Beta: the artful scribbler
Posted: 11/21/2015
Full synopsis: With their manor being used as headquarters to the Dark Lord's new regime, Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco are becoming undone. Their world becomes further unhinged when he places his new pet Muggle – who possesses a strange power – in their care. Will their troubles never end? Or will this enigmatic little waif ultimately become their salvation?
A/N:I've been told that my story really takes off – that I hit my authorial stride – around the middle of chapter three. After this one, chapter one, I start telling my story through the eyes of Voldemort. He is not a huge part of this book - don't get the wrong idea. But I need my readers to understand how he sees my Original Character, Jane, and why he doesn't decide to torture/maim/off her, per his usual modus operandi. Kay? After the fourth chapter, I revert...almost exclusively, to the Malfoys point of view. (Jane's POV doesn't come along till chapter 19, 'A Dissembler in an Oubliette'. Tres magnifique, n'es pas?) So, that said, please give my story a chance for a few chapters, and if you aren't fully hooked by the end of chapter 3, by all means: move on.
I also feel readers should know that this story begins about six weeks after Harry, Ron, and Hermione escape from Malfoy Manor in Deathly Hallows. My story isn't going to contain many deviations from the main body of canon, but the major one is that my book will take place over the course of a year, after Deathly Hallows and in the duration Harry, Ron, and Hermione will still be looking for Horcruxes. (Poor them). Don't ask me what the hold up is, because I have no idea. This isn't a story for the Trio, they already have theirs; this one's for the Malfoys, whom I love.
But, because they had stars, all the Star-Belly Sneetches
Would brag, "We're the best kind of Sneetch on the beaches."
With their snoots in the air, they would sniff and they'd snort
"We'll have nothing to do with the Plain-Belly sort!"
The Sneetches – by Dr. Seuss
Nightmare
27th May, 1998
From her position on the plush sofa Narcissa noticed her husband walk over to the mahogany sideboard to refill his drink. Again. She watched as he unstoppered the crystal decanter of oak-barreled mead and poured himself a generous measure of the expensive liquor with pale trembling fingers. He turned around and saw her watching him.
"Sure you won't have one, pet?" he asked.
Repressing a sigh, she politely declined his offer and allowed her eyes to return to the book in her lap.
If only her mind could actually focus on the material in front of her. She honestly wasn't even sure what book she had taken from the shelf. She flipped it over to examine the title. Pure-Blood Power vs. the Muggle Agenda. Oh yes, an old favorite.
But, as beloved as it was, it couldn't have any hold over her mind tonight. How could it, when everything was so wrong, and had been for so long?
She wondered if Lucius knew she was pretending to read and then she wondered where her son had gone. It was late so he was probably asleep. They were all fairly ragged after the last month's punishments; the Dark Lord had been merciless after that slippery Potter brat had escaped.
She had gone over and over the events of that ill-fated evening and still couldn't work out how it had all gone so horribly awry. Those wretched misfits were safely tied up in the cellar, for Morgana's sake. Wandless, helpless. For a few tentative moments, Narcissa had begun to hope that their redemption was finally within grasp!
But, no, of course not. That sort of good fortune belonged to another life now. That beautiful, priceless luck, which had always seemed to envelope them so effortlessly, had abandoned them when Lucius was imprisoned, and it had yet to reappear. So Potter had managed to get away, along with the Dark Lord's prisoners.
Merlin's beard, she would never forget the look on his snake face when they had tried to explain to him everything that happened. The magically wrought distortions of his features often masked his expressions, making them difficult to decipher. But over the past year, with him using their mansion as his headquarters, she had become so intimately acquainted with him that she was now able, with ease, to decode each subtle twitch and crinkle of mouth and brow.
"Dobby?" he'd fumed, his cold voice getting icier with every fresh transgression revealed. "And what, pray tell, is a Dobby?"
From the corner of the room, where she was applying Dittany to the cuts Draco had sustained from their shattered chandelier, Narcissa watched the Dark Lord's eyes and mouth vacillate between rage and incredulity, as her husband and sister cowered before him on bended knee. In terror, trying to control their shaking voices, they had tried to minimize the vital role the elf had played in assisting Potter's narrow exodus. But to no avail; he'd questioned them relentlessly, familiarizing himself with every shameful detail of their failure. It was a humiliation beyond everything, the insult on top of the injury, and they would never live it down. The fact that Bellatrix had probably managed to plant that dagger deep into its treacherous belly was hardly a consolation. Not at this point. In fact, that dagger was an invaluable Black family heirloom, and now, where ever it was, it was soiled with that filthy creature's blood. The knife was irretrievable and tainted, and the senseless use to which it had been put rankled with her. But that had always been her sister's way. Act first, think later.
Narcissa was pulled gently from her dark reverie when, from behind, she heard Bellatrix sauntering stiffly into the sitting room. Her impetuous sister came round the sofa and slowly lowered herself onto it. Bellatrix tried for a futile moment to find a position that might afford her some comfort, then seemed to give up and turned her attention on her brother-in-law.
"Lucius, be a dear and pour us a drink."
Lucius turned puffy, blood-shot eyes on his wife's sister, and then, acting as though he hadn't heard her, he made his own painstaking path to the wide armchair beside the fireplace and gently sat down. Once settled, he delicately swirled the amber liquid around his glass for a moment, looked Bellatrix squarely in the eye, and then raised the mead to his mouth for a casual sip.
Narcissa could practically feel the fury pouring off Bella.
In an effort to placate her, she whipped out her wand and with a few efficient strokes she hurriedly transported a bottle of her sister's favorite wine from the sideboard and conjured a glass. She tried not to notice the hurt look on Lucius's face as she uncorked the bottle and poured Bellatrix her drink. Bellatrix seemed to realize that Narcissa was trying to head off another argument, so she accepted the drink with a polite response and refrained from berating Lucius for his rudeness.
"How was Mother?" Narcissa asked.
"The same," Bellatrix replied.
"Is her rheumatism better?"
"No," Bellatrix stated flatly. "She wouldn't stop complaining about it either."
Bellatrix related this with complete indifference.
"Did you give her the Copasane Potion?"
"Of course. She sends her thanks for that."
"What else did you talk about?"
Lucius, Bellatrix, Narcissa and Draco had all been under house-arrest for the past six weeks. The Dark Lord had even forbidden her poor son from returning to Hogwarts so he could complete his last few weeks of term. Despite her fear of the Dark Lord, Narcissa had tried to plead with him on Draco's behalf.
"What's the point? His education hasn't done him any good as far as I can see," he had cruelly replied.
However, the Dark Lord had finally granted Narcissa and Bellatrix leave to visit their ailing mother, but Narcissa, much as she longed to see her, longed to leave the house even, hadn't wished to be separated from her husband and son, and had ended up foregoing the pleasure. Bella wouldn't have bothered except Narcissa had nagged her into submission.
"Please, Bella," she had pleaded with her sister. "Mother isn't well. All of her letters are expressing her discomfort and her desire to see us."
"Her discomfort? What about our discomfort? We're the ones being tortured and beaten every few days! Do you think she cares about that? What if she notices I haven't got my wand? I'd die, Cissy! Besides, she's fine. She's just bored."
Bored and lonely, thought Narcissa. And worried about us.
So she had wheedled and whined and cajoled Bella, and assured her over and over that their unobservant mother wouldn't realize she was missing her wand, until she'd reluctantly agreed to have dinner with her.
Now, half in an effort to discover her mother's real state of health and half to hear some news of the outside world, Narcissa attempted to draw Bellatrix out of herself. It was like trying to extract intelligence from a mudblood. Impossible.
"What else did you talk about with her?"
"Nothing."
"You must have talked about something. Did she say how our Prewitt cousins are?"
"Not really. She blathered on and on about Diforia's wedding plans, but I managed not to listen to half of it," Bella said, shrugging her shoulders as though to indicate apathy, but her eyes gleaming with a hint of pride.
"Did she say where they were planning to honeymoon?"
"For Morgana's sake, Cissy, I don't know. She probably did say but I don't remember. You're the one who corresponds with them. Don't you know where they're planning to go?"
"I can't remember," she lied.
Lucius glanced up at her from the book he was pretending to read and said, "Lyme. That's what you read from her letter at breakfast a couple of weeks ago, love."
"Oh, yes," she answered. "Remember when we went to Lyme? Those porky German witches in the room next to ours kept us up half the night."
Her husband's gaze was drifting vacantly around the spacious room and he nodded absently.
She sighed and made one more effort.
"Remember those stupid Muggles on the beach? We kept using the Deficianado hex to break up those ridiculous castles they were trying mold out of the sand." She affected a strained little laugh. "They gave up after a while and finally dragged their stinky, whiny brats off for some ice-cream."
"Yes," Lucius mumbled. He had his eyes on his book though and didn't seem to notice her attempts to reminisce about happier times.
Would it kill them to try, she thought.
All she wanted was an attempt at normality. Without their wands they had become walking, talking, sniping shells.
"I suppose Mother served roast quail," Narcissa said, desperate enough to discuss cuisine.
"Who gives a flying hippogriff what she served, Cissy?" Bellatrix said loudly, frustrated by her sister's inane inquiries.
"Don't raise your voice at my wife," Lucius growled, glaring at Bella with his flinty grey eyes.
"Don't you try to tell and me what to do, Lucius! She's my little sister and I can talk to her anyway I please," Bella instantly retorted.
And they were off.
"Not in this house," Lucius scolded. "I'll remind you for the umpteenth time that you are simply a guest in our home. If you don't show some respect you'll be asked to leave."
"I'm Narcissa's guest. And this is as much her home as it yours."
"I didn't say it was my home. I said that you're a guest in our home, and 'our' includes me, as well as her, therefore I have as much say over who stays here as she does."
"He didn't say it was his home, Bella," Narcissa interjected, trying to mediate. "Lucius, it wasn't as though she was yelling at me. She's just tired."
No matter how she approached her husband and sister, she couldn't seem to find a way to diminish the animosity that had developed between them. Up to a point she hadn't felt comfortable taking sides, and now it no longer mattered. Bella was stuck here until the Dark Lord lifted their sentence of confinement, because somehow it hadn't occurred to him that banishing Bellatrix from his presence would be a far worse punishment than imprisoning her in his headquarters.
Narcissa was wearied by their constant bickering, and this one was even more pointless than usual.
"Cissy doesn't want me to leave, do you Cissy?" asked Bellatrix with complete confidence.
Lowering her voice and averting her eyes she softly replied, "Of course, not."
"That means yes," Lucius told Bellatrix emphatically.
Narcissa, rendered graceless from her sore muscles, dragged herself off of the sofa and left the room, and their squabbling, behind.
In keeping with a new ritual, she headed for her son's room. When she reached his door she knocked softly, waited to see if he would reply, and - once the silence assured that he wouldn't - let herself in.
As it was almost summer, he had thrown wide the large windows of his bedroom and a soft sweet breeze was caressing the curtains, causing them to flutter out towards her like welcoming arms. She went to the side of his bed and admired his sleeping moon-lit form. Naked from the waist up, he was on his stomach and had his arms and legs spread out starfish style. Her heart ached as she studied him. The prone position he had assumed for sleep was a familiar one to her - he had slept this way since he was a child. His ivory complexion had always made him seem so clean, like a blank slate waiting to be filled. She slowed her breaths till they were as even and deep as his, allowing the gentle rhythms of their unhurried existence to soothe her. He was just as perfect and long-limbed as his father she noted with pleasure.
Her son was just about all she derived any pleasure from these days. He was also the source of her greatest anxieties. What would happen to him?
She pulled her wand from the pocket of her gown and, holding it close to his skin so their lights wouldn't wake him, she began breathing mild spells over his body. The Dark Lord had forbidden the Malfoys and Bella from healing their injuries with magic, as it would defeat the purpose of their punishments. But Narcissa didn't care. She wasn't going to let Draco suffer like Lucius and herself. It wasn't his fault their old house-elf had freed the captives, effectively destroying their credit with the Dark Lord and his other servants. It was bad enough listening to her only child screaming in agony while receiving the Dark Lord's wrath. She couldn't bring herself to think of it as torture. Not when it applied to Draco. If she thought of him being tortured she would go insane.
The spells she was using weren't as strong as some others that she knew, they wouldn't heal him completely. Mostly they promoted the relaxation of muscles and reduced swelling. It would give him a better night's rest and provide a partial easing of his aches throughout the next day. She wished she could do more.
What she really wished was that she could somehow scour the skull and snake off of his right arm and send him to Siberia. Or perhaps - because if she was going to indulge in wishful thinking she might as well go all out - invent a spell for time-travel and completely relive the last few years of her life. She knew exactly what she would do differently.
Physically, Draco was almost identical to his father. Over the years he had even adopted Lucius's mannerisms. He held his teacup and saucer with the same grip, crossed his legs like Lucius, and Draco even pronounced his words with the exact clarity and inflections as his father. It was sweet. But Narcissa knew that, no matter how proficient he might be at emulating his father, he wasn't like Lucius, not really. Her mother-in-law, Rosamunde, had confirmed it to her many times over. But she'd always made it sound like an accusation, rather than something normal and natural. Rosamunde hadn't approved of Narcissa's child-raising methods; she thought there should be less affection and a lot more discipline.
"Your mollycoddling is turning my grandson into a pampered baby," her hard looks seemed to say whenever she saw Narcissa cuddling Draco.
But Draco was a very sensitive child; she couldn't bear to spank him. And whatever childish pranks he might have got up to, he was always respectful and completely compliant when he was with her. He was a doll really. She didn't care if he couldn't kill somebody or whether he had the stomach for torturing the Dark Lord's less faithful subjects. She just hoped, for his sake, that over time he would be able to grow into his role of a Death Eater, since he had yet to demonstrate the same alacrity for it as his father.
The Dark Lord always said that love made people weak, and perhaps this was true, but Narcissa couldn't see how she could ever stop loving her son. No matter how vulnerable it made her.
She heard a low tapping on the door and, quickly straightening up, stowed the wand back in her gown.
Lucius pushed the door open and stepped a few paces into their son's bedroom, clutching another full glass of spirits. They looked at one another across the room, so many unspoken things between them. Separating them.
If Lucius suspected what she had just been doing he didn't mention it. He wasn't nearly as adept at Occlumency as she was and they both knew it.
"Are you coming to bed soon?" he whispered.
Instead of answering him she crossed the room and put her hand in his. She gazed into his eyes and silently asked, 'When will this nightmare end?'
She knew that if she had said it to him, out loud, he wouldn't know what to say. So she didn't.
Lucius unlaced his fingers from hers and wrapped his drink-free arm around her, pulled her close to him, and put his forehead against hers. They stood that way for quite a while, trying to support each other.
