Disclaimer: I do not have any rights of ownership for the characters used except the OC's. All the credit goes to the authors. Only the plot belongs to me. All characters are aged up (above 18) and are consenting adults. This is a work of fiction and does not resemble reality in any way whatsoever.
Chapter 19
~ Narcissa Black ~
The dining room of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, had been transformed under the exacting, polished hand of Narcissa from a dark, decaying structure to a parlour worthy of a Lord of Harry's stature.
Or rather, Narcissa Black, as she was coming to think of herself once more.
The heavy, moth-eaten drapes that had choked the tall, imposing windows for over a century had been banished, replaced by rich, sweeping swathes of crimson velvet that perfectly framed the magically reinforced glass against the howling December wind outside. The dining table, which had previously served as a staging ground for the Order of the Phoenix's desperate, disorganized meetings, was now draped in pristine, silver-threaded linen that glimmered softly under the warm, ambient glow of the floating crystal candelabras.
Narcissa sat next to the head of the table, a position of that she had naturally assumed in the absence of the young Lord of the House. She held a goblet of vintage, blood-red Bordeaux lightly between her manicured fingers, taking an appreciative sip as her cool, grey eyes swept over the unusual, yet vibrant assembly of women gathered around her.
The air in the room was thick with the rich, decadent aromas of high-end French cuisine. There were silver platters laden with perfectly seared Coq au Vin, delicate, buttery Escargots de Bourgogne swimming in garlic and parsley, and a vibrant, steaming Ratatouille that looked far too colourful for a house with a history as dark as the Blacks.
Gathering such an extravagant, specialized spread of food in the middle of a brutal, suffocating war—where the Ministry of Magic, headed by the Death Eaters, controlled the supply lines and the Snatchers patrolled the markets—would have been an absolutely insurmountable task for anyone else.
But Narcissa was not just anyone.
She was a woman who had spent decades navigating the tightrope of pureblood high society and the murky, cutthroat underworld of backroom politics. Long before she had made the terrifying, exhilarating decision to abandon Lucius and pledge her life, her loyalty, and her body to Harry Potter, she had been meticulously planning her escape.
She had established a shadow network, utilizing the vast, hidden wealth she had siphoned from the Malfoy vaults. She was intimately in touch with one of the largest, most secretive underground food and supply syndicates in wizarding Europe. It was a lifeline she had forged in the dark, driven by a fierce, maternal need to ensure that if she and Draco ever needed to run, they would not starve in the dirt.
Of course, a Lady of her stature never dirtied her own hands with the crude world of smuggling. All the communication, the haggling, and the hazardous physical exchanges had been meticulously executed through her devoted, bubbly little house-elf, Tilly. The elf had served as her perfect, untraceable proxy, allowing Narcissa to remain entirely anonymous to the syndicate bosses, the work now being carried forward the trio of elves that looked after their lord.
A sharp pang of melancholy struck Narcissa's chest, dulling the taste of the wine on her tongue.
She missed Tilly.
She missed the elf's high-pitched, enthusiastic squeaks, the way she would practically vibrate with joy whenever Narcissa praised her for a job well done. When Narcissa had fled Malfoy Manor, leaving the suffocating terror of the Dark Lord's presence behind, she had been forced to leave Tilly behind to maintain the illusion of normalcy for as long as possible.
She could only pray that the little elf was keeping her head down, avoiding the cruel, sadistic boots of her former husband and Bellatrix's former compatriots.
'When this is all over,' Narcissa vowed silently, her grip on the goblet tightening. 'When Harry burns that monster to ash, I will tear Malfoy Manor apart brick by brick if I have to, and I will bring Tilly back into my service. And my son, if he has not lost his way.'
But even she understood that Draco would never accept her relationship with Harry, nor would he understand the need for her actions. Right now, however, she was not worried for his safety, knowing full well that he was safe under the wards of Hogwarts with Severus looking after him, away from the clutches of the power-hungry bastard.
For now, the domestic duties of the Black household fell to Kreacher and Dobby, both of whom were currently scurrying around the edges of the dining room. Dobby, wearing a towering, multi-coloured stack of knitted hats, was eagerly levitating a platter of freshly baked, crusty baguettes toward the Veela guests, while Kreacher grumbled under his breath, refilling wine glasses with a begrudging, yet undeniable respect for the Mistress who had restored his ancestral home to its former glory. Winky, the sweet elf that had been serving the Crouch family at one point in time, had taken over the kitchen with a blinding smile on her face.
Narcissa forced the sorrow from her mind, pushing it behind an impenetrable wall of Occlumency, and focused on the present. She needed the normalcy. After the horrors she had endured—the constant fear of being tortured or assaulted, the degradation of seeing her home turned into a slaughterhouse, the terrifying, soul-shaking ritual they had performed to rip Voldemort's parasite from her sister's mind—she craved this civilized dinner like a dying woman craved water.
The conversation around the grand table was flowing smoothly, the initial, razor-sharp tension of their makeshift, bizarre family having finally dissolved into a comfortable dynamic. Everyone in the room knew exactly what the hierarchy was, and more importantly, they knew exactly whose bed they belonged in.
Except for Andromeda.
Narcissa's middle sister sat across from her, looking healthier than she had in weeks. The horrific, dark-magic burns that had marred her neck and arms had faded to pale, silvery scars, thanks to Apolline's masterful healing pastes. The deep, agonizing grief over the loss of her husband, Ted, still shadowed her warm, brown eyes, but she was no longer drowning in it. She had not taken after Narcissa in joining Harry's growing harem of women, but Narcissa wouldn't count her out just yet.
After all, she herself never imagined she would become a mistress for the Boy-Who-Lived.
And then there was Bellatrix.
Unlike Andromeda, Bellatrix's absence from Harry's bed was absolutely not by her own choice.
Narcissa's eldest sister sat to her immediate right, tearing into a piece of roasted chicken with a feral enthusiasm that spoke of decades of starvation in Azkaban. The madness that had once twisted her beautiful features into a grotesque mask of sadism was gone, burned away by the fire of Harry's magic. But the sheer, overwhelming intensity of her personality remained.
Bellatrix was a creature of extremes. With the Dark Lord's corrupting parasite eradicated, she had poured every single ounce of her fanatical, obsessive devotion into the man who had saved her.
She wanted Harry.
She wanted him with a desperate, all-consuming hunger that she barely bothered to hide. She would follow him around the house like a shadow, hanging onto his every word, her dark, heavy-lidded eyes tracking his every movement with a possessive adoration. But Harry, demonstrating a restraint that Narcissa found both incredibly noble and deeply amusing, had gently but firmly kept the eldest Black sister at arm's length, insisting that her magical core and her shattered psyche needed time to heal before she engaged in an intense, back-breaking night of carnal desires that fuelled the rest of his harem.
"Zhe secret to a truly divine vintage eez all in zhe patience, ma chérie," Apolline cooed, her voice a smoky, melodic purr that made the air feel thick with seduction. The Veela matriarch leaned into Andromeda's space, her midnight-blue silk gown clinging to her lush curves with scandalous precision. She swirled her wine, her heavy French accent dripping like honey over the rim of her glass. "If you rush zhe fermentation, you lose zhe fire. And vhat eez life vizout zhe fire, non?"
Andromeda let out a soft, knowing laugh, her eyes sparkling with competitive warmth. "Spoken like a woman who's never had to settle for cheap Ogden's. But if you fortify the barrel with just a touch of nettle-whiskey, you get that 'fire' without waiting a decade. I spent a very educational summer in Lyons back in the seventies learning exactly how to cheat the clock. And the crowd."
Further down the table, Fleur Delacour was leaning in close to Bellatrix, the young, breathtakingly beautiful Veela engaged in an animated, highly technical conversation about combat magic.
"Ze trick to shattering a reinforced Protego, Bella," Fleur said, her sapphire eyes sparkling with a fierce, competitive light, "is not raw power. It is resonance. You must strike ze shield wiz a curse zat vibrates at ze exact opposite frequency of ze caster's magical signature. It shatters ze dome like cheap glass."
Bellatrix's eyes were wide, practically glowing with a childlike wonder that completely belied her reputation as the most lethal duellist in Britain. She leaned forward, completely engrossed, her dark curls bouncing around her face. "Really? Opposite frequency? But how do you check the frequency in the middle of a firefight? Do you feel it in the air, or do you taste the magic on the back of your tongue?"
Narcissa watched them, a profound, overwhelming sense of relief washing over her, loosening the anxious knot that had resided in her chest since Bellatrix's return to the fold. She took another slow sip of her Bordeaux, allowing the rich, complex flavours to ground her.
They had accepted her. They had accepted her sisters.
Apolline and Fleur, two women of unimaginable beauty and power, who commanded the awe and lust of every man who crossed their path, were sitting at her table, treating her broken, formerly psychotic sister with patience, respect, and genuine camaraderie.
It was a miracle. The younger Veela possessed a deep, instinctual understanding of magic and deep knowledge of curse-breaking that seemed to resonate something within Bellatrix, who shared a similar love for magic, especially battle magic and curse magic. To see Bellatrix, who had been an executioner for the Dark Lord for two decades, discussing magic with the innocent, inquisitive wonder of a first-year Hogwarts student... it was a sight Narcissa would trade all the gold in Gringotts to preserve.
She was happy. For the first time in a very, very long time, Narcissa Malfoy was content to simply sit back, bask in the warmth of the room, and watch her family heal.
And then, the universe reminded her that she was in love with Harry Potter, and peace was a temporary illusion.
FWOOSH.
Out of absolutely nowhere, the ambient magic in the dining room spiked violently. A massive, blinding sphere of golden-red fire erupted directly in the dead centre of the long dining table, hovering mere inches above a silver platter of roasted vegetables that Fleur had been reaching for.
"Ahhh!" Fleur shrieked, throwing her hands up and away from the sudden, blistering heat as she shielded herself and her face.
"Protect the Mistress!" Kreacher bellowed, dropping a plate that shattered into a hundred glittering pieces against the hardwood floor.
Narcissa didn't scream, but she was startled. She recovered quickly, her instincts honed by formerly being with a megalomaniac kicking in.
She surged to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the floorboards, her wand snapping out of the holster hidden in the sleeve of her robes before the fireball had even fully materialized.
Beside her, Bellatrix was a blur of motion, her own dark wand raised, her eyes flashing with a sudden, lethal instinct to kill whatever had dared to breach their sanctuary. Andromeda and Apolline were up just as fast, forming a defensive, heavily armed perimeter around the table in a matter of seconds, with Fleur recovering quick enough as well, Kreacher and Dobby beside her in an instant.
But before a single, devastating curse could be fired, the roaring flames extinguished themselves as quickly as they had appeared, sucking inward with a soft pop.
The blinding light faded, revealing the source of the sudden surprise.
Standing majestically amidst the fine china and the steaming French cuisine, looking completely unbothered by the sheer panic it had just caused, was a magnificent bird. It was roughly the size of a swan, with plumage that burned in brilliant, shifting shades of crimson and gold. Its long, elegant tail feathers trailed across the linen tablecloth, and its highly intelligent eyes surveyed the room with a calm gaze.
Without a second wasted, the tension bleeding out of her rigid posture, Andromeda lowered her wand, her brown eyes widening in absolute shock.
"Fawkes?" she breathed, her voice a hushed, reverent whisper.
Narcissa's brow furrowed, her wand still held at the ready, though the tip dipped slightly. She recognized the name. Every pureblood in Britain knew the legends surrounding the Supreme Mugwump. "That is Dumbledore's phoenix? The one that vanished after his death?"
"But why would 'e be 'ere? Ze old man is dead. Ze bird is unbound," Apolline murmured, lowering her own wand, her Veela senses probing the creature and finding nothing but purity and light magic.
Fleur, recovering from her initial shock, leaned forward over the table, her sharp eyes catching a detail the others had missed in the chaos. "Maman... look. Ze bird... 'e brings a message."
She pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the phoenix. Lodged firmly between the sharp beak was a small, elegantly folded piece of parchment.
Fleur did not hesitate. Moving with the grace of her heritage, she reached out across the table. Fawkes did not shy away. He let out a low, musical trill, tilting his head slightly as Fleur's soft, pale fingers gently grasped the parchment and slipped it free.
"Such a beautiful, brave creature," Fleur cooed, her voice dripping with thick, honeyed allure. She reached up, her fingers burying themselves in the soft, fiery feathers of the bird's neck, petting him with a gentle rhythm. Fawkes leaned into her touch, letting out a warbling note of absolute satisfaction, his eyes fluttering shut under the Veela's expert ministrations.
Narcissa narrowed her eyes, a spike of annoyance flaring in her chest.
Fleur, smirking slightly as she caught Narcissa's icy glare, passed the folded parchment over the table to her mother. "Read it, Maman."
Apolline took the letter, unfolding it with a crisp snap. The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence as she read the words written in the letter.
"Cissy, Fleur, Apolline, Bella," Apolline purred, her thick French lilt turning the rugged report into something melodic. "I am alive. Ze snake is dead, and I 'ave battered ze noseless bastard as well. I 'ave landed at Nott Castle to sweep up ze filth. I will be a little late for bed; keep ze food hot and ze sheets warmer for me. Send my cloak (I 'ad to send it back to make sure Voldemort does not get it) and ze emergency kit wiz Fawkes. — 'Arry."
The silence held for a singular, terrifying heartbeat before the sheer magnitude of the message crashed over them.
"He fought the Dark Lord?" Narcissa gasped, her perfectly composed mask shattering into a million pieces. The blood drained from her face, leaving her as pale as a ghost. "He faced that monster alone? And he killed the snake?"
"Nagini is dead," Bellatrix whispered, her hands flying to her mouth, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer terror. "He did it... he actually killed the beast. But Nott Castle... Nott Castle is a stronghold! It is heavily fortified! He cannot assault it alone, he is exhausted!"
"He is asking for his cloak. He is injured. Or he is planning an infiltration. He needs supplies," Andromeda stated firmly, though the tremor in her hands betrayed her own panic.
Narcissa's aristocratic training slammed back into place, burying the paralyzing terror beneath a mountain of occluding shields for now. She was the Lady of this House. Her Lord required aid, and she would move heaven and earth to provide it.
She spun around, her robes flaring dramatically. "Kreacher! Dobby!"
Both elves snapped to attention, vibrating with nervous energy.
"Mistress?" Dobby squeaked.
Narcissa's voice was a whip, cutting through the panic. "Dobby, go to the Master's chambers. In there, you will find his Invisibility Cloak. Bring it here immediately. Kreacher, go to my private laboratory in the east wing. On the second shelf, there is a velvet pouch embroidered with silver thread. It is the emergency trauma kit. It has Wiggenweld, blood-replenishing potions, and the modified Pepper-Ups. Do not drop it. Bring them both to me. Now!"
"Yes, Mistress!" the elves chorused, vanishing with twin pops of displaced air.
While the elves scrambled to execute their orders, Narcissa turned her attention back to the table. Fleur, completely unbothered by the frantic tension gripping the rest of the room, was leaning over a silver platter, selecting the finest, most succulent pieces of roasted duck.
"Here you go, mon beau guerrier," Fleur murmured, offering a piece of the rich meat to Fawkes.
The phoenix snapped the meat from her fingers with a joyful trill, swallowing it whole. He puffed his chest out, preening under Fleur's undivided attention, clearly delighted by the sudden influx of premium treats and affection.
"Fleur," Narcissa snapped, her tone sharper than shattered glass. "This is not a petting zoo. Our Lord is walking into a Death Eater stronghold and you are feeding a bird hors d'oeuvres?"
Fleur paused, a piece of duck held delicately between her fingers. She looked up at Narcissa, her sapphire eyes completely devoid of intimidation. A slow, incredibly provocative smirk spread across her plump, glossy lips.
"'is name is Fawkes. 'e is our only connection to 'im right now, Narcissa," Fleur replied, her voice smooth and unapologetic. "And phoenixes are highly intelligent, highly emotional creatures. If 'e is well-fed and 'appy, 'e will fly faster. I am merely ensuring our Lord gets 'is supplies with maximum efficiency." She popped the duck into Fawkes's beak, scratching him right under the chin. "Besides, 'e likes me."
Before Narcissa could deliver the scathing retort burning on her tongue, the elves reappeared. Dobby held the shimmering, fluid fabric of the Invisibility Cloak delicately in his long fingers, while Kreacher presented the embroidered velvet pouch with a deep, reverent bow.
Narcissa snatched the items from the elves, stepping around the table and approaching the phoenix. "Take these to him," she commanded, her voice dropping to a low, pleading whisper as she draped the cloak over the bird's back and tied the pouch securely around his sturdy leg. "Please. Bring him back to us."
Fawkes looked at her, his ancient eyes filled with a deep, understanding empathy. He let out a final, resonant note that vibrated through the floorboards and with a blinding flash of golden fire, he vanished, leaving behind nothing but the faint scent of ash and the lingering heat of his presence.
Narcissa stood staring at the empty space above the dining table, her chest heaving, the adrenaline slowly receding to leave a heavy knot of dread in her stomach.
She turned her head slowly, her icy gaze locking onto Fleur. The French girl was dabbing her fingers delicately with a linen napkin, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
Narcissa narrowed her eyes, her aristocratic features hardening into a mask of pure, predatory challenge. "Tell me something, Miss Delacour," Narcissa said, her voice a lethal, silken purr. "Are you intentionally trying to charm the magical beasts to climb up the hierarchy of this household? Because if you think seducing a bird is going to win you favour with the Lord over me, you are sorely mistaken."
Fleur stopped wiping her fingers. She dropped the napkin onto the table and turned to face Narcissa fully. The playful, flirtatious demeanour vanished, replaced by the fierce, unapologetic arrogance of a young Veela. She met Narcissa's icy glare with a fire of her own.
Fleur leaned forward, resting her hands on the edge of the table, and simply winked at the older witch.
"What hierarchy?" Fleur asked, her voice dropping an octave, dripping with a brazen, absolute confidence that sent a shockwave through the room.
Narcissa's breath hitched. Her lips parted, a dark, dangerous thrill shooting straight down her spine.
The sheer audacity of the girl.
'Oh,' Narcissa thought, a slow, terrifying smile finally curving her lips. 'It is on.'
~ Narcissa Black ~
It had been over an hour since Harry had sent Fawkes with his hastily scribbled note.
The initial burst of adrenaline that had fuelled their frantic preparations had long since evaporated, leaving behind a cloud of worry that threatened to consume Narcissa alive.
The dining room had been abandoned. The extravagant French feast sat completely untouched, the sauces congealing and the meats growing cold, a stark, mocking reminder of the normalcy they had been enjoying before the universe had ripped it away.
They had relocated to the grand drawing room on the ground floor. It was a vast, opulent space, dominated by a massive, roaring fireplace that cast long shadows across the dark wood panelling and the plush crimson carpets. But despite the roaring flames, the room felt freezing.
Narcissa remained seated in a high-backed armchair directly in front of the fire, her posture rigidly perfect, though her knuckles were white from gripping the armrests. Her grey eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the dancing flames, seeing not the fire, but terrifying, bloody visions of what might be happening out in the forests of Nott Castle.
She was surrounded by her 'sister-wives' but none of them offered any comfort.
Bellatrix was pacing. She moved like an anxious, starving panther, stalking back and forth across the Persian rug directly behind Narcissa's chair. Her dark curls were bouncing like a wild mane, her heavy-lidded eyes darting frantically toward the entrance hall every few seconds. She muttered under her breath, a continuous, manic stream of curses directed at Theodore Nott Sr., mixed with desperate, fervent prayers for their Lord's safety.
"He shouldn't have gone alone," Bellatrix hissed for the dozenth time, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. "I should be there. I know the layout of that fortress! I know the blind spots! I could have ripped Nott's throat out while my Lord rested!"
"Pacing will not bring 'im back any faster, Bellatrix," Apolline murmured from her position on a velvet chaise lounge nearby. The Veela matriarch appeared the picture of elegant composure, sipping a fresh glass of wine, but Narcissa could see the tight, rigid line of Apolline's jaw and the slight, nervous tapping of her manicured fingers against the crystal stem of her glass. "Our Lord is powerful. 'E 'as the element of surprise. We must trust in 'is strength."
Fleur was seated on a heavy ottoman near her mother, her arms crossed defensively over her chest, her sapphire eyes narrowed tensely in concentration. The playful banter of the dining room was completely forgotten.
Only Andromeda was absent from the tense, suffocating vigil. She was up in the expansive Black family library on the second floor. The sudden, miraculous appearance of Albus Dumbledore's phoenix had sparked her academic curiosity, and she had buried herself in the ancient, dusty tomes, desperate to understand the profound, magical implications of a phoenix choosing to bind itself to a new master so soon after the death of the previous one.
The antique grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked loudly, each heavy, rhythmic thud of the pendulum in the quiet room.
Tick.
Where is he?
Tock.
Is he bleeding?
Tick.
Did the dark lord ambush him?
Narcissa closed her eyes, fighting an overwhelming wave of nausea. She had sacrificed everything for him. Her name, her status, her safety. She had laid her life, and her heart, completely bare before him. If he died out there in the snow... if he left her alone in this massive, empty house with her broken sisters and the looming threat of Voldemort's retribution... she wouldn't survive it. She would shatter irreparably.
Suddenly, the wards of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place—ancient enchantments that Narcissa had painstakingly re-keyed to Harry's specific magical signature—did not just flare.
They screamed.
Before anyone in the drawing room could even draw a breath, the massive, reinforced front doors of the house banged open with a shockwave that echoed like a cannon shot.
"HARRY!" Bellatrix shrieked, her wand already in her hand as she sprinted toward the hallway, her dark robes blurring behind her.
Narcissa was half a second behind her, her heart hammering against her ribs, abandoning her composure entirely as she ran. Apolline and Fleur surged up from their seats, their Veela allure spiking in a wave of protective, aggressive heat as they followed the Black sisters into the foyer.
They skidded into the grand entrance hall just as a voice boomed through the house, a raw, ragged, desperate sound that sent a jolt of pure ice straight down Narcissa's spine.
"KREACHER! GET APOLLINE! NOW!"
Harry stood in the centre of the foyer, and the sight of him made Narcissa's breath catch painfully in her throat.
He was covered from head to toe in a horrifying mixture of soot, grey ash, and dark, crimson blood. The heavy, dragon-hide combat robes she had purchased for him were shredded, hanging in ruined strips from his broad shoulders. Thick, clumps of freezing snow remained stubbornly stuck to his heavy boots, leaving a trail of dark, blood-stained footprints decorating the pristine, polished marble floor of her formerly immaculate hallway.
Fawkes was there, hovering protectively just above his right shoulder, the phoenix's brilliant, fiery plumage casting a surreal glow across the scene.
But it wasn't the blood, or the ash, or the terrifying sight of her Lord looking like he had just walked through the deepest pits of hell that made Narcissa stop dead in her tracks.
No, it was the bundle he was carrying in his arms.
Harry's arms were wrapped tightly around a frail, shivering figure entirely enveloped in a thick, dark blanket.
"The dining room," Harry gasped, his voice cracking with exhaustion and raw panic. He didn't wait for a response. He bypassed them completely, his boots leaving wet, red smears on the floor as he limped heavily toward the double doors of the dining room. "Clear the table!"
Narcissa snapped out of her shock. "Kreacher! Dobby! Clear it!"
With two loud pops, the elves appeared and instantly vanished the remnants of the feast, leaving the long table completely bare. It had become a grim, horrifying tradition in their household; the grand dining table had become the default, makeshift hospital bed.
Harry reached the table and gently, with a tenderness that completely belied the horrors covering his body, laid the bundled figure down onto the hard, polished wood.
Apolline pushed past Narcissa, her Veela grace replaced by the sharp, authoritative urgency of a trained healer. She reached the table and, with swift, clinical precision, pulled back the heavy folds of the dark blanket.
Narcissa stepped up beside her, looking down.
She let out a sharp, involuntary gasp of pure shock, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.
It was a girl. She was emaciated, her skin a sickly, translucent grey that spoke of severe starvation. Her clothes were a shredded, filthy ruin of what had once been expensive silk, now crusted with dark, dried blood and the grime of a dungeon floor. Her blonde hair, which should have been a curtain of spun gold, was matted and dull, framing a face that was now gaunt, her body covered in bruises and deep, jagged lacerations.
But even through the horrific damage, the starvation, and the grime, the sharp, aristocratic bone structure was absolutely unmistakable.
Daphne Greengrass.
Narcissa's mind reeled, spinning back through years of pureblood politics and societal manoeuvring. While Lucius had absolutely loathed the Greengrass family—due in no small part to Lord Alaric Greengrass being one of the very few, fiercely independent neutral Lords who absolutely refused to kiss Lucius's pale, sycophantic behind or bow to the Dark Faction's agenda—her son, Draco, had spoken of the Greengrass daughters quite frequently.
Draco had always held a grudging, terrified respect for the eldest daughter, Daphne. She was ruthless, stoic, and fiercely intelligent, a witch who had viciously cursed and scared off amorous, arrogant boys multiple times in the Slytherin common room. Her reputation as the Ice Queen of Slytherin was well-earned, a title she wore like a suit of impenetrable armour. She remained fiercely aloof, associating only with her chosen, incredibly tight-knit circle of friends, which consisted almost entirely of the half-blood Tracey Davis and her younger sister, Astoria—though calling it a "circle" was certainly an exaggeration.
And Astoria... sweet, bubbly Astoria. Too cheerful, too kind-hearted for the cutthroat viper's nest of Slytherin, but equally gifted as her terrifying older sister when it came to charms and defensive magic.
'What in the name of Merlin happened to you, child?' Narcissa thought, her heart breaking as she looked at the shattered, broken ruin of the proud, indomitable Ice Queen. For the girl to be reduced to this... this frail, shivering husk, the torment she had endured in the dungeons of Nott Castle must have been absolute, unadulterated hell.
"Winky! Dobby! Bring me ze blood-replenishers, ze essence of dittany, and ze most potent nutrient draught you can find—vite!" Apolline's palms pulsed with a diagnostic azure, skating over Daphne's hollowed, trembling frame. "Zis girl is skin and bone, 'er life force slipping zrough my fingers like sand. 'Er nerves? Mon Dieu, zey are burnt to a cinder! Someone 'as been far too fond of ze Cruciatus Curse on zis poor girl. Fleur, 'elp me."
The elves scrambled, vibrating with nervous energy as they popped in and out of the room, fetching the required medical supplies from Narcissa's private stores.
Knowing that Apolline was the master of this domain, Narcissa stepped back from the table. She turned her attention away from the broken girl and focused entirely on the man who had brought her here.
Harry had backed away from the table, giving the Veela room to work. He was leaning heavily against the heavy mahogany sideboard, his chest heaving, his face deathly pale beneath the layers of soot and blood. His right leg was trembling violently, refusing to bear his weight.
Narcissa closed the distance between them in three long strides. She didn't care about the blood, the grime, or the stench of dark magic clinging to his clothes. She threw her arms around him, pressing her body flush against his, a wave of profound, overwhelming relief crashing over her.
"You're alive," she whispered fiercely against his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
Harry let out a ragged, exhausted sigh. He didn't push her away. He reached up, his heavy, blood-stained hands grabbing her waist tightly, pulling her even closer, anchoring himself to her comforting presence.
"I'm alive, Cissy," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against her collarbone.
Bellatrix appeared on his other side, her dark eyes frantic as her hands roamed over his chest, his arms, patting him down with a manic, desperate need to ensure he was whole. "My Lord! You are bleeding! Your magic... it feels completely drained! Who did this to you? Tell me who, and I will flay them alive!"
"Easy, Bella," Harry said softly, lifting one arm to wrap it around Bellatrix's shoulders, pulling the fiercely devoted, formerly mad witch in close to his side. He stood there for a moment, flanked by the two Black sisters, drawing strength from their warmth, their scent, and their absolute, unquestioning loyalty.
"What happened, Harry?" Narcissa asked gently, pulling back just enough to look into his exhausted, brilliant emerald eyes. "Your note... you said you fought him."
Harry swallowed hard, leaning his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as the horrific memories of the night flooded his mind.
"He was there," Harry began, his voice hoarse, echoing in the quiet room over the sound of Apolline and Fleur murmuring healing incantations. "In Godric's Hollow. He set a trap for me at Bathilda Bagshot's house."
With each word that fell from his lips, Narcissa's heart plummeted further into her stomach.
"Voldemort was waiting for you?" Bellatrix gasped, her entire body going rigid at the mention of her former, sadistic enslaver. A violent, uncontrollable shudder racked her frame, her dark eyes widening with a sudden, overwhelming terror.
Harry sensed her panic immediately. He tightened his grip on Bellatrix's shoulder, pulling her firmly against his side, his thumb rubbing soothing, grounding circles into her arm. "I beat him, Bella," Harry said firmly, his voice laced with absolute, uncompromising authority. "He didn't break me, and he will never touch you again. I promise."
Bellatrix let out a shaky breath, burying her face into his blood stained robes, breathing in the scent of soot, iron, and sweat as if he were the only solid thing tethering her to the earth. She trembled violently, her fingers curling into the shredded dragon-hide fabric of his attire, but the sheer, grounding warmth of his magical core wrapping around her seemed to slowly stave off her panic.
Harry rested his chin on the top of Bellatrix's chaotic, dark curls, his heavy, exhausted emerald eyes locking onto Narcissa's.
"It was a trap," Harry repeated, his voice dropping to a gravelly, hoarse timbre that resonated through the quiet dining room. "He knew I would eventually go to Godric's Hollow. He used the corpse of Bathilda Bagshot as a skin-suit to hide his familiar. Nagini."
Narcissa felt the blood completely drain from her face. She had read the darkest, most vile texts in the Black family library, but the sheer depravity of utilizing a human corpse as a vessel for a giant, magical serpent made her stomach churn with disgust.
"She was under a flawless Disillusionment Charm," Harry continued, his jaw tightening as the phantom pain of the encounter flared in his nerves. "While I was busy duelling Tom, trying to keep him from blowing the entire village off the map, she slithered right under my guard."
He shifted his weight slightly, wincing as a fresh wave of agony shot up his right side. "She clamped down right here," he said, gesturing vaguely to his ruined boot and the blood-soaked, torn fabric of his trousers. "Her fangs sank straight into the bone. I swear to Merlin, Cissy, for a second... I thought she was going to saw the entire leg clean off."
Narcissa felt the breath completely vanish from her lungs. A hot, stinging prickle of tears, entirely foreign to her usually composed eyes, swelled rapidly. She looked down at his leg, seeing the dark, morbid stains of coagulated blood and the unmistakable, sickly-sweet scent of neutralized snake venom that lingered despite the use of her Wiggenweld potion. The very thought of him trapped, agonizingly pinned by that monstrous beast while the Dark Lord stood over him, caused a physical, tearing pain in her chest. She reached out with trembling hands, her fingers hovering inches from the ruined fabric of his trousers, too terrified to touch the injury lest she cause him further pain.
"Harry..." she choked out, a single, hot tear spilling over her lashes and tracing a clean path down her pale cheek. "You could have died. The venom..."
"Fawkes saved me," Harry interrupted gently, offering her a tired, reassuring smile that did not quite reach his haunted eyes. "He flamed in, burned the absolute hell out of the snake, and purged the venom from my bloodstream just as I was passing out. He flashed me out of there before Voldemort could finish the job."
Bellatrix let out a watery, muffled sob against his chest, her arms tightening around his waist with bone-crushing force. Harry simply stroked her back, before his expression hardened, shifting from the exhausted survivor back into the ruthless, calculating Lord of House Black.
"Fawkes dropped me in a forest," Harry narrated, his voice growing cold, vibrating with a dark, unyielding fury that made the ambient magic in the room bristle. "It turned out to be the perimeter of Nott Castle. Theodore Nott's ancestral estate."
Narcissa stiffened, her spine going rigidly straight. The Notts were brutal, sadistic purists who had fully embraced the Dark Lord's most violent ideologies. If Harry had landed there, injured and drained...
"The courtyard was a slaughterhouse," Harry continued, his green eyes darkening to the colour of the Killing Curse. "They had dozens of Muggles and Muggleborns chained to posts in the snow. They were using the Cruciatus Curse on them for sport. Drinking Firewhisky and laughing while innocent people froze and screamed."
Apolline, who was carefully pouring a shimmering, nutrient-dense potion down Daphne Greengrass's throat, paused, her Veela features twisting into a mask of profound, beautiful disgust. "Animals," she spat, her melodic accent thickening with contempt.
"I couldn't just leave them," Harry said, his gaze locking with Narcissa's, silently daring her to scold his recklessness. But Narcissa only felt a swell of profound, overwhelming pride. Her Lord was a protector, a king who fought for those who could not fight for themselves.
"I infiltrated the castle to take out the superiors before I cleared the courtyard," Harry explained, his voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper. "I walked right into the main drawing room. I found Theodore Nott Senior... and Avery."
Narcissa's heart skipped a violent beat.
Avery. The weasel-faced, lecherous coward who had cornered her in the hallways of Malfoy Manor. The man who had looked at her with filthy, undisguised lust, who had threatened to force her into becoming his mistress when Lucius had fallen out of favour. The mere mention of his name made Narcissa's skin crawl with absolute revulsion.
"Avery was there?" Narcissa breathed, her hands balling into tight fists at her sides.
"He was," Harry confirmed, a slow, incredibly dark and dangerous smirk spreading across his blood-stained face. He reached out, his hand gently grasping Narcissa's chin, his thumb brushing away the stray tear on her cheek. "I remembered what he tried to do to you, Cissy. I remembered the way he made you feel in your own home."
Narcissa stared up at him, her lips parted, her pulse roaring in her ears like a tidal wave.
"I blew his leg off first," Harry said casually, as if discussing the weather, though his eyes burned with a possessive, territorial fire. "And then, I looked him dead in the eye, and I told him he had forfeited his life the moment he disrespected my Mistress."
Bellatrix, pulling her head back from Harry's chest, let out a vicious, delighted cackle, her eyes wide and shining with approval.
"I burned him alive, Cissy," Harry whispered, leaning in closer, his breath ghosting over her lips. "He screamed until his lungs turned to ash. He no longer walks this earth. Neither does Nott. They will never, ever look at you or threaten you again."
The last remnants of Narcissa's pureblood decorum, the mask of the perfect noble lady that she had worn for forty years, completely and utterly shattered.
She didn't care that her sisters were watching. She didn't care that the Delacours were in the room, or that the elves were lingering in the shadows. A surge of primal, overwhelming gratitude and arousal flooded her veins. This man, this incredible, terrifyingly powerful wizard, had avenged her honour with the fury of a god.
With a soft, desperate cry, Narcissa surged forward on her tiptoes. She grabbed the lapels of his ruined combat robes, pulling him down as her lips crashed violently against his.
It was a bruising, desperate kiss, completely devoid of elegance but overflowing with absolute devotion. She tasted the ash on his skin, the metallic tang of blood on his lips, and the lingering, smoky heat of his magic. She poured every ounce of her love, her relief, and her profound, overwhelming submission into the kiss, her tongue sweeping into his mouth to fiercely claim him as her own.
Harry groaned into her mouth, his hand moving to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her immaculate blonde updo, ruining it completely as he kissed her back with a fierce, possessive hunger that made her knees buckle.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless and flushed, Narcissa kept her forehead rested against his chin, her eyes closed as she tried to steady her racing heart.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "My beautiful, ruthless Lord."
Harry chuckled softly, dropping a gentle kiss to the top of her head before turning his attention back to the grim reality laid out on the dining table.
"After I cleared the courtyard and sent the prisoners to a Muggle hospital with Fawkes," Harry continued, his tone sobering rapidly, "I did a final sweep of the estate. I found a hidden dungeon."
He looked down at the frail, broken form of Daphne Greengrass, his jaw clenching with repressed anger. "They had her chained to the wall in the dark. She was the only one left alive down there. I don't know how long she's been there, or what exactly they wanted from the Greengrass family, but she took the brunt of their sadistic games."
Apolline let out a heavy, tired sigh, stepping back from the table and wiping a sheen of sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist. The soft, ambient blue glow of her magic faded, leaving the room feeling slightly darker.
"She ees stable," Apolline announced, her voice carrying the absolute, unquestionable authority of a master healer. "Ze nutrient draught 'as halted ze rot of 'er organs, and ze Dittany 'as sealed ze leaking blood. See? 'Er breath flows easy now—stop your pacing before you wear a 'ole in ze floor."
Narcissa looked over. Indeed, the shallow, rattling gasps that had plagued Daphne upon her arrival had smoothed out into a slow, if incredibly weak, breathing pattern.
"Still," Apolline continued, a sharp glint in her sapphire eyes, "ze girl will need us 'overing over 'er for ze next forty-eight 'ours. 'Er magic is a dried-up well, and 'er body? Fragile as spun glass, non? But ze Cruciatus, it bites deeper zan any blade. If ze 'orrors she endured in dat 'ole are 'alf as filthy as ze wounds I 'ave just mended, she will need a true master of ze mind to pull 'er back from ze dark."
Harry nodded grimly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the weight of the night finally threatened to crush him. "We'll do whatever it takes. The Greengrass family never bowed to Voldemort. She doesn't deserve this."
Fleur, who had been watching the exchange with a keen, calculating gaze, stepped forward. She moved with a fluid, feline grace, her silken robes whispering against the hardwood floor.
"I will take the first watch, 'Arry," Fleur volunteered, her voice soft but filled with genuine resolve. "Maman has exhausted 'erself pulling ze girl back from the brink. She needs to rest. I will sit wiz 'er, and I will 'ave Winky assist me if her vitals begin to drop."
"Thank you, Fleur," Harry said, letting out a long, ragged exhale of relief. "I appreciate it."
Fleur smiled, but as she looked at Harry, standing there looking like a rugged, blood-stained warlock, the Veela allure within her flared to life. Her sapphire eyes darkened with a familiar, predatory heat, and a slow, incredibly provocative smirk spread across her glossy lips.
"Of course, mon amour," Fleur purred, her French accent thickening dramatically, turning the words into a silken caress. She took a step closer, her gaze dropping pointedly to his broad chest, then lower, before snapping back up to meet his eyes. "But such a valiant, exhausting rescue requires a proper reward, non? You must be so incredibly tense after fighting ze Dark Lord. Why don't you join me in the parlour for a while? I 'ave... highly effective methods of working out ze knots in your muscles."
She winked at him, the offer bare, brazen, and undeniably seductive.
Before Harry could even open his mouth to respond, Narcissa stepped in.
She did not raise her voice. She did not draw her wand. She simply moved to position herself deliberately between Harry and the French Veela, radiating an aura of absolute, undisputed authority.
"He is doing absolutely no such thing, Miss Delacour," Narcissa stated, her voice sharp. "Our Lord has engaged in a duel with the most dangerous wizard alive, decimated a Death Eater stronghold, and carried a dying girl through the snow. He is bleeding, he is magically exhausted, and he is going to rest."
Fleur opened her mouth to protest, her eyes flashing with a competitive spark.
"I said," Narcissa repeated, her icy grey eyes boring into Fleur's with the terrifying, unyielding authority of the Mistress of House Black, "he is going to rest."
Fleur blinked, the intense, challenging heat fading from her gaze as she recognized the finality in Narcissa's tone. She offered a small, yielding pout. "Hmph."
Narcissa turned smoothly back to Harry, wrapping her arm firmly through his, anchoring him to her side. "You will keep a close eye on the Greengrass girl, Fleur. And while you are at it," Narcissa added, a wicked, triumphant glint in her eye, "you can keep Bellatrix company. My sister requires a distraction from her pacing."
"What?!" Bellatrix shrieked, her jaw dropping in absolute outrage. "I do not need a babysitter, Cissy! I am our Lord's most devoted! I should be the one attending to his wounds!"
"You will stay here, Bella," Narcissa commanded, her tone brokering absolutely no argument as she began to guide the heavily limping, exhausted Harry toward the double doors of the dining room. "He needs sleep, not your fanatical hovering. Keep your voice down and assist Miss Delacour if Daphne wakes up."
"You scheming, possessive, icy bitch!" Bellatrix cursed loudly, stomping her foot like a petulant child, her dark curls bouncing wildly as she glared daggers at Narcissa's retreating back. "You just want him all to yourself so you can fuck him for what he did to Avery!"
Narcissa didn't even bother turning around.
She merely cast a supremely smug, victorious smile over her shoulder, her grip tightening possessively on Harry's arm as she led her Lord out of the dining room and into the quiet, dimly lit sanctuary of the hallway.
"Sleep well, Bella!" Narcissa called back sweetly, the heavy mahogany doors swinging shut behind them, sealing off the furious, sputtering curses of her elder sister and leaving the dining room to the quiet, glowing magic of the healing Veela and the soft, steady breathing of the rescued Ice Queen.
Author's Note
Another one. Let me know your thoughts down below.