Harry Potter stood at the gates of Malfoy Manor, a cold shiver running down his spine as he stared at the dark, foreboding mansion. Memories of the war flooded back—Bellatrix's crazed laughter, Hermione's screams, and the fear that had gripped his heart during his captivity. It was a place filled with painful echoes, and Harry could hardly believe he was here willingly.
The war had ended months ago, and the Wizarding World was slowly piecing itself back together. Narcissa Malfoy had sent him an owl, inviting him to tea and a private conversation. Despite his better judgment, Harry had accepted. His testimony had kept both Narcissa and Draco out of Azkaban—something he didn’t regret, though he often questioned why.
Lucius Malfoy, however, was another story. His hands were stained with too much blood, too many atrocities committed in Voldemort’s name. Now, he languished in Azkaban, a fitting end for the man who had done so much harm.
As Harry followed the house-elf through the grand halls of Malfoy Manor, he tried to steady his nerves. He was led to a parlor where Narcissa Malfoy and Draco were already waiting. Narcissa stood by the window, gazing out at her garden with an unreadable expression. Malfoy, noticing Harry first, turned awkwardly, his posture stiff and uncertain.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, his voice strained but civil.
“Malfoy,” Harry replied, nodding curtly. He released Draco’s hand, and they stared at each other, two young men bound by a past neither could escape.
“Mr. Potter,” Narcissa finally spoke, her voice breaking the silence. She gestured for him to sit, her tone polite but tinged with an underlying tension. “Thank you for coming.”
Harry nodded and took a seat, his unease growing. Narcissa poured tea with practiced grace, offering a delicate cup to Harry, but he barely touched it. He had little patience for small talk, and Narcissa seemed to sense it. She sighed, her composed façade faltering for just a moment.
“You’re probably wondering why I invited you here,” Narcissa began, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. She looked at Harry with a mixture of apprehension and resolve.
“Yes,” Harry said bluntly, setting the cup down. “I am.”
Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his fingers clenching around the delicate porcelain teacup. The tension in the room was palpable, the kind that made his skin prickle. He glanced at Draco, who sat rigidly beside his mother, his face tight with discomfort. Narcissa Malfoy was composed as ever, but there was a strain in her eyes that Harry hadn’t noticed before.
“I want to tell you why I lied to the Dark Lord,” Narcissa began, her voice steady but tinged with something Harry couldn’t quite place—regret, perhaps, or fear.
Harry’s eyes widened at her words, anger bubbling to the surface. “What do you mean? The mass destruction, the murdering—was that not enough for you?” he snapped, his voice cutting through the room like a whip. The memories of the war, the deaths, the pain—they all flashed before him, and the idea that Narcissa Malfoy could be anything but complicit in it made his blood boil.
Narcissa met his gaze calmly, her pale grey eyes betraying nothing but a deep weariness. “I am a selfish woman, Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone aristocratic and measured, each word carefully chosen. “Above all, I care for my family. At the moment I faced the Dark Lord, I had two options before me, two possible futures.”
She paused, glancing down at her teacup as though the swirling liquid held the answers to everything. Harry watched her, the intensity of his anger mixing with a reluctant curiosity.
“In one future, the Dark Side would win,” Narcissa continued, her voice quiet but resolute. “My family might have been rewarded, recognized for our efforts in supporting him. But the Dark Lord was an unstable man. He was ruthless, paranoid, and the power he wielded was never going to be enough for him. Nothing was certain, not even the safety of those who served him closest.”
She took a delicate sip of her tea, the movement refined and practiced, as if they were merely discussing the weather and not life and death. “In the other future, the Light Side would prevail. The world would eventually heal, but my family… my family would be prosecuted, punished for the choices we made. It was not an easy decision, Mr. Potter.”
Harry listened, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. He had known that a Malfoy could only be calculating, but hearing her lay out her thought process so plainly, so coldly—it was almost too much to bear.
“So what made you choose?” Harry demanded, his voice raw with frustration. “What tipped the scale?”
Lady Malfoy set her cup down with a soft clink, her fingers briefly trembling as she folded them neatly in her lap. She took a long, measured breath before meeting Harry’s gaze, her eyes now filled with a fierce, protective light.
“You,” she said simply, and Harry felt the weight of that word hit him like a physical blow. “You were the deciding factor.”
Harry stared at her, utterly bewildered. “Me?” he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “Why me?”
Narcissa’s composure wavered for the first time, and her voice softened, losing some of its sharp, polished edge. “When I looked into your eyes, lying there in the forest, supposedly dead at the Dark Lord’s feet, I saw something that reminded me of someone I once knew."
Harry’s mind whirled, struggling to connect the dots. “Who?” he asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
Narcissa hesitated. “Regulus Black,” she said finally, her voice heavy with the weight of unspoken history. “He was my cousin."
Harry looked at her bewildered, his gaze flickering to Malfoy, whose confusion mirrored Harry’s own.
“Regulus was… well, one could say that we had a certain understanding between us,” Narcissa began, her words carefully measured. “We were the youngest, both burdened with rebellious siblings who defied the family’s expectations. We were bound by duty, trapped by what our parents wanted for us. He never liked that I was set to marry Lucius. And I—well, I was marrying him because Andromeda had run away with her Muggle-born.”
“What?” Malfoy choked out, his voice high and strained. “Aunt Andromeda and—Father—”
She continued speaking, ignoring her son's outburst, her voice smooth and unruffled as though she had rehearsed this confession in her mind countless times. “Regulus and I grew distant over the years. I knew that he despised being a Death Eater, but it was his mother’s influence, the constant pressure, that pushed him into that life. I would see glimpses of him at the Manor—always withdrawn, burdened by a deep, weary sadness.”
"When I became pregnant with Draco, I was terrified," Narcissa confessed, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "I didn't trust Lucius to protect my child. He was already too entangled with the Dark Lord's inner circle, and I feared that he would use his heir's godfather position for political gain rather than what would be best for Draco."
Narcissa’s hands trembled slightly as she poured herself another cup of tea, though her expression remained composed. “So, I went to Regulus—my estranged cousin. I asked him to be Draco’s godfather, I wanted someone who would protect him. Regulus agreed, and we set a date.”
Harry found himself absently reaching for another biscuit as Narcissa spoke. Despite himself, he was captivated by the story, even though he still couldn’t quite grasp where it was leading.
“We performed the ceremony,” Narcissa continued, her voice soft but steady, “and took the oaths. Regulus held Draco in his arms, and I remember being surprised at how natural he seemed with a baby. He looked so out of place in that role, and yet… he wasn’t. Afterward, he turned to me and asked about my true allegiances. I was furious, of course. It wasn’t the time for such questions."
Harry could almost see the scene she described, the tension that must have hung between them. Narcissa’s eyes grew distant as she recalled the moment, her voice thick with the memory of anger and regret.
“We argued,” she said, her tone filled with a quiet bitterness. “I said things I regret now. I think we both did. But then he looked at me—really looked at me—and asked, ‘Would you hurt a son of mine? Would you kill him?’”
Narcissa paused, her breath hitching slightly. Draco leaned forward, his face pale and tense, clearly as enthralled by this story as Harry was.
“I was furious,” Narcissa continued, her voice trembling slightly. “How could he even suggest such a thing? Family first, I told him. I would never harm a Black child. But then he asked, ‘Even if he was a half-blood?’ I was shocked. This was no longer hypothetical. I asked what he had done, but he didn’t answer. He just kept looking at me—grey on grey."
"That was the last time I saw my cousin.” The room seemed to grow colder as Narcissa spoke.
“Later,” Narcissa said, her voice brittle, “I was told that he was dead. Some said he was killed by the Order, that he was a coward. Others whispered that it was the Dark Lord himself who ended his life, claiming he had failed him.”
“No,” Harry interrupted, his voice firm. “He wasn't a coward. Regulus died a hero. He stole an item from Voldemort, something crucial, and died in the process. It was the key to beat him.”
Narcissa looked at Harry, her eyes shining with a mixture of relief and resentment. “So that was how it happened,” she murmured, a sad smile touching her lips. She turned her gaze to the garden outside, her thoughts clearly far away, lost in the past she had long tried to forget.
“Mother,” Draco said softly, reaching out to her, his concern evident. He had never seen his mother like this—vulnerable, her mask of cold indifference slipping away.
Narcissa seemed to gather herself, the steel in her spine returning as she continued. “After the Dark Lord was defeated, I thought I could finally breathe. Life could return to what it was meant to be—a life of quiet nobility, far removed from the horrors of the war. You may think me thoughtless, Mr. Potter, but in those following years, I was content to pretend that all that darkness was behind us. I wanted to believe it was over.”
She paused, her expression tightening as if bracing herself for the final revelation. “But then, on that day in Diagon Alley, I saw you.”
“What?” Harry blurted, his confusion deepening. He hadn’t expected this sudden turn in the conversation.
Narcissa’s lips curled into a sneer, her usually calm demeanor cracking under the weight of her emotions. “I was angry when I saw you,” she admitted, her voice harsh. “I couldn’t believe it. The Light’s savior—this so-called hero of the Wizarding World—looking like a starved, terrified child. Hypocrites, the lot of them.”
Harry flinched, caught off guard by the venom in her words. His first instinct was to deny it, to say that she didn’t know anything about him, but the truth lodged like a stone in his throat. Draco’s eyes flicked between his mother and Harry, his face reflecting his own shock and confusion.
Narcissa continued, her voice sharp and pained. “It was like seeing Regulus all over again. Reg was punished by that harpy, Aunt Walburga—starved, locked in small, dark places until his voice was hoarse from screaming for help that would never come."
Harry paled, Narcissa’s words hitting him like a punch to the gut. The description sounded painfully familiar—too familiar. He was suddenly a boy again, locked in the cupboard under the stairs, counting spiders and dreaming of an escape that always felt just out of reach.
“Why did you look like that?” Narcissa pressed, her eyes boring into him, demanding answers to questions she had harbored for years. “Why did you look as if you’d been raised by Walburga Black herself? Somehow even worse, wearing those ill-fitting, ragged Muggle clothes. It didn’t make sense, not for a Potter child."
Harry clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his emotions in check. He had never spoken of the Dursleys, not really. Not the way they starved him, locked him away, or made him feel like he was nothing. It was easier to bury those memories, to pretend that his childhood was just a bad dream.
“At first, I thought the similarities were just that,” Narcissa said, her voice softening slightly as if she were speaking more to herself than to him. “Two beaten, starved children. But the more I watched you, the more I saw Regulus in you—in your eyes, in the way you carried yourself like you were always bracing for the next blow.”
Harry felt the room closing in on him. Narcissa’s words stripped away his defenses, laying bare the scars he had tried so hard to hide. The anger simmered beneath the surface, hot and relentless. How could it be that Narcissa bloody Malfoy noticed? Was it so obvious? And if it was, why had no one else cared enough to ask?
“In the end, it was none of my concern,” Narcissa continued, her tone devoid of any plea for forgiveness. She was simply stating a fact. “So I ignored it. I ignored a lot of things, Mr. Potter.” She paused, her eyes clouding as she looked past Harry, lost in memories.
“But as the years passed, whenever I caught a glimpse of you, something never quite fit. Why did you have the Black cheekbones? Why, when I looked at you, did I see my Uncle Orion’s nose, or the shape of Lady Melania’s eyes? It didn’t make sense.”
Harry stared at her, still trying to piece together what she was saying. He felt a flicker of something absurd forming at the back of his mind, an idea so ridiculous that he almost didn’t dare to think it. What was she trying to say?
“I searched through the Potter family lineage,” Narcissa went on, her voice cool and methodical as if reciting a carefully rehearsed argument. “There were no Blacks in your direct ancestry. The closest connection would be Aunt Dorea, who married Charlus Potter, but their line never crossed with yours. I convinced myself I was seeing things, reaching for the long-dead faces of my family in the living.”
“So I ignored it,” Narcissa repeated, her voice breaking slightly. “Told myself it was grief or guilt, or just the echoes of the past clinging to me. But then, Sirius died.”
“Yes,” Harry spat, his anger boiling over. “Your bitch sister killed him.” Narcissa flinched, the hurt visible even as she tried to maintain her composure.
Draco immediately jumped to his mother’s defense, his face twisted in fury. “Now look here, Potter, my mother doesn’t have—”
“Draco,” Narcissa interrupted softly, raising a hand to calm her son. “It’s alright.”
Harry watched as Narcissa’s face crumpled, her cold mask slipping away to reveal raw pain. “Bella…” she began, her voice breaking. “You may not want to hear this, Mr. Potter, but I mourned him too. I mourned for my family—what we had lost, what we had become. It was then that I finally understood that Bellatrix was gone, that my sister was dead. Family first, we were always taught, but Bellatrix… she killed her own blood. She killed Sirius.”
Narcissa’s voice wavered, and for a moment, she looked so fragile, so unlike the poised and unbreakable woman Harry had always known. Tears welled in her eyes.
Harry’s anger drained away at the sight of Narcissa breaking down. He had never seen her like this, never imagined that beneath her cold exterior was a woman mourning the family she had lost, torn apart by war and madness. Draco stood up and wrapped his arms carefully around his mother.
Narcissa took a shuddering breath, regaining a measure of her composure. “After Sirius died, I went to Gringotts,” she continued, her voice now tinged with determination. “For years, Lucius and I had been trying to secure the Black heirship for Draco, but the goblins refused us at every turn. They told us, ‘The Black Estate is spoken for.’ I couldn’t understand it—Regulus was dead, Sirius was dead. There was no one left.”
“There was no one left,” Narcissa repeated, her voice trembling with the weight of her words. “My father was dead, my uncles, my cousins, my grandfather—everyone was dead!” The desperation in her voice was palpable, each word like a crack in the carefully constructed façade she had maintained for so long.
“So who was it?” she continued, her tone laced with frustration. “There was still a Black heir, but who? The suspicion I had buried deep for years came roaring back, and I was certain I was right. But what could I do? I had no proof. The walls were closing in, and the Dark Lord’s presence was suffocating our home.”
Harry’s confusion deepened, his frustration mounting. None of this made sense, but the small, nagging thought in his mind refused to be silenced. Was she suggesting what he thought she was? It was absurd. Impossible.
“So it’s my shame that I just… ignored it again,” Narcissa confessed, her voice hollow. “I ignored it when you were brought here, bound and bleeding. When my own husband cheered at the sight of you, desperate for approval from that monster, I turned away. And to be honest, I would have happily ignored it for many years more.”
She paused, her breath shaky, and looked directly at Harry. Her eyes, usually so cool and calculating, were now filled with a raw vulnerability that startled him. “But then I saw you fall to the ground in the forest, right before the Dark Lord’s feet. And in that moment, I finally had the answer to Regulus’s question, the one he asked me all those years ago.”
Her voice cracked, and she whispered, “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
Harry shot up from his chair, his emotions boiling over into anger and confusion. “You!” he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls. “What are you trying to say? This is madness! James Potter is my father!”
Narcissa remained seated, her calm demeanor fraying at the edges. She didn’t flinch at Harry’s outburst; instead, she met his fury with a quiet, resigned determination.
“I am not affirming anything, Mr. Potter,” she said, her voice laced with exhaustion. “I don’t know the truth for certain. Perhaps the Black madness has finally come upon me, making me see ghosts where there are none. But on the off chance, the merest possibility—that you could be his son—I couldn’t stand by and watch you die.”
She looked down, her hands clenched in her lap. “I have many regrets in this life, Mr. Potter. I have ignored, I have failed, and I have turned a blind eye to things I should have faced. But becoming a kinslayer—I would not let that be one of them.”
Harry’s mind reeled. The anger that had fueled his words drained away, replaced by a heavy, sickening uncertainty. The idea that James Potter might not be his only father was something he had never considered, something he didn’t want to consider. It felt like a betrayal to even entertain the thought. But Narcissa’s words, her pain, and the way she had looked at him in the forest, searching for something only she could see—it all began to gnaw at him. She was not lying.
“There is a test,” Narcissa said quietly, her voice tinged with a mix of desperation and resolve. “At Gringotts. A blood test that can confirm parentage."
Harry stared at her, his mind spinning. He felt like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he wanted to jump into the unknown or retreat back into the safety of what he had always believed. Change everything he knew about himself.
“I don’t completely understand it myself,” Narcissa admitted, her shoulders sagging as though the weight of all her years of silence had finally crushed her. “You have the Potter hair, your mother’s eyes… and yet, you have the Black cheekbones, the shape of Regulus’s jaw. It’s like looking at a puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit, and I’ve been trying to put it together for years.”
She sighed, and Harry could see the exhaustion etched into her features, the regret of a woman who had spent her life balancing loyalty to her family and the painful truths she could never bring herself to confront. “I don’t know what you’ll find if you take that test, Mr. Potter. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps... everything."