Narcissa was silent, lifting the apple to her lips while her gaze lingered on the Gryffindor before her.
"You look terrible," she said finally, her blunt honesty softened by the elegance of her manner.
"You don't," he replied.
It might have been a compliment if not for the gruffness of his tone. For some reason, the contrast between his words and tone tugged at her lips, threatening to form a faint, knowing smile. She caught it just in time.
"I have the misfortune of always looking good," she said, her voice carrying a practiced aloofness. Her gaze, however, stayed fixed on him. "Sit down."
A request? A command? Either way, he complied without question, narrowing the already small space between them.
"I wouldn’t call that a misfortune," he remarked, the faintest trace of amusement flickering in his tone.
"It draws attention," she countered.
Neither of them wore school uniforms anymore. Those days had long since passed. Her own robes had been relegated to some elegant trunk in her new home—one she suspected she could no longer fit into, given her current state.
"How safe is this place?" she asked, her tone now more practical.
"As safe as it can be. For at least the next hour," he assured her.
"One hour." She nodded, her lips tightening as she scanned their surroundings, taking in every detail before returning her gaze to him. "One hour, and then we won’t see each other for a long time. Tell me, how suicidal is your situation right now? I need to know if it’s even worth thinking about you."
Her words were cold, calculated, as if an emotional shield had been firmly locked in place. He held her gaze as long as he could before the weight of the truth forced him to look away. He swallowed dryly, choosing his words with deliberate care.
"It would be easier for you not to."
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes hardening. "You’re right. After all, I can’t take care of two children at once."
The sharpness of her reply struck him harder than any hex could. He didn’t flinch, though. He sat firm, absorbing the blow because he thought he deserved it. Her eyes—filled with a fury that barely concealed the worry buried beneath—only made it worse.
"You’re beautiful," he said quietly, his voice softer than it had been all evening.
It was a deflection, and she knew it. If she truly wanted to stop caring about him, she wouldn’t have risked everything to be here. Her façade cracked slightly at his words, but she pressed on, unwilling to let him see how much they affected her.
"Do you even have a photograph of me?" she asked suddenly, the question leaving her throat dry and her voice raw. She already knew the answer—just as she knew she didn’t have one of him. The silence that followed felt heavy, each second slipping away like grains of sand in an hourglass.
"They’d have to try very hard to make me forget you," he replied, his voice steady. He extended his hand toward her, palm up—a silent offering. "You’ll be alright. I promise."
She hesitated before placing her hands on his, marveling at the warmth that always seemed to radiate from his touch. Her fingers brushed against the scars on his wrists, her touch light but deliberate. "I’m not the one I’m worried about," she said quietly.
Her voice wavered slightly as her hands tightened around his. "Tell me how I can help you. I still have a few weeks of… immunity. No one will harm me in this state."
His thumb moved gently over the back of her hand, a silent reassurance that only he could provide. "And we’ll make sure that doesn’t change," he said softly. "You’re already doing more than enough, Narcissa. Now, you just need to take care of yourself—of both of you."
Her lips tightened at his words. "More than enough?" she echoed, bitterness creeping into her tone. "I’m tired of being kept in the dark."
Her frustration bubbled to the surface, her voice trembling. "Do you know how many times I asked Reggie if I could help him?"
Tears welled in her eyes, defying her attempts to hold them back. She knew her sadness wasn’t just for Reggie. It was for everything—the gilded cage that held her, the choices she never had, the life she’d been forced to accept.
His grip on her hand tightened as if to anchor her. He wanted to speak, to offer her solace, but words felt inadequate. Instead, he reached up, his hand cradling her cheek as if to catch the tears that never truly fell.
"I’m sorry," he murmured. "I never wanted this for you."
She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes. "It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault," she said softly, though the lie was clear to both of them.
Her hand found his on her cheek, guiding it down to rest against the curve of her belly. The movement was instinctive, unspoken, and yet it carried all the weight of her resolve.
"I won’t ask for permission, Remus. I won't be able to look at them in the eye if I don’t at least try to stand on the right side of this."
A faint smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t argue. Instead, his hand lingered, feeling the steady pulse of life beneath his touch—a reminder of what they both had to fight for.
"I think they already know," he said quietly.
And for a moment, nothing else mattered.
