FIFTEEN: Charity

Narcissa Malfoy stood at the window, facing out over the Lake, and waited, hands clasped behind her back.

Narcissa was aware, more than even most pureblooded women, how she presented herself. She was pretty enough, if not beautiful, but she was also small: her son, who had inherited her slender frame, was already a few centimeters taller. Her manner was cool, but in many ways still girlish: as the youngest witch of three, she had not yet outgrown the tendency to play helpless when it suited her. It was this equable disinterest with flashes of little-girl-lost that had netted the Dark Lord.

It all had to go.

That woman was not a Headmistress, much less of the premier Wizarding school in Britain. Much less in such difficult, divisive times.

During the ride to Hogwarts, Narcissa desperately cast about for what sort of personage would do well at the job. Severus had the right measure of cool contempt, but his demeanor was leavened with such bitterness that she was uncertain she could manage to echo it, at least not believably. The Dark Lord himself – she gave a shudder. She dared not attempt the silk-covered poison that was the Dark Lord's treatment of his followers. But Narcissa was too little, too used to being third growing up, second to her husband, and at the trailing end of a long line of Death Eaters to know what it was to be first.

Dumbledore and McGonagall flashed to mind now, and Narcissa had to muffle a half-hysterical laugh into her sleeve. Goodness, and wasn't that a picture? There was no chance.

A House Elf popped into being beside her. "Headmistress," it said in a sombre voice, "the staff is assembled to greet you."

Narcissa nodded, and the Elf popped out of existence. She turned to the portraiture in the Headmistress's office and locked gazes with each of them. She dared not, she dared not reveal anything, not even here – who knew where else Phineas Nigellus's portrait dwelled, in how many pureblooded households? She was on her own.

And just like that, she knew whose face to assume, whose demeanor to steal for the evening. Who else had been alone, and done well enough that he had somehow managed to make friends of enemies and subtly shift the threads of the War to his liking and his ends? Hmm. Well, it wasn't as though she minded being second, not really, and certainly not in this case.

Narcissa Malfoy closed her eyes and focussed. And when she lifted her gaze, it was her son's eyes that peered out from behind her lashes, and the set of her shoulders was her son's and her stride was her son's: determined and sorrowful and quietly powerful, all at once.

Narcissa's entrance made a bit of a stir in the Great Hall.

When she strode through the entry, hands empty at her sides, the entire, bustling Hall hushed immediately, and for a moment she felt all of eleven years old again, with Bella and Drommie towering over her and the professors waiting to Sort her to Slytherin. Her lips set, and she readied herself to stride forward, chin high… before remembering that she was her son, who walked as though he were about to offer condolences to the bereaved. She pushed her shoulders back and headed towards the group, making sympathetic eye contact with everyone, especially Minerva McGonagall, who – she felt a flash of pity – looked as though she might have been weeping.

"Hello," Narcissa greeted them. "Thank you for coming."

Few of the professors so much as inclined their heads; a few dispirited mumbles sounded, but Narcissa could not tell from whom, clustered as they were together.

"Let us be seated," Narcissa said, and waved an arm forward. She strode up to the Head Table and to Dumbledore's old chair. She pulled the chair backward with a calm, fond air, as though she thought of the Headmaster with great kindness, but did not hesitate in seating herself at his place.

There was a terrible stretch of time, Narcissa could not say how long, where no-one moved. Filius Flitwick danced from foot to foot as though the very thought of such rudeness as ignoring Narcissa brought him near despair, but he did not start towards her. Hagrid's beard stood out in all directions as always, but there seemed to be a bristle-y nature to it, like a porcupine with quills extended. Professor McGonagall's face was a stormcloud. Narcissa watched as the Deputy Headmistress struggled, pulled between her obligation to do what was best for the school and the desire to give no quarter; but whether it was a minute or an hour, she eventually rose to the dais and seated herself to Narcissa's right, and the rest of the professors followed with varying degrees of visible relief.

"Thank you," she said, and she let a bit of her honest gratefulness and relief color her voice. "First, I arranged to have a small meal –"

McGonagall broke in, her voice ringing with authority, her brogue thick with impatient contempt. "Missus Malfoy, we at Hogwarts know why you, an outsider without any teaching or business or even management experience, have been appointed to the position of Headmistress," she said, leveling at Narcissa a glare that had cowed first- through seventh-years for decades. "You need not perpetuate the farce that you are be best candidate the Board could summon, even in such dark times. We all of us are adults, and we all know better. We know who and what you are…" The older witch paused, and Narcissa dared not speculate what the Head of House would say, next. Already, her blood ran cold, and she wondered if the staff planned to keep her on as a pretty figurehead, and nothing more. But then, McGonagall added, in an entirely different sort of voice: "…and we know what would happen to us… to our charges… were we to disobey you."

Narcissa's planned rebuttal crashed harmlessly against McGonagall's new turn , like a rising tide against a dam. She imagined her Draco, and his response, and allowed pain to enter her expression. It was less a matter of manufacturing an emotion, and more letting the right emotion through. Even though the Deputy Headmistress had no reason to trust her, it was still painful to hear one of her old professors so casually state that she expected Narcissa to torture her, or at least to order it done… not to mention the children.

"I am… sorry you feel that way," Narcissa said, "though I had expected it. I doubt you see matters so clearly as you believe, but one can hardly fault you for your assumptions. It is my hope that in the future, we can come to a better understanding." She maintained an earnest eye contact with the older witch.

The Deputy Headmistress scoffed and all but rolled her eyes at Narcissa. "I may be hanged for it, but I'll speak my mind," she said, "especially if it's just before a long silence. Missus Malfoy, you may feel free to pretend with the children… it might do them good if they didn't fully understand your motivations… but I entreat you once more to show your true face to the rest of us, as a small kindness." McGonagall folded her hands and leaned forward, expectantly. The rest of the staff behaved as though they'd all been cursed with Silencio, staring at Narcissa and mutely awaiting her response.

From the viewpoint of a Malfoy or a Black, such a plea for straightforwardness was an utterly laughable, even childlike request. But after having seen some of her own son's behaviour, especially around the Gryffindors, Narcissa was beginning to understand that honesty had its own sort of charm… the unexpected, unlooked-for kind that crept up on one… especially on a Slytherin, where such behavior was all the more charming for its novelty. Honesty, Narcissa could manage, if just: "…as a former Slytherin, Deputy Headmistress, I am constitutionally incapable of your sort of kindness," she replied. "You will have to accept my sort, instead."

It was clear that McGonagall wasn't entirely certain how to take this comment, which had the doubly pleasing effect of quieting the old witch and causing her to at least puzzle over Narcissa's point of view.

Narcissa replied to her silence with a smile – her son's: bashful and sweet and earnest, though Merlin knew where he'd come by it. Not honestly: it certainly wasn't hers or Lucius's. "You must know I mean neither you nor the children any harm," she added, tapping the table thrice with her wand; immediately, tea appeared at each professor's place at the table. She tapped her place once more and a light broth appeared, filled with carrots and savoury herbs and small chunks of chicken – food for grief and food for illness, she found, were often the same.

Hagrid looked down at her, across the table to the other professors, and knocked at his place; a very large bowl of soup appeared, and he rather quickly tucked in.

Narcissa hid her smile, this time.

McGonagall looked down at the soup, and up at Narcissa. "Are you attempting to mother the Hogwarts staff?" she inquired. Her voice was entirely free of inflection, now, save perhaps a hint of incredulity.

Narcissa took the moment to scrutinize the older witch's appearance all over again. While Minerva McGonagall could never be said to look anything less than perfectly put together, her eyes were red-rimmed and ringed with dark purple splotches, and her skin was pale and sickly-yellow. But at least now her eyes sparked with interest.

"That depends," Narcissa said, lifting a spoonful delicately to her mouth, "on whether that would be entirely too presumptuous of me." She swallowed the soup thoughtfully. It traveled, warm, down her throat and rested, like a banked fire, in her stomach. Just right, she thought, and took a sip of her tea.

"And where is the niffler in all this gold?" McGonagall returned.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"What do you want from us?" Filius Flitwick broke in.

Narcissa felt as though she could sense the sudden, riveted attention of over ten very powerful witches and wizards. "Suppose," she said, "you were to receive a new owl in the mail."

"A post?" Hagrid boomed.

Several of the other professors shot the poor man a glare simply for addressing her. Narcissa held back a sigh; ladies did not sigh, save in extremis.

"No, not a post," Narcissa clarified. "An owl, as a gift. It is a beautiful owl. Serviceable to the task of carrying your letters, but ever so much more. Do you suppose you ask where it comes from?"

McGonagall's eyes narrowed. "Of course," she said.

"Certainly. The same way you'd test a racing broom from an anonymous donor," Narcissa lightly returned. "You cast all the spells you can think of. Is it cursed? Is it tracking your movements? Is it possessed? After you've tried every spell you can think of, you reluctantly put it to use."

"I assume this owl does the job marvelous well," Flitwick offered.

"Suppose she does," Narcissa returned. "And very loyal. Later, you find out that she used to belong to an enemy of yours, a terrible man. Does that make her any less useful?"

McGonagall sniffed, but she was reconsidering Narcissa again, a state of affairs Narcissa dared not hope for. "A Slytherin response, from a Slytherin," McGonagall said, eventually.

Narcissa wasn't certain if her son would behave as though that shamed him, so she allowed her own natural hauteur to shine through, if only for a moment. "I can only be what I am, Deputy Headmistress; and you may choose to believe me, or not. As you like. However, the question remains: would you put me to use? Or would you cage a useful, handy creature who stands at your disposal?"

McGonagall eyed her shrewdly, an up-and-down-and-through sweep that Narcissa was all too familiar with from her school years. Narcissa did nothing but continue to look as cool, self-possessed, and yet earnest as she knew how.

"Well," McGonagall said, with an air of finality, "whether or not you shall be of any use remains to be seen. But I suppose that we must use any tool that comes to hand," she primly conceded.

Narcissa tried not to show her surprise, or the growing smugness that trailed in its wake. She had been found that magical combination of useful and manipulable that, when summed, equaled both useful and harmless. She had no illusions regarding the Deputy Headmistress's trust of her motives: McGonagall believed she might be useful and that she could be controlled with a modicum of effort. One out of two wasn't bad for an old, grieving Gryffindor, Narcissa thought, not uncharitably.

When McGonagall turned more fully to her soup, one tentative conversation blossomed at the end of the table, and then another, and another until the entire staff was chatting to one another, even if their voices were hushed and subdued. Most of the conversations seemed to center around she and the Deputy Headmistress; she was quite certain she saw money change hands between the groundskeeper and Professor Flitwick. She resolved to discover the exact nature of the bet, and place coin on herself in some roundabout fashion.

A team of House Elves was in the Headmaster's Office, moving things about, when Narcissa entered later that evening.

"What is to be done with the previous Headmaster's things?" Narcissa inquired of the air in front of her, not certain whom to address.

Immediately, one of the Elves materialized at her side. "The Headmaster's things is being put into storage, Headmistress Malfoy," it said.

"I should like to see them, first," she replied, with one raised brow. She frowned in thought. "Is everything going to storage?"

"Only such things as the Headmistress has brought, herself, like her shiny new desk and her rugs and her paintings," the Elf assured her. "The Headmaster's desk and rugs and paintings is being put into storage."

Narcissa nodded. "Allow me to look through the desk first, please."

The House Elves nodded and moved for the door like lightning.

"And," Narcissa added grimly, "bring me the Elf called Dobby."

The lead Elf nodded sharply. "As the Headmistress wishes," he said, and disappeared.

Narcissa seated herself at the desk within the big, squishy chair and sighed. After a day's hard travel, it felt positively sinful against her aching back. At the same time, she was glad she had brought at least a handful of her solid, midnight-blue-backed chairs and ladies' writing desk; she had a feeling that she disappeared behind Dumbledore's oak monstrosity, and her head barely cleared its surface when she sank down into his comfiest chair.

Dobby appeared in the middle of the Headmaster's Office with a crack, and without a word.

Narcissa blinked at the House Elf in surprise. She had never known a House Elf to be anything less than perfectly polite. But then, Dobby always had been a little odd.

"Good evening, Mistress Malfoy," Dobby finally said, as though it had been pulled out of him with hot pincers.

"Headmistress Malfoy," Narcissa corrected, but she did not shout. This, too, was odd beyond the telling of it. She had never known a House Elf to mistake anyone's proper title, either. Perhaps the thing was ill.

"H-H-Headmistress," the poor thing stammered. "Malfoy," it said, a big fat tear falling down its ugly features.

Narcissa was so shocked that she stood and had her handkerchief half out of her pocket before realizing that she was dealing with a House Elf and not a distraught witch or wizard. But then, she was halfway through the motion, and it would've seemed foolish to jerk her extended hand away.

Dobby stared at the handkerchief a long moment, before taking it into his hands and dabbing at his eyes. Then, he looked up through the handkerchief with a queer frown, then stared down at the handkerchief in consternation.

For the first time it occurred to her that the thing might actually be grieving, just like a person. Not as a witch or wizard misses someone who has died, perhaps. But, Narcissa allowed, perhaps something akin to it. Perhaps it missed its old master, who was indubitably kinder to it than Narcissa and Lucius had ever been.

"Dobby is sorry," the mournful thing said in a wobbly, brittle voice. "Dobby thanks the Headmistress for the handkerchief, of which he is not worthy. What does the Headmistress require?"

Narcissa clamped down on the urge to worry her lip. Her breeding – indeed, her entire life up until this point – was urging her to press on, labeling the beast's concerns as beneath her notice. But something told her that Draco would not consider even a House Elf as solely a resource, would urge the small creature to tell him its troubles.

And it was only sensible to charm everyone and everything within reach, really. Narcissa needed loyalty, not blind obedience. She had hoped that Dobby would still harbor some faint connection to the Malfoy family and household, but that was clearly not the case: the last she'd heard, Dobby was an anomaly, a Free Elf. He was under no true compunctions to obey her; she suspected the only thing that held him now was habit, and habit would not be enough for what she had planned.

Narcissa looked up from her contemplation to find that the creature – Dobby – was blinking up at her, and looking rather resigned and heartbroken and small, as though he'd just been dealt a blow to the gut.

"Sit down," Narcissa said. "I mean – do sit down. Please."

Dobby blinked at Narcissa suspiciously, looking so like McGonagall that Narcissa had to hold back a bark of startled laughter, but he sat all the same.

"Now, tell me what is the matter, if you please." Narcissa raised both brows to indicate that the if you please was a courtesy, and she expected to be obeyed.

Dobby squirmed. "Mist – Headmistress Malfoy should not concern herself with –"

"But I do," Narcissa broke in. "Do – do you miss the Headmaster very much?" she stammered awkwardly.

"All of us is missing Professor Dumbledore," the Elf conceded.

"Is that what's the matter?" she pressed. "Do take a lemon drop; there appear to be hundreds of the things."

Dobby blinked up at her in confusion, then shook his head warily. "Dobby is not wanting to be taking the liberty, Headmistress."

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" Narcissa exclaimed, losing all attempts at subtlety. "Can you not see I am attempting to be kind, I am attempting to be helpful! I am attempting to show you in word and look and deed that I will not be the Mistress I was to you at the Manor! Can you understand that?"

Dobby broke into fresh tears, though he did not hide his face. Slowly, he nodded. "Dobby is not knowing why," he whispered into Narcissa's hankie.

Narcissa took a deep breath. "Because there are dark times ahead," she told the Elf. "If I limit my reach to the old allies of my family, I shall have a short grasp, indeed. Take the bloody lemon drop."

Dobby reached forward with shaking hands and unscrewed the tiny tin that held the old Headmaster's drops. He took one and then, with a gesture sharp enough to seem guilty, popped it into his mouth.

"Thank you for accepting this small kindness," Narcissa said flatly.

Dobby blinked at her with his huge eyes. "Yes, Headmistress. What is the Headmistress wanting of Dobby?"

"The Headmaster – the old Headmaster, I suppose I should call him – he knew a great deal about the goings-on in the school, did he not?"

"People thought it magic," Dobby replied, with a cunning gleam to his eye that bespoke a very different sort of creature to the one who'd been weeping, before.

"But it wasn't. Or not quite." Narcissa held onto her sense of rising triumph. "It was the portraits, wasn't it?"

"Yes, the portraits," the Elf agreed. "And Dobby, himself."

Narcissa leaned forward, against her native impulse. She had heard that some households used their Elves this way, but she had always thought them too slow, too foolish, too easily distracted to be put to such a purpose. "You spied for the Headmaster?"

"Spied, no," Dobby said, looking affronted. "But if something is very important, Dobby is bringing it to the Headmaster's attentions, of course."

Narcissa nodded. "Do the portraits answer to the Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts?"

Dobby shook his head. "Each is having its own personality, its own mind, Headmistress. Dobby is thinking that Professor Dumbledore had to win them over himself, one by one. All of them, that is, but the Headmasters' and Headmistress' portraits, who are sworn to serve…"

Narcissa swallowed, tried not to show how intimidating the idea was, that she might have to 'win over' one-hundred-plus separate portraits.

"Some is being easy," Dobby said, which let Narcissa know she hadn't hidden her trepidation so well as she'd hoped. "Sir Cadogan is being very easy and so is Mistress Violet. Headmistress Malfoy need only be kind."

"And the Headmasters?" Narcissa thought they would be most useful of all; they were famous men, with portraits all over the country and beyond, able to spy on a variety of households, banks, shops, libraries, museums and hospitals. "They do answer to the Headmistress?"

Dobby leaned forward, looking crafty, and Narcissa perched on the edge of the old Headmaster's squishy armchair to meet him. When Dobby spoke, his voice was pitched low, so as not to alert the portraiture. "Obey? Yes. Dobby knows they is obeying, but he thinks they is being harder at loyalty, Headmistress, some hardest and stubbornest of all. But if the Headmistress were to get Professor Black on her side, he is thinking the rest would fall in line."

Narcissa leaned back. A year ago, she would have considered such information her due from a mere House Elf such as Dobby, but even in so short a conversation – the longest she'd ever had with an Elf – she had discerned that he was almost entirely autonomous, without the need for direction and instruction she'd always assumed was part and parcel of being a House Elf. Even Narcissa's new position as Headmistress didn't entirely explain Dobby's helpfulness.

"Headmistress Malfoy is wondering why Dobby is helping her?" Dobby inquired, a queer tilt to his head she was not certain she liked; nor did she like how obvious her disquiet must have been for Dobby to understand her concerns so rapidly. "It is because the Malfoys is turning against Him," Dobby said, in a low, whispery voice.

Narcissa blanched. "I do not know where you have heard such madness. You must tell me, immediately, who is carrying such a tale."

"It is the portraits, but they is not carrying tales."

"The portraits?" Narcissa echoed, sifting through a mental image of the Manor at lightning speed. "A Malfoy has never been a Headmaster… no, we have no portraits of Headmasters at the Manor. The accusation you have made must have no foundation – just the speculation of painted figures with nothing better to do with their time." She shot the portraits on the wall a glare, but all of them were pretending to be asleep, the cowards.

Dobby smiled. "No Malfoys have ever been Headmaster – but Blacks. Yes, there is a Black who was Headmaster. And his portrait –"

"…is at Twelve, Grimmauld Place," Narcissa finished, slumping in her chair. "Phineas Nigellus Black knows everything." She squinted down at Dobby. "But why should he have told you?"

"He is not telling Dobby anything, Mistress," Dobby replied. "He is telling another portrait. Something about Mudbloods in his most Ancient house? Dobby just happens to be dusting the old Headmaster's things at the time."

Narcissa wondered how it was possible that she should have underestimated House Elves so very thoroughly. "So. You know of my son's allegiances." And of mine, she did not say: she still found herself curiously hesitant to reveal her entire hand, even though it was very clearly far too late.

"Dobby knows," the Elf replied, eying her with a look that said he knew far more than Narcissa imagined. "And is ready to aid the Headmistress in any way he knows how."

"There is another way in which you can aid me," Narcissa said. "Were there any other ways in which Dumbledore kept track of the goings-on at the school? Any other…" spies, she thought. "…helpers?"

"Dobby believes that some of the Gryffindors told him things, but Dobby is not certain. Ginny Weasley and Neville Longbottom is coming up to see the Headmaster very often, yes, but Dobby is not seeing them talking about it so much."

Narcissa sighed. Winning over Neville Longbottom and Ginevra Weasley was an unlooked-for challenge. She was willing to accept that something could, perhaps, be made out of the Weasley boy – a lot of Cedrella in him, really – but she'd seen Ginevra Weasley for the fire-hearted, impetuous, self-important thing she was on five minutes' acquaintance. The Longbottom boy was her polar opposite: plodding and unimaginative and just as likely to reveal a plot by accident as not. Yet, if Dobby was correct – and she strongly suspected he was – then the pair were used to being in the thick of things, and if she let them wander about unaided, they could cause her no end of difficulty.

"Very well. Thank you, Dobby," Narcissa said, eying the small creature and wondering if he were about to attach himself to her leg as she had seen him do to the poor Potter boy.

Dobby seemed to know better in her case. "Dobby is happy to help in any small way he can," the Elf proclaimed with a small bow. "If the Headmistress wants anything, she need only call for Dobby."

Funny how even a queer old creature such as a family House Elf could settle one, Narcissa thought. Make one feel a bit less alone.

"Begin talking to the portraits by the Great Staircase, if you can," she told him. "I am certain there are some who will be glad of an ex-Slytherin Headmistress, and will be relatively easy to convince. But before you do," she said, with a deep breath, "call the House Elves back to finish arranging my office. And also, do call on Professor Burbage and tell her I must see her immediately."

Charity was a ruddy, pretty little thing, Narcissa observed, just what she would've pictured a Muggleborn witch to be, if she pictured one at all: she had red-gold hair that spilled across her shoulders in somewhat wild curls, and a strong nose and mouth, and rosy cheeks and broad shoulders. "You are firing me," was the first thing she said, and Narcissa thought it admirable that her voice didn't waver.

"I want your resignation this evening, and I want you gone before first light," Narcissa replied. "Hogwarts will not say you have been let go. Miss Burbage has gone on holiday. Miss Burbage was desirous of spending more time learning of Muggle cultures; she is in Africa, in Mozambique. Miss Burbage is pregnant, Miss Burbage is getting married to a wealthy Potions tycoon, take your choice, Miss Burbage. In fact, I do strongly suggest you go off to Africa. For awhile."

"This is my life you are so casually re-writing," Miss Burbage said, clenching and unclenching her fists.

"Better that than your obituary."

Miss Burbage crossed her arms over her chest, more color entering those cheeks of hers. "Is there anyone else you'll be getting rid of, or just the Muggleborn professors?"

"Not just now," Narcissa said. "But rest assured that I should rather fire the entire staff than see them tortured, or killed."

"Thank goodness the Headmistress is on our side," Burbage said, voice flat.

"Thank goodness, indeed," Narcissa replied. "It is difficult for me to even imagine our beloved school if our Lord had his way; Severus Snape would have been your Headmaster, but also the Carrows – Alecto and Amycus – would have been teaching Defense. And perhaps your subject as well."

Charity startled, her curls bobbing.

"You know the Carrows, I see," Narcissa said, voice cold.

"By reputation only," Charity replied. The young woman shifted her weight from foot to foot, and Narcissa titled her head to one side, gesturing to the midnight-blue seat before her – the House Elves had completed their work in a whirlwind of activity long before Miss Burbage had arrived.

Burbage didn't take it. "What," said Burbage, still dancing from foot to foot, "if I didn't want to leave?"

Narcissa raised her brows. "I am not giving you a choice," she said.

"I don't have much of anything," Charity said. "No savings. I don't come from a wealthy family like you do, Headmistress, and I'm young. There is precious little squirreled away. Without employment, without a place to stay… I would do better here, I would be capable of more here, I… I cannot leave the children."

Narcissa stared. Burbage was very, very young and also very stupid. "You're one of his, Dumbledore's," Narcissa said, gently, "and you'd like to continue spying here."

"No!" Charity exclaimed. "No, I just – want employment. Even a Mudblood like me needs to live."

Narcissa felt as though she'd been tossed into the Great Lake. For all she'd heard the term bandied about amongst her husband's friends, and before that, her father's, she'd never heard a witch call herself that filthy word. It was… impressive, in its way.

"Very well," Narcissa said. "I'll keep you on, if you wish your continued employment here so fervently."

Charity slumped, eyes dancing with relief and something else, and Narcissa felt as if she'd just invited a viper to wind about her arm.

"But you will not be a professor any longer," Narcissa went on. "You will be my servant. You will serve as an example of the proper place of those with mixed blood."

Charity's dark blue eyes snapped, but, "very well, Headmistress," she said with a bent neck that would have fooled no one, Narcissa least of all.

Narcissa reflected that she might well have spared Charity Burbage's life. If a simple Muggle Studies professor had disappeared, she felt the Dark Lord might have been satisfied if she never showed her face again; but Miss Burbage had posted several scathing, impassioned editorials regarding "the smug British bigot", which Narcissa and her cohorts had found very disturbing. She suspected that Africa would not have been too far to travel to make an example of the foolhardy Miss Burbage. But under Narcissa's protection – and reformed – the young witch stood at least an even chance of surviving the coming troubles intact, even of doing some work towards the greater good. Looking at the bent head of Charity Burbage, covered in ruddy curls, Narcissa felt a queer sense of triumph building in her breastbone. This young woman, bent before her, quivering in what was very likely rage, owed her life to Narcissa Malfoy… and she didn't even know it. It was a heady feeling, and she wondered if this was what had kept poor Severus at it for so long.

"You are not a very convincing servant," Narcissa said. "Stand upright, if you please."

Charity straightened her spine, carefully blank-faced.

"I am much relieved to find that I shall have the aid of someone for whom Hogwarts is not such a profound mystery," Narcissa said, feeling her way. "It has been many years since my schooldays here. I expect I shall rely greatly on your advice in the days to come. And I shall be – grateful for such advice. Therefore, you need not bend your knee when we are alone. We shall have to trust one another, you and I, and I shall expect you to speak plainly."

Miss Burbage looked puzzled, then bowed her head. "I understand, Headmistress."

"Do you?" Narcissa frowned. She had never realized servility could be so impertinent. "If this arrangement is to be of benefit to us both, Miss Burbage, then you must learn quickly. Your first lesson is that I mean what I say – always. Your head up. The next time you bend it to me, I shall cast a Stinging Hex at your chin."

Charity's head bobbed up with gratifying rapidity. "Yes, Headmistress?"

"However," Narcissa went on, "in public, you must be far more subservient than you have been thus far. It is natural that your actions may appear a bit begrudging at the first, but that should disappear over time, or others shall begin to wonder why I have kept you. I shall begin to wonder, myself."

"Yes, Headmistress," Charity replied, but kept her head up, and looked Narcissa in the eye. "I will endeavor to be…" Her lips twisted. "…of use to you."

"Yes, you shall. Well. We ought to begin as we mean to go on, I suppose. Please fetch your things from your rooms – no more than three of anything: three dresses, three blouses, three skirts and no robes at all. In neutral colours. A Sortis will do for your hair, and you will have no need of books or parchment or quills. Do away with the rest, have it sent to the dungeons, it is no matter but that your rooms must be emptied. Carry with you one personal item and only one, and it ought to be hidden."

The young woman already appeared different to Narcissa's eye. Her features were losing their colour, as though she had already been kept from the sun for weeks, and her lips were in a thin, pinched line: her new station was slowly sinking in, to flesh and to bone. For a moment, Narcissa almost felt sorry for her. But then she knew two things that Charity did not: the first of which being that she would be a far better mistress than most, especially in her guise as Draco; the second that soon enough, it would only be due to Narcissa's charity that the young witch was alive at all.

"Come now, Miss Burbage," she said, "it is not all bad. You have managed to keep your employment, and you have a very wealthy and well-connected Mistress," Narcissa said, more to see Charity's reaction than by way of comfort. "Now, hop-to. You shall be staying in the rooms next to mine, the better to see to my needs."

Burbage, to her credit, did not allow her blank expression to shift. "Yes, Headmistress," she said. "Right away." Her expression twisted, and Narcissa realized she was attempting to look grateful at the chance.

"Oh, very well. No need to strain something. Run along and do as you're told."

Charity made a clenched-jawed yet credible curtsey, and fled.

A/N: First, happy New Year, everyone! I hope I still have some readers, but my job ate my life. This happens, occasionally. :)

Reviewers were really asking for Narcissa and begging for me to make her a 1) competent 2) adult 3) female, a super-simplistic confluence of characteristics that nonetheless appears to be relatively uncommon. One reader added that she hopes Narcissa doesn't go the way of Cersei (GoT, I have not completed you... no spoilers, please!) In any case, I was led to believe that C. becomes an ineffectual idiot. Hopefully that won't happen here. I promise that Narcissa's character will grow, not diminish.

Charity Burbage was sprung on me. In a previous version, Narcissa dismissed her and she left, but in my mind, Charity is a fledgling member of the Order of the Phoenix and would go to great lengths to stay at her post. How better to prove herself and to contribute to the war effort than staying right where she is? So in the second version she protested... and Narcissa, seeing an opportunity, kept her: Narcissa, the eternal opportunist.

To those who have wondered what on earth happened to regular updates, all I can say is: I used to wait until I was totally done with a story before posting it. Now I don't. :( Mostly because I need/appreciate the feedback that bounces back to me as I write. It allows me to make corrections and decisions as I go. So, if you liked this chapter (or didn't, and have CC) please leave a review in the box! Please and thank you. :)

No recs this time around, though. I've read some *good* fic, but nothing spectacular of late, at least not in the HP fandom. :)

-K