Albus Dumbledore would never have admitted that he had been caught sleeping. Usually he was alert and aware of everything around him, always on his guard. But weariness had forced him into his armchair, and he had fallen asleep, slumped down and snoring lightly.

A blast of warm heat and green light woke him suddenly. A flash of green fire had enveloped his fireplace and was blazing thickly. Dumbledore leapt to his feet, his eyes wide with surprise.

The flames died down, and in their place remained an exhausted and weary middle-aged woman, her arms clutched around an unconscious youth.

"Narcissa Black!" Dumbledore whispered, hardly daring to believe his eyes, "Draco Malfoy! What on earth has happened?"

He waved his wand and moved Draco onto a stretcher that magically appeared on the floor before him. Narcissa stumbled out of the fireplace, not loosing her grasp on her son's limp hand. Her long blonde hair hung loose and matted in her face – she looked exhausted and worried.

"It's finished," she replied frantically, "I couldn't do it any longer, Dumbledore. I couldn't stand it any longer. He was going to kill him, him and me too, and I couldn't just stand by and let it happen, Dumbledore, I couldn't."

"Who did this to him?" Dumbledore murmured, inspecting the curse scars that riddled the boy's body, "To you?"

Narcissa took a deep breath, "It was Lucius. Lucius escaped from prison. I don't know how he did it – he said the dementors were in league with You Know Who." She shivered, "He attacked me – he thought it was my fault that he was in prison, that I had sold him out." She fell into Dumbledore's vacated armchair, which he offered her, "But I didn't do it, I didn't. He attacked me with the Cruciatus Curse. I don't remember anything after that."

"And Draco?"

Narcissa shuddered, "By the time I came to, he was unconscious."

"Where is Lucius now?" Dumbledore demanded, "What happened to him?"

Narcissa threw back her head defiantly. Her blue eyes were even and cold. Dumbledore felt a chill. "What have you done?" he whispered.

"I killed him," Narcissa said, "I couldn't let him murder my son. I had to kill him. It was the only way." The steel went out of her gaze and she began to tremble, "Don't you see, Dumbledore? It was the only way."

"How did you do it?" he asked her.

Narcissa swallowed. "I stabbed him," she whispered, "Through the chest, with Draco's sword." She did not quite meet his eye, but Dumbledore knew she was not telling the whole truth.

He rose to his feet, "In a few hours, Ministry officials will realize that he returned to his home. They will find him dead and realize that you are the one who killed him. You leave me with no choice, Narcissa. You will have to go into hiding." She stared at him, "You – you're not going to turn me in?"

"Listen to me carefully," Dumbledore whispered, "There is a place where I have been hiding all of those whom Voldemort wants dead. They are hidden somewhere he cannot reach, unless I tell him of its location. I am going to hide you there."

"And Draco? Will he be all right?"

"I shall have Mrs. Molly Weasley look after him," Dumbledore said, "I know her to be very capable."

Narcissa frowned, "Who is she? I seem to remember something about the Weasley family – Lucius often talked about an Arthur Weasley."

"Her husband," Dumbledore said, "And I know there was no love lost between them. But you must listen to me, Narcissa. You must put aside past grudges. There is something more important now."

Narcissa knitted her eyebrows, "But I have nothing against them."

"It was not the Weasleys of which I spoke," Dumbledore said, "I shall take you there myself, tonight. But remember what I said, Narcissa. Let the past die. You have only your future to worry about now."

* * *

Molly Weasley, forty-two years old, had never in her life laid eyes on the wife of Lucius Malfoy, her husband's schoolyard nemesis. She had imagined, of course, that such a woman would be impeccably beautiful and twice as haughty as her husband. But Narcissa Black Malfoy was quite a different woman than she had imagined.

As she cut away the fragments of Draco's scorched and bloodied shirt, Molly noticed how Narcissa refused to leave her unconscious son's side. She clutched his hand in hers as if she was terrified to let him go, for fear that he would die without her. Molly tossed the shirt into a wastebasket and ordered her son Fred to fetch something clean from Ron's basket to wear.

"Ron's not going to like sharing his clothes with Malfoy, Mum," Fred cautioned.

Molly glared at him, "I don't care what Ron likes or dislikes. This boy is grievously ill and we're going to take care of him. When I think of what he's been through, and what his mother's been through – "

"They're Malfoys, Mum," George protested, "They don't have feelings like the rest of us."

Molly slapped him, "You shut up this instant! I don't ever want to hear of either of my sons speaking that way again! Now do as I say before I slap the other side of your face!"

The boys left the room muttering as Molly walked back over to Draco and his mother. She took a warm wet cloth and began to mop the blood from his face. "There," she said soothingly to Narcissa, "Why don't you go in the bathroom and have Hermione draw you a nice hot bath? I'm sure you must be exhausted." "Oh, no," Narcissa shook her head gently, "I can't leave Draco. Thank you, of course," she went on hastily, "But I just couldn't leave him right now."

"There's nothing more you can do for him," Molly replied softly, "Dumbledore's told me everything. You've done more than anyone could have done. It's time you looked after yourself too."

Narcissa tentatively reached out a hand and brushed a stray lock of hair from Draco's pale forehead, "Some things are more important," she whispered, "As a mother, I'm sure you understand."

Molly looked at the tiny, waiflike mother sitting trembling in her seat, clinging to the person in life she loved more than her own self, and she felt her heart fly out of her chest to this woman. "Yes," she whispered, "I do."

When Draco was cleaned up and sleeping peacefully, Molly walked around the bed and sat next to Narcissa, who was falling asleep next to him. "Come, dear," she murmured, "It's high time we got you cleaned up as well. I know you don't want to leave your son," she cut in as Narcissa began to protest, "but it's Dumbledore's orders that I look after you, too. Come now."

Narcissa was too tired to protest any longer, and she allowed Molly to lead her out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. Molly handed Narcissa a worn robe from a pile of fresh, warm laundry, "I know it's not what you're used to," she said, a tad embarrassed, as she looked at Narcissa's pretty and expensive attire, now reduced to tatters from her battle with Lucius the night before.

"It's just fine," Narcissa replied, touching the soft terry fabric with one hand, "It will be nice to get out of these ragged things." She looked up at Molly shyly, "Thank you."

"Pooh, for what?"

"For taking care of Draco. For giving us a place to stay." Narcissa hesitated, "Dumbledore said that your husband and Lucius never got along, and – "

Molly took her by her thin shoulders, "Don't say another word about it. I know a thing or two about husband you can't control." Her face darkened slightly, as if she were remembering something unpleasant, but then became soothingly sweet again, "And I'd trust Dumbledore with my life. I'm happy to help you in any way I can."

"You are too kind," Narcissa replied softly, as Molly began to draw her a hot bath.

Molly straightened up, "No, Mrs. Malfoy – I'm just an ordinary mother who knows another loving mother when she sees her."

Narcissa smiled. Molly grinned and walked to the door, "Now, don't worry another minute about Draco. I'll see to him for you." She walked out of the room, shutting the door, and leaving Narcissa with the bath.

It was different from anything she'd ever experienced in her life. Narcissa was used to spacious, large bathtubs filled with perfumed water, and a house-elf to scrub her back and keep the water warm. And she had never really been dirty enough to warrant a real bath. But as she climbed into the little porcelain tub, Narcissa was more relaxed than she had ever been in her life.

She soaked for an hour, perhaps more, letting the dirt and blood just pour off of her body and melt away. She fell asleep for a time, not noticing or caring for anything around her. Unfortunately, she woke up to a bathtub of nearly icy water, and someone banging on the door.

"Is anyone in there? Hey!"

"Oh – oh, I'm sorry!" Narcissa replied, frantically stepping out of the tub and tripping over the rim. She sprawled on the floor and quickly covered herself with the robe. "I'll be just a minute!" Why did that voice sound so familiar? Had she heard it before? She would have to hear it again to be sure.

She grabbed the comb Molly had left for her and quickly began to comb the snarls out of her wet hair. She tied the robe quickly and wrenched the door open.

Remus Lupin was standing there in the doorway.

Narcissa's eyes widened.

Remus' jaw dropped.

Silence reigned in the hallway. Neither of them knew what to say.

* * *

Remus looked at the curve of that pretty face, still as youthful-looking as it had been all of those years ago, when she was sixteen years old, when he had last seen her. He looked at those wide-open blue eyes, the eyes he never thought he would look into again. He looked at the long hair, hanging in damp strands around her face. He looked at the terry robe, cheaper than anything he had ever seen her wear.

Unbidden, he felt a flash of love and relief that she was standing before him course through his veins. While on his watch, he had heard a rumor that Lucius Malfoy had escaped prison and had been killed at the Malfoy's manor. He had only imagined that she had been killed as well. How had she come to be there? Of course. Only Dumbledore could have told her where to go. How had she known to go to Dumbledore? Well, she hadn't been a complete fool when she was sixteen. Surely she wasn't one now.

Narcissa stared wide-eyed at the thick, pale brown hair, still long and shaggy, but unmistakably shot with silver. She looked at the still- handsome face, worn with lines of age and grief. She stared into those pale eyes, beautiful and sad still. She looked at his clothes, worn and tattered as if he hadn't bought new ones in years.

She had not seen him since she was sixteen years old. And she had never loved him more.

All he wanted in the world was to hold her in his arms again, to kiss those lips and tell her that he was never going to let her go again.

All she wanted to do was touch that face and know that it was real, that it had been real all of those years, and that she had never stopped loving him.

All they wanted was to break the chains that had always bound them to life apart – Lucius Malfoy, and the horrible rumors that had chased him for years.

But Remus only nodded stiffly and said, "Mrs. Malfoy."

And he walked past her into the bathroom for a shower, shutting the door behind him.

Narcissa stared at the door as if she were fixed to the spot, staring with glassy, dead eyes, until Molly Weasley found her, and, puzzled, lead her into one of the guest bedrooms to change into some of Hermione Granger's things.

Remus Lupin leaned against the closed door of the bathroom and stared up at the ceiling, as if petitioning God.

How can I still love her, after all she did? He thought. How, after all of these years, after all the pain, how can I still be in love with her?

And he dropped his head into his hands and began to cry.