Chapter Text
Thursday, July 13, 1995 -- Narcissa
The sun had not yet risen when Narcissa Malfoy neé Black stood at the iron gate of 12 Grimmauld Place, just inside the anti-muggle wards and other protections meant to keep undesirables away—herself included.
As a girl she’d visited the handsome townhome a number of times—back when her aunt and uncle were still living. But time had not been kind to the magical estate. Its aged exterior no longer felt familiar as she inspected the dirty stone, windows caked in years of dust, crooked fence, and overgrown courtyard—she pressed the pointed toe of her dragonhide heel into a clump of grass jutting from the cracked paving stones, flattening it down. It appeared the looming townhome was deserted—or left to look it.
But Narcissa hoped, pressing the screeching gate open, crossing the uneven front walk, and climbing the three stone steps, that she may find her cousin in residence.
Collecting her nerves and removing her twisting fingers from each other—a habit that only overwrote her severe upbringing and years of etiquette training in times of immense strain—she took a deep breath, raised a fist, and knocked on the tall black door.
Heart thudding in her ears, she smoothed her robes with a practiced hand and steeled her resolve to be there, attempting to distract from the anticipation roiling in her gut.
It was a risk, of course—being there. Everything had become a risk since joining her husband’s family and affairs. That had been made clear during the first wizarding war. But this risk was necessary—for many reasons.
Still, the longer she waited, the stronger her anxieties grew.
Suddenly, a draft of air drew the dregs of night past her and two wands stopped centimeters from her nose, protruding from the now-open doorway. The owner of the longer wand—red-brown in color and slightly curved—spoke first, “How did you find this place?”
Narcissa looked up into the eyes of Kingsley Shaklebolt, a wizard several years her senior. Raising one perfect eyebrow, she inspects the adult wizard—an ex-Order member… or possibly a current one if her suspicions of the rising tensions and conflicts in their world proved fruitful. He was no more or less impressive than their school days at this age. However, his presence at Grimmauld Place only furthered her reasons for being on its stoop to begin with.
“I am still a Black witch, Mister Shacklebolt,” she finally answers. “You are intelligent enough to sort the ‘how’ for yourself. Unless you have lost your wit in the years since last we met?”
“Surrender your wand,” a pink-haired woman says from behind the two wizards brandishing wands. Narcissa looks her up and down, recognizing features of her sister in the witch instantly.
“Hello Nymphadora,” she greets as she slowly draws her wand from her robes, holding it in an unwieldy way. Shacklebolt reaches for it and Narcissa jerks her hand back from him, frowning at his impropriety. The second wand in her face presses close enough to touch her when either of them breathes.
Its owner growls lightly, “Surrender it now.”
Her light blue eyes flash to Remus Lupin, glaring cooly. “Only to my niece.”
“Who is it?” a scratchy voice calls from behind the three wix blocking the entryway. Her eyes search past them as Nymphadora shifts forward, taking her wand and pocketing it in messy robes fastened over muggle fashions. When her niece retreats, she catches sight of a gaunt-looking man possessing a neat goatee and pale skin covered in dark ink, robed in a fine silk dressing gown over sleep clothes.
“Sirius. There you are.” A small sense of relief washes over her and she settles into a more relaxed demeanor than her previous posturing. Folding her hands in front of herself, she hopes they are still on somewhat friendly terms with one another, “Might I come in?”
“Please,” Sirius responds at the same moment Mister Shacklebolt voices a denial. Her cousin glares at the taller wizard, “This is still my home, Kingsley. I will decide who is and is not welcome.”
“Pads,” Lupin says lowly, not turning his attention from her.
“Trust me, Moony.”
Shacklebolt is incensed, “You’d risk the sec—”
Interrupting Shacklebolt before he can get much further making decisions on his behalf, Sirius steps between the two wizards blocking the door, and forces their wands down. “We’ll take tea in the drawing room, cousin.”
Ever the Pureblood—despite a lengthy effort to resist—he moves to one side, stepping on Shacklebolt’s toes in the process, and sweeps an arm into the home in welcome. Lupin shrinks back into the wall as she accepts the invitation, making her way inside and to the drawing room. Her cousin and those who greeted her follow closely behind.
Once settled into a straight-backed seat in front of the four of them, Sirius snaps his fingers and Kreacher pops into the room. Narcissa is surprised to find the old elf alive. Doubly as he lights up upon seeing her, waddling over, “Mistress, oh good mistress. She’s returned for Kreacher.”
His small, bony hands hover just above her milky white skin, overly large eyes swimming with unshed tears, and oversized ears twitching as he waits reverently at her side. Narcissa notices how frail the old elf appears—his back hunched more severely than the last she saw him, possibly more than a decade ago.
“Kreacher, a tea service,” Sirius tells the elf and it looks between the two surviving Blacks, eyes glassy and unfocused. “Now, Kreacher!”
The elf pops away.
“Explain yourself,” Remus Lupin says, crossing his arms where he stands sentry behind Sirius who seated himself in her uncle’s favorite wing-backed chair across her.
“I have come to speak with my cousin, but I suppose it is only right for you three to sit in on our discussion as it is relevant to your little Order.” Narcissa holds her hands in her lap, folded neatly atop one of her thighs. Her eyes flit over the three vastly different near-strangers in the drawing room, taking in their reactions before her eyes return to her cousin. He truly does appear sickly, “Sirius, I do hope you’ve been eating—you’re positively skeletal.”
“Twelve years in Azkaban will do that to a person, Cissy.” His dark grey eyes greet her light ones, his thin cheeks sucking in as he inspects her, making him seem even more unwell. But he is still her cousin. Still, a Black, as much as either of them could wish their heritage away.
Kreacher returns to the drawing room levitating a tea service. It settles on the low table between them with a gentle clatter and the elf immediately turns to Narcissa with an eager look, “Tea, missus?”
“Yes, Kreacher. With a splash of milk.”
She accepts the levitated teacup and sits regally as Sirius fixes his own cup, unable to rely on the old, malcontent elf. Narcissa notices he still takes his tea with an appalling amount of sugar and her lips quirk up. The other two wizards stay put but Nymphadora comes to the service and takes one of the biscuits, plopping down into a loveseat to the right of Narcissa.
“Cousin,” Sirius begins, waving a loitering Kreacher away, “What is it you’ve come for? It must be important, otherwise you’d not have taken the risk.”
She bobs her head gracefully and looks at each of the faces around the room, choosing her words. “The Order of the Phoenix has reunited I see.”
Shacklebolt scowls, “That doesn’t concern you—”
“You are not the only ones who anticipate the coming chaos,” she interrupts, lifting her tea to her lips, sipping. “I have seen the signs—it’s just as it was before. Better hidden, but the same.”
“Yes,” Sirius nods, stirring his tea wandlessly.
“Why are you here, Narcissa?” Nymphadora asks, her hair flickering a darker shade before settling back to pink.
Lady Malfoy appreciates her niece for a moment, taking in the attributes gifted from her side of the family—dearest Andromeda created a lovely child. It was a pity she’d been absent for her childhood, she’d have liked to witness the obvious trouble the witch got up to.
“I have come to negotiate my aid of your side in this war.” It’s as if the air is sucked from the room. All eyes are upon Narcissa and all mouths hang agape. After suffering a few moments of heavy silence, Narcissa asks, “Is it so difficult to believe?”
“You wish to assist the Order in this next war?” Remus Lupin asks, his thick eyebrows drawn over his scarred face. “But you are the Lady Malfoy. You’re the wife of one of the most influential families in the wizarding world. A lineage known for its use of dark magics—”
“I may be the wife of a dark wizard, Remus Lupin, but I am still my own witch.” Narcissa fixes him with an unimpressed scowl. “There are many things changed for me now. I am not as naive as I once was, my beliefs aren’t clouded by the rhetoric thrust upon me as a girl, and I have something very dear to protect.”
“Your son,” Sirius guesses. Narcissa looks at him, pausing then nodding slightly. He was always quick to the truth—even if he didn’t always allow himself to believe it.
“My Draco is already being groomed into a dark wizard. I have watched my beautiful boy slowly disappear over the past months under his father’s direction and that of the resurrected dark faction he regretfully belongs to.” She steadies her trembling hands, “It tears at my heart—I will not stand for it.”
“So you offer your cooperation. What does that entail?” Shacklebolt presses.
“Draco deserves every opportunity available to him. The ideology of his father’s nefarious society does not allow for that. It will destroy his soul, wreck his future.” She takes a deep breath, containing her abundance of furious passion for the failure of Tom Riddle’s resurrected regime.
“What is your proposal?” Sirius steeples his fingers.
Narcissa takes another slow sip, drawing out the anticipation. Then replaces her cup on the saucer, “I am uniquely placed within the ranks of Death Eaters, as I am not one myself so I am unimportant, but my husband is Inner Circle and I am permitted to hear what he hears. I will become a spy for your Order, and feed this privileged information to you. My husband thinks little of me and is loose-lipped, as are his regular house guests. Attacks, plans—I am able to witness conversations Severus Snape is not privy to.”
“Snape? What’s he to do—”
Narcissa stops Shacklebolt. “Spare me your poorly constructed lies. It is no secret, Severus’ double agency. Even the Dark Lord suspects him.”
“So you will not withhold any information?” Nympadora asks, an eyebrow raised.
“I will divulge any actionable information that does not risk my son. You may ask of me anything that does not jeopardize him.” Narcissa returns her gaze to Shacklebolt. “I can fund your endeavors to an extent, help to evacuate populations at risk—muggleborn families—house them abroad.”
“And the cost of your… ministrations?” Kingsley prods.
“I need assurances my Draco will not be punished for his actions in the war, no matter how wretched they might be. He will not end up in Azkaban prison, he will not be penalized, and he will not be kept from his birthright as the Malfoy and Black heir.”
Lupin frowns, “That is a steep request, one we cannot guarantee.”
“When this war is won, I assume someone from your Order will be appointed Minister, at least interim. They will carry out my wishes, and to ensure it, I will take an Unbreakable Vow against your Order.”
They ponder her request openly, each disclosing a variety of unintelligible expressions.
“It is still a disproportionate request,” Nymphadora sucks her teeth, “If my cousin were to do anything truly damning, the public could hardly accept a pardon, even from the Minister.”
“I am not quite finished,” Narcissa discards her tea setting on the table beside her. “As punishment for my family’s part in the war, Lucius will be sentenced to life in Azkaban prison and 50,000 galleons will be paid in war reparations for any damages caused. If Draco is directly responsible for loss of life, the sum will increase to 100,000 galleons. But he will go free.”
Sirius raises a brow, “That is a generous sum, Narcissa—more than. But are you confident you do not wish to remove yourself completely from the war? Take Draco somewhere else, somewhere safe?”
Narcissa sighs, her thumb caressing the cool edge of her wedding band. “There is nowhere for us to go… Lucius may allow me to flee, but he’d never allow his heir to be with me. And I will not abandon my son.”
Sirius nods solemnly.
“Is that all, Missus Malfoy?” Shacklebolt asks, his eyes appearing greedy since her declarations.
“No. I have one last requirement.” She pulls an invisible speck of lint from her robes before speaking plainly. “To ensure my son’s future and the public’s opinion of him, I will require a marriage contract.”
Remus scoffs gently and eyes turn to him, “No one will accept an arranged, Pureblood marriage following a war over blood purity. Not with the reputation your husband is building himself. They’d be vilified—especially following a pardon for crimes even you expect. It’s unthinkable.”
Narcissa nods in agreement, a small yet serious smile on her face, “That is why she will not be a Pureblood, but a Muggleborn witch. Someone who can sway the public and help to restore any loss to the family name when this is all over.”
“And who would fulfill this final condition of yours? You must have someone in mind,” Shacklebolt asks, crossing his arms.
Narcissa smiles at them now. A true smile, “Hermione Granger.”