She can hear the horses' hooves outside the carriage, steady clip-clops. Outside the window, leaves are falling in flurries of burnt orange and auburn. A sunny fall day.

She smoothes out the white material in her lap, her dress. It is strange, but Narcissa has never worn white. Black, yes, wine-red dress robes, yes, but never white. It is not an entirely bad colour, she decides. It reminds her of newly fallen snow, of freshly washed sheets. Of muffled silence.

She wonders how is it that a bride should feel. She has heard that weddings are filled with emotions: either a happy occasion, if one is marrying the person they love, or a heartbreaking one, if one is forced to marry another. But Narcissa has never been in love. So all she feels now is slight anticipation and a little bit of boredom and a sense of relief. At least now she knows she won't be turned out from her family's house. She is doing her duty.

The clip-clops come to a stop and she is jerked out of her thoughts. Someone opens the door of the carriage for her, and light spills in. Her father is waiting for her. He takes her hand, and she alights gently. For a second, she foolishly panics about her clean white shoes getting dirty, but quickly quells her feelings. What a thing to worry about minutes before her wedding.

Leaves fall gently around father and daughter. Narcissa solemnly pulls the veil over her face, where it hangs like a spider's web. She takes her father's arm, and they walk into the Marriage House.

The "Marriage House" is what it has been called for as long as anyone can remember. Generations of Blacks have been wed between these four expressionless walls. Generations of brides have walked down this endless aisle like Narcissa does now, step by step. Generations of white silk dresses and cream white shoes and doubt.

A million pairs of eyes fix her to place, nailing her like a picture frame on the wall. Expectant eyes. They have been watching her her entire life, and she will not let them down now. She walks on firmly, looking at the polished wood floor, while her father stares coldly ahead.

And then they are at the end, standing in front of the Ministry official performing the ceremony. The groom is next to her. She watches him from the corner of her downcast eyes. It is not as if she hasn't met him before, they did go to Hogwarts together after all, but today he is a stranger. Today she doesn’t know him at all. He doesn’t look at her, but instead fixes his eyes steadily on the man conducting the rites.

Narcissa doesn’t listen to the Ministry official. Instead, she thinks about Andromeda. How had her wedding day been like? Probably drab and gloomy: concealed in some out-of-the-way village, hidden from the world. Who had been there? Certainly none of the Blacks. She had been obliterated from the family tree by then.

Had she been happy?

The question lingers in Narcissa's mind, but she pushes it away. It doesn't matter. She will only come to a filthy end, anyway. Foolish Andromeda.

The room is sunny. Light dances everywhere, making Narcissa blink. A fly moans around the room. The voice drones on.

She fills in the blank spaces perfectly, because Narcissa is a good daughter, and has learned her lines. It is not difficult to say I do.

He slips the ring on her finger, the cold gold band engraved with a snake with emeralds for eyes. His fingers are business-like. They do not shake.

"You may kiss the bride."

And he lifts the veil from her face and, still refusing to look at her, brushes his lips against hers. It is a fast, soft kiss, like a butterfly has alighted on her lips but then flown away from lack of nectar. She doesn’t smile as he draws away, but simply looks at him, and for once their eyes meet.

For a brief moment, blue meets blue. A slight understanding passes through the fragile bridge formed by their gaze. A sort of we're doing what's right, and it will all be over soon. But then the moment is over, gone as quickly as it had come. Narcissa looks away hastily, and they both turn to face the creamy page set on a small table before them.

The starched stiffness of the room softens a bit, relaxes into anticipation. Everyone holds their breaths. This is why they have come. This is what is important.

He goes first. Dipping the quill into the ink, he signs his name on the marriage contract without hesitation, dotting the i's briskly. Then he offers the quill to Narcissa.

She takes it slowly. Carefully, she refills the nib. Unhurriedly, she poises the pen on the paper so a blot begins to form, staining the page.

Why does she hesitate?

This is it, it is over. There is no point in feeling wistful now, no point in caution. She is merely unfurling her wings for a brief instant, tasting liberty. Yet to what end? She is already trapped in a web of society and values, a web that only the strong and fearless can escape. But Narcissa is weak. She will be forever bound to the mould they have made for her.

So she submits to fate, and signs her name.

Mrs. Narcissa Malfoy. How strange that sounds.

---

And she sits by herself, after the last of the guests have left and the cake has been eaten and the rose decorations have begun to wilt. Lucius is no where to be seen. She is utterly alone on her wedding night.

The crickets are chirping softly. A single firefly lights up the darkness. Everything is covered in midnight-blue velvet, and if she looks behind her, she can see the lights of the mansion sparkling.

Malfoy Manor is truly beautiful by night.

She sits down on the edge of the small pond, her fine white shoes discarded, lying to the side. Waiting for a prince to find them. She is still wearing her wedding dress, and by the silvery light of the moon, she gazes into the ink-black water. She looks at the face of Narcissa Malfoy.

It is her: she can recognize the features. Her wavy blond hair, her deep blue eyes, her pale skin. The searching expression. But somehow she has changed.

It must be the white dress. For Narcissa Black never wore white.

Silently, she gets up. Soundlessly, she slips on the shoes. Unmoving, she stands for a moment, taking in the smell and feel of her first night in white.

She starts walking towards the house, where she dreams her husband is waiting for her.