Chapter Four
For the thirteenth time, Lucius drove his fist into the study wall. Several pieces of plaster flew across the room.
Damn Bellatrix. Damn her child. Damn Gustavus for so inconsiderately dying. And damn, for that matter, Draco, who was coming home for the holidays today, and Narcissa, for inviting his two boorish friends to stay.
The child knew. He didn't know how - even Gustavus had never known - but somehow she knew. Of that he was certain. And, rather than come straight out and ask about it, like any normal child would, she seemed to delight in taunting both himself and his wife with hints about her paternity. Perverse little bitch. Mind you, Narcissa wasn't helping. Not that he'd really expected it, but she ought to have the sense to keep her mouth shut.
The climax had come this morning at breakfast. Narcissa had been holding forth about Draco: his prowess on the Quidditch pitch; his brilliance (as she fondly looked on it) in the potions laboratory; the glittering career assured him by his talents and birth. She had rounded it off with a glowing paean on his Malfoy good looks and - in particular - his striking resemblance to Lucius. "His parentage is stamped in his face for all to see. There could certainly be no question about his lineage," she finished nastily.
Marie-Laurence turned deliberately in her chair to study the portrait of Draco that adorned the sideboard. "There is a certain resemblance, ma tante," she said calmly. "But myself, I think it is not so marked as one might at first believe. There is a similarity of colouring, yes; but I see a weakness in your son about the mouth and chin that I think does not come from his father. And as to the eyes - my own, I think, are more like my uncle's than your son's are." And she took another sip of tea.
Narcissa had stormed out of the breakfast room without another word, while Lucius ordered his new charge off to her room until she could learn to treat her elders with the appropriate respect.
"As you wish - mon oncle," she replied. And removed herself, gracefully, leaving him to fume over her sang froid and his wife's damnable indiscretion.
He slammed his fist into the wall another four times, sending cracks spidering across the plasterwork and half a brick crashing to the floor. He had already seen Narcissa and impressed upon her the necessity for silence. She had been sullen, furious, but she would respect his wishes. She knew - knew too well - the alternative. As to the child… he would have to talk to her, and the conversation could hardly fail to be anything but difficult. He sighed. He remembered her birth - remembered it in infinitely greater, more painful detail than he recalled the birth of his son. As his sister-in-law's most senior surviving relative he had waited outside the cell to take delivery of the baby - who would, in all probability, be born dead. No one expected a foetus to survive those months in Azkaban. But Bellatrix was strong. She had been one of the most heavily guarded prisoners in the fortress, but she carried the child to term. Proud even in her agony, she had refused the help of the midwife sent by the Ministry. He could still hear her oaths, her screams, the sound of her long, broken nails clawing at the floor. It seemed to go on for ever. Lucius was well-versed in pain. He could look on suffering with equanimity - more, enjoyment - but here, in this place, all barriers broke down. At last, the child had been born: a pitiful specimen, but - miraculously - alive. And Bella, in her madness, had cursed it.
Pausing only to name the infant, he'd packed her off to France to live with her putative grandparents; and there, he had thought, she would remain. But now, ten years later, Gustavus Lestrange was dead, and the responsibility finally fell to him. It might, perhaps, have been easier to have her fostered by some wizarding family in France; but people would have wondered. Gossiped. Better to do the decent thing in the eyes of the world, and take his unfortunate 'niece' into his home. And so long as Narcissa kept quiet, no one need guess the truth.
Meanwhile he had punched a sizeable hole in his study wall. He reached for his wand. "Reparo."