The parks finally reopened in my city. I've never been so happy to just sit on the grass.

Paul : we've definitely passed the mid-point on this story, but I can't say how long it will end up being. There's definitely at least a handful of chapters left.


The autumn fog's cottony hues reflected by the enchanted ceiling seemed to drizzle down on the assembled crowd. Gathered in the Great Hall on long wooden benches set in neat rows for the occasion, the students stared, some curious, most guarded. There were no assigned seats and yet they mostly clustered by year and house. More than any others, the teenagers in green-and-silver sat apart, the empty space at the edge of their group large enough to sit two.

"The topic will be later covered more in depth in your Defense against the Dark Arts class, as appropriate for your year level," the Headmistress was saying. Minerva didn't have to raise her voice to hold the attention of two-hundred-and-fifty teenagers.

The rest of the staff stood in a loose semi-circle before the students. This school-wide first lesson would spare Narcissa the need to cover the same material seven times over, but most of all, it was a display of adult unity in front of the student body.

Mutters began to rise as Narcissa took a step forward. She'd done this all her life, cloak herself in cool confidence among those who held no love for her, and yet today she felt unusually nervous.

"This is a lesson, behave accordingly. We'll happily correct Professor Malfoy if she tries to impart inaccurate knowledge."

Some of the more defiant students' shoulders slumped at Hermione Granger's pointed words. It was so nice to have allies.

"Light arts are specific and reliable," Narcissa began. "Each incantation gives a well-documented effect. Study and practice are the best ways to become proficient, as such, a classroom environment is fit for learning."

Already some students seemed to waver in their attention.

"Dark Arts are, contrarily to light magic, guided by purpose and emotion. The intensity of the emotion, the sharpness of your focus, shapes your magic. Two mages can cast the same spell with significantly different results."

Frowns began to appear. Narcissa took her wand out, slowly, and pointing it towards the empty wall to her side. "Protego subsisto."

Air shimmered as yellow-orange magic condensed into a wide screen a few yards from Narcissa. "Protego is a light shield spell most of you already know. Protego subsisto is its weaker but more long-lived sister-incantation. A light spell commonly used during friendly duels to protect the audience from stray spells. Professors, would you kindly cast the subsisto?"

All but Hagrid gracefully complied, and over a dozen very similar shields filled the space between staff and students.

"Once you have mastered the incantation, you will obtain the same shield every time you cast it. That is the nature of light magic : inflexible but reliable."

One by one, the teachers muttered dispels. The shields slowly dissolved.

Narcissa raised her wand once more. "Tuitio!"

Unlike her solid, solemn-looking Protego, the new shield was thin and lazy, like a floating blob of water. She turned to the students. "A volunteer?" she said, "to cast the same spell."

A hundred heads turned towards Slytherin house. There was something venomous in the new whispers and a worrying glint in too many of the teenagers' eyes. Narcissa suddenly feared she'd made a mistake.

An older Ravenclaw abruptly stood up. "I'll do it. It's going to be underwhelming, unless you hex me, Professor, which I believe is the point."

Narcissa kept her expression pleasantly impassive. Showing gratitude for the boy's intervention would brand her weak. Minerva had warned her, 'never show that you require their approval. Teachers must always look confident'. "It is indeed the point, Mr -."

"Puddifoot. Tuitio!" The result was no blob, but floating shimmering puzzle-pieces that didn't seem to quite fit and looked like a strong breeze would make them fold.

"Are you familiar with the bladder release hex, Mr. Puddifoot?"

The young man blanched. Narcissa gave him a second to collect himself before sending a jet of bluish light straight at his stomach. Wordlessly. She didn't want to teach this particular incantation to a bunch of juveniles.

"Tuitio!" he shouted, with much more conviction that his first spell.

Her (under-powered, but poor Puddifoot didn't know that) hex crashed against a pulsing grayish slab of magic thick enough to be a Gringott's vault door.

"Mr. Puddifoot's visceral reaction at the prospect of wetting himself in public is what powered the spell. Same incantation, different conditions, very different results. You now understand why testing Dark Arts proficiency in class would be... awkward."

Narcissa was proud to tear some rueful smiles and chuckles from her audience, and even more to see the realization in dozens of eyes.

"Why bother learning five types of light shield spells if the dark one adapts to what you need?"

And so began her first questions.

"Light Arts grew popular because people like to use magic when they want to," Narcissa answered. "Historically, back when mages depended much more on Dark Arts, cheering charms and calming spells were battle curses : they crippled the caster's ability to muster enough purpose to harness their magic. And take healing : before advanced medicine and light healing, it was much harder for a mage to heal a stranger. You wouldn't want to go to Saint Mungo's and have to bet your life on your healer not having had a bad day."

"And Dark Arts make you evil and crazy," a voice called.

"Raise your hands for questions," Minerva snapped. Her glare silenced the new whispers but it couldn't erase the expression of stubborn approval on most of the children's faces.

"Dark Arts can be used for good or ill, but cast dark protection spells when you are terrified, and you will find yourself afraid even in non-threatening situations. Use anger to propel your offensive magic, and you will grow wrathful. Your mind tries to be helpful by making it easier for you to feel strongly enough to harness your magic, but as all you are old enough to know, sometimes strong emotions aren't our ally." She paused, satisfied to see she had their attention. "Lord Voldemort used mostly rage." The older students shuddered reflexively at the name, but many of the younger ones... didn't. An unexpectedly feeling of elation filled Narcissa's chest.

A hand shot in the air. "If it can be used for good or ill, why are all dark wizards bad?"

Narcissa flinched. Perhaps because the Hufflepuff boy, no older than thirteen, had said it with perfect earnestness.

"Mad-Eye Moody was a dark wizard," Harry cut in with a scowl from the front row of Gryffindor students. "And Professor McGonagall would never hire someone she didn't think was safe."

"Nevertheless," Narcissa allowed, her eyes crinkling at Harry's inability to let a slight against people he cared about pass. "Many dark wizards are bad people, as you say. Why? Because Dark Arts have become associated with evil and power, they are pursued by people who value such things. Most decent, law-abiding people don't see the point in learning, and there are no registered tutors. Families that still practice the old ways must be discreet about their practice and often, wrongly, pretend everything is under control because they are afraid to see their magic use restricted. Safe use of Dark Arts requires some humility."

"Humility. The chief virtue of dark old-blood families."

Students turned as one to identify the source of the magic-enhanced words. An androgynous voice, twisted into anonymity. Narcissa scanned the older students for a guilty face but saw only varying degrees of hilarity, even among Slytherins.

A tiny serious-looking Ravenclaw raised her hand above the rippling laughter. Flitwick's Sonorus amplified her voice. "Is all accidental magic Dark Arts then, Professor?"

The harmless, shrewd question filled Narcissa with unexpected delight. "Yes, but not the kind you should worry about."

More questions followed. Narcissa took a slow breath, not used to having so many eyes on her. Behind every question the students asked, she'd heard those they didn't, kept civil by the presence of the teachers they actually respected.

Not that she would let her nerves show. "Lastly, Unforgivables. They are among the most addictive dark curses. Your mind will make excuses and find reasons to use them, once you begin. Unlike other magic you cannot use them for anything other than harm. You cannot cast an Adava Kedavra to painlessly butcher an animal. You cannot Imperio a child to stop them from walking off a cliff."

This time, it wasn't one hand but dozens shooting in the air. "Why not?"

"Because the imperius requires you to want to strip all will from your target. You need to want to own them. Casting it from a place of empathy, respect or even fear is not possible. Likewise, to cast the killing curse you must want to destroy the person or the beast. It's always... personal. People who put down animals do it because it's necessary, not because they particularly want to." She took a slow breath. "I have a question for you now : why were so many Death Eaters imperioed during the first war?"

"They weren't! They're a bunch of liars," a boisterous voice called, followed by scattered cheers.

"They did not," Narcissa replied calmly, "give Albus Dumbledore some credit."

"They were coerced into serving You- Riddle," an older Hufflepuff said, somewhat reluctantly.

"Irrelevant. Had Lord Voldemort ordered Lucius to obey, he would have without the imperius, because those who didn't either died or buried their loved ones. It doesn't make their crimes less true, but with the penalty for disloyalty so high... Few are as brave as Severus Snape."

A gloomy silence descended upon the assembly. A little intense for the younger crowd, perhaps, but so essential to understanding the wars that it couldn't be avoided. Narcissa didn't doubt many had a lot to say, but rows of cross-armed stiff-jawed young mages stared back at her without a word.

One of the older Gryffindors, a small boy with mousy brown hair, finally raised his hand.

"Dennis Creevey," Hermione whispered helpfully.

"Yes, Mr. Creevey?"

"He enjoyed it." The teenager's gaze was hard. "It's addictive, you just said. If it's not because it made sense, then it has to be because he enjoyed it."

"Yes," Narcissa whispered. "Cast the cruciatus once in vengeance, you will find it easier, next time, to convince yourself someone who slights you deserves torture. You will find it easier to enjoy it. Cast the cruciatus enough, and you will see slights in everything."

"Right... it's not Bellatrix's fault she crucioed everybody, it was addiction." The acid in the Hufflepuff girl's voice could have melted steel.

Minerva glowered but Narcissa raised her hand to stop her. As long as they asked, she could answer. It was in silence that resentment grew unchecked.

"By the time she was mad? Yes, it was addiction." And Azkaban. It was no surprise Bella had latched upon anything that made her feel alive. "But madness needs time to grow. Some people cast unforgivables once or twice in moments of extreme pressure and do not lose their humanity."

"Like Molly Weasley? She did successfully cast the killing curse," Penelope Clearwater said, turning towards Bill.

The question could easily have been a provocation. Instead, Narcissa realized the two young Professors were making a point.

"Mum has had a hard time grieving, harder than I think she would have otherwise," Bill admitted, his long scars glinting under the magical lights. "She... in the heat of the moment she was afraid Bellatrix would have been able to deflect anything weaker. And she did want her dead as much as she wanted to protect Ginny."

"It's not a flaw to see a monster in the witch who tries to murder your child," Narcissa said darkly. "I loved my sister when we were girls, but I lost her decades ago, years before the first war." She had not come here with the intent to say something that personal, but since she'd not escape being on trial, she realized she had to give the kids something.

And it seemed to work. Oh, she had no illusion that would be trusted, but Narcissa would settle for 'worth learning from'.

A hand suddenly rose among the group of Slytherins. A little apprehensive, Narcissa nodded to the witch. "Yes, Miss Greengrass?"

"When I was in second year, Professor Moody demonstrated unforgivables in my sister's class. Harry Potter's class. He cast the imperius on students. You said there are no right reasons, so how didn't that immediately give away that this wasn't Moody but a polyjuiced Death Eater?"

At a loss, Narcissa turned towards the Headmistress. It was an excellent question.

Minerva looked pained. "Without Alastor, the first war would have been over before it began. Those years hardened him into ruthlessness. During the late seventies, we would capture Death Eaters, but those captured would be broken out by Riddle, and their captors murdered. Alastor lost a lot of good people before he convinced himself killing was necessary. He used the killing curse because it made our enemies afraid. They stopped attacking so brazenly, and many innocents were saved. " Minerva took a breath. "Alastor never truly made peace with his actions. He became closed off and paranoid. Albus called him to teach because... well, we would otherwise have had Dolores Umbridge a year earlier."

The compassion and understanding that filled the faces of every student older than fifteen at those last words was both comical and tragic.

"Use of the imperius in the name of teaching children to resist was unacceptable," Minerva said softly, "but it unfortunately didn't feel incompatible with his character. We underestimated him."

"Did you ask Moody, later?" Harry interjected from the front row. "What did he say?"

"That we were of bunch of idiots to think he'd ruin himself further by twisting his mind into considering children pawns. He... he was quick to forgive, saying that he couldn't quite blame us for thinking him capable of such a thing."

Narcissa suddenly realized she had to ask the witch if Alastor Moody had ever said why he'd not questioned Sirius' guilt. But with the confirmation that Moody had seen Death Eaters as irredeemable monsters, as was required to cast the killing curse, Narcissa feared she already had her answer. It filled her with sadness, for both men's sake.

"We made a huge mistake," Minerva admitted stiffly. In this age of reckoning, the Headmistress was right to lead by example, but Narcissa admired the courage it took to admit such a thing. "We failed to trust an old friend, we ignored our suspicions, and we had gotten too used to making allowances due to the difficulty in recruiting defense teachers."

"About screwing up defense teacher recruitment-"

"Oh I'm very proud of myself this year, Peakes," Minerva deadpanned. "And that's ten points from Gryffindor for disrespect."

"Yeah Peakes, maybe there wasn't anybody who wasn't a frigging Death Eater..." Another Gryffindor said, standing up with her arms crossed. "With all due respect, Professor, between Umbridge and the Carrows, we've learned not to make a big deal of house points."

Assent rose from the students' ranks, and the Gryffindors soon weren't the only ones on their feet. The sudden roar abruptly died. The teenagers were still standing, mouths opening and closing, but a magical field had silenced them.

"Yeah..." Harry said, his wand raised as he glared at his feet. "You all know Nar-, Prof. Malfoy wasn't a Death Eater, and that she fooled Voldemort into thinking I was dead during the Battle of Hogwarts, so don't you dare use the war as an excuse to be gits. Professor Malfoy has proved herself to me, to Hermione, to Minerva... If you think you know better than us... Those who actually want to learn magic don't have to put up with your bollocks. And you desperately need to learn, or I'd not be able to force you all to shut up so easily."

Narcissa's wordless Finite had no effect on Harry's silence field. It wasn't a charm, but a ward. Bill Weasley noticed at the same time as she did and unraveled it with a couple of unlocking spells.

"We all still have complicated feelings from the war," Bill said with a tight, sympathetic smile. "But this is not the way to express them. Peakes, Miss Higgs, you will have detention with me tomorrow night."

The resulting chatter was subdued. They will still angry. This would be difficult. Nevertheless, Narcissa wanted to believe tonight had made it easier.


As Narcissa walked alone in the castle, an invisible fog seemed to surround her, muffling students' conversations. She felt their eyes on her back, to the point where she often hesitated to make herself unnoticeable, to be freed from this weight. And yet hiding would solve nothing. She did not want to hide.

They stared but they avoided her gaze. Consciously, pointedly. In class, they were reasonably disciplined. They turned their essays on time and she could not complain about the level of effort they put in their work. Outside class... 'You don't belong here,' their attitude said. When Narcissa would cross a lone student in a corridor, most did acknowledge her, some even granting her an almost friendly 'hello, Professor', but in groups, they seemed to have collectively decided that she was someone to be tolerated rather than welcomed.

No rules were broken. A year under the Carrows had taught those teenagers the art of subtle defiance. Even the very youngest, those who'd come to the castle after the war, mimicked instinctively the behavior of their older housemates.

Narcissa would have wished to say things were easier with the children of her own house. But for every student inclined to trust her, there were those who desperately wished for Slytherin to stop being associated with Death Eaters. Those brought any personal issues to Professor Redclove, the Slytherin who had never been involved with the Dark Lord.

Narcissa had grown used to entering a room expecting to be the one sought out, the one who was asked for favors. Necessity had made others bow to her and she had enjoyed it. Only now could she see that she had broken away from her parents' clutches but never quite from the company they kept, this world of masks and power plays. She'd thought she had what she wanted : freedom and a happy family, but now-

It wasn't just memories of Lucius and Draco that the word family conjured now. The lines of Meda's face as she smiled, lines Narcissa had not been there to see appear. A toddler with changing features whose mother she'd never met. A cousin who'd had to cripple himself because they'd all failed to save him; who was more forgiving than any of them deserved. Another cousin, killed by Narcissa's own sister before Narcissa had had a chance to speak to him again.

Not that she'd fought for that chance.

She could have had so much more had she just tried and instead she'd-

Narcissa slid her hand into her robes, brushing Lyra's latest letter, a thick parchment where colorful ink made looping words, many ruthlessly crossed out to make space for their correctly-spelled version. A particularly large smudge betrayed that child must have put some ink on her dictionary's spine and then rubbed it somehow against the parchment.

Athai,

The attic is useless. I want it made into a garden for Christmas. A good house must have a garden. I made you a drawing to help you see. Miss you. Love.

Lyra.

Narcissa let the parchment's smoothness soothe her. She'd have to answer soon : the child would send Kreacher when Narcissa made her wait too long.

The hair-rising tickle of crude wards stopped Narcissa in her tracks. It was something she'd saved for the older students : explaining the intuitiveness of Dark Arts, how they made you more sensitive to magic of all kinds.

The door before her, shut, had been warded off for privacy.

She'd been on her way to see Poppy Pomfrey, to ask after one of her younger students who'd begun experimenting with spellcrafting a little too enthusiastically. More empty frames than inhabited portraits filled the walls around her. Discretely carved words could be seen in some of the floor's stones.

Lavender Brown. Ernie McMillian.

There were enough memorials, it had been agreed, and it was not right to make a school a place of mourning. An exception had been made for those who had still been students, those who should never have been on the front lines had the Isles not failed their children terribly.

Narcissa couldn't help wondering who else had fallen between those two stones.

She charmed the door behind the ward see-through from her side and stared as her spell revealed a group of eight students between third and seventh year. Three Ravenclaw, two Hufflepuff, a Gryffindor and two Slytherin. Two were soundlessly singing, the others played oboes, flutes and strings. Behind them, ghost-like instruments floated in midair, manifestations of conjured sound. The ripples of the phantom harp followed the strokes of Astoria Greengrass's bow on her viola.

Narcissa charmed the door silent, and cast an illusion to make it look like it had remained shut as she, disillusioned, slipped inside. The ward had not been cast to keep people out, only to keep the noise inside. The second Narcissa crossed its threshold, music filled her ears.

Even without her own years of practice, she could have said this was no hobby group. These children were incredible, and their spells... She'd tried it herself, making it sound like a full orchestra was behind her as she played. She'd succeeded well enough to impress a then young Draco, and to make her husband smile, but there was a fullness to true instruments, an emotionality to played notes, that eluded her in magic.

Lucian Davies, a broad-chested fourth year Ravenclaw, suddenly stopped singing. What had been a sort of modernized Italian opera fell apart in a few more beats.

"Is it me or is it echoing wrong?"

Narcissa shut her eyes in aggravation. Given away because she'd ruined the acoustics with her presence. She hesitated, but if they detected her as opposed to her willingly revealing herself... The last thing she needed was a reputation for spying on students.

They started when she appeared. "I detected your ward. I just came in and was about to leave. I didn't want to disturb you once it was clear you weren't rule-breaking." She smiled slightly, wishing she didn't have to fake being at ease. "This is outstanding."

And not just the music. Students from the four houses and all kinds of backgrounds. Hufflepuff's Rachel Levine and her violin had just convinced Narcissa that muggles could give their children excellent musical instruction.

"Sooo... when will stealthy wards get taught in class, Professor?" Davies said, his eyes hopeful.

"You could incorporate some elements of an age-line to make it easy for teachers to hear you playing from the outside but not students. It..." Her lips quirked. "You're using the same wards we've caught amorous couples behind."

"Well it makes sense everybody uses their best wards to do what matters to them..." Davies muttered with a faint blush. "We didn't mean to sneak around, Ma'am, just not be loud."

Narcissa embraced the room with her gaze. "You're not in trouble. Is this what you all want to do, after Hogwarts?"

The Gryffindor, sixth year Demelza Robins, nodded. "Not me. Singing full-time is too stressful, but the rest, you bet they will. There might be a murder too considering how competitive the field- " She peered at Narcissa through narrowed eyes. "With the right patron, we could create a whole orchestra from scratch... You're sure you haven't any money left stashed somewhere, Prof.?"

Behind the playful tone, there was a bite that reminded Narcissa that Robins was one of the students who pointedly ignored her out of class.

"What do you play, Professor?" Astoria said, with the slightly haughty smile of someone who knew she was doing Narcissa a favor by changing the subject.

"The harp and the piano. It's a pleasure to play, but I'm hardly as good you."

"Draco once admitted to have given it all up after coming to Hogwarts. It must've broken your heart."

Narcissa's lips quirked. "I survived. I'll take my revenge when he has kids of his own." Today, she wished she had insisted. She had spoiled her son, her perspective skewed by the memory of too-strict parents and the simple joy of having a child that loved her without fearing her.

The others chuckled, and Narcissa marveled at having stumbled upon them... relaxed. Was this how it always was for the other teachers?

"You and Lucius have split, right? He's not coming back."

Narcissa stared at Robins. The gall -

The young woman shrugged. "Hey, no judgement here. It just... You should say it outright. Before the war there was all the political stuff your husband did, and none of that can be blamed on Riddle. I get he's your son's father and all, but respect shouldn't come at the price of your own reputation."

"Demelza," Levine hissed, "you're so out of line Astoria and Constantine might faint."

The two old-family purebloods glowered, but Robins didn't break Narcissa's stare.

Narcissa had opened her mouth to say she hadn't divorced Lucius. Her words died at the appraising glance Robins was giving her. Morgana, what a coward she was. The students had begun to like her, or maybe just not to hate her, and so... and so they'd convinced themselves her Death Eater husband was something of the past.

She desperately needed to change the subject. "Mauritania has a few excellent magical orchestra. I was impressed when I visited Draco." And Lucius. She realized then she was still angry at her husband despite the fact she often missed him more than their son. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to be selfish.

Astoria's eyes lit up. "The Chinguetti orchestra? Yes! Do you know people there? Can you put us in contact?" She blushed faintly. "Please." Her sudden grin was unabashed. "I'm sure we can figure out a way to make it up to you, Professor."

At the teenager's barely contained enthusiasm, Narcissa couldn't help but smile. "A contact shouldn't be difficult to find."

The door suddenly opened to reveal Lucia Greengrass, a Ravenclaw one year younger than her cousin. "Tory, I-." She blinked at Narcissa.

"We got caught 'cause of the ward," Davies said, "Professor Malfoy might hook us up with pros."

"How nice," Greengrass replied coolly. "Fine, catch you later, Tory. There's no rush."

Narcissa's smile had long died as the girl turned around and left.

Even Robins looked taken aback by Greengrass' frostiness.

"I'll leave you to your practice," Narcissa said, her expression a pleasant mask as she herself left. "Poppy is expecting me."

Patience. She just needed to do her best and be... patient.


Some nights, alone with her thoughts as she patrolled the castle's mostly empty corridors, Narcissa wondered what had possessed her to accept this job. The answer was obvious : you didn't refuse when the opportunity to stop being a pariah was offered to you on a silver platter and it wasn't decent to keep living off Meda's money. Besides, it was Hogwarts.

Nevertheless, she couldn't help but wonder.

'You've just never worked full-time in your life, little sister,' Meda had not been able to resist pointing out.

But it wasn't just the hours. Physically, she was fine. Hogwarts itself energized its staff : three hours of sleep a night left Narcissa feeling pleasantly rested. It was finding the right balance between caring enough and caring too much. They outnumbered her two-hundred-and-fifty to one, and for sixty of them, her role wasn't just to teach. And the parents... When Narcissa had given her first detentions she had not expected the parents to show up. Even Minerva had looked flabbergasted.

The faint glow of a Lumos had her raise her wand.

"Who is it?" she called, her detection spell informing her it was a wizard, alone.

"Dennis Creevey," came the distracted reply.

The young man was running his wand across the wall. "Can you detect him, Professor? I... I figured it'd be easier, using Dark Arts, but I'm... I think hypnotizing myself or something."

"Who are you looking for?" Narcissa could have sent him straight to detention, but she was curious, and Creevey was one of the few older Gryffindors who made a point to always greet her (out of loyalty to Harry, but she did appreciate it).

"My brother. He's a ghost, but like... like he's still far away."

Morgana. At a loss, Narcissa struggled to find her words. The young man was of age, but still small and terribly youthful. From up close, he looked like he'd been crying. "Dennis... You must know there was an exorcism -"

"Colin's different. I know it's him. I can hear him sometimes. It's not grief making me crazy."

"Have you talked to other ghosts?"

"They say to be patient. That if he's here, he'll show himself. But... I don't know how time works for ghosts and I won't be here much longer. "

Narcissa's eyes distractedly swept the floor for inscriptions. Colin Creevey, where did you fall?

Chest tight, she lifted her wand. "Walk me through the detection spells you used." It couldn't do any harm.

So Dennis did.

"-I come the nights I miss him. I... I bottled it all in last year and now... The spells makes it easier to cry. It helps. I don't make myself sad because I don't want the spells to make it harder, but when I do want to cry, I -"

Narcissa's hand instinctively grabbed the boy's upper arm. "Do not use grief. It's... I know it's counter-intuitive but you should use a feeling that doesn't come too easily, or it'll be hard to distinguish the effects of Dark Arts and your own normal reactions before it's too late."

"Yeah, you said that in class," Dennis said ruefully. "But... I know he's here. How do I find him?"

"When you want to find things, hope tends to work."

His cheeks dimpled as he smiled, his eyes wistful. "Okay, how?"

She latched onto that smile. Onto the promise of a future where smiles could come easily and the shadows would lose their weight. Yes, grief would have been easier, there was an optimism in hope that could feel terribly elusive during hard times. Still, she had to try.

They had been walking and casting for the better part of half-an-hour when she froze before an odd shimmer. The shimmer seemed to glow and vanish, almost... teasing them.

"Magic runs deep in Hogwarts." Despite her racing heart, Narcissa forced her voice calm. False hope could slice like a severing curse. "It's layers upon layers... This could be the first echo of a ghost, or it could be... anything."

"The spells led us to it. So it must be something." Dennis sucked in a breath. "I... Did Prof. McGonagall explain to you, why muggles can't come to Hogwarts?"

Narcissa shook her head slowly, guilt pooling into her stomach. She tried to not dismiss muggleborn mages anymore, and yet the fact she'd not even paused to consider that the young man's parents had never been able to see the school...

Dennis didn't seem offended by her admission. "It's not just muggle repellent charms. It's more advanced. It's... If you're not a close blood relative to a current student, or a former student, the wards keep you out unless the Headmaster invites you in. Blood magic is silent in squibs and muggles so they're all treated as strangers, and an invitation is a sort of rooted ward, you need magic to accept it. Death Eaters passed the outer wards because the Dark Mark fooled those into thinking everyone was Tom Riddle."

Narcissa blinked. Fascinating. "Werewolves?" she had to ask.

"Right... We're not sure actually. Magic works weird on werewolves."

"How does any of that explain our caretaker?"

Dennis grinned. "Yeah, that confused me too. Turns out, he saved a student's life in Hogsmeade decades ago and Hogwarts rewarded him with entry."

Argus Filch had saved a student? The things one learned.

Narcissa then blinked. Regulus, his conjured arm full of tracing spells. Kreacher.

"Dennis... It's late. Come to my office tomorrow at eight. There's an option I don't think we've explored."

"Which option?"

"Well, we have recently managed to root tracing spells on my squib cousin." His face lit up and she found herself smiling back. "Shall I ask a house-elf to give you a potion to sleep?"

"Probably," he admitted, now shaking from excitement, "or you'll have a zombie knocking on your door tomorrow."

She smiled because she could hear it was a joke. She'd have to ask Harry what a zombie was.


A month later, they were no closer to knowing if Colin Creevey's ghost roamed Hogwarts, but as muggle parents gathered in the Great Hall, Narcissa realized she finally felt at ease.

A skinny man with a round glasses and robes with huge printed dragons walked to her with an unexpectedly warm smile. Right behind him was a slight woman with long hair dyed a vibrant red who looked similarly good-humored.

"My son tells me you're to thank for this."

"It's the least I could do, Mr. Creevey."

"My boy, Colin, he used to take so many pictures." The man's eyes had crinkled in grief, but his smile didn't falter. "Still pictures, then the moving ones... It was almost like we were here. He did his best to make us part of this and..." His eyes swept the dozens of families milling about. "Everyone looks thrilled today. I... I can see why the boys fought for this. Would've done the same."

"We're glad to see it wasn't useless." Mrs. Creevey chuckled. "You have magic," awe widened her eyes. "Of course people are people with all the laziness and pettiness and prejudice, but -. They... they changed things, didn't they?" She wiped tears from her eyes and grasped Narcissa's hands forcefully. "They made a difference."

"Yes," Narcissa managed, her own throat constricting. "We all owe them so much."

Wistfulness slowly replaced Mrs. Creevey's smile. "Mrs. Malfoy, what's this about Colin's ghost? Is it a delusion or...?"

The woman's perfume, the warmth of her hands tightly gripping Narcissa's, the softness of her gaze. And the grief. Her son, barely a year younger than Draco-. Flustered, Narcissa realized her eyes were filling with tears.

"I don't know... I-. Even if he is a ghost, it'll be just an echo. Ghosts are tethered by a narrow purpose and what existed beyond that purpose... I'm sorry."

"I leave you guys alone ten minutes and it looks like you're going to make my second favorite Professor cry," Dennis chided, his eyes smiling. "Why can't you pester her about Hogwarts' secrets instead of heavy stuff?"

Mr. Creevey affectionately hooked his arm around his son's neck. "I was saying we can't raise boys on superheroes and ask them to duck for cover when-." He sighed. "Always wondered what I would have done, had I been in occupied territory during World War Two."

"Heroically dead, Dad. I wouldn't exist. You'd never have reproduced."

"Too right," Mrs. Creevey agreed. "Thank goodness we grew up in peacetime."

Narcissa laughed, marveling to see this couple still united after the loss of their eldest son, still able to be so kind. Her laughter caught stares, not all of them... pleasant. But today, Narcissa didn't care.

It was a little later that she spotted Hermione half-hidden behind a statue. The young woman looked... tense. She stiffened further as Narcissa walked towards her.

"It's so bloody obvious," Hermione finally growled. "Why didn't we connect the dots earlier?"

"Knowledge is scattered among wizards, we are few and we do not have the culture of writing down knowledge that modern muggles do," Narcissa said gently. "Don't blame yourself for not having asked house-elves earlier, I'm not sure they themselves are aware of all they are capable of."

"Then we need a school of magic for house-elves," she snapped. Her nails dug into her palms and fury brimmed in her brown eyes.

Hermione caught the older witch staring. "Come," she said with a huff. "I need to show you something."

She all but dragged Narcissa to her office. Something was a thick binder full of notes. Enough notes to make Narcissa dizzy. Hundreds of pages of -

"They're indexed," Hermione muttered, "my main conclusions are summed in twenty pages."

Of course they were. Narcissa had heard of Hermione Granger's intellectual... fearsomeness, but had never quite been confronted it.

In the castle, Hermione kept her hair in a tight bun to look more professorial, but she'd pulled enough thick curls out to look decidedly frazzled. "It's about my parents. I... I can't fix it."

The witch usually looked older than her twenty years, but right now the wetness in her eyes, the way she bit her lower lip, her fidgeting fingers, betrayed she was very much someone's child.

"I... Before I modified their memories, I ordered neuroscience texts and crossed them with any magical book I could find on the subject. But to reverse it... everything I read about memory spells, everything about the science... I... Wizards have time turners! We have -" She clasped her hands together, her voice dropping to a haunting whisper. "What if it's just not possible?"

Narcissa tried to recall all she knew about mind-altering magics. "You discussed the situation with your parents and they agreed to the memory modification?"

"No. I... I didn't tell them anything. We didn't have much time and I... I just wanted them safe and happy."

"And you knew better," Narcissa mused. "You're a witch and they're only muggles. They just couldn't understand..."

Odd how suddenly angry she was. It was reasonable to say muggles were helpless in a magical war, that it had been Hermione's responsibility to – That line of thought shriveled, replaced by the vivid memory of Mr and Mrs. Creevey. Of parents. Who'd had every memory of their child erased. Who would Narcissa be, without her memories of Draco?

Hermione had gone pale. "I... Voldemort was after us. I thought I had no choice."

"Imagine your mother was single, and you found a suitable man, only she didn't see it like that, would you dose her with a love potion? She'd be happy."

"I know it was wrong! You don't have to-"

"Why didn't force them without changing their minds? Fake identities, you bind their minds, blocking them from speaking, contacting you, leaving Australia. But leave them themselves."

"I know! They would have hated me!"

"Is that fear of your parents hating you still stronger than your respect for their individuality?"

Red-faced and tearful, Hermione backed away. "I -. I don't have to listen to this, I know -"

Narcissa took a shuddering breath. Hermione had been seventeen. She was being cruel. "No, I am sorry. I... Hermione, Dark Arts are about intent. If you want loving parents more badly than you want them to recover their true memories and personalities, the magic will act accordingly, to potentially disastrous results. The brain's workings are still a mystery, light magic won't be enough."

Hermione's shoulders slumped. "I... Is it enough, to want them to be themselves, even if I'm scared they'll never forgive me? How... do I need to work my feelings first then? Does – Just tell me it's possible," she pleaded.

"I don't know. I'm going to have to read your conclusions first." Grudging admiration filled Narcissa as her eyes fell once more on the terrifyingly thick stack of notes.

"Did you check on your parents?" she asked softly as she carefully picked up the heavy binder.

Hermione nodded, recovering her bearings with a shuddering breath. "They're seeing psychiatrists and taking some medicine for intrusive voices and ... That's what encourages me to think the memories aren't gone. But they look happy. I... I hope I'd be able to tell if they were faking it."

"Did you truly have no help with the memory charms?"

A mildly offended frown greeted that question. "Why would I lie? I... I didn't tell Harry and Ron because I didn't want to get anybody's hopes' up, but I actually started looking into neuroscience and magics in fifth year, after I learned about Neville's parents. And it's absolutely fascinating! So I had already covered a lot of material before I even considered altering my parents' memories."

Narcissa stared at the witch in appraisal. "A theory for healing the Longbottoms?"

"Yes: transfigurations. Get the damaged part of the brain separated from the rest, cut the bad out. Pray the brain can remodel itself. It's already done with some types of cancer, although never brain, the brain... like you said, we need Dark Arts and... the Longbottoms could end up very healthy but wiped, like newborns... It's one of the things I want to look into but it's such a huge undertaking. Minerva's been making some inquiries with other transfigurations masters. The problem is... with Dark Arts, you have to really want it to happen, and someone who doesn't care about the Longbottoms... Still, it's better than nothing. It's going to take a couple of years at least, though." That fact seemed to do little to dim Hermione's obvious enthusiasm. "I... I still haven't told Neville."

"And you still have time to teach?" Narcissa teased with a small smile.

A furious blush colored the younger witch's cheeks. "I don't think I'm doing too bad at it, but... not my life's calling. I... I understand Snape better now. I haven't called anyone a dunderhead to their face, but... I like discussing advanced magic more than I do seeing children improve and learn, which is a bit of a problem." She grimaced. "The students notice. They're scared of me."

"You want them scared."

"Yes, it keeps them quiet and obedient," Hermione said, biting back a rueful smile. "But I do envy Penny. She makes teaching sound so... gratifying, whereas I've been sending letters to my old nannies to apologize for having been such a... Well, let's just say I appreciate them better now."

Nannies? After a pause Narcissa recalled the word from conversations she'd had with Regulus. "Are nannies not... a staple of wealth among muggles? I'd understood your parents were tooth healers."

An shadow crossed Hermione's face. "Of course you did... Everybody just assumed-. Nobody ever cared to ask what-" she stopped muttering and swallowed back her exasperation. "Dentists earn a lot. Mum and Dad both had their own practices in London, and Mum later joined a dental clinic. She became clinical director." Hermione sighed. "I went to an expensive school as a child, full of kids with rich parents. We had a cook, a cleaning lady, a nanny... I saw my parents a full day a week and perhaps an hour a day or so." She smiled softly. "They always made a point to make sure we had great holidays together to catch up on lost time. We went to ski in Chile when I was ten years old."

"It doesn't sound like an unhappy childhood." A little lonely perhaps.

Hermione shook her head with a smile. "No, it wasn't. But they had me in their early forties, probably out of fear they'd regret being childless more than because they wanted a kid. I was sort of squeezed in, you know? Magic made things complicated... In the muggle world Mum and Dad are important, but here they're nobody. Suddenly my future had become this big question mark for them. They're used to understanding everything and being in control. They hated that they felt ill-equipped to guide me, so I... lied. About a lot of things. Funny how I could be so brave for some things and how beautifully I cocked everything up with my own parents."

"So you're telling me that you're the muggle version of old blood."

Hermione snorted. "No. Wouldn't that be somebody whose great-gran had a manor, a title and a houseful of servants? I'm... my parents are the lower upper-class, the rising highly-educated professionals. In my primary school, there were many kids who felt the world was theirs just because they'd been born with a silver spoon in their mouths. I was... always eager to put them in their place. I mean, honestly, most of them couldn't even sum double digits at six years old." Self-deprecation was obvious in her tone. "I was terrible at making friends. My parents meant well when they said it was the others who were immature, but I had no modesty and no patience. I also thought the world would be mine, but because I'm smart."

Narcissa smiled indulgently. Now she understood why the girl had always been so outspoken and eager to take up a cause. It wasn't just her personality, she came from a background where people had power and were listened to.

Sadness filled Hermione's gaze. "They were thrilled when I started showing an interest for neuroscience. It was something we could explore together." She took a deep breath. "Narcissa, I'm not expecting you to do this for me. You have a lot on your plate already. I... I realize now I need to get over myself and ask people. I bet Bill knows a lot, Fleur's remarkably clever and already offered to introduce me officially to Madame Maxime..."

"I am busy," Narcissa acknowledged. "But, I still want to read what you found. Meda probably will too."

"Of course you do, it's dead interesting!" Hermione grinned. "I fear I'm still not modest, and I talk too much."

"You're exhausting," Narcissa agreed, her eyes warm. "But all things considered, it's a flaw I can put up with."

During the first months of their acquaintance, Hermione Granger's exuberance, her passionate judgments, her long breathless tirades, her sheer emotionality, had irritated Narcissa enough to distract her from the witch's qualities. It had taken Harry's exasperated 'she wasn't raised to be a hypocritical pureblood who talks in subtext more than in words,' for Narcissa to realize it might be she who had a problem. She and Hermione Granger would never be best friends, but it had become much easier to overlook how Hermione said things and focus on all the interesting things she actually said.


It was Friday night. A day a week and two weekends a month, Narcissa would leave the castle to spend time with her family. She shoved a stack of essays she'd not found the courage to mark during the week in her bag and, her Nimbus 2001 in hand, warded her office shut. This would be her last free weekend before Yule, and as much as she enjoyed teaching, she was looking forward to the holidays.

Rain beat violently against the windows. Narcissa shuddered despite her thick cloak as she stepped into the stormy grounds. Cloaked in a water-repelling bubble, she struggled to see two yards in front of her.

A flash of light had her turn. Thunder tore through air less than two seconds later, and she gingerly mounted her broom, impatient to get to somewhere she could apparate.

She kicked off the ground, flying low, and accelerated.

The air was knocked out of her as she slammed against an invisible barrier. She fumbled for her wand and gasped, her scream swallowed by mud as she crashed head-first into the grass.

Her vision swam. Her wand! where- Silence suddenly deafened her. She couldn't hear. She couldn't make a sound.

Shock and fear wrapped her in a shield and sharpened her senses. But there was only so much she could do wandlessly. Warmth spread over her limbs and she wanted to scream because a warming charm was not was she needed right now, she needed her wa-

A shadow the size of a large owl appeared in the rain. It shimmered, betraying an inexpert glamour. Conjuration, familiar... the weather was too awful to tell, but that was her wand in its thick claws. Narcissa screamed soundlessly as the wand who'd been an extension of her fingers since her eleventh birthday broke into shards.

Freezing rain immediately drenched her, stealing her breath away. Blood dribbled down her temple. Still dazed by her violent fall, she knew she couldn't fight her panic without losing her only source of magic. In this state, even a teenager could beat her. She had to get out of here.

She had no idea where was the castle and where were the wards. She just willed herself to move.

The wandless displacement spell jerked her so violently she almost lost consciousness.

Seconds, minutes, she had no idea how long her magic carried her. Exhausted and light-headed, she crashed against something hard. Wood. The rain was... slightly less overwhelming. Dark branches hid the clouds from her.

She blinked and belatedly realized she had to be in the Forbidden Forest. Morgana. She opened her mouth but the silencing spell had been specifically cast on her.

Her head splitting, her vision swimming, and convinced the edge of the wards couldn't be far, Narcissa began to run deeper into the trees. A low-hanging branch sliced her cheek, tearing a hiss from her lips. She stumbled forward, not wanting to slow. If whoever had attacked her had used a tracing spell... New panic welled inside her, and tears began seeping out of her eyes as her depleted magic failed to break the silence.

She fell. Rainwater and blood filling her eyes, she couldn't see what she'd fallen against. Something slick and slippery burned her palms. Sudden weakness stole her ability to move. Gasping for breath, she lost consciousness.


It had been a while since I finished on a cliffhanger. I didn't want you to get bored *evil grin*.