It hadn't taken long at all. In fact, it had taken less than Lucius thought to make Narcissa believe the Dark Lord's intentions were the only way to keep them alive. He just had to drop a little hint of Draco's safety and a condescending look before walking out of the parlor.
Draco was only two at the time, and he was Narcissa's world. It was nearly impossible for the Lady of the Manor to say no to her son. He looked like a cherub angel, after all.
With his blue-gray eyes and his pale skin, blushed red after any type of excessive movement. His hair was still blond, not quite to that signature Malfoy albinism yet, which meant his magic was taking a little longer than usual to set into his body.
"That is not an option, Lucius," Narcissa had snapped coldly, with such finality in her tone that it made Lucius take a step back from where he was having a stare down with her. They had recently remodeled the east parlor, stripped the ugly striped green wallpaper and added the blooming narcissus flowers that came alive every morning with the rise of the sun. The new wallpaper then reacted to his wife, all blooms turning to face him and vibrating with the same intensity his beloved was shaking with.
"It is our only option, dear," he'd said off-handedly, dismissively, with the wave of his hand. He'd pivoted, rounded the desk Narcissa usually sat behind to work through their sons' financial and social future, to stand before the grand painting of them as a family.
Narcissa, looking as regal as ever in a forest green evening gown with the family jewels draped around her neck, was holding a baby as pale as the moonlight swaddled in a silken green robe. Lucius stood next to her proudly, his back ramrod straight and his hair longer than his interest in keeping still for the masterpiece. His eyes moved constantly over to the writhing bundle in Narcissa's arms, until he gave in and moved his arm around his wife to move the blanket down from his son's face.
Oh, how he cherished that portrait. How he cherished his precious son even more.
"Draco must grow to outlive this era," he'd sounded desperate, now that he thinks about it, sitting on grime and blood and his fallen hair, in this rotting cell with no sunlight whatsoever. "We barely escaped this war unscathed, Narcissa. Pledging our allegiance is our only choice. Draco must be safe, regardless of our means to keep it that way. Do you understand?"
His wife had then pressed her purple stained lips primly, looked deep into his eyes, and very quietly exhaled. She'd smoothed her hands down her dress, a dark royal blue with golden buttons down to her waist and curly accents at the hem, and turned to face the windows looking out over the gardens.
The sun, behind the Manor now, was giving the gardens a wonderful golden glow, and as Lucius waited for his wife to make up her mind he turned to examine the narcissus flowers surrounding the adjacent wall. They were swaying gently, almost dazedly, and it reminded him of how Narcissa would sway to the beat of her thoughts when she had a particularly difficult decision to come to.
"We cannot leave him in the dark," she said finally. Her voice had been soft, afraid. Hesitant.
Of all the things Narcissa had ever expressed in all their years together, doubt had never been at the forefront. It terrified him just enough to make his lungs rattle uncomfortably.
He refrained from flinching when she turned suddenly, her eyes hardened with resolve but the corners of her mouth softened with sorrow. Her only son had to grow up way too soon. She pressed her lips together when she felt them wobble.
"If we play along with this absurd ideology, he must believe our insights are true. He must believe, too. Draco does not have the heart to become what we will become, Lucius."
