Narcissa sits gingerly on the chair that Andromeda indicated to her when she arrived. Tea has not been offered.
Andromeda has stepped out of the room for a moment—attending to the baby, Narcissa supposes, and so Narcissa is on her own in the strange kitchen. She has been here once before, when Nymphadora was born, but it was only a fleeting visit, and the room is no more familiar for a second viewing. Narcissa isn't sure, but she thinks that is has changed since she's last been here, in any case.
The kitchen in Malfoy Manor has not been altered significantly since the renovations of 1894. Not that Narcissa ever spent much of her time in the kitchen of Malfoy Manor—their house-elves have had everything well in hand for centuries.
Andromeda's kitchen however, here are new…devices in place, all shining enamel, bedecked with knobs and buttons, a clock that winks at her with glowing red eyes. Narcissa wishes she had a cup of tea; it would at least give her something to do with her hands. She cannot feel quite comfortable in Andromeda's home. Of course, she cannot quite feel comfortable in her own home either…
She stands. Wanders towards a tall, enameled cabinet. Photographs have been affixed to it with sticking charms. In almost all of them a baby coos, or smiles, or weeps, its face flitting from expression to expression and appearance to appearance. The last time Narcissa was here this surface was also decorated with photos of a child. It's impossible to tell from the images alone, none of the child's features were ever static, but Narcissa knows that none of those photographs remain in this particular gallery, maybe they have been put away, but she thinks it more likely that Andromeda has moved them to some other place in the house, some more suitable spot for enshrining a daughter.
Narcissa whirls, attempting to smooth the motion into something resembling her usual, studied grace. Something flits over Andromeda's face that might, in bygone days, have been a smirk.
Narcissa recovers ably. She has arranged this meeting, for all that it's on Andromeda's terms. "Yes, we must begin to arrange the logistics. The Dark Lord is dead, so his enchantments should no longer be operative, however it would be unwise to use anything less than extreme caution. We must have damp-resistant robes made, of course," Andromeda looks like she is about to speak, but seems to decide otherwise, Narcissa presses on, "and it's probably necessary that we acquire an interiorly extended vessel in order to store the remains, something tasteful of course, and then there is the matter of a guide. I suppose I can leave it to you to convince Potter to accompany us…"
Narcissa is momentarily thrown when the modest wooden chair unceremoniously tips her off. From her new position on the kitchen floor, she watches red come boiling out of the tile, it resolves into a thick, painted arrow towards the door. "Get. Out. Of. My. House." Andromeda glares down at Narcissa. Oddly enough, from this angle, and wearing this expression, she reminds Narcissa of no one so much as their mother. "If you think that I am putting that poor boy through anything more, If you think that I will ever bring him back to that place, or that I will let any more harm come to a single hair on his head, then you are not welcome here and I will not be seeing you again."
Narcissa picks herself up and grinds her teeth, yes, perhaps she should have anticipated this. An orphaned boy, a bereaved mother. Meda has always been fiercely protective of those she loves. But they need him, don't they? He is the only one who has been to the cave and still lives, the only one who can show them where to go. Unless? There is another.