Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.
It is Draco who opens the door. His eyes changes from the numbing shock of seeing a ghost, to a look of pure terror when he finally recognizes the face in front of him. Or at least, who he thinks she is.
The name comes out of his lips impulsively before he realizes the absurdity of it.
"Aunt Bella–
She cuts him off coolly.
"Andromeda. Your mother's sister. Though I suppose you only know me as a burned spot on the Black family tapestry. Nice to finally meet you, Draco."
It is a while before Draco convinces himself that Bellatrix is dead. Andromeda's resemblance is striking – she has the same pale skin, the same sharp cheekbones, the same piercing eyes, the same regal stance. He only comes to his senses when he realizes that her tone reeks of cold neutrality instead of fiery madness, and that her lips are set into a stiff smile rather than a malicious smirk.
"Who is it?" A woman calls out from behind him, a sleeping infant in her arms.
"My... aunt."
Draco hesitantly nods to Andromeda and finally lets her inside, leading her to the living room. With a soft crack, a house elf appears with three cups of tea and a small plate of biscuits, bows to them, and then promptly leaves.
"My wife and son," Draco says tentatively after a few moments of thick silence when they are finally seated.
The woman shifts the baby into a more comfortable position and introduces herself. "My name is Astoria, ma'am. Pleased to meet you. This is our son, Scorpius Hyperion."
Andromeda nods in approval and eyes her nephew with respect. For Draco to have named his son neither after him nor his father, it shows that he is at least capable of remorse. She remembers Remus and his uneasiness in naming Teddy after him, afraid of passing his own demons to his son.
"Pleased to meet you, too. I'm Andromeda Tonks, Narcissa's sister," she says and then adds, "How old is he?"
Astoria glances at the child affectionately. "Two years old, ma'am," she answers, and Andromeda feels a pang in her chest as she thinks of her own daughter who did not live to see her child turn even just a year old. Her Nymphadora would have been a good mother, she is sure of it – Dora would make Teddy laugh by changing her hair and face, and even when she isn't trying, Teddy would still laugh at her as she trips on her own feet.
Andromeda quashes her longing and forces herself to smile.
"He's a lovely child," she says, and then turns to Draco. "He looks like you."
Draco only responds with a small nod, visibly wary and uncertain of her sudden appearance. He gives his wife a look, and the other woman gets up with the child, excuses herself, and leaves them alone.
"Is she a pureblood?" Andromeda asks when Astoria is out of earshot. She knows the answer, but she is curious about her nephew, and she will use this conversation to learn more about him as much as she can.
"Yes, from the House of Greengrass."
A straightforward response. He is obviously not offended by the question and what is suggests, refusing to be lured into her trap. Rather, he is getting impatient, and she knows that she has to state her business now.
"Is Narcissa well?" Her voice is quiet, cautious.
Draco inhales sharply, and she braces herself for the answer.
"As well as prisoners of Azkaban can be. Mother is so beautiful I'm surprised the Dementors didn't try to Kiss her."
Andromeda's breath hitches in her throat. Narcissa isn't like Sirius, wrongly accused and saved by his clear conscience; she is an accessory to the many crimes Lucius committed and bears the guilt of inaction and helplessness.
Inwardly, Andromeda shudders as images of her sister balled inside a cell haunt her – eyes hollow and blank as happiness is sucked out of her, left alone with regrets about her mistakes spiralling out of control – but Andromeda is a Black, and Blacks are masters of their emotions.
Her face shows nothing of the dread sunk deep in her core, a dread so heavy it cannot possibly easily float to the surface.
"Why are you here?" her nephew asks sharply. Her indifference seems to have finally loosened his reins on his own feelings. "Came to see for yourself how broken Mother is, didn't you? She won't speak, can't even recognize me, neither sleeping nor eating – are you happy now? Satisfied? We already got what we deserved, didn't we? Father is locked up in Azkaban, Mother is worse than dead – does that make you happy?"
Andromeda smiles wryly.
"Only my grandson makes me happy these days, Draco. Everybody else who can make me happy is dead. Gone. They are never coming back." She pauses. "That's the thing with justice, really. It does not make you happy. It makes things right, but it never makes you happy."
She fixes her nephew with a firm gaze, and it is Draco's glare which falters first.
"Just – what do you want?"
"My daughter is gone. My husband is gone. Sirius and Regulus are gone. Bellatrix is gone," Andromeda pauses again, weighing her next words carefully. "But there's still one more person left who can make me happy."
Draco's eyes widen in shock and understanding.
"Can I see Narcissa, Draco?"
Her nephew stands up abruptly – a gesture to assert his power over her in this house as he stares her down – but a touch on his arm distracts him before he can say anything. Draco turns to look at his wife, their eyes silently conversing. He frowns at her message, throws his aunt one last look, and storms out of the room.
Andromeda is too stunned by the exchange to speak, but the question in her eyes is clear.
"I have a sister, too, Auntie," Astoria says. "I can't say I know exactly how you feel, but I think I can understand."
Andromeda smiles. "You two make a good pair. Thank you for taking care of Draco all these years. It must have been hard on you."
"Not as much as the last ten years have been hard on you, Auntie. Shall we go see Mother?"
She nods and steels herself.
Astoria leads her to a room on the second floor. Narcissa is sitting on a large bed, her back leaning against the headrest. She appears ten years older than she really is – silver streaks now appear in her golden blonde hair, and lines are etched on her face. She is wearing a pale pink silk nightgown, a blanket covering her legs. Her cheeks are sunken and lips so pale, shoulders and wrists too thin. Her eyes stare at nothing in particular; she might have been blind and they would not be aware of it.
Astoria conjures a chair at the bedside and beckons Andromeda to sit. Narcissa stays still and there is no sign she notices their presence at all.
"We slip her a sleeping potion every night," Astoria says. "A healer at St. Mungo's gave us the prescription. Still, it's only as good as a few hours every night over the last few years. We reckon she is growing immune and the effect is wearing down."
"How does she eat?"
Astoria stiffens. She bites her lip and looks away before giving a response. "W-we had to put her under the Imperius curse."
Andromeda lets out an involuntary gasp, tiny and soundless and as subtle as her control would allow her. She closes her eyes for a few moments in order to regain her composure.
"How did she survive Azkaban like this?" she asks, struggling to keep her voice steady.
"We were told she would eat no more than a few spoonfuls every few days. She had to be Renervated every once in a while whenever she was on the verge of fainting. I tried to feed her myself when she first arrived here, but she refused to open her mouth. We had no choice."
Andromeda stares at her sister's face. Narcissa used to be the most beautiful of three sisters, but now she is reduced into an old and battered marionette. For ten years she had to deal with the empty spaces her husband and daughter left behind – unoccupied chairs, unused rooms, untouched beds – but she can't bring herself to even imagine how painful it must have been to take care of someone you can touch and unmistakably there yet already beyond your reach.
At least in death there is an acceptance, a finality that will force you to move on, not stuck in a seemingly endless limbo like this.
"Can you leave us alone for a moment?"
"I'll be outside if you need anything," Astoria says, and then steps out of the room.
Andromeda moves to sit on the bed. The mattress shifts due to the added weight, but Narcissa does not stir. It is as if her younger sister is a wooden puppet strangled by her own strings, unable to even tip her head or lift a finger. But Andromeda will not give up on trying to undo all the knots and tangles, because unlike Bellatrix, Narcissa is never beyond hope, never beyond redemption – she appreciated beauty, dreamt of love, and treasured family beyond anything.
"It's me, Narcissa. It has been a long time, hasn't it?" Andromeda starts tentatively. It feels as weird as talking to a loved one's gravestone. She looks away briefly from her sister's unresponsive state to strengthen her resolve, bites her lip and clenches her fists in a struggle to find the words to say.
"I'm sorry I wasn't able to come sooner."
Narcissa does not hear. All she hears are the sound of her own voice begging for mercy and Draco's sobs as Lucius groans and whimpers from the horrible pain caused by the Cruciatus curse. She hears her husband's and son's voice crying in unison as the Dark Lord moves on to torture her in his icy fury, with Bellatrix' desperate pleas for forgiveness echoing in the background.
She hears all these again and again, even after Azkaban, like a broken vinyl record stuck in an old Muggle phonograph.
"I met your grandson downstairs. Lovely child. He looks exactly like Draco."
Andromeda makes more idle small talk, but her voice is droned by the memories and all Narcissa hears is her son's name. Draco, her only son, her poor, poor son who became a Death Eater at the age of sixteen, who woke up with a gasp and in cold sweat every night, haunted by the howls of pain of the people he was forced to torture. Draco, who shook and shivered and cried in her arms in the face of the Dark Lord's impossible task; a sacrificial lamb, the price to pay for his father's blunders.
And then there is Regulus, her little cousin so much like her own son – boys who enjoyed Quidditch, played Seeker for Slytherin, and received their Dark Marks before they even took their NEWTS. Boys who only hissed in pain as the wretched tattoo was encrypted in their arm. But while Draco had been forcefully taken by intimidation, Regulus was presented to the Dark Lord like an offering to the gods.
Regulus, who was killed and whose body was never found. And she mourned for him, he who was left behind by a brother to a cruel mother who did not know how to love, like Narcissa herself was left behind by a sister to a family submerged waist-deep in the darkness.
She remembers Sirius and Andromeda, the people who had left them behind – one who ran away because of his beliefs and one because of love. Both saved themselves, but failed to save a brother and a sister too weak to dare go against blood.
"... and I don't know if I can actually reach you, but I want you to know, Narcissa. I'm sorry. For leaving you behind."
A single tear, unbidden, slides down Narcissa's cheek. It is searing hot against her cold skin like a touch of dry ice. Andromeda freezes, watching, waiting. But her sister is once again claimed by a cold voice chanting Crucio over and over, and the screams of pain, and Narcissa remains blank-eyed, tight-lipped, and motionless – and she is falling, falling, falling –
Andromeda reaches over to wipe the tear with her thumb. "Everything will be alright, Narcissa. I'm here now. I won't leave you again. I promise." And she leans over to kiss her sister's forehead, arm snaking around the bony shoulders.
"I love you, Cissy."
Narcissa remembers a glimpse of her childhood – running around the house with Sirius and Regulus, Bellatrix brushing and braiding her hair, and Andromeda tending to her scratches and wounds – and she whispers, in a voice soft and hoarse from years of unuse, "An...dy."
Andromeda cries then, ten years worth of tears flowing freely from her eyes, and smiles in relief.
"Yes, Cissy. I'm right here. Andy's here."