Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to the wonderful J.K. Rowling. I thank her for being allowed to play with her characters and create my own little world with them.
Author’s Notes: This will be a Next Generation story, so there will be a lot of OCs – the canon character’s kids. If you like your story OC-less, this isn’t a fanfiction for you. The prologue will be present tense and third person, but from the first chapter on it will be past tense and first person. The focus in this fic will not be on the pairings of the canon characters appearing in it, but in case you prefer to know, they are: Draco/Pansy, Harry/Ginny, Ron/Hermione. I will leave the rest to your imagination. The rating will most likely go up around the fifteenth-twentieth chapter. I hope you enjoy the story.
Chapter betaed by CornishPixies - thank you!
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
don’t you cry no more
Kansas – Carry on wayward son
The pain is unbearable. The white, clean colour of the ceiling starts to fade, hiding behind purple and black patches. She’s suffering, falling into an endless black hole and she screams as she wills it all to end. She hears yelling and the faint calling of her name, but she is in her own world where she is struggling to keep breathing. Dread fills her as she suffocates, her excessive screaming causing her throat to feel as if it is ripping. Her eyes are pressed shut, for she can no longer bear to face the world around her, even if she wasn't aware of it in the first place. She chokes as tears begin running down her face. Woman her age had told her the second one was usually easier. Apparently, usual was the ultimate key word. Her first had slipped out almost like it was eager to leave. This one seems to refuse to face the real world, wanting to remain safe inside of her.
But it will not do. It needs to get out for her sake as well as its own, but it's almost like the child she is desperately trying to deliver knows what is waiting for it. The harder she pushes, the harder it resists. She arches her back and cries for the heavens. Why, child, do you have to hurt her so? She will embrace you and love you with all her heart, for her husband has taken her first without further ado. He shall be raised as an heir; treated like a prince, spoiled for all his worth, and no woman shall stick her nose into those affairs. Women are merely dolls to be displayed.
With the anger that she summons with these thoughts she uses the last of her strength to push while screeching with despair. Slowly, as if it were almost hesitating, she feels it slipping out. And finally, with her assistance, it manages to be born. She hears a faint slap followed by the thin and fragile weeping of a newborn. The sound is so different from her first who had roared to the world when at last he was dismissed from her womb.
She sinks down in her cushions, wanting nothing but sleep. She can still hear the beat of her own heart, and for that she is thankful. She is utterly exhausted from her efforts and would not be surprised if she fainted right then. But instead her baby is suddenly thrust against her chest. It is nearly twice as small as its older sibling had been, and she still hears the sound of hiccups coming from it. She opens her eyes.
"You have a son. Congratulations."
In her arms is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen. He is small, very small, a bit pink and covered in blood-rich fluid, but the satisfaction she feels when she looks down at him is immense. She accepts the blanket a Healer hands her and wraps it around her boy. She opens her robe and softly starts nursing him, feeling endeared by his sucking sounds. A few thin, pale blond strands of hair already inhabit his head, but she can still see veins running through. His eyes, which widen as he drinks, are a deeper blue than his brother's had been. They will not turn grey, like his father's and his sibling's. They are her eyes: a deep, dark, midnight blue.
"You are very lucky; he almost didn't make it."
She looks up at one of the Healers who had assisted her giving birth. "What happened?"
"It was like he was refusing to be born. We had to use a charm to give you a hand so he could breath."
Her vision becomes clouded with tears. As they silently start to roll down her cheeks her child finishes drinking and softly burps. A good appetite, sweet one. I hope you will not suffer from my failure to deliver you faster, she thinks as her tears drip onto him, giving him clean spots between the bloodstains. He merely looks at her with those big blue eyes, and she does not want to look away. She smiles at him though her lips are still trembling. He doesn't smile back but he closes his eyes, which is a good enough gesture for her.
"Your husband and son wish to come in."
She does not take her eyes off her baby, who is unwanted by her husband. He will be sure to find something wrong with her dear son. But she continues cradling the baby, for holding him will help her withstand her husband's wrath. She has already decided that she will always love this little human that lies in her care, and would take care of it even if he wouldn’t. And their heir... well, he is broken beyond repair at the bright age of one year old. All her husband's morals have been drilled into him; all of his future has been settled. But this one still has hope. The Healers quietly leave the ward, giving the family some privacy.
And now they come in. Her husband walks stiff like a board, his pale blond hair sweeping into those evenly pale grey eyes that she once found so attractive and mysterious. Upon entering the room he does not look at her but fixes his eyes on a point next to her head. Looking much too dignified and sullen for his age, her first son toddles in one pace behind his father as he was told to do.
"Daddy, doing here? Wanna play."
"Father," her husband snaps, correcting the boy. The boy lapses into silence, his discontented expression settling with a frown.
"Father," he repeats, scowling. "Dun wanna be here."
She takes a trembling breath. Her husband never trusted her to raise his heir, and she fears for what will come of her sweet boy. Surely no fourteen-month-old would look that... angry?
Her husband steps forwards, a look of badly disguised disgust etched in his face. "Is that it?"
"It," she says through her clattering teeth, a tear threatening to fall again, “is your son."
His face is set. "I don't care if it's my son. He doesn't belong to me. He is horrible. He's too small."
She chokes, tears running again. "He's just a baby!" she cries out desperately. "Of c-course he is small!" The little one must have felt her distress, for he begins to wail, his broken sobs echoing through the ward. Her husband looks like he just stepped into something filthy.
"You see? Can't even handle two voices at the same time... not that I don't feel the urge to cry whenever I hear your voice," he hisses at her. He sneers maliciously, and she can’t help but see how much he looks like his deceased father– when he was still alive, of course.
Anger overrules her despair. "You – you – you’re such an insufferable git!" Her fury increases when he merely raises his eyebrow, with the accompanying scathing remark.
Meanwhile her oldest is standing silently behind his father, absently looking around the ward with wide eyes and seemingly not bothered by the shouting of his parents. He has heard this kind of conversation many times before. She abandons her argument and her voice changes to a soothing and motherly tone.
"Aiden, do you want to see your brother?"
He looks surprised to be addressed, trying to keep his face disinterested, but evidently he seems curious. He glances at his father, who shoots him a glare, but steps towards her anyway. She feels a warm glow of pride in her chest. Well done, my dear. He peeks through the blanket at his sibling.
"Tiny," he says.
"He's a baby, dear, all babies are small – though I do admit you were bigger." His expression turns to something proud, rather like the feeling she had in her chest mere seconds ago. He still has a long way to go.
Her husband grunts. "Go outside, Aiden. I need to speak with your mother."
Her son hastily moves away as her husband comes forward. As soon as the boy slams the door shut, his father starts talking.
"I told you to have him aborted. I told you as soon as I discovered you were pregnant. You didn't listen."
She cradles her newborn tightly. "He is a part of me. I can't do that."
His look is grim and dissatisfied. "Well, better say goodbye then. He is going to be put down."
"What?" Her eyes sting. Her baby, killed?
"You heard me." That cruel, twisted smile was on his face again. "I have no need of another heir. I need to concentrate on Aiden. He is my project –“
"He – is – your – son.” She says through gritted teeth, laying emphasis on every word.
"That trash you hold there is nothing but a fill up in my home. I refuse to pay for him." He says it with an indifferent tone, his eyes impassive. But she will not give up.
"Fine. I will raise him. I will use the Parkinson fortune I have inherited. I don't need you. He doesn't need you." She does not look down at her son, but she does run her hand up and down his stomach, to keep him calm.
His stare is cold as ice. "What about my estate? What about my space?"
"He doesn't need a lot of room. And when he gets too big, he'll be at Hogwarts anyway."
"He better not be a Squib then." Was that an acceptance?
"Don't insult my bloodline. Or yours."
They hold each other’s gazes for the longest time, until the boy lets out a rather impressive burp for someone his size. She smiles, and she could have sworn she saw the tiniest hint of amusement on her husband's face for a split second. An important issue suddenly rises to her thoughts.
"What will we name him?"
Her husband raises his eyebrow yet again. "I'll leave that for you to decided, but please not something horrible. Remember, he is your son. I have no responsibility." With those words, he departs from the room, his black robes sweeping behind him. One of the Healers comes back after he slams the door shut.
"Well? What will his name be?"
She lets her mind wander as she thinks. She decides that his second name will be his father's simply because it seems the right thing to do despite his father’s attitude. But she honestly doesn’t have a clue about a first name. She turns to the Healer.
"Do you know a good name for him?"
The young woman smiles at her. "When I have children, I'm going to name them after story characters." She leaves her to ponder again. Would she name her son after a story character? The only story she had liked in her youth was Dracula's, an evil wizard that was an Animagus. He could turn into a bat and flew around to young women's houses to suck their blood. But to name the boy Dracula? The idea was laughable, for she thought he was the most innocent thing she had ever seen. She asks the Healer for advice a second time, and again the woman smiles.
"Just turn the name around. It's Alucard. He was Dracula's son." Dracula's son… Well, she hasn't heard of that one, but she does qualify her husband as a bit dark. She looks at her son again. Perhaps the name would suit him.
"Alucard it is then."
The Healer nods before putting the name down, and then leaves the mother alone with her son again.
Being careful so that he is still able to breath, she wraps her arms around him and pulls him against her chest. She cries again, but this time with relief.
"I will always love you," she whispers, listening to the baby's breathing right next to her ear. "I will always take care of you, my precious Alucard Draco Malfoy."
She can only hope that will be enough.
Author’s Notes: If you came this far – thanks for reading the Prologue of this story of mine. I hope you will stay tuned for the later chapters. As I said in the beginning, it will be first person, from Alucard’s point of view. :)
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