Narcissa sat on the bottom step leading up to the grand oak doors of Hogwarts Castle, gazing aound the grounds. It was early morning; sevinish, maybe. The planes of grass were streaked with faint light as the sun's beams forced themselves through the leafy treesof the Forbidden Forest; the Black Lake glittered. Despite this, however, the grounds of Hogwarts were, today, not an attractive sight. In the distance, she could see figures moving in the shadows, searching for bodies of loved ones. There was scarlet blood spattered on the steps, just a few inches from where Narcissa was sat, and several massive, mangled acromantula lay dead and twisted a few metres away.
She had had to escape the Great Hall. It had been crowded, far too crowded, and she had felt claustrophobic. Most of the other Death Eaters had fled; her husband and son were the only ones left in the room. They had sat, silent, for the last few hours, while everyone else had celebrated and grieved.
It was an odd feeling Narcissa felt. She felt no remorse or sadness at the Dark Lord's death; only relief. Sweet, heavenly relief. She finally felt as though a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders; a weight that had been present for as long as she could remember. Since the Dark Lord had returned, actually. She remembered her husband's satisfaction that, once again, purebloods would rule over the Muggle-borns. All she had felt was crippling fear; fear for Draco. And, in her eyes, she had been right to have been frightened, as Draco had been dragged into this whole mess, in a worse way than she had feared. She had never, even in her nightmares, dreamed that Draco would be given a task such as to kill Albus Dumbledore. How could Draco possibly succeed? Dumbledore was, no matter what the Death Eaters may think, one of the greatest wizards to ever live. And Draco, her son, Draco, had been ordered to kill him?
And, after the whole Dumbledore fiasco was done with, Draco had been dragged into daily torturings of servents and prisoners alike. She knew why the Dark Lord did this; he knew her fears, and he was keeping her faithful through an unspoken agreement - if she strayed, or protested to the usage of her son, Draco would, instead, suffer on the receiving end.
Narcissa didn't know when she had stopped caring, caring about Mudbloods and purebloods and the light side and the dark side; all she was concerned about now was keeping Draco safe. If that meant supporting the Dark Lord, then so be it. She knew it was wrong, she knew she was a wanted woman, even though she had never been branded; but if it would keep Draco alive, she would do it.
A young man heaved a body towards her. The girl was dead, she could tell. The skin was white as a pearl, stained scarlet in places from the deep gashes on her arms and face. The blue eyes stared through her as the young man lifted the girl past Narcissa. She gazed at the girl; the eyes became a steely grey; the hair white blond, the bone structure more pronounced; and she knew that she had done the right thing, by staying close to the Dark Lord; for here she was, on the other side; and Draco was alive, unlike this poor scarred girl being hauled up the front steps.
Narcissa's thoughts drifted to the body she had stared at, disbelievingly, a few hours previously. The body of Bella. Bella's body. Her sister's body. No matter how she said it, it didn't change the fact that Bella was dead.
Narcissa had thought she had come to hate Bella in the past year. She had moved, uninvited, into her home, taken it over, and controlled Draco as though he was a puppet. She had treated Draco appallingly, and Narcissa had thought that she had come to hate her ... but as she stared into the cold, black eyes, empty of life, she had realised ... she didn't hate Bella. And although she had murdered, tortured, ruined lives ... she was still her sister. Narcissa grieved the loss of Bella silently; there were no tears, and she knew there never would be.
As she thought of her dead sister, Narcissa's other sister materialised in her head. The Andromeda in her head was young, beautiful, fiery ... nineteen years old. Narcissa hadn't seen her sister since then, more than twenty years ago ... how she wished that was different now. When she had been dishonoured, blasted from the family tree, she had simply went along with it. At a mere seventeen years old, she had not understood properly - she had seen what had happened to Dromeda, and she vowed never to let it happen to her. Dromeda had been disowned all because she loved the wrong person, and Narcissa hadn't thought it fair, at the time - she was just grateful that Lucius was a Slytherin. She remembered the very last day that she had seen Dromeda, and the screaming - most of it done by Bella and her mother. She remembered Dromeda's face - defiant, furious, tear stained, but still stunning. She had always looked so much like Bella, but yet so different - they both had the sharp bone structure, dark curls, large eyes ... but Dromeda had been softer, somehow. The eyes a warmer brown, the smile kinder, the hair less coarse. Narcissa had no idea what she looked like now. A surge of pity ran through her as she realised that Dromeda's daughter was lying in the Great Hall, dead. And her husband had been killed as well, before Christmas. Her son-in-law, too ...
Suddenly, Narcissa heard a shuffling noise behind her, followed buy a slight cough. She turned around quickly, hurting her neck in the process. Harry Potter was standing there, staring right at her.
Narcissa stood up, and Harry edged closer. Narcissa thought that he looked more tired than anyone she had every seen in her entire life. His clothes were dirty and horribly ripped; through the holes she could see angry red burns and scars. He had several long gashes on his arms and face, his hair and eyebrows were singed, and he was limping slightly.
The two stood, about a metre apart, for what seemed like hours. Finally, Harry spoke.
'Erm ... Mrs Malfoy?' Narcissa took this as his asking for permission to speak to her, and she nodded curtly.
'I, er ... I just wanted to say thank you. For ... for what you did. Before, in the woods,' he said, stumbling slightly on his words; his lip was swollen and bloody.
Narcissa stared. She had not expected this. And anyway, when she had lied to the Dark Lord, she had not been thinking of anything but Draco, and getting to the castle to see if he was alive. As if he had seen her thoughts, Harry spoke again.
'I know you weren't doing it for me, I know you were just worried for your son ... but what you did - it was brave and ... this wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for ...'
Narcissa didn't have to ask what he meant by this. Harry trailed off, and Narcissa could see he was feeling significantly awkward. After all, the last time they had met, they were prisoners in her home, they had duelled, and her sister had tortured his best friend. After looking anywhere but at her for a few minutes, Harry turned and started to limp back up the steps.
'Potter.'
Harry turned.
'Your welcome'.
Narcissa looked at him, and her eyes were significantly less cold. Narcissa could have imagined it, but she was sure she saw the boy's mouth turn up on the non-swollen side.
And with that, Narcissa sat back down on the crumbling bottom step, and gazed out at the ruined Hogwarts grounds, taking in the devastation and death that had occured there just hours earlier. A small smile crept onto her face, and Narcissa Malfoy knew that from now on, things would change. And it would be for the better.