LUNACY ll Mattheo Riddle x Reader

49. ᴘʀᴏᴍɪꜱᴇ, ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ

Once upon a time, my mother used to love me.

Aunt Bellatrix told me stories as a child. Stories of how her younger sister had taken one look at the two babies she'd given birth to, and had instantly fallen for the smaller one. How Cissy had doted on her little infant girl, how she'd insisted that Lucius give baby Y/n more attention because look, wasn't that his nose that she had? And the curve of her lips when she smiled, that was Lucius, too. But the eyes were all Narcissa's, twin specks of sparkling y/e/c that lit up whenever young Y/n was in her mother's arms.

I once asked my mother why she didn't care about me. It was a few months before my eleventh birthday. I remember her staring at me with an odd expression on her face, like she couldn't believe I was asking such a thing. At the time, I thought it was because she thought the question unfathomable. I felt pretty bad about it, too. Of course she loved me. Every mother loved their daughter, there was no exception to it.

It wasn't until years later that I realized she'd only looked at me that way because she'd thought the answer was obvious. The thing is, though, I never did find out the truth after that. I became too afraid to ask. And on the occasions I did muster the courage to bring up the subject, she was always quick to change the conversation before I could get the chance to do so.

But now, as I lie in my bed with over a dozen gruesome slashes having carved up my body, I ask her again. With no place to turn to unless she wishes to leave her tortured daughter alone on what very nearly became her deathbed, Narcissa Malfoy lets out a small puff of air through her nose before responding.

"I was raised to be the perfect mistress to a noble house. I was taught to preserve and protect my family. You are my daughter. Of course I care for you."

"No, you don't." I almost laugh, but speaking alone requires my utmost strength and effort at the moment. "You don't love me. You'd rather I didn't exist."

She says nothing in return.

"I have a theory. That the title of family you were taught to preserve and protect only extended to those who fitted in with the idea of a perfect family. The head of House Malfoy and your golden son. Never the girl who was so horrifyingly incapable of controlling her magic that she was committing murders by the age of six."

"Can you blame me for it?" Mother whispers. "I'd given birth to a madgirl. Isn't it enough that I provided a home for you regardless? We spent a small fortune to allow you to study abroad. You were never lacking in any material wants growing up."

"I was six years old. Did it never occur to you that maybe, just maybe, if you hadn't been so quick to turn on your toddler daughter, the rest of her manic episodes could've been avoided? If you'd just shown her attention, let her know that you still loved her, instead of shipping her off to a foreign country and trying to make up for you lack of affection through gifts-"

"It had barely been half a decade since the Dark Lord's downfall when that Muggle house went up in flames. Your father was still under suspicion of the Ministry. How would it have looked if we were seen coddling a witch with clear potential for the Dark-"

"And after that? Once both of you had reestablished yourselves as prominent, powerful members of the Wizarding society? Here's another thing. Father has killed dozens of people, Aunt Bellatrix is more deranged than I am, so why is it that I'm the only one whose existence bothers you so much?"

"That is quite enough."

"Did it scare you, Mother? That I was capable of so much at such a young age? Or was it that you simply disliked the fact that, unlike with Lucius or Bellatrix, you couldn't pretend that dark part of me didn't exist?"