An hour passed since she found him. Everything was cleaned up now, all evidence of Naginni was removed, and the courtyard was reassembled. Harry was unconscious in the bedroom. She had checked the medicine cabinet and found all of the potions had been taken – the Ministry's work. She needed to heal Harry by herself or turn him in…and she wasn't ready to turn him in. The ministry had taken her husband; she would take their hero.
She dressed and rushed downstairs. She was going to London by means of the estate automobile, heading for Diagon Alley and medicine. Her hair was held in a cloth and she had large sunglasses on – concealing her face. She'd buy Floo powder and a few other things to hide her more important purchases, and be back in an hour.
The magical car did its duty and she was at her destination in twenty minutes. She parked along the street and walked through the bustling inn connecting Diagon Alley to the Muggle world. It was heavily decorated in both party garb and mourning flags. The news of Voldemort's death had arrived alongside the announcement of the death of Harry Potter, and people didn't know whether to laugh or cry – most had done a day of each. But that was three days ago; they were still celebrating.
A teary eyed woman stumbled in front of Narcissa on her way through the inn. She didn't see the old woman react – obviously her disguise was working. She was used to putting on such a buffer between her and people; in her youth she was quite famous herself, and still often got a reaction out of people. But now, her whole family was in the papers because the battle against the Death Eaters happened at her house.
"We are so very lucky to be alive today," the woman said, not looking directly at Narcissa. She was looking at the far wall of the building with a tissue to her nose. "That boy was a true hero! I met him once, you know!"
Narcissa hadn't seen it before, but covered in flags and handwritten notes was a life-sized portrait of Harry on the wall. It was startling to see, but it made sense something like that would be put up. He was looking out at her with an expression of someone who just saw something that caught his eye – as if the person who took the photo had caught him by surprise. Not smiling, but keen, on alert.
It was an enlarged photograph, banners blew in the background. It looked fairly recent; he was dressed in full Gryffindor Quidditch gear with his Firebolt over his shoulder. He was mid-step, but hesitating. Behind him was a full stadium of exuberant fans, and further behind that was a cloudy sky with beautiful golden rays of light shining through. No one stood by him or on the ground behind him, and no other faces could be made out. All the focus was on the boy with the Quidditch Captain's badge and the look of reserved interest in the camera.
Narcissa pulled back a flag below the photo and saw a bronze plaque engraved.
"His last words," the witch told Narcissa, words slurring.
Aurors only came to her house when they did because of Ronald Weasley. His memory was returned to the state it was before her nephew altered it, and he had a story to tell; it explained a little better about Harry's state of mind coming in to see the Dark Lord. He'd made her nephew a deal: save his friend and he would willingly die to let Voldemort rise to full power. Her nephew was a morbid man – a scorch on her family's name. She wasn't entirely glad he'd soon be let free thanks to the law and the fact he rescued a boy from certain death.
It read, We'll spend every day flying in the air, not even looking at where we're going. No more consequences. No more danger surrounding us. We'll be free. One more dark moment together, then we'll be in the wind. – Harry Potter, Last Words, July 31, 1980 – February 4, 1997.
Narcissa looked at the boy in the photograph again. This was before he'd gone missing from the school for two months; before she knew Draco's feelings for him. That Christmas Draco had come home, and he'd been distraught. He told her many possible reasons for his disappearance, one of which stood out from the others: a rumor he'd been raped by a student and had a breakdown. One thing was sure – after Voldemort was done with him, he wasn't likely going to be the same.
"Makes me cry every time I read it! At least he's in a good place. That poor young man – only sixteen years old!" The witch said and blew her nose loudly.
"To freedom!" Said a man loudly who overheard them by the bar, and a chorus sounded through the room.
Narcissa let the flag fall over the plaque and she left the drinking patrons for the shops. She got as many innocuous things as she could at the apothecary. Nothing would keep the scars from forming where the torture had cut, but she'd make sure he lived. On her way out, she wondered why she was doing this – if there was even a legitimate reason at all – because from the way she was going, there wasn't much besides anger and spite. Harry had lived with these two emotions altering his fate all his life; was she willing to do the same to this boy just to get revenge for Lucius?
It was some time before Harry was well enough to look around the room and check himself out. He was clean, mostly healed, but he was with Narcissa Malfoy, and that made him uncomfortable.
The first thing she did was tell him Ron Weasley was alive and well. The second thing she did was delicately tell him about the wizarding world believing he was dead.
I found you…they don't know…
"Why won't you tell them?" He asked.
He was meek; meeker than she would have expected. He was afraid, alive, and she thought he was unsure which he hated less. He maybe hated being afraid more, because the bed he was in was warm and comfortable, and worth experiencing.
Narcissa sat in a large chair near the window, a distance away from Harry. She was thinking about this, wondering what she should tell him. Harry let her keep her silence and he turned over in the bed, cuddling the pillow and closing his eyes. He was asleep before he heard her answer.
"Maybe it's better for you this way," she muttered, looking over at his black hair lain on her side of the bed. "The life of a celebrity is better lived dead. You'll never have that normality normal people get, no matter how many years you live. And us…" she dropped her eyes and let a tear fall down her cheek. "We need the war to end. My family needs it. Us Malfoys are doomed without it. You're a reminder of it all. If you suddenly appear alive and well, they'll all wonder who else will appear alive…"
Narcissa thought about her husband facing a sentence in Azkaban, and realized then that there would be very little Harry could do for him, no matter what was said.
"You'll be as free as I've always wanted to be," she said, and looked out the window again at all the snow.