The room was dark and dingy but bore unmistakable signs of repeated and diligent attempts at cleaning. All evidence that the study had once been inhabited by dark wizards had long ago been removed, but still, an air of unease hung about the room, as if some of the evils of its past had been retained by its walls.

The bookshelves lining the walls were filled with books and strange instruments. The carpet, a sickly shade of green, was threadbare and looked well worn. In the center of the room sat a large oak desk, bare except for a shallow stone basin that sat upon it. A dark haired young man paced back and forth in front of the desk, his frustration evident in the way he repeatedly ran his hands through his already messy hair. He occasionally threw angry looks at the stone basin, as if it had wronged him in some way.

There was a loud crack and the man turned quickly toward the door, pulling from his pocket a long polished stick and pointing at the creature that had just appeared.

"Master Harry, Master Harry," croaked the creature that was now huddled on the carpet, his hands thrown over his head in fear, "Kreacher wasn't meaning to startle you."

Harry placed his wand back in his pocket and turned back toward his desk. His heart was racing and he could feel his hands shaking slightly.

"Sorry Kreacher," Harry said, again running his fingers through his hair, "I'm just a little edgy." In truth, Harry had been 'just a little edgy' going on four years now, drawing his wand at the slightest noise, often panicking for no reason at all. "Just like Mad-Eye" he thought, with a bitter smile that was more like a grimace.

Kreacher edged his way into the room carrying what appeared to be a bowl of hot soup. Harry was amazed that he hadn't spilled it when he had fallen to the floor. "Kreacher thought you might be hungry," he said, in his bullfrog-like voice. "Kreacher knows you've hardly eaten in days."

"Thanks Kreacher," Harry answered quietly, not really paying attention to what the house elf was saying. He had gone back to his pacing and was again deeply immersed in his thoughts about what he'd just seen in the Pensieve.

Kreacher set the bowl on the desk and walked back across the room to leave. As he did, Harry noticed that his limp was growing worse. He knew that Kreacher, like most everyone who had been there that night, had been injured in the last battle at Hogwarts, but that was almost four years ago. Kreacher should have been getting better by now, rather than worse.

Harry felt that familiar pang of guilt that he experienced whenever he thought about the injuries that his loved ones had sustained that night. If only he had been a bit quicker in defeating Voldemort. If only he hadn't taken so long to find and destroy the Horcruxes. If only he hadn't let Carrow see him looking at the statue of Ravenclaw, maybe he could have saved a few injuries, and a few lives.

With great effort, he pushed the long suffered regret from his mind and turned his attention again to the matter at hand.

He wondered if it could be a trick; some way to lure him into a dangerous situation, or maybe just a practical joke. But memories couldn't be tampered with like this, not without some evidence that they had been. And the fear that had been in Narcissa's eyes that night had definitely been genuine.

He sat back down in the chair behind his desk and let his mind wander back to two nights before, when he had first been given this new information.

It was near midnight, and someone was pounding incessantly on his front door. He hadn't been sleeping of course; he was rarely asleep before dawn these days, but the interruption at this late hour annoyed him nonetheless.

He wasn't really expecting it to be anything important; the days when he was awoken late at night to be informed of a new death or kidnapping were thankfully long gone, but still, it was strange that he'd have a visitor so late on such a dark, rainy night.

He made his way down the long hallway of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, while the pounding on the door continued. He was glad that he had been able to remove the portrait of Sirius' mother; she most surely would have woken up by now. The protection that had been placed on the house by both the Blacks and by The Order of the Phoenix was still in place, but regardless, a sudden feeling of unease made him draw his wand before cautiously opening the door. The woman who stood there, her fist poised to knock again, was the last person he had expected to see.

The rainwater dripping from Narcissa Malfoy's blonde hair onto her smooth pale face mingled with the tears that were streaming steadily from her bloodshot eyes. She had dark circles under her eyes and she looked as though she hadn't slept in a very long time. She was thinner and, if possible, paler than he'd ever seen her before.

"Harry," she whispered, looking up at him through terrified eyes. Her voice, though little more than a whisper, sounded both panicked and sorrowful, much like it had that night when she had whispered to him years ago, while he lay feigning death in the forest at Voldemort's feet.

For a moment, he wondered whether he should curse her. She shouldn't have been able to find this house with all of its protections, and he couldn't think of any reason for her to be here, other than to cause him harm. But her wand wasn't drawn and she would have had a hundred chances to curse him while he stood assessing the situation, so he instead let her in.

He kept his wand out as she led the way into the sitting room. Of course she knew the way- this had after all been her family's home. As they entered the sitting room, she turned to face him, but did not speak.

He looked at her and was reminded forcibly of Draco Malfoy. As much as he resembled his father, he looked equally as much like his mother. An old hatred rose up inside of him and he fought to keep it from showing on his face. His hatred for his childhood enemy had subsided after watching him struggle with himself on the tower the night that Dumbledore died. He had lowered his wand, and from that moment on Harry had felt little else for the boy other than pity. But once Voldemort had been defeated, Harry's hatred for the Malfoys had begun to fester and had grown almost to the level it had been before the war. Lucius had of course escaped being sentenced to Azkaban. The ministry had apparently decided that the Lucius had turned to the good side before Voldemort's fall. Harry had, for his own reasons, refused to testify either for or against him, and the Ministry had nothing to base their decision on other than the countless witnesses who said that Lucius hadn't fought that night at Hogwarts. Lucius didn't have as much control over the ministry as he once had, but to Harry he seemed to still very much be the man he used to be.

Harry had seen Draco a few times since the last battle, but it had only been in passing and neither had said a word to each other. It seemed that some grudges went too deep to heal.

But now, as he looked into Narcissa's bloodshot, watery eyes, he felt a stab of pity that he hadn't felt for a Malfoy in a long time. He hadn't seen her up close in almost four years, and she was definitely worse for the passing time. Her once flawless skin was now beginning to wrinkle with age, and her perfect blonde hair showed streaks of gray.

Narcissa now pulled from her robes a small vial that was filled with a silvery substance which Harry easily recognized. She held it out to him, but then withdrew her hand before he could take it. She closed her eyes and seemed to be willing herself to speak.

After a deep breath, she spoke. "You saved my son," she said through a watery, wavering voice. Harry tried to interject but she held up a hand to stop him. "You saved his life even as he tried to take yours, and for that I am indebted to you."

She handed the vial to Harry and this time she let him take it, but as he did, she took his hand in hers and held it with surprising strength.

"I am not proud of what I've done in this life or who I've been," she spoke now in a whisper, "I've made more mistakes than I can ever possibly make up for. But this…" she faltered, and Harry wasn't sure she'd be able to go on. "This, I hope, will at least make up for some of it."

Without another word she released Harry's hand, pulled her hood up to obscure her face and walked briskly down the long hallway and out of the house, leaving Harry to stare perplexedly after her.

He had sat that night for a long while, thinking about the past few years, before viewing the memory Narcissa had given him. He could tell by the urgency with which she had presented it to him that it was something he should have viewed immediately, but he wasn't sure it was anything he wanted to see. He assumed that the memory, whatever it was, was trouble, and trouble was something he had gone to great lengths to avoid these last few years.

Harry's life after destroying Voldemort had not had the neat happy ending he had foolishly expected. He was tired after the fight at Hogwarts that night, and that exhaustion had never really gone away. He had at first tried to enjoy his new, worry free life, spending time with the people he loved without that constant cloud of evil hanging over him, but it never really felt right. He felt so distant from them, as if a haze separated him from the rest of the world, and he felt he could never really be a part of their lives again.

He waited too long to speak with Ginny, assuming that she'd want space while she mourned the loss of her brother, but she had taken his distance all wrong and assumed that he didn't want to be with her. Before he knew it, she was seeing someone else and he had lost his chance.

And then there was the guilt. Harry assumed that the Weasleys blamed him for Fred, Lupin and Tonks' deaths, along with all the others who had died that night, and he didn't think they'd ever really be able to forgive him. He could see their sorrow etched in their faces every time he looked at them, and he couldn't help but feel that had he accomplished what he had sooner, none of them would have had to die. He could see the same thoughts swimming behind the eyes of those he loved and he didn't blame them for it. Not wanting to impose himself on everyone's grief, he began to withdraw. Even Ron and Hermione, so distracted by both their grief and their budding relationship, didn't seem to notice how far he had receded from his own life.

To everyone's surprise, Harry moved back into Grimmauld place. The memories of Sirius barely haunted him now compared to the weight of all of the other deaths that he had caused, and he found that the crushing guilt and regret followed him wherever he was anyway, so he might as well live in the house he already owned. He supposed a small part of him viewed it as his penance.

It wasn't as though he never saw anyone during that time- Ron and Hermione did stop by quite frequently, as well as the other Weasleys, Neville, Luna, and various members of the Order, but as time passed, most of his friends began to move on with their lives, and Harry was left behind, unable to move beyond the events of his past.

Still, things lately had been slightly improving. Harry had begun leaving the house a bit more often- something Rita Skeeter had been quick to notice, and he had even stopped by the Burrow for Ron's birthday. Ron and Hermione were still together, but they had been fighting quite a bit lately, and they had both been visiting Harry far more often, though separately. Andromeda, Tonks' mother, had started bringing little Teddy by every few weeks and Harry was finally getting to know his nearly four year old godson. At Hermione's not so subtle suggestion, Harry was even now finally considering enrolling in Auror training. He had enough money to never have to work, but he thought having a job should be the next step toward living a normal life.

And now, just as everything had been turning around, Narcissa shows up on his door step bearing what could only be bad news. He so desperately didn't want to view the memory, but he knew he had to. Strange things had started happening lately, and while a majority of the Wizarding world chose to ignore or explain away these occurrences, Harry couldn't deny that something wasn't right. Narcissa wouldn't have given the memory to him if it wasn't important, and if it was really bad, he could always just turn it over to the Ministry and let them deal with it. He was done playing the hero.

He pulled Dumbledore's Pensieve off the shelf in his study where it sat, noticing that this would be the first time he used it since Professor McGonagall had given it to him, and dumped the silvery substance into its depths. He swirled it around for a moment with his wand, bracing himself for whatever he might find, and dove in.

Though much younger than he had ever seen either of them, Harry recognized both woman instantly. One, of course, was Narcissa Malfoy. The other, with her flowing dark hair and dark, lidded eyes, though her face untouched by Azkaban, was unmistakably a young Bellatrix Lestrange.

They were running wildly and Harry had trouble keeping up. Narcissa seemed to be arguing with her sister, but in a hushed voice, as though she was afraid she would be overheard. Finally, approaching a tall stone building, the women stopped, and Harry noticed for the first time that Bellatrix was carrying a small bundle in her arms.

"Bella," Narcissa hissed, "You cannot do this. Should the Dark Lord find out, your punishment would be severe."

Bellatrix turned to Narcissa and her eyes were wild with fright and despair, emotions Harry had never seen there before. "Cissy," she said, almost pleading, "I don't care what he does to me, but I can't let him hurt my baby."

Harry suddenly understood that the bundle Bellatrix was carrying was in fact a baby. It was small, likely no more than a few days old, and Harry felt something like sympathy for Bellatrix Lestrange.

"Well then you should have killed it before it was born like he ordered," Narcissa spat, and Bellatrix turned from her with tears in her eyes.

But when she spoke, it was with a clear, sure voice. "The Dark Lord did not want this child born, but I don't think, once it has had a chance to grow, that he will regret what I've done." Narcissa looked ready to disagree, but Bellatrix cut across her. "Oh he'll kill me when he finds out I'm sure," she said as though this fact were of little consequence, "but he likely never will find out. Should the Dark Lord succeed with his plan, by the time my child turns eleven, Hogwarts will no longer be accepting students of questionable parentage and my baby will likely live as a Muggle. Should the Dark Lord fail, then none of it will matter and our child will be free to live life unafraid of the Dark Lord's wrath.

"And should he learn of my deception, he will be furious, but I believe that he will not take his anger out on the child. He will be glad of having a servant more loyal than any who have come before, and perhaps a protégé."

Narcissa looked at her sister disbelievingly, obviously wondering, as Harry was, whether her sister honestly believed this last, foolish sentiment. Could she really believe that the Dark Lord was capable of something like fatherly love?

Bellatrix turned back toward the austere stone building and slowly began to ascend its steps. Harry looked up at the words carved into the archway over the doors noticed for the first time that it was an orphanage. Narcissa began again to argue, but Bellatrix pointed her wand at her sister, whispered "Silencio," and Narcissa could only mouth wordlessly. With one last kiss, Bellatrix set the baby on the doorstep and knocked loudly. Harry heard a violent sob escape her lips before she turned on the spot and disappeared. Narcissa approached the child where it lay sleeping and pointed her wand at it. Harry watched with horror as he realized what Narcissa was considering, but she seemed to lose her nerve. With a mingled look of desperation and terror, she spun into the air and followed her sister.

Harry slammed into the ground of his study, his mind reeling from what he had just seen. Why had Narcissa chosen to show him this memory now, after all this time? Could it be related to the strange disappearances that had taken place recently? It couldn't be true. Harry didn't want to believe it. Voldemort had been killed that night but a part of him had lived on. Lord Voldemort had a child.