A/N The title, Lacuna, means gap, hole, lack (especially lack of memory). It can also refer to a silent pause in a piece of music.
QLFC, Round 4 - Forgotten families. Chaser 1: The Greengrasses. Team: Appleby Arrows.
Optional prompt: (object) fiddle, (object) pot, (dialogue) "You got a package for me?"
Word count: 2401
Beta(s): the amazing Sophy (The Crownless Queen). Thanks to coleytaylor too!
Warning: brain disease, but the main focus of the story is the family
Something crashed. It sounded like porcelain.
Daphne sighed—clumsy House-elves—but otherwise paid no mind to it as she ran through the flowers for her sister's wedding. She had already discarded the most scented ones that could have bothered Astoria's sensitive nose; now, she was trying to figure out which colors would be more appropriate to represent this union between Greengrasses and Malfoys.
It was the heavy, labored breathing coming from down the hall that diverted her attention away from the preparations.
Getting close cautiously, she recognized the muffled voices and the faint rattling.
Her father was already there, leaning against the wall and supporting her mother, who looked terrorized.
"W-where are we? I g-got lost. You—" she was whispering.
"Lost?" Daphne didn't understand. "Father, what—"
She heard him sighing as her mother violently trembled in his arms. He shook his head and started whispering in his wife's ear again, rocking her.
"Hush, love," he softly said. "It's alright. I'm here. I'll walk you to your chamber. You don't have to worry. I'm here."
"T-thank you." Her breathing was still ragged. "Thank-k you, really. But… w-who are you?" Her blank eyes found Daphne's and narrowed, suspicion entering them. "W-who is she?"
Daphne took an involuntary step behind, her hand searching for the wall to support herself. As the coldness spread through her palm, her parents got past her, her father's back bent, burdened by something heavier than her mother's dead weight.
Still in shock, Daphne fought the urge to collapse, trying to maintain her dignity.
She tentatively moved a step away from the wall and was relieved to feel her kneels didn't falter.
Another step.
Then another.
Head high and back straight.
It was easy, after all. It was all like it had always been.
Right foot.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Her slipper ran into something, making it clink against the floor.
She looked down and spotted a shard. Others similar were spread all over the floor. Judging from the familiar floral pattern, those came from the pot that was part of her mother's favorite tea set, the one that passed down from mother to daughter. Daphne had been the one to suggest gifting it to Astoria as she herself didn't mean to marry—even if their father's name would end with them, she at least wished to die a Greengrass.
The pot was gone now—scattered fragments with no pattern and no apparent connection—just like her mother's mind was. She drew her wand at the shards, a Reparo on her lips. Her hand faltered as she thought of speaking that same word, the Mending Charm aimed at her mother's forehead.
It would be so easy, so easy.
With a flick of her wand, the shards of the pot were gathered in a bundle that she hid in her gown.
She knew she wouldn't help anyone by doing that, but it was important to her that all the fragments were together even if she couldn't bring herself to repair the pot. She couldn't stand the thought of something so insignificant being whole while her mother wasn't. It simply had no right to be whole.
. . .
Her father's hand felt uncharacteristically sweaty on her bare shoulder, inches above her dress; the words he had just spoken still ringing in Daphne's ear.
Disturbance of time and space perception combined with retrograde amnesia.
"I don't think I've ever heard so many scary words at one time," she feebly said. It was one thing to suspect it, but another to know in such an accurate, official way. Somehow, it felt even worse than having her mother looking at her with disdain—not without reason, disowning your child was considered a harsh punishment among the Old Families.
Her father squeezed her shoulder. "It was fortunate it happened when I was with her and we were both at home. Now, she just needs rest and quiet."
She nodded.
He removed his sweaty hand and hid it behind his back before saying, "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to discover the dark side of her mind in such a way. I hoped—" His voice cracked. "—hoped… Things slip, get erased from her mind. Sometimes they come back, sometimes…"
It was clear he wouldn't say it.
"I understand, Father. You should have known I would."
"Astoria's wedding has been keeping you so busy."
"Listen, Dad," she said. "I understand why you wouldn't tell anything to Astoria—Merlin knows she deserves happiness—but you know how often Mother and I interact. I was bound to notice. Plus, I've always been your right arm. You and I, Father. We survived Dumbledore and we survived the Dark Lord; we'll get through this. You and I."
"You two are so alike," her mother used to say.
Unfailingly in sync, they would smirk and answer, "That's so right!"
"You and I, Daughter." Suddenly, he looked younger.
"You take care of Mother while I'll help Astoria marry her prince," she said smiling and moved to search for her sister.
. . .
Not surprisingly, Daphne found Astoria in front of the mirror, wearing her wedding dress.
"Do you ever take it off?"
"Sister!" Astoria said, her smile wide.
Another thing that seems plastered on her lately, Daphne thought amused before spotting some concern on her little sister's face, "It does fit you, don't worry! And he does love you—I wouldn't let him close to you otherwise. It'll all be alright; Father and I are working on it."
"I know, thank you." Astoria said, still staring at the mirror. "And thank you for sending out the invitations and answering to those good wishes notes, by the way."
"It was nothing. And it's not like anyone can say anything. I used a Quick-Quotes Quill."
Astoria nodded. Then she looked down at her gown, humming.
Daphne froze, caught off-guard. How could she have forgotten about that?
"What are you playing, Mother?" she had asked watching in awe as the bow flew across the strings.
"This?" The music hadn't stopped. "In my family, we use to play it whenever a birth happens. It's a good omen to come to life while music is playing. Your grandfather played it when you were born and again when we brought you home for the first time."
Daphne had seen see pride and joy in her mother's eyes. "But why are you playing it now? I'm already—" She had raised three fingers. "—these!"
"It's a secret for now, honey." Her mother had cast the fiddle aside and put a hand on her own stomach protectively.
"We haven't spoken about music, have we?" Astoria said.
"N-no."
"Do you think Mother would play at my wedding if I asked her to? It'd be a good omen to have that music—the family song—played while we marry too, don't you think? It's still the start of a new life."
"Of course. Maybe privately though. You know Mother never performs for strangers."
"That's a good idea. We'll just have a private ceremony, then."
"Why not?" Daphne said. "Why not?" she repeated, but her mother's loving eyes becoming hollow haunted her. Please, don't let her forget. Please.
. . .
"If the pillow doesn't smell like vanilla and moss, the baby won't sleep, won't sleep, won't—" her mother was saying, caressing her fiddle—she never left it; she said it was her most precious possession.
Daphne knocked on the door frame.
"Come in, child. If you turn off the light, I'll tell you a secret—" Her smile was as sweet as ever. "I had hoped to die before this happened. I hated my father for this even if none of this was her fault." She sighed. "I guess we can't all be as lucky as your great-aunt. Or even Astoria…"
Daphne got closer, a lump in her throat. "What of her, Mother?" She didn't like the sound of it.
"It's in our brain like madness is in the Blacks' blood. It's the price Magic requires of the Purebloods in exchange for power. Don't let them take away my fiddle. I know they want to steal it."
Startled by this change of subject, Daphne said "No one wants to—" She stopped. "Of course, Mother. It's your fiddle; no one will take it from you."
"Thank you." Her mother brought the instrument close to her jaw, plucking the strings with her fingers. "While it plays, I remember."
Daphne nodded and waited as her mother got lost in the music. But this time, something felt very wrong. The performance was accurate and the instrument in tune, yet the music lacked emotions.
The family melody stopped in the middle and re-started.
Stopped again.
Re-started.
Stopped.
Always in the same spot.
A long silence followed.
She looked at her mother who seemed fine and unbothered by that disrupted cycle. And why would she be upset? It was just more fragments for Daphne to pick up and keep together, hoping one day, she'd know how to use them.
She felt like suffocating.
When she turned to leave her mother's chambers, a different melody accompanied her—this one seemed to be complete.
"I remember."
"While it plays, I remember."
Her father and she had been told there was no cure.
How could her mother be so sure a simple fiddle would help her remember? What did she remember since half of the family melody was clearly forgotten?
"Daphne? Please, tell your sister I'll be playing at her wedding."
Cold sweat ran down her spine.
. . .
Her mother did play, her performance exquisite as ever, when they held their private ceremony like Astoria had suggested. Only the Malfoys and the Greengrasses were present—no extended family.
"You know what day it is?" Daphne had heard her father asking her mother.
"Err… Saturday?"
"Yes, but also?"
"If it's Saturday, it means—it means there's going to be a-a—the w-wedding?" she had said, insecure.
"That's right. You remember it!" he had praised. "Our younger, Astoria, is going to marry Draco Malfoy, a fine man, a Pureblood."
She had nodded and he had tenderly kissed her. Daphne had wondered if he ever thought of all the moments he had once shared with his wife and were now lost to her.
Now, she was playing, the notes sweet and rich, and Daphne enjoyed everyone's blissful expression.
Suddenly, her mother brought the fiddle closer to her jaw and closed her eyes. Familiar notes reached Daphne's ears as nervousness and something vaguely similar to shame blossomed in her stomach—why did her mother play by ear if she knew she had a brain disease? Prevented from squirming by any and all rules for decorum, she discreetly shifted the edge of her gown to cover both her feet and started shuffling them.
The music was getting close to the critical point.
Daphne held her breath.
Like she dreaded, her mother's bow arm softly slipped at her side in the middle of the song.
No one dared make a sound after that. Daphne knew Draco and Astoria were too much in love with each other to notice anything else, but she suspiciously eyed Mr. and Mrs. Malfoys who wore confused expression, and she relaxed only when she was certain they wouldn't be a menace—Lucius and Narcissa, like any other Purebood foolish enough to forget their allegiance should be to Blood itself, had yet to gain her trust back.
Her mother looked around, a smile on her lips. "The end you'll have to find for yourselves. Welcome to the family, D—" Her hesitation was painfully long. "—Draco. A-astoria, I think there was some heirloom your sister had asked me to pass down to you, but I seem also to remember it into pieces all over the floor. So please, accept this song as my legacy. It can't be broken and it does protect our family, reminding us that Lords come and go, but family remains. "
. . .
.
. . .
Daphne had been surprised to notice that after some adjustment, things could still be the same after Astoria's wedding.
Over time, her mother's memory had grown more and more faltering, but precious, tell-tale details showed that she was still the same woman. As long as it had lasted, the fiddle music had filled the manor with feelings and warmth. When her fingers had lost strength and agility, she hadn't given up on music and had started humming or singing instead, lost in her own world. When she remembered she had a daughter, her hugs were as comforting as ever, her smile just as welcoming. She had developed the childish side that she had had to suppress. She still enjoyed surprises and hated chaos.
Her father's legs had failed him once too often and he rarely left his bed now, but his mind was still sharp, his tongue still quick. Daphne knew she could always trust his advice and judgment.
Yet—she couldn't but think with a smirk—it had been her mother's frailty that had taught her the most precious lesson.
The pot shards had found a steady position on her desk, each fragment meaningful in its own way. It was a never-ending source of wonder for her to discover day by day that the whole was greater than the sum of its parts, that her family was more than the sum of its members.
The biggest evidence of it came the day that her sister visited her, announcing she needed to brush up on her musical talent. As the words sank in, Daphne realized why Astoria looked like she was glowing.
. . .
One afternoon, they were all gathered in her father's chambers: Mother, Father, Astoria, Draco, their surprise, and Daphne herself.
"Mother, Father. Draco and I wish to show you something," Astoria said, a bundle in her arms and a proud light in her eyes.
"You got a package for me?" her mother asked, excited for the first time in years.
Astoria laughed as Draco wrapped one arm around her waist. "That's one way to put it. Let me introduce you your grandson, Scorpius."
"He's beautiful, a worthy heir to both our families. Congratulations, my children," her father said.
Daphne kissed Astoria's forehead, looking at the baby in awe. "He's perfect, Sister. Perfect."
Then, she smiled mischievously. "My dear brother-in-law, your arms are empty. Wait—" She turned her back on him for a few moments. When she faced him once again, she held a violin. Pushing it into Draco's hand, she just said, "Use it well."
After all, it wouldn't do for her half-Greengrass nephew to grow up like a whole Malfoy.
.
The end
* The quote, "The whole is greater than the sum of its parts," is said to be Aristotle's.