"And that's what happened to them," Harry finished, putting his teacup back onto his saucer and avoiding Narcissa's eyes.

Narcissa brushed the tears from her eyes and stared into the depths of her own teacup. "I can't believe they're gone," she said softly, "What a horrible thing to happen to them."

Harry nodded mutely.

"I'm – I'm so sorry," Narcissa said hesitantly. "Please forgive my intrusion."

"It's no intrusion," Harry replied, managing a smile, "I like company. And any friend of my parents' is a friend of mine."

Narcissa smiled back at him. She looked all around her, at the expansive parlor, the winding staircase, the ornate artwork on the walls. "You live here by yourself?" she asked him.

"More or less," Harry replied, "I inherited this house from my godfather, when he died. It belonged to his family. I moved in this summer, after I left my aunt and uncle's house in Surrey. It's not ideal, and sometimes it gets lonely, but I entertain quite a bit. My friends from school, I mean."

"It's – quite large," Narcissa said, for lack of a better word.

Harry burst out laughing, "Go on, you can say it – it's a bit rough."

"Well, it looks as thought it hasn't been lived in for some time now."

"It hasn't. My godfather moved back in two years ago, but after he died, it was vacant for a year. He used to have a house elf, but he lives at Hogwarts now. I wasn't fond of him. Nor was my godfather."

"I see."

Narcissa glanced at the paintings, at the ornate tapestry hanging on the wall. "The artwork is amazing," she said, "Some of it goes back to the middle ages."

"Yes," Harry said, "Unfortunately, we can't get rid of it."

"Why would you want to?" Narcissa asked incredulously, "It's probably worth a lot of money, if you could sell it."

"Well, my godfather's mum put Permanent Sticking Charms on all of it, especially the Black Family tapestry, so we can't exactly get them off," Harry said, "My godfather's family was very big into pure-blood mania – my godfather and I, not so much."

But Narcissa wasn't looking at him. She walked over to a box filled to the brim with old framed photographs that Harry had set aside to be junked.

And suddenly, Harry realized exactly who she was.

Her hair had been dyed brown and cropped, and she looked older and not as well-kept as she had when he'd last seen her, two years ago. But the curve of her jaw, the bridge of her nose, the delicate, high-class figure – there was no doubt that this was Narcissa Malfoy.

His body tensed. He knew that he was under direct orders from Lupin not to hurt her, but to bring her to him. She was out of her mind – she didn't remember who she was, or how she'd come to be there. Of course she wouldn't remember his parents! She would have forgotten everything.

He knew he should feel pity, but it didn't come. This was the mother of Draco Malfoy, Dumbledore's would-be killer. She and Lucius Malfoy had raised their son to be a Death Eater and a killer and God knows what else. His hand gripped his wand.

She lifted a single framed photograph out of the box and stared at it. Her whole body seemed frozen, like a single flawless statue.

Harry willed himself to act normal, "What have you got there?" he asked her, getting up and walking towards her. She didn't answer; she just stared at the picture without looking at him.

Three little girls looked out at them from a silver frame. The eldest had long dark hair and deep-set brown eyes. She was standing with her hand on her hip and smirking insolently out at them. The second oldest was plain child with mousy brown hair and eyes too far apart, sweetly smiling. The youngest was sitting between them, a pixie with long spun-gold hair and big sapphire blue eyes. Her expression was pensive; she was not smiling like her sisters. She seemed to stare right through them.

Harry took the photo from her and turned it over. On the back of the frame, someone had written, "Daughters of Louis and Hecate Black, Bellatrix (11), Andromeda (9), and Narcissa (6)."

Harry didn't realize he was reading out loud until he felt, rather than saw, Narcissa flinch at the sound of her own name.

"This is you," he said, rather than asked.

She didn't move.

"I know who you are," he said quietly, "Your face is in all the papers. You ran away from the hospital. You don't have anywhere to go. You don't even remember who you are."

Narcissa was trembling now, from head to toe. And then, unbidden, Harry felt a flash of sympathy.

She has nobody, he thought. Just like me.

"I can help you," he said softly, "if you can trust me. I can bring you somewhere safe. I can make sure nobody comes for you. You'll be quite safe with me and my friends. Can you trust me, Mrs. Malfoy?"

The corner of her mouth was twitching, as if she didn't know what to say, and Harry could see, in the delicate features of her face, how some would still call her beautiful.

"I haven't anyone else I can trust," she said, so softly he might have missed it.

Harry touched her sympathetically on the arm, then walked over to the fireplace. He aimed his wand, and flames ignited from it. He leaned into the fire and through the flames, into the Weasley's kitchen.

Mrs. Weasley was bent over the stove, making some tea. Harry smiled softly at the sight of her plump, motherly form.

"Mrs. Weasley?" he said.

She jumped a foot in the air and let out a little yelp of fear.

"Harry!" she cried, "You scared me half to death!"

"Sorry," he replied, "Where's Lupin?"

"He's out looking for that poor woman," Mrs. Weasley said grimly, "She's been gone five hours, and still no sight of her."

"Not true," Harry said, "She's here, at 12 Grimmauld Place. Tell him to come here; we'll be waiting for him."

He popped back out of the fire and into the room. Narcissa hadn't moved from her spot. Her eyes didn't look frightened; now they only looked bleak. She looked as if she'd given up entirely.

"It will only be a minute," Harry said awkwardly, for lack of anything else to say.

Almost on cue, there was a knock at the door. Before Harry could reach it, it flew open, and Remus darted in.

"Thank God," he said, shakily. "Narcissa? Are you all right?"

She shook her head, eyes staring at the floor.

"Did something happen? What's wrong?" Remus asked quickly.

She looked up at him with those dead blue eyes.

"How is it," she asked, "that everybody knows who I am – except for me?"

Remus looked at her sadly. Harry was confused.

"Won't you sit down?" Remus gestured to the overstuffed sofa, "This may take a while."

Narcissa slid down. Remus took a seat across from her, in a straight backed chair. Harry leaned against the fireplace.

"You can't remember who you are," Remus began heavily, "because of a curse your late husband placed upon you when you were seventeen years old. The Auralium Curse. It works something like a Memory Charm, only much more permanent. Done correctly, it erases the memory of the victim and leaves only the imprint of what the person who cursed them wants them to remember or believe."

Narcissa did not move.

"Your husband, Lucius Malfoy, put this curse on you at the bequest of your sister, Bellatrix," Remus went on, "He did not want to do it. It was something he regretted until the day he died."

"The day I killed him," Narcissa whispered.

Remus started, "How did you – "

"There was a newspaper," she interrupted, "next to my bed. My picture was in it. It says I killed him."

Remus shook his head, "You mustn't think you murdered him, Narcissa. You did what you did then out of love, which is something nobody can truly condemn you for. Lucius was a flawed human being, but he was not evil; he was misguided, and he had made choices in his life that harmed the people he loved and brought about his ruin. The fate in store for him was horrible, and you saved him from that. You gave him a gentler death, and that is why you are a wanted woman. The Ministry is angry that what they feel is vengeance for Lucius' crimes went unpunished when you killed him."

"I don't even remember it," she said.

"You shouldn't," Remus replied, "The curse was broken immediately afterwards. You will remember nothing from age seventeen on."

"That isn't true," she interrupted again, "I'm remembering – things – unimportant things."

"On the contrary, they're very important," Remus said, "You see, there was a slight hitch in Lucius' plan. He was not a very good wizard. He did not have a lot of talent, and the curse was not as strong as it might have been. Oh, it worked perfectly, for the past twenty years. But now that he is dead, you are beginning to remember scenes from your former life – images that were kept down. In time, you may remember more than we expect you to. Only time will tell."

"Can't you just tell me what happened, who I am? Won't that make things easier?" Narcissa pleaded.

Remus shook his head, "Believe me, if I felt it would help you at all, I would do it. There is so much that you don't know – " His voice trailed off. Then he spoke up firmly, "But memory is a subjective thing, Narcissa. The more you remember on your own, the more authentic we can be sure it will be, and the smaller the chance of corruption. No. This is a path you will have to tread by yourself. But we will be beside you. Your husband asked, before he died, that I look after you, and I aim to do that, no matter what the Ministry says," he finished.

Narcissa smiled at him, a tentative little smile.

"You didn't tell me your name," she said quietly.

Remus felt a chill skate up his spine. This was the third time this had happened to him.

Whoever said, you never get a second chance at a first impression, didn't have me in mind, he thought ruefully.

"Remus Lupin," he told her.

For a blind, hopeful second, he thought he saw a flicker of recognition in Narcissa's sapphire eyes.

And then, just like hope itself, it was gone.