Author's Note: this one isn't a drabble; also, it's the fourth part of a four-part mini-story about Lucius, Narcissa, and a certain prophecy.
Parchmentwork
It's just a piece of paper. Narcissa stares at it, ink blurring before her eyes.
The Healers have gone, now. The room feels bare and chill, without them rushing around. Narcissa doesn't like it.
The truth is that she's lonely. But it's more than that.
Narcissa closes her eyes, reliving the past couple of months…
"'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ...' That's all I heard," Severus says nervously, sullenly.
"We will find this child," the Dark Lord says. "Look for likely mothers, all of you. And let not a word of this reach The Meddling Old Fool." Dumbledore gets his own title.
Narcissa's hand on her pregnancy bump, too obvious…"Of course, my Lord. We are your humble servants in this, as in all things," Lucius saying smoothly, not looking at her…
July is ever more quickly approaching, and the Healers tell Narcissa her baby will be born on the twenty-second of that month…Fear clutches her heart.
She knows well it won't matter if she and Lucius have ever actually defied the Dark Lord, but she finds herself going over all the times she's met him anyway…her wedding, when she put cloves and mallowsweet and all sorts of things in his tea, and Lucius helped—thank Salazar she was right about his terrible sense of smell, or they'd never have survived for their honeymoon…or what of his demand for Malfoy Manor, the one she and Lucius deftly sidestepped, sacrificing her brother-in-law's ancestral home instead…and then when she was pregnant the first time, with Lyra (her mind strays away from that as fast as possible; it's still too painful, and she should be grateful if she can carry this baby to term), he wanted her to take the Mark and join the Inner Circle—she and B could have braided one another's hair over the dead bodies…
July, July, July…There are other pregnant witches, but a few of the younger Death Eaters, the ones who've never before run afoul of her family, eye her askance…
If only that were all, Narcissa thinks she could bear it; what are a few glances, after all, to a Black?
But then that afternoon in May, drinking tea with B and Rabastan's wife, Leea…
"I'm so happy for you," Leea Lestrange says conventionally.
"Yes—just as long as…" B starts, then bites her lip and looks away from Narcissa's eyes.
That's when Narcissa knows there's something in the whispers; B, shy away from a sensitive topic? Honestly, she hadn't known it was possible.
Blood magic is dangerous. Narcissa knows that, knows it as surely as she knows it's her only hope.
Luckily, she's been very well trained.
The book, loose in its binding, the recipe, stained with spatters of she knows not what—the screen, to block even the mildest candlelight…
Narcissa can't quite see in the dark, but this goes deeper than sight. She can do it,
Ingredients, some legal, others…not. The only person they'll harm is herself, however; she wouldn't feel guilty for this even if she cared for the law.
And at last—one swift cut with the ceremonial knife, the one that's known more magic than the Dark Lord ever will, even if, as some say, he is going to live forever…
A few drops of blood, one final stir, and Narcissa pours the potion into a glass vial, climbs the stairs out of the dungeons while she can still do so on her own power, toasts her husband's family portraits ironically (she is saving their heir, after all) and downs the potion in one swift gulp.
Pain—pain like she's never experienced…she has just time to think, with surprise, that it's even worse than with Lyra, and that perhaps she should've firecalled the Healers first…
When she comes to, she's being wheeled into an operating room at St. Mungo's. About bloody time, she thinks, and screams from the pain.
At last, though, Draco is born. He's beautiful; he looks just like his father.
She gets a few moments with her darling son, born June 1st, thank you very much, before the Healers take him away to run the customary tests and Lucius sweeps in, hem of his robes soaked in mud, little droplets of something wet and red mixed in. He's obviously just come from an…assignment.
He snatches a moment with Draco—just a mutual, meaningful stare and a gentle caress—and then the Healers sweep the tiny Malfoy heir out of the room, and Lucius sits down beside Narcissa.
"I'm so sorry," he says, sounding heartbroken. "I should have been here."
"It's fine," Narcissa reassures him. "We're both fine."
"He's amazing," Lucius says. "I can't believe it—our son."
"I know." They're silent for a moment, just thinking. Being together.
"The Healers told me…" Lucius says at last.
"There won't be any more children," Narcissa finishes for him. She knows she sounds detached, but Lucius puts an arm around her, trying to soothe.
Of course he knows how much this hurts. Narcissa's always wanted a big family—lots of little blonde children just like their father.
They don't speak again for a long time. It seems there's nothing to say.
And now—now Narcissa has a moment to herself. Her baby and her husband are no doubt waiting, or else filling out more endless parchmentwork—you wouldn't think having a child would entail so many tedious and banal forms.
She's staring at the most important piece of paper of all: Draco's birth certificate. Silly, really; to think a simple matter of ink on a page can determine a child's destiny.
Narcissa blinks, trying to get the stark reality of where she is out of her mind. She honestly never thought it would come to this—does she regret it?
Anxiously, she probes her own feelings—suddenly this has become the most important question of all.
She could have waited—maybe just a couple more weeks, the end of July's not for another two months, really—but in her heart, she doubts a difference of a few weeks in either direction would mean much to the Dark Lord. 'As the seventh month dies…' Prophecies are always so irritatingly vague, that even when they're quite clear, it's hard to be sure. And the Dark Lord likes to be sure.
Narcissa mourns the children she and Lucius won't have, now—but then, there's no certainty in life; she couldn't be sure she wouldn't miscarry them all, anyway.
Not to mention the fact that Abraxas Malfoy has rather a bee in his bonnet about the Malfoy tradition of only one son—Narcissa's never heard anything so foolish.
Angry—more with herself than her father-in-law—she brushes her pale blonde hair out of her eyes and folds Draco's birth certificate with shaking hands.
"Narcissa?" Lucius enters, holding Draco. "We can go home now."
Home. Narcissa looks into her son's cool gray eyes, and knows that it was all worth it. To save her family, she would do it over again in a heartbeat.
"Yes," she says, smiling faintly. "Oh, yes, Lucius—let's go home."
