9 ½ Days

Ohh, can't anybody see

We've got a war to fight

Never found our way

Regardless of what they say

Portishead - Roads

‘Ron, catch — and GO!’ he yelled, throwing two wands to him; then he bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning goblin, who still clung to the sword, over one shoulder, Harry seized Dobby’s hand and he spun on the spot to Disapparate.

As he turned into darkness, he caught one last view of the drawing room: of the pale, frozen figures of Narcissa and Draco, of the streak of red that was Ron’s hair, and a blur of flying silver, as Bellatrix’s knife flew across the room at the place where he was vanishing—

Harry reacted instinctively, his Seeker reflexes kicking into gear. He shoved Dobby’s hand onto the goblin’s arm, dropping the goblin to his feet, and, as his friends vanished, he grabbed the silver dagger. The blade bit his flesh. Everyone stared speechless at Harry, standing alone in the wrecked room with Malfoy’s wand in one hand and the knife in the other. Drops of blood spilled from his palm on the rose carpet, and the pain gave Harry pause.

But only for a second. Before a weaponless Bellatrix had a chance to react, before Narcissa had even thought of moving, and with his scar blinding him with pain, Harry turned on the spot to Disapparate, but he still wasn’t fast enough: a hand grabbed his wrist. Harry turned into darkness, but the person’s hands were tight on his, pulling the wand, and he thought feverishly: not Bill and Fleur’s, take me away, not Tinworth, away, away. He twisted and fought and turned…

And found himself on a windy seaside cliff with Draco Malfoy, both of them wrestling with the wand for a brief moment, until Malfoy released it with a grunt and collapsed on the ground.

Panting, Harry raised the wand. He glimpsed the unforgiving chasm behind his back and took a step sideways, while in front of him, on his knees, Malfoy clutched his shoulder, blood oozing from his robes from where he’d been Splinched. Harry took a few more careful steps, walking around Malfoy, keeping the wand trained on him. The roar of the waves drowned out any coherent thought except for the pounding of his heart, but his hand remained steady.

Breathing heavily, Malfoy looked up, his face a portrait of fury. ‘That’s mine, you prick,’ he spat, his eyes on the wand.

‘Tough shit.’ Having put a few feet distance between them, Harry turned on the spot before Malfoy could rush him, thinking of his destination, but nothing happened. He spun again urgently, concentrating on Shell Cottage, but the magic failed him. Malfoy slowly rose to his feet, and Harry pointed the wand at him and cried, ‘Stupefy!’

All the wand did was emit a thin column of acrid smoke.

Panicked, Harry called out another set of curses, but the wand let out yellow, rancid-smelling sparks.

‘What’s wrong with my wand?’ Malfoy asked, horrified.

Harry examined it, his mind refusing to accept he had a malfunctioning wand in his hands. Any last shred of hope he might have still entertained vanished: a deep crack ran along the length of it and something silvery-white peeked from inside. Shit.

The wind howled as it whipped the dark waves below them into fury and cut through Harry’s jumper, goosebumps erupting on his skin. ‘Your wand’s ruined.’ Harry pocketed it, unwilling to part with it, no matter how broken, and brandished the dagger.

Malfoy huffed, cold and contemptuous, his eyes on his aunt’s knife. ‘Will you kill me, Potter?’ he taunted. Malfoy had never been that good of an actor; the trembling of his hands and his shallow breathing belied his uncertainty in Harry’s benevolent nature.

It pissed Harry off. ‘I’m not like you,’ he spat. ‘Ambushing wizards in towers to kill them in cold blood.’

Malfoy flinched. A step backwards brought him almost to the edge. ‘Careful!’ Harry blurted out, as some gravel fell off the cliff and disappeared in the yawning darkness. Malfoy hurried away from the edge, and Harry, holding the dagger high, retreated towards the slope behind him, eager to put some distance between the two of them, and think.

And then his scar split open, and he dropped to his knees, crying in pain.

His eyes surveyed the drawing room again; Lucius, Bellatrix and Narcissa writhing on the floor, their faces contorted in agony, but for Bellatrix’s deranged, ecstatic martyr’s smile.

‘Your son should’ve reached out to me instantly,’ Harry hissed, lowering the wand.

‘Perhaps he’s hurt,’ Narcissa gasped. ‘He’s not disloyal, my Lord, he’s probably hurt.’

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he decided to aid Potter.’

‘No, no.’ Lucius shook his head. ‘No, he’d never do that… If you let me or my wife look for him—’

‘Enough, Lucius. You’re mistaken if you think I’ll allow you to leave this residence again. I’ll let you keep your lives, which is more than you deserve.’

‘Th-thank you, my Lord,’ said Lucius, and Bellatrix knelt and touched her forehead to Voldemort’s shoe. Narcissa simply bowed, her terrified eyes stark on her pale face.

For all their poise and arrogance, for all their vanity and talk of great deeds, the Malfoys scurried out of the room in an undignified haste, and Voldemort would laugh at their blatant cowardice if he hadn’t been simmering with rage and frustration. He paced past the shattered chandelier until Rookwood and Dolohov came and kneeled at his feet.

‘My Lord?’ said Dolohov.

‘Find them,’ the cold voice said. ‘Find them and bring them both to me alive.’

‘The Malfoy boy, too?’ Rookwood dared to ask and earned a slash in the face for it.

Voldemort’s — Harry’s — long, white fingers caressed his wand. ‘I said both. Bring the Malfoy brat so he can die, squealing, in front of Lucius. The Malfoys need to be taken to task. I’ve allowed their incompetence to go unpunished for far too long.’ Fury coursed through his veins at the thought of Potter escaping his grasp again. ‘But don’t speak of this. Pretend their son is coming home.’ This would make it all the more painful for the Malfoys. All the more edifying a lesson.

The men bowed, foreheads on a floor still covered in broken glass and blood, and Harry came to, his scar pulsing with pain.

A soft drizzle fell on his fevered face and he took deep breaths, letting the smell of the ocean fill his lungs. He wasn’t used to this scent; the Dursleys rarely took him to the seaside with them when he was little, preferring to leave him with Mrs Figg. He found it overwhelming.

Malfoy had divested him of wand and dagger, the latter pointed at his face by a trembling hand. He shivered, his fancy robes too thin for this weather, flapping in the wind. Harry ignored Malfoy’s dagger and tried to stand up but couldn’t. His forehead still stung and he felt clammy and weak. He dug his fingers into the soil — his fingers, not Voldemort’s — and took another deep breath of salt air.

‘What happened to you?’ Malfoy asked in a quavering voice.

‘Your parents are alive.’

‘How do you know? Potter, how do— Can you — can you see him?’

Harry said nothing. The vision flitted in and out of his mind, pulling him back to Voldemort’s brain. Briefly, he closed his eyes: an announcement to the Malfoys that Dolohov and Rookwood were out searching for their son. The boy will be returned to you. Narcissa stood straight, white as marble, and Lucius knelt, a man broken and humiliated.

Harry opened his eyes again. He could keep his connection to Voldemort a secret, but what was the point anymore? ‘You-Know-Who is sending two of his Death Eaters to find us.’ Malfoy stifled a horrified gasp. Perhaps he had enough sense to know what that meant. ‘He told your parents he’ll bring you home but, in truth, he’s planning to kill you in front of them. To punish them.’

Malfoy looked sick, but not particularly surprised. Harry rose to his feet. ‘He Crucioed your parents. You can imagine what that was like.’

‘Stop it.’

Harry didn’t stop. ‘You can call him, you know. Get yourself out of this mess. Just touch that little Dark Mark you have on your arm, and he’ll be here in a jiffy.’

‘Shut up, Potter!’

‘He wants us both. He’ll kill you to punish your father, and he’ll kill me because he’s been trying to do that my whole life, which means if the Death Eaters find us, we’re both dead.’ Harry continued, relentless. ‘This is how much you matter to him. This is how much he cares for his followers. This is the man you chose to give your allegiance to.’

‘You think I don’t fucking know that?’ Malfoy snarled. The wind whipped his hair around his face, bright even in the darkness. ‘Do you think I don’t know by now what I’ve done? Do you think I was waiting for you to come and enlighten me about— The things I’ve seen— You have no fucking clue how much I—’ He staggered back a step, breathing hard, his hand on the knife unsteady.

‘Cry me a river,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t expect any fucking sympathy from me. You made your bed and now you’re sleeping in it.’

Malfoy stared at him, eyes growing cold. ‘Maybe he’ll reward me if I give you to him. Maybe you’re lying.’

‘Go on then — if you’re so sure you can deliver me. Press that fucking tattoo on your arm and he’ll come. You’ll be with your parents again. Wouldn’t bet on how long.’

Harry’s pulse beat frantically. If Malfoy did actually try to Summon his lord, then Harry would have to— incapacitate him in some way. His body tensed in anticipation of a fight.

However, despite his posturing, Malfoy seemed reluctant to take advantage of his direct line to Voldemort. The hand that held the dagger fell limp by his side.

‘Where the fuck are we?’ he said instead.

That was a good question. Harry had first thought of Shell Cottage, but when Malfoy grabbed him, he kept thinking ‘away’. Did the magic take him away from the cottage? Were they in Cornwall, perhaps within walking distance to Tinworth, or did they end up in Wales or, Merlin forbid, Yorkshire?

‘I’ve no idea.’

They were certainly in the countryside: a few pinpricks of light punctuated dark, endless fields. Headlights from a car slithered in the distance. Harry turned — he doubted Malfoy would stab him in the back, he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so when Harry lay helplessly on the ground — and set off down the hill, stumbling in the dark. He needed to figure out where he was and perhaps find somewhere to spend the night. Lost, wandless, alone, and unable to contact his friends; things couldn’t get any worse. At the thought of Ron and Hermione, his chest hurt. Were they safe? Was Hermione OK? Hate flared in his chest for Malfoy; Malfoy, who stood there and watched a young girl being tortured by his evil aunt.

Footsteps sounded behind him.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Harry snapped.

‘I’m not staying in the middle of fucking nowhere, Potter.’

‘Well, don’t bloody well follow me!’

‘I’m not following you, idiot. I’m simply going in the same direction.’

Harry stopped and indicated he should go first. ‘Arse,’ Malfoy muttered as he passed in front of him. Harry resisted the urge to punch him.

By the time they reached the road, Malfoy at the front and Harry at his heels, the drizzle turned into rain and it was bone-chillingly cold. Reluctant to walk along a country road at night, Harry cast his eyes around him. A ruin of a building loomed in the darkness, not far from Harry, and he turned towards it. From the sound of shoes trudging the soft, wet earth, Malfoy was heading that way, too.

It was farther than Harry had assumed. He let his thoughts drift back to the Manor, back to the things he’d heard there, and understanding blossomed in the darkness. His thoughts beat with the rhythm of his footsteps on the ground. Hallows… Horcruxes… Hallows… Horcruxes… The obsessive longing for the Hallows burned in him, but his worry about his friends and the predicament he found himself in had dimmed the fire. No matter how much it’d cost him to lose the holly and phoenix wand, he hadn’t had to do without one completely. Despair filled him. He felt impotent. The loss of his wand crushed him more than before, because he was beginning to understand, and he knew — he could feel — Voldemort beginning to understand as well. He knew where the Elder Wand had been all this time and Harry, unable to stop what was about to happen, knew that he’d lost. He’d lost one of the Hallows.

He wished for so many things under that vast, dark sky: he wished he knew what Dumbledore had really wanted him to do; he wished he hadn’t failed him; he wished the next Horcrux wasn’t where he suspected it was; but most of all he wished this whole mission didn’t feel increasingly like a march to his death. He wished he was wrong about this.

The derelict stone farmhouse smelled of animals and dust, and half of the front wall had collapsed, but it had a roof and the floor was dry. It’d have to do. He sat heavily in a corner as far from Malfoy as he could.

As the fatigue of the evening washed over Harry, he dropped his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He wondered if he should keep them open, if he should be alert with Malfoy around — constant vigilance! — but, as the day’s aches slowly manifested in various parts of his body, he realised that he wasn’t afraid of Malfoy. That he actually felt safe — or rather, not unsafe.

Still, sounds of activity from the other boy’s corner made him look. His eyes could just make out the fair hair and the slow movements, as Malfoy unbuttoned his damp robes and winced when he uncovered his hurt shoulder. Harry struggled to make out the injury in the dark until Malfoy stood and walked to the collapsed wall, which let in what little light there was to be found that night. The skin appeared to be torn. A deep scratch, that was all. Serves him right.

Malfoy cupped his hand and stretched it outside, gathering rainwater. He washed the wound on his shoulder, then he started on his face. He tried to extract what must have been tiny pieces of glass from the shattered chandelier, but without a mirror his job was hard. Harry could have helped him. He didn’t want to. The sight of the unconscious, tormented Hermione, too fresh in his memory, caused only uncharitable resentment. So he watched him instead, what little he could discern in the dark. Draco’s movements were careful and delicate. Neither of them spoke; not Malfoy cleaning his wounds, nor Harry watching him.

Eventually, Malfoy covered his shoulder. Harry’s stomach rumbled loudly. He drew his knees close to his chest and shut his eyes, trying to forget about the hunger, the aches, the damp clothes, the helplessness. He longed for some rest, although he was too tense to imagine he’d sleep through the night.

He raised his head at the sound of approaching footsteps.

‘Here.’ Malfoy stretched out his hand, half a chocolate frog in it. ‘I had it in my pocket. Take it.’

For a second, Harry almost reached for the chocolate, but his rage over the events at the Manor took over and he told Malfoy where to shove his chocolate frog. ‘I don’t want anything from you, ever.’ A hunger pang almost split him in half, but he ignored it.

Malfoy’s eyes grew cold at the rejection. ‘Suit yourself.’ Staring at Harry, he bit into the chocolate. Before he turned to leave, he threw the card at Harry’s feet. ‘Take this then. He’s your hero.’

Harry picked the card up with shaking hands. Dumbledore winked at him and straightened his hat. Harry was seized by the irrational desire to shout at the image of the man who waved at him, oblivious to the feelings of grief and love and resentment warring inside Harry at the thought of his old Professor. He gave vent to his frustration, not towards the portrait on the collector’s card, but to the flesh and blood man sitting some feet away.

‘Can’t stand to see the man you almost killed?’

‘How about you shut up?’ 

‘Is that why you tried to stop me? To prove yourself to your Master?’

Malfoy didn’t speak for a moment. ‘I’m not sure I was trying to stop you.’

‘Then what were you trying to do? Come with me? Join my side? Do you really think I’ll buy that?’

‘I just wanted my fucking wand back, Potter.’

‘Rich bloke like you can’t get another wand? Oh, but of course — unlikely to find a decent one when you put the wandmaker in chains in your dungeon.’

‘That had nothing to do with me,’ Malfoy hissed.

‘Everything to do with your father.’

‘How thick can you get, Potter? Do you believe we have a say what happens in our house anymore? We live at the pleasure of the Dark Lord. Or not, as the case might be; as you, so helpfully, have witnessed in whatever creepy way you— hold on, can he read your mind, too? Can he see where you are?’

‘He won’t.’ Harry pressed his knees to his chest and hoped he was right. He shivered under his damp clothes and the constant rumblings from his stomach made him wish he’d accepted the chocolate frog.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I am.’

‘How Potter.’ A pause, then gently, ‘Can you see where he is now?’

Harry hated how easy it was to do that. Closing his eyes and sinking into the connection, he could see Voldemort’s mind reaching the same conclusion about the Elder Wand. He could see Voldemort Apparating into Hogsmeade, walking the quiet, familiar streets on his way to the castle. ‘He’s— far north. He’s after a wand.’

Malfoy shuffled a little. ‘It’s all about the wand. You were raised by Muggles, you have no idea. No wand means you’re more useless than flobberworms. Did you hear what Aunt Bella said to my father? That he lost his authority when he lost his wand? That’s why I grabbed you, Potter. I’d rather lose an arm than my wand.’

‘Well, now you’ll lose more than that.’

Malfoy chuckled mirthlessly. ‘In case it’s escaped your notice, we’re both screwed, Potter.’

‘Thanks to you,’ Harry murmured.

‘If you think our past history played any role in me grabbing you tonight, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.’

‘It didn’t?’ Harry’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘Sure.’

‘It might surprise you to know this, but I don’t hate you, Potter.’ The anymore went unsaid. ‘There are worse things that an attention-seeking, specky git. If you were in school this year, you’d know.’

Harry ignored the insults, but the mention of Hogwarts piqued his curiosity. Snape was Headmaster and Malfoy ought to have loved lording it over everyone else with impunity, but his voice betrayed barely contained disgust. ‘How was school?’

‘Horrendous. The only good thing about the shit we’re in now is that I won’t have to go back.’

They didn’t speak much after that. Harry started feeling drowsy, the soft patter of the rain calming his heartbeats, soothing his burning mind; sleep started creeping in. Harry would have to think of a plan, how to get himself out of this situation. But first, with a last look at Malfoy’s curled, silent figure, he lay on the hard floor and let sleep take him.

~*~

Grey light woke Harry from a cold, troubled sleep. He took stock of his body before he got up: his head was heavy, his muscles ached, his stomach was seriously empty. He felt colder than he’d ever felt in his life, a chill under his skin that he couldn’t shake off. This was how it would have been if Hermione hadn’t packed her beaded bag with all the essentials. He felt a sudden pang of nostalgia for the tent, a palace compared to this musty ruin, what with the beds and blankets, the hot shower, and the woodstove.

Malfoy was sitting on the collapsed wall, facing the dew-covered fields that stretched in the distance. Harry came to stand next to him. The fresh, wet grass smell grounded him and dispelled the memory of the troubling dream. Often, after dreams or visions of Voldemort, Harry felt disconnected from his body, disoriented to be back in himself, and it troubled him more than anything. At such moments he needed touch or smell or taste; strong sensations to remind him he occupied his body; that he was Harry, and not an extension of Voldemort, a feeling that he couldn’t shake off and which terrified him.

A low mist hung over the land, clinging to the grass, swirling slowly with drifts of wind. Everything felt dreamlike and Harry wondered if he wasn’t, in fact, sleeping: never could he imagine that one day he’d end up stranded in the countryside with Draco Malfoy.

‘They’re doing blood magic,’ Malfoy said conversationally. ‘I can feel it under my skin. But they don’t have my blood, they’re probably using my parents’, so they won’t be able to track me down.’

‘Blood magic?’

‘For tracking. It’s an old pureblood spell. Keep a drop of your child’s blood in a glass vial and you’ll find him if he’s ever kidnapped. But a few years ago I destroyed the vial my mother kept. There’s all sorts of dark magic you can do with someone’s blood.’

Harry knew. He touched the forearm where Wormtail had slashed his skin.

Draco didn’t notice. ‘That’s why I make sure I never leave a single drop around at the Manor, not with all those… thugs coming and going.’

‘Thugs? Your parents’ friends?’ Harry scoffed.

‘Greyback and some others aren’t my parents’ friends.’

‘Sure. They just work for them.’

‘They work for him!’ Malfoy snapped.

Harry didn’t pursue the subject anymore; an argument required more energy than he had to spare at the moment. Still, he marvelled at Malfoy’s insistence on distancing himself from the Master he so eagerly agreed to serve two years ago. They stayed silent for a while, both glaring at the sky as if it was its fault they were helpless.

Harry rubbed his palm. ‘I’ve left some of my blood in the Manor.’

Malfoy glanced at him in alarm. His eyes fell on Harry’s open palm and the soft, swollen pink tissue where the dagger had nicked him.

‘Do you feel a tug? Under your belly button?’

‘No. Is that what it feels like?’

‘Yes, and a silver thread connects your body to the blood. But, not to fret,’ he said. ‘If we’re lucky, the house-elves have cleaned up the mess already. Hopefully, no one will realise it’s your precious blood on our floor.’

Luck didn’t seem to be on Harry’s side lately. ‘What happens if they do the spell?’

Malfoy met his eyes. ‘They find you,’ he said simply. ‘Within minutes.’

It seemed the bad news wouldn’t stop. Harry had to hope the Malfoy house-elves performed their duties with diligence, but he couldn’t worry about it now. His priority was to find a way to Tinworth and his friends.

‘There’s a way to confuse the spell,’ Malfoy said, staring at the fields. ‘Mix your blood with someone else’s. Willingly.’

‘How?’

‘We both cut into our palms and hold hands. That’s all. We figured it out as kids, when Vincent’s mother — so controlling — kept using the spell when we played Quidditch for too long in the gardens.’

‘So I’m supposed to trust you with my blood? Thanks, but no thanks.’

Malfoy pressed his lips tight. ‘Suit yourself.’

Harry examined Malfoy’s profile in silence. He couldn’t understand why he was being helpful, except to assume he had an ulterior motive. ‘I’m going to find out where we are,’ Harry said, setting off across the field. Wordlessly, Malfoy followed him.

They trudged through muddy fields and along a tree-lined path that led to the country road. The temperature rose slightly as they walked, drying their still damp clothing. Harry knew what he must look like if Malfoy’s appearance was anything to go by. He felt damp everywhere, mud covered his trouser legs, and he probably smelled quite bad. Malfoy was all of that plus he sported a bloody shoulder.

Harry stared at him walking ahead with long strides and a straight back. He wondered whether Malfoy regretted his hasty decision to regain his wand. Harry’s brain, rested and calmer, reminded him of Malfoy’s refusal to identify Harry; the fear in his eyes when he saw the prisoners. He remembered how Malfoy’d offered the chocolate; a startling gesture of kindness that Harry hadn’t thought possible coming from him. Malfoy marched ahead, and Harry wondered if he felt as lost as Harry did; if he felt as unmoored, drifting down a swift current to a likely fatal end.

Shortly, they arrived at a sign that read: Camelford 4 miles. Harry tried to remember what he knew about UK geography — not much — but Malfoy recognised the name, explaining its link to the Arthurian legends. ‘We’re in Cornwall. Is that where you wanted to go?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

Malfoy rolled his eyes. ‘If you think this is an elaborate plan to spy on you and your precious Order, I wish you’d give me credit to concoct a scheme that wouldn’t end with my imminent death by snake.’

‘And I hope you don’t expect me to trust your word because you’ll be disappointed.’

They marched along the road single file as the day brightened. Finally, some good news: now that he knew he was in Cornwall, Harry was certain he could walk to Tinworth; only he didn’t know where exactly Camelford was situated and also how to find Tinworth, since it wouldn’t appear on Muggle maps. Malfoy might know, but there’s no way he’d trust him with his intended destination. As he walked, Harry took out his broken wand from his pouch and then the shard of mirror where he’d seen the blue eye, desperately hoping for the eye to save him again. This time he could only see himself. He decided against attempting to Summon Dobby. He wasn’t even sure if the same magic that tied him to Kreacher tied him to the free elf, but he couldn’t afford the chance that Dobby had been taken, the same way Kreacher had been compromised. The last thing he needed was Death Eaters Apparating along with the elves, while Harry was defenceless.

By the time they reached the town, Harry was famished. His examination of his pockets had resulted in one positive discovery: a crumpled tenner, courtesy of the Snatchers’ ignorance of Muggle money. Harry stopped in front of a bakery, practically drooling at the shop window with the pastries and the rolls, and Malfoy paused next to him.

‘Looking at the food is worse,’ he said.

Harry said, ‘I’ve Muggle money. I won’t be just looking.’ He went inside.

When he came out, Malfoy had disappeared. Harry took in the town, the shops, Muggle life chugging along, and the enormity of his current catastrophe hit him. He also felt unexpectedly alone. It was odd; although Malfoy was the last person he wanted to spend time with, there was comfort being with someone who shared his predicament. He dreaded to think how things would've turned out for him had he set out on his own without Ron and Hermione. He’d have gone mad. Harry had never thought consciously before of how much he owed to them for their company, let alone everything else, and his chest ached with how much he missed them.

Camelford’s narrow streets led to a pretty river where Malfoy sat on a bench in muddy, bloody robes, attracting hostile looks from the locals. Harry stood for a moment, clutching his purchases, and watched him. Malfoy looked defeated, head in his hands, staring at the ground. A little voice told Harry that he could leave. He owed nothing to Malfoy. He could simply walk away and start figuring out how to reach his friends.

Instead, Harry approached him. ‘This is for you.’

Malfoy’s eyes widened in surprise at the proffered Cornish pasty in Harry’s hand.

He wondered if Malfoy would throw it back in his face, the way Harry had with the chocolate. But Malfoy, unlike Harry, didn’t let his pride override common sense. He murmured thanks, unwrapped the pasty, and bit into it while Harry sat on the next bench, eating his own and sipping from a bottle of orange juice. His shopping had left him with about three quid. That was nothing to go on in the Muggle world.

‘I’m going to try and make it to Tinworth,’ Malfoy said, balling up the wrapping. He tossed the ball in the nearest bin and gave a small smile when it landed neatly inside. ‘It’s a wizarding village in Cornwall. There’s bound to be someone there who can fix my wand — or at least, a second-hand wand shop.’

It’d be hard to disguise the fact Harry was also going to Tinworth if they bumped into each other along the way. ‘I think I’m gonna head there, too,’ he admitted. He turned to Malfoy. ‘You’ll buy a wand? Do you even have money with you?’

‘Of course,’ Malfoy said. ‘I always carry a few galleons.’

A few turned out to be nine pieces, something close to a hundred and eighty pounds. Malfoy shoved the coins back in his pocket and said carefully, ‘We’re both on the run, Potter. Both going to Tinworth.’

The implication of what he was suggesting hit Harry with sudden clarity.

‘I have gold,’ Malfoy continued. ‘You have Muggle knowledge. We can help each other get there.’

Harry’s mind warned him about everything that could go wrong — about the madness of trusting a Malfoy. But he didn’t like the alternative and he had to admit Malfoy’s suggestion made sense. Besides, Harry needn't mention Shell Cottage. As soon as they reached Tinworth, he’d clear off and leave Malfoy to his own schemes.

‘Alright then,’ he heard himself say.

Malfoy’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Truce?’  

The river sang softly behind them, and Harry thought he must have gone mad after all.

‘Truce.’ 

Half an hour later, they stood outside the tourist information office and pored over the county map. Passers-by gave them a wide berth and the assistant behind the counter had been borderline rude to them, eyeing them from top to bottom, his mouth curling with contempt and maybe a little fear.

The map bore more bad news. Camelford was in north Cornwall and, from what Malfoy remembered, Tinworth was near Falmouth, at the south. ‘Just off Cadgwith.’ He pointed at a dot that looked very far away from Camelford.

‘Getting there will take us days.’ Days of endless walking, without shelter or the means to buy food. Harry put his face in his hands. Fuck, fuck and fuck. He couldn’t catch a break.

‘Can we use one of those Muggle contraptions?’ Malfoy pointed at a passing car. ‘They seem to be going fast.’

But of course! Harry chided himself for not thinking it earlier. ‘We need to be able to drive and I can’t. But we could hitchhike.’ To Malfoy’s non-comprehending glance, he explained, ‘Ask a driver to give us a lift.’

‘Would they do that?’

Harry took in their clothes. ‘Not looking like this.’

Armed with a couple of galleons, Harry, with Malfoy trailing behind him, entered every clothes shop they could find. Harry explained that they were offering real gold for the cheapest items of clothing on offer, but the assistants’ appalled reactions to the state of them — and Malfoy’s robes — doomed the negotiations before they even started. Malfoy’s cheeks flamed. His pinched mouth betrayed fury and disbelief and resentment at this sort of treatment; a completely new experience for him.

An hour later, cranky from being turned out from everywhere, they came across an Oxfam in an alley off the High street.

‘Last chance,’ Harry said.

A bell tinkled as they entered. Books covered the shelves on the left wall, knick knacks the ones on the right. At the back of the narrow shop stood racks of clothing. The lady behind the till, an orange-haired, middle-aged woman, lifted her eyes at the sound of the bell and frowned at the sight of them. Harry sighed. He braced himself for rejection, but then spotted a Tatler on the counter next to her tea, a few more copies on the floor beside her. His aunt had been endlessly fascinated with the magazine too; it gave Harry an idea.

Harry pressed the galleons in Malfoy's palm. ‘You do the talking this time.’

‘Me? I can’t talk to Muggles, I’ll say the wrong thing.’

‘Your accent,’ Harry explained. ‘She might be more inclined to help a toff out.’

‘Is this your plan? Seriously, Potter?’

Harry glowered at him and, sighing, Malfoy straightened his back and approached the lady. His accent, when he addressed her, was sharp as glass.

‘Excuse me.’ The woman’s head lifted slowly and stared at Malfoy, who drawled more imperiously than ever. ‘I was wondering if you could be of assistance.’

She might not have liked the look of them, but the accent worked on her as it was meant to. Accents of privilege had their own magic in the Muggle world.

‘You’re not from around here.’ She eyed Malfoy with curiosity.

‘Of course not,’ Malfoy sneered.

The lady seemed impressed by his outright condescension, confirming that he was truly of his class. However, she still seemed wary. Her eyes kept straying from Malfoy’s bloody shoulder to his robes. ‘Are you from London?’

‘Sure,’ Harry chimed in. He glanced at the picture of Lady Di on the assistant’s mug and was struck by another desperate idea. ‘I don’t know if you’ve recognised him, but Fenston here is seventeenth in line to the throne.’ He crossed his fingers behind his back, hoping the lady didn’t know the order of succession too well.

‘Sixteenth,’ Malfoy corrected, and Harry pressed his lips to stifle a snort.

The lady’s eyes widened.

‘We were travelling in the area when we were beset by thieves. They took everything,’ Malfoy said, warming up to his role. ‘We got lost, hurt… you can’t possibly imagine the day we’ve had. We seek to buy some clothing, but we have no Mug—’ Harry elbowed him ‘—no money, apart from these gold coins.’

He presented the two galleons and she examined them with interest.

‘What intricate carvings.’

‘They’re old palace coins,’ Harry improvised. ‘Collector's items.’ He added desperately, ‘I promise you they’re worth something. A lot, actually.’

‘And who are you then?’ she demanded from Harry, whose accent certainly didn’t suggest royalty.

Malfoy and Harry shared a look.

‘My er… ’

‘His— valet,’ Harry said.

‘My valet,’ Malfoy confirmed. He leaned close to the woman and said in a confidential tone, ‘Rather an inexperienced one, and still quite disobedient, but it’s impossible to find proper service nowadays.’

Malfoy could out-posh the Crown Heir. Harry worried that Malfoy might be laying it on too thick, but the woman beamed at being addressed with such familiarity.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t know.’ She gestured at his robes. ‘I guess you need a valet to help you wear — whatever this is. Were you at a special event?’

Malfoy glanced at Harry, who nodded furtively. ‘Yes,’ Malfoy confirmed. Her eager eyes lit up, she opened her mouth to ask something, but Malfoy stopped her in her tracks. ‘I wish I could tell you more, but any details need to remain confidential. I truly can’t say anymore without divulging state secrets.’

Harry snorted. He coughed quickly to hide it.

‘Well, let me pop to Kevin in the bank and check about the gold really quick,’ the shop assistant said. ‘If everything’s in order, I’ll be happy to sell you what you need. I’ll ask Pauline from next door to keep an eye on the shop. Clothing’s at the back.’

She left, the bell tinkling behind her, and Malfoy turned to Harry. ‘Fenston? Is that the best you could come up with?’

Harry had moved to the clothing section, picking up jumpers. He shrugged. ‘It got the job done.’

‘Ugh, what is wrong with these clothes?’ Malfoy pinched his nose. ‘They have a… smell.’

‘They’re second-hand. Donated. Oxfam is a charity.’

Malfoy groaned.

Harry was trying on a pair of dark jeans and a jumper behind the curtain that turned a corner of the shop into a changing room when Pauline, a tall woman in a flowery dress with an impressive array of jingly bracelets, dropped in. She introduced herself, curtseyed at Malfoy (Harry snorted behind the curtain) and engaged him in a conversation about the Queen and her corgis. Harry hastened to leave the changing room. He doubted Malfoy knew anything about the Queen, let alone her dogs, and allowing him to run with his mouth could prove disastrous.

‘Time for you to change,’ Harry said to Malfoy. ‘Er, my lord.’

Malfoy graciously extricated himself from the conversation and gathered the bundle of clothing he’d selected, which included — to Harry’s alarm — a purple frilly blouse and a pair of silvery tights. The memory of the wizard Archie in his nightdress at the Quidditch World Cup flashed in Harry's mind and his mouth dried with terror. The lies they’d told stood on shaky ground and would certainly collapse if Malfoy left the changing room in tights. He was simply too weird — too magical — to be left unsupervised, but Harry’s brain provided no immediate solutions as to how to stop this train wreck from happening.

And then, surprisingly, Pauline did. ‘Shouldn’t your valet help you with that?’

‘Shouldn’t… oh.’ Malfoy looked at Harry and, oddly, blushed.

‘Isn’t that what the valet does?’ Pauline continued. ‘That’s what they show in all them programmes. Upstairs Downstairs, and what have you.’

Harry grabbed the opportunity with both hands. ‘But of course. It’s my job.’ He shoved Malfoy into the tiny space and drew the curtain behind them.

‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ Malfoy whispered, as they pressed very close together with no room for him to take off his robes without bumping into Harry.

‘I wouldn’t have to come in here if you had any idea how to dress like a Muggle,’ Harry whispered back. He grabbed Malfoy’s selection from his hands and rummaged through it. A pair of pale jeans and a white T-shirt presented the only possibilities, so he shoved them in Malfoy’s hands.

‘But—’ Malfoy pointed at the blouse.

‘You’ll ruin everything.’ Harry left the changing room and started putting the clothes back.

‘Have you dressed him already, my love?’ Pauline asked. ‘In the shows, it always takes a long time to properly dress a lord.’

‘No, er, I’m returning these.’

‘I’ll put them back for you, my love. You carry on with your job.’ She took the bundle and smiled. Harry stood there, uncertainly, until he realised he would indeed have to return to the changing room and undress Malfoy.

When Harry drew the curtain behind him, Malfoy glared. ‘Well fucking done, Potter.’

‘I should have left you walk out of here in silver tights,’ Harry hissed. He wanted nothing more than to leave Malfoy to mess up his outfit to his heart's content, but he had no choice, not with Pauline hovering nearby and the curtain being rather short and the success of their transaction resting on this stupid lie. Malfoy looked like Harry dressing him was the last thing he wanted, too; probably resenting the fact that Harry Potter, a half-blood, Undesirable Number One, was going to lay his hands on him. Harry’s temper flared and he felt tempted to rub his hands all over Malfoy just to piss him off some more.

But it wouldn’t do any good to start a fight. Instead, he crouched and unlaced Malfoy’s shoes. He cradled each foot, making sure Malfoy held the wall for balance, and removed the shoe and the sock. It felt strange, touching Malfoy’s bare feet. Intimate. Harry’s skin tingled with how weird this was, and his temper evaporated, leaving behind an intense awkwardness.

He looked up when he finished to see Malfoy stare, dark-eyed and flushed. Malfoy was breathing strangely, the expression on his face undecipherable.

‘What?’ Harry asked.

‘Nothing.’ Malfoy turned to the wall. ‘Find me a jacket. That sounds like a valet’s job.’

Harry left the changing room with relief, his pulse racing erratically. He nodded to Pauline, ‘Sir asked for a jacket’, and made a hasty selection before he ducked inside the curtain.

Malfoy, topless, still faced the wall and was buttoning up his new jeans. They drew attention to his body in a way the robes didn't. The muscles on his back moved as he lifted his arms to put on the T-shirt, his left shoulder somewhat stiff. Harry had a moment to wonder at how thin Malfoy looked before the T-shirt covered the fair skin.

Harry cleared his throat. ‘I found this parka that might be a little too large for you. But it’ll be warm. And a bomber jacket.’

Malfoy glanced at the items in Harry’s hands. ‘You might enjoy wearing oversized garments, Potter, but I don’t.’

‘The bomber jacket won’t be warm enough if we have to spend the night outdoors,’ Harry insisted. ‘Unless you choose a jumper, like I did.’ Harry had found a red jumper with green and grey diamonds, almost as fluffy as one of Mrs Weasley’s.

‘I don’t do patterns.’ Malfoy turned the bomber jacket in his hands, running a hand over the fabric.

Harry sighed, exasperated. Trust Malfoy to be infuriating even in the midst of disaster. ‘You’ll freeze to death. Trust me. I know how cold it gets out there.’

With a curious glance at Harry, Malfoy stepped outside the changing room and found a mirror. ‘It’s April, not the middle of winter. I’ll surv—’ His voice cracked but he continued. ‘I’ll survive.’

For a brief second Malfoy’s face had flooded with pain before a calm, blank expression smoothed his features again. But Harry had seen the depths of the despair in Malfoy’s grey eyes. Harry shared the feeling; it was the kind of despair you feel when you don’t know if you’ll live to see eighteen.

To cover his momentary display of vulnerability, Malfoy put the bomber jacket aside and stood with open arms, imperial and haughty, an invitation for Harry to dress him. Pauline beamed at the sight of a ritual she would never herself experience. Harry stepped closer and put the parka on Malfoy. It was large in the shoulders and perhaps a little too long, but the olive colour suited him. His eyes met Malfoy’s in the mirror, and Malfoy looked away.

‘I’ll take this one after all,’ he murmured.

Browsing for a jacket of his own, Harry listened to Pauline’s efforts to strike up another conversation with Malfoy about his royal family and prayed he wouldn’t fuck anything up.

‘You must have been devastated last summer.’ She shook her head sadly.

‘Er… naturally,’ Malfoy said, looking at Harry questioningly. Harry shrugged.

‘I don’t think I was ever sadder than when I heard Lady Di died,’ Pauline continued.

‘Lady Diana is dead?’ Harry blurted out.

‘Didn’t you know that?’ Suspicion gathered in Pauline’s eyes and Harry froze, his mind frantically searching for a way to cover the faux-pas.

Malfoy must have realised they were about to get caught out, because he said, ‘See this, Pauline? I have been worried. The thieves knocked him about on the head and I fear it must have caused some brain damage. Who could forget about dear Lady Diana’s demise? Such a tragedy.’

The return of the shop assistant spared them as well as her announcement that the coins were pure gold. She rang up their purchases. Harry stuffed their own dirty clothing in a plastic bag, while Malfoy opened the map and inquired about the fastest way to Falmouth.

‘I promise you, the palace won’t forget the kindness you’ve shown me,’ Malfoy told the beaming ladies from the door. Harry shoved him out of the store, his mouth twitching.

They spent one of Harry’s last three pounds buying a loaf of bread and, finally, in mid-morning they left Camelford, taking the road south.

‘You almost ruined everything back there with your big mouth,’ Malfoy told him.

‘Shut up, Fenston.’

Malfoy looked very different with his white tee and worn jeans, Harry thought, as they walked along the road, sticking their thumb out at the approaching cars. In fact, he reminded Harry of an old Muggle film star who’d died young and whose films Aunt Petunia watched often, especially when Uncle Vernon went down the local. Malfoy still had the veneer of the landed gentry coating his words, his posture, his sneer; but without his expensive clothing, he looked as if he was missing a piece of his armour.

~*~

They’d left the town behind them — their hitchhiking efforts unsuccessful — and had stopped at a petrol station to use the facilities when Harry felt a harsh tug in his gut and doubled in surprise. A faint, silver thread grew from his belly button and spun in the air towards the north.

‘Shit,’ Malfoy cried and dragged him to the back of the building, out of sight of the Muggles.  ‘They’ll be here any minute.’

Cold dread filled Harry. ‘We need to do something.’

Malfoy took out the dagger. ‘Only one way, Potter.’ He cut the flesh of his palm and stretched it towards Harry.

Harry stared at the blood spilling from the cut, his mind frantic and conflicted. He couldn’t — he just couldn’t trust Malfoy with his blood. What if he was going to sell him out? What if this had all been a ruse? Truce or no truce, Malfoy was his enemy.

Malfoy glared. ‘I’m more than happy to stab you myself, don’t get me wrong, but the counterjinx won’t work that way. You have to be willing.’

Harry looked into his eyes — grey, wide, terrified beneath the irritation — and made his decision. He grabbed the dagger and slashed his hand, wincing a little. He clutched Malfoy’s palm, bringing the cuts together, mixing the blood. Harry’s wound stung like hell, but they both held tight, their eyes on the silver thread that slowly faded into wisps — and then nothing. The tug vanished and Harry breathed out heavily. He glanced at their handshake and met Malfoy’s eyes, who let go quickly.

‘We need to get out of here,’ Malfoy said. ‘They won’t be able to track you down from now on, but they’ll be able to reach this—’

Before he finished his words, the crack of Apparition sounded. They both froze. It came from the front of the station and Harry, ignoring Malfoy’s furious whispers, looked carefully around the corner.

There they were, in their velvet robes, standing out among the Muggles. Both men glanced at the station and conversed quietly. Harry couldn’t hear what they said, but one of them pointed to the town and the other one in the other direction. They split up. Harry returned to Malfoy, who looked paler than he’d ever seen him, and pointed at the hedge behind the station. As quietly as they could, they headed for the nearest opening and hid behind the hedge, Harry’s heart beating so loud that he could swear Rookwood would hear it.

They peeked through the leaves at the wizard who walked south for a while, jumping when cars sped past him. Rookwood stopped and turned in a 360 degree circle, his eyes sliding over the hedge they were hidden behind.

‘C’mon,’ Harry nudged Malfoy, ‘we need to get away before he decides to check behind the station.’

‘They don’t know we don’t have a wand,’ Malfoy said, but followed Harry. ‘They’ll assume we Disapparated.’

‘Let’s hope they don’t figure it out soon,’ Harry said.

They crossed a field until they reached a hedge, and then another. The more hedges they passed, the more distance they put between them and the motorway, the more Harry calmed. His breathing returned to normal. The danger was behind them, but it had been a close call. When they reached the River Camel, flowing among a wooded strip of land, heavy and swollen with the spring rains, they stopped for a bite of bread.

Malfoy spread open the map on the ground and they both leaned over it. He traced his finger across the routes available to them.

‘We should stay off the road.’ Malfoy's finger moved southeast and tapped a name: Bodmin Moor. ‘If we cross the Moor, we’ll get to the south coast by tonight. Or maybe tomorrow morning. And then it’s just straight down along the coast.’

It felt good to have a plan. ‘So they won’t be able to track me down again?’ Harry broke off a large piece of the loaf and gave half to Malfoy.

Malfoy leaned on the elm they were sheltering under. ‘No. They’ll be able to sense a general direction if they do it again, and that’s only if they haven’t used up all the blood. The incantation burns it off.’

Harry could hope that Rookwood and Dolohov had been stupid enough to use up the few drops he’d left behind, but that’s not how his life went so far. Besides, if Bellatrix was involved— Harry shivered. The woman scared him more than any other Death Eater; she was as intelligent as she was ruthless.

He tried to change the subject. ‘So, your parents feared you might be kidnapped?’

‘I’m worth a lot of gold, Potter,’ Malfoy smirked. Light and shadow played on his face as the foliage rustled in the breeze. Once again, a flash of pain creased his forehead for a split second, but Malfoy set his jaw in a determined way. Harry assumed he’d been thinking of his parents. The same feeling visited Harry, the same unsteadiness he’d been feeling all day when he caught glimpses of emotion and vulnerability behind the mask Malfoy hurried to put on. It disturbed Harry, this uneasiness that settled in his chest. His mind warned him that it could only mean one thing: deception. This could all be a ruse, making Malfoy look like a decent person before the carpet was pulled under Harry’s feet.

His mind landed on a recent piece of information Malfoy had shared. ‘Hold on. You said Crabbe’s mother used to track him down with the blood spell, repeatedly. If it uses up the blood…’

‘… she pricked his thumb — or worse — repeatedly.’ Malfoy's voice was grim, barely audible among the murmuring river and the birdsong. ‘His parents controlled every aspect of his life. No wonder he went full dark this year.’

‘What do you mean?’

Malfoy grimaced. ‘When a boy like Vince, struggling under his parents’ pressure his whole life, is offered a way to vent his rage — well, the result isn't good. For anyone.’

Perhaps being cryptic was Malfoy’s natural way of speech. Harry had never spoken to him long enough to realise. He finished his bread. Feeling the warm, rough bark of the tree on his back, he closed his eyes and entertained the idea of a nap.

‘Hey.’ Malfoy shook him. ‘We need to find a bridge to cross the river if we’re heading east. We’ve got a long way to go.’

Harry sighed but stood. They packed the loaf and set off.

It was a dry day, not particularly warm, and ideal for walking. They found a bridge across the Camel, and passed a cluster of cottages, grazing sheep, a group of tourists on a walking tour to Rough Tor, and a party of pixies, which thankfully ignored them in favour of harassing cattle. Soon the fields and pastures gave way to the desolate expanse of the moor. The windswept, vast space filled Harry with trepidation. They’d be completely exposed, unable to hide if anyone tracked them here.

They had no choice. They kept walking, keeping the sun to their right.

‘There’s loads of stories about the moor,’ Malfoy said as they walked. He rambled about the Arthurian legends associated with it. ‘Some people say Dozmary pool is where Arthur found the Excalibur.’

Harry cast a sideways glance at Malfoy. ‘You know a lot about this.’

‘When I was little, King Arthur was my favourite. I mean, sure, everyone loves Merlin, but Arthur was a true hero, you know? I devoured everything about him. Him and—’ he paused.

‘And?’ Harry asked, when the silence stretched.

‘Never mind.’ Malfoy didn’t speak again.

A couple of hours later, nearing the famous Dozmary pool, and just as Harry was about to suggest a break to rest his aching calves and blistered feet, Malfoy turned abruptly behind them.

‘Wh—’

‘Shush! Listen!’

Harry listened. Sound travelled in the wind, but he couldn’t decipher— yes, he heard it then. ‘Dogs?’

‘Hounds,’ Malfoy said, in utter terror. ‘Run! Into the pool!’

They dashed pell mell towards the lake. Harry’s chest burned with the effort of running full tilt, unsure of how long his breath would last. There was nowhere to hide; if the Death Eaters saw them, they’d Apparate immediately beside them.  

The lake came closer, widening, and Harry and Malfoy fell in the cold, murky water, scaring the birds that took off with loud cries. Malfoy grabbed Harry and pulled him towards a patch of tall reeds, a little off the shore. Letting go of Harry’s hand, he sank under the surface and reappeared, rubbing his streaming face. Then he reached out and touched the back of Harry’s head. Harry stiffened.

‘I’m not trying to drown you. Put your head under water so they won’t smell you. Hurry. I’ll hold your glasses.’ When Harry hesitated, he whispered, ‘I haven’t given you any reason to distrust me this past day, Potter.’

‘Yet.’ Still, Harry handed his glasses to Malfoy and sank briefly under the surface. He rose, shaking his wet hair, and felt Malfoy’s hand on his forearm, pulling him deeper in the reeds, further away from the shore.

Just in time. Three dogs and two familiar figures appeared in the horizon. Harry and Malfoy crouched low, only their heads above the water, and tried to breathe quietly. Malfoy still held him tight. Harry could feel Malfoy’s heart beating madly against his arm.

‘They’re around here somewhere,’ said a gruff voice, when the vicious barks and the footsteps reached the edge of the water.

‘No way. They’ll have Disapparated already.’

‘Nah, didn’t you see the birds? Something startled them.’

Harry kept as still as possible, holding his breath. In every other fight in his life, he’d had a wand. He tried to think of what he could use as a weapon, but he knew nothing could stand against magic.

‘Accio Malfoy!’ said the second man.

‘You know Accio doesn’t work on wizards, Augustus.’ Dolohov sighed.

‘It don’t hurt to try,’ Rookwood grumbled. He held a shirt in his hand and offered it to the dogs, which sniffed it and returned to the lake shore, trying to pick up the scent. They moved along the shore, unable to track them down.

‘Useless fucking dogs.’ Dolohov spat. ‘Magically trained, my arse. Goyle is full of shit. Greyback would have been a better choice. The werewolves can smell better than the mutts.’

‘Don’t let Goyle hear you say that.’ Rookwood chuckled.

‘I’m glad you find this amusing,’ Dolohov said in icy tones. ‘You do remember that if we don’t find the boy — or boys — our necks are on the line.’

‘Look,’ Rookwood growled, ‘I just don’t think Malfoy’s here. He’d be stupid if he didn’t Disapparate when he heard the dogs.’

‘And I think it’s no coincidence we tracked them both in this area. I reckon they might even be together.’

‘Malfoy helping Potter?’ Rookwood whistled.

‘Either that or he’s his prisoner. But there’s something for them here,’ Dolohov insisted. ‘Go check that cottage, Augustus.’

A solitary cottage stood on the far shore. With a crack, Rookwood Disapparated and Dolohov performed a Sonorous. ‘Hey, Malfoy Junior,’ he said. ‘Show yourself. Hand over Potter, if you have him. If you come home, all will be forgiven. If you don’t, well… the Master has promised to kill your parents. And you know he always keeps his promises.’

This time, Harry grabbed Malfoy urgently. It’s a lie, he mouthed at him, hoping Malfoy would believe him. He never thought there would be a time in his life when he’d say these words to Malfoy, but he did now. Trust me. It’s a lie.

Trust me.

Malfoy’s eyes were wide on his face, slick with lake water. Dolohov kept yelling about what Voldemort promised, threats and rewards mixed with the barking of the dogs and the wind whistling through the reeds, and Harry stared, unblinkingly, at Malfoy’s face.

Trust me.

After some tense seconds, Malfoy relaxed and lowered his head. Harry breathed again but didn’t let go.

A crack interrupted Dolohov’s speech. ‘Find anything?’

‘Two Muggles. Used Legilimency on them. They didn’t see anyone.’

‘I hope you took care of them.’

Rookwood scoffed. ‘Of course I did.’

Harry’s blood chilled and he shared a terrified look with Malfoy, but he had no more time to contemplate the murder Rookwood spoke of so casually, when the dogs burst in furious barks.

‘Cornish pixies…’ Rookwood growled. ‘I hate Cornish pixies.’

‘There’s a spell— ah, fuck it.’ Dolohov called the dogs to him. The group Disapparated, leaving behind them a brief silence broken by the buzzing of the pixies. The creatures flew around the boys, pulled Malfoy’s nose and Harry’s hair, and disappeared towards the west with a shrill sound that echoed in Harry’s ears for a long moment.

‘I didn’t think we could get more fucked, but it appears I was wrong,’ Malfoy said as they waded out. He held their loaf for inspection. It was soaked and completely disgusting.

‘Perhaps it’ll be fine once dry?’ Harry dared to hope.

Cutting it into pieces, Malfoy scattered it on the shore, attracting all manner of birds. He stood there, wings fluttering around him, as he threw piece after piece in the air and some in the lake, sinking with a plop. ‘It’ll go mouldy probably. Besides, this is a thank you to the lake. It saved us.’

This was Dumbledore’s kind of magic, Harry wanted to say. Instead, he watched him. Malfoy’s T-shirt was stuck on his body, every contour of his chest visible under the white fabric. The parka must have weighed a ton when wet. He was shaking.

‘Are you alright?’

Malfoy didn’t reply. He threw the last few pieces of bread in the lake and turned to stare at the distant cottage. ‘You think those Muggles are really dead?’

‘Yes.’ Harry doubted they’d been Obliviated. No, the Muggles were most likely killed, simply because they happened to be near Harry. He knew he shouldn’t feel responsible for these deaths, but he couldn’t help adding them to the tally that weighed around his heart, constricting it like a chain.

‘This is what Muggles must feel like, right?’ Malfoy’s quavering voice said. ‘Magicless and facing a wizard. No hope of fighting back. Standing no fucking chance.’ Malfoy shook more than before, hands on his face, and Harry, unsure what to do, grabbed his shoulder to still him. Without thinking, he reached for the left one, and Malfoy flinched. The pain brought him out of whatever was going inside his mind, and he took deep breaths.

‘Sorry,’ Harry murmured. ‘I forgot that’s the Splinched shoulder.’

‘It’s fine. We have bigger problems.’

Both he and Malfoy were soaked to the bone, and dusk was falling. How on earth were they going to walk in soaked jeans or sleep in these clothes? The plastic bag with their old clothing was similarly wet.

They had no choice. They kept walking.

‘Do you think they’ll come back?’

‘Dolohov is smart,’ Malfoy said. ‘He figured out we stayed in the area. He’ll be back.’

~*~

Two hours later, Harry felt the most miserable he’d ever been in his life. In fact, he realised that every time in his life he thought he’d reached that point, he’d been wrong. This was true misery: walking in the dark along what the map said was Fowley River, sharp winds tearing through his wet clothing, the jeans chaffing him something awful. He shivered and starved and tolerated a very morose Malfoy, his pointed face in a permanent scowl, as if Harry was to blame for their misfortune.

Perhaps he regretted not giving Harry up. But Harry couldn’t worry about Malfoy’s regrets now. He could worry about finding shelter, or about spending another night without food, or about catching pneumonia.

The land changed. They entered a forest full of gurgling streams and birds calling in the night. The underbrush caught at his feet making him stumble. Malfoy started sneezing. Hunger made Harry dizzy, which was possibly why he felt that the trees reached out to touch him, to caress his cheek. He heard whispers coming through the woods, soft talk, laughter, even a snippet of a song. He looked at Malfoy, who’d turned towards the sound.

‘Did you hear…?’ Malfoy asked. His eyes glistened in the night.

Harry’s neck prickled. There was something in these woods that felt dangerous, perhaps even more dangerous than the Death Eaters. He grabbed Malfoy’s arm and pulled him away. ‘We’d best find a place to kip.’

They stumbled around a little, delving deep into the woods. The foliage hid the stars and they’d left the river behind them. Harry wasn’t sure they were even going south. They could be walking in circles, haunted by almost-heard sounds and almost-there touches.

And then a smell… and what a smell it was! An aroma of cinnamon and ginger and cumin drifted towards them, beckoning them closer. No power on earth could stop Harry from heading in that direction. A light flickered in the distance, a dark shape loomed, which became a stone cottage: two stories and a loft and a small herb garden circling the property.

A cup of milk and honey stood on a post on the fence. Harry drooled, looking at it.

‘That’s not for us.’ Malfoy pulled him away.

They decided on their story first: hiking trip, lost their packs and their way, no phones (Harry had to repeat the word). They knocked.

A woman opened the door.

‘Good evening,’ Malfoy said, who took it upon himself to be the spokesperson after the resounding success they had in Camelford. ‘We’re sorry to trouble you, but we’re looking for somewhere to stay and perhaps some dinner. We were hiking and lost our way, and we only have two — what was it, Potter? — we have two quid, but I can also offer you one Gal— one of these gold coins. It’s pure gold. For food. And a roof tonight.’

The lady was tall, her face sour, late fifties probably. She took the gold coin and rolled it in her palm. She handed it back. ‘Not my house. Got to go ask Esther.’ She slammed the door in their face.

They waited patiently for her to return; a wait made worse by the overpowering smell of the spices that had them both salivate. Harry rounded the corner and peeked through a window to see a small, tidy kitchen with the remnants of a meal on the red-checkered tablecloth, and a vast oven. He returned to the door just as it opened, and the lady stood back. ‘Esther says it’s OK. She won’t take your money. Leave your shoes by the door.’

They stepped into a narrow hallway and took their muddy shoes off as the door shut behind them. The woman ushered them through a door on the right and into a warm living room, lit only by a table lamp and a roaring fire. Embroidered cushions and a thick, handmade throw covered the burgundy sofas. Sitting by the fire, an elderly woman put down her knitting. ‘Come here so I can see you, lads.’

‘This is Esther,’ the first woman explained. ‘Dear me, you’re soaked,’ she said, taking their jackets.

‘Dawn, would you be so kind as to bring some of Ben’s old clothes for the boys?’ Dawn left and the older woman, Esther, turned to them. ‘I think we should get you warm and dry first, and then we can talk.’

They took turns in the bathroom on the first floor, changing into tracksuit bottoms and faded band T-shirts. Malfoy went first and took his bloody time. Eventually, he left the bathroom, leaving it steamy and smelling of Imperial Leather soap, his wet clothing inside the plastic bag with their old garments. Harry peeled his jeans off him with relief and showered quickly. Wrapping himself in a towel, he relished the feeling of dry skin, and allowed himself one moment (just the one): to hope. To believe that things were looking up for them.

Hope that perhaps he and Malfoy would make it out of this alive.

Leaving the bathroom and walking down the stairs to the ground floor, he met Dawn, who asked for their clothes. ‘I’ll put them in the wash. Or burn them,’ she said, glancing at Malfoy’s bloody robes.

‘Thank you,’ Harry told her. ‘For everything.’

She shrugged.

In the living room, Malfoy sat on a stool next to Esther in a Joy Division T-shirt and was talking animatedly with her, his previous distress forgotten. He was so odd, this man. So full of hate and bigotry, and yet here he was, smiling at an old woman’s wrinkled face. Harry knew when Malfoy was being deliberately charming, and this here wasn’t him currying favour. His smiles were genuine, and Harry wondered how he came to know so much about Malfoy.

‘ …Cadgwith,’ he was saying now.

‘And you’re walking there?’ Esther asked.

‘We have no choice. We have an appointment there,’ Harry said. He sank in the couch by the fire and, unable to stop himself, sighed in pleasure at the warmth. Malfoy darted a look at him.

‘What a shame,’ Esther exclaimed, clasping her hands. ‘You missed Ben, my grandson, by a couple of hours. He lives in Falmouth, only a short drive from Cadgwith, and could have given you a lift.’

Typical, Harry thought. As if they could catch a lucky break.

‘He always drives up for lunch on a Sunday,’ she explained. ‘Come rain or shine, Ben’s always here at noon, bless him. You know,’ she said slowly, ‘you’re welcome to stay here until next week when he returns.’

‘That’s too long to wait,’ Harry said. He exchanged a look with Malfoy, who looked eager and willing. Of course. Malfoy wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere. He had nowhere to be, except away from the people who hunted them.

‘Won’t it take us several days to walk there anyway?’ Malfoy insisted.

It would but staying put would make Harry feel like he was twiddling his thumbs, while the rest of his world fought a war. However, the concept of a week at the mercy of the elements and flirting with starvation wasn’t attractive at all. He sighed. ‘Let’s sleep on it. Thank you for the hospitality,’ he addressed Esther. ‘It’s very kind of you.’

‘That’s quite alright,’ she smiled. She turned down Malfoy’s offer of a handful of galleons. ‘I have no need for gold. I’d be grateful if you helped Dawn with some chores, though. Also, do you boys know anything about plumbing?’

They both shook their heads.

‘Well, you’ll learn.’

Dawn entered with two trays and settled them on the coffee table.

‘You boys of age?’ she asked, and Malfoy replied, ‘Yes.’

‘I’ll bring you some ale then.’

‘Dawn, the boys might be staying with us this week.’

‘Esther…’ Dawn’s voice was low, but Esther paid no attention to the warning in her tone and picked up her knitting.

‘It’s good to have people round again. Now, dig in!’

Harry knew he wasn’t exactly being objective, but in a list of the best meals in his life, this one flew straight to the top. The lamb stew was tender and aromatic and was served with thick slices of brown bread. Dawn returned with a half pint of ale for each of them, strong and bitter, and lingered by the door, watching them.

‘Unusual spices,’ Malfoy commented. ‘Delicious, though.’

‘It’s a Sephardic recipe,’ Esther said, pleased. ‘Dawn is kind enough to cook it for me.’

Unlike Dawn’s Cornish brogue, Esther’s accent was hard to place. But before Harry had a chance to inquire, Esther spoke again.

‘You look dead on your feet. Go rest and we’ll talk tomorrow. The loft, Dawn, please,’ Esther said, and her housekeeper beckoned to them. ‘Come with me.’

The loft had been converted into two rooms. The one they entered was a small bedroom, with exposed beams, a wooden chest of drawers, and a window behind the bed, which Dawn was pointing at now.

The one double bed.

‘Excuse me?’ Malfoy said. ‘One bed?’

‘You should be grateful you’re getting a bed at all,’ she said and shut the door behind her.

Malfoy remained rooted to the spot, staring at the bed with horror, as if sharing sleeping quarters with Harry was the worst thing he could imagine, but Harry, too exhausted to care about Malfoy’s pureblood sensibilities, climbed under the faded green cover and fell asleep instantly.

A bird cawed outside the window in the morning. Harry pulled the cover over his eyes, trying to prolong the lovely dream he’d had, but it dissipated like mist. Pleasant dreams rarely visited him these days and he wished it had lingered. Warmth enveloped him and his stomach rumbled with normal morning hunger rather than that gnawing, empty feeling he’d got used to in the last few months. The sheets smelled stale, but not unpleasantly so. Clean, but unused. He registered another pleasant scent near him, a combination of musk, hair, soap. He turned his head. Malfoy was still asleep.

He’d forgotten in those blissful, bleary-eyed moments where he was and who he was with. He’d forgotten about this person and their uneasy, tentative truce. Malfoy looked serene; no trace of a sneer marking his fair face. Harry felt a thrill, examining him undetected, as if he was doing something illicit. But as the milky sunlight spread in the room like a whisper, he looked his fill: at the pointy angles of Malfoy’s jaw, the sharp cheekbones, the straight nose, the luminous hair fanning on the pillow; a face like a dagger softened by the curve of full lips and soft pale lashes.

Harry knew he liked boys as much as girls. He’d confessed to Ron and Hermione three years ago that he fancied both Cedric and Cho, and Ron had laughed, ‘Man, and people say being bisexual means more dates? You’re fucked twice.’ Hermione had glared at Ron and reiterated how supportive they were, but Harry had laughed, relieved. Joking about it made the whole thing feel natural and that was exactly what he’d wanted.

So, the stirring inside him when he looked at Malfoy’s lips didn’t surprise him, and he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He knew that as soon as Malfoy woke up and wore his habitual disdain, Harry would go back to disliking him.

Or maybe not, a voice said, and his brain supplied him with unhelpful images of Malfoy wet in the lake, upset, desperate. The brief glimpses of vulnerability shoved hastily under a mask of indifference. The way he bit his bottom lip when hesitating, his enthusiastic ramblings about King Arthur, his eager pretence at being royalty. Images that showed a side of Malfoy other than that of the cold, impenetrable, pureblood tosser. But he shook his head to dispel these memories and got out of bed.

A Malfoy was always a Malfoy.

Harry had finished his eggs by the time Malfoy sauntered down the stairs, yawning, his hair mussed.

‘You’re late, sleeping beauty.’ Esther sat by the kitchen window with a cup of tea. It was drizzling again, and a gust of wind rattled the glass, but an Aga warmed the room and the smell of fried eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes filled the air.

Malfoy beamed at her before he glowered at Harry. ‘I apologise. Potter here didn’t see fit to wake me up, apparently.’

‘Do you call each other by your surname?’ Dawn asked, slicing peppers by the sink. ‘I assumed you were friends.’

‘Er…’

‘Uhm…’

They looked at each other, aware that their story wouldn’t hold up to the mildest of probing. Malfoy had also tried to talk about the palace last night, but Harry had kicked his leg under the coffee table to shut him up. They’d told enough lies as it were, and Dawn was sharp.

‘I was simply annoyed with — Harry here.’ Malfoy swallowed, as if it pained him to use Harry’s given name.

‘Next time I’ll be sure to wake you up, Draco.’ Harry matched Malfoy’s hostility with some of his own.

‘Thank you, Harry,’ Malfoy replied, tight lipped.

‘You’re welcome, Draco.’

‘I appr—’

‘We saved you some breakfast.’ Esther interrupted their effort to have the last word.

Malfoy took the mug that Dawn offered and poured some tea before sitting opposite Harry. ‘Thank you. It looks lovely.’

‘You need fattening up, both of you,’ Dawn said. ‘You’re too skinny, you are.’

‘We don’t normally have a fry up in the mornings,’ Esther explained. ‘But you look like you haven’t had a proper meal in a while.’

Harry had spent most of the past months surviving on mushrooms, but what was Malfoy’ excuse? He should've had access to three square meals a day, but he looked as thin as Harry. Perhaps having Snape as Headmaster had ruined the quality of cooking and that’s why Malfoy hated being in school. He wouldn't put it past him to call school horrendous, just because he didn’t enjoy his roast.

‘You don’t eat mushrooms?’ Malfoy asked now with a nod at Harry’s plate.

Harry would be happy to never ever lay eyes on another mushroom again. ‘D’you want them?’

Malfoy had already gobbled his own. He bit his bottom lip, glanced at Harry’s plate, then at Harry. ‘It’s fine. You should eat them.’

‘It’s alright. Here,’ Harry scraped them onto Malfoy’s plate. ‘I’m full anyway.’

‘Thank you.’ Malfoy paused, pushed the mushrooms around with his fork, and added, ‘Harry.’  

This time Harry’s name came out of Malfoy’s lips like an exhale, soft and curious, and Harry almost felt goosebumps. ‘You’re welcome. Draco.’

Draco offered him a smile, one of the genuine ones, and tucked in.

After breakfast, while Harry was washing the dishes and Draco was drying them, Esther put down her third cup of tea. ‘Have you decided what you’re going to do?’ she asked Harry.

He tried to imagine setting off for a day’s hard walk now, in the wind and drizzle, and his whole body protested. He wanted to keep going, he truly did. These last months were all about keeping going, all about pushing himself forward again and again, but right now the idea of leaving behind this wonderful cottage and Esther’s generous offer, just for the sake of arriving at Tinworth a day or two early… It wasn’t worth it.

‘We’ll stay if we can get a lift with your grandson.’ He glanced at Draco to check he agreed, and Draco exhaled and nodded. Harry turned to the two ladies. ‘Thank you. We’ll be very happy to help you with any chores while we’re here.’

‘Wonderful! I’ll call Ben right now,’ Esther said. She picked up a gnarled cane lying against the wall and leaned on it to stand up. Draco rushed to help her, but she waved him away. ‘Thank you, my dear. I can manage.’ She shuffled towards the door and paused with one hand on the door handle. ‘You can use our telephone to call your parents and let them know you’re OK. They might be worried.’

Harry stood still, unsure how to respond, knowing it’d be suspicious if they declined, but Draco spoke first, his voice flat.

‘We have no parents.’

Esther exchanged a glance with Dawn. ‘Orphans. I wondered.’ She left the kitchen and Harry blinked twice before he carried on with the washing up. Beside him, unmoving, Draco gazed out of the window, the kitchen towel still in his hands.

Half an hour later, freshly showered, Harry rummaged in the chest of drawers in the loft bedroom for a jumper. Dawn had informed them that she’d put any clothes she thought might fit them in the drawers for their use while at the cottage. The selection consisted of some thick woolly jumpers, half a dozen 80s band T-shirts, and a few shirts in neutral colours. He unearthed his Oxfam jumper, laundered and smelling of lavender, and shut the drawer when his scar started pulsing.

Blind with increasing pain, he took a step back and another, and his legs knocked on the bed just as Voldemort’s rage sucked him in.

The Malfoy drawing room: tidy and clean, the chandelier fixed and hanging from the ceiling. In the centre of the room, Voldemort seethed with rage, and his wand wrought pain, casting a Crucio unlike any before. Harry saw the Elder Wand, which he’d last seen in Dumbledore’s hands, cradled by Voldemort’s spidery fingers, and he felt — oh, how he felt it, throbbing in his veins — the immense power of the wand, almost humming as it dealt out punishment to the incompetents. Rookwood and Dolohov, their faces a grimace of agony, suffered their Lord’s displeasure until Voldemort lowered the wand, still furious.

‘Two teenage boys and you can’t seem to track either one of them down! The Malfoy boy especially! A spoiled, spoon-fed, coddled brat!’ He spat the words, each one a lash.

‘We used hounds, my Lord. Goyle’s hounds, but they lost the scent of the boy in the lake,’ Rookwood pleaded.  A trickle of blood smeared the corner of his mouth and he wiped it off with his sleeve.

‘I don’t care for your excuses,’ Voldemort hissed. He paced the drawing room.  ‘Potter is of course an expert at evading capture…’

‘We used the Ichnilato Spell on Potter. But it took us to a Muggle road and…’

‘And?’

‘We lost the connection. He could be anywhere by now. He could’ve Disapparated or taken one of them Muggle carts.’

Voldemort’s hands tightened on his wand, his memory unbidden reminding him that it was cars, not carts. He loathed that he knew the correct word; he resented any reminder of his upbringing, which his brain couldn’t resist dishing out now and again. He glanced at the Elder Wand and his new source of disquiet distracted him: the object of his desire proved lesser than he’d been led to believe, and Ollivander, who could advise him, had been taken.

Potter. Everything circled back to Potter. He’d saved the wandmaker, perhaps with inside help. Voldemort loathed traitors more than anything, and if he had to make an example of the Malfoy brat, then he would. He addressed the kneeling men. ‘The Ichnilato spell is much more reliable. Go back to where you tracked Potter. Malfoy won’t be far. Use any means necessary to see where they might have gone to. Burn the whole county down if you must. I want these two found.’

The men scurried out of the room in a hurry, making their useless promises, and Nagini slithered in and curled at his feet, sensing his agitation. Voldemort reached down to her and stroked her head. ‘Potter’s mine, Nagini, but you can have Malfoy.’ The snake flicked its tongue.

‘Harry?’ A voice rang in his ears. ‘Did you see him again?’

Harry opened his eyes and looked at the slanting ceiling above him. He scratched at the cotton duvet but struggled to find something strong enough to pull him out of his head. His eyes fluttered and once more he fell into the dark—

‘Harry?’ Urgent, clipped vowels, insistent at his ear. A cool hand shook Harry's shoulder, hot breath played on his cheek, and the smell of lavender tickled his nose. Without thinking, Harry raised his head and pressed his face at the source of the lavender smell, inhaling deeply. Dawn’s fabric softener brought him slowly back to himself. He opened his eyes to see he had his nose buried in Draco’s shoulder.

He let go immediately and Draco stepped back, his face pink.

‘Er, sorry, I didn’t mean—’

Draco swallowed. His hands twitched a little and he put them in his pockets. ‘It’s fine. Did you see him? Did you see my parents?’ He circled the bed and sat on the other side.

‘Him. He punished Rookwood and Dolohov for not finding us yet. He’s sent them back to the petrol station.’ Harry paused, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. ‘He thinks you helped me free the prisoners and escape.’

Draco snorted. He traced patterns on the duvet as he spoke. ‘He’s always surprised when you escape him. You’d think that after half a dozen times he’d learn not to underestimate you.’

Harry gaped at Draco. Draco kept looking at the duvet and acted as if he hadn’t said anything shocking. Harry had no idea how to respond. He stared at Draco’s bent head, the hair falling in his eyes. ‘I saw you once.’ He didn’t know what made him say it, and regretted it when Draco lifted his head, looking frightened.

‘In those visions?’

Harry nodded. ‘He asked you to Crucio Rowle.’

Light pouring through the window behind the bed bathed Draco in muted grey tones, softening the angles of his face. His eyes didn’t meet Harry’s and he went back to staring at the bed cover. ‘Not one of my finer moments.’ His voice was hoarse.

Harry remembered Voldemort’s threats. ‘You had no choice.’

‘No,’ Draco murmured, ‘I did. I could have said no.’

They spent the day indoors. The rain fell harder by noon, justifying Harry’s decision to stay. He liked the cottage and the women in it more the longer he stayed there. Dawn — tall, grey hair in a bun, brisk — worked with a frightening expediency and hummed while doing it. Her curt manners and her reluctance at having them around didn’t stop her from serving them lunch (tomato and basil soup) in bowls so large that even Hagrid would have a job emptying them. Esther, on the other hand, was a fragile, quiescent thing; a shiny rock around whom the household’s activity flowed and edied. Petite, with a pure white bob, and clever brown eyes, she passed her time knitting or watching Antiques Roadshow or taking care of the innumerable potted plants crammed in every nook and corner, watering and whispering at them.

Harry welcomed the chores, a blissful distraction from what he thought of as ‘his real life’ and seeing Malfoy fumbling about the Muggle home had him rolling. He shouldn’t have been so amused, not with Dawn narrowing her eyes at Draco’s ignorance of what the fridge was, or his tickling the picture frames to make the people move and frowning when they didn’t. Draco’s accent might have explained why he didn’t know what a dustpan was for, but it didn’t account for the fact that he stared at the toaster’s plug for a good half a minute, or why he jumped when Harry switched the vacuum cleaner on; a jump that had Esther burst in delighted laughter as she passed them in the hallway, a tiny mint plant in the hand that didn’t clasp the cane.

‘Just like a kitten,’ she said fondly to Draco, who still glared sideways at the vacuum cleaner. ‘We had cats in the past. Ezra, my late husband, loved them. They were scared of the vacuum, too.’ She settled the mint plant by the window, still shaking her head with laughter.

‘That’s why they had the milk outside,’ Harry mused later, hoovering the carpet on the first floor.

Draco scoffed. ‘You’re so entirely ignorant of basic wizarding customs.’ He’d abandoned his duster on the floor in order to examine a picture of Esther in her youth, wearing a shockingly short skirt, next to a man who Uncle Vernon would describe as a “dandy”.

Truce or no truce, Draco rubbing his pureblood superiority on Harry grated him. ‘What does that even have to do with the Muggles?’

‘It appears some Muggles are aware of what’s around them, even if they can’t explain it. I bet it’s Dawn. Dawn is Cornish. She knows.’

Harry rolled his eyes. ‘Crystal clear answer, as always.’

‘I wonder how you made it through school,’ Draco continued, ignoring him. He put down the picture frame and picked up a candlestick. ‘Not that your grades were anything to write home about, but even so.’

It felt nostalgic, they way they traded anaemic insults as if a schoolboy rivalry was all they had to worry about. ‘I guess I had the help of someone whose grades were better than yours.’

‘Cheating then. As I suspected.’ Draco’s voice had no sting, though, and Harry would swear he was teasing.

He turned off the vacuum and decided to ask him about what had been on his mind since yesterday: Hogwarts. ‘Why did you say school was horrendous? Is Snape so bad?’ Harry tried to suppress the hatred that bubbled at the memory of Dumbledore’s murderer. ‘And no cryptic statements. Fucking tell me.’

‘Snape? No, on the contrary. Sometimes, I wonder—’

‘What?’ The ladies were downstairs and couldn’t possibly hear them, but they still leaned close and kept their voices low.

‘Never mind. The problem at school is the Carrows,’ Draco started. ‘Siblings. Some of the worst Death Eaters in the bunch. Cruel, you know? Like McNnair, but not as dumb as he is. Amycus teaches Dark Arts…’

They both settled on the carpet, Draco with his back to the wall. As Draco revealed more and more of what happened in Hogwarts, Harry felt his face heating up. He clenched his fists, digging his nails into his palms, trying hard to suppress the urge to scream. He knew it’d be different this year, but he hadn’t realised how different.

‘… and the worst thing is that Greg and Vince are fully into it. Have you any idea how young the first years look?’ Draco’s hands shook and he clasped them tight. ‘But— well, I’m lucky. I ask to be excused from lessons and they allow it since I’m also a—’ He blinked. He’d been staring at the floor during the entire narration, seemingly unaware of what his face was doing: so eloquent for a change, disgust and guilt and regret mapped clearly over his brow and the tilt of his mouth.

Silence followed his words, murky and heavy, full of dark moving things. Harry’s blood boiled. The lack of a wand seemed fortuitous, because otherwise he’d Apparate to school straight away, Horcruxes be damned.

Draco added, ‘I spent most of the year either by the lake, or when it got too cold, in a secret room I’d discovered last year. I missed a lot of dinners that way, not that anyone cared. No one even noticed, except Pansy.’

Draco’s admission tugged at Harry’s gut. He said, just to say something, ‘Well, she’s your girlfriend.’

Draco snorted at his words and lifted his head. ‘Girlfriend… Merlin, you are unobservant.’

The tension broke. Harry thrust the vacuum’s nozzle towards him and laughed when Draco scrambled out of the way with a yelp. ‘At least I’m not afraid of the hoover.’

‘It’s evil,’ Draco hissed and ran down the stairs to where Esther was calling him.

Alone, Harry clutched the vacuum tightly and tried to control his breathing. Snape and Voldemort had given two of his worst Death Eaters free reign to take these kids’ minds and twist them. They allowed the Carrows to hurt students. Nausea filled him at Draco’s description of the punishments the Carrows dealt, at the way Draco shook when he mentioned the lashes and stinging hexes. ‘The Gryffindors bear the most of it,’ he’d said. ‘Ravenclaws are smart enough to keep their mouth shut and Hufflepuffs keep their head down. It’s the Gryffindors who make the most trouble. Well, not quite: it’s that Army group of yours.’

Harry’s friends made trouble: Neville and Ginny and Seamus, Lavender and Parvati and Colin, Ernie and Terry and Susan; they tried to make a difference, attempted to stand up to the torture, and Harry felt so proud of them and also so afraid of what might happen to them. His hatred of Voldemort consumed him; everything circled back to him. Defeating him was the only thing that mattered, even if the thought of what it would cost made Harry ache.

Harry hoovered absent-mindedly, going over the same spot, and wondered how it must feel when your friends don’t notice you missing meals. He tried to imagine having no one by his side — even now, Dumbledore’s Army stood by him in their own way — and he couldn’t picture a more devastating loneliness.

They spent the rest of the day tinkering around the house, helping Dawn with dinner (Harry) and helping untangle Esther’s yarn (Draco), and, finally, after a lovely meal of fish with peppers and rice (Harry now suspected why Esther’s grandson showed up every Sunday without fail for Dawn’s cooking), they gathered in the living room to watch TV.

As difficult as it was to hide Malfoy’s inexperience with Muggle life from their two hosts, it was nigh impossible when they were all in the same room. He wasn’t being subtle about it either.

‘What’s this?’ He waved the remote he’d grabbed from the coffee table, probably thinking it was some kind of wand. The TV switched channels and he stared in awe and some trepidation.

‘You’ll break it.’ Harry snatched the remote.

‘Can you stop taking things from my hands?’

‘Shut up. See.’ Harry pressed a button, and the local ITV News came on. ‘This is the news. And here,’ he pressed more buttons, ‘is a soap opera and here another soap opera. We can choose which one to watch.’

‘What’s a soap opera?’ Draco asked.

Harry noticed the two ladies watching their exchange. ‘He doesn’t have a TV,’ he explained. ‘His family was — religious. A cult, actually.’

‘Ah, that explains a lot,’ Dawn murmured to her stitching.

Draco glanced at Harry, who gave him a look to remind him to ‘shut up’. He found he very much enjoyed having all these opportunities to tell Draco to shut up on account of “not being discovered”.

Esther requested Eastenders, and Harry switched the channel and they watched, Malfoy in utter thrall. After a few minutes, he leaned towards Harry and whispered, ‘Is this real?’

‘What do you mean?’

Malfoy’s eyes widened as the couple on the screen started necking pretty heavily. ‘Are these real people going about their business and we can see what they’re doing? Is it the same way you can see the Dark Lord’s mind?’

Harry briefly entertained the idea of Voldemort TV, and it might have been funny if his visions didn’t disturb him so much. ‘No,’ he said quietly. He grabbed a cushion with three embroidered poppies and held it to his chest. ‘I’m much more close to— to him. I can't explain it well. I just feel what he's feeling when he’s particularly angry — or happy. These people are just actors. It’s all made up.’

He doubted the wisdom of confessing one of his most dearly held secrets to Draco Malfoy, but Draco nodded once, grim, and turned to the screen.

The evening wore on, in an unhurried, relaxed manner that Harry would love to get used to. Esther knit, Dawn stitched, Draco watched a murder mystery, his legs covered by the throw, and Harry glanced at the cosy room, half-listening to Draco’s and Dawn’s conversation of who the murderer might be. The firelight bounced off the picture frames on the sideboard and Harry got up to take a look. In the middle, Esther beamed as a happy bride, her arm linked to that of a grinning young man. Photos of her children at different ages surrounded the wedding photo, some in black and white, but most in colour. In one, four children in their school uniforms smiled at the camera: two girls and two boys.

He picked up the frame and turned to Esther, but Dawn’s eyes met his and she shook her head in warning before he asked the question. Her eyes bore on him until Harry put the frame back and retreated. He flopped next to Draco. Ads interrupted the programme and Draco’s attention left the screen and snagged on something else. ‘What’s this, Esther?’

Esther’s sleeve had risen when she reached for the yarn, showing a tattoo. Harry froze when he saw it. He looked at Esther’s face. Of course. Fifty-odd years ago she’d be in her early twenties.

‘I’m a survivor from the camps,’ she said, confirming his guess. ‘Auschwitz.’

‘What’s Auschwitz?’

The two ladies stared at Malfoy with surprise. The cult excuse meant they could probably get away with him not knowing what a soap opera was or how to turn on the lights (Harry had to show him), but ignorance about something huge like World War II raised suspicions. He couldn’t even suggest that Draco had been knocked in the head since he’d been lucid all day. He wished he’d mentioned it last night. It’d save them a lot of bother, and Draco wouldn’t have to act too hard.

‘Draco never paid any attention to history. Terrible student,’ Harry said quickly. He laughed. Ha. Ha.

Dawn did not look amused.

‘I mean, he knows about the maniac who killed all those people sixty years ago…’

‘Grindel—?’

‘Hitler.’ H threw a significant glance to Malfoy, who finally shut up. ‘Hitler. Who started the second World War and killed millions of Jews, among other people…’

Draco managed not to blurt out anything else incriminating, but it was too late; the ladies’ expressions varied from considering (Esther) to suspicious (Dawn).

Esther put down her needles. ‘I would really appreciate you telling us the truth now, boys. I know you don’t mean no harm to us, but I wish to know the truth of what brought you to our doorstep at the state you were.’

Malfoy sighed and looked at Harry, who tried for an approximation of the truth; they owed it to them, even if it meant being kicked out.

‘The truth is,’ Harry started, ‘we’re in a bad situation with a very bad man. We’re trying to get away from him. To find friends. In Falmouth.’

‘Cadgwith,’ Draco amended.

‘How bad is this situation?’

Draco said, ‘The worst.’

‘Is it the mob?’

Harry shook his head.

‘Can whoever it is find you here?’ Dawn asked, half-rising.

Only now did Harry realise the danger they were putting these women in. He glanced at Draco, who seemed to be thinking of the same thing. ‘We should leave,’ Harry said. ‘We should never have stayed here,’ he whispered to Draco.

‘We’ll go first thing in the morning,’ Draco agreed. ‘Or now, if that’s what you wish. You’ve been more than—’

‘No.’

Esther looked stern. Dawn went to check the window latches.

In the silence that echoed in the warm, dimly lit room and while the television flickered in one corner, Esther’s eyes grew serious. ‘I survived a very bad situation with very bad men. My people survived, some by luck, and some by the kindness of others. We do not forget. I would never forgive myself if I didn’t extend the same help to someone who needed it.’ She paused, her eyes lingering over Draco. ‘I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth. But I want you to be safe. I trust my instincts and I like you both. Now,’ Esther picked up her knitting, while Dawn left to check the back door. ‘You asked me about this number, Draco. Let me tell you history the way I lived it.’

Esther was twenty-two when she was sent to the death camps. She’d been dragged from her home in Thessaloniki, forced to board a train with thousands of others and taken to the cold north. She was strong and knew how to sew well, and perhaps those facts saved her. Perhaps it was simply luck. ‘Death rolls dice with people’s lives,’ she said. Her brothers, her father, and her fiancé died. ‘The males of my family never live long.’ Halfway through the story, describing the gas chambers and the starvation, tears glistened in her eyes.

‘You don’t have to continue,’ Malfoy said. His face had gone paler than normal.

‘It’s been some time since I last talked about it. Years actually,’ she said. ‘People don’t want to ask. They think it distresses me. It does, but not in the way they think. I say it’s important for people to know.’

‘Esther watches the Schindler’s List at least once every month,’ Dawn added, who’d returned.

‘My daughters think I’m crazy. But I want to remember. I want to remember how cruel people can be. And how, occasionally, you can find compassion in the most surprising of places.’ She looked at them both and added, ‘Sometimes it takes one person to make a difference.’

No one spoke for a moment.

Esther beckoned at Dawn to help her stand up. ‘It’s late tonight. But one of these days we’ll watch the film. So Draco can see what happened.’

Harry and Draco trudged up the stairs to their room, silent and brooding. The rain had stopped, allowing the moon to emerge behind the clouds and flood the attic with silvery ghost light. They changed into tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts and climbed under the duvet.

‘Is it true? Did the Nazi,’ Draco pronounced the word carefully, ‘kill all those people and hold her prisoner?’

‘All true.’

‘Just because she’s Jewish?’

‘Yep. Nazis believed that North Europeans were superior to everyone else. They hated Jews, the Slavs, the Romani … They decided some people were subhuman, that’s what they called them, and set out to exterminate them.’

‘Why would anyone in their right mind believe people are inferior just because they are a different race? It doesn’t make any sense at all.’

‘No, it doesn’t. But then some people believe they’re better than others on account of, I don’t know, the magic their ancestors had in their blood.’

Malfoy sat up. Moonlight illuminated his troubled face. ‘That’s different,’ he protested, unwilling to admit it, but years of indoctrination were hard to shake off. ‘Magic is different — it’s an innate quality, not simply a feature like your hair or skin colour; it sets you above Muggles—’

‘So you’re better than Esther.’

‘In terms of doing magic, I am. I have this extra skill that she can never acquire.’

‘And for that reason you deserve to live, and she and Dawn deserve to die.’

Draco started. ‘I never said that. No, they don’t deserve to—’

‘Don’t the Death Eaters kill Muggles for sport? Isn’t dominance over Muggles the whole fucking point?’ Harry had sat up, too. His attention was wholly arrested by the turmoil in Malfoy’s face, the emotions that ran under his skin, thoughts fighting with each other. What must it feel, he wondered, having everything you believe in crash down around your ears?

Draco took a deep, rattling breath. ‘The Dark Lord is cruel. Some of his followers, too, I suppose. But it’s not all about that. For most, pureblood culture is about preserving wizarding customs, our history and heritage—’

‘Death Eaters believe in keeping wizarding culture pure?’

‘Exactly,’ Draco said. ‘Uncontaminated.’

Uncontaminated. Harry clenched his fists. Draco’s terminology wasn’t the worst thing; no, the worst was that he looked as if he’d said something sane. ‘Remember the Quidditch World Cup shenanigans? How did that preserve pureblood heritage?’

The memory of the Muggles, spellbound and suspended on air, hovered briefly between them. Draco struggled to find words. ‘I— That was—’

He couldn’t continue. He breathed heavily, and Harry, spurned by god knows what implacability, pricked him more. He was like a dog with a bone.

‘That was what? You hate Hermione because she’s Muggleborn. You called her slurs. She kicks your arse in magic — yet now you’re telling me that Muggleborns like her contaminate your precious, inbred culture. You look down your snotty nose at everyone with a different ancestry to yours. That’s what the Nazis did: separate people into worthy and unworthy. You just watch the film. See yourself. How you truly are.’

Harry fell back on his pillows, ignoring the shuddering breaths next to him. A moment later, the side of the bed dipped. Soft footsteps and a creak at the door told him that Draco had left the room. Harry wanted to go after him, he wasn’t sure why, but experience told him he should perhaps leave him well alone. He knew Draco simply parroted his parents’ beliefs, and he could see the effort he’d been making to readjust his thinking, but still, hearing those arguments made Harry’s temper — always a hard beast to tame — rise to the surface.

In the end, he fell asleep before Draco returned.

~*~

In the morning, breakfast was a silent affair. Esther had stayed in bed, and Draco and Harry made their own breakfast, under the watchful eye of Dawn, who darned socks by the window. Draco looked like he hadn’t slept much, but neither of them made any reference to last night’s conversation. Harry’s thoughts now revolved around the risk these two women were taking by letting them stay. He itched to talk to Draco about it, and Dawn gave him the opportunity when she sent them to the forest to gather wood.

‘Mind you stay on the path.’ She saw them to the back door and gave them a rusty pail for the wood.

Draco nodded as if a hunch had been confirmed. ‘It isn’t a friendly forest, is it?’

Dawn looked at him with appreciation. ‘No, it isn’t. Not to you, I don’t think.’

The lucid morning sun rays didn’t penetrate the dense wood. Only here and there, shafts of light speared through the foliage down to the blooming bugle and bluebells. Even though by now Harry was desensitised to the beauty of nature, having spent months camping in the countryside, he couldn’t deny it: the forest around Golitha Falls was exceedingly beautiful. Verdant, with clear, rushing streams, mossy stones and tree trunks, and an abundance of herbs and flowers. Moths fluttered among the undergrowth and birdsong filled the air. If it wasn’t for the prickling of his neck, he’d view it as a lovely place. As it was, danger lurked under the beauty.

He and Draco picked fallen branches as they followed the path along an avenue of beech trees. ‘We need to talk,’ Harry told him.

‘About what?’ Draco tensed.

‘About keeping Dawn and Esther alive,’ Harry said. ‘What are the chances we are going to be followed here?’

Draco sighed. ‘It’s all I’ve been thinking about.’ They’d reached a pebbly bank and Draco veered off the path and sat on a rock, leaving the pail by his side.

Harry followed his example and sat close. ‘My first question is: can the hounds find us here?’

‘In theory, yes.’ To Harry’s sharp intake of breath, Draco added, ‘Not likely, though. I remember Greg’s father talking about them. They can pick up the trail from where we left the lake, but the more time passes, the more likely it is they’ll lose the scent. The moor is a windy place, and the trail isn’t clear, I think that’s what slowed them down in the first place.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, they were following my scent, but I was wearing a bunch of clothes from different people. Even if the clothes had been washed, some scent of the human remained; maybe people handled them at the shop too. All the different human scents confuse the hounds.’ Draco threw a pebble in the gurgling stream. ‘If I’d been wearing my robes, they’d have managed to find me more easily, I believe. Those second-hand clothes saved us.’

Harry picked up a pebble and threw it in the stream. Plop. He watched the ripples disappear. ‘We should send the ladies a present. When all this is over.’

‘When all this is over.’ Draco slanted a sideways look at Harry, who gazed back. Harry's heart pounded under Draco’s examining eyes. He’d stupidly sat way too close and now wished he hadn’t. Draco’s proximity made him uneasy.

‘You do believe it, don’t you?’ Draco asked. ‘That this will be over?’

‘You don’t?’

Draco looked away. ‘I don’t dare to hope.’ He tossed another pebble in the water. Plop.

Harry said, ‘I have to believe it’ll be over. One way or another.’

‘It’s the another that worries me.’ Plop.

‘So…’ Harry had guessed Draco's sentiments, but he wanted to hear Draco say it. ‘You don’t want him to win?’

Draco picked up another pebble. He rolled it in his hand before he tossed it in the stream. ‘I was never a big fan of hell.’

Harry reckoned in Draco-talk this meant “no, I don’t want Voldemort to win.” Perhaps it was a Slytherin thing to never give a clear answer.

Draco said, ‘When we reach Tinworth, we’ll change a couple of galleons into Muggle money and buy the Oxfam women something spectacular.’

Harry laughed. ‘Something worthy of royalty. Worthy of Fenston.’

Draco swatted his arm. ‘Stop using that name!’

Harry laughed again. The stream rushed, clear and cold, leaves drifting on the current. A bird chirped overhead, flapping its wings across the sky, and Draco leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes, tilting his face to a slanting ray of light.  

‘So, the hounds won’t pick up the trail.’ Harry had to make sure.

Draco straightened. ‘The more they wait, the harder it will be. Goyle would have told them but, luckily, the Dark Lord likes to keep his followers ignorant of what the others are doing.’

‘What about the blood spell? The Ichnilato?’

Draco raised an eyebrow. ‘How do you know— oh, of course. Well, the spell is useless now. It’ll probably show you’re in the general area and not in, say, Scotland, but that’s about it. It won’t lead them to this place.’

‘Are they safe then?’ Harry couldn’t hide the desperation in his voice. He couldn’t bear it if these kind women died because of him.

Draco nodded, his eyes grave. ‘I can’t think of anything else that might lead them here.’

‘I hate not having a wand,’ Harry said. ‘There’s loads of protective spells we could use on the cottage.’

Draco dug under his jumper, pulled his wand from the waistband of his jeans, and twirled it into his fingers. He favoured his right hand, keeping his left side stiff. ‘Shame. This was a good wand. I liked it.’

‘Do you carry it with you?’ Harry asked.

‘I can’t help it. I feel naked without it.’

The word ‘naked’ created a visual that Harry didn’t need right this minute. To cover his face heating up, he stretched his hand. ‘Can I?’

Draco cautiously handed him the wand and Harry looked at the deep crack that ran along the side. ‘I wonder if it can be fixed. My wand is also broken. Snapped in half.’

‘Really? What had you been using?’

‘A wand we took from a Snatcher. Whatever was handy. They were crap.’ Harry handed it back, pretending not to notice the relief in Draco's eyes when he clutched it again. He added, ‘I didn’t expect you to have a wand with a unicorn hair core.’

‘Ah yes, the evil Death Eater's wand should only have a core from a Grindylow scale or a Horned Serpent’s fang or— how do you know my wand has a unicorn hair core?’

‘You can see it.’

‘Where?’

They leaned close, their knees knocking together and their heads bumping. Draco held the wand between them, and Harry turned it gently to the side. ‘I was sure I saw it.’ They rolled the wand a few times and peered carefully, but no flash of white peeked from inside. ‘This is strange,’ Harry said. ‘I’d have sworn—’

‘Perhaps it was a trick of the light,’ Draco said, but Harry knew they both remembered how dark it’d been at the cliff. He didn’t know what to make of this but shrugged. ‘Let’s go gather some wood from the unfriendly forest— ouch!’

‘Don’t say that; They’ll hear!’ Draco hissed. He sighed at Harry's uncomprehending look. ‘Do you remember learning about faeries?’

‘Those tiny, winged creatures that Professor Flitwick used as lights at the Yule Ball?’

Draco pulled Harry close. ‘There are some creatures we don’t learn about at school, but all wizards know about them. If you’d asked your friend Weasley, he’d tell you. There’s another type of faeries, older and more dangerous, usually found in the woods of Devon and Cornwall and Ireland.’ He lowered his voice so much that to be heard he had to talk in Harry’s ear. His breath tickled Harry and a shiver ran up Harry's spine. Draco's lips almost brushed his skin as he spoke. ‘Very few of them are left now. If they like you, they will shower riches upon you. They are fond of children, the elderly, and musicians. But they also delight in luring people away from their loved ones, or making them insane, just for their amusement. This is such a forest. That’s why Dawn leaves milk and honey on the fence. To appease them.’ He drew back and levelled a flat stare at Harry. ‘I know you’ll hate me for saying this but: this is part of pureblood culture. We all know these things.’

Harry looked at the mossy trees around them, the dense foliage, the blue shadows; he inhaled the strange scent that the wind carried and, for a second, he fancied he’d heard the soft laughter from the other night. He turned to Draco. ‘This is knowledge you can share. Educate people who are new in the wizarding world, instead of wanting to kill them.’

Draco stood and picked up the iron pail, wincing a little. ‘If we survive this, you can be in charge of the new Hogwarts curriculum.’

‘When we survive this,’ Harry amended as he stood. He sounded more optimistic than he actually felt, but he had to hold on to even the tiniest bit of hope.

Draco met his eyes. ‘When.’

They continued gathering wood, and Draco also picked some flowers, creating two bouquets. Harry didn’t know what to think of it: was this what Draco was like? Was it another unspoken pureblood custom, a “walk in the woods, gather flowers for ladies” sort of thing?

Draco wanted to tie the bouquets with a special kind of grass that took ages to find. ‘This isn’t right,’ he’d say, when Harry pointed at a patch of long wavy-hair grass. Harry rolled his eyes. The fact that Draco’s aesthetic sensibilities stretched to the right piece of grass for an impromptu bouquet made perfect sense with what he’d made of the man so far. He didn’t know which part was pureblood upbringing, and which was Draco, and he had no idea how to separate the two in his mind. By the time Draco found the long, green stalks he’d been looking for, the sun was overhead, and it was lunchtime.

‘These are sweet, Draco, thank you,’ Dawn said, when she received the bouquets. ‘And — unusual.’

The bouquets combined wildflowers (bluebells and bugle and cow-wheat) with some fern leaves and weeds and a magpie feather, tied with a long piece of grass. They were pretty, but strange: just like Draco.

‘Place them by the window,’ Draco suggested. ‘Two different windows, north and south would be ideal. And don’t untie them,’ he added as Dawn filled two pint glasses with water for the bouquets.

Harry glanced at him. The instructions were a little too specific, but he couldn’t ask him now, not when Dawn had them off doing more chores.

Esther spent the day in bed. ‘She has these days, sometimes,’ Dawn said. She and Harry had dinner alone in the evening, because Draco had volunteered to take Esther’s tray and keep her company. The falling sun rays came through the kitchen window and gilded the crockery, the glass of ale, the wrinkles on Dawn’s face. The room felt stuck in amber, a feeling which perfectly described Harry’s stay in the cottage. A beautiful stasis, a rest, or a trap. He debated the wisdom of his decision constantly because he worried that at the end of the week he wouldn’t want to leave.

‘I’d like to thank you again, for having us,’ Harry broke the silence. ‘I know you don’t want us here—’

‘Don’t want you here?’ Dawn asked.

‘Well,’ Harry said awkwardly, ‘I know you think we’re putting you at risk—’

‘Is that why you think I don’t want you here?’

‘Isn’t it?’

Dawn shook her head. ‘I don’t want you here because it isn’t safe for you. And because it’ll break Esther’s heart when you leave.’

‘But— the danger—’

Dawn smiled. ‘It might sound crazy to a city boy like you, but we’re protected. In ways you can’t see. But these ways aren’t safe for you. Now, Esther…’ Her smile vanished. ‘Esther lost both her sons before they reached twenty. She says it’s a curse, you heard her last night. The males of my family don’t live long. I don’t necessarily believe in curses, but I know that she’s already becoming very fond of you. Which is why I distrusted you at first.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Two boys, similar age to her sons, showing up in the middle of the night asking for help? I thought the forest sent you. That you were Them.’

‘How did you make sure?’ Harry asked.

‘Remember the ale I offered? I'd put some iron shavings inside. If you were Them, your throat would burn up.’

Harry made a mental note never to piss off Dawn. They finished their meal in silence in the darkening kitchen. Draco returned the tray and bid them goodnight. With Esther not around, everyone decided on an early night. Harry helped Dawn with her dishes and stopped by Esther’s room to chat with her a bit.

He was climbing the staircase when Draco called him from the bathroom. Harry approached the ajar door and pushed in the warm room. Draco, topless, hunched over the sink.

‘What is it?’

Draco looked up. ‘Can you help me, please?’ He turned off the hot water tap. Steam billowed in the room, fogging the window.

‘Sure.’ Harry shut the door behind him, feeling awkward near Draco’s half-nudity.

‘I think there’s something wrong with my Splinching,’ Draco said. ‘It hurts a lot more today and — well, could you take a look?’

Draco faced Harry, allowing him access to the hurt shoulder, but Harry’s eyes fell on the long, thin scars on his chest. He froze, unable to look anywhere else but the white, raised skin crossing Draco’s chest and flat stomach. He realised he’d been staring, but the reminder of almost killing someone stopped the words in his throat.

‘Admiring your handiwork?’ Draco asked.

Draco’s voice had no bite. In fact, Draco sounded as uncertain as Harry felt. They had been enemies, but were no more; they weren’t friends, but they were allies; they were getting to know one another; they didn’t trust each other, not entirely, but perhaps they soon would. Nothing was clear cut about the whole thing; they were trying to figure out how to relate to each other all over again, and their interactions reflected this new, blurry state of being.

Harry didn’t reply to his taunt — if that’s what it was — and glanced at Draco’s shoulder. He winced at the sight of the angry red skin and the swelling surrounding the deep cut.

‘Is it cursed?’ Draco asked.

‘It’s infected,’ Harry replied. ‘It happens with wounds when they’re not cleaned properly. Especially if they’re deep. We need some disinfectant.’

Draco stood still, while Harry rummaged in the cupboard and found cotton balls, some iodine, and a selection of plasters. His visits to the primary school’s nurse had given him some idea of the process.

‘At school Miss Pomfrey never had to … disfect wounds.’

‘Disinfect. And no, she didn’t, because magic can heal a cut before it has a chance to get infected. Dittany also helps.’ Harry dabbed the antiseptic solution onto the cotton ball. ‘This might sting a little.’ Gently, he pressed the cotton on the wound.

Draco took a sharp intake of breath.

‘When a wound is left untreated,’ Harry explained in a low voice as he cleaned the laceration, ‘it can get like this. Because of contact with the air, I think. I’m not sure.’ The cut trailed to the back of Draco’s shoulder, and Harry had to pull him close, his chest an inch from Draco's. ‘Jumping in the lake didn’t help either.’

‘What about the cuts on our palms? They’re not like this.’ Draco’s voice was hoarse. He spoke right in Harry’s ear.

It took Harry a moment to get his voice to work. ‘Probably not as a deep. Or they’re newer. In any case, we should treat them, too.’

Draco’s skin smelled of the soap they shared. It was really warm in the bathroom, the air steamy and hot and stifling. Harry chose a long, narrow plaster and applied it to the lowest part of the cut. It looked like a crooked, elongated Z, or a constellation, like the ones they had to study in Astronomy.

Draco was named after a constellation.

Harry sweated. He should open the window.

Draco stood so still he might have been frozen. Harry finished patching up the Splinched shoulder. ‘We’ll need to clean it again tomorrow. Just in case.’ He glanced at Draco’s flushed face and neck. ‘I think the infection might have given you some fever. You look warm.’

‘Yes,’ Draco said, flushing some more.

Harry should leave and go to bed and get his heartbeat under control. ‘Do you want me to do your palm?’ he said instead.

Draco nodded. He offered his hand, and Harry cradled it. Long, elegant fingers, trimmed nails and a tiny mole between index and middle finger; a secret detail Harry had never dreamed he'd discover. He felt Draco’s eyes on him and had to concentrate to make sure his grip was steady. His fingers traced the fleshy part of Draco’s palm entirely of their own volition.

When he let go, Draco took Harry's wounded hand. ‘This is what I do, right?’ he asked, picking up the cotton and soaking it with the antiseptic.

Sweat soaked Harry's T-shirt. Gentle and careful, Draco cleaned Harry’s cut with light fingers. Dab, dab, dab. 

This close Harry could see the light sheen on Draco’s forehead; his hair falling on it, damp from the steam; his long lashes. Harry’s stupid heart drummed way too loudly and the thought that Draco might hear it in the quiet, warm bathroom made his face burn.

‘Err,’ Harry said, when Draco put a plaster on the cut, ‘I’m going to bed now.’

Draco let go of his hand. A vein pulsed in his pale throat. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

Harry fled.

He dressed for sleep in the dark, climbed under the covers, and exhaled. Harry had never been this close to a boy before, especially a half-naked one. Especially a Malfoy. If he’d had any doubts about his sexuality, they’d be gone now. Harry pressed his eyes shut. What was wrong with him? How could he get so flustered about boys when people died? Why couldn’t his body understand that Harry had to fight a war and not— not be like that. Harry had enough on his plate without his body’s and heart’s wilfulness. He couldn’t allow himself to miss Ginny, her sweet-smelling hair and soft lips, or picture Draco’s chest, or Merlin forbid, his nipples, or lament that he hadn't had the chance to hold a naked person in his arms before he'd need to face Voldemort. He longed to know how touching and being touched naked felt, and he loathed himself for it, because it was nothing less than selfish to think this way. Harry wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a weapon of destruction, a soldier on a mission.

He was still awake when Draco came into the room, his nipples mercifully covered by the Joy Division t-shirt he wore in bed. He was humming a melancholic melody as he climbed under the duvet.

‘Is it a song?’ Harry asked when Draco stopped.

‘A lullaby. My mother used to sing it to me when I was little and storms scared me. The sky over the Manor might have been torn by lightning, but as long as she sat by my bed and sang, I felt no fear. It always soothed me.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘It’s about a witch and her son, who live on a barge. The witch knows she’s dying and asks the river fairies to raise her son. She sings the lullaby as a goodbye to him, telling him how much she loves him, and saying how precious he is to convince the faeries to look after him.’

‘That’s very sad,’ Harry said. Had his mother sung to him? He could never know. ‘No one has ever sung me a lullaby. Or maybe my mother did, but I don’t remember it.’ He hated how his voice croaked. ‘It’d have been a Muggle lullaby anyway.’

There was a moment’s silence and then Draco started singing. His voice was low and the song, depressing though it was, was beautiful and mellow. Draco sang it twice — or maybe it was meant to be sung twice, Harry couldn’t know — and by the end of it, Harry had teared up. Everything about that day flooded him and spilled from his eyes: the school and the Carrows, the worry over being followed to this cottage, cleaning Draco’s wounds in the bathroom, the looming figure of Voldemort whenever he dared to consider his future. Notes floated between them, words of a mother’s love which continues even after death. Harry let his tears flow, glad for the darkness that hid them. He didn’t want Draco to know that he was so touched; that it was the first time he was sung to. But he wanted to offer something in return, because the lullaby felt like a gift, and so Harry reached under the covers and found Draco’s hand and held it. He pressed it tight, a thank you in the pressure, and Draco pressed back. It was a real truce brought on by music and memory and longing. Draco let go first, and Harry turned to his side and stared in the darkness until sleep took him.

A feathery sensation tickled Harry awake. He scrunched his face and pressed his cheek to his pillow, hoping for another couple of hours of sleep. The feathery thing tickled him again and, with a low grumble, he brushed it off. His fingers found some resistance, which startled him enough to open his eyes.

The feathery thing was Draco’s hair and the resistance was the back of his head. Harry found himself pressed against Draco’s back, and drowsiness fled as another sensation rushed in.

Dawn hadn’t broken yet and the night was full of the sounds of the woods outside and the creaks of the old, groaning house. In the half-light of the waning moon, Harry stared transfixed at the blond head in front of him. Draco had let his hair grow this year. It brushed his ears and covered his eyes and now it fanned on the pillow; liquid silver on blue cotton. Soft strands moved with Harry’s exhales.

Harry tried to return to sleep, but he was unable to tear his eyes from the elegant column of Draco’s neck, the muscle that curved downwards to a sharp shoulder. Soft fuzz covered Draco’s neck, and Harry couldn’t find it in himself to move back. His eyes kept straying to the edge of Draco’s T-shirt, which hid the rest of his skin from Harry.

He hadn’t expected that waking next to Draco would be an issue. When they’d discovered the one bed, Harry — busy with thoughts of the war and his friends, exhausted by their troubles — had failed to anticipate it’d be a problem.

But it was becoming one, especially at moments like this. Sharing a bed brought forth a whole new set of reactions in Harry’s body that he wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with. Recalling their past enmity didn’t help, because Draco in sleep wasn’t Draco Malfoy: he was just a boy. He looked almost like a new person as if sleep erased his identity, leaving behind only a young man, long-limbed and slender; a man who breathed steadily and occasionally snored; a man who curled into himself at night. Everything that made him Draco — his acidic tongue, his sharp mind, his deplorable ethics — was obscured by the flesh and blood body that lay so close to Harry that he could feel the curve of Draco’s spine.

Harry inhaled, taking in the smells they shared: the shampoo, the soap, the fabric softener Dawn used — and the one scent they didn’t: that of Draco’s skin. His longing to trace Draco’s neck overpowered him — in the dark he could pretend it was all a dream — and he brushed a finger along the curve of it.

Draco shifted at the touch and Harry snatched his hand back. He prayed Draco wouldn’t turn and shout at him as he had every right to. But Draco’s breathing didn’t change, just his position: he settled against Harry’s chest, his arse against Harry’s lap.

This position had an unfortunate effect on Harry’s groin; a reaction that would prove mortifying if Draco woke now with Harry’s rapidly hardening cock pressed against his arse cheeks. Making as little sound as possible, Harry extricated himself and padded down to the bathroom. Locking himself in, he slid his hand in his boxers and closed his eyes. Merlin, it’d been ages. Tugging the foreskin up and down, his cock pulsing with forgotten delight, Harry dutifully pictured Ginny as he always did at first: her pert arse, the softness of her breasts, her hair falling on his face as she’d straddled him and kissed him. But as his hand tightened around his cock and arousal spread through his veins, his mind favoured other images: Wood in the showers, water sluicing down his back; Dean in his underwear in their dorm, soft from sleep; Cedric dripping out of that fucking lake.

And then: Draco. Harry panted with exertion, his fist flying on his prick, as the images unspooled in his mind, one after the other in a frantic succession. He imagined shoving his tongue in Draco’s mouth; Draco smirking before he sucked him off; Draco spreading his legs; long fingers playing with Harry’s balls, an arse that begged to be kneaded, lips parted, eyes closed, skin flushed, Draco naked, Draco half-dressed, Draco on his knees— ugghh.

 Fuck.

When he returned to bed, he stayed as far from Draco as he could. Why did Harry have to be seventeen? Nearing seventy, Voldemort probably didn’t have to deal with inconvenient boners, getting in the way of his taking over the world. It was fucking unfair.

A couple of hours later, a hand shook Harry awake. He sat up and fumbled for his glasses, the memory of last night’s wank returning and heating his cheeks as he took in Draco, hair all mussed and face languid from sleep.

Draco snorted.

‘What?’ Harry asked.

‘Your hair's a mess. Look at this! Never thought it could get even more—’ Draco reached out and tugged a few dark strands as he spoke, and Harry flinched.

Draco froze. He slowly drew his hand back, a wounded expression appearing on his face and melting away just as swiftly. His voice grew cold even as his eyes burned. ‘I’m not contagious.’

‘I know you’re not,’ Harry said, heart thumping.

Draco gathered his clothes and left the room, his back straight as a rod, and Harry punched the pillow. For a second there, he’d been tempted to lean in Draco’s touch, to let him run his fingers through Harry’s hair and maybe pull him closer, face to face… Harry couldn’t allow Draco to know how much he was beginning to affect him.

During the rest of the day, Harry wouldn’t meet Draco’s eyes for fear he’d see right through him and sneer at his pathetic attraction. Harry avoided even glancing at him when Draco handed him a cup of tea, or dried dishes by his side, or walked in the forest in the morning in a strained silence, picking up wood for the fire and flowers for more elaborate and bizarre bouquets, which Draco then placed at specific locations in the house. Harry’s early morning wank had unlocked something inside him and now Harry couldn’t look at Draco and not notice his arms flexing when he lifted something heavy, or his arse in the Oxfam jeans, or the way his eyes wrinkled when he smiled — which he did to the ladies, a lot. This newly woken attraction to Draco rippled under Harry’s skin, threatening to spill out; Harry had always been a crap Occlumens.

‘The fuck’s wrong with you?’ Draco erupted at lunch when Harry passed him the salt without a glance.

‘Language, Draco,’ said Dawn.

‘I apologise.’ Draco’s eyes remained on Harry, demanding an explanation, but Harry engaged Dawn in a conversation about the local Cornish saints, and Draco didn’t say anything else until he cornered Harry in the hallway after lunch.

‘Well?’

Harry feigned interest in the ficus next to the mirror. ‘Well what?’

‘You know what. You won’t say a word to me. Is it because I touched your precious hair in the morning?’ Draco seemed furious and maybe even a little hurt.

Harry fumbled for an excuse. ‘I’m worried about my friends, ‘sall.’ Draco scoffed in disbelief, and the arrogant, careless sound managed to dredge out the simmering rage and worry that Harry had suppressed these past four days. ‘Last time I saw them, they were being tortured by Death Eaters.’ He pursed his lips after blurting that out, knowing he’d aimed below the belt.

Cold contempt met his words. ‘You’re such a wanker,’ Draco said and stalked away.

Harry had almost finished fixing a pipe in the downstairs loo late that afternoon (gaining a newfound respect for plumbers in the process) when Draco called him. Music drifted from the radio in the kitchen where Esther and Dawn were cooking a particularly fragrant roast; homely, comforting sounds and smells. Harry debated ignoring him, but Draco called him again, more urgently.

‘What is it?’ Harry walked into the living room, wiping his hands on a cloth.

Draco had been staring at the TV with a duster in his hands, horror written over his face. Harry turned to see, and his blood chilled. The local news was on, a reporter with coiffed brown hair speaking to the camera in front of a burnt-out shop front. ‘…the tragedy has shaken the local community. Beth Cooper and Pauline Seacole were well-liked by…’

It couldn’t be. Harry’s brain refused to accept it, denying the truth of his eyes even as the news showed smiling pictures of the two ladies he and Draco had bought clothes from in Camelford.

‘…still unclear how the fire started, Jim. The fire department has ruled out electrical fault, but arson remains a possibility.  The residents talk of suspicious strangers in town this morning, in costume no less, but friends of the two ladies also mention an unusual encounter with two young men, who offered Beth Cooper real gold for Oxfam clothing two days ago.’

‘Gold for Oxfam clothing? Was this a scam?’ The presenter at the studio asked.

‘It sounds like a scam — especially as the young men claimed to be part of the royal family — however, the gold they offered was one hundred percent real, according to a bank teller.’

‘Baffling, Susan.’

‘Indeed, it is. The gold coins have not been found and some speculate that theft was the reason behind the fire. The locals are concerned, especially in regards with another baffling crime: the unusual circumstances surrounding the deaths of John Oakes and Jeremy Stevens at the rental cottage by Dozmary Pool on Sunday evening.’

‘A terrible thing, Susan…’

The news continued with a report on the devastation caused in the touristic areas by hurricanes. Harry remained standing, his mind churning. He’d have thought that after all those deaths he’d witnessed he’d have an easier time dealing with casual murder. He’d seen Sirius fall in the Veil. He’d seen Dumbledore murdered by a man he trusted. Harry had clutched Cedric’s body; he’d raged at the mindless death of someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Just like these two women. Just like the couple at the lake.

It never got any easier.

A cheery tune sang from the kitchen radio, Dawn’s voice rising with it, the merriness incongruous with the weight around Harry’s heart, threatening to pull him under. He looked at his trembling hands.

‘How did they find them?’ he asked, raising his head to gaze at Draco for the first time today.

Draco had gone paler than normal, his eyes shining. ‘I imagine the galleons.’

Harry didn’t say anything else for fear he’d be sick.

Dinner was a near silent affair, but the two ladies didn’t pry. Harry’s attraction to Draco seemed like a silly problem now, trivial and inconsequential. There were larger problems; a much bigger guilt in which he could drown. His rage for the Death Eaters overwhelmed everything else, his purpose simmering in his veins, making him itch to leave this place, find a working wand, and hex the lot of them into oblivion.

God, he’d give anything for a wand right now.

Climbing the stairs after dinner, Draco headed to the first-floor bathroom and Harry paused at the landing. Last night he’d promised Draco he’d help clean his wound again, but Draco shut the door behind him without a backward glance, his stiff back the only indication he was upset.

Harry could go to bed. Draco knew how to treat the laceration now, and even if it was hard to reach… well, he’d manage, surely. Still, Harry lingered on the landing, listening to the tap running, thinking that for once he shared the burden with another person; for once, he needn’t carry his guilt alone.

Harry knocked on the door. ‘Can I come in?’

After a long moment: ‘If you want.’

Harry’s heart beat fast when he entered the steamy bathroom and shut the door behind him. Draco was in the middle of dabbing antiseptic on a cotton ball, like Harry had shown him. He refused to look at Harry.

‘Let me,’ Harry said.

Draco paused but his eyes remained on the chipped marble sink. Harry took the cotton ball from him and began dabbing the shoulder wound. ‘It doesn’t look as inflamed as yesterday. It’s healing.’

Neither of them spoke while Harry cleaned the long cut, touching it softly with one hand. The other hand found its way to Draco’s bare waist, for balance, as he drew Draco to him to reach the back of his shoulder. Draco breathed heavily and for a brief moment — so brief that Harry thought he might have imagined it — he laid the side of his head against Harry’s.

‘It’s our fault they’re dead,’ Draco murmured.

Harry’s hand trembled a little as he put the plasters on the Splinching. He told Draco what Hermione would have said; what his brain insisted was true despite the protests of his heart. ‘The Death Eaters killed them. They cast the spell, not us. We can’t take—’ But he couldn’t continue. He didn’t believe it. His heart protested too loudly. If he hadn’t walked in that shop, the ladies wouldn’t be dead, simple as that. How do you escape this kind of truth?

‘Her name was Beth,’ Draco said again. ‘We never asked.’

‘No, we didn’t.’ Harry finished patching him up and met Draco’s eyes. Draco gazed back, looking lost and hurt and desolate. Looking like he had that other time in the girls’ bathroom in Hogwarts. Draco had been responsible for nearly killing Katie and Ron then.

‘I don’t think it ever goes away. This feeling.’ Harry still held on Draco’s waist, his skin warm and soft, the touch an anchor binding them together in this new grief.

Draco’s eyes brimmed and he blinked fast, controlling his face as he always did, masking his emotions under a half-arsed sneer. ‘As if you’d know. Gryffindor’s shining hero.’

Harry lowered his gaze to Draco’s chest. ‘I know regret.’ He didn’t add: I’ve lived for years with my impetuous decision to “save” Sirius. With the knowledge I created these on you.

A tap dripped in the shower, the sound echoing in the hollow silence.

‘They don’t hurt now,’ Draco said gently.

Harry nodded, trying to suppress the swelling of emotion in his chest. He forced himself to meet Draco’s eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to accuse you earlier… about my friends, and what your aunt did. I didn’t mean to imply it was your fault. I know you tried to help us.’

If Harry hadn’t been around Draco so much recently, he’d have missed the subtle way his expression brightened. ‘It didn’t do much good, did it?’

‘Still. Thank you for trying.’ Harry took a step back and breathed deep. ‘Coming?’

‘In a minute,’ Draco said. ‘I — I need a minute.’

Lying in bed, trying to calm himself enough to sleep, Harry rubbed his scar. It’d tingled for most of the day, but no visions had assaulted him. Draco came in and slid under the covers. Long moments passed with them breathing side by side, staring at the ceiling. Draco’s breaths sounded calm. When he spoke, his voice was level. ‘I don’t know why murder keeps surprising me. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.’

‘Remember whose fault it is,’ Harry said. The thought bounced in his brain like a mantra: It’s Voldemort’s fault. It all goes back to him.

Draco said, ‘I do. I just— it’s selfish maybe, but I can’t help thinking that I might be next. In four days even. We won’t be here forever.’

‘You won’t die.’ Harry’s voice startled him with its intensity. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if Draco was captured after everything they’d gone through. Despite the fact Draco had been a bully at school, despite the abominable Mark on his arm, he still didn’t deserve to die like this, a scared seventeen-year-old hunted by his parents’ associates. ‘I won’t let it happen.’

Draco chuckled. ‘Of course you won’t. You’ll save us all.’ His tone was slightly mocking, but affectionate rather than cruel.

They said nothing else for some time, but neither of them seemed able to sleep.

‘You know what I‘m sorry about in this whole affair?’ Draco said, affecting nonchalance. ‘That I’ll die a fucking virgin.’

Harry’s mouth went dry. He hummed something indistinct.

Draco whispered, ‘Is sex as good as people say, Harry?’

‘How should I know?’ Harry asked, his hands sweating.

‘Didn’t you bang Weasley?’

‘No, I didn’t bang her, you twat. We…’ Harry swallowed, not sure why he was confiding. The dark made it easier. ‘We just made out a lot.’

‘I only kissed two people,’ Draco said. ‘Pansy and Theo. If I’d known I’d die so soon, I’d have kissed a hundred.’

Harry’s brain stilled. ‘You… er… kissed a boy?’

‘Is that a problem?’ Draco asked, voice cold.

‘No!’ Harry hastened to reply. ‘I just had no idea—’

‘Why would you?’

They hadn’t taken their eyes from the ceiling, as if this conversation didn’t involve them. Perhaps it was easier to talk about sex to the ceiling. Harry attempted to deal with this news as calmly as he could, even though his heart — and cock — swelled with the thrill of possibility. He’d had fantasies about Cedric and Bill Weasley in the past, but seeing as they were both straight, Harry’s fantasies had felt harmless; an idle exercise, a private unreality he liked to spend some time in. But now Harry had fantasized about someone who lay beside him and confessed to liking boys, too. Someone who Harry could reach out and touch, and who might — the idea made Harry’s blood simmer — welcome the touch.

Harry really should turn his back and go to sleep. Draco shifted and Harry caught Draco’s body heat very close to him, and his scent.

‘I’ve never kissed a boy,’ Harry told the ceiling.

Silence. Harry’s heart drummed. He counted the exposed beams over his head. Five.

‘Would you like to?’ Draco’s voice was barely audible.

‘I guess…’ Harry hedged. ‘Just to see if it’s any different.’

Silence followed, but a pregnant silence, full of fluttering butterflies and words trapped in throats. A silence that held its breath, waiting to see where the conversation might lead. Harry swallowed and turned to watch Draco’s profile in the night’s silver light. ‘Is it? Any different?’

Draco said, ‘It was for me. Kissing Pansy was an experiment, a failed one. Kissing Theo — it felt better. I prefer kissing boys, I think.’

‘I liked kissing Ginny,’ Harry said. ‘Maybe I prefer women.’ Lie, lie, lie.

Draco gazed at him. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment, drawing Harry’s eyes there. ‘I know you hate me,’ Draco said, his voice low, ‘but seeing as we’ll probably die soon, you could… test it. If you want. With — with me. Just so you’ll know.’

‘I don’t hate you,’ Harry said with conviction. There were worse monsters in the world than Draco Malfoy.

Draco kept staring, wordlessly asking for a reply.

‘Sure,’ Harry said, aiming at casual and failing. ‘Just so I’ll know.’

Both stalled, awkward now that kissing was on the table. Harry didn’t know if he should make the first move or whether Draco would. Tense like a diver about to jump off a cliff, Harry shuffled and brought his face closer to Draco’s, his heart in his throat.

Draco cleared his voice. ‘Let me…’ He rose to his elbow. Propped over Harry, Draco gazed at him with enigmatic eyes, cupped his cheek and kissed him.

Heat spread from Harry’s mouth to all his nerve endings, his limbs slack under a wave of desire. He raised his hand to Draco’s neck, stroking the soft fuzz he’d seen in the morning, pressing him close. Draco tilted his head, opened his mouth and Harry mirrored him, sliding his tongue against Draco’s.

Harry had no idea how long they kissed. Minutes, or hours maybe — or years. Time meant nothing when the world had become Draco’s warm mouth, his slick tongue, his plump lips. Draco’s hand found its way into Harry’s hair, caressing it with delicate movements. As if Harry was a fragile thing to be handled with care. The tightness in Harry’s chest dissolved, a knot unravelling that made it a little easier to breathe. Warmth and pleasure soothed earlier aches and worries. Harry felt terribly aroused, his cock straining against his bottoms, but more than anything he felt warm and pliant; a dough Draco could knead into star shapes if he wanted to.

Draco could do anything to Harry now if he wanted to.

Minutes, days, years later, Draco pulled back. His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. ‘Well?’

Harry's voice came out hoarse. ‘It was nice.’ Lie, lie, lie: It’d been amazing, thrilling, intoxicating. Glorious, glorious, glorious.

‘Good.’ Draco gave him a half smile before lying back down. ‘Now you know. Well, good night.’ He turned his back to Harry.

Turned on and breathless, Harry wondered if he could rub one off without Draco noticing. He wondered if Draco was thinking the same thing, if perhaps he was wanking right now, but if he was, he was being awfully stealthy about it. Harry debated escaping to the bathroom again, but in the end his arousal softened as a feeling of fatigue and solace washed over him, and he dozed off with the taste of Draco in his mouth.

~*~

Draco and Esther were tending the herbs in the garden the next day, the sun peeking from behind fast-moving clouds. The forest moaned around the cottage as a cold wind tore through the tree branches. Harry had been watching Draco and Esther through the kitchen window as they pulled out weeds and dug into damp soil. Draco was saying something, his gestures expressive in the way his face never was, and Esther listened with a smile that betrayed great fondness.

Harry’s heart clenched every time he looked at Draco. He’d kissed him. It felt unreal in the daylight: this was Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, who’d taunted Harry for years and who’d willingly joined the most brutal regime Britain had ever known. Harry could picture Mad-Eye Moody rising from the grave to scold him for taking it up with someone who, for all intents and purposes, could well still be a Death Eater.

In the garden, Draco had moved near Esther, pointing at a plant. Something he said made her laugh. Draco raised his eyes and noticed Harry watching; he flipped Harry off but smiled doing it, and Harry grinned and gave him two fingers back.

Perhaps there wasn’t one Malfoy, but many: the arrogant twat, the bigot, the coddled toff, but also the old lady befriender, the doubter of blood purism, the bizarre bouquet maker.

The gentle kisser.

‘Do you think people can change?’ Harry asked Dawn, who was cutting onions behind him. His scar itched and he rubbed it absently.

She sliced some more, her expression thoughtful. ‘I reckon it’s possible, my love.’ She put down the knife, rinsed her hands and approached Harry, following his gaze outside. ‘Depends how much they want to.’

Outside, Esther attempted to rise, and Draco held her by the elbow to assist her.

Dawn spoke. ‘He’s one of them wiccans, isn’t he?’

Harry had heard of this religion. Uncle Vernon had some choice words to say about it.

Dawn continued. ‘Those robe-things were his, weren’t they? Pure silk. I could tell, even without a label. His knowledge of the herbs. Those bouquets he brings for the four corners of the house.’ She returned to her onions and picked up the knife. ‘My nan was a witch. Not a wiccan; just an old lady what lived in a village and made ointments and spoke to the birds. I spent half my childhood with her. I know the protection plants.’

‘Protection plants?’ Harry asked.

‘Cowslip for the south, heath for the east, heather for where the wind blows; bluebells by the door to alert for danger, all tied with Snake’s Tongue leaf to misdirect those who wish harm. My nan taught me all she knew, bless her soul.’

Stunned, Harry thought back to the bouquets Draco had brought back from the forest. His scar burned him, but all he could think of was that Draco had been collecting flowers in a desperate attempt to protect the cottage. Not that he’d deemed it fit to let Harry know. Harry felt his anger rise, his blood roaring in his veins, drowning the kitchen noise — until suddenly he realised: it wasn’t his anger.

Just before he blacked out, he heard Dawn yell.

Voldemort stood in a room Harry hadn’t seen before, holding two galleons, while Rookwood and Dolohov bent before him in submission. Fury possessed him, and he clasped the Elder Wand tight but didn’t use it.

‘Four and a half days,’ Harry hissed. ‘Four and a half days of incompetence.’

‘We brought information, my lord,’ Dolohov mumbled. ‘We know their destination.’

‘Information? I wanted the boys at my feet, bound and begging for mercy.’

Voldemort turned from the men and sat on a carved ebony chair, his mind seething. He’d sent one of his most ruthless men and a former spy, and they’d not found two stupid boys! If he asked Severus to help… But he feared Severus might have a soft spot for the Malfoy brat, which could complicate things. Best to leave him at Hogwarts. Rowle had orders to parlay with the giants. McNair and Greyback were rounding up the werewolves. And he himself needed to seek other wand makers to learn what he could about the Elder Wand. Unbidden, a spark of amusement rose inside him. He’d asked Lucius to research wandlore in his vast library; as if he was a lowly clerk. Lucius’s face had suggested he was aware of the humiliation. His most useful ally Lucius might be — with his money, his house and his connections — but his heart wasn’t in it; Voldemort could always tell.

‘I’m not ungrateful.’ Voldemort decided on being magnanimous. ‘I appreciate you finding out the boys had sought directions to Tinworth. Augustus’s idea to “ask down the pub” was a stroke of genius that, frankly, I didn’t expect from him. Now go to Tinworth and find out if they’ve arrived. Someone must have seen them. If not, wait for them there.’

But why would they delay? Something in all of this didn’t add up and Voldemort hated things not making sense. Why not Apparate to Tinworth? Why wander in a moor, out in the open?

Unless they were looking for something.  

Voldemort stopped his men before they reached the door. ‘I changed my mind. Antonin, go to Tinworth. Augustus, you’re to search the moor. Every inch of the place.’

‘Harry? Harry!’

Harry blinked, gasping for air. Dread flooded him as he struggled, as always, to come to. The vision pulled him under, but Draco’s breath fell hot on his face. ‘Harry!’

Draco cupped his face, a strong odour of soil and herbs emanating from his hands. Harry clasped Draco’s hands as they lay on his cheeks, turned his head and inhaled. Rosemary and thyme and sage. The memory of the dim room dissolved. Harry opened his eyes properly. Draco, wide-eyed and scared, hovered over him while Dawn and Esther stood further back, wearing concerned expressions. The cottage kitchen with the cluttered shelves, the bubbling pot on the stove, the smells of onions and roast potatoes brought Harry an immense sense of relief. He feared that one day he’d be unable to find his way back to himself from his visions.

Draco helped him up, leaving his hand on Harry’s back.

‘OK there, Harry?’ Dawn asked.

‘Draco said you have fits sometimes,’ Esther said.

Exchanging a glance with Draco, Harry said, ‘I’m fine now.’

‘Best go for a nap,’ Esther said. ‘We’ll call you for dinner.’

‘I don’t—’ Harry objected, but Draco interrupted. ‘I’ll make sure he gets some rest.’

They went up the stairs and into the attic. Draco kept his word: he forced Harry to lie down, covered him with the duvet, and sat by his side.

‘I’m not an invalid,’ Harry protested.

‘What did you see?’ Draco asked.

Harry sat up. ‘They found out — from Beth and Pauline, I suppose — that we’re heading to Tinworth. Dolohov will go there to wait for us.’ Draco blanched. Harry continued. ‘There’s more. He knows something’s not right. Not Apparating — that’s made him suspicious. But he thinks it’s because we were looking for something in the moor. Rookwood is going to be searching the area to discover what it might be.’

Draco stared outside the window behind the bed, hands clenched as he thought. Harry could still smell the rosemary on them.

‘I see no reason for worry,’ Draco said finally, his voice steady. ‘We won’t stroll into Tinworth as if we’re going sightseeing. We’ll be careful. As for Rookwood… pshaw. He can’t find a galleon in a pile of knuts.’

Harry bit his lip. ‘I think that perhaps you should stay here.’ He ignored Draco’s astonishment and ploughed on. ‘It’s not safe for you out there. Besides, you’re not heading anywhere in particular. You just need to stay out of sight. This is the best place. I bet Esther would love to have you. You might even learn to vacuum.’ He hastened to make a joke because Draco’s eyes glinted dangerously.

‘And you? You’ll walk into Tinworth and fight Death Eaters with a broken wand? You’ll die before you step foot in the town.’ Draco pulled the wand out of the back of his jeans and brandished it. ‘I hate this,’ he growled in frustration. ‘Hate having no way to fight back. It’s fucking useless, it can’t even Summon a glass of water.’ He pointed it at a book on the dresser, his voice mocking. ‘Accio book—’

The book wobbled, rose an inch in the air, and plopped on the floor.

‘What the—’ Draco murmured.

He stared at the wand in his hands. Harry trailed his finger along the crack, certain that it’d been bigger before. ‘It looks like it’s mending itself,’ he said. ‘That’s odd.’

‘That’s not odd,’ Draco said in a shocked voice. ‘That’s impossible.’

They shared a few moments of stunned silence as they both digested the news.

‘I’m going to head back down.’ Draco walked to the door, but Harry called behind him.

‘Think about what I said, OK? I can’t stay here. But you can. Think about it.’

Draco gave him an unfathomable look and shut the door behind him. Harry opened the window, letting the wind cool his clammy face. He didn’t need sleep after his visions — in fact he dreaded it, because it’d be easier to slip into another one. What he needed were strong sensations to ground him to his body. Harry leaned outside the window, the wind lashing at his hair, whipping it back from his face. The rustling of the trees sounded like sea waves if he closed his eyes. He filled his lungs with the smell of spring, buds and grass and pollen, and he mulled over the news.

Harry hadn’t consciously thought of his suggestion to Draco until he made it. Back in Camelford he’d assumed he’d reach Tinworth and shake off Draco, but now things had changed. They were getting to know each other and tolerate each other; they worked together and ate together and slept next to each other (and they’d kissed, Harry’s mind insisted on reminding him). Leaving Draco alone and wandless outside Tinworth with no explanation would feel like abandoning him. Worse: condemning him.

On the other hand, taking him to Shell Cottage was out of the question. No, here was the best place for him. He’d be safe, and when Harry found his friends and had access to a wand, he’d come and cast some protective spells, just in case. And maybe — maybe he could see Draco again.

After dinner and another murder mystery on TV where Dawn had figured out the murderer early on, while Draco made outrageous guesses (‘I hate this Poirot guy,’ Draco had said in the end. ‘He’s too clever for his own good and I don’t like his moustache’), Harry said goodnight and retreated to bed. He lay in the dark and thought of Ron and Hermione, hoping they were safe and well. He wondered if they’d taken up the Horcrux search on their own or if they were looking for him. He hoped Hermione had healed after her torture.

Voldemort made the world a darker place. Harry hated the visions, because being in Voldemort’s head, he sensed the void inside him: a black hole that swallowed everything that was light and sweet and kind. Sharing Voldemort’s mind terrified Harry for he feared one day the black hole would devour him, too; gobble him up and spit out a hollow shell.

Turning to his side, Harry stared at Draco’s empty pillow. He’d been a while coming to bed — had he discovered late night TV? Harry ignored the desire to go seek him out. Draco would come to bed when he wanted to, Harry wasn’t his guardian. He’d just thought… Well, never mind that.

But with Draco absent… Harry slipped his hand inside his boxers to palm his prick. Much more comfortable in bed than in the bathroom. He shuffled to Draco’s pillow and buried his nose in it while his cock twitched in delight. No one else visited his fantasies tonight but Draco naked and sprawled on the bed, his long legs on Harry’s shoulders as Harry grabbed his hips and shoved his—

The door creaked open, and Harry froze. Draco tiptoed in the room and dressed for bed in the dark while Harry, mortified and sporting a magnificent erection, removed his hand from his cock very quietly and carefully, and pretended to be asleep.

Footsteps. The duvet was lifted. Harry kept his eyes shut, hoping Draco would think he’d sprawled all over Draco’s side in his sleep, and not because Harry’d wanted to smell him in the sheets.

The mattress dipped. ‘Harry? Are you asleep?’

His breath tickled Harry’s cheeks. If only Harry had kept to his half of the bed or even faced the other way. Now Draco would shove him out of his side and Harry would have to pretend to wake up after pretending to be asleep, and that was a lot of pretending. He wasn’t sure he was a good enough actor.

But Draco didn’t push him. He snuggled close to Harry and settled there, curled on his side, facing Harry. Fuck. That was worse. But after some peaceful moments when only their breathing filled the air, Harry allowed himself to relax.

Just when he thought he might be falling asleep, something touched his waist.

Abruptly alert, eyes firmly shut, Harry waited. Draco’s hand had drifted on his waist, on the bare skin under Harry’s T-shirt which had ridden up; casually, as if they were lovers. Cold sweat ran down Harry’s back with the effort of holding himself still as Draco became more daring, stroking Harry’s skin with an almost-there touch. Goosebumps erupted in the wake of Draco’s fingers. Feverish anticipation swelled inside Harry; he wondered if Draco would pull his hand back after this casual exploration or if he’d touch Harry some more. If he’d touch Harry elsewhere. The thought alone brought shivers down his spine and Harry sucked his stomach in at a sudden wash of desire.

Draco stopped, his fingers hovering over Harry’s skin. Harry stayed resolutely still, his heart a wild drum, hoping Draco wouldn’t stop touching him. He yearned for more but felt unable to ask for it; lust and nervousness swirled in Harry’s stomach, drowning out all rational thought.

Draco’s breathing changed; it sounded shallower and faster as he moved his hand with more determination than before. Eyes shut, feigning sleep because it was easier than admitting how much he wanted this, Harry concentrated on the fiery trail of Draco’s touch as his hand stroked Harry’s ribs, his waist, and then, oh mother of god, slithered towards Harry’s stomach. Inch by inch, Draco explored the soft skin there. A tremor built in Harry’s muscles, which he suppressed with effort; he didn’t want to pretend to wake up and break the spell. He wanted Draco to keep touching him.

And Draco did. His movements were unhurried, as if they had all night.  A long finger traced Harry’s belly button, then followed the hair on Harry’s stomach all the way to the waistband of Harry’s trackies. But he hovered there, at the edge of decency, fingertips over the elastic band, then retreated to Harry’s belly button to repeat the itinerary. Again and again in a maddening circle, never going any lower.

The next time Draco’s hand travelled over the waistband of his bottoms, Harry let his legs fall open. As imperceptibly as possible — but Draco inhaled sharply and Harry knew he’d noticed. Harry squirmed “sleepily”, his head settling against Draco’s shoulder, his pelvis flat on the bed, an open invitation. He remained there, hoping Draco would understand what he’d meant: Yes. Go on.

And then — Harry’s heart sang triumphantly: Draco slipped his hand in Harry’s boxers.

Draco’s slowness was as exasperating as it was heady. He seemed in no hurry at all, oblivious as to how desperate he made Harry feel. He leisurely made small eights on Harry’s lower stomach, ignoring Harry’s erection — he must have felt it by now, he must’ve known what his touch was doing — and just when Harry thought he’d scream from frustration, Draco’s fingertips touched his pubes, his hand trembling a little. The fact Draco was equally affected gave great satisfaction to Harry. He shouldn’t be the only one losing his mind.

Nuzzling Draco’s shoulder, his breath trapped in his chest, Harry waited…

And then sweet relief and delight: Draco touched his cock. Harry gasped, all pretence forgotten. Draco also breathed heavily as he curled his hand around Harry’s cock and gave it a nice, firm stroke.

Fucking hell. Someone else was touching Harry’s cock. Mind blown, fighting against the urge to come right fucking now, Harry concentrated on the feeling of another person’s fingers, warm and rough, against the sensitive foreskin. He breathed heavily, his eyes fluttering as wave after wave of pleasure surged through his veins. He’d no idea it was like this, no fucking clue. He buried his face in the crook of Draco’s neck, sniffing greedily at his scent, familiar and thrilling at the same time: wood and wet grass and lightning; like playing Quidditch during a summer storm.

Draco panted now, his hips squirming, and Harry realised he must be hard too. Stretching his hand, he pawed at Draco’s bottoms and traced the outline of his cock, hard and long, tenting the material. Draco bucked into the touch and Harry rubbed his cock through the soft fabric, feeling the damp spot where it had leaked. Harry’s mind had been reduced to cinders; pure instinct drove his actions. He fumbled with Draco’s bottoms and found his cock and fisted it. Draco whimpered.

They’d shifted on their sides by now, hands on each other’s pricks. Neither of them had said a word, they hadn’t even kissed; they just breathed hard and touched and felt. Harry was unable to even think coherently, let alone form something as complicated as words. It was perfect, torturous bliss. It was absolute, delicious hell.

Harry bucked his hips furiously, seeking more friction, when abruptly Draco pulled his hand back. Before Harry had time to protest, Draco had sat up, jerked his boxers down, and with a swift movement he hovered over Harry, his eyes asking for something.

At that moment, Harry would give him anything. He squirmed off his own bottoms, kicking them off one leg, and lay back, gazing at Draco. Draco looked flushed, his hair damp on his face, gorgeous and utterly debauched, as hot as every wet dream Harry had ever had. Harry spread his legs and Draco slotted his hips inside them, pressing his cock against Harry’s and starting a slow, rapturous grind. No words were exchanged; their eyes spoke a language of their own.

Propped on his elbows, Draco brought them face to face as he rolled his hips faster, and Harry stared at him helplessly, his body on fire, his head swimming in a wild, heady euphoria. Drunk with wanting, Harry wrapped his hand around Draco's neck, rising to finally capture Draco's pretty mouth with his. Their kiss turned messy, filthy, sloppy even, as Harry opened his legs wider, feeling Draco’s balls rub against his, pleasure flooding his veins. He wrapped his legs around Draco’s hips and squeezed him tight, craving more pressure, more friction. More Draco. His hands roved down Draco’s slick back and cupped his arse, which flexed with the effort of grinding against Harry. The bliss swelling inside Harry was an intoxicating potion, as heady and irresistible as the most potent drug. The room filled with their moans and grunts, and finally riding the crest of his climax, Harry came all over their stomachs, his body quivering from the force of it. Draco rose and fisted his cock, and Harry watched avidly, as long pearly ropes of Draco’s spunk rained on him.

They caught their breaths lying on their backs, Harry’s hand on Draco’s. He took off his T-shirt and wiped the come off his skin. He turned to Draco, who gazed at him with dark eyes, and cleaned him too.

‘Take off your clothes,’ was the first thing Harry said that night. His voice sounded gruff, as if he hadn’t used it in years.

Draco blinked, curious, but he obeyed. Harry kicked off his trackies that’d been stuck on one leg. Now they were both naked.

‘I want to touch you,’ Harry told Draco. He ran a finger along his ribs. ‘I want to touch you everywhere.’

Draco’s eyes filled with wonder and delight. ‘Help yourself,’ he said in a teasing tone, gesturing with careless elegance to his body.

Harry smiled at him before he gave in to his ardent desire and explored every inch of Draco’s body. He caressed Draco’s stomach and the fair hair that led to his resting cock; he stroked all the way down Draco’s leg, touching his ankles and his toes one by one; his hand travelled up the inside of Draco’s leg, cupping his balls and weighing them in his palm.

‘All you'd need to do to hurt me is clench your fist,’ Draco rasped, his face more open than Harry had ever seen it.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ Harry said. ‘Not again.’

Draco’s back yielded next to Harry’s inquisition, as did his arse, which Harry squeezed, enjoying the dimples that formed in the pale cheeks. Draco was laughing by then, teasing Harry for his dedication (‘which you never showed in any lesson, I reckon’) and Harry chuckled (‘you forget Defence, I showed plenty of dedication there’), but didn’t let up.

He left Draco’s chest for last. He’d snuggled next to Draco’s side by then and Draco wrapped his arm around him. Harry’s fingertips followed the trails of the scars from one end to the other.

Only one part of Draco’s body was excluded from Harry’s exploration: Draco’s left forearm. Neither made any mention of it, but the shape of the Mark squatted between them, the ugly elephant in the room. Harry had no idea what was going to happen with him and Draco now; what it’d all meant. If it meant anything. Kissing was one thing, but this — this had been something else, something that had branded Harry in a way. Draco had left his mark on Harry now; an invisible one but no less searing.

Upon waking the next morning, Harry stared at the ceiling and wondered if he looked different now. He didn’t feel different. Just same ol’ Harry. Seamus had lost his virginity with a Ravenclaw girl the year before and he walked with a spring in his step and a smirk on his face for weeks, casually dropping his non-virgin status in every conversation. Would Harry have the same spring in his step like Seamus? If Dawn handed him a hammer, would he joke he knew all about “nailing” wink wink? Harry shuddered at the mere thought.

Having sex for the first time with Malfoy of all people… Someone bearing the Mark. Harry had no idea how to feel about that. He could see Draco’s arm out of the duvet, the hateful symbol stark on his pale skin, taunting Harry. A reminder of all that was ugly about their world.

But Draco wasn’t. He was changing, learning, moving past his prejudice. Harry gazed at his peaceful face, his hair mussed from sleep and sex. Draco breathed quietly and looked so attractive that Harry’s blood simmered with want. He wondered if he was still drunk on sex hormones. He wished he had someone to talk to about this, someone who could tell him how to deal with waking up with an armful of naked boy. What it meant to want to kiss someone so badly that it made his palms sweat and his breath hitch at the thought.

Sunlight streamed through the curtains they always forgot to shut properly and bathed the bed in translucent ivory tones. Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck, committing the smell of his skin to memory; a talisman to take with him when they would eventually leave this place, and Harry would go back to his mission. If time stopped, this could be Harry’s life: a life of home-cooked meals, kind ladies and verdant, fairy-infested forest. Mundane chores to pass the day and Draco Malfoy in his bed to spend the night. Uncomplicated, unhurried joy. A pang of longing tore through Harry for the life he couldn’t have.

But it was a life he’d fight for.

His dreams had been uneasy, flitting visions of stone dungeons and dark alleys. Voldemort’s presence never left Harry; the pull he exerted snatched at the edges of his consciousness; long, grasping fingers like the voices wishing to lure them in the forest. Their days at the cottage were running out; Sunday drew inexorably closer. The war beckoned.

Draco shifted. He blinked blearily at their nakedness, their tangled legs, the rumpled sheets. His voice was gruff from sleep. ‘You realise that, according to pureblood customs, we’re now married?’

‘What?’ Harry jerked back.

Draco burst out laughing. ‘You should’ve seen your face!’ 

‘Very funny.’ Harry punched his arm, annoyed — but also relieved — and got out of bed. His face heated up as he stood starkers by the side of the bed. Presenting himself in the nude to Draco’s interested gaze felt more daring in the daylight. He dressed swiftly, and Draco’s expression changed. He turned his back and rummaged for his own clothes.

‘Do you regret it?’ Draco asked a few minutes later. He was fully clothed now, back straight, face indifferent, even disdainful. The face that infuriated Harry.

‘Do you?’

‘I asked you first.’

Harry pursed his lips. ‘No. I don’t regret it.’ He paused and said, almost as if he had just realised it, ‘I liked it.’

A faint blush spread on Draco’s face, a hint of a smile. He moved to the door. ‘Let’s see what the schedule is for today.’

The schedule involved making the house ready for Passover. ‘We’re having seder next week,’ Esther explained over breakfast, ‘and my daughter is coming from London with all her kids.’

‘Is your other daughter coming?’ Harry asked. They’d learned by now the names of Esther’s children: Hannah and Talia, and the late Elijah and Levi.

‘Talia lives in Sydney; she can’t make it. Lila, her daughter, will be visiting in the summer, though. She’s a backpacker,’ Esther said proudly as if she’d said astrophysicist. ‘She sends me postcards from South America.’

Harry caught Draco’s baffled expression at the word “backpacker” and mouthed, I’ll explain later.

‘It’d be lovely if you stayed for seder,’ Esther continued. ‘It’s only one more week.’ 

The longing in her voice was hard to conceal. Draco stared at his porridge, Harry felt a knot in his throat, and Dawn cast a careful look at them but said nothing.

Harry took a fortifying sip of his tea. ‘Draco might stay.’ He ignored Draco’s glare and stood. ‘Would it be OK if we go to collect some wood first before we start on the chores?’ They’d collected enough wood to last them a month, but Dawn didn’t object.

‘What did you say that for?’ Draco asked as soon as they were on the forest path.

‘I wanted to try using the wand,’ Harry replied. ‘Best not do it in the house.’

‘That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You’re raising Esther’s hopes and she’ll be crushed!’

Harry knew it in his bones that staying here was the only safe choice for Draco; all he had to do was convince him. ‘Why are you so reluctant? Was there a reason you wanted to reach Tinworth, other than it was the nearest magical community to where we landed?’ 

‘I’m not sure how it might have escaped your notice, but we are being hunted!’ Wow, Draco really was quite angry. ‘Everywhere we go, we put people in danger. Do you want to draw Rookwood, who’s somewhere out in the moor, to these unprotected women?’

‘When I find my friends,’ Harry insisted, ‘I’ll borrow a wand and come here to cast a protective spell. It’s only a few more days, and you said that Rookwood was useless.’

‘He’s still someone with a working wand!’ Draco rubbed his face, exasperated. ‘Unless this piece of shit’ — he pulled his own wand from the back of his jeans — ‘starts working properly again, we’ve nothing to fall back on. We’ve survived out of pure luck so far.’

Everything Draco said was true, and yet Harry persisted. ‘I’ll make sure this place is safe. And if you stay here— When I come back…’ — his heart thudded a little — ‘I can see you.’

Draco paused, his hand tightening on his wand. The implication reverberated between them, stinging like a wasp: when they reached Tinworth, they’d separate. It could well be the last time they’d ever see each other. Harry scuffed his shoe on the ground, feeling absurdly guilty.

They hadn’t agreed to anything other than reaching Tinworth together when they’d made their plans in Camelford. Back then, it went without saying that they’d go their separate ways when they arrived at the magical village, but things had changed. Harry feared that Draco had hoped they’d stick together for longer, and judging by Draco’s reaction now, he was right.

‘Tinworth isn’t your real destination, is it?’ Draco leaned on the trunk of an oak, his face shuttered, his voice toneless. ‘You’ve got to find your friends; carry on with whatever you’ve been doing. Which you keep a secret from the likes of me.’

Moody’s words briefly echoed in Harry’s mind: constant vigilance! Chilly fingers wrapped around his heart at the thought that Draco might be fishing for information, but he shook the thought off. There was constant vigilance, and there was paranoia. 

‘I need to find Ron and Hermione.’ Saying their names aloud brought to the surface all the worry Harry’d been suppressing. He’d dearly hoped they were safe. ‘We have… somewhere to go.’ Draco nodded. He looked a lot more miserable than a moment ago, and it pained Harry to see him like this. He took a step closer, stretched his hand. ‘Which is why I think you—’

‘No need to decide right now, is there?’ Draco pushed off the tree and spoke in a voice that was a tad too bright. ‘Still got a few more days till Sunday. Now, you mentioned using this wand?’

It was the most blatant attempt to change the subject in the history of blatant attempts to change subjects, but Harry didn’t push. ‘Go on then.’

Draco started with easy charms: Summoning of pebbles, Levitating of twigs. He made a fern flutter its leaves. But halfway through the enchantment always fell: the pebbles dropped on the ground before they reached Draco; so did the twigs. Half the fern had refused to ruffle its leaves. After ten minutes, the wand started emitting a burning odour, acrid and bitter. 

Harry stretched his hand, wordlessly asking for it, and Draco, reluctant, handed it over. Scrutinising it, Harry whistled in awe. The crack in the side was almost gone. The wand was knitting itself together; extraordinary. 

‘It might be fine in a few days,’ he hazarded a guess. He handed it back, and Draco hurried to tuck it in the back of his jeans. ‘You’re so attached to it.’

Draco raised his eyebrow. ‘And I suppose losing your wand didn’t bother you much, did it?’

Harry brushed the leather pouch around his neck. The loss of his wand made him ache. He’d give anything to have it back. ‘I guess I—’

‘Shut up.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘No, shut up and look!’ Draco grabbed his arm, whipped him around and pointed upwards.

A majestic brown owl blinked at them from a high branch, a letter tied to its leg.

‘A magical owl,’ Harry whispered.

‘Our owl,’ Draco said. ‘Melor. The Malfoy owl.’

The owl flew to a lower branch and stretched out its foot. Neither of them made any move to take the letter.

‘Is it safe, do you think?’

‘Can it be traced, you mean?’ Draco asked. ‘I don’t know.’ 

‘Can it be cursed?’ Harry asked, his eyes darting around the forest.

‘I don’t know.’ Draco peered at the letter and brightened, an almost childlike hope on his face. ‘That’s the Black seal on the letter, though. Not the Malfoy.’

He tugged the parchment loose and opened it between them. Harry leaned over him, reading these words: as deep as the river and just as pure.

‘Is this a code?’

Draco blinked rapidly, his eyes shining. ‘Remember the lullaby? The mother sings to the son: “my love is as deep as the river and just as pure”.’ He stared at the elegant handwriting for a long moment, fingers clutching the parchment tightly. The coded message tugged at Harry’s heart. Draco’s mother was telling him she loved him.

Draco sniffed the parchment. ‘I need something powdery.’

Harry watched with bemusement as Draco picked a handful of soil and sprinkled it over the other side of the parchment. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

‘It’s a clear ink based on lemon.’ Draco explained, pouring more soil on the parchment. ‘Pureblood kids use it to write secret messages to their friends. The lemon makes the ink sticky, so if you throw some powder over it…’ he blew gently on the parchment and shapes appeared. ‘The powder sticks to it, and you can read the message.’

‘How would Voldemort not suspect?’ Harry asked, but he remembered that Voldemort, like him, had been raised in the Muggle world.

Draco shook the parchment lightly to remove the excess soil. ‘There’s literally a hundred different and safer spells for secret communication — if you have access to a wand. This is what kids do.’ He glanced at the words and blanched.

Don’t come home.

It sounded dire to Harry, but Draco’s face was set in a grim smile. ‘You said the Dark Lord’s trying to keep it a secret, that he wants me dead, but she suspects. She’s smart, my mother. She wouldn’t tell me to stay away unless she knew it’d be more dangerous for me to return.’ 

The forest rustled softly around them as they contemplated the message and its implications. Harry wondered if that was what it took for Draco to truly believe him about Voldemort’s intentions, but he didn’t ask. No matter the evidence of his visions, he couldn’t shake the few remaining doubts he had about Draco, their roots deep and tangled with past trauma. He’d been tricked before.

Finally, Draco folded the letter carefully and put it in his back pocket. The owl blinked at them. 

‘Is it waiting for a reply?’ Harry asked.

Draco considered the bird. ‘Melor’s probably instructed to return with some acknowledgment that the letter was received.’

They argued for a few moments about the prudency of sending back a reply. In the end, they reached a compromise: the bird flew away with a bluebell in its beak. Watching him fly off, Draco said wistfully, ‘My mother was named after a flower.’

‘So was mine,’ Harry said, and, to his surprise, Draco took his hand and squeezed it.

They walked back to the cottage in silence, having forgotten to gather any wood, Harry’s mind whirring after this intrusion of the wizarding world into their safe bubble. Draco had assured him that if the bird returned — if it turned out they could safely use it — Harry could send a message to his friends. Harry longed for it, he desperately wanted to confirm his friends were safe, and to assure them that he’d soon find them. But he also felt torn about leaving this place — and Draco. So selfish of him; and yet he couldn’t help desperately wanting more of the home comforts, the peace of a simple life and the pleasure of touching Draco, who laughed more and more as days went by.

As they entered through the back door, the smell of meatballs wafted from the kitchen and Harry resolved to make every minute in this cottage count. Even if that included chores. Harry found that he didn’t mind doing chores when they were assigned with a kind smile and followed by hearty meals.

Four hours later he revisited that statement: he’d give all the gold in his vault never to do any more chores in his life. The house had to be pristine in preparation for seder, Esther had said, and so they washed and hoovered everywhere, even under the sofa cushions, and they dusted shelves and windowsills and each and every one of the innumerable photo frames Esther had placed on every surface. Dawn bustled in and out with instructions, her hands full of the curtains she’d taken down to wash. Esther kept them company now and again, reminiscing about her life. How, after the war, she’d found work at a London theatre making costumes, and how she fell in love with the young man who did the lighting. The years working backstage, the actors she met, the pranks her first son, Elijah, played on the cast when he was little. ‘And Olivier had to go on stage with flour in his hair!’ She beamed as the memories flowed, one after the other; a life well-lived, even after the horror she’d gone through. She was a tiny woman, and yet so strong. Harry clutched at the hope emanating from her stories with the desperation of a drowning man: the hope that after this dire time, he’d have a chance to live and love, like she did.

The fact they were meant to leave soon weighed on everyone’s mind. Harry could see it in the wistfulness in Esther’s smile and Dawn’s examining gaze. It was written all over Draco’s face, a sharp longing to stay in the cottage mixed with the abject terror that he’d be found. The appearance of the owl had shaken them both. It brought with it not just a letter but also a tangible reminder that their world was out there, clamouring for their return.

Several times Harry caught Draco staring out the window towards the forest. Chills ran down Harry’s spine. The intrusion of the magical world brought anxiety and terror, unwelcome guests and impossible to be rid of. If the owl found them, perhaps Rookwood could too. Although Harry loathed seeing through Voldemort’s eyes, he longed for an update of where Rookwood might be, but all Voldemort sought at the moment was answers about the Elder Wand.

‘Are you expecting something?’ Esther asked Draco, who had paused watering the plants to stare out the window again.

In the hall, Harry pretended to dust a mirror.

‘No, I—’ Draco shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ He poured some water onto a ficus and moved to the next plant, but not before casting another look outside. Harry wondered if he was hoping for Melor to appear through the trees — or terrified that Death Eaters would.

Esther must have been thinking along those lines. ‘Do you worry the bad men you told me about will find you here?’ She patted his arm. ‘It’s the middle of nowhere.’

Draco gave her a grim smile. ‘Bad things can happen anywhere. Even in the middle of nowhere.’

‘Is that why you won’t stay?’ Esther asked.

Draco sighed. ‘I can’t take the chance someone will find me. They’ll punish you for having me here.’

‘Same thing happened back then,’ Esther said. ‘In the war.’ Her voice turned flat and colourless, the memories coming almost unwillingly. ‘Sometimes they offered rewards. They’d pay money if you told them where the Jewish families were. Other times… more often they’d come to your house and threaten to do the worst things imaginable to your family — unless you gave up the Jews hiding in your cellar.’ She shook her head. ‘Terrible, terrible days. The Nazis ruled by terror, and it ripped a whole continent apart.’ 

Draco was clutching his watering can tightly, eyes on the floor.

Esther said, ‘I can’t promise you it will be OK. It might not be. I know that very well. Bad things can happen to good people. But we can’t live in fear. I won’t. The attic room is yours for as long as you want it.’

Harry’s position near the mirror allowed him only a glimpse of Draco’s face, but it was enough to see it now scrunched in pain.

‘That’s the thing,’ Draco said, his voice breaking. ‘I’m not good people.’ His shoulders curled as he spoke, as if the admission gouged him on its way out. ‘I’m one of the others. I’ve done bad things, Esther. Unforgivable things. I’ve always considered some kinds of people’— here he glanced at her quickly — ‘lesser. I felt nothing but contempt for them. You’re putting yourself in danger for someone who…’

Riveted, Harry approached the ajar door for a better look.

‘Draco, I’m sure whatever you’ve done—’ 

‘You don’t understand,’ Draco interrupted, voice flat. ‘You think I’m exaggerating. If you knew… Last year I almost—’ 

He stopped abruptly, but Harry could guess what the end of the sentence was going to be. He remained rooted on the spot, dust cloth forgotten in his hands. The hints of Draco’s inner turmoil that he’d briefly witnessed the other day had become a flood spilling its banks.

‘Do you want to know the kind of person you’ve let in?’ Draco lifted his eyes and met Esther’s, his voice betraying how much it cost him to say it. ‘If they threatened my parents, I’d give you up.’

Esther’s hand clutched her cane hard, her eyes shining. Her voice, when she eventually replied, carried infinite sorrow. ‘That’s what they did, the Nazis. They didn’t give you a good choice. Either way someone had to die.’

‘Harry wouldn’t give anyone up,’ Draco said. ‘He’d fight. He’d hatch a hare-brained scheme and somehow make it work against all odds, and he’d get everyone to safety and… and possibly kill some bad guys in the process.’ 

Harry got the feeling Draco saw him as some sort of superhero.

‘He’s that type, eh? Is that why you like him so much?’ Esther smiled at Draco’s look of surprise. ‘My youngest was like you two. I’m glad you have each other. People shouldn’t be alone.’

The tension dissipated as the two in the living room, their profiles cast in sharp relief by the spring daylight, faced each other in silence. The tall one hunched, as if unable to hold his pain inside; the tiny one, leaning on her cane but erect, reached out to Draco, her big heart making her look a giant. Harry was about to leave his spot to avoid getting caught by Draco — Dawn had given him a look when she passed on her way to the kitchen — when Draco spoke again.

‘You know the funny thing?’ Draco’s tone revealed no humour. ‘I belong— I used to belong to that… organisation that’s hunting us.’

‘Draco,’ Esther said, ‘do you know who the first victims of the German Nazis were?’

Draco shook his head.

‘The other Germans. The ones that were a little different: the handicapped and the mentally ill; the homosexuals; the ones who failed to conform; the weak. Regimes like those have no mercy. They have no compassion. A young man who joins them might think he’ll gain power by stepping on others, but it’s only a matter of time before they step on him.’

‘The only thing he rewards is cruelty and blind obedience,’ Draco murmured, lost in thought. ‘And that’s if you don’t make any mistakes.’

Esther sought his hand and clasped it in hers. ‘Trust me when I say this: you’re a good person, Draco. Stay.’

When the conversation seemed to be done, Harry retreated to the kitchen as if he’d been there the whole time, ignoring Dawn’s raised eyebrow, his chest constricted. At the sound of Draco’s steps, he walked to the hallway, trying to look casual. Draco’s face was blotched, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He breathed heavily. He paused when he saw Harry, his face rippling with some emotion Harry could only guess at, and then Draco flung open the door of the mothball-smelling coat cupboard and dragged him inside.

‘What is it?’ Harry whispered when the door shut, leaving them in darkness pressed against wool coats, but Draco didn’t reply. He just grabbed him and held him tight. Harry wrapped his hands around the slim back, rubbing it in what he hoped was a soothing manner. 

Draco clutched even harder, almost cutting off Harry’s breath. ‘Everything hurts,’ he said against Harry’s skin. ‘Everything hurts, but you.’

~*~

That night, Draco was late to bed again. Harry’s scar ached; closing his eyes dragged him into the mire of the dreaded visions. Voldemort hunted wandmakers in his unceasing — and, so far, futile — effort to find out why the Elder Wand failed to be the exceptional instrument he’d expected. Answers eluded him. His frustration on top of his lieutenants’ failure in apprehending Harry and Draco enraged him, a fury he barely kept under control. He lashed out and punished and struck. Harry struggled against the bleak tide of his visions, trying to cling to the burnished memories of the last couple of days. Kissing Draco. Touching him. 

The afternoon’s conversation floated back to him. A few years ago, he’d be hard pressed to believe Malfoy would ever change. The pleasure Draco took in taunting Muggleborns was hard to conceal. Even a few weeks ago Harry would find it unlikely; but now Harry had had some days (six, Draco counted them) with a first-row view of the evolving psyche of Draco Malfoy.

Putting all thoughts aside, his scar prickling subtly, a reminder of doom that almost never went away these days, Harry gazed at the empty pillow beside him and wondered where Draco was. He was about to close his eyes, swallowing his disappointment, when the door opened. 

When no one walked in, Harry’s heart thumped in pure terror. He instinctively stretched a hand to the bedside table for a wand that wasn’t there — he cursed himself for forgetting — and then… Draco padded in, shutting the door gently behind him.

Relief flooded through Harry, and he flopped back on the pillow. That owl had made him jumpy. If he carried on like this, he’d have a heart attack before the Dark Lord got a chance to do him in.

‘You still up?’ Draco asked, sliding into bed, bringing with him the scent of the forest. He hesitated for a moment, glancing at the space between them, but Harry shuffled towards him. An invitation. Eyes smiling, Draco snuggled close behind Harry, wrapping his arms around him, pressing his chest on Harry’s back. Warmth bloomed between them, a simple comfort that was enough to dispel the darkness in Harry’s heart. 

‘Where’ve you been?’ Harry asked.

‘Gardening in the moonlight.’

Harry sighed. ‘Taking the piss, more like,’ he murmured, fed up with Draco’s apparent inability to answer a simple question directly.

‘What was that?’ Draco’s lips brushed Harry’s neck.

‘Were you waiting for the owl to come back?’

 A pause. ‘It’s not enough time for Melor to go and return. But still, I—’

‘Hope.’

‘Yeah.’ Draco started rubbing his hips against Harry’s arse, a hypnotic movement that drove all thought from Harry’s mind. ‘Any news on your part? About Rookwood?’

‘Nothing. Keep doing what you’re doing.’

‘You like that, Potter?’ Draco whispered in his ear. He accompanied his words with a sinuous roll of his hips. The hard length of his cock pressing against Harry’s arse was probably the most delectable thing Harry had experienced in his life. He arched his back, pushing his bum towards Draco, who purred with appreciation. 

This time there was no pretence of sleep. This was no “getting carried away”. Harry almost trembled with the force of his desire. He enjoyed being cuddled a little more than he’d like to admit. That feeling of being wholly enveloped in someone else’s warmth and scent. Slotted behind him, Draco rubbed his erection insistently against Harry’s arse, his breath warm on Harry’s neck. Craving more, heart galloping with his daring, Harry pushed down his bottoms and kicked them off. Draco made a keening noise that pleased Harry no end. The movement of the mattress behind him indicated Draco taking off his bottoms too. A moment later, the heat of Draco’s shaft, silky and hard, slid between Harry’s arse cheeks, and Harry almost blanked out from bliss. It felt so… intimate, so exhilarating to be touched there. 

And so mind-numbingly good. Draco, his hand travelling down Harry’s stomach, resumed his slow thrusting. The friction stung a little but with some of Draco’s spit, it became easier.

‘I decided I’m going to stay,’ Draco murmured against his ear.

‘Really?’ The relief Harry felt at this news was accompanied by a pang of loss. He was startled to realise he’d miss Draco.

‘I’ve been thinking of precautions,’ Draco continued, his hips still making the tantalising movement. ‘I thought I might shave my hair off. Change my looks a bit.’

‘You what?’ Harry turned, regretfully putting an end to the delicious rubbing, and caressed Draco’s hair. The silky strands looked silver in the night. ‘I—’ I like your hair. ‘I don’t see the point. It won’t make much of a difference. You’ll still look like yourself.’

‘If it won’t make much of a difference, it doesn’t matter if I do it, right?’

Harry grimaced.

‘Harry…’ Harry’s hands hadn’t stopped stroking his hair, and Draco grinned, his face lit with jubilation. ‘Are you telling me you like my hair this way? Longer?’

Longer. Mussed up. Falling sweaty on your cheekbones after sex. ‘It’s all right.’ Harry shrugged.

‘Just all right?!’ Draco let out a peal of laughter. Harry marvelled at how he could tuck away his pain like that, shove it somewhere out of sight. At dinner he’d been quiet and introspective, picking at his food. Now, propped next to Harry on his elbow, he preened, his expression elated. He leaned over Harry, his breath on Harry’s mouth. ‘I think you like my hair.’ A brush of lips. ‘No, you love it.’ Another brush, lingering. His hand sought Harry’s erection, and he pressed his knuckles against it, while he nosed down Harry’s jaw, his mouth seeking the tender spot under the ear. ‘And you won’t admit it.’

The luxurious massage Draco’s hand was giving Harry’s hard-on didn’t leave much room for coherent thought. Harry’s breath came laboured. ‘Fine, I admit it. I like your hair.’

With a triumphant smile, Draco climbed over Harry’s supine body and pressed his hips flush against his groin. Skin on skin, searing touch. Draco’s hair fell in his face, his expression open like a night flower, surrendering and claiming at the same time, and Harry had never dared to imagine he’d be granted such happiness. Every cell of his body thrummed with heady, untidy joy. He traced Draco’s cheekbone and the corner of his mouth. ‘I like your mouth too,’ he murmured, voice low, feeling desire simmer in his blood. He slipped one finger between Draco’s lips, and Draco sucked it in, a shudder running through him that found an echo in Harry. Harry watched his luminous face, his ruffled hair, his intense gaze as Draco sucked Harry’s finger, and the lust pooling in his stomach stirred. ‘Merlin, I love your mouth,’ Harry said, voice gruff, and rose and kissed Draco.

It was night and it was different in the night — their edges disappeared and they became ghosts, echoes of who they were, but also true distillations of themselves: distillations of despair and loneliness and ardent, burning desire. They clung to each other with fierce passion, Draco pressing down on Harry, kissing and grinding and touching. Skin to skin, sweat mingling, they kissed and rubbed and touched. They spoke little, just exclamations and small laughter and soft, fragile moans.

‘There’s something I want to do,’ Draco said.

‘What?’

Draco detached himself from Harry, shuffled down the bed, and settled between Harry’s legs. Harry understood — and experienced such a wave of lust that he almost choked. Even Draco’s breath on his cock aroused him, and he told him that.

‘I’m going to give you a lot more than my breath.’ Smirking, Draco licked around the crown of Harry’s cock.

‘Fuck!’

Looking pleased, Draco opened his mouth and took him in.

Harry had to fist the sheets, tendons straining, to stop himself from coming immediately. The sensation was so different than a hand. Draco’s mouth was so… wet. And soft and warm. The feel of his tongue, jesus! Draco swirled it around, casting enquiring looks at Harry, as if he needed reassurance, followed by a wicked smirk when Harry moaned with abandon and ruffled his hair. 

Harry couldn’t take his eyes off him. Draco made the most arresting sight: sweaty-haired, cheeks hollow, lips red and slick, lying between Harry’s open thighs, sucking him off. Blistering heat spread from Harry’s groin to every nerve ending, and he couldn’t hold his climax back. ‘I’m— uh. Close.’ 

He’d meant it as a warning in case Draco didn’t want a mouthful of his spunk, but Draco instead increased the pace of his sucking and added his hand, exploring the base of Harry’s cock and slithering to his balls. And then… lower. All it took was a fleeting touch of fingers inside the cleft of his arse for Harry’s back to arch clean off the bed and come, hard, in Draco’s mouth, who coughed but swallowed valiantly as best he could.

Panting, Harry flopped on the bed. His brain felt stuffed in treacle. ‘I’d die happy now,’ he murmured.

A low chuckle. Harry looked down. If he ever thought he’d seen Draco smug, he was wrong: this was the smuggest expression Harry ever saw on Draco Malfoy. ‘Better not die yet,’ Draco said and arranged himself next to Harry, his erection bobbing, hard and glistening. ‘You’ve got to get me off too.’

The next day ambled by in a haze of bliss. Harry definitely walked with a spring in his step now. He peeled potatoes for lunch and helped Dawn with the laundry, and all the while his mind replayed the memories of the night before, causing his cheeks to warm up. He kept stealing glances at Draco, who glanced at him as often as Harry did. The heat and longing in Draco’s eyes suggested they shared the same thought: they had only a few more nights sharing a bed. A few more nights to touch each other. 

Which is why Harry was royally pissed off when Draco didn’t come to bed early yet again. The clock struck midnight, and half-worried, half-irritated, Harry left the bed to seek him out. Draco wasn’t in the living room nor the kitchen. He wasn’t lurking anywhere in the hallway or near the back door. Glancing through the window, Harry saw no sign of Draco in the back garden. His heart clenching in a whole different way — anticipation, but a different kind of anticipation: one tinged with fear — Harry put shoes on and headed outside. 

What if there had been other owls? Other letters that Harry didn’t know about? He didn’t think he’d bear it if Draco betrayed him. Walking carefully towards the edge of the property, Harry strained his ears but all he could hear were the forest sounds: birds chirping and leaves rustling and insects buzzing.

Then he heard it: Draco’s voice, coming from the forest. 

‘Draco?’ Harry ran that way. ‘Are you alone?’ Please, please be alone, he prayed. 

He reached the tree, but Draco wasn’t there. ‘Draco?’

A voice replied to him, something indistinct.

‘Where are you?’ Harry took some steps deeper in the forest, and there! A golden head disappeared behind the trunk of a slender birch. ‘What are you doing?’ Baffled, Harry hurried to the tree. He could smell Draco, too; that same scent of rain and wood and lightning, although underneath it there was something cloying and floral and a hint of rot. The forest, probably.

When he rounded the birch trunk, Draco wasn’t there either. Frustration rose inside Harry at Draco’s stupid games. ‘Not funny,’ he gritted out.

He heard Draco’s voice then. ‘Come closer,’ the voice said. ‘Come with me.’

‘Where?’ Harry walked further into the trees, eyes darting all around, trying to catch a glimpse of Draco. ‘Where are you?’

Laughter replied almost next to him. Harry turned on his heel. He could almost see Draco — his fair hair glinted in the moonlight. All he had to do was stretch his hand and—

‘You idiot!’ Draco grabbed him — from behind — and thrust something in his palm. The laughter and fair hair faded in the night, and the forest filled with the sounds of branches rustling and nightingales singing — and Draco panting next to him as if he’d run.

Harry shook his head, feeling as if he’d just woken up from a daze. He clenched the rusty nail Draco had thrust in his palm, the metal digging in the flesh. ‘What just happened?’ he asked Draco — real Draco, flesh and blood Draco, breathing hard, hair in his face, and fury in his eyes.

‘You absolute fucking pillock. You imbecile of gigantic proportions. You utter, dimwitted twat—’

Yep, this was real Draco alright. 

Draco hauled him back onto the path towards the opposite direction of where Harry had thought the cottage was. Cold sweat ran down Harry’s back when he realised how far into the woods he’d gone.

‘You can thank your lucky stars I saw you walking right into the forest like an utter prat. Didn’t I tell you about—’ Draco lowered his voice ‘—Them?’

‘I heard your voice,’ Harry insisted. ‘I saw you — or well, I thought it was you, but I definitely heard your voice.’

‘What, so ancient magical creatures can’t imitate voices? You didn’t even take some iron with you for protection. What a fucking stupid, exasperating idiot you are, trying to get yourself killed before the Dark Lord has a go!’

‘Can you tone it down with the insults?’ Harry pulled his hand from Draco’s grasp. They’d reached the edge of the cottage by now. ‘It was an honest mistake, I didn’t think…’

‘What are you even doing out here?’

Harry crossed his arms. ‘Gardening in the moonlight.’

Uncomprehending, Draco examined Harry’s face. His expression turned grim when he figured out what Harry meant. ‘You didn’t believe me, did you?’

‘Did you expect me to?’ Harry raised an eyebrow. ‘Because as cryptic statements go, that was by far—’

Draco huffed loudly, interrupting him. ‘Look here.’ He pointed to a neat row of bushes, circling the edge of the property. Its blossoms looked familiar. ‘This is St John’s wort. Good for banishment, among other things. We’ve used it in Potions.’

Harry walked closer to the yellow flowers. The small mounds, spaced neatly around the fence, seemed freshly dug. St John’s wort was an unassuming plant, similar to the wildflowers blooming all around them, and Harry couldn’t remember if he’d seen these bushes when they first arrived. ‘They’re for healing, right?’

 ‘They’re also said to banish evil spirits when planted in the perimeter of a house.’ An edge of anger peeked under Draco’s words, the tip of a blade that was barely held back. ‘Planting needs to take place late at night during the waning of the moon — we’re lucky there. That’s what gardening in the moonlight meant.’

The adrenaline from Harry’s close call with the fairies still bubbled in his veins. He felt antsy, and the tension pouring from Draco didn’t help. ‘Where did you learn all this?’ Harry didn’t remember Professor Sprout nor Snape mentioning this.

Draco’s face glittered with contained rage. ‘I learned it on my grandmother’s knee, who learned it on hers. I know all this because I’m a fucking pureblood, Harry. This is what it means to grow up in magic — and what it means to be a Muggleborn. You think you can wave a wand and cast a spell and that makes you a wizard, but I’ve been breathing magic since the moment I was born.’

Draco spat his words out, and Harry lost his temper. ‘Three fucking cheers for you, then. I did wonder if the real Malfoy was in there, somewhere. Clinging to his upbringing, looking down on all of us, poor Muggle-raised folk.’

Draco looked like he’d been slapped. ‘The real— ?’ He poked Harry in the chest. ‘I’m not looking down on you, I’m trying to explain! And that was the old me, but you refuse to see it.’

‘You're kidding me, right? Why else have you not stopped rubbing your pureblood status in my face?’

‘Because that’s all I have!’ Draco snapped. ‘It’s all that I have left other than the clothes on my back. I have nothing else, no money, no family I can go back to, no home, no wand, not even a name that’s not a disgrace whichever side of the war you’re standing in. No future.’ He deflated as he spoke, his fury turned low, inwards, mixed with despair. ‘I have nothing but this: the stories I grew up with, the superstitions, the folk tales the paintings told me at bedtime. The traditions no one bothers to record. The childhood games.’

In the ringing silence that followed, Harry said, ‘Not true.’ His anger had evaporated in the face of Draco’s desperation, and he met Draco’s startled eyes. ‘You have me.’

Draco’s face rippled with emotion until it settled into a grim, cold mask. ‘Do I, really? You’re going away. And you still don’t trust me.’ The hurt was undeniable in his voice.

A wave of frustration rose in Harry. ‘I don’t know how to!’ he replied, his voice raw. ‘I don’t know how to trust, when my own brain has tricked me, the visions tricked me, Death Eaters masquerading as teachers tricked me. Every mistake I make gets people killed. Every time I let my guard down, when I reach for a trophy in the middle of a maze, someone ends up dying.’ The murders of Beth and Pauline had proved that all too well. ‘There’s so much at stake, and he’s so, so powerful, so ruthless and he won’t stop—’ He took a step closer to Draco. ‘I know I shouldn’t have doubted you, but I’m terrified, terrified that I’ll pay for this — this happiness, that all this joy will enact a dire cost, and I’m—’

He ran out of words but didn’t need to finish. Draco grabbed him, arms wrapping firm around Harry. Harry held tight, savouring Draco’s summer-storm scent, his familiar warmth. His heartbeat thudded against Draco’s, a small symphony of life, while the night whispered around them.

‘What did you think I was doing out here?’ Draco asked softly, his hands running up and down Harry’s back. 

‘I don’t know. Unsavoury things, I guess.’

‘Seeing as I’m an unsavoury character.’ Draco was teasing; no rancour in his voice.

Harry pulled back to look at him in the eye. ‘Can’t say I’ve tasted you to know.’ He paused before adding meaningfully, ‘Yet.’

He was rewarded with a deep blush. Draco’s gaze changed when he felt aroused, became soft and full of yearning. ‘Is that so, Potter?’ he asked, manoeuvring Harry against an oak. ‘You planning to—’ he licked Harry’s neck and whispered in his ear ‘—eat me?’

Trust the devil to choose his words well. Harry hadn’t felt so aroused so fast in his life, and he’d been a fifteen-year-old boy. The image Draco conjured had his pulse spiking. He flipped them around, pushing Draco against the tree and his thigh between Draco’s legs. Draco gasped, a tantalising smile on his face. 

‘Eat?’ Harry asked, voice low. ‘I’ll devour you. Like the big bad wolf.’

‘Who?’ Draco asked, face slack in desire.

‘He’s—'

It was a twig that alerted Harry. A tiny, insignificant crunch behind him that ended up saving their lives. Instinctively, he dove to the ground, pulling Draco down with him, a second before a red spark hit the oak where they’d been standing; a non-verbal Stunner that gouged the bark.

Frantic and defenceless, Harry scrambled behind the nearest tree, Draco on his other side. Through the dark woods, a darker shape appeared. Rookwood. He brandished his wand with one hand and held a limp owl in the other. Harry’s blood chilled at the sight of the dead bird. Draco whispered, ‘Oh, Melor!’

‘Well, well, well, Draco.’ Rookwood took his time coming closer, gleeful in his victory. ‘The Dark Lord knew you were helping Potter, but I bet he had no idea what you really got up to!’ He cackled. ‘Oh, dear old Lucius is going to have a heart attack when he finds out his boy is spreading for Potter!’

Rookwood was only a few yards away. Draco had taken his wand out, but who knew what good it’d do. Harry had nothing to defend himself with.

‘I’ve been going around in circles in this bloody forest for days,’ Rookwood said. ‘There was no sign of you, no sign of spells cast in the area, no signs of habitation. The Dark Lord sent me on a fool’s errand, I thought. And just when I was about to leave, guess what flew through the sky! The Malfoy owl, going where it shouldn’t. The answer fell into my lap, just like that. All I had to do was follow the trajectory.’ 

‘Did he carry a letter?’ Draco called.

Harry glared at him, but Draco stared back stubbornly.

‘’Smatter of fact there was a letter,’ Rookwood said, sounding closer to them. ‘Only, the parchment was blank. A joke maybe. It’s in my pocket. Want to see it, Malfoy? Come out and get it.’

Draco clutched his wand tighter but didn’t move. Heart thudding loudly, Harry glanced around them, trying to think. Their spot was vulnerable, exposed as they were in the fringes of the forest. They were also near the cottage. 

‘Draw him into the woods,’ Harry whispered to Draco, who nodded. He’d understood.

‘Keep your nail with you.’

Harry found the rusted old nail in his pocket and pressed it in his palm. He peeked behind their tree to see where Rookwood was, and a spell almost razed his forehead.

‘There you are, lovebirds!’ 

Draco chose that moment to dart from their tree to the next and then deeper into the woods, drawing Rookwood’s attention. ‘Incarcerous!’ he yelled but missed, and Harry, heart in his mouth, dashed after Draco.

‘Stupefy! Incarcerous! Crucio!’

Spell after spell rained behind them as they zigzagged through the forest, crashing through the undergrowth, stumbling on gnarled roots, trampling through the stream. Draco turned to cast a Stupefy; he aimed well, and it shot true, but Rookwood waved it away with an almost careless gesture, a gnat not worthy of exertion.

‘Come out, come out!’ Rookwood crooned. ‘Come out, and I won’t hurt you. A lot.’ He cackled at his own joke and cast a bright Lumos, dazzling Harry and drenching the woods with light. Draco crouched behind a birch and aimed another spell, but although the spells reached their target, they didn’t seem powerful enough to affect him.

‘Are you fighting me, or is this foreplay?’ Rookwood’s dark, cloaked shape drew closer. Harry panted, his sweaty palms clutching the rough bark of the tree he was hiding behind. In this bright light, he’d be spotted as soon as he moved. He turned his head to the right, glancing at Draco who, like him, breathed hard against another tree. Draco gazed back, his expression saying what they both thought: they had to keep going. They had to ensure they drew the Death Eater away from the cottage.

Harry took one long look at Draco, terror jostling in his chest with… something he couldn’t name. He’d always known it might come to this, this quick end in a dark forest; and so it had. There wasn’t much either of them could do at this point but keep the existence of the two ladies hidden. Draco nodded, lips pursed, as if he could read Harry’s thoughts. ‘We won’t let him near Esther and Dawn,’ he said, and Harry set his shoulders straight and prepared to run, just as another spell — a bright green one — flashed between them.

Perhaps it was saying the ladies’ names that drew Their attention. Perhaps it was the bright light — or simply chance. Music drifted in the air: pretty music, flutes and violins and a gently thrumming harp. It sounded as if it a party was unfolding at some distance, but the notes rang clear, falling like silver rain around them. Rookwood’s footsteps paused.

Harry chanced a look behind him; Rookwood had turned towards his left. ‘What’s this?’ He’d thrown the owl away somewhere, but he waved the wand in front of him, murmuring several Revelio spells. They revealed nothing. 

A hand touched Harry’s shoulder and he jumped, stifling his yell at the last moment as Draco moved next to him. Rookwood had noticed nothing, his attention focused on a different direction. He took several hesitant steps towards a clump of trees. A voice cried out; the fact it sounded very much like his own chilled Harry to his bones. 

‘Do you think he’ll fall for it?’ he whispered, as Rookwood blundered into trees, exclaiming ‘There you are!’ and ‘I see you now!’

Draco held tight to Harry’s arm. ‘If he doesn’t know They live in these woods, then yes.’

Harry could almost see what Rookwood saw; what he himself had seen earlier that night. A lithe figure behind a tree, a bright head, an almost-heard voice, a familiar, enticing smell. Rookwood followed the hypnotic dance of misleading clues into the darkness, casting spells that illuminated emptiness. There was nothing there, besides trees and birds, and yet there was, invisible but no less dangerous. In a few short moments, the Lumos faded, and Rookwood was lost.

Draco remained pressed against Harry, fingers digging in his T-shirt, long after the forest had gone dark and quiet.

‘Let’s go back,’ Harry murmured, and hand in hand they trudged back to the cottage.

The house stood there, innocently slumbering, as if nothing had happened. But everything had changed. Harry sat on the ground, facing the forest, his back against the fence. Draco settled next to him, his thigh and arm touching Harry’s, both relishing each other’s warmth after the harrowing incident. They hadn’t uttered it out loud, but they remained there, in the cool spring night, sentinels against the enemy. Rookwood could have lived. He could come back.

‘No.’ Draco shook his head when Harry voiced his doubts. ‘I doubt it. They got him for sure. Dawn said we’re protected, and They came when we needed them. He said he’d been circling around for days. The forest isn’t that big. I don’t think he even noticed the cottage, although it was in plain sight.’

Harry scuffed the toe of his shoe in the dirt. A plan had formed in his mind, the need to leave, to go and do something. The urgency ran through him, pushing him forward. ‘I’m going to leave. Tonight even.’

Draco stared at him. ‘Rookwood’s not coming back.’

‘But someone else will. When V—’ Harry stopped himself just in time. ‘When he realises Rookwood isn’t coming back, he’ll think we killed him or something. He’ll know Rookwood found us here in this area.’ He took a deep breath and let it out. He’d made his decision. ‘I’ll go to Tinworth. As soon as possible. And— I’ll show my face around there.’

Draco remained silent for a moment. ‘Make a big announcement we’re there so they won’t bother with this area anymore. I see.’

‘We?’

Draco said, ‘Unless a witness sees me too, the Death Eaters might speculate — correctly if I might add — that I’m still here. They need to know we’re both in Tinworth. Both.’ He clasped Harry’s hand fervently. ‘It’s the only way.’

The selfish part of Harry rejoiced the fact he wouldn’t carry on alone just yet. That he’d have Draco at his side, like now. They were both leaning against the stone fence, looking at each other. 

But Harry’s heart plummeted. ‘I wanted you to be safe,’ he murmured.

‘I know.’ Draco stroked his palm with a long finger. ‘I know you did.’

~*~

Half an hour later, Harry started shivering. He’d left the bed in a T-shirt, and the night had grown cold. They’d decided to remain outside for a bit in case Rookwood came tumbling out of the forest, but there was no sign of him. They made and discarded several plans as to how they could show themselves in Tinworth and then manage to flee, since they couldn’t Disapparate. They also discussed their transport. Waiting for another two days for Esther’s grandson to drive them — and possibly endangering him too — was out of the question now.

‘We’ll hitchhike,’ he said. ‘Last time the Death Eaters found us before we had a chance to give it a real go. Or, maybe Dawn knows someone in the village that could give us a lift to a busy junction or something.’

‘What if they’re watching the roads?’

Harry sighed. ‘They can’t be watching all the roads.’

‘I bet they can’t, there’s loads of them,’ a voice said.

They both jumped. Dawn stood behind them in her nightgown, blue slippers in her feet, hands on her waist. ‘You been out here all night? Your lips are blue,’ she scolded them. ‘Get your arses inside before you catch your death. And what’s that about them roads?’

Harry stood, brushing the dust off him. ‘We’ve got to leave. Now. Tonight.’

She took in their serious expressions. ‘Did they find you?’

Draco nodded. 

‘Is that what that torch was?’ She probably meant Rookwood’s Lumos. ‘Where are they now?’

Draco said, ‘The forest took him.’

Dawn nodded. ‘Won’t be seeing him again then.’

Harry envied her certainty. ‘We’ll need to get to Cadgwith as soon as possible. If you know anyone that could help…’ 

‘First, you come and say goodbye to Esther.’

It was a busy night. Dawn bustled about with her usual efficiency, preparing chicken sandwiches for them and digging an old rucksack out of the attic. Harry and Draco dressed in their Oxfam outfits and gathered their few possessions. Draco retrieved his aunt’s dagger from the back of the drawer he’d hidden it in, and Harry took out all the objects in his purse and gazed at them. The shard of mirror was dark; silent. A reminder of a costly mistake. He lay his broken wand pieces on the duvet, staring at them as if they’d be fixed just because he wanted them to. He put everything back, wore the jacket he’d bought at Oxfam — another costly mistake — and trudged down the stairs, where Esther was waiting for them by the door. 

She looked heart broken. Draco blinked fast as he held her and murmured something in her ear. She patted his back and whispered something back to him, glancing at Harry. Then, she cupped his face. ‘B’ezrat hashem.’

‘I think you should leave,’ Harry said to them, hating that he had to. ‘It’s not safe here for you.’

‘Bah, what can they do to us? They’ll search, they won’t find you. No problem.’

Draco’s face suggested he was thinking the same thing that Harry was: they won’t search the house, but your memories. They’ll violate your mind and take what they need. They’ll punish you for hosting us. They can kill with a whispered word. But he couldn’t say any of that.

‘They can do more than that,’ Draco muttered.

Esther shook her head. ‘I’ve lived the worst. I’m not going away, not when seder is coming.’

Harry held her, her frail bones delicate under his hands. ‘Will we see you again?’ she asked. ‘You can always visit.’

Harry knew this was goodbye for good, but she gazed up at him with such hope. ‘Possibly.’

She gave him a wistful smile. ‘You’re not a good liar. But I will hope. And pray for you both to find peace.’

‘Thank you for everything,’ Harry said. ‘This felt like a home to me.’

‘It’ll always be a home to you, as long as I’m alive. B’ezrat hashem.’

Harry wiped his eyes and straightened. Draco had already put on the rucksack and waited by the door. Harry made his goodbyes with Dawn, who shoved a twenty in his palm. ‘Take the train, my love. It’s fast and it’ll keep you off the roads.’

‘I can’t accept this,’ Harry said, touched.

Esther curled his hand around the note. ‘We won’t starve for a twenty. It’ll ease our hearts to know you have a little cash with you.’

Dawn saw them off. She pointed at a new direction through the woods. ‘Got any iron with you? Good. Now, go straight through here and in a mile or two you’ll see a road. There’ll be a sign for St Cleer. It’s the nearest village. By the time you get there, the first trains will be running. You’ll need to change in Falmouth and take a bus to Cadgwith. Got all that?’

‘Thank you, Dawn. For everything.’

‘You best keep yourselves in one piece, got it? Esther don’t need to mourn more people.’ It was Dawn’s way of telling them she cared.

When she left, Harry cast a last glance at the cottage. The light on the ground floor winked out. The trees rustled over his head and the darkness was snug as a blanket around them. At the end of this path, the magical world beckoned.

‘Ready?’ he asked Draco.

‘More ready than you,’ Draco replied, raising an eyebrow.

Harry elbowed him. ‘Always a competition with you. Off we go then.’

Somewhere, Voldemort was looking for wandmakers to threaten for information about his wand. Somewhere, Narcissa Malfoy stared at the sky, waiting for the owl to return, fearful for her life over this betrayal. Somewhere in Hogwarts, Harry’s friends were fighting a cruel system. Somewhere, Ron and Hermione waited for a scrap of news about him. And in Tinworth Dolohov waited for a sign of them. Heart beating fast with anticipation, Harry marched down the path with Draco by his side, heading straight to give it to him. 

Sunrise found them hurrying through a sleeping village, cresting to the top of a steep street. A vista of the Cornish countryside unfolded before them, soft greens and blues, the young barley fields slashed by dark green hedges. Harry darted a glance at Draco, who seemed as tense as Harry felt. They’d been jumpy on the way here, flinching at sudden movements. A cat had jumped on a bin earlier, and Draco had almost hexed the poor creature.

However, the deeper into the village they delved, the more Harry relaxed. St Cleer exuded a reassuringly Muggle ambiance, untouched by the magical world; mundane, and safe in its mundanity. They strode down the high street, past the still dark shops and a pub with blooming hanging baskets swaying in the breeze, on their way to the train station. A yawning clerk sold them two single tickets for Falmouth, and Harry led Draco to the right platform. It’d just gone seven.

Draco offered to buy tea from the little shop on the platform. Harry handed him a handful of change, which Draco rifled through, picking each coin up and examining it. ‘Is this the most precious one?’ He held a fifty-pence.

‘No, that’s half of this one.’

‘But this one is larger. And it says fifty, whereas that one says only one. Is it because it’s gold?’ He poked the pound.

‘Not real gold. I can go and get the tea.’

Draco jerked his hand back. ‘No, I’ll do it. I can figure it out.’ 

Amused, Harry waited on the platform, keeping an eye on the train notices, while Draco marched to the shop’s counter. He peered at the menu high on the wall and poked at the change some more before ordering.

He returned with two cups of steaming tea and a superbly proud expression. ‘She thought I was a tourist.’

Harry accepted his tea. ‘That pleased you?’

Harry’s less than impressed response didn’t satisfy. ‘She thought me a Muggle, Harry,’ Draco explained in condescending tones. ‘I paid with Muggle money, casually mentioned EastEnders and I left a tip of seven pennies. What’s more, I did all that on my own.’ He blew on his tea. 

Harry bit his lip. ‘Seven whole pennies? Wow.’

Draco sipped his tea. ‘I know.’ He paused, eyes on the horizon, still looking proud. ‘I blend right in. Mother always said I was a natural in every situation.’

Harry had to bite his lip harder. ‘If I’d known you were such a natural, I would’ve let you work out the ticket gate yourself.’

The reminder of Draco staring at the turnstile in complete bafflement irritated him. He pursed his lips and turned his back on Harry, pretending to study a poster advertising cream tea at a National Trust stately home nearby. Harry watched his vexed back, affection warming his insides. He enjoyed teasing Draco, and the irony of him taking pride in his Muggleness wasn’t lost on Harry. Not long ago Draco would’ve been horrified to be mistaken for a Muggle, whereas now it constituted an achievement to pass as one.

Their train arrived, and they grabbed a table seat, facing each other. Draco dropped the rucksack next to him and leaned back as the conductor slammed the doors shut and whistled. Harry observed Draco as he settled and took in their surroundings, the blue threadbare fabric, the few passengers, the notices about not putting one’s feet on the seat. The affection Harry had felt earlier lingered; a secret nestling under his skin, blooming with warmth each time he gazed at Draco. They might have to part ways soon, and Harry didn’t know if he could bear knowing Draco was out there, where anything could happen to him. Where Harry couldn’t see him or touch him.

As if Draco had heard him, he stretched his legs under the table, resting them against Harry’s. He seemed unaware of it; this absent-minded desire to stay connected to Harry in some small way. Harry’s heart fluttered, a small trilling bird.

‘What is she doing?’ Draco brought Harry out of his thoughts. He pointed at someone behind Harry. 

Harry leaned in the aisle. A few seats behind, a girl in headphones scribbled in her notebook, swaying her head to the music. The writing wasn’t probably what had confused Draco. ‘She’s listening to music.’ He sat back properly in his seat. ‘That’s a portable CD player — it plays music.’

‘Like a transistor?’ 

‘Not exactly. You put small disks in it. Each disk is a music album.’

Draco frowned. ‘How does it work? Is it sentient?’

Harry sighed, remembering similar conversations with Arthur Weasley, and explained about batteries and energy as best he could. He had no idea what was inside a battery, so he wrapped up the conversation swiftly. ‘You’ve been around Muggles for a week now. What impressed you the most?’

Draco mulled it over. ‘Their technology, I suppose. They’re very inventive, aren’t they? The Muggles. I mean, they have to be. To make do without magic.’

‘Some technology is even better than magic,’ Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. ‘Let's not exaggerate. Portable music is all good and proper but it’s hardly ground-breaking—’

‘You do know that Muggles can hold conversations across the planet? When Esther wants to, she can speak to her daughter in Australia in real time.’

Draco laughed. ‘Who do you think you’re kidding, Harry? As if I’d fall for that.’

Harry grinned. ‘Not kidding. This isn’t even one of the newest inventions.’

It took some time before Draco believed him. ‘For real?’ he asked, face in shock. He sat back. ‘Our discoveries are different — transfiguration has made leaps and bounds lately — but still…’ He murmured as if he was speaking to himself. ‘Perhaps magic is making us complacent.’

The train stopped at what seemed every Cornish village on the line, tiny stations that were no more than a narrow building in the woods. Commuters and teenagers climbed on board. The morning mist had burned off; in the east, the sea sparkled.

They ate a sandwich each, watching the group of schoolchildren who’d boarded the train wearing green blazers and grey trousers: a knot of four boys, a pair of girls muttering about GCSE coursework and a thin boy with a mop of auburn curls. The latter one leaned near the doors, absorbed in a copy of Avenger comics, smiling to himself. 

Draco’s gaze was drawn to the group too, but unlike Harry, he didn’t find the sight of the smiling boy charming. ‘He’s going to lose the magazine,’ he said, his eyes on a short, wiry lad.

What he meant soon became clear. The boy Draco had referred to kept glancing at the boy with the comics. He said something to his friends, scratched his balls and sauntered towards the boy with the magazine. Harry couldn’t hear what he said, but he saw him snatch it. Hey! the curly-haired boy yelled, but the short one threw the comic to one of his friends, who grabbed it, laughing, then tossed it to another of their group.

The familiarity of the scene turned Harry’s blood to ice. He wondered if he should get up and put a stop to it. The friends of the short boy danced around the curly-haired one, tossing the magazine from one to the other, while he futilely tried to stop them, his swollen backpack hampering his movements. He pleaded, give it back, and the others laughed. Harry made to rise, but as the train slowed down, pulling up to a bigger station, the ringleader relented. He smoothed the cover and handed it over. When, relieved, the other boy made to grab it, the short one threw it out of the window onto the tracks. Howling with laughter, he hopped off the train, surrounded by his friends. The other boy stared at the ground for a moment, then adjusted the strap of his backpack, and fled, blinking fast. 

The whole thing had lasted less than two minutes. The conductor whistled; the doors shut and locked. The train left, a young man with a briefcase standing where the schoolchildren had been.

Countless times Neville had returned to their dorm with a spell that had turned his nose blue or given him feathers or glued his legs together forcing him to hop up seven flights of stairs. Dozens of nights when he cried into his pillow or when, red-faced and ashamed, he had to ask the other Gryffindors for a Finite Incantatem, some of whom seemed almost affronted by his ineptitude.

Harry didn’t need to ask how Draco had guessed. ‘It’s who you’d pick, isn’t it? That’s how you knew?’

Draco’s eyes held a challenge and a sort of furious shame. ‘Wouldn’t you, if you were that other kid? He ignored him and looked happy while doing so.’

In primary school, Harry had been chased, beaten up, surreptitiously kicked when the teacher wasn’t looking, called names, all because of Dudley. Dudley’s influence, Harry’s ill-fitting school uniform, his isolation: a cocktail that attracted bullies like sugar attracts wasps. At Hogwarts, he’d endured whispers and rumours; the newspaper spreading lies about him — some at Draco’s eager prompting; Draco himself taunting him for being an orphan.

Draco stared resolutely out of the window, his mouth a thin line. The reminders of their history sneaked in like weeds in a garden bed, wrapping themselves around the tender stalk of whatever was growing between them. Harry liked Draco; he really did. Draco made him laugh, and shiver with pleasure; this past week he had shown kindness and generosity, compassion and courage. He sat opposite Harry now, on the way to Tinworth and danger, when he could’ve stayed at a warm, probably safe, loving cottage. Reconciling this Draco and the old one took some doing, though.

‘Why did you do it?’ Harry asked gently, no rancour, just… just wanting to know. Draco could be cruel and sharp and quick to take offence, but there was compassion deep down, a spark of decency buried under his old money accent. ‘Why did you bully Neville so much?’

The train chugged along. Harry assumed he wouldn’t get an answer, but eventually Draco spoke. He didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. ‘Because it made me feel good.’

The raw honesty stirred something inside Harry. Draco’s openness was a far cry from his cryptic statements at the start of their adventure. Harry watched him as the train rumbled on, Draco’s profile lit by the sun, his mouth pursed, and thought of Hagrid’s book of Monsters, revealing its secrets at the stroke of a finger.

‘And because you liked him.’ Draco darted a sideways glance at Harry before he went back to staring outside.

Harry digested this, replaying six years of school life in his head. ‘So, Ron and Hermione…’

‘Lovegood, and Creevey, and Longbottom, the abysmal idiot. You made friends with all the losers in the school,’ Draco said. ‘You rejected me on day one—’

‘—because you were a twat—’

‘—and then I had to suffer seeing the Boy Who Lived hang out with all of them. I was the— I was supposed to be,’ Draco corrected, voice strained, ‘the best in the school. I was supposed to—’ he swallowed thickly ‘—rule.’

Lucius fucking Malfoy had a lot to answer for. Harry had no doubts as to which conceited arsehole piled all that pressure on Draco.

‘Look at me,’ Harry said. Draco remained facing the window. Harry sighed. ‘The view isn’t all that great.’

‘I’ll have you know you’re wrong. Cornwall is beautiful.’

‘Draco,’ Harry said softly, brushing his knee against Draco’s, ‘look at me.’ When Draco did, red-faced, Harry said, ‘I won’t hate you all of sudden because I remembered the insults you hurled at me or my friends at school. I haven’t forgotten. But people change. My own fath—’

Harry paused, abruptly, unable to go on. He dropped his eyes, staring at the table between them, littered with sandwich wrappers. Bile rolled in his stomach. He had trouble reconciling that memory — Snape’s horrific experience — with the idea of his hero father. He’d replayed it in his head so many times: his father confident and loved, well-cared for, surrounded by friends. He had everything, and yet he’d felt the need to torment Snape. As much as Harry loathed Snape, he couldn’t forget that humiliation. Hanging in the air with his underwear on display while his father threatened to remove them; it was monstrous.

Yet Harry’s mother loved James Potter. Eventually. She saw something in him, something good. Something worth loving.

Draco didn’t pry, but his eyes stayed keen on him. Harry heaved a deep breath. ‘Once I happened to see a memory. By accident. It featured my father when he was at school. A couple of years younger than we are now. He bullied this… this person. He did something awful, and I—’

‘You were disappointed.’

Harry nodded. ‘Everyone said he was a great man, and I’d idealised him. The memory shook me. To know he was nothing better than a bully, even for a short period of time.’

The conductor passed, checking tickets. Draco said, ‘When I was little, I thought my father was the best man alive. He loved me, he bought me everything I ever wanted, he taught me chess and broom-riding, he spoke to me of the greatness of the Malfoys and he looked magnificent. I had no doubt that one day we’d rule the world. Until—’

Absent-mindedly, Harry rubbed his scar. ‘Until he came.’

‘Until I saw true power,’ Draco said. ‘The Dark Lord has cast my father in a… different light. He h—’ Harry’s heart bled at the expression on Draco’s face. He looked in pain as if his words wounded him on the way out; a confession writ in blood. ‘He humiliates Father in front of others,’ Draco continued, voice almost inaudible, ‘and relishes it, and speaks to him with contempt, and Father can’t do anything about it. He can’t rule shit,’ he spat, a flash of fury in his voice, quickly suppressed. ‘The Dark Lord shattered the impression I’d always had of my “majestic” father.’ He glanced at Harry. ‘I don’t admire the Dark Lord, but when you’re in his presence, you can feel it, can’t you? The power? Like a magnet sucking you in?’

‘Like a black hole,’ Harry murmured. Draco frowned, but he didn’t ask for clarification, which was fortunate because Harry wasn’t up to discussing deep space. The reminder of his visions brought goosebumps to Harry’s arms. ‘Let’s talk about something else.’

Draco cleared his throat, sitting up stiffly. ‘First, I’d like to offer my apologies, Harry.’ He took on a formal tone, his pronounced posh diction at odds with his white tee and Oxfam parka. ‘Trust me when I say I’m truly sorry for what I said and did at school. All of it.’ Draco held himself rigid, hands interlaced on the table, and Harry wondered if he’d been taught to apologise in this way or if it was the awkwardness of it that had Draco retreat into the manners of his upbringing. ‘You must see, I’d never been rejected before. One hadn’t learned how to deal with not having what one wanted, and that naturally led to feelings of resentment. For the attention you received; your rule-breaking, which bore no consequences. A score of other things.’ He exhaled, shoulders slouching. ‘And one — threw a tantrum, I guess.’

‘For six years.’

Draco knocked his leg in irritation. ‘I was annoyed. And you kept on annoying me.’ Under the fall of his hair — it really was getting long, brushing his cheekbones— his eyes gazed at Harry, earnest. ‘It’s not an excuse but— I was quite spoiled as a child.’

Harry had never imagined receiving an apology from Draco. Of course, he also hadn’t imagined receiving a blowjob from him, but life had taken a turn. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’ He wondered if he should be equally formal, perhaps add a “One accepts your apology, old chap”, but Draco leaned back, looking satisfied. 

‘You do realise,’ Harry couldn’t stop himself from adding, ‘that bullying the friends I made wasn’t going to ingratiate you to me?’

‘What did I know?’ Draco huffed. ‘I was a fucking idiot.’ 

Harry chuckled. The train was crossing a viaduct, the town of Penryn, according to the signs, spread at their feet. White and red boats bobbed in the water, bathed in pale sunlight.

Draco gave Harry a small smile. ‘You’ve no idea how thrilled I was when I heard that Harry Potter was going to be at school with me. I grew up hearing about you. When we were kids, I used to play the Harry Potter game constantly.’

Harry cringed. ‘Do I want to hear what that is?’

‘Probably not, so I will tell you.’ Draco smirked at Harry’s groan. ‘It’s similar to Aurors and Dark Wizards, you know?’

‘Like cops and robbers?’

‘I… guess? Aurors and Dark Wizards, Wizards and Muggles, there are loads of them. But the most popular game when we grew up was Harry Potter and the Dark Lord. All the kids loved it. One would be Potter and the other would be the vanquished lord. I always wanted to be Harry Potter, and I mostly got my way.’

‘I bet your father was thrilled to see that game.’

 ‘I was advised early on by one of my tutors to never allow my parents to catch me at it. Right, where was I?’

‘You were saying you wanted to be me. What did that involve?’

‘Well, the Dark Lord — Vince usually, or Greg, or Theo — would pretend to cast a spell with a stick of wood, and the Harry Potter character would fight him.’ Draco had lost himself in his memories, becoming animated. Harry thought he couldn’t have felt more affection for him, but he’d been wrong. He watched, smiling, as Draco gestured wildly in demonstration. ‘We didn’t know how you’d survived,’ Draco was saying now, ‘so we made up all sorts of scenarios. Sometimes we yelled made-up spells. Other times it ended in fisticuffs. But Harry Potter always won.’

Draco’s eyes sparkled as he finished his reminiscence, his mood brighter. Harry brushed his leg gently, his chest constricted. If only life were a game. If only he could be assured of winning. He refused to let his fears taint this moment, though; not when Draco wore such a wistful smile. ‘It’s so weird that people wanted to be… me.’

Draco tilted his head, gazing at Harry with hooded eyes, his expression shifting. He let a moment pass before he muttered, voice pitched low: ‘Wanted to be you, now they want to do you.’ 

Well. That statement drove pretty much every thought of fathers and disappointments and childhood games from Harry’s mind, replacing them with barely restrained desire. They remained gazing at each other, a slew of memories bringing heat to Harry’s cheeks; a corresponding flush warmed Draco’s face. He licked his lips, letting his eyes slide luxuriously up and down Harry, the little devil, and Harry wanted to kick him, because he couldn’t do what he fervently wanted to do to him while on the train.

Draco smiled with satisfaction at whatever torment he read on Harry’s face. He smoothed his white T-shirt and shook his hair out of his eyes. ‘What did you play when you were little? What did you call it? Cops and robbers?’

Harry dragged his mind from a filthy daydream to focus on Draco’s question. ‘I didn’t, not really. I had no friends while I was growing up.’ 

His voice had come out steady, but Draco’s face must have seen something in his expression. His eyes softened, briefly, before a sly smile spread on his face. ‘Well, now you have me to play with.’

A lump of longing choked Harry’s reply. He didn’t lack friends anymore, his childhood's loneliness a thing of the past, but that little statement, half comfort, half teenage seduction, flooded his chest with unbearable, sweet pain. He stretched his hand over the table between them, brushing Draco’s knuckles. ‘I’m glad you’re with me, Draco.’

Draco curled his index around Harry’s and held tight, an anchor to keep them both from drowning. Wearing a small, content smile, he turned to gaze outside. ‘Who’d have thought Cornwall was so hilly,’ he said conversationally.

It was early evening by the time a rickety bus deposited them in the — ‘disgustingly pretty’ according to Draco — seaside village of Cadgwith and they trampled up the hills in the direction (they hoped) of the magical settlement, based entirely on an early memory of Draco’s, who’d visited the area as a child. The more they distanced themselves from the Muggles, the less they spoke, the enormity of what they were about to do weighing heavily in their minds. They had to let Dolohov know they were both in Tinworth — and to escape him. The cool sea breeze bit into Harry as they trudged on, slicing through his sweater, chilling his insides. 

The plan they had was bonkers. Planning with Draco was a different beast than planning with his two best friends. Hermione’s resourcefulness and Ron’s strategic mind complemented Harry’s intuition and reined in his impulsiveness. At the same time, they had both been willing to throw themselves into the fray. They’d all known, or learned, what it meant to fight against vastly more powerful opponents. 

Draco had always been on the side of the powerful, the wealthy, the connected; it showed in his reluctance to put himself in harm’s way. Though, Harry couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like he was jumping at the chance for possible capture, torture and death.

Moreover, and more importantly, unlike his heists with Hermione and Ron, Harry and Draco were both appallingly defenceless. One sort-of-working wand between the two of them, a silver knife that neither could throw accurately, and their wits. Meagre resources against merciless wizards with magic wands.

‘That’s it!’ Draco had said when they’d left the train at Falmouth. ‘We don’t have magical resources that could stand against him. But what about Muggle ones?’

Harry stopped and stared at him. The ocean wind ruffled Draco’s hair around his elated expression. 

‘Explain.’

Draco strode towards the direction of the city, and Harry followed. ‘This is what I mean,’ he said with a gesture that encompassed the station behind them, the small harbour in the distance, the shops nearby. ‘No Death Eater knows anything about Muggle things. Fridges and tellies and, I don’t know, whatever these are.’

Harry glanced up. ‘Traffic lights.’

Draco frowned at them. ‘Muggles love those decorations, don’t they? They’re everywhere.’

‘They’re for— Never mind. Continue.’

‘What I mean is: surely a device must exist that can be used to trick magical people into thinking we are somewhere we aren’t?’

Harry had to hand it to him; it was a brilliant idea. A pureblood like Dolohov wouldn’t know what to make of anything Muggle. However, Muggle resources required Muggle money: they had barely any left. Luckily, after considerable search, they’d found a second-hand electronics shop — where Draco possibly Confounded the owner while haggling and Harry pretended he didn’t hear it — and a Boots to visit a photo booth, which delighted Draco in an endearing way.

Now they trudged the wet earth towards Tinworth and for the millionth time Harry suppressed a stab of pain at the loss of his Cloak. It must have been left in the tent; Hermione was the last one who wore it on an excursion to a nearby Sainsbury’s. Losing his father’s heirloom pained Harry so much that he’d shoved the thought out of his mind, but he couldn’t help wondering how much easier their task would be if he’d carried it with him instead of the little pouch around his neck with the useless, sentimental things.

Signs of the magical world emerged gradually as they walked up the hill, hazy details turning sharp, like a distant shore coming closer. First, Harry noticed blooming asphodels under the window of a solitary cottage. Next, a crup barked at rabbits in a field. Soon, they came across a cluster of farmhouses; the gates of some changed colour, flashing red for STRANGER when they passed, while a few lean-tos hovered in the air. The smell of burnt mandrake root wafted from an open window. Harry found himself walking closer to Draco, his eyes darting around, keen on any movement, anything that could spell danger. Beside him, Draco stalked with tense shoulders, his eyes narrowed.

They didn’t meet anyone besides an older woman in burgundy robes with a Prophet rolled under her arm; they hid behind a lilac bush before she saw them. Shortly, they crested the uphill lane and stared down at a small, pretty village. Whitewashed cottages with thatched roofs squeezed next to each other along narrow lanes, coloured smoke puffing out of chimneys. In the distance, past fields green with young barley, the ocean gleamed innocently in the spring light.

Tinworth.

Nightfall was crucial to their plan, so they wandered off the main road, seeking a place to wait and to rest; they hadn’t had any sleep the night before. A gravel path led past a field with grazing, incurious sheep to a ruined farmhouse. It’d been put to the torch. The roof had collapsed, and it stood with scorched walls and gaping windows, a foul blot against the riotous spring. They’d have hurried past, disquieted, if Draco hadn’t noticed the barn behind it.

The wooden structure had escaped the menace that had consumed the main house. It sat in the midst of a sea of knee-high grass dotted with poppies and wild violets, and smelled, reassuringly and defiantly, of life: warm-blooded animals, a faint trace of manure, pollen. A wood of silver birches and ash trees lay behind the barn, alive with birdsong.

‘This’ll do.’ Harry set the rucksack down by the entrance. The space must have been abandoned for some time. Cobwebs hung thick in the corners, and dust covered the ground. A rickety wooden ladder led to a small loft on their left.

At Harry’s insistence, they went over the plan a few times. ‘Can we trust the wand to work?’ he asked.

Draco cast a few simple spells at inanimate objects. Stones rose high in the air, soared out of the open doors and returned. They hesitated to turn the wand on themselves in case it malfunctioned and they lost or gained a limb, but it performed every single task wonderfully. The crack on its side had disappeared; the wand was indeed mending itself. Neither could explain it, but Harry shrugged and accepted it. If nothing else, it was a gift.

Then, it was the turn of their Muggle ‘weapon’: a set of walkie-talkies. Walking around the perimeter of the barn, with insects buzzing and the breeze stirring the scent of wildflowers in the air, they fixed the frequency and tested how far the signal would reach.

‘I think we’re—’ A huge yawn interrupted Draco. He rubbed his eyes. ‘We’re set.’

Draco looked dead on his feet. Harry gathered their tools, stuffed them in the rucksack and shut the barn doors. Soothing darkness fell inside, pierced by slanted shafts of light. ‘Let’s go to the loft,’ he said over his shoulder.

Draco climbed up and shuffled until he reached the back wall. Harry followed, leaning against the sun-warmed slats beside him. A beetle scuttled across the floor.

‘Do you think we’ll make it out?’ Draco asked.

He looked as if he’d been carrying the fear with him all day, unseen, swept under the carpet of their planning and shopping and travelling. He cast an anguished gaze at Harry, his hands fidgeting in his lap, his back rigid.

Harry couldn’t promise they’d make it out safely, so he said nothing. What paltry words of comfort could he offer? Instead, he wrapped his arm around Draco’s shoulders and gave a gentle tug. With a needy sigh of relief, Draco leaned against his side, stretching his arm around Harry’s chest. His head rested on Harry’s shoulder, heavy and trusting in a way that made Harry’s heart flutter.

‘And after Tinworth, what?’ Draco asked again.

‘Shh. Sleep now.’ Harry threaded his fingers through Draco’s hair, relishing the intimacy, the warmth, the companionship. That they could touch like this, not just with desperate, lustful caresses in the night. That he could press his nose in Draco’s hair and let the softness of it tickle his face.

The niggling worm of worry about the after — assuming they’d made it through the night — reared its head. Harry had a destination; Draco didn’t. Letting him walk off on his own wasn’t an option Harry was prepared to entertain. In fact, only one solution presented itself to Harry; it wouldn’t be easy, but Draco would be safe, and that was what mattered.

Draco’s body heat seeped into Harry’s bones, warming him up. Though he also desperately needed sleep, Harry remained awake for some time, stroking Draco’s hair as he slumbered, quietly breathing in the musky air of the barn. It was a beautiful place, actually. Floating dust motes glittered in the rich yellow light slanting through the cracks. Harry stroked Draco’s hair and searched in his heart for any lingering doubts; any worries that Draco would chicken out at the crucial moment, that he’d betray Harry in order to escape immediate death.

But he found none. Who’d have thought, Harry mused idly as the evening fell lavender-soft around them, that in a few short days he’d come to trust Draco Malfoy with his life. 

~*~

Draco snapped his hand away. ‘Trust me. I know how to fold a paper crane.’

Anxiety radiated out of him in waves, and Harry stepped back and let him finish.

‘Sorry,’ Draco muttered, as he folded the paper. Inside it were a few scribbled words: We’re here, Antonin, and the tiny photograph they took at the photo booth. ‘I’m— stressed.’

‘I am too,’ Harry said. He didn’t promise it’d be all right; perhaps it wouldn’t. He’d escaped from many a tight situation on luck and nerve and quick-thinking. Gazing at Draco’s focused expression, his long fingers deftly folding the paper, Harry felt a wave of worry threatening to choke him: that one day his luck would run out. He’d already lost loved ones, he’d had his heart broken by grief not once or twice, and he’d managed to pick up the pieces and move on as best he could. But should something happen to Draco… Harry didn’t think he could bear that.

Wispy clouds glided through the night sky as they crept to the village, hidden in the shadows. The presence of a dangerous Death Eater must have kept people inside because not a soul crossed their path. Harry and Draco huddled close to the crooked buildings, avoiding the well-lit streets for the darker lanes. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest as they rounded the corners, making their way deeper into the village. He tensed when a curtain twitched in a window, cold sweat running down his spine.

Draco had heard of a pub run by Death Eater sympathisers, but it took some wandering before they found it. The Deer’s Blood. Not an auspicious name as far as Harry was concerned. The pub stood opposite the church of St Gudwal in the midst of a handful of quiet cottages. In front of the church lay a tiny square with a dried-up fountain, a stone bench and an ancient oak. 

It was time. Harry took out the walkie-talkies and set one handset down in one corner of the street, diagonally to the pub. With the other held in his clammy hand, he clambered over the church fence, Draco right behind him. An Alohomora allowed them inside the darkened church. Its stone walls held no warmth; Harry rubbed his arms to dispel the chill.

They stopped in front of the arched windows facing the oak, and through its branches, the pub. With a precise movement of his wand, Draco broke a dusty glass pane, which fell with a faint clink on the ground. The smell of green leaves rushed in as a cool breeze whistled through the oak. Conversations and laughter drifted from the pub, becoming louder when the door opened. They had to hurry; Draco murmured a spell, and the paper crane sailed across the square and over the heads of the leaving patrons, darting inside.

Harry waited with bated breath, his knuckles white on his walkie-talkie. Their plan hinged on someone reading the note, someone who would alert Dolohov. Seconds dragged as they stared at the door, almost willing it to open.

It did. A hooded woman dashed out of the pub, the note clutched in one fist, her wand in the other. She cast a bright Lumos in a wide arc, sweeping the square and the surrounding streets. Harry jumped back from the window. 

After a beat, Draco hazarded a glance. ‘She’s gone.’

Five minutes later, Dolohov, the witch and two wizards, one skinny, one short and fat, strode into the square and paused outside the pub. A few patrons quietly slipped out and away, anticipating trouble.

Clutching his handset tightly, his pulse racing, Harry spoke into it. ‘Hello, Antonin.’

He heard his voice ring out faint but clear from across the square. Dolohov snapped his head around. ‘Where are they?’ he hissed.

‘Disillusioned, most likely,’ said the short wizard.

‘Finite Incantatem!’ Dolohov swept his wand over the street.

When nothing happened, Harry taunted, ‘Can’t you see us?’ 

Draco leaned in. ‘We’re right here, beside you. I can see you, with your fancy embroidered robes and your green hat.’

Dolohov let out a curse and spun around himself like a dog chasing his tail. Fists clenched, he stopped and muttered an Anti-Apparition spell. Then, he stared at the corner where Harry’s voice came from. The walkie-talkie sat unassuming in the shadows, still undetected.

‘Potter’s got an Invisibility Cloak, don’t he?’ said the short man.

‘Accio Cloak!’ Dolohov barked.

Draco’s expression was gleeful at seeing Dolohov thoroughly flustered because of a humble Muggle device. Despite the terror, Harry shared his glee. ‘Oops. Missed me,’ he said, when Dolohov’s Accio produced no results. ‘But you get points for effort.’

Draco snorted. Incandescent with rage, Dolohov growled and pointed his wand at the corner where Harry’s voice came from. ‘Avada Kedavra!’ He cast it again and again, lighting up the night with the curse’s vile green colour. The spell dug deep in the wall, making it rain plaster. The lit windows of the houses around them winked out one by one, their residents realising that something was happening outside.

Dolohov paused, panting with exertion. The three other Death Eaters had fanned out behind him, but they were all ignoring the church. While the dust of the chipped wall was settling, Draco Accioed the walkie-talkie across the square, through the tree branches. They’d hoped no one would see it in the darkness, that they could lead Dolohov on a merry trail, but the rustling leaves gave it away. ‘There!’ The witch cried out, pointing at the oak. ‘Something’s there! At the tree.’

Draco grabbed the handset soaring through the window, and they slunk out of the back door to the dark alley running along the side of the church. A bright yellow light illuminated the darkness: the Death Eaters had set the oak on fire.

Harry and Draco had to get out of there. The fire reached high over the church’s roof, throwing sparks, turning the evening into day. Anyone looking out of their window could see them. Their purpose had been achieved: letting the Death Eaters know they were both in Tinworth, drawing them away from the north of the county and from the cottage in the woods. 

The dark alley in which they stood twisted out of view. Harry motioned to Draco to leave one handset on the steps and follow. They crept down the street, glancing behind them until they turned the corner. 

‘We need to leave now,’ Draco whispered, rubbing his palms on his jeans.

‘I know. Any idea which direction the coast is?’ Harry peeked around the corner to ensure they hadn’t been seen.

Draco nodded vaguely to three directions at the same time. But they had no more time to decide. The skinny wizard stalked down the alley they were in; they’d split up to look for them.

Harry spoke again in his handset: ‘Hey, Dolohov!’

The wizard darted off and returned with Dolohov and the witch. Harry said, ‘Go tell your Master, Dolohov, that you failed him once again. I’m in Tinworth with Draco Malfoy, and you weren’t able to catch us.’

Harry thought he heard Dolohov say, His voice sounds like it’s coming from a wireless.

Draco leaned over the device. ‘We’re off to France now, but we wanted to stop and say hi.’ To Harry’s questioning frown, he whispered, ‘Throw him off the scent. Make him go look for us in France.’

At the side of the church, the wizards had discovered the walkie-walkie. ‘Don’t touch it!’ the witch cried as Dolohov bent over it. ‘We don’t know if it’s cursed.’

Leaving them staring at it in bafflement, Harry and Draco bolted away from them. Their steps echoed in the stillness; by the time Harry considered casting a Silencio, it was too late.

‘Who goes there?’ A voice called. It was the third wizard, the short, fat one, who emerged from a side street to their left.

Harry and Draco sped up, and the wizard called, ‘Antonin! I can see them!’

Stunners flew over Harry’s head, exploding against the stone walls of the cottages. Ducking and zigzagging, they dashed down one alley, then another, trying to put some distance between themselves and the Death Eaters. Down some steep steps; up a cobblestone lane; in and out of pools of streetlight until they reached a junction: three roads branching out to three different directions. Harry paused, uncertain. One wrong turn and they could fling themselves right into Dolohov’s path.

On their left stood a small park with a few swings, a merry-go-round, and a fringe of horse chestnut trees, thick with leaves. Draco bolted in that direction. ‘Up the tree!’

Heart in his mouth, Harry hurled the handset he’d been holding as far as he could and climbed after Draco to the highest branches that could hold their weight. Hidden behind the leaves, dripping with cold sweat, frozen with terror, Harry watched the wizards’ careful approach.

‘Yes, it was them, Antonin,’ the short wizard was saying, irritated. ‘I know what Potter and Malfoy look like.’

Dolohov was Levitating the walkie-talkie in front of him as he strode down the alley. ‘They’ve got to be here,’ he murmured. ‘I cast an Anti-Apparition spell over the village. They can’t have fled.’

‘Should we do a Homenum Revelio?’

‘In a residential neighbourhood, Avery? Are you an idiot?’

The short wizard flushed. ‘Might be a sight more useful than your Anti-Apparition. Are you sure you covered the whole village? You were mumbling when you cast it.’

Dolohov swept imperious eyes over the man and replied with cold contempt, but Harry stopped paying attention. The witch had wandered over to the swings and slipped among the trees. If she looked up, she’d see them. Draco’s face had turned the colour of ash; he’d stopped breathing, his body rigid with tension. Harry held his breath, his mind whirring with defence ideas, all useless against a wand.

The witch paused under Harry’s feet. His heart thumped so loudly he feared she’d hear it. His shirt clung to his sweaty back. Short seconds stretched to infinity. Beside him, Draco could’ve been a statue.

‘I see something here,’ said the skinny man from further down. He poked at Harry’s smashed handset.

The four Death Eaters gathered around the walkie-talkie and peered down the street. ‘They’ve gone that way,’ Avery said.

‘Or they’ve taken one of the other roads and are trying to trick us,’ said the other wizard.

‘We’ll split up.’

The witch adressed Dolohov. ‘The Dark Lord must be informed.’

Dolohov, his face livid, nodded. He wrapped the walkie-talkie in a handkerchief and removed the Anti-Apparition spell. ‘Send for me if you find them. Immediately.’

‘Of course.’

Dolohov Disapparated and the three others took off, each down a different lane. They soon disappeared into the darkness.

Harry let out a silent, long exhale. Draco’s fingers found his; they held tight. He trembled and Harry clutched his hand harder, but it wasn’t only Draco who shook. A wave of dizziness came over Harry, the ebb of adrenaline mixing with the rush of relief; he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him when he clambered down. He leaned his forehead on a branch, a leaf tickling his nose, and waited.

The night sounds returned, comforting and familiar: a nightingale singing from a branch above them, the hooting of an owl, the whispering of the wind through the tree leaves. A dog barked; nearby a window creaked open, a child’s voice drifting from inside. 

The temperature dropped, bringing goosebumps to Harry’s skin. 

‘I think we can go now,’ Draco said.

They padded past the huddled houses, slow and careful. The ocean breeze picked up, whistling through the chimneys, and they followed it out of the village to open country. Shell Cottage was somewhere there. On the outskirts of Tinworth near a cliff by the sea, Ron had said, not that they could seek it tonight. Escaping Death Eaters only to fall off a cliff in the dark didn’t sound like a clever idea.

And what about Draco? Where would he go when Harry was all tucked away in Shell Cottage? He couldn’t stay in the village, that was certain. For all Harry knew, once Voldemort found out they were in the area, he’d send a battalion to capture them.

It hurt his mind to think of what-ifs. They’d done what they had to do: they’d drawn attention away from the two old ladies in the forest and escaped alive. The night was a success, even if he felt drained to the core, exhausted, and desperately hungry.

They daren’t take the coastal path for fear of coming across magical folk so they walked through fields and grassland until they reached a forest of elms. The foliage provided welcome cover. Harry exhaled with some relief when he crept under the canopy, happy to be less exposed but also alert for the presence of any more of the Fair Folk. 

Crickets buzzed, and the forest rustled softly, perfectly innocuous. The heavy branches danced in the stiff sea breeze. Rabbits flitted through the undergrowth, fleeing their approach. ‘We could settle here for the night,’ Harry suggested. ‘Do you think it’s safe?’

Draco scrutinised the tree barks and the blueberry bushes; he gathered resin in his finger and tasted it; he crouched to pat the soil. ‘Looks fine to—’ he paused, cocking his ear.

Harry heard it too. A violin thrummed from somewhere near, a sorrowful tune suffusing the air with melancholy. Merlin, would they never find any peace? 

But voices drifted in the air with the melody. Unlike the seductive, almost-familiar whispers of Them, Harry caught snatches of conversations. Something about… laundry.

Draco rose to his feet, exchanging a glance with him. Harry would bet faeries didn’t hold conversations about laundry. He trod as silently as he could towards the noise, parting branches before his face, stepping over exposed roots, Draco on his side, his hand on his wand. They reached a clearing and crouched behind a thorn bush.

It was a Roma camp. Seven brightly painted caravans surrounded a fire which sent orange sparks up into the violet sky. The smell of paprika and warm bread wafted in the air. Two girls strolled past, carrying bundles of washing while a gaggle of children ran screeching around. A man in a fedora smoked his pipe on the steps of his caravan, listening to a boy beside him playing the violin. 

‘Travellers,’ Harry whispered.

‘They’re not Muggles. Look.’ Draco pointed at the broomsticks leaning against the nearest caravan. 

Neighing drew Harry’s attention to the other side of the clearing. ‘Definitely not Muggles.’ He darted a look at Draco. ‘Can you—?’

‘Yes.’ It came out clipped. 

Harry didn’t need to ask for details. ‘Turns out Hagrid isn’t the only one with a herd of tamed Thestrals,’ he murmured.

A caress on his face drew Harry out of his thoughts. A brush of a feather or a leaf, he wasn’t sure. He glanced around him and froze. ‘Draco.’ He elbowed him, his blood icy. Foxes had gathered around them, still and staring, eyes bright in the deep night. The hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rose. ‘Something’s not right,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s go.’

He stepped backwards with infinite care, the eyes of the foxes following him — and fell into someone’s hands.

‘Not so fast, lads,’ said a gruff voice.

They shoved Harry and Draco to the middle of the clearing. The violinist ceased playing, the children gaped, and the rest of the community emerged from the caravans, surrounding them. Some of the foxes had been Animagi, men and women stalked out of the elms in the staggering movements of the recently transformed. Draco trembled next to Harry as they waited for their fate to be decided. The Roma had taken Draco’s wand and Bellatrix’s silver dagger when they apprehended them. They had nothing to fight with.

A man in a grey trilby with a blue kerchief tied around his neck detached himself from the others. Harry guessed him to be in his early forties. Deep crows’ feet creased his face, which was twisted in a scowl. ‘Seems like we have some visitors.’ He spoke to the crowd as well as the two of them.

‘We were just passing,’ Harry said.

‘Sure you were. That why you were spying on us?’

‘We heard noise,’ Draco said. ‘That was all. Simple curiosity.’

‘Mummy!’ A young boy pulled the hand of a red-headed woman in a shawl and pointed at Harry. ‘That’s the boy in the posters!’

The atmosphere instantly changed. Tension ran through the assembled people like a wave, whispers following in its wake. Harry exchanged a terrified glance with Draco. The fire crackled on their left. Draco pressed his hand against Harry’s, seeking comfort. Harry pressed back.

‘That’s him alright, Cam,’ said the red-headed lady. ‘Harry Potter.’

The man in the trilby gazed at Harry. ‘Undesirable number one,’ he murmured. ‘The Ministry,’ he called to everyone, ‘will fall over themselves to lay hands on him. The reward could set us up for life.’

Harry’s heart drummed in his chest. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, body tense, getting ready to fight.

‘If you let us go…’ Fear dripped from Draco’s voice. ‘I promise I’ll pay…’ He choked and continued, more desperately. ‘I have a vault, I have gold…’

The man, Cam, laughed. ‘Can you get to your gold, boy? Travelling with this one, I bet you can’t.’ His eyes slid up and down Harry before turning to his community. ‘Give this one to You-Know-Who, and we might earn ourselves a powerful friend.’ He rubbed his stubble and let the silence stretch. Harry’s pulse galloped, the tension straining his nerves to a snapping point.

Cam met Harry’s eyes. ‘Shame we despise that noseless cunt.’

A few laughed at this. Some spat on the ground. Cam, the children, chastised a mother. It took a moment for the meaning of his words to penetrate Harry’s agitated mind, but when it did, he exhaled, stunned in sharp relief. ‘You’ll let us go?’

Cam glanced at the red-haired woman. ‘What say you, Annie?’

She frowned as she gazed at them. ‘I say we feed them and then we decide. They look half-starved.’

The crowd dispersed, everyone going back to their tasks, except for the children who stared with unabashed curiosity as Harry and Draco lingered by the fire, unsure what to do with themselves. Cam spoke to the Animagi, who slunk back into the woods and melted in the darkness. Harry guessed they’d keep watch during the night.

A young woman approached them with her friend. ‘Dinner will be ready soon, shukar raklo.’ Her friend giggled as they hurried back to a massive cauldron. A rich, mouth-watering aroma wafted from it, and Harry’s stomach rumbled. They hadn’t eaten since the morning. 

On their way to the food, an obstacle presented itself in the form of a plump older lady. ‘First you wash your hands before dinner.’ She led them to a tub of water next to a blue wagon but remained there, observing them as they picked up the soap in turns.

She frowned. ‘No, no, no. You’re not doing it right.’ She grabbed Draco’s palms. ‘I’ll do it. You wait your turn,’ she ordered Harry.

‘I’m perfectly capable—’ Draco spluttered, but she shushed him and scrubbed his hands. Bemused, Draco glanced at Harry, who shrugged back. Perhaps this was the way they did things. Best not offend their hosts.

Not that Harry had any energy to complain. Exhaustion blurred the edges of his vision. The sounds of the camp — conversations and laughs and the crackling fire — filtered through a haze of deep-bone fatigue.

When the woman dried off Draco’s hands, she gave him a light, kindly shove. ‘Grab some food, you look starved, off you go,’ and she hauled Harry closer.

‘Do you happen to have spare wands? We can pay,’ Harry said.

‘No,’ she said, vigorously soaping him. It was the most thorough hand-washing Harry had ever witnessed. ‘We’ve got few wands between us as it is. Not many gadjos like to see a Romani with a wand. Don’t sell ‘em to us. The ones we carry got handed down for generations. Wouldn’t work for anyone else now.’ She’d rinsed him off and stepped back, looking satisfied. ‘Now you can eat.’

Harry hurried to the enticing smell wafting from the centre of the camp. Draco sat on a log with a plate heaped with stew in his hands, seemingly unaware of a tiny boy staring at him with blatant fascination. Harry couldn’t tell what had excited the child: the fact Draco was a newcomer or the way he wolfed down his food, manners all forgotten.

Next to the cauldron, the girl who’d approached Harry before handed him his own, huge portion. ‘Enjoy.’ She bit a smile. ‘Shukar raklo.’

‘I hope it means something good,’ Harry replied, digging in the fragrant sauce.

‘Means your hair is offensive,’ said Draco, who’d come behind him.

‘His hair is great,’ the girl objected. ‘Very… shukar.’

‘I’m guessing,’ Draco drawled, ‘shukar means ghastly.’

‘You must think you’re very funny,’ Harry said around a mouthful.

Draco gave him a withering glance. ‘It’s terribly bad manners to talk with your mouth full, Harry.’

‘You have sauce on your chin.’

Pleasantly content after the delicious meal, Harry perched on the edge of a vardo. The children ran around, daring each other to come close to the newcomers. They called them gadjo, which Harry assumed meant non-Roma. The violinist resumed playing, a wistful melody that filled Harry’s heart with an ineffable melancholy. He should be happy: after over a week wandering in Cornwall wandless and lost, he’d reached Tinworth. His friends were somewhere close. He’d missed them an awful lot; but at the same time, this was an end. An end to his travels with Draco. An end to sharing a bed and waking up next to each other. An end to touching him, as he did now, discreetly slipping his hand in Draco’s. As terrifying as some of their experiences were, he’d miss aspects of these last few days.

The families ate, conversed, or bustled around the camp — but underneath the easy conversations and the jokes and the children’s laughter, the sour tang of anxiety poisoned the air. The smiles vanished a second too fast, replaced by worry; glances darted towards the woods; heads snapped round when any noise came from outside. Two women with wands patrolled the camp, checking the wards as they went. A group of young men chatted with Cam, heads close together, shooting glances towards the direction of the village.

‘They were going to give you up,’ Draco said. He gazed towards the fire, as if mesmerised, but his jaw betrayed tension.

‘Nah,’ Harry said. ‘They wanted to shake us a little, I suppose.’ Draco didn’t speak. His palm felt warm in Harry’s, who stroked it with his thumb. ‘What are you thinking?’

Draco remained gazing at the fire. ‘I mean there are no posters about me. No rewards. If these people weren’t decent, you’d have been fucked. But — but I could’ve been spared. They didn’t care about me.’

Harry’s fate had been bound so tightly with Draco’s these days that he hadn’t considered that. For the public, he was the menace; Draco was a nobody. ‘To tell you the truth, that’s a relief,’ he replied honestly. ‘I’m used to danger and I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.’

Draco looked at him, eyes blazing with emotion. ‘It’s not a relief for me, Harry.’

He didn’t have a chance to elaborate. Cam approached them with a small child in tow. He handed the wand and the silver dagger to Draco. ‘Keep ‘em both tucked in. We see them in your hands for whichever reason, it’ll go badly for you.’

‘We won’t hurt you,’ Harry assured him, while Draco hastened to slide them in the rucksack. ‘We’re not your enemy.’

Cam sighed. He sat heavily on the steps and pulled the little girl to him. ‘Aye, I know. Can’t be too careful, though, can you?’

‘Thank you for not giving us up. For feeding us,’ Harry said.

Cam shrugged it off. ‘We want nothing to do with You-Know-Who.’ His expression turned grim. ‘The first time he rose to power, he attacked one of our communities. Cast Fiendfyre to the vardos, while the families fought to escape. Not everyone managed to flee. He watched them burn and he laughed.’ Cam’s face blazed in banked fury. ‘Killed their horses too. Their dogs. Everything.’

Draco’s face had frozen in an expression of horror and disgust. Harry shivered at the senseless cruelty. So much hate; so much pain. All because people sought power, believing the best way to find it was to step on others. Harry was weary; with the day’s exertions, the worry about the coming night, the terror that hung over him, day in and day out. A headache pounded against his eyes, blurring his vision.

‘Here’s my girl.’ Cam stroked the little one’s pigtails. ‘Rose. I’ve got another one, Jane, she’s that one over there. Jane should be at school this year, but it wasn’t safe. We might be pureblood as far as can be, but for the gadjos in power, the Death Eaters that are running things now, we’re no better than them Muggles.’

‘Pureblood?’ Draco asked, incredulity creeping in his voice.

Cam gave Draco an icy look. ‘Pureblood comes in many forms and shapes, boy.’

Draco reddened. ‘I meant no disrespect…’ And then, almost as if he couldn’t stop himself, he continued obstinately ‘—but my parents said…’

Harry stiffened as the edges of his vision darkened; a wave of fury pulsed through him. His knees hit the ground with a thud.

‘Harry!’ The echo of Draco’s shout faded, because Harry stood in the candlelit drawing room of Malfoy Manor, choking on Voldemort’s rage upon hearing Dolohov’s report. Wrath poured out of Voldemort, wave after wave, the Elder Wand unleashing magnificent pain on the kneeling wizard. ‘A Muggle device! He fooled you with a Muggle device!’ Voldemort kicked the handset. It flew across the drawing room and smashed against a wall.

‘Have you any shame, Dolohov? This is— this is a type of wireless. He tricked you with a wireless. A formidable weapon to defeat such a ruthless wizard as you are, isn’t it?’

‘They let something slip, my Lord,’ Dolohov whispered. ‘The Malfoy boy said they were going to France.’

‘And you believed them?’

Dolohov paused. ‘Perhaps they thought we wouldn’t believe it, which means they might actually head that way—’

‘Enough. I grow weary, Antonin. I grow impatient at your delays. Rookwood doesn’t heed any Summons, and you return to me with empty hands but for these Muggle toys. You’re as much a disgrace as Lucius.’

A hunched figure at the corner flinched. Harry hadn’t noticed Malfoy Senior in the shadows, and he was startled at his haggard appearance, the deep lines in his face.

‘Potter’s behaving erratically, and I don’t know why.’ Harry could feel the burning frustration that this fact caused Voldemort. He hadn’t even considered something so fundamental as a broken wand — no, Voldemort’s thinking ran along lines of attack, of deviousness and scheming. ‘Lucius,’ Voldemort said, ‘make yourself useful and lock Dolohov in the cellar for a night — no, not the empty one. The one where Greyback has been feeding — and let him ponder his failures. I need to think.’

Dolohov blanched at the mention of Greyback and the cellar, and Lucius stepped forward to relieve him of his wand. Before Voldemort swept out of the room, Harry noticed something curled in Malfoy’s hand: the photograph Harry and Draco had taken at Boots. The proof his son was still alive.

‘What’s happened to him?’ a voice floated around Harry. He came to with his nose in the dirt. He inhaled deeply, the smell of earth and grass bringing him back to his body. Hot hands touched his back. Draco. Feet danced around him. A few Romani had gathered.

‘Harry?’

‘I’m OK.’ Harry rose on hands and knees. Draco held him under the arm and lifted him. Harry blinked at the firelit faces of the assembled, worried Romani. ‘I’m fine,’ he repeated dully.

‘He gets these… fits.’ Draco explained and some people nodded.

‘Off you go, nothing to see,’ Annie called to the small crowd. ‘Cam, the Stanleys will be keeping watch all night, and we’ll take their kid. Their vardo will be empty. Do you think—’

Cam murmured back, but Harry didn’t hear. He was breathing as if his lungs had forgotten how to do it, his return to his body sluggish. Draco hadn’t let his arm go. He whispered now in Harry’s ear. ‘What did you see?’

‘Dolohov. Getting punished.’

Draco’s gaze swept over him, worried. ‘Are you sure you’re fine?’

Harry didn’t have time to respond. Annie’d left; she returned now to lead them to a pink and green vardo. ‘You can stay the night,’ she said, ‘but it’ll be an early start in the morning.’

The relief at being offered a shelter, somewhere warm, somewhere protected, moved Harry deeply. ‘Thank you,’ he said, his heart brimming with gratitude.

Draco wore an odd look on his face, something between astonishment, gratitude and disbelief. He cleared his throat. ‘I hope I can repay your kindness one day.’

‘Just stay alive,’ Annie said. ‘That’s all any of us are trying to do these days.’

A strong scent of mint and dittany permeated the vardo, which comforted Harry; familiar, domestic smells, reminiscent of carefree times at the Hogwarts greenhouses. The bed, tucked between two cupboards painted with flowers, was heaped with soft blankets. He flopped on top of them without undressing, just tossing his glasses on a shelf. He’d no energy left and was bemused to see Draco remove his shoes for him. ‘Who’s the valet now?’ he mumbled, eyes closing.

‘What did you see?’ Draco asked, climbing into bed.

Harry sat up so he could slide under the covers next to Draco and laid his head on the pillow with a sigh of relief. He narrated his vision while Draco snuggled close, clutching Harry’s arm as if he was about to bolt out of the door. When he finished, he curled towards Draco, inhaling his scent. It soothed him.

‘My mother said I should stay away from the Romani when I was little,’ Draco mused. ‘That they steal children. She was wrong, wasn’t she?’

‘I hope you’re aware by now how wrong your parents have been, regarding a great deal of things.’

Draco spoke softly, wonderingly. ‘My parents, their friends, everyone in my life has so much fear, Harry. I grew up hearing tales of terror for all sorts of people: the Squibs, the Muggles, the Romani, the Muggleborns. The Beings, like Centaurs and Veelas… I was taught that they were a threat to our life and to our society, that they’d harm us, the ones with the pure blood. That they were all against us, envious of us because they were lesser, and, therefore, we needed to protect ourselves.’

Harry felt warm and safe in Draco’s arms. ‘You’ve seen the truth of it now, though, haven’t you? Most people want to spend their life in peace. Many of them are generous enough to offer help. A meal, a warm shelter.’

‘Yes. We survived because of the kindness of strangers.’ He paused for a long moment. ‘Tomorrow—’ he started again but didn’t finish.

‘Yeah?’ Harry mumbled, eyes closing.

Draco kissed Harry’s temple. ‘Sleep now. It’s been a long day.’

Loud pounding woke them up before dawn. Harry stumbled out of the vardo, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. His cheeks were prickly with stubble.

The Roma bustled around, hitching Thestrals to the caravans, dousing the fire, packing their belongings. The lady who’d washed their hands was dismantling the wards, and the fox Animagi were returning, climbing inside the vardo Harry and Draco had just vacated. The Stanleys, Harry assumed.

Cam greeted them with a frown and a stack of thickly sliced bread and yellow cheese wrapped in white cloth. ‘The village is in uproar. The Death Eaters brought a search party, kicking down doors and searching — well, we all know who, don’t we?’

Alarmed, Draco glanced at Harry, but he shrugged. He hadn’t had any visions during the night, but he only really did when Voldemort lost his temper. ‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said to Cam. ‘I’m sorry you have to leave.’

‘Ah, don’t fret. We move a lot these days anyhow. These are troubled times.’ He cast a look over them both. ‘Look after yourselves, yeah?’

‘We will. Thank you for everything.’

Harry and Draco stood at the edge of the clearing as the sky lightened over the treetops. Within minutes, the Roma were ready to depart. Cam whistled, and the Thestrals spread wide wings and soared into the sky, pulling the vardos behind them. The sight of them over the treetops, dark silhouettes graceful against the coming dawn, made Harry feel glad — he didn’t know why. The caravans turned towards the north and all at once disappeared, probably Disillusioned.

‘What now?’ Draco glanced at Harry with uncertainty. He looked like a pup fearing he’d get kicked to the curb.

Harry brushed Draco’s hair off his face, tucked it behind his ear. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘you’re coming with me.’

An intrepid leaf brushed Harry’s cheek as he waited for Draco to piss behind an elm. Wings flapped overhead, a flash of red and brown, followed by a trill. Draco reappeared, buttoning his jeans, his white-blond hair falling on his cheeks. At the sight of him Harry’s chest clenched with something that could be joy or could be pain. Something large and unwieldy he couldn’t quite speak of yet; putting it into words felt as impossible as pouring the ocean in a glass jar.

Draco caught him staring, his eyes sweet with fond amusement, before his expression settled into the carefully studied nonchalance he’d been affecting since Harry told him of his decision. ‘Ready to take me to the house of people who hate me?’ He’d made this “joke” three times now.

‘They’ll keep you safe. That’s what matters.’ Bill and Fleur wouldn’t kick a boy out to his death, Harry was certain of it. He also chose to believe that his friends would come round when they got to know Draco, same way as Harry had.

Perhaps this was overly optimistic of him, but the alternative worried him. Imagining Ron and Hermione’s faces when Harry strolled in there, hand-in-hand with someone who only a short time ago belonged firmly to the enemy side, filled him with anxiety. Even if Hermione proved as cool-headed as he hoped she’d be, Ron wouldn’t take it well. Bad blood ran between the Malfoy and Weasley families, and Ron held grudges.

Better not think about it till they got there. This technique had worked well for Harry in his life; he was very much a “let’s do the thing and deal with consequences later” fellow, but Draco needed reassurance, and so Harry gave it, pulling him close and running a gentle hand down his back. ‘Listen. It won’t be easy at first but—’

‘But what? Whatever noble ideas you’re entertaining, not everyone is like you, Harry. Besides, how can I—?’ Draco swallowed hard. ‘How can I face Granger?’ His face twisted in shame and anguish. ‘I didn’t even say anything.’

He didn’t specify when but Harry understood. He squeezed Draco’s arm. ‘You couldn’t stop Bellatrix.’

‘No. Very few people can. She wouldn’t have stopped no matter what I said.’ Draco sighed, his shoulders slumping. ‘That doesn’t mean I couldn’t try.’ His voice dropped. ‘But she terrifies me.’

Harry held him close. ‘Sometimes,’ he said against Draco’s neck, ‘when you’re in the middle of it, when it’s all dreadful and scary, it’s hard to think clearly. Hard to know what the right thing to do is. Here, with distance and being safe, it’s easy to make judgments.’ He brushed a kiss on Draco’s temple. ‘Doesn’t mean we should make them, though. The past is the past.’

Draco squeezed him harder and mumbled something Harry didn’t catch.

‘Things are different now, anyway.’ Harry stepped back to meet his eyes. ‘You know you’ll face Hermione eventually. She’s my best friend, and you and I are…’

He trailed off, the pause swelling . Draco tilted his head. ‘We’re what?’

Harry sought in vain for the right words. Lovers? Boyfriends? Fuck buddies? That enormous, slippery feeling weighed on him again, resisting words. ‘Well, we’re something, aren’t we?’

‘We’re something alright,’ Draco murmured, but Harry shushed him. ‘Someone’s coming.’

Voices drifted from further down the slope. A man and a woman, wands out, stomped up the hill.

‘Let’s Apparate. Shell Cottage is the destination,’ Harry whispered, and Draco didn’t waste time. He pulled out his wand, clutched Harry’s forearm, and turned to Disapparate.

Nothing happened. It was as if they’d stumbled against a ceiling. The wand worked, the magic was there, but it bounced against an invisible barrier. ‘I don’t think it’s the wand to blame this time,’ Harry whispered. ‘Disillusion us.’

Just in time. Disillusioned and holding their breaths, they crept behind a blueberry bush as the two wand-bearers finally reached the top of the hill and entered the woods not twenty yards from them.

‘The Homenum Revelio saw dozens of people around here,’ grouched the man, ‘but no one is around.’ He leaned against a trunk, catching his breath. A mop of straw-coloured hair crowned a pale, forgettable face. The witch stood taller and darker, pinched-mouth and cold-eyed, austere like a head nun.

‘You saw the clearing,’ she said. ‘Horse hooves and wheel tracks. It must have been a Roma camp. We’re in the middle of nowhere for no bloody reason,’ she snapped, sounding as if she was continuing an earlier rant. ‘I bet if Potter’s around — and to my mind he isn’t — he’d have hidden in someone’s cellar in the village.’

The man glanced at her curiously. ‘You think he isn’t here? McNair cast an anti-Apparition spell over half the county.’

‘You ask me, Dolohov lost him yesterday and Potter’s halfway round Europe by now.’

The man took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘What do you make of the Malfoy boy running off with Potter? Dolohov says they’re working together.’

‘Dolohov will say his own mother worked with Potter to try and make himself look better after his disgrace. Nah, Malfoy could be a prisoner. I bet Potter’s got him hostage. Might make demands to send him back.’

‘As if the Dark Lord would give anything to have the Malfoy boy back.’ The man lowered his voice. ‘Rookwood, before Potter offed him, told me in confidence that the Dark Lord intends to murder the Malfoy brat. To punish his snooty parents.’

‘Nonsense,’ she retorted. ‘Sure, he’ll kill Potter. Not only that, he’ll torture him. Make him pay for all those embarrassing defeats. If the Dark Lord wants to rally the public behind him, he must make Potter an example. A slow and painful, probably public, death.’

The man nodded thoughtfully.

The woman continued. ‘The Malfoy boy, though… Bet the Dark Lord seethed when he ran away, but now that he’s calmed down, he’ll probably realise the boy is an asset. That’s what I’d do if it were me. Leverage. The Malfoys do everything he says, but you can tell they resent it.’

‘Narcissa’s barely hiding it these days.’

‘What’s to stop them from defecting when the boy’s gone? But holding him hostage, threatening to kill him… The Malfoys will give the Dark Lord every single thing he asks for in order to protect that pampered kid of theirs. You don’t destroy such an asset; you keep it as long as it’s useful. No. I say the only thing Draco Malfoy’s got to fear is his own cellar.’

The wind whispered through the elms, grass and ocean smells mingling in the air.

The man pointed at the sea. ‘Shall we have a look at the coast down there? I can see some folks about.’

The witch peered over. ‘Muggle surfers by the looks of it. But it won’t hurt to have a closer look. Hey, Benedict, why did you say that Potter offed Rookwood? Thought the man is still missing.’

‘He vanished off the face of the earth while investigating the area Potter had been traced to,’ he replied. ‘Doesn’t need half a brain to figure out what happened…’

The conversation faded as the two Death Eaters trudged down the path. Harry padded towards the edge of the hill and watched their figures shrinking. The pair followed the trail to the beach and vanished around a bend.

Harry straightened and exhaled. ‘That was close. But now we know why we can’t Apparate. Draco?’

Draco hadn’t answered him. Harry stalked back to where they’d been hiding and slipped the wand from his loose fingers. He undid the spell, frowning with worry. Draco stared into the middle distance, his face frozen in a private dread.

‘Draco? Do you know them?’

Draco shook himself out of his strange mood and smiled at Harry, a tad too brightly. ‘I don’t know them, no. Probably not high in the hierarchy. That’s why they were sent out here. McNair must think this is the last place we’d be. He’s an idiot.’

‘Right, well, we’d better get going. But I’ve no idea how to find a magical house if we can’t Apparate to it.’ Harry glanced at the hawthorn wood in his palm. ‘I could send a Patronus to talk to my friends, now that your wand is working.’

Draco stared at him, unamused. ‘We can also cast fireworks in the sky that spell “Harry Potter is Standing Right Here.” Just a suggestion.’

‘Ha ha.’ Harry warmed up to his idea. ‘Who’s going to see a Patronus in the daytime? The creatures don’t exactly wander about, do they?’

‘I know you can do remarkable magic, Harry, you don’t need to impress me’ — Harry rolled his eyes — ‘but have you used one as communication before?’

The answer was no. But Harry shrugged and said, ‘How hard can it be?’

‘Oh, to be a humble witness to your unshakeable confidence.’ Draco tried for disdain but ended up sounding affectionate. Harry smiled at him, and Draco sighed and made an elegant gesture. ‘Go on, then. Try it. But, just so we’re clear, if we’re captured because of this madness, I’m going to find you in the afterlife and kill you again.’

Harry ran his fingers over Draco’s wand, his chest flooding with hope that he might speak with his friends imminently. ‘Nah,’ he said with a careless smile, ‘you heard them. You’ll be alive in the cellar.’

He closed his eyes and concentrated. He landed upon a bright kernel of happiness, a memory of just this morning: waking up with his head on Draco’s chest while Draco absently stroked his hair. Golden joy bubbled inside Harry, and the spell poured forth, irresistible like champagne. ‘Expecto Patronum!’

The silver stag shimmered in the green woods; Harry’s happiness personified. The sight of it warmed him to his bones. ‘Find Ron Weasley,’ he told the stag, a bit self-conscious about talking to it. He hoped it was the right thing to do. ‘Tell him I’m somewhere near Tinworth. Near the coast. On a wooded hill. I can’t see any landmarks. Oh and, er, I’m not alone.’

The stag leapt through the air and vanished.

‘And now?’

They waited in the woods. They assumed that the Death Eaters wouldn’t come back the same way, so they sat in the dappled shade and ate the sandwiches the Romani had prepared for them. Draco appeared pre-occupied, but Harry didn’t want to press him. He spoke instead of his favourite Hogwarts dishes, trying to take Draco’s mind off whatever troubled him. It wasn’t long before a silver terrier startled them as he dropped in their midst and spoke with Ron’s voice:

‘Harry!’

Hearing Ron’s voice brought tears of relief in Harry’s eyes. The dog wagged his tail as he spoke in Ron’s wry tone. ‘Hermione is here, and she’s got things to say about your directions. “Near the coast? On a wooded hill?” Mate, you’ve described all of Cornwall! Listen,’ he turned business-like, ‘we can’t come get you right now. Big commotion down the village — we assume that was you? We can’t Apparate and it’s not safe to leave the house’s protection. There’s a swarm of Death Eaters right outside our door. Here’s what Bill suggested: find the beach Kennack Sands. It’s a Muggle spot, close enough to walk to but far enough from Tinworth that it should be safe, and if you run into any trouble, there are some caves you can hide in. Once night falls, I’ll come pick you up. Harry…’ — here Ron’s voice changed — ‘I’m so glad you’re OK. I was beside myself all week, mate.’

Harry blinked back tears.

As the terrier faded, Ron said one last thing: ‘What do you mean you’re “not alone”?’

Draco huffed a bitter laugh. ‘Boy, he’s in for a surprise.’

Harry snorted but couldn’t say anything else. Waves of emotion roiled inside him, choking him: intense relief and gratitude, joy, reluctance, chilling anxiety. Harry had been miserable for much of this adventure, but also giddily happy. Ecstatic and terrified, often in the same day. His days on the run with Draco were ending, which was what he’d prayed for, what he’d wished for most desperately, but now that the end was in sight, now that his prayers had been answered, it was grief weighing his heart: grief that things between him and Draco would change. The real world would intrude whether they liked it or not. Harry’s Horcrux mission would separate him from Draco, and it might be months before they met again.

Such a selfish, irrational thing: to want more of this when the world was burning.

Draco, deep in his own thoughts, had wandered to the edge of the forest. He stood with his back to Harry, gazing at the ocean, absently twirling the wand in his fingers. Perhaps he worried about his reception from the Weasleys; perhaps he, too, fretted over things changing between them. Or not; perhaps Draco didn’t care much about what would happen to him and Harry once their adventure was over.

Harry's lungs tightened, struggling for air. An ache swelled inside him, prompting him to his feet. Dusting off his jeans, he came to stand beside Draco, brushed his knuckles against Draco’s. ‘What are you thinking?’

It was mid-morning by then. A thin film of haze covered the sky, smothering the sun. White-tipped waves pounded against the shore unremittingly, a rhythm constant like a heartbeat.

Draco opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then tried again, then stopped. In the end, he murmured with a gesture towards the view, ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

Sky and ocean were pearly grey today. ‘Like your eyes,’ Harry said. Draco slanted a questioning look at him and Harry explained. ‘The ocean. Silver-grey. Same colour as your eyes.’ He stroked Draco’s cheekbone. ‘Beautiful.’

A flush spread on Draco’s face. ‘Harry…’ he said, his voice aching.

An unbearable yearning rose inside Harry, a wave that swept him towards the shore that was Draco: he grabbed him and kissed him, letting everything he was feeling pour into the kiss. Something roared in his head, some kind of vast, glorious emotion. He gripped Draco’s waist, slid his hands up his back and kissed him and kissed him.

When they parted, Draco wore a stunned, pleased expression. His nose had pinked with all their walking in the sun. A few freckles spread over his cheekbones; his eyes were a piece of the sky, infinite and impossible, and Harry finally had a name for the swelling in his chest: he was in love.

It was the first time they’d kissed in the light of day. They hadn’t even touched during daytime, apart from hand brushes here and there. Their longing for each other had blossomed at night, in the bed in the attic. It was exhilarating to kiss under the wide sky with the salt breeze ruffling their hair and the distant call of the gulls. Out in the open. It was a declaration, a promise, witnessed by water and air, by sunlight and by the deep-rooted trees.

‘Nothing has to change.’ Harry's breath brushed Draco’s skin. ‘When we get to the cottage. Unless— unless you want to.’

‘But it will. Surely, you see that…’

‘What I feel won’t change, Draco. Can you trust that?’

Draco leaned his forehead on Harry’s. ‘I can.’ He kissed Harry again. Soft and sweet, his mouth yielding to Harry’s burning worship. He’d been tense since they’d met the two Death Eaters, but now he melted in Harry’s arms.

‘I want to spend every moment of today touching you.’ Harry’s voice came out hoarse. He nuzzled Draco’s neck, soaking in the tangle of scents emanating from him: Dawn’s lavender detergent still clinging on their clothing, the lingering smell of the vardo sheets, a trace of sweat, and Draco’s own summer storm smell. A journey of scents, mapping their adventure together.

‘Yes,’ Draco said between kisses. ‘I agree with this plan. But first,’ he stepped back and gazed at Harry, ‘I have to tell you something.’

Harry was disconcerted by the seriousness on Draco’s face. ‘If this is about you not coming to the safe house and setting off on your own, you can forget it. I’ll kidnap you if I have to.’

Draco grabbed his wrist and pulled him under an elm. ‘That’s not it. Sit.’

When Harry sat on the ground facing him, Draco held his wand in his open palms and offered it to Harry. ‘Harry Potter, I bestow my wand unto you.’

‘What do you mean?’ Harry stared between the wand and Draco’s face. When Draco didn’t reply, Harry asked, ‘Like, forever?’

‘Like forever, yes. My hawthorn and unicorn wand is now yours, Harry Potter. It’s yours to wield, yours to use as you see fit. It’s my gift to you.’

‘But—’ you’re so attached to it, Harry wanted to say. This whole escapade had only happened because Draco had been so unwilling to part from it. ‘It’s your wand. The one you got when you were eleven. The wand that chose you.’

‘I’m aware,’ Draco bit out. His shining eyes betrayed what it cost him to do this, but he remained resolute, palms unmoving, offering. ‘Yes, it’s my wand, mine to do with as I please. And this I what I’m doing: I’m offering it to you.’

Harry realised his mouth was open. He shut it and lowered his eyes to the hawthorn wand. This was so unexpected, so touching. He’d no idea what prompted Draco to do this. ‘Surely we can share it while—’

‘Harry, take it,’ Draco hissed.

‘OK, OK.’ Harry picked it up from Draco’s palms and raised it. Its ridges fit nicely against his fingers. Unlike the flare of recognition his own wand had given him, back in Ollivander’s shop, the sensation now resembled being caught in a warm rain; soft and singing, soaking every inch of him, penetrating every cell, infusing him with the wand’s magic. A hint of Draco’s magic lingered. Harry held a piece of Draco in his hands that he’d carry with him from now on.

‘Thank you.’ Harry loaded the two short words with all the weight of his swollen heart, all the gratitude and surprise and love that thundered through him. Draco’s expression, his quick squeeze of Harry’s hand, showed that he’d understood. ‘But what will you do?’

Draco shrugged. ‘I’ll manage. I’ll be safe in that house you’re taking me to, right? I doubt the Weasleys will let me carry a wand anyways. Besides, I know you’ll need it more than me. No, don’t argue. You heard those two earlier. You heard the Romani last night. Everyone’s out to get you, Harry. Everyone. I can’t bear the thought that—’ He took a deep breath. Released it. ‘It’s my wish that you’ll be protected wherever you are. Wherever you go. I know you won’t stay in the Weasley house.’ His hair covered his face and he brushed it back with a hand. ‘I don’t know what exactly you’re involved in, but I know your purpose. And I want you to win, Harry. I want you to win, and I know it’ll be difficult, and I’ll feel better if you have something to defend yourself. Something to keep you safe.’

A lump closed Harry’s throat, so he shuffled on his knees towards Draco to hug him. He squeezed his eyes shut in a futile effort to stop from feeling overwhelmed. Knowing that Draco stood by his side, firmly by his side, mattered more than he’d imagined it would. ‘Thank you,’ he managed to say, voice broken. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

~*~

Kennack Sands, twin beaches separated by a grassy headland, sported a shabby café and a blue-painted shop with bodyboards, sun lotions and summer hats. A handful of surfers braved the chilly water and a family sat on a striped blanket with the detritus of a picnic around them, their toddler digging determinedly in the sand while the family’s Labrador yapped around her.

Harry used their last few quid to buy a soggy egg sandwich and a cup of tea to share between them. The café was mostly empty, just a couple of teens lounging in the back under a framed photo of fishermen around a gigantic catch. The radio warbled on a wooden shelf next to a ship in a bottle and the owner of the café handed Harry his purchases absently, his voice low on the telephone receiver jammed between ear and shoulder.

The safety the Muggle world exuded made for a strong lure and Harry wished he could let himself rest there awhile; let the idle conversations about GCSEs and pub dates wash over him; let himself pretend, for a moment, that Horcruxes didn’t exist, and Dark wizards appeared only in fairy tales. But he knew the devastation that the dark pall dogging their heels could wreak, so they lingered only to use the facilities, gulp the tea, and take the pitiful sandwich with them for later.

Outside, salt breeze in his hair, Disillusionment back on, Harry confided that he’d never spent a day on the beach. Perhaps his parents had taken him as a kid, but the Dursleys consigned him to Mrs Figg when they went to Butlins.

Draco’s eyebrows rose. ‘Never? My poor dear Harry. You’re so lucky to have me by your side, you know. I’ll teach you everything there is to know. First thing: shoes off. One must always walk along the shore, where the surf breaks.’

Harry cocked his head, thinking Draco was making fun of him, but Draco, with an exaggerated sigh, bent and removed his own shoes and socks. ‘Come.’ He held his hand out imperiously once Harry kicked his trainers off and dragged him to the edge of the surf. ‘The water will be cold, but we can pretend we’re in the Med on holiday.’

They headed towards the far side of the beach, holding hands, feet squishing in the sand. Harry dug his toes in, relishing the sensation, but yelped when the freezing water lapped at his feet. He might have jumped up rather embarrassingly.

Draco almost fell over laughing. ‘The mighty Boy Who Lived! Defeated by some cold water.’

Harry glared at him. ‘I’m this close to throwing you in the sea.’

Draco pursed his lips, but his eyes still twinkled with mirth. He’d relaxed considerably since the offering of his wand. They hadn’t seen a pointy hat since the morning and Harry hoped that Voldemort would call back his dogs and search elsewhere.

‘Do you think they’ll give up? Decide we’re not in the area?’

The ocean rushed in to wipe their footprints. Birds swooped in the sea, caught their prey, and soared again.

‘No idea,’ Draco said finally. ‘I can’t speak for what goes on in his mind.’ He slanted a glance at Harry. ‘You’re better equipped to tell us what he’s thinking.’

‘I can’t cause it to happen,’ Harry replied. ‘He draws me in only when he feels strong emotions.’ He suspected it wasn’t entirely true, that he could choose to use the connection voluntarily, but the idea of sinking back into Voldemort’s mind and not finding his way back terrified him. A shudder ran through him at the thought alone. ‘Let’s find those caves Ron mentioned.’

‘This looks pretty good,’ Draco said at the third cave they poked their head in. Shallow water splashed around their bare ankles; they’d rolled their jean legs up to their knees. ‘The sand at the back is dry, so the tide doesn’t flood it, and the way it curves will hide us from casual view.’

They’d gone no more than three feet inside when Hermione’s silver otter Patronus landed in front of them. Harry beamed. Hermione must be feeling well if she could conjure a Patronus.

‘Harry! I’m so happy you’re finally here!’ Harry could hear the smile in her voice. ‘Things are still bad out there,’ she continued in a more sober tone. ‘McNair has sent the werewolves out to hunt you. They’re not transformed, the moon is waning, but they can smell better than hounds. And Greyback is around, and you know what he’s like. Here’s the plan: we’ll create a diversion that will lure them away from Tinworth. Ron and Bill are sorting the final details out now. Several of us will be needed to pull it off so when this is happening, Fleur will sneak out to find you and bring you home. How does that sound? Where exactly are you?’

The silver Patronus faded and Harry bit his lip, thinking. ‘Is it just me or does that diversion sound dangerous?’

Draco had paled at the mention of Greyback. ‘Dangerous and foolish, a true Gryffindor plan. They would do better to stay indoors and let the werewolves roam till they return to their Master empty-handed.’ He tilted his chin to the rumbling surf. ‘The ocean can cover our scent fully.’

‘I know a ton of spells to protect us too.’ The idea of everyone putting their lives at risk didn’t sit well at all with Harry.

Slanting sunlight pierced the entrance of the cave but left the rest of it in shadow. The rocky walls around them glinted with moisture. Harry trusted his instincts and they insisted that this cave would provide the safety he and Draco needed. The immovable rock around them, the vast ocean as a sentinel outside, a Protego Maxima shielding the entrance — the more Harry thought about it, the more certain he felt.

‘We’ll stay here tonight.’

His stag Patronus leaped through the cave wall to deliver his message to the others: stay put, we’re protected, we’re safe, don’t put your lives in danger. I’ll send for you at dawn.

‘Right.’ Heart throbbing oddly in his chest, Harry turned to Draco. ‘It’s just you and me again.’

‘So it is, Potter.’ Draco’s eyes glimmered. ‘How about you show me what you can do with your… wand?’ A teasing half-smile flashed on his face and when Harry laughed, Draco continued, deadpan, ‘I meant the protection spells you claimed you know. Tsk tsk. Your dirty mind.’

‘I will throw you in the sea, just you wait.’ Harry grinned and pulled Draco’s — no, his — wand out of his pocket.

He made the cave as hospitable as he could. Having a working wand after their wandless days was a luxury that Harry couldn’t get enough of. He cast every spell he’d mastered while hiding out in the wild with his tent and his friends, and the wand responded beautifully. The magic rushing through him thrummed as spell after spell secured and shielded and transformed the cave.

He might have gone overboard in Transfiguring the bed.

‘Subtle, Harry.’ Draco shook with suppressed laughter.

‘I’m getting used to the new wand, ‘sall.’ Harry’s cheeks burned. He glanced at the massive four-poster bed he’d Transfigured from a flat rock. He’d conjured red silk sheets and a blanket with a pattern of squiggly lines that, under a certain light, resembled small dicks.

Or maybe not so small.

‘I’ve seen pornography sets featuring less obvious beds.’ Draco clearly enjoyed Harry’s flushed cheeks.

‘Shut up,’ Harry said. ‘And get in bed.’ Draco raised a delighted eyebrow. ‘To sleep, I mean!’

‘Of course you do,’ Draco said in a too-innocent voice.

Harry watched Draco remove his jeans and slide into bed, an odd awkwardness lodged inside him. What was wrong with him? This wasn’t the first time they’d share a bed. Then again, it was the first time they’d sleep in a bed with a shagpile throw and pictures of penises decorating the pillows.

‘Imagine your friend Weasley catching sight of this,’ Draco said thoughtfully as he sat up, surrounded by crimson silk. ‘Or Granger. I bet she’d be impressed by the decorating techniques you’ve displayed here. Astounding really.’

‘Will you shut up?’ Harry growled.

The smirk on Draco’s face hooked Harry straight through the chest — the groin, too. Gaze travelling down Harry’s body and back up again, Draco said, ‘Make me.’

Harry’s T-shirt went flying to a corner of the cave, his glasses following. The wand merited more caution, deposited carefully on the ground. Shirtless, pulse quick and stuttering, Harry climbed on the bed, crawled up to Draco and shoved him on his back. Draco laid there like a sacrifice offering, his face open and flushed and aroused.

Right then the rest of the world didn’t exist. This was Harry’s world now, and his body hungered. He bent low over Draco. ‘I wonder if I should gag you. You’re very annoying.’

Draco smiled insolently. ‘I aim to displease.’

Harry employed the best way he knew to silence him: he caught Draco’s mouth with his, sliding his tongue inside. He’d never tire of kissing him, he was sure. At first Draco smiled while they kissed before he let out a soft, desperate moan, tilted his head and wrapped his arms around Harry’s neck, pulling him close. Harry lost himself in Draco’s warm lips, the world forgotten in the arms of the boy who’d come so far with him.

The kiss turned deep and slow and consuming. Harry had promised he’d spend the day touching Draco and he made good on it. Pressed flush against the hot, angular body beneath him, Harry mouthed at Draco’s jaw, at his neck, sucking and licking. Leaving a trail of kisses for safekeeping at Draco’s dearest parts: the lids of his eyes, the corner of his mouth, his clavicle, the crook of his neck, the soft area under his ear. His nipples, pert and shivery, responsive to Harry’s tongue. The light outside changed from amber yellow to lavender to indigo: night had fallen. Inside the cave, under the languid gleam of a discreet Lumos — a tiny orb which bumped against the ceiling — they kissed and stroked and caressed, a fervent, febrile urgency rising in both as they yanked their clothes off and sought each other again like magnets.

Draco straddled him, his long limbs around Harry, his summer storm smell saturating Harry’s senses. He cherished Draco’s solidity, his warmth, his weight. Harry’s muscles complained at the heaviness but even this was welcome: he wanted to feel the strain of it. He wanted to hurt from it.  

They moved slowly, rubbing, grinding, clinging to each other. Unwilling to allow half an inch of space between them.

‘You’re the best thing that happened to me, Harry Potter,’ Draco murmured against his neck. His lips tickled Harry.

‘Draco—’ The enormity of Harry’s feelings squeezed the breath out of him. Words had vanished, his brain a desolate landscape, burning only with desire.

The surf lapped against the rocks, ceaseless, and the moonlight tiptoed across the wet sand in the entrance. Harry slid his hands down Draco’s sweaty back, palmed his arse cheeks, held his hips tight. His cock leaked against Draco’s, and he slipped his hand between them to wank them off when Draco whispered, ‘Harry, I—’ He swallowed and rose briefly only to press his arse intently against Harry’s straining erection. ‘I want you to—’

Harry’s brain short-circuited. ‘Do you?’

‘Don’t you?’

If Harry didn’t reply, it was because the air had left his lungs. The mere suggestion brought on a fever, hot skin, shivers, and a roiling in the stomach, red-hot lust mixing with nerves. ‘You want to— me?’

Draco blushed some more. ‘I was thinking more… you do me.’

Merlin. Harry racked his memory for everything he’d picked up about anal sex from osmosis in the Gryffindor common room. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘You won’t. I know a spell or two.’

The night proceeded in a daze, dream-like, treacle-soft, time stalling and then stretching, elastic like gum. Moments loomed sharp as crystal; others blended hypnotically together: the cool wetness of conjured lube; the slow, slippery slide of Harry’s fingers in Draco’s arse; the gasps and whimpers Draco let out, eyes half-closed; his hands bruising Harry’s shoulders, his smell intoxicating; the snug heat when Harry breached him; the impossible rapture of being closer than skin-to-skin.

It felt— the word was miraculous. So much pleasure radiating to Harry’s toes, his fingertips, to the very core of his soul. Draco, still straddling him, impaled himself, a slow, deep slide, his head thrown back. The column of his neck gleamed in the soft light, irresistible. Harry kissed it messily, hungrily, as Draco sped up. The pleasure scorched Harry’s mind — he’d clean forgotten his own name — and he gripped Draco’s hips and rocked him up, fucking him as fast as he could, as hard as he could, while Draco moaned, panted, pleaded more, more, oh fuck, more.

The chill woke Harry; their warming spells must have failed in the night. Draco’s warmth lingered in the messy sheets beside him. Rubbing the sleep off his face, Harry put his glasses and clothes on and padded outside to find Draco.

He stumbled on breath-taking beauty.

The tide was out, and the beach stretched for miles. The sun peeked over the horizon, casting limpid light over the murmuring water. A few clouds, their bellies gleaming gold and pink, glided in the sky. The salty breeze brought goose bumps on Harry’s skin and threaded through his hair, a careless caress. A white and turquoise morning, serene and peaceful but for the mournful call of the birds out in the sea. A horizon like open arms.

He'd like to live by the sea, Harry decided. If he survived this. If he survived Voldemort.

Sitting with his arms around his bent knees on the edge of the beach, Draco stared at the ocean. The surf licked his bare feet and retreated, then returned for another taste. Harry approached him and slid his hand through his blond hair. Draco leaned his head against Harry’s thigh.

It could be a distant world, a far-away planet: blue and white and empty but for the two of them.

‘Look what I found.’ Draco opened his hand. Two shiny pebbles rested on his palm, one pink, one green. One fit in the curve of the other as if they’d been shaped by the water together.

‘They’re pretty.’

Draco offered him the green one. ‘A souvenir.’ He pocketed the other one.

‘To remember Kennack Sands?’ Harry closed his fingers around the smooth stone.

‘To remember— everything. Us. This adventure. Our nine and a half days.’

Harry sat beside him. ‘Have you been counting?’

Draco nodded, his gaze back at the ocean. ‘It started as a comfort. A prayer of sorts. One day that I’ve managed to stay alive, two days, three…’

‘Come here,’ Harry murmured. Cupping Draco’s cheek, he pulled him close and kissed him. What he felt for Draco tore through him; it reshaped him and made him new. Loving Draco, his enemy, his ally, his lover — a realisation bright as pain — loving Draco made him stronger.

He opened his mouth to confess, to bare his heart, but Draco spoke first. ‘Harry, listen… about us going to the cottage.’

A shiver ran down Harry’s back as the wind picked up. ‘Yeah?’

‘We can’t be— like this.’ Draco gestured between them. ‘You can’t tell the others that we were… intimate. They can’t know.’

A cold hand settled on Harry’s chest, cooling his ardent heart. ‘But why?’

‘They’ll think I deceived you into liking me. That I enchanted you or love-potioned you or even Imperiused you.’

‘I can throw off an Imperius,’ Harry objected. ‘And I can make them understand.’

‘Harry, remember how we were before we got stranded? Suppose that one of your closest friends, someone you’ve known for years like Weasley or Granger, disappeared for a week or two and then re-emerged, holding hands and blissfully enamoured with, say, Greg Goyle. Or, I don’t know, Rookwood. What would be your first thought?’

The idea of Hermione, or Ron, falling for Goyle in a few short days seemed preposterous. ‘I see your point,’ Harry conceded. ‘And if they think you gave me a love-potion…’ they’ll visit their worst on you. They’ll never trust you, or me, about us.

Draco’s pinched mouth showed he was aware of what Harry left unsaid. ‘They mustn’t find out. This was our little interlude, sweetheart, a nine-and-a-half-day holiday where we survived by the kindness of strangers and where we discovered, unexpectedly, that we—’ he hesitated ‘—like each other. But the holiday is over.’

Harry dug his fingers in the cold, wet sand. ‘It’s over?’

He didn’t intend to make it a question but Draco understood what he was really asking, and he clutched Harry’s wrist, his voice low, urgent. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘one day, you’ll win your fight against the Dark Lord, and I’ll be in the cottage or wherever your Order sees fit to stash me in, and I’ll— I’ll be waiting, Harry. I promise.’

Harry nodded, his eyes stinging. ‘This isn’t you ditching me, then.’ He tried to make it a joke, but his voice cracked; nonetheless, he wanted it said out loud. He wanted to be clear about it. ‘We’re keeping a secret. That’s all. It’s a secret, not an ending.’

The bracing wind flew Draco’s hair all over his face. He traced Harry’s mouth with a long finger and said, voice wistful, ‘A secret.’ He gave Harry a soft, barely-there kiss. ‘Send the Patronus.’

‘Because,’ Harry continuing the conversation from before, ‘Draco, I—’ I’m in love with you.

But Draco’s finger pressed his lips shut. His eyes, full of grief, ached. ‘Send the Patronus. Tell them I’m your hostage. They won’t question that.’

In a daze, Harry trudged to the cave to undo the Transfiguration spells and grab their meagre belongings, casting the stag as he splashed back towards the beach. He glanced at Draco, a solitary figure in a vast emptiness. Briefly, Draco covered his face with a trembling hand, before he transformed, like he always did; taking his joy and his pain and hiding them under a sneering, arrogant mask. Harry’s heart ached. He stood beside him, made to touch his shoulder, but stopped with his hand in the air. Arms stiff by his side, he braced the cold wind, a mocking rosy-gold dawn spreading over them, when a familiar voice called his name.

Harry turned and grinned. ‘Dobby!’

‘Dobby found Harry Potter, sir!’ the elf exclaimed, grinning with such elation that Harry refrained from pointing out that he had sent the Patronus telling them where he was. Beside Dobby, looking handsome and wind-swept, stood Bill.

‘Dobby is looking for days now and finding no sign! Dobby is even going to Hogwarts and the awful place and—’

The elf’s bubbly chatter stuttered to a halt when his eyes fell on Draco, standing behind Harry. He immediately froze, his bottom lip trembling. ‘Harry Potter’s enemy is—’

‘It’s all right,’ Harry hurried to say. ‘He’s not my enemy anymore. He’s— he’s my captive. And he changed.’

Dobby shook his head. ‘No. No. Master Malfoy lies. He always lies.’

As the elf whimpered, Bill strode to meet them, smiling, posture casual, but wand trained on Draco. ‘It’s great to see you well, Harry. What’s the story with him?’

‘He ran away from home,’ Harry said. ‘Death Eaters are after him too. They’ll kill him. He defected, you see. He needs to come with us, he must.’

Bill’s uncompromising expression didn’t bode well. ‘Which is it: Malfoy defected or he’s your captive?’

‘Er…’ Harry glanced at Draco, who stared resolutely away. You’re no help, he almost said, but didn’t. Couldn’t. He couldn’t take the piss out of him anymore with a half-smile and a bump of his shoulder; neither could Draco retort the way he used to, with a caustic What would you do without me, Potter? tempered by a fond smile. A pang of loss throbbed in Harry’s chest. A secret, he reminded himself, not an ending.

‘Well, Harry?’

‘Truth is, that yes, at first, I took him hostage. But we had some adventures along the way, and we talked, and he realised he was wrong and now he’s on my side. Our side.’ It sounded weak even to his ears. How could he condense the last ten days into one neat summary?

‘What Potter means to say,’ Draco drawled, ‘is that I merely sought an excuse to flee the festering house I call home. The error of my ways has been impressed upon me rather forcefully. Watching one’s teachers getting murdered on one’s dining table tends to have that effect.’

‘Nonetheless…’ Bill frowned. Framed by his flaming hair, his scarred face — a consequence of the actions of past Draco — loomed as a reminder of everything they stood to lose if they made the wrong choice.

‘He could have summoned You-Know-Who with a press of his fingers,’ Harry insisted, ‘and he didn’t. I know it’s a risk to take him to an Order safe house, but it’s not a safe house that You-Know-Who wants: it’s me. Draco had plenty of chances to turn me in and he didn’t take them.’

Dobby had been tugging his long ears, biting his fist. ‘Master Malfoy lies, Harry Potter, sir. He’s cruel. He is teasing.’

Harry darted a curious glance at Draco, who wore an expression Harry had come to recognise: shame. ‘When I was little, I used to promise him things, treats, games, that sort of thing. I’d wait till he was excited and then I’d let him down and laugh.’ His face had gone red. ‘I was a kid, and he was a toy, and toys don’t have feelings.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I regret it now, OK? I’m sorry, Dobby. I really am.’

Dobby’s eyes widened like saucers. He swayed on his feet. ‘An apology — an apology from Master is…’ He looked dangerously overwhelmed, and Bill reached down and patted his shoulder.

‘Why don’t you go back, Dobby,’ he said, ‘and get everything ready for our arrival. We’ll be a few more minutes.’

The crack of Dobby’s Disapparation echoed across the empty beach. ‘What happened with the werewolves last night?’ Harry asked. ‘Did you go ahead with that diversion?’

‘No. We took your advice and stayed put. They left sometime in the early morning, tails between their legs. So to speak.’ Bill gazed thoughtfully at him. ‘I’ll trust you, Harry. But permit me to do a couple of spells first. Your wrists, Malfoy.’

Harry opened his mouth to object, but Draco stalked past him, removing his jacket. He stopped in front of Bill and offered his wrists, palms up. Trusting. Surrendering.

Bill waved his wand in a spiral, murmuring a strange incantation. A translucent substance flew from the tip, wrapped around Draco’s wrists, and solidified in a sort of wide cuff, milky white and shimmering, covering the lower half of his forearms.

‘You won’t be able to press the Dark Mark now. Give it a go.’

Draco nudged the white material but couldn’t make a dent. ‘It’s unyielding.’

The next spell swooped over Draco and tugged Bellatrix’s silver dagger out of his pocket. It flew into the hands of Bill, who slanted an unreadable look at Harry. ‘One more thing,’ he said.

Harry watched the wand aiming his way and felt a stinging like a thousand mosquitoes had descended upon him. ‘What on earth was that?’ It’d lasted for barely two seconds but had been thoroughly unpleasant.

‘A diagnostic spell. You’re not under the influence of any Dark magic, I’m pleased to say.’

‘I could’ve told you that myself!’

‘Which is also what someone under Dark magic would claim,’ Bill pointed out. ‘Now we can go.’

Dobby had alerted the others about their imminent arrival, and they’d gathered outside the cottage in a semi-circle. Draco took one look at them and his expression shuttered. ‘You only need Katie Bell and Madam Rosmerta to complete the welcome committee,’ he murmured.

Ron, poisoned by Draco’s mead; Hermione, tortured in the Malfoy Manor; Luna and Dean, imprisoned in Malfoy’s cellar; Dobby, bullied by the Malfoys; and Fleur, whose husband almost died from a werewolf attack. The next days would be tumultuous at best, Harry thought with some dread.

But then two figures detached from the group and flew towards him. Harry quickened his step, every concern momentarily forgotten in the joy of seeing his two best friends alive and well.

Ron hugged him so tightly that he almost cut his breath off. Harry didn’t mind; he clutched back just as hard, dizzy with relief. ‘I thought you were a goner, mate!’ Ron grinned, hair blazing in the sunlight and smelling, like he always did, of soap and jam.

Hermione hugged him next, her brown curls tickling Harry’s nose as he pressed his face into the crown of her head. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, urgently. ‘Have you healed?’

‘I’m fine, I’ve been fine for days, Harry.’ Her brown eyes lit up when she looked at him. ‘You look well! I was so worried, Ron and I were terrified, poor Dobby has been searching all over the country for you, he even went to Hogwarts, really you must tell us what hap—’ She trailed off, looking over Harry’s shoulder.

Draco had reached them, with Bill walking close behind him.

Ron’s gaze fell on the white cuffs around Draco’s wrists. ‘Harry, you can’t want this. Don’t care if he’s got no wand. He carries You-Know-Who with him.’

‘So do I, Ron.’ Harry’s scar twitched, his connection to Voldemort echoing through. ‘I carry him with me too.’

They gathered around the long narrow table in the kitchen. Bunches of lilac in jam jars decorated the windowsills and a pan sizzled on the stove, the smell of sausages and eggs wafting in the air. Bill put the kettle on, Fleur Levitated the plates for breakfast, Ron and Luna carried a couple of extra chairs from the other room. Harry took a seat next to Draco. When his plate arrived, he slid his mushrooms onto Draco’s plate and took his tomato, which he knew Draco didn’t care for. Draco poured a splash of milk in Harry’s tea, just the way he liked it, before serving himself. The others’ surprise grew thick in the air, almost tangible, but Harry didn’t know how to stop being familiar with Draco, and if anyone raised an eyebrow at it (Ron did), he pretended not to notice.

It took a good few hours to finish his narration. More tea was served, then sandwiches in the living room, although they barely fit in the tiny space; they squeezed in onto the sofa and into the armchairs, sat on cushions on the floor. Harry described the Oxfam shop; how they crossed the moor, how they escaped the Death Eaters in the lake; the cottage and Rookwood; Tinworth and the Roma camp. Draco corrected or provided a detail here and there, his comments sliding in Harry’s narration unobtrusively. He’d settled on a cushion as far from him as the room would allow, but gradually, what with contributing to the story or Harry asking him to confirm a fact, he drew closer. He now leaned against Harry’s armchair. Harry only had to reach out and he could slide his hand in Draco’s soft hair.

He didn’t.

When he finished, Hermione took over. ‘We sent Dobby back to the Manor when you didn’t turn up. He snuck in and checked the cellars, but you weren’t there, and we had no idea where to even begin to search. You didn’t have your own wand and… Anything could’ve happened to you. Anything.’

Harry’s heart bled, hearing the worry in her voice. They must’ve been frantic. He’d have been the same if he were the one safe at home with his friends missing. ‘It all worked out in the end. And I have a wand now. Which reminds me: I need to speak to Ollivander.’

‘We ‘ad ‘im moved to Muriel’s, ‘Arry,’ said Fleur. ‘Zere’s too many of us ‘ere.’

Harry had lost the burning obsession for the Hallows but the miraculous mending of the wand in his pocket made him eager to seek answers. ‘I will need to speak to him. But first—’ He glanced at Hermione and Ron. ‘The goblin, Griphook. Is he here?’

Ron said, ‘Upstairs. We wanted to move him too, but Great Aunt Muriel wouldn’t hear of it.’

Harry stood. The longer he spent in the magical world, the louder his mission clamoured for his attention. ‘I want you with me,’ he told Ron and Hermione. As he stepped out of the room, he glanced back at Draco, but he stared at the rug on the floor, a finger tracing the weaving.

Dinner that night was a noisy affair. Dobby had bid them farewell, off to do whatever he was meant to be doing for the Order. Harry discovered that while he was proposing the utterly mad plan to rob Gringotts and explaining to his friends what he’d surmised from Bellatrix’s reaction back at the Manor, Bill had taken Draco aside to interrogate him. Like most of Voldemort’s followers, Draco had been kept mostly in the dark, but he offered what he could: some names, snatched phrases he overheard from people whispering in the corridors of his house while he was there at Easter, a few locations that seemed to come up a lot. Bill seemed grimly pleased.

‘I’ll go to Great Aunt Muriel’s after dinner,’ he told Harry, ‘to discuss this new information with Dad. You can come with me if you wish to speak to Ollivander.’

Bill and Harry returned just before midnight, landing on the blustery cliff at the edge of the wards. A candle flickered downstairs, the only light in the quiet house. Inside, Fleur was pacing the kitchen floor; she launched herself at Bill when he walked in, and he held her, kissed her hair, and murmured softly as they went upstairs. At the table, a game of cards between them, Ron and Hermione had been waiting up for Harry, and — Harry’s heart lurched — so had Draco, who leaned sullenly beside a window and pretended to be staring at the view.

‘How is everyone over there?’ Ron asked. ‘You’re late back. Did my sister drag you into her room again for some snogging?’

Harry snapped his eyes to Draco, who had frozen. ‘No! No, no, no, no. I wouldn’t do that, you know I wouldn’t.’ He addressed Draco’s stiff back, but Ron said, ‘Only joking, mate, calm your tits.’

Harry had seen Ginny; it’d been awkward and stilted at first until she divined that his reticence meant that Harry had met someone else. That’s life, isn’t it?  She bit her lip. I’ve grown close to someone too. At school. Stay friends?

‘Me and Ginny have grown apart.’ Harry spoke clearly and watched as Draco’s posture gradually softened. ‘She and I have moved on. It happens. We’re good.’

‘Blimey,’ Ron said. ‘Here I was thinking we'd be brothers one day.’

‘We’ve bigger things to worry about,’ Hermione cut in, ‘than Harry’s love life. Did you talk to Ollivander about the—’ she mouthed Deathly Hallows.

‘I— yes, I did, but first — first, I have to tell Draco something.’

‘OK.’ Ron shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’

‘Uh, in private. We’ll, er, step outside for a moment.’ And maybe do a bit of snogging. Harry caught Draco’s eye and gestured to the door, but Hermione shook her head.

‘Can’t do that. Bill’s rules are that someone has to stay with him at all times.’

‘I’m someone,’ Harry observed. He hoped Hermione wouldn’t argue. He really wanted that snogging.

Ron sat back in his chair, looking put-out. ‘Do you two, like, have secrets? Things you haven’t told us?’

Draco cut in, tone scathing. ‘He probably wishes to question me like your brother did. Who’s next? Lovegood asking me about introspective butterflies? You—’ he glanced at Ron and smiled maliciously ‘—wanting to know what it feels like to have money? I regret to say that you can’t buy good taste—’

Harry grabbed Draco by the collar and dragged him outside. ‘Ron’s right, you’re a git.’ He shoved him against the whitewashed wall, far from the kitchen window, and pressed close. ‘Do you have to irritate them on purpose?’

Draco leaned his head back, looking at him through half-lidded eyes. ‘Just playing my part, Potter.’

‘You don’t have to goad him.’

‘But I enjoy it.’

Harry sighed. Moonlight limned the contours of Draco’s face, his angles sharp as broken glass. ‘I asked Ollivander about the wand.’

‘Oh?’ Draco straightened, curious. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said something about wands changing allegiance when they change hands. There’s an infamous wand that — well. Never mind. Ollivander said conquered wands might change their allegiance, but when I tried to win yours, you almost got it back. The wand’s loyalties were divided. It felt it belonged to both of us and almost split in two. But then we grew close and—’ He stopped himself from blurting out something sappy and cleared his throat. ‘When we acquired a common purpose and our loyalties aligned, it started knitting together.’

The ocean sighed below. Night birds sang nearby, unseen. Draco tapped the handle of the wand, poking from Harry’s jacket. ‘Like a child whose parents are going through a divorce. When mama and papa are happy again…’

Harry snorted. ‘I guess.’ He cast a quick glance around and reached out to caress Draco’s face, slide his hand in his hair. Draco leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. They stayed like this for a moment, breathing quietly in the velvet darkness under a sky studded with stars.

‘I worried,’ Draco murmured.

Harry stroked Draco’s cheekbone. ‘I wasn’t that late.’

‘Anything could’ve happened to you out there. You could’ve been snogging the Weasley girl.’

Harry’s gaze fell heavy on Draco’s parted lips. ‘Not who I want to snog.’

Draco hummed, softening under Harry’s touch. ‘It’s one of my biggest fears,’ he confessed. ‘You draw danger like a fucking magnet.’

‘Mine too. That something will happen to the people I care for. Or that people will die because of me.’ Something else, though, terrified Harry to the core: his connection to Voldemort. The idea that one day his mind would be consumed by him, eradicated, sucked in like bone marrow. He bit down on it, unable even to utter the words.

They were against each other now, whispering, lips brushing sensitive skin. Soothing each other with touches and kisses to ease the unbearable weight in their hearts.

‘My biggest fear,’ Draco said, ‘is that I’ll go back to being the person I was.’ He slid his hands down Harry's hips, pulling him closer.

‘That’s not possible.’ Harry had his nose in the hollow of Draco’s throat. The collar of Draco's shirt brushed Harry’s cheeks as he sucked gently at the soft skin. ‘You’ve changed so much.’

‘Fears are irrational. You can’t help what the Boggart will show.’

Draco’s warmth saturated Harry’s front. He slid his knee between Draco’s legs and slipped his hands under his borrowed shirt. Draco’s skin burned.

‘This isn’t safe,’ Draco said even as he rolled his hips slowly.

‘No one’s looking.’ Harry hauled him closer, his arousal a demanding thing. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘Me too.’ Draco groaned as Harry rubbed him to hardness and choked out, ‘We have to go back.’

‘We will.’ Finally, after this interminable day, Harry kissed him, deep and slow. Draco’s lips tasted of honey; the night smelled of wildflowers and the distant rain; Draco moaned prettily under his touch; it was a moment of pure bliss, glowing like molten gold.

Harry’s hopes that he’d get to enjoy more furtive kisses were crushed in the week that followed. The tiny cottage overflowed with people who wandered in and out of rooms at all times, inconsiderate to people’s secret love affairs. Not even the possession of his Cloak, which Hermione had stashed in her beaded bag before their capture, assisted matters as Luna and Dean had been assigned to watch over Draco and they took their duty seriously. Meanwhile, Griphook had agreed to help Harry rob the bank and so Harry spent almost every waking moment with Ron and Hermione stuck in Griphook’s small bedroom, planning a fucking heist. At night, Hermione and Luna shared the second spare bedroom, which left the four boys to make do in the living room, kipping on the sofa or on conjured futons.

‘Potter can conjure an excellent bed,’ Draco drawled, smirking at Harry’s heated cheeks.

He didn’t laugh, though, when Hermione lashed him to the leg of the bookcase. ‘Bill’s rules,’ she said, unapologetically. ‘For the nights. Seeing as Harry’s so good at beds, he can conjure something for you to sleep on.’

In the end, Ron did it.

~*~

The day of the heist drew inexorably close. In two days, in fact. The obsessive lust of the Horcruxes had seized Harry again and he discussed the topic with the others endlessly, usually sheltered at the back of the cottage, the only space that afforded them some privacy. The litany of the dead names on Potterwatch firmed his purpose, focused him.

So did the news that there was now a reward for Draco Malfoy. He’d become an Undesirable, too. Wanted Alive the posters said, which chilled Harry’s blood; it meant that what Voldemort had planned for Draco would be worse than death.

One more Horcrux, Harry thought at night, lying on his futon on the living room floor, and we’re one step closer to destroying him. Draco slumbered nearby, his socked foot poking under his cypress green blanket. Ron snored and Dean fidgeted and sometimes Draco would mumble in his sleep and Harry thought of how much he loved them. All of them: his friends, the Weasleys, Draco. He loved them so much and that crushing love kept him staring at the ceiling, thinking: another Horcrux, and another one, and we’ll all be safe. Ron and Hermione will be safe. Draco will be safe.

Everyone’s opinion on Draco shifted since he’d joined the Undesirables rank. They stopped tying him at nights to the sturdiest piece of furniture. He helped with chores, instigated conversations, made people laugh, even (grudgingly) Ron. The others’ slow approval thawed his sneering manner and brought out his wit, his dazzle, his startling compassion, like dusty silverware polished to a brilliant shine. Draco spent long afternoons telling Dean about his Muggle experiences, or discussing French cuisine with Fleur, both bemoaning the difficulty of finding proper camembert in Britain. Harry liked to steal glances at him when they shared meals, or in the evenings as everyone piled in the living room to listen to the wireless or play charades at Luna’s insistence. Draco would glance up when he felt Harry staring. He’d meet Harry’s eyes and hold them, a soft smile on his face, and Harry’s pulse would stutter.

Two more days before they left for Gringotts. Hermione and Ron wanted to plan their disguises, but Harry begged off to get some air.

‘Where’s Draco?’ he asked, entering the kitchen. Bill poked the wireless with his wand, trying to find Potterwatch.

Fleur waved towards the beach. ‘Out with Luna.’

‘I’ll go relieve her.’ Harry avoided Bill’s knowing gaze (‘Funny, a hostage carrying a dagger,’ he’d said casually to Harry once) and dashed outside.

He climbed down the sandy path to the beach where Luna twirled the new wand Ollivander had sent her, singing to herself. In his Oxfam white tee and pale jeans, hair ruffled and cheeks pink with the sun, Draco sat and stared at the view.

‘I’ll stay for a bit. Go take a break, Luna.’ Harry dropped on the sand next to Draco, checked behind him to make sure Luna had disappeared up the path, and leaned on him, shoulder to shoulder. Draco slipped his hand in Harry's and interlaced their fingers. The late April breeze filled Harry’s nostrils with salt and iodine; the lapping sound of the surf quietened his heartbeat.

‘As far as prisons go, this is quite pleasant.’ Draco stroked something in his other palm. ‘Could be worse. Could be the Malfoy cellar.’

‘Prison? That’s not what I see. Before long you’ll be best friends with everyone. Dean is this close to inviting you to meet his Muggle pals when this is over.’

‘Of course he is. I’m charming and sophisticated. Who wouldn’t want me as a friend?’

‘Ron seems able to resist,’ Harry teased. He reached over and traced Draco’s other hand, the long fingers, the mole between index and middle finger. He’d kissed that mole before, he thought, a heat rising under his skin. He’d sucked those fingers. ‘What have you got there?’

Draco opened his palm and revealed the pebble he’d collected the other day. Harry had kept his souvenir in his pouch with everything that was most precious to him: the shard of mirror, his mother’s letter, his broken wand. Trivial, sentimental things which meant the world to him.

‘Sometimes I wish—’ Draco whispered, ‘I wish we could go back. To the attic room. To the vardo. Even that damp cave.’

Harry bumped his shoulder against his. ‘It did have an awesome bed.’ 

Draco snorted. The ocean drew his eyes again, a watercolour painting of a myriad blue shades. ‘You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?’

A gull let out a forlorn call overhead.

‘Yes.’

Rolling up his trouser legs, Draco stood and waded in the surf. He bent down, his pebble in his palm. Harry froze at the thought Draco was getting rid of the souvenir of their days together; returning it to the sea as if he was returning Harry’s affections. He splashed to the shore, absurdly upset, and a surge of relief washed over him when Draco straightened, still holding the stupid rock.

‘What are you doing?’ He didn’t manage to conceal the worry in his voice and Draco slanted a questioning look at him.

‘I wanted to rinse it off. Bring out the colours again. See?’

The pink pebble gleamed in his palm, shiny with seawater.

Harry swallowed. ‘I thought you wanted to throw it away.’ He attempted to sound casual but failed.

‘I wouldn’t.’ Draco spoke through his teeth, shoving the stone in his pocket.

How did people bear it? Harry wondered. Feeling so much. The startling intensity of worry before, the relief now; the ever-present thrum of desire; the undercurrent of fear; the ache of missing someone who was standing next to you: Harry drowned in a swell of emotions.

A silly idea presented itself, and Harry grabbed it; a way to lighten the weight in his heart, a way to see Draco laugh — by annoying him thoroughly. Harry loved to annoy him as much as he loved being annoyed in turn. He flicked his wand and an enormous wave descended on Draco.

‘POTTER!’ Drenched to the core, Draco glared, but Harry couldn’t stop laughing. He nodded at Draco’s nipples, visible through his wet T-shirt. ‘Nice.’ He even winked, which infuriated Draco more and which made Harry laugh harder. ‘Told you I’d throw you in the sea.’

‘I’ll show you!’ Draco reached for a wand that wasn’t there; frustrated, he kicked at the water.

Harry danced back. ‘Pathetic. I doubt you can get one drop of water on me.’

The fight left Draco and he sagged. ‘I can’t, can I? I am pathetic.’

‘Hey…’ Harry started, wading to him. ‘I didn’t— oh shit.’ He’d caught Draco’s expression, but it was too late.

Draco had raised his head, a wicked smile on his handsome face, and rushed him. Harry stumbled back and fell in the freezing water, Draco landing heavily on top of him, knocking his breath away. Harry’s nerves screamed at the contact with the cold water. He swallowed some and coughed.

Draco half-rose, hair streaming with water, eyes glittering with dark glee. ‘Did you really fall for that, Harry?’

He made to disentangle himself, but Harry gripped him tight. The icy water splashed around them as they fought, their shrieks mingling with the caws of the seagulls above them.

‘I thought you knew me by now.’ Draco gasped as he twisted to get out of Harry’s hold.

‘What can I say?’ A startling shot of happiness burst through Harry as they laughed and kicked water and rolled around in the surf. ‘You keep surprising me.’

Draco flashed a brilliant smile at him. He met Harry’s eyes and held them. Yearning filled Harry; he let his arm relax around Draco, whose face betrayed such clear longing that Harry wanted to set fire to something. 

Harry raised his head, angling for a kiss. ‘No one’s around.’ His breath brushed Draco’s skin.

Draco pressed his lips on Harry’s, a small, lingering touch that ignited Harry’s blood. The wet tips of his long hair tickled Harry’s face. Curling his hand behind Draco’s neck, he pulled and—

‘Harry?’ Ron’s voice echoed from the cliff above.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Draco scrambled back. Harry rose, feeling irrationally vexed. Hermione and Ron appeared down the path.

‘There you— what in Merlin’s sagging tits happened?’ Ron’s eyes darted suspiciously at Draco.

‘Nothing,’ Harry hastened to say. He laughed good-naturedly. ‘We fell in. It was an accident. We’d better go back and change.’ He grasped Draco’s arm and dragged him along. ‘Come, you’ll catch your death.’

In the end he had to tell them. Ron and Hermione cornered him after he’d changed into a set of Bill’s clothes, arms folded, wearing expressions of concern (Hermione) and suspicion (Ron).

‘There’s something you’re not telling us,’ Ron accused him and Harry, dreading it as much as desperately wanting it, confided everything to them.

He made sure to deflect all possible questions before they’d asked them. It’s not like he had a love potion stuffed in his robes, is it? The wand only worked the day before we found you and by that time — by that time, it was too late.

‘Stop looking so revolted, Ron.’ Harry’s heart thudded against his ribs. He wanted this to go well. He needed this to go well.

‘Can you hear yourself?’ Ron shot back. ‘Malfoy?’ He turned to Hermione. ‘Is he, like, hot or something? For a bloke?’

Hermione didn’t reply. She stared at Harry with a stony look and Harry remembered her screams at the hands of Bellatrix. ‘I know his aunt tortured you.’ He stumbled on the words but had to get them out. ‘But not him. He— he was in over his head, with the Death Eaters. I promise you.’

‘But his family — he won’t turn his back on them, Harry, you’ll see.’

‘He’s not his family, though. ‘S not like I’m in love with Bellatrix or anything—’

Ron gasped. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand. ‘In love with him?’

Harry set his mouth in a straight line. His shoulders tensed. ‘So? It happens. People fall in love.’

‘Oh, Harry,’ Hermione said, ‘are you sure this isn’t a reaction to — to the war? To being hunted? Scared and desperate, roaming the wild… Perhaps you sought solace from the person closest to you?’

Harry didn’t point out that he’d spent all winter scared and desperate and roaming the wild, but he hadn’t “sought solace” from either of them. ‘He makes me happy. Do I have to examine the reasons and see why it happened? The important thing is that it happened.’

‘And you decided to keep this a secret? From us?’ Ron looked betrayed.

‘Draco thought we shouldn’t tell you. He thought’ — Harry gave them a pointed look — ‘that you’d react badly.’

Hermione coughed lightly, conceding the point. ‘It’s not an easy piece of news to swallow. Here’s where I stand: I trust you. Shut up, Ron. I trust your judgment, Harry. But I hope your mind is in the game. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.’

Robbing fucking Gringotts. Because life wasn’t hard enough.

~*~

He should’ve known it wouldn’t last.

That night, relieved that he’d confided to his friends, Harry sat next to Draco on the floor in the living room, hoping to stroke his hand surreptitiously. Luna had figured out the password for Potterwatch and they’d been listening to the programme when a piece of news dropped among them like a blasting curse.

‘What is the deal with the younger Malfoy?’ Lee was saying. ‘Has he seen the light and joined the forces of good? Has he eloped to France with an elderly but abominably rich witch? Has he settled into a life of anonymity among the Muggles of Bognor Regis? Whatever it is, he has left the Noseless Wanker seething. Because—’ here Lee’s voice turned serious, sombre. ‘Because word on the street is that Narcissa Malfoy has been imprisoned in her own cellar as punishment for her son’s disappearance. Our sources claim that the only thing that might get her out of there is Draco Malfoy’s return to the fold.’

Utter, complete silence followed Lee’s words. Everyone’s gaze fell on Draco, horror, pity, sympathy writ on everyone’s face. Pale and trembling, Draco stumbled to his feet. ‘No one say anything. Don’t— just don’t.’

He staggered out of the room and Harry made to follow, but Luna hopped to her feet. ‘I’ll go with him.’

Harry knew. He knew from the way Draco wouldn’t meet his face the next day. He knew from the silence that enveloped him, thick and foreboding. He knew when he saw Draco stare at the walls studded with shells, the framed family photos, the blue herringbone sofa and the scattered cushions on the colourful rug, as if he was bid to memorise them. He knew from the furtive way Draco glanced at Luna’s new wand, at the clock, at his own wrist. He knew.

He knew and so he kept his Cloak by his side, tucked under his pillow.

At around four in the morning, when the darkness held deep around them, noises woke Harry from his restless slumber. The rustle of clothing. The creak of a door. Soft footsteps on wooden floors. Quietly, Harry threw the Cloak around himself and padded to the corridor.

Draco stood in the middle of the kitchen. Moonlight fell on his hair, illuminating his silhouette. A bundle rested on the table. It took a few moments for Harry to realise what it was: Draco’s Muggle clothing. The Oxfam jeans and T-shirt, the jumper he’d borrowed from Esther’s grandson, a shirt that Bill had lent him. Draco had dressed in the robes he had on when he’d left the Manor.

With a last glance behind him, Draco opened the door and stepped out into the night. Harry followed.

He followed him along the coast and towards the village. He followed through heather fields and past birch woods, while the sky lightened, dragging with it the new day. Harry trembled, he trembled all over, but followed silently until Draco stopped in the middle of a barley field, a good hour’s walk from the cottage. The green stalks, reaching to his knees, parted when Harry entered, but Draco didn’t notice. He’d bent his head, hands on his knees, gulping deep breaths.

Harry removed his Cloak. ‘You can’t be thinking about going back.’

Draco snapped his head up. ‘I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to escape you that easily.’

‘You might think you’re saving her, but he’ll kill you. Your mother won’t want that. She told you herself to stay away. She wants you safe.’

‘I have to do something, Harry.’ Draco’s eyes shone.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t have a choice because—’

‘I have a choice, like I’ve always had. But here’s the thing: there are no good choices. Staying with you, staying safe while my mother’s in our dungeon… that is not a choice I’m willing to make, Harry.’

‘But—’ How could Harry make him see? ‘He’ll kill you before you do anything to help her. It’s a trap. He cast the lure and you got hooked.’

Draco stiffened. His eyes on Harry were inscrutable. ‘I have an ace up my sleeve.’

His words blew over Harry like an icy breeze.

Draco said, ‘I know about the Horcruxes. I’ll tell him you’re hunting his Horcruxes.’

The wind gusted over Harry, threatening to topple him. The barley stalks swayed, a sea of green.

Draco took a step closer, pleading. ‘Harry, my Harry— He’ll know by the end of today, won’t he? I overheard you from the loo window. That’s why I waited until this morning. I’ll hold out, ask him to swear an Unbreakable Vow that he won’t harm my mother in any way in exchange for information and— He’s bound to know soon, isn’t he?’ His hair had fallen on his face and Harry longed to push it back for him. He couldn’t move.

‘You know what the others will say,’ Harry said.

‘That I betrayed you. They’re right, I suppose. But—’ His face revealed such anguish that Harry’s heart bled. ‘But this is me making the best choice I can make. And I’ll make sure I stall him, Harry. I'm a good Occlumens. I can hold out. Until you do what it is you have to do today.’

Furious thoughts waged a war inside Harry, ideas, plans, the urgent need to reassess, to tell Hermione. ‘What about Shell Cottage?’

‘He can’t break the Fidelius charm even if I walk him up to the front door. He won’t be able to even see the house unless Bill tells him. I wouldn’t do that to the others.’

Harry wanted to say so many things, but every word got jammed in his throat. What could he say? What would he do if his mother was imprisoned? Heart torn from his chest, he gazed at Draco, at his beloved figure. Lean and tall, eyes burning in a pale blade of a face, surrounded by the endless green of the meadow. Critters and bugs buzzed around them, a thrum of endless noise. The sweet clamour of life.

Harry nodded at Draco’s cuffs. ‘How will you Summon him?’

‘Oh. Luna left her wand unattended, and I borrowed it. I loosened the left cuff enough to slip my finger in. I’ll need to wear them to pretend I was indeed a captive.’

‘That’s brilliant.’

Draco flushed at the praise, even if it had been delivered with infinite sadness.

‘Do you want this back?’ Harry drew the wand from his pocket.

Draco gazed at him. In his silk robes, he resembled the boy he knew in school more than ever.

‘Do you know what magic is, Harry?’ Draco didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Magic is intention.’ He squinted against the rising sun’s rays. ‘A Muggle intends to read a book. They can’t summon it; they have to get up and take it from the shelf. Or they wish to find themselves at the other end of the country at the blink of an eye. They can’t; they’ve invented an array of transport modes to facilitate their intention. But we can. Our intention becomes reality.’

Harry thought he understood where Draco was going with this. He stepped closer, and Draco didn’t draw back. He gestured to his former wand. ‘Giving you the wand was my intention: to keep you safe. To make sure you can fight back, that you’re not defenceless. That was my intention and I made it happen. Giving you this wand was a form of magic, Harry.’ He ended his speech with a glare. ‘It was also a gift. So, don’t insult me by asking me if I want it back.’

Harry curled his fingers around the wand. He hurt inside, all over. ‘I only said it because—’

‘I know,’ Draco said sadly. ‘But I'm not going to fight, Harry. I'm surrendering.’

The wind rustled the barley as Harry stood, eyes fixed on Draco’s raw expression. The day crept around them, time moving on without consideration of their personal drama. Harry wanted to freeze time, and not let the day come.

He’d no idea how he’d leave this field. Perhaps he could sink roots and remain there, wind-swept and lonely, a sad little tree waiting for rain.

Draco rummaged in his robes and pulled out the pink pebble, his own souvenir of their time on the run together. ‘Would you save it for me? Until we meet again.’

Harry wrapped his fingers around the stone. It held Draco’s body heat, briefly. He didn’t ask if Draco truly believed they’d meet again. He slipped it inside his pouch with all his other treasures, the stupid treasures of his short life, and just like that he was overcome. Blinking, staggering, he clutched at Draco’s robes and pulled him in for a desperate, frantic kiss. Draco clung back fiercely, and they kissed under a sky torn by dawn.

Harry kissed Draco’s wet lashes. ‘I don’t want to let you go. I can’t bear to. I want,’ he said desperately, ‘I want to come with you. Perhaps together—’

But Draco’s sad smile said it all. Ron and Hermione would be waiting for Harry. Griphook and their plan. Getting rid of Voldemort hinged on them removing that Horcrux, each one a step towards a better future.

Draco had chosen the timing of his escape well.

He left one final kiss on Harry’s mouth. ‘I’ll call the Dark Lord now. Best Apparate back, yeah? Go on, sweetheart.’ Harry dropped his forehead against Draco’s, hands gripping his shoulders, and Draco whispered, ‘Let me go, Harry. Let me go.’

Harry took a small step back, his chest heaving.

Draco’s hair flew in the wind. His robes flapped, as green as the young barley. ‘I’ll survive. I know how to do that. I’ll do anything to have more time with you. One day.’

‘I’ll burn the world down if I have to,’ Harry said.

A sad smile. ‘I know you would.’

Daylight flooded the hills; the others would be looking for him. Harry nodded, whispered ‘I love you, Draco,’ and then, he did as he was asked: he let Draco go.

Harry Apparated to Shell Cottage at the edge of the cliff. He stood there, unseeing, swaying in the wind, his eyes streaming. He felt gutted inside, hollow. In the grand scheme of things, theirs wasn’t an epic love story: just a few nights where they tumbled on borrowed sheets. But it’d been life-changing for Harry, vital in a way he couldn’t explain.

He wiped his face. He could let his pain crush him, or he could wield it to crush the wizard who had wrought such devastation in their lives. Voldemort’s vile grasp had tainted both their lives, but Draco and he found each other, miraculously. They could have a future, whatever that looked like — once Voldemort had been eliminated.

Harry armoured himself in his conviction; an armour of steel and claws and, in his heart, a smouldering rage. He marched to the kitchen door just in time to see Bellatrix dashing out of it and almost hexed her until he remembered their plan.

Hermione, in Bellatrix’s form, said, ‘Is he gone?’

Harry nodded.

Her eyes softened in sympathy. Such a jarring expression on Bellatrix’s face. ‘He might— he might make it. Maybe You-Know-Who isn’t going to—’

Harry couldn’t bear to discuss it. ‘Listen,’ he interrupted. ‘We need to leave for Gringotts as soon as possible.’

‘Why?’ she asked. Behind her, Ron hurried out of the cottage, smoothing his robes.

They weren’t going to take it well. ‘I’ll tell you on the way. Let’s get going, hurry.’

The frantic last-minute check that ensued took Harry’s mind blissfully away from his bleeding heart. He occupied himself with their disguises and went over the plan with Griphook once more, sorting out the last details. Then they Apparated in Diagon Alley and they were off, the heist begun in earnest. Harry threw himself in the action, seeking relief in the immediate and the urgent. The plan demanded his absolute focus and Harry offered it gladly.

Voldemort received the Summons while Harry was in the cart, spinning down Gringotts. To his relief, Voldemort, busy with extorting information from a Moldavian wandmaker, didn’t respond immediately. Then the cart upended them, they had the dragon to get past, the bank’s security on their heels— There was no room in his brain for other worries but the pressing, tangible threats. The tingling of his scar could be ignored. He caught a glimpse of Voldemort flying over the roofs of a strange city but then the golden cup exploded into thousands of copies and Harry pushed all his thoughts aside. He clutched the burning Horcrux and then rode a dragon out of Gringotts, and then—

And then, on the dragon’s back, with the wind rushing around them, the approaching vision encroached in his consciousness. A gleeful, malicious mirth rose inside him, and Harry had to know. He had to see.

‘Can you tie me up here, somehow?’ he yelled at Hermione over the noise of the buffeting wind. ‘I think I’m getting a—’ He gestured at his scar.

Hermione murmured a spell and ropes lashed him to the beast. Gratefully, Harry laid his head on the warm dragon scales and let himself be pulled under.

Malfoy’s drawing room shouldn’t have become such a familiar sight: the crystal chandelier, the gilded mirror, the empty spaces where portraits used to be, probably removed to ensure Voldemort’s privacy, the emerald wallpaper with the silver fern pattern. Heavy velvet curtains let in a slanted ray of sun, which fell on the rose carpet — and the kneeling figure. Harry’s heart clenched painfully. Red welts decorated Draco’s arms and face. A few of Voldemort’s inner circle hovered at the back: Goyle, Dolohov looking at Draco with hatred, McNair, Bellatrix, Narcissa Malfoy, face white in abject fear, in the arms of her trembling husband.

‘Your mother is safe, boy,’ Voldemort said. ‘I’ve Vowed not to harm her. I haven’t made the same Vow about you. It’s time to tell me what this precious information is that might spare your life.’

Draco had masked himself in cold arrogance. ‘I know what Potter wants. I know what he seeks.’ He loaded Harry’s name with pure disdain.

His words piqued Voldemort’s attention just like Draco intended, but his mistrust won over. ‘How would you know? You claim you’ve been his captive, unable to contact me due to these manacles. Why would Potter confide in you?’

‘He didn’t. I overheard him discussing his plans with his two friends.’ Bitterness seeped in Draco’s voice. ‘Potter would never trust me with his secrets.’

‘What is he after, then? Speak.’ Voldemort spoke indifferently, but Harry sensed a gleeful giddiness at the thought of discovering his enemy’s secret.

Even wounded and kneeling, Draco gave the impression of someone with a winning hand at the card table. ‘Some sort of artefact. Not a weapon, I don’t think.  I didn’t recognise the name. He called it—’ he glanced at his Master’s face ‘—a Horcrux.’

Someone in the room gasped.

A Horcrux. Pure terror bloomed inside Voldemort. He brandished his wand in fury and cast a Stinging Hex of such force that he flayed part of Draco’s cheek. ‘You’re lying,’ he hissed. He refused to believe, he simply wouldn’t. How would Potter know—?

But of course. Dumbledore.

Blood trickled down Draco’s cheek. ‘I’d never dare lie to you. I assumed this was useful information. Was I wrong? My lord?’

Those watching this performance would be utterly convinced of Draco’s innocence. He kept his gaze low, respectful, but his posture portrayed confidence in the information he offered to barter for his life.

Frantic thoughts jostled inside Voldemort’s mind with the pressing need to check on his Horcruxes. But first, he needed to make sure. This boy, of uncertain loyalty, telling him what Potter was up to… He had to ascertain that Draco was being truthful.

‘Prove it to me. Prove your words. Prove your loyalty.’ He raised the Elder Wand and whispered the command. ‘Legilimens.’

And just like that Harry slid inside Draco’s mind.

A vast landscape met Harry, like a beach stretching for miles. Harry was impressed; no hint of emotion or guilt troubled its serenity. Nothing indicated that Draco had something to hide. With the prodding of Voldemort’s spell, a couple of memories floated from the hazy horizon. In one, wearing a hostile expression, Harry held a wand at Draco’s face on a wind-swept cliff. In another, Draco crouched in the upstairs loo at Shell Cottage. The open window let in the sea breeze and the voices of Harry and his friends, sheltered in a corner they thought wouldn’t be overheard. Draco pushed the memory to the forefront, blocking everything else, proving his innocence. Harry’s voice echoed through the tiny window. ‘…we can give the sword to Griphook after we destroy the Horcrux…’

Draco had done a stellar job with his memories, carefully selecting the few that would prove his words. If he were facing any other wizard, he’d sail through the interrogation.

But he wasn’t facing any other wizard. The wrath that erupted in Voldemort at the word Horcrux poured through the Elder Wand, that magnificent instrument of power, and the Legilimens burst through the memory like a cannonball, shredding it to pieces. Draco gasped and fell on his hands, his face in agony as Voldemort pushed further and further in, his resistance crumbling.

And there it was, a maelstrom of memories: everything Harry had lived with Draco, for Voldemort to peruse. All the memories they’d created these past couple of weeks, the nine and a half days they were together and the week Draco had spent at Shell Cottage. Nausea rolled in Harry’s stomach. They were precious, these memories, not for Voldemort’s corruption, but it was too late. Harry — Voldemort — saw it all: walking across the moor, jumping in the lake, collecting wood in a forest, watching TV in Esther’s cottage, sleeping next to each other. He saw himself dressing Draco’s Splinching; he saw himself in a train seat, sunlight glinting off his glances; he saw himself stroking Draco’s head, whispering ‘I like your hair long’; he saw himself naked under Draco in the attic bedroom. And more; Voldemort, a malicious pleasure driving him, sought and found more: their first kiss, making out outside Shell Cottage that first night, Draco riding Harry in the cave… The leaping fire in the middle of the Roma camp. The gentle lapping of the waves around their feet as the sky gleamed rose-gold. And one memory that Harry didn’t share: he saw himself asleep in the cave, and Draco sweeping his hair back and saying, ‘I think I’m in love with you, Harry.’

The tone of Draco’s voice in the memory was a punch to the heart, tender and vulnerable. Draco would never use that tone in everyday life. But in the starlit night, in the breathing cave, he could, and he did, and now Voldemort had seen it.

‘Liar, liar, liar,’ Voldemort hissed as he pulled out of Draco’s brain. Harry trembled with terror; the idea he might see Draco murdered in front of his eyes made him sick. He’d be in the mind of the person who cast the spell, he’d be complicit—

Voldemort cackled, a laughter that chilled Harry to the bone. The Death Eaters glanced at each other uneasily because there was nothing in this laughter but inhuman rage. ‘You thought to deceive me? You let Potter touch you, kiss you, penetrate you’ — a gasp from the spectators — ‘and you betrayed me without a second thought? Oh…’ Voldemort’s voice was pure frost. ‘Death is too kind a punishment for you, Draco Malfoy.’

Draco knelt white-knuckled, his face full of fury and humiliation and sharp hatred. His memories had been violated so brutally. A surge of absolute hatred filled Harry’s heart. He brimmed with it, choked on it. Swore he’d destroy Voldemort if it was the last thing he did.

Voldemort paced the carpet, the Elder Wand cradled in his pale fingers. ‘It seems you are useful to me alive, after all, Malfoy. The Potter boy cares for you, and what better way to hurt him than by hurting you? I can cut little pieces of you and Owl each one to Potter. Each piece that he touched with his filthy hands.’

A muffled sob came from Narcissa, quickly stifled. Voldemort disregarded it. Let her cry. Her son wasn’t long for this world.

‘Potter doesn’t care for me,’ Draco said quickly. ‘He used me, that was all. Nothing more, just lust—’

‘Quiet, traitor. I have a fitting punishment, for now. I considered Obliviation but it won’t quite teach you a lesson, will it? You might hurt at the idea of forgetting your lover now, but once you do — why, you’ll be happy as ever again. No. I have just the spell for you. Obfuscate!’

The unknown hex burrowed inside Draco’s splintered brain and sought his memories of the past two weeks. It herded them together and began building walls.

‘You won’t remember anything now.’ Voldemort’s voice was silky with malice. ‘Not a single one of those… lustful nights you shared with Potter, not one of those youthful kisses. You’ll forget you even left this house.’

Draco swayed a little on the rug, the spell raising thick stone walls around his memories.

‘But when Potter dies, you’ll have them all back.’

Shock rippled over Draco’s face. It pleased Voldemort, Harry realised, his stomach heaving. The twisted beauty of it, the pure viciousness: Draco would remember that he loved Harry only after Harry had died. He’d remember their days in Cornwall just in time to grieve them.

Desperate, his consciousness sliding along Voldemort’s, Harry tried to stop the walls being built, but the spell pushed on, inexorable. He grasped at anything, anything he could use to stop this, to make a difference. How impotent he felt, fumbling in the dark.

There! A memory swam past, in which he wasn’t present: Draco finding the pebbles in the surf. He clutched it, and the spell disregarded it; it could’ve been any summer at any beach. Just as the walls were locking in, Harry lodged the memory in the middle, two tiny pebbles straining under the weight of the stones which threatened to crush them.

But they held. For now.

Voldemort lowered his wand. His hatred blazed icy cold, and he smiled with satisfaction as Draco blinked and raised his head, staring around him bemused. He quickly bowed when he noticed Voldemort looking at him. ‘My lord? Did — did you ask for me?’

‘I did,’ Voldemort said, pleased at a job well done. ‘You’ve proven yourself of value. I’ll allow your mother to heal your wounds.’ He glanced at Bellatrix. ‘I expect to see his hair shorn. Very short.’

Bellatrix gazed at her nephew with disgust on her face. She smiled grimly. ‘I’ll cut every inch that boy touched with his paws.’

‘You understand me perfectly, Bella.’

‘My hair? What boy?’ Draco asked but his mother cleared her throat and he subsided. ‘As you wish, my lord.’

The vision faded, and Harry came to, retching.

Lake. Cold water. Wet soil. Reeds. Mud. Hermione had unleashed him when they slid off the dragon’s back into a lake in the north. The shock of the water brought Harry back in the here and now, but it couldn’t dispel the revulsion settled in his stomach. Ron pulled him to the shore with an arm around Harry’s shoulders, panting with exertion. Ahead, Hermione was busy digging out a thermos of tea and sets of dry robes.

Harry had barely reached her when another vision claimed him: Gringotts had come to inform Voldemort of the theft just as he was about to head off and check his secret places. Voldemort roared with fury; it was bad enough to know Harry was after his Horcruxes, but to learn he succeeded in stealing one? A murdering rage ensued. Goblins fell, wizards fell, witches fell. Rivers of blood seeped into the rose carpet of the Malfoy drawing room.

And, finally, the confirmation: a Horcrux lurked at Hogwarts.

‘I knew it,’ Harry mumbled. His nose hovered an inch from the mud, the smell of wet soil anchoring him to his body. ‘I knew he’d hidden one there.’

‘Is everything OK, Harry?’ Hermione asked. She and Ron crouched over him with eyes wide with worry.

‘You were under for ages, mate.’

The previous vision flashed in Harry’s mind, and he reeled. ‘Draco…’

Hermione gasped.

‘No, no, he’s not dead.’ How could he even begin to describe the foulness of Voldemort’s actions? ‘You-Know-Who Obliviated him. Sort of. He doesn’t remember me.’

It sounded so pathetic, such a silly complaint (‘The lover I had for a few days has forgotten me!’) but neither Ron nor Hermione said anything of the sort. In fact, their expressions mirrored his own devastation. Hermione hugged him, and Ron patted his back, saying, ‘That sucks, mate. That royally sucks.’

After Harry had spent a few moments soaking Hermione’s shoulder with his tears, she pulled back and said, tentatively, ‘You said something about Hogwarts?’

~*~

The rest of the evening blurred. Harry actively shut down his brain and concentrated on the task ahead. A Horcrux was hidden somewhere in Hogwarts. One action led to the next, each step fraught with danger: Apparating to Hogsmeade, meeting Aberforth, sneaking into Hogwarts with a beat-up Neville, finding a group of students in the Room of Requirement, telling them he needed to find something while they secured the castle from Voldemort, who’d discovered his destroyed Horcruxes and was coming straight to Hogwarts. Straight for Harry.

So, Harry pressed on. He fought and planned and mulled over how to find an artefact lost to the ages. Rage consumed him, rage for Voldemort violating Draco’s mind and his memories — their memories — and he let it fuel him, let it power him, let it drive him. He burned and burned with simmering fury while cool-headed Hermione trekked down to the Basilisk remains with Ron to collect its fangs; he burned while he found the Grey Lady and extracted the information that he needed from her; he burned as he figured out the location of the last Horcrux.

The Room of Requirement.

It was time to bring this to an end. To destroy Voldemort. To make Draco remember.

The heavy doors shut the noise of the battle outside. A deep, dusty silence reigned in the Room of Hidden Things. The three of them split to search. Spider webs thick as shrouds hung in the gloom while Harry tried to retrace the steps he’d taken when he hid his Potions book.

It didn’t take long. Padding down an aisle with rusty cauldrons, he glanced at an opening on his left and saw the broken dresser he’d hid his textbook in. On top of it, the tarnished tiara hung crookedly on the chipped bust where he’d stashed it as a way to mark the place. Heart speeding up, the end of his mission in sight, he approached and picked it up. A light, delicate thing it was. The second to last Horcrux. Only the snake remained.

‘Drop it,’ a voice said behind him.

Harry jerked back. Goyle and Crabbe pointed their wands at him, and between them, eyes hollow and red-rimmed, head shaved, Draco aimed his wand too. His mother had healed his wounds well; his skin was unmarked. Not a hint of recognition remained in his eyes when he gazed at Harry.

Draco’s greatest fear — that he’d go back to being the person he was —had come true. Draco, who’d learned about acceptance and kindness among the Muggles and the Romani, stood there in his fancy robes, pointing a wand at Harry, loyal to his Master; his head shaved, because Voldemort had seen Harry admire Draco’s hair in his memories. A petty, petty punishment.

Harry’s rage, simmering under the surface, threatened to spill. But he kept his voice gentle when he addressed Draco. ‘New haircut? I liked your hair better before.’

Draco scowled. He assumed Harry was taunting him. ‘Nothing to do with you, Potter. Mind your business.’

‘Whose wand are you using?’ Harry wanted Draco to keep calm, to stay with him. He cocked an ear for the others, hoping his voice carried. Ron and Hermione couldn’t have gone far.

‘My mother’s.’ Draco’s eyes filled with anger when he glanced at his own wand in Harry’s hand. ‘It’s a powerful wand but it doesn’t understand me.’

‘This one,’ Harry said, ‘understands me very well.’ Then, unable to contain himself: ‘Have you really forgotten?’

He’d hoped, beyond any reason, that the mere sight of him might make Draco remember. But this wasn’t a soap opera. This was real life, and spells didn’t work like that, especially those cast by prodigious wizards with hatred in their hearts.

‘Forgotten what?’

‘This isn’t the time for a chat,’ Crabbe said in an unexpectedly soft voice. ‘We hung back for you, Potter. We’ll—’

‘Remember the time in Cornwall?’ Harry spoke over Crabbe, eyes on Draco’s, which filled with confusion. ‘You’re missing over two weeks of time, aren’t you?’

Draco went pale. ‘How the fuck do you know that?’

‘We—’ Harry started to say, but Goyle interrupted him.

‘What are you on about? Who cares about memories? We’re here to take you to the Dark Lord, Potter.’

‘He’ll reward us,’ Crabbe added.

‘Harry?’ Ron called from somewhere on his left. ‘Are you talking to someone?’

Crabbe flung a hex in Ron’s direction. ‘Descendo!’

Tottering shelves collapsed where Ron’s voice had come from, and Harry took advantage of the distraction and disarmed Goyle. He ducked behind the shelves just as Crabbe whipped around to throw a curse towards him.

‘No!’ Draco cried. ‘Don’t harm him! The Dark Lord wants him alive.’

‘You don’t give the orders anymore, Draco,’ Crabbe said, but then Hermione aimed a spell from behind them, Ron cast his own, and the fight began. Draco was swiftly disarmed, his mother’s wand clattering under a bookcase. He glanced at Harry in fear as he retreated, unaware that there was nothing on earth that could make Harry hurt him.

Crabbe’s Unforgivable to Hermione, the way he spat “the Mudblood”, made Harry see red, but before he released some of his pent-up fury on him, a monstrous fire reached them. A wall of heat ravaged everything in its path as it spread in the vast space. Flames licked the ceiling and fiery chimaeras and dragons swooped down, greedy and grasping. Before long, smoke filled the room, making it hard to breathe.

Draco had vanished.

Terror as he’d never known filled Harry. The door seemed miles away, safety almost outside of reach. Ron and Hermione panted beside him as they pelted around discarded furniture, but the fire charged them, scorching heat steaming Harry’s glasses.

‘Harry!’ Ron skidded to a stop next to two old broomsticks. ‘Catch!’

Taking to the air was a relief, even with the billowing smoke stinging his eyes. Harry circled the ceiling, back drenched in sweat, casting Bubble Air charms to breathe.

‘We gotta go or we won’t make it, Harry!’ Ron yelled.

‘Not until—’

He saw Draco then, perched on a tower of charred desks, clinging to an unconscious Goyle. ‘Help me!’ Harry called to his friends and swooped down.

Swearing colourfully, Ron followed. He and Hermione heaved Goyle on their broomstick and sped off towards the door.

Harry hovered next to Draco, who clambered behind him. ‘Hold on tight.’

Soaring with relief, Harry sped through the smoke. The diadem hung around his forearm and Draco’s arms wrapped around his middle, squeezing hard. Harry swerved around towering flames singeing his hair and his sleeves, towards a square of light in the distance. A fiery maw yawned under them, and he accelerated; he hurtled through the door, which slammed shut.

They landed on a heap on the stone floor. The castle shook as the battle roared around them. Draco scrambled to get away, but Harry gripped his wrist. ‘Don’t go!’

‘What the fuck’s got into you?’ Draco spat.

‘I’ve got something for you. Please.’ Harry was fumbling in his pouch as he spoke, his other hand a vice around Draco’s. He brought out the pink pebble and thrust it into Draco’s hand. He held up the green one himself. ‘Remember these? Please remember. You found them in Cornwall. You gave me one and kept the other.’

‘You’ve truly gone insane—’ Draco started. Then, absent-mindedly, ‘The colour’s faded.’

‘If you rinse it in the sea, it’ll shine again.’

‘I know, Potter, I told you that—’ Draco blurted out and immediately frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense, I picked these up last summer in—’ He stared at the rock intently, and then he doubled in pain.

‘Draco? Are you hurt?’ Harry grabbed his shoulder, but Draco shook him off and retreated a few steps.

‘He’s remembering,’ Hermione said beside him. At her feet, the diadem oozed blood. ‘Harry. We’ve got to go. Only the snake is left.’

‘We will.’ Harry agreed absently, his attention on Draco. He stretched out his hand. ‘Come with me. I’ll protect you.’

Draco clutched his temples, his eyes tearing in pain. ‘You’ve done something to me.’

Screams echoed from the broken windows and another vibration shook the grounds. Harry said, ‘Not me. Voldemort did it to you.’

‘My head is splitting,’ Draco said through tears. ‘And I don’t trust you, Potter. Stop pretending to be a saint.’ He sped down the corridor as the Headless Hunt galloped past. When the ghosts cleared, Draco was nowhere to be seen.

Just then Fred and Percy Weasley backed down from the other side, duelling masked wizards. ‘You’ve made a joke, Perce!’ Fred laughed, a second before a blast took out half the wall and flung him like a ragdoll against the stone.

The world had broken. Draco had bolted away from him in fear. Fred’s eyes stared unseeing at the ceiling. Ron howled as he swore to kill Death Eaters. And Hermione, tears in her eyes, held Ron back, and said to Harry, to both of them, ‘We’re the only ones who can end it. We’ve got to kill the snake.’ Her voice wavered but she insisted. ‘We’re the only ones who can end it.’

Harry shoved everything down, and fought, and fought.

It was a losing fight.

Voldemort had retreated in the forest, giving Harry an hour’s notice to come to him. Snape’s memories had spilled their secrets, and Harry finally knew what he must do.

He didn’t linger long in the Hall. The dead lay under the stars of the enchanted ceiling. Remus and Tonks, Fred, Colin. Many others. It stank of blood and dust.

Outside, Cloaked, he didn’t hurry, nor did he dawdle. He put one foot in front of the other. Something vile festered inside Harry, and if dying meant he’d get rid of it, then he’d die willingly.

Ron would be safe. Hermione would be safe. Draco would be safe. His heart thudded — he’d caught only a brief glimpse of him since the Room. Had he remembered? Had he survived?

Crossing the grounds, he came across Neville, bent over a body. Harry removed the Cloak and told him about the snake. The task left unfinished, incomplete like his life.

‘You know we’ll fight, Harry, don’t you?’

‘I do.’ That was why he was going to the forest.

Harry trudged on, past the Quidditch pitch, past the greenhouses, past the path leading to the lake. This far into the grounds, he wouldn’t be seen from the castle, so he removed his Cloak. The wind caressed his face, cool even though it was May.

The forest loomed closer. Dark shapes glided between the tree trunks. But before he reached it, Harry saw something else: sitting on a log by Hagrid’s cabin with his head in his hands, Draco waited.

The night was eerily quiet. The Dementors had driven away the night creatures and the birds. The crisp wind carried the smell of pines. Harry stopped in front of Draco.

Draco raised his head, smiled, and said, ‘Harry.’

Harry searched his face. ‘You’ve remembered.’

Draco rose with a small, sorrowful smile. He held his palm open. ‘I believe they call this a chink in the armour. A small pebble that brought down the walls. Ingenious, Harry.’

‘I’ve missed you taking the piss. Twat.’ But it sounded as if Harry had said darling.

Draco gave him a mock-offended look. ‘Who’s taking the piss?’ He slid his hands along Harry’s arms, up and down, soothing. Swallowed. ‘I held a wand in your face, didn’t I?’

‘Don’t worry about it. How’s your head?’

‘Hurting.’ Draco rubbed his temple. ‘Some memories trickle, others pour in. The order of them is mixed. I still have some gaps.’

‘You’ll get them back. It’ll take time,’ Harry said.

What he didn’t say was: At least one of us will remember that for a short time, in Cornwall, we loved each other.

Draco seemed to read his mind. He turned serious. ‘You’re not thinking of giving in, are you?’

Harry said nothing.

‘No, Harry, no!’ Draco’s fingers on his arms turned painful. ‘You can’t. You simply can’t. Listen. We’ll run away. Right now. Get everyone to leave, regroup, rest before fighting elsewhere. And you — you can’t stay here any longer. It’s not safe for you. We’re going, now.’

Remus and Tonks had just had a baby. Colin snuck in, although underage. Fred… Oh god. Fred.

‘And leave others to fight in my stead? Draco…’ Harry’s decision was clear in his tone.

Fat tears fell down Draco’s cheeks. ‘What can I say to change your mind? What? Tell me and I’ll say it. I’ll say whatever you want to hear, to turn you away from this place.’

Tell me I don’t have a Horcrux inside me. Tell me I’m not the one who’s keeping him alive. Tell me no one else will die for my sake.

‘Draco,’ Harry said. ‘Just hold me.’

Draco pulled him tight in his embrace, arms like a vice, like he’d never let go. Harry concentrated on Draco’s pulse fluttering in his neck, on his warmth, his summer storm smell. He breathed in Draco, and held his breath, keeping him inside his chest, luminous like the best of days. He let himself absorb Draco, this boy who’d gone through a moor and a forest and a Roma camp and had come out a better person.

The night shivered around them, and Draco wouldn’t let go. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Draco pulled back enough to meet Harry’s eyes, looking determined. ‘We’ll go together. Perhaps we can fight him. I can help.’

Explaining that Harry wasn’t going to fight would take too long. Harry shook his head.

‘No, listen to me,’ Draco said desperately. ‘We’ve escaped so many times. We can figure something out. Together. My — my parents will be there.’ He flushed as he spoke, embarrassment mixed with defiance. ‘They’ll help me — us. They’ll help us, I swear they will.’ His hands fisted on Harry’s robes.

Harry couldn’t bear to see him like this. He leaned in to brush his lips against Draco’s.

Draco dug his fingers in Harry’s shoulders. ‘I can tell what you’re thinking,’ he said angrily, ‘and it won’t happen. I’m not letting you go alone. Whatever — whatever happens, I’ll be there. With you.’

‘Did I tell you how happy I am that we got stranded in Cornwall?’

Startled, Draco said, ‘Yes, me too, listen—’

‘If I had to choose the best way to spend’ —the last two weeks of my life — ‘two weeks in Cornwall, that was how I’d like to spend them.’

Draco looked ready to hush him again, but he paused and gave a little snort. ‘Chased by Death Eaters? Surrounded by the Fair Folk? Fleeing Tinworth in the dark?’

Harry chuckled wetly. He hadn’t realised he was crying. ‘With you. Sure, I didn’t much care for the chasing and the risk, but… I’m really happy it was with you. I didn’t expect I’d fall in love with you’ — Draco inhaled sharply, eyes widening — ‘but it happened, and for that, I’m grateful.’

‘Oh, Harry…’ Draco looked too shaken to speak. He didn’t say he loved him back, but Harry had seen — through Voldemort’s abhorrent violation — the depth of Draco’s feelings. He caught his mouth and kissed him, and Draco kissed him back, desperate, frantic, his hands gripping Harry painfully.

Harry drew back to bestow kisses on the spot Draco liked, under his ear.

 Draco spoke against his hair. ‘You make me want to be a better person, Harry.’ He kissed him once more and added in a tone that brooked no argument, ‘Which is why I’m going to come with you.’

If Harry let himself feel, he’d crumble. So, he steeled himself for what he had to do, and smiled. ‘Of course. We’ll go together.’ He stroked the shaved head and leaned in for one more kiss. Closing his eyes, he lingered on the soft lips, the familiar taste, and surreptitiously palmed his wand and pointed it at Draco.

‘Imperius,’ he whispered against Draco’s lips. Draco’s arms relaxed around Harry. ‘Go back to the castle,’ Harry said, his heart breaking. ‘Hide. Stay safe.’ He touched Draco’s cheek. ‘Remember me.’

Draco offered the vacuous, pleasant smile of the Imperiused. He turned his back and trotted to the castle, a tall, lean figure against the distant lights.

Harry watched him retreat until he was swallowed up by darkness. Then, he took the Snitch out of his pocket, threw the Cloak around himself again, and walked into the forest to die.

Draco knew the instant Harry died.

He came to himself in the pitch dark, the odour of cleaning stifling the small space. Feeling his way around and knocking down brooms that clattered on the ground, he reached the door and tumbled out.

Debris was scattered all around a corridor gouged by spells. Dizzy, his mind reeling, Draco splayed a hand on a wall to steady himself. Then the memory came: Harry had gone into the forest.

The pain came swiftly, a dark galloping horse. No, no, no, he muttered, no no no. Draco took the stairs three at a time, as if he could stop anything, but he knew — he knew what Harry had done to him and he knew what it meant that the spell winked out.

Harry had died. Harry, who loved Draco even though he didn’t deserve it, who had forgiven Draco, who made Draco laugh and kissed him so sweetly. Harry had died.

And the Dark Lord had won.

There was nothing in Draco’s heart but terror then. Any shred of hope disappeared, as if Harry had been the last star in a broken sky. He struggled to breathe under the weight of crushing despair.

Nauseous, Draco let his steps take him to the Great Hall, which had become a makeshift infirmary. He kept to the corners, seeking familiar faces. Wails and moans filled the room. The dead stretched across the floor in a tidy line.

Granger saw him first, pausing as she stalked past. She opened her mouth to speak but hesitated.

‘It’s me,’ Draco said nonsensically, but she understood what he meant.

‘Ron’s brother was killed.’ Her voice held no accusatory tone and for that he was grateful. She glanced behind herself where the Weasley family sobbed around a prone figure and turned to Draco, eyes shining. ‘We saw it happen.’

He didn’t know how to tell her. ‘I saw Harry earlier.’

His tone must have alerted her that something was wrong. Her eyes darted around the room. ‘Where is he?’

Draco’s lip wobbled but he drew a deep breath and said, ‘He went to the forest. I was— I wanted to go with him, but he cursed me.’

‘He’s in the forest? We’ve got to go! I’ll get Ron—’

‘Granger.’ He stopped her with a hand on her arm. ‘He cursed me, and the curse was lifted. I think — I think he’s dead.’

A few moments later, Weasley and his sister, Dean Thomas, and the Lovegood girl surrounded him as he related the events. ‘He cast an Imperius. I came to my senses ten minutes ago.’

‘There’s got to be another reason that the curse was lifted,’ Dean said. ‘People can fight off Imperius—’

‘I didn’t fight it—’

‘Why the fuck are we listening to him?’ the Weasley girl asked. She looked like she was barely holding back from duelling him.

Granger and Weasley exchanged an eloquent glance. Weasley scratched his nose and said, ‘Draco was in Shell Cottage with us. Bill told you, didn’t he?’ His tears had left tracks on his dusty cheeks.

‘Harry and Malfoy travelled together,’ Granger continued in a tone that invited no more questions. ‘That’s not our issue now. We have to find Harry.’

As they debated, another witness joined their impromptu council. Longbottom confirmed that he’d seen Harry heading towards the forest. ‘I didn’t think he’d do it!’ He looked ready to be sick. ‘I’d have stopped him if I knew!’

‘Perhaps,’ Lovegood said, ‘Harry’s surrender was part of an elaborate plan to bring down You-Know-Who. Perhaps he’s alive but hiding.’

‘What about the curse lifting then?’ Weasley’s anger spilled between them, his pain bleeding through. ‘Why isn’t Malfoy still cuddling the brooms?’

Draco closed his eyes, the searing pain clawing him deep. This little farce had played out enough. They couldn’t do anything; no one could. ‘I’m going to—’ he began but jeers from outside ruptured the respectful silence.

Voices, laughter, the footsteps of a hundred people. Shivering as if he’d been submerged in an ice bath, Draco followed the noise to the entrance.

The Dark Lord marched with his followers. A victory march that promised only pain. The half-giant lumbered behind him, and in his arms—

The pain cut Draco in half. He grasped the splintered door to hold himself upright. Granger gasped in agony, her hands flying in front of her mouth, and Weasley looked livid. A moan rose from the assembled people. Despair: we lost and the Dark Lord won.

Longbottom, the abysmal idiot, ran outside. He looked set on getting killed next but, somehow, he ended up with a huge sword and sliced the head off that abominable pet snake.

The howl the Dark Lord let out pierced Draco with terror. A new fight began in earnest.

Wandless, Draco was no good to anyone. He roved around the duels and eventually found his parents in the Great Hall. They fell into each other’s arms and held tight, the three of them, spells flying around them.

None of them had a wand anymore, so they slunk in a corner and watched as the other Death Eaters fell, one after the other. Soon, only Aunt Bella and the Dark Lord fought, three opponents each, until only the Dark Lord remained standing. Watching his most fervent supporter blasted into oblivion, the Dark Lord screamed. The power of his wrath vibrated off him in waves and Draco had no doubts that he was about to unleash true hell on the people fighting him when someone appeared in their midst. Gasps echoed around the Hall, murmurs and yells, it’s him, it’s him!, and Draco craned his neck to see. He didn’t have to. The space opened up, everyone backing against the walls, leaning on the benches shoved to the side, to reveal the two people facing each other: The Dark Lord and—

Harry. Real Harry, breathing Harry, blessedly alive Harry! Draco’s breath left him in a harsh exhale. How—? How could this be? He daren’t believe his eyes, but if this were a hallucination brought on by pain, it seemed everyone in the room shared it.

Miraculous. Impossible. Astonishing. Harry had survived. Tears filled Draco’s eyes, tears of relief and a happiness so sharp it felt like pain.

Harry aimed his wand at Voldemort. The sheer guts it must have taken — Draco had always cowered in front of the Dark lord, his betrayals done from a distance. But Harry, glorious Harry, faced him like an avenging god, his expression fierce, his hand holding his wand — Draco’s gift — steady. And as if that wasn’t enough, Harry called the Dark Lord Tom Riddle. If Draco wasn’t so afraid for him, he’d laugh.

‘… I know things you don’t know, Tom Riddle,’ Harry was saying. ‘I know lots of important things you don’t.’

Draco watched in fascination, everyone equally breathless, when Harry revealed secrets that Draco would never have fathomed. Snape, a traitor! A spy, working against them all along. Dumbledore, dying already when Draco had aimed his wand at him. Draco had felt such relief when Professor Snape spared him and did the… deed, and now he realised it was a small gift from his teacher, that Draco should be spared the knowledge of what it meant to murder a man in cold blood.

Then, the Dark Lord yammered about the Elder Wand, which was apparently the name of his new instrument. Draco half-listened, his attention wholly focused on Harry, when Harry came out with something shocking.

‘The true master of the Elder Wand was Draco Malfoy.’

Excuse me?

Everyone’s gaze fell on him after this startling statement, the spectators turning their gaze from the duel to glance briefly at Draco. His parents frowned.

Draco said, ‘I’ve no idea what he’s talking about.’

Harry laid it out in very clear terms. Dumbledore wielded this special wand, Draco disarmed him, and thus became the master of his wand.

‘Once I’m through with you,’ the Dark Lord said, ‘I’ll murder Draco Malfoy, with pleasure, and take full possession of it.’

Harry tilted his head. ‘Ah. You think murder is the best way to assume control of a wand? That’s probably why you believed Snape was its master. Rookie mistake.’

Draco wanted to shake Harry. You’re fighting for your life! Stop being snarky!

‘But I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago.’ Harry smiled, his eyes wistful. ‘Almost. I almost overpowered him, and the wand’s loyalties were split. No wand can serve two masters. The Elder Wand must’ve suffered the same way the hawthorn one almost broke in two. But,’ he glanced at his hand, ‘it mended itself gradually.’

The Dark Lord’s eyes filled with malice. ‘Ah. You mean when he became your lover?’

Murmurs rose from the spectators and Draco’s cheeks burned.

Harry exhibited no hint of embarrassment. ‘Draco’s one more person who worked against you, in the end. I fell in love with him, yes. Not that you’ll understand what it means to love. Which is why you’ll never understand why that wand will never truly obey you.’

Dawn was breaking above them, but everyone’s eyes were fixed on the two men. Harry said, ‘Draco and I became allies. Friends. At that time, perhaps no one was master of the Elder Wand. But then—’

Harry dragged the pause and, almost unwillingly, the Dark Lord snapped. ‘And then?’

The whole room hung on Harry’s words. ‘Then Draco offered me his wand. He gave it to me, freely, unconditionally. He sacrificed his own need to give me what he thought I needed. Out of love.’ Emotion coloured Harry’s voice. ‘You see, the tales speak of the wand passing hands through murder. But the manner of passing matters: murder or snatching it from a tomb are frail compared to — yes, what Dumbledore used to say — selfless love. Draco cast a rare piece of magic that day.’

Harry raised his wand high. ‘The Elder Wand you’re holding,’ he told the Dark Lord, ‘will never work properly towards me.  Not only because Draco gifted it to me, but because, while Draco Malfoy was its master, the wand loved me.’

~*~

After the Dark Lord died — an ugly mundane death that was exactly what he deserved — Draco wanted to run to Harry, but others got in there first. Harry’s gaze searched the room until it landed on Draco; their eyes met, and Harry smiled, but he was quickly enveloped by a crowd of well-wishers, friends he’d known all his life, people that had cared for Harry longer than Draco had. The Weasleys held him one after the other, a succession of red heads squeezing him tight, and then it was Shacklebolt, and then another of the people that had fought for the right side. Draco watched him from a distance, slightly uncertain now that their future opened up wide. Cornwall felt like a different world, a gilded universe, a very vivid dream.

Draco’s parents stepped in front of him, blocking his view of McGonagall pressing her hands on Harry’s shoulders with tears glistening on her wrinkled face. Draco raised his eyes to his parents’ inquiring gazes with a sigh. ‘Must we do this now?’

‘Can you blame us for wanting to hear if there’s any truth in what Potter claims?’ his father asked.

‘We know you were… intimate,’ his mother said, delicately. Draco winced. She continued, ‘You remember now, don’t you? Is it true that there was something more? What happened when you were away, darling?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Draco murmured. Harry made his slow way through the grateful crowd. He looked exhausted.

‘Give us the abridged version then.’ His father crossed his arms.

Draco leaned on a bench and shut his eyes. ‘It’s true. The intimacy and… and the feelings.’

They examined his face, keen-eyed and sharp. ‘What’s the problem?’ Draco snapped. ‘Is it that he’s a boy, or that he’s Potter, or that he’s not listed in the Sacred 28? What exactly is it that you object to?’

‘Does he make you happy?’ his mother demanded.

Startled, Draco flicked his gaze to her. She stared at him, waiting, caring for the answer. Draco glanced at the Hall again. Harry had perched next to Lovegood. ‘He does.’

His heart throbbed in his chest, bursting with emotion. Harry made the world brighter, especially now that the darkness had gone, being carted unceremoniously out of the room.

His parents exchanged a look. Father digested the scene around them, the reverent tones people used when speaking about Harry, and he murmured to Draco’s mother, ‘This can work in our favour.’

Her eyes roved the crowd, calculating. ‘He mentioned Draco helping him out in front of everyone. Dozens of witnesses…’

Draco’s parents had already seen how to best exploit the situation. They did it because they cared, because they wanted Draco to remain safe, but also because they sought to escape their mistakes without lasting consequences. Draco wished they’d see Harry as something more than an… opportunity.

Draco never removed his eyes from Harry and so when Lovegood cried something that drew people’s attention towards the ceiling, Draco saw him disappear into thin air. A moment later, Granger and Weasley left the Hall with a suspiciously human-sized gap between them.

‘I’ll be back.’ Draco darted out of the room.

The footsteps of Harry and his friends echoed in the quiet. Draco followed them to the Headmaster’s office and waited behind a suit of armour until they showed up again. Granger and Weasley were holding hands, and Harry hugged them.

‘A nap in Gryffindor is a good idea,’ Granger said.

‘Do you think the tower is still there?’ Weasley wondered.

‘I hope so. Go back to your family, Ron. I’ll see you in a bit.’ Harry headed in the opposite direction and climbed the stairs to the tower. He turned when he heard Draco’s footsteps behind him, and his face split in a dazzling grin. ‘Draco! I was thinking of sending—’

Draco punched him.

‘That’s for Imperiusing me, you prat.’ Draco hated how his voice shook. He grabbed Harry and kissed him, trembling all over with relief, with happiness. ‘You colossal twat, I told you, I’d have come with you—’ He stopped, because Harry was kissing him again.

‘I’ll explain. I’ll explain everything.’ Harry clasped Draco’s hand and pulled him up the stairs. ‘Come with me?’

‘If you think I’ll ever let you leave my sight again, you’re a fool,’ Draco murmured.

Harry grinned. ‘I might be OK with that.’ He stepped around the detritus of the battle, broken desks and scorched suits of armour on the cracked flagstones. ‘Did Voldemort just out us in front of everyone?’

Draco suppressed a shiver; he’d never get used to the name. ‘My parents will expect to meet you formally, of course.’

Harry’s eyes widened comically. ‘What?’

‘But not yet. You need to rest.’

The Gryffindor Tower had escaped the worst ravages of the battle. Glass crunched under Harry and Draco’s feet as they crossed the common room and climbed a dusty staircase to Harry’s former bedroom.

‘This was my bed.’ Harry stopped at the foot of a four-poster bed. His hand on the curtain trembled, and Draco put his own over it. I’m here. Lean on me if you need to.

Harry seemed to understand; he gave Draco a grateful smile.

Dust covered every square inch of the bedroom, turning the crimson velvet grey and the wood panelling dull, but it was nothing a good Scourgify wouldn’t fix. Draco, having gently peeled Harry’s wand from his fingers, added some Freshening spells, and an ocean scent wafted from the sheets. The smell stirred his memories, his mind still sore and tender.

‘You’re knackered,’ Draco said when Harry let out a huge yawn. ‘Get some sleep.’

Harry slumbered for several hours. Draco held him throughout, dozing on and off himself. In his waking moments he listened to Harry’s heartbeat against his and prodded his memories, unwilling to lose even one of them. There was a barn, he remembered. Dawn used cinnamon in the beef stew. The sheets in the attic were cornflower blue. His memories nudged each other and slid into place; a string of diamonds.

Golden sunlight streamed through the windows as the day ebbed around them. Wildflowers covered the mountains in the distance, their peaks crowned with lingering snow. Tittering birds flew on the sill and away. Harry’s friends popped in at some point, left a message to meet later. They didn’t express any shock finding them huddled together. Granger was her usual business-like self, while Weasley appeared resigned to it.

A hand touched Draco’s chest and he blinked awake. The low sun gilded the wooden furnishings, casting the room in warm yellow light. Harry burrowed closer to him, eyes fluttering open. ‘You’re real.’

‘I am.’ Draco tangled their legs together. It was snug under the covers. ‘Touch me and see.’

eleven days later

They’d been wandering the woods near Golitha Falls for a good hour when Harry exclaimed. ‘There’s the sign I left!’

The day after they’d arrived in Shell Cottage, Harry had Apparated to the forest where Esther and Dawn lived alongside Bill Weasley. They didn’t want to take any chances with the safety of the ladies and seeing as Harry had a working wand, he’d travelled back to cast a protection spell. Bill had helped him tweak the Muggle-Repelling Charm to a Wizard-and-Witch-Repelling one.

‘If a magical person comes close, even us, they’ll remember something urgent they have to do and leave. Bill said it was the best protection we could give them,’ Harry had told Draco later in the kitchen, Fleur chopping onions by the sink.

‘So, we’ll never find them again,’ Draco had said. ‘We can’t undo the spell if we can’t go near it ourselves.’

‘I carved a sign on a tree a few feet away from where I stood. If we find the sign, we can cast the countercharm in all directions and hopefully—’

Draco now examined the sign Harry had left. ‘H? You carved your initial on the tree?’

‘It stands for Here,’ Harry huffed.

His vexed response to Draco’s teasing looked lovely on him. Draco resolved to tease him forever, just to see that spark of temper light up his green eyes. He tsked. ‘I must say you’ve got a bigger head than I imagined, carving your initials all over the place. Merlin knows how you manage to get your jumpers over it.’

Harry scoffed. ‘Big head? That’s rich coming from you.’

‘Anything coming from me is rich. I have a lot of money.’

‘Isn’t it crass for someone of your class to discuss money?’

Draco let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘What can I say? You’ve ruined me, Potter. My prospects for an appropriate match have positively vanished because of my association with plebeians like you.’

It was, of course, a complete lie: the only reason he had any prospects after Voldemort’s coup was Harry.

Harry laughed. Seeing him like this delighted Draco: those moments — not very frequent lately, what with the funerals and the trials — of carefreeness, when the pain of loss seemed lifted from Harry’s shoulders, were moments he cherished dearly.

‘I’d say I was sorry you’ve no suitors queueing outside your door, but I truly am not,’ Harry said.

Draco shook his head. ‘Shameless. You’d better be ready to make it up to me, or else—’

‘Shut up,’ Harry said sweetly and kissed him, which indeed shut Draco up. He sank into the kiss, into Harry’s warm embrace. Still stunned that he could; that Harry was his now to touch as he wished.

‘Now concentrate,’ Harry said. He had his old wand now, having had it fixed by the powerhouse that was the Elder Wand. Draco’s old wand had been stored in a vault, out of curious eyes, with the Elder Wand. He’d bought a new one, rowan and unicorn, which suited him better. He’d changed so much, after all.

They swept their wands in a wide circle. ‘Finite Incantatem.’

On their right the air shimmered and rippled, like the surface of a clear lake when the wind blows. A cottage appeared in the far distance: two floors and an attic and a herb garden all around. A weight lifted off Draco’s shoulders. Esther and Dawn had stayed safe.

Everything looked the same as they approached. The saucer with the milk and honey for the Fair Folk rested on the fence, and the radio could be heard from the kitchen. The aroma of roast beef and peppers and garlic wafted in from an open window. The back door creaked, revealing a man in his thirties, who dashed to the garden, cut a few sprigs of rosemary, and then hurried back with a ‘Got it, bubba.’ It must have been Ben, Esther’s grandson, who made the trek from Falmouth for Sunday lunch come rain or shine.

Draco hadn’t expected that his heart would be thudding in his chest like this, or that his hands would be trembling at the sight of the little cottage. He’d come here as one person and had left as another.

‘Shall we go say hi?’ Harry asked.

‘I’m ready.’

Harry took his hand and together they stepped forward into the green, living wood.