Narcissa Malfoy is afraid. But she does not show it. She picks her way along the grimy street with her head held high. This is the last place that she wants to be.
Actually, this is entirely untrue. Narcissa has had exposure to various and sundry truly awful places, and quite a number of them are worse than Linkwood Crescent. Today's trip might in fact be instrumental in avoiding contact with some of those worse places. But Narcissa, despite being possessed of far more positive traits than she has any genetic right to, is a hypocrite, always has been. She has always revelled in the imagined tragedy of her life.
She inches delicately along the sidewalk with the air of a surgeon removing a large tapeworm, recoiling from every speck of dirt. Finally, she reaches her destination, a door that is very carefully not labelled.
Anyone's presence here is automatically criminal, and hers doubly so, caught as she is between two worlds, two sides.
The room inside is a gleaming white; it hurts the eyes. The toad-like man flashes her an insincere smile. He asks no names, no questions, merely points at her purse.
Narcissa removes a sack from her pocket and un-shrinks it. At its rightful size, it is more gold than anyone can carry.
"You understand the risks involved?"
She nods, forcing certainty into her eyes. The simple question is loaded with meaning. The spell she is paying the man to perform is highly dangerous to her own health. It is also banned by the Ministry with even more force than Avada Kedavra, and its very existence is considered to be a security threat of the highest priority. The very knowledge of the incantation carries a life sentence, and its execution is punishable by death.
Narcissa knows all of this, sneered throughout the explanation. Rookwood may be a spy, but he has gone native within the Ministry.
"You have your husband's permission for this?"
"I have no husband." Narcissa's mouth goes bitter at the lie. The man sees right through her, but couldn't really care less.
"Very well." He raises his wand, which is clearly not standard Ollivander's issue - he is famed throughout the wizard underground as the only one who can perform this spell capably. He mutters under his breath, and a shower of grey sparks fill the room.
"What does it mean?"
"The child you carry is non-magical."
"Are you sure?"
"Madam, nobody is more sure than me. This child has less magic than a common pebble."
Narcissa nods. Only nods. Now is not the time for reactions.
"Thank you."
"Tell nobody of today. I do not need your help procuring business."
She nods again, and promptly leaves. Continues walking until she gets home. Goes directly to bed, and pretends to be asleep when Lucius comes in.
x
The next day, Narcissa Malfoy makes an appointment at St Mungo's for termination of pregnancy. She refuses counselling, refuses to give a reason. This is not illegal, and by the time she arrives back at the manor the whole incident might never have happened.
It is only then, once it is all done, once her weakness will no longer matter, that she breaks down. She falls onto the bed, feeling the pain cut through her far worse than any torture her sister could administer, broken by the sense of loss.
She remains like this for some time, her wails heard only by the house-elf. Finally the tears run out, although the pain does not. But she feels strong enough to take stock of the situation.
She knows that she did right. The Malfoys are currently under double scrutiny. The Dark Lord is at the height of his power, and his loyal followers must show flawless bloodlines - an aberration like this could not be allowed to survive. And they would not be able to find out in time and deal with the child in the traditional way; the Ministry strongly suspects the Malfoys and will not allow any "accidents" to pass without investigation. This was the only way.
She is not the first one of her circle who has done this. But she is the first to have done it alone. Lucius knows nothing of this, and never will. Because Lucius loves his family, loves her and his parents with all the sincerity that he gives to nothing else, not even the Dark Lord. She knows that he would have told her to do this, but he would have suffered, been wracked with guilt. Perhaps he would have hated her for conceiving such a child. Perhaps his pain would have shaken Narcissa's own resolve. Perhaps he would not have allowed her to undergo such a dangerous test.
No, this child will only haunt her. This is her sacrifice, her gift to her husband.
x
The next time she visits Linkwood Crescent, the sparks are silver and gold. Particularly bright; this child will be talented. She goes home and tells Lucius she is expecting, and they both exalt in the continuation of their great lines, the birth of a true servant to the Dark Lord. Later that night they have a sweeter, more special celebration, anticipating the birth of a beloved son.
That night, Narcissa has that dream again. A dream of a pale, blonde toddler; it is a girl in this dream, though it varies from night to night. She is bright and articulate and sassy and beautiful; she attends a Muggle nursery and plays on her swing set and cares nothing for broom-racing.
Narcissa wakes, her face covered in sweat and tears. She cradles her still-flat stomach, already loving the child within. She prays that her son will be born strong and healthy.
The other child visits her dreams frequently, but stops when Draco is born. She need not yearn for a hallucination; she has a real, talented child to pour her love into. And she does so, giving him all the affection she has.
From time to time, she remembers the other child again. She wishes she had kept it, imagines a life in which she would have loved it despite its inferiority. She herself could have dealt with it, does not love blood purity nearly as much as she loves Draco. But she could not have does that to Lucius. Despite his moral ambivalence, he is a genuine follower of the Dark Lord. She could not ask him to choose, could not face the slightest possibility that he would not choose her. She made the right choice.
When Lucius suggests another child, she shakes her head, tells him she has produced an heir and does not want to become fat. He sees through her as he always does and drops the subject permanently. Every time her resolves falters on this point, she remembers the terror, the pain in those drab, banal grey sparks.