Narcissa huddles on the forest floor.
In black of night the ancient branches soar
above her head. The red flames gleam and cast
their flickering light across the faces massed
around the clearing, watching in amaze
their Dark Lord reel and stumble, but her gaze
is fixed upon the body on the ground,
which shows no hint of movement, makes no sound,
the mouth half open as in shocked surprise,
untwitching fingers, blank unseeing eyes,
the tumbled limbs, the black and tousled hair,
except for which, it could be Draco there.

She looks around with wild and fear-filled eyes.
How did it come to this? It was all lies,
what Lucius said, that Voldemort would build
a new society, a world filled
with wizards in ascendence, that their place
would be assured, and that the lesser race
would dare to rise above their rank no more.

What was so bad with what we had before?

It seemed so easy when they first began�
a savior, leader, lord, more than a man�
and Lucius could rise with him, could become
one of the ruling group. It started from
a visionary promise made by him,
then morphed into a nightmare dire and grim.
Whatever Lucius wanted is no more.
Mayhem in her house, blood on the floor,
spells and jinxes hurled, curses cast,
and each one more horrific than the last.
Prisoners in the cellar, bound and tied,
captives at the table, terrified,
trapped like vermin. Now she could perceive
there never was an option to just leave.

His voice persuades, deceives, confounds. It lulls
our minds, and bit by bit our principles
of right and wrong are steadily erased
until our moral courage is replaced
by spineless acquiescence to his power,
the price we pay for living one more hour.

Lies of desperation, lies of fear.
It is an honor, Lord, to have you here.
An honor, Lord, to lend my husband’s wand.
The craven falsehoods that her fear has spawned.
No honor now attaches to the name
of Black, no courage, truth, or sense of shame.

Their leader is a madman. No one here
can doubt that anymore. He rules by fear.
With murdered children’s blood his hands are stained,
and underlings’ whose usefulness has waned.
They all are doomed. The wages of their sins
is death, if Riddle ultimately wins.

My foolish Lucius! See what you have done
to us, and even more, to your own son.

‘Twould be a miracle if she survives
this ghastly night of warfare, where their lives
hang in the balance; scarcely has she cared
what be their fate, if Draco can be spared.

So many luckless souls might not have died,
had more of us embraced the other side.

The Dark Lord slowly gains his feet and stands,
the Elder Wand clutched in his pallid hands,
his face a blend of triumph and of doubt
as if he fears things might be turning out
not quite as planned. Though Harry’s death is clear,
he seems to show reluctance to draw near
the corpse that lies in stillness on the sod.
He shuffles back, a hesitation odd
to see in one so eager to destroy.
“I need someone to go inspect the boy,
to verify his death. You! Go and see!�

Oh, thank you, blessed Merlin, he chose me!

Rising to her feet, she slowly nears
the body, so unmoving. Now she fears
her last hope hangs upon a slender thread,
a miracle if Harry be not dead.
Dear Merlin, help me now, she prays. She kneels
beside the body, lays her hand and feels
his chest for signs of life, and with a start,
detects the hammering of a beating heart.
Close to his face, pretending Harry’s death,
she leans her head, as if to check for breath.
The key to end this ghastly dance is this:
His life is in my hands, our lives in his.
A moment to atone, and to forgive.

“Is Draco in the castle? Does he live?�

Then “Yes� he whispers. Now they are allied,
the two of them at last on the same side.
Her heart is strong and full. She lifts her head.
The glorious lie, no sin. “Yes, he is dead.�