Narcissa Malfoy

Lord Voldemort has forgotten them, but one does not turn one's back on a Malfoy -- or a Black -- with impunity, not even if one is the Dark Lord. Vengeance must be plotted as cautiously as treason though, at least if one intends to survive the act of justified betrayal -- and survive is the least of what the Malfoys intend to do; they intend to flourish, to flower, for their son's sake above all. They will succeed in claiming the power and position they were promised...and all who stand in their way will fall in blood. ❧No one knows blood like a Malfoy either...or a Black. Especially fair, sharp-fanged Narcissa.

[ladylycorine]

Drops of Dittany

Why did the day after Anthony Nott’s thrice-forsaken party have to be so remarkably sunny? Ordinarily it would have been a treat to have such a bright and blazing day this time of year; ordinarily Narcissa would have called it beautiful and settled in the garden to enjoy the juxtaposition of cold air and warm sunlight. Ordinarily she hadn’t been a vampire. Now sunny days made her glad of her uncommonly pale complexion which served as the perfect excuse for opening a parasol or donning a broad-brimmed hat or putting up her hood -- or better yet, to simply stay inside. But she couldn’t do that today, oh no.

Today she had to sit in this unpleasantly warm and cheery ground floor waiting room outside the Artefact Accidents wards of St. Mungo’s Hospital, waiting for her husband to emerge and tell her that he had taken no permanent damage from the brief etching of the emblem of the Ashen Phoenix (or at least, what Narcissa had decided their emblem ought to be; the classless filth who populated that vile group seemingly hadn’t yet bothered to design one themselves) into the flesh of his chest -- news that she would attempt to receive with surprise and relief, despite knowing far better than any of the Healers here that the charmed snuffbox which had administered the fleeting curse was entirely transient -- for after all, it was her snuffbox and her curse.

But it would never do for anyone to suspect that, so here she sat at the hospital, playing the role of the nervous wife who was ever-so-slightly embarrassed for over-reacting to something that had been banished with a few drops of Dittany -- but oh, darling, shouldn’t we have the Healers look at it anyway? Just to be safe? she had gushed to Lucius as she tugged him over the threshold and up to the Welcome Wix, he playing the part of the husband reluctant to go to all that bother as elegantly as she had her own. No one looking at Narcissa’s drawn features and the twisted handkerchief clutched in her hands and the nervous way she kept worrying at her lip (at the now-healed spot she had cut open with her fangs last night, not that any of them needed to know that!) would think she was anything but anxious for Lucius’s well-being...when in reality, she was just impatient to leave.

Finally the door swung open and disgorged a face familiar to Narcissa from her school days: Dorcas Meadowes, once a fellow prefect, now the Healer who had been assigned Lucius’s case. Her pretty face was rather less welcome than Lucius’s since her arrival meant that Narcissa wouldn’t be leaving just yet -- but Cissy made herself start as though she had just seen something horrific. “What is it?” she gasped, lurching halfway upright from her chair as though torn between running straight to Lucius’s side and swooning backwards. “Will Lucius be all right? He is all right, isn’t he?” she pleaded.

It was a rather good performance if she did say so herself: just the right touch of over-the-top passion to suit her usual attitude, but not dipping so far into melodrama as to seem overdone. Narcissa knew she was being watched; the elderly aide at the desk might seem to be engrossed in that book, but Cissy had caught the reflection of their eyes flitting over behind their spectacles between every third page, and the young father dozing behind a tattered copy of last month’s Witch Weekly had the look of a born gossip -- and really, who wouldn’t watch Narcissa Malfoy, especially in her distress? Everyone liked to see the mighty brought low, made human (ha!), even if it was only for the length of one short hospital visit. She was counting on it; counting on her audience to spread word of how very distraught she had seemed, how genuinely she had fretted for Lucius’s health in the aftermath of that dreadful attack by those Ashen Phoenix barbarians!

[ladylycorine]

mcrningmary‌:

Mary knew that it was absolutely ridiculous to be talking in this way. She felt as though her world were being flipped upside down and thrown into reverse; as if she were riding in some kind of hard-wired muggle car. There was no stopping where this ride was going and Mary would be wrong if she didn’t say she regretted coming here. After all, if Narcissa were to find out who she was, Mary might end up in the dungeon. Or worse. “It’s quite awful, actually,” she said, shaking her head in a lamentation that even she might believe. “I never quite bought the look. I, for one, admire cleanliness over… well, sticky hair.”

A crinkle of her nose quickly disappeared when Narcissa Malfoy patted her hand. If only she could laugh in this moment. The irony of the situation was ripe, and while Narcissa would not have hated Mary despite the lacking in her blood, she did know just how much her nose would turn if Narcissa knew who’s hand she was truly patting. “Well, that’s awfully kind of you,” she said. “I’m definitely thankful to have survived that place.”

Then, the questions began, and Mary had to think quickly. These were the moments she enjoyed most; the ones where she was able to plan and plot and stitch together her world into a creation all of her own. She allowed her eyes to go downcast and she shook her head ever so slightly. “Mother and father are rather… odd, to say the least,” she said. “I always preferred my cousins over them but the outer branches of our family do not really acknowledge my father. In fact, I didn’t even know I was truly a Fawley until just last month.” The story sounded genuine enough that even Mary herself might believe it.

A small and dainty shrug of her shoulders caused another sigh to escape her lips. “That’s why I’m here,” she said, gently. “My parents kept all of this from me. For my whole life. I mean, we were closer to civilization before South America, and I grew up here. In London. But my mother never liked the balls and the dancing and the glamour…” Mary shrugged her shoulders, eyes glinting in the light. “I suppose I was always a little bit different.”

Mary paused, lips pressed together before shaking her head. “But enough of my sob story,” she said, waving a hand. “How about you? I mean, I know of you, of course. You were one of the first names I heard about when I returned. You’re practically a princess; and I mean that in the best of ways, of course.”

So the Fawleys did not acknowledge Olive’s father as a member? And the woman hadn’t even been aware of her lineage growing up? Oh, she was definitely a half-blood, then, Narcissa determined -- but she did not recoil as she would have done in her youth. Back before her Hogwarts days, before her time with the Death Eaters alongside both Lucius and Bellatrix, the very thought of coming so close to anyone of impure blood would have been enough to have little Cissy bursting out in tears or tantrums, but time and experience had toughened her; had taught her that some half-bloods were better than the blood-status they could not help...and had taught her that many of the rest could still be useful.

She couldn’t help shuddering inwardly though at the thought that Olive’s mother could have been a Mudblood like that Tonks creature that had reduced her own compliment of sisters to one -- but that woman might also have been merely a half-blood herself, too muddy to be an acceptable addition to the family but with a few generations of magic to dilute the mud of her Muggle ancestors. It might even have been Olive’s father whose blood was impure, him having been deemed unworthy of acknowledgement for his birth rather than his blood...truly there was a staggering variety of forms of uncleanliness out there. If only the Dark Lord had kept his word, they might even now be cleansing some of them at long last...

Shaking that line of thought off with a smile whose sorrow surely looked like sympathy to this half-blooded offshoot of the Fawley family, Narcissa graciously allowed Olive to change to a more suitable subject: herself.

“You are too kind,” she said, meaning it not at all; to her thinking, Olive was being precisely the right kind of kind in her description, and it went a good way toward making amends for her impurity. She couldn’t help that, after all -- but her flattery made it clear that she was determined to overcome that handicap. Narcissa decided she could afford to be generous -- especially if Olive could be turned into a useful recruit for the Silent Daggers. There was as of yet no sign of how she might be made useful, but as she had learned from Lucius one never knew and it didn’t hurt to have a collection assembled in advance...

“Really, I’m not one special,” she lied. “Just another wife and mother doing my best for my family. Not so different from your own mother, I’m sure...” Another, more blatant lie. “Albeit perhaps somewhat more aware of the benefits of society...and proper hair dressing!” She laughed, like she was sharing a joke with an old friend. “You’ve done well to make yourself look so presentable tonight despite your origins, though,” Narcissa assured the other witch -- a two-layered compliment, if her blood was indeed as tainted as it seemed-- “although if you’ll permit a bit of advice?” Without waiting for permission she continued conspiratorially, “The plainness of these robes is quite out of style, these days; it’s a time of celebration after all” --her third lie-- “and a certain amount of extravagance is expected. Personally I would recommend Madam Malkin in Diagon Alley -- she’s quite a new shop, but comes from a long line of impeccable stich-wix. Or if you’re looking for something truly fancy, Madam Bootlett is where I get all my very best robes. I’m sure she would be happy to help someone as new as yourself make a proper social entrance, if you’re interested.” And can afford Bootlett’s equally extravagant prices, Narcissa did not add -- but she would be most interested to see how this Olive Fawley reacted to those prices at her next party.

[ladylycorine]

Party’s End (Nott With A Bang)

@markedpotter

“Regs--!” Narcissa started to snap but it turned into more of a breathless shriek as a tangle of limbs and grabs at cross-purposes turned to shoves, to staggers, to steps backwards where no steps were and then it was just empty air under foot, empty air and falling.

All too soon that falling turned into landing, to tumbling akimbo down the staircase. Narcissa scrambled and scratched at the banister but her fingers skidded off the smooth, aged hardwood with a touch that was eerily reminiscent of just missing a Snitch -- and then it was just one long series of bumps and thuds and flyaway robes and hair tangling around her. The plush carpeting did little to blunt the sharp edges of the steps as they crashed against shoulderblades and backside, and Narcissa felt like she’d not just missed the Snitch but run afoul of a dozen Bludgers by the time her fall finally stopped with one last, somewhat squishy thump--

And then it was no longer stairs digging into her battered skin but knees and elbows and breathing, so close it almost seemed to be swirling in her own lungs, breathing and a heartbeat, a thick hot pulse so close she could near taste it--!

Narcissa opened her mouth, stretched her jaw and felt her fangs lower, sharp and white and gleaming and close, so close, she could almost taste it...and then with a strangled little gasp she snapped her mouth shut again. The prick of pain as one fang caught and pierced her bottom lip on the way went unnoticed in the flare of panic as Narcissa realized what she had so nearly done--!

She stared through the thin curtain of her tousled hair into the brown eyes of none less than one James Potter, of all the people she could have landed on, could have nearly bit -- had he seen? Did he know? Narcissa took a breath, searched for...what? An excuse? A threat? A joke to laugh it all off as some sort of pretense or prank?

Whatever she might have said vanished under the shrill cry of yet another victim of her Ashen Phoenix ruse (somehow so much less entertaining now than it had seemed a scant five minutes earlier) and she yanked at her limbs instead, scrambling to pull herself free, to get away, to -- to find Lucius, yes, that was what she need to do, to find Lucius and get out of here and the two of them could figure it out together but surely there was nothing to figure out; surely Potter hadn’t noticed surely he wouldn’t believe it even if he had, not Narcissa Malfoy with fangs on her face oh no, of all people not her. Surely, surely not...!

[ladylycorine]

padfootism‌:

The effluence with which his cousin greeted him was disconcerting to say the least. Sirius couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been close enough to old Cissy without some narrow-eyed look being shot his way. Could it have been Hogwarts? Surely not. Then again, the memories of the war before the current shambles often blurred into one. Only fragments of that reality – James’ burning laugh; Remus curling into his side; the fierce sense of victory that gripped them all, if only for a few tremulous weeks – appeared like flashes in the dark. 

Still, coming face to face with Narcissa made Sirius’ throat tighten. He felt his jaw set and made himself relax into a stiff smile. You shallow ponce, he thought as he stared into those pale eyes. The entire charade made his skin crawl. It was ludicrous how importantly purebloods took themselves and their idle, secretive little games, as if there wasn’t anything more important than publicly embarrassing someone. Sirius, who reveled in being a public embarrassment, now regarded the echo of haughtiness in Narcissa’s demeanor with something approaching amusement.

Pinching his lips against an inappropriate laugh, Sirius nodded along to whatever Narcissa was saying. Some subtle comment about Nott? Who the fuck cared.

He took her hand dutifully and shook it as he’d in their childhood deportment classes. There was a split second where he contemplated using the alias he’d given that Greengrass bloke, but Narcissa bloomed too close to the tree. Given how obsessively she’d study their heritage, posing as some distant Black cousin would get rumbled in a heartbeat.

“Bathsheba Burke,” Sirius lied. “You’ll have to excuse my unfamiliarity. I took the portkey from New York last night and I’m afraid I’m a little disorientated.” He paused for effect. “I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting Mister Nott in person…” The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile, a parody of Narcissa’s own assumed confidence with a stranger, “But apparently if his tastes are anything to go by, I’m not missing much.” 

With an air of calm, as if Bathsheba and Narcissa were well matched, Sirius folded his hands behind his back and looked over the crowd. His voice, when he next spoke, was slightly apologetic. “I’m not used to parties. That’s my sister’s realm.” Sirius shot Narcissa a self-deprecating smile. “But perhaps there’s some merit to be found in revelry. Particularly given the recent… advancements.”

Burke, Narcissa thought, interesting. The name did nothing to clear-up the question of the other witch’s status of acceptability -- or lack thereof; the Burkes were a generally respectable family, but their branches had a few too many muddied buds sprouting at the far edges for Narcissa to take any proper comfort from that lineage. The fact that she could not immediately place any Bathsheba on their family tree (well, none in this generation anyway; they had a few, but unless Burkes aged at a decidedly slower rate than normal people, this witch could not fit any of the roles that came to mind) made her wary, but also curious: a good, old-fashioned name like that wasn’t the sort that most mixed-blood couples would give their children...not unless they were trying to scrape their way back into the family’s good graces despite some muddied elbows.

This witch was willing to insult her host at his own party to a stranger, though; that either spoke to a lack of proper upbringing or to a lack of cause to care. The former would be dull; the latter, though...the latter would be interesting indeed. If this Bathsheba Burke was someone who felt herself confident enough in her own place in societal hierarchy to dismiss Alexander Nott so arbitrarily...

Behind her pleasant, pretty smile, Narcissa’s mind was racing its way down half-remembered paths of inheritance and parentage. Could this be a daughter of Arcturus and Minenhle? No -- her coloring was too pale by far for that. Ah, but if she was an American branch of the family...well, that both explained everything and nothing. Many a family had discreetly shuffled unfavorable offspring -- too muddied, too Squibbish -- away to the colonies over the years; this woman could be a returning result of something like that...or she could be the product of a proper family branch that had crossed the pond to make a fortune rather than to cover-up an unfortunate; the Burkes were deeply enmeshed in common trade after all and always keen on scratching out a bit more gold to fill their vaults...

In spite of herself, in spite of the ticking timer of her imminent little incident, Narcissa found herself intrigued.

“Well, what a pleasure it is to meet you then, after you’ve come such a long way to be here,” she said warmly. Privately Cissy was consumed with calculation: was Bathsheba’s calm demeanor a result of her unfamiliarity with society, or was it due to her own prominence? Did she greet Narcissa with such equanimity because she knew they were peers, or because she didn’t know they weren’t?

“I’m sure Alexander will be eager to greet you in person to thank you for the effort, just as soon as he can tear himself away from his other hosting duties,” she lied smoothly, with just enough of a crook to her smile and twitch to her eyebrows to indicate that she thought no such thing; adroitly undercutting Nott’s manners to sour the impression he would inevitably make on Bathsheba before they even had the chance to meet. It couldn’t hurt to have some allies from the other side of the pond, after all; they would come without the morass of ties and troubles that mired local relationships. And if Bathsheba turned out to be a no one, well -- undercutting Alexander was enjoyable enough for its own sake.

“Indeed,” she continued lightly, “we must all find reasons to rejoice these days.” Whether we feel like it or not, she did not add. “I would be delighted to help you search for some, should you wish the help.” Her smile perhaps did not quite reach her eyes -- but at a party like this, whose did? “I have a sister too, you see, and she also finds parties somewhat...less than ideal, let us say. In the spirit of such sisterhood, I’ll gladly offer to take your sister’s place as revelry escort for the night as a surrogate favor to my own.” Narcissa chuckled. “Not that Bellatrix is the sort to appreciate the gesture, I admit -- but one does feel a certain obligation to one’s sister whether she always appreciates it or not, doesn’t one?”

[ladylycorine]

bitingwater‌:

Accidents Never Happen

(when the room is empty)

So far, no one had spoken to Regulus. Sure she had mumbled something downstairs to a waitress or a waiter. Certainly she had flashed a smile (or was that a grimace) to the right (wrong) people…but talking. Words. Accusations. Questions. Regulus couldn’t stop her index finger from tap, tap, tapping against the vanity. 

Something crashed downstairs and Regulus jerked, eyes flying up to the mirror to lock onto Narcissa–and wasn’t that just the best out of everything and every one at the party. “For the mess.” It came out unclear, more mumbled then words so she cleared her throat, tilting her head back a bit as she tried again. “There’s a mess. Downstairs. I’m getting them.” For that.

Why not your wand? She mentally cursed herself, turning and wrapping one arm around her waist and putting the other at her wand holster. It didn’t feel right, of course, nothing did. “What are you doing here? Did Florence send you?”

This part of the room wasn’t too big and the noise–were people screaming? Still? Would anyone hear it if she shoved Narcissa in the closet?

Closet. She couldn’t stifle a giggle. It ripped out of her and left her with a gasp of surprise and strange elation–it sounded different and she liked it. When was the last time she laughed like that?  Narcissa might know. And then she was back to thinking: Closet. Closet. Muggles and closets. 

She was losing it and losing time and she hated it.

Florence she said -- so this woman wasn’t one of the hired servants, then, not if she was on first name terms with the lady of the house; not that Narcissa had thought that conclusion likely, not wearing robes like that -- but what sort of respectable witch used handkerchiefs to clean a mess instead of a wand? One who was just out of school, perhaps, but this woman didn’t look girlish enough to be a fresh graduate still in the habit of abiding by the restrictions of the Trace...but she did look eerily familiar, a feeling that was proving to be a recurring motif of the night; perhaps there was something in the drinks, some sort of diluted brew designed to craft an artificial sense of camaraderie that hadn’t gone off quite right (or was interacting oddly with her own new biology). That didn’t seem like Alexander Nott’s usual operating style, but perhaps his wife had decided to get clever...

Unlike this witch it seemed, with her lackluster explanations and even more lacking eloquence. Still, her question left Narcissa feeling uncharacteristically wrong-footed, and it surprised her. It wasn’t like this was the first time Narcissa had ever been caught somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be; ordinarily coming up with a dismissive explanation or excuse was the work of a moment. Why was her brain running a blank now?

The blood, of course. It was because of the blood.

With an effort of will, Narcissa wrenched her eyes away from the pulse in the other woman’s neck and tried to look her in the eyes instead, ignoring the echo of familiarity whispering in the back of her mind -- or was that the bloodlust?

“No,” she forced herself to say, before the pause between question and answer stretched out too long to be anything but incriminating. “No, I was -- that’s who I was looking for.” Turn it around, put the accusation back on her. She stepped forward, striding toward the vanity as though she had every right to be in here. “Where is she? Who are you?”

And why does every fiber of my being insist that I know you? she did not add.

[ladylycorine]

How Does Your Garden Woe?

[ladylycorine]

markedpotter‌:

He was annoying her, he could tell by the tick in her voice, the way the irritation flowed through her words. He’d had plenty of people frustrated with him over the course of his life. After all, he was James Potter. So he could see the signs pretty clearly. He hid a smirk by biting the inside of his cheek. It wasn’t exactly something he’d intended on doing, but he’d take the win. 

“If you haven’t heard about Vexx, then it must mean you didn’t know about the mission. If the Dark Lord -” His voice still hitched on the name, giving himself away, but he carried on quickly, trying to ignore the way it didn’t feel right on his lips. “- didn’t tell you and Lucius, then there’s a reason for that. I’m not about to change that myself.” Of course, James himself didn’t know much about Bevan Vexx outside of what Evan had told him that day. Bevan had been helping muggleborns escape. And now he was dead because of James.

The thought sobered him and it was probably a good thing because he needed to back off Narcissa Malfoy before he really did some damage. Right now… wasn’t he just doing what everyone else here was? Playing the game. Besides, he wasn’t exactly keen to sit here and listen to her insult _wandless creatures_ when he knew he couldn’t say anything back. His dad had borrowed house elves for their parties, too. It made James feel almost sick to his stomach, realizing now what it meant. Who agreed with it. 

“What can I say?” He took a step back, keeping his wand in his hand and forgetting about the bushes. “Just here to help.” To serve, to enslave, to control. So many things he really meant and Narcissa, of all people, knew exactly what was hidden underneath. Hadn’t he lived in her dungeons for almost seven months? “Don’t trip over the uneven ground. They really do need a groundskeeper and you’ve already proven that your robes are rather valuable. Nice night, Mrs. Malfoy.” He turned before his tone grew too sarcastic to hide behind. 

Narcissa hardly needed this...this boy to remind her how little regard the Dark Lord truly had for his (once) loyal followers but, intentional or not, that was just what James Potter had done. Likely he was just trying to build himself up -- likely this Bevan Vexx was no one worth discussing in the first place -- but regardless, his words settled under Narcissa’s skin like a needle. It left her feeling too sour to squash Potter down with the usual sort of cold, callous dismissal of his inflated sense of worth that such braggadocio deserved.

Instead she let him retreat with his insincere concern for her (lovely) robes, murmuring something noncommittal and distracted; while her rising temper had been inspired by his words, Narcissa knew that James Potter was not the root of her displeasure. Not even Alexander Nott could claim responsibility for that. There was only one source for that: the Dark Lord himself. Trading barbs with a nonentity like Potter would do nothing to soothe her feelings because it would do nothing to address the problem.

Nothing she could do tonight would accomplish that, but that didn’t mean there was nothing she could do to vent her feelings and accomplish something toward her future goals at the same time -- something more than merely planting little seeds of doubt or envy, something more than scouting for allies, something more than merely talking. Ordinarily conversation was Narcissa’s chosen battleground, but tonight -- tonight she wanted to act.

And whether he had meant to or not, running across James Potter had given her the perfect idea for exactly who to blame for those actions. A hard, cold smile unfurled across her face as Narcissa swept away down the garden path. She needed a moment of privacy to summon the tools of her scheme, and another moment to adjust the spell -- but who would dare intrude on her? The Dark Lord might not be heaping the favors they deserved on her family, but she was still Narcissa Malfoy. And Malfoys always revenged an insult.

END.

[ladylycorine]

daggermckinnon‌:

Here was the true magic. Not spellwork, just a few words in the right ear. And what wondrous results they produced. Narcissa’s suggestion stirred a hunger in Marcus. He watched her a moment. Subtlety was not his strong suit, but he was one of many at a party whose eyes lingered on the Malfoys, given that they were among the most powerful people in the room. Words hung on the tip of his tongue. What do you want with me?

Maybe he ought to be afraid of the answer to that question. Instead, it was that same hunger. To be needed, to be accountable for something. A clear purpose. A goal to work towards. Maybe it was misguided to equate that with worth, but Marcus knew what happened to the spare parts in society. They were slaughtered and replaced, without so much as a hint of remorse. What would the Malfoys do with Marcus if they decided he wasn’t worth the trouble?

“We’ve been working closely with the Maintenance Department, renovating his office so that it’s ready for his arrival.” Marcus knew that office inside out, and exactly who would be held to blame if anything were to go amiss. It wouldn’t be him. 

“I hear he finishes the day with a Dragon Barrel Brandy,” he said, feeling a smile tug at the corners of his lips. What was a gift today could be a weapon tomorrow. Maybe Nott’s closest associates already knew his preference for the stuff, but Marcus had gone great lengths to find out that piece of information. Nott was a private man, and Marcus could see why, if Gabriel’s speculations were true. 

“We’ve done all in our power to make his arrival at office most comfortable.” To anyone overhearing this conversation, Marcus’ words might seem odd. Worse than that; dull. An example of small-talk not to be emulated. But Marcus’ wanted–no, needed–Narcissa to know he was ready. So far the whole experience of joining the Silent Daggers had been anti-climatic. Like he was holding his breath, waiting. Stagnancy was the same as death. Marcus had to keep moving.

“Of course, nothing would go further than a good word from yourself or your husband. I never thought–” The words caught in his throat, as if the magic of the dagger were at work. But it was just the words themselves. He never thought alot of things, and yet… He let out a sigh. “I never thought I’d meet such gracious people.” 

Not since that night. Marcus smiled, but it was strained, sadness passing over his face like  clouds veiling the sun. Marcus never thought he’d put any faith in another person since that summer. He certainly didn’t trust Marlene as readily as he once had. But maybe it was just his definition of kindness that had changed, as scarred by the war as he was.

Oh Marcus looked keen -- or was she just projecting onto him the only reaction that made sense to her? Narcissa knew she needed to be cautious about that sort of thing; one never knew how half-bloods were going to jump, and it wasn’t as though she had spent any great lengths of time with people of that sort to have acquired the experience necessary to gauge their reactions correctly...but he looked keen.

He sounded it, too, throwing out tidbits of information and gushing with compliments: proving his worth, proving his gratitude. Maybe it was just obedience, an oversized House Elf waiting for orders. Cissy tried to temper her reaction, to not let her own eagerness run away with her...but oh she thought she could taste the eagerness wafting off of him in waves.

She took another sip of her bubbling gillywater, as though it might clear her palette.

“Aren’t you just darling,” she said with a broad, beaming smile. His own smile seemed thin and bleak suddenly, shadowed despite the glow of the flowers -- or was she imagining that? Likely it was just nerves, she decided; he had made his pitch to his master, and now he was waiting to see how it would be received. Anyone would be nervous. It was no different from how she or Lucius would have reacted after making some offer to the Dark Lord -- how they would still react, albeit now more from fear of discover than worries of being thought inadequate; the Dark Lord had proved how little he truly valued their contributions now and there was no more need for nerves at being thought lacking, was there?

Nott’s ascension proved that as well as anything -- but with Marcus’s oh-so-heartfelt help that might yet be turned to the Malfoys’ advantage, too. And if she could use it as a pretext to draw Marcus closer, maybe to her personal advantage as well...

“Lucius and I would be delighted to offer whatever small assistance we can, of course -- to you and Alexander. Facilitating a smooth working environment can only be to everyone’s benefit, and my husband and I would consider it not just our duty but our privilege to help...in whatever way we can,” she added with a pointed arch of one eyebrow -- a silent acknowledgement that they were talking about Silent Dagger business, and not just ordinary Ministry networking. Then she softened her expression and said, as though that were the explanation for Marcus’s nerves, “You needn’t have any fear of Alexander. I’ve heard he can be intimidating to his subordinates--” a tinkling laugh, as though the idea of finding Nott intimidating were utterly unfathomable; as though she and Lucius would never let anyone consider themselves subordinate to the man no matter how prestigious were the Dark Lord’s appointments “--but I assure you, he’s harmless.”

She said that last part quite loudly, enjoying the thought that she might undermine his reputation as a strict and unforgiving taskmaster before he even took up his place on the Wizengamot, all under the guise of reassuring a nervous underling. It was hard to restrain her wicked, giddy grin -- and perhaps that was what carried her into such delicate territory as to make her next suggestion: “I’m sure Alexander is quite ensconced in well-wishers and sycophants already, but Florence is sure to be in a more approachable position...I don’t believe the two of you have been introduced yet, have you?”

The very idea of introducing someone like Marcus McKinnon to Florence Nott would have been laughable under ordinary circumstances -- but he was going to be working for her husband soon. Wouldn’t it be helpful if they got to know each other first?

[bitingwater]

@ladylycorine

[markedpotter]

🌻 @ladylycorine

[rp-memes-musings-blog]

Send me 🌻 and I’ll make an aesthetic for our muses!

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[bitingwater]

Accidents Never Happen

(when the room is empty)

Narcissa Malfoy

No one was going to do anything. A perfect opportunity to find black mail had descended upon the gossip columns of the Daily Prophet and no one had planned to do…anything. This was a newly appointed Wizengamot or government or whatever it was (the exact details had flown from her head some time ago in her heist to gather and move and do) official who could be bought with the right information and…well, Regulus hadn’t exactly determined the next steps but, really, she was already doing the heavy lifting. 

And wasn’t that a laugh? Regulus Black. Doing something. 

You’ve done a lot, she reminded herself–but none of it were known things. Remus Lupin gave her a place to stay. Marcus McKinnon visited–and she had told him, something, she was certain of it… but nothing had happened and maybe it was a dream. “I know what I’m doing.” She said to her reflection and because no one else was in that room with her she said it two more times, rubbing her palms down the velvet robes she had stolen from her mother’s closet. They didn’t fit quite right–it was supposed to cling to her sides and hips but even after after the stolen potion there was too much space–but she loved the texture and the green of it.

She tried to put on one of the necklaces–a lovely sliver chain with a tear drop end–but the moment it touched her chest she remembered having her hands slapped away. That was years ago, she reminded herself. It did’t matter. the tear drop slipped and clattered to the floor. Useless, she thought, swiping her finger under the vanity. She couldn’t find it and found herself transfixed by the mirror when she looked up again.

Thats you, she thought, over and over again–sixteen times until she stopped gritting her teeth. She put everything away–not how her mother would have, but the precise way she knew it should have always been.

Three hours later she was at another vanity in another home, swiping her hands over a string of pearls and a handful of broaches. “These can’t stay here.” She muttered to herself, unable or unwilling to tear her eyes away. Something was happening downstairs so this was the perfect moment to …to snoop. And so she was. But this was the bedroom, not the office. She opened a drawer and found a dozen monogramed handkerchiefs. She pulled out seven, stuffed them in her bra.

[ladylycorine]

That had gone a little too well. Narcissa's plan was coming off perfectly, of course, as well as she could have hoped or even better (she would have to find some little gesture she could make to both apologize and thank Gabriel for his part in it all, albeit without reveling the purpose behind it). There was only one thing she hadn't counted on: her own reaction to all that blood.

Narcissa had never been squeamish about blood as a child (not for long, anyway) and it hadn't occurred to her that she would care much one way or the other; it wasn't as though blood was difficult to charm out of robes, and she'd had plenty of practice so she hadn't even needed to be concerned for her or Lucius's wardrobes...but oh, it wasn't the clothes that had been the problem. It had been the way her mouth watered and her breath hitched in her throat and her pulse speeded and her fangs lengthened behind the pale pink mask of her lips.

She had needed a moment -- just a moment -- to get herself under control before she did something...regrettable. And since it hadn't been the usual sort of swooning or terror or nausea or distress that a scene like what was unfolding downstairs might be expected to cause, she had needed privacy -- and what better place than the lady of the house's private boudoir? Some distant part of her brain, unaffected by the cloud of bloodlust slowly engulfing the rest of her wits, had remembered Gabriel's gossip about Florence Nott and her blonde lover. It had seemed the perfect solution: duck into the woman's bedroom, and if anyone caught a glimpse of pale locks and dark robes swinging through the door in all the chaos, they would doubtless assume that it was the aforementioned bit on the side they had seen and not Narcissa Malfoy. Only as she stepped away from the threshold toward a seat she realized that she was not alone.

Her first assumption -- that it was the lover, taking advantage of the confusion exactly the way Narcissa had meant for the gossips to assume -- was dashed by the dark locks of the other woman (Gabriel could have been wrong, but that wasn't the sort of detail he usually botched when passing on gossip). Cissy froze, lips closing tightly over the points of her fangs, as the air left her lungs in a hungry hiss; a voice that sounded disgustingly like her own whispered in her mind that this lone witch would be the perfect vessel with which to slake her thirst. Narcissa took a slow, gliding step forward, moving like a woman in a dream...

And then she woke up. Was the woman stealing handkerchiefs? Via her unmentionable?

"What in Merlin's name are you doing?" Narcissa blurted, before she could think better of speaking.

[gabgreengrass-blog]

After Sexually Harassing Guests

[ladylycorine]

gabgreengrass‌:

“Oh, so you haven’t heard.” Gabriel couldn’t help the way his smile crept a little wider across his face. “Because, of course, I would never suggest you would be intimate with Alexander. You have standards.”

Which, in so far as Gabriel had been able to ascertain, began and ended with pretty. Pretty was subjective but Gabriel had yet to see Narcissa Malfoy truly warm to anyone who was not, to one view or another, pretty. Pretty, and knowing when to agree with whom in the marriage bed, was how he kept his own bed–a separate one from the Malfoy’s but that was perfectly alright with him.

“His wife.” Gabriel continued, scanning the rest of the party as he relaxed into the sofa. “I presume even you agree out of the pair she is the better choice if you’re going in for a kiss.” Though kissing was probably the least of it. “They say,” he continued in a stage whisper. “She’s already got a woman on the side a blonde.” He gave Narcissa another little speculative look out of the corner of his eye before he started to laugh. “So I, of course, had to ask the most attractive blonde at the party. Mrs. Nott must have taste now that she has money.”

“Thank you,” Narcissa said, half-mollified and half-amused, flapping a hand at Gabriel as though she held a silk fan. “I am relieved to hear that you hold me in at least that high an estimation.” She raised an eyebrow and added drily, “But then, you’ve seen Lucius. You know what I have for comparison.” Modesty was for people without anything worth bragging about, or for someone trying to downplay themselves for the sake of manipulation. Cissy had never felt any reason to pretend false modesty where her husband’s good looks were concerned and even in his prime Alexander Nott wouldn’t have been able to hold even half a candle to the delectable delicacy that was Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.

Gabriel Greengrass obviously didn’t have standards quite as unimpeachable as hers -- not if he was considering a half-blood like Marcus McKinnon -- but he did have quite a lovely sense of aesthetics. Narcissa had no doubt that he had ogled her husband appropriately.

The fact that he was astute enough to notice that she was the prettiest woman there tonight -- or at least astute enough to say it -- proved that Narcissa’s assessment of his standards of beauty was accurate, at least. She smiled warmly at Gabriel. “Of course,” she agreed. “Not that it’s saying much; I believe I would sooner snog a hippogriff than lock lips with Alexander Nott. But I fear you rather overestimate the ability of a fortune to inspire fashionableness: Adelais has settled for somewhat lower quality in her sideline romance than myself.” A languid look around the room revealed no sign of the witch in question -- but several blondes.

“And no idea who it might be?” Narcissa said. “How delectable. I wonder if Alexander has bothered to learn her name -- but then, I often wonder if he’s bothered to learn his wife’s name. It would be appropriate for him to start with that, don’t you think?”

[padfootism]

It was Sirius’ birthday yesterday. And now he was posing at a Dark party hoping to go home with a fistful of One Army hair. The depths to which his life could sink truly knew no end.

The glittering masquerade was as much an assertion of individual superiority as it was a subtle reminder of hierarchy. Sirius had been to enough of these cock-walks as a child. A pureblood parade was essentially a meat market if you squinted and tilted your head sideways. Parents schemed to marry their resisting children; youths skulked sullenly by the finger food. House elves wound through the crowd bearing trays of glasses, which magically refilled themselves. Sirius’ eyes tracked a passing flute of champagne with something akin to lust. 

Later, he told himself. Later he’ll hole himself up in that muggle pub in Slough and drink until he… Well, it was pointless trying to forget, but he enjoyed the pursuit of impossibility. It tasted even better when chased with lager dark as night.

Sirius passed a hand over the front of his tight skirts. His magical disguise was his idea – he’d worn a dress before; what was he, an amateur? – but he couldn’t shake the prickling sensation of too many eyes lingering on his new, lithe figure. People tended to cut their gaze away from him these days. This other feeling wasn’t unpleasant, but it was discomforting. Sirius’ fingers itched towards his wand. One hair. That was all they needed.

Foreign-coloured eyes moved slowly over the crowd. When he, Macdonald, and Evans had come up with their infiltration plan, he’d not exactly specified what his individual attempt at success would be. Besides, you couldn’t say seduction without sounding like a bit of a wanker, could you? Sirius resisted the urge to bristle in his own defense. Well, he couldn’t do anything else! How else did one get hair, for Merlin’s sake? Unless it was specifically through some good, old-fashioned groping. His idea was golden. It’d work like a charm. All he needed was a – Bingo.

“Excuse me.” Sirius stopped the passing stranger with a gently outstretched hand. His fingers hovered close enough to touch. A shy smile; the word demure filtered vaguely through his mind. “Do you know what song they’re playing?” He gestured in the direction of the hidden magical band beyond the crowd. “I’ve not an ear for music, I’m afraid.”

[ladylycorine]

Narcissa was feeling much better now that she had decided to do something about this dreadful party and the even more dreadful man hosting it. The anticipation of that first shriek or shout which would start the cascade of panic that was sure to spiral out from word of “the Ashen Phoenix” sabotaging not the event but the guests themselves sat on her tongue like fine whiskey: heady, burning, and delicious. The fact that it would make Alexander Nott look a fool for guarding the borders but not the attendees was extra sweetener; making Nott think that he himself was a target of those reprobates was the real joy.

Well...that, and ruining his galling celebration.

Her spirits were so improved by the prospect that even being accosted by some witch she didn’t know couldn’t dent Narcissa’s good mood, not now. She paused obligingly, brushed her hair back over one shoulder and away from her face, and turned to face the other woman -- lovely, unknown, and familiar enough that she was likely related to someone Narcissa knew; there was something about the shape of her nose or the lift of her chin that reeked of familiarity.

Having already stumbled across one extremely distant branch off a respectable family tree tonight, Cissy figured that Alexander must have pulled out all the stops to put together an extravagantly large guest list. That might have meant scraping the bottom of the barrel for half-blood cousins and the reclaimed offspring of Squibs...or it might have meant coaxing out the shy and reclusive.  The small, sweet smile on the other witch’s face could have marked her as either party -- but given that this party was about to end in a most satisfactory manner, Narcissa couldn’t be too indignant at the idea that she might be talking to one of the former. Whoever this woman was, she would make a fine cover if Cissy could keep up the conversation long enough to still be engrossed when the screaming started.

“I have to admit I haven’t been listening,” she said carelessly. “I never did credit Alexander Nott with much taste for music, so I’ve been doing my best to tune it all out preemptively -- but perhaps I’ve judged him unfairly.” Untrue on both counts: Narcissa knew Alexander Nott well enough by now to judge him very fairly in all aspects, and his musical tastes were fine if rather old-fashioned; she had just been too busy putting her little scheme into play to make note of the current song. Taking a jab at Nott’s lack of fashion was a perfectly acceptable cover, though. “Just because he lacks taste in nearly every other area is no reason to assume he can’t have some in music -- or at least in hiring people who do.” Narcissa smirked, not entirely unkindly; more like a witch sharing a joke with a friend than someone castigating one’s host.

She extended a graceful hand. “Narcissa,” she said. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced -- but I shall blame the icewine entirely if we have and I’ve forgotten,” she added with a tinkling little laugh. The lack of surname was deliberate, of course; anyone who was anyone would know immediately who Narcissa had to be and anyone who didn’t...wasn’t.

[ladylycorine]

How Does Your Garden Woe?

[ladylycorine]

markedpotter‌:

“I already have,” came James’ easy reply. And it was partly true. He’d adapted to this world enough to know what he could and couldn’t get away with. He’d adapted enough not to pull out his wand on Narcissa Malfoy right here and curse her. Something he would’ve done to any of these Death Eaters or supporters not too long ago. He’d grown accustomed to torture in the chamber - but it hadn’t been until getting out of the dungeon that he’d learned how to pretend. Evan had trained him well. It was a bitter thought, but a truthful one. James’ wand wouldn’t point at any of the guests tonight. Evan himself had left his puppet alone with the easy knowledge of that. They both knew what would happen if James broke the rules.

James looked at Narcissa now, away from the flowerbeds. The Malfoys were in the Dark Lord’s inner-circle with Evan. They’d likely know enough about James’ situation to understand he wasn’t here on his own freewill. But part of this was trying to get everyone to believe. He was a Death Eater now - didn’t matter the reasons why, did it? He still killed people. Still watched out for his friends so they didn’t ruin this party. If Sirius or Remus came here tonight, he’d still point his wand at their chests and cast a hex. “Or haven’t you heard about Bevan Vexx? Maybe you’re not as informed as I thought.”

The last part was risky, but James didn’t care. Fuck her. Her tone was brisk and angry now, though - not even trying to hide behind an icy sort of fake-kindness. James wanted to smirk at being able to get under her skin. But he knew better. If she was unhappy, he better fix it because he’d be the one to pay for it later if Evan found out he’d angered one of Voldemort’s elite. Well, wife of one of Voldemort’s elite. James was observant enough to understand who was really pulling the strings in the Malfoy family, though. Hadn’t Narcissa inadvertently taught him that wands were not the only way to battle?

“Any house elves here tonight are staying in the background. I’m sure you’ve noticed that the serving trays are being carted around by actual wix. Last I checked, the gardens were a pretty visible place. If you’d like your robes to get sticky with toadgin or dirtied from trampled flowers, by all means, let me know. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.” He clenched his jaw at the mention of Evan, though. He hoped she didn’t make up some lie about James being the one to knock her around. He left the flowers alone, hating himself for it because he assumed she’d think it was because of her words. He just didn’t know how to fix them. “Can I help you, Narcissa?” It wasn’t unkind, just exasperated. He tried to keep the anger out of his tone.

Already adapted -- how cute. He thought he knew how to deal with their world. Just because he’d grown-up a pure-blood didn’t mean he knew the rules, not after so many years spent deliberately on the outside. Maybe once upon a time James Potter could have fit-in with the rest of them; could even have excelled among their number. But he had turned his back on that chance, on that life, long ago, and now he was no more a member of their society than Andro--

Putting a hard, sharp stop to that line of thought, Narcissa irritably waved-off Potter’s mention of Bevan Vexx (whoever that nonentity was! What kind of a name was Vexx?) where ordinarily she would have been delighted by the semi-sly verbal barb (Potter trying to play the game at last!). “I try to save my attention to things that deserve it,” she said instead -- a half-hearted response if she’d ever heard one. “Who or what is Bevan Vexx and why on earth should I care, Mr. Potter?”

It was a shame she wasn’t in a better mood. She used to love helping to train novices in the fine art of verbal sparring (not that Regulus or Sirius ever did get the knack, no matter how they all tried to teach them both) and while Potter wasn’t the usual sort of unfortunate whom she bothered to spend her educational efforts, the fun and familiar activity would have at least been a pleasant way to pass some time -- and with Potter being of such comparatively insignificant social standing (at least in her eyes) coaxing him into spearing her with a few rookie barbs wouldn’t have cost her any standing even in the regard of imbeciles too dense to realize what she was doing -- but she wasn’t in the mood right now.

Curse Alexander Nott and his tedious, obnoxious fête of self-congratulation.

“I tried not to notice, Mr. Potter. While some wix may think that it elevates their own flimsy standing to hire help, I have always been of the opinion that everything has its places -- House Elves serve, and wizards get served. That is how the world ought to work. Stunts like this are...” she paused, as though to think of a more diplomatic term, but Alexander Nott already knew Narcissa’s feelings on having wix do the work of wandless creatures; her mother had felt the same way, and Druella and Alexander had argued the point for years. There was no point putting on a front now. “Vulgar,” she finished decisely, shooting Potter a glance. Would he comment? Would he dare to agree with her? Would he dare to disagree?

Maybe she wasn’t completely out of the mood for a bit of banter training after all.

Narcissa heaved a lofty sigh. “Can you help me,” she repeated, smiling almost indulgently. “Oh Potter...I do rather doubt it. But points for trying, dear.”

[gabgreengrass-blog]

After Sexually Harassing Guests

[ladylycorine]

gabgreengrass‌:

“Oh just about what you would expect.” Gabriel made himself comfortable, spinning a drink between his fingers with a careless sort of shrug. “Chatting up the help, seeing how far I could wind-up Marcus. Really, dear, you should invite him to stay over–it would be exceptionally entertaining for you, I’m sure.”

It was entertaining for him. Sure he had no expectation of romance or flowers (or fucking for that matter) but it was all very fun to see. What might happen next, how might he respond?

The Malfoy’s were fun, too, but it was all more choreographed.

“You have heard about Mrs. Nott, of course.” He grinned a little wickedly. “And, you know, you are blonde.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow -- not judging; just speculating. “Is that a promise?” she asked, smirking. Marcus McKinnon was hardly an appropriate sort of guest to have stay at the house -- but he was a member of the Silent Daggers, and one whom Narcissa in particular was eager to get to know better...or at least, to interrogate about certain personal details that overlapped somewhat with her own situation. Bringing him in as a plaything for Gabriel would be a perfect excuse to stop -- well, not to stop the gossips, but to misdirect them.

The Malfoys never worried about stopping gossip; they just liked to control the theme.

Of course, that would only work if said gossip had groundwork to build from... Narcissa scanned the garden idly, as though looking for nothing in particular, but she was: Marcus, of course. This dull, dreary, drudging party might be a perfect vessel to start that gossip off, if Gabriel was amenable -- and he certainly seemed it!

Dragged somewhat abruptly to a different topic (was Gabriel drunk? Or just too eager to share salacious details to care about a proper conversational segue? Really it hardly mattered) Narcissa needed a moment (but only one) to put her thoughts on a different track. Once she did, she had to giggle, although she drew her face into a horrified grimace at the same time. “Blonde, yes, but without standards, no. Really Gabriel,” she gave him a mock-glare over the rim of her glass, “how do you expect me to keep anything in my stomach when you make such dreadful comparisons?” She shook her head and laughed. “I would sooner snog the Dark Lord himself than Alexander Nott!”

Oh dear. Perhaps she was a bit drunk, too.

[ladylycorine]

mcrningmary‌:

Mary laughed, shaking her head. “Pardon me,” she said. “It must be an American tool. You see, it’s a muggle invention that many wizarding women took and altered on their own. Keeps their hair in place for weeks, but if you ask me, it’s rather rudimentary.” Her nose sniffed as if she believed exactly what she were saying. In another life, Mary MacDonald might have been an actress. She should have won an award for this performance, anyways.

However, she also knew how thin the ice she was dancing on now was. One tiny mistake and Narcissa would figure out what was going on. Mary was not bold enough to underestimate the blonde witch. She may have loved gossip more than Rita Skeeter, but that didn’t stop Narcissa’s keen eyes and ears from hearing all there was to see and hear. Narcissa was a hawk and Mary was lucky enough to know what to keep hidden and what to present, like a jewel in the middle of the party.

“Well, that’s awfully kind of you,” Mary said, a vivid smile lighting up her face. She hadn’t worn makeup in a while and for a second her lips felt sticky with the lie; wet with the blood of all the women who had died in order to keep Narcissa Malfoy safe. Her mind churned like a stormy sea but she kept the expression off her face well. She’d learned how to fake her feelings a long time ago, anyway. “And I do hope so. As you can imagine, I’m slightly tired of trees and bugs… There were so many bugs, Narcissa.”

Mary’s eyes widened as if she were re-living some kind of flashback. She quickly shook her head, laughing ever so slightly. “Mother and father don’t understand life when it’s not surrounded by trees and magical creatures. I always wanted something different. Although, I think my parents understand the concept of magical tents better than most. I always tell them they should patent their tent and sell it as a product.”

Narcissa couldn’t help it -- she burst out laughing. “Americans keep one hair style for weeks?” she exclaimed. “How...barbaric.” Rudimentary, indeed! Narcissa raised her estimation of this Olive Fawley another few notches; here she was looking, if somewhat plain, perfectly civilized, despite having just returned from an absolutely tragic exile to a place far beyond civilized society. Clearly this was a woman who was not prepared to be made irrelevant by a mere confluence of circumstances...and that meant she was not to be underestimated.

“You poor dear,” Narcissa saId, shaking her head with both genuine sympathy and projected compassion; on the one hand, what Olive described did sound horrible, and on the other, Narcissa wanted to make sure that Olive knew that Cissy felt just terrible for her having to endure said hardships. Sometimes there wasn’t any gap between the truth and the façade; that didn’t mean one could let it lapse.

“Your parents certainly sound...unique,” Narcissa admitted. “I suppose it would be good to get some concrete benefit out of all that time with bugs and muck, at least,” she continued with a little shrug. Unlike some of the more stodgy pure-blood families, the Malfoys had never objected to a bit of commercialization; it was an attitude that Narcissa, coming from the more conservative Blacks, had struggled to adjust to, but she had learned to recognize its merits -- and she meant what she said: whoever this Olive’s eccentric parents were, the least they could do for the children they’d dragged to that jungle hellscape was come up with some monetary recompense -- but who were Olive’s parents?

Narcissa’s eyes sharpened over her smile, inspecting the other witch. She didn’t look like a Fawley – but then again, at a distant glance Narcissa looked more like a Rosier than a Black; it was only on closer inspection that one saw the unmistakable knifeblade nose and bruise-inducing cheekbones of the Blacks beneath the veil of ice-blonde hair.

Was this Olive one of the pure-blood Fawleys or was she one of the more numerous branches of the family that had been tainted by some unfortunate stumbles in the mud? “I am so sorry,” Narcissa said with a little giggle, as though she were yet still a girl or perhaps already tipsy, “but I fear I can’t quite place you after such a long absence. Are your parents Euphemia and Jasper, or…?”

[daggermckinnon]

Event: The Nott Party November 4th, 1980

@ladylycorine

Marcus straightened his sleeves, rolling back his shoulders so that he stood an inch taller. He was learning. He had dressed his best, but not so well that he had the look of someone trying too hard. His robes he had purchased especially for parties like these, and they were plain because they were the only dress robes he had in his possession. The golden embroidery was subtle, and Marcus had taken to twisting it with a spell between formal events so that it took a new design each time he wore it. Tonight, it formed a neat braid along the cuffs. Anything more would be ostentatious for one who had climbed up from a pile of corpses.

If Narcissa had noticed him hovering, she didn’t show it. But then he would never have expected either of the Malfoys to acknowledge him so openly. He was just a McKinnon (and Marcus feared that was all he would ever be)–they had no reason to. But Marcus wanted more. What, he didn’t know exactly. Answers maybe. A map, someone to tell him what the fuck he was doing. A distraction from the past and the memories that replayed in his head every time he closed his eyes, every time he got even a whiff of iron or rust.

He waited until her conversation had ended and the wix she’d been speaking to moved on. Then he made his move, standing some two feet from Narcissa, observing the flowers decorating the hedge as if he wasn’t immune to any beauty they might possess. Oh Marcus saw it alright–these flowers were luminous, clearly imbued with magic–but it left a bitter taste in his mouth. These people had so much, while Marcus had sold his soul just to have a roof over his head. 

“Alexander Nott in the Wizengamot,” he said quietly. “I’ll be seeing his face a lot more from now on.” And his schedule. His correspondences. But was he useful to the Silent Dagger. He looked at Narcissa; her beauty wasn’t lost on him either, and though it didn’t leave that bitter taste, it was terrifying. She was terrifying. Maybe if Marcus hadn’t already lived through the worst kind of nightmare, he’d never have let himself have anything to do with her or Lucius. But he had, and instead of trembling in fear, he felt the same daring and reckless courage as if he were holding his hand over an flame. 

[ladylycorine]

There was Marcus McKinnon, trying to look subtle in the glow of Nott’s enchanted flowers. The boy was clearly doing his best to fit-in with the pure-bloods and peacocks of the party. Narcissa was forced to hide a smile in her flute of bubbling gillywater -- a sensible precaution for a woman who wanted to keep her wits about her while still looking like she was enjoying the party, and a perfectly acceptable beverage for one to quaff as a chaser in between elaborate cocktails and liquors, so even if someone stepped close enough to smell what she was drinking, no one would think anything untoward or salacious -- so that he would not notice her smirking at him.

He looked dashing tonight, for a half-blood. (And at least he wasn’t just wearing the same robes over and over again at every party, like Severus.) Still a bit drab, without the proper jewelry to accent his robes. Perhaps she and Lucius should look into dripping a bit more gold into his pockets...but no, drab was probably more appropriate give his tragic circumstances. Just because he had been bought and paid for by the Malfoys didn’t mean any of them wanted him to look it.

“Yes,” Narcissa agreed, turning to Marcus and taking a step closer to draw them to a proper distance for polite conversation. “Who would have thought the day would ever come?” She kept her voice light, her smile cheerful -- as though she were pleased to see Nott advance while her own family held stagnant. “Truly it is an evening worthy of celebration.” Worthy of something anyway -- but celebrating? That wasn’t what fit Cissy’s mood at all.

“I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to have your familiar and solicitous face around during the trials of taking up such a heavy responsibility,” she continued brightly, already turning-over in her head how best to turn the potential of the situation to her -- and the Silent Daggers’ -- advantage. “I’ll have Lucius drop a word in Alexander’s ear about how helpful and hard-working you are,” she suggested. Just a friend offering a favor to a friend...but the favors all went one way, and the Malfoys and the McKinnons had never been friends. There was a price for all of this, and Marcus had no idea that Narcissa was weighing personal interest into the costs she counted against him. Even Lucius didn’t know that -- but then, Lucius wasn’t the one who had recently developed fangs.