Chapter 4: The Weight of Our Failures
In the shadow of failure, love still clings,
Through fractured paths, the heart still sings,
A shot at mending broken things.
London was in its usual sour mood; rain tapped steadily against the windowpanes, and a heavy fog cloaked the city in shades of grey. Hermione sat curled up on the worn leather sofa near the fireplace in her office lounge at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The weight of sleepless nights and unanswered questions hung over her like the fog outside. As Deputy Head, she was accustomed to difficult decisions, but this—this was different.
Her fifth, or perhaps sixth, cup of coffee was clutched in one hand, the bitter taste of Arabian beans doing little to revive her. In her other hand, she held a case file, its contents heavy with moral conflict. The case told the story of a desperate woman—a mother of several children who had brewed a potion to terminate an unwanted pregnancy. Her husband, enraged upon discovering what she had done, had reported her to the Aurors. Interrogated under Veritaserum, she confessed, and the case had been passed to Prosecution Services. They recommended the matter go before the Wizengamot. If convicted, the woman would face years in Azkaban.
Hermione had been tasked with reviewing the case and determining whether it should proceed. She sighed, her fingers tightening around the file.
On paper, the law was clear: potion-induced miscarriages fell under the same category as illegal abortions. But the reality of the woman's circumstances—the crushing poverty, the impossible choice—clouded the clarity of the law. Hermione couldn't shake the image of a woman with blonde hair crouched in a damp, dark cell, her hands trembling behind iron bars. The thought made her stomach twist.
Her resolve hardened. In one swift motion, Hermione tossed the file into the fire, watching as the flames consumed it, turning the paper to ash. Without a record, the case was as good as vanished. If the husband inquired, no one would find a trace of it. Satisfied, she took another sip of her now-cold coffee but winced at the bitter taste. Something stronger was needed.
She wandered over to the bar stand in the corner of her lounge, an untouched remnant from her predecessor. Pouring herself a glass of red wine, she stared at its rich, dark hue. It reminded her of crimson lips, of half-formed memories she didn't dare examine too closely. One glass became two, then three, and by her sixth, she was slouched against the bar, her head resting heavily in her palm.
A sharp knock startled her. Hermione groaned, barely lifting her head. "Who is it?"
Her secretary, a young woman new to the job, entered hesitantly. She froze for a moment, taking in her superior's disheveled appearance. "Um… someone's here to see you, Mrs. Weasley."
Hermione straightened clumsily, gripping the bar for balance. "Who?" she asked, her voice slurring slightly.
"Mrs. Tonks," the girl replied, shifting nervously. "She seems very upset."
Hermione blinked. "Mrs. Tonks? Why didn't you bring her in immediately?" she snapped, her tone sharper than intended.
The secretary stammered, her hands twisting together. "I—I wasn't sure if—"
Before the girl could finish, the door burst open, and Andromeda Tonks stormed in, her dark curls wild, her face pale and tight with worry. She wore a heavy black coat thrown hastily over a cream nightgown, her slippers trailing damp footprints on the floor.
"You must come with me. Now," Andromeda demanded, her voice edged with panic.
Hermione leaned against the fireplace for support, her head spinning. "What's going on?" she mumbled, disoriented.
Andromeda's sharp eyes narrowed. "Why are you drunk on the job?" she snapped, throwing a handful of Floo powder into the flames. "And why isn't your fireplace connected to mine?"
"There's a—problem," Hermione muttered. "I've been meaning to fix it—"
Before she could finish, Andromeda grabbed her arm and pushed her into the green flames. Hermione stumbled as they landed in Andromeda's living room. She barely had time to steady herself before her gaze fell on something that made her blood run cold: small droplets of blood leading toward the stairs.
"What's going on, Andromeda?" Hermione's voice was clearer now, the sobering potion Andromeda handed her moments later stripping away the haze of alcohol.
Andromeda's face was grim. "You'll see soon enough. Come with me."
Hermione followed her upstairs, her pulse quickening with each step. Her gaze caught on the pictures lining the staircase walls. A pang of sadness struck her as she passed the family photos: Nymphadora as a child in Andromeda's arms, Ted Tonks grinning warmly, and finally, a photo of three young women. Narcissa's youthful face stood out—her hair a cascade of loose blonde curls, her expression carefree, almost joyful. Hermione's breath caught. That girl had been so far removed from the woman she knew now.
"You kept this picture," Hermione murmured.
Andromeda glanced back, her expression softening. "They're my sisters," she said quietly. "Whatever's happened… I still love them."
They stopped before the guest bedroom. The sound of faint groans drifted through the door. Hermione instinctively reached for the knob, but Andromeda's hand on her shoulder stopped her.
"I need your help, Hermione," she said, her voice breaking. "You're the most capable witch I know, and I trust you. But… you can't tell anyone about what you're about to see."
Hermione nodded solemnly. "I promise."
The door creaked open, and the scene inside stole Hermione's breath. Narcissa Malfoy lay on the bed, her pale figure trembling, the white sheets beneath her soaked in blood. Her hand clutched her abdomen, her face contorted in pain. Sweat dampened her blonde hair, and her silvery eyes fluttered open weakly as Hermione knelt beside her.
"Narcissa," Hermione whispered, her voice filled with urgency. "Merlin, what happened?"
"The baby…" Narcissa's voice was barely audible, her trembling hand pressing harder against her stomach. A single tear slipped down her cheek. "Save her…" she whispered before her eyes closed, her hand falling limply to the bed.
"Narcissa!" Hermione screamed, panic surging through her.
Earlier Today
Lucius was in Paris for the next few days, attending to his estates in France. The empty manor felt vast and silent—a hollow echo of its grandeur. It was the perfect time for Narcissa to carry out her plan.
Dressed in a pale silk nightgown, she stood in the dimly lit potion room, the golden cauldron before her gleaming faintly in the low light. The book, Dark Alchemy: Potions of Destruction and Dominion, lay open, its fresh pages etched with ominous instructions—a guide to ending what had scarcely begun.
Her slender fingers trembled as she plucked velvet petals of blue cohosh and dropped them into the bubbling green mixture. The liquid hissed and churned, its surface shimmering with an iridescent sheen.
"Stir three times to the left, then three times to the right. Wait five minutes," she murmured to herself, her voice hollow against the quiet.
Obediently, she stirred, her motions precise but weighed with reluctance. As the potion settled, she brushed her fingers through her hair and let out a long, shaky sigh. The rain outside fell in soft, rhythmic patterns, creating a melancholy symphony against the glass panes. The moon's dim light, muted by thick clouds, bathed the room in a pale blue hue—a stark mirror to the day she had lost everything.
Narcissa froze, her chest tightening as the memories returned unbidden.
Narcissa's guilt gnawed at her, a wound that refused to heal. In the chaos of the final battle, she had stood in the Forbidden Forest, lying to the Dark Lord himself. "Harry Potter is dead," she had said, not out of loyalty but desperation. Her only thought had been Draco—finding him, saving him, ensuring he survived the crumbling world around them.
But she hadn't known. She hadn't known that Draco had quietly turned his back on Voldemort, refusing to fight for him, instead standing on the side of defiance. By the time she had combed through the wreckage of the Great Hall and found him, it was too late. Her little boy lay sprawled on the cold marble, too weak to move, blood pooling beneath him, his grey eyes staring weakly at the ceiling.
She had dropped beside him, trembling hands brushing his pale, warm cheek, knowing they would soon turn cold, and the spark of life would be gone. A ragged sob had torn through her as the truth had hit her like a curse.
She had failed him.
She had brought him into this merciless world, and when it mattered most, she hadn't protected him.
For years, she had been blind to the man Draco was becoming. She had poured her energy into shaping him into the perfect heir, the dutiful son who upheld the Malfoy legacy. Her carefully constructed world of status, obedience, and survival left no room to see the hesitation in his eyes or the quiet rebellion in his choices. She had been too consumed by fear and denial, too desperate to shield him from the wrath of Voldemort, to notice he was forging his own path—one that diverged from theirs.
Now, with another life stirring within her, her hand drifted instinctively to her abdomen. The haunting question pressed heavier with each breath: What if I fail again? The weight of her grief and guilt pressed down on her, threatening to drown her in its relentless tide.
I'll fail you too.
The child she carried now—she would suffer as well, wouldn't she? Born into a broken lineage, from a collision of two worlds that should never have merged. Lucius, of course, would possibly never accept her. Could Narcissa even love her? Her mind flickered briefly to eyes the color of sorrel, a face she didn't dare name aloud, and she shook the thought away.
The small timer on the table rang, its shrill chime piercing the stillness. Narcissa inhaled sharply. It was time.
With trembling hands, she poured the potion into a delicate phial, the liquid swirling darkly within. She held it to her lips, her breath hitching. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking as she tilted her head back and drank. The potion tasted bitter, metallic—like tears.
Minutes passed. The silence felt deafening, the tension in the air suffocating. When nothing happened, Narcissa retreated to her room, exhaustion weighing her down. She lay on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering if the potion had failed. But then it struck—a searing pain in her lower abdomen that stole her breath.
She doubled over, clutching at the sheets as her body rebelled against her. Warm liquid seeped between her thighs, and she slid a trembling hand beneath her nightgown, her fingers meeting wetness. When she drew her hand back, it was stained red.
Her breath came in gasps, tears streaking down her pale cheeks as the memories of Draco's blood-soaked body surged forth. She remembered scrubbing furiously at his hair, trying to erase the crimson streaks, trying to restore him to the boy she had once cradled in her arms. Her sobs became raw, ragged.
"Oh gods, what have I done?" she choked out. Another wave of pain gripped her, and she collapsed onto the bed, clutching her stomach.
And then, through the haze of agony, a vision unfolded:
A little girl, with unruly blonde curls and bright brown eyes, dashed through a sunlit garden, her white dress fluttering behind her. She clutched a bouquet of yellow dandelions, her laughter ringing out like a melody.
"Haha! You can't catch me, Mummy!" she shrieked, giggling.
Narcissa ran after her, her laughter bubbling out despite herself. "Oh, yes I will!" she called, pouncing on the girl and tickling her until they both collapsed onto the soft grass.
The little girl's voice softened, her small hand reaching up to touch Narcissa's face. "I love you, Mummy."
"I love you too, monkey," Narcissa whispered, tucking a dandelion into the girl's curls.
The vision shattered as another stab of pain pulled her back to the present. Narcissa gasped, her bloodied hand pressing against her abdomen.
Could it be real?
Her visions had often come true—glimpses of Andromeda's forbidden love, of Lucius and her under an altar, of Voldemort's defeat. Yet, she had never foreseen Draco's death.
Was the little girl a promise of what could be, or just a cruel trick of her imagination?
"I love you, Mummy," the words echoed in her mind, and she clung to them, letting them fuel her resolve.
With immense effort, Narcissa pushed herself off the bed, her body trembling from the strain. She stumbled toward the fireplace, leaving a trail of crimson in her wake. Her fingers, slick with blood, grasped the jar of Floo powder. She flung a handful into the flames, her vision blurring as she whispered Andromeda's name.
The green flames surged and roared, spilling Narcissa into Andromeda's living room. She stumbled forward, her hand clutching her abdomen, crimson soaking through the pale lilac hem of her nightgown. The stark contrast of blood on delicate fabric seemed almost grotesque in the cozy space, its warmth and tranquility at odds with the storm she carried within.
Andromeda stood in the doorway, her breath catching as the sight struck her like a curse. Her sister—fragile, bloodied, barely standing—had emerged from the flames like a ghost. A book slipped from Andromeda's trembling hands, forgotten as her dark eyes widened with shock and alarm.
"Narcissa?" The name fell from her lips, trembling with shock and disbelief, heavy with the weight of years unspoken.
Her delicate frame swayed under the weight of pain and exhaustion, the fragile grace she once carried now shattered. Narcissa barely managed a step forward before her knees buckled, and Andromeda surged to catch her, steadying her before she collapsed entirely. The embrace was clumsy but fierce, an instinct that bypassed the decades of silence between them. For the first time in years, Narcissa let herself crumble, her tears soaking into Andromeda's shoulder as her trembling hand clutched weakly at her sleeve. She smelled lavender and hyacinths, the familiar, nostalgic scent of her sister.
"'Meda," she cried out, her voice breaking, her grip tightening as though afraid to let go, as if to make up for all the time she could not hold her elder sister. "I… I used a potion…" The words faltered as her body shuddered with sobs. "To… to get rid of the baby. But, then the blood came… and I saw Draco… lying…"
"Shh," whispered Andromeda, understanding the scene her sister had imagined.
But Narcissa continued, her voice cracking under the weight of her confession. "And then I saw her…" she whispered. "Oh Meda," she cried, "she was so beautiful."
Andromeda froze, her arms instinctively tightening around her sister as the weight of Narcissa's grief pressed heavily on her. The confession hung between them like a jagged wound. She pulled back slightly, cupping Narcissa's tear-streaked face in her hands, her dark eyes searching her sister's pale, tormented features.
"My sweetest Cissy," Andromeda whispered, her voice trembling yet steady. "Oh, you silly witch. Why didn't you come to me? Why would you try to face this alone?" She brushed a damp strand of hair from Narcissa's face, her thumb wiping away a tear. But now wasn't the time for questions, and she pushed them aside. "Come on," she murmured gently, steadying herself as much as her sister. "We need to get you lying down."
Guiding her carefully down the hall, Andromeda bore Narcissa's weight, her frail body leaning heavily against her. Each step felt interminable, every breath strained, until they reached the guest bedroom. Andromeda eased Narcissa onto the bed, propping pillows behind her trembling frame. The blood-soaked nightgown stole Andromeda's breath, a harsh reminder of the gravity of the situation. Narcissa was possibly haemorrhaging, and could possibly die.
Andromeda swallowed hard, her voice soft yet firm as she whispered, "Stay here. I'll be back."
In the hallway, Andromeda pressed her back against the wall, her chest heaving as she fought to compose herself. Her mind raced, her thoughts an uncontrollable torrent. Narcissa's words—the potion, the blood—echoed in her head, twisting her heart with guilt and panic. Images of her loved ones—those she had lost—then flashed in her mind with cruel clarity.
Tonks, her vibrant, fearless daughter, taken too soon. Sirius, her wild, reckless cousin, stolen by war. Regulus, his quiet bravery unspoken, his death a mystery for years. Even Bellatrix—ruthless and unrepentant—had left an ache in Andromeda's heart. She couldn't forget the fierce, proud sister Bellatrix once was, nor the bond they'd shared before darkness consumed her. The loss was a bitter reminder of love twisted but never fully erased.
And now, possibly, her little sister, the one she had once promised to always protect. Narcissa.
No. The thought of losing her last remaining sister, despite everything, was unthinkable. Andromeda's fists clenched at her sides. She could not—would not—let this happen. Not again. Not her.
Contacting St. Mungo's was impossible. Narcissa would be prosecuted, her actions exposed to a world that would show no mercy. The image of her sister in shackles before the Wizengamot was unthinkable.
Andromeda closed her eyes, forcing herself to inhale deeply. She couldn't let her fear show—not to Narcissa. When she opened her eyes, a single name rose above the chaos in her mind: Hermione.
When Andromeda returned to the room, Narcissa was lying still, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Andromeda knelt beside her, taking her sister's icy hand in her own. "Cissy," she said softly, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her. "I'm going to contact Hermione. She's a dear friend, and a kind, brilliant witch. She'll know what to do."
Narcissa's gray eyes fluttered open, glassy with unshed tears. Her lips moved faintly, a whisper of protest forming but never voiced. Andromeda placed a hand gently on her forehead, her touch grounding and reassuring. "She can help," Andromeda murmured, her voice resolute. "I promise you, everything will be all right. Please ... hold on for a moment while I'm gone," she pled.
Narcissa nodded with a wry smile. "I'm not about to let you win... as the last surviving Black," she teased softly.
Andromeda smirked, even now, when she was bloody dying, her little sister managed to embody her family's trademark wit. "Good, I want you to win," she said. "I will be back," she then promised softly. "And you'll be all right. The baby will be all right." After a pause, her voice grew tender. "And she will be beautiful."
A soft sigh slipped from Narcissa's lips as her body yielded to Andromeda's care and promise. Her eyes fluttered shut, her breathing finding a fragile rhythm. "Yes… she will be beautiful," she murmured, the faintest hint of hope lacing her voice for the first time in years. The words drifted, barely audible, as exhaustion and pain continued to pull her under.
Andromeda's throat tightened as she smoothed her sister's hair, her fingers trembling slightly. Pressing a kiss to Narcissa's temple, she whispered, "I'll make it right, Cissy. Whatever it takes. I just need you to hold on while I'm gone."
Author's Notes
As always, reviews are love!
Updated: January 21, 2025