Disclaimer: The Potterverse and all characters created there in do not belong to me. I'm only borrowing them for a few paragraphs, and promise to return them unscathed when I'm finished.


Archiving: Ask, and wait for the reply: ArchaicRaven@aol.com (or ArchaicRaven@dangerous-minds.com either will do)

A/N: Inspiration for this number came from when I was doing Narcissa's death scene in "The Heathen". Hope you enjoy this. It's a tad bit angsty, even if in my own humble opinion.

Also: This shall also be posted on kiwibox.com under my s/n there: Archaic_Raven

Mother's Eyes

By: Laura Bishop

He's grown into a young man now, she thinks, looking at her son as he prepares to leave for school. He is fifteen, her son, and already he seems as though he has grown into a manhood that will not allow her cuddling of him. It's past his dignity, so he thinks -she tells herself, trying to suppress her smile. But, despite all the fuss, he does allow her to give him a quick hug. She sees the glimmer in his eyes for a split second too, the glimmer she saw for years . . . until his father stomped it out of him - all too literally. Then, her little boy is gone from her arms into the embrace of the world that will make him or destroy him - if he does not help to destroy it first. How could I let him be born into this? She asks herself, feeling her husband's hands firmly on her shoulders, a silent command that she should come away and go with him home.

"Draco is, after all," her husband says, "out of our hands for the time being . . . and what will his friends think?"

"That I'm a fretful old loon." She replied to him, matching his sneer. The woman with pale skin, pale hair and a pretty face stands at her full height. Her haughtiness, her nature, shows through. "I care not what the little brats think of me - or of him. He knows who he is, and what does it matter what they think? He'd make them regret voicing it."

Lucius is, as always, shocked when he hears her fierceness.

He'll always think I'm spineless, and so I am . . until it comes to the child I gave him. What a mistake that was, but I can do my best to prevent his plans. He does not know what I do, he does not see who harnesses that child's fire.

"But, they will think it none the less, Narcissa. Now come away, the train has gone on it's way. Besides, we have plans for today - and I'd rather not be late for certain appointments."

Of course you wouldn't, prat. She keeps that thought to herself, and only nods. Her usual public expression takes it's place upon her visage. She knows what it looks like, it had been trained into her since she could remember. The expression of having a bad smelling something rubbed up under her nose was to show her distaste at being around 'underlings'. Most pureblooded women wore it, if they knew what was wise among their own kind, or so her mother had once told her. But then, what had she ever known? Another thing Narcissa didn't voice.


She sits by herself in her gardens, a place that only she inhabits these days. Once, her little boy had frolicked here while she read, but those were days long gone. Those had been days before Lucius decided to put Draco on 'the path to manhood.' That phrase had always disgusted her, but again, she kept her peace. That was, after all, her part to play. However, she had learned that putting her foot down could be affective, even if only through a very vicious fight with her husband. After all, Draco was going to Hogwarts, and not that distant place that Lucius had wanted to send him. The very idea . . . Draco needed to be close to home, where they could monitor him for the Dark Lord - or so her argument went. In reality, she wanted to keep him close for sheer sake of it, and to keep him as far off Lucius' path as possible . . . but that had been blown to hell early on, that last part. These thoughts brought on a headache, so she got up and began to walk back into the house, trying to remember better times . . . trying to remember times before Lucius had sunk his grip deep into Draco's little soul. Before her son had been twisted in old prejudices and lust for power. . .

He had been a bonnie little baby, with a strong grip and a gurgling laugh. His cheeks had been rosy in those days, and his eyes had been clear of hatred and suspicions. She had taught him of childhood magicks, told him stories, played games with him . . . she had reveled in her son's innocence, only to see it later stripped away from him by her husband's teachings.

He'll be a proper little Slytherin soon enough dear, now take all these childish things away, will you? Those had been Lucius' words when the fatal time had at last arrived. Childish things! Draco had only been seven! And then, as if by over night, her husband had turned their son, her son, her baby, into a complete tiny replica of himself. Gone were the rosy cheeks - most likely by some grim specter stealing his soul - and gone was the little ready laugh -replaced by that sneering little smirk. And his eyes . . . the glimmer had faded . . .and faded . .. until, after several years, it had finally died. And Draco was Lucius, or so it seemed. But, she still had a card up her sleeve. Draco knew she cared, and he also knew that Lucius saw him only as heir, as a pawn for later use. But yes, he knew Mother cared . . . he could always look into Mother's eyes and know that she saw him.

Narcissa saw Draco, and would never look away.