A/N: And we begin the journey following Narcissa's ever evolving voice.

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My father never spoke to me again. To this day, I cannot understand why my refusal of Lane Selwyn shook him so. The man turned out to be a sadist, beating his new wife to death. The papers won't say that's what happened, but we all know better. Imagine if that had been me! Father should be glad that I had the foresight to not subject myself to that kind of fate.

Bella insists that I disgraced him beyond words, but she is only trying to stoke the fire. I see nothing that he couldn't live down in front of his clients. He tried to sell me. My father grows alarmingly older now, his white hair receding on his alabaster scalp. He always sits in his study, wordlessly going over his accounts.

I turned fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen to his silence.

Yesterday, I left for my sixth year at Hogwarts, and he did not even so much as glance at me. It is as though I simply ceased to exist after I defied him. I suppose he's used to it, forgetting his daughters.

Bella visited every now and then with her husband, and he would seem overjoyed to see them both. He always says they are his pride and that he's waiting for the day she bears him a grandchild. But I know she never will. Bella doesn't love Rodolphus, you see, she never did. She loved his money and his name. Bella loves another man, one who refuses to be with her. I know because I am not loud and indiscreet as she often is; I keep my secrets close to my heart.

I can't wait until I can leave that house.

I don't know where I'll go, but I can't live there with him ignoring me. It isn't right for a father to ignore his daughter. Bella's house is out of the question—the Lestranges are absolutely mental. Perhaps with my aunt, but then I'd have to stand Sirius. In these recent times, I often think of Andie. I could never look at her when I saw her at school. Sometimes, though, I think I'd like to go live with her, but I've yet to forgive what she's done to us by being with that boy. She's just moved into a beautiful new flat and sent me a picture. I kept the letter secret, reading it in the dim candle light long after father had gone to bed.

I dared not write back.

If I had, I would have told her that her choice of drapes was horrid.

She's sent me another letter today. I held it in my robes all day, feeling slightly ill at having to conceal it amongst so many stares. If word got back to either my father or Aunt Walburga, they would disown me in a heartbeat.

The clock has just struck twelve, and the last of the students are resigning to their beds. They are all tired from the change of a new year. Even that strange Snape boy, who frequently stays up all night, is packing up his tattered books. He seems to notice me anxiously glancing at him, waiting for him to leave. My eyes try to not follow him as he descends the steps toward the boys' dormitory. Finally, the common room is empty.

With trembling hands and alert ears, I pull the parchment out of my inner robe pocket. The wax seal breaks open easily and Andie's regular, slim words spill onto paper. I can almost feel the warm of her smile in them.

"Cissy," she writes. "I hope you are well as you begin your first year of school without me. Sixth year is a tumultuous time, and I send you all my love. I know you read my letters and can only wish that you write me back."

A creak interrupts me, and I quickly jam the parchment into my Transfiguration book and pretend to read. Someone rustles, slowly entering the common room. I try to look busy in my armchair, but I can't help sneaking a glance at the door. Stumbling in, with tussled blond hair, was our seventh year Prefect, Lucius Malfoy. He glances around the room quickly before treading cautiously toward the dormitory steps, as if avoiding being caught.

He suddenly jumps, upon noticing me in the armchair.

"Oh, I didn't see you there, Narcissa." He keeps his voice down as if we could be overheard.

I stare at him, unimpressed by his charming grin.

"It's unbecoming for a Prefect to be breaking curfew," I say tartly.

He scratches his head sheepishly and shrugs. By the way he sways slightly and the emanating stench of liquor, I know he is slightly drunk.

"You won't tell Slughorn, will you?" His blue eyes are intensely trained on me.

"I take no pleasure in damming the already condemned."

Malfoy gives an throaty laugh and staggers forward, holding onto the opposite armchair for support. He slumps down before me and leans his head on his hands. I grip my book tightly, hoping he does not notice the conspicuous ridge where I'd sandwiched the letter in the pages.

"Well, Miss Narcissa, I give you my thanks. You can call of me for any favor in the future."

"Anything?"

"Anything-you-need," he slurs.

He tilts toward me and I instinctively shift away. Up close, I can see the cracks in his dry lips and the stubble on his aristocratic chin. He reeks. I can tell he's been with a girl. He's always with a girl. At least, whenever I've seen him. He's one of those people you always hear about but never speak with. It would damage my good standing as an elegant lady to be associated with his debauchery.

Miranda Graves talks day and night about how handsome Malfoy is; she stares at him with wide eyes every meal as if he were some precious artifact. She goes on constantly about his "princely brow" and his high class air. He'd never have her as she has a bad foot and walks with a cane. I do agree that he is handsome, but I find him rather vain and pretentious.

The way he always turns his nose up at everyone is ill-fitting. He acts as though his House is nobler than the Blacks, but I know all about his family. My aunt always talks of them. She used harsher words, but the gist was his father committed a shameful crime and had to buy his way out of Azkaban. And it wasn't the sort of acceptable act against Muggles either; it had something to do with embezzlement. Then there was the funny business with how his brother Silas suddenly vanished.

I suppose we all have our skeletons.

"Goodnight, Malfoy," I say curtly, giving a cue for him to leave.

"Lucius," he insists as he throws himself toward me. He is practically falling out of his chair.

I am taken aback by his loose forwardness. Proper gentleman should not act in this way. I shove him on the shoulder and he hits the back of his chair languidly.

Steeling my voice, I say coldly, "Goodnight then, Lucius."

"Yes, a good night indeed."

His eyes glisten in the firelight as he leaves.

Sure that the common room was vacant again, I sneak out the letter and continue to read.

"I write to father and Bella too, but they return my letters unopened. Cissy, don't be stubborn like them. I am still your sister and will always be. Just give Ted a chance; he's a perfectly capable wizard just like the rest of us."

Ted Tonks. The Muggle. What a horrible and undignified name.

"We're getting married next month, and I'd like someone from my family to be there. Won't you come?"

I drop the letter as if it were scorching. My lungs ache.

Married?

I picked up the parchment and read the line again. Married—to a Mudblood. How could she abandon our noble House like that? We can give her everything, and he can give her nothing. Him, a second class citizen—how could she? I feel extremely angry and disappointed in her. I had hoped she would break it off with him and return to us. I hoped that it was a passing phase like when I sometimes find myself lingering with certain unworthy boys. Now she could never ever be my sister again.

Not even bothering to read the rest of her letter, I tossed it into the dying fire. My lips tremble as I watch it burn, flames eating away her neat words. I loved her, but she has truly betrayed the House of Black. In this world, our name, our blood is everything.

I won't cry for her.

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Footnotes: Miranda, as named for Shakespeare's naive character in The Tempest who falls hopelessly in love with the first man she meets.