Author's note:
When I started writing Loose Cannon, I wanted to make it as British as possible, which included using single quotes (AKA 'inverted commas') instead of double quotes for direct speech. I came to regret this decision, since double quotes are considered better for readability, and it turns out even British fic authors mostly use double quotes. So, I've spent the last few days converting the entire fic (!). I haven't quite finished yet, and I don't plan to re-upload the old chapters on FFN, since the edit tools are so painful. But all chapters from now on will use double quotes, and I'll replace everything on AO3 in a day or so.
In other news, a family health crisis has thrust me into the role of caregiver, which might interfere with my writing for a while. I have a handful of chapters still in reserve, but there's a distinct chance I'll have to put Loose Cannon on hiatus after chapter 146 (which is a good pause point), until I build up a sufficient backlog again. I am very committed to finishing the fic, so please just bear with me.
Wishing you all a happy and healthy 2022!
Before Narcissa was married, her mother gave her strict orders: Always rise before your husband and attend to your toilette. Mother disapproved of hasty charms for freshening one's breath and tidying one's hair, used by overworked housewives or—worse yet—filles de joie. "But you are a witch of leisure, soon to be mistress of a noble house. Lucius chose you for your looks, and it's your duty to maintain them."
Narcissa knew that Lucius valued her mind as well, but she still followed Mother's advice and rose half an hour before he did. And even when he was in Azkaban, she kept up the ritual, which had become as natural to her as breathing.
First she cleaned her teeth, using the sequence of charms she'd been taught. Then she rinsed her face with water—no soap in the morning—and massaged it with a potion from France. It was supposed to promote radiance and a clear complexion, and as far as she knew it worked. She'd never gone without it, though, so she had no basis for comparison.
She brushed her hair, then cast a series of cosmetic charms, including one to darken her lashes. Narcissa treasured her flaxen hair but disliked her eyelashes, which made her look washed out, and she refreshed the charm several times daily. She also reddened her lips—not too much—and added roses to her cheeks. A dab of perfume behind her ears, and she returned to her sleeping husband.
In the early days of their marriage, he marvelled at her effortless beauty. "You look like an angel on a cloud," he said, pulling her towards him. He eventually realised she awoke just as rumpled as he did, but he never suggested she alter her routine. Quite the opposite—he liked the contrast between her cool perfection and his own morning stubble. "You're like opening an exquisitely-wrapped gift," he growled, and she enjoyed their mornings as much as he did.
Whether they had sex or not, she always bathed afterwards, did her hair, and got dressed. She and Lucius had adjoining wardrobes—his clothes from London and hers from Paris. She had a clothier in London as well, but for anything important she went to the Continent, since it was unthinkable she dress the same as another witch. And she always wore jewellery, preferring delicate pieces to showy gems. Only at balls did she wear jewels from the vault, and that was only to please Lucius. She felt large gemstones aged her, recalling dowagers with glittering claws, and she preferred pieces that didn't compete with her own beauty.
Depending on the complexity of her toilette, Nitta assisted her, which gave Narcissa time to observe herself in the mirror. And even without the elf for contrast, she was always pleased by her own appearance: not just what nature had given her, but also what she'd acquired by art. The way she held her wand, for example—it was an extension of her slim fingers and overall grace. Some might have called her wand-grip affected, but it was essential to her magic. Indeed, every part of her appearance made her an exceptionally able witch.
According to her Dark Arts tutor, a great poet once said, "Beauty is a form of genius—is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation." He advised all three Black sisters to make their beauty the focus of their Dark magic. "You've been trained since birth to be ornamental, and I'm sure you're abominably vain. After all, why wouldn't you be?" Narcissa had wanted to protest, but he waved her silent. "That's not a flaw—it's a source of power. And you should use it."
She spent years honing the practice, and eventually a simple glance in the mirror was enough to steady her mind. "Your beauty won't last forever," said her tutor, "but by then your magic will be well trained, and you'll be able to gather it regardless." Narcissa found that hard to believe, but when Bella first escaped from Azkaban and looked like a hag, she was as powerful as ever. Furthermore, her appearance recovered more than Narcissa would have thought possible. Bellatrix credited the Dark Lord, but Narcissa suspected it was Dark magic itself.
At least she hoped it was. Narcissa was forty-four and ageing exceptionally well, but she'd noticed several unwanted changes. Deep grooves between her brows, for example; they'd appeared after the Dark Lord's return, and every morning she cast a Paralysis Charm to hide them. She'd also noticed silver hairs amongst the blond—for now they were invisible, but their mere existence was a sign of things to come.
She was still slim, but her body had changed when Draco was born, and she'd never tried undoing the damage. The ritual was ghastly, for one thing, and she and Lucius still longed for another child. It was impossible now, with Lucius in Azkaban, and as good as impossible even before his sentence. She'd had five miscarriages, and no pregnancies at all since Draco was six. But she couldn't bear to give up, so her matronly body remained.
Draco was undoubtedly the biggest miracle in her life, and she owed his existence in part to Severus Snape. After her second miscarriage, which was too early to be noticed by onlookers, Lucius told Snape what had happened. Narcissa was furious when she found out, since she barely knew Snape and found him distasteful, but his letter convinced her at least to talk to him. "I may be able to help," he wrote, and she reluctantly agreed to discuss it.
"It's my eggs," she told him, not meeting his eyes. His oily hair and irregular features offended her, accustomed as she was to seeing beauty. "Apparently they don't mature, which makes conception hard. And when I do conceive, something else goes wrong—they don't know what." Her shame was intense, not only because the subject was personal, but also by her inability to reproduce. She'd sold Abraxas Malfoy on her fertility, but she'd been an utter failure thus far, and her mother-in-law was dropping hints.
Snape told her about a potion she'd never heard of. "It's very new," he said. "From America. It's been shown to help with conception, but it's not a cure-all. Some older families ..." he trailed off, and she only nodded. Toujours pur, she thought bitterly. More like Toujours stérile.
It was not, in fact, a cure-all, but it got them Draco. Her precious, beloved Draco—so heedless and unaware of his own fragility, magic notwithstanding. He might survive a fall from a broom, but a stray curse could end him instantly. When she learnt Harry Potter had nearly killed him with Dark magic, she could have murdered the boy herself. But it was Snape who calmed her down. "The Dark Lord will punish him," he said, in the voice she'd come to trust. "It was a clumsy attack—he's truly no match for our lord."
When it turned out Snape had betrayed them, all for the memory of a Mudblood, Narcissa scarcely knew what to think. She'd honestly ceased to care whether the Dark Lord won—she just wanted her family safe. That was why she'd lied and claimed Potter was dead, unaware she was dooming Lucius to Azkaban. No, Lucius doomed himself, she told herself repeatedly. You didn't betray him.
They were certain he'd escape punishment, or just get a slap on the wrist. Their solicitor flung bribes in all directions, as they'd done the first time around, but their allies inside the DMLE had fled. Instead, Merrick Bode was in charge, and he was determined to take Lucius down. "I'll kill him with my own bare hands," he was heard to say, and when the shocking verdict was read, he cried out in triumph.
No Dementors were present when Lucius was sentenced, but Narcissa's despair was already complete. The final blow would come the next day, with Draco's sentencing. "On the morrow, Lady Malfoy," said Bode unctuously as they left the courtroom. "I'm only sorry we won't have all three of you."
Harry Potter was silent during Lucius's hearing, having already doomed him with private testimony about the diary. Narcissa was therefore shocked to see him rise during Draco's sentencing, holding a written statement. She braced herself for a litany of her son's crimes, starting with schoolboy taunts and ending with Fiendfyre, but was stunned by Potter's words: "Draco Malfoy does not belong in Azkaban. He was dragged into the war as a child, same as I was, and he deserves a second chance."
Bode turned red with fury, and in their final statement, the prosecution depicted Draco as a threat. "With all due respect to Harry Potter, there should be no second chance for a wizard who conspired to commit murder and who flooded Hogwarts with criminals—including a werewolf known for targeting children." As the Chief Warlock called for votes, Narcissa gazed at her trembling son, whose eyes were closed. Neither of them watched the voting, which took nearly a minute and proved perilously close.
The court secretary announced the results—house arrest—and a committee set the duration. Draco didn't cry, but she feared he would have collapsed if he hadn't been bound by the chair. He's coming home, she thought with relief. My precious baby is coming home.
Her precious baby, however, was sullen and withdrawn. He came to life only with his friends—otherwise he was listless, and plainly bitter regarding Lucius. "You should at least write to him," she'd say after her weekly visit to Azkaban.
"And what would I say?" replied Draco. "'Dear Father, thanks ever so much for prostrating to a madman and insisting I do the same. I'll always cherish the memories of him torturing you and–'"
"Draco, that's enough!" she snapped, not wanting the reminder. She'd only been tortured three times—twice in front of Draco, and once when he was at school—but she would never forget the horror of it. Not the agony, which was indescribable, but her utter shame and helplessness. Lucius had always claimed they were immune from the Dark Lord's wrath: "I'm his most valued lieutenant. He'd be a fool to risk my desertion."
Narcissa had believed him—the Dark Lord would never turn on Lucius, and she had the added protection of being Bellatrix's sister. Which was why it hurt all the more when Bella stood by and cackled while the Dark Lord made Lucius writhe. And when Narcissa begged him to stop, he turned his wand onto her. Draco was forced to watch, and she learnt later that Snape had immobilised him so he couldn't intervene.
She hoped Draco's house arrest would bring them closer, but after more than a year it hadn't. She'd done everything to accommodate him, even arranging with a French procuress to bring filles de joie into the house. But Draco remained distant—clearly drinking to excess—and Narcissa had to watch him fall apart.
The situation grew dire with the news that Harry Potter had inherited House Black. She'd hoped Draco would inherit on his seventeenth birthday, and it was concerning when he hadn't, but perhaps things were stalled by Sirius's unusual death. He'd certainly died—Bella and Lucius both saw it—but his fall through the Veil may have prevented a normal succession. Narcissa discussed it with their solicitor, who advised them to settle the matter in court after Draco's release.
"The ring means nothing," she told a seething Draco. "All it proves is that Sirius named him his heir, which we already knew. But the tapestry's magic is far stronger, since it draws from the entire house. And I can't imagine Potter's name is on it—we'll straighten it out next year."
But his claim turned out to be legitimate, and he even threatened to change his name on that abominable broadcast. Narcissa was at the point of despair when, shockingly, Potter reached out through Andromeda, eager to make amends. He refused to help Lucius, which she hadn't really expected, but he made up for it by freeing Draco and actually befriending him.
Thank Salazar for Harry Potter, she often caught herself thinking, most recently when he took her dancing. "He's like the son you never had," Draco had archly commented, and he was right. Harry was nothing like her son, whom she adored but who was hard to be around. But in an odd twist, Harry reminded her of Sirius. The three sisters had doted on their baby cousin, and Narcissa and Andromeda subjected him to any number of tea parties. He eventually grew too wild, enraging their aunt but drawing Bella's approval. "You'll be a splendid head of house," she declared. "Promise me you'll never let anyone tame you." But when he was Sorted into Gryffindor they lost him forever.
And now, this strange orphan half-blood, the world's most celebrated wizard, turned to her for advice. Stranger still, he should have been her enemy—had been, in fact—but they'd gradually become intimates. There was nothing inappropriate about their relationship, which was ironic given his reputation. But she felt at home in his arms, and he truly felt like family.
And thank Salazar he's stopped sleeping around, she thought, reading the morning paper. His name still appeared in the Prophet on a near-daily basis, but it was linked only with Fiona's. They'd been photographed snogging several times—at the portkey terminal and during his Quidditch match—but otherwise they only held hands, or shared an affectionate gaze.
The latest photograph caught them at an ice rink in Hogsmeade. Fiona was clearly the better skater, gliding backwards while holding Harry's hands. His feet moved uncertainly, but he never stopped looking into her eyes, and Narcissa felt a pang of envy. Not towards Fiona, but for what she and Lucius had once had.
All they had now was a weekly supervised visit for scarcely an hour. It was supposed to be half an hour, but everyone had a price, and most guards could be persuaded to ignore the clock. They were not, however, willing to let them alone. The contrast between the ragged inmates and their families was surely amusing, and the guards liked thwarting Death Eaters in particular.
Narcissa always dressed well when visiting Azkaban, and that afternoon was no exception. It was cold there year-round, which gave her the excuse to wear fur. As the only blonde in her generation, she'd inherited her grandmother's ermine-trimmed cloak, which made her look positively regal. Underneath it she wore pale blue dress robes—too formal for daytime, but Lucius loved seeing her in her glory. "With you I'm still someone," he would murmur, stealing a kiss before the guard intervened.
Draco accompanied her that afternoon, as he did every Wednesday. He complained about his father but still had proper feelings about family, to Narcissa's relief. "Mother, you look lovely," he said, pulling on his cloak by the fireplace. "Are you ready?"
"As ready as I'll ever be," she said, taking a pinch of Floo powder. She glanced at the mirror once more—to coalesce her Dark magic—then tossed powder into the flames. "Ministry of Magic," she said in precise tones, and after a short, whirling journey she emerged in the atrium.
People stared—first at her clothes, and then when they recognised her—and she allowed their whispers to fuel her pride. They envy me, even now, she thought, feeling the tickle of fur at her throat. She knew they scorned her and Draco, but even that served as fuel. They hate us because we're special.
"State your business," barked the witch at the main desk, whom Narcissa saw every Wednesday.
"We're here to visit Azkaban," she replied, in the same lofty tones as if she were visiting the Minister of Magic. They submitted their wands for inspection—an impressively pointless ritual—then proceeded to the appropriate office. There they found a mortifyingly motley crew of visitors, many of whom Narcissa recognised, but she never made eye contact. Lucius may be a criminal, but at least he's not a common criminal.
She and Draco signed the register, then queued for inspection. As always, Narcissa asked to be inspected in private, not wishing to remove her cloak before a larger audience. "In here, ma'am," said the witch, and they went into the same drab room as always. Narcissa removed her cloak and set it on a table, where the witch used her wand to examine it. "This is nice," she said, stroking the soft fur. "Is it rabbit?"
"Ermine," said Narcissa, with slightly more warmth than before, not wanting to provoke someone with power over her. "It belonged to my grandmother."
"It suits you," said the witch. "Pale and posh. Now take off your outer robe."
Narcissa removed the long garment, revealing a close-fitting satin gown. Most guards tolerated light petting through clothes, if it wasn't too obvious, so she always wore something clingy. Her examiner cast more detection charms, first on the robes and then on Narcissa's body, pausing her wand over the obvious spots for concealment.
When she finished, Narcissa returned to the main room, where Draco's inspection was nearly complete. When the wizard returned Draco's cloak, a small pouch of gold would be missing by prior arrangement; this ensured they always got a spot on the portkey, instead of being told to try again later. Originally Narcissa handled the bribes, but Draco had taken over the task, and she suspected that was why he never missed a visit.
The portkey voyage was long and horrid, and they landed on a windy shore. Before entering the fortress they were required to surrender their wands, then guards escorted them to a large anteroom. More than a year of bribes ensured the Malfoys were called first, and a familiar guard led them to a chamber.
Narcissa was pleased to see him, since this one was particularly lenient. "Bewlay," she said, allowing some warmth to slip through. "I do hope you're well."
"Can't complain, ma'am," he said. "And how are you?" Their exchange culminated with Draco handing him a small pouch, and a few minutes later another guard brought Lucius through the rear door.
"Oh, my darling," cried Narcissa, embracing her husband. Mindful of Draco, she kept their reunion decent, and Lucius hugged Draco as well. "I'll be back," she said, glancing at Bewlay before returning to the waiting area. She always let her son visit first, wanting to send Lucius to his cell with the warmest possible memories.
After only ten minutes, Draco emerged and said, "He's all yours. Warning: Potter rant."
She inhaled sharply, then reentered the room. Bewlay was seated by the door, holding a magazine in front of his face, and she embraced Lucius again. This time was more passionate, and they only stopped when the guard loudly cleared his throat.
"My angel, let me look at you," said Lucius. She stepped back and slowly unfastened her cloak, and he watched her through lowered eyelids. "Gods, yes," he murmured, stroking her bare collarbone and the soft fur. She gasped, wishing she could uncork her Dark magic and drive him into a frenzy, but not even Bewlay would permit that.
They'd learnt that if they mixed their groping with small talk, a complaisant guard wouldn't interrupt them. The result was therefore a blend of light conversation and serious foreplay, and they made the most of it. But eventually they were talking in earnest, and their hands stopped roaming, which meant she had to look at his wretched state.
His robes weren't quite rags, as they'd been during his first stint in Azkaban, but they were coarse and hopelessly drab. At home she occasionally toured his wardrobe, to recall better times, and the contrast was heartbreaking. He was bearded, since maximum-security prisoners weren't allowed razors, and the guards were stingy about casting Shaving Charms. But his beard was scraggly, and she didn't know whether he clawed it in his sleep or simply couldn't grow anything better. Neither option was appealing.
"Look at that magazine," he hissed, gesturing towards the guard. Narcissa turned and saw Harry on the cover, with the headline "Europe's Best Seekers." Lucius sneered and said, "It's revolting how everyone fawns over that piece of filth. He's been in the league for what, six months?"
"I know, dear," she began, but Lucius kept talking.
"Did you ask Algernon about contesting Potter's claim on House Black?" he asked, referring to their solicitor. Without waiting for a reply, he said, "I'm sure Dumbledore tampered with the tapestry somehow. Rookwood says it's possible, and I wouldn't put anything past the old meddler." With a bitter laugh, he said, "What a triumph it must have been, to wrest House Black away from Draco! Dumbledore would have stolen House Malfoy if he'd had access. Of course, our wards are too sophisticated—which is fortunate, since that wretched Snape probably tried it. All for the sake of a Mudblood!"
In a desperate bid to distract him, Narcissa reverted to her previous state of arousal, or at least an impression of it. "Darling, I love your passion," she purred. "But let's not talk of Snape or Dumbledore—not when we have so little time together."
"Yes, of course," said Lucius, succumbing to her Dark magic. "By the gods, you're so beautiful!" He tried kissing the top of her breast, but Bewlay—whom Narcissa knew was Muggle-born—intervened.
"This ain't a brothel," he barked. "I've given you a wide berth, Malfoy, since your wife lied to You-Know-Who to protect Potter. But your bollocks can explode for all I care."
Narcissa winced, knowing Lucius still considered her act a betrayal. He'd nominally forgiven her, but it was still a sore subject.
In a quieter voice, Lucius said, "Is Draco still spending time with him? If so, he needs to be careful. Light magic is insidious, you know, and without a proper wand ..."
"Draco is fine," she said. "His Mark will protect him."
"I wish you had one," he grumbled. "Well, no, not really—you'd probably be here too, and we'd never see each other at all. But it's not safe out there, not with those spineless fools in power."
She wanted to change the topic, but there were so few that were safe. She couldn't exactly say, "I had a lovely meal last week with Andromeda and her Muggle-loving werewolf, and Harry took me dancing on Sunday, and Draco disappears three nights a week with some trollop I've never met, and even though I miss you I'm relieved you're not at home." She simply had less in common with her husband than before, other than their shared history, their ongoing passion, and their deep love for Draco.
"Did you read Draco's last article?" she asked, hoping Quidditch wasn't too fraught a subject. "I thought it was rather clever, the way he analysed that old arithmantic model to see if it still applied to modern brooms. He's really unearthed some treasures in the attic—how fortunate we are to still have them!"
"We Malfoys have always valued tradition," he declared, and Narcissa relaxed. "People like Potter want to throw it all away ... Great Salazar, if only the pendulum would swing back!"
He often spoke of the "pendulum," and she'd learnt it was an opportunity to reminisce. "Traditions are lovely," she said, projecting ethereal grace. "Do you remember that Yule we spent at the chateau, in '89?"
"I do indeed," he said, and together they recalled a fortnight of romance, revels, and enchantment. "I beg you, my darling—make sure Draco carries on those traditions. I know I've beggared the family, and that he's had to ally with Potter to earn it back, but don't let him lose sight of what matters. All the gold in the world won't mean a thing if House Malfoy becomes a pathetic, Muggle-loving shell like so many other old families. We have a duty to our ancestors, particularly now that House Black is lost. But do talk to Algernon—I'm sure he'll agree we have a good case."
She promised she would, knowing nothing would come of it. Their visit continued in the same vein, and she was almost relieved when Bewlay ended it, since she was weary of navigating around pitfalls. "Until next week, my love," she said, embracing him again. She pressed hard against his body, knowing he'd return directly to his cell, and with a surge of Dark allure she kissed him goodbye.
A guard escorted him away, leaving Narcissa alone with Bewlay as she straightened her clothes. "Do you need a moment, ma'am," he said, looking politely away.
"Yes, if you please." She fastened her outer robe, concealing the slinky gown underneath. "As always, I apologise for his behaviour. And I appreciate your courtesy."
"Of course, Mrs Malfoy." She fastened her cloak and signalled she was ready to leave, but he surprised her with a stern look. "Don't let your lad double-cross Harry Potter," he warned. "That's what they say he's planning, and your husband is egging him on. I could have reported him a dozen times by now—and got his privileges revoked—but I haven't done it yet."
Startled, Narcissa said, "Are you asking for more ..." She gestured weakly, indicating a money pouch.
"I wouldn't say no, but that's not what I'm getting at. All I'm saying is your lad better not stab Potter in the back. First thing, he mightn't survive it—not with the Light Lord and all. But second, he'd wind up here for sure, and I know you don't want that."
"You're right, I don't. But I don't think he'll betray him. They're genuinely friends now—more than Draco lets on."
"I'm glad to hear that, ma'am." He opened the door and said, "Now let's see if we can't get you out of here sooner. You don't belong in that waiting room all afternoon."
Bewlay did, in fact, convince the attendant to send them back early, and when they arrived at the Ministry, Draco's cheeks were red from the wind. He looks so much like Lucius, she thought, hoping desperately he didn't follow the same path.
Draco went straight from the Ministry to Pratt's, and Narcissa returned to the Manor, where she took another bath. No matter how warmly she dressed for Azkaban, she always felt chilled to the bone, from both the portkey and the draughty stone fortress. The only heat came from Lucius, but that left a chill as well. Is he getting worse? she wondered. Or was he always like this, and I just never saw it?
For years his views hadn't bothered her, since she equated them with her own love for beauty. Luxuriating in her bath, with every comfort within reach, she thought about their old life together. No Dark Lord—just the Manor and parties and Draco, and a standard of living unheard of amongst Muggles. All her life she'd been told blood traitors sought to destroy it, and that Mudbloods in particular would bleed all the magic from the wizarding world, both literally and figuratively.
She now knew that was false, and that the Dark Lord had drained far more beauty from her life. And Harry Potter—the Muggle-raised son of a Mudblood—was slowly restoring it. Like Lucius, he enjoyed dancing, elegant clothes, and stately surroundings. Not like the Manor, perhaps, but his love for Grimmauld Place and his wish not to change it touched her heart. And even though he was appallingly promiscuous, he was also a romantic, which reminded her of Lucius as well.
Sometimes she imagined her husband were free, and that he and Harry got along. They mightn't agree on everything, but they'd have lively debates, or even a Battle of the Dandies. And when Harry waxed poetic about Fiona, Lucius would smile indulgently and say, "Get back to me in twenty-five years—now that's a grand passion!"
Narcissa followed that train of thought until the bath grew cold, and with wrinkled fingers she used her wand to reheat it. Poor Lucius, unable even to cast a Warming Charm, she thought, with a twinge of guilt. She recalled the wretched Muggleborns in Diagon Alley during the war—the ones she'd tried not to see as she passed in her ermine cloak. "Help, milady," they'd say, and she'd strengthen her invisible armour so they'd leave her alone. She felt guilty, but at least she didn't curse them, as Bellatrix would have done.
And Lucius as well, she knew. She attributed Bella's behaviour to the family madness, but what was Lucius's excuse? Was his hatred somehow superior, because he didn't froth at the mouth? Or did that make it worse?
After bathing, she dried her hair and got dressed, and her thoughts settled back into place. Visits to Azkaban were deeply unnerving, but her Dark magic always soothed her. Harry wants me to give up the Dark Arts, but I'd fall to pieces without it, she thought, fastening a gold necklace. Andromeda had retrieved it from the family vault, with Harry's permission, marking a new era in their relationship.
During the war, when Narcissa learnt that Ted Tonks had died, she didn't write to her sister. They hadn't spoken in years, and she didn't think it was appropriate to send her condolences, given the circumstances. It was Bella who told her, running jubilantly into the room. "Cissa, darling! I have the most wonderful news! Mudblood Tonks is finally dead!"
"Dead! How?"
"Greyback," she said, her eyes flashing. "He was resisting capture! All we need now is to get rid of the spawn, and then the Blacks will be pure again."
Narcissa wasn't sure how to feel. She'd always blamed Ted Tonks for corrupting Andromeda and stealing her away, but she couldn't quite rejoice in her sister's widowhood. Nor could she hope that her daughter died, although the werewolf she'd married was another story. The idea of her own niece—Draco's cousin!—marrying such filth was repugnant.
Several months later, when she learnt they'd both died, Narcissa spent hours drafting a letter she never sent. She could have found the right words for nearly anyone else, since she'd been trained both in etiquette and persuasion. But this was Andromeda, and Narcissa doubted she'd accept anything less than a thorough admission of guilt. So she sent nothing.
The news that her sister had a grandson, however, unleashed a whirl of emotions. The first was horror—it was bad enough her niece had married a werewolf, but to bear his child was unthinkable. And then for Andromeda to have to raise the wretched half-breed, whom no sensible parent would allow their child near. But beneath her disgust was a yearning, too deep and painful to express. A baby! she thought, wishing she too had someone to dote on.
She spent a tearful hour that night sifting through Draco's old things, which she'd saved for his longed-for siblings. Selecting her favourite little outfits, she wrapped them in a parcel to be delivered by Nitta. The enclosed message was brief—"For your grandson, with love from Aunt Narcissa"—and she sent it before she could change her mind. A few days later came the reply: a short note of thanks, and a photograph of a baby with chubby fists and decidedly lavender hair. Don't tell me she's dyed it, thought Narcissa, appalled, until she realised what it meant.
He's a Metamorphmagus. She'd experienced both awe and envy when she learnt Andromeda's daughter had inherited the family's rarest gift. It had been generations since one was born, despite cousins marrying cousins in the hope of producing one. No one dreamed Andromeda would bear one—their parents had doubted the child would even be magical—and Narcissa wondered whether she might be readmitted to the family. But her father was adamant. "Our family has a motto, and the child doesn't live up to it," he said, and the matter was closed.
Still staring at the photograph, Narcissa laid a hand on her uncooperative womb. Could I have borne one too? she wondered. But no, she had Draco and wouldn't trade him for the world. And besides, the child might still be a werewolf, if not now then at puberty. Andromeda's gamble was one thing, but her daughter's was quite another, and Narcissa preferred the safety of "Toujours pur."
It was months, however, before she met him. Andromeda sent the occasional photograph of the baby dressed in Draco's old clothes, and Narcissa replied with kind regards, but neither sister proposed a visit. More than once, Narcissa saw an adorable little outfit she wanted to buy him, but she refrained, fearing further rapprochement. Mustn't let commoners too close—they always want something. Admittedly her sister wasn't a commoner, but their circumstances created too large a gulf.
Against her better judgment, she sent him a gift at Yule. She wasn't certain he'd be a werewolf, after all, and perhaps being a Metamorphmagus would protect him. In response, Andromeda invited her to tea, which proved awkward. The baby slept the whole time, depriving them of a distraction, and Andromeda's house was distressingly cramped. We've grown too far apart, Narcissa decided, and when they parted, neither witch proposed a sequel.
They exchanged the occasional photo—and cordial reply—which Narcissa assumed would end when the baby outgrew Draco's clothes. But in July she received a letter with the startling news that Harry Potter had inherited the family vault. "I retrieved the gold necklace grandfather promised you, with the dragonfly clasp," she wrote, inviting Narcissa to collect it in person.
Narcissa insisted she come to the Manor, not wanting to see her sister's cottage again, and Andromeda delivered a final shock: Potter had given Teddy Lupin half the family fortune. "Half!" exclaimed Narcissa. "Has he gone mad?"
They'd grown up believing the head branch of the family was incalculably rich; Aunt Walburga, after all, had flaunted her extravagant wardrobe and the family jewels. But apparently it was all a sham. "It's not what you're imagining," said Andromeda, revealing the amount. "And I was shocked by his offer—I had to talk him down."
Narcissa needed a drink after her sister's visit. House Black, nearly ruined! Andromeda said Potter's prospects were good, but Narcissa doubted he'd funnel his earnings to House Black. No, he'll probably steal the Wizengamot seat for the Potters, or even the lordship, she thought bitterly, and she wondered how long she could hide the news from Draco. At the same time, she knew that half the vault would ensure Teddy a comfortable life—if he were careful—and her fears of a destitute grand-nephew disappeared.
This was enough to revive her relationship with Andromeda, and by the time Draco was freed from house arrest, the two sisters were close again. Narcissa treasured the gold necklace, which reminded her of family, and she wore it often. She had also grown accustomed her sister's cottage, which she now saw as charmingly rustic, and she always brought something from the greenhouse to brighten it up.
"How lovely," said Andromeda, looking up from the dough she was rolling. "The usual vase is full, but there's another on the shelf above the window."
Narcissa levitated it to the table and filled it with water. "Are those from Simon?" she asked, indicating the large bouquet in the other vase.
"No, from Harry. Don't tell him I said so, but I'd swear the ring is influencing him. Not in ways he'd object to, thank Merlin, but he's shockingly profligate when it comes to flowers. I don't think his endorsement covers a tenth of it."
"His other one does," said Narcissa, thinking of his ubiquitous adverts. "Where's Teddy?"
"Still asleep. Mariel wore him out this afternoon," she said, referring to Teddy's carer. "Remind me to give her a raise."
"May I look in on him later? I can't bear to visit without seeing those cheeks at least once."
"By all means. And don't worry if you wake him, since I want him to fall asleep at a decent hour tonight."
"Does this explain the pie?" asked Narcissa, with only a hint of envy.
"Yes, Simon will be here at seven. He's ravenous with the waxing moon—and the waning moon, for that matter. I don't know where he puts it." Chuckling, she said, "If not for the full moon problem, lycanthropy would be the perfect way to maintain one's figure in middle age."
"I'll suggest that to Daisy Parkinson the next time she complains about how fattening something is. She whinges constantly, particularly during Yule."
"When is your next do?" asked Andromeda.
"Friday, chez Greengrass. Then Saturday chez Fawley, and Sunday chez Macmillan. You'd almost think they forgot I've been shunned."
Carefully lifting the rolled-out piecrust and laying it into a tin, Andromeda said, "Will Draco accompany you, or are you doomed to the widows' table?"
"Draco disappears entirely at the weekend. Part of me is mad with worry, but his mood is much lighter than before, and I haven't heard a peep about marriage. So I'm keeping my fingers crossed it'll never be serious."
"What are you more afraid of, a Muggleborn or another gold-digger?"
"The latter. Although Lucius would go spare if Draco brought home anything less than a pure-blood."
Andromeda raised one eyebrow. "And you wouldn't?"
"Not if she were the right kind of Muggleborn," she admitted. "Some are fairly high-born, amongst Muggles anyway."
"Father must be rolling in his grave," said Andromeda dryly. She'd set the piecrust aside and was preparing some sort of filling. Narcissa found the process puzzling and kept waiting for her to use her wand, but she never did.
"Forgive me, Andromeda, but why are you doing that the hard way?"
"Without a house-elf, you mean?"
"No, without magic. Is this some kind of penance?"
"It may shock you to learn I enjoy baking, when I'm not pressed for time. My mother-in-law taught me, after all, and she had to do it all manually."
Narcissa sniffed. "The only thing I learnt from Lucius's mother was which sauces he preferred and which china to use—particularly when I chose incorrectly. Although I really shouldn't complain, considering she decamped to France when we were married."
"Will you do the same?" asked Andromeda.
"No, not with Lucius in Azkaban—one portkey is bad enough. I'll probably just haunt the Manor and hope my daughter-in-law is more fertile than I was." After a sigh, she said, "I daresay it's time to look in on your little darling."
With Andromeda's leave, she ascended the narrow staircase and entered the nursery. "Oh, my sweet angel," she murmured, holding her lit wand over Teddy's cot. "I could just eat you up."
Teddy was still asleep, and his little noises and squirms enraptured her. She eventually tore herself away and examined the bookcase, to see whether Draco's favourites were there. Her eyes slid along the shelf, stopping at a framed picture of Teddy's parents, and she picked it up for a closer look.
What on earth did she see in him? Narcissa wondered. Nymphadora was young and vibrant, but her husband was haggard and scarred. Draco grudgingly admitted he was a good teacher, and clearly he was brave—she'd heard he spied amongst the werewolves for years. But he was poor and shabby, while Dora was a Metamorphmagus who could have married anyone.
Narcissa let out a hollow laugh. I married Britain's most eligible wizard, and look at him now. Her rich, handsome husband was in Azkaban, obsessed with revenge and trying to pull Draco down with him. Maybe I should find a nice werewolf, she thought wryly. I'm sure Simon knows a few.
More noises from Teddy's cot, and Narcissa was thrilled to see he was awake. In an adorable effort, he hoisted himself to his feet and clutched the side of the cot. "Hug!" he demanded, and she lifted him into her arms. It turned out he needed changing, and even though she'd seldom changed Draco herself—relying instead on house-elves—she did it successfully. His pyjamas were also damp, so she looked through the chest of drawers and found a cherished outfit.
"Who's a little dragon?" she cooed after dressing him in Draco's old romper suit, pulling the green hood over his head. "Aunt Cissa is terribly frightened!"
She kissed and cuddled him until Andromeda came upstairs. "Dama!" he cried, stretching his arms towards her. Narcissa felt rejected but Andromeda shook her head.
"He's just hungry, and he equates me with food. Let's bring him downstairs."
Narcissa fed him that evening, not minding the mess, although she regretted wearing silk. "When is the next full moon?" she asked.
"The twenty-second," said Andromeda automatically. "Why do you ask?"
"Simon said FLOOF needed people to cast charms for Muggle werewolves. I'd like to help." Andromeda stared at her, and Narcissa realised she'd been misunderstood. "By watching Teddy," she explained. "So you can volunteer, if that's what you'd like. Perhaps he could spend the night at the Manor."
"Yes, I'd love that, thank you," said Andromeda, and Narcissa was pleased she'd suggested it. She'd been uneasy since learning that Muggles had been turned into werewolves during the war, since she and Lucius had harboured them. But minding Teddy at the full moon seemed an ideal way to help, and she intended to donate to FLOOF anonymously.
They worked out the details, and Andromeda said she'd bring Teddy to the Manor herself. "Are you sure?" said Narcissa. "You'll have a long night ahead of you, and I can always fetch him, or Nitta can."
Andromeda paused before answering, and Narcissa instinctively tensed. Their mother had never raised her voice, but they'd learnt to spot a reproach before she even opened her mouth. "No," said Andromeda, "your house is the ideal starting point for my evening, since Wiltshire's the main spot."
There would have been an awkward silence if not for Teddy's childish babble, but Narcissa felt the sting of condemnation. "I see," she said frostily, her Dark magic rising to protect her. She and Andromeda had never discussed Lucius's role in the war, and she'd hoped they could keep ignoring it. "Will you need supplies?" she asked. "Something from the greenhouse, perhaps?"
"Are you asking if I should bring flowers? No, I just need to Confund Muggle children to explain why Dad's turned into a wolf," said Andromeda, never softening her gaze. "Then again, we could lay flowers on the various graves, although that needn't happen on the full moon."
Narcissa wore their mother's poise like armour. "Andromeda, if there's something you'd like to say, by all means just say it."
"You abetted them! I know you didn't take the Mark, but you turned a blind eye for years. For years!" she repeated, livid. "You welcomed Bella with open arms, even after she murdered Sirius, but you didn't acknowledge my husband and daughter's death!"
"What was I to say?" snapped Narcissa. "'Dear Sister, please excuse nearly thirty years of silence and accept my sincere condolences on the loss of your entire family. I can assure you my husband didn't kill either of them, although Bellatrix is another story. I'll also have you know there aren't any Death Eaters left at the house, unless you count my son. But the bounty for killing your husband probably came from our vault, thanks to my husband's unbelievably poor judgment.'" With a bitter huff, she added, "Shall I go on, or will that suffice?"
"How could you let that monster near you!" spat Andromeda. "How could you even bear his presence, knowing what he was?"
"If you must know, I found the Dark Lord revolting, and I avoided him at all costs."
"Not Voldemort, you ninny—your husband! Your precious pure-blood husband! How could you live with a murderer, sleep with a murderer?"
"I don't know!" blurted Narcissa, in tears. "I loved him and I don't know!"
Plainly unconvinced, Andromeda persisted. "Did he clean the blood from his robes before coming home or did he just stick to the Unforgivables? So much tidier, you know." Teddy began to wail, and for a moment the two sisters froze. Narcissa wanted to comfort him but she didn't dare intervene, fearing her sister's wrath. By Salazar, she looks so much like Bellatrix!
Andromeda lifted him from his chair. "Hush, dear," she murmured, stroking his head. "Dama lost her temper, that's all."
It took Teddy a minute to settle, which gave Narcissa time to compose herself. "You're right," she said. "I have no excuse. And I did know. I just didn't want to admit it—then or now."
"But why?" implored Andromeda, still soothing Teddy. "You're not like Bellatrix. I know we were indoctrinated growing up, but surely you still knew right from wrong!"
Narcissa sighed. "I thought it was necessary. At least that's what Lucius said: that Muggles would destroy magic given the opportunity, and that he was fighting to protect us. And no, he never came home with blood on his robes—he was far too fastidious."
Andromeda no longer looked wrathful, and Narcissa felt an urge to keep talking once she'd begun. "I don't think he enjoyed it—not like the Dark Lord did. When he came home from a raid, he longed for comfort more than anything. He'd look in on Draco, then come to bed and hold me close. And I admired his courage, because he was fighting for our whole way of life. Or so I thought."
"Did you really think Muggleborns were such a threat? You probably never met any—not really. But in my experience they love magic more than anyone."
"Yes, I've learnt that from Harry. I know he's not Muggle-born, but he might as well be, growing up as he did. And before you say it, I know I should have realised we were on the wrong side when the Dark Lord tried killing a baby–"
"No, you should have realised it far earlier," said Andromeda firmly. "But you were young, and I'm sure Lucius was very convincing. And, to your credit, you made the right choice in the end."
Narcissa was irked by her tone, which she found patronising, but it also evoked her childhood. As a girl she'd worshiped her two elder sisters—fierce Bellatrix and ladylike Andromeda—and part of her still craved their approval. Which was absurd where Bella was concerned, but with Andromeda it still meant something. "I'm glad you don't consider me irredeemable," she said, with only a touch of resentment. "But what do I do about Lucius? I can't decide whether Azkaban's making him worse, or if he's always been like this."
Teddy had wriggled to the floor, allowing Andromeda to weigh her reply. "Do you really need my opinion? Clearly you know him better than I do."
Narcissa only nodded, not wanting to reveal the extent of his crimes. She knew more than the Ministry prosecutors did, for example, and she suspected there was much he'd never told her. But there was one thing she'd never fully acknowledged: he'd nearly destroyed her family. He'd pressured her to shun Andromeda, and he introduced Regulus to the Dark Lord. Furthermore, he made her complicit in Sirius's death, and he urged Draco to take the Mark. And he spends all his time scheming to kill Harry, she thought sadly.
Teddy wrapped his arms around her legs, and her heart melted. Yet Lucius would be horrified to learn how much she doted on him, and how she no longer minded his patchwork ancestry.
She couldn't bring herself to say it, but the truth was undeniable: If Lucius were to have his way, she'd be entirely on her own. No sister, no nephew, and definitely no Harry. And probably not even Draco, whom Lucius would either get killed or alienate for good. "What do I do?" she asked Andromeda hoarsely. "I still love him—Merlin knows why—and I'm all he has."
"Have you told him about your life now? Does he know about Harry?"
"He thinks we're using him. And yes, maybe it started that way, but that's no longer the case." A little emotional, she added, "It's like having Sirius back."
Andromeda chuckled. "I'd never considered it, but you're right. He has more than a touch of Sirius. And Regulus too."
They were silent for a moment, then Narcissa said, "He'll never accept it. If I tell Lucius the truth, he mightn't even want to see us."
"Would that be so bad?"
Narcissa took a deep breath. "I've never not been there for him. Even the first time he was in Azkaban, he knew I was with him in spirit. Of course, the Dementors made him forget, but then he'd remember me again, and he knew he wasn't alone."
"And what would happen if he didn't have that any longer? Mind you, I'm not telling you to reject him. All I'm saying is to tell him the truth."
Narcissa didn't need to imagine her husband's reaction, since she could feel it instinctively. "It would be a disaster. He'd either go off the deep end entirely, or he'd have to face his own guilt."
"Forgive me, but isn't that what prison is for?" said Andromeda, her mouth twitching.
Not for Lucius, thought Narcissa. He'd committed murder, and she'd absolved him. "You're right," she said. "He needs to know the truth. Otherwise I'm just coddling him, or even complicit." With those words, the bottom fell out. "Great Salazar, I'm complicit! He was doing it for me, and I let him," said Narcissa, bursting into undignified tears.
Andromeda comforted her as she wept. "He was also doing it for himself. Yes, you were complicit, but you didn't see it through, and neither did Draco."
They hugged longer than usual at the fireplace that night, and Narcissa smothered Teddy in kisses. When she got home, she paused before the mirror above the mantelpiece to refresh her Dark magic, since she was still a whirl of emotions. But something was absent, and there were circles under her eyes, probably from crying. So be it, she thought, smoothing her hair and heading upstairs.
Not bothering to refresh her cosmetic charms, as she normally did before dinner, she sat at her escritoire and pulled out a velvety sheet of parchment. Dipping her quill in the silver-black ink—imported from Paris—she started to write. "Dear Lucius," the letter began, and her elegant script slowly filled the page.