Title: What If We Could
Author: Rosie/Junsui Kegasu/effluency
Rating: Tentative T (PG-13), subject to change.
Author's Notes: It has been a very, very long time since I have written fanfiction. Despite the odds that time presents me with—I'm a senior in high school; you make all the guesses you must as to how long it will take me to finish a multi-chaptered story in the upcoming future—I have been bitten with a poisonous plotbunny that will simply not leave me alone. So here I go, trying to recall a modest gift for the English language I fear I may have lost touch with.
Disclaimer: This may have the shoddiest connection to Harry Potter's original plot, but I do not own the characters, only modified versions of the scenarios. Very modified. So modified, you should forget I even wrote that sentence. Also, I haven't quite lost my penchant for story titles after song titles. "What If We Could" is written by Blue October, whom I am fiercely amorous of.
Trembling hands held the open newspaper, and their owner let loose a shaky exhale before spreading the November 1st, 1981 issue of the Daily Prophet onto the kitchen table where he sat. He smoothed down the pages as though the ink upon them would straighten out the letters to rearrange such shocking, horrifying news, but only succeeded in smearing ink onto his quivering fingertips.
This was impossible.
"So this is the end," the man said gravely, unwarranted guilt flooding him even as the words left his lips.
"This is the end," his wife confirmed solemnly, her milky complexion lackluster this morning.
It had been so close. They had been so close to preventing this, and yet… yet…
"I was so sure it would've been us," he murmured, bowing his head in shame.
His wife laid her cool, dry hand on the back of his neck. "So was I."
"The poor boy."
She made a sympathetic noise, a coo almost. "I've told Dumbledore that if there's any way we can help, if there's anything we can do… Well, he knows how to contact us."
This time it was he who made a wordless sound. "How much can you do for a boy who's lost his family before he gets a chance to know them?"
The woman had no response for that. The silence in the kitchen that early, dewy morning was thick and uncomfortable, broken at last by the tell-tale wail from the nursery.
"Well," said the woman. "We should be rejoicing on this day. We have… much to be thankful for."
Her husband agreed, but how awful it would have been if they hadn't lived to see this morning.
How awful it would have been for Harry James Potter to bear the moniker of "The Boy Who Lived."
How awful it was that Neville Longbottom was instead the recipient of that title.
The guilt James Potter felt at that thought was nearly overwhelming.
The morning light filtered thinly through the large bay window of the parlor where Narcissa Black Malfoy sat. It was pretty, she mused, but deceiving. The light looked inviting, but it was cold. It was unseasonably chilly for early November. She would have to have the house elves light some fires to try and bring warmth to the marble interior of Malfoy Manor.
Beside her, Lucius Malfoy was undoubtedly having less mundane thoughts, but Narcissa for once was not concerned with entertaining her husband. How could she be? For months Lucius had assuaged her fears, told her that no matter what it looked like, their side—his side, she corrected, for she had always considered the Death Eaters to be rather vulgar in their support of pureblood supremacy—would win.
And now here they were, sitting like beautiful, cold statues in the west parlor, his shame effectively silencing him and her furious worry for the future rendering her speechless. The war was over, and somehow they would have to wiggle out of suffering the consequences. That was what both Malfoys and Blacks alike did with immense grace, after all.
"What about Draco?" she finally asked, turning her head to face his profile. He did not reciprocate the gesture.
"What about him? His future has been secure from his birth. This does not change a thing," he said coldly, sparing her a quick glance.
"Oh, it doesn't?" The ice in Narcissa's voice was obvious, and she daintily touched his arm. She felt the powerful muscles beneath his dark robes tense, but he did not move away. "Even if you manage to escape the repercussions, there will be bitter people in the world who will have bitter children that Draco will go to school with," she explained. An unnecessary statement, she thought in exasperation.
"He is a Malfoy," Lucius said flippantly. "We learn to live with controversy. In fact, we thrive from it. People will flock to him based on the indecision as to whether or not his father was a Death Eater, whether he has not changed his ways… It will eventually be very beneficial to his making connections."
"Making connections?" It took many years of etiquette training and even more years of never wanting to be as uncouth as her sister Bellatrix that stifled Narcissa from screaming. "You are facing the possibility of prison, of putting not just your family but your line in immense danger, and you think about Draco's connections? Not the stigma that this will place upon him, or upon me, or even yourself! This war was supposed to be fought in the name of pureblood rights, and in a week's time, your repulsive choices may do just the opposite!"
Lucius didn't have such a hold on his temper, and when he whirled to face her she shrank away from the expression on his face. "You are being both sentimental and delusional," he said quietly with venom. "I hope for the sake of my line that Draco has not inherited your silly tendency to emotion. It is simple, Narcissa. I will deny everything, grovel if I must. I will throw money at whoever I need to. Our name will be cleared. Will people be happy? Of course not! People have been looking to destroy the Malfoy name since its rise to power, Narcissa. The rumors will not fade in ten years, and you and Draco will simply have to live with that." Without further statement, he lifted himself from his seat and left the room without a word, not through the door that would lead him to their chambers but more likely to his study.
Her marriage wasn't supposed to be like this, Narcissa mourned. She sat as the image of composed self-pity until a house elf popped into the room to inform her that Master Draco was awake.
Her precious baby boy… this was not supposed to be his burden to bear.
A/N: All right, I wasn't really planning to do a prologue; I thought I could just jump right into the story, but! I cannot, it would seem. I don't really want to dwell too much on the immediate aftermath of Voldemort's defeat, however, so this will do for a quick little introduction. It'll help me to judge whether or not I should continue this or if I should go into Witness Protection and avoid the virtual stones from my audience. Like I said, it's been a long time since I've written fanfiction!