"We're leaving," Potter says, standing in my doorway.
It's been three days of silence. Weasley, Granger, and I have all ignored each other, much to Potter's bewilderment. Granger's eye is still swollen and is an angry mottling of purple and blue. I assume she left it unhealed as a way of needling me and Weasley-and most irritatingly, it works. Every time I see it, I feel an uncomfortable swoop in my stomach. Her words ring true in my mind. "This is just as much your fault as it is his." I did goad him, it's true, but why shouldn't I have? He's taken every opportunity lately to needle me, despite having had me bare my soul to them when I first arrived. I didn't expect to be bosom buddies, but it would be nice if I didn't have to worry about the Ginger Time Bomb going off at any second. Behind Potter, Weasley and Granger stand with several feet of space between them, both refusing to look at each other.
"Where are you going?" I demand. "Why can't I come?"
"Because, you nitwit, you have a bounty on your very blonde head," Potter replies. "And anyway, you'd only cause a scene. We won't be gone more than a couple of days, but you cannot leave here, do you understand?"
"So I just traded one prison cell for another," I grumble.
"Promise me, Malfoy," Potter says in what I assume is meant to be a threatening voice.
"Ignore him, Harry, he's just being a pisser," Granger says. She levels an icy look at me over Potter's shoulder. "Malfoy won't leave."
"Legilimens!" I say without warning, pointing my wand straight at Potter. I'm able to wade through memories for a few moments before I am pushed back out. His mind is more organized before, and it looks like shelving filled with smoky orbs instead of a cluttered bedroom floor. "Better, Potter. Less cluttered. Why snow globes?"
"They're prophecies," Potter responds with some embarrassment. "Like the Department of Mysteries."
"Am I supposed to know what you're talking about?" I ask.
"You should, it's where your father tried to kill us...you know, the first time, at least," Weasley says. I grind my teeth in irritation; the sins of the father...
Potter and Weasley turn to leave, but Granger hovers in the hall. She tells the two others that she'll meet them downstairs, and they leave begrudgingly. It's just her and I in the dingy hallway. I jerk my head into my room, and she accepts. She pulls out the silver bottle from the other night and sets it on my dresser.
"I meant what I said, Malfoy," she says, turning to face me. "I told you that I'd help you figure out how to get your mark to stop reacting. I know you don't need me to-"
"Yes I do," I say, cutting her off. "I'm shit with apologies, Granger, but I am sorry that I ran my mouth and you paid for it. I do need your help, and I don't accept help easily. I'm working on it."
She is silent, watching me closely. I never noticed it before, but the longer she stares, the more I feel like she's looking inside of me, like she knows something I don't. Potter and Weasley call up the stairs to her, breaking our odd quiet. She walks past me, pausing next to me. Our arms are barely touching but I feel the heat anyway. Without looking at me, she says,
"We'll be back soon, Malfoy. Please don't do anything rash while we're gone." She leaves in a wave of jasmine and vanilla, and moments later, the front door closes and I am entirely alone.
I don't know what to do to fill my time. I don't remember the last time I have been on my own. Years, literal years. I wander through the halls of the house. After living in the manor-turned-hotel for Death Eaters, the silence here is eerie. If I listen close enough, I think I can hear the dust settling. I choose to explore the second floor. I've been given a room on the same floor as the Golden Trio, no doubt so that they can keep their eye on the wayward Death Eater. Between my homework assignment from Granger and occlumency lessons with Potter, I haven't had much time to explore in great depth. I haven't even made it back to the attic to continue my exploration of the constellation cabinet, which I put on my imaginary "To-Do" list. The list consists of three items: explore cabinet, read Hitler book, and don't get murdered. It's a short list, but important.
There are several more rooms on the second floor that have been converted to bedrooms in recent years. The carpets are sun-bleached in places where large pieces of furniture used to sit, giving it an ugly abstract look. Water stains gather in a corner of the room closest to the road. These rooms could use a reset, without a doubt. I've always been rubbish at house spells-why would I need them when I had elves? The elf who lives here, Kreacher, seems to be less worried about cleaning and more worried about acting as a gatekeeper to the people who enter this home. Kreacher is as musty and grimy as the home he has neglected for years. I wonder why Potter hasn't dismissed him from his keep.
In a room that has not been turned into a bedroom, I find an old writing desk filled with crumbly parchment, dried ink pots, quills that are missing chunks out of them, and an oxidized wax seal. Near the large windows, a dusty gramophone sits on a wooden stand. The flared horn is curvy and engraved with constellations-entirely on brand for the Black family. A record sits on the turntable, scratched and covered in dust. I remove it carefully from the anchoring center needle and wipe it down. I can barely make out the name of the musician and title on the faded label. Eventually, I am able to make out the name: Prelude in E Minor, Op. 28, No. 4-Frederic Chopin."
I have never heard of Chopin before. My mother educated me quite well in the ways of classical Wizarding music, but this is not a name that has come up in any of my lessons. Curious, I place the record back on the turntable and flick my wand. The small needle on the arm comes down, making a scratching sound as it sinks into the grooves. The tone is warped and fuzzy, but the sounds of a mournful piano soon begin to play through the gramophone. It skips in places, but the tune is haunting and beautiful anyway. I sink to the floor, listening closely. There is an emotion in the music that I did not expect to hear. After several minutes, the song scratches to an end. I open my eyes, unaware that I had closed them. I rise and flip the record. A second label, much less faded, reads another Prelude, this one No. 24 in D minor. It is a shorter piece, though no less emotive than the first. I root through the pile of records beside the gramophone, finding more Chopin, and feed record after record to the player. I would have never guessed a muggle musician could play such fine music. I suppose Granger would tell me that it is just more of my own bias showing through.
Why would muggle music be in the House of Black, though? These are old records, and an antiquated method of playing them. Now, wizards use a small player, easy enough to carry room to room if needed. I know that this was the home where Sirius lived, and not his cousins, my aunts and mother. Did Sirius bring it in? Perhaps it was my Aunt Andromeda, whom I know through genealogy alone. I have never been allowed to meet my aunt-Father's orders. There are many things that have been withheld from me over the years, though it is something I talk about rarely. No one has sympathy for the spoiled rich boy whose parents are loyal subjects to an evil madman, and I cannot blame them. In being from the illustrious Malfoy family, certain responsibilities come with that-including a brave and haughty face to the public. Having spent as much time as I have in recent years getting deeper into the Dark side of things, I wish that I had been allowed to meet Andromeda. Maybe she would have been able to intercede before it was too late.
I put the Chopin preludes back on. Summoning a pot of ink, I sit at the writing desk and pull out of a piece of parchment from the bottom of the stack, where it is less damaged. The quills have seen better days, but they will do for what I need.
"Narcissa,
I write to you with the express intention of relieving any fears you may have in the face of unrest. I hope that we may see each other again soon, though I regret to inform you that it may be in unfavorable circumstances. Should you need assistance or support, send word with Mimi, and Mimi only. All others, including owls, will be unable to assist.
Yours in good health,
Alabaster."
I sign it with the name only she would know. "My alabaster boy," she used to call me. With hope, she'll understand what I'm saying.
I'm alive, but I'm not going back to their side.
Kreacher manages to find me an owl, and I send the letter off with a feeling of unease. To anyone else, it would look like a letter from a business partner or banker to their client, but I hope that no one can trace the magical signature back to me. I hesitate a few moments, and then pick the gramophone up. It's heavier than I expected and I nearly drop it on my foot. I struggle with it up the stairs to my room, placing it on the large window seat with a grunt. Belatedly, I realize I could have used magic to transport it, but somehow, this makes it seem more purposeful. I go back down to the writing room to get the records as well. On the table, sitting in the imprint of dust from the gramophone, sits an old brass skeleton key. Instead of the standard loop at the top, however, the key is adorned with a smaller version of the gramophone horn.
I race back up the stairs and feel around the side of the turntable box for a keyhole. At the bottom, concealed by the intricate carvings in the wood, I finally find the spot. I stick the key in and turn it. The metal grinds against the locking system and sticks for a moment before clicking into the lock properly. The bottom of the gramophone pops open, revealing a small drawer, secrets within secrets. A picture of a young woman rests in it, unmoving. She is beautiful, with a strong nose and stubborn chin. Her curly brown hair is held up by a golden band of flowers and decorative squared lines. She is clearly from money-her neck is adorned with a delicate, intricate choker that drips down onto her collarbones and just above her chest. Her dress, woven out of fine silks, is embroidered with flowers and beading. It is a muggle picture.
Atop the picture sits a ring, long-since thought missing from the Black collection of heirlooms. The ring, created out of a white gold, holds a pear-shaped stone between a diamond crescent moon on either side. At the top and bottom of the stone, a loop of white gold tipped in diamonds finishes the setting. The stone and diamonds are affixed to a band of Marquis diamonds. The last known person to have this ring was Phineas Black, disowned by the family in the 1910's for reasons not discussed. Seeing this, I have a feeling that I know the reason why. He wanted to marry a muggle. I wonder what happened, why the ring is still here.
It's not unheard of in this family. Several members have been disowned and burned off of the family tapestry for being blood-traitors. We have made quick work of removing them from the family tree, but the tainted history is still there. With some nausea, I realized that I will most likely be among those burned from the family tree for betraying the cause and the ideas that we have held onto for so long. I swallow hard around the lump that has formed in my throat. It is far too late for me to go back, but I don't know that I could anymore, anyway. I've been away for too long, separated from anyone who would hold onto the notions of blood purity, and I've found an unexpected security in that.
I lift the ring with shaky hands, weaker from the pain in my arm than I've realized. I wonder if there are any strengthening potions in Granger's room. The ring glints in the setting sunlight, tarnished but still beautiful. I set it aside to lift the picture out. Violet Rockefeller, NYC, is written on the back in cursive. I flip it back around. If I look at it long enough, she begins to bear resemblances to Granger. I set it back in the drawer of the gramophone, replace the ring, and lock the drawer back into its hiding space. I tuck the key safely away in my bedside table, next to the box I still cannot figure out.
Before I settle in for the night, I make my way to Granger's room in search of a strengthening potion. The room is unlocked, and I make my way inside, feeling like I'm invading her privacy. It's organized. The bed is made, her books are stacked neatly, and there are no pieces of clothing left out. From underneath the comforter, I see just the tip of a stuffed cat poking out, worn almost through. I cannot tell what color it used to be-it's a dingy grey-yellow at this point. She's obviously tried to hide it-do her boys not know she sleeps with it?
Back in my room, I take the strengthening potion and then swipe the numbing potion over my mark, still covered in lacerations and swollen. The mark looks grotesque, the beginnings of an infection slowly settling in. I don't know what to do about it, but I hope to Merlin that Granger was right and she can help. If not, I'll end up cutting my arm off.
They return a day later. A soft knock on my door nearly sends me through the ceiling. My heart races as I open the door, half-expecting to find Bellatrix on the other side of it. Instead, Granger's there. She looks uneasy.
"Welcome back," I say. My voice is shaky from nerves and relief. "Thought you were a Death Eater come to take me away."
"Sorry," she says, "I didn't even think about that. Um, we're back."
"I see that, Granger," I say with amusement.
"Oh, right," she says, embarrassed.
"Is something wrong?" I ask, all traces of humor gone. She is acting out of sorts. Did something happen while they were gone?
"Listen, Malfoy, I have to tell you something, okay? We...we went to Bill Weasley's cottage, to talk and make a plan."
"Okay...," I say, unsure where this is going.
"Well, while we were there, we learned that Ginny, Luna, and Mr. Ollivander have been staying there since...that day at your house. Luna and Mr. Ollivander are doing really well, they've healed up nicely and Mr. Ollivander is even making wands again! It's incredible, honestly, you should see what he's been able to do with only the materials he can find on the sea. Did you know that he's discovered a way to infuse seaweed into wands for those who favor more traits typically found in water signs?"
"Granger, you're rambling," I say gently, trying to lead her back to her point. She blushes.
"Sorry. Um, anyway, Mr. Ollivander chose to stay with Bill and Fleur, but Ginny and Luna, they wanted to come back to Grimmauld with us. They're here, now, they'll be staying on the second floor. They know that you're here, and they know that you saved our lives, but I felt like you deserved to know as well."
My heart thrums uncomfortably in my ears and a lump has found its way to my throat. Granger flashes an uneasy smile at me. Logically, I think I knew that someday, I would have to face the people we held hostage in our dungeons, but I didn't expect it to be here, and I didn't expect to find myself at their mercy. I feel ill and try my best to suppress it.
"No, I...I suppose that now is as good a time as any to start making amends," I say. Granger reaches to grab hold of my hand. She squeezes it lightly in an attempt to reassure me. I wrap my fingers in between hers, holding tight to her. She looks down in surprise, but a small smile curves the corners of her lips.