#*narcissa black

The coffee shop was located on the outskirts of a sleepy town, the awning lit by the watery January sun. A crunchy coating of snow stuck to the grass, but the sky was cloudless and blue. He thought Narcissa might appreciate the quiet and the light, just as Rabastan appreciated that there wasn’t a single witch or wizard living for miles and miles around. The door squeaked as he opened it, and a round Muggle woman in an apron looked up from her spot serving one of the few occupied tables with a smile for him. He nodded his head in greeting, making his way toward a corner table beside the windows.

The whole scene felt surreal to him. He was out of his element in this place, yes, but he refused to receive Narcissa at the manor, not while he could still find bits of stone and broken glass in the corners. The runner from the foyer was still rolled up in a coat closet, waiting to be scrubbed of blood by his cleaning spells. No, he wouldn’t ask her there. Their homes were invaded that night, and tension still hung so thickly in the air in all the familiar places that he could hardly speak through his fury. And he would never allow himself to explode in front of Narcissa, not her. So he hunted down the farthest place from it all that he could imagine.

Once he had settled down on the cushioned chair, the waitress made her way over. “What can I get for you, hon?” she asked, the blissful ignorance in her voice nearly choking him. It always threw him when he was reminded that the majority of the population lived their lives never knowing of the war long brewing right under their noses, just beyond their perception. Children laughed and played in the streets, men and women smiled and it reached their eyes--unlined and free of dark shadows.

“A friend is actually on her way to meet me here. I’d like to wait a moment, please,” he said, returning her smile.

“Of course,” she replied. “I’ll check back when your friend arrives,” she promised, heading back to the kitchens.

Rabastan had just begun to look over the laminated menu when the door to the cafe squeaked again and he looked up to see a woman with a familiar light head of hair step through the doorway. She spotted him in a moment and headed for the table. Rabastan stood as she got closer, and the movement caused pain to shoot across his ribs unexpectedly. But he stood tall, clenched his jaw and hid it with a smile, stepping forward to pull her chair out for her. “Good morning, Cissy. It’s nice to see you, as always.”

It was chaos. In the space of an hour the well-ordered Manor with its glossy wood and polished floors, the playhouse of his childhood, had become a triage center. Picture frames and heirlooms had been swept hastily  off every available surface in the entry and parlor to make room for bleeding bodies. Because Death Eaters don’t go to St. Mungo’s when they fall. 

But even in the din of shouted orders and movement, Rabastan heard Narcissa’s voice and his reaction was immediate. Grabbing hold of the nearest arm, he directed the man to keep the injured woman’s torso elevated and wove through the crowd to the parlor. He knew as soon as he saw the body on the sofa, unnaturally still, that there was nothing he could do, but he held a hand out to check for a hint of breath or the faintest pulse. Wordlessly, he removed the mask still covering the man’s face and closed the empty eyes. He was young. Younger than Rabastan, even. But he remembered him from school, if only just. The boy had been quiet and studious, but always lit up like a light when surrounded by his friends in the common room. 

Rabastan turned to look at Narcissa, and though he knew she couldn’t possibly recognize the boy, she had the look of someone who had just lost the person dearest to her in the world. This was, Rabastan thought, why he loved her. Her regal features were tight and her eyelashes wet. Her hands still gripped the linens pressed to the boy’s abdomen, blood drying on her fingers, as though she believed if she could only keep them there then everything would be alright. Rabastan knelt down beside her and took one hand in his own.

“His name was Jacob. I didn’t know him well, but I think he would have liked you. And appreciated how hard I know you tried,” he said.

Narcissa closed her eyes and let her tears fall, but her back remained straight. The depth of Narcissa’s love did not make her weak, it forged her into something stronger than any alchemist could hope to create. And that was a truth anyone who dared to underestimate Narcissa Black came to know. Opening her eyes again, she stood and pulled a finely woven blanket from the back of the sofa to cover Jacob’s body, saying simply, “Make them pay.”