November, 1998
He does not dare approach the girl alone while she is awake. He sees too much of her Father in her. She is mostly Bella's, of that there is no doubt. He sees too much of her too. It's her eyes.
Her eyes that unsettle him, raising suspicion.
Her eyes are not Bella's. There is nothing of the Black steel grey surrounding her pupils. Unless she means it, unless she silently asks for her Mother.
Her eyes are green. Deep emerald, Slytherin green. Her Father's green. He recalls those eyes from a time gone by. Seventeen years ago, those very eyes would look into his, crack the ice and plunder his mind and soul, searching. Searching for information, for lies, for weaknesses.
The green in his Masters eyes had become red. Even before his return. When angered, his eyes would shine red. Crimson red, blood red, enough to make his followers own blood curdle in their veins. He could halt the entire group of them at that. It only got worst after his rebirth. His eyes wouldn't shine red in anger anymore. They were permanently the colour of danger; it had become their natural colour, no matter how unnatural in all living things it was.
Was He even a living thing at that point? His soul had already been broken before; He had existed as a spirit for so long…
He had existed as a reptilian predator and that he had become upon returning. His anger all consuming. Burning inside him, changing him, changing them all.
The girl can mimic that red perfectly too. She does it often. Whenever she inquires about her dead Mother, she follows with inquiries of her dead Father. And it sends alarming signs through his bones. Even if the red in her eyes isn't quite as lethal. The Dark Lord must have looked at her differently. He fears the green, and the memory it sparks. But the red makes him run, for the memory it brings forward is unforgiving. His Master on his final months, a relentless cruel creature made of the Dark itself that made it absolutely clear the Malfoys had fallen from grace. He had expected death those days, sometimes he wished it.
So when her eyes are open, all he can do is scatter, run out of the reach of green and red. Much like all of them would scatter from their Master's green and his best lieutenant's red. He hadn't been allowed close to Delphini for months, he would still prefer those doors kept closed between him and the child. Even now.
At the beginning, the doors hummed with dark magic whenever he came close. There are powerful spells upon it. With the girls' parents both dead, they thought the magic had faded, that the doors would now be unprotected. They are not. Something lurks in the wood, something that cares not for blood, or name, but for intention. It feels like a living thing, a dangerous predator watching from above, guarding the little bird inside, claws out and teeth bare. He kept his distance, from the rooms and from the girl. He would never be alone with her, he has never felt her weight on his arms and he only touched her a couple of times. Lightly, on her forehead, as she slept in Narcissa's warm embrace.
He has been coming into the nursery at night for some weeks now. The doors do not hum in his presence. He doesn't wish the child gone as much now. He doesn't regret not sending her away, because she keeps his son together, because she keeps his wife happy at the memories of a sister long gone and at the shadows of a future that could have been theirs. They had longed for children and they had been granted one, but Narcissa holds a sorrow deep inside that she could not bore another. This girl feels like salvation for his son and like long dreamt family for his wife, so he keeps her, even if she feels like damnation to him.
I no longer fear her as I did. I accepted her into my house, if not into my family… What have I done?
That question lingers in his mind. Wakes him up in the dead of night, startles his dreams, brings horror to his nightmares. Some nights, he wakes sweating through his clothes and his flower will hold him and steady him back to sleep. Some nights, his eyes just come open and he can see a red glare dancing in front of him, in the shadows of the room, and his flower feels his fear and takes it away, burying it in her skin. Some nights, he wakes and faces his demons. He moves silently, softly, so as not to rouse the blonde graceful creature that somehow still remains by his side, climbing off the bed. He travels the corridors of this manor that is only now starting to feel like the beloved family home he has known all his life. And finds himself here.
Before no longer humming doors. Taking carefully measured steps towards them, settling a hand on the carved wood, waiting for the lurking magic to allow him inside. Then he stands by her crib, gazing over his niece. Wondering how such a peaceful baby could come from the union of the most powerful Dark Lord, driven mad by ambition, revenge and anger, with his most faithful follower, driven mad by Dementors, cold and starvation alike. He stays there, convincing himself that she is just a child, that her blood does not define her, that she can be taught better, that she can be shown love, and grow to be different. His son tells him so. His wife tells him so. He must trust them, there is no one else for him.
In the wee hours of the night, he makes peace with his decision. He does not touch her, there is a veil over her crib and he knows that despite its pure white shimmer it is nearly as dangerous as the doors to her rooms. He watches her sleep, as her little body moves peacefully to the rhythm of her breath, convincing himself that he has done no wrong. That he will not destroy his son by keeping this green eyed beauty. That he will not shatter the happiness of his wife by allowing her to love the pale, black haired baby.
But only as long as she sleeps. Awaken, she is too much like them still.
The Mad Witch Lestrange's daughter.
The Dark Lord's daughter.
When she is awaken, he cannot make it past the doors.