As the days began to shorten, Draco slowly made his way through England towards London. He didn't know where he would be able to find his mother. He only knew that she was there – and he knew what he would have to do.

The wind whipped through his blonde hair, which was growing shaggy without tending. His teeth chattered together, and he wrapped his thin arms around himself for warmth. It wasn't winter yet, but it was late October – it would be coming soon.

It was too dangerous to travel by day – he was a wanted man; someone would catch him and bring him before the Ministry. He would be killed, just like his father had been. Draco traveled by night, sleeping in culverts or in thickets, whatever he could find. His battered clothes were so dirty, they practically served as camouflage. He was grateful – two months of walking, and he hadn't gotten caught yet.

He thought back to the peaceful days at Hogwarts, when he'd been the envy of everyone in Slytherin House. So what if everyone had labeled him a Malfoy from the minute he'd entered? So what if the Gryffindors, lead by Harry Potter, were always mocking him? He'd had the last laugh – he'd taken their fearless leader away. He'd brought about Dumbledore's end, hadn't he? The man some people called the greatest wizard of all time – and he'd been felled by Draco's plot, even if Draco hadn't been the one to kill him in the end.

Draco shivered in the biting cold. He was almost there – he'd reached York. Only a few more days, and he'd be in London – at his mother's doorstep. He would think about what he had to do then.

But until then –

His mother.

Draco closed his eyes against the memories. But he could not shut them out.

She had always been so beautiful. So many of his pure-blood friends had complained about parents who were distant, parents whose marriages had been loveless, parents who didn't take pride or interest in their children. The Malfoys hadn't been like that. Ever since birth, Draco had been aware of his mother's warmth and kindness, her pretty face leaning over his bed to kiss him goodnight, the smile that magically made everything better, the blue eyes like shining sapphires, the lilting voice.

There was one memory that stuck out in his mind especially. It was the day he'd come home from Hogwarts after his first year, crestfallen, lonely. His marks had not been good, and his father had been upset. Lucius Malfoy had always expected nothing but the best from his son, and said so, over dinner that night.

"I trust you'll do better next year," he'd snapped, slapping his newspaper on the table and leaving, his food untouched.

Draco had bowed his head, his stomach so upset he could not eat a bite. He heard his mother push back her chair and hasten over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and spinning him gently in his chair to face her.

Her face had been like alabaster, her skin so youthful she did not look old enough to be mother to an eleven-year-old. Her huge blue eyes looked sad, but they did not lose their loving look. She touched him gently on his cheek, and her pretty lips curved upward in a sad smile.

"Remember," she'd said softly, "as much as your father and I want you to do well in school – twenty years from now, it won't matter if you got good marks or bad. We will always love you – just the way you are."

Tears welled in Draco's eyes. He pushed them away impatiently. He was a man now – seventeen – enough with this crying!

If what Aunt Bellatrix had said was true, his mother had not only murdered his father, but she had betrayed her own son. Bellatrix had told him that she was living with Remus Lupin – the werewolf that had taught at Hogwarts during Draco's third year. His blood burned hot in his veins at the thought of his beautiful, delicate mother – always the picture of honorable propriety – with that dirty, ill-kept half-breed. He closed his eyes, but behind them, all he could see was his mother, in her white suit coat and skirt, eyes sparkling under her wide-brimmed white hat, in the arms of dirty, patched Remus Lupin.

No! I will not let this happen!

Draco's teeth were clenched in anger. His mother had betrayed him. She was on the "other side" now. She would pass their secrets to Lupin and the others – possibly to Harry Potter himself! She would sell out her own son!

The sun was rising in the east. Draco looked around desperately for a place to sleep. He spied an old barn, long deserted and falling to ruin, along the edge of the woods. He climbed inside a pile of rotting hay and covered up well. Time to sleep at last. He wrapped his arms around himself for warmth, and prayed that, for one night, he would not be tormented by dreams of corn silk hair and the sweet apple scent of her perfume.

"Lupin, I just don't know," Harry said, pacing the house for what felt like the three hundredth time.

"What?" Remus asked composedly. He'd come earlier that evening, to stay for supper. Now he was listening to Narcissa as she hesitantly played Mrs. Black's old piano in the parlor.

"I can't shake the feeling that something bad is about to happen," Harry replied, staring at the ceiling. "It started two months ago – and it's only gotten worse."

Remus smiled tiredly, "I'm not really surprised, to be honest. It's dangerous times we live in, Harry – you know that. None of us is truly safe. At any given moment, things can go horribly awry."

"So you think I'm imagining things?" Harry asked belligerently.

"Did I say that?" Remus asked mildly, "Think of your feelings like your scar, Harry. They're warning you that trouble is coming – but trouble is always coming, so don't take it all too seriously."

Harry shook his head disgustedly, "You don't understand. You never did. You were never like Sirius." The words escaped his lips before he could stop them, and he looked at Remus in horror.

Remus didn't react, "I know I'm not. We were never anything alike, Sirius and I. I suppose that's why they were always so exasperated with me." He smiled crookedly, "I was such a killjoy, you know – always bringing them down during their little pranks. So silent, too mature, even."

Harry stuttered, "I didn't mean it."

"Of course you did," Remus replied, "And you've ever right to. I'm not Sirius, and I never will be him. This is why I haven't taken you under my wing, as he might have. You're a man now, Harry – you can make your own decisions. Far be it from me to tell you how to live your life – I've made enough mess of my own."

The piano music stopped.

Remus stood up and shrugged his old, battered coat onto his shoulders, "It's getting late, Harry, and I should not intrude on your hospitality any longer. I'll pay my respects to Narcissa and be on my way."

"Sir, I didn't want you to leave," Harry began.

"There's no need to apologize," Remus smiled, "I really must be going."

"Leaving so soon?"

The two men looked towards the doorway. She was standing there in the doorway, hands on the door frame, eyes slightly narrowed. Remus felt as if he was watching her twenty years ago. His legs felt as if they were turning to water.

Narcissa looked ticked.

"I – I have to go home," he managed to say.

"You always seem to have to leave," she replied coolly, "as soon as I make an appearance." She walked into the room and put her hands on her hips, leveling her gaze with his pointedly. "Why is that, do you think?"

Harry looked at Remus expectantly. But Remus looked more nervous than anything else.

"By the way, Harry," Narcissa began. Harry's head whipped around and he stared at her in shock, "I ran into a friend of yours a while back – a certain redhead named Ginny. She told me to stay away from you. Said I'd caused enough trouble – something like that." She looked him straight in the eye, "Slapped me too. Hard."

Harry gaped, "Ginny – Ginny would never do anything like that."

"I assure you, she did," Narcissa replied, her tone icy. "But that's not what I'm upset about. At least Ginny was forthright. At least she had the guts to come and tell me she didn't like me straight to my face. Not like Remus here."

She narrowed her eyes.

"Why can't you be honest, Remus? Why can't you just tell me what I did that was so incredibly bad, that I can't remember? You haven't forgotten it; I can see that much. You have no problem being as cold as possible towards me. You just can't tell me why to my face."

Remus was shaking inside. It was just like the day she came to him and told him she wasn't going to let him end things with her just because he was a werewolf. The blunt honesty in her face. The powerful words. Dear God, why did Narcissa always do this to him?

He'd been lying to himself when he'd said he'd gotten her out from under his skin, twenty years ago. He'd crawled into a bottle, and when he'd come out, he'd sworn he was rid of her. Even when he read the headlines about their huge society wedding, he'd told himself he didn't feel a thing. He was free of Narcissa's spell. Right?

No. He wasn't. Even twenty years later, even with her hair hacked off and dyed that awful mouse brown, even with her face creased with anger – he still loved her.

"Don't you understand?" he burst out, before he even knew what he was saying, before he could stop himself, "Don't you see it's me, and not you at all? You did nothing – nothing – and I did it all to you. I handed you to Lucius Malfoy, I turned my back on you when you needed me the most – and you ran to the only person who would care for you, and that was him. Even if he tricked you into doing it – that was no excuse for what I did. I turned away from you, when you were nothing if not there for me through everything. This is my fault! All the pain you've gone through, the struggles and the heartbreak – Dumbledore's death! He'd be alive if it wasn't for me! Don't you understand, Narcissa? IT'S MY FAULT!"

Harry reeled, astonished. Narcissa's jaw dropped. Remus dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hands. He was not crying; he was in agony. His shoulders were shaking with grief, not tears. He was in the worst physical pain of his life. Every single transformation over thirty-two years melted compared to this. Grief and guilt warred together, and he was powerless to stop them.

Narcissa knelt beside him and, without thinking, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and leaned her head against the small of his back, her eyes closed. She did not understand his words, but she could understand the anguish beneath them. She held Remus close to her, and she did not speak. Harry stared at them wretchedly, feeling as if he was intruding on something personal. Then he turned and fled up the stairs, to be alone.

After a minute or two, Remus lifted his face and turned to look at her. Her expression was pained, but composed. She looked as if nothing could break her anymore.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered.

She shook her head, "It's not your fault. You did what you felt was right."

"What do you mean?"

"You said that you couldn't tell me, that I had to remember things by myself," she said, "I should have listened to you. I should have trusted you. But I was impatient. And your coldness – it hurt me."

"I never meant to hurt you," Remus murmured, eyes downcast.

"I know you didn't," she replied, "You're not like that."

"If you only knew what I really was like," he shuddered, "You wouldn't believe that. I've done a horrible thing, Narcissa – I've wronged you so."

She put her hand to his lips, "Shhh. Don't say anymore. I don't want you to tell me. I don't want to know. If I'm meant to remember it, I will. Until then – it will have to remain a secret."

"Why?" Remus asked her.

She shrugged her thin shoulders, "Perhaps there are some things that it's not worth remembering."

That hurt him more than he had thought possible. Perhaps she did remember bits and pieces, then, and wanted to forget them as quickly as possible. He shuddered again and nodded, "You're right. Sometimes we're better off not knowing."

"Besides," Narcissa added, "If anything bad happened between us, I'd rather not know it, anyway."

"Why is that?" he asked dumbly.

She smiled at him, "Because," she murmured, taking his hand in hers, "I'd rather remember you as you are now – just the way you are."