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x. TEN
MOTHER DEAREST
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IF MELORA HAD crawled through fifteen years without her parents, she was almost entirely sure that she could manage the rest of her life. As a younger child, she had missed them, to a certain extent, and desired their company and comfort. But what she came to realise, was that her parents were not the sympathetic type. And if she were to be honest, she didn't particularly like to class them as parents. Serial killers who murdered others due their blood status, or plainly if it were a task, could not possibly be capable of raising a child.
Narcissa Malfoy had succeeded in mothering the Lestrange when her parents could not. She had brainwashed her to believe in the importance of blood purity, forced her to follow rules that shouldn't exist, and taught her that the Dark Arts were something to cherish and adore. If Bellatrix Lestrange could not bestow her ideas of torture onto her daughter, then Narcissa would teach it in a slightly more appropriate way - perhaps not directly providing an example of the Cruciatus Curse.
Resting in Melora's shaking hands rested a copy of that day's Daily Prophet, with her mother on the front page. The outside walls to Azkaban had been detonated into shards that crumbled and crashed into the waves beneath the half-destroyed prison. And whilst the others who had escaped were also highly wanted criminals, none were wanted by the Aurors quite as much as her mother was.
She should've seen it coming, shouldn't she? It was just as Ilia had told her -with Voldemort on the rise, who knew what was possible? She didn't even want to find out how it had happened. There were Dementors swarming the grounds throughout every darkened day, and every endless night. Joy was a distant memory for anyone unfortunate enough to land themselves inside of the prison. What genius (or moron, possibly) had managed to pass the creatures guarding the prison, and break out ten Death Eaters?
Obviously, she could figure that out on her own.
Lucius and Draco had left for the train station much earlier that morning, and it left a rather oblivious Melora to wander the manor, when she knew that she should have been boarding the train to get to the school. Narcissa had refused to tell her anything, and it was solely up to her to work it out herself.
The newspaper article that she then held in front of her - the front page, the name smothered across it in bold - presented her with every dream and nightmare she'd ever thought of. The Lestranges were in Azkaban, they were the most loyal, they were respected far too much for their own good. Their child was essentially an orphan, yet lived up to their name. She was the legacy, she was the respected one, she was their future and they knew it.
