How the Malfoy Wealth Was Won (London, 1860)
The Greatest Treason (Wales, 1913)
When I Ruled the World (France, 1917)
Portent (London, 1943)
The Greatest Generation (London, 1945)
It Came Upon a Midnight Clear (New York, 1959)
The Ill-Made Knight (Yorkshire, 1960)
The Setting Sun (Surrey, 1963)
Conviction (London, 1974)
Charm (London, 1978)
(Baby Don't) Fear the Reaper (London, 1979)
Shadow of the Day (Spinner's End, 1979)
A Woman's Place (Surrey, 1979)
Chronology (Surrey, 1980)
Destiny's Child (London, 1980)
Spy Games (London, 1981)
Shadow of the Day (Surrey, 1982)
Only the Dead Have Seen the End of War (Surrey, 1982)
A Prophet In His Own Country (Surrey, 1984)
A Handful of Dust (Surrey, 1994)
There is a delicacy to Narcissa, a fragility. Her hands in his are tiny, her bones as fragile as a sparrow's fluttering wings, desperate to escape the cauldron. She is so beautiful, so fine, unstained by the horror of her name and her mad father's legacy.
He only thinks he loves her, that first night when he meets her. He wants to tangle his fingers in her long fair hair, to kiss her red mouth, to be lost in the sky-blue pools of her eyes. He is five years older than she is, but he is still very young, and the things he wants are the things a boy wants.
It takes him weeks to get her to agree to go to dinner with him, and she only does it because he agrees to carry a message to her sister. It is not precisely blackmail, because he would have done it for the asking-- but she doesn't know that.
After dinner she lets him walk her home, and after a certain amount of adorable and maidenly blushing she invites him inside. He goes, because he is young enough not to know better. There are no rose petals, no candles, no lacy curtains or negligees or plush toys.
There are no virgins. Narcissa pushes him down on the bed, strong and sure, and climbs over him. Her little hands are fierce enough to bruise his wrists, her mouth hard on his. There is nothing shy or modest or hesitant about her.
It is not what he thought he wanted, not seduction and not lovemaking, but sex. Their blood is as pure as anyone in England's, but they live in the same world as the Muggleborn, as Muggles, and all the old rules about love and marriage have been broken. Pleasure is the order of the day, for women as well men; he should not be surprised by the feel of her cunt, the sight of her soft breasts arching over him.
He thought she was someone else, someone different, simpler and meeker and with no will of her own. He is learning now that beauty is not simplicity, that a girl who looks like a storybook princess can turn out to be a powerful witch with an agenda of her own. He thought she was someone else, but the man he will grow up to be could never have been happy with the child the boy wanted to love.
Afterward, he is sated but not satisfied and she throws him out into the dark street to make his own way home. If she had been the girl he thought she was he might have sent her pink roses and stuffed bears. Instead he buys her books, and a hand of glory, and he keeps asking until finally she says yes to him and means it.