Chapter Text
Despite the mass majority of the population's views, thoughts, and opinions on what the Black family are – they are wrong. The family is not full of deception, lies, manipulation, blood, and murder. Of course, slight hiccups prove otherwise, but a large part of the family is built upon love.
Is all the love healthy, however? That is of personal judgement.
Blacks love possessively, madly, hauntingly, and beautifully. They are indeed a prime example of juxtaposition. Some Blacks love as madly as a roaring ocean, repeatedly brushing against tall, stone rocks that then bang against the water once again. Some love as free as a child running in the hills catching butterflies.
The point is that blacks do love. And they love with all their heart. However, this is more the Black family before the first of the last generation was born in 1951.
The fall of the once mighty Noble and Ancient House of Black is legendary. One that when people speak about it: they clink their classes together, smirk, a vindictive look in their eyes and say, “Thank Merlin, the weed is gone.”
A funny way to phrase such a profound part of history, calling them a weed. But looking back, they do seem that way. When something bad happens, ninety per cent of the time, a Black is involved or weaselled their way in.
No, the Black family was not a kind reminder to many.
The only ones to have a slightly more fond reminder of the family were Harry Potter himself due to his loud but imprisoned in his own mind godfather and his forgotten brother, and Narcissa Malfoy, who after the war, confined herself to the cadged walls of Malfoy Manor to wallow in nearly gone memories with childish wistfulness.
The room of Narcissa Malfoy in Malfoy Manor was off-limits for all because Draco knew his mother and that if she were aware of anything – would be disgusted of what she had been deduced to.
Every time he entered the room, he had to spend a whole day mentally preparing himself. He remembered his mother - the one from his childhood - as a loving mother who spoiled him rotten, giving him more chocolate after his father had said he had had enough with a wink. A woman who dropped all masks when at home and would read bedtime stories to him, and when reading different characters would use different voices. A mother who made plays with him, which they performed in front of his father, who watched with amusement and love.
Now in her place was a woman who sat in a chair all day, staring out the window with misty eyes that were evident she was not really seeing. Her once soft, bouncy blonde hair sat limp with no colour. Her once naturally slim frame was now a pile of bones.
Sometimes, in the back of his mind, he wished her dead. This thing was not his mother.
The only time she showed times of life was when both he and his father (when out of Azkaban) visited her. She’d see them, and a happy smile would make its way upon her face for a good few minutes before she, once again, shut down, and he and his father would hold in their tears.
Sometimes, when she spoke, it was like she had forgotten everything. She’d ask about her sisters (‘ Where are Bella and Andy? Are they well?’ ), she would look at them expectantly, and they would have to lie, saying they were well. They had made the mistake once of telling her the truth - that Bellatrix had died and that she and Andromeda no longer spoke - and she had shouted at them till her voice was hoarse and thrown nearly everything she could at them. Or about his godfather, Snape (‘ Is he eating? Lucius, what have I told you?’ She’d say admonishingly and teasingly. ). They would smile while their hearts broke and say he was off travelling the world, searching for potion ingredients. It hurt how happy his mother would be after - believing the lies they had sprouted.
Why must it always be the kind ones that lose?
He had said it to her once – that he wished she were dead. His father’s head had snapped to his, a curse upon his lips, but his mother had smiled sadly, the mist in her eyes clearing, and replied, “Me too.”.
That had been an especially hard day.
That’s why – when on a dreary day full of rain and thunderstorms with the cold almost unbearable when stepping outside the manor, he had a smile on his face as he left his mother's chambers. She had died. Died in her chair and finally, after five years, was at peace with a smile on her face.
July 28th, 2003, was a good day despite the weather.
What little people knew of Narcissa’s situation was wrong. She knew that something was wrong with her. Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, had always been a strong woman with a hidden mind of intelligence.
She had underestimated Tom Riddle. Not Voldemort himself – he was a brainless oaf whose only thoughts were murder and blood.
He had used a crafty bit of magic on her. When she was young and untouched by the horrors of life, she had gone to him and told him blankly she would not be marked. Thinking back on it, it was strange that he had agreed so easily. She had thought it was because she was a Black, and he just wanted to have her on his side. She had been wrong. So wrong, so naive.
She doesn’t know how she never realised he had used dark magic on her. She was a smart witch – she had been raised around dark magic, practically bathing in it. How on earth did she never realise?
When he had died the first time, she thought the freeness she felt was just because she would be able to raise her darling son in peace with the loving figure of her husband. She had been wrong, and Narcissa was rarely ever wrong.
No, it was because the dark spell Riddle had used on her broke, allowing her full control.
It was after the battle of Hogwarts that she felt something within her snap – like there was a part of her brain that was loose. When she tried to get up from that forsaken chair, she couldn’t. It was as if she couldn’t control herself, and all she could do was look at memories. Some good, some bad.
Her favourites were of her family, specifically her sisters. She misses them. The old them. Before Bella’s mind was broken by the madman and Andy ran away to be with a muggleborn, abandoning her.
Her least favourite were the times her mind - her body, no longer felt like hers. It was as if she was buried hundreds of feet under the ground, trying to fight her way to the surface, but it ended in vain. It was as if she were trapped, and in place was a vessel.
She didn’t feel like a person. She wishes she was dead and that this torment would end. But she knows that’s exactly what the monster wants, so she doesn’t give in. She would rather sit in a chair all day, never moving, than give in to the urge to take the letter opener and end it all, or to go outside to the balcony and just jump. She thinks it would be freeing – like flying but better as she would be getting the freedom she so yearned for.
But Narcissa is nothing if not stubborn. She will not give into the dark magic that is enhancing her thoughts of death because she disobeyed ‘her Lord’. As if he ever were.
It’s those times she hates everyone – including herself. Why did her parents have to follow a madman and drag Bella and her into it? It’s then she understands why Andy left and cannot blame her even though it hurts her to live without her person.
Why did her innocent Reggie never confide in her even though she raised him? Perhaps, she thinks, that is where the problem lies. While Narcissa is strong and intelligent, she is also a shadow to her sisters and a sucker for attention. Maybe if she wasn’t such a failure, her Reggie would still be alive.
And her darling Draco. He should have lived a life full of love. He should not have to see her in such a state. She knows it kills him to look at her. It is why she tries to never look him in the eye. It would be too raw. And so when he whispers to her he wishes she was dead, she smiles. Because she thinks it too. She spends so much time thinking about it that it actually sounds quite beautiful.
She thinks it would be like running with her sisters in the meadow behind Chateau Black in France with her parents sitting, watching with her Aunt and Uncle who have young Sirius and Regulus beside them and look at their cousins with stars in their eyes. She imagines it’s like the happiness one gets from catching a butterfly, showing it to their loved one and then setting it free, because everyone should be free, no matter how small they are.
But real life is brutal and evil. It does not let her leave and so she waits and waits and waits. Until, finally, she can feel her tensed balled fist slacken, until she loses feeling altogether, and her breathing slows until it halts.
And she smiles because she is free.
Tom Riddle, Voldemort, You-know-who, and all other pseudonyms, cannot reach her anymore. He– it cannot touch her anymore. It cannot touch her family, and for that, she is thankful.
July 28th 2003 is really such a beautiful day.