Narcissa rocked slowly back and forth in her rocking chair by the hearth. Her face was as pale as ever, but its broken visage only hinted at her former beauty. Her silver hair, which once shone like silver in the sun, was white, ragged, and dull. She was, in effect, a shade of her former self; broken by the sudden lifting of a great burden which had coupled with the sudden loss of everything she had once held dear to drain the former jewel of almost all life. Trembling hands took hold of the white china teapot, nestled on a nearby table. She poured a stuttering stream of steaming tea into a white china cup, spilling half as much again onto the tray and the white china saucer. The same delicate, skeletal fingers drew the cup unsteadily toward her lips. She drank gingerly, she mustn’t burn herself again or they wouldn’t allow her any more tea. China clattered softly as she replaced the cup in favor of a shortbread biscuit. There had been gingersnaps once, she remembered, or perhaps she was imagining; she imagined so many things these days.

This image, though, felt more real than her imaginings. It was on a Sunday, Narcissa decided, that they had taken the gingersnaps from her. On Sundays she had been allowed a copy of the Daily Prophet. There had been an article in it about Lucius, yes, that was it. It had been a story on the sentencing of Lucius and his fellow surviving Death Eaters. Narcissa thought it was silly that they’d taken away the biscuits; it was not the biscuits that had made her scream and cry and tear her hair in paroxysms of grief. It was not the biscuits that had taken her husband, sentenced him to die on a lonely rock so far from his darling, devoted Cissy. But that silly little witch, the Trainee Healer with the golden curls, like spun sunlight, pinned like a stupid little halo on her stupid little head had decided to blame the biscuits. What could she possibly know about loss and grief and the end of life and everything as she had known it.

Lucius’ sentencing, however, had been the end and not the beginning of her pain. Narcissa had been so full of joy to learn her son was alive, to learn that the Dark Lord, the shadow that had cast itself upon her home and smothered her joy for far too long, had been defeated at last. Nothing had mattered to her so long as she had her two brave and beautiful men safe in her arms. It was not to last. The Ministry had come for all of them. Lucius himself had taken the blame from his wife, had told the court that she had played no role in the Dark Lord’s affairs. They had let her go; they had left her on her own doorstep alone. She could not bear to be alone; she had almost never been alone. First there had been Bella, her sister and companion; then Lucius, her partner and first love; and finally there had been Draco, her baby and her everything. She had spent those first days wandering the house and gardens alone, almost without rest, waiting for news of her family in London. Nothing had changed since she had been here last, the chandelier that the ungrateful, evil little elf had thrown at Bella still lay shattered in the hall; the house was full of horrible memories.

Then the goblins had come. With Lucius jailed and the verdict all but set in stone, debts, the goblins said, must be repaid. They had taken everything of value. The gold and silver plate from the dining room, the paintings from the walls, the statuary from the gardens, even Narcissa’s jewels had been lost to the bank. How he could owe so much, she had never found out. But when questioned the goblins had just shrugged and snickered and carried on dismantling and violating the home she loved so dearly.

Finally, Narcissa had been in the Ministry, waiting anxiously outside the courtroom for a glimpse of her husband and her son. It was raining hard that day, thunder rumbling continuously across the dull and tortured sky. Even deep in the Ministry the magically contrived eaves dripped as the rain fell past the windows. She had seen Lucius first, tall and gaunt with only a hint of his old, burning defiance left in his eyes. Then she had spotted Draco, looking pale and frail with hollow eyes; he had never looked less like her son, looked less alive. She had called out to them both, screamed and shouted, cursing the Ministry, the Aurors, and the guards.

Narcissa shuddered and clutched convulsively at her head. She hated remembering now. It was bad to remember, it would only excite her and then the Healers would be called and she would have to sleep. She hated sleep most of all, because she always dreamed. Taken great, gulping breaths, Narcissa calmed herself just as a Healer tapped lightly at her door.

It was not the silly little girl, though. This was the head Healer, the matron of the ward. She was stout, with dark brown hair pulled back in a severe bun at the top of her head. But her eyes were big and brown and kind.

“How is my lovely Narcissa today, hmm?� the matron’s tone was always calming. “Are you still working on your needlework today, hmm? That lovely little piece, hmm? What was it, the Black Family Crest?�

“Yes,� Narcissa said softly, lifting the half-finished, clumsy embroidered piece from its place on her lap. “Yes,� she said again.

“It’s coming along nicely, hmm?� the matron said, pouring out a goblet full of an amethyst colored potion from a large flask. “Drink up, hmm,� she said, holding the goblet to Narcissa’s lips.

And Narcissa drank deeply from the goblet, every last drop. It tasted faintly of violets, but mostly tasted of nothing. She wasn’t sure what kind of potion it was, or what it was supposed to do, but still she drank it every time. She settled back into the rocking chair, rocking it gently back and forth. She felt almost peaceful.

“It’s about time for your dinner, hmm?� the matron said, picking up the tray with the tea things. “Would you like something to eat now, hmm?�

“Yes,� Narcissa heard herself say, louder this time like she really meant it.

“Good,� said the matron with a bright smile. “It’s chili tonight, should I bring you a bowl, hmm?�

Narcissa’s mind went blank, her vision went white. ‘Chili,’ she thought, ‘that damned house-elf ALWAYS made chili! And this is all HIS fault!’ With an inhuman shriek, Narcissa launched herself at the matron, knocking the tea tray from her grasp.