Chapter Text
Narcissa had no desire to be driving through Hampshire.
She had wanted to visit the Greengrass estate, which she hadn’t seen since the ill-fated Beltane party before the war. It would have been nice to sit and talk with someone, anyone at all — even Iphigenia Greengrass, whom she had always found to be kind of a bore. She would even have deigned to call upon that detestable Parkinson woman, her closest neighbor, not four leagues further west of Malfoy Manor. Her restlessness had grown to such a degree that she’d very nearly walked there on one occasion before she’d slipped on wet grass and snapped sharply out of that tiny bout of madness.
Ever since their sentencing, every form of magical transportation had been stripped from her family. Apparition wards had been laid heavily and sloppily across their entire estate and their fireplaces were all disconnected from the Floo network, narrowly escaping total destruction. Their wands were under surveillance, and even their stable of brooms had been confiscated. It was enough to drive a woman mad.
In the beginning, it didn’t seem such an insurmountable sentence: ten years’ house arrest. Narcissa had been subject to years of inane boredom as a young pureblood woman, spending hours of her life learning such valuable skills as charming portraiture to life and embroidering glittering cushions. More than she’d care to admit, she starred in the memories of her youth by practicing Old French until she was ready to pull out her hair. There were few places more comfortable to be sentenced to a decade of solitude than the largest wizarding estate in Britain. If nothing else, she knew she could always find solace in her prized rose garden.
Despite the relative comfort, hardly six months had passed without outside communication before she began to fray at the edges. After all, even in her youth, she’d at least had her sisters. Her husband and son, now her only two housemates, had sequestered themselves to separate wings of the house more frequently, leaving her alone with nothing but the howl of wind through the halls and a dreadful rip of draught for company. Despite the centuries of magic stored in the walls of the manor — which Narcissa knew included wards of protection against neglect and decay — she swore that she was beginning to see cracks in the walls. In the absence of elves, one could never be quite certain.
As the months dragged on, those cracks in the walls and foundation seemed to encircle her family. Lucius barely spoke when he made an appearance; gone were the sharp wit and discerning nature by which Narcissa had been so enamored, and in their wake was an empty shell with a proclivity for indiscriminate smiling. Some days, when she saw him wafting through the manor, he looked so content that she wondered if he had any thoughts at all.
That was how Narcissa had found herself crudely strapped into the front seat of a car. A horrifically uncomfortable, unconscionably mundane, undeniably muggle car. All the work she and her family had done to keep their lineage pure, their magic strong — all of it had been for nothing if she was being forced to use muggle technology.
She could scarcely breathe through the mere thought of it.
“Draco, darling,” she said, neck straight, pushing the air through her teeth. “Can’t you go any faster?” She didn’t really want to go any faster. As much as she wanted to immediately remove herself from this beastly vehicle, it was still incredibly disconcerting to be able to see just how quickly they were going. Narcissa had never been fond of traveling by broomstick, either. She’d been so put off by it that she’d learned to apparate several years earlier than most students, her harmless crime unbeknownst to the Ministry.
One of a number of crimes.
“Uncomfortable, mother?” Her son slid his eyes to her briefly, cocking a brow.
“Don’t patronize me, Draco,” she said. “It’s astounding you can even stand to sit in the reek of it. Where in the world did you find this accursed thing?”
“Nevermind where I found it, mother ,” he drawled. “It was the only way you were getting off the grounds.”
“When I was your age, I would never even have dreamed of speaking to my mother like that,” she bit out. “You’re lucky I never sent you to your grandmother. She would have disabused you of that odious tone.” Draco didn’t look at her again. Narcissa didn’t like that — not one bit — although she held her tongue, focusing instead on the landscape they passed. Lucius seemed engrossed enough for the three of them, staring out the back window with a skeptical look in his eye.
The three of them had left the manor at 11:00 that morning, hoping to arrive in time for late lunch or tea. Without an express invitation, that seemed the most appropriate time to call upon their friends. Narcissa had no concept of how long it would take them to drive to the Greengrass estate. The only one among them who even remembered that the concept of “travel time” existed had been Draco.
Months, even weeks ago, Narcissa would have scoffed at the idea of “dropping by” a neighbor’s house uninvited . She could barely think of it without feeling a crack in the facade of her composure. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and Narcissa was desperate to speak to anyone outside the manor about anything beyond than her husband’s back or her own reflection.
She felt sweat trickle down the back of her neck. Although the air outside the car had been brisk as autumn rolled in, Draco had done something with the dials on the car, and now the air between them was hot and dry. She would not so much as adjust her coat; they would be arriving at the Greengrass estate at any moment . Not knowing for certain what time they would arrive, Narcissa had chosen to wear a black wool sheath dress while Lucius seemed to have dressed himself in tails for the occasion. She would try to pass it off as a wartime take on morning dress; she could barely stomach the sharp ridicule they would face were they inappropriately dressed.
No, Narcissa would not find herself truly settled until she was back in polite company.
“How much longer, Draco?”
“How much time do you think has passed since you last asked, Mother?”
Despite her son’s obvious and vituperative sarcasm, Narcissa paused. She didn’t remember asking that question more than once.
She pasted on a tight smile. “I’m sure it’s been longer than you’re willing to give me credit for, you ungrateful boy.” He snorted; she seethed.
They stopped speaking then, choosing instead to pass the time in relative silence. Lucius had taken to humming in the back seat, a tune Narcissa was certain she recognized, though the name dangled just beyond the reach of her memory.
She dug through her memories for the name of the song. She could remember the melody from start to finish, but the name, even how she knew the song, evaded her. It seemed almost purposeful; as though there were a block in her memory that she couldn’t sidestep.
Lucius made a noise of surprise behind her. She’d just opened her mouth to ask him to settle down when she saw what he was looking at: far off, so distant she was only able to make out the spires, was a house on fire. Enormous plumes of black smoke billowed into the atmosphere, and as Draco drove them closer, Narcissa could see angry flames bursting through the spire windows and licking the edge of the roof. s.
The silence in the car stuck oppressively in Narcissa’s throat as Draco drove them closer to the disaster site, her son’s attention on the house rapt and unwavering. As they rounded a curve and the full manse came into view, she recognized where they were: at the top of the hill stood the skeleton of what used to be Crabbe House.
Windows were blown out, the tall hedges wildly overgrown. Freshly tilled earth in the family graveyard peeked conspicuously out from beside the estate. As Narcissa and her family approached the driveway, the house still crackled audibly, though the massive flames and the black, angry clouds of smoke had mysteriously cleared, leaving behind only a low smolder. The all-encompassing, stories-tall fire she had seen moments ago had all but been doused.
The house looked smaller than it ever had before.
“Stop the cob, Draco.”
“Could you possibly mean the car , mother—” Draco mumbled, but pulled over sharply as Narcissa started pushing buttons and pulling levers on the door. He remained pointedly unhelpful as she continued to fumble with different buttons, finally falling out of the car. She noted inwardly that she had never been so graceless when exiting magical modes of transportation. It was yet another reason she needed to be surrounded by magical folk sooner than her sentence would allow. It had been ages since she’d even spoken to a witch, let alone had a conversation that wasn’t centered around her husband’s lack of breakfast or her son’s increasingly peaky complexion. At this rate, she worried she might lose the inclination for critical thought at all.
She walked to the gate of the estate, wading through the sharp knee-high grass and noting for the first time the foul smell on the air.
Sulfur. Rot. Decay.
The Crabbe estate had never been particularly pleasant-smelling. Vincent and Angelica Crabbe had the most robustly populated stables in wizarding Britain — their bevy of equine creatures was second to none. Even non-magical horses were well stocked in their stables. But their zeal for acquisition had not always translated into a proper staff; indeed, after their last stable master had died as a result of the First Wizarding War, grooms appeared to be rather hard to come by. As such, their home had always reeked of horse shit. Not even magic could rid the place of the stench.
A pervasive sense of foreboding surrounded the estate. Narcissa didn’t remember hearing about any disaster having befallen the Crabbes… although, it had been a while since a Prophet had reached her desk. How had that happened? She used to be such a prolific reader, and had always been sure to keep up with current events…
Blasted house arrest.
“Darling.”
Narcissa started. She hadn’t heard Lucius exit the car.
She turned back to look at him. Both he and Draco had exited the car, each wearing a hard look. It was Lucius’s atypically engaged countenance that drew her focus; he stood stock-straight, hand resting lightly on the ebony cane he had taken to leaving in his rooms. Narcissa started; she hadn’t seen this version of her husband in months.
“It’s time to go,” he drawled in that way that was so natural to him. Narcissa nodded; something about the grounds grew more unnerving with every passing moment… she suddenly couldn’t wait to leave.
Looking behind her, she realized with a jolt that there was a man at the gate. How she hadn’t seen him before, she wasn’t sure… but he was there, sure as the daylight. And he was staring at her, slack-jawed, empty eyes somehow drawing her in.
“Sickle for your thoughts, pretty lady?”
His voice was deep, and smooth as sandpaper. As she unwillingly listened to him breathe heavily through his mouth, Narcissa noted he had the wheezing tone of a lifelong devotee to pipeweed, and teeth to match. She had the sense that it was one of the tamer vices in which he might have indulged during the indeterminate length of his life.
Something about him was very wrong.
Every detail of his face seemed to betray a different age. Though deep-set wrinkles crossed his brow and his teeth were mostly black (and, apparently, somehow soft) , the waves of his hair seemed bouncy… almost boyish , as though he’d run his hands through it before leaving for class. His left hand, which he’d raised to toy with his bottom lip, could not have existed longer than 16 years. Narcissa had the distinct impression that his right hand would be aged decades beyond its sinister counterpart. She dropped her eyes briefly, unable to keep herself from looking.
She was wrong. The man in front of her had no right hand at all.
Her eyes snapped back to his face. She flushed with embarrassment for the first time in many years, and Narcissa Malfoy did not get embarrassed.
His eyes had taken on a more discerning glint, as though he’d come back into his body. There, too, was a softness she only associated with youth. He seemed distantly familiar… maybe she’d known him once. It certainly seemed as though she should know him.
“Do we—do we know each other?” she asked, throat tightening. Narcissa didn’t know why she asked; she didn’t really want to know the answer.
“We did. Once.” There was a wistfulness in his voice, before his eyes grew cruel and his grin turned harrowing. “You gave me something very special .”
His voice had taken on a mocking cruelty that she knew well, having worn it herself for the duration of her trial.
“Then the polite thing to do would be to tell me your name, you coarse buffoon,” Narcissa bit out. This man made her nervous; she could taste bile in the back of her throat. “Spit it out.”
“Teagarden,” he said. “Edgar Atkins Teagarden.”
She swallowed tightly. That name… She remembered that name. But how did she remember that name? She pushed out the question like water through a clogged sieve.
“You know,” he said, dropping to a whisper. “E.A.T. me,” he mouthed, yanking the air from Narcissa’s chest with an exceptionally vulgar flourish of his tongue. Eyes wide, heart beating slowly, Narcissa was uncharacteristically silent. She couldn’t even push past the fear to find the unshakable rage she knew she should be experiencing.
“Dearest.”
She turned sharply at the sound. There he was again: her Lucius. Stock-straight, dressed to the nines, hat in hand; for a moment, they were young again. She was all too happy to take his hand and return to the car after having been so forcefully shoved off balance by the filthy vagrant on Crabbe’s grounds.
She could feel his gaze even as they drove off into a fog that had descended without their notice.