Chapter Text
Chapter 1 — Arrival at Gringotts
The Marble Hall gleamed in hushed grandeur. Light from chandeliers spilled across veined stone, and every column carried wards old enough that Narcissa could feel them through her bones. Gringotts was no human palace — it was a citadel. And tonight, it was sanctuary.
She stood with stillness that had taken a lifetime to master. Only the faintest movement of her hands betrayed her unease, fingertips brushing the carved handle of her wand where it rested against her hip. To outward eyes, she was calm, composed — but her heart had been counting the minutes since they arrived.
Draco shifted beside her, restless in a way he had never managed to hide. His silver-grey eyes flicked toward the great doors, then away, then back again. His hands were folded behind him, but his jaw worked tight.
“Patience,” Narcissa murmured, her voice meant to soothe, though it carried the edge of command.
“He should have been here by now.” Draco’s words were low, sharp. “What if the portkey failed? What if the Order—”
“—will not breach Gringotts,” Narcissa cut across, soft but final. “Not here. Not tonight.”
Still, she understood his tension. She shared it. The boy they waited for was not just any boy. He was the boy — bruised, silenced, whittled down to a shadow. She had read the truth in Sirius Black’s coded words and seen enough in Draco’s guarded reports to know how dire it was.
Her cousin’s godson. Her son’s unlikely tether. And if the truth played out as the ledgers and the oaths suggested — the fulcrum upon which the war itself might shift.
Draco exhaled harshly. “If he’s as bad as you say…” He didn’t finish, but the words trembled there, unsaid: if he doesn’t survive the trip.
Narcissa’s hand brushed his arm, feather-light. “Then we hold him up. We make certain he does not fall.”
Silence stretched. The Hall seemed to breathe with them, deep and expectant.
Then — a crack split the air. The portkey dropped its burden onto the marble.
Narcissa’s breath caught.
The boy who landed at their feet was thinner than she had feared. Hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, clothes hanging like rags. His shoulders were sharp ridges beneath fabric that had not fit him in months. The lightning scar burned pale against skin too sallow for youth.
Harry Potter pushed himself up on shaking hands, gaze sweeping the hall with a wild animal’s caution. There was defiance in his stance, but it was the brittle kind, the kind held together by sheer will when the body was failing.
Narcissa saw Draco’s throat work as he swallowed.
So this is what Dumbledore has done in the name of protection, she thought, and her heart — Black and Malfoy though it was — clenched.
She inclined her head, regal and deliberate, as though they stood not in rescue but in greeting. “Welcome to Gringotts, Mr. Potter.”
Harry blinked at her, disoriented, then past her to Draco, who stood taut with something between nerves and pride. A goblin approached then, armor gleaming at the shoulders but his hands ink-stained, eyes sharp and unblinking.
“Circle,” the goblin rasped.
Draco tilted his chin toward a silver-etched ring on the floor, no larger than a Quidditch hoop. The lines pulsed faintly, alive with magic that prickled against Harry’s skin even from a distance.
Harry hesitated. “What—”
“Truth,” Draco murmured, low enough only Harry could hear. “It will know if you lie. Don’t try.”
Narcissa’s gaze softened, a subtle tilt of her head that almost felt like reassurance.
Harry stepped into the circle. At once, the runes flared, silver brightening to quicksilver. Heat spread from his feet to his chest, curling up his spine. His scar tingled faintly, but not with pain — with resonance, like a struck chord.
The goblin’s voice filled the chamber. “Name.”
Harry swallowed. “Harry James Potter.”
The runes hummed in harmony, a steady vibration in the floor. Warmth spread through him.
“Do you come of your own will?”
“Yes.”
The hum deepened, threads of light weaving around his ankles.
“Have you been deceived of your rights?”
The words snagged in Harry’s throat. He thought of cupboards, of hunger, of Sirius’s fall, of a headmaster’s blue gaze that always asked for more and gave nothing. “Yes.”
The circle pulsed once, sharp and hot — not against him, but for him, as though the marble itself believed.
The goblin nodded once, satisfied. “The Circle recognizes truth. You may proceed.”
As Harry stepped out, the silver runes dimmed back to faint etching, but the warmth lingered in his bones. For the first time, he realized: this was not Dumbledore’s justice, not Ministry showmanship. This was truth, and it had chosen to stand with him.