She opens the door carefully, soft fingers turning the knob, practiced with keeping the manor's protests at bay. There is no sign of him as she enters the bedroom until her slippered feet step around the bed. He is there; tucked just there, in the corner behind the canopied frame, is Harry. His arms are at his sides, but his knees remain pulled tight to his chest, chin resting between them. She takes a slow breath, stepping past him toward the window. It is here that she summons daybreak into the world.
It is subtle, but the presence of another person's breathing, magic, life, is enough to stir Harry from sleep. One hand shields his red-rimmed eyes while the other braces his body against the floor, the world, for the assault he is sure to come. That's when he sees her.
Bathed in golden light, he blinks rapidly at the vision he is sure cannot be real. Before him stands a ghost. His body reacts before his words; eyes flare open, mouth reels and twitches, then his magic comes pouring out toward her in a somewhat-controlled stream of hexes and curses. Her wand is up, easily tossing each aside as she walks toward him.
"Malve." She says the name carefully, gently. Beside her appears a house elf dressed in a miniaturized wrap, reminiscent of paintings he's seen somewhere but can't place. He barks a laugh at the odd pair in the glow of the room. "Malve, I need a calming drought for Mr. Potter, if you would." The little elf nods and disappears, quiet as a wisp. Before him, the woman stands, wand out, palms open toward the ground. A vial is given to her when the elf returns. She steps forward, but Harry panics, crab-walking backward as far in the corner as he can manage. When he can move no further, his hands come up and Malve steps forward, finger pointing at him.
"You will not harm Mistress!" The knobby finger waggles in his face and he stares, cross-eyed, at it. "You will take it, if Mistress says so." She grabs the vial, thrusts the swirling liquid at him and he uncorks it. He stares from the elf upward to her mistress and nods before swallowing the contents. "Good boy." She takes the cork out of his curled fingers and steps back. "Does Mistress need anything else?"
"No, Malve. I think we are all right now." Then they are alone, just as the drought starts to kick in and his body melts toward the floor. "Let's start from the beginning, shall we?" He nods, staring open-mouthed now. "You are Harry Potter, but I think you remember at least that much." Her warm chuckle confuses him. For a moment, he thinks she will strike him, but she only moves the hem of her gown to the side and sits on the edge of his bed. "My name is Narcissa. We've met." Harry looks at her face as if the name she's given makes her a new thing—a new creature. He strips away the image of Bellatrix and there stands the woman before him; the woman who saved his life once.
"Narcissa?" He barely gets the word out; his throat is raw and dry.
"Yes. Draco is my son." It begins to make sense again, and he lets the drought pull him fully into the floor, sinking his bones through his skin and grounding him. "We are at Malfoy Manor. You are here because Draco brought you here. Do you remember him bringing you here?" Harry shrugs, noncommittal.
Narcissa purses her lips, but continues, "Draco brought you here after Ginny Weasley cursed you—well," she amends, "failed to curse you is a better way to phrase it, I suppose." Words, conversations, images all start scrambling back to him. He's tapping his thumb rapidly and fears that his heart will thump directly out of his chest before he can gain any control over his body. "Harry." She waits. "Harry, she's in a rehabilitation program, now. There has been a restraining order placed on your behalf by the Weasley family." Harry's features contort to mimic the memories flooding back to him. He sees Ginny the first time he arrives at The Burrow. He sees her in the Chamber of Secrets. He sees her running toward him after a game of Quidditch. He sees her leaning in to kiss him. He sees her body fading away and her eyes staring at him, dead, as she comes home smelling of another man and another dream.
"No. No, no-no-no-no-NO!" He's thrashing, but the calming drought slows everything down. He barely moves hard enough to leave a red mark on his forehead when he tries to break open his skill. Perhaps if he frees the memories, they won't hurt so much. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. The blood pounding in his head pools behind his eyes. He looks to Narcissa. "Why?" The anguish in his voice is awful and she cannot answer him. She closes her eyes, takes another deep breath and sits fully upright.
"When was the last time you bathed, Harry?" Beneath the light, she looks over his clothes, the pure filth of his body only streaked by sweat. Harry, too, looks at his body. He turns his hands over, inspecting his fingers. The skin cracks at the joints, opening and closing. His elbows and knees are a playground for dirt and sweat and messier things. When he tilts his chin to see his shirt, he sees that it is stained in great, greasy spots. There are discolorations and tears and holes and Harry feels he has to get out of these rags right now, but is embarrassed at the state of his body. How did he get here? Watery green eyes look up at Narcissa as he clings to the hem of his shirt, and she can see his body wracked with tremors. The breath comes quickly and she moves to save him—but doesn't know if it's too late.
"Malve?" The elf peeks around her shoulder. "Please take Harry to the bath. See to him. I will get him some clean things." She nods, steps forward to take Harry's hand, but his breathing increases and he's digging his heels into the floor. Narcissa's hand on his shoulder, the other resting—just resting, in his hair, calms him somewhat. "You are safe, Harry. You are safe." She turns to Malve, then. "You've taken care of all the babes in this manor; this one is no different." A soft nod is all she gets before Malve half-drags Harry to the bath. Narcissa tries desperately to hold back the tears; instead she moves toward the window to let the sun fall across her aching eyes.
Small, waif-like fingers wrap around his wrist and tug him forward. Malve lights several candles around the bath and closes the door behind them. Once inside, Harry is tapping the thumb of his left hand against his right elbow and it's a slow, steady comfort. He closes his eyes, leans against the wall, and sinks down. Malve is working some charm he's unfamiliar with on the valves of the bath and he hears water flooding the tub. It's soothing as steam envelops him, begins to loosen his body and peel away layers of filth.
"Mister can take his clothes off. The bath is ready." He's pulled from his trance by the sound of her voice. She isn't so much quiet as she is soft, and he feels safe with her. Old habits force him to turn away. His clothing hits the floor and he steps carefully toward the half-raised tub. Malve busies herself with a snap of the fingers and the pouring of several drops into the bath water. The ragged clothes vanish and in moments, the room smells of pine and fresh-cut grass—familiar smells. He floats absently for a moment before tiny hands are scrubbing feverishly at everything that is caked on his skin.
A generous dollop of soap cards its way through his hair and he lets escape a moan. Each swipe of her fingertips feels like a massage he's desperately needed. She takes his hands, arms, toes and carefully ministers to them with a flannel. In between the little crevices, she takes no argument about washing every bit of him. Harry is beet red after nails, flannel, and fingers have worked him over, but Malve smiles as she stands beside him.
"Deep breath."
"Whu—OH!" He is plunged deep into the bath. She repeats this several times, scrunching about in his hair and flinging soap bubbles everywhere. He flails each time she thrusts him below the water line, but there is nothing to be done. When she allows him to stand, his skin is abraded and angry. She begins lathering lotion to every part of his worn, abused body. He grabs a towel when she's done, thankful for the reprieve, when Narcissa walks in. She looks him up and down, giving an appreciative smile to Malve.
"Thank you, dear."
"Anything for Mistress. This one needed it. Shame on Tovo for letting him get this way." Her nose wriggles and Narcissa laughs. It is a warm, throaty laugh, and Harry pulls the towel tighter about himself.
"Here are some clothes, Harry. Please come out when you are ready." Harry nods, then looks away as she leaves. Malve follows.
On the counter are a pair of Muggle jeans and a grey jumper along with a pair of navy socks. He can't recall Draco wearing anything similar, so he shakes his head, wondering whose clothes he's about to put on. Surprisingly, each item fits as it wraps snugly against him.
A deep breath precedes his entrance back into the room. He blinks several times to see the bright light of the sun again, followed by clean linens on his bed and food on the table in the corner. Rather than the single chair that had been there the night before, he sees two; one of which is now occupied by Narcissa.
Ever proper, she sits upright, hands in her lap, one leg crossed over the other beneath her robes. This leaves one slippered foot sticking out to the side of the table and Harry sees her as every bit the image of grace he expects the Malfoy family to exude. Walking closer, she gestures to the opposite chair. Harry takes it. There is a hesitant glance down at the empty plate, unsure if he's allowed to eat. Narcissa watches carefully and begins serving herself. As food begins to move around the table, Harry fills his plate and digs in hungrily. He doesn't notice anything until halfway through, when he finds her watching him, amused. His ears burn, but they continue eating in silence.
He's eaten too much. Harry tries to stay perfectly still in the event his stomach tries to empty itself on the floor. Each time he breathes, he can feel a week's worth of food pushing against his swollen belly.
"Are you enjoying your stay here, Harry? Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?" The only response she receives is a grunt. He's focusing too much on not moving. By the time her words are fully understood, he is alert and his stomach is rolling.
"Would you like to return to Grimmauld Place?" This time, he shrugs. She straightens the cloth napkin on her lap, then looks him straight in the eye. "Do you remember the night Voldemort died?" Her voice is clear, unfazed by the weight of the name she brings to light.
Harry stops. He stops breathing, moving, thinking. The blood drains from his face and he fears that his heart has stopped beating. The one thing moving is his stomach, which flips back and forth with the anxiety he's pooling at the center of himself. A deep breath—but it's too late. He turns to the side and vomits on the carpet.
"I'm s-sorry," he stammers, but Narcissa waves her hand, banishing the mess without a word or wand.
The staring continues. She is resolute and she waits until Harry begins to crumble beneath the weight of it. It doesn't take long and then the words start to come.
"I-I remember everything," he begins. "I remember coming into the castle and seeing the way everyone looked. They were all so broken. I remember the dead, lined up in the great hall. Some were covered, but there weren't enough sheets. There was a fifth year whose job it was to transfigure napkins into sheets, but she wasn't moving fast enough and the bodies kept coming and there were too many. I-I don't remember her name." The pitch of his voice escalates, rises until it turns into a wisp that disappears into the room. He is panting, gripping the table, staring at his empty plate, but he continues. "When they broke through, when the bridge dropped and the trolls came in, oh gods the trolls, we tried so hard to find him…" Here, he looks up at her, a desperation in his eyes that, if he can only get the words out, everything will be all right. She waits.
"Once we figured it out, we tried to get to him before… I used the connection and we figured out where he was but… it was too late. We were too late." Harry's legs are jumping violently beneath the table and the silverware are scattering, but still, she waits. "Why did it take too long? We lost everyone! If I'd have just killed him sooner, none of this would have happened!" He is sweating now, his breath coming harsh and short. He rubs one hand across his chest as if to keep it moving, keep the ache from penetrating. "Dumbledore or Sirius or Fred or… or any of them! We could have saved them. Teddy would have parents! And they killed… they killed… Dobby."
The last name is said so very softly that Narcissa can feel her own heart break. Harry slips to the floor and then she is there, arms around him. She leans over his jumbled skeleton and whispers, "No one blames you, Harry." He sobs harder. They remain there, beneath the table of half-eaten food for hours; just a pair of broken things.