Narcissa Malfoy- A trophy wife

Narcissa Malfoy stood at one of the grand windows of Malfoy Manor, looking out over the immaculately kept gardens spreading out before her. Her mood was grey—reflecting the color of the sky. Wiltshire, with its rolling hills and ancient woods, usually brought her some calm, but today, much as many days recently, it only seemed to emphasize the emptiness within.

Life in Malfoy Manor was almost a paradox. The grand estate, with its opulent decorations and rich history, was teeming with house elves dashing about their duties. The occasional visitor would come along, bringing news of the outside world, yet for Narcissa, it felt more like a gilded cage.

Her husband, Lucius Malfoy, was barely home these days. One of Voldemort's closest followers, he was away most of the time, doing things he rarely elaborated on. And when he returned, his presence was nothing but a shadow. He was wholly immersed in the Dark Lord's work, and she had scant space in his life.

Narcissa sighed and turned from the window. The grand halls of the manor were where she moved, with her steps echoing off the marble floors. Every room in the house was nothing more than a show of the wealth and status of the Malfoy family, but to her, they were just empty spaces.

She wandered into the drawing room, where a fire crackled in the hearth and threw a warm glow over the heavy, expensive furnishings. She sank back into a plush armchair and pulled a blanket around her shoulders. The room was silent save for the occasional pop from the fire. She reached out and picked up a book from the side table, but a few pages in, she found she wasn't reading the text. She just kept thinking about Lucius.

Their marriage had always been one of convenience and social expectations. The Malfoy and Black families were old pure-blood lines, and their union had been seen as a powerful alliance. Narcissa had always known that; however, she harbored one silent hope that love would eventually come. As the years passed, it became clear that Lucius's heart did belong to his ambitions and not to her. She closed the book and set it aside in a gesture of frustration. A connection—that was what she had longed for, someone to see her as something beyond a Malfoy, someone more than just a trophy wife. She had wanted to be loved, had wanted to feel like a woman instead of an addition to her husband's status.

Her mind wandered back to her childhood, to the days spent at the Black family estate. Even then, her future had been mapped out for her. Her parents had been strict, enforcing the idea that purity of blood was paramount. Love was after duty. But young Narcissa had always been a dreamer, secretly wishing in the depths of her heart for something else, something warmer, full of affection.

The reverie broke when the fireplace in the hall crackled. She looked around the room and saw the opulence around her: it was beautiful but empty. There was a faint hum of house elves working around the mansion—a constant reminder of the life she was expected to lead. She could hardly talk about how she felt with anyone, but that was a sign of weakness; for a Malfoy, being weak was not an option.

Narcissa rose and moved to the mantelpiece, above which family portraits were lined up in a row. She took one tiny frame, looking at the photo of herself and Lucius on their wedding day. They were so perfect together, the very picture of pure-blood grace. But the cracks inside had already begun to show. The photograph was taken when Lucius whispered something charming in her ear, making her smile toward the camera. But even then, his eyes had been distant, his mind always on something different. She set the frame back onto the mantel and moved to another picture, this one of her sister, Bellatrix.

Bellatrix was the wild one, the passionate one. She was always fiercely loyal to Voldemort, her devotion bordering on fanaticism. Narcissa couldn't understand that kind of fervor. She admired her sister's strength, but she knew that she could never be like her. Bellatrix seemed to thrive in the chaos of the war, while Narcissa felt herself withering.

With a heavy sigh, she left the drawing room and went to the library. The library was one of her favorite places in the manor: a sanctuary, perhaps, where she could just sequester herself among the pages of a book and forget her troubles, if only for a little while. She ran her fingers over the spines of the books as she searched for something that might arrest her attention.

Her eyes fell on a volume of poetry, and she pulled it out. She settled for a window seat and opened the book to some page towards the middle. All the words went so beautifully, and each line portrayed human experience. She got lost in the verses, feeling connected to the poet's longing and despair. Somehow, that was comforting—that others felt as she did—even if they lived in another time and place.

She read on till the light outside began to fall and the room to darken. Reluctantly, she closed the book and put it away from her. It was growing late; it wanted an hour of sunset, when perhaps Lucius might return. She did not know whether she wished for it or feared it. His presence brought little consolation with it; his absence only deepened the gloom of her spirits.

It was then, as she got ready for dinner, that she allowed herself this very brief rare weakness. She was looking at her reflection in the mirror of her dressing room. Delicate and refined features stared back at her from the mirror. Her perfect waves of blonde hair cascaded around the slope of her shoulders. She could be precisely the Malfoy wife that one would imagine her to be, but she knew this was all that was—a façade. She reached out and touched the glass before her, reaching out toward the woman she saw reflected there. "Who are you?" she said softly, barely a whisper. "What do you want?" The reflection answered only with emptiness; the same stare met her gaze.

Dinner was a solitary affair, as it always had been. The house elves did their duty with practiced precision, but the food held no appeal. She picked at her meal, her mind elsewhere. She thought of writing a letter to her sister Andromeda, disowned for marrying a Muggle-born wizard. Narcissa missed her fiercely, yet she knew getting into contact with her would be dangerous. Any sign of weakness could be used against her, and she really couldn't afford that.

The hours she dragged, one by one, still no Lucius. He hadn't returned. Narcissa felt restless in the vast, empty halls and roamed aimlessly in the manor; her steps echoed. She paused in front of a tall mirror, gazing at the reflection. Sadness and resignation showed in the eyes. She looked the part: a pureblood wife with her perfectly styled blonde hair and impeccably tailored robes. However, inside, she felt like an empty shell.

Narcissa moved to the drawing room once again. The clock chimed, signaling another hour passed in solitude. She considered writing in her journal—a small leather-bound book hidden in her boudoir. It had become a silent confidant, holding her innermost thoughts and fears, a place where she could be truly honest without judgment.

Climbing the stairs to her room, she passed portraits of Malfoy's ancestors. Their stern faces seemed to follow her, a constant reminder of the legacy she was bound to uphold. Reaching her room, she retrieved the journal from its hiding place and sat at her writing desk.

With a sigh, she opened it to a fresh page and dipped her quill in ink. The words flowed easily, her emotions pouring out onto the parchment...

[Another day passes in this gilded prison. Lucius is away again, consumed by his duties to the Dark Lord. I find myself yearning for something more, a connection that seems ever elusive. Even the comfort of the familiar feels like a burden now.

I miss Andromeda terribly. I wonder if she thinks of me as often as I think of her. Our family has been torn apart by this war and the strictures of blood purity. I fear we may never reconcile.

Bellatrix, too, is lost to her fervor. I cannot understand her unwavering devotion to Voldemort. Is it strength, or madness? Sometimes, I envy her passion, though I know I could never follow her path.]

Narcissa set her quill down, staring at the words she had just written. A soft pop echoed through the room, and she turned to see Mippy, her personal house-elf, standing near the doorway. The little elf bowed deeply, her large, bat-like ears nearly touching the floor.

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