1992
“Darling, it’s just a temporary effect of forgetting just who you are.” Narcissa combed Draco’s bangs off his forehead with her fingers.
Malfoys didn’t do jealousy. It was plebeian and useless. So even if her baby was positively green over a good-for-nothing Mudblood and how she was unjustly favored by those blood traitors and Muggle-lovers at Hogwarts, she would remind him of his position.
“B-but, Father’s right! She’s beating me in every subject, and maybe—“
“Now.” A faint click sounded as Draco shut his mouth with haste. Narcissa’s tone brooked no further discussion. “Your father is critical because he expects you to give your utmost for a glorious future. And believe me, yours holds astounding promise.” She knew.
She’d Seen it.
Drawing her shoulders back, Narcissa looked her son straight in his tear-filled eyes. “This world is yours—by nature and by right. All the generations that built our world, refined spells and magic and toiled to accrue vast financial means, they all refine down to you: one of the last pure heirs of British magic. Don’t even spare that Mudblood another thought.”
She grasped at the cool satin sheets and pulled them around his shoulders, sliding them tightly under his body in a fluid motion, just as he liked. With a flick of her wand and a whoosh of magic, the lights extinguished.
“Goodnight, mon petit prince.” She kissed his forehead. Under her lips, she felt rather than saw the crinkle that remained there. He sniffled.
Soundlessly she closed the door and made her way down the hall.
Draco’s upset had unsettled her, and she knew just what to do to calm herself. Restore her certainty.
She filled her vessel, burnt some of Draco’s baby hair, set the sandalwood, yarrow, and juniper alight and inhaled the smoke.
Settled at the back of her chambers, Narcissa looked into the golden bowl of water. For hours she sat absolutely still, back straight, waiting for Draco’s future to reveal itself again.
A shimmer in the bowl—images of people.
The pressure of Lucius’s presence tugged at the edge of Narcissa’s consciousness, but she continued, so close to her goal.
“Is it still there?” said her husband at length, his deep voice barely audible.
“Yes. I can see it.”
Congratulations, Minister Malfoy read a banner.
Draco was the very picture of health and happiness. In his arms he held a small child, on whom he doted. All appearances made him out to be a devoted family man, as any worthwhile minister would be expected to be (though she didn’t like the look of how apparently long it had taken for her to get a grandbaby). Draco was whole and hale.
Narcissa smiled. “He’s happy.”
“And . . .?”
“And yes, he’s minister.”
“And the girl?”
Narcissa directed her attention to the other person on whom Draco doted. The woman was alight with joy, beaming for the flashing cameras.
“Beautiful. Regal. Positively glowing with power.”
If Narcissa found it a little odd that most of the dignitaries were favoring the wife over Draco, or that she was the one holding the symbols of investiture, she kept it herself.
“A dutiful pureblood wife.”
“Do we know her?” Lucius breathed with anticipation.
Draco, still holding the child, pressed a kiss into his wife’s hair.
Wild, like Bella’s.
“Slightly familiar? Perhaps a distant cousin from the continent?”
Lucius clapped his hands together from behind her. “Yes, a glorious future, indeed. Now if only he could get ahead of that Mudblood.”
The water in the bowl rippled, and the image was gone.
“Oh, do stop needling the boy,” Narcissa huffed. “It’s only a brief hiccup. She’s no concern of ours.”
1994
“I quite agree, Mr. Undersecretary,” Lucius said, plying his political quarry with the Firewhiskey he’d paid to have delivered to the top box. “That is precisely why we must look closely at magical lineage for incoming—“
“Oh, you have got to be FUCKING kidding me. Merlin, help me—“
“Draco! Language!”
Narcissa would have snapped, if that were something she did. As it was, she whispered forcefully. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of what the various Guests of the Minister thought of her parenting.
The boy glowered. “Apologies, Mother. Father.” He nodded politely at the people around him.
“What in Merlin’s name has you so worked up?” Narcissa whispered more quietly.
“The Mudblood. There.”
Narcissa casted her gaze around, hoping to finally clap eyes on this girl who continued to plague Draco’s schooling—and when she saw the girl, Narcissa’s heart stopped.
“That one?” She jerked her chin in the girl’s direction.
“The one with the mop for hair, yes.”
For a moment Narcissa thought—but no. No, it couldn’t be. She rallied quickly, realizing the woman from her vision of Draco’s future looked nothing like this spindly teenager.
This one had big teeth and no taste. A homely, grungy look. There was a difference between controlled wildness and simple lack of hygiene when it came to curls—this girl was totally different.
Narcissa’s heartbeat slowly calmed. “Not very pretty, is she?”
Draco watched the Mudblood still with a distasteful frown on his face, his mind clearly elsewhere.
Then he suddenly came to. “What? Oh, no. I’ve seen better-looking banshees. Come to think of it, maybe she has banshee blood—she’s shrill enough for it.”
“Now, darling, don’t be cruel,” Narcissa said without any real conviction.
She plucked an invisible speck from her tailored robes and forgot all about the Mudblood and her blood-traitor friends, focusing instead on smoothing the path for Lucius’s latest policy revision.
“Minister,” she said in a ringing voice, “I hear your wife has a fondness for flowers. After the cup, I’d love to invite you both for a tour of our gardens . . .”
***
The talks had gone so well, Lucius had spent a little too much time celebrating with the Old Crowd.
A few of them had even proposed a show of pride. “Really make a celebration of it. Show these Muggle lovers who they’re up against.”
Her husband was decidedly less commandeering when he and his friends all had several fingers of whiskey dulling their faculties, and despite his attempts to tell them it was injudicious to let their colors fly just yet, the more rash among them had won out.
So it was Narcissa found herself rousing Draco in the early hours, Lucius in the background of the tent ranting about masked idiots (“No subtlety, Narcissa! They’ve no pansh-panack-panache!”). She was more than a little put out that their sleep was being disturbed by this spot of silliness, and she certainly didn’t want Draco caught up in anything spearheaded by the elder Crabbe.
“Go hide yourself in the forest. It shan’t be but a moment. And,” she she said as concern for her son’s well being washed over her in a different way, “if you see any of your friends, anyone you care about, warn them to keep their heads down.”
“Yes, Mother.”
She watched him go.
If she had a small hope that those masked idiots would run across a certain Mudblood during their little parade and knock some sense or intimidation into her, Narcissa kept those thoughts to herself.
1998, March
Screams echoed off the walls of what was once Narcissa’s favorite room.
“What else did you take—what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!”
Agonised cries weren’t new, though the voice was.
“I swear—we‘ve never been inside your vault! PLEASE!”
The voices of random Muggles. Or of very particular witches and wizards. Avery. Thicknesse. Her husband’s. Her own. Even her son’s, which had nearly driven Narcissa mad with rage. They’d all echoed around these walls at various points in the last two years.
Narcissa looked at Draco—paler than usual as he watched the Mudblood being tortured. Transfixed with horror and helplessness.
All Narcissa wanted was for him to make it out of this war alive. Whole. And every day her vision of his beautiful future—his wife, their child, the family’s security—seemed less likely.
But never had it been so close to disappearing as in this moment.
She had Seen the vision enough, had visited it plenty of times over the course of the war to know for certain by now—the woman in Draco’s ideal future was no distant relation. No pureblood from a storied family.
She was the girl currently dying on their drawing room floor.
Narcissa had yet to come to terms with it—but time was rarely kind, or lenient.
And time was running out.
She did quick mental calculus:
The future was not fixed.
If the Mudblood died, there might still be many satisfactory futures for her son. He might even marry a proper witch.
But only one guaranteed vision existed in which Draco was alive and happy.
And this girl was required for that.
Narcissa came back to herself just as Bellatrix drew out her cursed knife—certain death for any it touched.
“Bella! Enough. She doesn’t know anything.” Narcissa rushed forward, holding her deranged sister’s arm back.
“Sweet sister Cissy. Never had the stomach for what was necessary—“
“I’ll take charge of the girl. This is our house—“
“It’s the Dark Lord’s, now, and he’ll kill us all if he arrives and discovers what’s been taken!” Bellatrix shook Narcissa off and advanced toward the girl.
“Temporimora!”
The spell was a dark one that would cost Narcissa dearly—almost all her magical reserve and a bit of her own lifeline—but it was the only choice in the moment, and she managed to hold time in stasis for the room’s occupants long enough to make it to the girl.
With trembling hands, she drew her necklace off and placed it over the other witch. In touching her, Narcissa broke the stasis over Granger.
A previously frozen tear fell. “We don’t—“
“Hush, girl.” They didn’t have much time. “Keep this with you.”
“What—?”
“It’s a talisman.” Narcissa held the rare obsidian and quartz amulet in her fingers, around which the words tu es en sécuritié avec moi were carved.
You’re safe with me.
“An heirloom, passed to the women of the family for generations. No weapon raised against you will cut deep, no curse will penetrate the superficial . . .”
More than once she’d wished she could give it to Draco. She supposed this was the next best thing.
Narcissa quickly duplicated the necklace, placing the fraud around her neck, lest someone ask where it had gone.
“Why?” The bewildered girl sobbed. Distant cries echoed from the dungeon.
“You’d receive it sooner or later.” Thus moving to guarantee her future, and in so doing accept it, Narcissa’s control expired, and she hid behind her son and husband to regain her strength as time resumed.
Once or twice Granger’s eyes darted to Narcissa. She noticed the change in how the girl bore her torture, but Granger was bright enough to pretend.
Before Narcissa could make further plans to protect their future, Potter and Weasley came for the girl. Granger grabbed unconsciously at the necklace as they hauled her away, eyes narrowing at Narcissa.
“You’re safe with me,” Narcissa muttered, just before the elf’s crack of apparition rang and she collapsed from magical exhaustion.
1998, May
The battle was over; she’d chosen the right side.
“Right” meaning “successful,” because Narcissa didn’t care much for ideals these days. The war had thrown her priorities into sharp light, and they pretty much ended and began with the welfare of her son.
A son who was currently looking wistfully toward the trio of child saviours embracing in the middle of the courtyard.
“I helped him, you know,” Narcissa said quietly.
“Hmm?”
“Potter. I lied to the Dark Lord for him.”
Draco turned toward her, wide-eyed. “What? Why would you do something so stupid?” He looked his mother over as if he expected Voldemort to begin posthumously torturing her over the mere mention of such a betrayal.
“Potter was still alive after another Killing Curse, Draco. It seemed all-too-obvious he was meant to win. And he told me you were still alive in the castle.” She cupped her boy’s cheek. “It was the fastest way to get back to you.”
Draco’s breath began coming in quick bursts and his eyes filled with tears—signs of an oncoming nervous attack. Narcissa wrapped him in her arms.
“Breathe, darling.” She attempted to guide him with her own breathing rhythm.
“We’re all going to go to Azkaban,” he choked out through sobs. “I don’t know how we’ll ever live this down—“
“We will. I never told you, but I’ve made strategic choices even before this. Beginning with that Muggleborn over there . . .”
Shocked out of his spiral, Draco pulled away to stare at his mother. “Granger?”
As if his naming her were a siren song, Granger began approaching—head high, steps careful, if colored with the slightest timidity.
She does have something of a regal bearing, Narcissa thought. I can work with that.
“Excuse me, darling.” Narcissa backed away, preferring instead to eavesdrop on what was sure to be an interesting conversation. She Disillusioned herself.
Draco paled, a feat considering he already resembled a skeleton.
“Malfoy.” Granger peered around him with a confused expression. “Pardon me—I meant to speak with your mother.”
“She’s—she’s just . . . stepped away.” Draco spoke to his feet as though he was hoping to be swallowed by the courtyard stones.
“Well, I wanted to return this to her.” Granger pulled out the necklace.
“How in Merlin’s name—did you steal that?”
“What? No!” Draco wasn’t wrong; the girl was shrill. “If you must know, she gave it to me. While I was—“ the girl choked “—when I was at your house.”
The air was pregnant with awkwardness and pain. Finally, Draco said, “I’m sorry. For saying you stole it.”
“Is that all?”
“‘Is that all,’ what?”
Granger huffed. “Nevermind. As if I thought you would feel real regret—“
“Don’t speak to me of regret, Granger.” Draco’s voice was sharp.
This wasn’t going at all how Narcissa had expected.
They were silent another moment, until Draco’s voice broke in again—quieter this time. “But if you must know, yes, I regret the part we played in—that night. So I’m sorry. For—well, yknow.”
A sniffle. “Very eloquent. But thank you, I guess.”
Granger tried to hand the necklace over.
“No—I can’t touch it. It’s not for me.” Granger pulled it back. “If she gave it to you, then it’s yours.”
“She said it belonged to the women of the family?”
“So it has—until now.” Draco sized her up. “She must have seen something worth protecting.”
Granger scoffed. “Don’t look so disgusted.”
“I wasn’t, Granger—just . . . surprised by my mother, is all.”
Silence fell again. “Harry told me what she did.”
“As I said, surprises abound.”
“I’m surprised to see you still here—would have expected you to pull a runner.”
“Don’t look so disgusted,” he mirrored her words with more than a little self loathing.
“I wasn’t.” Her admission was quiet, but sincere.
Draco spoke next. “Thanks for saving me—in the castle.”
“That was mostly Harry’s doing—but, you’re welcome.”
Narcissa was nearly in pains listening to them and supposed she would rescue them before they made even more of a meal of things. She reappeared behind a column.
“Ms. Granger! I’m so pleased to see you well.”
“Mrs. Malfoy. Harry said what you did. For that and for this,” she touched her chest, “I—I feel compelled to say . . . thank you.”
Narcissa inclined her head. “We take care of our own.”
The eyes of the other woman—for she was a woman, now—narrowed. “And how, exactly, do I fall under that category?”
“Draco, darling,” Narcissa said without taking her eyes off Granger, “do go thank Potter for saving us all. I should like to speak to Ms. Granger alone.”
“Mother—“
“Show a little humility, dear. Go.”
His cheeks colored at her dismissal, and the two young people’s heads twitched toward one another in an awkward sort of goodbye.
“Ms. Granger. Are you familiar with the practice of scrying?”
Granger pulled a haughty look that warmed Narcissa’s heart to see.
“I know of it, but can’t say I put much stock in it.“
“As well you shouldn’t. It’s tricky at best, misleading at worst. Only the most gifted seers who have honed their craft over many years may receive premonitions. And even those aren’t guaranteed.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Malfoy, but what—“
“I’m trained—and I’ve seen you . . . making a difference for our family.”
Granger eyed Narcissa warily. “I have aspirations—maybe you’ve learned that somehow. But in what I hope will become a meaningful future, I won’t be bought.”
Narcissa smiled, understanding more of her vision every moment. Perhaps it’s not Draco who will be Minister.
“No, no my dear, of course you won’t. I didn’t save you to curry favor or cash in a request. I merely wanted to make sure you would be around for . . . that meaningful future.”
Granger’s face remained suspicious.
Narcissa enjoyed watching her brain work—prudent, careful.
“Really, I expect nothing from you. Except perhaps,” she added, reasoning that a little nudge wouldn’t hurt, “to give Draco a bit of a second chance.”
They both looked at him, still awkwardly standing outside the group, trying to figure out how to get a word in to Potter. “He’s a sensitive boy; too sensitive for his father, but I’m starting to think we did him a disservice in treating that as a weakness.” Narcissa thought of the way she’d Seen Draco hold his scried-for daughter. “We’re in a brave new world now, and I believe he can succeed.”
The two women’s eyes met again. “We must change with the times, Ms. Granger, lest we be swallowed by them.”
“Forgive me if I say you don’t sound convinced.”
A bark of laughter escaped Narcissa before she could stop it, but so did a tear. She pressed her fingers to her cheek. “Forgive me—I’m a bit overwrought.” Narcissa schooled her features. “Just give me some time, Ms. Granger. I have every reason to be convinced.”
The younger witch’s mouth twitched and, with a deep breath, she went to unclasp her necklace. “I won’t lie—I’ll be sorry to part with this . . .”
Narcissa held out a hand to stop her. “No—Draco was right. Once passed on, it should stay with the new owner. Please keep it.”
“You said it belonged to the women of the family?”
Narcissa shrugged.
“I can see when my questions will remain unanswered. This conversation was much more peculiar than I could have imagined. Until we meet again, Mrs. Malfoy.”
Granger walked away and, with some trepidation, approached Draco just as he seemed ready to give up. She brought him along into the group. The interactions were stiff, but Draco—who edged closer to Granger than the others—seemed to take the humility edict seriously.
It was a start.
When he finally made it back to Narcissa’s side, his shoulders hung more loosely, his brow was a little less furrowed.
“A pretty girl, isn’t she?” Narcissa prodded.
“Hmm? Oh,” he flushed again. “I suppose.” Draco’s forehead re-furrowed, and he looked back toward the person Narcissa was beginning to preemptively think of as her daughter-in-law.
“Do try not to look so surly, darling. You don’t want people thinking you’re upset by the outcome.”
“Anything’s better than that barmy bugger.” Draco looked with disgust at his left arm.
Narcissa drew a breath. There would be discomfort, and probably some trouble—their family wasn’t innocent in the new order—but they’d already begun the difficult path forward.
“We’ll be all right, dear.”
“I wish I could share your confidence, Mother.”
“Trust me.” She caught Granger looking back at them again. “There’s something else I’ve never told you . . .”
Draco looked up.
“I have Sight, Draco.”
They stood in silence.
“What have you Seen?” he asked.
“That, I can’t share.”
The future wasn’t set. Now that she’d just started to hope, she didn’t want to go messing with it any more. “But trust me,” she cupped his cheek again, “it’s glorious.”
EPILOGUE
2018
“This way, Mrs. Malfoy,” said the young witch at her elbow wearing an “Escort” tag.
Narcissa had aged roughly double time in the last twenty years—whether from her use of the Time Holding spell, the stress of the war, or any number of tribulations she had experienced thereafter, she couldn’t know. Nor did it matter, she thought with a sniff, because it wouldn’t change the fact that her legs didn’t work like they used to.
After she’d exhausted magical remedies, she hated how the pain still halted her steps, made her move without the grace she’d worked so hard to attain. These days she rarely deigned to endure the stares of the curious rabble, preferring to stay in her comfortable apartments at the Manor and sponsor good causes from afar.
But she wasn’t going to miss this day.
“Distinguished guests, please take your seats.” Some last rustling and shushing slowly died as the crowd settled.
Narcissa looked toward the dais.
“We’re honored this day to swear in Hermione Jean Granger Malfoy as the thirty-sixth Minister for Magic.”
Narcissa couldn’t stop her vision from clouding as Hermione smiled at Draco, his arms full of child and his face full of pride.
“Minister Malfoy,” the Supreme Mugwump said, gesturing for Hermione to stand before him.
She raised her hand.
“I, Hermione Jean Granger Malfoy, . . .”
In the many years since Narcissa had first anticipated this day, she had shuffled through countless expectations of what it meant.
First, there was Hermione: every bit the beautiful and powerful witch Narcissa had first Seen so many years ago, but also decidedly not pureblood or dutiful, in the traditional sense. Headstrong, idealistic, and occasionally impertinent, she was a wife no self-respecting pureblood mother would ever choose for her son—and yet she was perfect for her son.
“. . . do solemnly and truly affirm that I will serve faithfully in the office of Minister for Magic . . .”
Then there was Draco. Happier as primary caregiver to their daughter than he’d ever been in his years at the Ministry. Only now, during his moments with Cassie and efforts to manage the family structure at home, did Narcissa see how truly sensitive her son was. She laughed that she had ever thought he would want to govern Wizarding Britain.
“. . . that I will, to the best of my ability, protect our community from dangers within and without, and uphold the rule of law.”
And then there was she, herself.
When she had first scried for Draco’s “ideal future,” she had taken for granted the assumption that her ideal future for him was the same thing. She’d seen what she had wanted to see. It had been a slow realization for Narcissa, the difference between expectation and reality; motherhood—no, not just motherhood, but life had been an exercise in truly seeing and then having the bravery to accept. And let go.
“I take this obligation freely, . . .”
Narcissa thought of how she would have reacted then, had she known all the facts. She knew she would have rejected it. Would have seen it as a warning and a thing to work against. And she mentally patted herself on the back for the ways she had grown; for how she had allowed herself to be pulled along (yes, kicking and screaming, sometimes) to change; for how she could now take great pleasure in how wrong she’d been, because reality was that much sweeter.
(Her serenity in being wrong was helped by the secrets she couldn’t have anticipated knowing in this moment. Such as, she thought with a Mona Lisa smile, the fact that another grandbaby grew in the new Minister’s belly.)
“. . . without mental reservation.”
Narcissa’s smile grew as a smattering of applause sounded, and a whoop went up from her son and grandbaby.
Hermione’s vow thus completed, Draco, his wife, and their child posed happily in front of the banner reading Congratulations, Minister Malfoy, bulbs flashing around the room.
And that was it. The snapshot visited over so many years, first in smug confidence, then in desperation, then in hope.
“So it is,” Narcissa said, closing her eyes in more bone-deep peace and happiness than she ever imagined feeling.
(Which lasted all of ten seconds, until her granddaughter ran pell-mell into her chair in a fit of giggles. But that was really just a different kind of happiness.)