It had been a draining week.
Between organizing Lucius' funeral, dealing with all the transfers of funds and properties, and preparing Draco for his new role as Lord Malfoy, Narcissa was exhausted. Dreams kept her awake, emotions left her feeling raw and unable to eat properly, and watching her son grieve for his father left her feeling fragile and strained. Work was a welcome distraction, as the kids were either too intimidated or too polite to address her loss. But now it was Saturday – no children to teach, no papers to grade, no welcome routine to fall back on. She was alone today.
Gazing out the window of her room, Narcissa could see Harry and Draco flying about over the Quidditch Pitch. She watched, smiling faintly, as Harry deliberately provoked her son, encouraging him to chase and laugh and be silly. Harry was good for Draco; he was able to help him in a way she could not. She was worried about Harry as well – he had not allowed himself to truly deal with Lucius' death. Knowing Harry, he somehow blamed himself. Turning away, Narcissa frowned as that thought struck her: Like herself, Harry had too many memories to deal with, so he shoved them away. Memories. Gently, Narcissa reached out and traced the circle formed by the Pensieve. She had pulled it out, placed it on her desk, and then proceeded to ignore it for the last seven days. Narcissa had not told anyone the memories she had received that day from Harry. Feeling a sudden desperate need to review them, Narcissa carefully stirred the swirling mass with her wand, took a deep breath, and entered.
It was her wedding day. There was Lucius – so handsome and proud, standing next to a calm and glowing version of herself. Even on this day their lives were already shadowed by darkness, Narcissa reflected, noting the assembled Death Eaters that had been guests. Now Narcissa was standing in a hospital, watching herself hold a tiny infant. Lucius sitting on the edge of her bed staring down at young Draco with fierce pride and love. The memories flashed by – alternately shattering and healing Narcissa's heart as she watched her family evolve. Then came memories she had no real memory of. On her knees before Severus Snape, begging him to protect her only son. Reaching out to lightly grasp her husband's wrist, offering support and dignity, when he was asked to hand over his wand to Voldemort. Kneeling over the prone figure of Harry Potter, feeling his heart beating beneath her palm, hearing him tell her Draco was alive and at the castle – then watching the way Harry circled Voldemort with a cold confidence, not really caring as the Dark Lord fell, before feeling the rush of relief as she finally reached her son. Watching Draco fall apart after the end of the war, feeling so helpless and lost, only to come alive again with Harry. Watching her husband and son waste away before her eyes as the poison spread through their system… standing over gravestones in a cold empty graveyard, clinging to Harry Potter for support and comfort. Feeling so tired she did not want to get out of bed until she realized Harry needed her as desperately as she needed him… she still had a family. And finally, listening to Hermione plead with Harry to go back and start over, hoping to spare so many lives.
Narcissa rose from the Pensieve with a gasp, desperate to leave that last memory. For even then, as she watched Harry and Hermione, she realized that all the Narcissa from the memory felt was a wild hope and longing that they would be able to save her son. She hadn't believed that Lucius would survive, Narcissa reflected now. She had no way of knowing what the Narcissa from her future really believed, but the careful and notable lack of memories of Lucius convinced the Narcissa of today that her husband had struggled to throw off the temptation of darkness. A noise in the doorway had Narcissa raising her head, finding herself gazing at Harry as he stood in the doorway. Confused, she noticed he was alone, and clutching a cup and a sword. Keeping her face deliberately blank, she calmly asked, "Draco?"
Harry grimaced. "He only allows himself to be happy for a few minutes at a time. He went off to help Severus make some potions." Harry walked into the room and carefully set the cup and sword on the desk next to her. Narcissa raised a brow in question as he looked at her searchingly. "May I speak to you for a moment?" Nodding her ascent, Narcissa watched Harry gather himself together.
"I'm sorry about Lucius." Narcissa was suddenly grateful for her training of Malfoy etiquette, as she managed to stop herself from flinching at that unexpected conversation starter. "I didn't know him that well, nor did I really like him." Harry's eyes widened as he said that, and Narcissa found herself smiling at the blush that spread across his face.
"Indeed, very few people knew Lucius well enough to like him." Her tone was amused and understanding. "Those who did," she faltered briefly before continuing on softly, "he was very protective of his family. You may have noticed that Draco is not as well versed in Dark Arts as his father. Lucius knew he could not keep his son and heir away from the Dark Lord, but he tried to allow Draco to grow up as sheltered as possible." Narcissa smiled sadly as Harry nodded.
Harry opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking conflicted and unsure of himself. "A piece of Voldemort's soul is in this cup." Whatever Narcissa had been expecting Harry to say, it clearly wasn't that. She blinked at him even as he continued. "Hermione reminded me that it still hadn't been destroyed. I, well," he frowned, "every other one I have had a reason to have someone destroy it. Draco, Ron, Snape… well, it seemed right. I didn't know what to do with this one, so it's just been sitting in Hermione's purse." Harry stopped, rubbing the back of his neck in agitation. "It seems fitting to let you do this one."
Narcissa gazed down at the cup on her desk. She could feel something was different about it, almost as though it seemed to pulse with life. "This is the cup we removed from Bella's vault." Her tone was thoughtful. "How did my sister come into possession of a cup containing the Dark Lord's soul?"
Harry sighed. "He gave it to her to hold onto. Bellatrix" no way was he comfortable enough to resort to nicknames, "had no idea what it was. Only that it was valuable. I can't kill Voldemort until I destroy all his… relics."
Narcissa gave Harry a sharp look. "You think you are able to destroy him again?"
Harry looked startled at her words, but nodded nonetheless. "Yes."
She nodded, looking at the cup thoughtfully. Truthfully, Narcissa had never been happier than she had been this last year. Even with her husband still in the Dark Lord's service, she knew her son was safe, and Harry had provided her with an opportunity to spend more time with Draco than ever. She stared at the cup, feeling anger and grief spill out of her aching heart. Her husband, with all of his faults, had always done his best to protect his family. And Voldemort had destroyed that. Voldemort had ripped a section of her heart out, broke something inside of her son, and permanently altered the lives of many with his selfishness and need for retribution.
With these thoughts running through her head, Narcissa snarled suddenly and grabbed the sword. She could feel images watching to push into her brain but ruthlessly shoved them aside. Not allowing herself time to pause, time to think of the improbability of her action, Narcissa raised the sword and drove it down into the cup with a shriek. A powerful jolt of electricity seemed to flare up at the contact. Narcissa could feel it – creeping up her arms, running through her body, to escape out her head and through the soles of her feet. She gasped, back arching, as the feeling peaked and then slowly abated. Coming back down into herself, Narcissa took several heaving breaths before turning to look at Harry.
He looked shocked. And a little frightened. Narcissa suddenly found herself laughing, riding high on the adrenaline pulsing through her system. She felt light, she felt vindicated, and she felt strong and aware. Narcissa knew in that moment that Harry would win again, and would go on to bring about acts of greatness in his life. "Thank you," she said simply, smiling at the slightly wary look he was giving her. Really, what must she look like? Throwing the sword carelessly back down on the desk, Narcissa reached up to smooth her hair, only to discover it standing up in a fluffy web of static electricity. Oh. She probably looked deranged. No wonder Harry appeared to be fighting the urge to run away from her.
"I'm off to make myself appear slightly more presentable." With a nod, Narcissa swept regally towards the door. She may look psychotic, but that was no excuse to fall back on her manners. Pausing at the door, she turned to look back. Harry was scooping the shattered remains of the cup into a jar, and carefully attaching the sword to his belt. "Harry." He turned and looked at her. Holding his gaze, Narcissa raised her head and stared down her nose at him. "You WILL save my son." Her voice was flat, fierce, allowing for no argument. Harry looked back at Narcissa steadily before nodding again. Smiling, she curtsied slightly before walking towards her bedroom.
It was time to make plans of her own.
It had been a week since Harry Potter killed Nagini.
Voldemort was furious, his numbers weakened as he took his imbalanced emotion out on his followers. He demanded blind obedience. The fact that it had been Lucius Malfoy, one of his most trusted and devout Death Eaters enraged him like nothing else. Lucius had allowed Harry Potter to breach his wards and come close to Voldemort – close enough to kill. Rather than killing the boy however, Lucius had allowed his son to befriend the brat and escape after killing Nagini. The fact that Lucius was now dead was of no consequence. Voldemort was furious. And yet… there was an odd sort of tickling, a sense of disquiet, burgeoning in his brain.
Why had the boy gone after Nagini?
Could he know… could he have guessed… did he suspect the greatest of Lord Voldemort's secrets? The one secret not even his most loyal knew about? Abruptly, he stood, calling as he walked, "Dolohav."
Dolohov rushed to his side, bowing his head in supplication. "My Lord?"
"You will accompany me." Voldemort offered no information and Dolohov was smart enough not to question. Silently he placed his hand on Voldemort's arm, forcing himself to relax during the side-along apparition. Voldemort gazed up at the cliffs, remembering with pleasure when he had tricked two spoiled children to accompany him down to the cave below. He remembered little Amy, her big blue eyes swimming with tears as he forced her to walk into the ocean. He remembered the sound of her whimpers and pleas as the water rose, only calling her back out once her head had been fully immersed for half a minute. She had walked out, choking on water and tears, and Voldemort knew with absolute certainty that he was destined for greatness. Muggles were weak and foolish and spoiled. And he had the power, the right, to control them.
With a flick of his wrist, Dolohov's arm split open, blood pooling out in glistening red drops. He had Dolohov open the secret wards protecting the cave from anyone unfortunate enough to come down here, before healing the gash and proceeding forward. Voldemort remained silent and focused as he called up his boat, his eyes hardening with determination as they reached the island where the glistening goblet awaited. He smiled fondly down at the shiny surface of the potion, reflecting with pride on his brilliance and ingenuity. Conjuring a cup, he turned to Dolohov, noting with approval that while the man was shaking and terrified he had yet to utter a word of protest. Such a good Death Eater, Voldemort reflected. It was a shame, really. "Drink." He commanded softly, holding out the cup.
Dolohov seemed to accept the cup automatically, looking at the shimmering liquid before him in fear. "M –My Lord?"
"Drink."
Trembling, Dolohov dipped the cup and filled it to the brim. He sniffed the potion, looking up once into Voldemort's hard eyes, and downed the glass rapidly. He seemed relieved when there were no immediate effects, and smiled hesitantly. The smile vanished when Voldemort nodded his head at the goblet and said, "Continue." He stood there, watching Dolohov drink the potion obediently; ignoring the screaming and pleading and twitching form. Calmly, he placed the Imperius curse, forcing Dolohov to continue until the barest scraping of liquid remained. Glancing dismissively at the broken man at his feet, Voldemort stepped over the body and looked down in relief at the locket securely resting at the base of the goblet. The locket was safe. Voldemort sighed in satisfaction and turned to go when he suddenly caught sight of the locket in full detail.
The boy knew.
Shock and rage slammed into Voldemort so fast, so uncontrollably, that he was abruptly reminded of the time when he had no body. After his killing curse had backfired over Harry Potter, and he had been ripped from his body, condemned to exist in a sea of feelings he could not control. With a visible effort, he reigned in his emotion and grabbed the locket. Opening it, he saw the parchment. Reading quickly, his eyes narrowed further in contemplation. Turning to the lake, Voldemort called out commandingly. "Show yourself young Black."
With the barest of ripples, the water parted to reveal the lifeless form of Regulus Black hovering just above the surface. A cruel smile graced Voldemort's lips. The boy did not know his secret. One of his faithful followers, one of the superior purebloods which would help to rid the world of vile useless Muggles, had attempted to understand his Lord's secrets. And died for it. Satisfied, Voldemort nodded to the moaning form continuing to twitch at his feet. "A gift, if you will." Without a backward glance Voldemort climbed into the boat and left the cliffs. He had a meeting to conduct and battle plans to finalize.
It was not until later that evening that he allowed himself to acknowledge the tickle still itching the back of his mind. Frowning, he mused that tomorrow he would go search, just to be safe. The boy did not know, could not know, but perhaps one of his Death Eaters, with false images of grandeur dancing in their heads, had tried to find his secrets? Yes, Voldemort decided. Tomorrow he would search, and tomorrow he would know.
It was amazing how safe a kiss could make him feel.
Harry was having the best dream ever. Draco was in bed with him, carefully removing Harry's t-shirt and dropping kisses over his chest. Harry moaned at the sensation, moving his arms and legs restlessly, and could almost swear he could hear a quiet chuckle and Draco gently calling his name. "Ssh," Harry murmured irritably, "I'm having the best dream." Frowning over the fact that even in his dreams Draco was distracting, Harry sighed and arched his neck as that clever mouth resumed placing gentle kisses. Shuddering with pleasure as the kisses became little bites, Harry lifted his arms and stroked down the sides of the warm body on top of him. It wasn't until he felt the rumble of laughter against his neck that Harry opened his eyes. Immediately, he recognized two things.
Draco Malfoy was in his bed, and he was not dreaming.
"Draco!" He yelped, bucking in surprise, only to yelp again when Draco latched onto his arms to avoid being tossed off the bed. "What are you doing?!"
"Be quiet Harry!" Draco hissed, swearing as he readjusted his balance. "Jesus, are you trying to wake your roommates?"
At those words, Harry glanced around swiftly. Swearing as he only recognized a vague mass of red and gold, he reached for his glasses. As proper sight returned, Harry immediately recognized two more things. He was indeed in Gryffindor tower, and Draco was lying in bed with him completely naked. It took a few minutes, but eventually Harry managed to shake himself out of his trance and reach over Draco to pull his drapes shut. Swearing, Harry reached for his wand and cast a silencing spell over the area before tossing his wand back on the night table and lying back down. "Draco," he began, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the blonde's face. "Not that I mind, but what are you doing here?"
Draco snorted. "You think of your aunt when we're kissing, and question what I am doing in your bed… in the middle of the night… sans clothing." He shook his head at Harry in amusement. "Are you trying to tell me something here?"
"No!" Harry ground out between clenched teeth, flushing at the implications behind Draco's words. "No, it's not that. It's just…" he raked his hand through his hair in agitation. "It's just that it's only been a week since your dad… I mean, I don't want you to be here like this just because you're… I miss you, oh God I've missed touching you… are you sure you want to do this now?" Harry knew he wasn't making much sense, but since returning to fifth year and initiating his relationship with Draco, he had been very careful and cautious with how things progressed between the two of them. Stolen hours kissing and caressing, exploring each others body, were amazing and tempting, but he didn't want Draco to decide to move forward simply because he was grieving. As sappy and ridiculous as that sounds, Harry thought in self disgust.
"Harry," Draco leaned forward and kissed him gently, coaxing Harry to open his mouth, slipping his tongue inside and kissing him thourally before pulling away. "I want to be here." He stopped Harry's protest by placing his hand over Harry's mouth. "I want to be here," he repeated firmly. "I know you're worried about why, but it is because I want to be here." Draco hesitated, his voice dropping to a whisper. "A week ago you told me I had to let you die. I had to let you go. I told you I would not allow you to die and I mean it." He tightened the hand over Harry's mouth and continued firmly. "I mean it, Harry. But right now, I need to know that you're alive. I need…" Helplessly he shrugged, meeting Harry's gaze with swimming gray eyes. And Harry was lost.
Kissing the hand over his mouth, Harry removed it and pulled Draco down to him. Turning slightly, Harry carefully laid Draco next to him, wrapping one arm around the blonde's waist, the other tangling in his silky hair, before leaning forward slightly and kissing him. Draco responded immediately, pulling Harry so he half lay on top of him and wrapping both arms around Harry's waist. Harry gave himself over completely to the emotions swirling inside of him, lowering his head to nuzzle the pale nipples on Draco's chest.
There was no time for a gentleness neither of them wanted. Passion set its own rules. There was no fumbling as Harry swiftly removed his pajama pants, both of them groaning as warm flesh met and melded together. Touching Draco, exploring the taut flesh of his chest and shoulders, Harry felt a new sensation rise up inside of him. Possession. For now, for the moment, they belonged to one another; they owned each other absolutely. And they were flesh to flesh without barriers, naked and hungry and tangled together.
Draco's breath was coming in whimpers as he urged Harry's mouth back to his. Harry smirked against Draco's skin, ignoring the hands tugging frantically at his hair to pause at Draco's throat. There was a hint of roughness at Draco's chin; his cheekbones were long and smooth. Deliberately ghosting their mouths together, Harry blew lightly over Draco's damp skin, absorbing the shiver, even as he moved to suck gently under Draco's ear, over that spot that tasted so mysteriously male. Their lips joined again – finally – in a hot, desperate demand as their bodies strained even closer together.
Harry felt strong, more powerful than it seemed possible for him to be. His energy was boundless, drawn from the need to have, the need to give. He could feel himself burning, waves of heat rising from his toes; concentrating into balls of fire over his lungs until he was certain he would explode from the pressure. He pulled away to stare at Draco, noting the flushed face and tousled hair even as Draco opened his eyes. Green eyes met gray, both swirling with too many emotions to count. "I love you." Neither was aware who said it first, both meaning it with equal fervor. Even as their bodies moved together, their mouths met slowly this time, to linger, to savor. They drew away once, far enough to see the need mirrored in each other's eyes, and then they joined again, flame for flame.
Harry lay wrapped in Draco's arms for a long time, listening to the heart thudding desperately under his ear, even as his heart pounded in response. They were both breathing hard; clinging together still as though moving would shatter the peace and satisfaction of the moment. "You're mine."
Harry's lips curved into a smile before turning his head to press a moist open-mouthed kiss to Draco's chest. "I'm yours," he agreed. Harry heard Draco sigh above him, and somehow found the energy to move, shifting upwards enough so they lay side by side, Draco's forehead pressed into Harry's shoulder. Harry would never tell him, but this was his favorite position. Whenever he woke up at night from lingering nightmares, in that wild moment of disorientation he would feel Draco's breath on his throat and relax before he even processed he was no longer dreaming. Tightening his arms around Draco, he closed his eyes and slept.