Chapter Text
A STORY OF A BOY WHO HAS FOUND HIS TRUE FAMILY
A BOY THAT NEEDS HEALING, GUIDANCE, LOVE
AND A BOY THAT IS ON A JOURNEY OF FORGIVING HIMSELF.
"I ought to be chief."
- Jack Merridew
Narcissa Malfoy is a kind and gentle woman.
At least, that is until someone had kidnapped her youngest son in the middle of the night.
She wept that night, Lucius was holder her close while Narcissa fearfully cradled one year old Draco in her arms, in fear of someone taking him away too. She couldn’t let them; she wouldn’t let them.
She still kept her youngest son’s baby clothes, his toys, his pictures, keeping his memory alive. Because Narcissa knows her son is alive, she can feel it, his early magic is still pulsing, faintly but still there. She just doesn’t know where his magic is coming from. Even if it has been eleven years. Narcissa clung into that hope, that her little Jack is alive.
Narcissa will always have hope her little boy is going to come home.
_
Lucius Malfoy is a strict, stern man.
Though before that, he was a loving father, attending to his two sons, letting Draco play with his hair while feeding his youngest son his milk.
Then his youngest son vanished one night.
Lucius remembered cradling Narcissa and Draco close to his chest, his wand out as he detects any some kind of threat, but he felt none, he just felt lingering of little Jack's early magic. Lucius became strict after that night, he was mostly strict with Draco when the boy grew older, giving him lessons, spells to protect himself, Lucius lost count on how many times he had put a protection spell on Draco.
Lucius didn’t want to lose another son, he already lost his youngest, only seven months old. He ordered the elves to keep the nursery clean, to not let it be touched, not a single toy would be moved from its spot.
Cause Lucius knows that when his son comes home, the little seven-month-old would be delighted that his room was kept the same, the little one would clap his tiny little hands and crawl around the soft, carpeted floor.
Lucius will always hope that the nursery would soon be filled with babbles of a seven-month-old, even if it would take years for that to accomplish.
_
Draco Malfoy is a cocky, loyal friend and a loving son.
But he vaguely remembers soft babbles and laughter whenever he would look at a seven-month-old’s baby pictures, his little brother Jack’s pictures.
He remembered when he was young, his arms full of toys and plushies, sitting outside his brother’s nursery room, he asked his mother when is his little brother going to play with him, cause little Jack wasn't babbling out for him in the early mornings.
Draco remembered the way his mother’s face shifted-looking like she was about to burst into tears. Draco never mentioned his little brother in front of her again, though he would sometimes ask his father on where did his little brother go, his father didn’t give an answer, just gave him a hug.
When Draco got his acceptance letter to Hogwarts on his eleventh birthday, the first thing he did was going inside his brother’s nursery and sitting beside the cot.
His little brother Jack was supposed to turn ten this winter, how Draco missed his little warrior. He remembered—vaguely remembered a memory of him and Jack playing warriors. Draco had the seventh-month-old hold a small tiny wooden spear, careful not to hurt the little one. He remembered the babbling, the baby laughter his blue-eyed brother let out, even if his father said little Jack's laugh is an icebreaker.
Draco slept in the nursery that night after his birthday, cradling the stuff bunny his baby brother always cuddled to sleep, but little Jack was gone, nowhere to be seen, his traces of early magic lingered into his favorite little blankie.
That was the only thing that kept Draco’s fragile hope that little Jack is alive.