They passed one another in Gringotts, and their glances only held for half a moment; Narcissa's grey and chill, Molly's distracted and harried. That was in the summer of the year when Narcissa's husband had not yet escaped from Azkaban and Molly's husband had not yet been killed. That was how they defined themselves, the state of their lives: by the state of their husbands, because they were good, pureblooded wives.
And it was only a glance, a passing connection. It was brief and momentary. It was without malice, without hate.
Neither cared for the enmity between their families. That was the thing that men perpetuated; women were too busy keeping households together and ensuring the care of their children. It was men with time to be frivolous and foolish, and to cling to feelings that no longer held relevance. The world was a war – who cared if the Malfoys and Weasleys didn't get along?
And it was only a glance, a meeting of eyes. But Narcissa's said, 'I know you,' and Molly's said, 'Yes.'
Maybe it was really just the fact that they hadn't always been a Malfoy and a Weasley; once, they'd had other names and other families. Once they'd had different lives, free from the weight of husbands and children and a world falling to pieces around them.
And it was only a glance, fleeting, obsolete.
But it was full of recognition, of pure blood calling to pure blood; of one mother acknowledging another.