Chapter Text
I guess as Great Britain’s premiere breaker of curses, it reflected poorly upon me to occasionally wish a curse upon my business partner and significant other, but sometimes, under my breath, I cursed Hermione Granger. Terrible, awful, dark things. If she caught me at it, Hermione would laugh and tell me she loved me. She was utterly impossible to remain cross with, but there were times when her Gryffindor derring-do lead us into fraught situations without all the relevant information. Like now. It was infuriating, but every time, I followed along like a puppy, and I would continue to do so. Narcissa Black, utterly smitten and completely under the spell of Hermione Granger, smartest witch of her age. I supposed I could have done worse.
I was sat with Hermione in a muggle cafe. She was listening intently to Joy Okeke, an officer with the muggle government’s Serious Organized Crime Agency, and the mother of a young wizard attending Hogwarts. From what I’d absorbed, she was an analyst who looked for patterns in violent crimes committed all over the country. That sounded like a job that would give Hermione fits of rapture. She was very detail oriented, my darling.
I wasn’t really listening, but I was reading our contact. Surface level legilimency, focused on emotions rather than thought content, because there were emotions here that were not evident in the rather dry recounting Ms. Okeke was sharing with Hermione. That I was using legilimency at all would probably earn me a lecture later about violating someone’s privacy, but we didn’t know this woman, and after everything, I had learned to be cautious, much to the despair of my Gryffindor sweetheart.
I was focused on our safety, which for me, would always be paramount. Hermione could fill me in on what I’d missed later. Details were, after all, what she excelled at.
After my bit of emotional vampirism, I began attending to the conversation. Ms. Okeke was relating a series of events, wherein a man, a father, had taken his two grammar school age children on a two night camp holiday in New Forest National Park near Southampton. Something had happened on the first night, and the next day, the father, who had no previous indications of psychological issues and was, based on the investigations and interviews of the muggle authorities, a kind man adored by his family and well liked in his community, had abandoned his children in the woods, leaving them with only the tents and some food.
“There was a massive manhunt,” Ms. Okeke was saying. “To find the children, which we did, and they were scared, but unharmed, thank God. And then to find the father.”
“Your letter said he’d gone completely off,” Hermione asked avidly. In our time together, working and otherwise, she’d shown a keen interest in the psychological effects of trauma, magical or otherwise, and I could see her mind racing, searching her memory for other instances of someone’s personality changing so quickly and so completely.
Hermione turned to look at me then, whether she could sense my attention on her, or if she wanted to include me in the conversation, I don’t know. Her eyes were alight with the excitement that only a new puzzle could engender in her. It made me smile. My smile turned Ms. Okeke’s face wary. Blasted Hermione and her adorable eagerness, now I would have to embarrass myself so this woman didn’t think me some sort of ghoul, pleased at the prospect of crime and misery.
I caught the woman’s gaze. Her brown eyes were slightly hard, and it was clear that the openness she felt towards Hermione was not extended to me. Hermione was looking between the two of us with a question obvious in her eyes. How did you manage to make things awkward, was what that lifted brow wanted to know.
“I’ve always found Hermione’s excitement when she encounters a new mystery to be very charming,” I offered cautiously. “Sometimes, due to the nature of work we do, her enthusiasm is the only bright point in an ocean of awfulness.”
That admission, perhaps a little more open than I had been aiming for, made Hermione color prettily, which would always be satisfying. She flashed me another questioning look. I was going to be in for scolding when we finished here.
Ms. Okeke was no longer wary, but she did look a bit startled. She cocked her head a bit and asked, “Would it be possible for you both to give me an idea of what it is you do? After I explained the situation to her, Professor McGonagall told me you could help me, but not much more. I’m also at the distinct disadvantage of knowing almost nothing about what an adult magic user is capable of, or how the magical government is structured, including law enforcement. Hermione seems to know quite a bit about my side of things, but I’m totally at a loss.”
Now it was Hermione who was grinning. I could only roll my eyes. Ms. Okeke had unknowingly stumbled into one of Hermione’s pet projects: educating the parents of muggle-borns about the wizarding world.
I checked my watch; this was going to be a longer conversation than we had initially thought, and should probably not be had in the middle of a muggle eating establishment.
“Would you be willing, Ms. Okeke, to adjourn this discussion to our home?” I asked, in my politest, most affable tone. “We can have tea, and,” I sighed here, sounding long-suffering, because honestly, I was, “Hermione has developed some instructional materials for this very topic.”
That made her laugh. I flashed Hermione a mildly triumphant grin that said: Awkwardness managed. Hermione rolled her eyes at me, long suffering herself, in a number of ways.
“You sound like I do when someone inadvertently triggers my husband’s classic automobile obsession,” said my new friend, finally sounding more comfortable.
“That,” I said, smiling, “sounds like an apt comparison.”
Hermione scoffed, then rose to head outside, assiduously ignoring me. Ms. Okeke and I stood as well and walked towards the door together.
“Did you just get yourself into trouble?” She asked, still grinning a little.
“No trouble that I’m not expert at getting myself out of,” I answered. “Besides, Hermione had a few pointed words for me last weekend regarding the state of my closet and my ‘fashion addiction’, as she called it.”
“Turnabout is fair play, then?”
I nodded decisively, then opened the door for Ms. Okeke and myself to exit the cafe.
Hermione was waiting for us in a tiny, deserted side street that bordered the block of shops that contained the cafe.
“Go ahead, darling,” I said to her, meeting her eyes and smiling the tiny smile that she always seemed to elicit from me. “We’ll be along in a moment.”
Hermione nodded. “I’ll put the tea on,” she said, then spun, and disappeared with a faint pop.
Ms. Okeke’s jaw dropped. I chuckled.
“Wizarding world lesson number one,” I said. “Apparition. One of several methods of travel that magic makes possible. Best for short to medium range travel.”
“That was amazing,” Ms. Okeke exclaimed, looking a bit like a child on Christmas morning in her excitement. “I mean, I’ve seen some magic on Diagon Alley, and Maro has told me about the things he learns in school and magic that the other students and teachers do, but I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“Well,” I said, crooking my elbow towards her, in what I hoped would be an understood invitation, “are you ready to try it yourself?”
“Really?”
“Absolutely. Side-along apparition, I’m told, feels a bit like a ride on a roller coaster.”
I stretched my magic out towards her again as she linked arms with me. She didn’t appear to be scared, just excited, and curious.
“Take deep breaths,” I instructed in the same tone I used to use when apparating with Draco when he was a child. “I’ll cast the spell, and start a spin, and you’ll feel a drop, and then we will arrive in the foyer of my house in Chalk Farm, alright?”
Ms. Okeke nodded. I could see she was taking deep, measured breaths through her nose.
“Here we go,” I said, and cast the spell, pulling us into the beginning of a spin, and we disappeared.
“Oh!” Ms. Okeke exclaimed upon our reappearance. She bent over and placed her hands on her knees, taking a few deep breaths. “That was a trip! Can we do it again?”
Hermione laughed, silently vanishing the barf-bag she had been hiding behind her back. A smart precaution, honestly.
“After we talk,” said Hermione, “Narcissa will take you wherever you need to go.”
“I shall,” I agreed. “Now let us adjourn to the study, which I will warn you, Ms. Okeke, is in a state that entirely the responsibility of Hermione Granger.”
“You’re asking for a hex, Madame Black,” my darling sniffed, and turned on her heel. “This way,” she said. “The tea will be ready in a few minutes.”
After the war, and after my divorce, I had done quite a bit to distance myself from certain parts of Pureblood culture. As a single woman with an adult son, both of us navigating a changing relationship with the legacy of our families and the meaning of blood status, I no longer wanted to be responsible for a manor, I no longer wanted the pressure to arrange large gatherings of people who would love nothing more than to (metaphorically or physically) stab their host in the back.
After the frenzy of the trials and the daunting task of testifying in nearly all of them, I had taken some time to settle into a large (by London standards) townhouse near Camden Town. It was a quiet, muggle neighborhood, with normal neighbors, and moving here was one of the most fortuitous decisions I’d ever made. As the former wife of a Death Eater, and a member of an old and proud wizarding family, the act of physically removing myself at the end of each day from the weight of all the history and responsibility that fell onto me was an enormous relief. It continued to be a relief.
My house was a haven. Freed from the oppressive and ostentatious interior design sensibilities that had been a plague upon the first part of my life, I had made the space welcoming and comfortable. I no longer needed to impress or inspire awe or fear, only to make my family and circle of friends feel at home. Comfortable seating, soft rugs, plush blankets and as much natural lighting as I could manage with magic had been my aesthetic upon moving in. No crotchety portraits, cursed objects or decapitated house elf heads allowed on the premises. Magic had allowed me to add a large dining area, a working library, and to extend the master suite.
I was proud of this house. Everyone I loved was comfortable here, and based on Ms. Okeke’s reaction as we walked through the living room towards the study, even people I didn’t love were comfortable in this house.
“Is this what all magical houses are like?” She asked, peering up at the enchanted first floor skylight through which the early October sun was streaming. “Because I’m really wishing I was a witch right now.”
Hermione laughed. “No, this is Narcissa Black having impeccable taste, and the rest of us just benefitting from it.”
“I was more than willing to allow you to help decorate, my darling, but one cannot sit on a bookcase, nor can one eat at a bookcase,” I interjected from the rear.
Hermione laughed again, because she knew that her inclination was to ignore comfort in favor of more book storage, and she was utterly shameless about it.
The study that Hermione was leading our guest to was as conducive to productive work as I could make it while keeping it cozy enough to curl up in with some tea and a novel. The outside wall was dominated by two enormous windows framing a sizable fireplace. Ivory painted built in bookcases circled the rest of the room and made the hints of sage green paint on the walls behind them seem like a lovely secret. There was a large table and a quartet of comfortable secretary chairs for working. At the moment, the table was barely visible under the diagrams and translations Hermione had produced for a recent project - intention based warding for a new wizarding nursery school in Glasgow.
My research into the history of cursed hair implements had been relegated to the couch in front of the fireplace. And the coffee table. I used my wand to banish the lot of it to a table in the library. Ms. Okeke felt around the couch a little, as though wondering if the books and papers had merely disappeared, before gingerly taking the seat that Hermione had offered.
Hermione didn’t sit, but she did summon the tea tray, which materialized on the coffee table. Ms. Okeke gasped.
“Sorry, sorry,” Hermione exclaimed, flapping her hands. “It’s habit, and I forget. My parents always squawk at me for scaring them, and then fuss that I’m being lazy, not walking to the kitchen to get the tray.”
I sat in the armchair, closer to the tray, ready to act as hostess since Hermione would be talking, and definitely too in her element to worry about things like ‘serving our guest’.
“Milk?” I asked. “Sugar?” I took up the teapot and filled one cup, enjoying the simple ritual of it. I imagined that those two questions were probably the most common queries made in the British households, magical and non-magical alike.
“Just a splash of milk, please,” Ms. Okeke answered, watching me as I prepared her drink, adding enough milk to slightly change the color of the tea. She took the cup and saucer from me with a quiet thanks.
Hermione was still standing, and had taken her wand out. “Accio ministry charts,” she said. A few seconds later, two large rolls of butcher paper floated into the study from the library. Ms. Okeke murmured in appreciation. A gentle ‘accio’ was impressive and only scary when the caster had poor control and summoned objects began whizzing towards one’s head.
Hermione had retained the nonmagical habit of using large rolls of paper for certain types of academic work. Over the years, our walls had been decorated with detailed warding diagrams, extensive rune translations, timelines, the results of trial and error testing, and sometimes, a game she called ‘hangman’. Wizarding parchment, she argued, especially the long rolls that would be required for big projects, was expensive. Why waste time, energy, and worry on errors made on expensive parchment when you could scratch and sketch to your heart’s content on cheap paper?
Hermione used more magic to unroll one of the diagrams and float it in the air in front of the fireplace. It showed a hierarchical tree of the Ministry of Magic’s internal organization, from the Minister himself all the way down to the caretakers who kept the massive, mysterious building clean.
“Ok,” she said, and rubbed her hands together. The opportunity to teach someone something brought out a certain sparkle to her eye. I watched as she began her explanation of the Ministry and its structure, beginning with the lower ranks of the organization, the base of the pyramid - a choice which was Hermione to the core. I prepared a cup of tea for her, adding a little more milk than she would use normally. It wouldn’t do for Hermione’s throat to get sore, if I could help it. I cast a gentle warming charm on the cup, and placed it where she could reach it. Then I sat back to watch.
Sometimes, in moments like this, when I was doing something that I would have never done, that would have never been allowed in my previous life, it took my breath away that so much had changed. That I was so happy. Sometimes, it felt imprudent how happy I was. Sometimes it scared me how integral this tiny, fierce witch was to my happiness. But presently, I was not scared. I was happy as I watched Hermione lecturing, the sleeves of her light blue cotton broadcloth shirt rolled up to expose strong forearms, tanned from field work, and tattooed with runic spells of her own devising. At some point, before she’d made her permanent return to Britain, she’d clipped her hair quite short on the sides and in the back, leaving a shock of glossy brown ringlets on the crown of her head that constantly flopped into her eyes. I didn’t know if it was by design, but that fringe of curls has always tempted my fingers, from the very first time I saw her again.
Lulled by the sound of her voice, the crackle of the fire, and scent of strong tea, I leaned against the arm of the couch, resting my head on my hand and tucking my feet up next to me. I half listened to Hermione as she progressed through the Department of Magical Transportation into the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. Ms. Okeke actively asked questions and for clarification about some of the sub-departments and how they related to one another, which only made Hermione more animated. Every once in a while, Hermione’s eyes would catch mine, and she would grin, eyes shining. I couldn’t help but smile back at her; her enthusiasm was practically infectious.
As Hermione had finished her explication of the Ministry and its labyrinthine bureaucratic nature, and was answering some questions about the Minister of Magic and their selection, I felt the wards around the house flex. Hermione felt it too, as her head whipped towards the foyer.
“Granger?” A familiar voice called. “Mum?”
Draco. Still calling Hermione ‘Granger’ to needle her, though there was never any malice behind it when they teased one another.
My son stalked into the study, wearing his gray Department of Mysteries robes and looking tired. It must be something serious for him to be working the weekend. As the liaison between the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Department of Mysteries, he organized material and manpower support for issues that overlapped between departments, assisted on projects in both departments, and served as advisor to both department heads. He had done so much to distance himself from his father and the events of the second Wizarding War, and I was so proud of him.
He stopped short when he saw the visitor on the couch watching him with raised eyebrows. Draco shot Hermione a suspicious look.
“Granger, what have I told you about teaching Muggle citizens to infiltrate the Ministry,” Draco deadpanned, curling his lips in the smallest hint of a smile.
Hermione merely glanced heavenward, ignoring Draco’s fabrications. I felt obligated to interject, since apparently neither of my darlings were feeling particularly burdened by social niceties today.
“Ms. Okeke, may I present my son, Draco Malfoy. He works for the Ministry, but not normally on Saturdays.”
“A pleasure,” said Ms. Okeke during my slight pause. She was watching Draco with some interest, not even bothering to conceal her scrutiny.
“Draco, this is Ms. Joy Okeke. She’s an analyst with the Serious Organized Crime Agency, and she has a son at Hogwarts.”
“That’s a relief, mum,” he said, and then he bowed to Ms. Okeke. Sometimes he remembered his manners. “Madame, I apologize for interrupting whatever you were discussing with my mother and Sherlock Granger, here,” he said, decorously, and winked. Now it was my turn to roll my eyes, and to take back whatever charitable thoughts I may have had about his manners. “But there is an emergency in Cornwall for which Granger’s prodigious talents are required.”
“Again?” Hermione asked, already rolling down her sleeves, her expression all at once very serious.
Draco nodded, his expression no longer playful. “Someone’s wee child stuck behind a devilish set of wards. No specialists from DEPMYS are available for six hours at the very soonest.”
Hermione finished buttoning her cuffs. “Alright, let me get my kit.” She approached me on the couch and leaned in to kiss my cheek. I closed my eyes and reveled in the scent of her. “You don’t mind finishing up here?” She asked, standing back and looking me dead in the eye.
“Not at all,” I assured her. Sometimes I think Hermione forgot that my participation in the adventures that found us was not solely my humoring her interests. I was not humoring her in the slightest. I mostly enjoyed the trouble she dragged us into. Together, we were quite capable of getting ourselves out of any trouble she might find.
She smiled at me, the corners of her amber eyes crinkling ever so slightly with the smile lines she was beginning to develop. I wanted to kiss her, a real kiss, but I merely smiled at her.
“Take care of one another,” I said, tearing my eyes from Hermione’s and turning to look at Draco. There was always the possibility of danger with unknown magic, and it always tugged at me when my two dearest loves were working together in such circumstances.
“Of course,” Hermione soothed. She would never scoff at my concern, though Draco might. He merely nodded.
“I’m sorry for interrupting your afternoon, mother.” Draco did look apologetic. “I’ll make it up to you.” He bowed again to Ms. Okeke and spun on his heel, heading back towards the front of the house.
Hermione turned her attention to Ms. Okeke. “I feel awful for running off like this,” she said. “Narcissa knows enough about the non-magical world that she should be able to review the information you’ve compiled and ask some preliminary questions.” She held out a hand for Ms. Okeke to shake. “It was nice meeting you. I hope we can help you to figure out what’s going on.”
Ms. Okeke shook her hand. “It was nice meeting you as well, Ms. Granger. Please contact me with any additional questions you might have.”
Hermione bowed her head to Ms. Okeke, looked up to catch my eye for a long, significant moment, long enough to set my heart beating just a little bit faster, then turned on her heel and left.
“Well,” I said, watching her go. My gaze lingered on the door briefly. This, unfortunately, was the price of our competence. Emergencies that took her from my side, or me from her side. Some thought Hermione and I codependent, but we simply wanted to spend as much time with one another as conceivably possible.
I turned my attention back to my guest. “Do you have any more questions about the Ministry’s internal structure?”
She indicated that she did not with a shake of her head.
“Is there anything you would like to know before I explain how Hermione and I fit into this,” I waved my hand indicating the Ministry chart, “mess?”
Ms. Okeke narrowed her eyes at me ever so slightly.
“How old is your son?” She asked.
“Draco is 32.”
Ms. Okeke gasped. “You do not have a son in his 30s!”
I chuckled and asked: “You’ve met Professor McGonagall a few times, have you not?”
She nodded.
“How old do you suppose she is?”
“In her late 50s, perhaps?” It was clear that Ms. Okeke was unsure of her answer.
I laughed. “I’m in my late 50s. Minerva McGonagall is in her 90s.”
Ms. Okeke gasped again, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. She was silent for a moment, and I could see her brain working behind her intelligent brown eyes.
“I think that is the most surprising thing I’ve learned since finding out my son is a wizard,” is what she said, after contemplating how that piece of information changed what she knew about the wizarding world.
“Your son, more than likely, will live a long life,” I told her softly, smiling a little.
That made her smile. There aren’t many parents who wouldn’t be happy to hear their children would live longer than they expected.
Before the silence could become too awkward, and before Ms. Okeke could ask any more illuminating questions regarding the age of witches, I began an explanation of my and Hermione’s bona fides.
“Hermione and I are both employed by St. Mungo’s Hospital, which is the largest medical facility in wizarding Britain. It treats patients and conducts research into all aspects of the intersection of health and magic, and is funded partly by the Ministry, and partly by private donation and trust.”
The research arm of St. Mungo’s had been my haven since shortly after the war. I was given the opportunity to do useful work that suited my skills while completing the masteries that I had desired since I was a girl. I had become the hospitals foremost breaker of curses, and it was what I did within those walls that redeemed me to my peers, even more than lying for Harry Potter, even more than testifying against any captured Death Eater whose crimes I had witnessed.
After the war, there were an astounding number of people, civilians and combatants alike, suffering from curses or their aftereffects. I had devoted nearly all of my waking hours for that first year to helping anyone who would accept my aid.
Attention from the Ministry came after I published a paper in Cursebreakers Quarterly regarding the use of personalized potions in combating the lingering effects of curses. The paper was the culmination of my first Potions Mastery, and its publication signaled the end of my hiding away in the basement of St. Mungo’s brewing and researching, only venturing onto the wards to treat patients or consult with other healers. The Ministry began dealing with me directly as a consultant and expert, and my life in its current state began to take shape.
Ms. Okeke, as she had been all afternoon, was paying precise attention. She must have been aware my thoughts had meandered there, for a moment, but she didn’t say anything, so I continued.
“My specialty is in the breaking of curses, which, to put it simply, are malign magics that can effect person, place or object. Hermione is an expert in the making and breaking of wards, which are magical barriers. We’ve worked as consultants for most of the Ministry’s departments on cases involving strange magic. We’ve even done work like this before - determining if crimes have a magical component before the Aurors take over.”
That had been a hell of a case; an enchanted object wrecking havoc on the inhabitants of a residence hall at the University of Glasgow, though the object was no longer on site, and the malady like curse was spreading like some infectious disease.
Ms. Okeke was nodding, and I was relieved that my explanation of our work seemed to be making sense to her.
“My agency has similar arrangements with experts in various fields that relate to crime,” she offered.
“Excellent,” I breathed, glad she didn’t seem to want to dissect the precise of details of curses or wards or the intricacies of Ministry bureaucracy. “Perhaps you can tell me about the case, and then we can attempt to get a sense of how Hermione and I might apply our talents.”
Ms. Okeke put her teacup down on the table in front of her, then leaned back, giving me an appraising look. After such an odd afternoon, it was unclear what sort of appraisal I was being subjected to.
“I live in Hampshire,” she began, “and this summer past, there was a story in the local headlines about a father who left his children - boys in primary school - alone, overnight in an isolated part of New Forest. They were found three days later after a massive manhunt, scared, but physically well.”
“That’s awful,” I said, meaning that word with every fiber of my being. No child ever deserved to feel unsafe. “What of the father?”
“They found him a few days later. He was sleeping in his car not far from Ascot Racecourse. He bet away all of the family’s funds he could get his hands on over a weekend.” Ms. Okeke rubbed her eyes. “But I know him. I knew him. For my whole life, practically. Thomas adored those boys and did everything with them.”
“There was never any indication of any instability?”
“Obviously, I didn’t live with him, but I know some of the signs, and I never saw anything in Thomas that indicated he had any mental health issues,” Ms. Okeke said, tears accumulating in the corners of her eyes. I reached over to her and grasped her wrist, unsure how I could provide some comfort to this woman I didn’t know very well. She touched the tears away with the fingers of her free hand, and continued to speak.
“But it’s not that he’s schizophrenic, or delusional, or completely divorced from reality. I went to talk to him before they took him to Broadmoor, and he’s gone completely cold. He knows me, he knows his kids, his wife, but it’s like he has no emotional connection to any of us anymore.”
“So he went into woods on a camping jaunt, and came out a sociopath?” I asked. The idea of someone or something being able to do this to people cause a shiver to run down my spine. Even at the height of his power, Tom Riddle could only amplify a person’s existing darker tendencies with any kind of speed, not create darkness out of nothing. Had he known of a way to completely cut people off from their natural empathy, he would have used it.
“After I spoke with him at the prison in Winchester, Thomas stabbed another prisoner in the neck with a sharpened toothbrush. The report said he did it because the man ‘looked at him queerly.’ HMPS transferred him to Broadmoor after a evaluation by a psychologist indicated a complete lack of empathy and a likelihood that Thomas will commit further offenses of the same nature.”
Ms. Okeke was crying in earnest now. It was honestly impressive that she managed to speak clearly while doing so. It wasn’t in me to allow her to continue crying uncomforted, so I rose from my spot on the armchair, and sat back down next to Ms. Okeke on the couch, sliding an arm around her shoulders. I could feel her taking great, shuddering breaths as she struggled to control herself. She leaned into me ever so slightly.
“Have you taken any time to grieve the loss of your friend as you knew him, or did you throw yourself into trying to find an explanation?” I asked, making eye contact with her watery, reddening brown eyes.
The consternation on her face at my question was all the answer I needed. I knew the personality type - I lived with the personality type - it wouldn’t have occurred to Ms. Okeke to take care of herself before attempting to find a solution to the problem of her friend.
“It is a special sort of hell,” I offered, keeping my voice soft and kind, “to lose someone so completely, and have them still walking around, haunting you, continuing to do harm.”
Ms. Okeke let loose one great sob before she clamped her mouth shut.
“You have to mourn your friend, Ms. Okeke,” I said, conjuring a handkerchief out of thin air and handing it to her. “Because even if what happened to him is magical in nature, and it can be reversed, the knowledge of what he has done is still something that everyone who loves him will have to contend with.”
“It’s not that I disagree,” Ms. Okeke said, still weeping. “It’s hard, missing him, being sad for his family, and being so angry with him, and also trying to find a way to help him.”
“Perhaps Hermione and I taking this on will help.”
“I hope so,” she sighed. “If it is magic, and he can’t be helped, I would like to make sure this doesn’t happen to any other families.”
“That would be ideal,” I agreed, “but we won’t know until we’ve gathered more information. Do you think you can tell me about the two other probable cases you found?”
It only took thirty more minutes for Ms. Okeke to relate the particulars of the two cases that she thought were related to her friend’s. A young woman studying social work at the University of Winchester, and the rector of a Church of England congregation in Basingstoke. She handed over three voluminous and, I was sure, exhaustive files that included complete background information and as much information as she could gather on the movements of all the individuals at the time of their change in personality.
We were back to a bit of awkwardness as the conversation reached its conclusion.
“Thank you for agreeing to look into this, Narcissa,” Ms. Okeke said, standing in the foyer, looking decidedly less at ease than she had been earlier. “And please thank Hermione for me, again.”
I nodded, attempting to appear confident. “We will be in touch about our plans to further the investigation. Now, can I take you home? Or anywhere else you would like to go?”
“I thought,” she ventured shyly, “that I might take a cab, so that I can have a long think about what you said regarding grieving for Thomas.” She smiled at me a little tremulously. “And if I start crying, it certainly won’t be anything a London cabbie hasn’t seen before.”
“Are you sure that wouldn’t be handled better at home?” Crying in the back of a taxicab is one muggle experience I’m glad to have not experienced. I had ridden in quite a few, and frankly, would rather be chased by a cadre of bludgers on a broomstick for the rest of my life. The bludgers would probably be less dangerous.
“Lord, no. I have three other children that aren’t away at school, plus a husband. I’ll be pounced on as soon as I walk through the door.”
“I see,” I stated, understanding that the luxury of time to unpack and unravel complicated emotions was not always afforded to parents of young children. Ms. Okeke watched me carefully as I took out my wand and conjured four additional handkerchiefs and presented them to her. I also summoned a headache potion from the stores in my tiny laboratory off the kitchens. I held out the small vial for her inspection.
“This is a headache potion, essentially the wizarding version of paracetamol. It has a little something extra for congestion and red eyes, if you end up needing it.”
She took the vial from me carefully, almost like she was handling something precious. She looked at me like I was something strange, indeed. Not unkindly, just like she couldn’t believe that I was offering her this small kindness.
“Thank you, Narcissa. I hope I won’t need it.” She tucked the vial into the pocket of the casual blazer she was wearing over her jumper.
I opened the door for her, and we stepped together out onto the front stoop. She looked around, up the street and down.
“Oh, I know where we are!” She exclaimed. “I’ll be able to catch a cab on Prince of Wales Road.”
She smiled again, waved, and started walking towards the busy high street.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon reviewing tomes on mind magics, but was unable to find any magics, accidental or otherwise, that resulted in a complete loss of a persons empathy or conscience. There were many instances of accidental and purposeful amnesia, varying levels of delusion, even instances of what seemed to be complete personality transplants, but no instances of a rapid-onset of what muggles call sociopathy.
Even in the darker tomes I reviewed, wherein unethical experiments on mind and memory were chronicled, divorcing a person from their sense of morality took time and a gradual escalation by the manipulator, or else the mind would rebel against the process. Pushing that process too fast resulted in a complete breakdown in the subject’s personality - essentially, the subject became non-functioning.
An owl interrupted my reading not long after the sun set, and I took it as an indication that it was time to do something that wouldn’t result in nightmares about the horrific experiments that had been carried out by wizards past.
The letter, a short note from Hermione, indicated that demolition of a wall was required to break through the wards trapping the child, so the rescue operation was taking longer than expected and she would not be back in time for dinner.
I felt my face shape itself into a frown. Hermione had not eaten since breakfast, and ward-breaking took a substantial amount of energy, especially if she ended up needing to use her tattoos to physically breach the ward. Not acceptable.
“Archibald,” I intoned softly into the quiet house.
“Good evening, Mistress,” Archibald replied after popping quietly into being next to me.
“Hello, Archibald,” I said, smiling down at the wizened little elf. He had been with me and my sisters since birth, had helped me to raise Draco, had helped keep me safe through two wars, and helped me transition away from what constituted pureblood polite society after the second war. Now, he was essentially my steward, responsible for managing the maintenance of the remaining Black and Malfoy properties. Though he did cook for Hermione, Draco and me on occasion, to keep his hand in, he said. A few of his children and grandchildren assisted with the day to day upkeep of this house, though all of them spent a lot of time with the new house elf colony that was forming at Hogwarts.
As charming and effervescent as his family may be, Archibald was the most talented practitioner of elven magic I had ever encountered, which is why I needed him tonight.
“May I ask a favor of you this evening, Archibald?”
“You may ask a favor of me any evening, Mistress,” he answered smoothly, his large lambent eyes twinkling.
Archibald was a free elf, but I knew there was very little he wouldn’t do for me if I asked. It was a very dear wish that someday, he would tell me ‘no’.
“Hermione and Draco are who knows where attempting to rescue a child from behind some wards,” I explained. “Are you able to locate them and see if you could offer some assistance, and perhaps some sustenance?”
His eyes closed briefly and I knew he was attempting to locate Draco and Hermione with that sixth sense an elf developed through long association.
“I can, and I shall,” he said after his eyes popped open. “There are three others with them. I will provide them with a meal, as well.”
“My thanks, Archibald,” I offered. He inclined his head graciously, the tips of his enormous ears drooping comically as he did, interrupting the air of gravitas that the wise old elf always projected. Then he disappeared.
Confident that Hermione and Draco would be well looked after wherever they were in Cornwall, I set about attending to my own supper.