A/N: After many years away from fanfiction-writing and graphic-making, I recently began reading fanfiction again and started developing a bug to write again. This is the product of those efforts. I apologize if there are any errors, this is not beta'd.
Depending on your interpretation of Narcissa's character, this may be considered OOC. The letter teeters between being too informal (considering how aristocratic Narcissa is) and too formal (considering that this is a letter to her estranged sister). In not staying consistent to one particular tone, I was trying to express the uneasiness Narcissa would feel reaching out to her sister again after all these years.
Finally, while not actually a songfic, I recommend a listen to The Starting Line by Keane. While the song has romantic leanings, I find that the core theme is still consistent.
Dear Dromeda (is it still okay to call you that?),
If you burn this correspondence without even opening it, I understand. I probably would too if I were in your place, and I forgive you if you chose to do so.
If by some Christmas miracle you are actually reading this, you are probably wondering what prompted this letter. I'm not entirely sure how to explain it myself. I saw you in Diagon Alley with little Teddy the other day. (I hope you don't mind me referring to him as Teddy, I read a clipping in the Prophet that called him as such.) I don't think you noticed me; the snow was beginning to fall fast so you were completely occupied with trying to shove a winter coat on Teddy as he threw a fit, changing his hair color to probably every color in the rainbow and then some. The scene made me chuckle; Draco used to be as obstinate about putting his winter coat on too. Watching you then, I realized just how long it had been since I have seen you last.
You looked so different that day from my memories. You've aged, of course. So have I. We are no longer the pretty things we were in our youth, catching the eye of every passerby—and that's no exaggeration, between you, me, and Bella, at least one of us was wont to catch someone's fancy. But you looked…tired. Defeated. You didn't look like the feisty, brilliant older sister I admired so. And I understand—I do—that the dying spark in your eyes is in no small part to me, and the Pureblood society I associated myself with. Every major hardship in your life—from Mother and Father disowning you, to most of your friends shunning you, to the death of your husband and daughter, was directly or indirectly due to Pureblood society clutching its prejudices. Life certainly did not deal you an easy hand.
I'm not sure how to convince you that I am being candid, but I just wanted you to know that I am sorry. I really am. I'm sorry that you had to live through all those terrible events, any one of which would have been trying but altogether was tragic and cruel. I'm sorry I wasn't braver, fighting our parents' decision to renounce you. I'm sorry I wasn't more persistent, and loyal, keeping in contact with you after you had married Edward. I'm sorry for a thousand other things I don't know how to articulate. I don't expect you to grant absolution to me, nor is that why I am writing to you. But I just wanted you to know.
So I don't expect you to understand, or sympathize, with my decision to burn you out of my life the way Aunt Walburga burned your name off the family tree. Perhaps it was because I believed in the superiority of Purebloods. Perhaps it was because Mother and Father cracked down on us tenfold after you left, and I was terrified to even toe the line for fear that they would cast me off as well. Just as I want you to know that I am sorry, I want you to know that I missed you terribly. I secretly painted a portrait of you, for that was all I had left. For years I nearly bought presents for your birthday and Christmas. I'm not entirely sure why, but I even hoped beyond hope that you would magically appear at my wedding and was nearly disconsolate when you didn't, to the point where Lucius feared I had gotten cold feet.
Speaking of Lucius, I will never understand what possessed him to sign his life away to that madman. I never subscribed to the philosophy that all Muggle-borns should be eradicated, although of course I had no say in the matter. I just stood by Lucius' side, the perfect, demure, obedient Pureblood wife, silently watching, silently screaming, as the Dark Lord turned our lives into a living Hell.
With His insane ideations, He robbed us all. Yes, even me.
He took Bella away from me, even before she died. How strange to think it's just you and me now, Dromeda. I don't know whether I should feel anguished or relieved. She was my sister, of course, as she was yours. But as the years passed, I found that I recognized her less and less. While she was a bit high-strung before, now she was unhinged. I don't think she would have hesitated to kill even me had He demanded it. In the end, I don't think she had autonomy over herself anymore. So devoted was she to the Dark Lord, every thought, ever word, every action was for Him.
He took my son's innocence away from me. I know you've never met Draco, and perhaps you will never care to. Lucius and I probably spoiled him too much when he was younger, that much is true. But that still doesn't justify why he had to grow up so fast. What should have been his last two, relatively carefree years of schooling morphed into obsessing about how to smuggle Death Eaters into Hogwarts, kill Dumbledore, and commit or witness unspeakable horrors without totally losing his humanity. God knows he was too young, much too young, when he took the Mark. Trying to restore the family name and protect me, he rushed into the Dark Lord's assigned mission head-on, only realizing later how out of his depth he was. He was prejudiced—we all were—but I don't think he ever expected those beliefs to translate into actions. He screams in his sleep. I wonder when I failed him as a mother.
How strange it is to discover, all these years later, how much our paths have diverged. When we were young, not one of us would have anticipated that this would be the story of the three Black sisters. I want to say that we all deserved better, but who am I to judge such a thing? Perhaps it is enough that we had our small joys, however long they lasted.
And yet again, the winds of change are blowing. With Harry Potter's victory, attitudes will shift, perhaps slowly—perhaps not completely—but they will.
Perhaps, Dromeda, that is why I am finally writing to you—because it is acceptable now, because I have nothing more to fear, because of nostalgia, because I miss my older sister and want to update her on my life. Perhaps—despite everything—she will want to update me on hers as well.
I won't claim to know who you are anymore. Too much time has passed, too much has happened for that to be true. But more than anything else, I just wanted to tell you—and I hope you won't think me presumptuous—that seeing you so exhausted, so broken, saddened me deeply. As I mentioned earlier, I know you have every right—every right!—to look, and feel, so downtrodden. But if there's anyone who can withstand all that heartbreak and come back fighting, come back with a vengeance to tell the world "THIS HAS NOT DEFEATED ME, THIS HAS ONLY MADE ME STRONGER, AND I REFUSE TO SURRENDER WHAT REMAINING HAPPINESS I HAVE BECAUSE I CHOOSE LIFE!"—well, it's you.
Love,
Cissa