Narcissism

If one is to believe that an infant is a gift, one must first care for a child, and love it as their own.

To believe that the blessed are the cursed, is to be woken up every night at exactly half past nine and gaze upon the pale, scowling little monster.

It wasn't so much that I didn't love my son, but more that I hated what having a child had done to me.

I began to feel that I was responsible for every little fix that the squirming, pointy little boy got himself into. I felt as if whatever I did, I must watch myself and wonder if the baby was listening. Wonder if he was taking in all that was before him, and if he knew who his parents where.

Who one's parents are and what they are prove to be entirely different concepts.

Lucius and I, since our marriage, had aged beyond our years, and become tired. Tired of the world, and tired of good and evil. Good, the cliché, and in my opinion, overrated state of mind for the stupid, the ignorant, and the arrogant. Evil is not so evil in the eyes of one such as myself. If there is a definite line between the two, can it be blurred? Can it not be bent and mangled to fit the stereotypes of caped villains and handsome antagonists with angelic demeanor. How dull. How boring. How cardboard and two dimensional.

Being a savior, a hero is vastly overrated.

Lucius and I shared this view, and so we often discussed such things as good and evil, right and wrong. I enjoyed debating with him, because he could counter anything I said. He hardly ever agreed on the small subjects that had no meaning and didn't matter, but we always agreed on this, and hardly anything else; including children.

I never wanted a child, and I did, in fact, think it a small, and insignificant matter. Lucius desired to produce and heir to the Malfoy mansion and the fortune of the family along with it. It was expected of us, considering out bloodline.

Making love was a rather unusual affair between us, and it was always uncomfortable. After a while, I began to suspect that I could be infertile. I was rather stupid at the time, and felt extremely indifferent, ironic as that may sound.

It was clear that, after a month of carelessness on my part, and worry on my husband's, I was with child. My husband was glad, but I highly doubt it was because he was going to become a father, but instead because he would be saved the humiliation of failing to conceive a child to uphold the Pureblood family honor.

I dreaded the birth, and when it came, I screamed. I screamed for the pain, and because I was angry, and felt deprived. It was the end of parties and the easy life, I thought. It was the end of youth, and the beginning of motherhood.

All morning, afternoon, and night, he would lie in his crib, barely moving, as limp as a rag doll, not touching the small stuffed animals or the cushioning walls of the bed. He would be as stiff as a board, and I could barely see his small, frail chest heaving slowly up and down with each breath he took. He simply stared. Stared at me with those beady little eyes, a bright shade of gray, and contrasting with his ghostly skin tone. He hardly looked as human as a real, human baby. He seemed so...unnatural.

No. Little Draco didn't seem real at all. He looked like a china doll...breakable.

Sometimes, I feared that I was going mad. I would cry on the shoulder of my husband, who stared coldly, though his grip on me was tight, secure, but without real feeling. He sometimes smiled stiffly, and told me not to be so silly as to think that the child could reason and think about any more than eating, sleeping, and wondering.

I soon became afraid of running to my beloved every time my thoughts managed to roll back to the boy who stared, and nothing more. Whenever I picked him up he would hang limply, and I would talk to him. My voice would break slowly, and I might burst into tears before the night was over.

Malfoys do not cry. They do not make fools of themselves and break down. They are proud and never, never wallow in self-pity.

The dark hallways of the mansion seemed to become darker still, and close in. The hallways became narrow, and the doors remained locked. I locked myself in my bed chamber, and would lie on the soft, dark gray sheets that covered the bed, and hung limply over the winding poles above to create a sheer curtain around me. A false sense of security would fill me, and I would lose myself in emptiness. My husband had not touched me since the birth of my son. It was to be the last child I would bring into the world. I was sure of it.

Lucius seemed almost disgusted by the way I had acted then. He would not share my bed, and he would not kiss me on my lips. Only on my forehead, would he plant such a fake, unfeeling kiss as he did. All light had been consumed in the darkness of the walls of the Malfoy manor.

You're killing yourself slowly and quietly by holding up everything inside might have been the best option...no...it was. Sacrifice is obligatory when one has a child. I sacrificed much more than I had been willing to. I had not known in the least what kind of despair the birth would have brought upon me, and now I was forced to live with it. The only place I felt remotely at ease was in that dreary room, with it's tall, shaded windows, and dusty, stone fireplace that gave no warmth when lit.

Until, of course, a screaming cry would break through the silence, shattering my reserved calmness, and creating a feeling similar to the shock when one misses a step, and tumbles down a long, winding staircase.

I had hit the bottom of the stairs and lay in tatters and shards at its feet.

Soon, it occurred to me that I might never be happy again. Then, though, I was so utterly selfish that I could think of nothing but my own troubles. Had I made an attempt to change my perspective on the situation, and replace the feelings of regret with an optimistic outlook, I might have saved him from the same fate as I now face.

What of the child? I then thought, after weeks of not really being all there. Never leaving the mansion, and never opening the blinds.

I finally raised the windows, let in what little light I could, and gazed up at the cathedral ceiling in the little child's room. I looked to the crib of dark, polished wood that seemed to blend in with the sinister set up of the whole room. What a horrible environment for a baby, I thought.

It really must have been my own fault for the way the child has turned out. I don't blame him at all for the way he is...I blame myself.

If I never recover from this feeling of guilt, as Lucius insists that I won't out of pure spite and bitterness that has become obvious in his change of tone with me over the years since we had been married, then I will still no longer cry. I will not allow myself to feel remorse, and Draco's needs will take priority over any recurring selfishness.

My son has grown to be a coward; a selfish, bullying, coward.

"It isn't the boy's fault," I tell Lucius, every day of the beginning of the new year at Hogwarts School when Draco leaves on the train.

"No, Narcissa...I suppose it isn't."

Draco doesn't smile, or grin, or laugh unless it is at something morbid and satirical. He never laughs alongside friends, he only maliciously snickers at the misfortunes of others.

He sneers, and gazes blankly through the frost-covered window of the train. He is a clever boy...to watch, and to listen, to know...

Now, in his sixth year, I cannot say that I do not love him dearly and unconditionally. I love him. The young version of his father. Draco will never grow to love. He cannot love his parents, but he can love what they give him, and be grateful for the privileges he has because of them. I might be fooling myself if I said that he did try to love.

However, a Malfoy is secretive, isolated, and reserved. He is set apart from other Malfoys because he can tell what exactly is going on in his father's and my own mind.

Draco will always know, and he will always observe.

I blame myself...for marrying a Malfoy.