Tainted Love
Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. own all recognisable characters and storylines.
N/B: Proofread by Merlynne.
Tainted Love
Chapter Eight: Only Heirs
The scenery flashed before Draco's young eyes, as if it was part of an endless, uninteresting watercolour. Field after field, sometimes a river or hill, all dotted with sheep, cows, the occasional horse: the kingdom of adolescent boredom. He slumped sideways, leant his head against the cold glass of the train window and silently cursed his mother…and his grandfather…and his grandmother for that matter!
A whole day wasted! He expelled an angry breath and watched as it condensed on the windowpane. Maybe he could at least blackmail his mother into buying him a Firebolt now?
Apart from Draco the entire carriage was empty. Unlike the Hogwarts Express, there were no separate compartments. It was much more like the Muggle trains, just lines of seats with an aisle running down the centre, undoubtedly more cost efficient in the long run.
Draco glanced back out of the window; it had cleared. He caught a glimpse of his furious reflection. Once upon a time that hard glare would have been enough to stop his mother in her tracks. He lowered his eyes. Those early years of his childhood seemed like a lifetime ago. Things had started to go wrong for Draco as soon as he had entered Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Hogwarts had been his mother's choice; his father had wanted to send him abroad to be schooled. Draco had thought long and hard about this conflict between his parents. He had never been told why their opinions had differed so much, but he had settled on two imaginary reasons, despite knowing, deep down, that they were wholly improbable. All the same, he had nearly convinced himself that his mother didn't want to send him away to another country because she wanted him nearer to home, and he liked to believe that his father had wanted to keep him out of the crossfire. Whatever plans Lucius Malfoy had for Hogwarts surely he wouldn't want his own son hurt? Comforting yet unlikely, these were the reasons Draco had decided on. He could probably find out the truth if he simply asked his parents. He had never asked. He didn't want to know the truth.
Draco frowned more darkly. Why had things gone wrong? It was probably because his mother and father had ceased to be solely that, just his parents. Removed from their son they became detached and objective, they saw more clearly the faults that they had been willing to overlook before. They saw a lack of commitment, a lack of caution and a lack of sense.
The Malfoy family, like so many old aristocratic families, had an unwritten code - one male heir per generation. Of course, in practise this was not always possible. Elder daughters were quite rare, but not unprecedented…second sons were unheard of. Draco sighed inaudible. He, and indeed his mother, and been very lucky. But there was a very significant difference between them - his mother was safe in the knowledge that she had fulfilled her role; Draco had not even begun his! This role, in the cool light of day, was a very simple one; the Malfoy heir was expected to equal or better his father. Maintaining, hopefully improving, the Malfoy lineage. Draco slumped back into the uncomfortable seat in defeat, how was he ever going to surpass his father? It was impossible! So why even try? He would have liked the chance to observe the relationship between his own father and grandfather, to perhaps learn exactly what it was that was expected of him this way, but his paternal grandfather had died when he had been just a baby.
Draco had wondered briefly, fleetingly, if his father had had a hand in his grandfather's death. He was the son of a murderer - fact - it had ceased to upset him. There was something perversely comforting about it. He was privileged to stand within his father's circle of protection, or so he hoped!
But Lucius Malfoy had not killed his father.
Draco could remember that Dobby, the Malfoy's old House Elf, had let this fact slip. At the time Draco had been bullying the Elf, for information about his father's involvement in his grandfather's death. He'd been throwing soot over Dobby's clean laundry, if he remembered correctly. Furiously, Dobby had told Draco that his master could not possibly have been involved! The task of arranging his grandfather's entire funeral had fallen solely to his mother, because his father had been away from home for some considerable length of time before and after the unfortunate event. Young Draco had been desperate to know why, but the poor House Elf had already run off to shut his head in a window to punish himself for his indiscretion.
The train rumbled to a halt and Draco snapped out of his unusually profound thoughts. He could see his mother waiting for him on the little, shabby platform. Standing up Draco prepared to disembark. He couldn't deny to himself that he felt a tiny prickle of relief. He wasn't quite sure what the feud between his parents and his mother's family was all about, but in the past he had heard his mother and father arguing about it furiously.
His parents argued a lot. When Draco had been a little boy, young and naïve, he had found it quite funny, to see them lose their usual cool reserve so completely. But as he had grown older it had ceased to amuse him. He still wasn't above pitting them against each other if he could possibly benefit from it, but he was terrified of going home one holiday to find his mother gone! He didn't think he could cope with his father alone.
Draco stepped off the train into the warm, sticky afternoon and grunted non-communicatively at his mother. She didn't say a word. He glanced up at her covertly, she looked tired and older then usual. Perhaps she did love him? No. Maybe? He wasn't sure; his mother was so hard to read!
After forcefully shutting his office door Lucius Malfoy frowned down at a note that appeared to have been slipped beneath it. He clicked two gloved fingers sharply and the scrap of folded paper levitated. He plucked it out of the air and unfolded it deftly. In the middle of the piece of paper sat one solitary line.
'I'm sorry I missed you.'
Lucius looked somewhat bemused. He flipped the paper over in search of a name, but whoever had written the note had failed to sign it. He studied it suspiciously for a few more moments; he hated being in the dark! It smelt very faintly of a woman's perfume. Something niggled at the very back of Lucius' mind, but annoyingly he couldn't quite place it.
He strolled over to his desk, sat down and tossed the little note carelessly on top of a small heap of post. Beneath the anonymous letter, among other things, lay a party invitation from a wizard called Macnair, or his wife at least. Like Lucius, Macnair also worked for the Ministry, in the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures department, as an executioner. He was not given to throwing parties, which was why Lucius attributed the invitation to his wife.
Excuses as to why he couldn't go were annoyingly reluctant to present themselves to Lucius, such engagements were a chore that a man of his status expected to endure, a necessary evil. Well most of them at least…
…She had arrived slightly late. A momentary hush had fallen over the crowd and even the music seemed to lull, as the whole of Hogwarts acknowledged her presence. But this stillness passed quickly. Lucius sipped a drink and watched calmly from the sidelines as Narcissa was immediately surrounded by a whole horde of people. She smiled and laughed, while Lucius frowned, this outward glow seemed terribly false. Couldn't anyone else see that?
Isabelle tapped her foot irritably by his side, he hadn't realised people actually did that in real life.
"I don't suppose we're going to dance?" she snapped, as she tossed her hair over one shoulder.
Lucius would have liked to agree, but it suddenly struck him that his actions up until that point had been decidedly out of character. Who was this girl to warrant such attention? She was attractive, but not remarkably so, with a little talent, and that was all. Hardly a rarity! He caught Isabelle by the hand and led her to the dance floor.
They moved slowly around the Great Hall with the other couples. Isabelle pressed her pliant body against her partner's and moved against him evocatively. That was when Lucius noticed her, watching him, or rather them. She was speaking to Dumbledore, of all people! But her eyes were more often on him, a smile played on her lips, which were now unblemished. What else was she hiding? He felt Isabelle lean her head against his chest; across the room Narcissa mimicked the movement by tilting her head. Lucius drew a sharp breath at which Isabelle giggled, misunderstanding his response. Narcissa smiled sensuously, and then turned her attention back to the headmaster.
After that episode Lucius waited for an opportunity to accost her. But she was never alone! Did she not tire of the throng of students following her every move? One pupil in particular was grating on Lucius' nerves. Barty Crouch Junior, he was clearly enamoured with her. This in itself was not what annoyed Lucius, what annoyed him was the fact that he'd noticed!
The night drew on; the band got ready to play a few last raucous songs before the ballads and most people filled the dance floor. Lucius noticed Narcissa finally slip out of Barty's clutches and outside into the cool night air. Sneakily he left Isabelle alone and followed.
It was colder than he'd expected outside. Narcissa was rubbing her bare arms to ward off the chill. She was looking out over the lake, and it was clear to him that she thought she was alone; he watched her shoulders slump ever so slightly, and a distracted sigh escaped her lips.
"Got your eye on anyone else?" asked Lucius mercilessly. He stepped out of the shadows and revealed his presence. Narcissa tensed visibly.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she replied coolly.
"I mean Barty of course. Did you drop your books in front of him too?" he added with a smirk. She turned on him sharply.
"I- You- Ooh!" she stammered idiotically, momentary unable to defend herself. "You weren't the only one in the corridor that day you know!" she eventually spat.
"No that's true," smiled Lucius, "but if you'd intended to impress Lestrange I should tell you he's already taken."
"Lestrange?" she mumbled.
"The other man I was with," remarked Lucius helpfully. "Unless you had designs on my father? In that case I should warn you that I have no desire to have you as my step-mother." He mocked her ruthlessly.
"I think you underestimate me," she said stiltedly. He could see that it was costing her a great deal to control her temper. He wanted her to lose it.
"Do you?" he raised a curious eyebrow. "Well perhaps you underestimate me too. So you know what I'll do?" She shook her head, despite herself. "I'll give you some very good advice," he offered.
"Go on then?" Narcissa challenged him.
"Stay away from me."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, and then peered up at him through the dim light.
"I don't think you really want that," she refuted carefully.
"I didn't say it was what I wanted. I said it was good advice."
"And you should have followed it, Narcissa," muttered Lucius to himself, just as he began to contemplate finishing work for the day.
His eyes were resting on the little scribbled note. The memory of Isabelle, of holding a woman other than his wife, of her scent intoxicating him, was suddenly as vivid as if it had happen only the day before. He picked up the note, slowly reread it and then crushed it in his hand.
Unknown to Lucius, at precisely this moment Narcissa was once again stepping outside their house to the grounds beyond.
She didn't walk down to the river, as she had done the day before, instead she walked to west of the Manor, into one of the formal gardens. The geometrically shaped flowerbeds were rich in colour, but the late afternoon light muted some of their radiance. A tall privet hedge skirted the neat maze of flowerbeds, bathing everything in even darker shadows.
In the very centre of this little garden was a water fountain. Its once white stone was grey with age and the mermaid centrepiece covered in moss. Narcissa took a seat on a cold stone bench before it, watching and listening to the running water. If she concentrated, and banished all other thoughts from her mind, she could manipulate its flow.
A door opened and then banged shut. Swift steps crunched along the gravel paths towards her. She kept her eyes on the fountain and refused to stand, although her concentration was broken.
"Narcissa we have a perfectly good house! Why do I never find you inside it when I get home from work?" snapped Lucius. He stabbed at the ground with his ebony cane.
"Perhaps I am avoiding you," she remarked mildly. This comment didn't seem to annoy Lucius, as she had intended, for he almost smiled and then sat down beside her.
"Do you know what I learnt today? Only that Arthur Weasley-"
"You're not going to ask me about her are you?" Narcissa interrupted him in disbelief. He turned away from his wife and scowled at the fountain.
"That would imply I care, and you know I do not."
"This is my mother we are talking about, Lucius! She won't let the healers treat her!" Narcissa glared at her husband. She was completely riled, not because she had suddenly had an attack of conscience, but because of his complete lack of respect for her family.
"You know I hate being reminded of your connections."
"Then it should please you to know that she's dying!" Narcissa shot irately. Pure silence on his part followed her outburst. "Well?!" she snarled, unable to take his lack of response.
"I thought it might be a little insensitive to agree," he remarked watching her reaction closely.
"Lucius!"
"Don't yell for the whole of Gloucestershire to here, Narcissa. It's so common," he berated her. "What is she dying of then?" he asked standing up.
"I…don't know," Narcissa faltered.
"I can see why you reprimanded me, you obviously care for her a great deal!" laughed Lucius cruelly. "Why is she refusing treatment, or is that a foolish question?"
"What do you mean?" asked Narcissa carefully, she had calmed down somewhat and already regretted her undignified outburst; she needed control of the situation.
"She's finally seen the error of her ways?" he asked disdainfully.
"I think she still loves my father, if that is what you're alluding to, she just can't stand to live with him any longer. To live at all it would seem."
"You're family is severely twisted," he said shaking his head. No doubt wondering if she too was 'infected'.
"'People in glasshouses shouldn't throw stones,'" Narcissa quoted the proverb shrewdly.
"I suppose you're still the only heiress?" he asked, neatly ignoring her barbed retort.
"And?"
"And you stand to inherit everything, no?" he turned back to her.
"You forget my father is still alive. The only thing my mother has is," she stopped in mid-sentence, her eyes wide. How had she forgotten!
"The le Fay jewel," he finished helpfully. "Priceless, isn't it?" he asked mildly.
"I don't think it would suit you, Lucius," remarked Narcissa sarcastically.
She stood up, brushed down her skirt and tried to saunter passed him, but Lucius wasn't prepared to just let her escape. He caught her firmly by the arm, not roughly enough to hurt her, yet she drew a sharp breath as if in pain.
"What's wrong?" he demanded astutely watching her through narrowed eyes. She shrugged the arm her father had bruised out of his grasp.
"I couldn't tell you, Lucius," she said innocently. "Possibly the same thing that is wrong with your hand," she added glancing at his gloved fist, which hid the bandage that was wrapped around his own wound.
She made to move passed him again, and this time he let her walk by. Narcissa could practically hear the whirring of his mind as he fought to solve the riddle she'd set for him. She briefly wondered if she'd be able to reach the house before he managed it.
"You saw your father too, didn't you?" he shouted after her, following her back to the Manor as he did so.
"Don't yell, Lucius. It's so common," she imitated him mockingly. She had stopped walking, and stood in the entrance to the garden.
"Keep pushing, Narcissa! One day you'll cross the line!" he snarled, as he levelled with her. "Well?!"
"It's fine, I dealt with it," said Narcissa calmly, very pleased to have regained her composure while causing her husband to lose his so spectacularly.
"How?" he demanded. She smiled up at him openly. "What did you do, Narcissa?" he pressed, and there was a slightly uneasy edge to the tone of his voice.
"It was just a little curse," she simpered mildly, enjoying the power she suddenly had over him.
"Which one?"
"The Cruciatus one," she said simply, watching his reaction though veiled eyes. How would he take the news that his wife had cast an illegal spell on her father? He swore violently, and then turned away from her and the house. "Where are you going?" she sighed.
"To clean up your mess! Do you know what this could do to us if it got out?"
"He's my father! It's my problem. I will take care it!" refuted Narcissa coldly.
"Your past record goes against you," Lucius argued callously and, with that obscure allusion to their past spoken, he Disapparated.
Narcissa stared at the empty spot, where just a few seconds earlier her husband had been standing. She shook her head and sighed in resignation. Was that a win or a loss on her part?
"Suit yourself, Lucius. You usually do."
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