Narcissa doesn't wake him. She doesn't come for breakfast—or lunch. Harry wonders if he's done something wrong as the table remains empty, his door closed.
There is much pacing, mumbling, and the occasional return to his corner by the bed, but Harry makes it to the door. He reaches for the handle and finds it heavy. It doesn't weigh much in his hand, but the decision feels like it's pressing inward at his temples and he can feel the thump-THUMP of his heart as he questions everything about his life in the span of a minute.
He spins it. The action is simple. His fingers wrap around the brass, grasp it snugly, and twist. Then he's stuck again. The click of the mechanism in the door pulls him from whatever place he's gone and he pushes forward. The hall is bright. Afternoon sun flushes it with warmth and as his toe tests its boundary.
Heel follows wiggling toes and Harry is moving gingerly toward the stairs. With one hand on the rail and another clenching and un-clenching rapidly at his hip, he takes a deep breath and plunges downward sharply. There is only one stumble from which he recovers quickly. Feet firmly on the floor again, Harry's breathing begins its steady increase. He closes his eyes and remembers aloud, "She's not here. It's not here. He's not here." He says this mantra several times before attempting to find what he's looking for.
By the time he's found it, he's out of breath. He takes a few shaky steps toward the patterned glass before she's spotted him. At first, he thinks she will point out the obvious; she doesn't. Instead, she continues to eat her quiche, only looking up from the newspaper to slide him a plate. Harry is relieved. The tension withers away and he falls into the seat knowing that, out here, she expects nothing more than she did inside.
They don't speak. They don't really look at one another. Narcissa picks her way through a small offering of fruit as the last crumbs of quiche fall to the napkin on her lap. Harry attempts to be polite. He takes a small helping of quiche followed by a serving of grapes. After some consideration, he feels hungry enough to take two helpings of quiche, watching for reproval, but finding none.
Steadily the food disappears. Narcissa flips through the paper as if he's not sitting across the table, sweating her impending disapproval. It isn't until the last swipe of his napkin that she puts the paper aside and smiles. Her gaze travels upward to a balcony overlooking the patio. There, she sees Draco watching the interaction intensely. She smirks to him, stands, and leaves Harry at the table with a soft squeeze of the shoulder as she walks past. Draco turns away, disappearing from Harry's line of sight as Narcissa does the same.
As Harry returns to his room, stride steadier on the stairs, he keeps his gaze to the floor. That's why he nearly runs into Draco outside his room. The young Malfoy stands in his doorway across the hall. Harry is frightened, catching himself just a moment before bashing his head against the wall. He scrambles to grasp the door, to turn the knob—all those things he fought to do earlier. When the door opens, Harry turns back to Draco, who tilts his head silently toward Harry, the broken man escaping into the darkness of his room.
They begin to form a schedule of sorts. Breakfast comes to Harry's room, where Narcissa joins him at the small table by the window. At lunch, Harry leaves the sanctuary of his room to seek out Narcissa at one of the various patios of the Manor. Typically, they eat in silence.
Sometimes, however, she asks him about things he doesn't want to remember. There are days when he says nothing. When he does this, she lets him be. When he does offer something, she leans, pushes just enough that he starts talking and the talking turns into something else—some other emotion that he needs to feel, be it anger, grief, rage, loss, or emptiness.
On one such morning, Harry surprises her by laying down his napkin and waiting until she stops to look at him. In the hush of the room, tucked away from the world, Harry asks a question.
"Narcissa," he begins. "What happened to Lucius?"
She is not prepared for this. She should have been, but she is not. Her façade slips just enough that Harry sees something beneath the etiquette and social grace.
He has also learned to lean, as she does, but he is not as subtle. "I know that he never made it to Azkaban. Can you tell me what happened?" Oh no, Narcissa thinks. Harry does not push—he storms in and batters at her until she has tears streaming down her face.
The normally stolid woman lifts the napkin from her lap to catch the stray emotion.
"He was hunted," she says quietly. "They weren't Aurors, hired wands, or even Azkaban guards. They were my own family, Harry." Here, she pauses to look down at her lap, twisting the napkin. "Not our blood relatives, of course, but other Death Eaters. You understand."
Harry nods.
"Lucius was a traitor and they wanted to show the world. He made it to Denmark before they found him. There… there, they branded him. They took his clothing and cast the Imperius. They used the Cruciatus until he couldn't stand anymore." She's sniffing now, unable to withhold the memory. "They beheaded him, Harry. Naked and filthy; forced to walk through the streets of Denmark—they beheaded him."
Harry isn't sure how to comfort her, so he stands and moves closer. She looks up at him and he has tears sliding down his cheeks, too.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry. This was my fault. Maybe Lucius would still be alive if—"
She slaps him.
"Do not pity yourself!" she growls. "Lucius' death is not yours to claim! He is mine and I will keep him!" The escalation of her voice startles Harry and he steps backward. "I did not protect what was mine and now he is gone. I will not make the same mistake again."
Harry is confused until he remembers that another Malfoy scion sleeps just across the hall. Harry nods, hearing her words, even if he can't fully understand them.
"They are ours," he whispers as he reaches for her hand.