Interhouse Fest 2016: The Children Left Behind (1 of 2)
Title: The Children Left Behind
Author:
Characters: Draco, Remus/Narcissa
Prompt Number: #216
Word Count: 13.5K
Rating: Rish
Warnings: canon-divergent AU (I tried to stay as canon-compliant as I could while telling a completely AU story, so every once in a while I had to use the old adage: Never let facts get in the way of a good story… )
Summary: He had been a fairy tale, a story Draco’s mother told him every night…
Disclaimer: Not now or ever before have I been JK Rowling. Not now or ever before have I made a dime from these yarns I spin.
Author’s Notes: Before the apologies and the But I Meant to’s I owe to the prompter, a huge shout and love fest for my Alpha and Beta, by beginning and end, dear, sweet, always encouraging and grounding C. You made this fic so much better just as you’ve made me better with each story we’ve told together!
Prompter, I’m so sorry there’s very little actual Remus/Narcissa in this Remus/Narcissa story you requested. :( Draco sort of took over, as he’s want to do. But, on the plus, there’s always characters that I very rarely write because they scare me, but when I take the risk, I fall more and more in love. ♥ Draco ♥
I also didn’t intend to tell the little shit’s entire life story in the time I had allotted. :( So, huge shout outs and THANK YOU DEARLYs to the wonderful mods who were above and beyond patient with me.
Title taken from a JK Rowling interview explaining why she gakked Remus: "I think one of the most devastating things about war is the children left behind. As happened in the first war when Harry's left behind, I wanted us to see another child left behind.” STILL NOT FORGIVEN MS. ROWLING!!
Anyway… enjoy!
He had been a fairy tale, a story his mother told him every night, showing him a side of her he never saw in the light of day, surrounded by her facades and her pure-blood responsibilities. Draco knew at a very young age how to read people, how to see their hidden agendas, all the things they didn’t say, wouldn’t admit. So when he would ask for a bedtime story and she would sigh, look out the window and begin in a faraway lilt to her voice, “Once upon a time…” he knew there was something behind the fiction she weaved. He knew there was something almost like a confession, a cleansing in her words, as if asking Draco-even as a toddler-for absolution.
She would hold him tight to her and tell him about a girl; a girl who lived in a castle with her whole life planned out for her; like a garden, her whole life cultivated and pruned to be beautiful, nutritious and completely tasteless. She told him about how this girl would sit in her room a top the tallest tower of the castle and look out the window to the manicured lawns inside the castle walls, the raised bridge, the moat that kept the outside world where it belonged.
The young girl would strain to see past the dull perfection, to the chaos of forest and wilderness beyond, to the unknown and the untamed. Her heart would race as she contemplated all the life being lived there in the mysterious flora and fauna.
And while she held Draco tight there in his bedroom, her son’s eyes drooping with tiredness, she was far away as she continued her fairy tale. She told about a boy; a boy who lived in those forests, or just beyond them, in the outskirts of the village, but he was as wild as the untamed woods. He never so much as looked at the castle in the far distance, never once tried to imagine the life that was lived over the tall walls, past the many windows. He was too busy surviving.
This boy’s childhood had been marred by a terrible tragedy no child should have had to endure, an attack by a monster that destroyed this boy’s innocence and turned him into a monster himself. So, if he didn’t have the time or energy to consider her petty problems, she could hardly blame him. And after meeting him, her problems, her responsibilities to her family, to her community, didn’t seem all that important anyway.
When Draco was a bit older, she elaborated and revealed more of the story, more of her life. She would still hold him tight, holding his wrist, subconsciously rubbing along the emerald bracelet that he had worn there for as long as he could remember, a Black heirloom his mother said, a protection that he must never take off, she warned.
“Once upon a time, this princess, this darling of the family, who had watched one sister betrothed to a man she barely knew and forced to live in a loveless marriage like so many of her ancestors before her and another sister banished from the family for daring to go off and find a love on her own, find someone not picked for her since birth. And this youngest daughter, who so very much saw these two choices her sisters had made and wanted neither, and both. She wanted to be free to make her own choices, but she never wanted to be cast aside, never wanted to lose all that she had known, no matter how much of a prison it sometimes seemed.
“So, she ran away, determined to see what was out there and then dutifully return to follow the family tradition of arranged marriage and pure-blood society.
“The sun was just setting when she ventured out, it was the only time she had hours to herself that weren’t devoted to her education, her training or her family obligations. She wasn’t afraid of the forest, having no firsthand knowledge of the dark and dangerous that lived there. Bad things happened to lesser people, people without privilege, without magical protections. She wasn’t hesitant, she was anxious to see what she had only imagined from her view at the top windows of the castle.
“It was still light when she stepped into the canopy of the trees, not from the sun, but from the large harvest moon, full and hanging low. There was an odd stillness to the forest, as if the wildlife had all burrowed underground, had all sought shelter. The hairs on the girl’s arm stood up and there was a tingling of excited danger under her skin.
“She could almost make out the glow of candles burning in the window of the boy’s home when she heard them. A strange bark and a howl in response, a whine from farther behind and another howl from closer--too close. She turned around, there were eyes, glowing in the underbrush, approaching slow and low. She backed up but heard an approach from behind as well, turning again, she saw eyes there, and everywhere. She was surrounded. They were coming out of the darkness, out of the wilderness onto her path. Werewolves. Dozens of werewolves. She didn’t know what to do; there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. She closed her eyes, but the noise from the unknown darkness was even worse.
“She heard a howl from the distance that sounded different, menacing, but somehow not directed to her. It wasn’t moving slow, it wasn’t moving low, it was galloping loud and before she even make out the features of the creature, it had pounced on one of the werewolves, snarling and biting, pulling it down to the ground and tearing at its flesh with its clawed paw. They rolled away from her and she watched as the pack that had been surrounding her left to circle the dog fight moving into the distant forest.
“The girl stood for a moment, too mesmerized to flee, to escape, but soon she regained her wits and instead of risking the long way back to her house, she ran as fast as she could to the house whose candles burning in the window had beckoned her all this way. She knocked furiously on the door but no one answered. Feeling slightly like a golden haired character in a Muggle fairy tale, she opened the door to the cabin and let herself in.
“It was the boy’s house, she recognized him in a few of the pictures that moved in their frames, pictures of him as a child that he had been when they had first met, pictures of him with people she had to assume were his parents, and then a lone picture of him as a bit older and a bit sadder. But only the one.
“The pictures were in disarray, as were the furnishings. There were scratches and marks on the wood of the walls and door frames, one door hung off its hinges. She had, of course, never seen the boy in his werewolf form, but she had no doubt that he had been the wolf savior in the forest that had pulled the pack away from her. She was also sure that he would not be returning until he’d retained his human form.
“She stilled her fragile nerves enough to put on a kettle for tea and after drinking a cup of it, went about straightening and repair as much of the cabin as her wand and magical skill would allow. After that was finished, she waited. Waited to make sure it was safe to go back home, waited to make sure that he had survived the night.
“She must have fallen asleep, because she awoke to a thud against the house. Sitting up with a start, she looked around her in terror, forgetting where she was for a moment. Light shone in through the shredded and torn curtains. There was the thud again. She rose and rushed to the door, listening. She could hear heavy breathing, but only coming from one set of lungs. Whoever it was, they were alone. And it was daylight. She took a deep breath, pulled out her wand and opened the door a sliver.
“At first, she didn’t recognize him. He lay at the door, as if it took all he had left just to get home and he didn’t have the strength for those last few steps. His back was towards her, his shirt hanging on by the bloodiest of fabric strips. She recognized his hair though, matted and muddied as it was, she knew it was him. Rushing to his side, she turned him gently to assess his wounds fully. He screamed against the movement.
“The sound of his anguish reverberated through the forest, setting resting birds to scatter, animals to flee and the very wind to shift and swirl around her. Instantly, she stopped what she was doing and using her wand and all the magic she had yet learned to magically and painlessly lift him off the ground, through the door and to the small, shabby bedroom.
“She scoured the house for medicines, potions and bandages to tend to his wounds. Of course he was fully stocked. Working on his injuries, she saw layers upon layers of scars from years of nights like last night's and marveled at the life this boy led.
“He was unconscious through most of the tending she performed, and she was glad for it. She couldn’t imagine the pain he was enduring and she took comfort in the fact that he could shut his mind down to avoid it. She made sure to apply as much soothing and healing ointments as she could, so that when he did finally awake to his fate, the pain would be lessened as much as possible.
“She was singing a healing verse over him when he finally did open his eyes. After a moment of focusing, his eyes widened in terror and he attempted to sit up. ‘What are you…? Are you okay....? Did anything…?’
“She stilled his lips with her fingertip. ‘I’m fine.’
“‘You are?’
“‘Completely.’
“‘Then…’ he paused, clearing his dry, scratchy throat. ‘Why are you… what are you doing here?’
“She smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. ‘You saved my life last night; I wanted to return the favor.’
“He stared at her a moment, as if dazed and not comprehending her words. ‘You… you shouldn’t be here… I’m still… still dangerous…’
“She looked down at him; weak and seemingly unable to even move, let alone do anything even remotely dangerous. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
“He struggled to sit up, wincing with each millimeter of movement. ‘No. Please. I… I don’t… I don’t want you to… to see me like this…’
“She went to protest, but this time, he stopped her with his finger to her lips. ‘Please. Just go.’
“She sighed, then nodded and arose. She was at the door before she turned around. ‘Thank you.’
“‘For what?’
“‘For saving my life last night.’
“He smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’”
Narcissa usually stopped her story there, but sometimes Draco would press her to continue. “Then what happened? Did she ever run away again? Did she ever see the werewolf again? Did they remain friends?”
She would answer her questions in short sentences, the magic of storytelling completely gone and replaced with a wistful sort of melancholy that Draco didn’t understand but always made him hug her tight. “So, she never ran away again?”
“Never on a full moon, no. From time to time she did venture out, but she’d learned a valuable lesson about responsibility, about duty. More importantly though, she learned that as sad and often times lonely as her life was, it could have been much, much worse.”
When Draco got a bit older and understood more that she was talking about herself and that the man in the story who her character self pined for, was not his father, he would press even further for a happy resolution to the story. “But, she learned to love the man she was forced to marry right?”
Narcissa would look down at him and smile sadly. “Yes. She did.”
“And he loved her back?”
She would look out in the distance. “He did. You have to remember; this marriage was just as much planned and prepared for him against his will as it was for her. They learned to love each other as well as they could.”
As well as they could... that phrase stuck with Draco. So, he would ask the only question that mattered to him as a child. “But they both loved their child, right?”
Narcissa hugged him tight. “With all their hearts. They were so proud of him, and he made them happier than anything else in the world.”
Sometimes Draco would watch his mother and father very closely. They seemed happy… ish. He didn’t really have anything to compare them with though. They certainly looked happier than his grandparents did, or his aunt Bellatrix and Rodolphus, from the pictures of their wedding. They seemed more siblings than man and wife. Still though, with all her reassurances of the opposite, he couldn’t help looking at his mother knowing she had a past (no matter that most of what he knew was probably some sort of fiction) that she still held onto, and always seemed a bit saddened by what could have been and would never be.
But, if she had gone a different way, if she had been allowed to love another man, how would his, Draco Malfoy’s life be? Without Lucius Malfoy as his father? Not being a Malfoy at all? With a werewolf as a father? Draco shivered at the thought.
Sometimes though, when he catches his father in suspicious circumstances, when he sees that the nobility of pureblood wizard had an unsavory side that no one talked about, that everyone looked the other way about, he wondered.
“My father,” Draco started one night as Narcissa helped him prepare for bed, “He’s a good man, yes?”
She settled his blankets up under his chin and sat beside him, reaching for his hand and the bracelet he still wore at all times. His mother had always insisted and he had never questioned it. He imagined some sort of magical protection, some family curse the emerald amulet countered. She stroked the stone as she answered. “Your father is one of the best men.”
He rolled onto his side and curled into her hip. Content with the answer and his place in the world, and more importantly, his place in his parents’ world.
~oOo~
His years at Hogwarts were filled with crushing defeats and small victories. Being pureblood set him up in the right circles, like it did in the wizarding world at large, and he made friends easily… well, mostly easy. In his parents’ day, however, Hogwarts was the bastion of pureblood privilege and rule, but it wasn’t that way for Draco. Not with a Headmaster who seemed to prefer mudbloods to nobility, who hired the sketchiest sort of staff and who gave the very most special treatment to a runt who had supposedly stopped the Dark Lord with his bare hands, or the smell of his baby breath, the shriek of his baby lungs. Whatever.
It was all myth and folklore, whispered rumors and lies and that little puke was going to ride it for the entire time he spent at Hogwarts, no matter how it affected anyone else. It was one thing that the entirety of the student body seemed to bow to the boy- all but his faithful Slytherins that was-
but that the staff also held the insignificant child in such high regard as well was sickening. The only staff he felt any kinship with his hatred for the Boy Wonder was Professor Snape. Of course Filch gave Potter trouble too, but what did he matter? He was a nothing. Draco could care less what the worthless and insignificant thought of Harry Potter.
Like that Hagrid monster who devoted himself so fully to Potter. The day that he discovered he’d be calling that oaf Professor was the day that he completely gave up on any thoughts that Hogwarts was still a great institute for learning. And it was only the first day of classes that his beliefs were so completely proven correct, after being almost immediately sent to the Hospital Wing with a broken arm- okay, fractured, whatever, it hurt a lot. He’d even lost consciousness, and when he came-to what felt like moments later, but must have been hours, he was shocked to see his mother sitting beside his bed.
“Mother?”
“Draco, darling! How are you?”
“I’m fine. I think. Why are you here? Am I dying?”
“Of course not. But you were hurt and I was made aware of it. Your father has some business to conclude, then he will be here to meet with the Headmaster about what is to be done.”
Part of him was deeply embarrassed that she was there to baby him, but a bigger part was quite pleased that he had someone who was this devoted to him. It set him apart, made him special. Important.
His father usually came to deal with school situations, being on the Board of Governors and deeply concerned about the school and its declining reputation, but his mother had never came, sending care package after care package instead.
Many people came in to visit while she was there, the Headmaster, who was oddly sprite and jovial. Well, it wasn’t that odd, but Draco was unsettled by it, having hardly ever seen him except in large groups- Opening Feasts and the like- and it was strange to see he was the same in a large crowd as with an audience of two. Draco wondered how this man had the history he did. How did this man defeat anyone? How did he strike fear in the heart of someone like the Dark Lord? He was a joke.
Professor Snape also came by. Of course he did, he was the Head of Draco’s house and he knew that Snape had once been friends with his parents. What Draco wasn’t expecting was a visit from Professor Lupin.
“Lupin,” Professor Snape snarled when the man entered the room.
“Severus,” Lupin responded cordially. If he’d heard the loathing in Professor Snape’s voice, he hid it well. Draco got the distinct impression that was very much the case, that Professor Lupin somehow reveled in Professor Snape’s displeasure.
So fascinated by this exchange, he didn’t notice his mother’s reaction to the exchange until he felt her hand clutch tightly to his wrist and the amulet that rested there. Thankfully, it was his uninjured arm, but it still hurt.
Professor Snape left with a flourish of his robes and mumbling something about a potion needing his attention.
There was a weird quiet in the room after Snape left. Draco studied the odd Defense Against the Arts Teacher that he had just met earlier that week intrigued by the exchange between the two professors and determined to get to the bottom of it.
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Professor Lupin finally said, and there was a weird lingering in the way he pronounced her name. He had done the same thing during their first class when he’d come to Draco. Again, there was something there.
And then his mother talked and he knew there was some sort of history.
“Remus.”
They just stared at each other and if it weren’t for his mother’s hand on his wrist, her thumb rubbing along the emerald, Draco might have felt as if the room had forgotten about him.
“How is he?” Lupin asked.
“He?” Narcissa said.
“Your son, Draco.”
“My son…” Draco turned to her. He’d never seen this expression on her face. He’d never seen her… flustered was the only way he could describe it. “My son is fine, aren’t you, Draco?”
“I’m fine. Just a little pain.”
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Professor Lupin said, but he was no longer looking at Draco. It appeared that he had no more to say, but he still stood there for a very long, awkward moment before mumbling something too low to hear, and then turning and walking out.
Draco was almost afraid to look at his mother. She seemed to feel likewise, because when he did finally turn to her, she had turned her back to him. He watched as she did what he’d seen her do many times before. He watched her shoulders rise and fall in as she took long breaths and when she turned back, all was right with the world again. She looked strong, powerful and in complete control.
He wanted to say something, ask so many questions, but he was afraid to break the spell. It wasn’t worth it. He never wanted to see his mother unsure of herself again.
So, instead, he faked sleepiness and accepted her mothering attentions with a sigh. He was just about to fall asleep for real, when he felt her lightly and delicately take his hand again. He brought it to her lips and kissed it and then the piece of jewelry. He peeked one eyelid to see her look around the room and checking to make sure he was asleep. He shut his eyes quickly.
At first he didn’t understand what was happening, he felt a tingle in his arm, emanating around the heirloom, spreading along his arm, neck, face and body. And it reverberated under his skin, to his heart, his lungs. He heard a chant, a song in his mother’s whispered voice and it brought with it a childhood memory, a remembrance of this happening many times in his childhood. It was just in a dusty corner of his mind to remember more, see more, understand more, but then a fuzziness washed over him, a washing away that also felt incredibly familiar, though he could no longer hold the thought of it or anything else in his head.
When he awoke, the sun was just beginning to poke over the horizon from the eastern facing window. His mother had slumped over him, her slumbering head resting on his stomach. She must be aching, Draco thought and his heart filled with devotion. The same sort of devotion that he felt wash over her towards him. She had stayed there to protect him. But from what he didn’t know… or couldn’t remember? His head felt heavy and completely devoid of anything all at the same time.
She must have sensed his stirrings because she sat up. “Draco. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
He couldn’t think of anything he needed. Couldn’t think of anything. “What happened?”
She looked scared for a moment before the expression was schooled. “You were attacked by a Hippogriff.”
“I know that. I know that’s why my arm is in a sling and I feel pain in my chest. But, what else happened? My head feels fuzzy.”
“Perhaps a side effect of the potion you were given?”
He studied her for a moment. “Must be.” He got flashed of jumbled words, phrases, faces. “Were Dumbledore and Snape here last night?”
“Yes, your Headmaster and Head of House both came by to make sure you were alright.”
“And…” It was right at the corners, right on the tip. “Professor Lupin?”
“Who?”
“My new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I thought I remembered…” he saw her blank face. “Must have… must have been a dream,” he finished unconvincingly. Why would he have been dreaming about a man he’d only just met who had no connection with him or his family?
He asked that question then, and he continued to ask it in the months that followed as he found himself watching the new teacher, fascinated by him for reasons he couldn’t understand. Sometimes it felt as if he knew him somehow from a different life, like he had some connection to the man that he couldn’t sort out. The professor was nothing to look at, he looked very unloved and uncared for, his clothes were in shambles, everything he owned seemed to have been owned by every other wizard in the world before him and he had an odd sadness about him that only rarely lifted when he got very involved in a lesson.
Draco especially watched him while the man watched and studied Potter. He seemed to always be watching the other boy, always on the cusp of saying something to him, reaching out to him in some way in those first weeks of school. Then they started having secret meetings, extra lessons were the rumor, but for some reason it did something to Draco, burned him with an unexplainable jealousy that no other special treatment had. The whole situation and his reaction to it baffled him. So much so that he did what he tried not to do, he wrote to his mother about it. Not the feeling-he didn’t know how to explain that-but he did seethe about Professor Lupin’s preferences and Harry Potter’s special treatments.
He was shocked a few weeks later, at the second Hogsmeade weekend when his mother made another appearance.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” Draco asked as he walked out of the castle gates and saw her waiting there for him.
“I thought it would be nice to have some tea with my son, maybe get some Christmas shopping done, now that you’re allowed out of the castle from time to time. I do hope I’m not cramping your style.”
Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind him. “Not at all. Tea sounds lovely.”
He left with her, turning to his friends to say he’d met up with them later.
They went to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop and found a quiet table in the corner.
“So, how is school going?” Narcissa asked after their pot was delivered to them.
Draco shrugged.
“Tell me more about this new professor, Lupin was it?”
Draco looked at her. Her expression and the tone of her voice, the offhand of her question were all out of sorts with each other.
“Ah, he’s a good teacher, I guess. Seems to know a great deal about the Dark Arts, or the defense of them anyway…” he stopped and did the math. “Did you know him? Did he go to school with you?”
“With me?” she stammered. He continued to study her. Something was off with her. She continued. “If I’m remembering correctly, he was there towards the end of my years. He was close friends with Sirius I think. In fact, I think it was he and James Potter that made Sirius turn away from the family.”
Draco spat out his tea. “He was friends with Potter’s father?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, that explains everything.”
“Yes. Perhaps.” She was quiet again for a long time, and again she tried unconvincingly to sound nonchalant when she asked, “So, he hasn’t spoken to you?”
“What do you mean, spoken to me? He’s my professor, so yeah, we’ve spoken.”
“But he hasn’t… well, singled you out for harsher treatment or picked on you… you know, because of who you are? Who your parents are?”
Draco tilted his head and crinkled his eyes, thoroughly confused. “Because of my parents?”
“You know, because we were on opposite sides of the war? Because of our past allegiances.”
He thought for a moment. “Not any more than anyone else… in fact…”
“What?” she asked a bit too eagerly.
“I don’t know, there was a moment… that first day, during roll call, when he called out my name, he sort of… I don’t know… lingered at my name, my last name.”
“But he didn’t say anything? Not then? Not later?”
“No.”
She looked out the window and Draco waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t seem to have anything else to say. “It’s really nothing. He’s fine. I just wrote to you in a moment of frustration about the Potter special treatment.”
She sighed. “I know it’s tough. Almost unbearable, but really, in the climate of today, it doesn’t do to antagonize The Boy Who Lived.” She said the last with her lips twisted into a scowl.
Draco scowled too, then bowed his head and mumbled, “I know.”
She’d told him this same thing many times. Last year she’d actually sat he and his father down for this very same lecture after the little nothing freed one of their House Elves.
Maybe she was right, but he couldn’t help it, he liked to believe like his father did, that one day- and sooner rather than later- there’d be an uprising, a setting of right in the world that would put them back where they belonged in the Wizarding world.
Throughout the rest of Draco’s third year, his mother found more reasons to visit, Hogsmeade weekends, the rumors of Sirius’ attacks at Hogwarts. All the dark dealings. Draco couldn’t understand why this year was different than the year before when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. Sure, he was in more danger from Sirius Black, his own cousin who had turned from the family before going completely mad. Even his mother didn’t know where his true allegiance lied. Was he seeking revenge on his family or on Harry Potter? Perhaps both.
Draco was glad to have so much attention being paid on him by his mother, even if each visit ended in a weird sense of forgetfulness and snatches of moments jumbled in his mind. Not memories because they made no sense, but he’d never given his imagination this much credit either. They were all centered around Professor Lupin. He was always there, lurking in the shadows of Draco’s thoughts. Draco could see snatches of moments, turning a corner and seeing the Professor’s hand on his mother’s arm, whispering something urgent in her ear. He recalled his mother’s flushed cheeks, a certain light in her eyes he’d not seen before. He could recall tears in his mother’s eyes and a something like a longing in her very being.
But then she’d be gone and all those jumbled thoughts, imaginings and memories would be gone. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Professor Lupin was somehow an important character in the story of his mother’s life.
The feeling remained so strong that when it was discovered at the last day of the term that Remus Lupin was in fact a werewolf, it all clicked in place to Draco like he’d known it his whole life. The boy at the outskirts of the forest, the girl wasting away in a castle on a hill. His mother. Remus Lupin.
Remus Lupin who had once saved his mother’s life. Remus Lupin who had most likely been the only man his mother had ever loved with her own free will. Remus Lupin who was not his father.
He shivered. Where had that thought even come from? He unconsciously clutched at the bracelet around his wrist.
Part 2
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Author:
Characters: Draco, Remus/Narcissa
Prompt Number: #216
Word Count: 13.5K
Rating: Rish
Warnings: canon-divergent AU (I tried to stay as canon-compliant as I could while telling a completely AU story, so every once in a while I had to use the old adage: Never let facts get in the way of a good story… )
Summary: He had been a fairy tale, a story Draco’s mother told him every night…
Disclaimer: Not now or ever before have I been JK Rowling. Not now or ever before have I made a dime from these yarns I spin.
Author’s Notes: Before the apologies and the But I Meant to’s I owe to the prompter, a huge shout and love fest for my Alpha and Beta, by beginning and end, dear, sweet, always encouraging and grounding C. You made this fic so much better just as you’ve made me better with each story we’ve told together!
Prompter, I’m so sorry there’s very little actual Remus/Narcissa in this Remus/Narcissa story you requested. :( Draco sort of took over, as he’s want to do. But, on the plus, there’s always characters that I very rarely write because they scare me, but when I take the risk, I fall more and more in love. ♥ Draco ♥
I also didn’t intend to tell the little shit’s entire life story in the time I had allotted. :( So, huge shout outs and THANK YOU DEARLYs to the wonderful mods who were above and beyond patient with me.
Title taken from a JK Rowling interview explaining why she gakked Remus: "I think one of the most devastating things about war is the children left behind. As happened in the first war when Harry's left behind, I wanted us to see another child left behind.” STILL NOT FORGIVEN MS. ROWLING!!
Anyway… enjoy!
He had been a fairy tale, a story his mother told him every night, showing him a side of her he never saw in the light of day, surrounded by her facades and her pure-blood responsibilities. Draco knew at a very young age how to read people, how to see their hidden agendas, all the things they didn’t say, wouldn’t admit. So when he would ask for a bedtime story and she would sigh, look out the window and begin in a faraway lilt to her voice, “Once upon a time…” he knew there was something behind the fiction she weaved. He knew there was something almost like a confession, a cleansing in her words, as if asking Draco-even as a toddler-for absolution.
She would hold him tight to her and tell him about a girl; a girl who lived in a castle with her whole life planned out for her; like a garden, her whole life cultivated and pruned to be beautiful, nutritious and completely tasteless. She told him about how this girl would sit in her room a top the tallest tower of the castle and look out the window to the manicured lawns inside the castle walls, the raised bridge, the moat that kept the outside world where it belonged.
The young girl would strain to see past the dull perfection, to the chaos of forest and wilderness beyond, to the unknown and the untamed. Her heart would race as she contemplated all the life being lived there in the mysterious flora and fauna.
And while she held Draco tight there in his bedroom, her son’s eyes drooping with tiredness, she was far away as she continued her fairy tale. She told about a boy; a boy who lived in those forests, or just beyond them, in the outskirts of the village, but he was as wild as the untamed woods. He never so much as looked at the castle in the far distance, never once tried to imagine the life that was lived over the tall walls, past the many windows. He was too busy surviving.
This boy’s childhood had been marred by a terrible tragedy no child should have had to endure, an attack by a monster that destroyed this boy’s innocence and turned him into a monster himself. So, if he didn’t have the time or energy to consider her petty problems, she could hardly blame him. And after meeting him, her problems, her responsibilities to her family, to her community, didn’t seem all that important anyway.
When Draco was a bit older, she elaborated and revealed more of the story, more of her life. She would still hold him tight, holding his wrist, subconsciously rubbing along the emerald bracelet that he had worn there for as long as he could remember, a Black heirloom his mother said, a protection that he must never take off, she warned.
“Once upon a time, this princess, this darling of the family, who had watched one sister betrothed to a man she barely knew and forced to live in a loveless marriage like so many of her ancestors before her and another sister banished from the family for daring to go off and find a love on her own, find someone not picked for her since birth. And this youngest daughter, who so very much saw these two choices her sisters had made and wanted neither, and both. She wanted to be free to make her own choices, but she never wanted to be cast aside, never wanted to lose all that she had known, no matter how much of a prison it sometimes seemed.
“So, she ran away, determined to see what was out there and then dutifully return to follow the family tradition of arranged marriage and pure-blood society.
“The sun was just setting when she ventured out, it was the only time she had hours to herself that weren’t devoted to her education, her training or her family obligations. She wasn’t afraid of the forest, having no firsthand knowledge of the dark and dangerous that lived there. Bad things happened to lesser people, people without privilege, without magical protections. She wasn’t hesitant, she was anxious to see what she had only imagined from her view at the top windows of the castle.
“It was still light when she stepped into the canopy of the trees, not from the sun, but from the large harvest moon, full and hanging low. There was an odd stillness to the forest, as if the wildlife had all burrowed underground, had all sought shelter. The hairs on the girl’s arm stood up and there was a tingling of excited danger under her skin.
“She could almost make out the glow of candles burning in the window of the boy’s home when she heard them. A strange bark and a howl in response, a whine from farther behind and another howl from closer--too close. She turned around, there were eyes, glowing in the underbrush, approaching slow and low. She backed up but heard an approach from behind as well, turning again, she saw eyes there, and everywhere. She was surrounded. They were coming out of the darkness, out of the wilderness onto her path. Werewolves. Dozens of werewolves. She didn’t know what to do; there was nowhere to go, no way to escape. She closed her eyes, but the noise from the unknown darkness was even worse.
“She heard a howl from the distance that sounded different, menacing, but somehow not directed to her. It wasn’t moving slow, it wasn’t moving low, it was galloping loud and before she even make out the features of the creature, it had pounced on one of the werewolves, snarling and biting, pulling it down to the ground and tearing at its flesh with its clawed paw. They rolled away from her and she watched as the pack that had been surrounding her left to circle the dog fight moving into the distant forest.
“The girl stood for a moment, too mesmerized to flee, to escape, but soon she regained her wits and instead of risking the long way back to her house, she ran as fast as she could to the house whose candles burning in the window had beckoned her all this way. She knocked furiously on the door but no one answered. Feeling slightly like a golden haired character in a Muggle fairy tale, she opened the door to the cabin and let herself in.
“It was the boy’s house, she recognized him in a few of the pictures that moved in their frames, pictures of him as a child that he had been when they had first met, pictures of him with people she had to assume were his parents, and then a lone picture of him as a bit older and a bit sadder. But only the one.
“The pictures were in disarray, as were the furnishings. There were scratches and marks on the wood of the walls and door frames, one door hung off its hinges. She had, of course, never seen the boy in his werewolf form, but she had no doubt that he had been the wolf savior in the forest that had pulled the pack away from her. She was also sure that he would not be returning until he’d retained his human form.
“She stilled her fragile nerves enough to put on a kettle for tea and after drinking a cup of it, went about straightening and repair as much of the cabin as her wand and magical skill would allow. After that was finished, she waited. Waited to make sure it was safe to go back home, waited to make sure that he had survived the night.
“She must have fallen asleep, because she awoke to a thud against the house. Sitting up with a start, she looked around her in terror, forgetting where she was for a moment. Light shone in through the shredded and torn curtains. There was the thud again. She rose and rushed to the door, listening. She could hear heavy breathing, but only coming from one set of lungs. Whoever it was, they were alone. And it was daylight. She took a deep breath, pulled out her wand and opened the door a sliver.
“At first, she didn’t recognize him. He lay at the door, as if it took all he had left just to get home and he didn’t have the strength for those last few steps. His back was towards her, his shirt hanging on by the bloodiest of fabric strips. She recognized his hair though, matted and muddied as it was, she knew it was him. Rushing to his side, she turned him gently to assess his wounds fully. He screamed against the movement.
“The sound of his anguish reverberated through the forest, setting resting birds to scatter, animals to flee and the very wind to shift and swirl around her. Instantly, she stopped what she was doing and using her wand and all the magic she had yet learned to magically and painlessly lift him off the ground, through the door and to the small, shabby bedroom.
“She scoured the house for medicines, potions and bandages to tend to his wounds. Of course he was fully stocked. Working on his injuries, she saw layers upon layers of scars from years of nights like last night's and marveled at the life this boy led.
“He was unconscious through most of the tending she performed, and she was glad for it. She couldn’t imagine the pain he was enduring and she took comfort in the fact that he could shut his mind down to avoid it. She made sure to apply as much soothing and healing ointments as she could, so that when he did finally awake to his fate, the pain would be lessened as much as possible.
“She was singing a healing verse over him when he finally did open his eyes. After a moment of focusing, his eyes widened in terror and he attempted to sit up. ‘What are you…? Are you okay....? Did anything…?’
“She stilled his lips with her fingertip. ‘I’m fine.’
“‘You are?’
“‘Completely.’
“‘Then…’ he paused, clearing his dry, scratchy throat. ‘Why are you… what are you doing here?’
“She smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. ‘You saved my life last night; I wanted to return the favor.’
“He stared at her a moment, as if dazed and not comprehending her words. ‘You… you shouldn’t be here… I’m still… still dangerous…’
“She looked down at him; weak and seemingly unable to even move, let alone do anything even remotely dangerous. ‘I’ll take my chances.’
“He struggled to sit up, wincing with each millimeter of movement. ‘No. Please. I… I don’t… I don’t want you to… to see me like this…’
“She went to protest, but this time, he stopped her with his finger to her lips. ‘Please. Just go.’
“She sighed, then nodded and arose. She was at the door before she turned around. ‘Thank you.’
“‘For what?’
“‘For saving my life last night.’
“He smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’”
Narcissa usually stopped her story there, but sometimes Draco would press her to continue. “Then what happened? Did she ever run away again? Did she ever see the werewolf again? Did they remain friends?”
She would answer her questions in short sentences, the magic of storytelling completely gone and replaced with a wistful sort of melancholy that Draco didn’t understand but always made him hug her tight. “So, she never ran away again?”
“Never on a full moon, no. From time to time she did venture out, but she’d learned a valuable lesson about responsibility, about duty. More importantly though, she learned that as sad and often times lonely as her life was, it could have been much, much worse.”
When Draco got a bit older and understood more that she was talking about herself and that the man in the story who her character self pined for, was not his father, he would press even further for a happy resolution to the story. “But, she learned to love the man she was forced to marry right?”
Narcissa would look down at him and smile sadly. “Yes. She did.”
“And he loved her back?”
She would look out in the distance. “He did. You have to remember; this marriage was just as much planned and prepared for him against his will as it was for her. They learned to love each other as well as they could.”
As well as they could... that phrase stuck with Draco. So, he would ask the only question that mattered to him as a child. “But they both loved their child, right?”
Narcissa hugged him tight. “With all their hearts. They were so proud of him, and he made them happier than anything else in the world.”
Sometimes Draco would watch his mother and father very closely. They seemed happy… ish. He didn’t really have anything to compare them with though. They certainly looked happier than his grandparents did, or his aunt Bellatrix and Rodolphus, from the pictures of their wedding. They seemed more siblings than man and wife. Still though, with all her reassurances of the opposite, he couldn’t help looking at his mother knowing she had a past (no matter that most of what he knew was probably some sort of fiction) that she still held onto, and always seemed a bit saddened by what could have been and would never be.
But, if she had gone a different way, if she had been allowed to love another man, how would his, Draco Malfoy’s life be? Without Lucius Malfoy as his father? Not being a Malfoy at all? With a werewolf as a father? Draco shivered at the thought.
Sometimes though, when he catches his father in suspicious circumstances, when he sees that the nobility of pureblood wizard had an unsavory side that no one talked about, that everyone looked the other way about, he wondered.
“My father,” Draco started one night as Narcissa helped him prepare for bed, “He’s a good man, yes?”
She settled his blankets up under his chin and sat beside him, reaching for his hand and the bracelet he still wore at all times. His mother had always insisted and he had never questioned it. He imagined some sort of magical protection, some family curse the emerald amulet countered. She stroked the stone as she answered. “Your father is one of the best men.”
He rolled onto his side and curled into her hip. Content with the answer and his place in the world, and more importantly, his place in his parents’ world.
~oOo~
His years at Hogwarts were filled with crushing defeats and small victories. Being pureblood set him up in the right circles, like it did in the wizarding world at large, and he made friends easily… well, mostly easy. In his parents’ day, however, Hogwarts was the bastion of pureblood privilege and rule, but it wasn’t that way for Draco. Not with a Headmaster who seemed to prefer mudbloods to nobility, who hired the sketchiest sort of staff and who gave the very most special treatment to a runt who had supposedly stopped the Dark Lord with his bare hands, or the smell of his baby breath, the shriek of his baby lungs. Whatever.
It was all myth and folklore, whispered rumors and lies and that little puke was going to ride it for the entire time he spent at Hogwarts, no matter how it affected anyone else. It was one thing that the entirety of the student body seemed to bow to the boy- all but his faithful Slytherins that was-
but that the staff also held the insignificant child in such high regard as well was sickening. The only staff he felt any kinship with his hatred for the Boy Wonder was Professor Snape. Of course Filch gave Potter trouble too, but what did he matter? He was a nothing. Draco could care less what the worthless and insignificant thought of Harry Potter.
Like that Hagrid monster who devoted himself so fully to Potter. The day that he discovered he’d be calling that oaf Professor was the day that he completely gave up on any thoughts that Hogwarts was still a great institute for learning. And it was only the first day of classes that his beliefs were so completely proven correct, after being almost immediately sent to the Hospital Wing with a broken arm- okay, fractured, whatever, it hurt a lot. He’d even lost consciousness, and when he came-to what felt like moments later, but must have been hours, he was shocked to see his mother sitting beside his bed.
“Mother?”
“Draco, darling! How are you?”
“I’m fine. I think. Why are you here? Am I dying?”
“Of course not. But you were hurt and I was made aware of it. Your father has some business to conclude, then he will be here to meet with the Headmaster about what is to be done.”
Part of him was deeply embarrassed that she was there to baby him, but a bigger part was quite pleased that he had someone who was this devoted to him. It set him apart, made him special. Important.
His father usually came to deal with school situations, being on the Board of Governors and deeply concerned about the school and its declining reputation, but his mother had never came, sending care package after care package instead.
Many people came in to visit while she was there, the Headmaster, who was oddly sprite and jovial. Well, it wasn’t that odd, but Draco was unsettled by it, having hardly ever seen him except in large groups- Opening Feasts and the like- and it was strange to see he was the same in a large crowd as with an audience of two. Draco wondered how this man had the history he did. How did this man defeat anyone? How did he strike fear in the heart of someone like the Dark Lord? He was a joke.
Professor Snape also came by. Of course he did, he was the Head of Draco’s house and he knew that Snape had once been friends with his parents. What Draco wasn’t expecting was a visit from Professor Lupin.
“Lupin,” Professor Snape snarled when the man entered the room.
“Severus,” Lupin responded cordially. If he’d heard the loathing in Professor Snape’s voice, he hid it well. Draco got the distinct impression that was very much the case, that Professor Lupin somehow reveled in Professor Snape’s displeasure.
So fascinated by this exchange, he didn’t notice his mother’s reaction to the exchange until he felt her hand clutch tightly to his wrist and the amulet that rested there. Thankfully, it was his uninjured arm, but it still hurt.
Professor Snape left with a flourish of his robes and mumbling something about a potion needing his attention.
There was a weird quiet in the room after Snape left. Draco studied the odd Defense Against the Arts Teacher that he had just met earlier that week intrigued by the exchange between the two professors and determined to get to the bottom of it.
“Mrs. Malfoy,” Professor Lupin finally said, and there was a weird lingering in the way he pronounced her name. He had done the same thing during their first class when he’d come to Draco. Again, there was something there.
And then his mother talked and he knew there was some sort of history.
“Remus.”
They just stared at each other and if it weren’t for his mother’s hand on his wrist, her thumb rubbing along the emerald, Draco might have felt as if the room had forgotten about him.
“How is he?” Lupin asked.
“He?” Narcissa said.
“Your son, Draco.”
“My son…” Draco turned to her. He’d never seen this expression on her face. He’d never seen her… flustered was the only way he could describe it. “My son is fine, aren’t you, Draco?”
“I’m fine. Just a little pain.”
“Good. Glad to hear it,” Professor Lupin said, but he was no longer looking at Draco. It appeared that he had no more to say, but he still stood there for a very long, awkward moment before mumbling something too low to hear, and then turning and walking out.
Draco was almost afraid to look at his mother. She seemed to feel likewise, because when he did finally turn to her, she had turned her back to him. He watched as she did what he’d seen her do many times before. He watched her shoulders rise and fall in as she took long breaths and when she turned back, all was right with the world again. She looked strong, powerful and in complete control.
He wanted to say something, ask so many questions, but he was afraid to break the spell. It wasn’t worth it. He never wanted to see his mother unsure of herself again.
So, instead, he faked sleepiness and accepted her mothering attentions with a sigh. He was just about to fall asleep for real, when he felt her lightly and delicately take his hand again. He brought it to her lips and kissed it and then the piece of jewelry. He peeked one eyelid to see her look around the room and checking to make sure he was asleep. He shut his eyes quickly.
At first he didn’t understand what was happening, he felt a tingle in his arm, emanating around the heirloom, spreading along his arm, neck, face and body. And it reverberated under his skin, to his heart, his lungs. He heard a chant, a song in his mother’s whispered voice and it brought with it a childhood memory, a remembrance of this happening many times in his childhood. It was just in a dusty corner of his mind to remember more, see more, understand more, but then a fuzziness washed over him, a washing away that also felt incredibly familiar, though he could no longer hold the thought of it or anything else in his head.
When he awoke, the sun was just beginning to poke over the horizon from the eastern facing window. His mother had slumped over him, her slumbering head resting on his stomach. She must be aching, Draco thought and his heart filled with devotion. The same sort of devotion that he felt wash over her towards him. She had stayed there to protect him. But from what he didn’t know… or couldn’t remember? His head felt heavy and completely devoid of anything all at the same time.
She must have sensed his stirrings because she sat up. “Draco. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
He couldn’t think of anything he needed. Couldn’t think of anything. “What happened?”
She looked scared for a moment before the expression was schooled. “You were attacked by a Hippogriff.”
“I know that. I know that’s why my arm is in a sling and I feel pain in my chest. But, what else happened? My head feels fuzzy.”
“Perhaps a side effect of the potion you were given?”
He studied her for a moment. “Must be.” He got flashed of jumbled words, phrases, faces. “Were Dumbledore and Snape here last night?”
“Yes, your Headmaster and Head of House both came by to make sure you were alright.”
“And…” It was right at the corners, right on the tip. “Professor Lupin?”
“Who?”
“My new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. I thought I remembered…” he saw her blank face. “Must have… must have been a dream,” he finished unconvincingly. Why would he have been dreaming about a man he’d only just met who had no connection with him or his family?
He asked that question then, and he continued to ask it in the months that followed as he found himself watching the new teacher, fascinated by him for reasons he couldn’t understand. Sometimes it felt as if he knew him somehow from a different life, like he had some connection to the man that he couldn’t sort out. The professor was nothing to look at, he looked very unloved and uncared for, his clothes were in shambles, everything he owned seemed to have been owned by every other wizard in the world before him and he had an odd sadness about him that only rarely lifted when he got very involved in a lesson.
Draco especially watched him while the man watched and studied Potter. He seemed to always be watching the other boy, always on the cusp of saying something to him, reaching out to him in some way in those first weeks of school. Then they started having secret meetings, extra lessons were the rumor, but for some reason it did something to Draco, burned him with an unexplainable jealousy that no other special treatment had. The whole situation and his reaction to it baffled him. So much so that he did what he tried not to do, he wrote to his mother about it. Not the feeling-he didn’t know how to explain that-but he did seethe about Professor Lupin’s preferences and Harry Potter’s special treatments.
He was shocked a few weeks later, at the second Hogsmeade weekend when his mother made another appearance.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” Draco asked as he walked out of the castle gates and saw her waiting there for him.
“I thought it would be nice to have some tea with my son, maybe get some Christmas shopping done, now that you’re allowed out of the castle from time to time. I do hope I’m not cramping your style.”
Crabbe and Goyle sniggered behind him. “Not at all. Tea sounds lovely.”
He left with her, turning to his friends to say he’d met up with them later.
They went to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop and found a quiet table in the corner.
“So, how is school going?” Narcissa asked after their pot was delivered to them.
Draco shrugged.
“Tell me more about this new professor, Lupin was it?”
Draco looked at her. Her expression and the tone of her voice, the offhand of her question were all out of sorts with each other.
“Ah, he’s a good teacher, I guess. Seems to know a great deal about the Dark Arts, or the defense of them anyway…” he stopped and did the math. “Did you know him? Did he go to school with you?”
“With me?” she stammered. He continued to study her. Something was off with her. She continued. “If I’m remembering correctly, he was there towards the end of my years. He was close friends with Sirius I think. In fact, I think it was he and James Potter that made Sirius turn away from the family.”
Draco spat out his tea. “He was friends with Potter’s father?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, that explains everything.”
“Yes. Perhaps.” She was quiet again for a long time, and again she tried unconvincingly to sound nonchalant when she asked, “So, he hasn’t spoken to you?”
“What do you mean, spoken to me? He’s my professor, so yeah, we’ve spoken.”
“But he hasn’t… well, singled you out for harsher treatment or picked on you… you know, because of who you are? Who your parents are?”
Draco tilted his head and crinkled his eyes, thoroughly confused. “Because of my parents?”
“You know, because we were on opposite sides of the war? Because of our past allegiances.”
He thought for a moment. “Not any more than anyone else… in fact…”
“What?” she asked a bit too eagerly.
“I don’t know, there was a moment… that first day, during roll call, when he called out my name, he sort of… I don’t know… lingered at my name, my last name.”
“But he didn’t say anything? Not then? Not later?”
“No.”
She looked out the window and Draco waited for her to say something more, but she didn’t seem to have anything else to say. “It’s really nothing. He’s fine. I just wrote to you in a moment of frustration about the Potter special treatment.”
She sighed. “I know it’s tough. Almost unbearable, but really, in the climate of today, it doesn’t do to antagonize The Boy Who Lived.” She said the last with her lips twisted into a scowl.
Draco scowled too, then bowed his head and mumbled, “I know.”
She’d told him this same thing many times. Last year she’d actually sat he and his father down for this very same lecture after the little nothing freed one of their House Elves.
Maybe she was right, but he couldn’t help it, he liked to believe like his father did, that one day- and sooner rather than later- there’d be an uprising, a setting of right in the world that would put them back where they belonged in the Wizarding world.
Throughout the rest of Draco’s third year, his mother found more reasons to visit, Hogsmeade weekends, the rumors of Sirius’ attacks at Hogwarts. All the dark dealings. Draco couldn’t understand why this year was different than the year before when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. Sure, he was in more danger from Sirius Black, his own cousin who had turned from the family before going completely mad. Even his mother didn’t know where his true allegiance lied. Was he seeking revenge on his family or on Harry Potter? Perhaps both.
Draco was glad to have so much attention being paid on him by his mother, even if each visit ended in a weird sense of forgetfulness and snatches of moments jumbled in his mind. Not memories because they made no sense, but he’d never given his imagination this much credit either. They were all centered around Professor Lupin. He was always there, lurking in the shadows of Draco’s thoughts. Draco could see snatches of moments, turning a corner and seeing the Professor’s hand on his mother’s arm, whispering something urgent in her ear. He recalled his mother’s flushed cheeks, a certain light in her eyes he’d not seen before. He could recall tears in his mother’s eyes and a something like a longing in her very being.
But then she’d be gone and all those jumbled thoughts, imaginings and memories would be gone. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Professor Lupin was somehow an important character in the story of his mother’s life.
The feeling remained so strong that when it was discovered at the last day of the term that Remus Lupin was in fact a werewolf, it all clicked in place to Draco like he’d known it his whole life. The boy at the outskirts of the forest, the girl wasting away in a castle on a hill. His mother. Remus Lupin.
Remus Lupin who had once saved his mother’s life. Remus Lupin who had most likely been the only man his mother had ever loved with her own free will. Remus Lupin who was not his father.
He shivered. Where had that thought even come from? He unconsciously clutched at the bracelet around his wrist.
Part 2
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