Tabula Rasa

Tabula Rasa

Draco unfurls the paper and lays it on the table. He instantly clicks his tongue at the still black-and-white photos. But there's no use in that, he knows. In this world, the pictures simply do not move.

There is something deeply ironic at work when Draco reads the Muggle news, which had, for many years now, preoccupied itself with the threat of terrorism. First, it was a fear of attacks from madmen outside the United Kingdom. Slowly, though, a new breed of madmen came to replace them, and the entire country held its collective silence when the prime minister appeared on national television, a severe tie affixed around his neck, to announce that a much more serious menace existed.

Draco had already moved to this little flat tucked behind a bakery when he and Mother ("Is this how these televisions work?" she had asked) watched the speech, static intermittently skewing the minister's words. The message, though, was clear, and it was one that Draco had known for ages, it seemed: a secretive group of white supremacists has emerged and has included wanton attacks on the civilian populace as a part of its agenda.

Of course, that they never left any racist messages in conjunction with their attacks went unnoticed, as was the observation that none of their "bombings" and murders were at all connected. For an organization that wished to broadcast such a conspicuous message, it certainly never spoke of them. That mattered not at all. Put fear into people's minds and they will stop thinking altogether.

This is what the Muggles believe. And they are, to a point, correct. Rufus Scrimgeour had done too good a job of informing his counterpart of the happenings of the Wizarding world.

But if the Muggles are convinced they know the nature of fear, Draco thinks as he scans the article, they know nothing. Let them step away from their sheltered world and part the curtains between the mundane and the magical, and let them find their fears are nothing.

He folds the paper and rearranges it so that the corners, the angles are perfect. Next to it, he places a mug of tea, still steaming. Mother will appreciate it when she returns home.

-

Draco closes his eyes. There is the Minister of Magic, declaring the entire Ministry would be devoted to the struggle against the Dark Lord, while the Dark Lord's followers have already infiltrated the Ministry itself. There is Hogwarts's most brilliant Mudblood, Hermione Granger, declaring herself forever dedicated to the cause of killing as many Death Eaters as possible. And there is the singing of glass piercing through the night, the rough hand upon his shoulder, and the jostling ride to London under the cover of darkness and delirium.

I've given up too much to see you both die, Father had told him and Mother.

Draco had always wondered if Father truly meant it, or if Father decided his actions would be more easily undertaken without the baggage of family to hindrance him.

Regardless, Draco now lives in Muggle London. The cries of war are distant.

-

Mother is a bloody little hypocrite. She says that she worries a lot, and that isn't a lie. Her once unlined face has been stroked by the caresses of weariness. Sometimes, she will refuse to get out of bed and will, instead, curl the coverlet around her body and lie there for hours. The raspy whisper of Lucius escapes from her lips. Draco would like to do that too, but he knows he'd go mad if he allowed himself to slip into such a state of ennui.

Then there are days Mother slips away from the building, her eyes gleaming as they did before, before anything happened. She tries so very hard, sometimes, to hide what she does. Draco is an adult now, hardened by the visage of war. He smiles. It won't ruin him to know that Mother, divorced as she may be from the Wizarding world, still carries out business for the Dark Lord, communicating with the other exiled Death Eater wives, gathering whatever information she can, aiding in whatever way possible.

Draco supposes it is an admirable thing to do.

-

She looks so beautiful by the lamplight, a tattered paperback clinched between her fingers. It's another one of her trashy romance novels; they've accrued a box full of them since they set up residence here. When Draco first saw them, he scoffed, and Mother, never one to overlook anything, turned towards him, shadows beneath her eyes.

"We'll be spending quite a bit of time here, love," she said to him. "I suggest finding a way to occupy yourself."

-

She looks so beautiful by the lamplight, but today, the tattered paperback clinched between her fingers shakes, its shadow wavering on the wall.

"Is something the matter, Mother?" Draco asks.

It is a question whose answer he already knows.

"Tomorrow afternoon, at three, there will be five knocks on the door." She picks up the blue porcelain cup next to her, bringing it up to her lips. A little tea sloshes out when it is set back down on the coaster. "Draco, you must remember this: do not open the door until the fifth knock. Otherwise, the messenger will leave."

He sinks to the floor beside her and leans against her legs. They are trembling too. "What's the point of this?"

"He'll look like a very ordinary Muggle, I'm told. But there will be a Malfoy crest on his tie, do you understand? You must look for the crest. And then he will say something. I want you to remember what he says. It is very, very important."

"This is about Father. Couldn't one of your friends just tell you?" The words come out harsher than he would have liked them to, so he lays a hand on her knee to soften them. And Draco realizes it is the first time he has allowed himself to wonder about his father, who could be alive, well, starving dead, or some strange combination of the above. "It is about him, isn't it?"

It is impossible to miss the ice blue of her eyes melt away, baring only Narcissa, stranded.

-

One, two, three, four, five, and Draco opens the door.

He looks away as the message is delivered. He instead examines the voice. It is low, gravely, perfectly suited to those suspense movies Muggles are always raving about. It is ominous, and he can't tell if those qualities are the result of a theatrical affection or if that is just how the man speaks.

He says, "There's naught that can be done."

-

Draco unfurls the paper and lays it on the table. Then he decides he doesn't want to read it.

-

He hasn't slept in Mother's bed since he was four years old, when he scampered down the hall in the sweat of a nightmare. In all honesty, he feels very little, only a touch of grief overpowered by the shadow of apathy. It's not what a son should feel. Mother feels otherwise.

The pillow is sticky with tears when he crawls in, his limbs suddenly too big for him. There's no moon out tonight; it holds vigil for the dead. Her tossed blond hair is darkness in the darkness.

She could be dead too, Draco thinks. It might be better for her that way.

She stirs when he touches her, her mouth twitching in unrecognizable shapes. Mother's life is over, so she relives it in a realm untouchable by loss. Her body is pliable, her shift slick against his arms that encircle her waist still petite, still dainty. He kisses the back of her neck and pulls away with the scent of lavender and silk and sadness.

"Lucius?" she murmurs.

"No." He kisses her again. She's not awake. "It's me."