A/N: Wow! I've been so overwhelmed by everyone's responses - both through favoriting/following the story or through reviews. Here's the next chapter, and I hope you all enjoy it! Please leave a review and let me know what you think. :) Have a great weekend!
Narcissa splashed cold water on her skin and ran her hands across the planes of her forehead, cheekbones, and chin, trying to remove whatever suds were left from her cleanser. As she opened her eyes, her unadorned face reflected back towards her in the opulent mirror. Her wet right hand rested against her neck, and she watched the water droplets slide down her face, her jaw, then finally drip from her chin, wetting the marble countertop.
She closed the faucet, grabbed a towel, and gently patted her face dry. She did all this while keeping her gaze trained on the image in the mirror - a witch now in her late forties, living alone in the house of her ancestors.
She moved closer to the mirror and pressed her hand against its surface, half-expecting it to ripple upon contact. Yet, the glass remained smooth. She ran her finger across the reflection's face, the fine lines emerging here and there, signs of a life lived in extreme highs and lows. For a witch of her age, however, the lines could hardly be called such a thing. And for a woman? Well, a Muggle would most probably take her for a woman in her late twenties, early thirties at most. Her image remained as smooth as the mirror upon which it reflected.
The true cracks ran deeper. The skin of her face was unmarred, but she bore scars nonetheless, hidden ones and invisible ones only she knew of.
She wiped her hand across the mirror, effectively ending the moment and the dialogue between herself and herself.
Narcissa grabbed the pot of moisturizing lotion from Madame Dionea's shop. When she unscrewed the top, she grimaced at the swiftly dwindling supply it contained. She'd have to make another order soon, although the ones they delivered never seemed as fresh as the ones they made per customer in the shop. She scooped up a generous amount on her fingertips and smoothed it over her face, massaging it into her cheeks and forehead, instantly feeling the lightness it brought to her skin.
She inhaled its lavender scent and finally made her way out of the bathroom, padding across the cold tiles and onto hardwood, broken up by sumptuous carpets from gods-know what century.
"Coffee," she softly said aloud. A few moments later, a steaming cup materialized on the table in the small sitting area of her suite. She stood above it, taking in its aroma and ensuring that Whishee had used the new roast she'd found at that cafe last week. She then untied the ribbon holding her long blonde hair back and sat upon a chaise lounge.
She slowly sipped her coffee, while staring absentmindedly around the room. This had been her mother's old suite, and it still bore the marks of her fastidiousness and taste. Black family aesthetics ruled the decor, of course, but here and there, the lighter, midcentury touches made their presence known.
Narcissa's eye rested on the silver toilette set meticulously arranged upon the vanity. She recalled how many times her mother held the heavy hand mirror, while her daughters chose the jewelry she'd wear to that evening's event.
Or what of the chaise she now lounged upon? Her mother had sat there, while wiping the tears from her face after Andromeda left. "Do not cry in front of your father." Then she'd hesitantly added, "Or Bellatrix." Narcissa had learned how to turn her face to stone on that day, while watching her mother train her grief into an unfeeling mask.
The first time her sister visited her again here, Andromeda could barely make it past the foyer. The breath she exhaled upon entering shook on her trembling lips, and her eyes were instantly glassy and distant. Still, after almost two years of reconciliation, she could not venture upstairs, to her parents' former rooms, or her sisters', or hers.
"Too many memories," Andromeda had whispered on that first day.
Now, as Narcissa sat in her mother's suite - her suite - and allowed herself to really look at it all, she understood Andromeda's conundrum. How exactly does one re-enter a home and a past they were once banished from? In Narcissa's case, how does one build a future from that past and that history, which once made her so proud and now, as her gaze drifted to the "Toujurs Pur" etched over the bedroom door's dark wooden frame, made her feel nothing but a mild disgust?
After her divorce from Lucius, she immediately retreated here, to the Black family's home in Cornwall. Returning to Malfoy Manor for that period after the war and during their trials had been a disaster. Each room held the spectral remains of some person - enemy or follower - whose life was extinguished at the Dark Lord's whim. She hardly ever dared to remember her own family's tortures there, both mental and physical. Yet, they still replayed themselves in flashes. Lucius's return from the fiasco at the Ministry, for instance, or the punishments they'd all received from the Dark Lord the night they let Potter slip away.
At that thought, Narcissa's gaze slid to the small writing desk in the corner. It was an addition her mother had made to the suite, she remembered now, complete with an organizer for extra ink, quills, and parchment. Her mother's correspondence was impeccable. Whether it was a note to a friend or a response to an invitation, Narcissa recalled how she'd slowly and methodically scrape her quill across the page, enjoying each loop and stroke of each word.
Narcissa's own correspondence had fallen over the years. She remembered how, between the wars, she could barely keep up with all the invites and greetings and letters. Now, however, in the years since the war and since her husband's imprisonment, owl visits slowed to a trickle.
The pureblood families who managed to make it through the war unscathed were hesitant to reach out to the matriarch of Malfoy Manor. The Prophet had done its work well during the campaign against her family, and indeed, she had no right to feel angry about it. Lucius had aided Voldemort's return, and they had harbored him in their home during his reign of terror. She understood it all and hardly felt surprised at the abandonment of so many so-called friends. They were all leeches anyway, hoping to gain from their proximity to the most powerful pureblood couple of the time.
Although she'd never admit it to herself, Narcissa had hoped her former social life would return after her divorce. She had forgotten that if there's anything pureblood bigots hate as much as scandal and Mudbloods, it was a divorcee. Never mind that her family name was Black, and she was the last to own to an ancient dynasty. That tree was blighted, she knew. Her sisters and cousins had seen to that, and she couldn't help but smile at the fantastic disaster they'd made of the final generation of Black wizards and witches.
For the past few years then, only a couple owls made their way to her ancestral home. Draco's flew from his flat in London, where he was trying to establish himself in the Ministry in spite of his family name. Andromeda's flew from her home with Teddy. Thus, when an unfamiliar owl pecked at her window last Saturday morning, Narcissa's puzzlement was understandable.
The letter it carried still sat upon her mother's desk, although Narcissa had already replied. It was that letter that caught her eye now, as the memories of her past caught up to her present. She sipped at her coffee again, thinking of the Granger girl's words that, by now, she practically knew by heart. For indeed, no matter what she wrote in her reply, this girl's words mattered - both the ones she'd spoken and the ones she'd written.
It is not as if Miss Granger were the first person to try some sly insult on her. Narcissa had practically grown used to the muttered remarks or passing jabs from strangers, acquaintances, and even former friends. They mostly used her sister or her husband's actions against her. Some victim of Bellatrix's madness was thrown at her feet. Either that, or her husband's cowardice became the dagger launched at her unyielding breast. Neither of these remarks ever hit their mark.
That is where the difference in Miss Granger's comment lied. While Narcissa could brush the others off as people trying to use her as a scapegoat for the Dark Lord and his followers' crimes, Miss Granger's remark pointed directly at her and the part she had played in that night.
Most days, Narcissa could etherize her riotous thoughts by telling herself she never really followed him. She bore no Dark Mark on her skin and was never tried as a Death Eater. She remained outside the inner circle and thus outside the main thrust of culpability. Then, with that girl's words, her pleasant fiction collapsed.
Here was a person who'd seen the active part she played in the Dark Lord's war. Using her own words against her, Granger struck her hard and true. Then, as if to pour salt in the wound, she'd sent an apology. She apologised to her for telling the truth. All of it sent Narcissa's mind in a whirl, prompting her to lash out the only way she knew how, tapping into her vanity and her prejudice.
No matter how right she was, that child could not hold something over her. She was Narcissa Black. Once she burnt a bridge, she didn't look back upon its smoldering embers. She moved forward and survived. The girl's words beckoned her to review a time and an aspect of herself she feared. She flung that prospect back with vehemence and, in the days since, tried to act as if it all never happened.
The letter still remained on her desk, though, and the words still haunted her.
Narcissa drank the last of her coffee. It was cold by now, but the bitter dregs still retained their depth. She felt them run along her taste buds and fill her mouth with an earthy acidity. She returned the cup to its place, and it popped into thin air shortly thereafter.
That afternoon, Narcissa sat in the library, drawing up accounts and trying to keep her mind from wandering over to the books that lined the walls. Her long platinum hair sat atop her head in a large knot she'd charmed into place.
When her mind ran too quickly with other chaotic thoughts, she sat down in the library to either read a book or draw up accounts. The former would only continue her morning's train of thought, so she settled for the latter.
Narcissa was now the sole heiress to the Black family fortune, which she planned to invest and enlarge in order to leave it all to Draco. Her divorce with Lucius helped, as well. He was surprisingly contrite during that time, at least with her and their son. Most of his fortune went to Draco, of course, but he settled a large amount with her as well. His faults were many, but he knew that, without her, their family would not have survived the war. Their marriage may not have been a great many things, but she was a dutiful wife. He respected that partnership and thanked her the only way he knew how - giving her a portion of his fortune.
Taking all that into account, Narcissa Black was one of the richest witches in England, though she spent little of it. Being an outsider and a self-imposed exile in her own community led to a rather thrifty life.
A small pop interrupted her scribblings, and her only remaining house elf stood by her.
"Master Draco is here to see you, Mistress," Whishee announced.
"Send him here, Whishee," Narcissa replied, while finishing some last notes and checking the time. "Also, prepare tea."
"Yes, Mistress." Another pop and the elf disappeared.
Narcissa closed the books and let her hair free. Just as she began to rise, the door opened, and her only son entered.
Draco Malfoy had changed considerably since his days in school. The sneer he'd learned from his mother now never darkened his features. Instead, his pale eyebrows sat nearer to each other, as if he were perpetually about to ask a question. His eyes had retained the sunken quality they'd acquired during his sixth year at Hogwarts, almost as if his face never quite got over those sleepless nights and the stress that came with them.
His mother noticed all these qualities, and they pained her each time she saw her son. To the rest of the world, however, young Malfoy seemed to be fine. A bit quieter to those who knew him at Hogwarts, but in the years since Voldemort's fall, some of his wit and knowledge had returned, although without the biting edge it once possessed.
He smiled as he crossed the library and embraced his mother. Lucius had always frowned upon these displays of overt affection, but Narcissa usually just squeezed Draco tighter or kissed his cheek a few more times in response, while they both laughed at Lucius shaking his head. She was the pureblood Ice Queen to the rest of the world, but to her son, she was warmth and comfort and overflowing love.
She kissed him against his temple, then moved back, grabbed him by his arms, and took a long look at him.
"Your hair needs to be cut, darling." She pushed the fringe out of his eyes, but Draco gently removed her fingers.
"I like it this way, mum," he said, giving her one of those charming smiles that reminded her so much of his father at that age.
"Fine, I won't force you to look presentable," Narcissa replied with a smile.
"Because you've never done that before?" The sarcasm dripped from his words, as he remembered all the times she'd straighten a bowtie or scrutinize his tuxedo's fit before they entered an event.
Behind Narcissa, Draco noticed a full tea set materialize, complete with small sandwiches and a few of the biscuits Whishee knew he liked. He guided his mother to the couch and sat down after her.
She served the tea, and they began discussing what he'd been busy with. Draco, after much grovelling and lower-level work below his capabilities, finally gained a position in the Ministry's Department of Mysteries. He couldn't share much about his new job with his mother, given the department's intense secrecy, but he did mention how he could finally utilize his self-taught skills in alchemy, a combination of potions and transfiguration that sparked his interest and helped him out of his postwar depression.
"But I actually came here to talk to you about something else," Draco hesitantly added, after his mother grilled him on what she could regarding the first steps of his career. Now, however, she sat up even straighter at his words and stopped fiddling with his hands as he spoke. "I've been seeing someone, and-"
"For how long?" Narcissa interjected through a loud gasp.
"Just a couple months."
"And you're only telling me now?!" Her hand shot up to her chest in a classic pose that told her son he should tread softly from here on out.
"I wanted…," he began hesitantly. "I wanted to be sure things were serious before introducing her to you. We've finally gotten to that point, I think."
Narcissa still stared at him as though he'd confessed some grave crime. She wouldn't let him easily get away with keeping something from her for two months.
"What is her name?" She asked coldly, sounding like a cross examiner in a courtroom.
"Astoria," Draco answered, trying to sound confident but starting to wonder whether he should've gone about this differently. "Astoria-"
"Greengrass. Yes, I'm aware. And how did you meet?"
"I was out with a few of the old classmates from school. You may remember that Daphne, her older sister, was in my year. She brought Astoria along for drinks with all of us."
"And when did you start-" Narcissa narrowed her eyes "-seeing one another?"
"Shortly after that. I think the next day, I owled her."
"Directly?!"
"Yes, mother! It's not 1870!"
Narcissa gave him a look, then continued. "Where have you taken her?"
"Like on our dates?"
Narcissa nodded once.
"To restaurants, mostly. She likes music, so I took her to see the London Wizarding Orchestra. A picnic one day. She came up with that one." Then, Draco began to blush and scratch the back of his neck. Narcissa caught this gesture, and her eyes grew wide.
"Draco Malfoy, please tell me you've been a gentleman," she intoned with all the force of her ancestry and motherhood.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean, young man."
Draco dropped his beet red face into his hands. Through his fingers, his mother made out a muffled groan. After a few moments, he heaved a large breath, then sat up straight again, braced to continue battle.
"If you're talking about that," Draco gulped, "then no - we haven't gone that far yet. She's been very...assertive, though."
At that, Narcissa frowned. What had that harlot been persuading her precious boy to do?! Her family may be one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but the Greengrasses were always known for their free-thinking tendencies. Just a few steps away from the Weasleys, Narcissa's mother had once said, although they had the decency not to betray Slytherin house. Narcissa closed her eyes, trying to rid away all the thoughts running through her head, thoughts that only devolved into more anti-Greengrass vitriol.
Draco took advantage of her silence.
"I'd really like for you to meet her, mum." He leaned over and took one of her hands in his. "She's beginning to mean a lot to me." Narcissa finally opened her eyes and looked directly at her son, who'd suddenly turned into a man in a seemingly serious relationship. "She makes me better. I may be getting ahead of myself, but I think she's good for me...and for the family I want to build."
Narcissa understood what he meant by that final addition, and it halted the negative thoughts she'd started on just a moment ago. This girl would perhaps, with her pureblood name without the militant pureblood tendencies, give her son the balance he needed. Narcissa always thought she, his mother, would be the one to do that, to protect him and forge a way for him in the world.
That world had dramatically changed, though, and Narcissa was as helpful to Draco's future in it as his imprisoned father. As much as it pained her to admit this, she knew the truth. Draco's words gestured to that fact without putting it too plainly.
Narcissa moved towards her son and kissed his forehead. Once she moved away, she looked into his eyes and smiled. The gesture held a mixture of resignation, sadness, and hope. Draco understood the look without her needing to say anything.
"So you'll meet her?"
"Yes," his mother whispered. "If she makes you happy."
"She does," Draco declared and laughed softly. It seemed that just the thought of Astoria permeated his spirit in a positive way. He sighed in relief and added, "Thank you for giving it a chance."
"I'm trying," she replied, through a smirk. "I'll always try my best wherever your happiness is concerned." Her hands still remained on his face, and one thumb rubbed at his cheek.
Draco reached up and held one of her hands again. "And what of your happiness, mother?"
"You are my happiness," Narcissa stressed. Yet, Draco huffed and shook his head.
"No," Draco said, his voice became strong now, in an effort to act more of an adult and more of a man. Narcissa noticed this, but unlike the times he'd done so in the past, as a teenager trying to take on his family's humiliation and redemption, there was no anxiety or fear of failure behind his eyes. They bored into hers as he continued.
"You can't spend the rest of your life living it through me. That's not good for you, and it doesn't help me at all. You've holed yourself up in this old mansion, living in the past and probably feeling sorry for yourself." Narcissa gave him a stern look, but he held his hand up before she spoke. "If you'd at least try to live your life again, it'd make it easier for me to live my life. Don't you see that? I can't be happy when I have to think about you here alone, doing nothing and going nowhere."
"I go places," she muttered, eyes downcast.
"To Andromeda's, you mean? I'm proud of you for reconciling with her, mum, but she's still family. Try harder." He squeezed her hands tight now, trying to impart some of his own renewed resourcefulness to her.
Narcissa suddenly realized that this was the shift she'd always heard of and secretly dreaded. She no longer gave the lectures. Instead, Draco now lectured her. The corner of her lips quirked up at the thought, and she looked at her son with new eyes.
"I will try, Draco," she declared. He gave an emphatic nod to seal the compact, as it were. She laughed outright at the gesture, and Draco blushed, returning again to his role as her boy. As if to further reassert her continued status as his mother, she once again tsked at his hair, pushing it away from his eyes.
"She's the one who likes it long, isn't that right?" Narcissa watched him, eyebrows raised, already knowing the answer.
"Yeah," he admitted. "She also thinks I should grow a beard."
"Oh Merlin, NO!"