Fanfiction Art/Fic Tributes
LiveJournal Other Links
The characters and the situations within these fanfiction stories are
not my property. They are the property of J.K. Rowling, Warner
Brothers, and others, and are used without permission; challenge to
copyright is not intended and should not be construed. No profit is
being made from the use of these characters and situations; these
written-down imaginings are only presented in an internet forum for the
interest of and consumption by the like-minded individuals who enjoy
them and recognize them as unauthorized fanfiction only, and are not in
any way meant to be confused with the originals NOR presented as
authorized materials of these owners.
She Moved Through the Fair
Category: Drama. Warning for incest.
Summary: Such tragic stories surround the senior Malfoy and his
A/N: Fourth in my Ballads series. Inspired by the Irish
Folk Ballad of the
same name, which is downright spooky if you pay attention to the
lyrics. Lyrics can be found here.
The ballroom of Malfoy Manor is lit by several hundred candles,
hovering well above the heads of the several hundred guests, casting
light charmed to render all ladies fair and all gentlemen flattered in
its pleasing glow.
Two of the room's occupants, at least, need none of its flattery.
Malfoy père and Malfoy
fils each play host at different ends of the
ballroom; neither of them overly animated, and worlds away from
anything approaching hearty, but not without their own refined warmth.
Polite charm and elegance; any guest speaking to either of his hosts
leaves his presence knowing he is not only welcome but wanted, here at
this holiday gathering.
Everyone there knows the senior Malfoy was hardly a merry soul even
before he was widowed--a trumped-up prison sentence will do that,
despite the travesty being set to rights one year later--and his wife's
death has left him even more sober a man. So his guests laud him, in
their own thoughts, for his gracious smiles and his generosity with his
wines and ballroom and dining hall upon such holidays. They could
hardly ask more of a man widowed only these five years.
There are always new guests at these gatherings, however--friends of
friends, new spouses, et cetera--who wonder why the Malfoy heir is so
very like his father, showing little of the spontaneous cheer common to
youth. Surely his mother's loss is not enough to affect him quite as
deeply as it does his father? Draco so young and privileged, with so
much of life ahead of him?
If those new guests voice such thoughts--well, they do not say it quite
like that. The exchange is more like to go like this:
"Draco still lives at home? What a dutiful son. His father must be
lonely." That, said by one of these newer guests.
Elaborated upon by another of them: "How old is he now--twenty-three,
twenty-four? Did you say he was unattached? You'd think he'd have a
swarm of eligible ladies about him, what with his looks and position."
"Don't you know?" It should be plain that this speaker is not one of
those newer guests. "The lad's nursing his own broken heart. A deep
Which of course evokes murmurs and urges to tell more, from those who
have not yet heard this story.
At these gatherings, the tale is likely to be related several times,
and by different storytellers. Significantly, it never goes quite the
"Just after the war. After his mother died."
"He'd gone to France, you know..."
"...in Belgium, it was."
"...a Beauxbatons girl. Agnes was her name..."
"...good old wizarding family, full of tradition..."
"...not rich, you understand. But blood pure as Salazar's."
"...mad for her, he was. Never saw her myself, but they said she was
beautiful, hair like a cloud..."
"...bringing her home to meet his father..."
"...nervous, she was, for all that he said money didn't matter..."
The ending of the story has almost no variation.
"Draco came home from the continent alone..."
"...said the last he saw of her, she'd been going home to pack."
"...if she'd just got cold feet or changed her mind, she'd not have
vanished like that, would she?..."
"...last they saw of the girl."
"Heartbroken, he was."
"More than a little mad with it."
"Never says her name."
"Keeps no pictures of her."
And all those hearing the story for the first time echo, Poor
boy, and they, too, admire the younger Malfoy for putting
such a brave face on his grief. Of course he cannot be expected to seek
another bride just yet, not after such tragedy.
The party continues until the latest of hours, but no guest is so tipsy
that he cannot apparate himself home at its conclusion. Leaving the two
Malfoy men to look about at the detritus of their successful social
gathering, and seek their own rest.
In the same wing. In the same suite, the same room.
Father and son; one widowed, one near as--or so rumor has it.
Rumor that Draco Malfoy began himself. Naming no names, fixing no one
country for the story, knowing well that gossip invents those details
as it spreads. The broken-hearted son, unwilling to seek any other
female companionship just yet. Of course it explains
why there are no pictures of the girl, why no one would be so tactless
as to press Draco for further details.
Of course it is fitting, given these circumstances, for him to continue
to live at home with his widowed father.
The father he loves. Loves more, and differently, since Narcissa
Malfoy's death left the two of them alone together.
And if, entwined at night, away from eyes that would be shocked if they
knew the truth...if at those times the Malfoy men are a little less
somber than they usually pretend, well. They deserve a moment to relax
their guard a little.
Fanfiction Art/Fic Tributes
LiveJournal Other Links