Molly continued to stare at the empty space where Narcissa had stood only a moment before. Though Molly's face was expressionless, her mind was racing into overdrive examining the encounter. Reason greeted thoughts of Narcissa Malfoy first, inspecting them from every angle, trying to decide whether or not the Order was still safe at Grimmauld Place. There must be clues, Molly thought, analyzing each word, each movement of Narcissa's eyes, the shapes her lips took as she spoke. Her soft, yielding lips… and reason wavered as old feelings began creep into her mind, taking the place of objectivity. She needed to be alone, she needed time to sort out her thoughts—but the members of the Order needed her, too.
"We might as well go back to the kitchen and try to sort this new bit of information out," Lupin said. Molly hadn't realized how much her heartbeat had quickened until she heard it pounding over Lupin's words. She swallowed hard, ignoring the lump at the back of her throat, and nodded in agreement.
She tried not to flinch as Arthur put his arm around her shoulder and guided her back into the kitchen. "I know that wasn't easy for you," he whispered into her ear. Her heart sank at his sweet naivety.
Your comfort barely scratches the surface, Arthur, she thought dismally. But she gave a weak smile, and sat beside him at the table, and let him hold her hand as the discussion began.
"What the hell was that all about?" Ron asked, dropping a long, fleshy-colored string. Harry, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny responded with silence, their only thought having just been voiced by Ron. "I mean, what do they mean, letting Malfoy's mom in the house?"
"You heard what Lupin said," muttered Harry, tossing his extendable ear on the floor next to Ron's. "Malfoy's mum has the deed to Grimmauld Place. We're under her roof."
Ron's freckles appeared to grow darker on his face as the blood drained from it. "I knew they'd been worried about staying here, not knowing who the rightful owner is and all. My God, we're screwed, aren't we?"
"I'm not sure we are," Hermione mused. "No one who enters Grimmauld Place can do so without seeing the address written in Dumbledore's writing."
Harry fingered the bridge of his glasses thoughtfully. "Maybe she didn't need Dumbledore's writing," he said, remembering the tapestry that connected Narcissa and Sirius as cousins. "I'm sure she's been to Grimmauld Place before."
"It wouldn't make a difference how many times she'd been here when she was younger, Harry," Hermione reminded him. "After Dumbledore charmed this place, even Sirius couldn't have found it without seeing the address in Dumbledore's writing. But that doesn't matter anyway, you heard what Lupin said: the deed was made out in Dumbledore's writing. She was here because the Order wanted her here."
"Yes, the shower of disarming charms was definitely indicative of that," Fred laughed.
"No better way to say 'welcome to our humble abode,'" George said with a devilish grin, then, "or I guess, 'welcome to your humble abode', eh?"
"Whatever the circumstances, your mother seemed calm enough," Hermione said pointedly.
"Are you kidding, Hermione?" Ginny cried. "It's bad enough to have the wife of one of the most infamous death-eaters alive show up here, but geez, it's Narcissa, you know? Poor Mum."
"Of course," Ron snapped. "She's just as slimy as Lucius and Draco, which is why I don't understand—"
"Well she wasn't that slimy when she and mum were friends."
"What?" gasped Fred, George, and Ron in unison. Hermione and Harry gaped at Ginny, who was looking at the rest of the group in surprise.
"Our mum was friends with Narcissa MALFOY?" Ron's voice grew louder with each word, as though he hoped the volume of his voice could erase what Ginny had just said.
"Well, no," Ginny made a little noise of exasperation. "She was friends with Narcissa Black. The reason she never talks about her is precisely because she became Narcissa Malfoy. I thought you guys knew that."
"Uh, this is definitely news to us," said George.
"How d'you know about this, anyway?" Fred asked.
"Well, before I went to Hogwarts, mum and I went through pictures. Some of them were pretty recent, of you guys and stuff. She had some of Percy's first year, and Bill's first quidditch game, and things like that. Then she had some from all the way back when she was at Hogwarts. We looked at pictures of Dad, too, but more than anyone we kept seeing this blonde girl, she was just in a bunch of the pictures with mum. She told me that the girl had been one of her best friends, Narcissa Black."
"And their friendship ended once Narcissa married Lucius?" Hermione inquired.
"Exactly," said Ginny. "But like I said, she doesn't like to talk about it. So don't tell her I told you, okay? I thought you guys knew."
"Of course, Ginny, we won't say a thing," Harry assured her. Ginny smiled gratefully.
"Your poor mum," Hermione murmured.
"No kidding." Ron shook his head. "I can't believe she was friends with Narcissa, either."
Hermione began to make irritated gestures. "That's not what I mean, Ron. I just feel bad for you mother because what happened today must have been really hard on her. I mean, even if Narcissa did marry Lucius, at some point, your mum and her were friends. They probably trusted each other until Narcissa broke that trust by marrying a death eater. But still, now Narcissa comes back asking the Order to trust her? Imagine the position your mother is in right now!"
"Well, doesn't seem like a very tough position to me," Fred shrugged.
"Yeah," chimed George. "Once a traitor, always a traitor, that's that."
"That's not true," Ginny said thoughtfully. "What about Snape?"
"Usually, little sister, putting someone in the same category as Severus Snape does not add merit to their character," George nodded.
"This is no exception," Fred agreed. "Well kiddies, have fun down here. We're off to the attic."
"What are you going to do in the attic?" Ron asked.
"We can't very well set off our new firecrackers from here, can we?" George grinned slyly. With a pop, the twins were gone.
"Oi, they should be off to pack," grumbled Ron. "I imagine we won't be staying here much longer."
"I wouldn't be so sure, Ron," Hermione sang. "If Narcissa showed up here, then we know Dumbledore wanted her here."
"Well then when he gets here, mum can talk some sense into him, since she apparently knows first hand what a creep Narcissa is!"
"Do you really believe that?" Hermione threw her hands in the air. "Ron, imagine this for a second. It's our last year, and I tell you I'm going to marry Draco Malfoy."
"Hermione, do not even joke like that."
"I'm trying to be serious. Listen, I tell you I'm marrying Draco Malfoy, we have a huge fight, and we don't speak for, say, ten years. Now, out of the blue, I show up on your front door, and ask you to trust me. What then?"
"This is ridiculous, Hermione, you're talking about something that would never happen."
"I think the point she's trying to make is that at one time your mum probably said the same thing about Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy," Harry said.
"Exactly." Hermione smiled.
There was a long pause. Finally, Ron sputtered, "Well, it's not like it matters anyway. Either they won't trust her and we'll have to leave, or they'll decide to trust her but never really be able to do it completely and we'll leave just to be safe anyway."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't be so sure about that."
"They'll have to make a decision sometime tonight, Harry said sensibly. "I guess we'll just find out when the meeting is over."
Molly felt her throat tighten through the silence, and then Narcissa laughed good-naturedly. "Your parents want you to marry Arthur Weasley? Oh, lord!" she cried, dissolving into giggles again. Molly looked down into Narcissa's eyes, still crinkled with laughter. The girl's head was resting in her lap, her silvery-blonde hair pooling around her shoulders, Molly's fingers woven through it. Through Molly's eyes, the girl's face was blurring. She looked away.
"Arthur has been my friend for a long time," Molly said, her quivering voice failing to conceal her disappointment, "and you know how old-fashioned my family is."
The playful wrinkles at the corners of Narcissa's eyes disappeared with her smile, replaced by lines of bewilderment and denial. Molly squinted her eyes shut, and felt Narcissa sitting up slowly, her fine hair brushing her chest and shoulders as she shifted upward until her eyes were inches away from Molly's, so close that she could see the tiniest droplets of water beginning to emerge at the base of the girl's eyelashes.
"You're joking," Narcissa's voice practically begged. Yet her tone said that regardless of whether or not Molly spoke, she would know Molly's response. Molly shook her head, and the first teardrop spilled from her eye and into her empty lap. "No," Narcissa breathed, feeling her own eyes begin to sting, "No, Molly, no…" She brushed her lips against Molly's cheek with a soft kiss. A vague taste of saltiness met her tongue, the salt of tears, though she wasn't sure whose. She hugged Molly desperately, repeating the same words over and over until Molly broke her chant.
"I don't have a choice. At least it's someone I know will treat me well."
"What are you talking about? You always have a choice. I don't—Molly, you can't marry him! You don't love him!"
"I know that," Molly said in a voice so resigned that Narcissa was suddenly nauseous. "But," she continued evenly, "it's what I have to do."
"Molly—no, don't say that. You—we could run away. We could go somewhere together, it would be—"
"Stop it," Molly shushed firmly, bringing a finger delicately over Narcissa's lips. "Please, don't make this any harder than it is. We've got a month before we graduate, and my parents are already planning the wedding for a few weeks after that. Let's cherish this time, alright?"
Molly had known that Narcissa wanted to protest. Even more than that, though, Narcissa wanted Molly to be happy, even if it meant conceding to the wishes Molly had just expressed. Molly was slightly surprised when Narcissa took her hand, and stared into her eyes, and whispered plainly, "if you want me to be happy for you, I will."
"Please. It would just be easier." It was not an expression of indifference. It was a plea, a product of long nights that Molly must have spent thinking alone. Alone—the word resounded in Narcissa's mind, but she took a deep breath and ignored it.
"Then," Narcissa's voice cracked, "then I'm happy for you." She pulled Molly tightly against her, her face buried in Molly's red curls. Molly could feel Narcissa's body heaving in noiseless sobs against hers. She had simply held on tightly, and tried not to do the same. After what had seemed like hours of tearful relapses, punctuated by endearing words, Narcissa leaned toward Molly for one last kiss. She moved slowly, memorizing every part of Molly's sweet mouth. At the time, Molly had kissed her in return almost thankfully. When two people can kiss like this, she thought vaguely, surely everything must be okay. It wasn't until the next day, when their lips met again, that Molly realized that it was not okay and probably never would be again. She had spent seven years with this girl—her best friend, her lover—seven years had melted the ice that surrounded Narcissa and earned her friendship in the girl's heart, and love in the woman's. Overnight, Narcissa had frozen again. A matter of hours had reduced her movements to a mere imitation of something that had once been both meaningful and natural.
By the end of the week Molly finally realized that it was not some kind of temporary grief that Narcissa was caught up in. When she touched Narcissa, it was like touching Narcissa's hand for the first time in the Great Hall, after they'd been sorted: like touching a shell void of spirit. It worried her, and now she didn't know how to reach out and wash away the pain because this time she was the one who had put it there.
Teachers and students alike watched the two girls walking through the corridors together, sitting next to each other—but they had both become voiceless. Their bodies moved without passion, their eyes were listless. Rumors began to spread to account for the new situation; surely the best friends had had a row—some very elaborate stories began to circulate, in fact, but none came close to the truth. Finally, barely two weeks before the term was to end, indiscernible shouts were heard in the Hufflepuff common room, shouts that came from the girls' dormitories. The content of this last argument was what the students finally accepted as the reason for the fall of the girls' friendship. It was the engagement: the engagement of Narcissa Black to Lucius Malfoy.
The listlessness of Molly's eyes had been pushed aside by disbelief so desperate that it could have been mistaken for rage. "He has no heart," she yelled in frustration.
"Maybe I don't either."
"You can't try to tell me that!" Molly exclaimed, edging closer to Narcissa. "I've seen it!" she reached out slowly, and pressed her palm longingly against the other girl's chest. "I've felt it."
Narcissa brushed the hand away with forced casualness. "You chose your loyalty with your family; I've chosen it with mine. I have always been and always will be a Black to the core. I have a Black heart."
"You're lying to yourself, Narcissa."
"I can't be lying, Molly, because I'm talking to you, and I would never, ever lie to you!" Her voice shook with conviction, but faltered as it went on. "You have to understand that anything short of marrying Lucius Malfoy would knock me off the Black family tree. Ever since I've been at Hogwarts, I've done nothing but disgrace my family. I have to do whatever it takes to prove my position as a Black. My family is all I have left."
"That's not true. You'll always have me."
"I can't share you with Arthur Weasley. Lucius Malfoy is the best thing I have going for me right now." Narcissa tried to raise her head with the conceit that had been so inherent in her posture seven years ago. She maintained an awkward position the best she could, her eyes glued to the floor. "Can't you just be happy for me?"
It was an echo from the announcement of her own engagement, and it stung. But Arthur and Lucius were two different people; Narcissa wasn't just finding a neutral niche for herself, she was walking into self-destruction. Couldn't she see that? "I've never lied to you either, Narcissa, and I'm not about to start now. No. I can't."
"Then don't expect an invitation to my wedding. I won't expect one to yours."
"Narcissa, please don't be this way, even if we can't be together, you're still my best friend."
Narcissa smiled weakly. She took a step back toward the window, distancing herself from Molly. Her topaz-blue eyes gleamed briefly with the last genuine smile that would cross her face for years. "I could never stop loving you, Molly. No matter what happens, that will always be true." Then she turned away, facing the window. Her body was an inky shadow against the light of the sun. Molly watched the unmoving silhouette for several minutes before quietly exiting the room. She slid her back down the closed door until she was seated on the floor and drew her legs inward against the body. It was over.
"Molly." The voice slammed her unforgivingly back to the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, the eyes of the present members of the Order glued to her expectantly. "Molly, do you think we can trust Narcissa? Do you think we're safe at Grimmauld Place?"
"I would never, ever lie to you."
"Yes," Molly heard herself say.
"Molly, dear, do you really think—"
"Her decision is hers, Arthur," Lupin said. "And a lot of good this meeting had done us. We've reached a tie: six in favor of remaining at Grimmauld Place, six against."
"There are plenty of members who aren't here," Tonks said with a wave of her hand. "Why don't we just wait for them?"
"Because that's not how we've decided to do things," Lupin replied patiently. "Well procedure is, incase of a tie—"
"A tie? Ah, I had really hoped that wouldn't happen," creaked a voice that had just entered the room. Twelve heads turned to the voice's source, a tall old wizard in a deep purple cloak that was bibbed by his long white beard. He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles and smiled serenely. "Is this tie with or without my vote?"
"Welcome back, Dumbledore," Lupin nodded with subtle relief. "No, we have not yet considered your vote. Might you break the tie?"
"It would be an honor," Dumbledore said gleefully, helping himself to an empty chair at the table. "Might I ask—do we have any croissants?"
The rest of the Order stared at him blankly. He stared back, then reached swiftly into his robes, withdrawing his wand. With a quick flick of the wrist, a delectable looking pastry appeared on a delicately patterned saucer. Dumbledore nibbled the pastry contentedly for a moment, and then realized that twelve sets of eyes were still watching him avidly.
"Oh, pardon me," the old wizard said, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin that had suddenly materialized in his lap. "Where are my manners? Would anyone else care for a croissant?"
"Perhaps," Tonks began tentatively, "we would be more interested in a snack after you submitted your vote?"
"Oh! An apology is in order on my part, then," Dumbledore bowed his head politely. "I thought surely that Narcissa Malfoy would have been here by now."
"She has been here, sir," resonated the deep voice of Kinsley Shacklebolt. "That's part of the reason we felt the vote was so urgent."
"Well, if she's already been here, then you needn't look at me with such suspense. I've made arrangements for us to remain at Grimmauld Place. I did, after all, sign the deed into her name, didn't she show you that?"
Nervous glances were exchanged around the group. Arthur cleared his throat. "I believe many of us are concerned because even if you did sign that deed into her name, she's still the wife of one of Voldemort's most revered followers."
Dumbledore nodded respectfully. "Yes, this is true, but let us consider the predicament we have found ourselves in. Grimmauld Place was under the ownership of Sirius Black until his death. The residence, as we suspected, is enchanted through a blood charm so that it can be willed only to living members of Black heritage. While our connections with the Ministry might allow us to choose the new owner of the mansion, the mansion's own magic limits our choices severely."
"Wait," Tonks interrupted. "My mum was a Black. Why couldn't I have inherited Grimmauld Place?"
"Well, first of all, there are still members of the generation before you alive, and their names take precedence. But even when they are all deceased, Nymphadora, you will not inherit this house. Your mother's decision to marry against her family's wishes was something her parents never forgave. They couldn't sever the blood connection running between them, but they were able to curse her connection to their legal assets. In other words, my dear, I could have signed the house over to your mother, but it would have resulted in, more or less, the house's self-destruction."
"Well, that's just… ridiculous!" Tonks finally exclaimed.
"Yes, it is that. Although really quite clever. Nonetheless, unfortunate for us." Dumbledore took another bite of his pastry. "So, our choice was really between Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange."
"Like trying to choose the lesser of two evils," Shacklebolt chuckled grimly.
"Well, it's obvious that we couldn't let Grimmauld Place fall into the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. After the years she spent in Azkaban it's clear where her loyalties lie. Narcissa, though… we have very little information on her. She's married to Lucius Malfoy, but other than that, she's done very little to draw negative attention to herself."
A murmur of protest signaled that there were members of the group who disagreed. Dumbledore's responses, affirmed by six other members of the group, gradually led to a reluctant acceptance of the decision to take Narcissa's word.
"Well," Mad-Eye Moody growled, "we can choose to trust that Narcissa won't give away our whereabouts, but I still think it makes more sense to change locations anyway. Just incase."
"Moody," Dumbledore reasoned, "if we did that, what would be the point of trusting her?" There was a long silence, and then Dumbledore rose from the table, signaling the end of the meeting. Molly followed suit, immediately trying to distract herself from the day's events.
"Will you be staying for dinner, Dumbledore?" she asked, beginning to muse about what to prepare for supper.
"I hate to pass up any opportunity to partake in one of your delicious dinners, but I seemed to have filled myself up with all of those croissants."
Molly nodded bemusedly. "Have a nice evening, then, sir."
"Actually, Molly, before I go, there's something you need to know."
The woman arched her eyebrows and tilted her head to one side. "What is it?" she questioned softly.
"Lucius Malfoy is well acquainted with power, and he confirms his own power through control. For example, Lucius is aware of every bit piece of owl post that enters and leaves Malfoy Manor."
"But that means—" Molly gasped.
"No," Dumbledore quieted her, "he didn't see the message sent to Narcissa today. It came at an inopportune time; he couldn't read it for himself, and I imagine when he inquired as to the contents of Narcissa's letter, he was not bothered by her answer. Lucius wouldn't be able to imagine a Narcissa capable of independent thought."
A pang of loss stabbed deep within Molly for a moment; she stifled an uncharacteristic urge to hit something. Dumbledore's bright eyes darted in quick assessment of the room, then he leaned closer to Molly.
"What I really mean by telling you this, Molly," Dumbledore divulged, "is that it would be extremely dangerous for anyone from the Order to attempt to contact Narcissa Malfoy via owl post. But," his eyes were now sparkling behind his glasses, "no matter how closely Lucius Malfoy thinks he can monitor his Floo Network, we have the connections at the Ministry to assure that certain activity could be concealed."
Molly's brow furrowed. "Why would that ever be necessary?"
"Just keep that in mind if you ever need to make contact with your old friend." With a hint of a wink, Dumbledore spun around and exited the kitchen. Molly toyed with the idea of chasing after him, but knew trying to squeeze any more information would be futile. So, she walked over to the dark granite countertop and pressed her hands against the cool surface. I have no reason to talk to her. We're trusting her to be silent, I'll just be silent, too. Hell, we've been silent for thirty years, it's not like this is any kind of change. But the flood of feelings she had felt when Narcissa had touched her hand… something was changing.
Or maybe not enough had changed.
She folded her arms over the smooth counter, resting her head on her hands, allowing her thoughts try to sort themselves out. Eventually her head slid from her hands so that her cheek rested gently against the granite's surface. With her eyes closed, it was like a cold, perfectly smooth hand gently cupping her face. When she opened her eyes, though, there was only the polished rock, lifeless and empty. She felt a weary sadness leaden her heart at the thought, but couldn't quite understand why.