Chapter Text

Chapter 32: Narcissa Malfoy

Had the Blacks been smart, there would’ve been a drink limit. But they weren’t and there wasn’t. The helpful little elves kept circling with their ever-delicious sherbet lemon martinis and vintage meads and fire whiskey on the rocks and before the couple knew it, they were so very many drinks into the evening. It wasn’t as though either of them were particularly light drinkers, but there was a difference between drinking to cut the uncomfortableness and drinking to be social; there’s a certain urgency and speed with one, that’s just not quite present with the other.

To their surprise, though not necessarily delight, they were on the receiving end of far-fewer outright recruitment pitches than they’d anticipated. The Death Eaters were far more strategic. Every conversation followed a similar pattern; a number of questions directed to each of them, gauging their perspectives on the state of the world, an acknowledgement of a concern they all shared, and then a compelling, though worrisome, fact pertaining to the concern. They’d follow this up by asking how the Blacks thought it ought to be addressed, and then casually offer their extremely well-articulated thoughts on how the issue could be resolved. It was a depressingly effective tactic that left the Blacks far more worried about their already existing concerns, and far less certain that they alone knew how to tackle them.

Isabella’s article, referred to only by its headline ‘Emptied’, had opened the floodgates. Guest after guest dispelled any notion that the now ratified mandate had truly suffered under the additional scrutiny. If anything, it fueled its creators to push in a manner of different ways. Not only was the push against the Dark Arts increasing, arrests for explicitly ‘practicing the Dark Arts’ had gone up by 30% in the month since the article’s publication. Where Emptied had softened – though notably not diminished – the language around internment, it had taken things further than anyone had anticipated, authorizing Aurors to use lethal force, including all Unforgivables, against suspected Death Eaters. An overstep, certainly, that brought up additional concerns with both of their siblings. But worse still, the term ‘suspected’ gave them an unsettling feeling that conversations, like the one they’d had with the Longbottoms in Godric’s Hollow, could now legally have a far bloodier ending.

And it didn’t stop with the Ministry either, muggle accommodation measures were taking an unusual turn at Hogwarts, as talks about removing apparation points at Platform 9 ¾ were gaining traction, advertised as both a safety measure and as a way to break down pre-school barriers between muggle-borns and wizarding families. Everyone would enter the same way, which at a surface-level wasn’t so egregious, except it then had hundreds of wizards, with varying degrees of familiarity with muggle culture, walking through King’s Cross Station at the same time, multiple times a year. A far greater risk for a significant limitation for a wizard.

It was important to remind themselves that everyone one of these concerns represented the concerns of an individual, not the beliefs of the organization, certainly not stemming from the top. The Dark Lord had no core beliefs, no principles that guided his actions – the end goal was power. And power for the sake of power is nothing if you’re not on top.

But it didn’t make the conversations any easier.

So they kept drinking.

Isabella wanted nothing more than to sprint out to the back gardens; get away from it all, her husband at her side. To debrief, to strategize, to mess around in the gardens for all she cared – she just needed to breath.

But that wouldn’t do. Too many eyes.

So with a grand smile and an arm gracefully in her husband’s, they made a slow lap around the room saying nothing they wanted to say, but greeting everyone. It hadn’t been fruitful, not yet, but the right people were in the room, Isabella could feel it.

“Isabella?” an airy voice called out from behind them.

“Cissy! Hi, hello! Lovely, lovey party,” Isabella said as she turned and saw her host with the strangest expression on her face. “Oh, is something the matter?”

“Can we talk for a minute?”

Sirius didn’t even give her time to think about the request.

“I’ll let you go,” he said diplomatically, “I ought to go find Reg anyway.”

And with a light kiss on the cheek, he abandoned her to his cousin.

“Here, come – let’s chat in here.” Narcissa led her into a rather sunning pale pink powder room and took a seat on a velvet makeup desk chair, turning to face the mirror.

Isabella glanced around the room but there was no other natural place to sit for a conversation, so she brushed aside a thick curtain and balanced against the windowsill as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m supposed to talk to you, you know?” Narcissa made eye contact through the mirror before turning back to her hair.

“In the… in here?”

Her companion cast an annoyed glance.

“What are we to talk about?”

This seemed to make Narcissa all the more annoyed as she pulled another piece of hair forward from her updo.

“I don’t mean to bother you…” Isabella continued, “but I followed you in here. Is -”

“Merlin,” Narcissa cut her off, “I thought if I gave you the privacy we wouldn’t have to do this whole song and dance.”

“I’m afraid don’t know what you mean.”

Narcissa huffed, swirling around in her seat to face her.

“How are you and Sirius?” she began casually with just the slightest brusqueness in her voice.

“We’re good – great, honestly… marriage suits us.”

“You suit each other,” she said with a quick smirk. “You complement each other very, very nicely.”

“That’s very nice of you to say, thank you.”

“I say it selfishly; my life is immeasurably better for it.”

Isabella faltered; this couldn’t possibly be the time to address the elephant in the room.

“Cissy …”

“It’s okay!” Narcissa reassured. “I’m not really looking to dive into ancient history. You should know, though, that I never took offense to the fact that you didn’t want Lucius. He didn’t want you either.”

It was such a quick insult Isabella barely reacted. A few less drinks and she might’ve had a poignant response, but instead she maintained a smile like a fool, an absolute fool. There was no other way to describe placidly smiling at a direct jab.

“And don’t you take that personally either,” Narcissa added, “a poor fit, you both. It would be like me marrying Rodolphus, Bella’s husband. Just a poor match. Though you and Rodolphus I could see, which I suppose makes sense given… well, you know. But you wouldn’t have accepted Rodolphus either, would’ve you?”

“I don’t… well, he’s a bit older?”

“He’s a decade older than you and they’ve been married since you were a firstie, of course. But I don’t mean because of that, and I don’t mean him specifically, either… see,” Narcissa dropped her voice, “I know there were politics involved in your decision.”

The rational for the powder room conversation rapidly revealed itself and it was almost worse than the direction she’d anticipated.

“How do you figure?” Isabella said curtly, fidgeting with the sleeves on her dress.

“You don’t forget that I was a Black before I was a Malfoy, do you?”

“I do not.”

“Good. Then let’s remember I knew your husband before you. And I don’t think you understand – I don’t know how you could understand - what was happening. What he was like. And what he was becoming.”

“He was my year, you know?”

“Yes, but his shortcomings were meaningless to you. And frankly, it wasn’t your job to watch him. I was the only other Black at Hogwarts Sirius’ first year. Just imagine – we’re all waiting in the Great Hall before the Sorting, Sirius’ name is called, and the Slytherin table goes quiet. Everyone around me is nudging me because they know who this is and what comes next. I doubt there was even another table paying attention, because everyone, Isabella, everyone knows where Sirius Orion Black is going. And then?”

“Gryffindor,” Isabella muttered.

“Exactly. First Gryffindor of his year and it still took their House a good, long moment before they started to cheer. And I remember it as if it were yesterday; Sirius just sat there, as still a stone, and then as the cheers begun to erupt from the Gryffindor table, he just… smirks.”

“You can’t hold that against him; how would’ve you reacted?”

“I don’t know? At eleven? I probably would’ve cried! Wouldn’t you have?”

Isabella shrugged, but she knew deep down she would’ve reacted the exact same way as Sirius; she would always prefer to seem overly confidently than remotely vulnerable.

“And there he went – the future Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black – nestling himself into the Gryffindor table.” She paused for a moment, glancing around the powder room as though their privacy was in question, before continuing, “I found him before he even made it to the Gryffindor Tower and I begged him to come talk to Professor Slughorn with me. It seemed so obvious to me at the time that there had been some sort of mistake, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. He shook me off and turned to that Potter boy and rolled his eyes as if I was making something out of nothing! As if what had happened was nothing!”

Isabella sat quietly, working to keep as neutral of an expression as possible. The truth was, she wasn’t sure if she felt it was something. She believed in tradition as much as the next person, and she knew that she, herself, was perfectly suited for Slytherin, as her mother and father had been, and their parents before them. But was it the end of the world if her husband hadn’t been? She wasn’t sure she could much bring herself to care.

“The years that followed only proved my point,” Narcissa continued, as though targeting Isabella’s doubts. “He grew further and further from the family, becoming more and more radical, until one day, he actually left. He was gone. The future head of our House had simply walked out on the family and we were supposed to carry on as though this was – what – par for the course? Of course it wasn’t.”

“But he came back,” Isabella tried to say calmly, but it came across far more like a question.

Narcissa snorted.

“There were those who maintained this – this hope that he would. That he would see the error of his ways and would mature and correct them. And there are those in my family who I wanted to believe when they said for years that they could talk some sense into him. Only I never thought Sirius would give them the chance. They didn’t see him with the Sorting Hat. Sirius was gone the moment that hat gave him the way out and he never, ever intended to look back.

“Only then, he met you. And – seemingly – everything changed. Sirius Orion Black returned in tow with the perfect pureblood wife.”

There was something in the way she said ‘perfect’, over-enunciating the ‘p’ so that it sounded as though she was spitting out the word, that concerned Isabella more than anything else she had said.

“And that… bothers you?”

“I don’t buy a word of it,” Narcissa replied, wielding her tongue like a razorblade while maintaining a level expression. “For all that people want you to be this rescuer, Sirius couldn’t be rescued. He wanted nothing to do with this family, with his name, with pureblood society. But no one asks themselves how on earth Isabella Rosier won him over, do they? Because look at you - he’s headstrong, but he was a 16-year-old boy. Congrats. But Sirius, this volatile Gryffindor who’d spent the better part of six years floundering his reputation and social standing away, won Isabella Rosier over? Over Lucius Malfoy? I’m not trying to be conceded here, but that’s social retardation. But it got me thinking, really, why not Lucius? He’s wealthy, influential, socially upstanding, and you can’t deny he’s quite good looking. So then why downgrade?”

“Well, Cissy, I wouldn’t phrase it like that.” Isabella no longer felt like taking the insult in stride.

“Of course you wouldn’t, not today. You’ve raised Sirius up, haven’t you? But then what’s the real difference between your husband and mine, hmm?”

Isabella waited a moment, mentally urging Cissy to finish the statement before she began what would undoubtedly be an unflattering guessing game.

“I guess they’re wrong about you, you do know when to hold your tongue,” Narcissa laughed. “There’s only one difference that mattered to you. Lucius is a Death Eater and there is nothing in this world that would ever make Sirius consider that path. That is why you made the switch.”

“I don’t -”

“Don’t bother denying it, I’ll never say a word. I tried not to have this conversation in the first place if you recall. But you insisted,” Narcissa said with a completely straight face. “I consider the ending of your engagement to him such a favor to me I feel as though I owe you this. Everyone out there thinks that by you coming tonight we have some greater shot at recruiting you. But we don’t. You knew the kind of person Sirius was from the beginning and you chose him because of it. I think – no, I know love came second. I see the way you two are – disgustingly obsessed with each other.”

Isabella couldn’t seem to pull any words to surface.

“Everyone thinks that you changed Sirius Black, but the reality is, they only think that because they don’t know you. Nobody knows you at all. I don’t even claim to know you; you talk so much, and so loudly, and make your presence so known everyone thinks they know you. But you share nothing.”

Isabella leaned back against the window trying to assess whether that was yet another insult. But before she could determine whether to feel offended or concerned, she was pulled out of her introspection - 

“Keep it that way,” Narcissa said suddenly. “Do you understand me? If I can give you one piece of advice tonight, stay anonymous. The moment anyone out there gets to know the real you, this tower you’ve built will come tumbling down.”

“I’m not trying to be secretive,” Isabella lied. It was all she could muster.

“Does that work on your Gryffindor friends?” Narcissa mocked. “Look, there are a lot of reasons that get floated around for why you haven’t joined. I think what happened to you after you and Lucius ended, and you and Sirius announced your engagement, would be enough of a reason to want nothing to do with this side of the war. But obviously it came before that or we wouldn’t have gone through… that, right? But so then the conclusion reflects rather poorly on you in this company, but again, I don’t know that I'm bothered.”

“So long as I’m making your life easier,” Isabella said, finally finding her footing in the conversation, “it sounds as though you don’t really care. But you’d like for your solution to not become a problem.”

“I knew we could have a frank and honest conversation!” Narcissa smiled. She leaned forward from her velvet chairs and dropped her voice again. “Do you mind if I give you just one more piece of advice?”

“Not at all.”

“I know you and Sirius have been married for just over two years now, and you might be talking about… next steps in the relationship. Don’t. This is not a good time to have a baby.”

Isabella’s body reacted for her. She slipped forward off the lip of the window, slamming her hands into the wood frame to stabilize herself. But before she could even apologize for her embarrassing display of coordination, Cissy scooped up the blame.

“I know, I’m sorry! I’m sure this seems crass and a complete invasion of your privacy, but please, I beg you. Do not have a child right now,” she rubbed her midriff absentmindedly, “it’s not worth it.”

“Is everything okay?” Isabella pried, mentally chastising herself for failing to keep it together when this was likely the most important thing she’d heard all night.

“I don’t know, honestly. I love Draco with every fiber of my being, but I sometimes feel like it was a mistake. We took a hit for it… politically, that is, and I don’t know why.”

Isabella filed that comment away for later.

“If I’m being honest, it doesn’t feel safe. I don’t want to say any more and endanger you.”

“No it’s okay!” Isabella urged on, but it was clear she was done. “Is there anything we can be doing to help?”

“Coming today helped, honestly.” Narcissa smiled. “So just listen to me. Stay unknown and childfree and ride out this, okay? Please?”

“Are you… are you worried? For us?”

“I will always be a Black.” She looked up at Isabella and shook her head to try and downplay her own words, but her eyes told a different story. She couldn’t have been more sincere.

“We’ve been gone for long enough; we should get back.” Narcissa rose from her seat and moved towards the door. “I would say keep this conversation to yourself, but we wouldn’t have had it had I had any doubts about that.”

“Thank you, Cissy, seriously.”

Narcissa snorted as she exited. “Whatever for?”

No sooner had they made it back into the ballroom did Isabella lose her host in the crowd and find herself surrounded by a sea of familiar faces, not a one as friendly or welcome as her husband’s.

There was something so much worse about being surrounded by people she knew but didn’t want to interact with, than people who she didn’t know at all. And the spotlight was certainly still on her, standing alone emphasized it all the more. She wouldn’t overreact but every set of eyes seemed to linger on her a little longer than a casual pass.

She straightened her posture, tussled her hair, and planted an intentionally haughty expression on her face; it wasn’t good, but it was a step up from a maniacal smile that came all too naturally to her in moments like this.

Though Merlin-knows she hardly needed one, another elf passed by with another tray of sherbet lemon martinis and she wasn’t sure she could’ve grabbed a glass faster had it been a competition.

She was beginning to become rather self-conscious about the fact that she had planted in one spot for an unnatural amount of time. So martini in hand, she started walking – no destination in particular, but she had clearly confirmed that her husband was not in her direct vicinity, so moving felt like the only option.

It felt almost crass the way every head seemed to swerve as she passed.

She tried to subtly scan the crowd around her to no avail. Though her husband was by far the most attractive man in attendance, a dark blue cloak wasn’t exactly eye-catching at party like this. And she couldn’t bring herself to really look, there was something utterly embarrassing about looking like she was lost without him, especially with this many eyes on her.

Suddenly, not the right face, but not the wrong face, caught her attention leaving one of the adjacent rooms with a plate of food. She set off on a bee-line for him.

“Reg!” She grabbed his sleeve, pulling her brother-in-law’s attention towards her.

He gave her a look like a cornered animal; clearly, she’d come off slightly too strong.

She softened her grip and her tone. “Where’s Sirius?”

“Uhhh…”

“Didn’t he find you?”

“Uh, yeah. Yes.” His eyes darted away from her, which she found she really rather didn’t like.

“Regulus,” she reverted to her more comfortable harshness, “where is my husband?”

“He’s… I don’t know that you…” Regulus rather unsubtly tried to delay his answer.

Isabella’s grip tightened on his arm.

“Where the fuck is he?!”

“By the entrance, that way.” He nodded towards the grand fireplace.

She followed his gaze and her heart sunk.

There, near the center of the room was Sirius, held in a conversation with the six most dangerous men in the room.

The Inner Circle.

Charlus Avery, to Sirius’ right, was as close to a second in command that could exist under a dictatorship. He had come up at the same time as the late Lestrange and, of course, Arman Greengrass, though no one ever seemed to mention the later.

Abraxas Malfoy stood in almost the same spot Isabella had seen him earlier; it in no way surprised her that the party had moved around him. He was flanked by Oliver Nott, and between the two of them half of the Dark Lord’s political power was on display. Like Avery, they were both the heads of a Sacred family, and both had established themselves as one of the most formidable voices in the Wizengamot. From what Sirius had told her, Malfoy came only second to Arcturus Black on their side of the aisle.

Isabella’s uncle, Emeric Rosier, stood to Sirius’ left. He had been one of the earliest and most critical members to establishing the organization as it stood today, a credit to both his mind and his wand. He was one of the only men in the group that Isabella knew beyond a polite greeting at a party, though knowing her uncle, she doubted he was there to serve as an ally to her husband. If anything, familiarity brought scrutiny in her uncle’s book.

And then there were Antonin Dolohov and Phineas Mulciber, who had joined around the same time as her uncle, years prior to the war. They were loyal and powerful; to the Dark Lord, there were no greater qualities.

Cyrille Lestrange had, of course, rounded out the seven until his untimely death in 1978 at the hands of one Alastor Moody. Isabella didn’t know the details, but the papers claimed it had cost Moody his leg.

If most people in the room had their way, it would’ve cost him his head.

It was said that Lestrange’s death was one of the few losses on that side of the war that the Dark Lord took personally. Whether their extended history had actually made him sentimental, or he simply recognized the hit his side took after the loss of what was almost inarguably his strongest soldier was unknown. But the idea of replacing him...

Isabella spotted Bellatrix as well, not by Sirius, but watching her nonetheless. Rodolphus stood next to his wife, engaged in a conversation with Evan, seemingly unaware of the harshness of Bella’s gaze. Usually, Isabella found that Bellatrix was the type to laugh, to mock whoever she was staring down, but right now there was no hint of humor on her face.

And then there was a camera.

A smarmy looking man, barely taller than an elf, was walking around with a huge camera box dangling around his neck. Based on his attire, along with the fact he was entirely unrecognizable, Isabella assumed he must be a member of the press, brought to the function to remind the wizarding world of the ins and outs of high society. But it wasn’t his presence that perturbed her; it was the fact that he seemed to be in the process of wrangling the men in the Inner Circle in for a picture, her husband dragged along for the ride.

If that picture was taken… if that picture was circulated. Sirius stood in a precarious enough position without photo evidence of any such camaraderie with such members of society – as staged and superficial as it might be. It wouldn’t matter. The public, nor the Order, were really in the discerning mood.

Her body acting before her mind could process the consequences. Discarding the empty martini glass on a nearby table, she tore through the crowd, unwilling to pay heed to the number of shoulder she bumped and heads that turned. Within seconds she was at husbands back just as the flash went off. She grabbed his shoulder and yanked him far harder than she should’ve, and he stumbled back, latching on to her to catch his balance.

Before she could conceive of any rational reason she’d done such a thing, she threw her other arm around his neck slamming her body into his and planted the most obscene and aggressive kiss that she’d ever delivered in front of such a large audience.