It’s a boy. A boy. I have a son. I should be there. I should be happy. This should be the best news since Narcissa told me about her pregnancy.
And yet I’m not in her private room in St Mungo’s maternity ward. The flowers that the elf has arranged are still sitting on the kitchen table; I was supposed to take them to her. Instead, I’m in my study, pacing in front of the fireplace, waiting for our future to be determined.
I made the investment seven months ago; I didn’t know then. I had no idea we were going to have a son. It was too late to withdraw when she told me. All I could do was to keep hoping, to try and forge ties between the people I was investing in and people who could help them along their way. But that was more to keep myself busy, give me the illusion that I was doing something to control my fate. The truth was, and still is, that it is all out of my hands. I invested too much, too unsafely, and now it is not only my life that I am risking.
I am a father. I have a wife, a son, a family. I have a son. It is expected of me that I take care of them, that I offer them a good life, and now I might not be able to. Narcissa doesn’t know how precarious the situation is. I didn’t dare bother her with it. It all will be determined tonight. What if she returns home and I have to tell her that I had to cancel the celebration we had planned to honour the birth of our son? What if our budget doesn’t allow for decorations and waiters and expensive dressrobes anymore? Our son -- my heir -- will need a nurse, a teacher before he attends Hogwarts, a social instructor--
There’s a cracking sound, and I spin around to face the fireplace, but the fire is still burning orange and yellow. A log has broken. No news yet. I’m having their report as well as the Evening Prophet sent in via Floo; I cannot wait for an owl to arrive. I keep my eyes fixed on the dancing flames for another minute, then I sink down in the armchair. The clock on the mantelpiece tells me that it’s ten to seven. It’s not late, but it’s also not too early for the messages to arrive.
And then I blink, and the flames flash green, and an envelope falls out, followed by the newspaper. My heart thumps against my chest as I pick both up, the envelope closed, the newspaper folded. Whatever is written on these pages determines the future of my family: whether my son will receive the education he deserves and my wife will lead the life I have promised her, or whether I have failed as a father and husband.
My fingers tremble as I unfold the parchment.
I go to see her right after breakfast the next morning. I don’t normally exactly enjoy going to the hospital. It is a gloomy place, and all the attempts to make it quirky only worked to reinforce that. Today, however, my spirits are soaring. The skies are clear, and the sunlight is warm on my face as I take the last part of my way by foot.
The one place the sun doesn’t reach is Narcissa’s room. As soon as I enter, I notice that she has her curtains drawn, and the only light comes from an orb that hovers in the room, glowing too brightly for my taste. She sits in her bed, the child in a cot next to her, and her breakfast -- a boiled egg and some bread -- untouched on the table. But she is happy to see me; she says so.
–We have to get you home,†I say. –Have some proper food made for you.â€
The morning’s Prophet is lying on her bedside cabinet, and just to make sure, really sure, that I didn’t dream it all, I flip it open on the economy section. There it is, the headline that tells me, black on white, that I have not failed. I am, in fact, quite a success as a provider. I am fit to lead a family.
Zonko’s Opens With a Bang
I am listed as the main investor now, and everyone seems to be saying that it’s an unusual venue for me to put my Galleons in. I disagree. I put my Galleons where I know they’ll multiply.
With a smile playing around the corners of my mouth, I leave the newspaper lying open on the table. Maybe Narcissa will catch the clipping later. Briskly, I walk over to the cot, then, very carefully, pick up the sleeping child. My son blinks for a moment, then goes back to sleep in my arms. My son. Draco.
Narcissa only looks at me for a moment, then smiles. –I was thinking... You don’t suppose we could add a bit of pink to the nursery?â€
–Pink? I thought we had agreed on blue if it was a boy... it is a boy, right?†I have to resist the urge to check for myself. Narcissa has, in fact, spent the larger portion of the past two months hunting down the perfect shades of both colours, settling on bluebell for a boy and pale rose for a girl.
–Well, not entirely pink, only some details perhaps...†She trails off, tracing her wand over her bedspread, creating beautiful patterns of tendrils. Then she looks up at me suddenly, and her eyes are shining. –Please,†she says.
When I leave the room a while later to make arrangements for my wife to return to the manor the next day, I almost walk right into one of the Healers in the corridor.
–Mr Malfoy!†he exclaims. –I’m so glad to catch you here. I’ve written down the name of a specialist that you might want to contact for your wife.â€
–A specialist?†I ask, much at a loss. –Why, is she ill? Is there anything wrong with my son?â€
The Healer frowns and hesitates for a moment, and I can feel my hands twitching. –Well, maybe not ill as such, but these things leave their marks, and even if it isn’t a physical ailment...†He pauses when he sees the look on my face. –Haven’t you been told?â€
–I only managed to get here today, and you’re the first Healer I’ve seen,†I say, growing restless. I don’t remember being this nervous. Last night doesn’t come close. –Told what?†I urge. –What is the matter with my wife?â€
The Healer uselessly guides me to a set of chairs, but I don’t want to sit down. –There’s no way to make something like this any easier,†he explains. –Your wife had twins. The girl was stillborn.â€
If anything is a symbol for hope, for joy, surely it must be a newborn child.
That is why we smiled through the party. It is what is expected of us. We have a healthy child, a son at that. What more can I ask for when I have an heir? But after they all have left, I look at Narcissa, and she averts her gaze. The mask she has put on for our visitors fades, and all that is left is emptiness.
How can I love our son when he will always stand as a reminder for the other child that we lost? How can he bring joy when the woman I love has barely smiled since she brought him home from the hospital?
Of course it is unfair towards the child. I don’t want to hate my only son. But all I can think of is how much I love Narcissa, and that because of what this boy represents, I might never be able to make her smile again.
She often sits by his cot now, in the nursery, and just looks at him. Her back is always towards the door as her long, delicate fingers play with the owls on the mobile above Draco’s head. I never enter. If I disturb her, her attention will be on me, and I just don’t know how to help her anymore. I thought it was money that would ultimately determine whether I was a good husband and father. I would give every last Knut away if I knew how to make her happy.
The way to my study leads me past the nursery. It is painted blue, with the pink tendrils Narcissa wished for. She added them herself; it kept her occupied for one afternoon. I can see her sitting in there again, on her chair beside the cot as always. She has her wand in her hand and is making three beautiful silver lights dance in front of her. There is a small blubber and something resembling a laugh from within the cot, and I realise that Draco is awake. I feel a sudden stab at my heart. How can I love him?
For the first time, I step into the nursery, carefully and silently. I don’t know yet if I want her to notice me. But my steps take me to the cot, and before I know what I’m doing, she is right in front of me.
She still doesn’t see me though. Her eyes are on our son as he laughs and reaches for the silver orbs.
She is smiling.
Suddenly, it all becomes clear. This small, tiny child is not what is causing her grief. Draco is all that is still keeping her going. He makes her smile.
He’s the only hope that’s left. For her. For us. And one day, possibly, he will have given her enough happiness that I can make her smile again as well.
–Dobby is free,†the elf says. Free.
It is that one word more than the entire situation that hits me, that freezes me where I'm standing. I inexplicably find myself unable to react. This insolent boy stands in front of me, caked in mud and blood and slimy filth, and yet he looks more triumphant than I have felt in a very long time.
Why does it hurt me so? Why does it even bother me? We have enough money to afford another elf. They are not so common now, but the name of Malfoy goes a long way in these things. Narcissa will be close to fury at the thought of what this might do to our reputation -- unable to keep an elf -- but I know she will quickly find a way to spin it into a compassionate tale that favours us. He was sick; we freed him out of kindness.
Then, finally, my eyes travel to the small figure standing between me and the Potter boy. Though the elf looks defiant as he glares up at me, the tears in his eyes are unmistakable. He is overtaken by joy. By joy of leaving my house, my family.
I asked my wife only once if she wanted to have another child. It was over two years after Draco’s birth, and she locked herself in her room for ten days. She never did give me a proper answer, but I knew not to ask again. For twelve years, our meals have always felt oddly off balance. Whenever I introduced Draco to someone on those days I could take him with me to the Ministry, or when Narcissa dressed him up for one of our dinner parties, I wanted to introduce someone else alongside him. There was always an empty space. There still is.
Not a day goes past when I don’t think about the girl that was taken from me, from us, and any other child that might have been, had this tragedy not occurred. In the dimness of the corridor, I realise that the elf is only the size of a small child, five, six years old at most. My vision blurs. I would be lying if I said I ever treated the elf like my own flesh and blood. I did not. It was always him who felt the full force of my frustration. And yet at this moment, as he is being wrenched away from me, I cannot help being reminded of everything else I have lost, of all that can never be.
The worst part is that Dobby seems happy now.
My only luck is that no one sees what I do next. I hold a high position in society. I am a well-educated man of reason. I don’t allow my face to display my emotions.
There is no way I can control my actions now. I forget that Harry Potter is a boy of twelve years. I lunge forward.