish his education, learn how to navigate this new post-war world. Distance himself from his family publicly. That was the plan. He'd thought of it himself. Narcissa, tongue heavy in her mouth, couldn't argue against it.
What had she and her generation done for their children? Brought about another war, that's what. No, she couldn't blame him one bit.
The papers ran columns for months about good being triumphant, the war stories of Potter and his friends, the embarrassing end of the Death Eaters. Rita Skeeter added, whenever she got the chance, that she'd always believed in Potter. They'd had a special connection ever since the Triwizard Tournament. That was the one piece that made Narcissa crack a smile. Rita would never change, had been like that even in her days at Hogwarts. She'd used Bellatrix's name, once, while at school, in an attempt to join some fourth years. In response, Bellatrix had held Rita at wandpoint and told her to never utter her name again.
There were a few reporters who, in sidenotes or right at the end of articles, mentioned Narcissa's so-called heroic change of heart right at the end. Narcissa assumed they were paid by the word and wanted to make as much as they could. Those mentions dried up quickly. Narcissa refused to give interviews and no one, especially those who fought with the Order, wanted to hear anything about it.
It hadn't been brave, in Narcissa's opinion, to lie. It was pure desperation. And anyone who knew her knew that it was done only for Draco, much like the Unbreakable Vow with Snape. That wasn't heroism. Not the kind the papers wanted to talk about. She didn't have the heart for that kind of bravery.
And so the magical world, regrouping and perhaps lighter than it had been, was much the same to Narcissa as it had been when Voldemort was at his strongest, except for the manor being silent and unused by the Death Eaters. She stopped reading the newspaper. She was tired of recycled news, the same accounts of what happened during the war worded slightly differently. She crept through the manor and kept to herself, waiting.
“Do you miss any of it?” she asked Lucius on a weak night. She was a bottle of wine in and aching for a fight.
“No,” Lucius said in the same tone of voice he used when speaking with Ministry officials.
That's where we are now, she thought. Her husband was as guarded around her as he was with the outside world. She couldn't decide if she loved or hated him for it.
Months later, when everything was the same and she'd read all the books she was interested in in the library, she suggested a change.
“Narcissa, what exactly do you think can be different now?” Lucius asked.
“Us,” she replied.
He shook his head and went back to his Daily Prophet.
Though Narcissa tried, it was impossible not to be aware of what was going on outside the walls of Malfoy Manor. Potter and his Weasley friend were working with the Aurors. In a rare letter from Draco, she learned that Professor McGonagall, who she had personally disliked during her own school days, was a good Headmistress. The one bit of news that moved her was that of her sister Andromeda, raising her grandson all alone. Narcissa held fast. She wouldn't contact her. That wouldn't help anyone.
She learned that Lucius muttering about “that detestable Weasley” was just as likely to be about one of the sons, Percy, as it was to be about the patriarch of the family.
She stopped wearing her wedding band and Lucius didn't notice.
She dreamt about Bellatrix and woke up unhappy.
“Lucius,” she said during a rare dinner together, “I can't do this anymore.”
Lucius set down his cutlery and wiped his mouth. “What is it that you can't do anymore?”
“All of this. I want to go away. I want to be alone.”
She couldn't bring herself to say the word divorce. That word had never been part of her personal vocabulary. It was something that happened to other people, not her. Her mother, had she been alive or if her portrait had been in the dining room, would have screamed. Even Bellatrix, so quick to turn her back on certain parts of pureblood etiquette and ideals, would have killed her own husband before bringing up divorce as an option.
“You don't know what you're saying,” said Lucius.
“I do,” she countered. “I mean it. I think it would be better for us both.”
“And Draco?”
She glared at him, rage filling every part of her being. “After everything our family has been through, you will not make me feel guilty by using Draco. He has been the reason I have done everything since the moment he was born.”
Lucius shifted his gaze from her. She couldn't remember the last time he looked away first.
“I mean it, Lucius,” she said quietly. “I mean it more than I've meant anything in the last year.”
Weeks later, Narcissa sat in the library, reading a biography of Calliope the Wretched. The low points in Calliope's life made Narcissa feel a little less alone, while the highs made her almost optimistic. It was a good distraction from her current situation in any case.
She and Lucius were in the middle of discussions of how to go about things. There were a few accounts they had to go through, antiques to divide between them. It had all been very civil, if a little on the quiet side.
For the moment, Narcissa was content to forget about the end of her marriage. Calliope was about to be tried for performing spells on a Muggle farmer's goats in an attempt to run him off his land. Her methods were, of course, terribly unsubtle, but that was part of the charm of Calliope and, Narcissa reminded herself, it had been a different time. Now, that sort of behavior was reserved for a lower sort of person.
The door to the library opened and Lucius stepped in. Unusually, he was home an hour early. It was the first time since their dinner conversation that he had intruded upon her time in the library.
Narcissa set her book down, not bothering to mark her place.
“I brought this,” said Lucius, offering her a roll of parchment. “When it's all done, you can go here for your alone time.”
She ignored the way he said the last two words, like he was mocking her, and gingerly took the parchment from him. It was information for a place called Autrey Island. A getaway for witches and wizards, it advertised. No contact with the outside world. No owl post, no FLOO Network, no apparating. The guest, it said, need not worry about anything. A groundskeeper lived there and could provide any assistance necessary.
“It was highly recommended to me,” continued Lucius. “Since our particular situation will no doubt interest many, you may find it to your liking.”
Narcissa felt her heart flutter in her chest. Though they had been civil with one another, this was above and beyond what she expected from Lucius. It wasn't love that she felt, but a fondness for him. She ran her thumb over the parchment, wondering as she looked at it if maybe this was a sign that after some time they might be friendly again one day. She might like that.
“And you?” she asked.
Lucius tipped his head to one side. “I'm sure I'll find a way to weather the storm.”
The morning Narcissa was set to leave for Autrey Island, she went through her bags one more time. All of her other possessions had been moved to an old manor owned by her family the night before. There was no one to contest her ownership anymore.
It was nostalgia that kept Narcissa at Malfoy Manor her last night. All of her paintings and furniture gone, it was the walls and floors that she wanted to spend one more night with. Lucius had expressed his desire for her to stay away unless invited once she left and she could not be hurt by his request considering the circumstances.
She wandered the darkened halls until late, remembering fond memories. It was those related to Draco that she wanted to relive the most. She peeked into his bedroom, gazing into every corner, trying to burn every detail into her mind. She closed the door only when she was sure she had it memorized.
Narcissa opened up her bag of toiletries. Everything necessary was in there.
She and Lucius had barely spoken at dinner the night before. It might have been better for them both if they'd dined separately. Some things, however, seem like the right thing to do at the time and Narcissa had eaten her entire meal there, thinking that one day she might look back at that night and be glad that she had. Lucius had said a stilted goodbye when he rose, his plate clean, instead of the usual goodnight.
A house elf interrupted Narcissa just as she was finishing taking inventory.
Impatiently, she looked at the clock. She had two minutes until her portkey, a silver teapot, would take her away from Malfoy Manor. That was another thing Lucius had kindly set up for her. It was good timing too. By their estimation, the divorce would go public the next day.
“Yes?” she asked.
The house elf bowed low and presented her with a copy of the Daily Prophet. Without thinking, Narcissa snatched it up. As soon as she had it, the house elf popped out of the room.
“The Prophet goes to Lucius,” she muttered, but began flipping through it anyway. She stopped, mouth agape, at a column she saw.
MALFOY DIVORCE, the headline screamed.
She skimmed the rest of the words, feeling lightheaded, not sure if she was imagining it all. Rumors of infidelity, it claimed in one paragraph. A terrible consequence of war, it said in another. And there, right at the end, a quote from an anonymous source that was most definitely Lucius putting the blame fully on her. Rita Skeeter had written the article.
“That damnable man,” Narcissa seethed, throwing the paper away from herself and grabbing her luggage just in time to touch the portkey.