Author's Note : Hi everyone, sorry for the delay. Good news is, I've mostly worked out the ending of this story and how I want to wrap up all the main characters' story lines (it'll be 4-5 more chapters including this one, some may end up being split in half). I was getting a little bogged down in the society issues and I realized I was tangling myself up trying to figure out how to bring up or fix everything that had led to the war. Things started to fit back together in a nicer way when I decided to keep this more character-driven and not go overboard with the world-building.

I also went back and tweaked some things (background details, nothing in the main plots) to keep everything coherent and add a dash of foreshadowing. That'll teach me to not plan ahead.


Nineteen years ago - January 1981 (10 months before Voldemort's first defeat).

How dare they!

Narcissa had always been wary of fury. Bella and cousin Sirius were the angry ones, and what had that done for them?

Her pale hands shook as she dressed herself with a few wand-strokes. The baby's kicks had been firm; now her tense womb was silent. Severus knew his potions, and the diagnosis spells didn't lie. 'He's healthy, Narcissa'. Yet her instincts screamed.

In her dreams, her swollen body was a tomb, her unborn child dead.

Soft steps against the Italian marble announced Lucius' arrival. Narcissa hadn't visited her husband's rooms since he'd come home with that repulsive brand on his arm. His fingers brushed her lower back, steadying her.

She could have shook him off with a cold glare. She clasped her fingers together under her bulging stomach instead. The mink fur linings of her long blue robes failed to warm her skin.

Andromeda, Sirius, Reggie, and now- Narcissa had been swallowing back screams of rage for half her life now it seemed. And what had that done for her?

"Bellatrix is here. I told her you'd be down for breakfast soon."

"I'm ready," Narcissa said, not meeting Lucius' eyes.

She could feel him stiffen, hurt by the constant rejection. It wasn't satisfying at all.

"I don't want to keep fighting," she admitted. He smiled, that affectionate thin smile, as she linked his arm in his. Once, there had been no cracks in his smooth confidence. Nowadays, his eyes lingered on her a little too long. "Are you alright, Lucius?"

His smile tightened. "I won't let anyone, or anything, ruin us."

'Us', rolling off his tongue like it was paramount. As it should be. As if there wasn't a pulsing black snake on his arm binding him to another.

Malfoy Manor was where Narcissa was supposed to be happy. "I'm tired of punishing us." She had made her point, and there was no removing the Dark Mark.

In the dining room, her sister hadn't waited for them. Bellatrix licked milky tea off her full lips. Her robes were tight-woven black-and-lace, as if every day was a reception. A hint of reddish Dark-taint gave a feverish glow to her eyes.

"Your mudbloods have long scurried away, but I did find who helped them to the continent." Bella's smirk became a sinister grin, a promise of indescribable pain. "The Prewett boys."

Fabian and Gideon Prewett. Twins with broad shoulders and easy smiles. Sharp-tongued young men with that Gryffindor love of attention. Old-blood light mages. Skilled aurors.

You spoke of power once, Bella. You dreamed of a world where you would be just one among many talented mages. You called people weak for bowing to politicians and those weaker than them. Why are you now so eager to kill the driven and powerful that Albus Dumbledore has gathered around him?

But those whispers were too weak against the bottomless pit of rage that burned Narcissa's muscles and twisted her insides.

She'd acted docile for so long, biding her time, setting the board to have a life that would be finally hers. A family of her own. A family united, unafraid, loving.

They'd taken that from her.

"Auror schedules aren't so secret as the Ministry thinks," Lucius' voice was unyielding and cold, but the way his eyes paused on Narcissa's stomach betrayed she wasn't the only one struggling. "I'll help you find them."

"Silly boys, refusing to resign," Bellatrix tutted. "Could they be such idealists? Maybe it's just that the Order doesn't pay. Never has so much gold been heaped on aurors..." She stood up and stared at Narcissa beseechingly. "Cissy, those blood-traitors have gotten too good at slipping through our fingers. You don't think like me. Help me get them where we want them."

Rage promised power and control. It took your pain and crafted it into a weapon. Narcissa had always been careful. She had tried to be wise. And for what?

Why say no and push away her sister? The only sister who still sought her out. "Alright, but do pretend to be a civilized guest and let me have my tea first."

Bellatrix blinked. A less dangerous, more familiar light crinkled her eyes. "Oh fine, Lady Malfoy. Shall I ask the elves for cheese slices?"

Lucius and Bella. Her flawed family. But hers. They had to stand united, or else what would be left?

"Please." Narcissa laid a hand on Bellatrix's shoulder. "And thank you, for watching out for me."

Bella's sharp smile softened. "We're not little girls anymore, Cissy. We get what we want now."

No. No, they really didn't. But revenge Narcissa could get.


Back to the present – December 1999

Clad in gray wool-lined robes as she side-stepped last night's puddles, Narcissa fiddled with her buttons to busy her restless right hand. A wand is a tool, beloved, but a tool, replaceable, she told herself.

But no rationalization could erase the fact it had been broken. That Narcissa had been attacked. The pain, the helplessness, the days of recovery, her husband having to sneak in the country like a thief just to visit her... Narcissa tried to be lucid about her flaws and failings, but she would not be a victim.

The wet winter air clung to her skin as she tried to tame her anger. She'd lost her mind once. And for what? It hadn't made her any less barren. Only Lucius was still alive to know what role she had played in the Prewett's capture. Perhaps one day she would tell Draco.

How did one protect themselves without adding to the world's misery?

Minerva's disillusionment spell coated her clothes and skin, giving her anonymity in the early morning bustle of Diagon Alley. But today, being invisible grated. Why? Why was it still necessary? Would anything Narcissa did ever be enough? Why would she let people dictate her public appearances? What right did they have to keep judging her?

Narcissa paused before Ollivanders'. She willed her feet forward. If the wandmaker could bear her presence, she owed it to him to keep herself together. The door magically swung open. A chiming bell peeled off the charms cloaking her as she stepped inside.

The musky smell of wood and unstable-looking towers of stacked wand-boxes greeted her. As a girl of eleven, Narcissa had already found the gloomy shop cramped. Today her every step had to be carefully calculated to avoid knocking something over.

The creak of a moving ladder had her turn. A thump, as if someone had jumped off, was followed by a flash of dirty-blonde hair behind a nearby shelf.

"He said to expect you," a dreamy voice announced. Luna Lovegood walked up to Narcissa, her ever-wide eyes boldly drinking in her appearance. "It sticks to you, Hogwarts' magic. I'd always wondered why our professors were so bright."

Wrapped in yellow long-sleeved overalls with a map of the world made from tiny birds, Luna was proof that tragic bad taste could be somehow oddly charming. The young witch's smile, not-quite-warm but guileless and intent, was, as always, disarming. "Summon your wand, Mrs. Malfoy. You know how to."

Yes. She knew how to. Narcissa reached out with her magic, pretending her old elm wand was there to answer.

A dozen boxes flew forward from every corner of the room. They crashed into nearby stacked towers, causing some to collapse into chaotic piles. Narcissa had to duck to avoid an aggressively fast velvet-lined case.

Luna laughed at the alarming mess. "It's always more fun when it's adults." She hummed as she made a pile with the wands that had answered Narcissa's summons. "All dragon heartstrings… It must be the Dark Arts. Well, Mrs. Malfoy, try them."

Dragon heartstring, the only wandcore that required a dead creature. Narcissa had never made the connection before. She held her breath as she picked up the first wand: whitewood, longer than she was accustomed to.

At first, she was tentatively hopeful: her magic flowed through the core with little resistance. Mirror-like shades began to appear before her, a pair of pale smoke-swans, their necks unfurling. The humming wand, cool at first, quickly grew warm. Too warm. Narcissa stifled a gasp, forced to let go.

The dropped oak wand seemed to pulse with... hate.

A frown knit Luna's brow, but she said nothing. Narcissa decided to dismiss the incident and try another wand.

She soon cast it aside. The long elm wand felt cold and reluctant. Almost... judgmental.

The third did not react until Narcissa tried to wake it with a more powerful spell : a lighting charm which would bathe the whole shop in warm candle-light.

The wand hummed alive, only it didn't channel Narcissa's intent into light. A whip of flames shot out from its tip and slammed into a shield Luna had hastily erected. A shield inches from Narcissa's face.

"Is this common, in adults?" Increasingly unnerved, Narcissa struggled to keep her voice level. Were dark-aligned wands prone to such games? Again, the wand she clutched seemed to loathe her, its smooth wood somehow slimy and hostile.

There were ten remaining boxes. Luna wordlessly crouched among them and slid out the wands, twirling them between her fingers. Of the ten, the blonde pushed three towards Narcissa. "Those should like you better."

Gnarled wands of ungainly shapes, archaic-looking, so unpolished Narcissa wondered if they hadn't already been used.

She let go of the breath she had been holding when the new wand didn't attack her. In the conjured mirror's reflection, the wandmaker's shop was clean and orderly. The image was convincing, the wand responsive. Only... There was no warmth, no sense that the wand had chosen her specifically. It was the kind of match one was satisfied to find in a family vault, no doubt how Abraxas' wand had felt to Draco when he had had to replace the wand Harry had taken during the war.

The second wand, streaked with light browns, was barely seven inches. It was thick and stiff, as if the wood had refused to bend to the artisan's will. This time, Narcissa felt the urge to grasp it and linger.

The swans glowed golden-white when she cast her illusion. A rush of wind made the stacked boxes quiver as the birds took off. Narcissa blinked, pleased. Her childhood wand had pulsed warm at the first caress. It had felt special and safe. This one… something merry and vindictive seeped from its core. A whispered promise of partnership. It felt more like an arranged marriage than love at first sight.

Narcissa twirled the unfamiliar wood between her fingers. Cracks marred its side and it looked like it had been tortured into its current shape.

"Acacia, seven inches, rigid," a new, older, voice intervened. "A temperamental wand, suited to subtle magics. Tends to play dead when anyone other than its master tries to use it."

Narcissa stiffened despite herself. "Mr. Ollivanders," thankfully, her poise didn't fail her. "I will be taking this one. Did it have another master before me?"

"Oh no. It was one of my first. An experiment if you will. I had less respect for the woods and cores then." His smile was more a baring of teeth, and the mirth crinkling his eyes as much judgement towards his younger self as a pointed statement to Narcissa. "It despises me. Those who attacked you might have been a match, but it seems they bear a grudge against you."

Narcissa flinched. The whip of fire, not because of incompatible magics, but because the wands' maker had been tortured in her home.

"A work of art, Malfoy Manor," Ollivanders mused. "You could have locked Riddle out after he hurt you. Had your husband stayed within the Manor's walls, it would have taken months for the Dark Lord to strip his magic through the mark. Long enough to find a way to weaken their dark bond and buy even years of time... Your son's mark was young, shallow still, he risked even less than your husband."

"We couldn't be sure -"

"No, better let the man torture you, your own child, and others, better be his servants, than take the risk."

Did you tell me I could come here just to accuse me? Narcissa swallowed harsh words. Never show when their blows strike true. "Not better," she tightly agreed. "I am now doing my best to not be blind to the choices I have. I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

His expression inscrutable, Ollivanders gestured for her to follow him. Of course the man wanted something from her.

Her fingers tight around her gnarled acacia wand, Narcissa followed the white-haired wandmaker deeper into the shop. A fireplace glowed green behind dusty shelves.

Guilt made even simple questions such as 'where are you flooing me to?' feel like an imposition. Narcissa soothed herself by drinking in Ollivanders' movements: energetic, nimble, with no sign of lingering pain. Nothing indicated his mind wasn't as sharp as ever.

Her destination had high ceilings and marble floors. A dizzying smell of dried plants with musky undertones filled her lungs. Long tables stacked with tail-hair and feathers, shed scales and tooth chips, egg shells and magical components of all kinds. The windows were obscured by curtain-charms to shield the components from light. A thick brownish-red liquid simmered in racks of tiny cauldrons.

Narcissa stilled. Blood.

"Muggleborn, most of them. Humors don't make durable wands but recent times have convinced me to be more adventurous."

"What are you using muggleborn-blood for, Master?" Narcissa found herself asking. The terrible bindings that could be made with such -

"My wands last centuries. They are both exquisitely well matched to their owners and possessive. When the occasional wizard or witch would ask me for a spare, I bristled."

A spare wand. What a ludicrous concept. Even family wands responded sluggishly if a primary wand-bond was still intact.

The wandmaker's toothy smile didn't reach his eyes. "But in a world where wands are stolen... 'Spares' does not sound like a perversion of the craft anymore."

Of course. But to surrender one's own blood for experiments...

"Traditional wands switch masters when theirs is beaten," Luna said, raising her own reddish-brown wand before her eyes as if to inspect it. "These new wands, they will be loyal."

Ollivanders led her to stacks of petrified woods. "Less efficient than fresh woods, but nigh unbreakable." Between two reddish-white logs, large droplets of resin glowed like molten gold.

Narcissa stilled, reminded of a potion she'd herself never taken, too afraid to be disappointed by all that luck couldn't fix.


1981, 19 years ago.

"It's done," Cassiopeia said. "Auror Shacklebolt knows all there is to know. The poor dear is quite fond of his great-uncle."

Dragon Pox had struck hard this year. The Parkinsons, the Macmillans, the Potters, Ombeline Urquhart... Rarely had so many healthy mages in their sixties and seventies perished. Only Felix Felicis could free one's body of the magic-eating plague.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was one of those decent young men that were, as such, predictable. His grandmother Donna had been taken hostage by the Dark Lord, and recently rescued by Alastor Moody, Potter and Cousin Sirius.

After Cassiopeia Black had told him she had gotten her hands on internationally produced Felix Felicis and was selling it for the right price, Shacklebolt informed Alastor Moody, just like Narcissa had expected him to.

In these troubled times, the luck potion was worth so much more than its weight in gold. Aunt Cassiopeia hadn't forgotten to point out to Shacklebolt that she had other prospective buyers. She suggested that she preferred honest, law-abiding wizards unlikely to rob her. She'd claimed that things had gotten too messy for her liking, and indeed, with her house ashes, her desire to leave England was no lie. Besides, it made sense for her to approach the young auror : Shacklebolt was rich and had a very ill great-uncle.

When Fabian and Gideon Prewett came to intercept Cassiopeia's 'parcel', Bellatrix and the Lestranges were waiting.


"Amber pendants were once widespread magic channelers," Ollivanders was saying. "Amber grows too attuned to its wearer's magic : it becomes a vulgar inert jewel in anyone else's hands. Wands made its use obsolete. "

"We can't find any good tomes on antique jewelry-smithing," Luna added. "Garrick is very frustrated with Antigonus for not sharing."

Following Luna's gaze, Narcissa finally noticed the portrait in the gloom. Antigonus of Syria. A fat man in his nineties with black curls and a prominent nose. He stood in silk-and-cotton oriental robes, surrounded by towering trees. Thick chunks of amber pearled from the trunks.

This was Malfoy Manor! Misled by the lighting and the rooms' contents, Narcissa had failed to recognize the first floor's guest wing, transformed into a series of workshops.

"Master Antigonus," she exclaimed. The antique portrait was the proud plunder of one of Lucius' ancestors. Depending on the day, the mage claimed to be Syrian, Phoenician or Greek and it wasn't clear if he had been a contemporary of Alexander the Great or of Pompey of Rome. In any case, he was by far the oldest resident of the Manor.

The master jeweler abandoned his pretense of deep slumber upon recognizing her voice. "You must find another wall for me, dear, this journeyman keeps pestering me."

Ollivanders' bushy eyebrows twitched at being called journeyman.

Amused, Narcissa kept her expression smooth. "You devoted your life to your craft, why now refuse to take this opportunity to revive it? Master Ollivanders is peerless among wandmakers, I would think you'd be happy to have him admit his ancestors were wrong to hold other types of magic channelers in contempt."

"Spare wands. I do not craft spares." But for all his scorn, Antigonus looked mollified already. "Amber is a noble material, not some poor man's consolation prize!"

"Not consolation," Narcissa corrected softly. "Wand theft became a problem during the last war. Too many lost their freedom. But you are right, Master. Calling them spares does make them sound dreadfully cheap. Would you consent to giving them your name? Antigonus pendants has a certain ring to it. "

Perhaps the real man would have been less vulnerable to blatant flattery, but few portraits enjoyed keeping secrets. No doubt Antigonus would have caved in to Ollivanders' demands after a few more weeks of badgering.

The portrait crossed his arms. "Listen carefully, wandmaker. Even Apama, my most talented apprentice, didn't have the presumption to craft her own pendants until she'd had two years of instruction."

Being treated like a student had to rankle, but Ollivanders mustered a graceful bow of his head. Parchments and self-writing quills appeared before him as Antigonus launched into a rambling introduction.

Out of the portrait's hearing range, Luna cocked her head to her side. "Is Master Antigonus particularly vain, or will that work with all of them?"

"It doesn't hurt to try. Has Adiona shared her tales of pseudo-dragons with you?"

Luna beamed. "Yes! Daddy's organizing an expedition. I did promise Garrick I'll stay a few months first. Neville will be helping us select the right plants to-."

A pop near Narcissa's knees interrupted them.

A sour-looking Kreacher stared up at Narcissa. "Master Reggie bei- is being disrespected. You must intervene. Mistress Andromeda is at the Ministry, I cannot pop to her."

Narcissa blinked at the elf, struck by a sudden thought. She turned back to Luna and Ollivanders. The wandmaker had left an illusion of himself in front of the oblivious painting. Next to it, the self-writing quill had already darkened almost two feet of parchment.

"Have you tried house elf claws?"

Two pairs of eyes stared back at her.

"They are loyal and their magic very adaptable." House-elves had been the solution to half their recent problems. Dismissing them still would be idiotic.

Ollivanders hummed thoughtfully. "Cores using parts of a sentient being are highly volatile. But that is not to say it's not worth testing." He focused back on her. "Could your husband organize exports from Mauritania? Some exotic components look promising."

There was challenge in his posture. You owe me, it said.

"That shouldn't be too difficult to arrange." Lucius would be thrilled. He'd ship Ollivanders magical African woods at a financial loss just to get the satisfaction of having the Order of the Phoenix see his name on The Prophet's front page.

"Kre- my nails can make Master Reggie a working wand?" Kreacher cut in, his rasping voice unusually intent.

"Perhaps..." Ollivanders allowed after a pause. "A squib's magic is unattractive to a regular wand, but a wand which would be less proud and particular... Yes, for weaker magics, perhaps."

Rapid snapping sounds followed those words. Luna crouched next to Kreacher so he could hand her a fistful of long nail clippings.


Kreacher apparated Narcissa in Saint Mungo's lobby and all but dragged her to a side room where a frustrated-looking Regulus and a woman bundled in an overlarge orange winter cloak were being stared down by a broad-shouldered employee that couldn't be older than thirty.

"Is there a problem?" Narcissa asked mildly.

The wizard (medi-wizard?) greeted her with an incredulous stare. "Merlin! Am I to get the I'm well connected, beware! speech?"

"Mr. Carmichel," Regulus said pointedly, "has nothing to do with hiring or hospital administration but he won't let us see anyone who is."

"A squib cannot work here. Our patients need -"

"Experience in dealing with trauma," the woman next Regulus snapped. "Regulus worked for over ten years with abandoned children and domestic abuse victims. You don't need magic to understand how people work and your patients are getting enough potions shoved down their throats as it is."

"Yes, criticizing our care will make you quite popular here, Ms. Crockford."

Narcissa finally understood. "You want to work here," she confirmed with Regulus.

"Alright, I have things to do," Carmichel interrupted.

"Of course you do, so graceful of you to even deign speak to a squib and a hedge witch."

The self-styled hedge witch had the diplomacy skills of a hippogryff. Her hair was shaved on the sides and dyed a deep purple. The swirls of warm colors tattooed on the back of her hands made Narcissa suspect she wasn't anyone Narcissa would even have accidentally run into a few years ago. But the woman had come in support of Reggie, so Narcissa kept her critical thoughts off her expression.

"Requiring three NEWTs doesn't seem unreasonable. We have standards. We might just as well hire muggles otherwise."

"You know full well that few kids who don't attend Hogwarts go beyond their OWLs," Crockford said, "and that's because of expensive and overbooked tutors, not because they're lazy or incompetent."

Narcissa was losing patience. "Come," she decided, side-stepping Carmichel to the stair-case leading up to the administrative wing. "Don't let us keep you, Mr. Carmichel."

"Mrs. Malfoy! You can't -"

"Dear me, I'm afraid we are trespassing," Narcissa said airily, her back now to him. "You should call the aurors."

"Very much like a Death Eater's wife to care nothing for rules or law."

Narcissa didn't turn back. Some people just weren't worth her time.


Regulus grinned at her as they hurried up the stairs. "I hope you know where you are going, Cousin."

Well, she had a vague idea. Assuming the place hadn't changed too much in the last twenty years, the three of them should be reaching -

"Mrs. Malfoy?"

Narcissa turned. Thin and moving with an efficient grace, the young Asian woman must have been beautiful before that ghastly curse scar had twisted the whole right side of her face. It had to be a war wound, and one worn proudly: any witch carrying a healer's sash, even a trainee's one, could cast a decent glamour charm.

"Good morning. We're looking for someone who has worked in the new trauma ward and who can be more practical about hiring needs than 'it must be someone with three NEWTs.', Ms -"

"Chang. Cho Chang." The young mediwitch-in-training frowned. "We did set up a magical filter on applications: too many unqualified people wanted to feel like heroes. You know experienced mind healers with no NEWTs?"

Narcissa detected no sarcasm, only weary hope. She let Regulus speak.

"Aurors," a voice suddenly announced. "Trespassers, display your hands or you will be disarmed." Two uniformed witches had flooed in less than ten yards away from them.

"Black's staying with me, Glenda," Chang called. "Let's not pretend a squib is a danger." A hospital elf hovered nearby, keeping an eye on Kreacher, who had all but latched to Regulus' leg.

The younger of the two aurors, a red-head in her mid-twenties, shrugged after a moment's hesitation. "Ladies, please follow us. Either surrender your wands or consent to a temporary trace. You will be following us to the Ministry."

"We'll be fine with you escorting us outside," Narcissa said.

"Mrs. Malfoy, don't tell me how to do my job. You will be free to go once we'll have made sure that you are no danger to Saint Mungo's, its patients or its staff."

Narcissa blinked. No, those girls couldn't possibly believe Narcissa was truly a menace. Both aurors looked decidedly... gleeful to arrest her. It seemed they would waste as much of her time as they could lawfully get away with.

"The trace," Crockford interrupted, looking both resigned, and, infuriatingly, slightly amused by Narcissa's stony expression.

Glenda gawked at the misshapen length of wood in Narcissa's hand. "Who made that?"

"Mr. Ollivanders," Narcissa frostily replied. It would be smart to be friendly, but as she let herself be paraded through a maze of corridors to what had to be the farthest floo exit in the building, just so the whole of Saint Mungo's could have its daily dose of gossip, Narcissa found herself regretting the days nobody would have dared.


The auror captain waiting for them on the other side of the floo was no stranger. Despite her charmed robes, Narcissa suddenly felt chilled.

In the windowless room, empty except for the chimney and a closed door, Cyrus Diggory, grandfather to the late Cedric Diggory, stared down at her.

"Your kind seems unable to understand the law applies to them... Malfoy, haven't we been lenient? Why must you and your husband constantly draw attention to yourselves?" His voice was low, his expression almost mild, but hate burned in his eyes. "Procedures when the detained have a history of Death Eater associations are straightforward. You will take a potion that will dispel any mind-altering charms and alert us to any memory modifications you might have incurred. Then, you will submit to an interrogation under Veritaserum."

What? "I refuse. You cannot proceed to an interrogation unless I am standing trial."

"The Malfoy family has been stripped of their Wizengamot privileges. You are ordinary wizarding citizen now. A full trial is not required for interrogating Death Eaters." He eyed her like one would a hound who had bitten one person too many. "I heard of your recent attack. A witch like you must be plotting revenge. It's my job to make sure you don't hurt any more people."

Narcissa's fingers were white on her wand. I dare you, Diggory's eyes said. He was a handsome man, tall and broad-chested with a head full of curly white-blonde hair. He paced around her, coiled like an adder poised to strike.

"Since I'm nobody and irrelevant, may I leave, Auror?" Crockford intervened. The witch pulled a pen from her washed-out orange coat and scribbled something on the back of a crumpled shopping receipt.

Diggory arched his brows as he read. His lips quirked with sudden mirth. He turned back to Narcissa. "What is this woman's first name?"

Narcissa blinked. "We haven't been introduced," she admitted.

Diggory barked a laugh. "No, not your kind of person, is she? Glenda, sort out the matter with Ms. Crockford." The fleeting warmth his voice held as he spoke to his aurors, vanished as soon as he was alone with Narcissa. "You knew he was back long before any of us did. Did you know the Triwizard Tournament was bait? Did your husband tell you, before his master summoned him next to my grandson's dead body? How many others died because of you? Or because you kept silent? No more dirty little secrets, Madam Malfoy."

Narcissa frantically considered her options. Anywhere else, she would have cast her strongest voice-amplifying charm and called for help, but the chance the room wasn't spelled for privacy was as low as it not being warded against conjurations. Unlike when she'd been attacked at Hogwarts, she wasn't afraid for her life, but if Diggory asked the wrong questions... Unbidden she thought of Harry. Of Fabian and Gideon Prewett. Green eyes stared at her in disgust. She bit hard on her teeth. She was a teacher now! She was doing her best! She worked with Diggory's son, Cedric's own father. This man had no right!

Diggory stared down at her. "Raise your wand against me, and you will have attacked a senior auror. You will not be able to avoid a trial then. I could be blamed for misconduct, but I will have my answers." He smiled without his eyes. "Not that you have anything to fear. You're a good person. Harry Potter says so."

Narcissa was a decent occlumens, enough to deflect an average mental incursion and to keep her wits under a truth-compulsion. She could muster some control over her wording, even under Veritaserum, but she would be almost helpless against an experienced interrogator.

"I had nothing to do with your grandson's death," she said truthfully as the older man removed a small opaque vial from his robes.

The trace on her wand would record her spell use, so the only spells she could use were those who had never been transcribed in any book or tome.

Diggory frowned as she cloaked herself in the notice-me-not spell of her youth. He soon strode to the door, but to her distress, it did not open as he pulled the handle. Diggory muttered a curse under his breath and knocked, hard.

Instead of swinging open, the door partially changed texture : a transparent window appeared. "Boss, you're in the room with Narcissa Malfoy. You want to interrogate her. She just used a spell. Unknown, self-targeted. I'm calling a Code 4."

Not knowing what to expect, Narcissa wordlessly levitated herself off the floor and cast a protective shield. When she took a breath, she realized she should have cast a bubble-head charm instead. Her knees buckled as the choking gas filled her lungs. Her hold over her spells slipped. With her last conscious thoughts, she transfigured her mouth into skin. Aunt Walburga's creation (or perhaps Walburga's grandmother's. Narcissa had never bothered to research when the Blacks' streak of awful parenting had begun), a blood-locked curse, that could only be dispelled by kin.

Of course, any expert dark mage would soon figure out that Narcissa's own blood would dispel the curse, but Diggory was Light to the core. He would not think of it.

Surely not.


Author's note.

Narcissa's past is catching up with her and she'll have to deal with her demons to be able to move forward.

My take is that for many of the people Narcissa has hurt personally (or who believe she's hurt them personally), the fact she's done good deeds and has become a better person does not matter all that much (and that's assuming people trust that she is indeed a better person and not just an opportunist who knows how to navigate the post-war society. After all, she didn't change until she had to.) From Diggory's POV, he's the wronged party and Narcissa is a criminal who has avoided a proper trial. He believes he's entitled to closure, just like Narcissa believes she deserves to be judged by her current actions.