Cold Smoke

Once upon a time, there was a woman with hair that shone like starlight and eyes that shimmered like gems. She didn't believe herself to be a particularly extraordinary specimen; her greatest feat was her ability to protect her family. A Slytherin by heart and a mother by nature, she had garnered the skills necessary to defend her home and those who were a part of it. But it hadn't been enough-it was never enough in times of war. She could still remember the day the Wizengamot had come to steal him away from her; could still recall in vivid detail how her body had trembled and her chest had deflated as the love of her life was forcibly handcuffed and restrained. There had been something in his eyes that day-something that wasn't the cold and calculating stares she had grown to expect from her husband. It was very miniscule; something that only she would ever be able to perceive. It was fear-a state of panic that shone in the silver depths of his eyes. The eyes that her son had inherited from him-the eyes that would study her carefully in times of silence and communicate to her what his lips could not. She had grown to recognize the hidden language her husband shared with her; he communicated with his eyes. And as the Ministry's officials carted him away and out of her life, his fear was mimicked on her own face. But there was something more powerful there, too-an underlying emotion that overwhelmed her.

Determination.

It was only ever in her most vulnerable and relaxed state of being that Narcissa Malfoy would admit to herself just how severely the Second Wizarding War had ravaged and destroyed the very fabric of her being. Though her husband had been removed from Azkaban, she didn't know how long his freedom would reign for. She was terrified for him, truth be told; terrified that the newly-appointed Minister of Magic would be a merciless and cruel being. That he would destroy her family just as Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic had collectively tried to do in the past. They could handle no more wear and tear-that much she knew with absolute certainty. But she refused to admit her pain to anyone, much less the man she slept next to night after night. So instead...she dreams. Always the same dream, with little to no differences each time she slumbered.

She could never remember much about how her dreams started-one moment there would be darkness, and in the next...a sense of awareness. An awareness of the obstacles that faced her.

There was usually a tunnel-that much she could always recall with supreme clarity. She never knew if the tunnel was a figment of her imagination or based off a fragile memory that her mind had selected to hold onto; half the time she wondered if it even mattered. The tunnel was always dark-it stretched on into oblivion for Salazar only knew how long. She would sometimes fantasize about how long the path's stretch would be, but never came to any solid conclusions. And yet there was always a pull-something about the tunnel that both mystified and excited her. Sometimes she'd begin to trek down the channel, holding her arms out and groping through the thick blanket of black that obscured her vision and suffocated her senses. She would hope-pray, even-for something that would indicate she was safe; a marker or a landmark that would signal life within the walls of the passageway. Something that would lead her to safety-to the light that she knew had to be lurking somewhere down the road. But she never felt anything other than the crusty dirt beneath her feet; nothing that helped her or harmed her.

Just darkness. Always darkness.

Some nights she would wake up just as the tunnel was assembling before her eyes. It was almost like a fog had lifted and she was permitted to peer through the cold smoke that clouded her vision. Other times, the smog would cause her to choke and gasp for breath; she'd collapse to her knees and dig her fingers into the stale Earth until her esophagus was clogged and she had fallen victim to asphyxiation. No matter what she tried to do, Narcissa Malfoy was always trapped; in her subconscious, in her dreams, in her mind.

Even in her life.

It was only ever when the mirage of her dream self was choking on the bitterness of her own captivity that Narcissa would allow that raw, familiar sense of being to spread through her person. It tingled in her fingertips and blossomed in her abdomen, and it was only ever when she'd awoken in her bed-gasping for breath and clawing at her bed sheets-that the aging Witch would acknowledge the connection between her dreams and her current station in life.

Her loneliness.

Her husband never knew how to offer words of comfort; he often struggled to string words of solace together in the dead of night. Though they were cloaked by the darkness and vulnerability that surrounded them, Narcissa understood that murmuring words of comfort and expressing complex emotions would never come easy to him-Lucius was a damaged, hardened man. His father had toughened him as a boy, and the wars had turned him to stone. He was colder now; frozen to the touch and covered in a thick sheathe of ice. She knew that he was protecting himself, but...he was pushing her away in the process. He was pushing everything away-the life they'd built together, his relationship with their only child, and even the connection with the man he'd once been. She was appreciative of his efforts in consoling her troublesome thoughts, of course, but it just...wasn't the same. Something had changed within Lucius-something that felt foreign whenever he wrapped his arms around her or kissed her brow. Something that terrified her; something that estranged her.

He was...he was different. And she was petrified of losing him-she had already lost so much.

And sometimes, for very brief moments, Narcissa could tell that Lucius was struggling to tell her something. It was in the way his lips trembled and his nostrils flared; it's a trait she's recognized in him and seen reflected in their son. It spoke of years of pent-up emotions and compressed emotional desires-it illustrated a man who had difficulty illustrating the ideas he created and constructed in his mind.

On some days, she swore he was trying to apologize to her.

She just didn't know what for.

Her eldest sister had been dead for two months. It was a heavy loss to bear, despite how manic her sister had become in the years she spent devoted to the Dark Lord. Losing Bellatrix meant losing what was left of the family she grew up with-she'd lost Andromeda years and years ago to a Mudblood, and her parents were long since gone and buried. By the time the Battle of Hogwarts had concluded and Narcissa had located her sister's mangled body, she knew that it was far too late. Bellatrix was gone, and Narcissa was left to deal with the repercussions of her sister's departure from Earth.

The grief gnawed at her-it destroyed who she was and resurrected who she knew she must become. And while she prayed and thanked Merlin every day that the war hadn't stolen her husband and son away, she knew that her life would never be the same; that peace would never come to her. Burying Bellatrix had been a somber affair, and for as much pain and grief as she felt, Narcissa knew that she had to rise above the turbulent waves of anguish; she had to bury her heartache with her sister's bones. It was no longer a desire, but rather a necessity-smothering her grief was the only way she could emerge past the depressive state that was eating away at her frail frame. Bellatrix's memory would remain embedded into the recesses of her mind-Narcissa had known this long ago. And as she pressed a kiss to her sister's cold tomb and brushed her fingers against the warm Earth once more before rising, she knew that she could never truly leave her family behind.

Not when they had become so fundamental to who she was. To her very core and being.

She wanted to scream; to shout and beg for the rebirth of her family that had long since been dead. The most ancient and noble House of Black meant nothing now-not when everyone in it had been churned to ash beneath her feet. She wanted to claw at the Earth and bury her face against the ground that was covered in dirt and grass-she longed for the days of completion that she felt as a child. She ached for days of childhood where her concerns extended to what fabric her mother would use to purchase her dress robes with-days where she listened to her two elder sisters bicker and then make up with fits of giggles and whispers about their extended family. She ached for the days that would never come and prayed for the peace that would never reach her heart. And for as much pain as she put herself through, Narcissa bore her agony in silence; it was what was required. Now, when her life was hanging together by a single thread, her silence was the only thing left to keep her alive. To keep what remained of her family alive.

So she washed away her tears and hid her face away from the rest of the world-she wore a mask that she could never take off for the sake of protecting her husband and son. It was dangerous to show grief for a side that lost the Second Wizarding War-Narcissa isn't foolish. She never had been. She knew she wasn't a savior to the Wizarding World for helping to liberate their precious Harry Potter from death. The Wizengamot acknowledges her as an accomplice to murder-as the wife of a racist who stayed silent for far too long. She knew-deep down-that the lack of a Dark Mark on her forearm was the only thing that protected her state of freedom. But it didn't ease her thoughts or soothe her troubled conscience-she knew what her worth was to society. She knew that, to them, her freedom has lasted far too long.

She recognized herself as everything the Wizarding World was terrified to let loose.

"The newly-appointed Minister of Magic has called on me today," He told her one evening. His voice was somber as he lazily flipped through the latest edition of The Daily Prophet she'd laid before him, and Narcissa could tell instantly that he was struggling to hide the severity of the situation from her. He was terrified, and she knew this-his concern was etched onto the worn lines that framed his face; in the dark circles that lingered under his eyes and the frown that his lips had seemed to twist themselves into permanently. She knew him better than anyone else, Narcissa did-she could sense his fear as though it was her own.

For argument's sake, it might as well have been.

"And?" She asked, breathless. Time seemed to stand still, and all Narcissa could hear was the pulsating drum, drum, drum of her heartbeat in her ears. It was a thunderous echo that pounded through her dainty frame, and try as she might to school her features, Narcissa couldn't deny that the anticipation was enough to make her weak in the knees.

"He's arranged the date of my trial," He whispered, cold grey eyes vacant as they scanned the newspaper before him.

"...When is it, Lucius?"

"Next week," He finished. His words rung hollow and dead in her ears.

"Next week?" She repeated once she'd found the strength to speak, still rather incredulous about the entire affair. "Draco's trial isn't until August. Why now? Why so soon?"

"I think you know why, Narcissa," He answered gruffly, thumbing through his copy of the paper.

She did, but she was too petrified to admit it. Even to herself. It would solidify everything; it would make the monsters under her bed and the demons clouding her thoughts seem more real.

It would shatter the illusion she'd shrouded herself in that everything would be fine and that life would move on. So she looked at Lucius as his hands shook and his eyes glossed over, and she did the only thing she could think of-she placed her hand on top of one of his.

"Everything's going to be okay," She whispered, but even she knew that wasn't true.

It was the night before Lucius' trial, and Narcissa could tell that his emotional state was slowly deteriorating. It felt as though he was ebbing away, bit by bit, and as ardently as she struggled to alleviate his pain and murmur words of comfort that would lift the agony from his bones, her efforts were in vain. He was too far gone for her to cure, and she'd been foolish to think that anything she could have said or done would change the way he felt-about the trial, about life after the war, and even about himself.

Lucius Malfoy was a broken man, and this time, Narcissa couldn't fix him.

"Narcissa?" He rasped late into the night. She paused, a book perched in her lap, and hesitantly turned to face the man she'd been married to for so long. She studied him warily, as though he might fall apart at the seams at any moment. Her lips were pressed into a thin line and her eyes were glancing him up and down anxiously-she did this for several moments before finally deigning to speak.

"What is it, Lucius?"

"Whatever happens..." He began, his voice thick. "Just remember that...I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" She probed, her heart hammering in her chest. His weary gaze met her own, and in that moment he wasn't Lucius Malfoy the Proud and Impressive. He was Lucius Malfoy the Stubborn and Torn; he was Lucius Malfoy the boy-the Lucius she'd fallen in love with so many years ago.

For that brief and shining moment he was hers again, and he was everything she'd needed without even realizing it in the first place.

"For everything," He stated finally, and as quick as lightning, the expression she'd craved for ages disappeared.

He was gone.

She'd brewed too much coffee; it had been a mistake, admittedly, but it left her kitchen with a strong and bitter odor that was repugnant to inhale. She'd wanted Lucius to rejuvenate himself with a nice cup of coffee in the morning before his trial, but in her nervous state she'd magically enhanced the brewing charm by too much. Sighing, she glanced down into the black and bubbling goop that was her failed attempt at a nice hot beverage, dumping it down the drain with fingers that trembled. She'd locked herself in the kitchen the moment dawn began to creep over the horizon; she'd needed some time to herself. But now, as she waved her wand around and watched as her charmed household objects scrubbed the soiled coffee pot clean, she couldn't help but to think of what a waste it had been.

She'd woken up early to escape her nightmares. But now she was facing them; she couldn't run away from her troubles any longer. Not today.

So when Draco padded downstairs from his room and asked his mother why the kitchen smelt of charred coffee beans, the woman of the house could only laugh shakily and tuck a strand of bright hair behind one ear.

"It's nothing, Draco. Don't worry about it."

It was the third day of the trial; the third day, and they hadn't made an ounce of progress. The room was warm, and with each passing moment Narcissa grew to regret the choice of heavy emerald robes she'd chosen to don for the occasion. She had thought that looking the part would help improve her (and her husband's, by extension) stature, but the combination of her nerves and the uncomfortable warmth that filled the room left her forehead damp and her neck slick with a thin sheen of sweat. With trembling hands she withdrew her handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing the soft cotton against her porcelain-colored neck and forehead primly. Her lips were pursed together in a determined effort to ignore the heated glares of Wizards and Witches seated around her. She was grateful for Draco's presence next to her but also fearful-she knew her son was no longer innocent to the ways of the world (not by any means), but Narcissa still felt that same maternal instinct that drove her to desire to shield and protect him. It had been the very same instinct that had caused her to make an Unbreakable Vow the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts, and it had been that same maternal nature that had caused her to lie to the Dark Lord.

Her family came first. Her family would always come first.

There was a cough to her left; a sneeze to her right. Insignificant sounds seemed amplified in the quiet room as the Wizengamot ruffled through their stacks of papers and took turns exchanging knowing glances with one another. And then there was Lucius-proud, stiff Lucius, who sat straight-backed in the hard wooden chair he'd been provided with. He was seated in the middle of the room; he was the eye of the circular chamber they found themselves all stuffed inside. His face was vacant; expressionless. Just as she'd expected it to be.

"Is there anything you wish to confess to the court?" Tiberius Ogden asked, glaring down at the stiff Pureblood who sat in his chair. Tiberius was a severe-looking man; all sharp angles and harsh features. He'd come back to the Ministry after being assured that Dolores Umbridge would be imprisoned for her crimes against the Wizarding World during the most recent rise and fall of Voldemort. He was a bitter man, aged and hardened from years of war that had undoubtedly broken his spirit and destroyed his confidence. He was angry, this much Narcissa could tell. Angry and determined.

"Nothing that isn't written within my written statement," Lucius clipped out coolly.

"Interesting," Tiberius responded blandly. His tone suggested he found it anything but.

During a break in Lucius' trial, the eldest Malfoy struggled to approach his wife. He wanted to talk to her, clearly, and would have been successful in his plan had not the Aurors intervened.

"I need to talk to my wife," He spat at them cruelly, holding his head high and clasping his handcuffed hands together with as much dignity as he could muster.

"That's a shame, ain't it?" A man called Dawlish growled, his upper lip curling into a scowl at Lucius. Narcissa bristled, clutching her dampened handkerchief in one hand and watching with wide and uncertain eyes as her husband appraised the two men standing opposite him. She prayed to Merlin that he wouldn't cause a scene in front of the Wizengamot; he was a wise creature, her Lucius, but his pride could be rather hindering to him at even the best of times.

But Lucius, knowing his place, sat back in his hard chair with a guffaw and glanced over his shoulder to meet his wife's petrified gaze. He did not try to reassure her, and for that Narcissa was inwardly grateful. There wasn't any use in lying to each other, after all-this was a very serious matter, and...neither one of them knew how well he'd make out of this.

Just as she was nestling back onto the hard bench she and her son were seated on, she noticed that Lucius was giving her that same look again. The one that foretold of a secret he desired to tell her; one that Narcissa couldn't even begin to fathom.

"Look at them-keeping him bound like a savage," Draco hissed under his breath. Narcissa could feel her son trembling with both fear and rage next to her; it was a silent sort of reaction that was only noticed by a woman who had mothered a child for so long. Reaching over, she put her hand on Draco's knee and gave him what she hoped was a reassuring pat.

"To them, we are savages," She replied quietly, and Draco stilled against her.

There was no use in arguing. It was the truth.

"What happened on the second of May in the year 1998?" Tiberius pressed. He'd asked this question multiple times throughout the course of the trial, and Narcissa was growing more and more uneasy with the presentation of the query each time. What was the purpose? Why were they hounding Lucius with questions that he had already answered?

"I've told you already," Her husband replied smoothly, doing wonders to hide his agitated state. "The Battle of Hogwarts and the fall of the-of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

"And you're sticking to your statement that you stayed with your son and your wife the entire time?"

"Yes."

Narcissa didn't understand why Lucius was lying about this-it had been impossible for the three of them to stay together. The war had torn them apart from each other, and Narcissa alone had been frantic in her search for husband and child at more than one point during the battle.

There was the shuffling of papers, and Narcissa swore she heard Elphias Doge snort from his position among the Wizengamot members.

"If that's the case, Mr. Malfoy," Tiberius began again, lifting up a yellow piece of parchment and eyeing it carefully. "Then pray tell...why do we have a valid testimony from none other than Harry Potter stating that your son was found alone in one of the Hogwarts rooms and was questioning him and two of his friends?"

Lucius said nothing.

"And if that's so," Tiberius continued, adjusting the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. There was a quirk to the corner of his lips; a smirk that spoke wonders of a man who was certain he had trapped his prey. "Then why is there also another account that your wife was alone in the Forbidden Forest when Harry Potter faced He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

Again, Lucius said nothing, but Narcissa noticed a slight tremor in the hard set of his jaw.

"And if you were with your family the entire time," Tiberius sneered, pulling out three more sheets of parchment. "Then why do we have accounts from three different witnesses who saw you disposing of what was rightfully Ministry property?"

"I fail to understand what you mean," Lucius answered finally, his shackles clanking together as he shifted his hands into his lap.

"Do you?" Tiberius posed, and Elphias Doge snorted once more from his seat in the risers. "Tell me, Mr. Malfoy-were you or were you not aware that there was a warrant out for Bellatrix Lestrange that sent orders throughout the Wizarding World stating that she was to be kept alive until the Ministry could properly question her about the motives of the remaining Death Eaters and search her for information on the whereabouts of residual criminals who have long since fled the country?"

"Yes."

"And are you aware that it's a crime against the Ministry of Magic to purposely and knowingly tamper with this warrant for your own needs-whether selfish or unselfish?"

"Yes."

"And finally, are you aware of the charges against a magical person who commits such a crime without the consent of the Ministry and then frames someone else for their actions?"

"Yes."

"Then tell me, Mr. Malfoy," Tiberius questioned, leaning forward to gaze down at the man seated beneath him. "Why did you kill Bellatrix Lestrange?"

It was as though all of the air had been sucked out of the room. Narcissa felt she would faint. Her husband-her Lucius-was being framed for the murder of her sister. Narcissa's heart thudded painfully in her chest as she wrung her handkerchief out with trembling hands. She could focus on nothing else but her husband, and as she waited desperately for him to deny such accusations and rage against those who dared to frame him for such an intolerable crime, she realized the words were never come. Instead, Lucius grew very quiet, and it was only with the probing of Tiberius that he finally responded to the Ministry official's inquiry.

"To protect my family."

The light died out from her eyes and her heart cracked in her chest cavity.

His conviction was solid and heart-wrenching all the same: Azkaban. Despite her best efforts to protect her family, Narcissa's eldest sister was deceased and her husband-the murderer-was being carted off to Azkaban for it. They were permitted this final night together (under the cautious watch of the Wizengamot, unfortunately) before Lucius would be collected for another hearing in the morning. After that, he would be put into a holding cell until...his final trial meeting and more permanent arrangements could be fixed for him. A large part of Narcissa was angry with the Wizengamot-not only were they taking her husband away from her, but they were shortening his trial. Clearly, the Ministry felt that not much time was to be wasted on a Death Eater as widely-known as Lucius Malfoy.

Draco had been right. The world truly was treating them like savages.

And then there was the matter of her sister-her sister who was rotting six feet under due to the impulsive actions of her lover. Narcissa's bones were weary with age and destitution; her heart was a heavy burden to carry as she prepared for bed that evening. She and Lucius had hardly spoken since his verdict had been more or less unofficially announced, and Draco was off being comforted and consoled by his Mudblood lover. That left just the two of them to sit in an empty Manor collecting dust-husband and wife. Estranged lovers, distant friends, and broken in a thousand different ways. Each time she thought on the events of earlier that day-every time she remembered that Lucius hadn't denied his actions but had rather confirmed them-she felt her composure wither away all over again.

Adjusting the straps of her silk slip, Narcissa glanced at her haggard feature in the bathroom mirror-she had aged quite a bit within the past year or so, and as she ran her slender fingers across the wrinkles in her face, she sighed in defeat. There was no escaping age or mortality-in fact, her life had done nothing but seemingly speed the process up.

Lucius would be going to Azkaban. Draco was growing up. The only sister she had left had broken off from the family decades ago. For the first time in what felt like forever, Narcissa Malfoy realized that she...she was alone. Just like in her dreams.

She slept on the far side of the bed with her back facing her husband.

"Narcissa." Her name sounded like a sin falling from his lips; it was late into the night-far too late for his being awake to be considered acceptable-and as instinctive as it was to open her bleary eyes and attend to her husband's emotional wounds and state of distress, she was too heart-broken to even try. There was a part of Narcissa Malfoy, no matter how determined she might have been to admit otherwise, that felt as though she didn't know her husband anymore.

"Narcissa," He whispered again, his fingers dusting across her shoulder. "Let me explain."

She pretended to stay sound asleep. She wasn't ready for an explanation-not yet.

She was the last one to be ready in the house that day, which in itself was rather strange. She, who prided herself on her punctuality, was the only one running late. And by the time she'd slipped into a pair of dark purple robes and had fixed her hair, she was afraid that her delay would negatively impact her husband. By the time she padded down the ancient wooden steps of their spacious Manor and made her way into the family's main sitting parlor, she spotted her husband and son leaning forward, whispering things to one another in a rather animated manner.

"Something the matter?" She asked primly, blinking in shock when Draco jolted away from his father. Her son gave her an uncertain glance, clearing his throat and stuffing one hand into his pocket.

"No, mother, of course not," Draco managed; Narcissa could spot the lie in the slight quiver of his voice. But she stayed silent-today was not the right time. Not for bickering, for questioning, for worrying incessantly.

Today was just not the day.

Four years was his sentence. It had been a long time waiting-trial after trial and meeting after meeting had commenced. Narcissa was exhausted, and she suspected Lucius was on the verge of breaking. Draco was a nervous wreck-terrified for the outcome of his own oncoming trial-and Narcissa was left to deal with the broken fragments of her family. She knew that Lucius' trial was swifter and shorter than Draco's would be; than her own would have been if she was a convicted Death Eater. She knew who her husband was to the eyes of the Wizarding World-she knew that even his destruction of the once capable Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange had seemed calculated and underhanded.

Her sister...Narcissa could not forget about her sister. Bellatrix, who had grown mad with power and bloodlust in the later years of her life; she who had followed the Dark Lord blindly into the shadows. She who would have done anything for him. Bellatrix had been far from perfect-she was cruel and without a conscience. She was quick to act and loyal to a fault, almost. She was the extremity of every Death Eater; she encompassed their worst traits. She had terrified Draco and irritated Lucius, that much Narcissa knew with blinding clarity.

But mad or not, Bellatrix was still her sister. And now...Narcissa was without her.

She was permitted one final goodbye to her husband. She stayed strong, despite her resolve crumbling beneath her, and managed to straighten his dark robes and run a hand through his silky blond locks. He didn't need to know of her conflicting emotions-he didn't need to know that she was still upset and confused and a million different emotions all at once. So instead, Narcissa hesitantly leaned forward and pressed her lips against his-it was a chaste kiss, but a tender one nevertheless. And as she pulled away, she could have sworn she saw a foreign sort of emotion flickering in his silver eyes.

Regret.

Clearly grateful for their privacy, Lucius leaned forward and pressed his lips against her ear, murmuring the three words he saved for such special occasions.

"I love you."

And despite her hurt-despite her anger and despair and the crippling loneliness that consumed her-Narcissa felt her lips moving in response to his confession.

"I love you, too."

She tried to visit Lucius, but her husband wasn't permitted company in his cold cell at Azkaban. Draco took comfort in the presence of his Mudblood lover more and more frequently these days-Narcissa had never recalled seeing so little of him before. He was growing up, her son, and was clearly dealing with the pain in the only way he knew how: by burying his emotions and investing them in someone else. His trial had come at the end of the summer, and despite how nervous she had been for his verdict, she'd been grateful enough to see her son walk free from the Ministry's greedy fingers. A testimony from Hermione Granger had been all it took-her words were enough to tip the Wizengamot in his favor, and Draco Malfoy had been allowed a second chance in their world.

A chance her husband had once been given. A chance he had let slip through his fingers.

She asked Draco once what he saw in his Mudblood. He stuttered over his words-frustrated that he couldn't explain properly what she meant to him. He didn't have to; Narcissa could see it in the way that he would smile at her when she wasn't looking. The way that he would kiss her and the way his fingers would linger on her skin as they walked close together. There was a certain sort of childlike fondness about him; his affection for the bushy-haired Mudblood was clearly mirrored in everything he did for her. And his smile...it was more genuine than Narcissa had ever seen it.

And when she watched them interact with one another, she couldn't help but be reminded of herself as a young girl. It was the way Lucius had looked at her-it was the same way they'd treated one another in her youth. She craved and missed things about him that she didn't quite understand; things she could never have back again.

Lucius had changed, and...Narcissa was ashamedly jealous of her son for being able to possess what she'd longed after for so long now.

She dreamt of the cold smoke smothering her more and more frequently these days. It was thick and tense, just like the current state of her life, and more than once she would wake up clutching her chest and exhaling in a jagged rush of air. She no longer had a form of escape-her dreams taunted her just as severely as reality did, and the nights spent writhing and shivering in a cold bed made for two and occupied by one destroyed her. She felt alone; alone and bitter and deteriorating every day. Sometimes she would dream of her sister; of her husband lifting his wand and uttering the most unforgivable of curses. She would try to put herself in his shoes-to understand why he had done it, but her mind always ended up blank and empty.

She woke up on those nights more hollow and barren than ever.

On the third year of Lucius' imprisonment, Draco announced to his mother that he was getting married. He had asked the Mudblood for her hand in marriage, and she had been more than willing to consent. Narcissa smiled and congratulated her son; she threw them a celebratory dinner feast and complimented her son's fiancee on the expensive engagement ring he'd picked out for her. But through the smiles and the cordialities, Narcissa was certain that her frame was diminishing. She could feel herself ebbing away, bit by bit, and the realization that her son would be leaving her to start a new life of his own was heart-breaking. She was thrilled that he had found happiness, she just...wanted to keep him as her own. He was all she had left.

And even he was moving on.

So she smiled and offered compliments at all the appropriate moments. She attended the engagement parties and wrote down a list of things that Draco needed to keep in mind for the ceremony. She warned him against this and cautioned him against that. It was almost like playing a game.

Almost.

"Father's coming home this year," Draco told her one evening. His Hermione was visiting with her parents for the weekend, and so Draco had taken it upon himself to do exactly the same. Narcissa nodded stiffly from where she was sitting, eyeing the book that was perched in her lap with a vacant expression on her face.

"He is, yes. Just in time for your wedding."

"Yes..." Draco trailed off, clearly distracted.

"What is it, Draco?"

"Mother..." He began, and Narcissa could feel the couch shift as he turned to face her. Hesitantly she slid her bookmark into place, shut her book, and fixated her attention on her son. Draco was nervous, that much Narcissa could tell, and she instantly grew worried-was something the matter? Had Draco gotten himself into a bit of trouble? Was he nervous about the wedding? A thousand different inquiries and assumptions ran rampant through her mind, and Narcissa's lips tugged into a slight frown and her bright blonde eyebrows drew together as she gave Draco her undivided attention.

"Yes?" She probed, eyeing her son carefully. "Is something the matter, Draco?"

"Not...exactly, there's just something I need to tell you," He replied evasively, lifting a hand to rub at the back of his neck. She was silent as she waited for him to continue.

"Do you remember," He began, licking his lips and swallowing noisily. "Right before his imprisonment, you walked in on father and I talking in the parlor? And you asked if anything was the matter and I said no?"

She nodded. Of course she remembered.

"Well, I was lying. Partially."

Again, she nodded. She had known that already.

"That day...father gave me something. Something that I was supposed to pass onto you when the right time came. The problem was...it never felt like the right time; there was always something or someone in the way, and I knew that you were grieving. For what happened to him, for what happened to your sister. I just...didn't want to make any of that harder on you."

"What did he give you, Draco?" She breathed, her heart stuttering in her chest.

Rather than answer her directly, Draco sighed and stuffed a hand into the pocket of his robes, digging around before retrieving a small glass vial. He held it pinched between his thumb and forefinger, grasping it firmly and lifting it for her to see. Hesitantly, Narcissa reached forward and took the small vial from her son, rolling it around in the palm of her hand. The glass container was filled with a silvery substance, and instantly Narcissa knew what the vial contained.

But surely...surely Lucius wouldn't have...?

"It's from that day," Draco explained, nodding towards the small object Narcissa now held clutched in her hand.

Yes. Yes, Lucius had done exactly that.

"From..."

"...The Battle of Hogwarts, yes. From that moment."

"Why, Draco?" She asked, schooling her features and gazing at her son in bewilderment. She knew why, of course, but wished to hear the reason vocalized by someone other than herself.

"I think he wants you to understand. I think he wants to make peace."

"...Did you look at it?" She asked suddenly.

"Yes, I did," Draco answered, slightly uncomfortable.

"And did you?"

"Did I what, mother?"

"Understand? Did you make peace?"

Draco offered his mother a strange look-it spoke of comprehension. It spoke of pain. It was an expression she'd never seen in her son.

"I did. Now it's your turn."

The vial stayed in the same place that it had for the past two weeks now-locked away in a small box in her dresser. Once or twice she'd opened the box to pull the small tube out, rolling it around in her hands and struggling to determine whether or not it was the right time to peer into her husband's memory. Draco had certainly believed so, otherwise he wouldn't have gifted her with the vial in the first place. Draco called like clockwork, always at the same time with the same inquiries-

"Have you seen it yet?"

"Not yet, Draco."

"Soon, mother?"

"Soon."

The words tasted like a lie on her tongue, but she didn't have the heart to tell him the truth.

The vial sat collecting dust for months. For weeks she would contemplate pulling it out and heading down to the study to use the Pensieve her husband had been gifted with years back, but time and time again she'd talked herself out of it. Excuses formulated in her mind and dripped off the tip of her tongue far easier these days-lies that even she didn't fully believe anymore. It wasn't until the week Lucius was meant to be released from Azkaban that Narcissa dared to pull the memory vial out one last time. It looked intimidating, despite its small size and harmless appearance; it felt heavy in her hands, and Narcissa knew in that moment that if she didn't look at it now, she never would.

And she owed herself that much. She owed it to her family, too.

So it was with trembling hands and a shaky resolve that Narcissa smoothed the skirt of her dark robes and headed downstairs to her husband's deserted study: vial in hand. The moment she cracked open the door and slipped inside the study, she noticed that the odor of aged parchment and leather had amplified over the years. She hadn't dared enter her husband's study in his absence unless it had been absolutely necessary-it didn't feel right to wander into the dark room and find it vacant of all human life. Fumbling for her wand in her pocket, she retrieved the cool wooden instrument and brandished it, pointing it towards the light fixture that hung above her head. With a movement of her wrist, the light flickered on and Lucius' study was bathed in hues of golden light. After stowing her wand back safely in the pocket of her robes, she spotted the Pensieve-sitting in the corner, just as it always had.

This was it, then. It was now or never.

Tentatively, Narcissa made her way over to the basin. She popped the top off the vial with her husband's memory and, very carefully, spilled its contents into the Pensieve's bowl. She watched the memory swirl before her, reaching forward with both hands to grip the cool foundation of the Pensieve. And then, upon the realization that she could stall no longer, Narcissa inhaled sharply and dipped her head forward.

A thick fog assembled before her eyes, and with a loud pop of her ears, she felt herself being pulled into the memory.

And she was terrified of what she'd see.

There was the unmistakable stench of death-it permeated the air around her and nearly choked her. Next to her on the ground there was a corpse-a boy who looked no older than fifteen. There was a large gash on his cheek and his eyes were gazing expressionlessly at the blue sky above them. The sight was enough to remind her of how close she'd come to losing her son in a similar fashion, and Narcissa was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of nausea. Slapping one palm over her mouth, a strangled sound escaped her lips as she eyes the battlefield before her. It's nearly vacant now-it's clear that the war had been raging on for quite some time now, and Narcissa suspects it would all come to head and end soon. She had the lingering sort of suspicion that most of the members of Harry Potter's army are within the castle-perhaps they were collecting their dead in the Great Hall or mourning the loss of their loved ones. Either way, the only person Narcissa could spot on this destroyed section of school grounds is her husband. He was standing far off in a corner, his hair covered in grime and curling on the ends. There were severe bags under his eyes that indicated weeks of sleepless nights and a rough outline of stubble on the defined outline of his jaw. He looked weak and broken and far too tired to carry on, and Narcissa's heart nearly snapped in half then and there. She took a step towards him, both tentative and unsure of her actions. Lucius was glancing around the grounds frantically, clearing searching for something (or someone)...and that's when Narcissa heard the voice. It was cold, cruel, and all too familiar.

Bellatrix.

"What's the matter, hmm? Little Lucius afraid of what's going to happen if wee Potter's gang gets hold of you?" Bellatrix taunted, shrieking with laughter. Narcissa spotted her near Lucius-watched as the eldest Black daughter jumped up on a shard of rock and teetered slightly as she struggled to gain her balance.

"The Dark Lord...does not realize what he sacrifices," Lucius hissed, his upper lip quivering just slightly. "And Narcissa and Draco are nowhere to be found."

"Are those the words of a traitor?" Bellatrix spat back, her eyes narrowed in Lucius' direction. She brushed a tendril of wiry curls from her hair with the tip of her wand, baring her teeth in an animalistic display of anger at her brother-in-law. "Cissy and Draco should be proud, Lucius! They have sacrificed themselves to the cause-what more could anyone ask for? He will rise above, and all will fall into place!"

"Proud?" Lucius stuttered, turning to face Bellatrix with more heat in his glare than Narcissa had seen in years. He stepped forward, broken down like a caged animal, and tightened his grip on his wand. "You expect me to be proud of a family that may be deceased?"

"May be-key words, Lucius," Bellatrix drawled. "Cissy is strong; Cissy will survive. She is a Black. Draco, on the other hand..."

She trailed off, giving Lucius a wicked smile.

"...He's proven to be just like his father."

"You know where they are," Lucius said suddenly. It was not a question.

"Do I?" Bellatrix asked, swaying slightly from her perch on the rock. She jumped down, her wild curls bouncing around her.

"Where are they?" Lucius hissed, his nose scrunching up as he spoke.

"Protecting the cause, unlike yourself," Bellatrix responded, toying with the end of her wand.

"You're hardly protecting it either, I might add."

She glanced at her brother-in-law then, eyeing him with a great deal of scrutiny before responding.

"I go where the Dark Lord tells me when he bids me to do it," She said matter-of-factly, her dark eyes shimmering with the loyalty that was embedded into her very skin. "And when the Dark Lord rises to power, you and Cissy will take care to remember that. Draco was bestowed with an honor-one which he failed to carry out properly. If he dies today, then he has done so for all the right reasons. As would you; as would Cissy."

"And what happens if the Dark Lord fails?" Lucius spat back. Narcissa could tell he regretted the words the moment they fled his lips. Bellatrix's glare darkened, and she stepped across the gravel underfoot to make her way towards him.

"How dare you!" She bellowed, lifting her wand and aiming it at him. "How dare you disrespect the Dark Lord! How dare you stand and speak of his presence with such little faith and conviction! If the Dark Lord falls, then we will rise to carry on his legacy; we will remain loyal to him no matter what. You, Narcissa, Draco, and I will lead the next rebellion."

Her words chilled Narcissa to the core.

"And if that doesn't work?" Lucius mused, clearly unwilling to have any part in Bellatrix's poorly thought out plans.

"Then we'll go to Azkaban! Let them try and break us! We'll serve time for the Dark Lord, just as he would want."

"No," Lucius said. His response was harsh, short, and to the point. It shocked Narcissa more than it should have.

"No?" Bellatrix repeated, the word dripping from her tongue like acid.

"No," Lucius clarified. "Whatever your actions are, leave my family out of it."

He was rewarded with a shrill burst of laughter after that. Bellatrix tossed her head towards the sky, clutching her stomach and laughing gleefully.

"Oh, Lucius," She stated finally, dropping that wicked smile of hers and glaring at him once more. "So naive-Cissy and Draco will step up. They'll do what's instructed of them. I'll make sure of it; even if we have to endure torture and death in the name of the Dark Lord, we will do it. It is our duty to him-to his noble cause."

It happened as quick as lightning. One moment, Bellatrix had been speaking of her plans; plans that involved the destruction of Narcissa and her family, and the next...Lucius was lifting his wand and directing it towards the mad woman standing opposite him. He jabbed the tip of his wand against her chest roughly, catching Bellatrix off-guard and causing her to topple over a large block of rock behind her. She fell backwards, hitting the ground with a dull thud and staring up at the man she had grown to know as her sister's husband and her nephew's father.

"You?" Bellatrix mused, a cruel grin spreading across her features. "Are you sure, Lucius? I don't think you have it in you-you're too much of a coward."

The words were meant to taunt him; to antagonize him to the point of breaking. Narcissa knew her sister well enough to comprehend that.

"I won't allow you to endanger my family again, Bellatrix," Lucius explained, jutting his chin forward. Unable to stop herself, Narcissa stumbled forward, her heart pounding in her chest. This was it, then...it was about to happen. She could feel it in her bones.

"Is that so?" Bellatrix said, laughing. "Prove it."

The words fell from his lips hoarsely; like a sinful whisper that he was embarrassed to confess. They were so quiet that Narcissa almost didn't hear them, and if it weren't for the flash of green light that spilled from the tip of her husband's wand and hit her sister in the middle of her chest, Narcissa might have missed it. Bellatrix crumpled silently, gazing up at the morning sky with lifeless eyes; her last wicked grin permanently etched onto her cold, fatigued features.

Bellatrix had gotten what she wanted. Proof.

There was a Floo call from Draco the next morning. His voice was eager, hopeful, and full of the curiosity that came with his youth. And as he rambled about topics that were of no real interest to either one of them, Narcissa prepared herself for his inevitable question.

"Have you seen it?"

"Yes."

"And do you understand?"

There was a long pause on Narcissa's end. Finally, she answered with-

"I do."

Lucius' due date to be released from prison was held on a late Friday afternoon in July. Narcissa, having spent the majority of her time since the Pensieve incident mulling things over in private, had prepared for the day with as much care and thought as possible. Draco was set to meet them for dinner tonight with his fiancee, and that left Narcissa with the task of picking him up. She had been informed by the Ministry earlier on in the month that her husband would be escorted to the Ministry of Magic and she would be permitted to pick him up in their main lobby. Nervous as she was, Narcissa was also filled with a sense of relief-it had been four long years since she'd been able to properly see her husband, and she didn't wish to spend another second without his presence.

So with one last glance in the mirror and the assurance that she had her wand on her, Narcissa departed for the Ministry of Magic.

Today, she would see Lucius; today, she would let him know that everything was alright.

Someone bumped into her; they were clearly in a rush to reach one of the Ministry's grates before it sealed shut. Narcissa rubbed her shoulder from where the portly man had smacked into it, glaring at him with no real heat and straightening her dress primly. Weaving her way through the crowd of employees and onlookers, she spotted a group of smartly-dressed Wizengamot members up ahead. And with them, free of shackles and looking every bit exhausted as he undoubtedly felt, was Lucius.

Her Lucius.

Completely ignorant of the world around her, Narcissa gingerly began to push her way through the crowd, focusing on the clack clack clack of her expensive shoes against the polished tile floor and nothing else. Her heart was thunderous in her chest; her hands were clammy and her throat swollen. By the time she finally reached him, the urge to be affectionate with her husband in public had never been more dominant. It was clear that a crowd of spectators had gathered to watch Lucius Malfoy's official release from Azkaban, but Narcissa refused to entertain any of them with her acknowledgement; she ignored anyone and everyone who wasn't her husband. Stepping forward, Narcissa lifted a hand and gingerly pressed her warm, slender fingers against Lucius' freshly-shaven face. He was warm and soft, just as she'd remembered, and her eyes were glossy with tears as she gave him a watery smile.

"Welcome home, my love."

"Narcissa..." Lucius began, clearing struggling to search for the right words. Narcissa shushed him, lifting a finger to press against his lips. She didn't want him to say it; he didn't have to.

"I understand," She said in a hushed tone, giving a slight nod of her head in affirmation. "I know now, and I-"

Her words were cut off by a loud shriek in the crowd. A young man was tearing his way through the crowd, clearly determined. Brandishing his wand, he pointed it in the direction of Lucius; he was an angry and trembling creature, this young man, and Narcissa noted that he couldn't be much older than Draco.

"Justin!" A young woman cried out from the crowd; Narcissa assumed this was the raging young man's name, for he glanced over his shoulder once and spit in the direction of the woman calling for him. Turning his attention back on the two elder Malfoys once more, he stepped forward. Narcissa could smell the stench of alcohol on him; he was intoxicated. Narcissa gripped the sleeves of Lucius' robes, clutching him close to her in the hopes of protecting him.

"You!" The young man bellowed, jabbing his wand in Lucius' direction. "Your people killed so many of us; so many! And you're being allowed to walk free after a few pathetic years in prison? You? You're allowed to be free while the rest of us mourn those we lost?"

Narcissa's grip on Lucius tightened; her eyes were wide and concerned as two Wizengamot members stepped forward to physically restrain the boy. Lucius stood cold and unfeeling as he watched the Ministry officials grab both the boy's arms in an attempt to hold him back. Though he was much smaller than the law enforcers, he was a feisty thing; he fought and struggled against them, his wand slipping just slightly in his grip.

Perhaps Narcissa should have had the sense to move herself and Lucius then and there. Maybe she should have collected her husband and whispered that they dissolve into the dense crowd of people present. It was possible that she should have even demanded for more assistance from the Ministry workers occupying the lobby.

However, she did no such thing. She stayed silent and stood by her husband.

As the Ministry workers were working on carting the drunken boy away, she heard the words she feared most.

"You deserve to rot, just like the rest of them! A-A-avada K-Ke-Kedavra!"

The incantation was sloppily done and rather unsure, but it did the job all the same. A jagged streak of green light poured from the tip of the young man's wand, hitting Lucius in the abdomen. While the execution of the Unforgivable wasn't spoken powerfully enough to kill Lucius instantly, Narcissa was still forced to watch in horror as her husband crumpled to the ground beneath her. Unaware of anything but the man who had been her lover for years, Narcissa fell to her knees and cradled Lucius' head in her lap, looking around and demanding assistance. One Wizengamot member stumbled over himself, shouting that he would call St. Mungo's immediately for assistance. But it would be too late; Narcissa knew it would be too late. Lucius' breathing was ragged as he glanced up at her, one hand splayed across his stomach. His silver eyes that had once been so bright and alert were dull now; glossed over and burning out with each passing moment. She ran a hand through his hair, a choked sob escaping her lips. Narcissa Malfoy, who stood proud and tall and fought against weakness in the face of others, was crumbling before the eyes of the Wizarding World. But she didn't care.

She was losing the love of her life, and she didn't care, she didn't care, she didn't care.

"Narcissa," Lucius managed, and the effort that went into choking out her name alone was enough to have Narcissa biting back a sob. She bent down, pressing her quivering lips to his own and running her fingers across the defined angle of his jaw.

"What is it, Lucius?"

"Do you...do you..."

"Yes, Lucius," She whispered, instantly understanding what he was inquiring after. Dipping her head and pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, she placed her lips next to his ear and murmured the very words that were meant for him and him only.

"I forgive you," She breathed, her hot breath spilling across the shell of his ear.

"I..." He began, coughing. With one last ragged breath, Lucius gazed up at his wife and best friend of years, and Narcissa watched as the last bits of brilliant light faded from his eyes.

He'd never had the chance to finish his sentence, but it hardly mattered. Narcissa knew what he was going to say either way...so she responded in kind.

"I love you, too."

Like clockwork, she visited his grave every year. His and Bellatrix's. She would plant flowers on both, despite the fact that the latter wouldn't approve and the former might not have cared. She did it for herself-she did it as a testimony to the husband and sister she'd lost. They had both been the victims of war, though their downfalls had been quite different. People would often asked if she had plans to remarry; her response was always exactly the same each and every time.

"My husband and I belong to each other."

She didn't like to consider herself a widow-not really. She liked to tell herself that she and Lucius were just separated-a temporary arrangement as they prepared to spend an eternity together. But despite how ardently her heart struggled to remind her of this, the bitter truth of her loneliness became more and more prominent with every day.

Her bed grew colder and colder with each passing night, and during some days it grew almost difficult to recall her husband's distinctive scent or what it had felt like to run her fingers through his long, soft hair. Those nights were the worst; they reminded her that the memory of her husband was slipping through her fingers. She feared that soon she wouldn't be able to remember him at all; that the very essence of his being would be smeared across her memory. She was petrified that one day she'd wake up and forget who he was altogether.

And Narcissa refused to let that happen.

Sometimes Draco visited the graves with her, though not as often as Narcissa would have liked. She suspected he came around on his own time; she knew her son well enough to comprehend his desire for solitude-especially when it came to grieving and sorting through matters of the heart.

Narcissa would often linger around her husband's grave; she would sometimes tell him of things going on in her life. She would inform them of how their son had risen in the ranks at the Ministry; of how he was expecting his first child...and then his second...and then his third. She would tell him how the Wizarding World was faring; what had happened to couples they had once known. She told him everything, despite the fact that she knew very well he couldn't hear her. She told him things that he would scoff at; things that he would smirk at. She told him everything she could think of, because pretending he was there to comprehend her words was easier than admitting that he was gone.

And at the end of every visit, Narcissa Malfoy would bend down and dust her fingers across the engraving of his tombstone, murmuring the same words she always whispered to him before her departure.

"I love you. I forgive you. I'll be with you soon."

It was only then, when she had forgiven him, that the cold fog would lift from her mind and she was given a bit of peace.

Narcissa Malfoy never dreamed again.

a/N: Hello everyone! Alright, so this is my final piece for Ollivander's Challenge (a competition on tumblr for the simplypotterheads account). The prompt assigned to me was-"Narcissa discovers a very dark secret about her Death Eater husband." I was very nervous about finally submitting this, but had a lot of fun with the challenge! I want to thank Ashley for allowing me to be a part of this as well as wish luck to the other competitors! As always, let me know what you guys think!