Chapter Text
“You’re mad.”
Vulpecula snorted quietly to herself as she drew quietly on a large sheet of parchment. Every so often, she kept looking at her chosen victim, unable to keep back the choke of laughter clawing up from within. She smeared a glob of ink across the face of her creation, warping whatever mouth there was into a blur of a smile. It reminded her distinctly of a clown. There was no forgetting the eyes: beady, little things, glaring at her, always glaring at her. There was no escape from them: they were in every mirror.
“I mean it, you’re absolutely barmy.”
Vulpecula jerked her head up, eyeing the creature before her with disdain. Its pale blonde hair was slicked back to perfection; Vulpecula supposed his prissy, little mother did it for him. She slicked his hair back with the reverence of a mother that loved. Vulepcula didn’t know what that was like. Not in this life, nor in the last. She blackened the palm of her hand, running ink into every little crevice, before slapping it at the end of the parchment: a Vulpecula original.
There.
It was done.
Vulpecula motioned a careful hand towards her daily annoyance. The creature, a child, appeared to relax at once, stepping towards her with a familiarity that Vulpecula never felt was truly warranted. She was a stranger, a foreigner, a person from an entire universe away. She’d slipped inside someone’s skin and stolen it. They would murder her in her bed if they knew. Oh, yes. Slice her down from throat to stomach, exposing organs that need not be exposed. There was no use in getting to like the little imp, though he tried.
Merlin, did he try.
If Vulpecula didn’t have the pleasure of being insane, she’d figured she’d be rather exasperated with the poor lad. Evidently, he thought of her as some sort of sister-like figure. It made sense, considering she’d lived in their stupid house his whole life. She’d been born a few years before him: 1978 to his 1980. In truth, there really shouldn’t be so much difference between them. In another world, perhaps, she really was like his sister.
“I think it’s my best work yet.” Vulpecula said.
Her little pest eyed her suspiciously. He walked, then stopped, then bounded over to look at her piece of art, her masterpiece, her magnum opus!
“Vivie!” He cried, stomping his foot.
It was the silliest of nicknames, given it sounded nothing like her name, but it had stuck. Mostly, because Vulpecula had encouraged it in secret. Who gave a name like Vulpecula to a child, anyways?
Vulpecula smiled. “Yes?”
“You were supposed to be drawing me!”
Vulpecula hummed. “Draco, darling, you’re just not a very good muse.”
Draco was not going to let that stand. “I’m a wonderful muse! Mother says so!”
“Your mother says that about everything you do, dear.” Vulpecula sighed forlornly, patting at his shoulder, marring those pristine robes with her ink-covered hand. “It’s going to lose its value at some point, you know? Besides, I was never going to draw you. That’s not how genius works. It just comes to me when it comes to me.”
“Vivie,” he whined. “You made me stand on one leg!”
“Which….you failed at. Miserably.” Vulpecula smiled widely.
Draco stomped his foot again. “It looks like a boggart drew it.”
“Maybe I am a boggart,” Vulpecula said darkly. “Did you ever think of that? Maybe I can predict the future. Maybe that thing will be you in a few years.”
Together, they looked down at the supposed portrait. It was an entity veiled in wispy black, but with a rounded face and an eerie grin, sharpened teeth, and the outlines of blurred lips still running down. It was standing on one leg. Truly, an exceptional piece. Draco jerked himself away, running out of their play room. “I’m going to tell, Mother!”
Vulpecula promptly tore the parchment into pieces.
And for good measure, she ate it.
The last thing she needed was some sort of magical version of a psychiatrist popping up and making educated guesses off of her drawings. Vulpecula never really believed in any of that stuff - like therapy. At least, not for herself. Oh, no. She’d always been told that she’s too aware, too caught on to the big game of life. Vulpecula couldn’t just leave the news to itself, enjoy life as it was. No, that’s why she ended up slitting her wrists. A whole lot of good that did her. Now, she was in an even more precarious situation than before. Oh yes, because now, she could be tortured, killed, turned into a mind zombie, or worse. There was always worse.
She knew whose child she was.
Perhaps, if she’d actually been born a Malfoy, it might have been different.
There was a reason she was locked up the way she was. There was a reason Draco got to hang out with the other children, whilst Vulpecula was stashed away elsewhere. Vulpecula didn’t mind, of course, and in truth, they were valid reasons. It was one thing being the daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange, it was another being the daughter of him. The character nobody liked to talk about, the villain of the entire story. For Merlin’s sake, Vulpecula spoke to snakes before she spoke to humans – just to see if she could. Unfortunately for her, she’d been a little less subtle in those early years. Too smart, too present, too creepy. There was a lot her Uncle Lucy could do, but protect her from the wrath of the whole world? Money couldn’t solve everything. Luckily for her, the madness had set in.
And it was partly madness, not just an act.
Vulpecula lacked impulse control. Her temper was more mercurial than ever. It was becoming rather obvious that seven years of nature were steadily defeating at least twenty-five years of nurture. She was her parent’s child, that’s for sure. Sadly for them, she had zero interest in genocide or world domination. Vulpecula might not be good, but she wasn’t that level of bad either. She just didn’t have the interest. She’d much rather learn, read, and experience. Well, as long as none of those things were etiquette or dancing. She had one spoon: a little spoon. The others were useless to her. They were never the perfect bite. She was not going to waste her new life on rich people's nonsense.
There was a clack of heels outside the door: Narcissa entered the playroom. Vulpecula didn’t even bother glancing up, intent on focusing more on her hands. One day, she’d get her ability to properly move them back. Fine-motor skills were still coming along, slowly but surely. Not to mention, she was left-handed in this life, which sucked. The many attempts to use her right hand had forced her into a level of ambidextrousness.
“Did you have to upset him?” Narcissa sighed.
“Yes,” Vulpecula answered. The pair of them did this every time. Narcissa would ask questions, tell her a sappy story about her mother, and then the pair of them wouldn’t talk until Vulpecula upset baby Draco again. “I like it. It’s fun.”
“He just wants to play with you,” Narcissa tried to explain: careful, attentative, even motherly. It was all fake. It would all die the moment she found out that Vulpecula had been one of them once: a muggle. Her blood might be pristine now, but that just meant her soul was filthy instead. “You remind me so much of your mother. She never played well with others either.”
Vulpecula finally deigned to glance up at her beloved aunt. She had fine, blonde hair: golden, more so than platinum. It was very much unlike how it was in the films. Aunt Cissa was a slender woman, with a swan-like neck that she knew how to angle. There was a distinct delicateness to her: it was real to an extent. Aunt Cissa suffered from ill health. She couldn’t have more children because of it. She’d cried to her more than once. Vulpecula figured that sometimes she acted as a substitute Bellatrix for her aunt. It was weird to think of the wild woman from the story as someone capable of having a deep conversation about something like infertility. There was kindness as well to Aunt Cissa’s silvery eyes: there were times that Vulpecula wanted to give into them, but then there were others where all she wanted to do was scratch them out. Vulpecula’s own mind baffled her, tormented her.
“I want a wand,” she said.
“You’ll get one when you go to school,” Narcissa explained.
In the corner of the play room, a toy caught fire. Narcissa put it out within an instant, whipping her own wand out. Vulpecula eyed the string of water that came out with envy. All of this would change the moment she could truly start her studies, but sadly, her aunt was still intent on raising her as some sort of lady. That meant whatever books she read were monitored - and her only lessons now involved learning how to socialize. It was awful. Vulpecula hated society, though she enjoyed people. Well, correction, she enjoyed tormenting others for the sake of her entertainment. Yet, another passed on trait. Her parents would be so pleased.
Merlin.
They were going to be back.
Here.
It was only a matter of time. Voldemort would come back during Harry’s fourth year - and then torment the crap out of the Malfoys for the next two-three. No doubt, they had some sort of high expectations for the daughter of the darkest, most powerful lord of blah-blah-blah. Ugh. It was going to suck. She could do whatever she wanted to her aunt and uncle. They were never going to harm her. Her father was another beast entirely. Voldemort did as he pleased - much like she did. And the only person her mother listened to was him. Which meant, she pretty much did the exact same thing, except somehow worse. He’d been relatively…sane, once: a long time ago, and really, she didn’t know if it counted as sanity. From what Vulpecula knew, Bellatrix had been crazy since the day she was born. Essentially, her odds were not great.
Vulpecula had to be ready.
She had to be ready to fight for a side she didn’t even like all that much.
She had to do it knowing that there was no reward at the end of the tunnel. Another form of suckery. Vulpecula just couldn’t see a way out of it. She was the daughter of the Dark Lord and his favorite lap-dop. She was kept inside Malfoy Manor as if it were a vault, and she, a most prized heirloom. It was one form of prison or another. That much was certain.
“But, I want one now.” Vulpecula pouted, showing her age.
Narcissa ignored her antics, getting back to the point. “Draco adores you. Just. Just be kind to him. That’s all I ask.”
Ach. There it was. The guilt. The guilt from a myriad of things: from actually liking her new family, to the fact that she was technically a grown woman tormenting a child. She didn’t feel like a grown woman, though. Instead, she felt like a child who knew too much. Vulpecula said nothing. She merely waited for Narcissa to leave, but her silence was a sort of submission that her aunt knew well enough to not demand anything more from it.
That had to be enough.
It always had to be enough.
Dinner that night took place on an elongated table, which stretched from one end of the room to the other. It was silly, stupid, frivolous: Vulpecula couldn’t say she didn’t enjoy being kept at a distance when it came to her uncle’s ire. He did some made-up position created for wealthy men in the ministry; that much she knew. The rest, well, Vulpecula didn’t really care about.
“Aren’t you going to eat your foie gras, dear?” Narcissa prompted from her end of the table.
“I think it’s been poisoned.” Vulpecula said, pushing the fatty liver around with her trusty spoon. She actually didn’t mind the liver. Vulpecula liked a lot of the foods people normally hated: liver, mushrooms, brussel sprouts. On principle, however, she existed to frustrate her relatives. She pushed the plate away from her.
Draco sneered at his food, pushing it away out of sheer loyalty. Also, she had a feeling he just didn’t like liver. If there was a family dog, it’d be well-fed right now. Unless dogs couldn’t eat duck liver, then she guessed it would be dead instead.
Uncle Lucy took a drink of his wine, doing nothing.
He was prompted into an action by a rather stony gaze from his wife.
“Vulpecula, eat it."
“I’m telling you, it’s poisoned.” Vulpecula sniffed. “I must have a food taster.”
Uncle Lucy snapped his fingers. Dobby appeared out of thin air. He’d been assigned to take care of Draco, for the most part. He did other household things as well, but none of that was information that Vulpecula knew. Yet. She was intrigued by their slaves. Yes, slaves, because that’s what they were. No hiding around that, really. Even in the books, they spoke in broken caricatures. It was pretty on the nose. Probably not one of Rowling’s wisest moves. Dobby looked…like an elf. He looked remarkably as they did in the films, though with a touch more hair to his scalp. He looked between them, waiting for his orders.
“Dobby,” he said with an exasperated tone. “Eat some of the Fois Gros.”
“Not some. Mine.” Vulpecula insisted. It was probably one of the finest things Dobby would ever get to eat until he became a free elf. Vulpecula didn’t mind that. She had a few morals: a disagreement with the ethics of slavery being one of them.
Dobby took it from her plate, sniffed it, bit into it.
And they sat there and waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
“See,” Uncle Lucy said. “It’s not pois-”
“Dobby!” Draco cried from the other side of his table.
Vulpecula looked to her right to find the house elf convulsing on the ground.
Foam sputtered out from the sides of his mouth, blood following soon after. Genuine horror erupted within her, though she kept a cool face. This was not good. Dobby was not supposed to be dead. In fact, he was crucial to like half of the main plot. From Chamber of Secrets, to his role in the Deathly Hallows. Vulpecula bit back the human in her as best as she could: there was something terrible in watching something she knew to be entirely pure-hearted just…die. And that’s what Dobby did. Dobby died.
There would be no funeral.
In a normal family, maybe, but not in this one.
Dobby would be buried in a shallow grave, like a put-down dog, only with none of the love.
Aunt Cissa screamed. Uncle Lucy rushed. Both of them guarded Vulpecula from an invisible threat, wands drown. Draco had managed to squish himself in between them. He was the only one to weep, whimpering Dobby’s name. Uncle Lucy was already calling the other house-elves, demanding answers he wouldn’t be able to get. When none of them knew how it happened, he killed them all. Then, he contacted the authorities.
Vulpecula could only stand there, useless and wallowing. Someone had quite literally tried to kill her. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a joke. Had she not been petulant, she’d be dead. On another day, this would have sent her cackling down the halls. Not this one, though. Vulpecula would remember Dobby. She promised him she would. She never had paid him much mind, not wanting to interfere with his story until the last minute. In fact, she’d been hoping to help him avoid death.
It was supposed to be a long time away: a future not yet come.
Vulpecula clenched her hands, nails digging deep into the skin of her palm. She’d grown complacent in her role. She needed a wand. She needed training. If Harry didn’t have a Dobby, then that meant Vulpecula would have to be the next best thing. Aurors filled the house within moments, prowling the perimeter. Alongside them, a healer, who Aunt Cissa immediately demanded to look over Vulpecula.
“Did you eat anything? Not even a nibble?” She was asked kindly by a rather portly woman who had laugh lines embedded deep into the crooks of her mouth. Vulpecula merely shook her head. Draco, of course, was checked over. Aunt Cissa was the most frantic she’d ever been. The biggest question remaining, of course, was the question of how: how did Vulpecula know? She’d been prodded by aurors, outright asked by her uncle, but there was no method to Vulpecula’s madness. The truth was plain: Vulpecula didn’t know how she knew. And she knew a lot of things she wasn’t supposed to know.
Instinct?
There was much to think about.
Draco and Vulpecula slept in Narcissa’s rooms that night: the both of them cradled to her chest. Draco first, then Vulpecula, who didn’t mind the contact. It was warm and she was disturbed. She’d been closer to death than she liked. There was an obvious why. There were monsters in this world, then, there were the Lestranges. The Longbottoms weren’t the only ones to die in their quest for vengeance, but they had been the only ones of wizarding nobility. That was all that mattered in this world.
“You’re safe now, you’re safe,” Narcissa whispered to a crying Draco.
He’d never been in any danger. His food had been tested: nothing. The only target had been Vulpecula. There was no way of knowing her true heritage. She’d never left the manor since her original mother died. Nonetheless, she’d been stationed here before then. Given that her mother had been quick to return to battle, followed by her husband and his brother. Vulpecula can’t imagine she’d enjoy being in a baby sling, whilst her mother threw off killing curses left and right. And that being the merciful option.
“We’ll get another Dobby: a better Dobby.”
Narcissa’s words brought no comfort, though they served to quiet Draco. There were no other Dobbies. As far as the series implied, Dobby was quite the enigma. He’d broken through, somehow, the hold that slave magic had on his kind. “I want a wand,” Vulpecula whispered out unhelpfully. “I need a wand. If I’m going to be anything like her.”
“I don’t want you to be anything like her. I want you to like pretty gowns, drink tea, and gossip. Not going around running off, killing things, risking your head. Her actions have come back to haunt us, to haunt you.” Narcissa’s facade was off. Whatever happened tonight had troubled her so deeply that she couldn’t keep the mask on any longer. It would be back in its place tomorrow, but for tonight, it was off. Narcissa wept into Draco’s shoulder. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
No, no it wasn’t.
A child should have died tonight.
The child that never was; the one whose life Vulpecula stole. Mayhaps, it was for the best. Dying the way Dobby had seemed like a pretty awful way to go. Then again, she hadn’t seen much death. Just her own – and now, his. All they both ever wanted was to be free. Vulpecula held onto that thought deeply, sticking it deep within her blackened heart. She burrowed deep down into Narcissa’s silken sheets, unable to bear the heat of her bedding. Vulpecula slept as always did; like the dead.
Lestrange Heiress Almost Poisoned at Malfoy Manor
That was the headline of the morning’s paper. Listed below it was a picture of her uncle talking to authorities. Vulpecula scanned the subtext, noting the fact there was already a search going underway for whoever had tried to do it. Uncle Lucy was busy dealing with the fact they were having to re-work some of the wards. Already, a new set of slaves had been purchased. Vulpecula didn’t much like to call them elves anymore: it allowed her to forget that it was an atrocity done unto them by wizardkind. Vulpecula had a theory that they were originally brownies: a type of fairy. They used to be rewarded for their efforts – and now, they were treated as if they were worse than the piles of shit that wizards used to just vanish elsewhere. Vulpecula wondered what happened to the rest of them: a few lingered, like goblings and boggarts, but what about the elves, the real ones? Where did they ever go?
Vulpecula’s access to history, much like most other things, was limited. She wondered if they were afraid of her. That it scared them to be potentially housing the next Dark Lorde; especially having only just resettled their own lives after Uncle Lucy was able to convince the Ministry that he was actually not a wizard Nazi. Merlin, it helped to be richer than God. They’d been throwing their money at charities left and right, bringing the color of their reputation into murkier shades. It was better than the pitch black it used to be. Vulpecula’s fingers itched. She scratched them until they bled.
“Stop that,” Uncle Lucy commanded.
Vulpecula listened, but only because moments like this were uncommon. Uncle Lucy tolerated her. Sometimes, she even thought he cared. He was a complicated man: arguably, just as much of a monster as her own parents. She remembered how easy it was for him to assault people in the fourth book: his truest nature was revealed when he put on a mask. It made her sick; the idea of getting close to such a man. And yet, it didn’t stop her from appreciating her mornings with him. He let her read the papers, no matter what was in them. She drank her tea, at her breakfast of strawberries in peace. She felt at peace. It felt sort of like being an adult again. She’d missed it.
Uncle Lucy never slept long. Vulpecula thinks it ate him up alive: his evilness. To be aware of one’s own darkness was hard. Vulpecula never dreamed, so her sleep was a sufficient escape. Uncle Lucy had the vibe of someone who dreamt a lot. In those first few years, there were always shadows under his eyes. Vulpecula never could forget the night he returned home from Azkaban. Aunt Cissa had been single mothering it for an entire year, by then. Draco didn’t even recognize Uncle Lucy when he came home. Neither did they, but for different reasons. It was as if a part of him had been left behind in Azkaban.
Nonetheless, the two of them had entered into a sort of routine. She’d wake up about a quarter until four. He’d be awake in his office by them: writing letters, reading, those sorts of things. Vulpecula didn’t disturb him then. She’d curl up in one of the chairs, feel the heat of the fireplace. She’d watch the sun rise from the window. Then, the owls would come. She’d be allowed to feed it, stroke its feathers, and then let it fly off again. It was the best part of the day.
“What happened to the elves?” Vulpecula asked.
Uncle Lucy paused, suddenly quite still. “They died.”
Vulpecula waved her hand. “Yes, yes, I know that, but how?”
“I lost my temper – I should have had them questioned by the aurors first.”
Vulpecula couldn’t help but scoff. “Not those elves. I mean, the other elves. The ones before those elves. You know, the ones with the pointed ears, the ethereal beauty, and immortality. Those elves.”
“Ah.” Uncle Lucy hummed, rubbing at his chin. “Whatever happened, happened long ago.”
Vulpecula sighed. “I bet they’re out hiding somewhere. Away from muggles.”
Away from wizards, too. That was an underlining statement to anything involving genocide. Wizards played a hand in that sort of thing. Even with the world wars, wizards had been meddling to some degree. Not always, but sometimes.
Uncle Lucy scoffed. “Muggles are weak, Vulpecula.”
“Isn’t that what we do?” Vulpecula huffed. “Hide from them? Wizards aren’t allowed to be wizards without permission. It’s unfair.” She sincerely believed it too. It was unfair. Wizards had to hide from muggles just as much as they had to hide from wizards. There was no more co-existence. In the olden days, perhaps they would been able to truly take each other on. Not anymore. Only the more deluded of the poorbloods think they had a chance against, what, six billion people. Hence Vulpecula’s desire to be on Team Vulpecula only: her views were going to be deeply unpopular with the people she was determined to help. They wouldn’t understand. Good people, naive people, rarely did.
“You read the debate section too much,” Uncle Lucy said, snatching the Daily Prophet right out of her hands.
“It interests me.” Vulpecula turned her attention back towards the outdoors.
“You’re seven,” Uncle Lucy reminded her. “You shouldn’t be interested in any of it.”
Vulpecula traced the window pane. “I want a wand. I want to learn to defend myself.”
“You can’t get a wand until you’re older.” Vulpecula grimaced, but her uncle wasn’t finished. “You can’t get a wand by law. And you’re too impulsive for me to trust you to have one in secret. But there are other ways to ready yourself. ” Vulpecula jerked her chin: was this part where she was going to learn martial arts. All of the edgy fanfiction had scenes where the main hero, usually Harry, focused on fitness. It was akin to some weird male fantasy about getting ripped. Vulpecula never cared much for it, preferring to exercise the mind – and mayhaps, get fit enough to duel.
“I’ve discussed with Narcissa about hiring an experienced guard for both you and Draco. We’re also going to build your tolerance for poisons. After much thinking, I’ve decided it’s also time for you to start learning how to brew, herbology included.”
Vulpecula withered. “Knowing how to brew potions won’t save me from an attacker.”
“No, but it will give you something to do. You’ve been needing that for a while now. Not play, but stimulation. Your aunt has been refusing to see it for some time, but enough is enough.” Uncle Lucy sighed. “You’re a child, niece. Leave the protecting to adults.”
It was better than nothing. It was already going to be a lot different than how their life had been lived so far. Poison tolerance. That sounded intriguing. Vulpecula thrummed her chin. “Do I get access to more books in the library?”
Uncle Lucy nodded, but held up a finger. “Only to subjects that pertain to you.”
Cue another Vulpecula-induced deflation.
The Malfoys had a strange dream of letting their kids be kids, it seemed. It was nothing like how it was in those snotty fanfictions, after all. Vulpecula just wanted to read and read and read some more. She wanted to know everything there was to know about this world, about the people within it. She wanted to live the life she never got to in her old one; filled with magic, mystery, and…and…fun.
Vulpecula sipped at her coldening tea: it was going to happen. She just had to be patient. Vulpecula used to actually have patience. She tried to remember what it was like, but it was becoming more and more difficult. She was becoming Vulpecula more than she ever had been that other girl. Vulpecula couldn’t even remember her old name.
What a laugh.