She was nervous, but if there was one thing life had taught her, it was that emotions were best suppressed. She didn't know if he would come, maybe he blamed her for taking so long to come see him, maybe he thought she was involved. She forced herself not to fidget, it was unseemly, and to just drink her tea.
The Headmaster was watching her carefully and his expressionless blue eyes made her even more nervous; in all her life she'd never seen Professor Dumbldore look so old. She bit back a sigh. Please Baby; please just come talk to me. Give me a chance, just this once. Merlin knows I love you more than anything else, my darling little dragon. She turned slowly at the creak of the staircase. Her son's form began to appear: tall and thin with his Seeker's build, the silver hair which he wore slicked back, high-lighting his thin, aristocratic features. She forced herself to look in his eyes, to stare at the fifteen year old embodiment of her husband. He was trying so hard to be strong; she could see it in his every breath. Contrary to popular belief, she did love and worship her son; she did not transfer the blame from father to son.
"Mother," he said the words so softly and they were ice cold. He stood still and tall like a rod, having stepped off the stairs and moved no further. His eyes appraised her with the same cold stare as his father; an action he emulated perfectly. She stood with a grace managed by years of practice and a natural fluidity. It was not from his father that the boy gained his natural elegance and Seeker's talent.
"Draco," she put her tea down, but made no move towards him. Instead she looked at him, her turquoise eyes softening. Come on Baby, you can trust me. You know you can, I've given you that much. How much longer are you going to be able to pretend? None of this was thought with malice, instead Narcissa tried to beseech him with her eyes; a silent plea. Never breaking his gaze from hers, he began to move towards her, not running or striding, simply walking. He refused to lose his control, not here she knew, maybe not ever. She understood, and smiled her queer smile, a lopsided twitch. It was only Draco who could touch her true heart; it was only her son who could conjure up that awful tremble which she had concealed her whole life. It took all her self control not to reach for him, not to wrap herself around him and promise never to let go. He wouldn't appreciate the display, and would likely scold her for her lack of decorum in front of the Headmaster. She smiled that silly smile again; he was such a stickler for social propriety. She didn't even notice that her stomach had untied itself, that her nerves were gone; that they had fled with her son's first step toward her.
He sat in the chair next to hers, and only after both she and the Headmaster were seated. He nodded coolly, to them both, back straight, hands in his lap, no outward sign of his likely inner distress.
"Professor," she began in a voice which belied her feeling of intimidation towards the austere man behind the desk. "I would like to be allowed some time with my son. It has become necessary, in light of recent events, for us to have a discussion. I would prefer, if at all possible, to take Draco away from the school for the weekend. Unless," she looked at her son, "he would prefer to stay here." She was unsure of their safety while still in England, but she no longer had the ability to traipse across Europe at will, and she was unwilling to cause her son anymore pain.
"I won't put my Mother in any further danger Professor." Her son interjected before Dumbledore could reply. "If you could arrange it, could we both stay here, in the safety of the castle?" His voice was still so calm, it never waived. She knew it was a huge defeat for her son to ask Professor Dumbledore for help; there was as little love lost between them as there was between the old wizard and her husband.
"It can, and has already been arranged. Mrs. Malfoy, if you and Mr. Malfoy will follow me." He stood, leading them out of the office and toward a part of the castle neither Malfoy had ever been through before. He turned right and into a long, dark corridor containing a number of evenly dispersed doorways. Judging from the thick dust that coated the floor, floating up to fill her nostrils, Narcissa gauged it was long since abandoned. Dumbledore stopped at the last door.
"Alhomra," a quiet command and the door creaked open. The room was dank, and smelled faintly musty. It was dark, even after the hearth and torches were lit. Narcissa found it amusingly cliché that the furniture was covered in large white drop clothes, once removed it revealed two sagging, badly tattered chairs, a small, scarred table, and a huge platform bed with matching armoire. For what felt like the hundredth time that day, Narcissa held back a sigh. At least we know – believe - we're safe. The amended thought brought her no joy. There were many people here who could betray her, but she had to see her son. He took precedence, the Headmaster had understood that. She could only hope Draco would be so understanding. He must be furious with me for showing up here, forcing him to ask Dumbledore for protection. She rolled her eyes at both their backs, and silently cursed her husband.
"Thank you Professor." She smiled politely at him. He took her cue, nodding silently and disappearing from the room, shutting the door behind him.
Narcissa turned back to her son, and was startled by the malicious look on his face.
"Why have you come here Mother?" He was shaking, his fists clenching and unclenching, the small muscle in his cheek pulsed.
"To see you," that was the truth. She wanted to comfort him, to tell him everything would be ok. But she couldn't. She couldn't promise him something she couldn't deliver. It stung her deeply to admit that. She had never denied her son anything, never needed to. She knew it was spoiling him, that when finally faced with something out of his reach Draco would be at a loss. If she was honest with herself, she had never thought that day would come; it had never occurred to her that someday she wouldn't be able to give him what he wanted. And further from her contemplation was the idea that someday she would have to deny him his family pride, his heritage. She had never felt the heart-break of her child's disappointment. Here she stood, in this awful, musty room, in a place they both loved and despised, watching her world fall apart around her; watching her son's heart shatter. And worst of all was that he was silent in his heart-break. He didn't want to burden her with it; he didn't trust her with it.
The tears fell slowly, a silent admission of her fear, her rejection, and her helplessness. She didn't wipe them away, nor did she turn away from her son. She wanted him to see how much he was hurting her, how much his father was hurting her, how lost she was, how scared she was.
Her son growled, a fierce, feral noise, before moving towards her. He wrapped his arms around her, stroking her back. She clutched at the front of his robes, her head bowed in shame. He was no more than an inch taller than her own five-foot-seven-inches, but he was strong and hard. She found a small comfort in his strength, and shame in herself for needing his strength.
"I'm so sorry Draco," she managed to chock out. He chuckled a deep, bitter, laugh.
"For what Mum?" His voice vibrated through her body.
"For everything Dragon, mostly for not stopping him," she pulled back now and wiped at her eyes. Now was her turn to comfort him, and she embraced his thin, hard frame, squeezing him hard. For the first time since he'd started at Hogwarts, he didn't pull away. Instead he leaned into her, finding the support he'd given her only moments before was now reciprocated.
"Stop him, when have you ever been able to stop him?" Her son's words stung, but only because they were true. She had never been able to stop Lucius.
"I tried Draco, I tried so many times!" She was no longer talking about just the raids.
"I know Mum, I know." He leaned his head into her shoulder. Narcissa traced the scar she new ran across his back.
They stood like that for a long time. She eventually pulled him into her lap on the bed. It had taken hours, both holding onto the other, bodies shaking in silent sobs. Finally he had fallen asleep, exhausted by his emotions, kept locked up for so long now.
She watched him sleep now, his pale, innocent, face, all silvery light, angelic in sleep. She remembered when Lucius had looked like that, but couldn't pin-point when the look had left him. She stroked her son's check, finding courage in his presence, the silent strength he gave her. He always gave her the courage to continue, to pick up the pieces (figurative and literal) and keep going. He filled her with hope.
She smiled ruefully. He was no angel really, more like a pushy, spoilt, prat. He was demanding, snarky, cunning, and ridiculously fastidious. He was sullen, and often violent when he didn't get his own way, and she often wondered if there was a loyal bone in his body; loyal to someone other than himself. No, she was in no way blind to his faults. He made her crazy when he looked down his nose, the disdain oozing out of every pore. But she hated it so much because it was her look. Lucius had laughed sardonically at her when Draco had used that look for the first time; he was barely two. Narcissa frowned at the memory. Back then she had still thought her marriage was salvageable.
Divorce was impossible, not just because Lucius would never consent to it, but because it would actually break her heart. She had never held any illusions of staying with Lucius for Draco's sake, it had been purely selfish. She was bound to Lucius for life, a part of her soul was with him, and she carried him with her always. Even now she could feel the gaping hole in her heart, the hole that only he could fill, in the heart he had broken. She knew he felt her as well, and had taken pleasure in the pain he inflicted on them both. She shuddered at the thought of what would happen to her if Lucius was sentenced to have his soul sucked. How much of her would be lost with her husband? She touched Draco's soft hair, would her son loose both his parents?
Narcissa shivered. Draco was the one good thing she had done in her life, the one thing she could be proud of. And yet he wanted to be just like his father; he always had. Until tonight she had been sure he would take the mark when he was of age. She had been so scared to lose him, just like she had lost his father. Another tear slid down her face as she blinked. Many dark nights had caused her to question if she'd ever had Lucius to lose in the first place.
There were only uncertainties when it came to her husband. He had never been forthright with anyone as far as she knew. The closest he came was with her, when they were first married. It was so long ago now, distorted by years of pain. Narcissa had known what he was from the outset. She'd held no illusions about his character when they married; she had been around from the start. Lucius, like his son, had always gotten what he wanted. That he'd wanted her was no surprise. Narcissa Black, the most celebrated daughter of Slytherin, was beautiful. Still are, she thought smugly. Tall, slim, all graceful movements and expensive clothing - always. Her heavy blonde hair hung like a silver curtain, and shimmered like a mirror. Her cousin Sirus had once quipped that if she stood still for long enough, one could see their reflection in it. Her eyes, different from Draco's, were a deep turquoise, nothing about her suggested darkness. She was two years younger than Lucius, and two years older than her cousin Sirius. Her sister, Bellatrix, was thirty-six months older, dark in every way that Narcissa was fair, and their father's favorite. But that was before Lucius had taken an interest in her. With Lucius, you're pathetic Narcissa, everything changed. She had been thirteen the first time he'd spoken to her, fifteen when he announced (to the entire Slytherin common room) that she was off limits by hexing Severus Snape for "chatting her up" (he was simply tutoring her, but there was no changing Lucius' mind, even then), and seventeen when he slipped the huge, heavy, emerald onto her finger. She touched it, the cool metal still heavy after all these years. He never asked her to marry him, simply picked up her left hand and put the ring on it. It was the day she graduated from Hogwarts, and six months later her heart was tied to his, eternally. He had taken the dark Mark the day after he graduated. He had never mentioned it to her, but that summer she'd seen it. A hideous stain on his arm, and on his soul. Her father had strutted around filled with pride, as though Lucius were his own son.
She sighed, and suddenly Draco's, Lucius', eyes fluttered open.
"You should sleep a little more my dragon. I'm still here, and I'm not going anywhere." She smiled softly at him, but his eyes began to focus, and her heart contracted at the hurt already visible.
"I hate him." The words shocked Narcissa to the core.
"No," she instructed him calmly, "you do not hate your father Draco Malfoy."
"I do. I hate being ashamed of who I am, and it's his fault. He and he alone, have sullied my name. I will never be able to hold my head up in front of Potter, or any of his idiot followers. All because Father lacks the brass to refuse his Lord." Her angelic son was gone, replaced by an embittered fifteen year old boy.
"You know naught of what you speak!" The harshness in her tone made him gasp. "Don't judge your father's decisions so harshly Draco. You have never had an unforgivable turned on you; you know nothing of the fear your father, and every other Death Eater, experiences when their Mark burns." Narcissa shuddered, remembering his hiss of pain when ever the Mark had glowed. She knew all too well his fear, and the bone deep exhaustion Lord Voldemort caused him. She also knew the rush of exhilaration he felt every time there was a raid, the thrill he got from inflicting pain on others. He smelled like death. Lucius took other peoples lives for granted, but his own was sacred. Her son could not comprehend these things she knew, but he had no right to speak about his father with such disrespect.
"But you have! You have felt the pain that he inflicted on other people! How can you of all people tell me not to judge him? He disgraced us! He doesn't love us! Now he's gone to Askaban and we're alone, abandoned! He abandoned me!" Her son was curled up on the bed now, anger pouring out of his mouth; fear racked his body until his last words were a strangled sob. He rocked, curled into himself, and flinched when she touched him. He had no idea how true his words were.
Narcissa could say nothing; there were no words to salve his hurt with. She could only stand there and tell him she loved him, that she was proud of him. He needn't be ashamed of who he was, the blood that ran through his veins was powerful blood, blood that could be traced back for centuries. That blood set him apart from everyone else, and was worth the pride he had been raised to have.
"You will not be ashamed of your father Draco Malfoy," she was ordering his emotions for the second time that night. "You should be proud of your lineage, it is a powerful force. You can not change who you are, nor should you have the desire to. You are not your father, you have never been your father, nor will you ever be him." The passion in her voice was driven by a need to protect her son, save him from a doom he could not comprehend.
"But I am like him, and I do –did- want to be him." The admission was quiet, punctuated by a solitary tear.
"You have never been entirely like your father Draco. You share similar traits with him, it is true, you both suffer an excess of pride, you have his eyes, his mouth," Narcissa touched each feature on her son's face with the familiarity of a favorite image. "You exude the same arrogance he does, you even run your hands through your hair the same way, and only when you're both frustrated with someone, not at something." Her eyes were soft as she continued, "but there are many things that aren't like your father at all.
You both anger quickly, but he enjoys the anger, the taunting. You don't take the same pleasure he does, you feel the need to harass other people for attention, yes Draco attention." She smiled at him, covering his lips with a single, elegant finger. "You don't like to be ignored, and you feel validated by being nasty. I worry sometimes, why you feel inferior to someone like Potter. Your father never used verbal intimidation; he either impressed you with his incredible charm, or intimidated you with his physical ability. Your father could make any situation turn in his favor while we were at Hogwarts." She winked at him, but Draco just scowled. "You have elegance, an easy grace, he never had. Lucius was a Chaser, he has a broader build, and is a natural leader, and on the pitch he called all the shots. You too are a leader, but in a far more subtle way, preferring to do your own dirty work. Your father never had the –what did you call it? brass, to challenge anyone directly. Not anyone worth fighting with, only muggles. And even then, it could never be a fair fight." She touched her son's face, a gentle loving caress, tenderer than you would ever share with a lover even. "You have far too much vanity to let other people take credit for your actions." The look on Draco's face was an interesting cross between understanding, hurt pride, and acceptance.
"I love you Mum."
"I love you too, my little dragon." Draco leaned into his mother's caress, closing his eyes with a sigh. He stifled a yawn, "do I have to go back to the dungeon?"
"No Baby, you can stay here," Narcissa hesitated, "I'd feel much better if you stayed with me tonight." With that Draco stretched elegantly across the large bed. Narcissa too lay across the bad, covering them both with a worn duvet, and pulled her son close. She lay there listening to him breathe, her son, her baby, her heart and soul.
Without recognition, Narcissa drifted into slumber, lulled by his slow, even, breaths. They both slept, mother and son, looking innocent and serene; a peace settled over them. The peace would hang between them, a shared memory, but one they would never rediscover.