Rating: R
Word Count: 1303
Characters: Narcissa Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, midwife (OC), unnamed Malfoy baby (OC)

He's gone again. There's nothing I can do but wait.

The midwife has bathed the baby and placed it in my arms, even though he told her not to until he returns. I look down into the red, scrunched-up face of my squalling baby boy, and wonder numbly if I should feed him or if that would be pointless. I'm not even allowed to give him a name.

What am I thinking? He's my baby! Of course I'll feed him. What's the worst that can happen? No, best not to think about that.

This is worse than the last time. The waiting. Last time, I was scared, but I was so sure everything would be all right. It was just my bad luck to conceive during a time when he was away from home so much. He's a very important man in -- certain circles. He's busy a lot. But I was faithful. The child was his.

He didn't believe me. He called me all manner of horrible names -- threw accusations at me -- but he never laid hand nor hex on me for fear of endangering my pregnancy, on the off-chance that I was telling the truth.

That time, as soon as the midwife told him the child had been born, he left without even coming to see him. Instead, he went to Hogwarts to check the Book. The birth of every magical child in Britain is recorded in the Book, along with the names of the child's parents. The Book is a matter of public record, and may be viewed by anyone, though few ever have cause to do so.

And I waited, then as now, knowing I'd done no wrong, but terrified nonetheless. I rocked my baby, murmuring soothing words -- telling him it would be all right -- only that time, I had the misfortune to believe my own words. My husband would go and view the Book and see that I had not been unfaithful, and all would be well.

But last time, he returned, eyes blazing with cold fury. He spared no glance for the midwife, merely snapping, "Out!" before turning on me. I remember with crystal clarity the scraping sound of his wand as he drew it from the snake-headed walking stick he carries. He pointed it at me, and I knew he meant to kill me.

He stood there for a moment, staring at me, and I stared back, hunched protectively over my baby.

"What's wrong?" I managed at last, willing my voice not to shake.

"What's wrong?" he hissed back at me. "What's wrong?! What's wrong, you fucking useless bitch, is that thing attached to your tit. You will put it away from you this instant, or by all that is pure and powerful, you will wish you had."

Trembling, I laid the baby on the bed beside me. My husband pocketed his wand and strode over to it, lifting our son into his arms with an expression of sneering disgust. He turned to leave the room.

"W-where are you taking him?" I asked.

"I'll not have this thing in my house," he said. And he left.

Seconds later, I saw a reflected flash of green light in the hallway. A cry of anguish tore from my throat and I slumped onto the bed, curled around my sore and empty womb.

I was alone for over an hour before he returned, eyes cold as ever. When I saw him, I threw myself at him. I don't know what I would have done to him, had I reached him, but before I could, his wand was out again.

"Crucio!" he hissed.

Pain lit every nerve of my body as I crumpled to the floor. It was over almost as soon as it started, but I didn't move.

"Why?" I wailed. "Why did you do it?"

"There was no name in the fucking Book," he spat. "You bore me a Squib, you stupid whore! I thought I was getting a wife of unquestionable purity who would bear me a powerful heir. You are a disgrace to your name. I should kill you now. I should send you back to your family in pieces."

"No!" I summoned enough strength to turn my face toward him. "No, please! Please give me one more chance. It wasn't my fault! I -- I'll do better next time. I promise --"

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him.

He did give me a second chance, in the end. My last chance. He had to, to save face. It would have done him no more good than me if word had got out that I had borne him a Squib. So it was kept quiet, and he put it about that the baby had been born dead. The midwife was paid well to corroborate his story.

It was nearly a year before I managed to conceive again. My husband is such an important man, always busy, rarely home. But he did his duty efficiently, and without emotion, and a year later, I was with child for a second time.

And now, here I sit, cradling a second son to my breast, murmuring the same soothing words to him that his brother once heard.

I'm so frightened. I can't even think that it might be all right. I keep thinking that the best thing that can happen is that he'll come back and kill us both. The worst that can happen is that he'll kill this baby, too, and I'll be sent back to my family in disgrace. I have no illusions that they would take me back after bearing two Squibs. What value has such a daughter?

He'd be right to do it, though -- to kill us. There's no reason why a dutiful pure-blood man should permit a Squib child to pass between the thighs of his wife. To allow such a child to live would be anathema to all that Blood stands for. If I've born a second one, he'll be right to kill me. A pure-blood woman who cannot bear a pure-blood child is worthless.

But as I look into the face of my son, so strong and perfect and beautiful, I know I cannot just step back and allow him to be killed. If I must die, I'll die fighting for myself and my son, even if there's no point to it. Maybe I should run now, while he's gone. But I know I'd never get far. Not with a baby. Not with the blood-bond of our marriage to help him track me. And even if I did get away, where could I go?

Footsteps downstairs. He's home. I shiver with fear, wondering if anyone will miss me when I'm gone -- wondering if I'll go to a place where I can be with my babies -- wishing there were something I could do other than be afraid. But there is nothing.

Footsteps in the hallway. He'll be at the door in a moment. The baby is crying. I know I'm holding him too tightly, but I can't seem to loosen my grip.

The door opens, and he's standing there, silhouetted by the torchlight from the hallway. He walks across the room to stand beside my bed, eyes giving away nothing.

"Give him to me," he says in a low voice.

I cannot refuse him. He's too powerful; too commanding. Arms shaking, I hold my baby out to him. He lifts him into his arms.

"Draco Malfoy," he murmurs, cradling our son's head in his palm. "Welcome to the Blood."

I feel faint with relief I hadn't dared to hope for. We'll live, my Draco and I, because Lucius decrees it. And one day, he'll be a powerful, proud and righteous wizard. Just like his father.

Son and Heir © 2005 Skjaere