Chapter Text
Lucius was out for the evening, and Narcissa was relishing having the manor to herself again. She’d pulled on comfortable clothes after her bath, allowed her long wet hair to fall in a sheet of ivory against her back, and sat reading poetry at the table with a hot chocolate to hand.
Now, perched on the edge of her bed with moonlight on her bare shoulders, she finally allowed herself to unroll the thick parchment she had found secreted beneath Draco’s most recent letter home (she had taught him well).
Touching his handwriting like it was a precious relic, she settled back against the pillows and began to read.
Dearest Mother,
I’m sorry this is so late; between exam preparation, those interminable magical-maturation lectures, and Professor Lupin refusing to accept anything below an Outstanding on shield charms, my entire schedule has been thrown off – though I suspect you’d approve.
You were right to sign me up for Duelling; it’s become my favourite subject, and not only because Lupin hands out chocolates at the end of nearly every lesson. There’s something artistic about the magic; everyone has a different style, a different way of shaping a countercurse. I never realised defensive magic could feel like constructing something, rather than tearing it down.
Lupin says I have “a natural affinity” for the subject and “a rare clarity under pressure”, which I can only assume I inherited from you. He’s the best teacher I’ve had; I see why you were friends at school. More students have signed up for his classes now, which is good – perhaps they’ll actually keep them running next year. Or, better yet, they’ll sack Moody and let Lupin teach Defence properly. Father was correct about one thing: Moody is awful.
He’s been watching me with that horrible eye of his for weeks, as if trying to work me out. Things have been rather strange since the World Cup, and I’ve had to form alliances outside my House – and I followed your advice: I didn’t dismiss Gryffindor automatically. Granger is infuriating, brilliant, and terrifying (often simultaneously). Weasley is tolerable if fed regularly. And Potter… well, I admit he’s not the dunce I assumed. Quite funny, actually, when he tries. Even Longbottom’s not as useless as he looks.
Don’t tell Father, but I ended up sitting with them all for the first task. Granger explained absolutely everything; I expected it to be annoying (Weasley certainly did), but I actually learned more about nesting dragons from her in an hour than in three years of Care of Magical Creatures. I still can’t believe they let dragons onto school grounds; you’d think they’d have learnt after last year’s dementors. And the basilisk. Still, Diggory did Hogwarts proud. And you should’ve heard the screaming when Krum set his own trousers on fire.
You probably know already, but Hogwarts is hosting a Yule Ball. I hope you don’t mind too terribly, but I’ve chosen to stay. Almost everyone else is, and you did pack those dress robes. Besides… I think it’s better that I don’t come home until summer. Especially after what happened. (Is Father still angry? He hasn’t written.)
I’ll be glad to stay with friends, but I’ll miss you. I know you pretend winter is your favourite, and I know you and Father always have your anniversary party on Christmas Day, but… I know. Perhaps, if you can slip away, we could meet for tea in Hogsmeade? It seems impossible now I’ve written it, but like you always tell me: hope is the thing with feathers.
I’ll write again soon. And please, as ever, burn this if Father comes within ten feet of it.
All my love,
Draco
P.S.
Hypothetically, if one wished to ask a certain someone to the Ball – someone extremely clever and utterly out of reach – should one do it directly? Or hint? Or perhaps faint dramatically and ask them while regaining consciousness? Purely hypothetically.
P.P.S.
I stayed after class to help put things away last week, and Lupin made me a hot chocolate exactly the way you do. The man is addicted to sugar. Is that part of the lycanthropy? The textbooks only ever mention their “monstrous taste for human flesh”, never their fondness for confectionery.
P.P.P.S.
The witch teaching us consent and contraceptive charms looks so much like you I nearly fell off my chair. Are we related to the Nera family?
Narcissa let out a soft laugh through her tears, then smiled as she read the letter all over again. She imagined her son flourishing under Remus’ gentle guidance, and daring to make friends with children who hadn’t been pre-approved by Lucius based on their blood status. She loved that he was dreaming about dancing with someone who was – and here, she referred to his letter – ‘infuriating, brilliant, and terrifying’ all at once. And she laughed all over again when she imagined him sitting and staring at Andi with a puzzled look on his face.
Merlin, how she would miss him this Christmas.
***
The next morning, Narcissa waited until her husband had poured himself his second cup of coffee before she dared to ask.
“Hogsmeade?” asked Lucius, lowering his newspaper.
“Yes, husband,” she replied, refusing to wilt under his stare. “Draco isn’t home for the holidays this year, and I thought…”
“You thought that a teenage boy would like to be seen having tea with his mother?” He smirked. “I doubt you’d be doing his social currency any favours, wife. And, from what I’ve heard, our son's star has already faded quite enough this year.”
“Surely that’s another reason to meet with him?” she asked. “He’s become isolated from his friends; we must find out why, and impress upon him the importance of –” Narcissa paused for less than a second, trying to think of the phrase that might sway her husband, “– making better choices.”
Lucius raised an eyebrow at that, and she smoothed her skirts demurely. “I could send a Howler; it would do the same job in far less time.”
“Do you really think that will be any less embarrassing for him than an outing with his mother? I could speak to him discreetly, and remind him of his duties to our family,” she said promisingly. “To you.”
Her husband lowered his gaze at that. He had been, she knew, rattled by the silence that now yawned between him and his only son. It hurt Lucius more than he would ever let on; he had always loved the lofty pedestal that she had let him believe Draco had placed him upon.
“I do… regret… that Draco and I didn’t have a chance to speak before he left for Hogwarts,” he said, somewhat surprisingly. “Perhaps if you went to him, appealed to him, then he might consider coming home for spring half-term.”
“I can but try,” she agreed, even knowing full well that Draco would not be returning until the summer.
“And you would do this for me? Even after…?” Lucius didn’t name whichever insult he was thinking of aloud; she wondered if he might mean all of them. Every single hurt and humiliation.
“Of course, husband,” she said, lifting her head to meet his gaze. “I want Draco to be happy. I think he deserves to have a good relationship with his father.”
Lucius smiled frostily at her, even as he stumbled clumsily through her mind using Legilemency. As ever, though, he found no trace of a lie to pounce upon – and a little of the ice fell away. “I suppose I could spare you for an hour,” he said, as if he were allowing her an enormous treat. “Make your arrangements. I will send your invitation to Draco myself.”
By which he meant: I will be overseeing every little detail of this plan, lest you try to slip my net. Still, Narcissa’s heart leapt at the thought of even an hour with her son. “You have my gratitude, husband – and I will do my best to bring him around.”
“You had better,” he said lightly, disappearing once again behind the newspaper. “I would hate for there to be any further unpleasantness. Especially with our wax anniversary so soon on the horizon.”
16 long years. The unspoken threat hummed in the air between them, but Narcissa felt like laughing aloud.
She was so close.