The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep - Robert Frost

I’m not sure how I got here. Not the woods - I know how I got to the woods. I walked down the stairs from the left wing on the third floor, away from my bedchamber and round the various winding hallways to the main staircase on the first floor. I descended it quickly, but not so quickly as to arouse suspicion. I went via the kitchen and had to dissuade the Elf from making me a picnic hamper for my walk. I exited the kitchen, grabbed my thick wool cloak from the cupboard by the door and walked free. From there, it was pretty much a straight line and a couple of hundred yards to the woods. I know where I am.

But I don’t know how I got here - I don’t know how I went from having a family like one I could scarcely dream of having: a loving husband with a good name and an even better vault at Gringotts and a son - a beautiful, intelligent and talented son - to a woman trapped in her own house. I was living the dream, wasn’t I? A man was going to change the world for us - make it our world. But I think I liked the world as it was. I liked having a husband and a son who were respected and honoured as they should be. Now they were drawn and pale and crippled by the burden of creating such a world. And I…

I’m not sure I ever wanted this world. But I love my husband. And it is what he wants - wanted - wants? And so it is what I too must want. Like a good wife. I was brought up to be, if nothing else, a good wife. Part of that is supporting your husband through anything - everything. But if I had known…oh, if I had known. This new world has taken my husband’s liberty from him more than once. There was Azkaban and then there was this. Oh, technically he is free - but only in name. For he is undermined, demeaned and degraded - in his own house, no less! My husband is not free and, if the Dark Lord has his way, he will never be again.

My husband chose this life for us. And I let him. Because I love him and I am a good wife. My son chose it too. But did he? Did he? Or were the whisperings in his ear, the spoon-feeding of prejudice, the stories and the talk of glory all enough to sway him before he had a chance to just think for himself? And I suppose I ought to have been proud when he was made the youngest Death Eater since my cousin. Anger, loathing, terror, anxiety, horror, sorrow, pain - they are but a few of the things I felt. Pride did not feature.

He failed his task, as I knew he would. But it was the strange sort of failure that is tinged with success, so he earned his right to stay alive. I suppose I should be grateful. But then I nearly laugh to myself like a madwoman - and maybe I am a bit, really, I don’t know - because since when did that become my life? To be grateful that someone has not murdered my son. But then I know exactly when. It was the day that man - thing, creature, epitome of evil - stepped into our lives.

He blinded my husband with talk of a world - our world - which was pure and clean and where we did not have to suppress our nature. And I was dazzled because he was dazzled; I was taken in by it because he was taken in by it. I was as unthinking and impressionable as our son and it has cost me my life. Because being a good wife would have been telling my husband no. It would have been opening his eyes and showing him that the Dark Lord was not creating our world, but his.

I should have told him that there was a price for the whole world - and that the price was too much. It was everything. Everything. That’s what I’ve given to that man - what he has taken from me. He has my house, my sister, my husband and my son. And he won’t give them back - not even when he’s done with them. Because he will be done with them. People are only as useful to him as what they can offer. Wandless and afraid, my husband has little more to give. Young and way out of his depth, my son has even less. Their usefulness has reached its limit. But we do have a very nice house. We did.

I just watched my son torture a man. That is his use now. I didn’t cry - I don’t think I can anymore. I just stood and watched and tried to pretend it wasn’t actually happening. Because that’s not the reason I brought him into the world. I didn’t love him, care for him and look after him so that he could be taken from me; invested with hate - hate enough to torture a man incessantly. I had envisaged such great things for him. A gleaming badge that read ‘Head Boy;’ a career high up in the Ministry; respect as one of the elite of the wizarding world; a lovely wife - pureblood, of course - and children who he would treat with the same care shown to him. Not this - never this.

He doesn’t want to do it - I can see it in his eyes; his heart. But then, he does - in a weird, twisted sort of way that makes no sense, but does at the same time. Because he wants to earn that respect - the respect he used to have; should have. He wants his father and his master to look at him and be proud. He doesn’t want to inflict pain - not really. But they take his mind and they twist it and turn it and mould it into what they want it to be - whatever they want. And they can, because no one will stop them. Him. No one will stop him.

Well, they say Harry Potter can. At the worst of times - like now, for instance - I rather hope that he will. It might mean incarceration for my whole family, but it can’t be worse than how we live now. He’s like a Dementor. He drains me of my energy; my happiness; my hope. He replaces it with sadness and anguish and fear and hate, hate, hate. And I can’t escape him - even here. Because wherever I go I can feel the tug - the pull and drain of him. Because he’s not just in my house - he’s in my head now. He’s in every inch of me - the blood rushing through my veins. And I want him out, out, out.

I think that’s what the knife is for. It was in the kitchen and it was just lying there, so I took it. Or I went into the kitchen to get it. I don’t know. But now it’s in my hand and I’m not sure what I intended it for. But then I know exactly what for at the same time. It’s for the thing I think about when I’m at my lowest. Like when he took my husband’s wand or when I watched him torture my son or when he told me he had my sister’s husband killed. I had never liked him - but I love my sister, even if I’m not permitted to show it.

At times like that I take a step back and look at the farce that is my life, and I ask myself: is this it? Is this really it? Is this all I have for, potentially, the rest of my life? A husband who has been stripped of the very things that made me love him in the first place - his confidence, his pride, his strength and his power and a son who has been so damaged by us - the people who were supposed to protect him - that I don’t know how to fix him anymore. That is what I have - that is all I have. And everyday, there is the fear that even that will be taken from me. And I cannot bear it.

So that’s what I think the knife is for. So that I don’t have to bear it anymore. All I’d have to do is make two deep strokes - one on each wrist - and just watch as my life pours out of me; as he pours out of me. It would be quite easy, I think. It would hurt at first, to be sure. I might even try and stem the flow - but it would do no good. I would get used to it after a while, and just as I was doing so, I would fall asleep. It would be so easy.

But then, why don’t I just do it? I don’t truly know the answer to that. I am not scared. That man has eliminated my ability to scare so easily - my mortality does not warrant such concern. The knife looks at me as I raise it up. It’s goading me with its sharp edges and lethal point - making me want to fulfil its purpose. It shows me all the reasons why I want to do this. They are clear in the warped reflection I see in the blade.

I was always considered quite beautiful. That might sound arrogant, but it is the truth. At Hogwarts, I was sought after by more people than just my husband. But time and that man have worn on me and the face in the knife is of a woman at least a decade older than me. My face was always thin, but now it is emaciated and I am all severe lines and sharp angles. I was always pale but I am now grey. My eyes were once bright blue; now they are dull and encircled with deep purple. My hair is limp and straggly; the lines around my eyes and mouth deeper and more pronounced. I think perhaps the knife is showing me someone else - but I know, really, that it is me and that is what the knife is for. To take this me away.

It poses a very strong argument. I am not the only one who has diminished, though. My husband and my son are both so much less than they used to be. My husband cowers when he would have stood tall; he takes orders when he should be giving them; he steps aside when he should intervene. My son attends Death Eater councils when he should be spending time with his friends; he attends to every whim of a deranged murderer when he should be attending to every whim of some pretty young thing like other boys his age; he watches, experiences and now carries out tortures when he should be doing…anything else. And I can’t bear it.

I am a strong woman. I am. But this is too much. That snake is in my house and he has my son and my husband and he won’t stop until they are spent and then he will kill them. I am sure of that. He may kill me too - not that he’ll have the chance. My knife will see to that. So what do I do? Do I wait until that happens? Until he decides he doesn’t want them anymore and disposes of them? Or am I just postponing the inevitable? But then, is it the inevitable? Because what if Harry Potter wins? What if he finds a way to destroy him? What if the snake fails? What if? What if? What if?

But then the truth of it is that I’m tired - so tired - of waiting for the inevitable. For wondering and worrying and wishing it was all over. So why not make it all over? Even with the knife poised over my left wrist, I think on that. And my mind is a whirl of thoughts and images - my son, my husband, my sisters, my cousin, the snake. And it all blurs into one until my mind is blank and I can’t feel or think about anything except that the blade is touching my skin now and that it’s rather cold. But then I have something else to think about.

“This was always your favourite part of the grounds, wasn’t it?� His voice is silky and smooth and if I didn’t spin around, I could almost imagine that it belonged to the man I married. But I do turn around and it is his shadow instead. I think to chastise him for startling me - I could have hurt myself, after all - but then, that was rather the point. I settle for silence.

“I never knew why. It’s so dark in here - and so vast, you could easily get lost.� He looks around and I start to think he perhaps hasn’t noticed the knife. “But I think I understand now.� I stare at him for a moment and wonder what he is doing - because, as well as I know my husband, I cannot figure him out right now. I venture speech in an effort to find out.

“Why now?� My voice shakes but he does not give any indication that he has noticed.

“It’s so dark, so vast and so easy to get lost - it’s the perfect hiding place.� He smiles but I cannot return it. Because he is my husband and he is talking to me as if he had not just discovered me just poised to open my veins. And I don’t know why. “Do you remember when you played hide-and-seek with Draco when he was, what? Five? Six?�

“Five,� I answer automatically. Because of course I remember. It was the last time I ever played that game with him.

“Right,� he agrees, like he had known it all along, “and you couldn’t find him for three hours because he was hiding in here - even after you explicitly told him not to.� He laughs, even though his tone is disapproving. “He was such a willful thing - even then.� He looks sad now, the remnants of his laughter fading completely. I know why - we both know why. It is the same reason the knife is still gripped in my hand like it is the most important thing in the world. Right now, it is.

“I had never seen you so beside yourself. I wanted to be angry at you for letting it happen - I wanted to shout at you for starting the stupid game with him in the first place. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Because, however worried I was, you were feeling that tenfold. Because you loved him so much - still do. Because I have never seen anyone love something that much. I thought then how lucky that boy was to be the recipient of so much love.�

“I love you too - so much. It hurts. Loving you hurts.� The words come out of me before I have time to check them. He does not show surprise but smiles at me. A genuine smile that reaches his eyes. He looks more like my husband then. My fingers relax around the handle of the knife.

“I think it’s supposed to, love.� I shake my head because he’s wrong - he must be.

“Not this much.� My voice is firm, but so is his hand when it grasps my wrist. The one attached to the hand with the knife.

“No - not this much.� He gives me a significant look then, but I can’t decipher its meaning. He is close and I can see in his eyes what I could not see from a distance. There is desperation there - and sadness. A deep, dark sadness. I did that. My grip loosens as his tightens.

“In our vows - we said ‘for better or for worse,’ right? Well - this is my worst. Our worst.� Vows - he wants me to honour our vows.

“You also swore to protect me - so I guess we’re both liars.� His mouth is a thin line and, had I not known him so well, I might think he is trying to prevent himself from crying.

“I am trying as best I can, given the circumstances-�

“And so am I!� I burst and I seem to shock him for the first time. “But it’s so hard - too hard.� My body heaves as if succumbing to tears. None come. We are silent for a long time and I think he is waiting for me to give up, but I can’t - not yet.

“Aren’t you scared?� I ask, after the silence becomes too much, and even I can hear the desperation in my voice. I think he might wince at it, but he does nothing more than betray slight confusion in his eyes.

“That we might lose?� I shake my head because he has not understood - he has not understood at all.

“No - that we might win.�

He stares at me now. Long and hard and unreadable. Those grey orbs flecked with blue that are so beautiful - so Malfoy - I can scarcely tear my gaze from them. Usually when they regard me, they are soft, or fiery from anger or lust - sometimes both. Now they are assessing, analysing and calculating. But still, I cannot look anywhere else. He does, though. He tears his eyes away and gives the forest around us a quick, paranoid look before his eyes meet mine once more and they are filled with warning.

“You must not speak like that.� His voice is low with admonition but it lacks strength. I scoff at him, but it is more for show than anything - I do not feel much like laughing.

“What? You think he can hear us here? Is he not too busy teaching our son how to-�

“-the Dark Lord has eyes and ears everywhere. I wouldn’t be surprised if-�

“-know how can you stand to - what? He would send spies to watch us in our own house? Our own home-�

“-Wormtail’s probably - he’s para - worried - about traitors. He has enough reason to doubt us, considering the disaster at the Ministry and our son’s failure at Hogwarts-�

“-failure! I would hardly consider not committing murder to be a failure! Besides, Snape-�

“and now with you making your displeasure so obv- it was not Snape’s job to kill Dumbledore. Not that I’m not glad he spared our son that-�

“-my displeasure is too obvious? I am sorry that my simpering has been a little off as of late but-�

“-I just mean-�

“-No! If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been a bit pre-occupied by the fact that my husband is wandless, my son enslaved and put to the purpose of torture - when he isn’t being tortured himself - and my house-�

“And for that I am truly-�

“-but it’s not our house anymore, is it? It’s his - and if he wins, do you think he’ll just give it back; that all will be forgiven and you’ll sit at his right hand again? Do you think that he’ll fall over himself to restore you to your previous position and to grant you clemency? Do you think-�

“-No. I do not.� I stop short for the first time, my grievances lost on the tip of my tongue. All my energies disappear with my surprise, because I had not expected him to agree. Not for a moment. That fact that he does deflates me further.

“Then…why?� My question is vague and weak and I don’t know whether he will answer it at first. Then he does and I wish that he hadn’t.

“Do we have a choice? Maybe years ago, when he first came back…but now?� He shakes his head imperceptibly and I don’t know whether he is trying to clear the mess of his own mind or answering his own question.

“Then what can I do? What can we do?� My voice is desperate and a sob is stuck somewhere in my throat, making my words come out stammered. I look to the knife and he follows my gaze and his grip tightens on my wrist.

“We can survive, for now. And then we will deal with what comes later.� He sounds so sure…and I almost believe him.

“But what about now - surviving now is so hard in itself. Even if you ignore all that comes later. If now is terrible and later will be worse…why survive now?� He looks at me then with a desperation to match my own and he reaches a hand up to trace the line of my cheekbone down to my jaw, running along it with the pad of his thumb. His eyes shine as he looks at me and I think he might cry. But he is my strong, brave, stoic husband and he does not.

Instead, he gives me that look again, that long assessing look, and I know that he is trying to find the right words and the right means to dissuade me from my intended path. His eyes flick across my face and I am suddenly very conscious of the wetness beneath my eyes and the small trails that have made their paths down my cheeks without my permission. I cannot remember them spilling over in the first place. His eyes meet mine and I can see a determination in them that had not been there before. He speaks before I can work out what he’s thinking.

“I need you to help me find our son again.� I stop my long drawn breaths, because I don’t know what he means and I am waiting for more. “He is lost - somewhere inside of himself. He is our son. Our willful, stubborn, arrogant, intelligent, talented son. And he is lost.� I understand now what that determined look meant and I know I should probably be annoyed with him for using our son this way. But I can’t be, because part of me knows he’s right. His tone is the closest to sentimental that I have ever heard my husband sound and I want to wrap my arms around him and comfort him. But I don’t.

“Promise me you’ll help find our son.� His eyes are pleading now and he does not even try and hide his desperation now. “I can’t do it without you.� I look at him and know that he is not just talking about our son. My mouth forms words silently before I can produce any real sounds. When I do, I surprise even myself.

“Promise me it’ll be all right.� My voice is small and belongs to a weak, pathetic person that I do not recognise. My request sounds juvenile to my ears, but my husband does not comment on it; only nods in earnest.

“I promise that I will make it all right. Because I am your husband and I will let no one hurt you again.� His words are careful and his look significant. It shatters what is left of my shaky resolve. I scarcely notice when he slips his hand into mine. Cold, hard, unyielding, dangerous, beautiful and with the power to give me everything I want and make me so happy. He is a suitable replacement for the knife. I barely realised I’d dropped it.

“Do you promise to help find our son?� he asks, his tone tentative and hopeful. I do not brave a smile - not yet. But I nod.

“I promise.� He kisses me then and I respond eagerly because it’s for moments like this that my blood still runs through my veins. It’s things like this that flush that man out from under my skin and replace him with this man. This man I love - this man I need.

When we part, he takes my hand in his - so small and fragile - and he gently leads me back towards the house. He leads me out of that sheltered refuge; that immense hideout; that beautiful place of escape. And I am not scared to leave it, because I am with him. And I know that I can always go back - but not yet, no - not yet. The knife lies on the floor of the woods, and I shall not forget where. Just in case. Yes - just in case.