Standing Out From the Crowd


By Valentinia



“You can’t leave me! No! You can’t!�


“I have to. Don’t you see? I am a spy! Without me, this war cannot be won. But once the war is over, Cissy… Then, I promise, I will come back for you. I promise.�

“I love you! That’s why you have to stay me with me. Please. I need you. If you get hurt, I won’t be able to go on. You are my life. Stay with me.�

“When the war is over. Until then it’s impossible! Just promise me one thing, Cissy. Swear that you’ll wait. Wait for me.�

“I…� She falters. His stubborn eyes lock with her, and she finishes.

“I will.�

Soft, wet lips meet for a slow, warm kiss. The two lovers crouching on the dungeon floor rise slowly, desperate to be together for a few more minutes before fate and the Dark Lord tear them apart.

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As Narcissa Black steps out of Malfoy Manor, hanging onto the arm of her fiancé, Lucius Malfoy, a swell of noise greets her. Camera flashes blind her and magical microphones are being held under her nose, as a group of reporters crowds around her and Lucius.

Lucius, of course, begins to answer questions, looking as if he believes himself to be royalty. Which, she supposes, he actually does.

She, however, just wrinkles her nose in disgust at her soon-to-be husband, as well as the nosy, gossiping reporters, come to write sappy, lovey-dovey articles for Witch Weekly or some such ridiculous rag.

But all such thoughts are swept from her mind in one swift motion as she catches sight of a pair of dark, black eyes, standing out in the crowd of journalists. Though she doesn’t understand what he could be doing in the crowd just outside of her fiancé’s home, she knows those eyes. She would recognize them anywhere.

She wishes desperately to speak to the man with the dark eyes; she wants nothing more than some time with him alone. Time to explain herself, her betrayal. Time to make amends. Time to run away from Lucius, elope, and have his black-eyed child.

No, she reminds herself. No, she can’t let her mind wander like that. Tomorrow she is marrying, and there is nothing to be done about that.

She does wish she could speak to him though, or at least, get a glimpse of his whole face. She knows it would hurt both of them beyond words, but she knows she will inevitably see him again. She would like to do it while she is still a Black. While she is still free to love him.

Not that she will ever stop loving him. She knows that she won’t. In fact, it has been his love that has kept her alive thus far, during Lucius’ courtship.

She knows that he will not want an affair, while she is married to Lucius, for her love is honourable, in his own right.

“Come, Angel,� Lucius says to her, pretending to gaze upon her face dotingly.

She recognizes his look as appraising. Perhaps he is wondering if he has made the right choice. Perhaps he is has noticed the man she has been staring at.

“Coming,� she answers, simperingly, disgustingly, then adds in her mind, “devil.�

For that is who they are. An angel and a devil. And what is he? She supposes his passionate eyes that stand out and shine for her make him only too human. And that is why she loves him.

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She gazes out into the audience. Her mother is wiping tears from her eyes. Not tears of happiness, though. These are tears of pride. Of all of the three Black girls, she’s made the best marriage. The man next to her at the altar is a pureblood, he’s filthy rich, and within the Dark Lord’s innermost circle. And that means power. He has it all. Blood, money and power. Who cares about little things like love?

Next to her parents sits Bella, smirking. But it is not the usual, cold look she has grown accustomed to. She believes it is jealousy. After all, Rodolphus Lestrange, Bella’s husband who sits on her other side, is not nearly as prosperous, not nearly as respected as Lucius Malfoy. Then again, no one is.

Next to Rodolphus sits Rabastan, his brother. And next to him Evan, then Rosier. She notices Rookwood isn’t in attendance; he must be on an assignment from the Dark Lord himself, if he is willing to miss the much-talked-about, long-awaited Black-Malfoy wedding. But everyone who was invited, all the people sitting out there are Death Eaters, and, naturally, (at least self-proclaimed) purebloods. All except one.

For she knows he’s here, even if he won’t show himself. She knows he would never miss her wedding, even if he refuses to use legilimency to enter her waiting mind. She knows he is admiring her beautiful wedding gown, even if it pains him to see her wearing it for another man.

It’s not like she chose this, though. She never asked to marry Lucius. She would give anything, in fact, for the man standing across from her to be someone else. To be him.

It’s so easy to picture him in her mind, the way he was before he became a Death Eater and a spy. The sharp, black eyes, shining with fervour as he explained some dark curse to her will remain forever etched in her head and her heart.

She imagines him, as he must look now, with his curtain of greasy, black hair, from standing in the heat of a simmering cauldron for so long. The hooknose, the sallow skin that so rarely sees sun anymore. The lines on his face, never to be erased. But as she imagines his eyes, as she knows they appear now, she understands he is still the same man he once was.

She fancies she knows him well enough to create a clear image of his eyes, as they are right now. Gazing at her, she knows, but not with pride, like her mother, or jealousy, like Bella. Not even with lust, like Lucius and many other men in the audience. No, right now, she knows, his eyes are shining with raw, true passion. Just as they once always used to. Those eyes, forever hers. Those beetle-black eyes always stood out in the crowd for her.

If only those eyes, those imagined eyes, weren’t so compelling. If only they were dull, lifeless, as she has seen them so many times. If only she could tell herself that the man in her head was only in her head, that he had not even come to the wedding, that even if he had, his look would be as blank and expressionless as always.

If only. In her mind, he is speaking to her. His voice, hoarse and full of emotion rings in her head.

“You can still end it, Cissy. I love you. You promised, Cissy. You promised to wait. I love you.�

Words he had never said. Words he would now never have the chance to say. She knows that if he had said them ever, even if he said those words right now, with everyone watching, she would not be able to marry Lucius. She would run away with him, and they would live happily ever after. But his words stay imagined, and her feet remain stationery.

Even as the old priest asks her to proclaim herself Lucius’ wife, his unspoken pleas resound in her head. Over and over again. And for a moment the audience is gone; Lucius is gone; they are all nothing. The world is silent, as, in her imagination, she shares a look of love with the man she left.

It is staring into his face, not Lucius’ that she says the words.

“I do.�

With these two simple words, the world comes crashing back around her ears, the drumming of her heart sounding out her thoughts and wishes.

And as she seals her fate with a kiss – not to her saviour, but to Lucifer himself - she swears she sees a pair of intense charcoal eyes standing out from the crowd.

The End