For Life, Forever

The maker said take her
and love her forever
Take care of her for life
And treat her right
-Alabama, "The Maker Said Take Her"
-o0o-

It was over.

Nearly a year of hunting down Horcruxes, battling Death Eaters, and dodging the Ministry had culminated in one final battle against Voldemort in the heather-filled moors of Scotland. Both sides had taken heavy losses, but none weighed heavier on Harry than the devastation to the Weasley family. Percy, Fred, and Ginny had all died. Ginny'd been killed after taking a Killing Curse meant for Harry while he was locked in battle with the former Dark Lord. Molly was blinded in one eye, and Arthur had lost both one of his legs, and the use of his left arm. Bill and Fleur had fled to France a month prior, after finding out that Fleur was pregnant. Charlie, too, had made no secret of his plans to return to Romania as soon as it was prudent to do so. By all the graces of all the gods Harry could name, Hermione and Ron had both escaped relatively unharmed.

The rain had started halfway through the battle, and it showed no signs of letting up now, as though the very skies themselves were mourning the losses the morning would bring. After Voldemort had fallen, while his body still lay cooling in the mud, Harry had asked Ron and Hermione to give him space. He needed time to himself to come to grips with everything that had happened.

Rain mingled with the tears on his face, rendering them indistinguishable from the rest of the mud and filth that coated him. It was in the silence of the early morning that Harry heard the pained cry, and pulled himself to his feet to investigate. The Death Eaters had scattered, taking their wounded members with them; if someone was left on the field, it was most certainly a member of what passed as Harry's army. Over a slight rise in the moor, Harry found a copse of trees, and nestled within them the source of the pain.

A heavily pregnant woman lay at the base of a trunk, clutching at her stomach. He knelt beside her. "What's wrong?" he asked helplessly. "What can I do?"

She grasped at his hand. "Thank Merlin it's you," she gasped. "The baby." He allowed her to hold his hand, while he studied her face. She was filthy; her hair was so matted and muddy that its original colour was completely eradicated. Her face was streaked with mud, and her robes were tattered and torn. In a habitual glance born of a year spent fighting the Death Eaters, he took a look at her left arm, conveniently bare to the elbow. It was pale and muddy, but un-Marked. "The baby's coming," she panted, and let out another shriek of pain, nearly fracturing the bones in his hand she gripped so hard.

"What can I do?" Harry asked again, wincing against the pain. She smiled, a truly beautiful expression even through the dirt.

"Just hold onto me," she murmured. "This isn't my first, I know what to-" she was interrupted by another contraction that wrung an anguished cry from her throat. "What to do," she finished breathlessly. Harry worried for her; she was too weak to give birth; even he could see that. "Keep the baby... clean," she added, and he removed his sodden cloak, performing a cleaning charm on it before placing it beneath her so that the baby would not be born onto mud and tree roots. She smiled again, gratefully, and then arched her back into another contraction.

Harry refused to expose her any more than he had to; even when she cried out that the baby was coming, he merely slid his hands beneath her robes, the way she'd instructed, and felt for the head, pulling gently as she pushed. The baby was born in a gush of blood, but immediately set up a gusty wail.

Now that the most immediate impetus of the birth had been negated, Harry felt panic setting in. He had no experience with newborn babies, but even as his legs turned to jelly beneath him, he recalled a program Petunia had been watching on the television once, about babies; he needed to clean it up, and cut that tie that still bound it to the woman. Using his wand, he accomplished this as neatly as he could, and then handed the child over to it's mother. "A girl," he said, and cast a cleaning charm on himself and the woman. He gathered the cloak up from beneath her, and with her help, wrapped the baby up in it. The woman nursed her quietly, humming weakly.

He could see now that she was extraordinarily pretty, even for a woman in her fourties, as she appeared to be. Her blonde hair, now free of the tangles and mud, clung to her face and neck, wet with the rain still falling.

"Thank you, Harry Potter," she murmured, glancing up at him through her lashes. He blushed, and almost started before he realized that he was and would remain one of the most noticeable wizards in England. "Name her... for my family," she said weakly.

"Excuse me," he offered. "I don't... I don't know your name." He coughed, more embarrassed by his lack than the fact that she'd given birth just moments before.

She gazed at him with wonderment anew. "Narcissa," she said, her voice oddly breathy. He could see that she wouldn't last; she had been dying before he came, and bringing forth the child had sapped her of the last of her strength.

"Narc-" He rocked back on his heels, unable to believe that the soft, pretty mother in front of him was- "Narcissa Malfoy?" Some of her previous disdain returned to her now, and her eyes narrowed.

"Yes," she said quietly. "But..." A wracking cough shook her body, sending the child into another bout of screaming. "Not any more. Narcissa Black, I die. This child was conceived of rape," she added. Harry felt misfortune piling up on top of misery.

"Who?" he asked, clutching his wand. "I'll kill him." Lucius - Draco, even - had never been among his favoured people. Far from it, but the only thing Narcissa had ever done wrong was marry the wrong man, and give birth to the irritation of Harry's life.

"My husband," Narcissa said. "And he already lies dead, struck down by the Dar- by Voldemort, himself." The light was beginning to fade from her eyes. "Harry Potter," she whispered. "Saviour of the Wizarding World, and my personal hero. Grant me one wish before I die."

He closed his eyes, and nodded once. "Name it," he said weakly, his voice shaking with the emotions that warred within him.

"Take her," she said, offering the child who had finally settled into sleep. "Love her," she added. "Take care of her, and treat her as your own. Give her... a good life. The life I was unable to give."

He took the small parcel, tucking her into the crook of his elbow, and then grasped Narcissa's hand. "You've given her all the life she'll need," he said firmly, and watched her eyes close. "I swear, I'll take care of her."

Narcissa's eyes closed gently, and a small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Her breath whooshed out once, and she did not inhale again. Harry clutched at the child, saddened that it was now an orphan. He did not even think to give the baby up; he'd sworn to Narcissa that he would take care of her. A father at seventeen, he thought to himself, less resigned than he thought he should be.

Ron and Hermione met him coming back over the hill. "Where were you!?" Hermione demanded. "We were worried sick!"

Ron for once took the pacificist path, and said, "We thought maybe there were some Death Eaters still around."

Harry shook his head mutely, and looked down at the baby, who'd shifted slightly. Hermione gasped. "Harry! What's that?"

"A baby," Harry said, pulling the cloak free of her face slightly so that they could see. "A woman - she was caught in the battle. She gave birth right before she..." Grief closed his throat. Not for Narcissa's death; no matter how much help she'd rendered, she had still been married to a Death Eater. His sadness was for the baby, who would never know her parents. Although considering how Malfoy turned out, perhaps that's for the best.

He cleared his throat, and tried again. "I promised - I swore - that I'd take care of the baby."

Hermione's eyes filled. "Oh, Harry," she murmured, and turned her face into Ron's shoulder. He didn't know whether she was happy for him, sad for the woman and child, or thinking of all the unpleasantries of raising a child.

"That's... damn good, mate," Ron said quietly, peering at the sleeping child. "What're you gonna call it?"

Harry started; he hadn't even considered that. Narcissa had asked him to name the girl after her family. The Black's, he recalled, had a habit of naming their children after astral bodies, and he said the first star that came to mind. "Spica," he said. "Spica... Potter."

He would be asked questions if he named it Black, and he would never saddle such an innocent child with the name Malfoy. Hermione and Ron smiled in unison.

"We'll be her god-parents, of course," Hermione said tearfully. "And you, Harry, have got a lot to learn about raising children." She took him by the elbow and lead him a little ways back towards the makeshift camp to the side of the bloodsoaked battlefield.

"Godpa- wait, what?" Ron asked suddenly, alarmed. Hermione and Harry ignored him in favour of cooing over little Spica.

"You'll need a lot, Harry," Hermione told him. "Taking care of a baby's not like taking care of a cat, or an owl. It's not going to be easy."

Harry considered. Her parents dead, her brother smuggled from the country six months into the start of the war - she had absolutely no family. He'd promised Narcissa as she was dying that he'd take care of the baby, and if that meant staying up late with fifteen books open about child-care while she ate every few hours, then so be it.

"Nothing that's worth it is easy," he said, and looked down into her storm-grey eyes, topped by a blonde fuzz so fine and light that it was nearly invisible. "Spica," he said again quietly. "My daughter."

-o0o-

OMFG THANKS SOOO MUCH TO SNIVELLY FOR HELP WITH THE SUMMARY. It still sucks, but that's no fault of hers; she's amazing. Why are you still reading this author note, go check out her story!