Chapter Text
It had hovered somewhere in the back of her mind for years, hidden with her dream of becoming a potions mistress and still caring for Andromeda, that she did not know the very basics of how to care for herself. She never had to. Not as a babe, who’s first recollection of a person holding her was her dearest old house elf Velvet. Not as a child, learning to read and play under Bellatrix’s hovering guidance. Not at Hogwarts where every meal was made for her and her room was cleaned before she’d finished class each day. Not as Lady Malfoy, in a manor filled with house elves and enchanted furniture that cleaned and cared for itself.
And so, the war is over, and Narcissa Black, divorced and with a six month incarceration in Azkaban under her belt, is sitting in an empty manor that still echoes with screams and insane laughter.
It’s all destroyed. All of it. The aurors weren’t gentle with the manor as they pilfered it for dark artifacts and cursed items and proof of the Dark Lord’s infestation. When she apparated herself from Azkaban upon her release, the front door had been hanging on one of its hinges, swinging wildly in the November wind. The manor is covered in a thick layer of dirt and grime and dead leaves and broken things she can neither identify or fix with a repairing charm.
The only comfort to her is that she can’t smell the blood seeped into every tile. Even the dark thick energy that had wound itself into the walls of the house seems to have been scared away by the changing seasons and the wildness of earth as it did what it did best: reclaim what people destroyed.
So here she sits, on layers of dirt and leaves and vines in what was once the entrance hall, tapping a wand that no longer feels like her own in her hand, with no idea how to even begin cleaning the place.
Hours pass that way, with Narcissa trying to identify a single cleaning charm she may have overheard in her forty some years on this earth and she cannot think of a single one.
It is only as dusk falls that another, equally horrid thought occurs to her. She has no elves. No food. And no idea how to prepare a meal for herself.
She racks her mind for any time she’s eaten something someone else hadn’t prepared. She used to help herself to the apples in the orchard at Black Cheateau. Andromeda would hoist her high on her shoulders so she could reach the plump red fruit and the two of them would sit, giggling among the roots and gorging themselves on apples in the autumn air. When Draco was a babe, she put popping corn kernels in a bowl and heated them with a charm that made them all pop at once and made Draco clap his chubby little hands with glee. She could pour wine: knew all the spells for airing finicky old reds and charms to restore the bubbles to a champagne that had been sitting out at a party for too long.
None of this helps her, here, now.
If Druella could see her now, she would scream.
She breathes. Ignores the impending panic and the helplessness and the hopelessness the way she has for years. She is a Black. She still has money. Some, at least.
She looks down at her robes, stains from the ground layered over the grime of war. She’d been arrested at the Battle of Hogwarts in these robes. She has to get them off.
She strips there in the entrance hall. Even though it’s cold outside and the front door is still swinging wildly in the wind and sneaking its way into the room. She’ll set them on fire, later, she decides.
The rest of the house is in awful shape as well, she discovers. The Death Eaters had invaded the space first, all rude and uncontrollable and disrespectful. Then the Dark Lord and moved in and evil had slunk into the halls like a sticky sickly tar. And then the snatchers had come, smelling of blood and rot and cheap alcohol. Together they’d been a storm beyond Narcissa’s reckoning. The elves had stopped trying to clean after a month of them all shut in the manor together.
Her chest aches at the sight of the master bedroom. Not because she loves it, no, she’s hated this house for years now. Maybe even over a decade. But her heart hurts for the newly wedded Narcissa she’d once been; all bright eyed and hopeful and in love.
She’d been an idiot.
Her closet is mostly untouched and she breathes a sigh of relief at the sight. A quick accio summons a luggage case to her side, equipped with an extension charm and feather light charm. She throws on a simple set of navy blue robes that feel and look more pedestrian than she’s ever felt, even in her Azkaban issued robes. The rest of her robes are directed into her luggage along with some shoes. She’ll come back for anything else later. Maybe. She can’t stand it here any longer.
A well placed glamour charm and apparation later and she is on her way to Gringotts. She doesn’t count the galleons she grabs, just stuffs them mindlessly in her coin purse and leaves. Everywhere she looks are reminders of her actions during the war. And worse were the reminders of her inaction. She remembers, after the trio had somehow escaped from the manor, the absolute rage on the Dark Lord’s face when he discovered what had happened. She remembers even more, the infiltration of Gringotts a month later. The way Bellatrix couldn’t hold her own wand for hours after the Dark Lord learned it was her vault that had been stolen from. The dead goblins. So many of them. All their blood the exact same shade as hers.
She stays in a small room that smells like mice above a pub in Knockturn Alley called the Hopping Hippogriff.
She stays there for four months, sleeping in a dusty bed, plucking spiders off her robes in the wardrobe, and eating the tasteless swill they call stew in the pub downstairs. She stays there and doesn’t think and doesn’t feel, because, at least, this place isn’t the manor. And she doesn’t hear from Draco.
Four months, as it turns out, is about as much of this dark, rank, room as Narcissa can tolerate.
It occurs to her that when she showed up here, she believed it was her punishment. That if anyone saw her, living as she was, they could laugh at how far the icy Lady Malfoy had fallen. That realisation is accompanied by a special kind of shame. If she knew how to care for herself, she wouldn’t be here.
And then it occurs to her that she could learn. That she’d effectively believed she couldn’t manage, so much so that she’d spent four months punishing herself when she could have been learning.
And that brings a new level of loathing and shame and helplessness.
She doesn’t know where to go, or who she could ask for help. It’s too soon to reach out to Andromeda. The woman lost her husband and her daughter and her son in law in the span of a few months. And Narcissa does not know for sure that Bellatrix didn’t kill any of them. So she stays away, tucks Andromeda back into that little corner of her mind where light doesn’t fall.
Draco is somewhere. She saw an article about him entering Curse Breaker training in the Prophet. She won’t ask him for help.
It’s as she’s laying in that tiny dusty bed that night that a wild thought, so unlike her that it startles her from the edge of sleep, crosses her mind.
She has to pinch herself, has to look in a foggy cracked mirror, searching her eyes for the glint of insanity that lived in Bella’s toward the end. When she doesn’t find it, she breathes, thinks it over some more.
It’s a special kind of humiliation to realise that the woman she’s hated for years, mocked for longer, is happier (perhaps) and more capable of caring for herself (without a doubt) than Narcissa has ever been.
Because that insane thought had been one word: Molly.
It’s absurd, she tells herself. Because it is. But it’s true. Molly, with her household of seven (now six, her mind snidely corrects), and her sweet husband, and their tiny little Burrow of a house, and only Arthur’s unimportant ministry job, has somehow managed to be happy and thrive and be free in a way Narcissa cannot even conceive of.
There’s no way Molly will help her. If it was Molly coming to Narcissa for aid even a few months ago, Narcissa would have mocked her and sent her on her miserable way. But Molly was better than that, always had been. Molly is better than her.
Because she’s tired of living in this awful little room and tired of feeling helpless and tired of being stuck and just flat out tired, Narcissa decides she has to try.
When the sun rises, Narcissa tells herself she still has to go. She dresses stiffly, demanding fearful limbs to move. Her robes are simple, the same grey as her eyes, and the least expensive set she owns. She doesn’t know how else to humble herself before Molly.
By the time she apparates to Ottery St. Catchpole, she’s terrified and fully regretting her choice. Her dragon hide boots sink into the muddy field as she walks unsteadily toward the topsy turvy house of the family she has always judged.
She reaches out to brush the edge of the wards. They aren’t malicious, just curious and welcoming - not at all like the stiff sinister wards of the manor. They let her in so easily that she’s startled and trips over nothing. The March air smells like rain and dirt and… citrus? Something tart and sweet, definitely.
Knocking on the happy yellow door is almost impossible. She does it too quietly the first time and it is only the sternness of her upbringing that encourages her to do it again, louder and more confidently.
“Just a minute!” She hears something clang and another thing bump and another thing screech and then the door opens to a smiling face surrounded by bouncy red curls shot through with white.
She watches at that smile drops into a startled “oh” and then corrects itself into a defensive and strangely pureblood smile that gives nothing away. “Ms… Black,” Molly says, like she can’t quite believe her eyes.
Narcissa wants to wring her hands like she did when she was a child. Wants to bite her lip and stutter and run away in the opposite direction.
She forces herself to meet Molly’s eyes. They’re the same cornflower blue Narcissa remembers. Just… sadder. There’s something smaller about this woman, something hunched in her shoulders. She supposes losing a son will do that to a mother and her heart aches for the witch.
Molly’s eyebrows furrow the longer Narcissa stands there, staring. She ought to say something. Anything. “I… like the colour of your door,” she says. She should have said anything but that.
Molly’s eyebrows now raise slightly and there’s amusement twitching at her lips. “You should come in,” she says.
It is more courtesy than Narcissa deserves and it shocks her to the core. Nonetheless, she follows Molly into the strange house that is neither as small nor as shabby as she assumed it would be.
“I’m making citrus tarts,” Molly says. Perhaps to fill the silence. No doubt she is feeling as off kilter and awkward as Narcissa.
She sees an opening though, Slytherin as she is, to say, “Will you teach me?”
She should have eased into it. Should have apologized first. Or started a conversation. Or explained herself. Living alone in a dusty room for months has destroyed all the training she received in her youth.
Molly looks startled, then cautious as though expecting Narcissa to insult her or laugh or maybe avada her on the spot. Narcissa cringes. She’d expected righteous Gryffindor fury, if she was being honest. Or maybe just a cold rejection of her presence. Or for the wards to kick her out. Or for any number of things that she would be fully deserving of. She never expected Molly to be this… broken.
“I’m sorry,” she blurts. Because today is just the day where Narcissa has no control of her mouth, she supposes.
Molly frowns. “For what, exactly?”
That is closer to the kind of interaction Narcissa anticipated and she jumps on it. “Everything,” she cries. As it escapes her lips, she realises it’s true. And isn’t that just awful.
“I’m sorry, Molly. For everything. For being cruel to you in school. For mocking your life and your choices and you. I’m sorry for judging you and for making you feel awful about yourself. I’m sorry that I took my envy out on you. I’m sorry for the war and I’m sorry for the hurt.” Narcissa shrugs, helplessly. Her mother would hex her for such an uncontrolled movement. “I’m sorry my ex husband was so horrible to your family. I’m sorry for what he did to Ginevra. And I’m sorry I wasn’t a better mother to Draco. I’m sorry he tormented your children.
“I wish I could start over. You don’t have to give me a chance. Merlin knows I don’t deserve it. But I wanted you to know.” Narcissa moves back toward the door. This was a mistake. They have too much history and it all just slammed into her like a bombarda to the chest.
“Would you like some tea,” she hears. The voice is almost shattered. It stops her, her hand hovering over the door knob.
When she meets Molly’s eyes, something passes between them. Maybe it’s loneliness. Whatever it is has Narcissa nodding and moving back toward the kitchen. “Tea sounds nice,” she admits.
They settle at the long table that fits snugly in the kitchen and sip at a citrusy blend in silence for a long while before Molly finally speaks. “Not all of that was your fault.”
Narcissa blinks. It most certainly was her fault! She made her choices and this is where it’s gotten her. Molly must see the shock and disagreement on her face because interrupts Narcissa’s internal self flagellation with, “Truly. Not all of that was your fault.”
She disagrees but composes herself anyway.
Molly continues, “We fell on different sides of the war. But you never hurt me or anyone I loved. Even Draco’s squabbles and disagreements with my children seem childish compared to war. And correct me if I’m wrong,” she says, her eyes piercing Narcissa’s soul, “but I don’t believe you knew what your husband was doing with that diary. If you did, you’d have removed Draco from the school at the first sign of danger.”
Narcissa takes a sip of her tea and thinks. It’s more forgiving than she’s ever been toward herself. But it isn’t necessarily wrong. If she had known Lucius’ plan with the diary, she’d have removed Draco from Hogwarts faster than anything.
“Thank you, though, for your apology,” Molly says. It isn’t forgiveness but it’s something. The start of it, maybe.
They sit in silence again and this time they both probably look exhausted. War does that to a person.
Narcissa is just starting to think she should leave, cut her losses and accept the almost forgiveness for what it is and figure everything else out on her own when Molly speaks again. “Why did you come here?”
Narcissa blushes. She feels so young and awkward and wrong footed around Molly. “I… well… I was just wondering if you could teach me how to… cook,” she says haltingly. “And clean. And well, pretty much everything else you need to know to live on your own.” She looks at the tea leaves at the bottom of her cup. She doesn’t want to see Molly’s pity or her amusement or whatever other emotion she might be feeling. Asking for help, she decides, is the most assuredly dreadful thing she’s done in her life.
Molly clears her throat and Narcissa sneaks a look at her through her eyelashes. Whatever she expected to see, it wasn’t a smile that reached her eyes. A smile so wide and authentic that Narcissa nearly loses her breath. “None of my children have any interest,” she says, practically vibrating with excitement. “I want to teach them everything I know. I’m good at this,” Molly says proudly. She should be proud. “I would be very pleased to teach you, Narcissa.”
Its hearing her name in Molly’s mouth that assures her, more than anything, that she means it. “The orange trees have started producing ripe fruit,” Molly adds, standing and banishing their tea things to the sink. “I made the crusts for the tart already but you can help me make the filling!”
It sounds impossibly tricky and Narcissa is positive she’ll mess it up but Molly looks so happy so she follows Molly to the kitchen and asks about the dish washing spell and then it’s all she can do to remember everything she learns.
She must have been there for three hours before they finally stop and stare at the collection of food they’ve made together. Narcissa isn’t confident at all about any of it. But Molly extends an invitation to come over two times a week and spend a few hours learning things and that sounds good enough to her.
The minute she gets back to her dusty little room above the Hopping Hippogriff, she casts a dusting spell and an air freshening spell and vanishes the collected dust with a few flicks of her wand and feels more proud of herself than she has, maybe ever, in her life.
By her third visit to the Burrow, Narcissa has fully moved out of the Hopping Hippogriff and into a small muggle and wizarding hybrid flat in London, not far from Diagon Alley. It’s cleaner than her old room and has a kitchen, which she can sort of use, but there are strange little holes in the wall surrounded by a hard panel. And they look intentional so she didn’t mention them to the landlord but she doesn’t know what they do and Narcissa hates not knowing.
“Hello Molly,” she calls, letting herself in through the cheerful yellow door. There’s a shuffling coming from the kitchen and then she’s face to face with Arthur, who she hasn’t seen since before the Battle. He looks so horrified to see her that she takes two large steps back toward the door she just came through and is fully prepared to apparate away, lessons and wards be damned, when Molly comes into the hallway too, an easy smile on her face, and all her desire to leave just… fades.
“I told Arthur I was expecting you any moment,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron.
Narcissa can’t help but feel like she’s doing something wrong. Arthur looks entirely caught off guard despite Molly’s explanation.
“Come along into the kitchen, dear,” Molly ushers her past the still shocked Arthur and into the kitchen. “We’ll be making a roast, today, I think. What kind of vegetables do you prefer with your roast, Narcissa?”
She hears Arthur make a strangled sort of sound over her response that she enjoys carrots and courgettes but she isn’t sure what she prefers.
Molly has set her to dicing onions without magic by the time Arthur enters the kitchen again, still looking a bit shell shocked but rather more composed than he was.
“When Molly told me she was giving you cooking lessons I thought she was having me on,” he admits. Molly scoffs into her gravy pot but says nothing, very obviously curious how Narcissa will handle Arthur’s questioning.
Narcissa nods, keeping an eye on the sharp knife in her hand. “I can understand why,” she agrees blandly, hoping he isn’t upset. She wonders why she cares.
“How long has this been going on?” He asks.
Narcissa shoots Molly a curious glance which the woman does not return. She is as dastardly as her pranking sons, Narcissa swears it!
“A week and a half?” Narcissa isn’t sure if she should be telling the truth here. She feels caught out and wrong footed and like she’s knocked over Aunt Walburga’s favourite vase, actually.
Arthur just looks interested. “My Molly is the best person to learn these things from. I always thought she should teach a cooking class. Or maybe a homeowner crash course. She’d be good at it, don’t you think?”
Now it’s Molly’s turn to look shocked and uncomfortable and Arthur just looks so genuinely proud that Narcissa can’t help but agree with him. Molly has been invaluable, even after only three lessons. “She’s an excellent teacher,” Narcissa says, and watches with interest as Molly’s fair skin turns a lovely shade of red, all the way up to the tips of her ears. She feels a bit bad, embarrassing Molly, though, so she changes the subject. “I just got a flat of my own for the first time, in London. It’s a muggle building that has been adapted for wixen use if a wix chooses to live there. Molly has helped me so much with basic household spells to make it more of a home.”
Arthur looks thrilled by this news and abruptly runs from the room.
Narcissa blinks at Molly who just smiles and points at the cutting board and the onion that is only half diced. She sighs and returns to her work, made much easier because Molly teaches her the charm to prevent her tear ducts from overflowing.
Arthur comes running back a bit later, pink cheeked and with a cobweb in his hair which Molly plucks out lovingly. He’s holding a block made from a strange material that Narcissa has only seen in her apartment. He waves it at her wildly. “Do you have electricity in your apartment?”
She frowns. “I’m… not sure?” She eyes the box in his hand warily.
He directs a long cord for her attention. “This is a plug,” he says, seeming very pleased indeed to be imparting such knowledge on her.”It can be put into the wall and it allows all sorts of technology to work!” He shows her the three pronged end that, presumably, fits somewhere in a wall. And then it hits her. The wall holes!
“I do have this,” she exclaims. Then the poor onion is forgotten again because Arthur is explaining to her all manner of things that can work with electricity and has offered to show her his shed. Her eyes meet Molly’s over Arthur’s shoulder, and despite Narcissa’s sudden lack of interest in today’s lesson due to Arthur’s muggle technology knowledge, Molly looks happy, fulfilled, almost fond.
She follows him to the shed quite happily at Molly’s playful urging and is overwhelmed by the garden shed filled with all sorts of… machines, Arthur called them. There is one that curls hair (which Narcissa is particularly wary of), one that creates light, one that heats water (she’s interested in this one), and one that brews coffee (she fights the urge to demand that he allow her to steal it away to her home and try it out herself). There are so many she doesn’t know. And so much she wants to know. At some point she stops listening to Arthur, too interested in the way his hazel eyes sparkle as he explains something, the way he gestures wildly with his hands, unafraid to occupy space, the way his voice gets louder when he gets excited about some other machine he has, so comfortable with his emotions that he does not shy away from expressing them.
Her son could have been like this, if she had raised him differently.
The thought whispers, unbidden, from that dark corner of her mind that she avoids like it has dragon pox.
Arthur must see something of her thoughts on her face because he stops and asks if she is alright. She blushes and stutters out that she’s fine and she’s grateful he shared this with her and manages to ask if she might borrow the coffee brewing machine to try out and let him know how it goes.
“Of course,” he says. Like its that simple. Like she didn’t mock his life and family and home and job for years only to find that she wants it. Or something like it. Desperately. He tucks the coffee machine under his arm and guides her back into the house, prattling on about something that she can’t bring herself to pay attention to before he leaves her in Molly’s kitchen with the excuse that he’s going to pick the ripe oranges off the tree before it gets dark.
Molly has already finished chopping the onion and Narcissa feels bad for leaving the work to her. “I’m sorry for leaving you to this,” she says, before Molly can get mad at her. But the look on Molly’s face says that anger is the furthest thing from her mind.
“Not to worry darling,” she says. “I’m glad you’re interested in Arthur’s muggle things. He does so love them, but I’ve been living with magic for so long I just,” she shrugs, “can’t always bring myself to be interested in some of the things he brings home.”
Narcissa nods. She wants to wring her hands and she forces herself to look around for something to do. Molly hands her a spoon and directs her to the hot griddle where she is browning some vegetables. “Stir,” she says. So Narcissa does.
“We’re going outside today,” Molly says cheerfully during their fifth lesson. “I want to teach you how to take care of the exterior of a house as well.” Narcissa looks down at her silk skirt and blouse and for the first time in her life, doesn’t care if they get dirty. She follows Molly outside and the two spend a lovely few hours cleaning the eaves of the house and washing all the windows which have become grimy and spotted from the weather. Molly even teaches her how to avoid making the glass streaky. She feels ridiculous, rubbing the window panes with sheets of the Daily Prophet sports page by hand but when it leaves the glass gleaming in the late morning sun, she decides it’s worth feeling ridiculous over.
With her side of the house complete, Narcissa climbs down the rickety ladder she’s been on for most of the morning and goes in search of Molly. She finds the woman sweeping cobwebs and leaves from the eaves of the house. She’s wearing a lilac cotton dress that Narcissa wouldn’t be caught dead in. It clings to her breasts and brushes her wide hips. There are a few tiny leaves in her hair and her hands are darkened with dust. She looks lovely.
The thought startles Narcissa so much that she must make some sort of noise that draws Molly’s attention. “Are you done with the windows, dear?”
Narcissa nods mutely.
Molly climbs down from her own ladder, her curls waving in the April breeze. There is something so calm about her. So steady and strong. She’s tall and elegant and so so sure of herself. Every movement has a purpose, and she seldom second guesses that purpose. Part of Narcissa is intimidated by this witch who has lived and loved and lost and not grown any smaller for it. The other part of Narcissa, the louder part, screams out a hopeless deep attraction for Molly. Because, in being around the woman, Narcissa can feel herself growing and shifting seismically and cautiously like a sunflower reaching for the sun.
“Are you hungry?” Molly asks. Merlin, yes. Narcissa is starving. She feels a blush rise high on her cheeks and she nods again, unwilling to open her mouth for fear of what words will tumble out.
They eat sandwiches with fresh vegetables from the garden.
It feels like something. It shouldn’t feel like anything. Narcissa eyes the tarnished silver of Molly’s wedding band and focuses on her sandwich.
Narcissa successfully makes her first batch of biscuits by herself in her new kitchen in late April. These are her third attempt. The first try got burned to a crisp because she forgot she was baking until the acrid burnt smell permeated the small flat. She’d been so flustered by the utter failure that was her first attempt that she’d bypassed adding sugar all together to her second. Her third attempt is good, though. She put too much flour in them so they look a little strange but they are recognizably biscuits and they taste good despite it all. She’s so thrilled at her success that she promptly apparates to the Burrow on a day when they aren’t scheduled to meet, plate of biscuits in hand.
Molly’s face lights up when she sees Narcissa and a dimple appears on her cheek when her eyes travel down to the plate Narcissa is holding.
They sit at the kitchen table together, sharing tea and munching on biscuits and even though they very clearly aren’t up to Molly’s standard of baking, the witch still makes a happy noise as she bites into one. “I’m so proud of you Narcissa,” she exclaims after swallowing. “These are delicious and you’re sure to get better with time.”
Something tight squeezes itself into Narcissa’s windpipe. She can’t remember the last time someone told her they were proud of her. She can only recall once. Her mother had said it, yes, when Narcissa was nineteen and officially betrothed to Lucius. But her mother hadn’t been proud of her. She was proud of her husband’s betrothal contract negotiation skills. She was proud that Narcissa was actually marrying a suitable husband, unlike her sisters. But she was never actually proud of her.
Molly reaches out and touches Narcissa’s hand. It’s warm. Everything about this woman is warm and loving and unlike anything Narcissa has felt before. She looks like she wants to say something but instead takes a sip of tea. Narcissa longs to know what Molly is thinking anyway.
And then it’s May. Molly owls her that she doesn’t feel like meeting this week. Narcissa understands. There’s a sick feeling in her stomach that won’t go away. And now that she’s aware of the date, she can think of nothing but war.
She feels guilty, more than anything. She doesn’t deserve to grieve. Not compared to people like Molly and Arthur and Andromeda.
Her grief settles wrong around her shoulders and deep in her sternum. It’s just that she’s been so happy, recently. Started to like herself. That makes it worse. She doesn’t deserve to feel happy when others have lost so much. She doesn’t deserve this semblance of peace when the person she grieves for hurt the people Molly and Arthur and Andromeda love.
Gods. Molly killed her Bellatrix. She’s conveniently forgotten that until now. Forgotten the fury on Molly’s face as she stood up to fight Narcissa’s sister: a mother lion protecting her cubs. She’d forgotten the wild, feral look on Bella’s face. Her cackle as the killing curse snuck under her guard. By the time she died, Bella was no longer the sister Narcissa loved.
This is another reason that caring for Molly in any capacity won’t last. There is too much between them. And on the anniversary of the day Molly lost a son, she’ll remember that, too. Narcissa tries to comfort herself with the thought that she is significantly more self sufficient than she was. Tries to tell herself it doesn’t matter if Molly and Arthur never want her in their home again. She wouldn’t want her in her home either, if she was them.
She gets absolutely completely drunk the night before the third of May. She winds up at Malfoy Manor for the first time since her release from Azkaban. It’s in worse shape than it was six months ago but she doesn’t care. She lines up her bottles of wine and sits in the drawing room where she watched her sister (the one she grieves and loves and misses) torture a young muggleborn girl her son’s age.
It’s what she deserves.
The drink and the grief and shame make her maudlin.
So Narcissa cleans. She knows how to, now. She gathers the first layer of debris in the corner of the room and vanishes it. She conjures a overflowing bucket of bubbling water and a mop and directs it through the room with flicks of her wand. She scrubs the tile where the Granger girl bled with her own hands. It doesn’t make her feel better, it doesn’t heal anyone, it doesn’t take back her actions. By the time the wine makes her sleepy, she is drunker than she’s ever been and the room is spinning but looks far cleaner than its been in maybe a year and the sun is starting to come through the open windows.
She sleeps, there in that empty room, and barely feels the tears on her face.
An owl wakes her up. Her head aches and the room spins and she chokes on the dryness of her mouth. She can barely open her eyes enough to untie the missive from the mysterious owl’s leg and she groans, fighting the hangover and sleep. Maybe it’s Draco.
It isn’t Draco, as it turns out. It’s Molly’s handwriting.
It’s the third of May. Molly is writing to tell her she hates Narcissa. She just knows it. She glares at the owl and at the letter. The only thing that overrides her fear is her curiosity. She may as well break her heart today, of all days. At least then she’s already in mourning.
The handwriting is rushed, unlike Molly’s typical flowing script.
Narcissa,
My oldest son, Bill, and his wife Fleur have had their first baby! They have named her Victoire. She arrived this morning around 8. I am so pleased to have my first grandchild that I just had to share the news with you.
Yours,
Molly
P.S. See you on Monday? I’d like to teach you how to make lemon meringue. You said it was your son’s favourite.
Narcissa blinks. Reads the letter again. Molly doesn’t hate her. That’s hardly the most important part of the missive but it’s the part that Narcissa’s brain keeps repeating. Molly doesn’t hate her. Molly wants to see her, still. On Monday! She remembers Draco’s favourite food and wants to teach her. Molly doesn’t hate her.
Her relief is bitter and overwhelming.
She signed it “Yours”. It doesn’t mean anything. Molly’s just… fond of Narcissa, that’s all. But Narcissa’s heart pounds when she reads it anyway. She’s been alone too long, if she’s reading emotion into a letter from a woman who teaches her to cook.