Beta: My many thanks go out to the wonderful and talented Constant Vigilance, who took the time out of her very busy life to correct my mistakes.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books and Warner Brothers, Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A Daughter's Love
It feels so good to be home. Strange, isn't it? I've been married for years now, but this is still home. Gods willing, it always will be. This is where I grew up. This is my haven, my sanctuary – the place I can always come and be loved, no matter what I've done or said. Home – it's such a lovely word.
I'm the youngest of seven; the only girl in a house of men. Papa always said he didn't know how I turned out to be such a lady, growing up with eight men and all. Sometimes I wonder myself. There are five years between my youngest brother and myself. It seems that my arrival was due to an off-hand comment by Daddy. He jokingly said to Papa one day that he had always dreamed of having his own Quidditch team and that, sadly, the family was short one player. Papa happily obliged and gave birth to me ten months later. I am told, by reliable sources, that Papa handed me to Daddy and said our team is now complete.
I am also told that the fact that I was a girl came as quite the surprise to both of my parents. It seemed that after so many male children, the idea that I might not be one as well never crossed their minds. My gender was a shock, but a pleasant one, and I was quickly welcomed into the family by my brothers. All of them.
Perhaps I should backtrack and introduce you to my family. Papa is Draco Malfoy and my Dad is Harry Potter, hence our family name, Potter-Malfoy. And, yes, before you ask, he is the Harry Potter, not that it makes any difference. To us, he's just plain old Dad.
My three oldest brothers were adopted. They were left orphaned by the war and were taken in by my parents, who have never, ever made any distinction between them and their natural children. The eldest is Will, who was six when he came to live with Daddy and Papa. He had seen his parents murdered and, as a result, had deep emotional problems. He had a very difficult time, but through love, patience and understanding, he grew up into a fine man. To look at him today with his own family, you'd never know what he had been through. After Will came Gregory, followed soon after by Sean. They were just toddlers at the time of their adoption, so they happily have no recollection of the dark times surrounding their birth.
Deciding it would be nice to have a child of their own blood, my parents purchased the necessary potions to make that dream a reality. The argument over who was to take the potions was settled by a flip of a Sickle. Daddy won the toss and it wasn't long before he was pregnant. However, pregnancy did not suit Daddy at all. He suffered terrible bouts of nausea and the stress on his body played havoc with his magic and exacerbated the nerve damage he had suffered during the war, confining him to bed for five long, painful months. Aidan was born healthy and happy, and Daddy always says that, in spite of his difficulties, he wouldn't trade the experience of being pregnant for anything in the world.
Needless to say, Papa was the one to take the potions after that and he carried Robert, Alexander and me, Kate.
We had the most marvellous childhoods. Our parents were strict, but not so strict that they stifled us. We had rules and responsibilities and it was made quite clear what was expected. Manners were very important, as was kindness. Growing up in a safe, loving environment helped us to become the adults we are today. I think we all turned out quite well. The pride I see in our parents' eyes confirms my theory.
As I got older, I was asked more times than I can remember don't you miss having a mother? How can I miss something I never had? I can't imagine that anyone, male or female, could have done a better job raising a girl child than my two fathers. They were always open and honest with me, ever-ready to discuss any problem that I might have, even when it was 'female' related. There was never any embarrassment on their part, no matter the topic. Do I regret not having a mum? The answer is unequivocally, no.
Don't let me lead you to believe that everything was perfect. It wasn't; such a thing doesn't exist. There were plenty of fights here, and each and every one of us participated. The ones between us kids were the most frequent and then, as we got older and teenage angst set in, the disagreements with our fathers grew more and more numerous. Being the youngest, I endured it all. Looking back on it all now, I think it is very wise that underage witches and wizards are not allowed to perform magic. None of us would have survived to tell the tale.
Of course, Papa and Daddy had their arguments, too. If you heard them call each other by their family names, coupled with a certain tone of voice, well, let's just say you learned to leave the room – quickly. Happily, they never stayed cross with one another for very long and it was very sweet to see them make up. These were the times when Malfoy and Potter uttered in an altogether different tone made us leave just as hurriedly, this time giggling as we went.
We had joyous times and got into more mischief than any of us would like to admit. Papa and Daddy remember our past indiscretions vividly and take great pleasure in reminding us, especially in front of our own children. In spite of our impassioned pleas for silence, the tales of our youthful misdeeds are met with wide-eyed wonder from the youngest members of the family, while we, the perpetrators, sit there blushing and helpless.
Even more enthralling for the children are the stories their Granddad Harry has to tell. Anecdotes filled with Basilisks, dragons and Dark wizards keep them all at their grandfather's knee for hours on end. I sit across the room and listen as well, even though I have heard them countless times. I wonder if the children realise how very lucky they are to have a history lesson told by the history maker himself.
Earlier on, Geoffrey, Rob's youngest son, exclaimed, "But Granddad, you're a hero!" Dad just shook his head and replied, "No, I'm not. I just did what I had to do." My father has always been modest and has never seen himself as a hero. He becomes downright uncomfortable when anyone calls him that, and will squirm and blush, telling the speaker to hush. But of course, he is one. And so is Papa, too. How many children can say that both of their parents have received the Order of Merlin, First Class? None too many, I'll wager.
Papa has stories as well, but they are not for the younger children. No, his are told when you reach a certain age and are mature enough to understand. Papa has told us of his family and their involvement in the war, of his mistakes and the ones he almost made. He taught us about intolerance, bigotry and hatred by using himself as an example. He had embraced the values of his father, as would any devoted son, following his lead blindly. Those values almost brought about his destruction. Had it not been for my Uncle Severus…well, I wouldn't be here to tell the tale.
So many died during that hateful war; so many loved ones were lost. I grew up without my grandparents and I would have so liked to have known them, all four of them. Poor Dad never really knew his parents and Papa often says his were lost to him even long before they died. There are those, too, who bear the physical reminders of what they endured at the hands of madmen. My Dad is one of them. He saved us all, but no one can deliver him from the pain he suffers on a daily basis. At least not yet. The research goes on and much progress has been made, but we're not there yet. You can see now why I became a Healer. It is my greatest dream that one day, my research team and I will find a cure for spell damage such as my father sustained.
It's hard to believe one person could cause so much suffering. But history is full of such beings, Muggles and wizards alike. I daresay that it always will.
My family survived and we are strong. We are all married now and have families of our own, well, all except my brother, Alex. He is the spitting image of Papa; the likeness between them is quite uncanny. If you put pictures of the two of them side by side, you'd be hard pressed to say who is who. But for as much as Alex resembles his father physically, he couldn't be more unlike him in character. Alex is painfully shy, which, if you know Papa at all, is completely opposite of him. Naturally, he is fine around all of us, but in social situations involving strangers, he freezes, hence him being the only unmarried Potter-Malfoy. Alex swears that he is happy and quite content with his life, but I worry. He tells me that if it is meant for him to be with someone, it will happen. I hope he is right, because the thought of him being alone just breaks my heart. Mother hen, Papa calls me.
Worrying is one of the things that I do best and the men of this family take great pleasure in teasing me about it, too. It is always good-natured and I don't mind at all. In fact, I think I would worry if they stopped! I worry most about my fathers. Papa is in remarkably good health for a man of his age. He has the requisite aches and pains that come with age, and he is a might slower than he used to be, but that's about all. He recently acquired reading glasses, which thrilled Dad to no end. I think he remembers every single jibe about wearing glasses that Papa threw at him over the years and is now gleefully tossing them right back. Tit for tat Dad says.
They carry on as they always have, looking after this big house and themselves as well. We have all begged them to engage the services of a house-elf, but the answer is always the same. Not yet. We will when we are ready. I almost hired one as a Christmas present this year, but Will talked me out of it. He made me see that, to them, it would mean that they are no longer capable of doing what they have been doing for so many years; it would signal the loss of their independence. My motives were nothing but the best – I only wanted to make life easier for them. But it would have been the wrong thing to do. I can see that now. My brother is a very wise man.
Dad has his good days and his bad. He tries so very hard not to show it when he is unwell. He keeps the same good humour and countenance from day to day. If you ask him how he is, the reply will always be the same – fine. Even when he is not at all. It is just his way. Papa takes such good care of him and has always done so. He is ever-watchful and ready if Dad should need him. The perfect example of this took place not so very long ago. My youngest daughter, Megan, asked her Granddad about the mistletoe that hung in the archway. He bent down to pick her up, and even though she is as light as a feather, he grimaced in pain. He didn't think anyone saw his knees buckle, but I did. And so did Papa. He was there in a flash, so quick you would think he had Apparated. He slipped his arm under Megan, taking on her weight himself. Dad whispered quiet thanks and then explained all about the mistletoe, including its magical properties. Megan giggled at the part about having to kiss underneath it, and begged her grandfathers to do just that. They happily obliged, causing my daughter to giggle even more. They then each took a cheek and kissed her, too. Her laughter is one of the sweetest sounds I've ever heard. I am so thrilled that she knows and loves her grandparents, all four of them.
I walk through this house I grew up in and the memories come flooding back. Each nook and cranny holds a remembrance, each room has thousands of stories it could tell. But there is one place, out of so many, that is my favourite. Every time I return home, it beckons me and I stand in wonder at its beauty. What place is this you ask? The mantelpiece over the living room fireplace. How can an ordinary mantelpiece be called a thing of beauty? Ah, that's just it – ordinary, it's not. That ledge holds our lives. Our lives in photographs. Pictures of each and every family member, at different stages of our lives, are housed upon that wooden shelf.
Papa said that we are not to have any more children, because there is just no more room on the mantel for any more pictures. Dad replied don't listen to your father. We'll just spell it larger. Little do they know, but they will have to make room for another picture in the not too distant future. Will's eldest son's wife is expecting her first child. That is his Christmas gift to his grandfathers – they are going to be great-grandparents! I can't wait to see their faces tomorrow morning when he tells them another Potter-Malfoy is on the way!
Actually, it was Aidan that solved the problem of the overloaded mantel. He found a spell that changes the pictures automatically. Very ingenious spell it is, too. As I stand here now, the picture of me boarding the Hogwarts Express for the very first time becomes the picture of Robert on his second birthday. If you watch long enough, you can see our lives – the day we were born, birthdays, holidays by the seaside, Christmases and Easters, school days, weddings; babies, toddlers, children and teens; Papa, Daddy, Gran Lily and Grandfather Lucius, Uncle Ron and Auntie Hermione, brothers, Weasley cousins, stern-faced Uncle Severus, Granddad James and Grandmother Narcissa. We are all there, each taking our turn in the family kaleidoscope.
There is one picture, though, that never, ever changes. It is the picture of love. I can hear you tut and say that it's impossible. Love is an emotion and cannot be photographed. I beg to differ. I'm staring at it right now, in the middle of all the others, in the place of honour. It is a picture of my fathers on their wedding day. They kiss deeply and then draw back to gaze into each other's eyes. In that moment, captured forever on film, they look at each other with such love and devotion that it takes your breath away. That is why I call it a picture of love. You can see it reflected in their eyes; it is there, it is real, it is passion, devotion, adoration, all rolled into one. Pure, unadulterated, true love.
Do you know what the best thing is? They still look at one another that same way, to this very day.