Hey!
If you're following Son of Zeus, don't worry, that story's still coming along nicely. This is just an idea I had that won't fit in the story, and I wanted it down before I forgot it. This is compliant with all seven books, except probably that awful 19 years later scene that I try my hardest to forget about.
I wrote this because I've always been fascinated by Harry's willingness to forgive (i.e., going into the room after Snape was attacked and then naming a child after him), and the extent to which Narcissa Malfoy obviously loved her son. This is a homage to both those things.
This is a oneshot, and it's not slash. The end.
I don't own Harry Potter.
Harry Potter paused before the great iron gate of Malfoy Manor.
He had been here only once before and the memories were not pleasant. Images of a dark, cloudy night shot through his mind, of a heavy hand on his shoulder and his face stinging in pain, the whisper of Bellatrix Lestrange...
But the war was over now, and Bellatrix Lestrange was dead. Lucius Malfoy was in Azkaban, and Harry was accompanying Kingsley Shacklebolt to aid in the arrest of his wife and son. The Manor looked less oppressive in the afternoon sunlight; the great gates stood open, the once-neat hedges were lopsided, the path strewn with dust and rubble. Bellatrix's reign of terror and Voldemort's presence had taken its toll on the place.
"Harry," said Kingsley. He was further up the walkway now, looking back at the young man who stood by the gate, lost in thought.
Harry hurried after him. The porches of the manor looked forbidding, the doors closed tightly. Kingsley swept up to the main double doors and knocked commandingly. Nothing happened.
Kingsley tried the handle and to Harry's surprise, the door swung open. Harry peered into the front room he remembered so well; it was a mess. The great crystal chandelier that Dobby had dropped when he was here last lay on the floor still, little glistening pieces of it scattered everywhere. The floor was dirty and dusty; chairs were overturned and horrifying little skeletons dotted the floor. Goblin skeletons, Harry realized. This was the remains of the wrath of Voldemort, he suspected, when he discovered that his cup had been stolen from Gringotts. He shuddered.
Kingsley looked in aversion at the scene before him, then called into the great still manor, alerting its inhabitants to the presence of a ministry official. Nothing happened; Harry had never seen a place that looked more deserted.
"Sir?"
A house-elf was peering from behind a pillar.
Kingsley turned in surprise. "There are still elves here," he muttered.
"They is all gone, sir," said the elf squeakily. "Only Hanky is remaining, sir, and mistress has ordered him not to clean."
Like Harry, Kingsley seemed to find this odd, but he said nothing.
"If he likes," said Hanky, boldly, "I is taking sir to mistress and the young master."
"I do like," said Kingsley, after a moment of silence. Hanky turned and pattered toward the great staircase leading up, and Harry and Kingsley followed him. The stairwell echoed loudly with their footsteps, and Harry couldn't help but think that if the Malfoys hadn't noticed their presence before they noticed it now.
Hanky led them through a number of rooms before pausing before a door. "She is here," he whispered, and then scampered away.
Kingsley paused, deliberated, and then knocked. There was a long silence.
"Who's there?" asked the hoarse voice of a woman.
"Ministry," said Kingsley in a business like tone.
"Enter if you will, but I do not invite you," said the voice again. Harry could barely believe it to be the voice of Narcissa Malfoy.
Kingsley swing the door open and they found themselves in a small room. It was very dark, with no windows and only a small candle.
Narcissa Malfoy sat by a small shrine, her hands folded in her lap. Harry felt an unpleasant jolt at the sight of the woman. She was so thin it seemed impossible, and there was a stoop to her once proud, straight back. Her hair tumbled loosely about her face, which was deathly white, and her eyes looked hollow and shrunken.
"Why do you disturb me in my mourning?" she asked quietly.
Kingsley cleared his throat. "It is my solemn duty," he said, "as the Minister of Magic...to...to arrest you and your son. You are charged with -"
"I know with what we are charged," said Narcissa, and Harry could barely hear her. "No matter that my son is not guilty...I will go with you, but he is too young for Azkaban."
"He is a confirmed Death Eater," said Kingsley, stolidly. "He is known to have performed Dark Magic and Unforgivable Curses under the -"
"I know," said Narcissa wearily. "He has done all that, and more, but he is not guilty...he is just a boy, you cannot put him in Azkaban..."
"He will have a trial," said Kingsley, as her voice died away.
"You did not give Lucius a trial."
"The circumstances of his arrest were slightly different," said Kingsley firmly. "And it will go much easier for the both of you if you come quietly."
Narcissa rose with difficulty, her thin frame swaying. Harry felt an irrepressible urge to reach out and help her. This was wrong, he thought, wrong.
"Wait," he said.
Narcissa turned to look at him, and for the first time a sign of life entered her eyes.
"You," she said, hissing slightly. "Why are you here?"
"Harry," said Kingsley, "leave us."
"You wanted me to come with you."
"Leave us!" said the Minister sternly.
"All right," said Harry. "But there's something you should know. I think she should be...cleared of charges...you see she saved my life in the Forbidden Forest. If it hadn't been for her, Voldemort -" Narcissa wilted at the sound of the name "might have just killed me then and there and it would've been all over..."
"I don't need your help," Narcissa spat. "Swine!"
"Thank you, Harry," said Kingsley, gravely. "Now, leave us."
Harry withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him, and came face to face with Draco Malfoy. He was leaning against the wall, arms folded, just as he used to at school. But his entire manner was different; his eyes were dull, his face sallow, his blonde hair streaked with early gray. He was a shadow of the strutting, swaggering boy he'd once been.
"Come to gloat, have you, Potter?" he said bitterly. "Winning the War isn't enough, you still have to come harass your fallen enemy?"
"I'm not harassing anyone," said Harry. "We're here to do justice."
"What sort of justice is this? Why can't you leave my mother alone?" His mouth twisted in anger. "As if she hasn't had enough...justice."
Harry wondered what he meant.
"Well?" Draco said coldly. "Are you taking us away in chains? Locking us in Azkaban?"
"No," said Harry, trying to be reasonable. "You'll get a fair trial, you won't -"
"A fair trial!" Draco said, and the shadow of his old sneer crossed his face. "As if every man and woman won't condemn us the moment they set eyes on us! It'll kill my mother! But do they care? Do you care?"
"Why should we?" demanded Harry. But he was unexpectedly touched.
"You'll have years and years of evidence to give against us," said Draco. He seemed to be talking to himself now, seemed to have forgotten Harry's presence. "And you'll give it gladly. They'll lock us up in Azkaban, most likely with my swine of a father. They'll kill Mother, she won't last five minutes..."
"They don't employ dementors as guards of Azkaban anymore," said Harry. He wasn't sure what made him say this; it was almost as if he was trying to reassure Draco. "And I haven't got years of evidence against you."
Draco looked at him suspiciously.
"All those years we were at school..."
"That's not evidence that would hold up in a court," said Harry stolidly, and was surprised when he felt satisfied at Draco's brief expression of relief. But Draco looked gloomy again in a moment.
"It doesn't matter," he said wearily. "I did Dark Magic, illegal magic, and I almost killed...I would have killed Dum -"
"You wouldn't have," said Harry. "I saw you. You lowered your wand..."
"What?" Draco hissed, standing straight to glare at Harry. "How do you know?"
"I was there," said Harry. "I was hidden, I saw the whole thing."
"Don't try to help me, Potter," said Draco, turning away. "I don't want your help. You can't keep us out of Azkaban."
"You saved my life when I was here last," said Harry evenly. "So did your mother, in the Forest. I think that counts for something."
Draco's shoulders stiffened.
"What are you talking about, Potter?"
"You know very well what I mean. You lied to Bellatrix when I was here last. And you never told me why."
"I didn't want to," said Draco in a low growl. "Isn't that enough for you?"
"If you told the truth at your trial, it might -"
"Didn't I tell you I don't want your help!" Draco hissed, whirling. "I've been beaten, I've been shamed, but I won't be coddled. I don't care what they do to me."
"Fine!" snapped Harry. "Have it your way, then. They may not have dementors at Azkaban, but they've still got some formidable type of security there. I'm sure you'll find out; act like this at your trial and they'll have you in chains in no time."
They glared at each other. The sound of Kingsley's voice in the next room had suddenly stopped, and through the quiet Harry heard the dry sob of a broken woman. Draco seemed to wither and wilt on the spot, all the anger melting from his face. He set his jaw and looked Harry in the face.
"You should be happy, Potter," he said coldly. "After all this time, I'm coming to beg at your feet. Take me to Azkaban if you will. But don't...don't let them take my mother."
His voice broke, and Harry felt sorry for him. He was touched by Narcissa and Draco's obvious devotion to each other. They were the remnant of a proud, cruel family who'd done a lot of things wrong, but here at least was one thing they'd done right. He felt a pang, thinking of his own lost mother; and he knew that, were he in Draco's position, he too would go to anyone, even his worst enemy, to protect her.
"I'll do my best," he promised.
Draco's face hardened. "Your best isn't good enough. You're bloody Harry Potter, the chosen one, the savior of the whole wizarding world. If you say the word, I'm sure they'll all bow before you."
"It isn't like that," said Harry hastily. "There's still -"
"Harry Potter," said Draco, "promise me."
He was not angry anymore; he had abandoned all pretense of it. He was pleading.
Harry looked Draco in the eye and said, "All right, then. I promise."
Years later, when Harry Potter was grown and married to the love of his life, Ginny Weasley, and had three little children whom he loved more than anything else, he met Narcissa Malfoy in Diagon Alley. He had not seen her since the day he'd testified at her trial and they'd let her go. Since then, Lucius had died in Azkaban. Draco had been released, and he too was married with a child of his own. Harry had heard that he was a better father than Lucius.
He saw her from a distance. She was walking slowly, clutching the hand of a little pale-haired child. Her grandson.
She looked up and saw him, and she paused briefly. The child raised its head, and Harry was struck by its resemblance to a younger version of its father.
Narcissa looked down at the child at her side, then nodded to Harry. He returned the gesture.
He understood her meaning.
Scorpius was her second chance, a chance to redeem herself for the way she'd raised his father. And it was Harry's promise made all those years ago that had given her that chance.
He never really saw the Malfoys again, but as long as he lived, Harry never really forgot that day in Malfoy Manor.
There we go.
I never really thought that Harry and Malfoy could be friends, you know? The same way Snape and Sirius couldn't ever have been friends. They hated each other too much, too many things happened between them. But they can still reconcile.
Well, that was fun. It's out of my system now anyways. Anyway, R&R and tell me what you think!
-Kenzie