Narcissa's expression fractured briefly then it smoothed and she glanced away. “There are worse things than dying.” She straightened the cuff of her sleeve. “You don't know what my son was like when you went missing. You don't have any idea.”
It was strange to see a teenage girl refer to a man a nearly decade older than herself as her son.
“I saved him.”
“You wouldn't have needed to if you'd just left sooner the way he'd begged you to. There were other people that mattered more to you than doing what he asked,” Narcissa said, her voice cold.
She was so young, Hermione realised. Portraits didn't evolve or mature, they stayed the way they were. The fact that Narcissa's portrait showed signs of any trauma showed just how very deep it had been. Fundamentally, she was still Narcissa Black, sixteen years old and full of romantic haughtiness.
“Why didn't Narcissa run when Draco asked her to? Because of Lucius?”
Narcissa's portrait stiffened. “No. Lucius is… he — he…” her mask fell apart. “He loved me — her — more than anything. She wanted to go — after the triwizard tournament — but Lucius swore Draco wouldn't have to take the mark. When he was arrested, she was certain the Dark Lord would come for Draco. She was going to take him as he was home from school. But… the Dark Lord came here first. Then… then — then afterwards—”
“She stayed to keep him alive,” Hermione said. “Draco wouldn't have kept trying once he knew she was safe. He would have been dead in a matter of weeks.”
Narcissa looked away but gave a short nod of acknowledgement.
Hermione stepped closer. “I want to save Draco. If you told Lucius — if he knew—”
“That is
Hermione stared in surprise at Narcissa's flashing, enraged eyes. It slowly dawned on her that Narcissa's portrait loved Lucius far more than she loved Draco.
The Narcissa in the portrait wasn't a mother. She was a teenage witch engaged to a wizard who adored her. She might call Draco her son and watch over Hermione, but fundamentally she would always choose Lucius first. She would let Draco die if it protected Lucius from the knowledge of what had happened.
Hermione's shoulders dropped. “Narcissa…”
“She didn't want him to ever know. You don't know what she put herself through to ensure he didn't find out. You thought that potion's withdrawal was difficult after three doses? She took it more than a dozen times — just in order to see him.” Narcissa's voice was shaking with angry intensity. “Draco used to beg her not to.”
Hermione pressed closer. Her fingers hovering a breath away from the painted canvas. “If she would have left him to protect Draco, she would have told him to try to save Draco.”
Narcissa's expression was ice cold as she sat in her chair. “How would Lucius knowing change anything?”
Hermione looked down. “I don't know. I just think that he—”
“If you interfere and things go wrong, everything Draco put himself through to protect you will be for nothing. There are worse things than dying. Anyone in this family can tell you that.”
She refused to speak to Hermione further.
Hermione reluctantly turned away and went over to her breakfast tray. The warming spell had worn off, and the porridge was cold and unappetizing.
Hermione considered skipping breakfast, but she needed to regain her weight. She wasn't going to build muscle if she skipped meals.
She sighed and half-heartedly picked up the small pitcher of cream and poured it into the bowl, reaching for the spoon.
As her fingers touched the spoon handle, she felt a sharp jerk behind her navel.
It was like being inverted and shoved through a tube. The bedroom vanished, and she reappeared in midair, falling forward and smacking her head on the floor as her stomach roiled.
She almost vomited, as she gripped her tightly contracted abdomen protectively under one hand and tried to find her bearings. She gave several ragged gasps as she breathed. Everything was swimming and her forehead ached where she'd struck it.
She forced herself shakily up.
Lucius was sitting several feet away, reclined in a spindly chair, teacup in hand.
“Ah. There you are.”
Hermione stared at him in blank horror as she took in the remainder of her surroundings. Lucius had portkeyed her across the manor into the drawing room in the South Wing.
He set his teacup down on its saucer and sat forward, eyeing her.
“I have some questions for you, Mudblood.”
She shifted back, and her hand stuck slightly to the floor. She pulled it free and then she realised the ground was sticky.
The ground was soaked with drying blood.
The spoon which had brought her lay on the ground a few feet away. Her heart stalled. Her hand darted out, and she tried to grab it.
It vanished just before her fingers reached it.
“Trying to leave so soon? After all the effort of bringing you here? You offend me, Mudblood,” Lucius drawled, twirling his wand in his hand.
She stared up at him, forcing herself to breathe steadily. She just needed to stay calm and buy time until Draco came.