Narcissa
During the Christmas break in their fifth year in Hogwarts, there was the notorious mass breakout of the most loyal and horrid Death Eaters from Azkaban. Unbeknown to others, they sought sanctuary at the Malfoy Manor, marking it as their hideout.
For Narciass Malfoy, nee Black, this signified only one thing, it meant that she no longer would see her family rise to their previous glory because as much as she might have believed in the ideology of blood purity, it didn’t fog her mind to be delusional enough to assume that they would win, that there were any odds on their side, that this war won’t taint her name. If Darco had truly expected to carry the power of the Malfoy name, he ought to distance himself from a wretched snake who desired to force everyone into submission. He ought to win and grace their family with redemption and light. For that, she had to do her job as a mother and protect him from those foul influences.
Her and Lucius’s discourse last night left them both convinced that Draco had to avoid following Lucius’s own mistakes, and it had to be now, as those barbarous people had arranged to corrupt his innocence further and force the dark mark on him on his sixteenth birthday. The time was their leverage, knowing that at least tomorrow he would escape further pain. That tomorrow her boy can breathe again. Tomorrow he’s back at Hogwarts. The winter break is nearly over.
Narcissa approached her son’s room, knocking gently before slowly pulling at the door, at that moment she had a dozen thoughts racing through her head, but the central one was to convince Draco of the fact that he needed to flee, with or without her, that he is their last and only hope for any societal endorsement in the future. To truly be Lord Malfoy, he had to save their reputation, and supporting a warmongering genocider would most certainly tarnish the last specs of their status.
The door did not open. Her magic was to no avail, either.
“Draco, darling, it’s me,” she whispered, feeling his magic right behind the door, and she heard the locks click twice before the door sturred open. She cautiously skimmed around before entering his room.
When she walked in, she saw her son carry a grimace, his brows furrowed together and mouth knit shut, he stood still before turning and sitting on the bed, he looked sole and small in comparison to the vast size of, well, everything in the room. Draco was, indeed, rather slim, sickly she even dared to think, but he took after his father’s height, and just at fifteen he was already surpassing her head. She carefully tugged her skirt from behind before sitting down next to him on the silk bedsheets she bought him from France. His face was vacant of any sentiment, but his hands were trembling, and his laboured breathing told her he was in distress, from what, she can only suspect. Narcissa took her son’s hand into hers, but the words were not coming out, her speech became muted with uncertainty. Perhaps now is not the right time, she thought.
Draco, her dear boy, noticed his mother’s hesitation and squeezed her hand in his, with little to no pressure, but she still felt his encouragement, and as she glanced at him she noticed that now his face was more lax, and a glimpse of a smile was peaking through. It was so subtle that she would have missed it unless she was so near him. Oh, my dear boy.
“Yes, Mother, is something the matter?” he initiated, seeing how the time would only get dragged on unless one of them commenced, and even though she had approached him first, confrontation was not her forte.
She took in his trembling shape, eyes red smeared and a stoic pose disguising any discomfort he was in. Her hand cupped his cheek, his skin so smooth, and yet so hollow, too.
“Darling,” she had finally begun, and she surprised herself at how heavy her tone had been, “did they hurt you?”
This wasn’t the path she meant to go on, but she swears on Merlin, that her motherly heart cannot fathom the thought of her little dragon being hurt for anything, being ‘disciplined’ or ‘punished’ as they called it. She knew that it was, frankly, utter rubbish. Draco was perfect. Flawless. So flawless that it scared her because it wasn’t Draco - it was Malfoy. Draco wasn’t flawless. Perfect in all shapes and forms - yes, but even he wasn’t ideal. She knew her son, he was spoiled rotten with love, pampered and coddled at every opportunity there was from both her and Lucius, and he was a teenager too, hormonal and angsty, but that isn’t to say that he lacked manners or etiquette, on the contrary, when he desired he would charm all and everyone. No, he wasn’t a nice boy to everyone, but he was to them. His love for the family would be his downfall. Of that, she was certain. The whole ordeal reminded Narcissa of her cousin, Regulus, that sweet sweet boy, his name now full of misery and tragedy. Of course, like any child, Darco was reprimanded for his misbehaviour, at times more severely than it was called for, especially by Abraxas, that wretched man, but he was loved. Narcissas’ and Lucius’slove for their son didn’t shield him from the pain, the grotesque and vile expectations that were placed on him, be it the Death Eaters, the Dark Lord himself, his grandparents, or the pureblood community in general. Narcissa thought of herself as fortunate having been not pushed to take the Dark Mark, and she would do anything to secure her son’s grand place in the wizarding community. He’s a Malfoy, a descendant of the noble house of Black, and he must prevail. He must stay pure of darkness.
Draco didn’t answer the question, he tilted his head ever so slightly, “what has given you this preposterous picture, mother?” he said as he sadly smiled at her.
“Draco.” She insisted.
Narcissa already knew the answer, it wouldn’t take a genius to figure out how he was hurt too, but she needed him to answer that to start a more consequential conversation.
He put his head down, eyes downcast, and squeezed his grab on her, “do not worry about me, mother,” is all he said in true Draco manner, not wanting her to worry senseless over something she had no authority of. Again.
He looked at her, and immediately his eyes flew open and his hand dashed to her face, tracing her bruised temple gently with his fingertips as he bit his bottom lip.
“Mother,” he rasped out, “who did this?”
She couldn’t help but coo at him that instance, and parodied his voice as she answered “do not worry about me, mother” she quoted, earning an eye-roll and an amused huff in response. Oh, she loved her boy so much, she was about to burst with adoration.
“Draco, please, answer me, and I will, too. I promise,” she vowed.
He was hesitant at first, but he nodded, whispering a ‘yes’ to her, mentioning that he must have deserved it, that he did something wrong.
“Did I deserve it, too, dragon?”
She almost laughed at how wide his eyes had turned, how exuberantly he rejected such an ‘abhorrent idea’ as he said.
“And neither did you,” is all she said before going to hug his thin frame, thinner than she ever was which terrified her and Lucius together.
Narcissa still remembers the day when Lucius approached her, quietly sitting down next to her on the lushed cushions, and straight point telling her that he was concerned for their son, that he had noticed that the boy had become too thin, that with a bit more efforts he might as well play a decomposed corpse in the public theatres.
As she hugged her son, she buried her face in his hair and hoped that he’d stop following her steps to straighten the hair.
“My little dragon,” she whispered and cupped his face again, this time Draco leaned into her soothing touch like a meek cat when it gets pet. Narcissa couldn’t contain herself and squeezed his face as she placed kisses all over his face earning her a well-deserved lengthy ‘mum’ from him as he tried to get out of her hold while chuckling, and in that moment she realised just how much she missed his smile, his laughter. How much she missed her Draco.
“Draco,” she began again, this time determined to finish the conversation, “listen to me, thoughtfully. You have to promise me to stay chaste,” she stopped herself before continuing, noting down how much her son tensed to that, “chaste of any darkness they might implore you to agree to, or yet pull you into destruction and violence. Do you understand?”
He did not, he said to her. Narcissa explained. She explained everything to him, they sat there for seemingly hours on end, with her begging him to understand the dire circumstances, that he must make a decision and that this decision will follow their names like the plague. There were no tears, but he was shaking. He was so lost. So confused. But he knew one thing now, too; he absolutely could not take the mark.
“Before I leave,” she added, “what was it about you at the beginning?”
He looked at her quizzically, inviting her to elaborate.
“Chaste,” she said and saw him tense again. “Draco?”
But he didn’t answer, he only looked down and hoped she’d leave it be.
“Draco. Answer me,” she demanded, already sensing one of the directions this could go in. She knew that Draco was a teenager and that their bodies were full of hormones, but she still could not accept the fact that her boy could be eloping with others at Hogwarts - a secluded school with almost no surveillance around. She and Lucius long suspected that Draco might fancy his male counterparts more than the female ones, and she’s confident that others reckon that too, after all, Draco did not attempt to hide that, but he wasn’t the one to announce those arbitrary things either. Luckily, in the wizarding world, same-sex couples faced marginally to no prejudice, even in the pureblood circles, as there were potions and spells that helped to carry the bloodline and the magic that came with it. Since that invention, almost no one even glanced twice at same-sex love, and their family is no exception. Narcissa pondered, just how many men and women in her own bloodline had the bliss to experience such love. Truthfully, she did not mind her son experimenting with healthy relations with others, but he was far too young, and pureblood or not, marriage still stood important. She and Lucious both did not consummate until almost a week into their marriage because of how skittish and nervous they both were, and that was in their twenties. A part of her hoped that these values were passed down to her son.
Draco squirmed in discomfort under her gaze and tersely muttered something under his breath. Narcissa is committed to the thought that she heard him right, but it doesn’t make much sense, so she asks him again, determined to uncover her son’s love shenanigans, knowing that as snobby as he acted, he’s too shy to even hug.
“They hurt me, Mother,” he repeats, voice shaking more with every breath.
This time, it was her turn to seem clueless, and she says she doesn’t fully understand him.
“Mother,” he breathes, “they hurt me,” is all he voices as his eyes begin to shimmer in the moonlight, his grey hues more prominently blue with tears in his eyes as he clutched the fabric of his trousers fistful, knuckles white with tightness. The anticipation was killing him.
Narcissa stared. She didn’t dare to breathe, staring at her only son, freshly fifteen. She gaped and thought of what he said, of what he implied, and her core was broken. Shattered, even.
Instantly, her hand flew to her mouth, her own eyes prickling with tears, any composure was gone within seconds and she allowed herself to embrace her son in her safe hands as he held into her dress tightly, mewled and murmured about his silent cries. As a woman, she forced herself to listen, but as a mother, she broke with every word, almost urging him to stop. He needed this, she thought before nudging him soft and encouraging that he lay with her on the bed. He obeyed and lay on her chest as he wept, eventually exhaustion took over and he fell asleep with a tear-stained face, Narcissa swiftly playing with his hair.
The door slowly creaked open, and Lucius walked in, sitting down on the bed next to his wife and son, smiling at their comfort and closure. He fondly prodded his wife awake, careful not to wake Draco as he nuzzled closer to her warmth. As Narcissa woke from the nap, she quickly glanced at Draco, breathing out when she saw him soundly asleep,
“I assume it went well, then?” Lucius said and caressed Draco’s hair, knowing that their son would save the Malfoy name from further humiliation, as he was their last resort. Lucius didn’t give up the ideology, earnestly not seeing the purpose of mudbloods in their society and their weak magical bonds, but after years of mishaps, he understood that his ideologies could be compromised when it came to holding authority. He would rather rule anyone than be ruled by everyone.
Narcissa on her end tried to get out of Draco’s hold without waking him, as in the morning he’ll journey back to Hogwarts.
“Oh, Lucius,” she whimpered to him tiredly, placing her head on his shoulder and pleased to find her hair being stroked now, too. He hummed encouragingly.
“Lucius. Lucius… they, oh Salazar,” she covered her face with her hands before continuing, “they bedded our son,” she murmured in susurration. Unlike her, his eyes were narrowed in pain, eyebrows coming almost to his eyes. Not for the first time, he cursed himself for his son’s demise, and deep down he knew that Narcissa would never forgive him for sacrificing their safety for a momentum of power and ill belief.
“Are you certain?”
“Are you calling my judgement abrasive or incorrect?” She stormed off into their bedroom, with her husband calling to her behind and following her across the hall until he found himself in their bedroom.
“Narcissa, I merely meant if he confirmed such allegations, or if you supposed it,” he sighed and began to undress, changing into more comfortable attire to sleep in, seeing as Narcissa did the same.
“Yes, Lucius. He said so himself, or will you call me daft now, too?”
“I’m sorry,” he said before inviting her to recall the night, and so she did.
After the retelling and his lack of response, Narcissa looked at her husband, her thoughts bolting with red, “You knew,” she rightfully accused him.
“I… suspected.”
“Suspected,” she repeated.
He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t want him to. Narcissa braced herself for the morning, chest tight with uncertainty as she drifted into a dreamless night, thinking of Draco’s way back to school.