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Narcissa watches the gently falling snow melt and eventually drip down the worn stone teeth of the mausoleum’s gargoyles. The rhythmic plopping sound reminds her of a heartbeat—of children counting to a hundred—of watching the rain cascade over Hogwarts’ windows.
Andromeda’s footsteps echo the sound of falling water. She stands beside Narcissa—never touching, of course—her muggle coat starkly blue against the graveyard’s monochrome hues.
“How’s Edward?” Narcissa asks as she tucks her hands further into her robe’s pockets.
“Teddy’s started kindergarten,” her sister replies with her usual acidic tone. A pause—a hint of a breeze rustling through the stripped-bare trees—and Andromeda tugs something free from her coat pocket. “He wanted to go with bright blue hair.”
Narcissa turns and peers down at the photograph—the gap-toothed smile of a waving child with dark hair that splotches with red and then green and back to red again.
“He’s getting big,” she murmurs, an aching pain throbbing in her chest. “He’ll be off to Hogwarts before long.”
“Not for a while,” Andromeda says as she tucks the photograph away. “If he goes at all.”
The words hang between them for a moment as Narcissa gapes at her sister, who shrugs uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “His grandfather was a late bloomer.”
“Still,” Narcissa says, turning her gaze back to the dripping snow. “It’s unusual for a Black.”
“He isn’t a Black,” Andromeda snaps. “He’s my grandson.”
Narcissa gestures to the name inscribed in the archway. “He’ll always be a part of the family, Andromeda. Like you.”
Andromeda huffs out a plume of icy air and doesn’t respond.
For a few minutes they stand in silence—the snow dusts across Narcissa’s shoulders—glistens in Andromeda’s pale hair—gathers on the tops of her boots in delicate heaps.
Narcissa takes a deep breath of frosty air. “How did you know,” she murmurs, “you were making the right choice?”
“I didn’t,” Andromeda replies after a moment. “I just knew I couldn’t stay in that house any longer. That anything had to be better than turning into—”
You hangs unsaid between them. Andromeda clears her throat. Unwraps a boiled sweet and pops it into her mouth.
“The Greengrasses want to break off the engagement,” Narcissa says, wishing for a sweet of her own, something to crack between her teeth until her tongue was coated in sticky sugar. “They’re concerned about the rumours.”
“Yes,” Andromeda says slowly. “Draco mentioned that in his letter.”
“He writes you letters?” Narcissa’s voice pitches shrilly and she snaps her mouth shut. Takes another deep breath and tries to speak softly. “Since when?”
“Since your husband threatened to disinherit him.” She pauses for a heartbeat. “The first time.”
“Merlin.” Narcissa sags slightly and kicks the snow off the top of her boots. “He never said.”
“Your reaction made that obvious, Cissy.” For a second, Andromeda’s voice has a hint of warmth—of childhood joys—filching desserts from the kitchens and burying themselves under Bellatrix’s bed to gorge themselves on spun sugar and cream.
“I won’t burn him out of the tapestry,” Narcissa says firmly. “No matter what Lucius says.”
“It’s not his family in the first place.” Andromeda’s voice is mild. She takes a half-step closer, her elbow brushing against Narcissa’s. “It’s ours.”
“What’s left of it.” Narcissa sighs and looks up again at the inscribed Black on the stone façade. “He’s told you about his muggleborn—” she tries not to choke on the word, “—girlfriend?”
“I’m well acquainted with Hermione.” Andromeda steps forward and flicks her wand to open the heavy iron door. “She’d make a lovely daughter-in-law.”
“For you, maybe,” Narcissa murmurs as she follows behind. A drip of water catches her ear and slides down the side of her neck, icy cold and ominous.
“If not for Bella,” Andromeda says as she ignites the torches and heads towards the stairwell, “you would’ve been his least favourite cousin.”
“It isn’t as easy for me as it is for you,” Narcissa snaps as the torches splutter and she hurries not to be left behind in the gloom. “We can’t all just—just run off and abandon our responsibilities.”
“What responsibilities?” Andromeda snaps back. “Look where they got you.” She gestures in front of her—the shadows of her fingers turning to thick snakes as they round the corner. “Our family are ghosts, Cissy.”
“And they haunt me,” Narcissa whispers as they get to the bottom of the stairs and the family tomb opens up in front of them—an endless expanse of shadows and stone.
“Because you let them.” Andromeda’s voice echoes faintly as she walks across the cracking flagstones. “Do you think mother will crawl out of her tomb to lecture you if you forget to send a thank-you card?”
“She might,” Narcissa mutters dryly as she continues behind. “You remember what she was like.”
Andromeda huffs a soft laugh. “Not the best example, then.”
They stop in front of Sirius’ sarcophagus. As empty as his brother’s beside him. Two faded photographs fastened to the stone—Harry’s doing, no doubt—the two of them smiling at the camera—arms around each other—young and full of joy and life.
“We should have been better cousins,” Narcissa says softly as Andromeda sets down a vase of vibrant poppies. “It might have… Maybe.”
“Maybe,” Andromeda echoes as she straightens and rubs a knuckle against her back. “We’re too old to change the past, Cissy. All we can do is protect the future.”
“Even if it goes against everything our family believed in?” Narcissa asks, staring at Sirius’ dark eyes. Almost everything.
“They’re dead, Cissy.” Andromeda pats her shoulder. “Focus on the living instead.”
Narcissa stays staring at the photograph as her sister’s footsteps echo and fade.
She bumps into Harry Potter—of all people—as she emerges from the stairwell. The boy—young man, now—stumbles backwards and adjusts his glasses.
“I’m—Sorry, Mrs Malfoy,” he stammers, blinking at her with his mother’s eyes. “I thought—Aunt Andromeda left ages ago—I thought…”
“That’s alright.” Narcissa steps to the side—he steps the same way—for a second, they dance awkwardly trying to let the other pass.
“Sorry,” Harry mumbles as he stays still and gestures her on. “Ladies first.”
Narcissa sniffs and takes a step. Hesitates a moment. Turns slightly.
“Have you heard from Ms Granger?” she asks as Harry’s about to step out of view.
His foot hovers in mid-air. “No,” he says slowly as he turns to stare at her. “Not really.”
“Hm.” Narcissa huffs softly and turns back to the mausoleum door. Her fingers are brushing the cold iron when Harry clears his throat.
“Mrs Malfoy,” he says—sort of squeaks—and Narcissa stops. “You should—you could write her. A letter.” She turns to see his face flushing pink as he gestures with his hands. “Some things are easier to say when they’re not face to face,” he says, staring at Narcissa’s shoulder.
“Thank you for the advice, Mr Potter.” Narcissa inclines her head slightly. “I hope you give her the same.”
He blinks at her for a second before nodding. “Yeah. Alright. Safe—erm—safe travels, Mrs Malfoy.”
She doesn’t respond—just leaves the frozen dead behind her and Apparates back home.
It’s snowing again two weeks later when Narcissa is sitting stiffly in Hermione’s cramped flat and eyeing the cup of tea—in a mug—suspiciously.
“It’s Chinese,” Hermione says helpfully. “It’s meant to emulate a flower unfurling.”
“No,” Narcissa says as her frown deepens. “I don’t understand why there are cartoon children on the mug.”
“Oh.” Hermione fidgets with the end of her braid. “It’s from a television show. It was the biggest mug I have—I should’ve gotten some fancy cups—” she bites her lip and then stares at the ceiling. “I could’ve made fancy cups,” she finishes in a frustrated whisper.
“I’ll send you a set,” Narcissa says, if only because the girl’s awkwardness is making her feel uneasy. “Then you’ll have one on hand for next time.”
“Next time.” Hermione gulps and looks towards the window. “If you insist.”
Narcissa tries a sip of the tea—it’s stronger than she likes—Osmanthus, probably—and sets the mug down again.
“Draco,” she starts, and Hermione’s gaze snaps away from the window and to Narcissa’s face, “has never liked living in his father’s shadow.” She taps an idle nail against the thick porcelain of the mug and lets her attention be caught by the drifting snowflakes passing by the frosted glass. “He struggles with becoming his own person whilst simultaneously wanting to make his father proud.”
Hermione chews at her bottom lip and fidgets with her own mug of tea.
“And Lucius likes to meddle,” Narcissa continues softly. “Abraxas—Lucius’ father—had very strict notions of how a pureblood son ought to act.” She sighs and takes another sip of tea. “Getting routinely bested by his muggleborn classmate was, for example, completely unacceptable.”
“Draco mentioned that,” Hermione interrupts faintly. “I might’ve—if I’d known…” She trails off and stares miserably down at her tea.
“Perhaps.” Narcissa lets her gaze wander around the kitchen—searching for any remnant of her son’s presence and uncertain if there’s anything there at all. “My point is, Ms Granger, out of all the people you might’ve asked about that night, you chose the worst one.”
“That’s sort of what Draco said,” Hermione mumbles without looking up. “Before he stormed off.”
“Can you blame him?” Narcissa raises an eyebrow at her.
Hermione shakes her head. “No,” she answers in a tiny whisper.
Narcissa hesitates for a moment. Takes a sip of tea. Taps her finger on the table. “I believe he’s staying with the young Mr Nott. I can escort you to his manor, when you’re ready.”
“Now?” Hermione looks up in alarm. “I—I don’t know—”
“Certain wounds tend to fester,” Narcissa interrupts. “Don’t let this become one of them.”
Hermione pales and wrings her hands together. “But he’s furious with me.”
“You can’t know that until you speak with him.” Narcissa's voice is firm—she sounds like Andromeda—and if the girl wouldn’t recoil, she’d reach across the table to save her poor over-wrung hands. “I thought Gryffindors didn't tend towards cowardice.”
Hermione’s hands slam into the table and the mug of tea lurches precariously before settling back down. “I’m not a coward, Mrs Malfoy.”
“Wonderful.” Narcissa gets to her feet in a sweep of her robes. “Then prove it.”