No Stranger To My Heart (Gregory Goyle/Narcissa Malfoy, G)
Title: No Stranger To My Heart Artist:
spidermoth Prompt: # 27; Gregory Goyle is not charming, smart, or rich, but one day he sets his goal quite higher than he should be able to reach. To his own surprise, and the surprise of the rest of the wizarding world, he gets what he wants. (prompt suggested by snapelike ) Pairing: Gregory Goyle/Narcissa Malfoy Rating: G Word Count: 1020 Summary: Gregory Goyle's patience has a bittersweet reward. Warnings: slight angst Beta(s): venturous was so sweet to be my first ever beta. She was good, but even more, she was kind! Any remaining errors are mine. Author's Note: This is my very first fiction outside of half a dozen drabbles. It went in a direction I wasn’t expecting but I don’t have enough experience yet to be a more “take charge” kind of writer! I think I may have a bossy muse. *sigh*
She cries softly at night and I pretend not to hear.
Her broken breathing and silent trembling wake me, whispering across the cold space between us.
I lay beside her, a stranger in the ways that matter—stupid and clumsy and wishing I knew the language of caring—willing my arms and oafish hands, which weigh like stone, to move across the emptiness between us to touch her in comfort.
I am not that strong.
My stupid fingers curl into helpless fists the size of the pain growing in my chest.
~~~ O ~~~
We are married.
Lucius is dead, and Draco is in Azkaban, and we are married.
It is to protect her. I wish it were more.
I might wish it, and want it, and ache for it, but it will not happen. It is to protect her.
Wishing means nothing.
~~~ O ~~~
Draco arranged it.
Awaiting trial from his prison cell he uses what means he has left of Malfoy influence to keep her safe—his mother. I am a tool, and I have always been Draco’s tool, and so he uses me to be his arm and protection for her.
She is a Malfoy in the eyes of the world, and there is danger there for the widow of Voldemort’s General, and the mother of Dumbledore’s spy.
The war is over but both sides share a hunger for vengeance—a desire to punish.
Either side may strike at her—hurt her.
I think the grief and sorrow will hurt her more.
I am watch-dog, and body-guard, and protector, but I can do nothing against the sorrow—nothing against the abduction of her happiness and the life she was promised.
I have no skill for that.
~~~ O ~~~
When her breathing becomes even, I imagine her sleeping.
I lay in the quiet of night, and think of things of the day.
There are times when she becomes agitated—days when regret and solitude seem to overwhelm her. On these days she creates errands of imagined importance and we leave the Manor, seeking the remembered world of purpose and light.
On one such morning we visited Diagon Alley.
We walked past shops and businesses. Cold looks and sly whispers cut at her as she made her way.
I bled on her behalf.
I am used to this pain—my hulking size and thuggish looks have often inspired revulsion, but shunning is new to her.
Contemptuous stares, like vultures, alight and await her everywhere.
I want to shield her from this, almost more than from danger.
We entered a shop, one which suited her, filled with delicate items of elegance and beauty. She was greeted warmly for once—almost what she deserved. I watched her spend time looking and touching—conversing in muted tones with the proprietor. She looked almost happy.
I was dizzy with sharing that happiness.
Much later I realized she had been greeted as Malfoy.
She had not corrected the mistake.
The sounds of the Manor in the deepening night are familiar to me, and I lay half-listening while awaiting my own sleep.
She is so very still beside me. Deep slumber has found her at last.
The rhythm of her breathing lures me and I turn my head carefully to watch her sleep.
She is what I know of beauty. Softness, and grace.
I will never look long enough to satisfy my hunger for it.
Even before I was a man, her ethereal loveliness possessed me.
I thought then of angels.
I have loved her a long time.
Lying quiet beside her and waiting for my own rest, an old but cherished childhood memory comes into my mind.
I am staying with Draco at the Manor, and a bed has been made up for me in his room.
Unlike my own at home, this one is rich and luxurious and I secretly welter in the sensual pleasure of it.
Draco’s talk of the day washes over me as I sink into heady comfort for the night.
The door opens softly and she enters.
My heart stutters in hope and confusion. I am already a conquest.
I see that it is a ritual for them—mother and cherished son. Such events are outside of my experience, so I watch in awe and fascination.
She sits momentarily on the edge of his bed. Coverlets are arranged and smoothed.
Draco is impatient as she brushes a lock of hair away from his forehead, but he quiets expectantly as she leans down to press a kiss to his cheek.
Smiling, she rises and blesses him.
"Sleep well, my dragon."
We both watch as she moves to the center of the room. Suddenly my world waits on a razor’s edge.
I have no breath...
And then she comes to me.
Nothing in my world has prepared me for the sweetness.
Stroking my temple gently, she leans down to press the softest of kisses to my cheek. I am drowning in a swirl of sensation made up of the press of her fingers and lips against my face—the silken glide of her hair falling across my mouth and throat—the heady scent of her perfume, a potion of night cities and rare, exotic blooms. My drugged senses roil in exquisite confusion and my heart rockets painfully inside my breast.
I long for things I cannot name.
Draco’s voice drifts into my consciousness… "Is Greg a dragon, too?"
"Would you like that?" she sends back to him, but her eyes are seeking my answer.
"No… I must be your only dragon," he demands, confident of his place in her heart.
Time stalls. She holds my gaze. I am emboldened.
"A knight," I whisper.
"A knight," she repeats softly. "Will you be my champion then?"
Her words are light, but her gaze is somber awaiting my response.
My soul swells with fierce pride. I can only nod.
"Good night then, my champion," she whispers.
The words linger long in my memory, years after she has left the room.