Author's Note: This work was originally posted to my account on AO3.
Tags on AO3: Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Fix-It, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Narcissa Black Malfoy, Malfoy Family, Malfoy Manor, Mother-Son Relationship, Bonding, Family, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Horcruxes, Horcrux Hunting, Canon-Typical Violence, Pre-Philosopher's Stone, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Minor Character Death, POV Third Person Limited
YOU'LL GO THE SAME WAY
2) They take tea on the terrace, as sensible and civilized individuals do, and discuss the terrible future ahead: the Second and Third Wizarding Wars.
They take tea on the terrace, as sensible and civilized individuals do, and discuss the terrible future ahead: the Second and Third Wizarding Wars.
"Horcruxes," Draco Malfoy says, a foul twist to his grown-up face. "It all comes down to the Horcruxes, in the end. It was thought that all had been destroyed by the end of the second war, but… well… it appears that there is more than one way to make an accidental Horcrux."
"An eighth Horcrux?" Narcissa says casually.
She is not one to show the absolute horror growing in her chest, which seems to have settled in permanently since this adult version of her son rolled up his sleeve to show her the Dark Mark. He hid the blood red mark quickly enough, but she cannot quite forget it – it is so much darker than the faded mark on her husband's forearm, barely there and even then painful enough to look at – it is so much more recent and so violently vivid. The sight of it felt like a curse to her lungs.
She is very glad now that Lucius and her Draco, who only days ago celebrated his eleventh birthday, are off at a Quidditch match together. She does not expect them home for hours, which leaves plenty of time for her to figure out what is to be done with such a familiar stranger and intruder.
"Mm, yes, it was the diary's doing," Draco says. "I mentioned that the Dark Lord had entrusted his diary Horcrux to Father for safe-keeping before it was eventually destroyed? The Dark Lord also entreated Father to return it to Hogwarts, if ever the need be dire, to rid the school of Muggleborns and seize the school from the inside."
"I assume this is how the diary came to be destroyed," Narcissa says. It seems a dangerous thing to send such an important and vulnerable piece of self into the territory of the school's Headmaster – the ancient wizard may keep a lax hand with his positions, but he is still powerful.
Draco nods, swirling his tea around absentmindedly. "Yes," he says, then snorts and adds with a wry grin, "by a twelve-year-old Harry Potter, no less. With a fang from a Basilisk that he slew with the Sword of Gryffindor, all down in Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets."
Narcissa stares for several seconds, then says, "Really now, Draco?"
"I wish I were joking, Mother, but I'm not."
Narcissa raises her eyes to the sky for a moment, sighs silently, and then collect herself. "I will suspend disbelief for the moment," she says archly. "So, tell me how this ridiculousness relates to the accidental eighth Horcrux."
Draco smiles at her, fondly enough to break her heart, and does. "Father returned the diary to Hogwarts in the possession of Ginny Weasley," he says. "Yes, the seventh child and only daughter of the Weasley Family, who was slowly bewitched by the soul fragment and then possessed. It used her to open the Chamber of Secrets and was in the process of draining her life force to give itself corporeal form. If it had succeeded, I believe there might have been two Dark Lords."
"…I cannot imagine they would get along very well," Narcissa says distantly, before taking another sip of her tea. Truly, she cannot imagine that scenario going well at all, to say the least.
Draco laughs, a faintly hollow sound. "No, neither can I," he admits, then says, "Near the end of the 1992-1993 school-year, the diary took possession of her and took her down to the Chamber of Secrets to finish the process. As a friend of the family and school hero, as well as the nemesis of the Dark Lord, Potter went down to save her and destroyed the diary by – in his own words – 'sheer dumb luck'.
"However," Draco continues, smile turning solemn, "the diary was destroyed while it was in the process of draining Ginny Weasley of her life force, while a connection was still open between them. A single fragment of the breaking soul stayed behind and took shelter… and that was it: another accidental, living Horcrux."
After several seconds, Narcissa takes a shuddering breath to calm herself.
"And the girl had no idea?" she asks, still trying to reconcile the idea of living Horcruxes.
The idea is disgusting, even more so than Horcruxes are already foul, and it seems incredulous that even Light wizards could not notice such a thing in their own selves and companions. But… then again… the Weasley girl and the Boy-Who-Lived were both children. It is the adults that Narcissa condemns, for not thinking to examine and interrogate Dark artifacts and dangerous mysteries, especially ones that pose such serious risk to children in their care.
"None," Draco confirms, expression sharp with very raw pain. "It was a very small fragment and Ginny Weasley is… well… a strong-minded witch. No one knew, not even the Dark Lord, until the Dark Lord resurrected himself again and we needed an answer as to how."
Draco's expression somehow manages to twist even darker… even sharper. "But, by then… the Dark Lord had secured his immortality again himself and the destruction of the eighth Horcrux did little against him. The Dark Lord took no chances… and no mercy as he waged his third war."
There is silence on the terrace for a long moment, as the two of them sit, overlooking the proud and vast grounds of Malfoy Manor. It is a warm spring day, the very best of late June, and the bright skies and sweet breeze drift comfortably on by as the two of them sit and sip at their tea. Calm and collected, peaceful and proper, as though horror and tragedy are not at all their subject of conversation.
It is an excellent day for a Quidditch match, Narcissa notes.
"So you have come to see to it that there is no third war… or second war," Narcissa says, rather primly. "I will not ask how, but… forgive me for asking… why?"
She does not entirely agree with the Dark Lord's methods, but the Malfoys and the Blacks were once the most steadfast supporters of his cause. Are still, really, even if it is unsafe to act openly at the moment.
Draco looks at her, cool and achingly sharp, and says, "Because in the name of the greatness of magic and pure blood, the Dark Lord destroys almost everything. Because I have met mudbloods who make better witches than I ever will a wizard, and better people, too. Because all it takes is one mistake for our family to slip from his favour and be on the wrong end of his wand.
"Because, Mother, I am able to change things and things must be changed for all our sakes."
Narcissa stares at her grown son, who looks steadily back at her, sharp and grieving and without an indication of regret. Her grown son, who defies the Dark Lord's vision, which is still lauded today as just and genius among their acquaintances. Her grown son, who defends mudbloods with vitriol in the same breath that he defends their family, as though they are equals – and not just under the Dark Lord's wand.
As they stare at each other, Draco softens and says, "Mother, you know the truth. You know the damage that murderer does, you know he has no loyalty to anyone, and whether or not you accept it, you know that blood can't be pure. I know that you do; you're the smartest witch that I know.
"Just look, Mother, at what he's done in the name of magical greatness and the purity of blood. And whether or not you ever come to share my beliefs on Muggleborns being equal to us, just…"
Draco sighs, heavily. "I have grown up all my life hearing the words 'Sanctimonia Vincet Semper' and 'Toujours Pur', and it has been hell to learn how badly those words are wrong. My arrogance and ignorance humbles me – every damn day – as I strive to unlearn them. But… I still believe in the words you always told me second… the ones you always called the unofficial motto of the Blacks…"
"...'Family First'," Narcissa murmurs, despite herself.
"Yes," Draco says. "'Family First'. I know, Mother, that… you do not yet truly understanding all that I have told you… or all that is at stake. I know, Mother, that… you may never agree with me. But the Dark Lord and his beliefs, they've cost you both your sisters -"
Narcissa takes in a sharp breath, because they do not speak of her sisters in this house.
"- and I know you regret that. I know because you told me, once upon the future, how dearly you missed them. Even after you were reunited, you missed them. Aunt Bellatrix is in Azkaban now and she won't be the same sister you knew, if she escapes again."
She was not the same sister I knew when she went, Narcissa does not say.
"And even when you and Aunt Andromeda came to an understanding, after the second war, there was too much between you." A sharp slash of pain crossed Draco's already raw expression. "Cousin Nymphadora died in the second war, along with her and Aunt Andromeda's husbands. Aunt Andromeda did not like exposing her grandson to Death Eaters and supporters of the Dark Lord."
Narcissa does not dare to ask if he thinks there is still enough of a bridge between them now for things to change. She does not dare to spend hope on such things, as tempting as the possibilities are. Andromeda made her filthy choice; it was not Narcissa who forsook everything for a mudblood man.
"If you will not believe me or help me for the world's sake," Draco says, sharp and raw and concerned enough to break her heart over and over again, "then do it for the sake of our family.
"I promise you, Mother," he says, tracing a hand over his left sleeve, "He will cost you your husband and son too, in the end."
Silence descends on the manor terrace once more. Draco, grown and almost entirely sharp edges, sits back in his seat and stares out towards the grounds and the gardens – grieving and hurting and letting her think over such horror and tragedy again. But this time, Narcissa does not follow his gaze and keeps her stare fixed on him – the man her son could be.
No, she does not truly understand what is happening or what is at stake. She should, therefore, take the time to think everything over in careful detail before proceeding with all the grace expected of her. Narcissa always waits, always watches, always weighs and rarely acts.
That is the sort of witch that she is: a cunning one, a clever one, a cautious one.
One of the first lessons that Narcissa learned at Druella Rosier's knee was to always stay silent and subtle and cautious. She learned an unwillingness to act, a desire not to press, and a tendency not to venture. It was a dangerous world out there, after all, even for a witch. Sometimes especially for a witch.
But… while Narcissa is a Rosier and a Malfoy… she is also a Black. She was a Black first, actually, before her mother noticed the youngest sister was a quiet little lady – a little Rosier lady – and before she married Lucius and became Mrs. Malfoy. Black witches are well known for… acting out... for being loud... for getting angry. All wild grace and fierce pride and sharp, deadly daring.
Family First, Narcissa remembers reciting with her favourite cousin, young and naïve and convinced nothing would ever tear their family apart. Back when there was still a Noble and Most Ancient House of Black left to belong to, really, and not one that is slowly and shamefully dying.
Family First, she thinks now, unwilling to lose anything more because of her own fear and uncertainty. She does not care about mudbloods; she does not care about the world; she does not and she never will. She herself has lamented the defeat of the Dark Lord, admired the worth of his preachings, but if the man will only take and take, returning nothing, much less loyalty…
The man her son could be looks out on the grounds and gardens, a distant nostalgia in his eyes, as though he has not seen their peace in many years. His wand – her wand – rests by his arm, ignored in favour of lightly tracing shapes over his left sleeve.
This is the cost of your caution, Narcissa Black, the sweet spring breeze whispers. This was the cost of your lost family's compliance.
Do you keep your passive hesitance? Do you keep your silence?
"…I trust," Narcissa says casually, "that you have a way of disposing of this diary?"
Draco turns to look at her, his sliding glance sharp and cunning, his expression indecipherable and his gaze piercing. Surprised? Maybe. Proud? Possibly. Whatever thoughts and judgements cross his mind, briefly flickering over his face, they are soon dismissed.
He smiles then – a sharp and victorious smile.
oOo
Author's Note: This fic is finished and chapters will be posted daily until it's complete. There will be 10 chapters.