A/N: I've had this chapter mostly done for a long while, and the idea for this has been floating around my head for months. I hope you enjoy it!
Death was in the air.
It had followed her around for over a year.
But nobody can run from death forever.
Now it had caught up with her, she lay dying on the floor of her cell in Azkaban Prison.
The date? June 23rd 1999.
The day that Narcissa Malfoy died.
She was the second Malfoy to be locked up in Azkaban – after her husband, Lucius.
Azkaban had damaged him too, but Death had spared his life. However, he was left scarred; ever since his escape from Azkaban, he had never been quite the same. His mind had been damaged, his soul broken, and she had often considered him weak because of it.
On the day that she was taken to Azkaban, that view changed. When the cell door was locked, leaving her safety contained inside, she realised just how strong her husband was. There were no Dementors here now, they had been removed immediately following the end of the war; the new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had seen to that personally. Within a week, he had stationed permanent guard-Wizards at Azkaban, preventing the escape of the prisoners inside, whether they were captured before, during, or after the War.
It was still a dark and miserable place. The Dementors, who had been stationed here for decades, possibly even longer, had definitely left a mark behind. Prison wasn’t supposed to be comfortable, or enjoyable, but Narcissa felt there was nothing, nothing in the entire world, that would ever make her happy again.
After only a week at Azkaban, her health started to deteriorate. The thoughts that swirled and lingered in her mind began to drive her insane. Thoughts of her son, Draco, resentful of her sacrifice, alone and suffering. Thoughts of her husband, tired of the war, confused as to why she had acted as she had. Memories of the crime, the exactly moment when she cast the spell, played over and over in her mind. Her mind was also flooded with the memories of the raw emotion that she felt as she took her revenge. The effects of these thoughts, which stayed forever in her mind, never relenting, not even for a moment, sent her into the realms of insanity.
Her health got progressively worse as time went on. Illness surrounded Narcissa as her body grew frail and weak. It was almost as if she could feel herself slowly slipping from this world, waiting a long time before the day when she finally departed.
A week before her death, Narcissa collapsed on the floor of her cell. She never got up, too weak to drag herself back to her feet; barely able to even eat the food that was slid into her cell. The wizards preventing her escape barely glanced at her, presuming that she was nothing more than insane. They didn’t see death creeping up on her. Not until it was too late.
As evening fell into night on the twenty third of June, Wizards and Healers flooded into a prisoner’s cell. There, in the centre of the tiny cell, lay a woman, impossibly thin with a ghostly white pallor. She was coughing loudly, trying to remove the blood and mucus from her airway, whilst Healers frantically cast spells to save her. Minutes later, Narcissa Malfoy was dead.
Time of death: 18:43, June 23rd 1999.