She woke screaming. Her last conscious memory – if it could even be called a memory – was of pain, and she was shocked to wake and find herself in darkness. The sun had set; the lights had not been turned on in her room.
She was drenched in sweat. Her palms were slick to the touch, and when she ran her fingers through her long hair, it was wet and heavy. She could feel sheets, a pillow – she was in a bed. How long have I been here? She thought. What happened?
She could not remember. She could not comprehend what had happened to her. There was nobody in the room. She was alone.
She pushed herself into a sitting position, and then swung her legs over the bed. Her feet touched the icy floor, and she gasped, wriggling her toes to get them accustomed to the chill. She padded softly to the bathroom and flipped on the light.
Her face in the mirror looked shallow, emaciated. She touched it in disbelief. Who was that looking back at her? She pulled on the thin hospital gown and shivered. It was too cold to be dressed like this.
There was a bag of things in the corner, sealed shut. A black dress, sleeveless, and a long black robe, thin. There was a long stick – a wand. She vaguely remembered using it, but she could not for the life of her remember how. There was a label attached to the bag, the name of the rightful owner of these belongings. She read it: "Malfoy, Narcissa." The name sounded familiar – is it my name? she thought. She opened the bag and slid the dress over her head. Yes, it fit. These must be my clothes. She was grateful.
Dressed, she searched through the room for something to comb her hair with. But the bedside table was empty, with the exception of a call button and a newspaper which had been left there by someone – a visitor? She couldn't remember. As she rifled through the drawer, something on the front page of the paper caught her eye.
She unfolded it – it was called The Evening Prophet – and saw two faces staring out at her from the paper. One was of a man who looked vaguely familiar – he had long white-blonde hair and looked emaciated. The other was her own face, staring out at her. She started, and began to read the article with growing dread.
"OBSTRUCTION OF JUSTICE?
The trial of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, age 42, took place this afternoon at the Ministry of Magic, and the supposed conviction went off without a hitch. Yes, Malfoy is no longer at large, but it was not the Dementor's Kiss that ended his life, although that was the sentence pronounced on him by Minister of Magic Rufus Scrimgeour. No, Malfoy was killed by the Avada Kedavra curse – the Killing Curse – laid upon him by his own wife, Narcissa Black Malfoy."
She dropped the paper on the table.
I killed this man? I killed him!
She jumped to her feet.
If this was true, then she had limited time.
She had to escape, get away before anyone came for her.
She pulled the cloak on over her shoulders, tucking the hood over her head, and, taking a deep breath, made good her escape.
Nobody even noticed as she left. Maybe it was a busy time of evening, with some healers coming on and some going off duty, maybe it was because she was considered a low-risk flight, but Narcissa (if that was indeed her name) had no trouble sneaking out of the hospital. She found herself outside on the streets before she knew it, and quickly went in search of a Muggle convenience store.
She found what she was looking for – a pair of scissors and a bottle of brown hair dye. She pocketed it in the folds of her cloak and locked herself inside the bathroom of the store. The whole process took half an hour. She hacked off her gorgeous long blonde locks and applied the dye. It burned her scalp, and Narcissa winced in pain, but she did not say a word, for fear someone would come in and find her in the bathroom. When it was done, she washed her hair in the sink, yanked her hood over her head, and slipped out the back door into an alley.
When she had walked a safe distance away, she began breathing hard. Where was she going to go? What was she going to do? She didn't have anywhere, anyone she could remember to call family. She didn't have any money.
"Think, Narcissa, think," she urged herself desperately, "You need to get a handle on yourself, girl."
Who was the last person she had seen? Who could she go to? She banged her head against the wall in frustration.
Why couldn't she remember anything?
She reached up and ran her fingers through her short hair. Well, she had disguised herself, hadn't she? It was time to test it in the real world.
Bravely, she squared her shoulders and stepped out in the busy streets.
As she walked, she half-expected someone to blow a whistle, call out her name, or jump out of side-street and tackle her, wrestling her to the ground in chains. But none of this happened. Nobody seemed to notice her as she walked. Was her disguise truly that good?
She walked past a broken-down looking building with a worn-out sign. The Leaky Cauldron. Strange how that name was familiar. She peered inside. It was a pub, an ordinary pub. Nothing unusual about it. Narcissa did not drink. Perhaps – perhaps I was in there once, she thought. But she could not place it.
She was about to turn and walk away when someone coming out of the Leaky Cauldron caught her eye and made her look twice, with shock.
It was a thin boy, short for his age, with a haggard face and a thatch of unruly black hair. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, and he seemed morose. He was staring at his feet and walking, not saying anything or looking at anybody.
He looks so familiar, Narcissa thought to herself.
And then she remembered!
"James!" she shouted before she could even stop to think, "James Potter!" She ran towards him, tripping a little on her cloak, then catching it up and running faster.
The boy stopped and stared at her in shock. But when Narcissa looked into his eyes, she stopped dead.
"You're not James," she stammered, "I – I must have made a mistake." The James Potter she remembered had hazel eyes, and this boy's eyes were green.
"You didn't," he said slowly, "I'm not James. I'm his son, Harry."
"His son?" Narcissa asked incredulously, "James Potter's married?"
"He WAS married," Harry replied, giving her an odd look, "Years ago, of course, I mean."
"But you – you must be sixteen years old!" she returned, her eyes widening.
"Seventeen three weeks ago."
"But it can't have been that long since I last saw James!" Narcissa replied, "It can't have been sixteen years!"
"It would have to be," Harry replied, "My father died sixteen years ago this month."
She did not believe him. She refused to believe him until he took her on the bus to an ordinary-looking cemetery. The sign on the wrought iron fence read "Godric's Hollow Cemetery. Founded 1872." He walked ahead of her, not even looking behind to see if she was still there. And Narcissa followed slowly, trying to comprehend how seventeen years could have gone by, without leaving a mark, in her mind.
"It's far too warm for that cloak," Harry said as they pushed the gate open, "You should get rid of it. Why were you wearing it, anyway? It's high summer." He gave her an odd look.
Narcissa did not want to admit that she did not know. "I really have no idea," she said cautiously.
Harry looked at her sideways, "You look terribly familiar. Have I seen you before?"
I wouldn't know even if you had, Narcissa thought ruefully. "I doubt it."
They walked between the gravestones, picking their way through. Finally, Harry stopped and pointed.
Narcissa felt her knees go weak. She knelt down on the soft grass and stared at the headstone in front of her.
James Charles Potter, loving husband and father. Requiescat en pace.
The date of death was written underneath – just as Harry had said. He'd been telling the truth.
Narcissa turned to the headstone next to his.
Lily Evans Potter. Dear wife, dear mother. Requiescat en pace.
Lily!
Narcissa gasped. Her eyes filled with tears.
Red hair – those huge green eyes. She looked up at Harry. So that was where he got those eyes. Lily Evans and James Potter! How could she have forgotten them?
She reached out and traced the letters of her old best friend's first name.
"Lily," she whispered.
"You knew my parents," Harry said quietly. It was not a question.
Narcissa nodded.
"A long time ago," she said, "When I was in school. I hadn't seen them – in so long." She took a deep breath and dried her eyes. Then she looked up at Harry.
"How did it happen?"
"How did what happen?"
She gestured to the tombstones, "This. How did they die?"
For a few minutes, Harry had thought maybe she was a little off. Now he thought she was just plain crazy.
"You must know," he said, staring at her, "Everybody knows."
"I don't," Narcissa replied.
"You can't be serious," Harry said, "I don't think there's a living person in our world who doesn't know. If you really don't know, then I expect you're the first."
She shook her head.
Harry's eyes widened a little. He bent, conspiratorally, then glanced around suddenly and shook his head.
"It's too dangerous, sitting around here talking," he said, "Come on. We should get indoors. Do you want me to take you to your home?"
Slowly, she shook her head.
"I don't really have a home to go to," she said.
"It's all right, you can stay with me," he replied, "I have a place, in London. Come with me."
As they hurried back to the main road, Harry realized, in the stillness, that he had not asked her name.