Chapter One
The echoes of war still clung to the air, thick and suffocating.
Even now, years after the Battle of Hogwarts, the Wizarding World was a place of quiet, restless tension—caught between the remnants of a fractured past and the fragile hope of a better future.
Narcissa Malfoy stood at the edge of the Malfoy Manor’s vast grounds, the manor itself looming behind her like a shadow of what it once was. The grandeur, the wealth, the name—it had all meant something once. Now, it was nothing more than a monument to failure, wrapped in the silent shame of a family brought low by its choices.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, though the chill in the air had nothing to do with the weather. The wind carried whispers from a world that no longer welcomed her, a constant reminder of her precarious position—neither ally nor enemy, neither forgiven nor punished. She had saved the Boy Who Lived, but the stain of the Dark Mark on her husband’s arm, the whispers of Death Eater sympathies, could not so easily be washed away.
Draco had left early that morning. She knew he was trying, in his own way, to carve out a life beyond the shadows of their past, but the world was not kind to Malfoys, not anymore. The Ministry’s inquiries, the whispered accusations, the lingering stares—all of it took its toll. For all her efforts to shield him, she knew there was little she could do now. The battle had been fought, and they had lost.
She let out a slow breath, watching as it clouded in the morning air. The gardens, once meticulously kept, now bore the signs of neglect. Like everything else, they had fallen into disrepair. Narcissa allowed herself a brief moment of vulnerability, her composure cracking ever so slightly. Her life had been nothing but masks—polished, controlled, unbreakable. But now, even that felt fragile, as though the smallest touch might shatter it all.
A sudden crack of Apparition broke the stillness, and Narcissa turned, her eyes narrowing. A figure emerged from the shadow of the trees—tall, cloaked, and purposeful. She recognized her instantly.
Hermione Granger.
Her appearance on the Malfoy grounds was unexpected, though not entirely surprising. Word had reached Narcissa weeks ago that the Ministry’s investigations into former Death Eaters were gaining traction. It was only a matter of time before someone came knocking. But Granger? Narcissa had not anticipated facing the woman who had fought so fiercely for everything the Malfoy family had once stood against.
Hermione approached with a steady, determined gait, her wand clearly tucked into her belt but easily within reach. Narcissa’s first instinct was to stand taller, to raise the familiar shield of aristocratic indifference, but something about the younger woman’s presence—her posture, her gaze—made it clear that this was no mere formality.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Hermione’s voice cut through the air, clipped and professional. "I’ve been sent by the Ministry. We need to discuss your role during the war. There are some matters that require your testimony."
Narcissa lifted her chin slightly, her voice measured. "I assume this is about Lucius. I have already provided all necessary statements regarding his involvement."
Hermione’s eyes flicked briefly over the manor before settling back on Narcissa’s face. "This is not just about Lucius. This is about the entire Malfoy family. Including you."
A pause hung between them, heavy and charged with the weight of everything unsaid. Narcissa felt the familiar stir of resentment rising in her chest. Granger stood there with the confidence of someone who had been on the right side of history, the clear victor in a war that had torn their world apart. It was easy for her, Narcissa thought, to stand there in judgment, untouched by the moral complexities that had consumed Narcissa’s life.
"You wish to interrogate me, then?" Narcissa’s tone was smooth, with a thin layer of disdain. "I wonder, Miss Granger, if you believe you will find anything more damning than what has already been said. Or perhaps you wish to relish the opportunity to bring down what little remains of the Malfoy name?"
Hermione’s expression hardened, though her voice remained steady. "This isn’t personal, Mrs. Malfoy. It’s about accountability. Everyone who played a role in Voldemort’s regime is being reviewed. Even those who saved lives in the end." The emphasis was subtle but pointed.
Narcissa’s gaze didn’t waver. "I did what I had to do to protect my son. As I’m sure any mother would."
"And yet," Hermione replied, "there are still questions. Questions about what you knew and when you knew it. Questions about what you chose to ignore." Her eyes softened, just for a moment, as if acknowledging the burden they both carried. "The war wasn’t kind to any of us, Mrs. Malfoy. But there are things that must be confronted if we’re ever going to move forward."
Narcissa’s pulse quickened. She had expected hostility, but this was something else entirely. There was a weight to Granger’s words that caught her off guard, an underlying current of something unspoken. Perhaps it was the echo of shared pain, though Narcissa would never admit it aloud. She met Hermione’s gaze, and for the briefest of moments, something passed between them—an understanding, however fleeting.
"Very well," Narcissa said quietly, her tone devoid of its previous edge. "Come inside. If it’s answers you want, I will provide them. But know this, Miss Granger—there are some things in this world that cannot be neatly categorized into right and wrong. You may think you know what happened, but you do not understand the full picture. Not yet."
Hermione’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. With a curt nod, she followed Narcissa into the manor.