#bc mothers know best narcissa has known what to do to help her son pass on

[joonkorre]

letters and words

@drarrymicrofic prompt: love letter

was thinking of tgcf’s hualian playing around with the supernatural and. it hit me.

just a quick one since i have a ton of WIPs to take care of. enjoy. AO3

“He says to take better care of yourself now that he's not here.”

“Of course,” Narcissa says, dignified in her hollowness. She merely looks at his face, her curiosity in his rapidly moving hands having faded long ago.

Harry sighs inwardly. When he first started this career, he had expected his Master of Death status to be enough for clients to believe him. As it turns out, it usually takes about ten sessions and an expensive investment in the Scale of Truth for them to even start looking at him with something other than polite indulgence. His work has spoken for itself, though, and to his contentment, the number of skeptics is dwindling by the day.

One Narcissa Malfoy remains unimpressed, however. Strange, considering she’s the one who wrote three letters consecutively to plead for a moment of his time like he wouldn’t readily accept.

Death is unbiased. It doesn't discriminate, only takes and takes. If he doesn’t grow to be unbiased himself, how can Harry even dare to approach its throne, let alone work with it?

Still, Narcissa pays the Scale of Truth no mind and agrees with his statements as if she anticipates everything he says, like he’s a fraud. Either way, Harry doesn’t really care. He’s here to do his job and give this woman peace of mind. So, his eyes never leave the planchette.

It darts from one letter to the next, Harry so used to each one’s placement that he can generally tell what the spirits want to say before they even finish.

“He asks if you know he loves you,” Harry says. His head is bent down and focused, missing the slight twitch in Narcissa’s fingers. “Do you know he loves you?”

If it’s not for the flickering of withering candles, the room might as well be completely silent. Narcissa pauses, before:

“Interesting question for a mother,” she says. “‘Do you know he loves you?’”

Harry looks up. The way she phrases the question doesn’t make sense; it's like she’s asking someone else. That is, if there’s any other person in the dusty, hazy room except Harry. The planchette quivers then, jackrabbiting across the board.

“Better answer him,” Harry murmurs as his eyes are pinned on the little wooden heart. It makes no discernable word, then stops altogether. “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Narcissa stirs her tea absentmindedly. She stares at him. “May I have a question for him in return?”

Harry gives the same answer he’s been giving her every time she asks him this question: a nod.

“Am I the one he loves?”

Harry shoots a glance at the woman. What kind of question is that?

“He hated Lucius, you see,” she explains, “and held no love for his peers. They’ve either abandoned him or died, and he couldn’t find it in himself to dwell in their memories.”

“So, logically, you should be the one person he loves?”

“Indeed.”

Harry nods.

“Hmm,” nods again. “Okay. Alright.” Not weird in the slightest.

Harry repeats the question and the planchette draws a decisive line toward the word ‘Yes.’ Something clinks. The two occupants of the room look in its direction at the same time.

The Scale of Truth tips heavily to one side, the peacock feather apparently way heavier than the obsidian orb on the other side. The spirit has lied. A lot. Harry frowns and prepares himself for the oncoming fit of jealousy.

Instead of shouting or even a hint of biting snark, Narcissa smiles her first smile in the five sessions they’ve had. It doesn’t reach her eyes, but it does make her look a few years younger. Good genes, Harry notes. Wonders that if her last relative was still here, the age-regressing effect would also be noticeable on that pinched face.

“He let go of love so easily, that boy of mine. I had hoped for him to let go of what little he had left before he went, at least, to make his journey less full of burdens,” Narcissa sips her tea, pausing for a moment.

“On the contrary, it’d seem that it’s only grown,” she continues. “That boy of mine. My boy. He had never been one to keep his emotions in check very well.”

Harry can’t deny that.

“Is another question alright?”

A swift turn to the ticking clock on the far wall, and Harry can tell they have but a few minutes left of today’s session.

“Yeah, sure. Please make it quick, though,” he says.

“Of course,” Narcissa nods. Then, staring at the planchette, she asks, her voice softened. “Who is the person he loves, then?”

Harry hums. Good question. Even better if there’s a reply. But, well, even after two repeats of the question, the planchette only lies there.

Minutes pass. Harry is more than happy to wait it out for a little longer just to ensure that Narcissa’s question is answered. But if no answer comes, then he’d have to finish the ritual and make both of them wait until next week for another session. Many clients drive themselves spare when situations like this happen, and while Harry thinks Narcissa’d rather eat mud than be associated with those people, it doesn’t sit right with him that an old woman would have to wander the lonely halls of this forgotten mansion, wondering what her son might have said. But since they've just been sitting here, waiting...

“Alright. Seems like we're gonna have to continue this next time,” Harry concludes, moving the planchette toward the ‘Goodbye’ carved in the bottom of the board. “Good-”

Something brushes against his cheek. A press. Soft and fleeting, then it’s gone.

“-bye.”

Harry almost throws the planchette on the table and risks the consequences for such a disrespectful act, but he refrains from doing so. Setting it down without a sound, he leans back against the squeaking armchair, leaving his equipment unpacked. Hesitant fingers against a stubbled cheek, Harry catches Narcissa’s eyes.

“Did he do something?” She asks.

“Yeah.”

“So he did,” Narcissa peers at the yellowed windows as if she can clearly watch the overgrown garden. “How do we know if a spirit is at peace?”

Harry pulls his hand from his cheek to rub his chin, eyes still a bit glazed over. “When they no longer respond to the ritual’s call.”

The clock ticks on.

“Well,” Narcissa says. She smiles once more, her eyes now curving along with it. “Thank you for what you’ve done for me, Mr. Potter. For him.”

“Oh, that’s, that’s just, I’m just doing my job.”

“And you did it perfectly.”

Uncrossing her legs, Narcissa strolls to the fireplace with an effortless glide that's been startling in its absence. The pouch she retrieves from the mantle is generous, nearly bursting with coins. When the lazily floating candles extinguish themselves with a hush at the wave of her wand, Harry snaps out of the fuzzy fog that's permeated every corner of his head.

“Mrs. Malfoy, your second payment isn’t due until—”

“You have no need to burden yourself with us anymore,” Narcissa pushes the pouch toward him. “He’s done what he’s yearned for all these years. He is free and finally at peace, and that is all I ever wanted for him. Another session is not necessary.”

She smiles kindly.

“Thank you.”

Harry vaguely feels himself say, “You're welcome,” then averts his eyes. He doesn’t look at the Scale of Truth. He doesn’t look at the board nor its planchette.

He doesn’t look at anything at all.