Reflections in a Broken Mirror

Reflections In A Broken Mirror

Prologue

Narcissa Black Malfoy's head was held at an elegant angle, chin lifted regally. Eyes impassive, carriage calm and graceful, her air of aristocratic grace was flawless.

Nothing was further from the truth.

Though her appearance was one without fault, her mind was awhirl with thoughts she would never expose to the light.

For as long as she had been able to remember, Narcissa Black Malfoy had come second to someone.

Bellatrix, with her sensuous features and curtain of dark tresses, was ever the first of the Black daughters. She knew her duties to her blood, marrying Rodolphus Lestrange, a fine young man. It was too bad they never had children. It was audacious of her, to join the Dark Lord. But it showed a desire to sustain the old ways that was admirable and uncommonly strong in one so young.

Andromeda, with her reckless smile and unseemly willfulness, caused trouble for its own sake. Careless with her beauty and thoughtless with her affections, she had tainted the blood of a noble line to produce a daughter with extraordinary abilities. It was really too bad the child was a half blood. Metamorphmagi were rare in the days of so much untoward mixing of blood. Such a fluke was not unheard of, but the infrequency of such happenings made Andromeda's coupling with a Muggleborn all the more glaring a transgression.

Then there was Narcissa. She was a pleasant girl, if a bit demure. She was always exceptionally polite, a true example of fine breeding. Yet something about her had always been a bit unusual. Perhaps being overshadowed by sisters like Bellatrix and Andromeda had something to do with it. Having two such forceful and contradictory personalities eclipsing hers had caused the girl to grow up uncommonly shy.

This was not to say that she didn't stand out in other ways. Undeniably, she was clever, though one would never draw that conclusion if only her unobtrusive nature were observed. Like her sisters, she was quite beautiful, though she did not possess Bella's dark good looks or Andromeda's wildflower prettiness. Her forget-me-not eyes and burnished flaxen hair were lovely against her lily-pale complexion, creating an ephemeral glow that--if one were fanciful enough--might be associated with nymphs or angels. Delicate, she was, and arresting.

It did not surprise anyone that Lucius Malfoy's head would be turned by the youngest of the Black daughters. A young governor of Hogwarts School and quite influential politically, he and Narcissa made a charming couple.

Their courtship, though, was not expected to last for very long. The sheer intensity of Lucius's personality simply could not be balanced with Narcissa's restrained manner. True, he did maintain a chilly reserve, but it served to highlight rather than mask an underlying temper that in never reaching the surface was all the more alarming. Things seemed destined end unpleasantly.

And yet . . .

It was not hard to see the genuine affection between the two, reserved though it was. This in itself was strange, for what place did love have in a marriage such as theirs--and marriage did indeed seem to be on the horizon for the pair. But love was an insubstantial thing to base a marriage on. Money, political influence, or even pure power were acceptable prerequisites, and if a comfortable sort of fondness came into the deal later on, all the better. In many eyes, love was the dominion of commoners and faerie tale princes.

Were not many princes of myth fair young men to whom lovely young women became pledged with glad hearts?

So began a strange sort of faerie tale.

For her part, Narcissa was an utterly unknown type of young woman to Lucius. Her lack of pretense and calm nature were vastly different from the coy flirtatious games that other young ladies participated in. Magically, she was one of most naturally gifted young women he had ever encountered.

Narcissa, in turn, enjoyed Lucius's dry--if dark--wit and considered him to be among the most intelligent men she knew. He was a remarkably talented wizard and had a passion for gaining knowledge. His need to learn and grow in personal ability was fairly astonishing, and Narcissa found it attractive that he sought constantly to improve himself.

In regard to physical attraction, it was present. The two were not the type to be caught up in amorous glances and showy displays; always the acted with the highest degree of self-possession, he, always a faultless gentleman and she ever the well-bred young lady. As to what transpired away from the eyes of others . . . well, it occurred away from others did it not?

Little else need be said.

As the affection between the two became more distinct, tongues stopped wagging about the strangeness of their match and soon the banns were called.

Not long after this the rise of the Dark Lord cast them and a number of other young purebloods into suspicion. Tension in the wizarding community grew, putting cracks in the spun glass perfection of the Malfoy's pretty faerie tale life. Or more accurately, one large, jagged crack.

Narcissa had mixed feelings concerning Lucius's involvement with the Dark Lord.

She trusted her husband implicitly, believing that if he thought he was making the right decision, he was indeed correct. He was an intelligent man, and she loved him, so she chose not to stand in the way of something he was so passionate about. He would never restrict her in any endeavors she wished to pursue, and she afforded him the same courtesy.

The death of her cousin Regulus at the hands of his master caused her to rethink her earlier assumptions. It did not seem right to her that her young cousin meet an end such as that for merely deciding he no longer wanted to be a Death Eater. He was after all, little more than a boy. And thought she would have never dreamed to voice the words, a part of her still cared for her sister, fearing for Andromeda and her little girl, the niece she had never met. Her worry extended to even Bella, the elder sister she had so wholly envied and adored throughout her childhood and on into her adolescent years.

Mostly though, she feared for her husband, finding it more difficult each time to set her feelings aside when he would slip from their bed and don his cloak, the hood casting all his features into shadow but his eyes, which became the same cold inhuman silver as the mask held in his pale hand.

Lucius assured his young wife that there was less danger to him than she believed. True, Regulus's death was unfortunate. No one deserved to die that young. But it couldn't be denied that he had been attempting to back out of an important task. The punishment had been harsh, but decisive. The Dark Lord's methods were cruel at times, but his power was undeniable, and he was very obviously accomplishing quite a lot. The admiration in Lucius's voice was obvious.

To the woman standing before him, it was as if he had slapped her across her pale cheek.

In that moment, Narcissa was once again put second in line.

* * * *

Failure was unacceptable to Lucius Malfoy.

This fact makes it easier to explain the change that came over him when his master was defeated.

No, that isn't quite correct. Change is not a sufficient term for what took place.

Perhaps 'partial inner death' is more appropriate an expression.

A scar that was not his to carry--for he had been only a servant after all, had he not--had been placed on his soul, permanently coloring his demeanor. His dry wit turned into scathing cynicism. To another woman, this change--again, the inadequate expression--would have created a rift in her personality. But Narcissa Black Malfoy had had a lifetime of practice at being next in line to draw on. That, and a core of steel, were what enabled her to wrap her arms around the cold form she called her beloved and attempt to thaw that part of him that had been lost to her since he had first kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes.

As to the inquiry of the ministry, Lucius's claims of lost memory and an inability to disobey the criminal orders of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named were met with little opposition. Besides, there was little the ministry could say--he was a large source of the funding they used to repair the damage done during these dark times.

There was a bright spot amidst the adversities that had befallen the Malfoys.

One would naturally assume that a man so absorbed deeply in the service of a dark power, a man who had little time for his beloved wife would have a difficult time learning to love a child.

Natural assumptions have their uses, but they have a tendency to be incorrect at some of the most astonishing times.

From a very early age, it was patently obvious to the Malfoys that their son was alarmingly clever. Lucius wasted no time in developing this natural acumen, teaching his small son all that the child could absorb from the time he was old enough to sit at his father's knee in the vast library of the Malfoy manor. He was a patient teacher, but also a strict taskmaster. He instilled in the small boy his passion for the acquirement of knowledge and a desire to hone his abilities. For this, Lucius was rewarded with unbounded adoration, something he had no idea how to deal-with. It was not that he did not love Draco--never could it be doubted that he loved his son--it was that he could not reconcile the failure he knew he was with this child's violent blind affection.

More than anything he wanted to be worthy of it, though he knew that was impossible. So he strove to make sure that his son would succeed where he had failed.

Draco craved his father's approval much in the manner that a junkie craves his next fix. Unlike any junkie, however, Draco never obtained the high he was looking for. The barest of stern acknowledgements were the most he ever received, and always--always--they were laced with astringent allusions to the need for improvement.

For Draco, it was much like being handed his favorite sweet after seeing it be dipped in salt.

Still, the boy threw himself relentlessly against the wall of his father's reserve with as much strength as he possessed, ignoring the psychic bruises he received. The hunger in his pale eyes never went away, though it was clear that Draco himself was unaware of what precisely it was he craved, having never fully experienced it.

Narcissa watched this interplay with a sort of sorrowful resignation. She had realized long ago that Draco lacked his parents' emotional reserve. Anything he felt showed on his face. Often times it showed in other ways as well. The vibration of small objects or the flickering of candles sometimes accompanied strong bursts of childish anger or frustration, and to a lesser extent joy and sorrow. This, while being a clear indication of strong magical aptitude, was utterly unacceptable. And so it became necessary to instill in Draco a sense of restraint.

It worked. There was no denying that fact.

But there were times when Narcissa wondered if they had gone too far. There were times when his feelings showed clearly on his face, but he denied them. Other times it seemed that her son was a creation of marble, with no soul to speak of.

Sitting in the courtroom, with its dim light from the few sconces affixed to the damp walls of ancient brick, the bleak realizations that crowded into Narcissa's head gained strength. Her husband was chained to the throne they had set him upon, his eyes carefully expressionless as he replied to Cornelius Fudge's accusations, sealing his damnation.

Lucius had assured her that this meant little, that Azkaban would do little to hold those who were faithful servants of the Dark Lord. Narcissa couldn't bring herself to believe his words, her once unshakeable belief in her beloved's words faltering.

She'd been placed second, and this time it was absolute. Whatever the final outcome of the events that were in motion, Narcissa had lost her place in Lucius's heart to nightmares made flesh.

She could have accepted it, would have acceded to it with a cracked and resigned heart, were it only herself that had once again been set aside. It was a part of her very nature. She didn't have the will to do otherwise. Not anymore. Slowly, she had allowed her inner steel to wear away, proving that perhaps it had not been steel at all, but something of lesser strength, less significant value.

But to place Draco, their son--his son--after anything at all, was unforgivable. Draco was not someone who came second. It was not in his nature to be accepting of defeat. He would take down the sturdiest of fortresses with his hands alone and drive himself to a death of exhaustion rather than admit that the task took more strength than he possessed.

It was his father's legacy, that quality. The two were more alike than most could ever guess, and in some of the most surprising ways, from their dry, dark wit to their smooth, just accented diction when reading or speaking Latin.

In other things, they were more violently different than a shard of ice and a tongue of flame.

And in some things, she could see small hints of herself in her son. They were minor things, only noticeable it seemed if she looked out of the corner of her eye; the way he held his wand, the ruler straight nose, or his deft hand at quick, finely detailed sketches.

She didn't let these small things fool her. He was, and would ever remain, his father's son, and it shattered her heart that all of this was nothing to Lucius in comparison to even the smallest of his shadowed master's whims.

As they completed the pronouncement of Lucius's sentence, Narcissa found herself sending up a silent prayer to any powers that might listen that her son was, for all their similarities, made of a different sort of substance than those that had created him.