𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆

Part 10

The Sins of the Mother

"Again. Attack again. In London, the next portion of the list. Mudbloods. Make them vanish. Make them run away, dirty little things. You understand?" The dark-haired man nodded. He bowed low, and walked backwards out of the room. No one turned their backs to Narcissa anymore. She smiled.

They listened to her now. They listened to every word she said. They were never sure whether it was her who was speaking, or him. They assumed it was him because it was safer that way. She had had to prove it, at first. With the Voldemort's body still lying as if in state, proof had been required. She had used Lucius, she had pressed his mark and watched all their faces drop in shock and fear as their own marks sharpened, burned. Afterwards they did not question her. And thus far her orders had lead to great success; twenty mudblood deaths in a single week, no casualties on their side at all. Not a fabulously huge statistic, twenty mudbloods, but it wasn't numbers she was aiming for. It was fear. Kill just enough so that the rest fear to walk outside their front doors. Kill just enough so that mudbloods everywhere reconsider their power. So that they feel their disgrace. That they tug themselves back away into the background like the genetic mistakes they are, bastards, half-breeds, evidence of a shameful history. Force purebloods to reconsider their disgusting relationships with muggles, if only out of compassion for their future children, who would have nothing to hope for. Teach them. Sometimes the truth seems cruel. But it doesn't make it any less true, any less righteous.

Narcissa stroked her belly. She felt as though she were pregnant again. She smiled. Being pregnant was such a wonderful thing. It had been more than twenty years since she had been pregnant herself, and the boring details about the physical process had filtered to the back of her mind. She didn't need them now. No, this was a spiritual pregnancy. When her only child had filled her womb she had felt him there, sensed his rising consciousness, his thoughts that were not quite thoughts. She imagined him, small and half-formed, certain that she was the entire universe, feeling warmth and not knowing about coldness, feeling the constant pressure of her body wrapped around him, never thinking that he might one day lose that embrace.

She had known from the very beginning that Draco would be a boy. There was something in the way he took up space within her, something in his certainty that he deserved it, the he belonged inside of her, the way he moved with such unconflicted ease, with such strength, that Narcissa felt even then that she could always fully possess him. Girls, she imagined, would grow within their mothers in a more apologetic fashion, as if they asked questions rather than made demands. Girl babies were passive aggressive. They took over you, making you certain that it was your power that got them there, and not their own. Girl babies were inherently devious. With a boy, you knew they could be owned entirely; they made shows of domination because they could be dominated so easily and so completely; girls could never be wholly owned, because they were well-trained in the art of submssion. Girls were born with the knowledge that no one would offer them anything, that they would have to convince the world that offering was prudent, that it was required. Draco had not understood this, not in utero and not as a small, helpless and sweet child, as Narcissa always knew that he wouldn't. He had had to learn it, as boys often do. His learning was sharp, bloody, and painful, but it was the making of him. Draco was both aggressive and passive aggressive. Narcissa smiled. It takes a strong mother to give her son the inborn knowledge of a daughter.

And now she felt another conciousness within her again. He so reminded her of Draco as a child it nearly made her weep. He whimpered, cried, he laughed like a little fairy child. When she had first brought him inside of herself, he had been so angry. She imagined that she could feel his little fists pounding against her, his ribs were sore when she woke in the morning. He was angry like a murdered soul, residual vengence, pain, violent pangs and outrage overcoming him. He showed her ceaseless images of his anger; blood, murder, pain. He knew nothing other than that for those first days. She had had to struggle against it. He had an infant mentality in the beginning, but he was a strong, knowledgeable, angry infant. It had not overwhelmed her; she had tamed this angry little child.