Cowboys and Angels

moment four: a guide for beginning teachers (April 1982)

It would be so easy to say he hated the children.

It would probably be easier to admit he had no place here, no place guiding or shaping the bright and bubbly souls of tomorrow's youth, and that he should just admit his failing, and wash his hands of this place, and Dumbledore.

It was certainly the most logical thing to do.

But logic was for potions, and science, and not for people. He had certainly learnt that lesson, and found fate to be a rather interesting teacher, if somewhat harsher than he would have preferred. The more you attempted to control something, the more the experiment got out of control. As the Muggles had realised, observation itself affected the outcome, as the observer could never exist in isolation from what he was observing.

So had it been with him. All those ideals, all that fervour, reduced to petty displays of power to impress a man who was already dead. No elegance. No beauty. Just ashes, and the taste of dust in his mouth. He had wanted a revolution: a better world, free of the petty hatreds, the fear and the pollution of the Muggles.

He had watched the Muggle world growing up, lived in it, and knew there had to be a better place, simply because there couldn't be a worse. He'd discovered, to his chagrin, that the human capacity to self-destruct wasn't limited to Muggles. Wizards, for all their advanced culture and learning shared that same animal desire at the heart of their soul, that impulse that cause toddlers to break each other's toys, because they were not their own.

He'd wanted to set up rules, strictures, clear guidance. He'd seen what games man could play when left unattended. But in the end, no-one had put any limits on those he'd joined, and so they killed because they could, desecrated the temple because it was there.

He'd wanted to topple empires.

The only empire that had toppled had been the one in his head.

Sighing, he took another paper off the pile, and dipped his quill in red ink. It might not be much - Merlin knew it wasn't - but he had a place here, and he could create a little order from the chaos around him. For however long it lasted, it was something at least, and would not get swallowed up by the shadows of another man's dream.

He still hated the children, though.

moment five: power without tory. (September 1982.)

They had moved quickly, of course. Even with the madman dead or banished, they wanted to make sure no lieutenant was bent on taking his place. His name had been associated with the enemy for years now, and wasn't that why the Potter boy had fled with his tail between his legs?

Not strong enough to handle the truth.

At least, that was what she had told herself at first. Suspicions had arisen, but they were nothing more than suspicions. She could hardly talk about it, hardly ask her husband if he loved another - she knew he didn't love her, at least not in the way she wanted, but it would be worse if he was still actively pining for someone else, especially if they were dead and buried in the cold ground and he had put them there.

The suspicions had grown, however, and then one night Lucius had been taken. Bundled out of the Manor like a rag doll, a sheet of charges shoved in her face as she stormed down the staircase after them, clad only in her nightgown, making sure that every single Auror in the house could hear her very pointed accusations regarding their parentage, intelligence and physical compatibility with various species of otter.

The house-elves cowered under their beds, useless, every single one. They had ransacked the Manor as she watched, stilling her with a charm 'for her own protection'. Narcissa knew what they were searching for, and felt safe: in the months following the Dark Lord's fall (say fall, and not disappearance. Disappearance implies he might come back, and she couldn't cope with that) she had arranged the transfer of some of Lucius' more exotic possessions to some of the Morgan family vaults on Mona, and there were many stores in Knockturn Alley they could be parcelled out to. Suffice to say, both she and Lucius became acquainted with a variety of very friendly shopkeepers.

In the end, they had taken him out the front door, and shoved a sheet of charges in her face, a legal warrant, and she was just as helpless as any house elf. How that infuriated her! She'd stormed around the manor for hours after, tearing apart sheets and manchester, her nails raking across canvas, hurling glass and earthenware into walls, doors, floors and fireplaces. She might have actually cared if she didn't know which objects were priceless, and which were Malfoy family fakes.

She turned up at the Ministry the following morning, seemingly unruffled by her complete lack of sleep. Not a hair was out of place, for if she looked every inch the imperious aristocrat, she might actually be treated differently, or they might slip and let something loose they weren't supposed to say. Reality never mattered, she knew that. Appearance, rumour, the word, the idea - they were all. It didn't matter if her husband was gay, as long as she shot down every potential conception that he was. On the other hand, Lucius could have been as paternal and homely as Arthur Weasley, and yet the right words in the right people's ears would have had half of London certain he abused his children, or the like.

Power was a wonderful thing, even though she'd never had to use it much before. Her family had taken care of her, and then Lucius had caged her, but now she was fighting for him, and herself. For the lies and rumours she'd created to mask the truth, to allow Draco to grow up in a world where the reality didn't matter.

Narcissa had walked straight into the Ministry like a queen, imperious and cool, family solicitor striding besides her, and she'd been blocked at every route. The prisoner was being interrogated, she was told. The prisoner was being refused access due to the seriousness of his crimes. The prisoner was in the lavatory, did she mind waiting? And now visiting times were over. Come back tomorrow?

Still she persisted, refusing to let these petty bastards the satisfaction of seeing her cry, or unruffled. They sent her on a wild goose chase, speaking to Aurors, ranked in increasing importance, who all told her the same things: she couldn't see the prisoner, not till he had been fully interrogated, and no, they wouldn't know when that would be. For similar reasons, the charges had not been finalised. Surely she understood?

Narcissa smiled, and thanked them for their trouble, and threw things when she got back home. She who hardly ever drank had downed a sherry before she'd realised, and then another.

Fortunately, although Lucius might very well end up dragging them all down, at least she had Draco. At first Narcissa had worried he was too quiet, even for his age, until she noticed that he was quiet because he was busy. Draco was watching, always watching, with eyes that seemed old. He tried not to gurgle, or wail, probably because he seemed to see that if he made a sound, whatever he was watching would stop, and he would be taken care of.

She knew that kind of behaviour was beyond precocious and bordering on the abnormal, but then, Draco was no ordinary child. Still, he was her son, and with Lucius temporarily indisposed, Narcissa revelled in the freedom of being a single parent; no-one looking over her shoulder to protest, or to override as Lucius frequently had. The nanny she had often used was reduced to part time, and Narcissa spent hours in the Manor Nursery and adjacent rooms playing with him, bouncing him gently on her knee, feeding him, playing him recorded charms of great music, reading to him, showing him the world - showing him there was so much more than merely being a Malfoy.

The first week without Lucius went by quicker than she had thought possible: there was her, and Draco, full, busy days being a mother, ordering a household, and the family business dealings. Narcissa was pleasantly surprised at how easily she, who had lived for Lucius so many years ago, could cope without him. She'd been trained for this kind of work by her mother, and finally got the chance to be herself.

It was then she'd realised she didn't love him anymore. But at least she had Draco, and there was work to be done. If absolutely necessary, she could always have a little drink just before bed, to calm her nerves and relax her muscles, and one in the morning upon waking.

But more than anything, she enjoyed her power.