I never wanted to be involved in the shadowed circles surrounding the Dark Lord.

Certainly I'll admit that the Slytherin side of me desired power and influence. When I entered a party, I wanted every head to turn in my direction. I wanted my closest friends to feel privileged to be associated with me. The complexity and games of the upper classes intrigued me.

But I never desired the power that came with the ability of a single word to trigger shaking knees or a simple mark to strike fear in hearts. I never wanted to reign over the lesser classes and torture Mudbloods for fun.

None of that was for me.

When I married, mind you, I was in love with Lucius—but it wasn't the innocent romance I'd dreamed of and read about in fairy tales. I suppose I fell in love with his darker, more twisted side, and my father sealed the marriage before I had time to reconsider.

Lucius was always good to me. I knew I would never be more than a symbol of his status to him, but at the same time, he knew too that he would never been the recipient of my undivided attention and affections.

Those were reserved for my only son—Draco.

He is my light, my joy, my life.

This story, though, is not about him. I do not really know how to begin, but I will try, with my feeble pen, now, in my dying age, to explain to you why I did what I did. It was all out of love for my son and devotion to my husband, not out of loyalty to the Dark Lord. But in the end, I could not save my family.

Only one person could. The last person on earth we would ever want to accept help from, but the only person who could, and would, save us in the end.

Harry Potter.

It was only because of him that my entire family wasn't sent straight to Azkaban after the Battle of Hogwarts.

After all, Lucius and Draco had the painfully noticeable Marks on their left forearms, though the skulls faded a little more every day now that the Dark Lord was finally gone. And I was guilty by association.

But as I sat there before the entire Wizengamot, unable to lift my eyes, feeling the weight of shame pressing down on my shoulders at my public humiliation, I thought that I'd finally accepted my fate. At least in Azkaban I would be far away from the prying eyes of the public. The humiliation would not be so great when I was separated from the Wizarding population without privileges such as newspapers and visits.

In fact, if the choice was mine, I'd ask to be sent straight to Azkaban. The trial was merely a formality, an opportunity for the fools to gawk and laugh as many of the former prominent members of society met their rightful fates, a chance for the vengeful wronged—the families who had lost loved ones—to seek retribution.

I listened half-heartedly as Emelda Diggory—Amos Diggory's older sister, I remembered—read the charges in a cold, harsh voice. When asked if I pled innocent or guilty, I replied quietly that I was guilty. To my surprise, my husband and son echoed my proclamation. Lucius sat straight and tall, chin high as he gazed defiantly at the gathered audience. Draco's shoulders were hunched, his face impassive, and I longed to take him into my arms again, as I did when he was small, and tell him it would be alright—we would get through this. But I couldn't, and I knew we wouldn't, so instead I sat silently, willing myself not to show any hint of emotion on my face as I confessed my sins.

The debating went on for hours. Old crimes were brought up, things Lucius and I had done during the First War. Every offense, every murder, every Unforgivable was laid out for the Wizengamot to scrutinize. Why did they bother? I knew what was coming to me.

The one crime I had not committed was murder—Draco and Lucius were, of course, guilty of this crime on various accounts. I remembered the first time Draco had stumbled home, retching and crying, his eyes tortured and bloodshot. It was the first time I truly wanted to murder my sister. She delighted in his innocence, forever bloodying his hands by forcing him to do unspeakable things to innocent victims. The worst of it was that I could do nothing to stop her. She was his second-in-command, his most loyal follower. She could have us killed with a word.

But was it better to have my son alive, I'd wondered, when I watched him toss and turn and cry out in his sleep, tortured by nightmares I could never hope to understand?

Once, I'd broken down. It was only a week after Lucius had arrived back from Azkaban, emaciated, his long, blond hair—once the pride of his features—now thin and gray. When I heard Draco crying out from his room, I could take it no longer. I'd groveled at Lucius's feet, crying and clinging and begging him to spare our son.

There was nothing he could do, though. I knew that. I never asked again.

I sneaked a peek at my judges through the curtain of my hair, studying their faces briefly. They didn't know—how could they know? They'd been raised by nice Muggle-loving families. They hadn't known what it was like to live in the labyrinth—unable to escape, unable to do anything but survive.

I listened proudly as my son haltingly described his crimes; every Muggle he'd tortured, every Muggleborn he'd killed. He said nothing of Bellatrix Lestrange, nothing of the threats she'd used against him, nothing of the specific Unforgivable she punished him with when he was unable to raise his wand against a helpless victim. He did not grovel, nor did he plead, even when the questioners used less than civil methods, even threatening to extract answers by force if he did not tell the complete and entire truth.

Of the Wizengamot, Emelda Diggory was the worst, I think. Perhaps because her nephew was one of the Dark Lord's first victims after he rose to power the second time. She relentlessly waded through our histories until no secret was left uncovered, arguing until no Wizengamot member was left unconvinced that we were worthy of death.

I hoped for death. For myself. If they deemed my sins less than my son's and husband's, if they pardoned me and punished them . . . If the marks on their forearms was a sure sentence and my spotless skin spared me the same judgment . . .

I couldn't bear to think of it.

The trial wound down a last. "Esteemed members of the Wizengamot," said Kingsley Shacklebolt. Finally, the end was close. I only wished to be away, gone from the bright lights, the interrogating questions, the accusing voices. "The evidence has been laid before you, clearly proving the prisoners' guilt."

Murmurs of approval.

I knew that my own trial had not been near as eventful as my sister's, so many years ago. Back in the days when Lucius and I had hidden behind claims of the Imperius Curse, Bellatrix had eagerly confessed to all charges, taking special delight in describing the murders she'd committed in detail, down to the specifics—which curses, how much her victims screamed, how and when they died. If the audience hadn't been angry before, after her confessions they were outraged. Aurors had to be brought in to restrain relatives of her victims who had tried to jump the barrier and kill her with their bare hands. In the end, the trial was cut short and Bellatrix was removed forcibly from the room, shrieking at the top of her lungs that one day the Dark Lord would rise again and she would be rewarded for her loyalty.

No, my trial was much less eventful.

"The Wizengamot as a whole finds the prisoners guilty of all charges. Before sentences are assigned, the presiding would ask that if anyone in the audience will stand for the prisoners, he must present himself at this time."

A long silence. And then, there was a rustling noise from high above, and like a wave, whispers swept through the crowd, turning into a crescendo of voices. Finally, when I could no longer hear my own thoughts, Minister Shacklebolt's voice rang above the rest. "Silence! Order in the courtroom."

Slowly, the ruckus diminished, but I wasn't even aware of what had taken place until Shacklebolt spoke again, this time, his sharp words directed at a specific person. "Harry, what is the meaning of this?"

My head snapped up, and for the first time, I scanned the audience openly; no one was looking at me. Their heads were turned toward the skinny, black-haired boy standing alone in the highest row. He held his chin up, his gaze directed at the Minister of Magic who looked, quite frankly, flabbergasted.

Harry.

I'd forgotten about him; I hadn't expected him to be here—he'd never cared for Draco during their school years, and Merlin knew he had no love for Lucius. Then why would he be here now? What reason could he possibly have to be defending us?

"Very well." Minister Shacklebolt's voice was hard, and to his right, Emelda Diggory looked livid. "Please make your way to the front, Mr. Potter."

Harry strode down the steps. I stared at him, unable to look away. I couldn't read his face. He didn't glance in our direction. In fact, he acted as if the three of us, chained to our chairs and surrounded by Aurors with wands, were invisible.

"State your reasons for believing, even after the conclusive evidence, that these three deserve a reprieve."

Harry took his place on the platform, still not looking in our direction. I covertly glanced at Lucius; his face was stony. Draco was watching Harry with a look of suspicious wonder.

"Honored members of the Wizengamot," began Harry slowly after clearing his throat. "I speak today on behalf of Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco Malfoy. I request that they be released."

The roar of outrage was deafening, and Shacklebolt had to cast a Sonorus on himself before he was finally able to quiet the people.

"Thank you," said Harry calmly when order was once again restored. "To many of you, my request is coming as a surprise, but please believe me when I say that I have my reasons."

No one moved, and the Boy-Who-Lived suddenly seemed to be himself again. The formalities over, he cleared his throat again, and ran one hand nervously through his hair. "You see, for anyone else, I wouldn't have bothered, but I owe them"—he pointed at us—"a debt."

Murmurings from the crowd.

"On the night of the Battle of Hogwarts," began Harry haltingly, "it soon became clear to me that there was a connection between me and Lord Voldemort, one I hadn't known about before." He paused, reached up to adjust his glasses; suddenly I wondered how many people he'd told this story. Or if he'd told anyone at all. Thanks to the guards at the Ministry holding cells who were at the very least, informative, I knew that the exact events of the Battle of Hogwarts were unknown to many. Papers speculated and guessed, but no one knew for sure. On the front row of the visitors' benches, I saw the reporters suddenly start scribbling.

"Finally, I reached the conclusion that the only way to defeat Voldemort was to die myself," continued Harry, and many people gasped. He smiled faintly. "The connection that bound us together would prevent his downfall—it's too complicated to explain here and now. The important part is that when Voldemort's message reached the castle—that he'd give me one hour to hand myself over, or kill all the rest. So I left the castle and went into the forest in search of my death."

I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. He'd come to die for his friends, to die that they might live, to die so Voldemort would become mortal again.

He'd known he would have to die, at Voldemort's hand, and he'd walked into the forest anyway.

I'd always wondered why he'd come. Was it hopelessness that drove him? Had he come to surrender? To give up fighting?

The way he'd just stood there at the edge of the clearing haunted me. Standing there, his face pale and drawn, his eyes resigned. He didn't even have his wand out.

"The next thing I knew, a flash of green light was speeding toward me once again, and everything was dark. When I came to my senses, I was lying on the forest floor and Voldemort was sending someone to make sure I was really dead.

"That someone was Narcissa Malfoy."

Collective gasps from the audience. To my left, Draco turned sharply, but I paid him no heed. My eyes were locked on the messy-haired speaker; I knew what he was going to say, and I knew that I deserved no credit for the act of so-called bravery he was about reveal. This wasn't right.

"She felt my heart beating, saw my chest moving up and down, and yet she turned to Voldemort and told him that I was dead," said Harry firmly. "She saved my life. And for this, I owe her a life debt."

I felt numb. My eyes dropped to my hands again, encased in the bands of iron that was cutting into my wrist. I wanted to smooth out my clothes, to touch up my face, but the shackles prevented me from movement. I clenched and unclenched my fingers, trying to bring warmth back into them.

"Is this the truth?" said Minister Shacklebolt sharply.

Harry met his gaze squarely. "It is."

The deliberation went on for hours after that. Somehow, Harry not only persuaded the Wizengamot that he owed me a life debt for saving his life, but he also convinced them that Lucius and Draco hadn't participated in the final battle. He'd even called for witnesses—anyone who had seen any of the three of us throw a curse during those final chaotic hours. No one came forward.

"You see, their loyalty had turned long before it looked remotely possible that the light would win," said Harry firmly.

Then we were questioned again. Lucius and I both denied using spells during the final battle—we hadn't been involved—though Draco said he'd used shielding spells. A touch of Legilimency to his mind told me that he was telling the truth. He knew it was me, and let his shields down at once. I wondered why Harry hadn't mentioned the incident in the Room of Requirement. Draco and his friends had been trying to capture Harry—unsuccessfully, of course—but it had lead to the death of Vincent Crabbe.

When Harry finally finished arguing in our defense, he crossed his arms and waited, staring defiantly up at the gallery of people watching intently. No one seemed brave enough to disagree with the Boy-Who-Lived. I was hardly paying attention now, trying to inwardly grapple with my conflicting feelings—self-loathing, resignation, shame, bitterness, hope…

Hope. I'd given up hope long ago, but looking up at the messy-haired teen standing so firmly under the scores of irate glares, a tiny pinprick of light seemed to break through the darkness around me. I tried to listen, but suddenly the proceedings seemed to be far away, so distant. I heard my husband speaking, and then the Minister of Magic again, then Harry. I suppose a vote was called, but I don't remember it. The next thing I knew, two Aurors were unlocking the shackles that bound my wrists, then moving on to my husband and son. I lifted my hands to my face, studying them. Were we being sent to Azkaban? Then why were they just standing there?

I looked up at the closest Auror. He stared back at me, and I could see the smoldering anger in his eyes. "Go on, get out of here," he growled. A second later, a wand was being shoved at me. My hand closed automatically around it, and with a jolt of surprise, I felt the tingle and warmth of recognition—it was my own wand. I hadn't held it in months, since we'd been taken into Auror custody. I glanced back up at the Aurors, uncomprehendingly.

"Weren't you listening?" the closest one snarled. "Harry bleeding Potter just convinced the Wizengamot that you scum didn't deserve to go to Azkaban with the rest of your kind."

I looked at Lucius; he met my eyes and nodded, confirming the fact that we were free. A second later, Draco was at my side, helping me to my feet, pocketing his own wand in silence. I stared up at the hundreds of wizards and witches, now dispersing, many of whom wore very disgusted expressions on their faces. I finally found Harry Potter. He was talking in a low voice with the minister, but before he turned to go, he must have felt my eyes on him because he turned, and for a second, our eyes locked. Then he nodded at me, and disappeared into the crowd.

"Narcissa." Lucius's voice was cool, but I could hear the disbelief and relief laced into the single word. "Come."

Numbly, I followed him across the courtroom floor, up the long set of stairs, through the gauntlet of disapproving faces, down the dark corridor leading to the Department of Mysteries to the lift. It must be late in the day—the Atrium was crowded with Ministry employees leaving work. For so long, time had had no meaning to me. Days and nights were insignificant in a prison cell. Fortunately, we were able to blend into the crowd as we hurried for the fireplaces lining the walls. It must be a dream, I kept telling myself.

And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of black. It was Harry Potter, again; he'd been mobbed by reporters in the Atrium and was trying to disperse them. "No, no questions! Yes, I'll release a statement for the Daily Prophet . . . No, I said I wouldn't answer questions."

My steps slowed. I watched him as he finally broke through the reporters and strode determinedly toward a fireplace. And suddenly, I darted toward him, ignoring Draco's calls from behind me, maneuvering my way through the crowd. I had to know.

"Harry."

He turned, and surprise flashed momentarily across his face. Had he honestly thought that we wouldn't be courteous enough to tell him we were grateful for sparing us from Azkaban—a fate rather worse than death, in my mind?

Yes, that was a definite possibility, I thought as I thought of what his former impressions of our family had been like.

"Mrs. Malfoy." His tone was polite, slightly distant, and very curious.

I took a breath, my heart pounding, though I wasn't sure why. How was I supposed to express the enormity of my gratitude in a few short sentences?

"Speaking for my family, the Malfoys are forever in your debt," I said stiffly, and he nodded, turning as if to leave. I reached out and caught his sleeve. "Speaking for myself," I continued, my voice trembling, "why did you do it?"

Harry looked slightly confused. "You saved my life," he said matter-of-factly.

"I saved my own life," I countered. "And the lives of my husband and son. You were the only one who could defeat him."

We both knew to which "him" I was referring.

Surprise flashed momentarily across his face. "If Voldemort had won, your family would have been honored."

I winced at the name. "We fell out of the Dark Lord's favor long ago. There was nothing left for us with him. As for saving your life, I had selfish reasons. I did it for my son." The truth hurt, but it was liberating, in a way.

Harry's expression was unreadable. "If I had told you your son was dead, would you still have spared my life?" he said at last.

"Yes, but . . ." I stopped, suddenly unsure of what I meant.

Harry looked at me for a long moment. Then he said quietly, "You did it for your son. I of all people can understand that."

He was talking about his mother. And in that instant I knew he did understand. Because if I had been in Lily Potter's place, I knew without a shadow of doubt that I would have done the exact same thing.

"We'll never be able to repay you," I choked out.

"You don't have to," he said sincerely, his piercing green eyes seeming to see straight into my soul.

I did something impulsive. I crushed his hand between my own. Then I turned and without a backward glance hurried through the crowd, back to my husband and son.

They asked no questions. We turned and left the Ministry, never to return.

It was a week before we discussed what we were going to do.

I had spent the entire week being pampered by the House Elves. Although my body felt stronger, my fatigue still lingered. I could sleep for hours and still be exhausted when I awoke. Lucius was much worse off than me. He could hardly rest at all, and after a week at home, his face was even gaunter, the dark circles around his eyes even more prominent than before. I knew if we were ever to fully recover from our experiences, it would have to be elsewhere. The thought of a period of absence lingered in my mind.

Draco made himself scarce, spending hours locked in his rooms, emerging only for meals and often not even then. Surprisingly, after a week he looked better. He was putting some weight back on, and there was a healthier flush to his skin.

Still, I could see that his eyes were haunted when he joined Lucius and me for dinner one evening exactly one week after the trial.

The house elf poured the wine and I took the cup, holding it tightly in my hand but not yet taking a sip. "I've decided to take an extended holiday to France," I said.

Neither man looked surprised.

"Then I will of course accompany you," said my husband after a moment.

We turned to Draco.

He didn't look at either of us, fingering his goblet of wine. "I will remain here," he said at last, to my surprise. "Someone needs to stay and restore the family name."

Inwardly, I winced. But the rebuke was deserved, and both Lucius and I knew it. Nothing else was said. We all knew that it would not be months, but years before Lucius and I dared to show our faces again in Britain. But after dinner when Lucius had retired to his study, I pulled Draco aside.

"I have never," I said, my voice shaky with emotion, "been more proud of you in my entire life." And I was. He wasn't going to run from the pointing fingers and whispering crowds.

"Thank you, Mother," he murmured, and although he stood stiffly and awkwardly, the brightness in his eye told me otherwise.

And as I watched him climb the stairs, I only hoped that he would succeed. Repairing the damage done to our reputations would certainly not be easy.

Before I left, I had one more visit to pay before my departure, and this would be by far the most difficult of my affairs to settle.

I apparated to the tiny cottage nestled between a forest and a small pond one bright morning. The cheery sunshine did nothing for my mood as I followed the flower-lined path to the tiny porch, feeling rather adamant that I'd rather face the entire Wizengamot again than this.

Timidly, I knocked. The seconds seemed like hours as I waited.

The door opened, and I looked into the eyes of someone I hadn't seen in twenty-six years.

My older sister, Andromeda Tonks.

She looked so different from the last time I had seen her—young and fierce, her black eyes flashing as she declared to my father her intentions to marry the Muggleborn, Ted Tonks.

First, her eyes widened. Then, they narrowed suspiciously, before seeming to close altogether.

"What are you doing here?" she said dully, and I was alarmed by the deep lines in her face, made more prominent by pain. I knew her losses. I knew that the Second War had taken more form her than anyone else—her husband, her daughter, her son-in-law. In a word, her entire family.

"What do you want?" she demanded, a bit more loudly, pulling herself up to her full height—only an inch taller than me. But now I felt like cowering before the rage radiating off her person. "If you've come crawling back to say you're sorry and beg forgiveness, don't even other."

I closed my eyes. "That's not why I came," I whispered, forcing the words out of my mouth.

Andromeda's face hardened. "Then why did you come?"

I bowed my head. "Andy . . ." She jerked visibly at the name but gave no verbal response. "I didn't come to seek your forgiveness because I don't deserve it." Something flickered in her eyes. "But I am so very sorry for you . . . for your loss . . ." My voice broke, and I took a second to compose myself. "Andy, I came to let you know in person that Lucius and I are leaving the country. Possibly for good."

Her mouth tightened into a thin line. "Running like a coward again, are you?"

That was deserved, and we both knew it.

"Call it what you want, but Lucius hasn't yet recovered from his time in Azkaban," I said quietly. "It's for his health as much as anything."

"You look thin as well," murmured Andromeda, not meeting my eyes.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. I seized the opportunity. "I came to see you," I said. "Because . . . I wanted to know, if Lucius and I do return, may I visit you?"

There was a long silence. Then, just when I thought she'd shut the door in my face, Andy bit her lip and gave the tiniest of nods.

Relief flooded my entire being, and I had the sudden urge to embrace her—but embracing wasn't something I practiced on a regular basis, so I was glad for the distraction from this emotionally uncomfortable moment, even though it came in the form of a baby's wail.

"It's Teddy," said Andy, shuffling her feet.

I blinked. "Who?"

She looked at me disbelievingly. "You don't know?"

I shook my head numbly. A baby? Where had Andy gotten a baby? Certainly it wasn't hers…

"Tonks," she said, a funny expression on her face. "I mean, Nymphadora. Teddy is hers. Hers and Remus's."

She had a grandson. I could see by the way she talked of the boy that already he was her anchor, her lifeline.

"Congratulations," I murmured, meaning it. The wail intensified, and she glanced over her shoulder. "Best of wishes, sister," I said, and turned to go.

"The same to you," she said, not unkindly, before almost reluctantly closing the door behind me.

As I left, I thought of my impending departure from England and I reflected on what I was leaving behind. Not much. Damaged relationships, a son I had failed, people I had hurt and betrayed. And I wondered when my life had become so complicated, so destructive and injurious. I suppose I was born into this life, and I secured my place in it in agreeing to marry Lucius.

Still, I sometimes wished I could fix the past. Things would have been so different.

TBC

A/N: I wrote this months ago. But, seeing that I feel so awful for the long period of time with no new chapters, I figured I'd polish it up and post it here to see what the reaction would be. It will be a series of oneshots, not particularly in order, of Narcissa's life, perhaps even dating back into her Hogwarts years and forward into the post war years. The very last snapshot will be the clearing scene from DH when she saves Harry's life.

And yes, I'm working on the other stories. Forgive a busy college nursing major.