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Lucius Malfoy rounded the corner and stared uneasily at Aloysius Black’s town house in Diagon Alley. The oak beams and bay windows nestled snugly in a thicket of iron railings, leafless trees and squawking crows. He’d heard about the crows. Legend had it they were the spirits of all the old Mistresses of the House of Black, too house-proud to leave their beloved bricks and mortar, forever pecking off the moss and lichen, or frightening away the beggars.

From this corner of Diagon Alley, you could hear the muggle cars rumbling along the roads outside. Malfoy wrinkled his nose to think of Narcissa being kept awake by such stomach-churning vulgarity.

She was waiting for him on the steps that led up to the front door, pale and still as a marble statue. The only indication that she was alive was the fact that her breath was steaming on the frosty air. Even though he’d been free of the Amortentia potion for six months now, Malfoy couldn’t control the lurching feeling - somewhere between exhilaration and nausea - that gripped his stomach whenever he saw her.

She was the opposite of everything that wearied and disgusted him about people. She was cold and clean and self-contained. There was no conspicuous emotion about Narcissa – there was barely any conspicuous life. The snowflakes landing on her cheeks weren’t even melting. She looked at home in the cold: there was no vulgar shivering – no goose-bumps sullying the perfect smoothness of that skin.  

Yes, that delicate, almost translucent skin – when he’d first seen it, he’d been afraid that the slightest touch would tear it, like fine lace. He’d assumed that a strong breeze would scatter the molecules of her body like pressed powder.  

But this appearance of delicacy was misleading. In certain lights, and at certain moments, his marble statue came alive –and when she did, she was beautiful and terrifying as a monsoon. When she was brewing potions, or defending her family honour, there was a strange, metallic sheen to her skin, and a glimmer in those dead, grey eyes. Life wasn’t dead in her; just suspended. In all that coldness, there was a promise of better things to come.

She smiled as Malfoy climbed the steps towards her. Without speaking, he passed his hand over her torso, from her neck to her belly, allowing his fingers to hover a fraction of an inch away from her flesh. It seemed to him that he could feel the heat radiating from her. But he didn’t touch her. Narcissa smiled mischievously and edged forward, so that her breast nudged against his hand. Malfoy moaned with longing, but managed to snatch his hand away.

Everything else he touched, he lost respect for; the women he’d associated with – and there had been many – started to lose their charms on closer inspection. Malfoy, who was used to getting bored of things in a day, was suddenly terrified by the idea that he could get bored of Narcissa.  

“They’re waiting for you inside,” she said, as though nothing had happened. That was the good thing about Narcissa. She was never overcome with displays of affection. She was a daughter of the House of Black, and had been taught to regard tenderness as a vulgar, muggle invention, designed to stop those hideous ape-creatures from devouring their own young. Pure-blood witches and wizards had no need of it.

Malfoy was still nursing his hand as though it had been burned.

“My family is…” Narcissa paused to steady her voice and smooth down her robes, “…eager to meet you.”

Lucius felt a heavy gloom settling in his stomach. He had slept with one of Narcissa’s sisters, and been slapped in the face by the other one (though, to confess the truth, sleeping with Bellatrix had been a lot more painful than being slapped by Andromeda). Add to that the famously self-righteous Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and the house-wife whom nobody ever saw, because she was always fluffing pillows or baking scones, and you had a family that even Malfoy’s practised charm probably wouldn’t be able to soften.  

Narcissa looked anxious too. Her appearance was immaculate, of course – not a strand of hair was out of place – but there was a wild, almost frantic look in her eyes. Malfoy found it unutterably exciting. She had never looked out of her element before; she had always glided through life as though she was being pulled along on castors, but today her chest was rising and falling noticeably, and her eyes, when she turned them to him, were almost pleading.

She wanted this to be over with. It was only now beginning to dawn on him how stifling she found her family.

Of course, she was ashamed of the blood-traitor Andromeda, and concerned for the blood-thirsty Bellatrix, but he had never noticed before how much anxiety her parents gave her.

Oblivia Black, the elusive domestic goddess, was slim, tall and glamorous. She had glossy chestnut ringlets and a small, perfectly-formed nose. She was dignified, and yet so eager to please – and women who wanted to please him woke Malfoy’s demons up, in exactly the same way that gazing on Narcissa put them to sleep.

She was fluffing cushions when Malfoy came into the room – pink cushions that looked absurdly out of place on the gothic stone pews that lined the room.

“Mother, the House Elf can do that,” said Narcissa, in a voice that was at once tender and prickly. “Come and meet Mr Malfoy.”

Oblivia Black was bizarrely child-like, and Lucius soon noticed the agitated tenderness with which Narcissa cared for her. She was forever wrestling dusters out of her mother’s hand, ushering her into various chairs – in which she could never remain seated – and shooing her away from the constant fluffing of those pink cushions.  

The others – Bellatrix, Andromeda, and even Aloysius Black, just let her get on with it. Occasionally, they would ask Oblivia to sew up a hem, or fetch a bottle of wine – and the agony with which Narcissa endured these instructions became increasingly obvious – and increasingly painful – to Malfoy. He made a mental note to invite Oblivia Black to stay at Malfoy Manor once he and Narcissa were married – but to keep her in the west wing, out of his way – because she was very attractive, and he should never, ever be left alone with attractive women who wanted to please him.

The problem was that everyone did. Unfortunately, Malfoy united just about every desirable virtue - except the boring ones you read about in books, like self-restraint and compassion. He was rich, pure-blooded, and startlingly handsome. Women were prepared to do anything to elicit one of those rare, sneering smiles.     

They’d been bar-wenches, generally – their lips tasting of Butterbeer. Or Metamorphmagi, or Veela – who could morph into spectacularly beautiful women, but had to be treated with caution, in case they snapped back unexpectedly into their original forms. Nothing was worse than dealing with the fact that the creature you’d been kissing a moment before was really a toothless old crone or a sharp-beaked apparition. Still, they kept you on your toes. He didn't get bored of them as quickly as the bar-wenches.  

They had been so eager to please him; they never got into bad moods; they were permanently merry and flirtatious and God, all that tinkling laughter grated on his nerves!

They did everything he wanted. And, without realizing he was doing it, he started to experiment; he started to see how far he could push them. What wouldn’t they do for his approval?

Very little, as it turned out.

They’d let him do horrible things, until their very touch sickened him, until the first stirrings of desire made him want to throw up. He felt like a reverse Midas, with a touch that could turn gold into useless flesh.

He’d suddenly realized that, all the time he’d been drinking Firewhisky and fraternizing with wenches, pure-blood families had been dying out. Pure bloods were like the decadent Romans, indulging themselves with banquets and orgies, while all the time, the Barbarian hordes were hammering at the gates. Muggles were oozing into his beloved magical world. He’d seen them in Flourish and Blotts, buying school-books for their disgraceful, quasi-magical brats. They were turning up on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, pointing at owls and broomsticks. They had the nerve to ask pillars of the pure-blood community for their autographs! It wasn’t right.

And, all this time, he’d been allowing it. It was difficult for Malfoy to be angry with himself, because he liked himself a lot, but, for a moment there, he had felt almost ashamed.  

And then he’d met his winter Goddess – pale and mysterious – silver as the moonlight on an icy lake – and the enemy of all frailty, all weakness, all life.  

She was the antidote to all those bar-wenches and scarlet women – she had marble-white skin and placid, grey eyes. She never laughed at his jokes, or even smiled at his greetings. And, for the first time in years, Malfoy had felt desire without the accompanying feeling that he was about to throw up.  

But he liked her too much. He was terrified that he’d turn her into one of those servile women – that, suddenly, one night, there would be the sound of tinkling laughter, and the words: “What would you like me to do now, my love?”

So, the instant he began to suspect that she liked him, he had jumped into bed with her sister.

And Merlin’s beard, that had been terrifying! It was like leaping in at the deep end. This time, it was her thinking up the horrible things, not just going along with them. Malfoy had thought he’d had a pretty sick imagination, but it paled in comparison to Bella’s.

Still, it was what he deserved. Someone like Bella couldn't be corrupted by him. And if she strangled the last shreds of humanity he'd been nursing, well, it wasn't as though it was a big loss. He probably wouldn't even notice.

But Narcissa had more in common with Bellatrix than he’d thought. It turned out that his pale ice-maiden was made of steel. Her anger was awe-inspiring. It was even more terrifying than Bella’s. Bella’s anger just exploded and then fizzled out, but Narcissa’s was slow-burning – it was like a long trail of gunpowder. You knew there'd be a spectacular explosion at the end; you just didn't know when the end would come. She'd let you get comfortable first.  

The rituals surrounding a magical betrothal were complicated – and, bizarrely, involved no actual magic. The couple stood inside a chalked circle, to symbolize the elite world of their pure-blood ancestry. Narcissa was to bring a spray of pine (nobody remembered why anymore; it was just tradition). The green needles trembled as she held the branch in her hand. Malfoy brought the coronet of the Malfoy matriarchs – a twisted crown of silver and opals – and placed it gingerly on her fine, ice-blonde hair.  

She was bringing fertility and he was bringing riches. He supposed that was the idea. The bride brought the promise of children, and the groom attempted to compensate her for this magical gift with a lot of shiny pebbles.

All the Malfoy matriarchs had worn the coronet. It was supposed to symbolize their descent from Lorna, a semi-mythical Scandinavian witch who’d been born blind, but who had enchanted opals to serve as her eyes. Lucius had a portrait gallery in which five hundred generations of pure-blood women had been painted wearing this crown. Walking down it was like running a gauntlet of icy sneers. It was one long, cold shower. But, when Narcissa was painted wearing it, she would have the opposite effect. He envied the Malfoys that would walk down the portrait gallery in generations to come, wincing through a quarter-mile of icy sneers, until they came to the end, where they would see beauty bright enough to burn them. He hoped the portrait-painter would capture the metallic sheen that settled on her skin when she was angry.    

Aloysius Black said a few words about their responsibility to bear children. Narcissa, holding her trembling spray of pine, coloured slightly. The intensity of Malfoy’s gaze was enough to draw a blush even from her. It seemed to tell her that, if they didn’t have children, it would not be for want of trying.

Oblivia looked tearful; Andromeda looked bored; Bella looked furious – but then, these expressions were not unusual, for any of them. They were standing caricatures of themselves. Malfoy saw Narcissa pass her eyes from one to the other, not really seeing any of them.

This was the moment she had been planning for all her life. She had a rich, pure-blood husband. What would she do, now that she’d got everything she wanted? Would she retire? Pack away the cosmetics, put on a frilly pink apron, and start fluffing cushions? He hoped not.    

It was dark by the time the speeches were over. Narcissa led him through the cemetery in the back garden, showing him Moribund Prince’s glass coffin, splintered and overgrown with ivy.

“The House Elf cleans the weeds off every day,” Narcissa murmured. “A stipulation in my grandmother’s will, apparently. But she’s fighting a losing battle – they always grow back at night. I suppose there must be a Regenerative Charm on them.”

Malfoy peered through the tendrils of ivy at the hook-nosed face underneath. It looked so much like Severus that he was tempted to hex it. Very faintly – and, for a long time, Lucius wasn’t sure whether he was imagining it – the man’s chest rose and fell with the motion of his breathing. The glass was slightly misted from his breath. Malfoy stared, fascinated and uneasy. Moribund Prince was just like Narcissa – still as a statue, with all the untidy business of living shrunk down beneath his skin.

He didn’t age, or wither. He was in suspended animation, just like Narcissa. But he’d never been attractive like Narcissa – though there was something stern and self-righteous about his profile that Malfoy found pleasing. Abraxas Malfoy had often looked like that, when he was hurling threats and curses at his dissolute son.  

Malfoy’s desire to hex the sleeping figure increased. He even felt the magic tingling in his fingers, Luckily, he wasn’t holding his wand.   

He looked around, in an effort to distract himself. All the trees were skeletal. The only green came from the weeds that shrouded the glass coffin. Everything else in the garden was dead, except Moribund Prince’s modesty.  

“Is he supposed to wake up someday?” Lucius asked.

“Oh, yes,” Narcissa said, shrugging. She was leaning on the glass coffin, and looking up at him through her eye-lashes flirtatiously. “There are all sorts of family legends about it. He’ll come back to life when the descendents of the House of Black are in mortal danger – he’ll come back when the muggles have been cleared out of our world – some people even say he’ll come back to life when his true love kisses him.” She wrinkled her nose. “After nearly a hundred years of magical sleep, I don’t envy the woman who gets that job.”

Malfoy smiled.

“I used to confide in him when I was a little girl,” Narcissa admitted, with a half-smile. “Tell him all my secrets. I got a fright the day I arrived at Hogwarts and first saw Severus Snape, I can tell you.”

Malfoy’s smile faltered a little, but he changed the subject with practiced social grace.

“There’s a muggle cemetery on the other side of that wall, isn’t there?”

Narcissa nodded. “Highgate cemetery. Apparently, some of their most famous historical figures are buried there.” She gave a contemptuous shrug. “It’s nothing special, but there’s quite an attractive lake. Father’s always complaining that the muggles get the best parts of the countryside.”

She took out her wand, and tapped a portion of the crumbling masonry, as though she was opening the Entrance to Diagon Alley.

With lumbering protest, the stone wall parted before them, to reveal a frozen lake with a cracked, silver crust where the moonlight reflected off the ice. There were no muggles out at this time of night. The only movement came from a group of ducks padding their way cautiously across the ice.  

“Poor ducks,” said Narcissa absent-mindedly, “having to walk everywhere like common chickens.”  

Malfoy smiled. “I wasn’t aware there was a hierarchy of water-fowl.”

She looked at him with playful sternness. “There is a hierarchy of everything, Mr Malfoy. Doubtless, you don’t see it when you’re at the top. But, from the bottom, I’m told, it’s quite striking.”

She folded her arms over her chest, watching the little creatures limp from one side of the lake to the other with something like tenderness.

Malfoy suddenly wondered how such a tiny, delicate-limbed girl could keep herself warm. She always had the best of everything, of course; that cloak was lined with Demiguise pelt, the warmest and silkiest of all animal skins. Doubtless, the fabric was impregnated with warming charms, too. And he knew the power of her determination was enough to melt glaciers. But money couldn’t buy the warmth of human contact – and he had seen for himself that she got precious little of it at home.

For the first time in his life, Malfoy wanted to give something to someone.

It was not easy for him to be gentle, especially with a woman he desired as much as Narcissa, but he tried, all the same. With an odd, jerky motion, he put his arm around her shoulders. There was a faint intake of breath from Narcissa, but no protest. They listened to the distant calling of migrating geese in silence.

“All your relatives are dead, aren’t they?” she asked after a while.  


“Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I had three sisters,” said Malfoy, “but they all died before I was born.”

“What did they die of?”

Malfoy shrugged uneasily. “They just died.” He paused for a moment, and then added. “Is it nice, having sisters?”  

“As ancestors,” Narcissa began slowly, “as Members of the House of Black, I adore them. But, as people…” she hesitated. She couldn’t even finish the sentence.

Malfoy understood. They’d been brought up to believe that pure blood was infallible. If being a member of the House of Black didn’t make you perfect, then Narcissa had no idea what did.

She was getting unsteady in her convictions: Malfoy had seen it happen to a lot of pure-bloods, especially the ones that had known love in their childhood. They started to think of mudbloods as people: as somebody’s son or daughter, or mother or aunt or cousin – as creatures who got hungry or home-sick or nervous about exams, just like they did. They became soft and – he shuddered – tolerant. His ice queen was thawing out.

“We will start a dynasty of truly superior pure-bloods, Narcissa,” he murmured. “Our descendants will reclaim the earth for magical man. Hiding from muggles will be a thing of the past, you’ll see.”  

The snow made everything clean. It was as though the world had been white-washed, and could be built on anew. Anything could be scrawled across this blank whiteness.

But that was another misleading impression. Underneath the snow was the accumulated filth from centuries of muggle incursions into the magical world; the grime from their car-fumes, the cracks on ancient magical buildings, because there were not enough wizards left to keep everything in good repair. Malfoy saw the death of his culture everywhere - each new proof of it seemed to chip away at his bones. He felt as though he was being eroded by cars and televisions and office blocks. He had to keep the wizards from dying out. The quest had taken on a new urgency now.

On their honeymoon, they went to Scandinavia – rode in dog-drawn sleds, dressed in furs, bathed in hot springs fringed with dripping pines and saplings, while their breath steamed around them. Through the hot mist, she’d looked like a mirage.

They had slept in log-cabins, next to roaring fires, all the time being served frosted glasses of champagne and juniper berries by their House Elf. They saw the Northern lights – in rose-pink and sulphurous yellow. Narcissa had said it looked like a potion explosion. She had gone on to list several failed experiments of her own while trying to invent new cosmetics or undetectable poisons. Apparently, arsenic should never be mixed with henbane. And the crushed leaves of the Indonesian butterfly bush tended to spontaneously combust if drizzled with Acromantula venom.  

And Malfoy had realized that his beautiful ice-maiden hadn’t always been in control. It had been exciting.

But all things came to an end. They went home, back to the war against Dumbledore and all the other blood-traitors. Malfoy had promised his new wife that their children wouldn’t have to hide away from muggles. They wouldn’t live in bondage or slavery. They wouldn’t have to hide their brilliance from those bestial, non-magical drones.

He took the promise seriously, especially when Narcissa became pregnant. He didn’t even really care whether the child was a boy or a girl – a mark of how much he loved his new wife, because there was a tradition amongst the Malfoys of poisoning new-born daughters, and the women who had so ill-advisedly given birth to them. Lucius knew he’d had sisters – there was a row of miniature graves in the grounds of Malfoy manor – commemorating little girls who’d tragically died in infancy, due to an unspecified illness. It was traditional that there were never any Malfoy daughters – and, like most traditions, nobody was really sure why it had come about.

Women who married – and, in those days, they inevitably did – would lose the Malfoy name. The Malfoy name was too prestigious, too important, to be lost. Perhaps the tradition had started because it was commonly assumed that a girl would rather die than cease to be a Malfoy.

But that was in the past. He wanted to keep the child, no matter what sex it was. It would be half-Narcissa, after all. It would inevitably be brilliant and beautiful.   

Those three little mounds in the grounds of Malfoy Manor had always fascinated him. They’d had names, because you had to write something on a grave-stone. As a child, Malfoy had frequently crept out into the grounds to be with his sisters; it calmed him. He would sit on the grass beside their graves and – not talk to them, exactly, that would be ridiculous – but… just be with them. Their presence was soothing to him.  

He never assumed that ‘the girls’, as he called them, felt any hostility towards him. They were simply first drafts, before the Malfoy family had produced its crowning achievement: Lucius. They were Malfoys. They had died because they weren’t perfect, and they knew that the Malfoy family deserved perfection. They had died for the family honour. Lucius would have done the same.
The first part of the seasonal chapters I was planning on writing about the Hogwarts girls. Sorry if I've been laying the winter symbolism on a bit thick! It's been snowing relentlessly here, so it seemed appropriate! :)
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dronarron Featured By Owner Apr 1, 2009
I'm a little confused... who are Aloyisius and Oblivia Black?
ls269 Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2009
They're Narcissa's parents. I think they're first introduced in the chapter 'Curly Hair, Feathers and Flame' [link]
They're not canon, though. I don't know whether Narcissa's parents were ever mentioned in the books (although they might be on mugglenet, I guess - am not very good at researching these things!) So I just imagined what sort of people would be likely to produce three strange children like Narcissa, Bella and Andromeda, and there they were! ;)
dronarron Featured By Owner Apr 2, 2009
Ah, okay. No, they're not mentioned in the books. According to JKR's sketch of the Black family tree, which you can find on the Lexicon site, the Black sisters' parents are Cygnus Black (brother of Orion, who is the father of Sirius and Regulus, and Alphard, who's the one who gave Sirius money -- he is named, in OotP) and Druella, nee Rosier.
ls269 Featured By Owner Apr 3, 2009
Cygnus and Druella... oh, those are beautiful names, I kind of prefer them. I really need to get into the habit of consulting the HP Lexicon!
dronarron Featured By Owner Apr 3, 2009
See [link] -- actually I got it a bit wrong, Orion is not the third brother. Sirius's mother Walburga is the third sibling with Cygnus and Alphard, although she and Orion were second cousins.

When naming random Blacks, think astronomy: we have Sirius, Regulus, Arcturus, Orion, Cygnus, Pollux, Cassiopeia, Bellatrix, Andromeda, Draco, even Alphard (it's a star in Hydra). Narcissa's (and Phineas's) name is actually a bit unusual in that kind of company.

This tree isn't canon though, by any means, since this graphic is drawn off a quick sketch that JKR made in some interview or something. Some of the dates, particularly, are a little strange. 1979 as a date of death for Regulus (rather than 1980) can be reconciled if you think it through, but Pollux apparently fathered Walburga when he was only 12 or 13 years old (possible I suppose, but questionable to my mind).
ls269 Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2009
:giggle: I always thought wizarding law was probably quite relaxed about pure-blood marriages! In my story, they're allowed to marry their cousins, so perhaps they're also allowed to marry at 12 or 13! It's probably tradition (and, as such, there would be a score of angry letters to the Ministry if it was changed!)
I do like the names Cygnus and Druella. I'm thinking of changing them in my story, but I really like the name Oblivia for Narcissa's mother (it seems to fit her so well, seeing as she's oblivious to absolutely everything except baking scones and fluffing cushions!) I'll give it some thought.
FlameoftheWest7 Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2009
This is so much fun! Thanks--I'm looking forward to reading (and eventually writing) some more!
ls269 Featured By Owner Feb 18, 2009
FlameoftheWest7 Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2009
Wow...I seriously adore this couple. You've totally inspired me to return to my quest--I love writing and filling in the gaps in their story. They are my absolute favorites, and your depiction of them is excellent--so elite and exclusive, so dramatic and passionate. I particularly liked, "For the first time in his life, Malfoy wanted to give something to someone."

Question: are these versions of L. and N. meant to fit into the canon of your other fanfiction, or are they another interpretation?

Fantastic work, as always!

ls269 Featured By Owner Feb 16, 2009
Thank you! :hug: Yes, they're the same Lucius and Narcissa that I've written about in my other chapters - I just skipped ahead in the plot quite a lot (I'm not very good at writing things in chronological order!)
I adore these characters too - and it's an honour to think that I've inspired you to write more about them, because I loved reading your fan-fiction! :)
northangel27 Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2009  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Brilliant as always. I love what you have done with the Malfoys. When Lucius was standing there in all that pristine white snow by the frozen lake with his arm around his equally pristine and lovely fiance, I could really feel what he felt. I could sympathize with his desire to wipe out all that was ugly and corrupting in the pureblooded world he had known since his youth.

It is very difficult as a writer to get the reader to sympathize with the minds of your more morally reprehensible characters, but you have managed it here.

ls269 Featured By Owner Feb 12, 2009
Thank you! :hug: I do sometimes get uncomfortable, trying to justify Malfoy's views, but I know there must be a very deeply-flawed logic to it, because he's not really a bad person (he's just been very blinded by his upbringing!) The terrible thing is that the love he feels for Narcissa - which could have transformed him - is just used as another excuse to justify his bigotry. He wants to make the world clean for his beautiful wife and his new child! But, fortunately, we know from the canon that, in the end, the Malfoys love each other more than they love sneering at people - and that comforts me slightly! ;)
northangel27 Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2009  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I love your Malfoys. I can have a real love and compassion for them without losing sight of some of their baser qualities, and as I say, that takes a great deal of talent as a writer to get that across.

You really should be published someday. God knows I'd buy all your books. :-)
ls269 Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2009
:dance: :w00t: :boogie: :sun:
Thank you so much for saying that! Even if you were the only one reading my stories, I'd still be pleased! :)
northangel27 Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2009  Hobbyist Digital Artist
I meant it too :-). I hope you do publish at some point. Let me know when you do, and I'll buy your book, and get all my friends and family to buy it too, because of course it will be fabulous!
ls269 Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2009
Thank you! :hug: For some reason, I can only seem to get inspired about Severus Snape and his world, though! Maybe if I tried to put him in the muggle world (oh, but he would sneer at it! And try to give him a heroine other than Lily? No way, he wouldn't like that!) I guess I'll just have to wait until I can think of some characters of my own that I could love as much as J.K. Rowling's! But I'm very happy writing about Severus for now (especially when I have such lovely comments from kind readers! :))
northangel27 Featured By Owner Feb 13, 2009  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Just dress him up in muggle clothes and plop him down somewhere else with a different name. I really don't think he'd mind. As long as your respected him as a character, he'd probably be thrilled with being given a new start ;-).
ls269 Featured By Owner Feb 14, 2009
Yes, I never thought of it that way. It would be good to give him a new start - because he seems so trapped in the canon story - trapped by Dumbledore, Death Eaters and a never-ending stream of bitter memories! Of course, if I were to write him in a different environment, he'd have to be just as sarcastic and exasperated by people - or I wouldn't love him so much! ;)
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