Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The bar was too warm, the whisky bit too sharply, and the celebration roared too loud.

Narcissa Malfoy stood apart from it all — tall, composed, distant — in dove-grey silk that shimmered like frost. Her hair was coiled like a crown, throat bare, skin pale and perfect. The last vestiges of the Black name clung to her like perfume — regal, untouchable, and just the slightest bit tragic.

Lucius had been gone for years — Azkaban, the trial, the disgrace
Draco, her darling boy, was now a man… and tonight he had married Hermione Granger of all people. Narcissa had smiled graciously through it all, offered polite thanks to Molly Weasley, and clinked champagne glasses with Arthur like they hadn’t once been on opposite ends of the battlefield.

The bar was tucked beneath soft candlelight, a reprieve from the dizzying charm-laced music and endless chatter. She was halfway through her Firewhisky when he arrived.

Boots. Leather. A rough-cut dragon fang strung around his neck.
Charlie Weasley.

The other Weasley. The one who smelled of pine-smoke and distance, who never cared to belong.

He slid onto the stool beside her like he owned it, ordered two more drinks, and turned those sin-warmed eyes to her.

“You look like you could use another,” he said.

She didn’t look at him.

“I’m quite capable of ordering my own, thank you.”

He slid the glass towards her, “You didn’t say no.”

She turned the glass in her hand, considering.

A silence stretched between them. He took her in — the curve of her wrist resting on polished wood, the faint scent of smoke and something expensive, her perfectly painted lips. The years had done nothing but deepen her beauty. He could feel it like a spell on his skin.

“I know who you are,” she said finally, lifting the glass he’d ordered and sipping without breaking eye contact.

He smirked. “Good. Saves time.”

Another beat passed.

“Charlie,” he offered, with a hand she didn’t take.

“Narcissa,” she replied, coolly.

He let the hand fall. “Pleasure.”

She didn’t answer.

The bar melted around them. Laughter from the wedding echoed in the distance. Somewhere, Hermione and Draco were dancing beneath floating candles and lilac blossoms. But Narcissa stayed there, beside the man who radiated danger — not dark and manipulative like Lucius had been, but earthy, raw, alive.

“What do you do with all that strength, Mr. Weasley?” she asked, eyes trailing deliberately over the curve of his forearm, the fresh scarring that kissed the side of his neck.

“I keep dragons from killing me.”

Her lips curved. “Is that why you smell like smoke?”

“Partly.” A slow, wolfish grin. “Might also be the cigarette I just put out before coming inside.”

“You smoke?”

“I fight fire with fire.”

That earned a soft, unexpected laugh from her. He liked the sound. Thought he might chase it again.

“You don’t belong here,” she said.

“Neither do you.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You think you know me?”

“I know your husband’s in prison. I know your son’s off somewhere with his new wife. And I know you haven’t stopped looking at my scars since I walked in.”

A flush. Just a flicker — but he caught it.

“I find them curious,” she said.

He leaned in slightly, voice lower now.

“I find you curious.”

There was heat there. Tangible, growing, daring her.

Narcissa finished her drink. "You're too young for me."

Charlie’s gaze dropped slowly to her mouth. “You’ve never looked younger.”

That earned him a sharp glance, the kind she used to silence Death Eaters. He didn’t flinch.

"You wear arrogance well," she murmured.

"And you wear silk like sin."

Another silence. And then—

"Come with me."

She blinked.

He was already standing, offering her his hand. This time, she took it.

The guestroom was quiet. Old magic crackled faintly in the walls.

Narcissa was pressed against cool stone, breath shallow, one hand tangled in ginger curls. Charlie kissed like a storm. No manners. No restraint. His mouth was at her throat, then lower, teeth grazing skin like he meant to leave a mark.

Her gown bunched at her waist as his hand found her thigh.

“You’re not afraid of scandal?” she breathed.

He chuckled against her collarbone.

“I train dragons. You think I’m afraid of you?”

She gasped — as much from his words as the hand between her legs.

He kissed her again — rough, hungry — and she answered the hunger.

And Narcissa Malfoy — widow in all but law, mother of the groom, perfect in public — bit his shoulder to keep quiet.

She left before sunrise.

He found a single silver hair ribbon curled on his pillow.

And a lingering scent of bergamot and Firewhisky in the sheets.

Chapter Text

She wasn’t supposed to be there. But of course she was invited, she has strong philanthropic ties to magical beast sanctuaries.

Charlie had spent the better part of the afternoon trying not to fall asleep during panel discussions on centaur border rights and kelpie containment regulations. His dragon leathers had been traded for a dark, ill-fitting suit. He hated the way it clung to his shoulders — like formality was a punishment.

He was the keynote speaker - reluctantly civilised for a change. She arrived in a flurry of flashes, people orbiting her like sparks to flame. Even if she hadn’t arrived on the tail of a storm, he realised he would have noticed. She pulled him in. 

She didn’t notice him. He was sure of that.

He ducked out early, headed for the rooftop smoking balcony, needing space. Needing—

Her.

She was already there.

Leaning against the railing. White cigarette burning at the corner of her mouth. Evening wind tugging gently at her platinum hair. Her black robes were sleek and severe, collarbone sharp as a blade, rings like armour. And when she turned and saw him?

Nothing.

No shock. No scandal. Just one brow raised, barely amused.

“Well,” she said, exhaling smoke. “They’re letting anyone into these events now, aren’t they?”

His grin came slowly. “Narcissa Malfoy. Still flawless.”

She flicked ash. “And you’re still wearing that fang like a boy trying to impress the tavern girls.”

He stepped closer. “Did it impress you?”

A beat. Her eyes trailed down the open collar of his shirt — a hint of ink, a jagged scar — before returning to his face.

“I was drunk.”

He chuckled. “You rode me like a Hungarian Horntail. You can’t have been that drunk.”

Narcissa smirked — almost. “Don’t flatter yourself, Weasley.”

“Oh, I’m not. You’re the one who left the bruise.”

He lit his cigarette beside her; the space between them filled with smoke and pulse.

“You disappeared,” he said after a moment.

“I had to leave before sunrise.”

“I noticed.”

Another silence. But there was electricity in it now. That dangerous, aching tension that lived in the space between what they said — and what they wanted to do.

She spoke first.

“I hear you’re quite the expert on dragons.”

“Wouldn’t say expert. I just… get them. Temperamental beasts. Breathe fire when cornered. Bite when you get too close. But you treat them with respect—” He flicked a look her way, hot and slow. “—and they might just let you touch them.”

Her lips parted, just a little.

“Touch them?” she echoed, voice low.

He shrugged, dragging the last of his cigarette.

“Or ride them.”

She turned then. Full body. Facing him now, inches away. Her perfume hit him like spellwork — smoky, floral, expensive.

“This is a professional gathering,” she whispered.

“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re standing so close I can feel your pulse.”

A pause.

“You want me,” he said plainly.

She didn’t deny it.

Instead, she took the cigarette from his fingers, drew on it once, tasting him in the smoke.

“Come to my suite,” she said.

And just like that — the strike hit again.

He pinned her to the mirrored wall before the lift reached her floor.

She wasn’t soft, not like the first time. This time she clawed at his shirt like she was trying to tear through the years. Kissed him like she meant to bruise. Whispered filthy things in his ear that made his knees buckle.

He growled her name as she pulled him into the room — no wand, no charms, no games.

Just hands. Mouths. Heat.

This time she took control, slow and deliberate. Staring down at him like a queen, like a reckoning.

“I shouldn’t be here,” she hissed, breathless.

“I can’t keep away,” he said, gripping her hips.

Her nails dragged down his chest. “You taste like smoke.”

“And you taste insatiable."

He woke up to find her sipping black coffee by the window, wrapped in a silk robe. He sat and stared at her taking in the way she held her cup between her hands.

She didn’t look at him, just sipped her coffee.

“I stayed this time — my suite, after all”

Charlie stood, bare and unashamed. “Would you rather I go?”

That made her turn.

And for a moment — just a moment — the mask slipped. He saw it: the weariness, the ache, the pull.

She didn’t answer.

He crossed the room, took the coffee from her hand, and sipped from it before placing it down. Then leaned in and whispered:

“Next time, Narcissa — you won’t slip away.”

Chapter Text

The Letter

Delivered by owl, sealed in plain red wax.

Narcissa,

If you still crave fire, come see where I live.
Bring whatever keeps you calm.
Leave whatever keeps you cold.

— C.

She didn’t reply. Just packed.

Romanian Dragon Sanctuary – Three Days Later

The Romanian air cut sharply with pine and something feral beneath it. She’d arrived by portkey to the sanctuary’s outer edge, her boots clicking on frost-laced stone. Her robes were cream, her gloves leather, her hair twisted into a chignon that defied the wind.

One moment she is in Wiltshire, composed and cloaked.
The next, she is standing in the mouth of the wild.

She looked wrong in this place. Too fine, too polished. Like silk in a forge.

And Charlie?

He looked like he belonged to the wild.

He emerged from the trees shirtless beneath an open dragonhide coat — muscular, windburned, streaked with soot. A long new scar ribboned across his ribs. There was soot in his hair and a bandage on one forearm. He grinned when he saw her — like the forest had whispered her arrival.

"You came."

“You sent for me.”

“I hoped you would.”

She looked him up and down with a carefully arched brow. "No shirt?"

"Burned it this morning."

"You look feral."

He took a slow step forward. “You like feral.”

Her pulse betrayed her. She didn’t respond — but her breath caught slightly.

He led her past charmed wards and thick spells into the heart of the sanctuary — a sprawl of forest, stone outposts, and the unmistakable roar of dragons in the distance.

“Is it safe?” she asked, eyeing a deep scorch mark on the path.

He smirked. “Not at all.”

Narcissa couldn’t help the rush that shivered through her.

He brought her to the feeding pens — close enough to feel the heat, far enough to stay alive.

A Ridgeback paced behind the charmed barrier — massive, spined, smoke curling from its snout.

And Charlie—he walked right up to it.

He spoke to the beast in low murmurs. Commanded its respect. Touched its flank like one might touch a skittish lover. It bowed to him — all fire and fury brought low by his presence.

Narcissa watched, heart pounding.

Her robe fluttered; soot marked her cheek. And she couldn’t look away from him — from the raw strength in his arms, the control in his movements, the way the sun kissed the scar on his back like it was holy.

This man did not belong in her world.

Which made it worse.

Which made it better.

He turned toward her, eyes wild and bright. “Want to come closer?”

Her voice was barely there. “No.”

But she stepped forward anyway.

He pulled her behind the outer barn. The dragons were far now. But the danger remained — in the air, in her pulse, in the way he was looking at her.

“You’re flushed,” he said, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Scared?”

She swallowed. “No.”

“Liar.”

She pushed him back against the barn wall.

She hesitated, “You didn’t bring me here to see dragons.”

He smiled slow. “No. I brought you here to see me.”

Their mouths crashed.

No pretense, no poise. Just want. Hands tangled in his ash-dusted hair. Her hips ground against his thigh. He groaned her name — god, he loved her name — and lifted her like she weighed nothing, pressing her up against the wooden wall.

She moaned — long, low, shocked at herself.

“You like watching me work?” he rasped, mouth at her throat.

“You were… commanding.”

“You want me dangerous, don’t you?”

She didn't answer. But her fingers were already at his belt.

He thought the first time would scare her.

He thought the blast of heat, the thudding wingbeats, the snarling breath of the Horntail would make her hesitate.

But she doesn’t.

She insists on seeing them again. So she stands beside him in dragon-hide boots and his spare cloak, chin high, eyes wide but unflinching.
He watches her watching them — these creatures that bend to flame and instinct.

She doesn’t scream when one roars.
Doesn’t flinch when a juvenile Ridgeback paces near the fence, smoke leaking from its nostrils.

She turns to Charlie and says, “You never told me they were beautiful.”

His heart tightens.

“I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

She slips her hand into his.

“Tell me now.”

The idea isn’t spoken aloud.
It just happens.

The others are in the lower camp. No handlers above the ridge.
The great pale-blue dragon — the female Hebridean, scarred and massive — is tethered but calm, and Charlie looks at her, looks at Narcissa, and thinks: just once.

“You trust me?” he asks.

She raises one brow. “Should I?”

He helps her climb up before answering.

It’s more violent than she expected.

Not elegant, not graceful — the dragon launches upward with a scream and a surge of heat.
Narcissa clutches Charlie’s waist, her face buried in his back as they lift, tilt, rise — until wind whips her hair loose and the reserve drops into a patchwork blur below them.

And then —
Then it settles.

Not still. Never still.
But balanced, buoyant, like the dragon accepts them.

Narcissa slowly lifts her head.
Sees the mountain line. The curve of the world. The streak of evening stars.

And the sound that leaves her lips is not a gasp.

It’s a laugh.
A rich, startled laugh like something unlatched in her chest.

Charlie twists slightly, enough to see her face over his shoulder.

“You’re mad,” he calls over the wind.

“I’m alive,” she shouts back.

And he falls a little harder.

They don’t speak much after landing.

They walk to the tent slowly, hands linked, Narcissa barefoot now, dragging her boots, hair tangled and face glowing.

Inside, the mattress is a joke — thin, charm-warmed padding, barely enough room for two.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because as soon as the flap closes behind them, she pushes him back against the post and kisses him like the air is still thin and he’s her only oxygen.

He hissed, forehead to hers. He groans into her mouth, gripping her thighs, spinning her until her back hits the canvas wall.

Her legs wrap around his waist.

And they don’t make it to the mattress.
Not yet.

His hands are everywhere — under her shirt, over her breasts, down her spine, into her.

She bit his lower lip, the sound caught between them.
He hissed, forehead to hers. “You’ll be the death of me.”

She whispers, “Then die here.”

He does — nearly.
He lifts her, thrusts deep, the angle brutal, her back arched, her nails in his shoulders.
It’s fast and messy and so much — both of them breathless and raw.

But then—

He slows.
Something in her face. Her voice. The way she trembles and says his name like it means something new.

He lays her down. Peels her shirt away gently. Kisses her collarbone, her ribs, the soft curve of her belly.

And when he enters her again, it’s with a sound that breaks her open.

“Narcissa…”

She cups his face.

“Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

He makes love to her. Real and soft and slow.
One hand in her hair. One on her hip.
His mouth on her neck, murmuring things he’s never dared say.

And when she comes, she whispers, “Charlie,” like it’s the first time she’s ever truly meant a name.

She lies tangled in him, heartbeat slowing, the night alive outside the tent.

There is ash in her hair. Her thighs ache. Her lips are sore.

She’s never felt more herself.

Charlie is already half-asleep, chest warm against her back, one arm slung heavy around her waist. His other hand is tucked beneath his pillow, his mouth close to her ear, breath slow and even.

Narcissa doesn’t move.

She just lets it happen — lets the stillness settle over them like something sacred. Like he’s not about to vanish with the dawn. Like she could stay right here, pressed to him, forever.

“Are you awake?” she whispers.

“Mmhmm,” comes the lazy reply. “Barely.”

She shifts slightly beneath the thin sheet, careful not to wake him more.

“I liked the dragon,” she says.

He smiles into her neck. “I know. You were grinning like a lunatic.”

She turns in his arms and brushes a strand of hair off his forehead.

“You’re warm,” she murmurs.

“I’m a furnace, yeah. Sorry.”

“No,” she says, softly. “It’s… nice.”

He kisses her shoulder.

A beat.

Then, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear it:

“Don’t go back without waking me.”

She draws in a slow breath.

“I won’t.”

He opens one eye. “Promise?”

Narcissa leans in and presses a kiss to his lips — soft and slow, not hungry anymore, just… sated.

“I promise,” she whispers.

He smiles. “Good.”

He shifts closer, tangling their legs together. She nestles into him without thought now, her body learning the shape of his.

Charlie’s voice is rough with sleep.

“G’night, gorgeous.”

And then, after a moment:

“You’re my favourite thing I’ve ever seen from a dragon’s back.”

She huffs a quiet laugh into his chest.

“Goodnight, Weasley.”

And for the first time in what feels like a hundred years…
Narcissa Malfoy sleeps soundly.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor was made for summer luncheons.

The white stone terrace shimmered in the midday sun, crystal glasses caught the light. Charms floated plates and glasses between guests — elegance without effort. And at the head of it all, Narcissa Malfoy — regal in cream linen, hair swept up like a promise.

She was discussing donors. Specifically, how to charm more of them.

“I think we should open the gardens next year,” she said, slicing a fig with surgical precision. “People give when they feel they’ve been invited into something rare. Let them believe we still are.”

A ripple of laughter followed her words. She accepted it with a sip of wine, face impassive but inwardly pleased.

But she wasn’t entirely present.

Because her skin still tingled from fire.

Because his soot-streaked hands had pressed her against a pine, kissing her like he meant to claim the forest too.

Because Charlie Weasley had left a mark.

And now, among linen and laughter, she felt it pulse beneath her silk.

They moved to the drawing room after the food. Someone charmed a harp to play itself. Her friend Thalia Rosier slipped in beside her on the chaise, a honey-coloured drink in her hand.

“You’ve been quiet,” Thalia said, not unkindly. “I haven’t seen you since the magical creature fundraiser.”

Narcissa turned, perfectly composed. “It was dreadfully long. I slipped out early.”

“You arrived after the panel had finished and left before the bidding.”

A pause.

Narcissa gave a polite smile. “I am sure I was not missed.” Took a beat, and continued, unable to help herself, “I heard the keynote speaker was quite... impassioned.”

“Mm,” Thalia said, watching her carefully. “So I heard. I couldn’t hear anything other than his muscles," she giggled.

Another sip. Another silence.

“Have you been well?” her friend asked, softer now. “Truly? You seem... different.”

Narcissa’s hand lingered too long on the rim of her glass.
The warmth in her stomach had nothing to do with wine.

She almost said it.
Almost said his name.
Almost confessed to a firelit night and dragon-scale bruises and a hunger she hadn’t felt since before Azkaban stole her husband.

Instead, she said:
“I’ve been replanting the east wing garden. The lavender took well this year.”

Thalia didn’t push.

But when she stood to leave, she kissed Narcissa on both cheeks — and whispered, “Be careful what you let take root.”

Malfoy Manor is quiet. Too quiet.
Narcissa in her dressing gown — navy velvet, floor-length, open at the front. And then she feels it — a shift in the air. The faintest crack of Apparition just beyond the gates.
She was not expecting visitors.

She moves slowly, elegantly, to the door. No wand.

Her heart stuttered once — recognition without reason. When she opens it, the evening wind stirs her hair, and he’s standing there.

He's here. Charlie Weasley. Just him, boots and scars and every filthy memory they’ve made, walking into her world without permission.
And something in her likes it.
In boots crusted with mud. A dark coat flung open over a tight black jumper. Windswept. Alive.
His eyes meet hers and don’t move.

She blinks once.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is low. “Since when have I followed the rules?”

He steps forward — not across the threshold, not yet.
Waiting for her.

“Why are you here, Charlie?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
A beat.
“And I wanted to see where you live. Where you rule from.”

She says nothing. Her jaw is set, regal.
But she steps aside.

He walks in like a trespasser who’s already chosen not to care.
Everything is grand and echoing. Crystal sconces. Oil portraits. Silent magic in the walls.

“You walk like a man who thinks he can’t be cursed,” she murmured, trailing him as he surveys the halls.

He glances at her. “Maybe I’m not.”

He stops in front of a massive tapestry — one of her, Lucius, and Draco.
Charlie looks at it for too long.

“You’ve changed since then,” he says. He turns to her. “You were born into a world with rules. I was born to burn them.”

Something flashes between them — raw, electric.

She takes a breath. “And yet here you are… in my house.”

“You let me in.”

She pours firewhisky into crystal tumblers. He sits on her antique sofa — all muscle and sin in a room full of relics and ghosts.

“I never thought I’d see the day a Weasley sat on Malfoy furniture,” she says, offering him a glass.

“I never thought I’d fuck a Malfoy on a hayloft floor,” he replies, accepting it.

The glass stops halfway to her lips. Her cheeks flush.

“Charming,” she murmurs.

He leans forward, voice lower now. “You think about it too. I know you do. I can see it in you — the way you have dressed tonight. The perfume you wear when you don’t expect visitors. You want to be wanted.”

She meets his gaze. “And you think you’re the only one who can want me like that?”

He sets the glass down. Stands.

“I know I’m the only one who’s ever touched you like this—”

His hand is on her neck in a second — not rough, not cruel. Just present. Thumb tracing the hollow of her throat. She breathes, shaky.

“Say you don’t want me,” he growls, “and I’ll walk out right now.”

Her fingers wrap slowly around his wrist. Her lips part — not to speak, but to feel the heat of his thumb.

She doesn’t say a word.

So he kisses her.

It happens fast.

His coat is off. Her dressing gown slips open.
He lifts her onto the grand piano bench, the old wood creaking under the rhythm of their bodies.

He palms her thigh with reverence and heat. She gasps into his mouth. Her nails rake down his back, catching on old scars.

“You’re ruining me,” she whispers against his lips.

“You started the fire.”

They lie on the cold rug in front of the hearth, her head on his bare chest. The fire is dying down. Outside, owls stir in the trees.

“I could get used to this,” he mutters, half-asleep.

Narcissa is quiet for a long time.

Then:

“You shouldn’t.”

He opens one eye. “Why not?”

“Because the longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave.”

He wraps his arm around her waist. “Who said I want to leave?”

She doesn’t answer. Just presses a kiss to the scar on his chest — soft. Almost afraid.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor – 11:42 AM

It wasn’t night this time.
That was the first mistake. The second was forgetting the door.

Sunlight streamed through high stained-glass windows, lighting the grand master bedroom in gold and crimson.

Narcissa was wild this time — moaning, biting, her hands tangled in Charlie’s hair as he knelt between her thighs, devouring her like he was starving.

She’d stripped him of everything — control, reason, clothing — and he’d given it gladly.

“Fuck—Cissa—” he groaned, voice muffled against her inner thigh.

“Don’t stop,” she panted, breathless, her head thrown back against the velvet pillows. “God, don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

She was undone — completely undone — writhing in nothing but her unfastened dressing gown and a pair of diamond earrings. Her heels were still on. One hand fisted the sheets, the other clutched his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

Charlie gripped her hips like she might fly apart. “You taste like sin,” he growled.

“And you—” she gasped, as her thighs trembled—“you feel like trouble.”

His mouth slid higher, slower, hotter—

And then—

Click.

“Mother—?”

The voice froze in the air.

Charlie’s head snapped up.

Narcissa’s eyes flew open in horror. Her mouth parted — but no sound came out.

Standing in the doorway — pale, stunned, mortified — was Draco Malfoy.
Holding a wrapped box. Probably flowers. A surprise visit.
A terrible idea.

His eyes darted — to her, legs spread, flushed and panting.
To Charlie, shirtless and halfway between her knees, hair mussed and mouth wet.

A long, awful silence.

Then—

Draco blinked rapidly, horrified. “WHAT THE—WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Charlie had pulled on his trousers, shirt half-buttoned, belt undone.

Narcissa had retreated into the bathroom — flushed, fuming, shaken, and somehow still magnificent.

Charlie walked to find Draco ashen and mumbling to himself. 

He watched as Draco paced the parlour, hands in his hair.

“I come to bring you BLOODY PASTRIES and YOU’RE—YOU’RE GETTING EATEN ALIVE BY A WEASLEY!?”

Charlie leaned against the fireplace, surprisingly calm.

“You could’ve knocked,” he said.

“I DID!” he screamed in disbelief.

“Then knock louder”

“Oh, for MERLIN’S SAKE—”

Draco turned in a full circle, then stared at the ceiling. “This cannot be happening. Tell me this isn’t happening. Tell me I did not just see my mother—”

“She’s not dead,” Charlie said dryly. “She’s very much alive. I can confirm.”

Draco glared. “Shut up.”

“Gladly. If you leave.”

Draco looked genuinely ill. “Are you shagging her? Is this a THING?!”

Charlie didn’t speak. He just stared as Narcissa, composed and proud, joined them. 

And that, somehow, was worse.

She found Charlie in the garden, sitting on a stone bench like it was a confessional. Draco had been calmed with sensible discussion and taken his leave. 

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

Charlie nodded.

She sat beside him. Elegant. Quiet. The storm was still in her eyes.

“I’ve never been more humiliated in my life.”

He didn’t apologise.

Instead: “You looked fucking divine.”

She snapped her gaze to him. “Don’t.”

But her voice broke a little as did a smile.

“I should hate you.”

He reached out. Took her hand. “Then hate me.”

A long silence.

And then—

“I do,” she whispered. “I hate that I need this.”

He drew her in. “Then stop fighting it.”

And just like that—
She did.

 The Newlywed Flat – Hermione’s Book-Strewn Sitting Room

Draco has a tumbler of something very old in his hand.
He’s pacing. Shirt unbuttoned. Tie askew. Skin pale.

Hermione is curled on the sofa with a book. Watching him melt down.

“I walked in on them, Hermione.”

She lowers her book. “You did.”

“He was between her legs!”

“Oh, Draco…”

“She was moaning.”

“Please stop.”

“He had his mouth—”

“Draco, stop. I already regret asking what you saw.”

He collapses into the chair across from her, looking physically ill.

“She’s sixty-two!”

Hermione quirks a brow. “And he’s what? Forty something? Oh no. An age-appropriate man with chest hair. Alert the Prophet.”

Draco scowls. “It’s Charlie Weasley, Hermione.”

She gives a theatrical little sigh. “God, imagine. He’s so fit.”

“Excuse me?!”

She grins at him, teasing. “Oh come on, Draco. You can admit he’s fit.”

“I will Obliviate myself right now!”

She chuckles. “Well, someone’s got to make up for the generations of sexually repressed pure-blood wives, and frankly… go Narcissa.”

“She had that look—like she’d been in a fire.”

“Maybe she started it.”

Draco stares at her. Open-mouthed. Betrayed.

“You’re enjoying this.”

Hermione stretches. “Your mother has finally stopped dressing like a ghost. She’s glowing. She has secrets. Honestly, I’ve never respected her more.”

“I don’t know who I married,” Draco mutters.

Hermione winks. “You married someone with taste.”

A few days had passed, Charlie had taken his leave, and Narcissa was alone once again. She hadn’t heard from Draco and had tried many things to take her mind off her worry. Her latest attempt finds her in the solarium, watering orchids. She’s flawless, as ever — silver robe, soft waves, no sign of guilt.

Draco storms in, voice sharp.

“Mother.”

She doesn’t look up. “Darling.”

“We need to talk.”

“Of course. Would you like tea?”

“I’d like an exorcism.”

She sets down the watering can, finally turning. Her gaze is cool, unreadable.

“I assume you’re here about Charlie.”

He makes a strangled sound. “You say his name?!”

“Do calm down. It’s not as if you caught me with a Death Eater.”

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m not a ghost, Draco. I’m a widow in all but name. And your father chose his cell.”

Draco recoils slightly. “You’re not… ashamed?”

“Of being desired?” She smiles. “No.”

He stares at her, speechless.

She crosses the room slowly, graceful as ever. “You were raised in a house where love was performed for appearances. Charlie—we do nothing for appearances. We do it for pleasure.”

His ears go red. “That’s disgusting.”

“Your wife disagrees.”

He freezes.

Narcissa tilts her head. “Hermione sent me a very sweet note.”

“Merlin’s balls—”

“She said, and I quote: ‘You’ve still got it.’”

Draco groans. “This is my hell.”

“Darling…” Her voice gentled. “I was cold for years. Charlie makes me feel—real. Alive.”

He looks at her — really looks. At the faint colour in her cheeks. The softness around her mouth. The glow.

And he knows it’s true.

“I still think it’s inappropriate.”

She arches a brow. “Then by all means, disown me.”

He glares. She waits.

Then—

“…Fine. But for the love of all things sacred, can you lock the door?”

She sips her tea. “Oh, darling. The danger is the point.”

Chapter Text

When Lucius Malfoy hears whispers in Azkaban — his wife in silk, on the arm of Charlie Weasley, standing too close at a Ministry dinner — he demands a visit.

Not a letter.

Not an explanation.

A visit.

It is the first request he has made of her in years.

And Narcissa, upon hearing it, says nothing. She simply goes upstairs, opens the wardrobe she once swore she’d never return to, and pulls out the dress. Black silk. Sleeveless. The one he bought her in Milan.

She wears it as armour — elegant, deliberate, lethal. No necklace. No brooch. Just gloves, heels, and defiance.

She tells Charlie she’ll be back by dusk.

She doesn’t explain where she’s going.

He doesn’t ask.

And then she Apparates to the storm-battered rock in the sea.

The prison is colder than she remembered. The Dementors are long gone, but the walls still breathe with memory — of guilt, of screams, of men who thought they were too powerful to fall.

Lucius Malfoy sits behind the enchanted glass, paler than death, hair unkempt, robes grey with wear.

When she enters, he rises. Her heels click like a challenge against the stone floor.

“Narcissa.” Her name leaves his mouth like a confession, frayed and unfinished.

She lowers herself into the chair, immaculate in black silk gloves and a severe twist of hair.

“You look well,” he lies.

“And you look like a man who’s been eating gruel for ten years.”

His lip curls.

“You’re still cruel.”

“No,” she says coolly. “Just free.”

He studies her, eyes sharpening — the predator remembering the hunt.

“You ignored my letters,” she says. “Denied me visits. For years, Lucius. You made a ghost of yourself and left me to mourn a husband still living.”

“You mourned me?” His voice is soft, until bitterness slips through. “You replaced me.”

“You forfeited me,” she snaps. “You let the world swallow you whole and then blamed me for surviving.”

He gives a quiet, bitter laugh.

“I’ve heard things.”

“From whom?”

“A reliable source.”

Her eyes narrow. “Draco?”

He doesn’t answer — and that silence cuts deeper than any word.

“You would use our son as your spy?” she hisses. “You’d drag him into your obsessions?”

“I did not ask,” he replies coldly. “He volunteered — out of concern.”

“Concern?” Her laugh cracks. “For whom? For the mother you discarded or the father who broke himself for the wrong cause?”

Lucius steps closer to the glass.

“You’ve been seen,” he says evenly. “In silk. At a fundraiser. A hotel.”

“And what if I have?”

“Then you’ve disgraced what little remains of our name.”

Her expression freezes. Then she laughs — sharp, bright, and dangerous.

“Our name?” she echoes. “You disgraced it long before I ever opened my legs to another man.”

The words strike him like a curse. His composure falters, and beneath the fury, for just a moment, something raw shows — grief, maybe, or guilt.

“You think this is revenge?” he whispers.

“No, Lucius,” she says, her voice low and trembling now. “This is release.”

“You think I didn’t dream of you?” His voice breaks, sudden and startling.

“And now?”

“Now I hate that I still want it.”

The silence between them crackles. She looks at him — the ruin of the man she once loved, still dangerous even in his despair.

“You always wanted freedom,” he murmurs, regaining his venom. “Now you have it. Tell me, Narcissa — was I ever anything but a chain you longed to break?”

Her answer is soft, almost a whisper.

“No, Lucius. You were the lock. And I was foolish enough to believe there was a key.”

He presses his palm to the glass, voice rising.

“You think this Weasley will keep you? When he’s done, when you tire of him, you’ll remember what power felt like. What we were.”

She stands. The scrape of her chair against the floor is a blade through silence.

“What we were,” she repeats. “A chess game played in blood. And I am no longer your piece.”

She turns. Her heels strike the stone like thunder. The guards avert their eyes as she passes, feeling the chill of the storm in her wake.

Behind her, Lucius slams his fist into the glass — once, twice — until a thin line of blood runs from his knuckles.

Charlie’s been waiting for hours. Pacing. Half-dressed. Whiskey untouched.

He knows where she’s been.

He knows who she saw.

He doesn’t ask when the front door finally opens.

She steps into the dark drawing room — shadowed, beautiful, untouchable.

“I went to see him,” she says plainly.

Charlie doesn’t move. Just stares.

She’s still wearing the gloves. Her hair hasn’t fallen. Her mask is still on.

Until he crosses the room and rips it off.

His mouth crashes into hers — a fierce, desperate claiming, not of ownership but of belonging.

She gasps as he lifts her against the door, hands beneath her thighs, her skirt pushed up indecently fast.

“You went to see your husband,” he murmurs against her throat.

“Yes.”

“Did he touch you?”

“No.”

“Did you want him to?”

“No.”

His breath trembles.

“Then come back to me. Right now. Here.”

She shivers as he presses against her, rough and reverent all at once.

He wakes with her curled against his chest, her hair loose for once, a faint bite mark on her collarbone.

Sunlight spills through the windows.

She opens her eyes, still dazed.

“I’ve never let anyone speak to me like that.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

“No,” she whispers. “I didn’t want to.”

A pause.

“I’m not ashamed anymore,” she says.

He smiles.

“Good.”

Then, teasing… “Because next time, I’m fucking you on the Ministry steps.”

Chapter Text

She’s the one who suggests getting away — in a late-night letter, ink smudged, craving sunlight. Narcissa wants anonymity — to belong to light with him, not shadow. Not in dark bedrooms and secrecy. Not under the watchful eyes of Malfoy descendants, or under Lucius’ shadow. 

So she meets him at The Villa – Val d'Orcia, Tuscany, and finds herself making pasta. 

The kitchen is nothing like the one at the Manor.
Here, the stone walls are sun-warmed, and the windows throw gold light across terracotta tiles. A bowl of lemons sits in the centre of the table, the scent sharp and clean.

Charlie’s sleeves are rolled to his elbows; there’s flour on his forearm and a faint burn mark on his wrist. He looks like he belongs here — solid, unbothered, the sort of man who’s never had a house-elf in his life.

Narcissa, in contrast, stands by the counter as though facing a duel.

“I’ve never done this,” she admits, eyeing the array of ingredients with suspicion.

“What, cooked?”

“Not really. The elves always prepare supper.”

He grins, tossing her an apron that nearly hits her in the face.

“Well, Lady Malfoy, time to learn.”

She smooths the apron as if it’s silk, refusing to be flustered.

“And what are you teaching me to make, exactly?”

“Pici cacio e pepe,” he says, proud. “Tuscan comfort food. Cheese, pepper, pasta. Simple, honest, perfect.”

“That sounds dangerously close to peasant food.”

“That’s because it is.”

She laughs — properly laughs — and it startles them both.

He shows her how to roll the dough, how to dust it with flour so it won’t stick. Her fingers are awkward at first, too delicate, more accustomed to wandwork than kitchen work.

“Like this,” he says, stepping behind her, guiding her hands with his. “Gentle. You’re not hexing it — you’re coaxing it.”

“You make it sound indecent,” she murmurs, lips curving.

“Everything’s indecent if you do it right.”

She shakes her head but smiles, and the dough finally takes shape under her touch.

“There,” he says. “You just made pasta.”

“I feel accomplished,” she says dryly, “and strangely humble.”

“Welcome to my world.”

Later, when they sit outside under the vine-draped pergola eating what they made, the pasta is slightly uneven and the sauce too thick — but he swears it’s perfect. She pretends to scold him for lying, but he catches the flicker of pride in her eyes.

“I could get used to this,” she says quietly, twirling the fork. “No elves, no rules. Just… this.”

“Good,” he says, watching her. “Because this is the part worth keeping.”

The breeze rustles the olive trees. Wine glows ruby in the glass. For a moment, they are nobody — not Malfoy, not Weasley — just two people learning how to make something from scratch.

The next day, they wander through the vineyards, fingers brushing now and then, both pretending not to notice. He stops occasionally to name plants, half of which she pretends to know. She counters by teaching him a French charm for ripening grapes faster; it backfires and explodes a bunch into purple mush that splatters across his chest.

Her laughter rings out, bright and unguarded. He looks at her like he’s never heard anything more beautiful.

“You did that on purpose.”

 “Accidents happen.”

 “You’re a menace.”

 “And yet,” she says, wiping a grape stain from his skin with her thumb, “you keep me around.”

In the evenings, they play wizard’s chess on the patio. He’s reckless; she’s ruthless.

“You play like a Gryffindor,” she teases after annihilating his queen.

“And you play like someone who doesn’t believe in mercy.”

 “I don’t.”

 “I noticed,” he says, grinning.

When she wins, he insists she take a victory lap around the pool; when he wins, which is rare, she pretends to hex the board into the water.

By the time the sun begins to dip, the air hums with laughter, not longing. For the first time in years, Narcissa feels something almost forgotten — a sense of ease.

So, when she stretches out on the lounger one afternoon, dress open-backed that clings to every wicked line of her body, sunglasses glinting, she isn’t thinking of the world at all, only of the man in the pool, his smile, his terrible singing, and the sound of her own laughter echoing against the stone.

Charlie is in the pool, hair slicked back, wet and gloriously shirtless. Every scar catches the light. He watches her like a wolf.

“You’re staring again,” she murmurs.

He swims to the edge. “You’re glowing.”

“You say that every day.”

“Because it’s true.”

She leans forward, the dress slipping, revealing bare skin beneath.

“Get over here.”

He obeys. Dripping water on the stone tiles, he pulls her up, wraps an arm around her waist, and kisses her breathless — hands roaming, her laugh turning to a moan.

They don’t go inside.
They don’t even check for privacy.
They fuck on the chaise, right there under the Italian sun — slow, obscene, her head tipped back as he murmurs her name in between bites to her shoulder.

*Flash*

Down the hill, tucked behind a rented olive grove, Celeste Dela is sipping limoncello and flicking through magical camera lenses.
She’d heard rumours.
Whispers.
But this?

She zooms in, delighted.

A Malfoy. A Weasley. Tuscany.
Bare skin. Open mouths. Heels still on. No shame..

Click.

By morning, the Ministry was whispering. By noon, the world was watching

“MALFOY MATRIARCH TAKES A LOVER”

Exclusive photographs inside: Narcissa Black, 62, and war hero Charlie Weasley, 41, share a little more than gelato in sun-drenched Tuscany. One source described the encounter as ‘wild’, ‘shirtless’, and ‘visible from the next vineyard.’

Column Highlights:

• “Is it love? Lust? Or a spell gone wrong?”
• “Lucius Malfoy said to be ‘foaming’ in Azkaban.”
• “Draco Malfoy declined to comment, but sources say he hasn’t stopped swearing since Wednesday.”

Page 3:

Full-colour image of Charlie with his hand up Narcissa’s dress and her mouth at his throat, both laughing like they’ve never known war.

Narcissa slams the paper down on the table, laughter sharp and scandalous.

“You absolute beast, Charlie.”

He’s leaning against the counter, shirtless again, drinking wine from the bottle.
Grinning. Shameless.

“They got my good side.”

“You were inside me!”

“I was busy. Can’t pose and ravish you, love.”

She collapses into a chair, legs bare, cheeks flushed.

“We’re going to be crucified for this.”

He walks over. Kneels beside her.

“Then let’s go out spectacularly.”

She looks down at him. Her smile fades, something warmer taking its place.

“You don’t regret it?”

“Not for a second.”

A pause.

“Do you?”

She touches his face, fingers grazing the scar across his cheek.

“No. I only regret not doing it sooner.”

He looks at her face, studying the freckles that have slowly appeared on her nose. “I guess we are public now, sweetheart”

The villa’s master suite is bathed in golden light — sheer curtains drifting in a lazy breeze, the scent of honeysuckle thick in the air.

Narcissa wears nothing but a silk scarf around her wrists. She’s on her knees, hair falling in perfect disarray, lips parted, skin flushed.

Charlie’s behind her — naked, hungry, hands greedy on her hips as he slides back inside her slowly.

She gasps — loud and unrestrained.

“Merlin—”

“You like that?” he growls against her neck, biting just beneath her ear.

“Yes. Harder.”

He thrusts again — deep, relentless, his palm flat on her spine as he pushes her down and takes her like he owns her.

Her voice is a mess of whimpers and moans.
He’s undone by it.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he mutters. “Bent over. Mine.”

She twists beneath him, grinding back, her wrists still bound, her smile wicked.

He flips her over — strong arms, no hesitation, palcing her onto the bed— and kisses her full and filthy, devouring her mouth before trailing his tongue down her throat, between her breasts, lower.

“Charlie,” she breathes, heels digging into the sheets.

He pins her wrists above her head. “Don’t move.”

Then slides into her again — deep, slow, perfect.

They move together like they’ve done this a hundred times.
Like they never want to stop.

She’s close. So is he.

She wraps her legs around his waist, hips arching.

His voice breaks — “Fuck, Ciss—”

And then—

A screeching explosion.

A blazing scarlet envelope bursts into the air above the bed, crackling with magic.

They both freeze.

Narcissa, panting, still beneath him.

Charlie, halfway through thrusting, now frozen in terror.

A pause — one heartbeat — then:

“CHARLES OCTAVIUS WEASLEY, WHAT IN MERLIN’S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?!?”

Molly’s voice BOOMS through the villa like an explosion in a cathedral.

Charlie yelps — literally yelps — and nearly falls off the bed.

Narcissa collapses into the pillow, face flaming red.

“A Malfoy?! A MALFOY, CHARLIE?! HER HUSBAND IS STILL IN AZKABAN!”

Charlie tries to grab a pillow to muffle it. It doesn’t work.

“And don’t think I didn’t see that photograph — your hand was practically inside her robes! What would your father say? What would your brothers say?!”

Narcissa starts to giggle, silk scarf still tied around one wrist.

Charlie buries his face in her stomach.

“You are a DRAGON HANDLER, not a COMMON GIGOLO!”

The Howler bursts into flames, hissing like a frying pan and vanishing in a puff of dramatic smoke.

Silence.

For a moment, neither of them speak.

Then:

“Octavius?” Narcissa says, grinning.

Charlie groans. “Kill me.”

She strokes his hair. “A Malfoy? You scandalous boy.”

He lifts his head slowly. “Well… could've been worse. She might've sent one to you.”

She flips him onto his back. Smirking. Dangerous.

“Then let’s give her another reason to write.”

Chapter Text

Hours had merged into days, which had somehow morphed into a whole week. 

They were tangled in bed, skin to skin.
Narcissa lay on her stomach, hair mussed, skin flushed, one leg draped over his. Her breathing had just started to slow — and for once, she wasn’t saying anything.

Charlie propped himself up on an elbow. Studied her in the dark.

“You’re quiet.”

She smiled into the pillow. “Don’t ruin it.”

“Ruin what?”

“This feeling. The warmth.”
A pause. “I’ve never felt it last.”

He traced a slow line down her spine. “That’s because no one ever held you long enough.”

She turned her face to him then. Really looked.

“You’re different here,” she said softly. “Softer. Quieter.”

“I’m just me,” he replied. “With you, I don’t have to… pretend.”

Something shifted in her chest. Something terrifying.

“I’ve had men who wanted me,” she said. “But I don’t think I’ve ever had someone see me.”

He reached for her hand. Laced their fingers.

“You’re more than beautiful, Cissa.”

She snorted, deflecting. “Don’t get soppy on me, Weasley.”

But his grip tightened.

“I mean it.”

She blinked.

“I love you.”

It landed like thunder.

Narcissa froze.

He didn’t flinch.

“I’m not saying it because I want anything from you,” he added. “Not because I expect you to say it back. I’m just—”

He stopped. Swallowed hard.

“I’m in love with your fire, your mind, your impossible standards. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

She stared at him — regal, stunned, completely undone.

No one had ever said that to her like this.
Not Lucius. Not before war, not after.

No one had ever said it with nothing to gain.

Her eyes burned. “You’re a fool.”

“I know.”

“You’re younger. Impulsive.”

“I know.”

“This could ruin us both.”

“I still love you.”

A long silence. Then—

She exhaled. Pressed her forehead to his chest. “Say it again.”

He wrapped his arms around her. Kissed her hair.

“I love you.”

She couldn’t sleep.

Charlie lay beside her, bare-chested and soft-breathing, one arm flung across her waist like he couldn’t bear to let her drift too far.

He’d said it hours ago.

I love you.

Just like that.

No poetry. No performance.
Just heat and honesty.
Like it had been sitting on the tip of his tongue for weeks, waiting for silence.

Narcissa had listened. Had nodded. Had held him close.

But she hadn’t said it back.

She rose from bed quietly, slipping on one of his old shirts — too big, worn soft at the collar. The scent of him clung to it: smoke, leather, pine, something warm and animal.

She padded barefoot into the open kitchen, poured a glass of wine, and stepped out onto the stone terrace.

The wind had cooled. The sky was cloudy. The air hummed with distant thunder still.

She sipped slowly.

Could I love him?

The thought startled her. Not just because it came — but because it felt real.

Not fantasy. Not play.

Not the thrill of being worshipped, but the question of returning it.

He loved her. She believed it. It pulsed through everything he did — the way he touched her, the way he fought for her space, the way he never tried to claim her name.

But love had never been a gift in her world.
It had been currency. Control.
Even Lucius — she’d admired him, protected him, but she’d never known if what they shared was love or loyalty.

And here was this wild man.
Scarred and sun-drenched. With mud on his boots and fire in his mouth.
Offering her something soft.

Could she let herself fall?

Could she trust love that wasn’t bought or bartered?

Could she risk the pain of needing it?

She closed her eyes.

She returned to bed before sunrise.
Charlie stirred as she lay down — eyes half-open, voice low with sleep.

“Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” she whispered, curling into him. “Just… thinking.”

He pressed his face into her neck. “Don’t overthink it. Just stay.”

She didn’t answer. But her fingers traced idle lines along his back, memorising every scar.

And then — so soft he almost missed it:

“Don’t fall out of love with me too quickly, Charlie,” she murmured, eyes still open in the dark.

He opened his eyes, truly awake now.

“Narcissa—”

But she kissed him gently. Silencing him.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Please. Just… not yet.”

He didn’t press her. Didn’t beg.

Just held her tighter.

Hermione and Draco had arrived late the night before.
An unexpected visit — “just checking in,” they said lightly.

They drank too much and ate whatever was there. Easier that way.. 

Now, the two women sat facing one another.
Narcissa, in linen trousers and a silk camisole, hair loose.
Hermione, barefoot in a cotton sundress, sipping espresso and pretending she wasn’t mildly hungover from the wine Charlie had poured her.

It was quiet for a while.

Just the soft breeze, birdsong, and the gentle clink of silver spoons against china.

Then:

“So,” Hermione said, placing her cup down. “You’re in love with a Weasley.”

Narcissa didn’t flinch. “You say that like it’s contagious.”

Hermione grinned. “Isn’t it?”

A pause.

Narcissa glanced toward the open doors, where Charlie was out of sight — probably half-naked in the kitchen, singing to himself.

“I don’t know if I love him,” she said finally.

Hermione didn’t push. Just waited.

“I know he loves me,” Narcissa added. “He said it.”

“And how did that feel?”

“Like I couldn’t breathe.”

Hermione leaned forward slightly. “Because it scared you?”

Narcissa’s lips parted. “Because I believed him.”

Another silence. Deeper, gentler.

“He doesn’t want anything from me,” Narcissa whispered. “Not my money. Not my name. Not my reputation. He just… wants me.”

Hermione smiled, small and knowing. “That’s how they get you.”

Narcissa looked at her. Really looked.

“You’re different,” she said. “From the girl I met at Draco’s trial.”

“I’m older,” Hermione said simply. “Tired of pretending not to feel things.”

A beat.

“And you’re softer than I thought you’d be,” she added.

Narcissa raised a brow. “Careful, Granger.”

“No, I mean it. I used to think you were just… polished. Cold. Untouchable.”

“I was.”

“And now you’re barefoot, drinking lemon tea, and sleeping with a man who smells like ash and adrenaline.”

A faint smile. “You make it sound so romantic.”

“It is, Narcissa.”

A pause.

Hermione’s voice softened. “Do you want to love him?”

That hit her. Square in the chest.

Did she?

Could she?

Would she dare?

“I think…” she began, then stopped.

Hermione reached out, placed her hand gently over Narcissa’s.

“It doesn’t have to come all at once. Sometimes it comes in pieces—one scar, one touch, one morning when you realise you’d rather wake beside them than with your pride.”

Narcissa swallowed. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

Hermione gave a quiet laugh. “Draco and I didn’t plan for each other either. But then one night he made me soup when I was sick, and spelled a star map on the ceiling so I wouldn’t feel trapped. I think… that’s when I knew.”

Narcissa looked away, hiding something that shimmered in her gaze.

“Charlie makes me laugh,” she said. “Even when I try not to.”

San Quirico d’Orcia – Late Morning

It was market day.

The cobbled square shimmered in the heat. Tourists with oversized hats mingled with locals picking sun-ripened tomatoes and trading magical herbs under canvas awnings.

Narcissa had walked into the village alone.
Charlie was late, apparently helping the butcher move crates of frozen wyvern meat—best not to ask. She needed a moment to breathe — maybe flirt with the idea of normalcy.

The bakery smelled like almond pastries and fresh honeyed focaccia.

She stepped out into the sunlight, basket in hand, wrapping a silk scarf loosely over her shoulders.

And that’s when she heard it.

“…nah, mate, I’m good. She’s inside.”

It was Charlie’s voice — unmistakable, rough and familiar and warm. He was standing near the fountain, talking to a handsome man in travelling robes, tall and grinning.

“She?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow. “Wasn’t sure if you were flying solo. You didn’t mention anyone.”

Charlie shrugged, casual. “Didn’t need to. I’m already taken.”

Narcissa froze behind a nearby stall. Heart suddenly loud in her chest.

The stranger laughed. “Taken? Seriously? You?”

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Shocked me too.”

“Who is she, then?”

He paused. Looked over the square — not seeing her yet.

And then he said:

“She’s older than me—terrifying, brilliant, too bloody beautiful for her own good. And she’ll hex your dick off if you so much as wink at me.”

The man snorted. “So she’s that kind of woman?”

Charlie smiled — softly. Reverently.

“She’s the kind of woman you don’t survive — unless she wants you to.”

The stranger whistled low. “You’re in deep.”

Charlie chuckled. “You have no idea.”

And just as the man turned to leave — joking something about hopeless cases — Charlie’s gaze shifted.

Straight to her.

Across the square.
Still behind the stall.
Basket in hand. Eyes wide. Frozen.

He blinked. Smiled slowly.

Didn’t look away.

Just that one smile — familiar, easy, entirely hers.

And that’s when it happened.

Something shifted inside her.

Not lust. Not need.
It was a certainty. The kind that couldn’t be charmed or reasoned away.

She loved him.

Oh, god.

She loved him.

She said nothing for hours.

Charlie hadn’t asked.

But that evening, as they stood side by side chopping basil and tomatoes in the warm open kitchen, she laid the basket down.

Turned to him.

And said, so simply:

“I heard you today.”

He looked up. “At the market?”

She nodded. “At the fountain.”

He froze — then smiled nervously. “Did I sound like a complete prat?”

“No,” she whispered.

A pause.

“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

She exhaled.

“I think I love you.”

Chapter Text

The Tuscan sun couldn’t protect them for long. Narcissa had to return for prior commitments; Charlie would join her publicly in three weeks. He needed to check in at the Sanctuary first.

The goodbye isn’t dramatic.
No one sobs.
But it hurts.

Charlie stands in dragon-hide travel gear, wand clipped to his hip, hair tied back, rucksack slung over his shoulder. His neck is still marked from last night — where she bit him in the bath.

Narcissa wears navy. Simple. Elegant. Her sunglasses hide eyes sharper than usual.

They stand beneath a soft glamour charm — keeping the press away.

“You’ll write?” she says.

“Every night.”

“And not just about dragons?”

He grins. “Only if you promise to write me filth.”

She lifts a brow. “Wouldn’t you prefer poetry?”

“I want filth written like poetry.”

That earns a faint smile.

He kisses her hand — not the knuckles, but the pulse inside her wrist. Presses his lips there like a vow.

Then steps back.

And disappears with a crack.

Malfoy Manor – Three Days Later

It’s too quiet.

She walks through the halls like a ghost, her heels echoing through a space emptier than before.

The Wiltshire wind claws at the windows.

The elves speak in whispers.

She opens her wardrobe. One of Charlie’s shirts is folded inside. She touches it, but doesn’t wear it. Not yet.

She walks past the grand piano. Remembers being bent over it.

She opens a drawer. Finds the letter Lucius wrote demanding her visit. Burns it.

She eats dinner alone. Drinks half a glass of wine.

Then — in the middle of the night —
She writes.

Narcissa to Charlie
Delivered by an enchanted owl, sealed in deep green wax.

You would hate how quiet it is here.

I passed the drawing room and nearly imagined you sprawled out on the divan, boots on the table, glass of firewhisky in hand like you owned the place.

Instead, I found a cold decanter and a memory.

You have ruined me.

In the best and worst ways.

I thought I knew what I liked.
Now I lie awake imagining your hands beneath my silk slip, tracing every freckle like it’s a secret.

Write soon.
Tell me what you’re dreaming about.
Or lie to me. Either will do.

Yours — for now —
N.

Charlie to Narcissa
Delivered at midnight, messy handwriting, dried dragon ash on the parchment.

I had to Apparate mid-flight today. The fire-breather got loose. Left a scorch mark on my back.

Missed your hands.

I dreamt about you last night.
You were in my old tent.
Wearing nothing but one of my old leather belts.

You told me not to move.

I obeyed.

I woke up painfully hard and muttered your name into my pillow.

Is that what you wanted?

I want a lock of your hair. Send one. Curse it if you like.

I’ll keep it by my heart.

~C

Narcissa to Charlie
On parchment scented faintly of her perfume.

I touched myself last night.

But I wouldn’t let myself finish.

I wanted to wait.

Wanted the ache to stretch out like the silk between my thighs when I think of your mouth there.

Your last letter made my hands shake.

Especially the part about the belt.

For the record: it’s still hanging on the bedpost.
Waiting.

You’ll remove it yourself next time.
With your teeth.

Charlie to Narcissa
The parchment is damp in one corner. Smells faintly of whisky and smoke.

I’m drunk.

Not enough to forget how your voice sounds, but enough to say too much.

I saw a woman at the pub tonight. Silver hair. Wrong posture. Wrong face.

But it jolted me.

I want to kiss the corners of your eyes.

I want to see you cry with pleasure again.

I want to watch you fall apart.

I want to kneel.

Fuck.

I want you in the manor bathtub. One leg on the marble. My mouth on your inner thigh.

Merlin help me — I think I love you more when I miss you.

I shouldn’t send this.

But I will.

Narcissa’s Note (Tucked Into the Box of the Belt She’s Mailed)

You asked for something of mine.

Here.

Smell it.

Remember how it felt across your wrists.

Imagine where it was just before I took it off.

I’m not writing more tonight.

I’m going to bed wearing your shirt.

And no knickers.

3:19 AM

Narcissa sleeps deeply.

The sheets are soft. Her pillow smells like bergamot and longing.
She’s wearing his shirt — sleeves rolled, hem high on her thighs.
The fire has burned low. The night is hushed.

Then —

Crack.

A subtle pop.
No alarms triggered. The wards know him now.

Footsteps.
Boots off.
Shirt dropped somewhere near the chair.
A whisper of fabric as he lifts the duvet.

And then…

Heat.

She stirs only when his lips press against the inside of her knee.

“Mmnnn…”

Then higher.

A hand trails up her thigh, parting her slowly, reverently.
He exhales against her.

She gasps, eyes fluttering open.

“Charlie—? You are meant to arrive tomorrow…”

But he doesn’t answer with words.

He moans into her as his tongue slides across her exactly right.

She arches with a sharp gasp — sleep fleeing her body like smoke.

“Merlin—what are you—”

His voice is gravel and velvet. “Finishing the letter you sent.”

Then—

His mouth claims her again.

And she forgets how to speak.

He takes his time.
Kisses her thighs like prayer.
Holds her hips down with strong hands as she writhes.

She grabs at his curls, half-asleep, half-undone, her legs trembling as he groans her name into her most sensitive places.

When she finally comes — panting, gasping, crying out into the pillow —
He doesn’t stop.
He just slows. Draws it out.

And when she’s nothing but breath and pulse and bare skin glowing in the firelight —
He climbs over her.
Presses a kiss to her collarbone. Her jaw. Her temple.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he whispers.

She threads her fingers through his hair, still breathless.

“I didn’t want you to.”

He slips inside her with one slow thrust. Deep. Hot. Perfect.

She moans.

“I’ve missed this,” he says. “You. This exact way.”

She wraps her legs around him. “Then take it slowly.”

He does.

They lie tangled, the storm of it behind them, his hand lazily tracing circles on her thigh.

She murmurs, “You risked a Ministry fine Apparating across borders.”

“I risked a lot more letting you sleep alone tonight.”

She smiles into his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re mine.”

A pause before she feels him against her.

She lifts her head. “Charlie...”

He kisses her softly.

She groans — already smiling.

“I’m sore, you brute.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

He isn’t.

It is the morning of the party. He has her on her side, one leg over his hip, arm wrapped around her stomach, slow, deep thrusts that make her gasp into the pillow.

And that’s when—

The door creaks open.

“Mother, are you—OH SWEET MERLIN—!”

Charlie freezes mid-thrust.

Narcissa doesn’t.

She just sighs.

“Draco,” she says coolly, not looking back, “you really need to stop doing this.”

Draco slams the door shut behind him and turns around, hands in his hair.

‘Why does this keep happening to me?!’ came his muffled groan from behind the door.

Charlie slowly slides out of her, trying not to laugh.

Draco continues. “Weasley. Do you live here now?!”

Charlie stretches like a cat. “Depends. Do you?”

“I’m her son, you son of a bitch.”

Narcissa finally sits up, pulling Charlie’s shirt over her glowing, flushed skin.

“Draco. Breathe.”

He paces, outraged. “You’re in my father’s bed!”

She glances at Charlie, then smirks. “Not anymore.”

Charlie loses it.
Laughs, full-chested and unapologetic.

Draco has finally stopped shouting.

He’s nursing tea like it personally betrayed him.
Charlie sits beside Narcissa on the velvet settee, shirtless, with a single bite mark on his collarbone.
Narcissa looks unbothered.
Radiant.

Then—

A knock at the front door.

Narcissa raises a brow. “The party organisers are early”

Charlie sighs. 

The elf answers it.

Arthur Weasley steps into the room.
He’s dressed neatly, scroll under his arm, expression unreadable.

“Hello, Narcissa. Draco. Charlie.”

Everyone stares. Narcissa remembers the howler, she stares defiantly, raises her chin. 

Arthur clears his throat.

“I… assume I’m not interrupting anything.”

Charlie, sheepish, looked at Draco. “You’re too late for that.”

Arthur smiles mildly. “Trust me, son. I chose to be.”

They step into the corridor. Arthur closes the door.

“Word came through this morning,” he says softly. “You broke at least two Ministry restrictions Apparating into the UK from Romania without declaration.”

Charlie rolls his eyes. “No one saw me.”

“They did feel you.” Arthur raises a brow. “You lit up the ley lines like a bloody dragon’s tail.”

“Are they charging me?”

Arthur sighs. “No. Not officially.”

“But?”

“But people are talking. You and her? It’s not just gossip anymore. You’re waking up in her bed. You’re… visible.”

Charlie crosses his arms. “Is this a warning?”

“It’s a kindness,” Arthur says. “From me, not the Ministry.”

A pause.

Arthur softens.

“Do you love her?”

Charlie’s jaw sets. Then: doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Arthur nods once. Then:
“Then stop arriving in a blast of fire. You’ll spook the bloody portraits.”

She watches Charlie return from the hall.
His jaw is tight.
He doesn’t speak right away.

“Trouble?” she asks.

“Just a warning. Nothing official.”

She closes the book in her lap. “And your father?”

Charlie shakes his head. “He’d be proud I was breaking rules.”

She studies him a moment longer.

Then rises, walks over, and presses her forehead to his.

“I’m not hiding anymore,” she says softly.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I wouldn't miss the scandal of the century.”

Chapter Text

A young waiter—fresh out of Hogwarts—crossed the Malfoy Manor’s entrance hall, balancing a tray of champagne.

The air was thick with perfume and politics. She had never seen anything like it. Older, distinguished witches and wizards drifted past, heavy with secrets and self-importance.

Outside, cameras flashed at the gates. Reporters crowded just beyond the wards, shouting half-spells and scandal.

Inside, the foyer gleamed with old wealth: floating candles, dark florals, and a gold-foiled banner that read—

The Malfoy Foundation for Magical Displacement Recovery.

Founded by Narcissa herself years ago—a redemption in diamonds, her father had scoffed.

Tonight, the rooms swelled with patrons, ambassadors, and ghosts of the war, all wearing civility like a mask.

The waitress tried to move aside and nearly tripped on the staircase. That’s when she saw her.

Narcissa Malfoy stood at the top of the stairs in a gown of deep emerald velvet—cut sharp at the waist, backless, the high collar a deliberate challenge. Her hair was sculpted to perfection. Her heels whispered power.

And beside her—Charlie Weasley.

Charmed black suit. No tie. Open collar. A sliver of tattoo at his throat.

He looked at her as though she were the only magic he’d ever need.

They began to descend.

Silence fell.

The room buzzed again.

Old families stared. Photographers hovered. A Parkinson widow dropped her glass.

“Narcissa brought him.”

“Is that the Weasley? The dragon one?”

“They were photographed in Tuscany. She was—on top of him.”

“She’s lost her mind.”

Narcissa heard it all. She didn’t flinch.

She took a flute of champagne from the girl’s tray and clinked it once—eyes sharp, chin high.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says.
“This is Charles Weasley. My date. And the reason I no longer need sleeping draughts.”

Then Hermione Granger’s laugh rang out—bright and unrestrained—from across the room.

Draco rubbed his eyes like he’d aged twenty years.

The French ambassador spat out his wine entirely.

Charlie leaned in. “That was bloody perfect.”

She smirked. “They don’t deserve subtlety.”

The Burrow 

The Evening Prophet hit the dinner table.

Front page headline:

BLACK VELVET AND DRAGONFIRE — NARCISSA MALFOY’S LOVER MAKES HIS DEBUT.

A full-colour moving photograph:

Narcissa—lips red, eyes smouldering.

Charlie—hand at her lower back, whispering into her neck.

Molly Weasley stared.

Arthur turned the page.

She stared harder.

“Arthur.”

“Hm?”

“She’s got her hand on his thigh.”

“I can see that.”

“I can—Arthur! That’s your son!”

“He looks happy.”

“She looks like she’s about to eat him alive!”

Arthur smiled faintly. “He’s always liked a bit of danger.”

Molly buried her face in her hands. “He’s in a public affair with a Malfoy widow!”

“She’s not a widow yet.”

“Don’t joke. We will have targets on our backs”

Arthur’s tone softened.

“He’s not a boy anymore, Molly. You know what I see in that picture?”

She hesitated.

“I see a woman and a man who finally have something to lose again.”

Molly’s eyes misted. “And that doesn’t scare you?”

“It used to,” Arthur said quietly. “But now—I think he’s finally met his match.”

Chapter Text

The house was silent. The guests gone, the staff drifting home.

Upstairs, Charlie was running a bath, humming something from their Tuscany playlist.

Narcissa, still in emerald velvet, heels clicking on marble, crossed to the drawing room.

That’s when she saw it.

A silver tray on the mantel.

Ten letters, sealed in obsidian wax.

The mark: a serpent twined with a rose.

Lucius’s mark.

He had been writing. Watching.

The sight quickened her pulse.

She broke the first seal.

Narcissa,

I saw the photograph.

You in velvet.
Him in shadow.
Your hand on his thigh like you’d owned it for a decade.
Your smile — the one you used to give me — when no one else was watching.

Now they all see it. Congratulations.
You’ve made a whore of desire and a queen of scandal.

You were magnificent.

I barely recognised you. Not because you looked different, but because you looked free.

I am furious.

I am hard with it.

How dare you look so alive without me.

I’ve watched you survive me, Narcissa.

I’ve watched you become someone new in his hands.

And the worst part —
The part I should never say —
Is that I envy him.

Does he know the spell you used to whisper when you came?
Does he know what you look like when you're half-asleep and aching?
Does he know how to silence your breath with just a thumb to your throat?

Or does he treat you sweetly, this dragon boy?

I wonder what happens when you scream his name in my bed.

I wonder if you’ll ever scream mine again.

You’ve always been the most powerful thing I ever touched.

And now I am reduced to parchment and madness.

Keep sending the photographs.

Keep showing me what I’ve lost.

I deserve every image.

Let him have your body.
I still own your history.

~L

Dated Three Weeks Ago

Narcissa,

At first, I dismissed the rumours.
I assumed it was something bored society scribes invented.
You. In Tuscany. With him.
A Weasley. The dragon one.

But then I saw the photograph.

You were laughing.

You haven’t laughed like that since before the war.

Tell me, is he amusing? Do his calloused hands touch you like silk?

Has he earned the right to touch what was once mine?

 Unsigned, but still Lucius

He doesn’t know what you like.

He doesn’t know you crave control until you’re ready to give it up.

He doesn’t know the spell I used to make you tremble in silence.

But perhaps that’s what excites me most.

Watching you become someone new for someone else.

Maybe this is what we deserve.

Maybe I should have watched you closer all along.

She steps into the doorway of the bathroom.

Charlie is shirtless, kneeling beside the clawfoot tub, testing the water. He looks up.

“Hey. You okay?”

She crosses the floor slowly. Climbs into his lap, fully dressed, straddling him where he kneels.

He blinks. “Cissa?”

Her lips brush his ear. “Lucius wrote to me.”

Charlie tenses.

“He’s been writing the whole time,” she murmurs, unfastening the top of her gown. “He’s seen the photographs. He’s read the articles. He is possessed.”

Charlie’s jaw sets. “What did he say?”

She pulls his hand beneath her gown. Guides him.

“That he can’t stop picturing us.”

He swears under his breath.

She presses herself closer. “What would you do to me, Charlie… if he were watching?”

He growls — literally growls — and lifts her off the tiled floor.

They never make it to the bath.

Charlie is out in the orchard, shirt off, wand in one hand, taming a rogue firevine when the hawk lands on the fence post.

It carries a letter in its beak. Unmistakably dark parchment. A serpent-and-rose wax seal.

He freezes.

Unrolls it.

Reads.

Mr. Weasley,

You likely didn’t expect correspondence from me.

Then again, you’ve done several things I didn’t expect:

— You’ve taken my wife to bed.
— You’ve made her laugh in public.
— And, perhaps most astonishing of all, you’ve kept her.

Let’s be honest with one another, shall we?
You’re not her first indulgence.
But you may be her first liberation.

I can’t decide if I hate you.

Or if I’m… grateful.

Because I know her, Mr. Weasley. I know her when she’s shaking and breathless and undone.
I know what her voice sounds like when she’s nearly sobbing from pleasure.

Do you?

And if so… prove it.

Describe her.
In ink. In truth.

Write to me the way she moans your name.

I want to know what she looks like with your teeth on her throat.
I want to know if she closes her eyes, or stares at you like a queen.

Is it different now?
Is she louder?
Is she… yours?

You’ve taken her body.
You’ve taken her name.

The question, Mr. Weasley, is whether you have her soul.

I wonder.
I wonder often.

Perhaps we are not rivals.
Perhaps we are, in some twisted sense, co-authors.

Write back.
Or don’t.

But when you next take her — do so knowing I will be thinking of both of you.

~ L.M.

Charlie doesn’t tell her right away.

They eat dinner. They drink. They kiss.

But later — in bed, with her asleep across his chest, her thigh over his hip — he lies awake.

Staring at the letter.

Folding. Unfolding. Rereading.

His hand drifts to her bare back. He can still see faint bruises from where he gripped her last night. He’d been rough. She’d begged for it.

And now, Lucius wants to hear about it.
Wants to be part of it.
Wants to watch in his mind.

Charlie should burn the letter.
But he doesn’t.

Instead?

He starts writing back in his mind.

Charlie is outside by the lake, skipping stones, shirt unbuttoned, watching the ripples widen and fade. The afternoon light shimmers on the water, soft and gold, making him look younger for a moment- like the boy who once believed flight could solve anything. He looks content. Or maybe just trying to convince himself he is.

Each stone he throws sinks faster than the last. He’s thinking about the letter. About the right way — or any way — to tell her.
He’s rehearsed the words a hundred times in his head, but none of them sound clean. Not when it’s Lucius Malfoy on the parchment.
That name has weight — it hangs between them like a ghost that never leaves the room.

What if she reads it and remembers who she used to be?
What if she decides she belongs to that world again — polished, powerful, untouchable — and he’s just a brief rebellion she outgrew?
He skims another stone across the surface, harder this time. It skips three times before vanishing.

He doesn’t hate Lucius, not really. But he hates that the man still lives between them — in the silences, in the way Narcissa looks out the window some nights like she’s waiting for a ghost to fade.

How long can they live under another man’s shadow and still call it sunlight?

He exhales, watches the ripples fade. The wind carries the scent of the house — clean linen, her perfume, the faint sweetness of wine. He knows he should go inside. Knows she’ll find it eventually.

And when she does, he’ll have to face whatever comes next.

Inside, Narcissa tidies their bedroom. She moves with grace, folding sheets, smoothing pillows, humming something indecent under her breath.

That’s when she sees it.

The letter.

Folded neatly.
Tucked inside a leather-bound notebook beside the bed.
The serpent-and-rose seal was already broken.

Her breath left her in a sharp, quiet sound—half a gasp, half a laugh. Not anger. Something darker.

Her name isn’t on it.

But she knows.

She pulls it out. Unfolds it slowly.

And reads.

Every line.

By the end, her fingers are trembling.

But not with anger.

She sets the parchment down gently on the bed. Sits.

Her thighs press together.

A long breath escapes her lips — one she didn’t realise she’d been holding.

She stares at the wall.

Then… she starts to smile.

Not sweetly.

Not kindly.

But knowingly.

Charlie looks up when he hears her footsteps. She is holding the letter in her fingers. 

He straightens. “Hey. I was gonna tell you—”

“I read it.”

His jaw tightens. “Cissa—”

She walks to him, slowly. Her hair is loose. Her mouth was unreadable.

“You weren’t going to show me?”

“I didn’t know how you’d take it.”

“Well,” she says, stopping inches from him, “let me show you.”

She takes his hand. Places it over her heart.

“Do you feel that?”

He nods.

“That’s not fear,” she murmurs. “That’s power.”

Narcissa lies curled on her side, facing him. Barely breathing. Her eyes are half-closed, soft in a way few people have ever seen.

Charlie is on his back, one hand in her hair, the other resting lightly over her hip — his thumb brushing circles, slow and absent.

They haven’t spoken in nearly twenty minutes.

But nothing feels missing.

And then—

“Lucius wasn’t my first.”

Charlie looks at her. Quietly. Waits.

She doesn’t break eye contact. Her voice is low. Clear. Not ashamed.

“There was a boy. When I was sixteen.”

He stays quiet.

“He was… kind. Muggle-born. Brilliant. He recited Midsummer Night’s Dream to me in the greenhouse. I used to pretend not to listen.”

A pause. Her hand rests on his chest.

“He kissed me once. I hexed him the next day. It was the only way to protect him from the family.”

Charlie’s heart stirs, aching at the image.

Narcissa’s lips quirk — not in humour, but in bitterness.

“They found out anyway. Not all the details, but enough. My mother burned the corner of my mattress and said, 'That’s where your shame will stay.'”

She turns her head slightly.

“I’ve never told anyone that.”

He kisses her forehead, slow and reverent.

“I’m not anyone.”

“No,” she whispers. “You’re not.”

They lie in silence for a while.

Then she murmurs, so quiet it could be mistaken for thought:

“You make me feel like I was never ruined.”

Charlie turns to her. “You were never ruined. They just convinced you you were.”

She closes her eyes.

Lets herself believe it — for once, fully.

They lay together, the candle burning low, his shirt draped across her shoulders.

No more words. No more ghosts.

Just breath.

Just warmth.

For the first time in years, sleep came without a single dream of regret.

Chapter Text

Many years later. A cottage on the edge of wildness. A fire in the hearth.

She wakes to the scent of smoke — not unpleasant, but warm and leathery, the scent of him.
He always returns just after sunrise, wild-eyed, glowing, leaving that trace behind.

Narcissa stretches beneath the linen cover, the early light casting soft ribbons across the quilt. Her thighs ache slightly — a leftover echo of the night before — and she closes her eyes again, savouring the quiet.

Then she hears it.

The front door creaks open.
Boots thud on wood.
A jacket dropped. A sigh.

He’s home.

Charlie steps into the bedroom, the scent of ash and morning frost still clinging to him.

His hair is damp. A smear of soot cuts across his neck. His shirt is open, skin pink from the cold, and when he sees her — curled in bed, barely covered — he stops, grinning.

“Morning, witch.”

She raises a brow. “You smell like the back end of a Horntail.”

He pulls the shirt off in one motion. “Flattering.”

She hums and watches him toss it aside, walk toward her — shirtless, barefoot, every inch of him radiating warmth and flame.

“You’re filthy,” she says as he climbs onto the bed.

“Mm. So are you.”

She means to protest — she does — but he’s already over her, pressing slow kisses to her collarbone, his hands slipping under the sheets.

Narcissa lets out a breath that might be a laugh.
It might be surrender.

“You’ve got soot on your fingers.”

“Guess you’ll have to get dirty too.”

And she does.

She’s still in his shirt.

Hair up. Feet bare. Stirring something in a pot that smells like cinnamon and citrus.
He leans in the doorway, watching her move — light-footed, effortless, the manor witch long gone.

“You’ve got flour on your face,” he says, walking into the kitchen.

She wipes it off with the back of her wrist. “It's your fault. You insist on making the crusts by hand.”

He kisses her temple, reaches for a spoon. “Taste test?”

“Don’t you dare—”

He dips a finger in the pot.

She slaps his hand. He licks it anyway. She’s smiling when she turns away.

Outside, the fireplace smokes gently. Inside, the table is already laid.

Two extra places.

“Do you think they’ll stay long?” she asks.

Charlie shrugs. “Depends if the baby screams or not.”

She gives him a look.

“What?”

“You love the baby.”

“Course I do,” he says. “I tame fierce little creatures.”

The Floo flares. Green sparks.

Hermione steps out first, holding a bundled baby in her arms. Her curls are pinned up, blouse slightly rumpled. She looks like she’s been up since 3 a.m.

Draco follows, wand holstered, cloak immaculate, expression unreadable.

Narcissa meets them with a nod and a faint smile. “Welcome.”

Hermione smiles back. “Thank you.”

Before anyone can object, Charlie takes the baby. “Merlin’s beard,” he says softly. “It’s tiny.”

Draco immediately tenses. “Support the neck, Weasley—”

“I’ve got it.”

He does.

To everyone’s surprise, the baby settles, small fingers curling in his beard.

They sit around the sunlit table. There’s wine, soft bread, and spiced stew.

Narcissa listens while Hermione talks about her work. Draco mentions a meeting with the Magical Infrastructure Board.
Charlie doesn’t say much. He just watches Narcissa.

She reaches over at one point and brushes ash from his cheek with a thumb.

Draco notices.

Doesn’t comment.

Until later.

They step out for firewood.

“So,” Draco says, lighting a cigarette the Muggle way, “you’re playing house.”

“Something like that,” Charlie answers, tossing him a log.

“She’s… softer.”

“She’s happy.”

“You’re not the first man who’s made her happy.”

“I’m not trying to compete.”

“You’ll need more than my blessing if you’re serious.”

“Hermione’s fine with it.”

Draco smirks faintly. “My father isn’t. He’s still her husband.”

“I know.”

“And that doesn’t scare you?”

“He had her in name. I have her in everything else.”

Draco crushes his cigarette under his heel. “She likes emeralds,” he says after a beat. “But I expect you already know that.”

Charlie smiles. “I do.”

The baby’s asleep. Hermione’s curled up by the fire. Draco walks over to his wife and pulls a blanket over her.

Narcissa stands at the window, watching the last of the day slip behind the hills.

Charlie wraps his arms around her from behind, nose in her neck.

“What did you talk about out there?” she murmurs.

Charlie rests his chin on her shoulder.

“Nothing useful.”

She smirks. “That sounds about right.”

A beat.

“I’ve had a wonderful day”, she says softly.

Charlie kisses the side of her throat. “Me too.”

She leans back into him.

“Our guests,” she says dryly, “need to leave.”

Chapter Text

The guard eyes him as he signs in, quill scratching loud in the silence.
He’s wearing his best robes — dark grey with worn leather accents — the only ones Narcissa approved of.

“Charlie Weasley,” he says, voice even.

“Reason for the visit?”

He hesitates.

“A personal matter.”

The guard raises a brow.
Then glances down at the file.

“Lucius Malfoy?”

“Yes.”

A beat.

“You’re braver than most.”

Charlie doesn’t respond.

He just follows the guard’s lead — through the reinforced doors, down the stairwell of salt-slick stone, and into the heart of the fortress where dementors no longer glide, but their absence still clings like frost.

Lucius sits shackled at a metal table. Grey robes, immaculate posture. Even in ruin, he wears power like silk. Hair still pale and combed, hands resting like a gentleman at dinner.

He does not stand. He simply lifts his chin.

“Ah,” Lucius says. “The dragon tamer.”

Charlie doesn’t flinch. He walks forward, sits opposite him.

They stare at one another.

Lucius breaks the silence first.

“She always had a taste for fire. I suppose I should be flattered she replaced one serpent with another.”

“I’m not here to impress you.”

Lucius smiles, slow and razor-thin.

“No. You’re here to… claim her.”

Charlie says nothing.

Lucius leans forward, chains clinking softly.

“Tell me. Does she still sleep with her wand beneath her pillow?”

Charlie holds his gaze.

“She sleeps with me.”

Lucius chuckles.

“Careful, Weasley. You’ll make me sentimental.”

“You’re still legally married to her,” Charlie says plainly.

Lucius's smile fades — just slightly.

“You know how pureblood marriage law works. No automatic dissolution. No assumed abandonment. If she has not petitioned—”

“She hasn’t. She won’t.”

“And yet… here you are.”

Charlie nods once.

“I want her free.”

Lucius tilts his head.

“She already is.”

“Not on parchment.”

Lucius's fingers flex slightly.

“You want to marry her?”

“I want her to have the choice.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Lucius exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate.

“I wonder if she told you what she used to say when she came.”

Charlie doesn’t blink.

Lucius leans closer.

“She said my name like it was a curse. Like it hurt. Like she loved the hurt.”

Charlie’s jaw tightens.

Lucius smiles again — crueller now.

“You give her warmth, I’m sure. Stability. Toasted bread and shared baths. Lovely.”

Lucius continued, “But I gave her power. I let her bleed for me. I made her a weapon.”

Charlie stands slowly.

“You made her survive you. I’m just loving what’s left.”

Lucius’s smile vanishes.

Charlie continues.

“So this is me asking. Man to man.”

“You’ll never be—”

“Don’t care.”

“—her equal.”

“I don’t want to be. I just want to be hers.”

A long pause.

Lucius studies him, eyes flicking with something unreadable.

Then, voice low:

“Do you know what I miss most?”

Charlie pauses.

Lucius’s gaze drifts past him.

“The way she never begged. Even when she was shaking. Even when she bled.”

He looks back. "You’ll never have that part of her."

Charlie’s voice stays steady.

“I don’t want her to beg. I want her to rest.”

Charlie Apparates home late. The lights are low. Narcissa is curled on the sofa in one of his sweaters, reading a leather-bound journal she’s annotated half to death.

She looks up.

Their eyes meet.

“Where have you been?.”

He sighs, rolling something in his palm — a dragon scale, burnished gold, worry-worn by weeks of indecision.

Not until he says, softly:

“I’ve been trying to find the right moment.”

She looks up, amused. “To do what?”

Charlie stands slowly.

“To ask if you’d marry me.”

The room stills.
The rain hushes like it’s listening.

“I know you don’t want the spectacle. And I wouldn’t give you one. No vows in front of strangers, no forced smiles. Just… you and me. Something quiet. Something honest.”

He crosses to her, kneels — not as a knight, not as a suitor — but as a man who’s survived enough to know this kind of love is rare.

“I want to stand next to you, barefoot on the earth. I want to wake up knowing I’m yours, legally, magically — however you’ll let me be.”

Narcissa stares at him.

Her book slips gently shut in her lap.

There’s no smile. Not yet.
Just that sharp, glass-clear stillness of hers — like she’s testing the weight of the moment in her palms.

Then:

“I would say yes,” she murmurs. “I want to say yes.”

She reaches down, touches his cheek.

“But you’re asking a married woman.”

He exhales. “He won’t give you up. I just went-”

“Then I’ll go ask him myself.”

A silence. Charlie stares at her — half in awe, half in fear. She’s already decided.

“You’d—?”

“He can’t keep this piece of me, Charlie. Not anymore. He’ll see me, and he’ll know.”
“I belong to someone else now.”

Her thumb brushes across his mouth.

“He won’t like it.”
“But he will let me go. In the beginning, when he first went… he…” she pauses, her eyes flicker with memories. “I’ll go”

And just like that —
the moment is sealed.
Not with a kiss.
But with a promise.

Chapter Text

The hour was late.

Narcissa sat alone at the kitchen table, an untouched glass of wine by her elbow, a single candle flickering gold over dragon-burned wood.

The house was quiet; Charlie had gone to bed hours ago. He wouldn’t press her—not tonight.

There was only this: the parchment before her, and the question of how to begin.

Her fingers hovered above the quill. Then, with deliberate grace, she dipped it into ink and began.

Letter from Narcissa Malfoy to Lucius Abraxas Malfoy

Lucius,

I trust this finds you in tolerable health—and still in possession of whatever remains of your sense.
Though I suspect the former has endured better than the latter.

I write not from sentiment or obligation but necessity.

As you know, I am no longer in isolation. My life has moved on. What remains is a technicality—one last tie binding us in name alone.

I would prefer to resolve that matter with dignity.

To that end, I request a visit. A brief one.

We will speak privately. I will make my request plainly. And you—respond as you always have: with charm, cruelty, or concession; I no longer care which.

You know as well as I do that our time has passed.

But I will offer you the courtesy of hearing it from me.

Send word.

—Narcissa Malfoy
(still, for now)

She read it once, then again—then folded and sealed it with wax.
Pressed her wand to the emblem—not Black, not Weasley, but the Malfoy serpent she still carried like an old scar.

The owl left just before midnight; she watched it vanish into the stormlight.

She didn’t flinch when thunder cracked.

She only whispered:

“Let us see.”

The owl came at dawn.

It was black-feathered and silent, gliding through the early mist to perch at the window of their small kitchen. Charlie had gone for a morning flight. Narcissa stood alone in her dressing robe, cup of tea in hand, when she saw the seal.

She didn’t open it straight away.

She carried it to the table. Sat. Placed it down like a relic that might curse her.

Then, slowly, carefully, she broke the wax.

And read.

Letter from Lucius Malfoy to Narcissa Malfoy

My dearest wife,

How deliciously formal you’ve become.
There was a time you’d have summoned me with a look—or with a bruise shaped like my name.

But yes. Let us pretend this is a matter of civility.

You wish to visit.

Of course you do.

I’ve always said you could never quite leave me, not really. Even when you fled the manor. Even when you took his name in your mouth. You still sign Malfoy. Still carry the rhythm of our binding in your skin

You say you’ve moved on.
I believe you’ve moved somewhere.
But on? No.

Not truly.

Not until you look me in the eye and tell me — without trembling — that you no longer remember the shape of my teeth on your thigh.

So come, Narcissa.

Bring your request. Bring your fire.
And if you are not entirely a coward, bring the dress—you know which one.

You know which one.

I’ll see you at dusk.

Warmest regards,
Lucius A. Malfoy
(still, for now)

She folded it with shaking hands, stood, crossed the room, and summoned the key to the East-Wing wardrobe at the manor.

She would go back—and she would make him let her go. Dressed like a weapon.

Charlie watched from the doorway as she fastened the final button at her nape.

The dress was black velvet. High-collared. Fitted like it had been conjured onto her body.
No jewellery — just a wand holster at her thigh and a trace of perfume he hadn’t smelled in years.

“You don’t have to look like that,” he said quietly.

She turned to him, lifting her chin.

“Yes, I do.”

His hands flexed slightly. Then he crossed to her, brushing his fingers down the sleeves.

“He’ll look at you and remember everything.”

“That’s the point.”

There was no jealousy in Charlie’s eyes. Just concern. Fierce, stubborn love.

“You’ll come back?”

Narcissa leaned in, kissed his mouth — softly at first, then deeper, anchoring herself in him.

“You’re the only home I want.”

She pulled back.

“But I can’t go as your partner. I have to go as his equal. The woman he once couldn’t own fast enough.”

Charlie nodded.

“Go burn it down, then.”

And she did not look back.

The gates opened without resistance; the house still recognised her.

The gravel crunched under her heels as she approached the grand entrance, her cloak billowing behind her like a shadow coming home.

She didn’t knock—she didn’t need to.

Inside, the halls were as she remembered — vast, cold, elegant. No light except what she conjured with the tip of her wand.

She paused at the base of the staircase, palm flat against the bannister.

It was all still here.
The portraits. The silence. The ache.

And then—the soft click of a small silver key against her palm.

She moved down the east corridor.

To the wing that had been theirs.

The East Wing – Dressing Room

She opened the doors.

Dust rose in soft clouds but beneath it: untouched beauty. Ivory and green velvet, mother-of-pearl handles, glass cabinets filled with gowns that hadn’t been worn since the war.

The faint scent of her old perfume lingered.

She stepped inside and touched a robe on the chaise lounge.
Her robe.
Still folded.

Her reflection met her in the long mirror —
a woman cloaked in memory, armed in silk.

She remembered everything:
The sound of his laughter in the bath; the weight of his hand before galas; the violence of their passion—the beauty of their silence.

She had loved him.
Not gently. Not safely.
But she had.

And now she would leave him.

She walked to the tall wardrobe and opened it.

Inside: the dress.
The gown he’d commissioned after Draco was born—deep emerald, corseted, boned like armour, slit high, low at the back.

A dress meant to be removed slowly —
and never forgotten.

She changed in silence.

Hair pinned.
Wand sheathed.
Perfume at her pulse points — his favourite.

And when she looked in the mirror again…

She no longer saw the woman who lived in a dragon-handler’s cottage—only Lady Malfoy: untouchable, exquisite, and done.

Chapter Text

Guard’s POV

The owl had come hours earlier with a notice.
Special clearance.
Signed off by two separate departments.
They’d whispered in the guardroom — some calling it a Ministry stunt, others a mistake.

Until the doors opened.

And she walked in.

Lady Narcissa Malfoy. 

Taller than expected — or perhaps it was the heels. Or the posture. Or the way she didn’t hesitate at the threshold of Azkaban like most visitors did.
No flicker of fear.
No hesitation at the smell of sea rot and iron.

Just that face — cold, exquisite — and a voice like velvet caught on a blade.

“Escort me.”

She didn’t give a name. She didn’t have to.

The key to Lucius Malfoy’s wing was summoned. He took it in trembling hands.

The younger guard beside him — barely out of Hogwarts — stared.

“She’s…”
“Yes,” the older one murmured.
“She is.”

She wore green.
A dress that should have been outlawed. Boned, split, shimmering like polished poison.
Her wand was holstered high on her thigh. The scent that followed her wasn’t floral — it was deeper. Spiced. Expensive.

Every step echoed down the stone hallway like a metronome.

The prisoners turned their heads.

Even the mad ones knew something holy and dangerous was passing through.

When she stopped before Lucius Malfoy’s cell, she did not speak to the guard.

She simply said:

“Leave us.” And he obeyed.

And when he looked back once, over his shoulder —
He saw Lucius rise to his feet, slowly,
and smile like a man seeing the ghost he still loved.

Lucius and Narcissa

He hadn’t seen her in years.

Not like this.

Not since the war. Not since she left him with silence and slammed doors and not a single goddamn goodbye.

But now — now she stood before him like something conjured.

Hair pinned with surgical precision.
Lips painted like a sin.
And that dress — that fucking dress — his, the one he had commissioned after Draco’s birth to remind the world that she was a Malfoy in body and soul.

Lucius stepped forward, shackles dragging faintly on the stone. He said nothing.

Just looked.

She waited.

Not a flinch. Not a flutter.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You remembered the dress.”

Narcissa tilted her head.

“You remembered the power it had.”

Lucius let out a low breath. He didn’t smile. Not truly.

“I remember everything.”

She stepped inside the room, crossing the threshold like a woman returning to a place she’d already claimed.

“Then you know why I’m here.”

“You came to be cruel.”

“No, Lucius. I came to be clear.”

She stopped before him, close enough to smell the mint leaf soap still used on prisoners.
Close enough to see he hadn’t aged as she feared.

He looked…
controlled.
Sharp as ever. The same cold eyes. The same tension in his mouth — a man holding back more than he dared unleash.

“I’m asking you,” she said, voice even, “for a divorce.”

Lucius laughed once. Not loud. Not unkind.

“You never asked me for anything before.”

“There was a time I would have asked you for the moon.”

“And I would’ve stolen it.”

“Exactly.”

A long silence.

Then:

“You found someone,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

“The dragon boy.”

Still, she said nothing.

Lucius’s hands curled slowly into fists at his sides.

“Tell me, Cissa. Does he kiss your shoulder in the dark the way I used to?”

“No.”

He looked up sharply.

She didn’t blink.

“He holds it,” she said.
“Like something he’s grateful for.”

Lucius exhaled slowly. There was something heavy in the silence now. Bitter.

“And you want to be his wife.”

“I want to be free of you.”

His eyes darkened.

“I loved you.”

“You possessed me.”

“You let me.”

“At the time, I needed to.”

She took a breath.

“But we’re not those people anymore.”

Lucius stepped forward. The shackles groaned.

“Speak for yourself.”

“I am,” she whispered.

He stared at her.

And she let herself remember.

The late-night dances in the east wing parlour.
The garden after Draco’s first birthday, barefoot and laughing for once.
The time he threatened three Ministry officials who looked at her too long.
The way he undressed her — always slowly, like a man unwrapping a weapon he’d made himself. 

Her voice was gentler now.

“We were powerful, Lucius. But I want peace.”

His jaw tensed.

“You’re asking me to set you free.”

“I’m asking you to do the one decent thing you have left in you.”

Lucius looked away. For the first time.

His voice was low. Barely audible.

“You were always mine, Narcissa.
Even when you weren’t happy.
Even when you hated me.”

She stepped closer. Her hand hovered — not touching him, but there.

“You had me in every way, Lucius… except the one that would’ve saved us.”

He looked up.

“What was that?”

“Kindness.”

Silence.

Then, finally, Lucius sat.

He rubbed his hands together like they itched with ghosts.

“I’ll sign the papers.”

Narcissa nodded once.

“Thank you.”

She turned to go.

Then paused at the door.

“Goodbye, Lucius.”

His voice followed her, quieter than she’d ever heard it.

“Was there ever a time you truly loved me?”

She didn’t turn around.

But her voice cracked, just faintly.

“Yes.”

“And him?”

She paused.

“Yes.”

And then she was gone.

The doors of Azkaban opened with a hiss of old magic.

Narcissa stepped out.

The wind was fierce, pushing against her cloak, whipping her hair loose from its pins. The sea churned far below, foam-white and relentless. The air stank of iron and storm.

But her eyes were dry.

She walked across the stone bridge like a woman leaving a funeral she had planned herself.

No tears.
No crumbling.
Just grace sharpened by grief.

And at the end of the bridge — standing beside a lone black motorcycle — was Charlie.

He didn’t move.

Just watched her approach, wind tugging at his coat, one gloved hand wrapped around the handlebars like a man who’d never once considered not coming.

Her heels clicked against the stone until they didn’t — until she stepped off and into the dirt and grit of the mainland. Into reality.

Into him.

He opened his arms before she reached him.

She stepped into them without hesitation.

His warmth folded around her like firelight, like refuge.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then his mouth pressed to her temple.

“You did it.”

She nodded against his chest.

“He’ll sign.”

Charlie exhaled — relief and something older, deeper.

“Are you alright?”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

Her voice was low, steady.

“I grieved him years ago. This was just… the ritual.”

Charlie nodded.

“Let’s go home.”

He helped her onto the bike — her heels kicked off, her skirt gathered, her arms tight around him. Her hair came loose as the wind took them.

And as they rode into the wind,
She didn’t look back.

Lucius sat in his cell long after she left.

He hadn’t moved.

The guard had returned. Taken one look at him.
Said nothing. Left him to it.

The cell was dim again. Silent.

The scent of her still lingered — that perfume, the one he’d once bought for her on a trip to Florence when she wore nothing but a silk robe and her cunning.

He ran a hand down his face. Stared at the door she’d walked through.

“Kindness,” he muttered. “Is that all I lacked?”

No answer, of course.

Only memory.

He saw her as a girl — seventeen and smirking at a Ministry gala, a vision in midnight blue, already devastating.

He saw her on their wedding night — proud, trembling, fierce.

He saw her pregnant, protective, poised even while sick with worry.

He saw her in his bed, in his arms, in his fury.
And now:
He saw her walking away, her spine straight, her eyes irrevocable.

Lucius stood. Slowly.

He walked to the corner of his cell and opened the drawer of his cot.
Inside a small silver box lay a letter she’d sent during the first war — illegible now, stained with time and something like blood.

He didn’t read it.

He just held it.

And whispered:

“You were never mine, were you?”

He sat again.

And this time, he stayed sitting until the torches guttered out.

Chapter Text

Charlie wakes to find her already outside.

She’s barefoot in the grass, a steaming mug in her hands. The sky is streaked with pale lavender. Her hair is unpinned. The wind plays with the hem of her robe.

He steps outside, bare-chested, rubbing his eyes.

“Morning.”

She doesn’t look at him yet, just sips her tea.

“I don’t want another wedding,” she says softly.
“I don’t want robes. I don’t want an audience. I don’t want to pretend I care about names or blood or vows crafted by someone else.”

She turns then, and there’s something gentle and blazing in her eyes.

“I just want to stand barefoot on this soil and bind my magic to yours. Nothing more.”

Charlie’s throat tightens.
His heart thuds in his chest.

“Are you asking me?”

Narcissa takes his hand.

“I’m telling you. I’m ready.”

He kisses her—bare feet in the grass, ash on his palms, her fingers sliding into his hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

They walk to the old standing stones at the edge of the property — the circle where the earth still hums with ancient magic.

They bring nothing but their wands.

She wears white linen.
He wears his work shirt, sleeves rolled.

Their bare feet touch the mossy earth.

They speak no vows.
They simply raise their joined hands.
Their wands touch — and a gold thread spirals between them, shimmering and warm, binding their magic in a slow, intimate arc.

She whispers his name.
He whispers hers.

And the spell settles.

No Ministry papers. No name changes. No rings.

Just them.
Bound. Chosen. Real.

Chapter Text

It began with an owl.

Not a majestic one — not even official-looking.
It was small, grey, moth-eaten. It arrived at dusk, tapping its beak gently against the windowpane of the cottage just as Narcissa was lighting the last of the lanterns.

She opened the latch without ceremony. The bird fluttered inside, dropped the envelope on the counter, and left without waiting for a reply.

She didn’t open it at first.

Instead, she stood by the window, the flame of the lantern flickering behind her, the scent of rosemary and dragon smoke drifting in from the hills.

Charlie looked up from the hearth. His reading glasses slid down his nose as he watched her take it.

He paused when he saw her, still and silent, envelope in hand.

“Ciss?”

She turned, slowly. Her eyes were dry. Her voice low.

“It’s from the Ministry.”

She offered it to him. He didn’t take it.

“Do you want me to—”

“No.”

She broke the seal. Read once. Then again. Folded it with precision and set it down.

“Lucius is dead.”

Charlie didn’t speak. He didn’t ask how or when.

He simply crossed the room and rested a hand on her back.

She didn’t lean into him. Not yet.
But she didn’t move away.

The next morning, she dressed in navy. Not black.

No one in the village said a word as she passed. They knew who she was — and who she had once been.

She went alone; Charlie didn’t argue or offer to come.

He only pressed a kiss to her hair before she left and said,

“You know where I am.”

The manor recognised her.

Even after all these years.

The gates opened without complaint. The corridors hummed faintly as her heels struck the floor. The portraits turned in their frames.

She walked alone — no escort, no noise, no wand drawn.

The house had aged. The magic had thinned.
But in the east wing, it was untouched. Still sealed in time.

The east wing had been closed since the divorce, but the key still worked. Her feet echoed through the halls like memory.

She stood in the doorway of Lucius’s old study for a long moment before stepping inside. It smelled faintly of parchment and bergamot.

Nothing had changed.

His desk was still stacked with old correspondence. A crystal decanter still stood, untouched, in the corner cabinet. His chair still wore the indent of his frame.

Her hand drifted over the bookshelves, over the desk, and in the drawer — locked, but never warded against her — she found it.

A box. Silver. Small.

Inside:

• A crumpled invitation to their engagement party.
• A silver envelope, worn soft with decades of folding — her handwriting on the front.
• A pressed white rose. Her wedding bouquet.
• A photograph of her, from the summer she was twenty. Laughing. Sunlight in her hair.
• A tiny lock of blond baby hair, bound with a green ribbon — Draco’s, she realised.
• Their wedding photo. Her veil was gossamer-thin. His mouth unsmiling — but his eyes, they had sparkled once.

And tucked beneath it all, a photograph.

The two of them in Venice. Pre-war. Pre-Draco. She was laughing — truly laughing — and Lucius, arms around her waist, looked like a man who had never known how to lose.

She sat down in his old chair.

Her fingers rested lightly on the photo.

“You damned fool,” she whispered.

She pressed the box closed with shaking hands.

That night, she returned to the cottage.

She did not mention what she had found.
She only lit a candle, poured a glass of firewhisky, and sat by the window until the stars bled across the sky.

She didn’t intend to write anything at all.

But in the quiet of the cottage, she found herself at the table with a quill and a blank page.

The fire crackled. Charlie had long gone to bed.

She sat with a cup of tea and a pile of memories she hadn’t let herself touch in years.

And then, slowly, she began to write:

“The man I married was not gentle. He was not kind. But he was clever, and cruel, and beautiful, and mine. For a time.”

She paused.

Wrote again.

“He gave me a son. He gave me a life of silks and storms. And though I left him, I do not wish for the world to remember only his mask.”

When the lanterns were low and dawn kissed the horizon, Charlie found her at the table still writing. 

“What are you writing?” he asked softly, pouring her a fresh cup.

She didn’t look up.

“The truth,” she said. “A memory.”

“Of him?”

“Of the man no one else knew.”

“Are you going to publish it?”

She dipped her quill again. Her voice was barely above a whisper.

“Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

She titled it The Man Behind the Mask.

The first page was simple:

He was not a good man. But he was my husband.
And I will not let history pretend he was made of marble.
He was made of blood and fear and pride — and somewhere, buried under the ash, there was love.

The pages that followed were tales from their life together, their marriage, their love, their downfall. It grew and grew until the leather cover could hardly hold it in. 

She didn’t attend the public funeral for herself — she went for Draco. 

Two weeks later, she walked alone into the Wiltshire hills. In her hand: the silver envelope he had kept. And the white rose.

She knelt beside a stream.

Buried both.

“Goodbye, Lucius.”

No fanfare. No spell. Just soil and wind.

The wind lifted through the grass, scattering a few white petals downstream. By the time she turned away, the hills had already taken them.