All I Need To Get By
Chapter Fifteen: If It Makes You Happy
Not that he felt much jealousy of her situation, as his wife, in comparison with his own. He had so clearly understood from the beginning that, in the event of marriage, their outward lives were to run on as before, that to rebel now would have been unmannly to himself and cruel to her, by adding to embarrassments that were great enough already. His momentary doubt was of his own strength to achieve sufficiently high things to render him, in relation to her, other than a patronised young favourite, whom she had married at an immense sacrifice of posistion. Now, at twenty, he was doomed to isolation even from a wife; could it be that at, say thirty, he would be welcomed everywhere?
Two On A Tower – Thomas Hardy
If it makes you happy
Then it can't be that bad
O If it makes you happy
Why do you looks so sad
Sheryl Crow - If It Makes You Happy
Draco Malfoy rounded the corner with a faint squek of his dragonhide boots, polished to their usual high sheen except for the slightly scuffed toes. His flaxen hair was tied neatly behind his head with a leather band, but somehow it didn't have the lustre it normally achieved. The same went for his smartly creased and exactly co-ordinated clothes, somehow he was not as sharp as was normal. The continual magic that had been used to refresh and organize himself for the last two weeks was waning.
He passed the bed which shared this room, and glanced at it briefly. The witch sitting up in it smiled at him a little, and went back to cooing at the tiny baby lying in her husband's arms. They would be gone tonight, like the other couples he had seen in that bed since he first started arriving here punctually instead of going home. The room itself was very large and airy, looking out directly onto Mungo Park through the leafy branches of a large tree. The sun light streamed through it, casting dancing patterns on the floor, and reflecting off the sheer amount of machinery in the room.
His baby, their baby he reminded himself angrily, was sleepily lying in a little woven basket. Her left leg was kicking idily as she gazed without focus on the ceiling, which she clearly found most entertaining. She had a fist stuffed in her mouth, and was sucking it furiously. Tiny hands were still curled in on themselves, and limbs moved without prompting. She smelt, as he bent over her and lifted her up, of clean magic and talcum powder, and moved her little lips against her fist in confusion at the sensation of flying.
She didn't have a name yet. He wasn't sure whether he would call her after her mother, because he wasn't sure if her mother would ever wake up. She was just 'baby' or 'boo-boo' to her extremely doting uncle Blaise, who came in every day to visit her after work. She already had fourteen toy dragons from him; the Healer who attended her was entirely sure she would end up as a dragon trainer with all the influence. She kicked his hand furiously, but happily, he supposed, as she wasn't screaming.
He kissed her impulsively on the hand as he sat down on the chair which Blaise had transfigured for him two weeks ago, feeling it mould comfortably to his body. He lay his daughter down on his knees, and rubbed her tummy a little, until she cooed happily and kicked so hard that her right leg did a complete circle. Mentally, he applauded her, and made a note to add to the baby book which he kept in his office.
Hermione Granger had been lying in the hospital bed for three weeks now, occassionally waking out of one coma to be plunged into another almost immediately. The healers were flummuxed – the machine's constant monitoring claimed she was awake, feeling things, healthily so, but yet she didn't wake. She skin was alabastor to the feel when Draco took her hand in his, slightly clammy. The white sheets up to her armpits made her naked, pale skin look almost green in the strange light that trickled into the room.
Narcissa Malfoy had never been a pleasant woman or girl. She was proud of her looks, and jealously protective of her husband, still securely locked in Azkaban. Temper tantrums to rival Elton John's were a frequent occurance, and lavish parties and gifts. She barely wasted a thought on politics, and made no distinction between half blood and mudblood, only those of clothes. Rich, snobbish and powerful was Narcissa, but she had one weak chink. Her son, her baby, her divine child.
He was as beautiful as her, and as male as her husband, and the central pivot in her universe. The best education, the best material possesions, and all the love a mother could lavish on her only child (except that which was reserved for the Afgahn Hound which followed her everywhere). She had been vaguely appalled when he told her that Hermione Granger (whom she had loathed on his behalf) had been delivered into his care, and had watched with horror the downward rot which took him from there on.
But despite this, perhaps because of the abhorance she held for the girl, she had been most alarmed when newspapers had glaringly announced her comatose state. It had been left to Blaise Zabini to tell her about her grandchild, as the distraught Draco rarely left the hospital where both mother and child were held. A possibly pang of sorrow when, week after week, the Daily Prophet revealed that she was still comatose.
The bed which she currently lay in, taking her evening nap before dressing for the ball she was attending that evening, was excruciatingly comfortable as it stroked her bare skin with the silk sheets. The photograph she was holding in her hand however, consummed her entire devotion. It was of her grand-daughter, Draco had written on the back; the most exquisate blonde haired grey eyed child, with fine bones, and looking very much like Narcissa's son. She was blinking, and sucking her thumb and staring just past the camera with a complete lack of focus that was touching to see.
'Nanar!' Narcissa called suddenly, 'Fetch me my jersey dress, and, yes, those black heels as well.'
St Mungo's was most distressing for Narcissa. The nurses greeted her cheerfully and with wholly no concern for her status, and admired her close knit jersey dress from behind her back. She walked to the maternity section tapping as she went, with her bag slung over her shoulder and horrifically concious that she was wearing all black and a hat with a small veil over the front. The Healer in charge waved her through with a raised eyebrow, and the couple sharing the room ignored her completely, giggling over their new arrival.
She stood for a moment before approaching Draco. He was staring at Granger's face with a look of devotion which Narcissa had only ever seen on her husband once. His grey eyes were unwavering as they watched her face , and his mouth moved as he told her about her daughter, and her circular foot. The baby was lying on his knees, watching him with perfect calmness that was most unnatural, seeming to be able to focus on the small signet ring which hung around his neck. It would be hers one day, and then, when she was sixteen, a new one would be commissioned for her as it had been for Draco, and before him, for Lucius. Narcissa felt tears gathering in her eyes.
'Draco?' she said softly, almost not wanting to disturb him.
He looked up suddenly, and she was surprised to see tears in the conrers of his eyes, but they quickly went. He was very gentle with the baby, Narcissa noticed with pride, putting it back in the crib and tucking the blankets around her chest. And then he looked at her, with desperation in his eyes.
Narcissa completely forgot her status (as she was prone to do when Draco was around) and took three long strides over the marble floor to throw her arms around him. Draco found himself drawn into a crushing hug, much like the one Molly Weasley had accidentally given him two days before when she came to visit, but more comfortable and wonderfully familiar. He cried as he semlt the expensive perfume his mother was wearing, and flung his arms around her waist, and sobbed into her hair. She stroked his back, softly, and found his back bones were sticking out a little.
"What do I do?" he whispered into her shoulder, and Narcissa had Inspiration.
"Go and have a bath," she said firmly, pushing him towards the door, "I'll sit here with – err – her and the baby. Have a bath, wash your hair, find some new clothes and have a meal. Now."
She had to almost push him out of the door, but eventually he had gone, casting long backwards looks over his shoulder. She wrinkled her nose. Even she, his beloved mother, had to admit he was not the nicest smelling person at the moment. No doubt that would soon be remedied. The baby lay perfectly still and watched the ceiling.
"Granger," Naricssa began strongly, pulling up her child's chair next to the bed, "You had better wake up soon. He's obviously far too thin and, quite frankly, he smells. You may not be a perfect society girl, but you're clearly," she hesitated, searching for a word she didn't really want to use, "good for him, to use that stupid muggle phrase. And what about your daughter? I feel it would be a good idea to name her Gabrielle," just in case the theory about remembering things when unconcious worked she added; "Gabrielle Narcissa."
I am afraid I am going to disappoint you know if you thought Hermione would wake up, because she didn't, and truth to tell, Narcissa was a bit disappointed as well. She tutted disapprovingly and poked Hermione rather hard in the shoulder.
The baby watched Narcissa's hair with unfocused interest as she was lifted up by her grandmother, and managed to seize a piece and pull unintentionaly. Narcissa surveyed her too with frank disapproval, but seeing her son clearly mirrored in his daughter's eyes softened her to the extent that her grand-daughter was soon happily bouncing up and down on her knee with excited noises and wild hair.
