Disclaimer: Recognizable characters and settings from Harry Potter are the property of J.K. Rowling. This story was created solely for the readers' (and my own) enjoyment and not for profit.

Note: If you find that the content rating is inappropriate for the actual content, please let me know through the reviews, and I'll fix it as soon as I can. Any constructive critique of the story/characters/grammar is very much appreciated. Well…here goes nothing…

What is right and what is wrong?

She gazed pensively at the roses of the manor's gardens from behind the large windows of the drawing room, her fingers fiddling along a slim silver chain around her neck.

For Narcissa, right and wrong had always been simple for as far back as she could remember.

At five, right had been when she ate without a mess at the table with her back straight and utensils held correctly in each hand. It had been when she practiced diligently reading and writing and followed assiduously lessons on etiquette under the tutorship of her stern governess. Right had been when she listened attentively to her mother about the family's proud history and heritage and obediently to her father about power and authority in a magical society. Wrong had been when she became too curious or bored and ventured to where she was forbidden. It had been when she made things she didn't like go missing and sent the house elves into a panic. And wrong had been when she tried to make friends with the wrong sort of people at the events she was allowed along with her parents.

Narcissa smiled briefly at one fleeting memory of when all three things happened together—though not in that order—and brought down the wrath of not only her parents but her aunt Walburga, the result of which was an early dismissal to bed without dessert.

At eleven, right had been being sorted into Slytherin like her sisters and the rest of the family before her. It had been non-association with Blood-traitors like those sixth-year Prewett boys and Mudbloods like that second-year Grover girl. And right had been warning Andromeda not to pay mind to that Mudblood Tonks—regardless of how much he tried rile her up. Wrong had been not telling him off for bothering her sister. It had been the failure of insistence enough to get Andromeda to stop getting into arguments with the Mudblood and keep away from him. And wrong had been not alerting her parents about their alarming increased interaction and worrying decrease of enmity.

Her brows slightly creased at the recollection of series of events leading up to her older sister's elopement with the energetic Hufflepuff, highly suspicious that all the teasing and nit-picking at the start had been a ploy for Andromeda's attention all along.

At sixteen, right had been to continue the shunning of her disowned older sister, rejecting any lingering, childish want to keep any semblance of a sisterly bond with the disgraced traitor. It had been to encourage her dear cousin in joining the family's disdain of his brother's behaviour and choice of company. And right had been to accept the courtship of the coveted Pureblood 'Prince' of Slytherin, who—not surprisingly—also happened to be the Head Boy that year. Wrong had been questioning the increase of somewhat-vicious penchants her eldest sister had seemed have attained over the years, despite it being approved by the family. It had been turning a blind eye to the mildly traitorous-sounding questions her young cousin's friend directed at his beliefs and reasoning when they believed themselves unobserved. And wrong had been the contemplation of those very questions herself, regardless of how brief before the swift dismissal.

A small, noiseless sigh escaped her lips as those questions all came back to her in voice that seemed an odd overlap of both her cousin's and his friend's. She grimaced for a short moment as that same voice went over her previous thoughts and edited all the offensive blood-labels to more widely acceptable ones, in a manner that felt to her, decidedly admonishing.

For a moment, she became distracted by the light from outside beyond the glass growing brighter with large cluster of clouds havening finally passed to present a clear, azure sky. Narcissa looked out again and made a quick decision. With a snap of her fingers, a house-elf—Iggy, by the upturned pointy nose—appeared at her feet almost silently.

"Is Mistress needing a hat?" the elf squeaked softly.

Iggy was her favourite because she seemed to always partly know what Narcissa wanted before she even called the elf. Hers exclusively from having served her from since she was a toddler, unlike the other house-elves that were already in the manor when she first came to it. When she married into the Malfoys and moved there, she had requested to have Iggy follow her and the elf was loyal only to her. And while Iggy had to obey commands from anyone in the family by the magic that bound her, neither her husband nor her son ever did as a granted grace towards her.

"And my dragon-hide gloves," Narcissa answered softly and the elf was gone, only to reappear almost instantaneously with the requested items. After dismissing Iggy, she put on the large elegant sunhat and thick gloves and headed out towards the gardens, her mind repeating the words she last heard nearly over two decades ago.

What is right and what is wrong?

After Hogwarts, right and wrong were no longer as simple. Still, they didn't cause much of a headache either—but that was only because she had never really made the effort to ruminate on ethics and the more abstract aspect of life in Wizarding Britain.

Narcissa inhaled deeply the fragrant perfume of the rose garden once she reached it, the scent relaxing her almost instantly. A small smile crept onto her lips as she recalled a particular fond memory of her first time in this particular section of enormous garden.

It was the on the night of a great gala—attended by the most important and prominent figures of the Magical society in celebration of the host's graduation—that she had been gracefully but inconspicuously whisked away to the rose garden she currently stood in. Under the light of a crescent moon in a night filled with stars and fireflies, she had been most ardently proposed to. And while it accepting would have been the socially-approved and family-approved right course to take, any thought of right and wrong had fled her mind and conscience, as profound warmth happiness extended from her heart to the rest of her.

The 'yes' that had followed her suitor's question was both right and right.

A slight frown befell her expression when her memories moved passed that night and the illustriously glamorous wedding that followed and onto the months following her marriage.

Nuptial bliss had been ever-present, despite what little time she had with her beloved but busy spouse. However, it was never the lack of attention or affection that troubled her. It had been his deeper involvement with Britain's Dark Lord and his rise to power. And while she had initially supported his every decision in this involvement—not only was he directly contributing to the noble cause of blood purity, but he was also working side-by-side with her dear sister—, a lurking fear existed in the back of her mind.

She had attributed the fear to a logical and completely understandable anxiety for her husband's safety in the face of danger. And it was one she had quickly dismissed in favour of the confidence in his keen political abilities and fairly impressive magical prowess—admittedly he was not anywhere near the most powerful in magical capabilities, but he held his own and had his own secret talents.

He had seldom divulge to her in the details of his Death Eater activities, understanding her desire—or lack thereof—to be involved except for one or two the rare pieces of Dark Arts knowledge she had bestowed him to the benefit of his rising among the ranks. Yet, of the Dark Lord's movements and course she had eventually learned regardless through the pensive ramblings of her dear cousin, each time bringing back that disquieting unease back to the forefront of her mind.

She hadn't been able to ascertain what it really was or why her twenty-two-year-old-self felt it then. It was crystal clear now: right and wrong had begun its slow but sure change for her at that point.

Narcissa paused her thoughts long enough to call Iggy again for a pair of gardening shears and receive them a few seconds later with an unvoiced appreciation. After admiring a particularly exquisite bush of red Hearts roses, she began to off a variety choice blooms and set them gently into the wicker basket in Iggy's spindly hands.

'What defines right?' asked a voice in her mind that unmistakably belonged to her cousin Regulus.

Narcissa had always believed and followed wholeheartedly the dogmas passed down the many generations of Black—chief of them was the preservation of the purity of their noble blood. 'Right', before Regulus's out-of-blue question one sunny afternoon during his Fifth-Year Easter holidays, had been anything in accordance to said dogmas. After his question, some indisputably accurate facts, and a series of what-if scenarios—most of which probably originated from his best friend—those doctrines began to show flaws and holes in her mind's eye, despite all that she did to overlook them in favour of simplicity and a stress-less mind.

'What defined wrong?' Regulus's voice continued in her mind.

Anything that went against the dogmas had once been 'wrong', but after his series of questions, it all hadn't seemed as simple anymore, but it was too much for her to keep thinking on them. She had answered him as best she could, where she could, and tactfully implored him not to think too much about it where she could not, hoping to get him to stop these treacherous thoughts that may lead him to danger in his position. The last she needed was the estrangement of another family member—the cousin she had and still regarded as a cherished little brother—, or worse, his demise.

She sighed again thinking to those times when she had simply brushed away the more difficult questions with placid kisses on his brow or cheek and added one last stalk to the collection in the house-elf's arms. With the basket full, Narcissa gracefully strode to the set of white-painted metal bistro seating in the patio nearest the rose garden with the loyal elf trailing behind. Silently, they both set to work—Iggy Apparating in an out with various elegant vases filled with cool water and her mistress cropped away the rose thorns and excessive leaves before carefully arranging them into the vases—for the better part of an hour.

"Will Mistress be needing one more vase for the rest?" Iggy asked after the seven large ones she had brought were filled with the beautifully arranged blossoms.

The Mistress merely shook her head and instructed her to take the filled vases to their designated spots in the manor. Without so-much as a pop, the elf disappeared with them and left Narcissa to her brooding again.

As she gathered the remaining roses in carefully her arms and ambled out of gardens, her mind skipped the years after that one Sunday afternoon to last seven years before the Dark Lord's second and final fall.

Life had been relatively peaceful after the end of the first war, and the barely-veiled sneers on streets had eventually died away with the cessation of her husband's precautionary observation by the aurors after the end of his trial. And Lucius—cunning and charming as he was—had quickly worked his way back into the favour of any one prominent and important in the Ministry of Magic, and, by the time their son had received his Hogwarts letter, they were living at the height of influence and prestige again.

Of course there had been the ever-present dark whispers in the background of Lord Voldemort—Narcissa flinched instinctively at the name—returning to power. They had been vary about it all but their ears and eyes were kept alert. They both had known and been in agreement that jumping eagerly into it would only endanger their family if it all turned out unfounded.

It hadn't been.

During the summer after Draco's first year, the Dark Lord had approached them—although terribly weakened, without so much as a corporeal form—and sought their service. They had been more than happy to comply without so much as a thought as to how he had come to be in such a wretched state. In fact, his form had only served to further strengthen their conviction of his power—to be able to survive the backlash of the Killing Curse and exist thus far without so much as a body to possess.

And so, they had aided him with all the knowledge of the Dark Arts at their disposal, and—combined with his own even more extensive knowledge and experience in them—he had regained some sort of a body, albeit a weak and deformed infant-like form—that still disgusted Narcissa until the present day.

The Dark Lord could not well stay in the manor with them in spite of all the strong wards and protection the manor had offered—something about his hometown and father's bones, as far as she could overhear. But Lucius could not well follow his master to wherever Little Hangleton was. Instead, they had settled for the rescue of the junior Crouch from his own father's protection and imprisonment and the convicted Death Eater's accompaniment of their master to the little town. And Narcissa, while she had supported the cause and his rise to power, had been mightily glad the creepy, deformed baby with the wrinkly head of Voldemort—again her present-self flinched, but less visibly so—was no longer occupying the same house.

They had been left without so much as an instruction, but her husband, eager to get back into the good graces of his master, had decided on a plan of his own that he had hoped would somewhat alleviate the Dark Lord's unmentioned vehemence at his resolution to abort search for his fallen master during the first war in favour of protecting himself from imprisonment and his family from the wrath of the aurors.

As one of his most trusted servants of the inner circle of Death Eaters, Lucius had been entrusted with a valuable item of his Lord's—an old, tattered, and blank notebook that held taints of Dark Magic within it, and Lucius was to deposit it into the possession of someone uninformed enough to be blind to the workings of the tainted magic and a student of Hogwarts. He had decided that one of the many Weasleys a perfect target and had discreetly slipped the book to one of them.

The plan, whatever it was—Narcissa had never been privy to the details—, she knew had somewhat succeeded when letters from Draco months later had begun to describe cases of Mudbloods—Muggleborns, she corrected herself less awkwardly now—being petrified. She had half-expected the school to shut down and for her son to be back home and safe from an possible danger, no matter how small and whatever assurances her husband had given of the impossibility of the plan causing harm to Draco. But towards the end of the school year, it had been all quiet again, and the letters had informed her of the recovery of those petrified.

Narcissa paused mid-stride and turned her eyes towards the manor behind her, remembering of the rage that showed in Lucius's eyes that day he returned home and informed her that his house-elf Dobby had been freed. She very much doubted his rage was due to that, but was glad all the same for the news, knowing well that her husband had a tendency to take out his anger on that particular elf since even before her marriage to him, and, while she had no great compassion for house-elves in general, she had secretly felt mild pity for the abused creature.

She continued her walk and her train of thoughts back to the destroyed object that was the blank book.

It had never been revealed exactly what it was, but from the feel and vague description she had overheard purely on accident, Narcissa had been fairly sure it was a Horcrux—a revelation that had both horrified and impressed her, as she knew well the little known consequences and lengths one had to go through to create one.

Thinking back, she realised she had always felt that it took the most despicable and desperately fearful to resort to the mangling of one's own soul—and one's soul was sacred if nothing else in the world of Magic. Even Necromancers and Blood Mages had more pride than to fall to that low an act in the face of the Dark Magic that enveloped their lives. But whatever her feelings towards that knowledge, she had kept mum about the whole thing and did her best to simply sooth as much of her husband's anxiety over the failed plan and its consequences as she could while keeping a wary eye out for any possible danger to her immediate family.

The year after that was quiet again though Lucius had been often gone—to Little Hangleton or wherever it was his master's orders took him. He had become less and less open to her about what happened in the frequent meetings with the Dark Lord, and more and more privately frightened. It had worried her, especially when she could neither source his alarm, nor get him to open up to her.

Two things had been clear to her, though. First, Lucius had wanted his family as little involvement in the dark dealings with his Lord and master as possible in fear of their safety. Second, the Dark Lord had been furious with him for the failed plan or perhaps the lost blank notebook.

Throughout it all, Narcisssa had come to learn a few things about Lord Voldermort—she flinched again, though barely this time—despite all of her husband's efforts to keep anything about him and the Death Eaters from her. One of them was that the Dark Lord's father was likely a Mudblood—Muggleborn, she chided herself before the thought that perhaps it would be alright and even apt to call only him that—or possibly even a Muggle. That revelation had brought back that old question that had long plagued her conscience up until the end of the first war.

What is right and what is wrong?

The answer to that question had been less easy to give with each passing day. She had wanted to talk to someone about it, but had had no one. Lucius was too occupied in calming any rumours at the Ministry of the Dark Lord's return and pulling strings to bring back the Triwizard Tournament for the upcoming year, all the while working his best to appease his Lord's anger. The last he had needed was to have to comfort his wife's restless conscience. She could not plague her son with her own doubts where it could do more harm to him than not. She had no close relatives she could talk to that was not long estranged by family circumstances, imprisoned for the first war, deceased for a number of peaceful and non-peaceful reasons, or missing altogether. And she could not turn to dear Severus, who had been too far away and likely occupied with the Dark Lord as much as her husband had been.

And so the year and the better half of the next had passed with mind in a tumult. The only break had been when she had to worry briefly about Draco's injury from his Care of Magical Creatures class, despite assurances from the school's matron that had been was light—she very well knew both she and Lucius rather spoiled the boy and Draco had a tendency to exaggerate sometimes if it suited him, but as the only son and heir to the Malfoy line as well as the last blood-related family she had left close to her, they had been more than happy to indulge him.

That borrowed time of peace and safety had ended with the return of Voldemort—she flinched yet again, but internally this time—to full power at the end of her son's fourth year. For one fleeting moment, though, she had thought she had at least the consolation that Bella was freed from Azkaban, but that died the moment she met up with her again and realised how mad her dear sister had become, either from being in the dreadful prison or from the curse of madness that plagued the Black line for centuries.

Every night for that following year, she had laid awake in bed, worried about her husband's safety each time he had left for a mission. At least she hadn't had to worry about the Ministry finding out as they had been all too happy to deny anything related to the Dark Lord, even with the increased number of conjured Dark Mark sightings and missing Muggleborns—there, Narcissa thought proudly, mentally patting herself on the back for all the effort to get rid of the old habit.

But even that didn't last long.

By the summer, it had been revealed that Voldemort—again the internal flinch, much harder to be rid of than the other old habit—had fully returned and her beloved husband a willing Death Eater. And while his despicable master had escaped, Lucius had been left there for capture and incarceration—likely a form of punishment his Lord had thought of on the spot, now that she thought back on it.

By then, whatever illusions she had had of the all-powerful Dark Lord and his goals had already shattered. Not only was he a Half-blood at best, his ardent ambitions to keep pure the Wizarding World had been nothing but a front for more sinister plans. He was no saviour for the purity of their blood, he was just a madman bent on conquering the world—or at least Western Europe, for Narcissa was certain the powerful Lords of other regions of the world would surely have a something to say about that—and submitting them all to his unbiased cruelty.

That summer had been the second worse of those seven years for her.

Draco had come back upset and wounded, and made it his mission to become a Death Eater to redeem his esteemed father in the eyes of the Dark Lord, whom he had still looked up to. That summer had been when he was incorporated into the ranks and received his Dark Mark, his proper initiation to be the elimination of Dumbledore. He had done so despite all she did to plead and blackmail him out of serving the madman. He had been too upset about his father to listen to any reason, and she couldn't have given him good enough reasons anyway without revealing the treacherous thoughts that had occupied her mind. And if she had had that much trouble dealing with all the revelation those thoughts brought about, she had been sure Draco would not take it all well in his distressed state.

On reflection, perhaps it would have been better to reveal them to him. It would have been right.

What was right and what was wrong?

By then, she didn't know any more. During those restless nights before her husband's imprisonment, all of Regulus's questions had come back to her, making her re-evaluate every value and belief she had ever had growing up. While it had been easy enough to continue using judgemental and demeaning terms such as 'Mudblood' and 'Blood-traitor' aloud, her thoughts on the matter had already changed drastically from what they had been. While it had been easy to still feel superior to Half-bloods and Muggleborns, the disdain she displayed in public no longer came from deep within her. In fact, she had always had secret respect for those who had displays feats of impressive wit and power, such as the likes of Severus Snape.

In the end, it was a Half-blood that she had entrusted to keep her son safe where neither she nor her husband could. She hadn't cared anymore which side he was on in the war. Right and wrong in the grand scheme of things had become no more than an afterthought in her mind. The only part of right and wrong that concerned her was in the matter of the safety of her immediate family, and there was nothing she would do to ensure the right thing of protecting and saving her loved ones was done.

Severus had seemed to understand exactly where she stood without words. By some compassion she had always believed he held towards their long years of unquestioning friendship despite Lucius's caution with the man—or perhaps just to Draco whom he had tutored and watched over since the boy could talk, he had agreed to help, even willingly undertaking an Unbreakable Vow to do so. And though she had been still worried about her treasured son's safety, a small part of her had been relieved at the promise of aid and protection from one of the most powerful wizards besides the maniacal Dark Lord and Dumbledore.

That year had been the second worse. The worst had been the final year.

With an unconscious shiver that came with the memories of that year, she paused and looked over the large white-marble structure that was hidden away within a copse of evergreen oaks. Standing there, she melancholically admired the beautiful carvings of the Malfoy mausoleum. The view was lovely with flowerbeds and trimmed hedges despite the mournful air that naturally blanketed such a place. Mentally shaking the quivers away, she unlocked and opened the marble doors with a whispered spell and entered the dark crypt, magic-laced torches lighting up instantly upon her entry.

After Dumbledore's death, the Ministry along with the rest of Britain had gone into a state of panic, making it perfect for swift take over. Muggleborn and Half-blood alike had been in danger of torture and eventual death, but it had been those closest to the Dark Lord that were in the most danger—even if they hadn't realised it due to some crazed fanaticism, like the one Bella was in. Lucius had been freed along with the other imprisoned Death Eaters and Draco was alive and safe with her, but the danger had never been less with Malfoy Manor being turned into the madman's headquarters, all the while still incensed at both Lucius's and Draco's 'failures'. It made it even worse when the other Death Eaters and the appalling werewolf Greyback moved in. Every day was one filled with fear, and fleeting contentment only came at the end of each day where they had felt brief relief at surviving to see the sun rise just one more time.

Narcissa's reservation about sharing her troubled thoughts about what was right and wrong had been banished for those short-lived moments of privacy with her husband and son. She had shared all the thoughts and questions that had plagued her from since before her marriage, after having lived with the constant thought she may never be able to do so again one day.

It had been right and right to do so.

She had found that after all that had happened to them, they had become rather accepting of her thoughts and conclusions, though it had taken them quite a while to fully do so. And like her, they could accept that the blood purity cause was nothing but flawed, though they had still been unwilling to see themselves as anything but superior in light of both their heritage and facilities.

And then during the final battle that had led to the Dark Lord's true demise, she had taken the risk of lying to the madman and saving Harry Potter from further attack. The moment of false victory for the Dark Lord had been enough for the boy to turn the tables and win the war. Even if she could no longer tell right from wrong, she knew that was right, because it meant her only son's safety.

I am glad have done what I did, she thought tenderly as she stopped in front of a tomb towards the back and let her fingers brush sadly across the gold letters engraved upon it. A single tear trickled down her cheek as she read the words.

LUCIUS MALFOY II

1954 - 2001

BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER

The war had ended with the final fall of the Dark Lord Voldemort. There had been a fuss between the celebrations and long mourning over the acquittal and punishment of all Death Eaters. The Malfoy family was spared imprisonment for their last-minute defect and Narcissa's aid in protecting Harry Potter from harm during the final few hours of the Battle of Hogwarts, as it was now dubbed. She knew even then that would not have held much in light of both Lucius's and Draco's involvement in the entire ordeal if that same Harry Potter had not vouched for them, quoting all the times they had aided him in the war whether intentional or not.

She had been mildly surprised to hear of how her son had even gone as far as to hide Potter's identity back when they had had him in their grasps at the manor. Lucius had been a little displeased that his son had not used that opportunity to save themselves by revealing the truth, but that hadn't lasted long and he had just as soon forgiven his son. Narcissa, on the other hand, had been glad and proud that her son had conscience enough to do the right thing after all the spoiling and blood purification indoctrination he had grown up with. She had just been glad her pure, darling Draco had somewhat kept his soul untainted throughout the entire nightmare that was the Second War.

And despite their confinement to the manor and the freezing of their Gringotts accounts for the first year after the war, they finally had true peace and safety to enjoy.

Narcissa laid the cluster of fine, white Tibet roses upon the tomb and smiled wistfully, thinking of the happy three years before the toll of a year in Azkaban and the many years of being subjected to Voldemort's cruelty had finally taken effect on Lucius's heart and health.

"At least it was peaceful and we were with you until the final moment", she whispered lovingly, "And when it is my time, I will look forward to seeing you again, love." In the dimly-lit mausoleum, Narcissa stood in silent mourning of her deceased husband for nearly half an hour.

She squinted at the light that bombarded her eyes the moment she exited the crypt, the marble doors creaking shut and locking itself with the ancient magic placed on it centuries before. After they adjusted, they fell on Iggy who was standing there quietly waiting for her.

"Mistress's guess be in the anteroom," she squeaked nervously. When her mistress remained silently staring at her in her somewhat distressed state, she added, "Master Draco be arguing with Mistress's guest."

With a loud sigh, Narcissa nodded an acknowledgement to the elf and her distress and made her way back in quick, smooth strides to the mansion that had been home to her for the past three decades.

She wasn't surprised at the development of things with who her guest was. She got along with him well enough, despite the awkward silences that befell them sometimes in the rare moments they had stayed in each other's company. Draco on the other hand, only got into argument after argument with the man, both of them seemingly unable to help themselves but to nit-pick each other—probably out of habit more than anything—, but she sensed no real animosity between them in spite of all the heated bickering.

The thought of the man brought her along two lines of thought.

First was to her long-estranged sister. After Lucius's passing, she had fallen back into the state of loneliness she had felt before the end of the war, but without the lingering fear eating most of her attention away. She had had Draco, but she still longed for more than their mother-son relationship had to offer, and since her revelation on the deeply ingrained doctrine of the family, she had wanted to reach out to her sister. She had talked to Draco. He had supported her decision, and soon, she was on talking terms with Andromeda again after the hard work she had put into rebuilding the connection and healing old wounds.

Andromeda had been forgiving if not anything, which made the process all the more easier. Despite their differences, she had always understood well the thought process and feelings that had gone to the decisions Narcissa had made, for she had too grown up in the same environment, under the same pressures. The only difference between them had been that while Narcissa had fallen in love with a Pureblood Slytherin following the same doctrines, she had fallen in love with a Muggleborn Hufflepuff who challenged her beliefs at every opportune moment.

Narcissa had been glad for that—for the second chance of having a sister once again after she had lost one to madness and, finally, death.

Second was to her long-lost cousin. She had thought about him now and again and had wondered where he was or if he was even alive. It made her sad at the thought of him and made her wish she had seen the signs of something wrong in the last few times he had come to her with his heart on his sleeves though he had been careful not to be proven anything but loyal to the Dark Lord.

Fingering the long silver chain around her neck, she thought back to the last time she had seen him before he had disappeared.

Like their usual rendezvous, Lucius hadn't been around—out on 'missions', she had been certain, Regulus knew about for the all timings he had picked to meet her. Oddly thought, that time, he had come to her in the dead of the night. She had been awoken by Iggy—the only elf Regulus had seemed to trust—about an urgent request by her cousin to meet. Worried he might be in deep trouble, Narcissa had pulled on thick robe and stole into the far edge gardens where he had stood waiting in the light of a full moon.

She observed him from a distance as she walked, looking for any signs of alarm or panic, but found nothing more than sorrow that had seemed to deepen from the last time she had seen him. He was standing in calm composure near a bed of poppies at the very end of the garden— at the edge of the manor's grounds. Seemingly unaware of her approach, he bent down to pluck a yellow wildflower from grassy field next to the poppies, bringing it close to his nose and inhaling deeply with his eyes serenely closed.

Her cousin had always seemed to have an odd preference for wildflowers—herbs too—to any of the magnificent blossoms in her well-kept garden.

"Reg?" she called quietly, feeling as if she were intruding on some private solitude. "What's the matter?"

He turned to her slowly with a small solemn smile that made his eyes shine like molten silver in the light of the moon. "There's a little favour I'd like to ask of you."

His eyes unnerved her. His had always been lighter than the rest of the family, but it was especially uncanny in the moonlight, especially when set in stark contrast with his dark hair and dark robes. With the dark gray sky as a backdrop, the dark grassy fields behind him, and the petite, yellow flower near his lips adding the only splash of colour to the scene, he looked almost ethereal—almost like Death.

Narcissa shuddered slightly at the image.

"What is it?" She encouraged him along, not wanting to spend more time on the foreboding comparison.

Regulus reached into his pocket and pulled out a closed fist, handing it out to her. Scrunching her brows in confusion, she compliantly held her palm open under it. Something small and cold to the touch dropped into her waiting palm. Looking at it, her brows furrowed even further at the pile of silver before pinching one end of the chain and letting it drop. She brought her eyes down towards the end of the loop where hung tiny pendant—silver and beautifully intricate, it bore the shape of a bird with wings spread out as if in flight. She closed her fingers gently around the pendant and felt the soft hum of magic that came from within it.

"Please keep it safe for me," he requested before she could ask about it. "It's very precious and I want it somewhere safe."

Narcissa was stumped. So many questions flew through her mind as she eyed the magic-laced pendant. "Why not keep it at Gringotts, then?" she voiced the first coherent one.

He shook his head lightly. "If anything happens more than one person will be able to access the vaults. And Gringotts is not fool-proof. It's also less suspicious if a single person has it—it's just a pendant and the magic is very faint."

She nodded at his logic. In cases of emergencies and through loopholes in the system, the Ministry could access their vaults if needed, and the object, though small, was elegant and classy enough to not seem out of place in her possession. And while she might question how he thought the Goblin-run bank could fall to thievery, she was certain if anyone could find some sort of loophole around their security, it would be her wily cousin—he fitted Slytherin perfectly, or perhaps even Ravenclaw.

"You couldn't give this to me say…in the morning? When I'm not sleeping?"

He chuckled lightly. "You know why I'm here at this time."

She did. Lucius was away on a mission and would be back at sunrise. He wouldn't leave for his next mission for another week or so after this one. And Regulus had never trusted Lucius, much to Narccissa's silent chagrin, though she forgave him easily, being that he only appeared to fully trust only her and his best friend.

"What is it then? It must be important."

This time he laughed aloud. "It is. But that's a secret," he answered with a teasing smile, causing an annoyed huff to escape her—despite his playful tone, she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't say any more than that on the matter unless he wanted to.

"You could have just hidden it somewhere," she pushed, still trying to understand the importance of the task without actually asking a question that wouldn't be answered.

"It needs to stay safe and out of hands that have no good business with it…but eventually there may be someone who will need it. Someone will need to judge whether it's right or not to hand it over."

She was afraid to ask why he hadn't decided to guard it himself. Instead she looked him in the eye and asked the next question in almost a whisper.

"Why me?"

His smile then was tender and affectionate. It was the same smile he had shown when she had revealed to him her troubled mind over Andromeda's banishment. It was the same smile that made her feel warm and trusted.

"Because I trust you will know and do what is right."

That had been the last time she saw her dear cousin and secret confidant. He had left her standing in contemplative silence at his words as he Apparated away to be never heard from again. She had hoped he was still alive and hiding somewhere, but had always had a feeling deep down that if Regulus was anywhere at all, it was no longer of this world. Still, she had kept hoping, until a chance meeting and inquiry with Kreacher at Hogwarts at the end of the final battle of 1998 had confirmed to her of his demise.

Exhaling a noiseless breath to clear the moroseness, she handed her hat and gloves to Iggy as she stepped into the anteroom and the tense silence.

Looking to one side, she found her dear son upright on a plush chair, spine snapped straight and scowling face turned away from the only other occupant in the room besides the elf and her mistress. On the other, she saw her guest standing rigid with arms crossed defensively across his chest and a face set with a matching scowl to her son, facing him.

Shaking her head lightly at their behaviour, she approached her guest first.

"Auror Potter, welcome. I'm sorry you had to wait."

Throwing a final peeved glance at Draco, he turned his attention to Narcissa as she crossed the distance to stand before him, the glare quickly leaving his face to make way for a shy but warm smile. "Mrs. Malfoy, please. Just call me Harry."

After defeating one of the most powerful Dark Wizard of the century before he even turned eighteen and earning recognition as a proficient Auror through undeniable hard work and talent, the man was still bashful around people he didn't feel threatened by. Narcissa found it rather endearing now that she was able to interact with him without hostilities from their differing sides in the war.

"Harry, then," she returned with an easy smile.

Whatever animosity they had felt for each other had long vanished with the end of the war and his testimony at their trials. They were now on neutral terms, able to fall into small talk whenever they met at Andromeda's when their visits happened to coincide. Now and then, the Chosen-One-turned-Auror would come to her for information or knowledge she may have as a Dark Witch and one prior acquaintance with Death Eaters. She was more than happy to comply if it meant she didn't have to deal with any of the other Aurors who had a tendency to sneer at her if nothing worse. At least Potter—Harry—was always cordial and objective. It was also a plus that he was a lot more open-minded about the Dark Arts, seeing it less as an abhorrent branch of magic and more for what it was—dangerous but with its uses if practiced with high caution of its effects on both the target and practitioner.

"How can I help you with the case mentioned in your earlier call then?" she dived straight into the matter, knowing the young man preferred that to any awkward attempts at small talk and the chance to get into a fresh argument with her son after the ones today had seemed to have ended just before her arrival. Harry straightened where he stood and a seriousness took over his expressions.

"We found something at Twelve Grimmauld Place," the Auror began, pulling out a shrunken item from his robes and returned it to its original size with a whispered spell and a flick of his wand.

Narcissa looked carefully at the rectangular box made of polished dark cherry resting between his hands at no larger than a Quaffle. It was plain, otherwise unremarkable but for the silver clasp that held it shut. The clasp was etched with intricately woven vines along its edge, surrounding a pair of ravens facing each other with a small hole between them. Instinctively, her hand went to rest over her collarbone, lightly touching the chain that hung around her neck and down into her summer robe. Harry watched her with interest but said nothing of either the glint of realisation that lit her eyes or the troubled look that came immediately after.

"We—my partner and I—believe the key to the Blood Curse—we're calling it that for now—is in here somehow," he explained. "After some digging around, we found that Jevrath had been working with Regulus and another Death Eater on the curse for Voldemort before Regulus defected and disappeared. It's not much to go on, but we're hoping Regulus was the keeper of the key to the counter-curse—or at least, some sort of clue. We couldn't find much of anything on him other than this box hidden away at the house. It might not be anything but something inside is giving off heavy vibes of Blood Magic when we had it inspected. But it won't open."

"Why not just use Veritaserum on bastard instead of bugging my mother like this," Draco jumped in with a scowl.

Harry glared at him. "We did, but he doesn't even know half of how the curse works." Turning back to Narcissa he gave a wince as he added, "And he took a concentrated dose of aconite he had hidden in vial in his hair."

"Incompetent," Draco muttered with disdain and earned another glare from the other man.

"Now, now, Draco," Narcissa softly chided him, knowing well, her son couldn't help himself with the cavil around Harry Potter. She wasn't sure how the other man felt about the whole thing, but something about him seemed to rile Draco up every time. She shook her head again and turned back to her guest, having long given up on trying to have the two play nice with each other. "And I suppose the reason you brought it here is that you think I might know how to open it or something of it," she surmised.

Harry nodded. "No spells or potions worked. Acid didn't either, and when we tried cracking the box altogether, we just got a bout of bounced spells and anything we smashed it with just got wrecked," he admitted with a tired sigh. "There some Dark Magic surrounding it, so we thought you might know something of how to unlock it, if nothing about Regulus and the box itself."

She looked at the box again and eyed the pair of ravens that adorned its clasp. She wasn't certain she could open it, and knowing Regulus, it would be nigh impossible without the key—whether that be an actual one or a spell. She knew nothing about the box itself, nor had she ever seen it, but she did sense the pulsing magic from within it. She wasn't familiar with Blood Magic in particular—none of the Blacks were, their branch of magic leaning more towards Ritual Magic, which made Regulus's involvement in Blood Magic all the more perplexing. She really didn't have any useful knowledge to give the Aurior.

What she did have was what may be the key to the box.

But the box itself may not be what the Aurors were looking for. It may in fact be something else altogether that—if released—may be worse than Blood Curse they were seeking a solution to. If it did hold something with Blood Magic as sensed when inspected, the danger may be great due to volatility that branch of magic, even when used for a virtuous cause—Blood Mages are rare for a reason.

It would be risky to give Harry the key.

"Because I trust you will know and do what is right," Regulus's voice rang in her ears.

Narcissa closed her eyes for a moment and reached for the chain around her neck as she reopened them. Tugging it completely out from under her robe, she held up the small raven pendant to the sunlight that shone from the room's windows and smiled softly at Harry.

It was right.

Afterword: Well, I'm sure that wasn't the best out there, but for now, it's is what I churned up. I have some ideas about a related and longer story that involves Regulus, Harry, and Draco, with more details on the different 'branches' of magic and the Blood Curse mentioned at the end, hopefully I'll be able to get something out and posted before I change my mind and abandon the idea. It'll be a few chapters long though.